#that was such a quick hunt i was kind of hoping it would pass time on the train for at least a few weeks

[excadrill]

"im gonna shiny hunt my starter in hgss. this is probably the only way to get me to use smthn other than cyndaquil"

cyndaquil, less than 40 resets in:

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, yandere, captive reader, omegaverse, forced bonding is implied, subjugation, some type of sexism, soft dom, but extremely patronizing

♡ fem reader

You offer to go down on him for the first time since he claimed you for himself, and his heart swells with all sorts of bliss—shock and awe, love and pride—utterly overjoyed at the pretty sight of you, so pliant and on your knees, acting like a proper Omega for a change—his cutest little mate. It’s so adorable he ought to take pictures, yet he doesn’t want to miss a thing or spoil the mood—after all, you always get so embarrassed when he brings the camera out.

So he settles for just watching—his adoring eyes resting on you, admiring how you struggle to fit all of him inside your mouth, thinking it’s the just cutest and sweetest how you try so hard for him. Bless whatever brought this new change of behavior on. He can’t be grateful enough.

It was only a couple of days ago when you’d still bite and claw and run away from him at every turn, growling and snarling like a rabid wildling and not the sweet Omega he knew you could be with the proper love and care. Maybe it’s just that—has his love for you finally tamed you? Oh, he couldn’t be more pleased if that’s it.

Look at you… trying your very best. He didn’t mind if you could only fit half of him—just seeing you try to take it all made him more than happy. The way your pink tongue slides along his veins—all teasingly and ticklish—makes him smile while looking down at you. Petting your head in smooth, encouraging strokes—reminding you to breathe every now and again.

He even pinches your cheek when you cough, crooning, “Careful now, there’s no need to rush, baby—take it slow.”

You curse him from where you kneel at his feet, trying to get it over with quickly. Despite your struggles, he seems pleased, and you think you might have managed to get yourself off the hook. That is… until he wraps his cock with one of his big hands and pulls it away from you. 

“I think that’s enough for now,” he says in his best attempt at sounding suave by nature, and yet, as you look up at him, you see it plain as day.

It makes your guts fold—the eagerness that encompasses him as he looks down at you with kind eyes and a smile—not completely able to hide the frenzy behind it.

No, please, you sulk inwardly—your clit is so sensitive from yesterday, you think you might die if he toys with it again today. You almost indulge the urge to scoot back, attempt to crawl away, and hide in false hope. But you know, chasing you around would just serve as kindling to his inner animal—he would take it as a game, hunting and pinning you down only to lick you clean like a dug-up bone.

You shudder at the thought and almost beg him to allow you to continue, almost insist you can do better, but all you manage is to bite your tongue and cry instead.

“You did so good, baby, don’t pout,” he coos, cradling your face and lifting it up to let him kiss it silly—chastely yet excessively—quick pecks all over, the same way you’d kiss something that’s just too cute for its own good.

It’s his way of comforting you, you suppose, or it might just be him poking fun. You can never really tell with him—if his coddling is all some act or something even more unsettling. But you suppose it doesn’t really matter either.

“Come here, baby, and I’ll do the rest, okay?” he asks, and yet it isn’t a question as he hauls you up off the floor and repositions you as he sees fit—on your back, belly-up beneath him.

His alpha pheromones are quick to overwhelm you, thick and suffocating, pouring over you in waves, drenching you in sweat and something else—something that makes everything sensitive.

The former fight you had when you were still independent has all but left you completely—siphoned from your being every day that’s passed and left you soft like the rest of those Omegas you vowed you’d never become—weak-willed with a body even more so. You feel like a stuffed animal at this point, full of cloudy cotton with a broken voice device that only knows how to squeak when played with.

He takes you beneath the knees and folds them down neatly by your head—one large hand taking both your summoned ankles in a single grip—and you’re locked in, unable to do much else other than pant—kept from breathing too much by the weight of your own thighs pressing down on you.

This had been what you were trying to avoid—this awful position which he seems to love just as much as you dread.

He whistles in awe at the pretty sight of you—all squished beneath him like that—face flushed, and your bloated lips parted with cute little draws of breath—tits bunched together, glossed in a sheen of sweat and heaving with the labored rise and fall of your chest—and that adorable cunt, wet and puffy, swollen up like a pink pillow eagerly waiting for him, a soft bed for his cock and a perfectly bite-sized slice of his favorite cake. His gut rumbles, and his mouth soaks. To think he hasn’t had a single taste all day—he’s beyond starving.

You squirm under him, and he chuckles again, this time breathily—showing more of the unsightly animal with the low growl that seeps into his voice, “Such a pretty girl…” It’s unclear if he’s talking to you as his inkwell eyes are set on something else. He sags forward, back hunched as he bows down to face the object of his desire with only a hair’s breadth of separation—breaths thick, puffed hot against you—canines bared in an eerie smile. “So shy…”

He ignores your wiggling completely—pinching the chunk of cunt where your clit hides, making it peak forth like a little button to press, and his grin broadens.

“There it is,” he licks his teeth with a raspy sigh—eyes wide and deadset. “My beauty.”

You squirm a little more, even though you know you’re not going anywhere until he’s satisfied. He doesn’t waste much more time—not allowing you to prepare. Keeping the pinch, he opens his mouth wide and takes the chub with eyes closed, tongue flattened and wide, cloaking your exposed clit with thirst. “Mmgh…”

He always gets like this—cute-aggressive and pussy-whipped. It’s as if he and your cunt have their own private affair, the way he completely ignores you. No, that’s not entirely fair—he gets like that when feeding you his tongue as well, but you suppose it’s easier making out with your pussy as it doesn’t need to get up for air. 

Neither does he, it seems.

He groans loudly and releases your clit from his pinching grip—but keeps his whole mouth on you—lips, tongue, and all—nose and chin too, buried there while his hand moves down to slip three digits inside, filling you up with little regard to the stretch.

Your breath flares and shudders with a whimpery moan, toes curling along with his fingers, biting your lip at how he hooks them right into the soft spot of your gummy walls, then fingerbangs you fast, right down to the knuckles each time.

“Fuck, baby—so, so good, always so good,” he slurs out into you, tongue otherwise too engaged to bother sounding coherent, yet you understand nonetheless, even though you can never really get used to it—how utterly unashamed he is. “Come on, baby, cum f’mo—cum on my face—” he all but happily begs, tongue out, slurping your slit brazenly.

He’s not a very classic Alpha—how he worships you on his hands and knees with a throat full of plead and praise. He doesn’t even touch himself—cock left hung and bobbing against the bedsheets, hard and strung up with a net of veins, pilling pearls of pre that all go to waste—too busy with you. 

It’s stupid how you’re the one who ends up feeling ignored as the unwanted and overwhelming pleasure manhandles you into submission.

“Cum, baby, give it to me.”

You mewl as his tongue draws something out from within you, making your clit blare and thrum with your heartbeat. You struggle to enjoy it, you always do, feeling forced to surrender, and yet the more you try and deny it, the firmer his hold gets, relentless as he sends you right over the edge. You yelp and seize up once it takes you—clenching tightly around his digits as they unknot your insides, turning you into utter putty in his palm. 

And even then, he doesn’t stop—as if he doesn’t know how—sighing with elation as you quake on his tongue. That crooked smile on his face, nothing short of predatory and vile as he maintains the motion of his fingers, moaning in turn at your cute spasming and all the wordless babble that leaves your lips as you shake your head, crying for him to leave it alone. “Plea’ no more—stop, too much—”

He just chuckles against you—you really are too cute for your own good. Silly little Omega, don’t you know what your pheromones do to him? But okay, fine, since you asked nicely. He gives the slit one last thorough lick before wiping his smile while sitting up.

You haven’t even started coming down when he dabs the weight of his shaft upon the sensitivity, cooing at the lewd little plaps it makes, all slick as he slides the length between your flustered pussylips—fucking through the fat of the mound, running over your full clit, again and again, while listening to you squeak more nothings.

He only croons, “Yeah, I know you like that, baby—this pretty pussy of yours just loves my attention, doesn’t it?" His eyes seem to glow with something sickly, his voice thin, just shy of unhinged. "Always so cute, I could die.”

He can’t get over it—you’re too adorable like this. Watching you pleasure him was a welcome surprise, but ultimately, this is how he always wants you—flipped and pinned with your cunt exposed to his every wish—his favorite toy that never disappoints.

“Your pretty pussy’s always such a crybaby, y’know that? Look how it weeps f’mo—so needy to get stuffed. I bet you want my knot, huh?” he keeps mumbling while using his cock to play with your overworked cunt without yet entering it. “Alright, baby—don’t worry—I’ll give it to you,” he rasps, drooling.

You can’t keep from whimpering when the bed jostles, accounting for his repositioning as he moves to mount you with his feet planted down flat on the bed. Your ankles are pinned passed your head at this point, tipping your cunt up higher than your head.

“Yeah—I’ll give you what you want.” His voice darkens, and so does the look in his eyes—soaked in something you don’t like—something wild and downright terrifying. “And I’ll give it to you good.”

You almost protest, but you know there’s no getting through to him—not with that expression. You hate Alphas, you hate him, and you really hate this awful pose—this mating-press pile-driving overkill where he always bullies into the backroom of your cunt, insisting on fucking your cervix as he digs his cockhead right at the mouth of your womb, knotting you and filling you up with the full worth of his load. It never fails to make you feel utterly wrecked and bedridden in the morning.

But he doesn’t care about that. You have no places you’re supposed to be anyway—nowhere aside from right here, in his bed, where you belong—his sweet Omega bride who’s going to give him lots of pups.

He lines himself up, pressing his head past the ring—watching it swallow around him and biting his lip at the sight. “Look at it, baby—look as I stuff that perfect pussy all the way up—”

He sinks in slowly, revering your cunt for every inch you receive—watching it in awe as it takes the entirety of his length right down to the base. It’s like a magic trick how it all disappears—you’re so tiny, and yet you’re built for this, to take every part of him in, hugging his shaft with velvet heat, milking him as he kneads the spot inside you that always makes you cry out so good for him.

“Yes, baby—that’s my girl—take it all,” he coos, all but sitting on your ass with his cock down your cunt. “It’s like your pussy’s made for me, isn’t it? Perfectly tight, perfectly deep, perfectly wet and chunky to feel like I’m fucking heaven itself—”

You feel no different from a toy when he does this—a squeaky toy manufactured for a Chihuahua puppy, yet mistakenly given to a full-grown Rottweiler. He straight dogs your cunt through several peaks—so soaked now that it fossettes down both the slope of your belly and the cliff of your spine. And still, he keeps going, rambling on like usual—all words that fail to reach you.

You’re so lightheaded you’re on the brink of passing out—overheating and out of strength, numb and tingly, beyond happy when you finally feel his knot swell within, propping you to take his seed. 

He keels over—his thighs pressed down tightly atop yours—panting above you—eyes half-mast and glazed, almost crying in bliss while feeding you his cum, knowing it's flooding your womb, breeding you full of warmth and love.

“Yes, every drop, baby—it’s all yours.” He keeps a thumb rubbing over your clit as he croons. Voice beyond lovesick, “Let’s make too many pups to count.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Natsuo, Mirio ♡ JJK – Gojo, Geto ♡ HQ – Kuro, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Nagi, Bachira ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[night-night-stories-before-bed]

Dirty heart

Warning ⚠️; slight smut, fluff, mention of drinking blood. 🔞

Pairing; Batman/Vampire!Male!Reader

Summary; The Justice League hit a stalemate during a mission, but thankfully, Batman knows the perfect person to help them. The only problem is that you are absolutely shameless with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Gotham was a nightmarish city. Rotten to its core and filled with corrupted souls, Gotham was the perfect playground for a creature of the night like you. You could feast as much as you wanted, no one ever questioned the trail of bodies you left behind you. Well, that was until you met Gotham’s well-known vigilante; Batman.

You remembered the first time you two met. It was a rainy and cold night and there weren't many pedestrians out. You were hunting, hoping for a quick meal when Batman jumped behind you. The battle was short-lived as you were faster and stronger than a mere mortal. But you didn't kill him, you didn't even drink his blood. You were too curious and wanted to know who was hidding under the mask, so you let him go.

Only to be able to hunt him down.

And what a beautiful mistake.

Because this time Batman was ready for you. You never expected to be outsmarted and bested by a man dressing as a bat, and yet you found yourself stuck in a cage facing the city’s multimillionaire Bruce Wayne. Thankfully for you, the man had no idea how to properly kill a vampire. You managed to pass a deal with Bruce Wayne; you could live in Gotham and feed, but only on the worst kind of criminals.

You obviously agreed and with the days and weeks passing, you slowly came to cohabit perfectly with fine with Batman. From time to time, you would join him in his nightly adventures, watching over him like an evil angel. You even saved his and Robin’s asses a few times, slowly winning over the kid.

Even Bruce got softer around you.

It was a slow process, but Bruce and you became closer. As an immortal vampire, you had amassed quite a fortune, so you could easily be part of the same gala that Bruce went to. Naturally, the papers jumped on the occasion, questioning the relationship between the two of you and so did you.

Bruce was a womanizer, a playboy, but you weren't better. Some could even call you a manwhore. It was only predictable that you ended up sharing a bed with Bruce, savouring the taste of his skin and drinking his moans. His blood became a favourite of yours and you loved biting him in the groin or leaving trails of small bites all over his body. Your own way of claiming him.

You respected each other lives too and never did you put your nose in his business as Batman, unless he needed your help. So you never once met the Justice League until now.

Bruce’s call took you by surprise, but when he said he needed your help with some important business, you immediately accepted. After all, Bruce wasn't one to ask for help. So you went to his manor and Alfred led you to the batcave.

Down there you came face-to-face with the Justice League. Superman, Wonder Woman, The Flash… they were all there staring at you curiously as you made your way to your lover. Sitting in front of his screed, Bruce didn't even look at you as you rested your hands on his shoulders.

- “So, what can I do for you gorgeous?” You asked, leaning down and smirking.

- “I need your help to deal with Lex Luther. Mind helping us get in one of his warehouses?” Bruce said, showing you the place on the screen. “It’s lead so Superman can look inside and it would be too risky for J’onn if there is fire. But you?”

- “Aye, I can turn into smoke and get in without being noticed. Can do that, but what is there for me?” You asked, turning your head to look at Bruce before kissing the side of his clothed neck. “I am getting hungry, been a while since I had a taste of you.”

You had whispered, dropping your voice as low as you could that Bruce would still hear you. You got a chuckle from him as he looked you from the corner of his eyes.

- “Get inside, turn off the security system for us to get in and then I’ll think about it.” Bruce replied, making you scoff.

- “Unfair! I do all the dirty jobs and I don't even know my price?”

- “Let's call it a surprise.”

- “Fine! But just because it's you, precious.”

As you let go of Bruce, allowing him to turn around, you realized that all eyes were on you. Amusement was painted on most faces, but Superman seemed a bit jealous. What a shame, the bat was yours and you didn't share. You smirked before looking back at Bruce.

- “This is Y/N, a close friend of mine. He’s a vampire and will easily get inside Luthor’s warehouse.” Bruce simply said as he got up from his chair.

- “Excuse me, are you telling me mister handsome over here is like Dracula?” The Flash asked, pointing at you with surprise.

- “Yeah, kind of, but harder to kill. I still haven't found a way yet and trust me, I tried a lot of things.” Bruce replied as you simply laughed.

After that, you accompanied them to the warehouse, travelling with Bruce in his Batmobile. Every excuse was good to spend some time with your favourite vigilante after all and Bruce wasn't complaining.

Dealing with the warehouse was a quick business for you and the Justice League got inside in no time. Bruce was the last one to walk in and you got a quick kiss before anyone else could see it as Bruce thanked you. After all you didn't just stop the security system, but also unarmed all the traps you had found. Some could have been deadly for some of the members, but not anymore.

That night you left with Bruce and went back to his mansion. Robin wasn't there and Alfred was already sleeping when you both got inside. You quickly found your way to Bruce’s bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes for Alfred to pick up in the morning.

You took your time savouring your prize, kissing and caressing every scar on Bruce’s body, from the biggest to the smallest. His body was like a piece of art that you worshipped. Soft moans escaped Bruce each time your lips and fingers brushed a sensible spot, making you smile. You loved the sound of his voice when he let all restrain go. You were addicted to the trust he had in you when he abandoned himself in your hands.

And when you both were done and your hunger had been satisfied, you cradled Bruce against you, caressing his face and body as you watched him fall asleep. You would fight your own sleepiness, wanting to stay awake as long as possible, admiring your lover sleeping and making sure no nightmares would plague him. But you would always lose and fall asleep as well, arms and body wrapped around Bruce as if to shield and protect him from the outside world.

[blackcat-star]

Accidentally.

Sung Jinwoo x Fem!Reader.

Here is your request @sambi96

I apologize if it's not to your liking ;-; This topic is quite difficult for me….Hope you can enjoy this.

___________________________

It started out like any other normal day, or at least it should have.

You were used to being the reliable person behind the scenes, the calm and collected one when chaos ensued. After all, you were used to hunting monsters, dealing with the occasional portal malfunction, and cleaning up after Jinwoo's shadow army, so a little weirdness here and there didn't faze you.

But then, this.

Your unmistakable feeling of cool, fresh sheets wrapped around you had woken you up. But when you opened your eyes and looked down, you saw something that caused you to sit up, pounding heart.

Somewhere your chest was now gone and it was replaced with something more muscular and toned.

"Wait. What?" you muttered, your eyes glancing quickly towards the mirror. There was no mistaking it.

It was Jinwoo's face.

"NO WAY."

Your hands fly straight to your thick, dark, perfectly styled hair. You tug at it in disbelief before glancing down at your abs? Your midsection is completely different. Firm, strong muscles where you were used to softness.

Then the final bombshell hits when your phone vibrates on your nightstand. You grab it, staring at the screen with wide eyes. A single text from a very familiar contact.

🖤: Arent you? In my body.

You: WHAT TF DID YOU DO JINWOO?!?!?!?

🖤: It's not me. I woke up and screamed because I have boobs now. So, thanks for that trauma.

You run your hands through your hair in frustration. "How did this-?"

The text continues.

🖤: I don't know what kind of weird dungeon magic this is, but somehow it's your fault. And I refuse to deal with it alone.

You: What did I do? I didn't sign up for this! You've somehow cursed me!

🖤: Maybe you should have thought twice before teasing me about my coffee addiction.

You roll your eyes. "That was months ago."

The next few hours passed in a frantic rush to find a solution. But no matter how much you thought, it was useless. All you knew was that Jinwoo was now in your body, and you were stuck in his.

And, of course, your first instinct was to get revenge on him. After all, Jinwoo had a pretty high tolerance for nonsense, so you could only imagine what it would be like for him in your body.

You decided to have a little fun first.

____________________________________

Jinwoo's first day in your body was bad.

He stumbled along, trying to adjust to the unfamiliar weight of your figure. The lack of his usual bulk was difficult, and he had to find a way to wear your shoes - literally - since you weren't really into bulky combat boots. He had to endure and wear heels, the kind you insisted were 'fancy' when you went out. But as soon as he took a few steps, he was cursing loudly.

"How the hell am I-ugh!" He muttered to himself, "I'm going to trip and break my neck." He moved clumsily around the house, and you could tell his discomfort. It was quite amusing, to be honest.

But you weren't done yet.

_______________________

Payback Time.

You had a plan. The first step was to invade Jinwoo's perfect life. You needed to leave your mark.

First: Glitter Bomb.

You took a small packet of glitter and carefully sprinkled it into his hair.A little here, and a little there too. By then, it would be too late, and he wouldn't notice until a while later.

"Perfect," you grinned. He was going to go crazy when he saw this.

Second: Selfie Incident.

The next step was a little more devious. You snapped a quick selfie-one strategically taken at your most playful, 'flirty' angle. You even pouted a little for the camera.

#FeelingMyself #TooHotToHandle, you posted online.

You laughed as the notifications flooded in. You don't care about the comments, it's all about Jinwoo's reaction.

___________________________

When you see him later in the day, he's texting someone about an 'urgent mission'. But then, his eyes turn to you. His face goes from calm to completely confused. He stares at his phone and then back at you.

"Why you…" He stammers "Why do you look like that?"

You look at him with intense eye contact. "What, you don't like it? This is your new look. You should try it out."

He blinks a few times, clearly at a loss for words. "This is…"

And then he understands.

Immediately, he runs his hand through your (his) hair, fingers suddenly running through each strand in a sudden panic.

"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?!" His voice is shrill with genuine concern.

You shrug, feigning innocence. "What's wrong? I just added some glitter. Just to, you know, brighten your mood."

He groaned, running his hand through your (his) hair in frustration. "This isn't funny. I can't go out like this!"

You could barely contain your laughter as you watched him try to brush off the glitter, knowing full well that it would be stuck to you (him) for the next few days. His mild panic was more than enough to fuel your laughter.

_______________________

But then karma comes.

_________________________

You wake up the next morning, thinking everything is fine. Your body feels fine. You're back to your usual self. But then, as you're about to get out of bed, the pain in your legs hits you.

It's a nagging pain from the high heels you made him wear. You thought it was just your legs, but then the pain from your stomach and lower back kicks in. The pain gets deeper and deeper. You groan and get dressed, but the discomfort only increases.

You rush to the bathroom and stare at your reflection.

"Wait. Oh. Oh, no," you mumble under your breath.

That's when you really feel it: cramps.

"Jinwoo!" you scream internally, clutching your stomach.

Your period is here, and it's not just any regular cramps. Oh, no. The body swap seems to produce serious negative effects.

Your uterus experiences intense damage like a vehicle crashing into it.

"This isn't fair!!!!" you moan in despair. "I was just having fun yesterday. Now I'm being punished? This is no fair!"

_______________________

The instant Jinwoo showed up with his medicine pack and hot water bottles plus your favorite treats you began to understand that karma deals harsh punishments. His generous act showed that our choices always create results.

"How are you feeling?" Jinwoo's voice was filled with concern as he set the things down next to you.

You glared at him. "Don't say anything. My pain makes it impossible to use sarcasm."

He smiled sheepishly at you. "Sorry. I should have warned you. Karma is a monster, you know?"

You sighed dramatically. "Yeah. I get it now. The universe hates me."

He chuckled and took a seat next to you and started braiding your hair while producing comforting sounds as if he had done this many times before.

"Do you need anything else?" His gentle tone matched his words as he spoke to you.

You melted a bit. "You need to keep this private and don't tell anyone about it. This feels so embarrassing."

He smiled gently. "I won't tell anyone. But you know… I have a feeling this won't be the last time we swap."

You blinked at him. "Oh, no. You better not think about it."

He smiled slyly at you. "Never dreamed of it."

But you know - karma has its eye on you. And it's just waiting for the next time you upset the balance of the universe.

____________________

I was having mental breakdown and tired af

Hope everything will get better

Sorry if I take too long to do your requests

[rockscanfly]

Random Charles Smith Headcanon's

Has probably contemplated suicide at more than one point (see “I’m here just to hurt and suffer myself. In this land I feel stuck.”)

Maybe a little vain. He cares for his clothing well, embellishes himself. 

Has auditory sensitivity. He gets very irritable with loud people.

Has never felt like he belonged, always feels cut off

Is comfortable with violence only against folk he sees as on his own level/like himself. Has little empathy for himself so has little empathy for them (hence smoking while Arthur beats a man for information, the efficient and quick kills of the bounty hunter, the poachers)

Has a STRONG sense of justice--that includes responsibility and culpability. People make choices and Charles holds them accountable for them. Sadie is a killer, so he treats her like any other ally. That German family didn’t make that choice, neither did the Wapiti. But he doesn’t have any pity for the gang.

Animals don't choose violence, hence the protectiveness over them and their dignity. 

Comes off as cold because he isn’t loud/not good at chat. He’s really just been alone most of his life. 

Okay with drinking, does NOT like drunkenness. Back to culpability. This can make him unforgiving and harsh at times.

Both he and Arthur are so used to people passing in and out of their lives that they’re afraid to hold on too tight. Then Arthur gets captured by Colm. Hosea talks to him, about Bessie and about Arthur’s dead family. 

“I’m not her,” Charles says. “Not either of them. I’m not asking you to leave your world behind, and I’m not going to wait for you in some house. We’re partners first. I’d lose the rest of it before I let you put me to the side.” 

He likes that Arthur is big enough to push him around, to hold him down and anchor him when he can feel himself getting lost. To toss him over a broad shoulder when they’re swimming around on a hunting trip and settle him down on soft pelts, to pin him and bite the lonely from his skin. 

Charles can kick Arthur’s ass and will do so on request

He’s kind and thoughtful. He’d be the one to make Arthur little presents and leave them around for him. Practical things, made special with the careful workmanship of beading/embroidery/etching. 

Can be impatient—autonomy is his norm so waiting on others both physically, mentally, and emotionally doesn’t come natural to him

Will cut slingload on people he feels don’t value him back—would not pine for Arthur or stick around if Arthur tries to protect himself by lashing out at Charles, even if he still has feelings. His father taught him that he has to protect himself because no one else will do it. Arthur. Well. Arthur’s the only person he’s trusted to have his back. Because Arthur proved it, several times over. There’s no one Charles would have used “do it for me” on other than Arthur Morgan. 

He fell into fighting again because he had begun opening his heart for the first time since he was a child, and then fate took Arthur too. Like Charles said—he was put on the earth to cause pain and to suffer himself. 

He tries to help folks, but he’s not good at talking and he can’t use his privilege to help like Arthur did. He’s everything the US government hates, even more than the Waipiti. They reach a point where his violence is no longer useful. And for a drowning, grieving, heart sick stretch of years violence is all Charles has left to him (hence going to Saint Denis, a city he hates, and fighting people for white folks' entertainment in a transparent suicide-by-cop bid for someone to end his suffering) And then Sadie gives him the option of closure and working beside John reminds him that he is a man, not a weapon, and Beecher’s Hope makes him believe he too can change. 

Charles has never tried to be anything but who he is. He and Arthur are similar in that way. What he realizes, what Arthur realized too late, is that he can change if he wants it. And that maybe he’s allowed his past pain and scars to run his life along a course he doesn’t actually have to follow. 

Brought to you by my on-going replay of RDR2 and my undying love and devotion to princess of my heart Charles Smith.

[whatswrongwithblue]

The Hunt pt. 1

Read on AO3.

Part 2. Part 3.

Summary: Alastor x Reader (reader is afab, uses she/her pronouns.) Date nights in Hell are done a little differently, especially when you're dating The Radio Demon.

Trigger warnings: Canon typical violence. Reader and Alastor in Hell for a reason. Horror with some twisted romance.

Today had been a particularly drab day.

Acid rain had been falling all afternoon and Pentagram City was shut down because of it. And you could feel yourself shutting down as well.

These bad days used to fall on you much more often. Back when life was simpler and less stimulating. When there were less options to hyper fixate on and stimulate those delightful hormones that didn’t always help you to feel happy but allowed you to . . . feel.

But today you felt that numbness creeping in; a slithering, creeping, darker cousin to boredom. You were so tired and every forced smile and polite reply aimed at the other hotel residents drained your battery little by little by little by little . . . .

You were on your fifth cup of coffee that afternoon, the bitter caffeinated beverage the only thing left that seemed to cause any kind of chemical spark in your dead gray matter, but unknowingly, you had stopped sipping it several minutes ago. Rather, you were just mindlessly staring down into it, watching the little tendrils of separated creamer swirl around the top. At least it was far more interesting than anything else going on in the lobby.

“Are we having a bit of a . . . down day?” Alastor’s voice said remarkably close to your ear and you jumped, turning to find him bent over at his waist, his head right next to yours.

“I’m fine,” you insisted, turning away from him.

He had pampered and fussed over you too many times on days like these, even when – no, especially when they became so bad you couldn’t get out of bed. But things were different now; since his return to Hell, Alastor was busier than ever and you didn’t want to bother him. The guilt would be worse than the emptiness you were currently struggling with.

“I think not,” came his sing-song reply and you shut your eyes against the enthusiasm you heard in his tone.

“Don’t I look fine?” you challenged and when he stood up straighter, his smile pinching just a little at the corners, you heard how snippy you sounded with him and sighed. There was the damnable guilt you had been trying to avoid.

“You look beautiful as always, darling,” came his quick reply. “I just thought you could use a little cheering up.”

He leaned back in, whispering conspiratorial into your ear now. “I was hoping you would join me . . . on a date . . .” His eyes glowed as he let his words sink in. “But if you’d rather sit in here and sulk the rest of the night, I’ll leave you to it.”

“Like . . . a date, date?” you asked, feeling a little bit of the weight leaving your chest as hope bloomed in you.

“Precisely.” His smile stretched ear to ear. “There is someone I need to collect a debt on and the weather tonight seems just perfect for such an occasion. I would more than welcome your company.”

You felt your first genuine smile of the day grace your features, nearly matching the wickedness of Alastor’s own features, and that little spark you had felt turned into an entire flood of dopamine.

“Where to?” you asked and Alastor took your head, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, before leading you out the front doors.

____

The prey dragged itself up the stairs, stumbling on every other step and grasping the handrail for balance as he went. Although the rainstorm had kept him from the bars that night, it hadn’t kept him from his personal stache of liquor and in his lonely anger, he had downed several gin and tonics before his stomach began to protest and he had passed out in his armchair. He’d woken up a few minutes ago, his bladder protesting the diuretic effects of the booze. By some miracle he had made it to his downstairs bathroom to relieve himself and then decided it was time to crawl into bed.

He made it to the top of the landing after a considerable struggle with the staircase and almost forgot to the turn the lights off behind him. Fumbling with the switch, he just happened to glance down the stairs as the lights flickered out of existence.

The prey blinked in the darkness, trying to adjust his eyes, as he thought he saw a strange shadow at the bottom of the stairs.

He was sure he was alone in the house and he couldn’t quite be sure of what he was seeing, so he flipped the lights back on.

Nothing.

Shaking his head and rubbing his eyes, he turned the lights back off.

And there it was again.

A shadow. Taller and definitely there.

Feeling his heart begin to race, the prey flipped the lights on, certain he wasn’t imagining it this time but as the staircase became illuminated once more, the shadow was gone.

He had perhaps had too much to drink.

One last time, he flipped the switch, inviting the darkness back in, and this time when the shadow came back, the prey swore there were faint glowing green eyes and the hint of a smile playing across its features.

And was it a little closer this time? He had sworn it was at the bottom of the stairs but now it seemed to be a few steps up.

“Now that’s enough of that!” the prey shouted and flipped on the lights.

He breathed a sigh of relief when once more, there was nothing.

Maybe it was best to sleep with the lights on tonight, just to be certain.

The prey turned away from the stairs, leaving the switch flipped in the on position, and came chest to chest with The Radio Demon.

“Good evening, Daniel,” Alastor said, smiling wider as the prey’s face turned several shades whiter. “I see you’ve changed residences.”

“Hey there, Al’ . . . I-I mean, Alastor . . . sir. M-Mr. Radio D-demon,” the prey stuttered, stumbling backwards and just barely catching himself on the banister. “You uh . . . you like my new digs, huh? Paid a pretty penny for it but you know, it’ll be good for business.”

Alastor remained at the top of the stairs, watching his prey make its slow decent down and away from him.

“And who’s business would that be? Certainly not mine, I don’t deal in real estate after all.”

“You know, ha, it’s funny you would say that because I’ve been meaning to talk to you- ”

“You made a mistake, Daniel,” Alastor told his prey, all the politeness leaving his tone, although his smile remained.

The prey swallowed audibly.

“Did you really think going to Zestial, of all demons, would save you from our deal?”

“I-I don’t know what you’re . . . talking abou- ”

“You see, Daniel, Zestial and I may not necessarily be friends, but we are colleagues. And we have an understanding. A certain level of respect for each other, if you will.” Alastor narrowed his eyes and his voice turned cold as ice. “And neither of us like having another Overlord’s leftovers.”

Daniel turned and fled, racing down the rest of the steps with a grace that only adrenaline could provide in such a state of inebriation, though he did fumble quite a bit with the locks of the front doors.

Alastor let his prey make it out the front door before he went in pursuit, though he let his deep laughter follow Daniel the whole way down, enjoying the sweet tangy smell of his fear as it spiked at the sound.

In his panic, the prey forgot all about the inclement weather and dashed thoughtlessly out into the rainstorm and ran down the deserted street. It took a minute for the effects to kick in but eventually he started to feel the itching on his skin and then the burning set in. The prey stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, beneath a streetlamp, and watched as the skin on his hands began to turn red and break out in a terrible heat rash.

With a sob, he dashed under an overhang of a nearby business and shook at the doorhandle, but it wouldn’t budge. He thought about breaking the window to get inside but then he heard that laughter again and the streetlights above flickered and then went out, one by one.

Looking down the street, he watched as The Radio Demon stepped out into view, his antlers now wide and pointed above his silhouette, and turned his head down the street, looking in his prey’s direction.

A smell wafted off of him, even from this great distance. A dank, swampy, animalistic smell. The musk filled the prey’s nostrils and burned his sinuses, and he knew it was the smell of a predator about to pounce.

“That’s alright, Daniel, go ahead and run. Please do.”

To the prey’s horror, Alastor began walking quickly down the sidewalk, completely unaffected by the burning rain.  His limbs and entire body stretched out and elongated with every step, closing the distance between them faster than previously possible, until Alastor was a towering demonic presence chasing down the street after him.

“I like my meals warmed up!” he shouted, and the prey screamed as he took off again.

It was either face the rain or be eaten and the prey chose the rain as it sprinted down the street, screaming and crying out for help but not a light flickered on in the buildings as he passed them.

Eventually the burning became unbearable and the prey darted blindly into the nearest alleyway, praying to Roo herself that there would be some shelter to hide in and protect him from the rain.

And there it was, a small overhang by a bar’s backdoor, with a conveniently placed dumpster to hide next to that blocked his view of the street.

That was where the prey found you, standing innocently by the door, shielded from the rain, and he didn’t question why you would be there on a night like this. He only fell at your feet, clinging to your legs and shaking, his hands and face now beginning to blister, his tears hot and stinging his flesh as they fell down his cheeks.

“Please! Please, help me! Let me in! Please! He’s going to eat me, please!”

“Who is going to eat you?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head as you considered the pathetic demon at your feet.

“Alastor. Th-the Radio Demon. He . . . he . . .” the prey fumbled for words, his sentence trailing off as he risked peaking up over the top of the dumpster and seeing nothing but an empty street at the end of the alleyway.

“Oh, right. Him,” you said, nodding. “Well, that’s his thing, isn’t it? Going after demons that try and break their deals. Especially ones like you, who preyed after helpless young women when he was alive. Isn’t that right . . . Daniel?”

The prey’s breath caught in his throat as he glanced over his shoulder at you, a new kind of fear lighting his eyes.

“Who . . . who are you?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“That’s not important,” you scoffed. “Who was the girl you raped and left for dead in the park on the night of your 18th birthday? Or the sex workers you then tortured and killed and left their bodies out in the desert? Do you even remember their names? Do you know how many family members are still looking for their daughters, sisters, mothers?”

“I don’t . . . I didn’t . . .” he stammered, getting to his feet now.

“You did. No use denying it now, Daniel. Not when Alastor and I are so . . . very . . . hungry.”

A crackling noise, like the sound of several joints popping at once filled the air, and the prey looked up and up and up as he saw Alastor’s gigantic form peeling away from the darkened side of the building, turning from nothing but shadow into a very corporeal and deadly form before his very eyes.

Behind him, you shoved at his back, forcing him to fall onto his knees into a puddle of acid rain.

Then you stepped out from under the cover of the overhang, letting the rain soak your hair and clothes, and the prey looked up at you with renewed horror as he realized the acid water had no effect on you either.

“Please,” he whimpered and then began to scream as Alastor bent over and lifted him into the air.

You watched as the prey’s tiny body was lifted higher and higher until the rain and the shadows hid him mostly from view but you could still hear him screaming. Then there was a crunching noise and a wet sound, followed by a thin stream of blood that fell from the sky.

The screaming continued.

“This will be quite unpleasant until it’s over,” Alastor’s voice said from high above you. “But my darling companion does love the taste of demon heart.”

Another sound of stretching and tearing and then you saw it; the warm mass of your meal falling towards you, and you reached up and caught it with skilled precision.

With the prey’s heart now in your grasp, you brought it to your lips and took an eager bite, never minding the blood that ran down your forearms and coated your lower face.

The screaming above you came to a sudden halt with the sound of one final loud crunch and just as you were taking the last bites of your own meal, Alastor was standing before you.

His antlers were still larger than usual, their six points gleaming beautifully in the dim light of the alley, as rain ran down them in rivulets, soaking the red and black hair beneath them.

Alastor gave you a loving smile as you swallowed the last bit of heart.

“Feeling better, my love?” he asked.

“Much,” you said with a satisfied sigh. “Thank you.”

He reached a hand out, wiping away a bit of blood from the side of your mouth with his thumb, though he had hardly succeeded in getting it all.

“You always look positively stunning like this,” he said as he brought his bloody thumb to his mouth and gave it an appreciative suck.

And there in the rain and the dark, you and your lover shared a private and tender kiss, the perfect ending to a perfect date.

Tag list for part 2? It will be smutty.

[mercillery]

Hi, I read your Frederick/Reader and absolutely fell in love with your writing style. Was kicking my feet type shi😭 If you’re willing to, could you write for Victor Grantz in the same format ? If you do my world genuinely will be complete.

Thanks and have a good one!

WARNINGS: GENDER NOT SPECIFIED + NOT PROOFREAD

NOTES: The way you worded your request was hilarious thank u so much and sorry this took super duper long…consider this my early Christmas gift to you. I hope this is the format you wanted 🥹❤️❤️❤️

Meeting Victor is like trying to pet a stray cat: approach too quickly, and he’s gone before you even say “hello.” He’s a master of the subtle retreat—one second there, the next, poof, like smoke in the wind. Victor’s shy, wary nature doesn’t just make him skittish; it’s practically an Olympic sport. He’s the reigning champion of Avoidance 101.

But don’t worry—if you come at him gently, with no sudden movements and a kind heart, he might cautiously peer out from behind the metaphorical couch. It’s a process though, so buckle up for the long haul. Winning Victor’s trust is less about grand gestures and more about the quiet, unspoken ones.

Want to impress him? Forget the flashy declarations of friendship and instead offer to help him feed the strays or—better yet—silently leave him a little note of encouragement. He’ll find it later, blush like a tomato, and spend three days overthinking how to say “thank you.”

Victor values people who respect his boundaries like they’re sacred artifacts in a museum—look, but don’t touch, unless invited. The tiniest, most understated acts of care leave the biggest impression on him.

Did you pick up a letter he dropped without making a big deal about it? Congratulations, you’re now a recurring character in the cinema of Victor’s mind. He’ll replay that scene like it’s Oscar-worthy, analyzing it frame by frame. “Were they just being kind, or did they pity me?” he’ll wonder at 3 a.m., sandwiched between anxiety and the hope that maybe—just maybe—you actually like him for who he is.

Spoiler alert: Victor is going to assume pity at first. That’s just his brand.

Victor’s idea of initiating a conversation is basically an international diplomatic incident. He’s not one to start talking, because, let’s be honest, that requires bravery, and he’s still working up to being brave enough to ask for extra ketchup at the fast food drive-thru. But once he trusts you and that’s a long journey involving more emotional hoops than the Olympics, he’ll let slip little nuggets of his inner world.

He’ll drop these tiny little gems about himself like it’s a treasure hunt, but you’ve got to be quick, because they’re easy to miss. One day, he might casually mention how a certain flower takes him back to his childhood—cue the mental image of him as a tiny, awkward version of himself, surrounded by daisies.

Another time, he might comment on how people’s faces light up when they get letters, like he’s some sort of professional mail therapist who knows the emotional impact of a good envelope. When Victor opens up, it’s like witnessing a rare bird in the wild—blink and you might miss it.

Victor is not one for blatant hints, because he’s too busy trying to avoid direct confrontation (his skill at this could be rivaled only by the world’s most skilled diplomats). So, no, he’ll never explicitly ask for your company, because that would require him to open his mouth and risk exposing his soft, squishy emotional side.

Instead, his actions do the talking—though they might need a bit of interpretation, so keep your detective hat on. Victor might subtly adjust his delivery route so it conveniently passes by places you frequent. It's almost as if he’s carefully plotting to get within a five-foot radius of you, and hey, who could blame him? Maybe he’s just really into the whole “unexpectedly running into people you know” thing.

Or, if he’s really feeling bold, he’ll linger a little longer when dropping off your mail, as if the mailbox suddenly has some profound existential meaning. If you happen to notice this and casually join him (because you are a good person who isn’t going to let Victor spiral into further awkwardness alone, right?), he’ll be overjoyed—but also extremely flustered, because admitting he wants you around would require him to admit he has feelings. And that, my friend, is a level of vulnerability he’s not quite ready for. But don’t worry, his heart’s doing the cha-cha on the inside.

Victor is a masterclass in the actions speak louder than words school of love. He’s not going to serenade you with declarations of affection or wax poetic about how your eyes sparkle like the morning dew—because, frankly, just thinking about that would make him combust.

Instead, he shows he cares in his own quiet, sneaky way. Mention your favorite tea once, and guess what? He’ll remember it for eternity. He’s got a mental file labeled Your Preferences: Highly Classified that’s better organized than the national archives.

You’ll casually say, “Oh, I’ve been meaning to read this one book,” and BAM—next thing you know, it’s magically in your mailbox with a little note that just says, “Thought you might like this.” And if there’s a stray cat you always stop to pet, Victor will casually start carrying an extra biscuit in his satchel for it.

Let’s be honest, though—if you look hungry enough, that biscuit might end up being for you. It’s basically his love language: tea, books, and snacks.

If you want to make his day, just sit next to him quietly and do something peaceful together. He’s like a houseplant—happy just existing in the same space as you, soaking up the shared sunlight.

Whether you’re tending a garden, reading side-by-side, or helping stray animals, those moments make him feel like he’s starring in his own low-budget indie movie (the kind with no dialogue but lots of meaningful glances).

There’s no pressure to talk, and that’s exactly how he likes it. If he had his way, his life would just be a montage of cozy, quiet activities with you, set to the soft plink of piano music.

Of course, Victor’s social anxiety has a habit of pulling pranks on both him and everyone else. One minute, he’s enjoying your company; the next, he’s retreating like a vampire caught in the sunlight. No explanation, no warning—just poof, gone. It’s not you, it’s him—and his brain, which likes to play a cruel game called Let’s Overthink This Until We Die.

If he avoids eye contact or looks like he’s considering tunneling through the nearest wall to escape, it’s not because you’ve done anything wrong. He’s probably just overwhelmed and desperately trying to remember how humans are supposed to behave. Give him some space, and he’ll come back once he’s convinced himself you don’t secretly think he’s the most awkward person alive.

Spoiler: he totally thinks you think that anyway.

Victor wrestles with an Olympic-level sense of unworthiness, like his brain has its own personal commentator constantly reminding him, “And here we have Victor, doubting his ability to be loved again—10 points for consistency!”

He struggles to believe that anyone could genuinely care for someone like him, especially given his arsenal of awkwardness and insecurities. Seriously, if self-deprecation were a sport, he’d have a gold medal and a sponsorship deal.

But here’s the thing: if you’re patient and reassuring, he’ll eventually start peeling back the layers of his fears. He might quietly admit to his scopophobia (fear of being stared at), his doubts about whether he’s even capable of forming meaningful relationships, or—prepare yourself for heartbreak—his lingering sadness over never receiving a letter addressed just to him. (Excuse me while I cry forever.)

When this happens, please, for the love of all that is good, don’t panic and start shouting affirmations at him like you’re his personal life coach. Victor thrives on calm, gentle reassurance, not pressure or raised voices. Your steady, quiet presence is like emotional chamomile tea to his frazzled soul.

Despite all his self-doubt, Victor is ridiculously perceptive about your emotions, even if he doesn’t always know what to do about them. He’s the kind of guy who notices you’re upset before you even realize it yourself.

Did you sigh a little too heavily or stare off into space for three seconds longer than usual? Victor clocked it. And while he might not be the type to launch into a grand speech about feelings, he’ll wordlessly show his care in his own way.

Maybe he’ll leave a single flower on your desk—no note, no explanation, just there, like a little whisper of “I see you.” Or, if he’s feeling extra sneaky, he might nudge Wick in your direction, because let’s be real: nothing cheers a person up like an adorable animal who’s clearly been coerced into playing emotional support.

One thing Victor absolutely loves is writing letters. And by love, I mean obsesses over to an absurd degree. His letters to you are the perfect blend of poetic and adorably clumsy, like he’s trying to pour his heart out but keeps tripping over the words.

One moment, you’ll be reading something surprisingly profound about how much he values your presence, and the next, you’ll find a sentence where he’s clearly panicked mid-thought and gone with something hilariously awkward. (“Your eyes remind me of… uh… really nice things!”)

But what makes these letters so special is how deeply personal they are.

They’re filled with gratitude for the quiet joy you bring into his life, written in a way that’s so uniquely him you can practically hear him fumbling through each line. Honestly, if love languages were mail-based, Victor would be your number-one postman.

Crowds and Victor go together about as well as oil and water—or Victor and social confidence. But if you casually mention liking something, prepare yourself, because this man will brave the seventh circle of hell (the local market) to get it for you.

Picture it: Victor, sweating bullets, weaving through bustling streets like a man on a mission, clutching his satchel like it’s a lifeline. He’ll return flustered but victorious, the prized item wrapped so carefully you’d think it was made of glass.

His face will be a mix of relief and pride, as if he’s just slain a dragon. (To be fair, for Victor, that is the equivalent.) Don’t be surprised if he brushes off your thanks with an awkward, “Oh, it was nothing,” while secretly hoping you’re impressed by his bravery. Spoiler alert: you should be.

Wick, Victor’s trusty dog, isn’t just a pet—he’s practically a third wheel in your relationship. And, honestly? It’s adorable.

Victor sees Wick as an extension of himself, so when Wick curls up in your lap or adorably gnaws at your shoelaces, that’s basically Victor saying, “I trust you with my soul, but, you know, through the dog.”

The moment you start caring for Wick—feeding him, petting him, or playing fetch—Victor’s heart practically bursts into a thousand sparkly pieces. Watching you with Wick is like watching someone hold a tiny, fluffy version of his heart in their hands. Wick’s antics aren’t just cute; they’re a whole bonding experience.

Honestly, at this point, the three of you are a family. Wick’s the child, Victor’s the awkwardly doting dad, and you’re the incredibly patient parent trying to keep them both in line.

Arguments with Victor are about as common as a solar eclipse: rare, slightly uncomfortable, and leaving everyone a bit disoriented afterward. Confrontation isn’t in his wheelhouse—if there’s tension, his first instinct is to retreat like a turtle into its shell.

If he’s hurt, he won’t blow up or yell; instead, he’ll quietly pull away, letting his mind run a marathon of overthinking. By the time you’ve moved on, he’s still replaying the argument on loop like a bad soap opera. But here’s the thing: Victor is ridiculously introspective.

Once he’s processed his emotions a process that may or may not involve pacing, Wick cuddles, and at least one existential crisis, he’ll write you a letter. And not just any letter—a heartfelt, soul-baring essay on what went wrong, why he feels the way he does, and how much he still values you.

Victor’s ultimate dream isn’t flashy—it’s not a yacht, a mansion, or a five-star lifestyle. No, in Victor’s perfect world, it’s just the two of you, Wick happily trotting at your heels, living your best life of ultimate domesticity.

No loud parties, no awkward small talk, just a quiet house with a cozy garden and maybe a suspiciously large collection of rocks Victor has insisted are “artistic.” The joy of daily routines—making tea, feeding stray animals, and Victor nervously handing you love letters he’s rewritten five times—is his idea of pure bliss. If this man ever proposes, it’s going to involve Wick wearing a bowtie and an “I woof you” sign, so brace yourself for maximum wholesome chaos.

One day, Victor might finally muster the courage to show you his favorite quiet spots. Each one has a backstory that’s equal parts sweet and painfully awkward.

There’s the meadow where he feeds stray animals because, of course, he’s secretly the neighborhood Dr. Dolittle. There’s the stream where he collects smooth stones, claiming they “help him think,” even though he’s just really bad at skipping rocks. And then there’s the old tree. Beneath its branches is a hollow stuffed with letters Victor was too shy to deliver as a teenager.

You’ll probably find one addressed to “That Kind Lady at the Bakery Who Smiled Once,” because he’s been like this forever. And if you’re really lucky, he’ll read one out loud, stammering through every word.

Over time, you become more than just his partner—you’re his anchor, his emotional life raft, and occasionally his human shield in crowds. While Victor still breaks into a cold sweat at the thought of socializing (his personal Mount Everest), your presence helps him step outside his comfort zone.

Maybe he’ll start saying “hello” to strangers instead of just nodding and looking at his feet, or—dare we dream—he’ll manage a full conversation without overanalyzing it later.

Knowing you’ll always have his back gives him the courage to face the terrifying world of small talk and eye contact. And when he’s feeling especially brave, he might even join you in a crowd without Wick acting as his emotional chaperone. Just don’t expect miracles—Victor’s still Victor, after all. But you love him either way, shy or not <3

CHRISTMAS BONUS

Yes, it’s his birthday, but it’s also Christmas, and let’s just say the holiday tends to hog the spotlight like a diva at center stage. While everyone’s busy decking the halls and roasting chestnuts, Victor’s birthday barely gets a whisper. Imagine being handed a gift as a kid and hearing, “This counts for Christmas and your birthday!”—traumatizing, honestly.

As an adult, he’s resigned himself to the overshadowed celebrations, but deep down, it still stings a little. But that’s where you come in.

If you acknowledge his birthday with a small, heartfelt gesture—a handwritten card, a bouquet of winter flowers, or even a slightly burnt homemade cookie—he’ll be so touched he might need to sit down. (Emotionally overwhelmed Victor is a sight to behold—think deer in headlights but with more blushing.)

On Christmas morning, Victor isn’t inside unwrapping presents or sipping cocoa by the fire like a normal person. Nope, he’s outside in the frosty dawn, feeding the stray animals, because of course he is.

When you join him, he won’t make a big deal about it, but his face will light up like a Christmas tree—albeit a very understated one. Without a word, he’ll pull out an extra scarf from his satchel and gently wrap it around your neck. If you thank him, he’ll just mumble something about it being cold, all while his ears turn red.

Wick, meanwhile, will be living his best life, barking like a lunatic and spinning around your feet in an uncoordinated display of canine excitement. Between the wagging tail, Victor’s shy smiles, and the soft crunch of snow underfoot, it’ll feel less like a Hallmark movie and more like a quiet, perfect slice of real life—the kind of moment Victor secretly dreams about but never dares to ask for.

Victor’s favorite part of the holidays isn’t the gifts he receives—it’s watching other people open theirs. Specifically, your gift. While you’re tearing into the wrapping paper, Victor is sitting there, looking like a bundle of nerves wrapped in a sweater, his amber eyes fixed on you with a mix of hope and terror.

His present is always something he’s put way too much thought into: a delicate trinket he made himself, like a pressed flower bookmark or a small wooden carving of you and Wick that probably took him hours. He’ll fidget like crazy as you look at it, practically sweating bullets, and then stammer out something like, “I-I wasn’t sure if you’d like it, but I thought, uh... maybe…”

Here’s the thing: you’d better say you love it. Not just “like it,” but full-on, scream-with-joy love it. Why? Because poor Victor will have spent approximately 400 sleepless nights agonizing over that gift. When you smile and tell him it’s perfect, he’ll just about melt into the couch with relief.

Externally, he’ll nod and mumble, “I’m glad,” like it’s no big deal, but internally, he’s bursting into a fireworks display so sparkly it could rival New Year’s Eve. Wick might sense the mood too and start barking happily, adding to the chaos.

In the evening, as the holiday buzz winds down, you and Victor find yourselves by the fire, sharing a quiet, intimate moment. He’s wrapped in a blanket like a burrito, and his hands are cradling a mug of tea that he’s barely touched because he’s too busy working up the courage to speak.

Finally, he starts recounting a few childhood Christmases. His voice is soft and hesitant, like he’s afraid the words might shatter if he says them too loudly. The stories themselves are simple—a handmade toy from a neighbor, the first time he saw snow—but his eyes glow with such quiet contentment that you can practically see the warmth of those memories written all over his face.

When the fire burns low, the two of you head out for a walk. Snow is falling in soft, lazy flakes, the kind that makes the world feel like it’s holding its breath. Wick, of course, is living it up, bounding ahead and occasionally stopping to sniff a suspicious patch of snow before darting off again.

Meanwhile, Victor stays close to you, his gloved hand brushing yours but never quite daring to hold it unless you make the first move. For once, he doesn’t feel the usual anxiety about being seen. The world could be watching, but with you beside him, it doesn’t matter. He feels safe, as though the snow-covered streets and the warmth of your presence are enough to shield him from everything else.

And if Wick comes barreling back mid-walk, absolutely covered in snow and looking absurdly pleased with himself, Victor might let out the softest laugh you’ve ever heard. It’s rare, like spotting a shooting star, and it fills the quiet evening air with a joy so pure you can’t help but smile.

[lippyispunk]

When the World Is Quiet, What Thoughts Remain

Astarion x gn!Reader

Summary: Gods, he remembers this feeling intimately.

Dying.

-

A near-death experience provides Astarion some clarity.

Word Count: 3.7k

fluff, realized feelings, developing relationship

a/n: Hello all!

I wrote this to take place in Act 2, after the Yurgir battle but before Astarion's confession. I believe it is gender neutral, but if anyone finds something that says otherwise, please let me know! First time posting on here, so I apologize for any formatting errors.

-

Gods, he remembers this feeling intimately. 

Dying.

Despite the centuries that had passed since his mortality had been lost to this plane, the experience was seared into his mind. Back then, it had been horrific. The excruciating pain. The paralyzing fear of what was to come, as his body was drained of blood and his heart thumped erratically in his chest, desperately trying to keep his blood flowing- his body alive.

 

This time, the pain is ever present. He lies on his back in the mud and puddles, the yawning storm above continuing to release torrents of rain. His ruby eyes blink slowly, despite the droplets landing in them. Twin daggers have been abandoned at his sides, pale elegant hands having to hold his innards together instead. His white lounge shirt clings to his trembling frame, now dyed rusty brown and crimson red. 

 

The fear, however, is blessedly absent. His thoughts trudge through his mind like oozing honey. It’s almost peaceful. Cazador. The parasite. His never ending hunger. All seemed so far away now; the normally constant concerns looming at the forefront of his thoughts, now caught in the sticky trap of insignificance. 

He had been hungry earlier. Always so hungry. The small respite he received immediately after feeding never lasted as long as he wished it would. His condition had been even more bothersome as of late. Ever since he and the little group of misfits he traveled with had entered the Shadowlands. Prey was sparse. And any blood he lost during battle needed to be replaced somehow. That was how he found himself here tonight.

 

He had hunted further from the group’s campsite than he normally would, in search of the few living creatures that had not yet been felled by this accursed land. He had been ambushed by shadow beings, caught unaware due to his weakened, dulled senses. Their claws had cut through him so easily. His lack of armor was another mistake, but a decision made in hopes to be quick and quiet enough to catch a meal.

 

His head slowly lolled to the side, eyes attempting to focus in the direction of the camp. The monsters that attacked him had begun to slither that way before vanishing into hazy mist. His breath wheezes from his lungs, chest shuddering. Breathing wasn’t a necessity for him, but a habit nonetheless. Even now.

 

He wonders, idly, if any of his companions will be awake at this hour to intercept the attack. His muddled mind cannot bring forth who was supposed to be on watch tonight. He even admits to himself, perhaps his blood loss getting to his head, that he would not wish to see them come to harm. Karlach, Wyll, Shadowheart…

 

His drifting thoughts were brought to sudden clarity. A breathtaking, wondrous, kind creature unexpectedly ensnaring his thoughts.

You.

 

Gods, how could it have taken this long for you to flit back into his mind? You were all he seemed to think about anymore lately. Your smile, your laugh, your boundless good heart. But also the confusion he felt that always seemed to twist whatever lovely feeling you inspired in him.

 

He may not wish to see the others harmed, but you… you’re different. The way he feels for you is- different. He cares for you. In a way that he cannot recall ever feeling for someone else. You understand him in ways that he doesn’t understand himself. It’s terrifying. Exhilarating. The most alive he’s felt in, well, ever. 

 

But it wasn't supposed to end up this way. He’s comfortable pretending. Seducing. It’s as familiar as the back of his hand. And the facade had worked with you too, for a brief time. Until that second time he propositioned you at the tiefling party. What had you called his seductions? ‘Honeyed words’? And then the complete dismissal of his fraudulent love confession. He had recovered well in the moment; he’s used to pivoting his tactics when the occasional target gets antsy with his persuasions. Even still, you had rejected him that night. You let him down easy, of course, with a compassionate smile and a sweet whisper of ‘perhaps another time'. 

 

Later that night, when he was alone once more, he contemplated. You were on to him, in one way or another. Maybe you didn’t know the extent of his ploy, but you could tell his flirtations were… insincere. Why else would you turn down another night with him? 

 

He had expected repercussions, a growing distance between the two of you that would put all his progress with you to ruin. You didn’t seem the type to settle for this feigned romance. You'd push him away.

But you hadn’t. You were just as warm and welcoming to him as you had always been. Attentive. Friendly. Hells, even laughing at his irrelevant, snarky quips. He was surprised. And in that surprise, he found himself off guard. You still wanted to spend time with him, despite everything. Maybe… maybe he didn't have to try so hard with you. 

 

Since that revelation, Astarion had found himself just enjoying existing . He had fun around you, and the others too, he'd be loath to admit. Now that the metaphorical weight of seducing you had been lifted. But inevitably, at night when he was alone, the pesky question returned, cycle after cycle. If not his body, what did you want from him?

 

More recently, there had been the battle with the Orthon, Yurgir. Astarion was still befuddled, even now. No one in his extensive time on this plane had ever gone to such lengths for him. When Raphael had offered the deal: one very dead devil in exchange for information on his scarred flesh, there had been no question, no doubt from you. Just resolve and an all encompassing respect for Astarion and his decision making. It made his chest ache. 

 

He's not entirely sure what to call the emotion he feels for you. It goes beyond simple lust for your form or an appreciation of your personality. And Gods knows he's scared to Avernus and back of what this all might mean. But he's not scared of you. Never of you. He realizes that whatever comes, he wants to explore this. With you, if you'll have him.

 

Returning to the present from his recollections, one conviction finally banishes the wandering thoughts in his mind. You deserve better than this. These pretty lies he had been trying to feed you. This mask that he had used for so many years, so many decades. You had given him some of the most important parts of yourself. Your trust, your belief in him, your patience.  It was time he did the same.

 

Ruby irises shift skyward once more, a newfound purpose and vitality clear in his pupils. He has to get back to you. To explain. To apologize. Hells, to bathe in the warmth of your presence just once more would make this endeavor worthwhile.

 

He steels himself before his body begins to twist, rolling to his stomach ever so slowly. An agonized cry peels itself from his throat, unbidden. The fresh wave of pain that crashes over his stomach ripples through the rest of his body, leaving him shaking in its wake. He keeps one hand underneath him, continuing to hold as much pressure on his gaping wounds as he can. The other arm is bent in front of him, poised for what he must do.

 

He begins to crawl.

 

He grunts with the effort, free hand scrabbling in the mud for purchase as he drives his legs into the ground to push his form forward. This is far from the worst thing he has ever endured. But Gods, hasn’t he endured enough in this lifetime?

 

Tears spring to his eyes as he continues his plight. His beautiful white curls are drenched, flattened to his head and dropping into his field of view. His anguished gaze is so unfocused that it doesn’t matter. He’s moving on instinct now, forcing his limbs to respond by sheer force of will alone. The will to live.

 

Somewhere distantly his mind registers that his voice has become an endless stream of moans and broken sobs. Blood continues to slip stickily between the fingers clutching at his stomach. He doesn’t care. He will do anything to make it back to you. He has to. He owes it to you. Hells, he owes it to himself.

 

Time moves in slow motion; he loses all sense of it. He knows not how long he’s been dragging his body forward, just that finally, finally , he reaches salvation.

“Astarion!”

 

He hears you as if he’s underwater, but he would know your voice anywhere. His mind is fuzzy, consciousness fading from his being quickly. He stops crawling and lifts his blood-red gaze. You’re here. His breath hitches in his chest, a new sob rending itself from within. Though this one was not brought out from pain, but rather relief. He's never seen a more welcome sight.  

 

You’ve come for him, battleworn and bloody. Your feet pound the sodden land, racing toward him as you pay no heed to the slick mud. You drop to your knees in front of him, hair plastered to your cheeks and eyes wild with adrenaline and some other emotion he is unable to wrap his disoriented mind around. His eyes trace your face with his last remaining strand of focus.

Astarion had long given up on praying to any deity. What was the point? They never answered him anyway. But you- you are divine. The sight of you here, now, almost has him reconsidering his stance. 

 

“Gods, Astarion! Just hold on, okay? Please!”

 

Your hands flutter in his vicinity for a moment, unsure of where to touch without causing more harm. He watches you, the barest hint of his lip tilting up at the corner.

 

“I don’t think you can make it much worse, darling,” he breathes, tone sounding brittle in his own ears. “Just do it.”

 

He sees you wince before you brace yourself. Ever the leader, doing what must be done. Your hands rest on him gently, but firm. Warm. Comforting, despite the circumstances. He wants those beautiful, lively hands to touch him again after all this. He wants to savor it. To feel them carding through his curls. To rest gently on his arm to catch his attention. To pull him in close, a secret for him alone dancing on your lips. He wants to- he doesn’t know what exactly he wants. He just knows-

 

He cries out sharply when you turn him onto his back, the pain rocketing his thoughts out of his musings.

 

“I’m sorry,” you grimace, eyes scanning over his torso, cataloging the damage. 

 

Carmine eyes are glazed with agony, but he fights to stay conscious. He grunts when you move him again, swiftly tucking your legs underneath you. His head lays in your lap, face tilted skyward and ivory neck lengthened by the newly created slope of your legs. A healing potion appears at his lips, your hand holding firm as you tip it towards him.

 

Normally he’d have some smart comment, he’s sure. Something about being a damsel in distress, perhaps. Or maybe something about how this isn’t what he means when he says he wants to take a drink from you. But exhaustion takes hold, and he follows your lead mutely.

 

The effect is instantaneous; the healing potion is a glorious balm for his wounds. The pain numbs to a background throb, much easier to withstand. The gashes across his stomach begin to seal, the bleeding slowing to a trickle. Astarion sighs through his nose, relief radiating through him down to his fingertips.

 

The rain has abated to a lazy drizzle. It’s the only reason Astarion can hear your faint confession.

 

“You… you scared the shit out of me, Astarion,” your voice wobbles, such a far cry from the fearlessness he is accustomed to hearing from you. He blinks up at you, his gaze taking in your anxious expression as you lean over him. Seeing your expressive concern for his well being is still something he's getting used to.

 

He finishes the potion, licking the remnants from his pale lips as you pull the vial away.

“Apologies, my sweet,” his voice comes out stronger than before, but roughened from his earlier painful overuse. “You know I have a flair for dramatics. What better way to keep things lively than almost dying. Again,” he does his best to smirk, to don the mask of devil-may-care that comes so easily to him.

 

“Gods above, Astarion. ‘Dramatics’? That’s all you have to say? You were nearly gone when I got here. I was almost too late,” your voice tapers off, ending in a near whisper.

 

He blinks again, shocked. The facade slides off his face. Truth be told, your vulnerability is making him… uneasy. He doesn’t know what to say. Why are you so distressed? This is hardly the first time one of the group has come up gravely injured. He doubts it will be the last.

 

He will recover eventually, as he always does following a particularly nasty battle. It may take a little extra healing from Shadowheart, and a belly full of blood would absolutely go a long way in fast tracking the process. But regardless, his body will endure.

He’s painfully aware that his usefulness has… limitations. It extends to his body alone. His battle prowess, his dexterous fingers, his ability to deliver pleasure. But that’s it. He has nothing substantial to offer you. No worldly possessions, no powerful connections, just… himself. His biting nature, both literally and figuratively. His trauma, broken pieces with razor sharp edges. He's not even sure if you are interested in something like this with him, something deeper. No, he thinks. No one could want this. Not truly. His growing feelings for you are one sided, of that he is certain.

 

But then you throw his world off its axis again.

 

“I can't- I can't lose you. You mean the absolute world to me.” 

 

His eyes soften, rounding out as he searches your gaze. For what, he’s not entirely sure. Deceit? Twisted humor? But all he finds is tenderness along with the shine of unshed tears.

You pause for a moment, swallowing. He can see you're trying to continue so he waits, eyes rapt.

“I would miss how you always manage to make me laugh, even when I'm having a horrible day. And getting to hear your laugh in exchange when I do something you find particularly impish,” your serious expression finally gives way to a small amused smile. ”The little sweets you sneak into my bag whenever you manage to get your hands on some, just because you know I love them.”

 

Astarion's eyes widen imperceptibly. Shit. He didn't realize you knew he was the sweets supplier. It was…nice for him. To be able to provide you something you enjoy and a brief respite from all the weight on your shoulders. If only for a moment. To see the stress evaporate from your face for the few minutes it took you to chew. You'd only indulge every so often, when camp was quiet and nothing urgently needed your attention. He'd watch silently from his peripheral vision on occasion, not wanting to ruin your contentment but also needing to witness it for himself.

 

But he hadn't exactly wanted to mentally unpack what this absurd little habit of his might mean beyond the superficial. Hence, the secrecy. He was going to eviscerate whichever loudmouth at camp had clued you in. 

 

“You're there for me, in ways that I could never begin to fully describe. I know we don't always agree entirely, but I'm never afraid to tell you how I feel, or what I think. Because at the end of the day we'll still support each other,” you glance away briefly, and he sees the heated flush on your cheeks. 

 

Embarrassment. Always so delicious to him. For anyone else it means he'd get to loosen his tongue on some provoking quips. How he loves to rile people up from time to time. But now, he finds it enticing for an entirely different reason. Gods, you're beautiful. 

 

You find your courage again quickly, making eye contact with him once more. “I could probably go on, but what I'm saying is… I would miss you endlessly. I can't do this without you.”

What a novel concept. To be wanted, needed beyond anything he could provide carnally. To be desired purely for his presence will take some adjusting. But, if you truly believe everything you said about him, then who is he to disagree? Maybe there is some truth in what you say. If you can see some good in his wretched soul, then perhaps he can try too.

 

“I'm… I'm not going anywhere, my love,” he promises.

 

It flows from his lips so naturally, ‘my love'. It hadn't even been a conscious thought. Anxiety spikes in his gut at the admission, his mind already beginning to spiral. Love? Is that what this is developing into? He doesn't know how to tell; there's no past memories in his mind to pull reference from. 

 

But the smile that splits your lips at his vow is radiant, and he finds that his racing thoughts slow immeasurably. Regardless of the unintentional reveal, the moniker fits. He feels it in whatever remains of his soul. 

 

He smiles then, all honey and warmth. For you.

 

“I'll be here long after you tire of me, I'm sure. Vampires always tend to overstay their welcome, you know,” he jests softly, voice lacking his usual edge. 

 

You gasp quietly and he recognizes it as the familiar sound of you remembering something.

 

“I’m so sorry, Astarion. You've just reminded me, I can't remember the last time you've eaten,” you immediately brandish your wrist, pulling your sleeve up. 

 

He freezes, the roiling, constant hunger in his gut flaring at the sight of your wrist. He knows how close the veins are to the surface there, just how deliciously easy it would be to sink his teeth into that soft skin. His mouth waters at the thought. But he is no animal, and neither are you for that matter. He comes back to himself, muscles uncoiling and gaze connecting with yours again.

 

“I appreciate the offer, darling. But you need your strength. Moonrise Tower won't storm itself, and having our fearless leader stumbling over their own two feet along the way won't instill much terror in our foes, will it?”

 

He can't bring himself to say the truth in its entirety aloud. He truly doesn't want to weaken you before the battle at Moonrise. But it has less to do with fearsome appearances and entirely more to deal with your safety. His feedings always take a toll on you. You smile and wave him off every time, but he sees the effects. Reflexes just a touch slower than usual, stamina not quite up to par with the rest of the group. 

 

It's not your fault he's starving. He wasn't exactly forthcoming about his lack of successful hunts since arriving in the Shadowlands. And you were absolutely overwhelmed with everything going on. Between the deadly shadow curse, Ketheric Thorm, and the Absolute, it was a miracle you could ever focus on anything else. No. He doesn't blame you. He wants you to be okay.

 

He can't be the reason you become injured, or worse.

 

But you insist, your wrist gravitating closer to his plush lips and aching canines. 

 

“I'll be okay, I promise. I'll even ask Shadowheart for a little healing incantation if I really need to. Please, you need to be healthy too,” you plead, eyes doing just as much of the convincing as your words. 

 

He breaks. He might be embarrassed at how quickly he bends to your will if he wasn't so hungry. 

 

His hands close gently over you, one a little ways up your forearm and the other on your hand. You know it's to hold you steady when he bites, but the way his cool thumb runs pleasing circles into your palm sends shivers coursing through you. He presses a kiss to your inner wrist, featherlight and fleeting, but it lights a fire under your skin all the same.

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs before his fangs pierce your flesh. He is as gentle as possible, retracting his canines from the wound immediately. He keeps his lips attached to your wrist, sucking in a saccharine mouthful.

 

He’s uncertain of how much time passes while he drinks, or when his eyes drifted shut, but the feeling of your fingertips sweeping his soaked curls off his forehead pulls him from his reverie. He finishes his feeding, tongue caressing the new puncture wounds as they begin to clot.

 

His irises are vibrant now, a livelier red more akin to a pulsing wound than the darkened burgundy shade they become when he is ravenous. 

 

“You're wrong, by the way,” you begin softly. “When you said I'd tire of you. I could never.”

 

He would look back on this night later on and distinguish it as the exact moment his dead heart began beating once more. But for now, he smiles up at you- one full of genuine adoration.

 

“The feeling is mutual,” he murmurs, unwilling to shatter the moment. His tone is low, husky. More sincere than he's heard his own voice sound in centuries. Despite all that had occurred this evening, he finds a bone deep contentment in himself. He could stay here for a decade in the comfort of your arms.

 

A few moments later, however, the world kickstarts back into motion, voices carrying on the wind to your positions and popping the seclusion around the two of you.

 

Your head perks up at the sound, eyes scanning through the darkness.

 

“Ah, must be the others looking for us,” your attention returns to Astarion. “Think you can make it back? I can help if you'd like.”

 

He can definitely walk on his own, the potion and your invigorating blood have him feeling almost as good as new. But the idea of feeling the curve of your body pressed into his side is too intoxicating to turn down. So he won't. 

 

He breathes deep and nods, resolve settling into his very being.

 

“Yes, I think I've had quite enough of this mud bath. Darling?” He pauses, it's now or never. “After we settle back in at camp, come find me when you have a moment. Please. I think we need to talk.”

-

a/n: Thank you for reading! <3

[rosanna-writer]

I wish you would write a fic where...

Feyre and Rhys meet under different circumstances, where “he courts her properly.” No Amarantha, Rhys still has dreams of his mate and dares to cross the Wall to find her. Whether Feyre is still poor and hunting or the Archerons never lost their fortune and she’s stuck in the life of a “proper young lady” I’ll leave up to you.

This one got away from me and ended up being a full oneshot clocking in around 2k words! A quick thank you to @thesistersarcheron for permission to yoink some of her worldbuilding, too <3

You can read it Here on AO3 or under the cut!

After years of searching for his mate, Rhys had tried not to hope too fiercely when Azriel reported that the holes in the Wall had become large enough for ships to pass through. But it had only been a matter of time before humans found their way to Prythian again.

Still, Rhys hadn't anticipated that any of them would show up in the Hewn City. He'd hardly believed it when he'd heard that one of the minor nobles was hosting a human girl of all people. But apparently, she'd come on behalf of her father, a human merchant, seeking to make a deal and bring back some of the jewels and precious metals that the Night Court mined and exported, then sell off to the highest bidder.

Maybe Rhys had been foolish to think that humans wouldn't risk their lives to come to Night when the possibility of profit beckoned.

Since appointing Morrigan as his Second, Rhys rarely attended revels in the Hewn City. But he found himself outside the council room, skulking around to eavesdrop on the backroom deals the nobles negotiated when wine was flowing freely.

No one had bothered to put a privacy shield up, and human voices carried well. Even through the closed door, he heard the woman well before he saw her.

Despite the room full of ruthless faerie merchants who'd torn apart their rivals with their teeth, the woman's youthful voice remained steady. "If you can't do at least ten thousand, then I'll walk."

No one had taught her to shield, and Rhys caught bits of her thoughts along with the words she said aloud. This merchant's daughter was nervous. Desperate. The trip to the Hewn City had been an attempt to reverse her family's rapid reversal of fortune as he father ran their business into the ground.

For several more minutes, she negotiated, stubborn despite her racing thoughts. Rhys knew an expert when he saw one—he'd been handling trade deals and treaties with other courts since he'd merely been a crown prince. Eventually, everything ended with, "I think you've got yourself a deal, Miss Archeron."

The name seemed to tug at him. And Rhys was oddly relieved to hear that she wasn't married. But his mystery woman—he didn't even dare call her his mate behind the thick adamant walls protecting his mind—was an artist, not a businesswoman. Someone soft and kind, who painted flowers on a table with gentle hands.

This couldn't be her. Could it?

Papers rustled as something was signed, and the faint smell of mirthroot and tobacco reached him as celebratory cigars were lit. Miss Archeron's revulsion seemed to jab at Rhys's mind, even as she took one and smoked it. She didn't cough.

After an age, the whole group left the council room, eager to return to the feast. Rhys slid his hands into his pockets and waited. The door opened, and they all stopped short.

A pair of blue-grey eyes met his, and the world stopped. Rhys knew those eyes. He'd caught a glimpse of them in a dream, a brief flash in a mirror that he'd never been able to stop thinking about. Her scent hit his nose, the same one he'd woken up to when he'd dreamt of her.

For just a moment, her eyes lit up with recognition. "High Lord," she said, staring right at him. It didn't sound like a greeting.

Rhys couldn't sense a trace of fear from her. The shadows faintly rolling off his shoulders told her who he was with a single glance. And yet she'd leveled her gaze at him, treating him like an equal.

The woman didn't know it, but that was a gift Rhys rarely received.

He tipped his head, studying her. Hoping for more of a reaction, really. "You must be the guest of honor," he said. "It's been so long since we've had a human in the Night Court. I wanted to welcome you personally."

"Why?"

It wasn't a bad question; Rhys supposed she was right to be suspicious. "The human warriors I fought alongside during the War were some of the bravest I've ever met." It wasn't a lie.

She made a face, and Rhys tried not to cringe at her flurry of surprised thoughts as she realized how old he must be if he'd fought in the war. But there was relief there, too. The possibility that her people might find allies among his after all. Hope bubbled up in his chest, and Rhysand wasn't quite sure if the feeling was his or hers.

She didn't say anything immediately, so he continued, "If you'll allow me to escort you back to the dining room, Miss..."

"Archeron. Feyre Archeron."

A childhood full of having courtly manners drummed into him was the only reason Rhys managed to offer her his elbow while Feyre's name clanged through him like a bell. She blinked again, and he had the sense that she was unused to anyone being so...genteel with her. Odd, considering she was apparently the daughter of a wealthy man.

But if it meant that no human boys had come sniffing around Feyre, then Rhys certainly wasn't about to complain.

Something crashed over him the moment her fingers brushed the fabric of his jacket. He'd suspected it for years now, but all those trips below the Wall in an attempt to confirm those suspicions couldn't prepare him for the shock of a mating bond snapping into place.

He fought the urge to winnow her out of the party—to bring her somewhere he could bury his head between her thighs and swear himself to her without any prying eyes. But Feyre was human. And Rhysand was not his father.

Her lips parted, but before she could get any words out, he was tugging her along the hallway. But the last thing he wanted to do was spook her, so he said, "It's a pleasure to meet you. Rhysand, but please call me Rhys."

Those blue-grey eyes narrowed in suspicion, as if she thought the invitation to use his nickname were some sort of trap. Mortals, from what Rhys remembered, had all sorts of superstitions about giving a faerie one's true name. He forced himself to smile, hoping it didn't appear menacing.

Cauldron, it had been so long since he'd needed to look friendly on purpose. Doing it in the Court of Nightmares felt wrong.

"You're not what I expected from a High Lord."

She sounded more confused than frightened, and the expression on his face felt just the slightest bit less like a mask. "Good. Generally speaking, High Lords are insufferable."

The look on Feyre's own face softened in answer, even as she snorted and said, "It's bold to think you're an exception to that rule." The sight of it tugged at something right behind Rhys's ribs, a twinge that flooded him with an odd giddiness.

Perhaps he wasn't doomed to an eternity with a mate who hated him after all.

They'd nearly reached the carved doors to the throne room, where various nobles would doubtlessly begin lining up to ingratiate themselves to him and the vultures would quickly start circling a lone human woman. Unacceptable. But he couldn't just whisk Feyre away like a predator separating a youngling from the herd, either.

"Is this your first time in the Night Court?" he said, already knowing the answer.

"It's my first time in Prythian at all, actually."

"And what time did you arrive?"

"Just before dinner."

Perfect—Rhys sent a silent prayer to the Mother that Feyre would have descended down into the bowels of the mountain well before sunset. "There's no night sky more beautiful than the one above my court. If you aren't one for dancing, I can show you. Or we can return to the party. Your choice."

He was trying not to listen to her thoughts, but her relief at an excuse to leave the party was palpable. He caught a few silvers of thought about wicked faeries and dancing until humans died of exhaustion. Mortal rumors that he could disabuse her of quickly, at least.

"I could use some fresh air," she admitted. Spots of color appeared on her freckled cheeks.

"So could I. One moment, then." Her arm was already resting in the crook of his elbow, so it was a simple matter to winnow them both to the balcony on the palace at the top of the mountain.

Feyre's breath caught in her throat as they materialized in one of the hallways open to the elements. Moonstone pillars framed the sea of stars before them, the gossamer curtains gently rustling in the jasmine-scented breeze. Rhys had never thought twice about this view; he usually hated coming here and counted down the hours until whatever official business to attend to ended and he could return to Velaris or Illyria.

But Feyre's thoughts rang in his mind, bright and clear and completely awestruck. I want to paint it.

One day, he'd tell her about the dreams of her hand painting flowers on a table and the glimpse of a dresser drawer with a moon and stars. But not quite yet. Not until he'd gained enough trust that she wouldn't run away screaming if he called her his mate.

"How long would it take you to paint?" The words were out of his mouth before he could consider them. Shit. Did Feyre know he was a daemati?

She stilled, almost the way a faerie would. "Who said anything about paint?"

"I wouldn't let a human into my lands without knowing anything about her. You're a painter, aren't you?" The half-lie seemed harmless enough.

"It's something I do in my spare time. Not that i have much of it these days. It's been more difficult than ever to keep my family's business afloat."

If Rhysand got his way, that wouldn't be an issue much longer. A part of him ached to damn the Court of Dreams and take her to the Rainbow in Velaris, but even he wasn't stupid enough to reveal a secret like that, no matter how beautiful Feyre looked in the moonlight.

Instead, he contented himself with asking, "Do you take commissions?"

Feyre's voice went sharp. She finally pulled her gaze away from the stars and snow-capped mountains in the distance, just to glare at him again. "Do you enjoy mocking me?"

"I'm a High Lord, Feyre. I have all the jewels and riches I could possibly wish for. Art—especially a piece that's one of a kind—is far more valuable to me."

Rhys couldn't get any closer to telling a human with an unshielded mind about Velaris. But he hoped Feyre might intuit something for herself—perhaps the mating bond meant that on some level, she was inclined to trust him.

She crossed her arms in front of her chest, almost protectively. "I'm not even sure I should be calling myself an artist. I paint, but I'm no talent."

Rhys disagreed. But he could hardly tell her that he'd seen her paint through glimpses out of her eyes when he'd dreamed, not when they'd only just met.

"Let me be the judge of that. It's difficult enough as it is to get one's hands on human-made art in Prythian, all thanks to the Wall. For that reason alone, I'd commission you, but I'll confess I have an ulterior motive."

That finally wrenched Feyre's gaze away from the stars, and she trained the full force of those blue-grey eyes on him. "What?"

"It's just one way to make sure I get to see you again. Without the annoyance of dragging you away from Hewn City nobles, too. I'd much prefer to have you all to myself and show you the rest of my court."

Feyre considered his words for a moment, and the pause felt like the longest in Rhys's life. "I think I'd like that."

Rhys supposed it was a start. For now, that was more than enough.

[lovings4turn]

୧ ‧₊˚ ☕️ ⋅ ☆ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭…

— in desperate need of caffeine, logan stumbles into the first cafe he comes across. little does he know, this will be the start of something great.

+ the first part of my whole latte love series , aka my child , so i hope you all enjoy <3 this is set in the uk , but reader isn't specified to be any particular nationality !

+ dividers from benkeibear !!

there were many sacrifices logan sargeant was willing to make in his life.

flying halfway across the world aged only eleven to pursue his dream of racing, for one. on a smaller scale, always allowing his brother dalton to ride shotgun on family trips, despite the fact that the backseat caused his legs to cramp up after a few hours.

but, no matter how late he was running, logan had promised himself he would never, ever deprive his body of a hot, caffeinated beverage before a meeting. 

on this particular morning, though, logan was running especially late. normally, the jarring sound of the iphone alarm would snap him from his deep sleep within seconds, the noise sparking an instant feeling of dread within him even when it wasn't coming from his phone. 

he’d learned that alex had a habit of setting alarms for various things throughout the day, before promptly forgetting what he’d set it for, leaving logan to go through the five stages of grief at least four times a weekend. 

but it seemed today the universe had been a little bored, and so decided to find entertainment in burdening a poor, unsuspecting american race car driver with one minor inconvenience after another. 

firstly, his alarm hadn't woken him up. correction: it had woken him up, just thirty minutes after it was supposed to.

secondly, his pride in managing to get dressed with an impressive five minutes to spare was quickly dissipated when he couldn't find his keys or wallet. the hunt had set him back another ten minutes (because why on earth would he think to check the cutlery drawer until he had run out of other possible options?).

and, for good measure, he'd tripped over his own welcome mat in his mad dash out of his apartment. so, yeah, it had been a morning, to put it lightly.

logan cursed to himself as he all but jogged down the busy street, eyes desperately scanning every building he passed in search of a cafe. he was too frantic to read any shop signs, but when he witnessed two girls walking out of a doorway clutching two paper cups, he knew he'd struck gold.

fucking finally.

logan offered the pair a tight lipped smile as he slipped past them and into the cafe, letting a sigh of relief escape his lips as the familiar smell of strong, freshly brewed coffee hit him. 

this was more than worth being late for, he decided. he'd pick up a few extra coffees, as an apology, a courtesy of some kind. who could be mad with a cup of coffee in their hand? though logan figured he was allowed to be a little lax in his timings anyways, since he was no longer in his rookie year at williams. the team would forgive him quick enough.

trainer-clad feet led him towards the back of the fairly short queue leading up to the counter, and logan took the opportunity to slip his phone out from his coat pocket and shoot a quick text to alex. he hoped his teammate wouldn’t mind bearing the responsibility of updating the rest of the team on his whereabouts. 

‘sorry, overslept. omw now though, bringing coffee as an apology and effort to keep my head’.

three laughing emojis quickly flared up onto logan’s lockscreen, and he took that as a positive sign. 

it was only when logan placed his phone back into his pocket that he realised just how close he was to the front of the line, and immediately began rehearsing his order. sure, he ordered the same thing practically every single time he got coffee, but with the day he was having, he’d probably find a way to absolutely butcher the simple order.

all he needed was his oat milk latte, a black coffee for james, and some sort of sugary, overly sweet concoction for alex. he doubted this place sold the pumpkin spiced lattes that he loved to tease alex about ordering, so he’d just have to find the next best thing.

only, when he finally stepped up to the counter and opened his mouth to order, his mind went blank.

standing only a few feet in front of him was the most gorgeous person logan had ever seen, and considering he’d travelled the world and met countless different women and men over the years, that was an impressive achievement. 

you, luckily, hadn’t noticed the internal reboot logan was experiencing, and focused instead on offering him a warm smile and greeting.

“morning! what can i get for you today?” you asked, finger poised and ready to input his order into the till in front of you.

logan barely managed to stop himself from physically shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, before pasting a crooked grin of his own onto his lips.

“good morning,” he returned, voice a little quiet before he cleared his throat and spoke up again. “can i just get a large black americano, large oat milk latte, and uh,” logan paused, eyes quickly scanning the board in front of him as he weighed up all of the different syrups available. 

vanilla, caramel, hazelnut, and oh, thank god, cinnamon. that was close enough to pumpkin spice, right?

“and a large cinnamon latte, please. oh, to take out.” he finished, finally returning his eyes to you as you skillfully rang through his order.

“ah, great choice,” you commented, your smile still never having left your lips. 

from the moment he’d opened his mouth, you’d quickly registered the accent, though opted not to comment on it despite how pleasing it was to your ears. of course there were no shortage of americans stepping into the cafe everyday, but there was something about his in particular that caused your ears to perk up a little more. maybe it was down to the person it was attached to, instead. 

“and is that everything for you today?” you continued, snapping back into following what you’d aptly dubbed your ‘service speech’, a routine that ensured you didn't stumble over your words to every customer you served.

“that’s all, yeah.” logan responded with another small smile. 

“perfect. that’ll be nine eighty there.”

"great, thank you."

logan quickly pulled out his phone to pay, though as his eyes caught the small jar sat on the counter, ‘tips’ scrawled onto a label in nice handwriting, he wished he was paying by cash. a flash of hope ran through him as he dug his hand into his jean pocket, and he had never been more relieved to feel some spare change brush against his fingertips. 

barely even bothering to count how much was there – it looked to be about three pounds, but he could have been wrong - logan dropped it into the jar, offering you a sheepish smile. he felt a little foolish, paying by card and fumbling around for some cash, but the look on your face was more than worth it. 

“thank you,” you repeated with a soft laugh. “should be ready for you in two minutes.”

logan couldn’t bring himself to speak again, so simply nodded and moved to walk to the point he would collect his drinks from. before that, though, he would grant himself one, small privilege. 

his eyes quickly found your name badge, and he scanned it as subtly as he could before he walked away, the name replaying over and over in his mind like a broken record. but, no. broken records were annoying, an inconvenience, something to fix or throw out. your name was anything but. 

not even five minutes after he’d placed his order were his drinks placed onto the counter, each labelled appropriately to save for any confusion. a cupholder had also been provided, which logan was eternally grateful for. he didn’t think the three drinks would survive the short journey otherwise. as a treat to himself, he took a small sip from his latte and almost swore. logan didn’t believe in magic, but he was sure that this coffee was somehow laced with it. never had a simple oat latte tasted so good to him.

and, he thought, a little embarrassingly, never had someone looked so good making one, either. 

“see you later!” you called from behind the till, lifting your hand in a gesture that could be perceived as a wave, but also an attempt to smooth your hair a little. 

logan nodded and gave you a smile. you would definitely see him later. he had just found his new favourite coffee shop, and he wasn’t going to give it up any time soon.

☕️ . . . there it is , the first instalment !! i loved writing this so much - and actually did so with a cinnamon iced latte of my own , as alex and i are actually one and the same ! hope you all enjoyed , and thank you for reading <3

[see-arcane]

Welp. Been a minute. Overdue for an update.

So.

The Depressing Bit

Going to go ahead and rip off the band-aids quick.

First off, I passed my one-year laidoffiversary a couple weeks back. Still no new job despite applying every day of the week for the past year. A lot of dead-end interviews. Three times as many scams and I don’t dare guess how many entirely false job openings posted by companies who were never hiring in the first place, but wanted the positions out in the open to scare their actual employees with the threat of being easily replaced and to look good to investors with the illusion of growth. So there’s that.

Then, while doing my taxes, I came to a fun little revelation.

You know my novella The Vampyres, ala eBook and paperback? Had its birthday last year, March 15th. As I plugged in my earnings from that book from Draft 2 Digital’s doc, I discovered I'd made a grand total of $278 from it over the course of 2024. Cool.

I paid $275 to purchase the ISBNs (International Standard Book Numbers) for the eBook and paperback respectively, and a barcode. Which would mean that I made approximately $3 in profit from The Vampyres after a year.

Except I also spent $25 on a ‘change token’ with Draft 2 Digital because I had to make an alteration to the book's interior.

Meaning I spent $300 total on self-publishing this book. And have so far made back $275 of it.

…

Still glad I did it. Still glad a few folks might someday come across it and enjoy the read. But it’s…yeah. Kind of a glum revelation with March 2025 coming up.

Still job hunting. Still writing. Still hoping and going.

Anyway.

New Stuff

Ko-Fi

Added a couple new options in with the doodles and fancier art bits if you want to take a gander.

Substack (For Now)

While I’ve been posting my chapter updates on my Substack for a bit, and my stuff is still going up there for the foreseeable future, I’m going to start shopping around for an alternative platform. Not a big fan of how Substack is apparently buddying up to Elongated Muskrat and his specific idea of ‘freedom of speech.’ The main things I’m looking for is a lack of price tag and easy usability. I’ll let everyone know if/when I make the switch to something better.

StoryGraph

The Vampyres is on StoryGraph (and so am I). I’d appreciate you leaving any reviews on there rather than Goodreads, the latter being one of Amazon’s Bezos Babies. Really, nice reviews anyplace where books are picked up will help, but do consider a hop to StoryGraph in particular.

Merchandise

One of my New Year’s Resolutions is finally setting up shop with a little merch. I want to make stationery and possibly some novelty mugs* as things to start with. I’m browsing around for a good manufacturer and shipping combo option while trying to 100% avoid Shopify or affiliated sites. Not real keen on them being fine with selling Nazi and MAGA merch. (Frankly not keen on how dodging Nazi infiltration has become a rote part of trying to ~Sell Myself~, but here we are.)

I’ll post prospective product pics once I have something solid. Cross your fingers for me.

*The mugs are mostly for me as I have a devastating addiction to charming drinkware. But I guess you guys can have some too.

???

I don’t really have anything salient to put here. I’m mostly just grateful to all my friends out there in the Internet abyss for sticking around and making all this feel a little less lonely. Thank you.

[icarusdescending7]

Aquamarine - Chapter 5

Ao3 | First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Your fiancé died seven years ago, and you joined the military in his wake to fill the void his death put on you. Now, you work with the 141 for an assignment, hunting associates of their enemies.

Their Lieutenant, however, given you an uneasy feeling. You have a vague sense of familiarity with him, but from where?

-☆-☆-☆-☆-☆-☆-

Price did throw you a mini celebration, he felt bad for missing the day. Gaz and Johnny made a crude little cake for you and everyone sat together and had a good evening. Almost everyone, anyway. Ghost seemed pretty distant the whole time, more so than usual. He would only talk when spoken to but was otherwise off in his own world. Eventually, he retired to his room for the night, leaving the rest of you to your own devices. You all ended up drinking a little bit, which was a mixed bag. Johnny was a very loud drunk, Gaz giggly, and Price the sleepy kind. Unfortunately, that left you, the sad kind, to get all sniffly with them and ramble about the things that make you sad. By the end of the night, you were crashed out on top of your bedsheets, sniffling in your sleep. 

~~~

“Alright sweetheart, I gotta go. I’ll text you in the morning and we’ll call again tomorrow, okay?” Simon said, his voice slightly muffled from the phone speakers.

“Okay, Si. Tomorrow. Sleep tight.” You said, yawning. You sniffed a little, “I love you. Stay safe, okay? I want to see you again soon.”

“You know I always am, love. I love you too. Goodnight.” He said. You both hesitated to hang up, listening to each other breathe for a moment before he hung up.

~

‘Good morning. I hope you’re okay.’

‘We still on for a call tonight?’

You texted him at 6 am this morning when you had woken up. Usually, he’d respond in a few hours, but it was almost 5 pm. It concerned you.

‘Simon? You okay?’ 

‘Si?’

‘Love?’

~

It had been a few weeks since you last spoke to Simon. This wouldn’t bother you normally, considering how busy he was with work, but this time was different. He hadn’t said anything about being unreachable the last time you called, he hadn’t sent a text alerting you to an emergency… nothing. The anxiety ate away at you, chewed at the back of your mind like a horrible migraine. You stared at your texts to him, the long string of messages from you taking up the screen. No reply. 

A few weeks turned into a few months, and you finally got a message. All it read was ‘I’m sorry.’

Wait, what? What? ‘I’m sorry’? What does that mean?

‘Simon? What does that mean?’

‘Please respond. What does that mean?’

Just as quickly as you sent those messages, they were quick to stop delivering.

~

You woke up in your clothes from the day before, your head hurting from dehydration, cheeks dried with salt. Your phone had gone dead from the countless messages you’d sent Simon, not going to bed until you passed out. You put it on the charger, getting up to shower and change clothes. By the time you got out, your phone was back on but no new notifications came in. You set it down and sighed, looking over at the wall. 

A series of pictures lined them, dating back a few years at their oldest and a few months at their newest. You and Simon were the center of each, getting stupid pictures of the two of you at the pier, in the park, at restaurants, parties, and gatherings. All of them made your brow furrow— “What did he mean by sorry?” you asked aloud, staring at the photos. Deciding to send one last text in hopes he received it, you picked up your phone.

‘Seen 3:23 am’

So he did see them. But he didn’t respond. He must have blocked you but regretted it and unblocked you when he knew you’d be asleep. 

‘Is this your way of ending things with me?’ You asked, sending the message. It went through and was immediately seen, but no reply came. You dropped your phone, grumbling to yourself.

~

A few days passed, and you were sitting on your couch staring into space. You didn’t have much energy to do anything but stare. You hadn’t eaten anything but a bag of chips, and you found yourself sipping on a warm glass of water. A knock on the door drew your attention from the nothing you were thinking of. Slowly, you got up, going to the front door and peering through the peephole. The sight beyond made your stomach drop— two soldiers stood beyond with grim looks on their faces. You hesitantly unlocked the door, opening it just enough to ask what they were there for. 

“Are you the spouse of Lieutenant Simon Riley?” One of the men asked, turning to try and peer at you through the crack in the door. You sighed, opening the door fully.

“That’s me, yes. Well, his fiancé, technically but…” You trailed off. “Sorry. Is there something I can help you boys with?” You knew the answer, even if you didn’t want to admit it to yourself yet. You knew exactly what words were going to come out of his mouth, and you were already bracing for it. Your mind blurred out all the words that he said, except a few.

“…was killed in the line of duty. We’re sorry for your loss.”

You couldn’t keep yourself upright, knees buckling underneath you as the truth hit you like a bag of bricks. One of them rushed to catch you, not letting you hit the floor as you fell. Tears flowed like a broken dam and your shoulders shook. The news wreaked havoc on your mind, sending you into a swirl of agony. 

He was gone. He was gone and you didn’t have a chance to say goodbye! He left you alone with only his memory! Didn’t people normally get the honor of getting their spouses tags? Or a uniform? Or even their personal effects? This isn’t right! This isn’t right… Memories flashed through your head, showing you the life you shared with him. The way he smiled, how bright and beautiful it was despite all the devastation he’d seen. The way he laughed, how he snorted at your jokes, how all of it made your heart warm right up even when you were low. The feeling of his hands in yours now becoming a cold memory, knowing you won’t ever get to feel that warmth ever again. You won’t ever get to hear him say “I love you” again. Or sweetheart, or love, or your name. 

Was loving him worth the pain of losing him?

~~~

You woke up with a start, shooting upright with your heart racing and your head pounding. You shook as you looked around for your phone, trying to check the time. When you found it, the time read 3:57 am. You had a new text too, from Ghost. 

‘Can you have nightmares quieter? People are trying to sleep.’

It was a fresh message, sent mere minutes before you woke up. You took a shaky breath, steading your hands as you crafted a reply.

‘Like you’re any better.’ 

‘I am. I have padding on my walls for a reason.’

‘Whatever. Means sound shouldn’t come in either, or something like that.’

‘That’s not what that means.’

‘Who cares?’

‘Not you, apparently.’

‘Correct. Anyway. Its too early to go back to bed. Coffee?’

‘Sure.’

You took another breath, a lot more stable this time. You got up to get ready for the day and clean yourself up from your hangover. Eventually, you met Ghost in the kitchen and had a short conversation before Soap came in, who took over the conversation.

[margothel]

Strange Strange Man - (Daryl Dixon x Reader) - Part 02

<- Previous - Next ->

As surprising as it was, even to you, you made it back to your camp safely. Thankfully, there weren’t many walkers around these parts of the forest. You went to your tent and started picking up the things to start a fire, struggling a bit. You managed to gather the sticks to create a steady flame that would cook the squirrel, but now you just had to skin it... that was the hard part.

You’d never skinned anything before. Hell, when would you ever think that having survival skills would be useful in modern times? But you’d have to manage. Grabbing the squirrel, you turned it around, inspecting it from every angle, unsure where to start. You ended up cutting it into smaller pieces and skinning it bit by bit. By the time you finished, it almost looked like minced meat, but you didn’t want to think about it too much.

You cooked it and ate it quickly, hoping the taste wouldn’t linger too long. That night, as you lay in your tent, your thoughts drifted back to the man you met in the woods. His unexpected kindness had touched something deep inside you, and it was probably the reason your stomach wasn’t twisting with nausea by now. He was rough around the edges, no doubt about that, but giving you that squirrel had sparked something—a sliver of hope. Maybe humanity wasn’t as lost as you had once believed.

When you woke up, you heard voices outside your tent. As you unzipped it, you saw Erick and Sara standing nearby, and sitting on a chair with an old radio in his hands was Paul—the elderly man you’d met in Atlanta.

“Hey, kid, thought you were gonna sleep the whole day,” Paul said with a faint chuckle as you stepped outside. “I don’t want to bother you, but we’re running low on food. We’ve got some berries and fruit left from yesterday, but it won’t be enough for all of us.”

“I say we go hunting, head further into the forest,” Erick suggested, looking at you. He was used to you being the one to hunt for food, especially since his girlfriend Sara had injured her foot while the group was escaping the city and couldn’t walk long distances. “There’s a creek I didn’t see, but I could hear it on our last hunt. It’s the furthest we’ve gone. It’s our best shot.”

You could barely comprehend the situation, still groggy from just waking up, but you nodded anyway and went to grab your bag. As you walked toward Erick, Paul reached out, gently grabbing your hand and looking up at you.

“Be careful out there, kid…” Paul said, his voice steady, but there was a hint of concern in his eyes as he nodded towards Erick. You both knew Erick wasn’t the easiest person to trust. He was quick to anger, yelled at anyone who stepped out of line - his girlfriend, Sara, included - and he constantly tried to make passes at you whenever you were alone.

“I will, Paul. Don’t worry,” you said, offering him a small, reassuring smile as you gently caressed his hand. Paul had become your rock over time, he became a father figure to you. He had this way of calming you, even when the world felt like it was crumbling, he stayed up late with you on watch, sharing stories of his grandkids and his younger days. 

Erick stood a few paces away, his eyes distant, but you could sense the tension in his posture. He was quieter today, a rare moment of silence that almost made you feel uneasy. You couldn't shake the feeling that something was off with him.

You both walked for what seemed like hours, Erick was still unusually quiet but you felt grateful for that as it was better than being harassed, eventually you spotted the creek he had mentioned. The two of you waded in, hoping to catch something with your bare hands, but after several unsuccessful attempts, you started to get out of the water. That’s when something grabbed Erick’s foot—a rotten, decomposed hand.

“Fucking hell! Help me here!” He screamed at you, completely caught off guard by a walker underwater.

He struggled to free himself, but as he pulled, the walker’s body began to surface. You had left your guns and knives farther away from the water. Panicking, you ran over to him and started stepping on the walker’s head, trying to push it underwater. 

“Shit! " You said in desperation, the rotten wet skin started peeling off the cranium but didn’t seem to do any damage to the thing that still had a tight grip on Erick’s boots.

Eventually it’s head started to crack and it let go of Erick’s foot, but you lost your balance and fell into the water, hitting your head on one of the rocks along the shore. Your vision blurred, but you saw Erick grab your bags and run away, leaving you behind as the walker began to crawl toward you and it was closer and closer, soon it got your feet, gripping it tightly as it's nails and teeth started ripping your leg apart - suddenly, you shot up, gasping and drenched in cold sweat. It was night. You were still in your tent. You were dreaming - once again.

You opened the flap of your tent, breathing in the cold night air, trying to calm your racing heart. As the coolness touched your skin, your mind wandered to the events of the day - the things that had brought you to this moment, alone in the dark.

When you finally regained consciousness, you could still hear the walker groaning and clawing at the rocks by your feet, but it was stuck underwater and couldn’t move any closer. You didn’t want to wait around to find out how long it would stay there. You scrambled to your feet, adrenaline coursing through your veins. 

“Erick! Erick where are you?” You screamed not knowing how far he could’ve gone “You fucking bitch how could you leave me there?!” But there was no answer and no sight of him.

You made your way back to camp. The sight of Paul hit you like a brick, he was slumped over in his chair, a gunshot wound to his head. 

“No! No, goddammit, Paul!” You ran over to him but he was already cold, his lips were pale and his eyes wide open and his gaze was lifeless. 

You started to look around and the car was gone, only the tents remained, along with a bag that sat under Paul’s chair. You grabbed it, and inside you found a book, some magazines, an album of pictures, a cigarette pack, a kitchen knife, and a gun.

“YOU BASTARDS! FUCKING BASTARDS!” your hands gripping your knees as the weight of it all crashed down on you, how could they just leave you here to die?  You felt like you were going to puke but your stomach was empty so nothing came up.

You wanted to wail, to collapse and cry for days, but what good would it do? With only a gun and a kitchen knife for defense, drawing attention to yourself was the last thing you wanted. So you stayed silent.

That night, you spent hours in your tent - cold, hungry, and without a fire. The only company was the cold, lifeless body of Paul, a reminder of how quickly things had fallen apart.

Eventually moved to the place you’re at now but the days seemed to blend together, one the same as the next, living day by day. You didn’t even know how long you’d been alone but after what happened today there was a flicker of hope left in you - a hope that maybe you'd meet him again tomorrow. And now, after all this time, you finally had something to hold on to, something to look forward to.

[smokescreenimusprime]

I wonder what Smokescreen and Predaking have planned in the Ghost of Darkmount AU 👀

w e l l :333

after Smokescreen talked Predaking down from just going on a murderous rampage, they realized that this was something that was going to require almost foolproof planning because to ensure the Predacons survival they essentially needed to take out all of Decepticon High Command, something the Autobots have been trying and failing to do for millennia

technically they could've just rescued the other clones and gone into hiding on Earth. After all, Airachnid was able to safely do it with the Insecticons, and she had significantly more numbers. This was actually one of the first ideas Smokescreen threw around

Predaking of course was... well, pretty against it, to say the least, and even with his pre established respect for Smokescreen, he was still angry about it. The idea of having to live hidden like pests instead of proudly and comfortably as a group... yeah, in his eyes its completely out of the question

it takes a lot of debating and even some arguing, but they eventually manage to reach a middle ground:

First, as talked about a WAY long time ago, faking the Predacon's deaths with the Cons actual attempt to kill them. And as first steps go, it was a V E R Y stressful start that would not at all get any easier-

Second is actually taking care of the Predacons and "raising" them so to speak. Teaching them the basics of their situation, letting them form opinions and identities and learn how to transform and all. They alternate shifts whenever possible, and thanks to Smokescreen's previous hacking of the Groundbridge network, portals opening at random is an occurrence nobody really bats an eye. Smokescreen is of course the one who visits most often by simple virtue of being the less missed of the two, but Predaking does try to visit whenever he can

and like... quick side tangent, but I can't stop thinking about it. Predaking loving his kin and subjects more than life itself, being proud of them and wanting to give them a life deserving of them. He wants them to be safe, but also strong, and he will never allow them to be humiliated like he had been at Starscream's hands

but at the same time, Predaking only knowing Shockwave's disconnected and detached form of care as a prized experiment, and Megatron's approval but as one would approve of a hunting dog, and Starscream's punishments laced with flaming vitriol and poisonous insults. He doesn't know how to show genuine care or how to raise someone in a healthy way

All he knows is that you must be strong enough to intimidate and inflict pain, lest you be the one on the receiving end

and in the end, that's part of the reason Smokescreen is so weirdly fascinating to him. Because he uses deception and psychological manipulation, sticking to the shadows to accomplish his goals, and yet even though he's never seen his reputation is one of the most feared aboard the Nemesis right next to Megatron himself

He continually gives Predaking things he's never experienced before: Kindness. Companionship. Patience. Decency.

Predaking and Smokescreen butt heads and argue often about the care of the Predacons and the "right" way to teach them. Predaking teaches them combat, ruthlessness, but also to stand their ground and never bow their heads to anyone as though they were lesser. Smokescreen listens to their hopes and woes, offers comfort and advice and teaches them games and stories to pass the time

both of their ways are flawed, but that doesn't make either of them wrong, not completely. While Smokescreen may be teaching them how to live, Predaking, for all his problems, is teaching them how to survive this war

And then comes the third part of their plan: taking the Nemesis. Kill as much of high command as possible, but the most important goal was to take the warship, and it's databases, for their own

they'd planned to get the Autobots involved, after all it was only fair...

but uh. Then Ratchet gets captured to recreate the Omega Lock, and you could say things changed a bit from there

[ofliterarynature]

DECEMBER 2024 WRAP UP

[ loved liked okay nope dnf (reread) ]

(The Warrior of the Third Veil) • Labyrinth's Heart • Graveyard Shift • Haunt Sweet Home • Dear Bartleby • The Weaver of the Middle Desert • (Jackaby) • Jamaica Inn • The Hallowed Hunt • The Guy She Was Interested in Wasn't a Guy at All, Vol 1 • (Beastly Bones) • These Old Shades • (Ghostly Echoes) • Balancing Stone • (The Dire King) • Bestiary • The Agony House • The Bone Maker • Siddartha • The Morningside • Why We Sleep

* * * * *

It's the final month with this picture format because Goodreads has decided to f*ck their page format entirely! Only managed to do this month through some miracle and a bookmarked page on my phone.

The Warrior of the Third Veil & The Weaver of the Middle Desert - wonderful! I'm so glad that Victoria was finally able to finish Weaver, what with it being almost 6 years since it's original mentioned release date. It was really nice getting to see more of Arzu, since she's not one of the Red Company and we don't know much about her. Jack and the beanstalk is not the fairy tale I'd have expected to be incorporated here, but it was neat! I feel like I should have thoughts about how this series is the 'Sisters' Avramapul but still always end up being about Sardeet at the heart of the story, but I still kind of wish we could fit in a fourth book about her third husband? She has such terrible taste in husbands, I want to see how the last one screws up.

Labyrinth's Heart - mixed feelings! In reality I read this series in quick enough succession that I didn't have much time to build up expectations, and I did like and enjoy this and think it was a good ending to the series. I was a little meh on the beginning, mostly - the whole favor/marriage tournament felt a little weird, and it was over so quickly (comparatively - it's a long book!) and went out with a whimper. This was the book where Ren's house of cards was going to start falling, and bringing back mother dearest (whose name I've forgotten again) was a genius move that was well supported - she just ended up feeling very underutilized because Ren was being pulled in ten directions and she played her trump card so early in the story, which left her feeling more of a petty villain rather than anything more significant. It also felt like after the authors killed off a major character at the end of book one, they weren't willing to take such a swing again? Which really dropped the tension for me, unfortunately. I think book 2 will live on as my favorite in the series, but I still had a great time with this one. Would highly recommend the series!

Graveyard Shift - the author may have abandoned tumblr years ago, but some part of me still feels compelled to support her books lol. This was interesting! Another one for the mycological horror section. I don't really have much more to say - I saw people saying it should have been longer, but I don't know that I would have stayed interested for much longer, and thought the structure of telling the story of this one 8 hr period was clever. I wonder if a series of single-shift novellas would be something feasible?

Haunt Sweet Home - meh. I think I was hoping for something a little funnier? But this really didn't leave me feeling much. A pass from me. Maybe try the Haunted Home Renovation series by Juliet Blackwell.

Dear Bartleby - 4th book in the series, and in this one we are back to epistolary, romance, and a full novel length! My speculations were correct that I'd find epistolary + romance more enjoyable, and contrary to my usual tastes I do think the author writes better in 1st person. It unfortunately doesn't hide the fact that the author can't create any kind of personality for the secondary characters. Everyone can be boiled down to "X personality trait and interested in Y thing." As the novel got further into romance territory it definitely started to annoy me more - the romantic interest was nice, but I couldn't really tell you why they were in love. idk! Hoopla doesn't have the next book on audiobook so I've been forced to stop with the series, which is probably for the best.

Jackaby - look, I didn't *mean* to reread this entire series, but here we are. I picked up the first one because my print copies were on the potential chopping block, and I had positive memories of reading them (and the covers are so lovely). They were okay! I had a pleasant enough time, but I think that was in part because I'd read them before, and I kept picking them up because I was struggling to find other books to read (see: my dnf list for the month). I don't know if I'd have liked them if this was my first time through, but they're also in an odd spot where they were published as YA, but Abigail is treated as an (young) adult, and there are no other teenage characters. Who knows! The fourth book was a bit meh, not on its own necessarily, but as part of the series a lot of it came out of nowhere - I think this really could have used a book 3.5 to help in the transition to the endgame. Interesting, but leave this one to the teens, I think.

Jamaica Inn - I had mixed results reading du Maurier's Rebecca a few years ago, but found this at the library sale and decided to give her another shot. "Liked" is perhaps too strong of a word, but it kept my interest and I didn't speed the audiobook up to 2x, so I'd call it a success!

The Hallowed Hunt - so sad to be done with the Chalion novels! I still have the Penric & Desdemona novellas to work through at least, which I hope to do in 2025. I feel like I saw reviews saying this wasn't as good as the other two, and while I do think Paladin reigns supreme, this one didn't quite yuck me in some of the ways Curse did (and also was less confusing for not being the first book, lol), so I think I enjoyed the reading experience more. Did the weird, forbidden animal magic remind me fondly of the Farseer trilogy? Maybe. My only real wish is that Bujould would have let Lady Ijada say her own part.

The Guy She Was Interested in Wasn't a Guy at All, Vol 1 - this was so cute!!! I've never read a manga before, so I can't compare it to other books. I struggled a bit to follow the text because there were multiple speech bubbles following different conversation threads, but! The characters were SO expressive, it was pretty easy to muddle along. The art is so great, and I loved the side characters of the overly-invested uncle and the classmate who totally ships it. Also maybe very obsessed with the gender of it all :D So glad my library had at least one copy of this for me to try, I think I'll probably end up buying my own copy and Vol 2 when it comes out in 2025.

These Old Shades - I've been wanting to try Georgette Heyer's work ever since I saw KJ Charles describe some of her own books as being "Heyer but gayer." This one I found at the thrift store and just happened to be one of the half-dozen my library has as an unabridged audiobook (library, why are so many abridged???), so here we are. I wish I'd liked it. It's no fault of the writing, and I certainly enjoyed the dramatic twists and reveals. My dislike largely lies with the main pairing of Leonie and the Duke, which starts out as servant & master, then guardian & ward and seems somewhat paternal, but inexplicably shifts to romantic, with much support from the other characters. I suppose it may have been considered within norms for the time period? But it really hit some of my squick points and yucked me out. I don't think you'll find me recommending this one, but I'm still willing to give Heyer another chance or two.

Balancing Stone - a brand new short story in the Greenwing & Dart series, starring Hope! Victoria still doesn't have many stories with female protagonists, so it's always nice to get a new one, and Hope is such a lovely person. Not much in the way of plot, but definitely provoking some thoughts about the old Alinorel religions (an ongoing theme) as well as a new outsider perspective on Jemis, which is always entertaining.

DNF

Bestiary (4%) - Picked this up entirely on a whim at the library book sale. I was intrigued by the magical realism of the description and the lgbtq tag, but the opening was very odd and I wasn't into it.

The Agony House (15%) - one of my four unread Cherie Priest books! This one was YA, which was already a point against it; the mc was a senior in high school but the tone of the writing was almost more middle-grade, which is not bad in itself; and the way the family was going about renovating their house annoyed me lol. I decided it probably wasn't going to be one I really liked and wasn't invested enough to keep going.

The Bone Maker (55%) - Very sad about this one! I read a number of Sarah Beth Durst's YA titles as a teen and was excited to see her put out her first adult title. It took me a while to get to this because I was waiting for my library to get the audiobook, and unfortunately I think I got around to it too late. I wanted to like this but the characters and story just never quite gripped me, and by the halfway point it was starting to feel like a slog. Since I also dnf'd Durst's more recent adult title The Spellshop the other month, I think it might be time for me to say goodbye to her work.

Siddartha (4%) - a paperback copy of this was gifted to me by a friend in college, and while unfortunately her track record has not been good so far, this is the first one I had to dnf! The audiobook version I picked had a nice introduction about the author, which I did like, but unfortunately the actual book just went in one ear and out the other and wasn't working. Me being tired, the language being poetic, and my unfamiliarity with the place and culture were a bad combination. Maybe I'll keep the print version on my shelf for another attempt.

The Morningside (35%) - I started this at work on a Friday and got along well enough, but come Monday I'd forgotten what I'd been reading and felt kind of meh about starting it back up. Story-wise it reminded me somewhat of 2 AM at the Cat's Pajamas (which I didn't like) and some worldbuilding/vibes of The Saint of Bright Doors (which I did). Not something I'd be opposed to trying again someday, but maybe I'll start with one of the author's other books first.

Why We Sleep (31%) - I wanted to read this, really! I think the subject is interesting and I also know that my sleep schedule is very, very bad, so personally it felt very relevant. Unfortunately listening to this on audio was putting me to sleep - the author actually took time to note, if this puts you to sleep, let it, he'd be pleased! Unfortunately I was listening at work, and that's a no-go lol. Maybe one I'll purchase in print and keep on my shelf to try again "someday".

[mynameisjag]

From a fic I never finished, Bruce and Damian enjoy a day out. That's it, just them having a good day.

It wasn’t often that Bruce went out into Gotham as well, just Bruce…not Batman or Brucie Wayne.

Just Bruce.

Changing into simple clothing, letting his hair air dry and just heading out like that and the public didn’t recognize him.

No slicked back hair or suits of any kind.

Just a t-shirt, his favorite throw over cardigan and what Dick insisted was mom jeans, a five o’clock shadow, and he was ready to go.

Just a quick trip to the shopping center to pick up some office supplies for his home office, a few groceries for Alfred, some snacks for the Batcave, and he probably needed to check the family chat to see if anyone needed anything while he was out.

A quick glance at his messages as he began to head out, already on his way to the garage, Dick was trying his best to convince him to get…strawberry flavored Batty-O’s with crackling and popping sprinkles…sounds horrible and right up his eldest alley…also full of terrible sugars…

Alfred would hunt both of them down if he brought this home.

He’ll just order it and have it shipped to Dick’s apartment…

Jason wanted him to fuck off…Bruce sent off a xoxo and a request to come over for tea in response to that. He got a thumbs up and a middle finger.

Tim…is either half asleep and texting or is trying to send out a code for everyone to decipher…both was possible…adding melatonin to the list…

Cass was sending happy faces, so it’s seems she’s good at the moment, sending her a heart, ballet shoes and a crown. His dancing princess.

Duke sent a thumbs up and got one back in return.

Steph was just saying she’ll just take what she needs from his place whenever…time to restock the “hidden” care packages then.

And Damian…Damian was staring him down from the passenger seat of the car…

“Damian…is there something you need that you couldn’t put in chat?”

“I am coming with you.”

“…you hate the public…”

“I will overcome my distaste of others and escort you, Father, you shall not face the scrutiny of the common by yourself.”

Aww, he just wanted to spend time together and Bruce could never refuse the baby of the family, “Of course, I appreciate your concern.”

His darling just puffed up with a smug smile, proud that he managed to get his way without any argument, “I’m glad you are agreeable.”

Look, they are communicating!

Not well, but it was a step forward!

Besides Damian even took the effort to dress more ‘civilian’, the green sweater with a little tiny bird stitched in with the words ‘just a bobbin like a robin’ was definitely a gift from Dick.

Adjusting the seat belt and getting the car out of the garage, Bruce just hummed happily, letting the silence settle between them comfortably. Mentally going back over his list, glancing over to see his son playing on an old handheld game. Something that was more then likely stolen out of Tim’s room, but with the older boy making his own place in the city, it would be awhile before it would be noticed it was gone.

Almost all his children had moved out…he was happy they were moving on in their lives, looking more into their futures but his heart hurt because his babies weren’t actually babies any more. They would have argued that none of them were ever babies with him but he would just ignore that.

He hoped this doesn’t result in empty nest syndrome…

“Baba, can we stop by the game store, I want to see if I can find more interesting games.”

“We can, after we get everything on the list, can you check my phone and see if anyone has sent in anything they want to be picked up-what in Lady Gotham is this?”

Bruce blinked as traffic was stopped to let a…small parade of Batman floats pass by…

“There are copycats out on the street, how dare they parade around as us!”

“…I think parade is the word, look at the banners…”

Batman Day!

“So they are not copycats…but worshippers…”

Bruce tried not to laugh at the thought, "I think the word is…enthusiastics…”

They both watched as a man walked past wearing a banner that said, “Priest of The Bat”.

“…and we will be investigating that later, let’s see if we can park and look around.”

“Time for some detective work, Father?”

“Undercover detective work.”

Damian was eagerly typing away on the phone, “I shall keep the others off our trail so they won’t interrupt our investigation, also according to the online advertisement, the parade will end in the park where the “Batman Day festival” will begin. They will have bat themed mooncakes at certain booths.”

“Are the mooncakes important to the investigation?”

“One must keep all possibilities open, we must check each booth for clues.”

Bruce kept the smile that was threatening to grow held down, he was sure the boy wouldn’t appreciate being cooed over his want of treats being disguised as being extra thorough, more so that he didn’t want his siblings interrupting their day. He was going to have to order everything online and have it shipped to the manor then, mundane chores could wait.

His baby wanted mooncakes.

He will get mooncakes.

It didn’t take too long to park and follow the short parade to the fairgrounds, even with them stopping and staring at the lookalikes, a man giving them a balloon with the bat symbol and the words ‘I believe in Gotham’s local cryptids’, and someone clipping tiny bat wings to the back of their shirts at some point.

Soon the entrance was in view and by that time, Damian was now on Bruce’s shoulders, taking in the crowd, head turning back and forth at the bright lights, the performers in bat themed outfits, wide eyed as a child runs in front of then in a Robin costumes.

Bruce is humming thoughtfully to himself as he eyes a group in clown makeup done up in a Gothic theme, so far all they seem to be doing is some parlor tricks for the crowd around them. Some people even taking selfies, it was a rare sight for a Gothamite to get close to a clown without violence.

He was wondering if he should text the others, surely by now they would be aware of this festival happening, Barbara had to have known…

“Darling, do you want to text your siblings?”

“I can tell them to be on alert for any suspicious behaviors while we blend into the crowd…like the one over by the dart game.”

Bruce could only blink as his head was forcefully turned toward a booth with a bunch of balloons tied to a backboard, “Dart game?”

“Yes, obviously it’s a skill test but what kind? We must investigate.”

Hmm, a skill test that totally didn’t have to do with the giant plush animals as prizes.

“I think I remember Dick saying how these games were rigged,” he watches as a parent carries off their crying kid, wincing in sympathy as the cries get louder.

“No amount of trickery could possibly stop us!”