#the lack of word limit makes it just so tempting

[gaylentine]

does sapph have a name for her weapon? i am curious about sapph's hrothdad too :o

H GOD NAME FOR HER WEAPON. I WISH I THOUGHT ABT THAT BEFORE I NEVER THOUGHT ABOUT IT. i dont have a name for it bc ive always just called it the Laws Order Rapier bc thats in in game name BUT i will not be thinking about that in my lil brain of mine. I DO however have other lore to share about it instead...

her rapier/nouliths, and her entire combat outfit shbr onwards (the exarchic variant one i designed with the heart motif) was actually a gift from the 'Crystal Exarch' that was given to help mend wounds and appease anger after she was summoned (and to just give her an actual outfit in her non-wol au). She designs most of her clothing but her actual most iconic outfit isn't sewn by herself! however it was still technically designed by her. She, alive sapph, never did, but the design of both the weapon and outfit were taken from her journal- from the doomed timeline, and then commisioned to be created by the Crystarium's greatest weaver and goldsmith. It was the last outfit she doodled out in her design journal before her death in that timeline :D

AS FOR HER HROTH DAD his name is Bozidar and he's an ex garlean solider! He was raised to be actually very loyal to the empire as his family suckered up for higher status so he was admitted to the army at a higher rank for his medical knowledge and he's. healed a lot of bad people. but because of his rank he was chosen to help learn red magic from Lambard (IIRC thats that villain from the rdm questline) so he knows both conjury (basically a full whm but without the lore) and red magic. he turned from the empire after falling in love and leading to his death his fiancee, a man who taught him to despise the empire he once loved. He actually found Sapph on the Steppe abandoned while he was on the run after trying to assassinate an Legatus. He didnt plan on keeping her at all but she wiggled her way into his heart anyway :D

[deadly-diminuendo]

You Were My First

a spawn astarion x fem!tav reader oneshot / nsfw / ~3.9k words

Summary: The night he bit you, Astarion awakened something unexpected within you: desire. You offer to let him bite you again, only to receive a more scandalous offer in return. And though you have never before had a lover, you have never felt more tempted.

CW/Tags: virginity loss, vampire bites/blood drinking, tadpole mind sharing, fingering, oral sex, piv sex, act 1

Read on AO3

Or read below...

You toss, you turn, any hope of drifting back to sleep lost to you as memories of last night echo through your mind.

You let Astarion bite you.

And you liked it.

A little thrill runs through you as you reach your hand to your neck. You trace the marks where his fangs had pierced you, remembering the rush of exhilaration you experienced, the strange sense of intimacy you felt as he drank his fill. To lie beneath him, heart racing, losing yourself… Not so different from a lovers’ tryst, you imagine.

Not that you would know. You were quite the romantic in your youth, dreaming of waiting for the one. As the years passed by, you adopted a more practical view, seeking out not an unattainable ideal, but a genuine connection, simple and achievable—still, you never found it, and your first time has yet to happen.

Whether it is because of the unfathomable pull you feel towards your pale companion, or the threat of death lurking around every corner, you are beginning to believe attraction alone is enough.

Gods, you’ve given so much of yourself to Astarion already. And you would give him so much more.

You want him to be your first. Badly.

Really, you should know better. The man is a liar, a flirt, a vampire. He held a knife to your throat the very moment you met, questioned so many of your decisions in his exasperated, exaggerated tones, revealed himself to lack the morals you hold dear to your heart. You two are worlds apart, clearly.

But no amount of reason can dull the growing ache between your legs.

Tired as you are, you prop yourself up, your eyes scanning the surrounding campsite. Most of the others are fast asleep, or at least tucked away in their tents. Only Astarion is nowhere to be found, his tent open and empty, an extra unoccupied bedroll near the fire. Not yet back from his hunt, so it seems.

Temptation urges you to relieve yourself of this tension as you did last night following your exchange with your unexpected visitor. You were careful, shielding yourself with your blanket, limiting your movements, suppressing the sounds that nearly spilled out of you. You got away with it then, you think, but with Astarion still gone, you decide the risk tonight is too high. The embarrassment of him returning and catching you would be more than you could possibly handle.

You sigh. Standing up, you quietly make your way to the riverside. Something about gazing across the moonlit water brings you peace, and right now, peace is what you desperately need.

But you are not alone for long.

“Couldn’t sleep, my dear?”

You gasp as you whip around to see him standing before you—as useful as Astarion’s talent for stealth has proven to be, his penchant for sneaking up on you makes you nervous.

“No,” you answer, though you do not elaborate. “Did you have any luck on the hunt?”

“Not so much as a squirrel, I’m afraid, though they are hardly any better than the rats. There is nothing out there so tasty as you anyway.”

Your heart pounds, your cheeks flush, your mouth runs dry. The satisfied smirk he then gives you tells you he noticed.

You search for something sensible to say. “Will you be all right…?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” he says, a touch aloof as he picks over his sleeves. “If our little adventure continues as it has, I’m sure it won’t be long before more foes will have the misfortune of crossing our path. Blood will be much easier to come by now.”

Your shoulders slump a little, and you realize just how much you want him to sink his teeth into you—and maybe not just his teeth. You must be losing your mind.

“Maybe…” you squeak out, and then you freeze. No, this is a ridiculous idea, the worst idea—you cannot do it.

That wolfish look of his returns as he concentrates his full attention on you. “Yes?”

Ugh. You are going to do it.

“You can feed on me tonight, if you would like.”

“My, my. What a sweet, generous little thing you are,” he purrs as he inches closer, eyes ever locked on yours. “I could never refuse such an irresistible invitation. Shall we find somewhere more comfortable? Perhaps you’d care to join me in my tent?”

“Your tent…?!” You expected a little flirtation, but not this sort of proposition so soon.

“Come now, don’t act so surprised. The thought of last night has driven me to distraction, you know. And I know you feel it too.”

Oh, you do. You have wondered about it, cannot stop wondering about it—what it would be like to feel his skin, to hold him tight, to kiss his lips.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me. The way you tilt your lovely neck, even now.” Instinctively you straighten it as your cheeks burn hotter.

You cannot actually go through with this… Can you? There is something… off, about it all. Something wicked in his intense gaze and devious smile. Like a tiger eager to devour its prey.

Or a vampire eager to devour your blood, plain and simple. Perhaps that’s all this is, an attempt to guarantee his meals.

“I think it’s my blood you want, not me.”

“Not only your blood, I assure you. I rather liked having you under me. Indulging in you. Making you squirm. I’d like to explore that further.”

You know what the right choice is, the one that is sensible and safe: no.

But you’ve been sensible and safe for far too long.

“I… I would too,” you confess. You feel painfully shy now. Not even a tenday you’ve known him, and here you are, agreeing to share a bed with him.

He grins at you as he smooths away a strand of hair from your neck. You shiver at the sensation of cool fingertips touching your skin, your pulse quickening, anticipation rising as he lifts your chin, as your eyes again meet his.

“I thought so.”

And then his lips touch yours.

His kiss is perfection, equal parts sensual and sweet, the way you like it. It is not your first kiss—but this is better than anything you’ve known before. He pulls you in tight as you wrap your arms around him, longing to savour him, melt into him, become one with him. You never want to stop kissing him—but you crave more. Your hips rock gently, surrendering to instinct as he grasps at your blouse, looses it from your waistband.

This is really happening, you think—and then the reality of it all comes crashing into you, and though you have never wanted a man more, you find yourself pulling away.

You know you need to tell him.

“Second thoughts?”

“No,” you assure him, building up your nerve. “I want to, but… Well, I’ve never done this before.”

His eyes widen and you begin to shrink under his incredulous stare. “You’ve never had sex?”

You nod.

“Really, darling? I mean, there is a certain… innocence about you, but… Never?!”

“Innocence?” you repeat, feigning greater offense than you feel. He is teasing you, sure, but you don’t feel he is outright mocking you. You tease him back. “Make fun if you must, but if you really find me too sweet for your taste, I’ll gladly go to bed alone.”

“Oh, darling, there is no need for that. I’ll admit I have a bit of a sweet tooth from time to time. And I’m more than happy to help you right this terrible tragedy of yours.” He pauses, momentarily dropping his theatrics. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes,” you affirm, both to him and to yourself. “This is what I want.”

“Hm, I suppose it’s fitting, then. You were my first, after all.”        

You chuckle at this, equally charmed and perplexed. “What do you mean?”

“The blood of thinking creatures was forbidden fruit to us lowly spawn. Not anymore thanks to the tadpole—and thanks to you. You are the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Why exactly the idea of this man literally consuming you enthuses you so, you do not know—but you decide you do not care either. You might as well embrace it.

“To your tent, then…?”

“Perhaps… but there is one other place that might suit us better.”

+++

Astarion leads you into the woods with the promise of a more private setting.

You recall all the romantic tales you read over and over again as a child, the sort starring a noble hero and a kind-hearted princess who fall hopelessly in love, find happily ever after.

This is a far more lurid tale, you think. One of a maiden swept into a dark forest, carried away to the lair of a charming scoundrel, finding sinful delight in his arms.

Not what you ever pictured yourself doing. No, this is much more thrilling.

You imagine passion, primal and raw, surrendering to the predator within him as he takes your blood and your body. But as you approach a sweet little hideaway made up of blankets and pillows, you know you are in for a more tender experience.

“Funny that this cozy spot is already here,” you comment, knowing he must have set this up long before you agreed to come here with him.

He shrugs, playing innocent, though he is anything but. “I thought we might have use for it eventually.”

The first thing he does once you reach your destination is strip off his shirt, and you can’t help but steal a glance at his flawless form, your hands longing to run across his lean muscle and smooth skin. A touch nervous still, you opt for a more modest start for yourself, bracing against a nearby tree as you unlace your boots.

Just as you kick them off, he is on you, kissing you, tugging at your clothes, eager to pick up from where you left things earlier—and you are too. You work together to undress yourselves and each other, until not a single barrier is left between you.

He takes a step back, drinking in the sight of you, and you survey him with equal scrutiny. You have never before been naked in front of a man, and as much as your instinct tells you to shield yourself, you don’t.

And gods, he is gorgeous like this. You could feel him twitch against you as you locked lips, and now to see with your own eyes the undeniable effect of your touch… You want to drop to your knees and worship him, lavish him with your adoration—but your inexperience holds you back, makes you anxious.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, a welcome boost to your confidence.

“So are you,” you say, laughing softly.

“Obviously.” You laugh again, more heartily this time, your amusement lessening the apprehension you feel.

He closes the gap between you with another kiss, soft and tender and all too brief.

“Tonight will be all about you,” he tells you. You inhale sharply as you open your mouth to protest, but he speaks first. “If you’re still sure about this, of course.”

“I am, but… What about what you want?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me, darling. I know I’ll have my fun with you.”

Astarion guides you down to your makeshift bed. His approach is slow, surprising you a little, but you appreciate it. He pulls you onto his lap and treats your back to a soothing massage, your muscles relaxing under his touch.

“That’s it, love. Let all that tension go.”

He draws you closer, peppering your neck with kisses as he holds you tight, the occasional graze of his fangs stirring your senses. Though you are acutely aware of his vampiric nature—how he could bite down hard and drain you dry at any moment—you marvel at how safe you feel cradled in his arms. His hands begin to roam, your need for him growing as he discovers every curve, every line, every detail—everywhere except where you want him most.

You already know how talented he is with his hands, and you wonder what else he can do with those dexterous fingers.

As one hand glides down your abdomen, you smile, knowing you will not have to wonder much longer.

A whimper escapes you as a single index finger gently runs along your entrance, curling into you with each enthralling stroke.

“Last night, when you went back to bed… You touched yourself, didn’t you?”

Oh. You were less covert than you thought. “Yes,” you admit, struggling to maintain your composure as he begins to trace slow, soft circles around your clit.

“And you were thinking of me?”

“Yes,” you sigh, a little more sheepish about this confession than the first.

“Good girl. I want you to show me what you did. Show me how to please you.”

You feel a tingle in your mind as he seeks to open the connection between you.

So you let him in.

You concentrate hard on the memory of your own touch, the rhythmic pressure of rubbing fingers into your sex, bringing yourself to elation. An art you have perfected in the absence of a lover to share yourself with.

And then the thought of him slips in, how you ache to be one with him, to share in his pleasure, and he in yours. A want that transcends the physical realm, you realize now, a want to not only know his body, but his mind, his heart, his soul, through and through.

Panic hits—you have exposed far too much, left yourself far too vulnerable. You hastily sever your telepathic link.

“You sweetheart,” he purrs, amused. Embarrassed though you are, his touch quickly makes you forget all else.

Tucking a second finger behind the other, he gravitates to the spot you prefer, the one you showed him in your mind, each stroke skilled, precise, perfect.

All you can do is give in.

You allow yourself to moan, to let him know just how well he’s working you, how easily your climax will likely come. The sensation is familiar, executed with an expertise that matches your own, but this time enhanced by the excitement of being with a partner. Of being with him.

You ascend towards your peak, your mind cycling through everything you have ever dreamed of doing, everything you hope you will have the chance to try with him: to ride him, to stroke him, to suck him, but most of all, to let him do anything he wants to do to you.

“And what was it that pushed you over the edge?” he asks, his voice now a whisper in your ear, making the whole encounter feel deliciously illicit. You could listen to him like this for hours. “Picture it. Show me.”

Oh, gods.

You follow his command, your minds melding together once more as you bring forth the memory: your favourite new fantasy.

The moment he bit you.

To succumb to him, to feel your blood coursing through you both, to let him conquer you so completely… You want him to taste you again. You want to feel his cock moving inside you when he does.

His fingers still stroke you flawlessly, the apex within reach—and you both know how you can get there.

So he bites your neck.

Release finally washes over you, waves of intense pleasure pulsing throughout your entire body as you writhe about—a result of both your orgasm and his indulgence in you.

“Gods,” he growls as he lets go, as the feeling begins to fade, as your minds disconnect once more. You delight in the possibility your bliss was a shared experience, flowing from your consciousness into his, flooding his mind with your pleasure. You let your body collapse against him.

“Oh, we’re far from done yet, my darling.” He pulls your face to his, your lips parting eagerly, welcoming the brush of his tongue against yours. You can feel him grin against you before he stops to speak.

“So eager to be tasted, you sweet thing. Perhaps I might… taste you elsewhere?”

You think you know what he means, but you are truly entering the unknown now. Unease still lingers in your mind, yet anticipation propels you forward, eager to know what carnal delights you have yet to discover.

You give him a nod and a smile.

He maneuvers around you, and with a firm tug at your hips, he has you flat on your back. His lips explore you, trailing kisses along your skin until, finally, he is between your legs.

And then he licks you.

The sensation is entirely foreign to you—overwhelming, overstimulating at first. He seems to recognize this, focusing on gentle, broad strokes to ease you into it, to build you up until you are ready to be devoured.

And when you reach that point, you instantly understand what you have been missing.

“Astarion!” His name escapes your mouth as a bewildered cry, the pleasure you feel unlike anything you have ever experienced—every lick, every stroke, every swirl has you moaning, nearing your peak already. You glance at him, and he fixes his eyes on yours, the sight of him lapping away at you driving you deeper into this mesmerizing madness. You run a hand through his hair, fingers entangling in his silvery curls, and with the other, you reach for his.

“Yes…” you hear yourself chant, high-pitched and urgent, as he tongues your sensitive nub with quick, deliberate flicks.

Orgasm overwhelms your whole being—your body tenses and spasms, your wails ringing out so loud you fear they might reach the campsite—but you are long past caring now.

You thought it might end there, but instead his tongue feathers against you, a light touch to let you recover—and then he goes in for the kill again. You buck against him in a frenzied search for release as he continues working you, desperate to let this newfound rapture engulf you entirely.

Euphoria fills you once more as you shake violently against him. Countless times you have used your own fingers, thought you had found the limits of your body, but this pleasure is beyond belief, beyond what you ever thought was possible.

He stops, but only briefly—just long enough to make a single request.

“One more for me, darling?”

You watch him as he continues to pamper you, your next climax coming so easily you can barely comprehend it, your keening shattering the quiet of the night.

And now there is only one thing you long to experience more.

Astarion crawls over you, splaying your legs apart with his knees, your anticipation for him burning so hot now it agonizes you. You whine as he guides his length along your folds, coating himself in your slick, driving you wild with need.

“Astarion, please…” you find yourself begging, unwilling, unable to wait any longer for him to claim you.

Mischief pulls his mouth into a grin. “Please what, dear?”

It takes everything in you to say it, but you do. “Please fuck me.”

He rewards you immediately, easing his way inside. You adjust to this intoxicating new sensation, feeling only a hint of resistance as he stretches you, until at last he is wholly inside.

“You’re taking me so well,” he tells you, his seductive tone making you melt.

Gods, you have never felt more full—he fits so perfectly in you, as if your bodies were made to match each other. You bask in the delicious friction he creates as he pulls away only to plunge back into you again and again, your moaning, soft, intermittent at first, becoming bold, steady.

You love every sensuous detail—the feeling of skin against skin; the look of pleasure that graces his handsome face; all the noises you make together, from his little groans to the wet, salacious sounds of your joining. You arch against him, every thrust hitting you just right—he knows he has you hurtling towards your release, knows the moaning, writhing mess he will make out of you.

And then it comes. The sweetest surrender.

You tighten around his cock, revel in in every tremor of your release, sing out in pure ecstasy.

You lavish kisses upon him, his neck, his collarbone, his lips, anywhere you can reach, eager for him to feel as cherished as you do, to take his pleasure in your body, to give in to his deepest desires. And he does, you think, his restraint beginning to falter as you surrender to the powerful, relentless motion of his hips meeting yours.

His want is clear as you feel the tips of his fangs against your neck, and you are more than willing to comply.

You open the link between you, pushing a message from your mind to his: “I’m all yours.”

You barely notice the twinge of pain, too lost in bliss to care, too stimulated by the sensations that flow from his consciousness to yours—how your blood fulfills him, thrills him, sates him; how deliciously pliant your flesh is as he sinks into you endlessly; how he’s, oh, so close to his climax.

So close that you once more find yourself rapidly approaching your own—you sense his want, his need to feel the elation of emptying himself inside of you, your own core equally aching for his spend.

When you register the tell-tale twitch of his orgasm, you slip into your own. His pleasure crashes into your mind, and yours into his, becoming indistinguishable—an intimate and intense intertwining of your bodies and minds.

As you lie together, silent and satiated, your minds both your own again as you attempt to readjust to reality. You relish in the lingering thrill of sex, recall every moment of pleasure you experienced, from your first kiss to the moment he finally spilled into you. You just had the best night of your life—but doubt creeps in, gnaws away at you.

You are sure he truly wanted you when your minds merged—yet you could sense something else, something dark underlying his consciousness. You look at Astarion—the smoulder he gives you is as calculated and collected as it always has been, betraying nothing. A perfectly crafted mask.

You realize just how much you wish that he will drop that mask for you one day, that you might truly bond and connect. You knew this risk was there, that you might end up feeling more attached to him than you perhaps should—but you have a little hope, and you will hold on to it. You reach for his hand, enclosing it in yours.

“I’m glad you were my first,” you tell him.

He gives your hand a squeeze, repeats his little joke from earlier as he smiles back at you. “And I’m glad you were mine.”

Maybe you are playing the fool, but something in his eyes, in his voice, something about the way his own words seem to surprise him… It feels genuine this time.

And for now, that is enough.

Thank you for reading!

My AO3 | My Masterlist

This was the first fic I finished on AO3, and now here it is on Tumblr! I'm currently working on two more short x reader fics, one for Spawn Astarion and one for Ascended Astarion, but I haven't ruled out also writing a follow-up for this one where our reader shares another first with him. 👀

Work is particularly annoying right now, but I hope to have more smut to share soon!

[kechiwrites]

choking hazard

simon “ghost” riley x medic!reader

synopsis: you have a very special request for simon. he thinks you're insane.

wc: 1.3k

cw: afab!reader, choking, grinding, hotdogging, haphazard kink negotiation, thigh riding, playful name-calling, no use of y/n ever.

an: a quick little bite of simon and medic reader for this challenge, which i technically failed cause this is way over 100 words. happy thanksgiving

“What?” He asks, but really, it lacks the traditional inflection of a question. Instead, the single word manages to hold deep exhaustion and a healthy helping of ‘what the fuck is wrong with you’. 

Which, rude.

You stomp your foot, the moue of your lips more than a little petulant. “Oh, come on, don’t make it weird. Just...a little. Enough to pass out.” you raise your hand and pinch the air for emphasis.

“What?” Oh! The inflection was back, and he’d shifted weight onto his other foot. His cotton mask allows for you to see the top half of his face today, and you’re grateful, because the furrow in his brow exposes that while he really wants to just up and leave this conversation, he’s far too curious, or maybe perplexed? Disturbed?

“I want you to choke me out, Simon.” You grin, shrugging, “preferably with your cock in me but...” You mutter to yourself, pressing your lips together and widening your eyes in mock innocence when he glares at you in response, obviously hearing you. 

“No.” He turns away from you, pushing around the ceramic skull you placed in your office. A paperweight, whose presence had absolutely no hidden, romantic meaning whatsoever, you’d simply seen it in a home goods display off base and snatched it up. 

It had been on sale. Or something.

“I’m a doctor.” You tap your name tag insistently, “I know my limits, Si.” Now you’re just trying to rile him up, as if he’d ever lay a hand on you in anger you didn’t expressly beg for. Still, he hates when you shorten his name, used to hate it when you said it at all. 

Thankfully, things change.

“Fucking quack.” He mutters and you make a loud, dramatic, wounded noise you’d heard in a K-Drama you had watched once before flipping back to your favourite period drama you’d watched a million times over. You flatten your hand against your chest and rear back, more for your own gratification than to impress your offence upon Simon. 

“I’m serious! I’m curious and I know it won’t cause any real, lasting damage.” You approach him from behind, wrapping your arms around his middle. He flinches, not from surprise, you guess, but from sensation, before his body relaxes. You push your face between his shoulder blades, rubbing your nose against his shirt. 

“I’ll suck you off after.” You murmur, and the lieutenant snorts derisively. 

No dice.

“Then I’ll ask Soap to do it!” You release him, and circle around your desk, feigning a grab towards your cell phone.

He doesn’t rise to the bait initially, turning back to face you and crossing his inked, scarred arms. You ogle them shamelessly, eyes greedily tracing every bit of knicked skin, every prominent, tempting vein. Thing of beauty, his arms were. “Go on, then.” He shrugs and consternation makes you furrow your brow in defeat. Unfortunately, the closer the two of you become, the more bags of candy and suggestive texts and lingering glances you exchange, the easier it is to read the other’s intent, your bluffs. 

You pout, and kick at the corner of your own desk, shifting it slightly. “Fine. I wouldn’t ask him.” You tilt your head, pinning him with a needy look you hope is suitably enticing, “I’m asking you cause I trust you, Simon. Please?” 

Apparently, bald, earnest honesty is the ticket because your not-boyfriend heaves a sigh and uncrosses his arms, raising one to rub at the back of his neck, the black t-shirt he dons stretched tantalizingly tight over the curve of his muscled bicep.

Oh, this was going to be so good.

“Fine. Just don’t piss yourself.” 

“Do people do that?” You wrinkle your nose, and Simon levels you with a look, dark brown eyes broadcasting a stark “Do I fucking look like I’m joking?” 

Regardless, you clap your hands in celebration, locking the door to your office and sprinting back to stand in front of him, the framed photo of your commanding officer, your mother, and you looking on judgmentally. You try to ignore it but end up putting the photo down on its face, no need for dear mum and your boss to witness your fantasy come to life.

Simon turns you to face away from him, the heat of his hands seeping into your shoulders. He is always so warm. It had been a boon to your freezing feet the few times you’d shared a bed for actual sleeping. (He’d cursed at you for maybe a minute before hiking your legs up to bracket his hips, so you could fall asleep wrapped around him like a koala.)

“Double tap, you understand?” He barks, and you can’t help but shimmy in excitement. 

“Yup!” 

Simon wraps a burly arm around your neck, not exerting any pressure yet. He hooks his other arm around his wrist so it sits in his elbow, and places that palm on the crown of your head, securing you snugly in a standard choke-hold. 

“Good?” He mutters low, his chest blankets your back, and you're enveloped in the clean, sharp scent he usually carries with him.

You laugh, “Yeah-huh-huh-huh.” and you know you sound a little stupid, but you’re getting what you wanted and even without Simon utilizing force, you can feel yourself getting wet, forcing you to rub your thighs together in anticipation.

He begins to constrict your airway and it feels as though your head is ballooning, building up pressure as breathing slowly becomes more and more difficult. Your eyelids flutter closed and your lips part in shock. It doesn’t feel good, necessarily, but it certainly doesn’t feel bad. It’s obvious Simon’s holding back a lot. It probably should hurt but the lack of air makes your mind stutter to a stop, and all you can feel is Simon’s heat along your back and his strength holding you in place and his scent where it’s stalled in your lungs, unable to escape. When he shifts a bit behind you, your eyes pop back open in surprise at what you feel.

“You’re hard!” You wheeze incredulously, using the very last bit of air you had to call him out.

“And you’re a fucking lunatic.” He bites back, jerking his hips forward to rub his clothed erection against the swell of your ass. And he’s been doing that a lot lately, pushing up against your back, grinding along the fat of your thighs. Just last week, he’d spent a whole night hot-dogging (“Dumb fucking name, huh?”) the aching length of his dick between the cheeks of your ass, fucking against your flesh until he spilled hot and thick over your lower back.

You think he may be developing a thing.

He keeps rocking against you, branding his shape into your backside. “God.” He mutters, pulling you up and sliding his knee between your thighs. You can’t speak, what with your brain rapidly losing function, but if you could you’d hiss your assent, maybe scream when the muscles of his thigh nudge against your clit. 

Your lungs and cunt burn in unison, and the edges of your vision fade, but you want to keep going, want to come just like this, completely under his control, dry humping his massive thigh, unable to breathe.

Finally, you raise a shaky hand to tap at his forearm, and Simon immediately releases you, letting you stumble forward, off his leg and towards your desk. Your palms make contact with the polished wood and you hunch forward panting loud and hard. The room is fucking spinning, but all you can bring yourself to do is laugh like a fucking maniac.

“You good?” The soldier speaks, the sound of his footsteps just barely piercing through the sound of your rushing blood. Your voice is practically non-existent and you have to clear your throat three times, but when you do eventually croak out a response, your chest heaves with your desperate breaths in between your words. 

“Yeah, fuck yes.” Your chest slowly loses that frantic, mounting pressure and when you turn your head to look at Simon over your shoulder, his eyes are unfathomably dark and narrowed, running laps over your legs, thighs and ass.

“Good. Take your scrubs off. Right now.”

[bloodcasket]

CARNAL ANALYSIS

PAIRING: Vergil Sparda x GN!Reader

WARNINGS: Pure NSFW, dirty talk, pet names, overall smuttiness, bondage, dominant Vergil, submissive reader, degradation, power-play, other mentions of bdsm related topics. Etcetera. Not proof read muahahaha, sorry guys.

DESCRIPTION: Nsfw headcannons for Vergil.

A/N: I don't like this sorry guys, but I promised :( this was rushed.

SULTRINESS ;

Vergil's tongue is precise, rough, his speech is sharp and his words are calculated.

His comments may appear snarky, or smart-witted, but it's all meant to tease you. To tell you he's always ahead, that he is the one with more power. He enjoys this sense of dominance.

In bed, Vergil carries this same tone of speech, his words are so teasing that it flusters you.

Vergil enjoys degrading as much as he loves praise, although he will never make a remark to bring your confidence down, rather just comments about how hungry you are to be bent over. A toy for him.

His praise toward you is more along the terms of possessive, growling heated words of desire, telling you that you're doing well, that you're all his. Your body, and your soul.

His favorite terms may be vixen, brat, wretch, greedy, pet, and foolish boy/girl/etc.

The half-demon himself much prefers praise from his partner, something that will stroke his ego when he's mounting you.

But if you wish to be smart with him, don't expect anything soft. He'll quickly pull you over his knee and spank some common sense into you.

GUILTY PLEASURES ;

Dominance. He wouldn't have it any other way. Submit to him willingly, and he'll be very much pleased.

Grinding. Seat yourself over his lap, and pleasure yourself over his thigh a little, it's entertaining for him to see you get off so easily.

Bondage. There's nothing more exciting to him than you complying to his control. To have your hands restrained, moaning softly, a beckon for him to ravish you, he's feral.

Prey/predator. Vergil finds it humorous knowing you attempt to out-run him, or win in your hiding. It's cute, innocent. He wins every time, but he loves the adrenaline rush as foreplay. To see your face flushed, temples slick with sweat, your mouth releasing soft pants once he's got you pinned. He could do this more than once.

Cockwarming. One of his favorites. It's quite common for him to drape you over his lap, and ease you further down onto his cock, hushing away your whines as you two sit in warmth. He could sit there forever, with a book in hand, your soft pleas dissipating into the night.

Overstimulation. He likes a challenge, loves the chase. The sound of pleads, begging, and sobbing. When he finally lets you cum, you're hysterical, too tired to even move forward, all from his fingers or tongue alone. Under his cock, you're sure to fall into pieces.

Voyeurism. There's something that riles him up knowing you're touching yourself. To hear you from the other side of your bedroom door, imagining you writhing in bed, playing with yourself so sexually. Bless if the door is cracked, he wouldn't mind a glimpse.

Discipline/Power-play. He won't tolerate a bratty attitude, he'll break you if you don't comply. A few spanks here and there, and you'll apologize, tears in your eyes, cheeks flushed. He hates how much it arouses him.

Finger-sucking/Worshipping. Whether receiving, or giving, he indulges in such lustrous concepts. What a dream it is, you on your knees, appraising him, and then obediently taking his fingers into your mouth. Very good.

Volume. He lacks volume, but when riled up, he's a growler/grunter. He takes pride when he hears your sweet melodies though, and would much rather keep his composure to enjoy hearing your pleasures.

LIBIDO ;

His hunger is rather limited. Although, his stamina is high, and if tempted the right way, you will be fucked so thoroughly you are quite literally weak. Limp, legs wobbly and your vision foggy from so many tears.

While Dante is the brother with confidence in his sexual interest, Vergil likes to be secretive, and quiet about it.

The eldest is too focused on other things to let sexual intimacy fog his thoughts. He could go for a very long time without pleasure, but with you as his companion, things become different.

Ways to arouse the dark slayer is by pestering him, trying his patience and belittling his skills, he'll quickly discipline you. The next is sweetness, speaking words of honey to him gets his lips molded all over yours, and suddenly, your body will be worshipped.

Vergil could go hours in bed, could you?

He'll most likely wear you out every and any session, whether romantic, soft, rough, or slow.

PHYSICAL ;

Vergil knows how to tuck, that's for sure, but he's a half-demon, don't expect something easy.

Sparda blood gives him quite a package.

Packs more length than girth.

On his lover he's not picky, worships your flesh.

Loves the flesh of your thighs, observing the way his fingers sink into you as he fucks you into nothingness.

Kissing and suckling on your throat is divine to him.

He does quite admire your hands though, the way they grasp the sheets, desperate. Or the way they pat him, endless whines and pleads escaping you as your hands weakly hold him, begging for mercy, begging for release.

Of course, they way they wrap his length also.

DISLIKES ;

Refusal of aftercare. Intimacy and love are very important to him, and if not given such love before, during, or after lovemaking, he will not be bothered to waste his time on anyone.

Quickies. He prefers to take his time, to feel the moment properly. Vergil is a man matured physically and mentally, he takes things rather seriously then spontaneously. He is educated in patience, if he must wait for intimacy, he will.

Multiple partners(threesome, etc). No other person is allowed in bed, it must only be you and him. He expects you to feel the same, because he's most definitely not sharing.

Exaggerated love-making. Everything he does is sincere, don't drag it or tell him white lies. Fake moaning or overdoing sexual acts will quickly irritate him.

Non-con. He enjoys the idea that his partner is willing to love him in such ways, so doing things that make them uncomfortable is off the table. Abusive/forceful sex is filthy to him, he hates it.

In public. He would much rather be in the security of his own home, with you. Although, if you arouse him in public, he will punish you later, even if you've already forgotten about it. He keeps track of these things.

[minnieminshi]

Sporteen Masterlist

Welcome to what I call my chronic brainrot and where I start to accept the fact that I might actually like watching sports even tho I spent most of my childhood saying I hate sports lol 

This is the first series I’ve done and I’m also a first year uni student so I make no promises on how frequent I can update this but I do wanna try to get them done at least by when my semester ends in like April

Also some of the stories are linked as since some of the guys are on the same team/sport

Choi Seungcheol: Pucking Chemistry

Summary: You never should’ve agreed to tutor the captain of the hockey team. Who shows up a full hour after the agreed meeting time? Choi Seungcheol, apparently as you’ve come to learn. And now you’re stuck tutoring him because for some reason, you're his last hope to pass chemistry so he’s eligible to play in an upcoming tournament. 

Warnings: cursing because I can’t help myself lol, mentions of your father abandoning the family 

Extra info: high school setting, Cheol uses the term "princess" a lot and I'm a sucker for calling people by their last name, mentions of Monsta X’s I.M (aka Changkyun) and Kard’s Somin (but she gets mentioned like once lol), your little brother’s name never gets mentioned but you do call him Frosty lol, and my knowledge of hockey is limited to watching Dr. Mike on yt talk about hockey injuries so there’s not a whole lot of hockey action in this fic lmao. On a personal note, this fic made my realize my little brother is turning 13 this year and I can’t handle that because what do you mean he’s a teen now he literally turned one the other day and I think that shows in this fic lol

Release: 2/24 Read Here

Word count: 9.9K

Yoon Jeonghan:  Maybe Romeo and Juliet Were Onto Something

Summary: When you agreed to help your dad with coaching his soccer team, you expected to help with writing down prs and handing out water bottles in return for free tickets and an excuse to be out of your dorm. What you didn’t expect to happen was falling for the charming co-captain of his soccer team. So do you take your shot with co-captain or do you heed your dad’s one and only rule of absolutely no dating his players? 

Warnings: cursing since that’s gonna be pretty much a staple in my writing lol, arguments with a parent 

Extra info: uni setting, so originally Jeonghan was gonna be a basketball player but then I remembered I hate basketball due to getting hit in the face and breaking my glasses on my birthday during practice… Plus I saw a tiktok of svt playing sports and Jeonghan was playing soccer and the gears started turning in my head lol 

Release: TBA

Word count: TBA

Hong (Jisoo) Joshua:  It’s a Win-Win! Right?

Summary: Agreeing to fake date your best friend definitely wasn’t on your schedule when you dropped by after Joshua’s swim practice after your student council meeting had ended. But with his oddly passionate fangirls, you suppose this was more for his comfort than anything else. And hey, you could also use this to get your vice president to stop hitting on you as well, so it's a win-win for everyone. Plus it’s not like you’d be met with the realization that you might be in love with your best friend, that’s crazy…

Warnings: cursing because I can’t help myself lol, and crazy fangirls 

Extra info: high school setting, I got a confession… I don’t actually know how to swim lmaoo I just never learned so I apologize for the lack of actual swimming lol and Joshua is definitely inspired by Oikawa from Haikyuu in the sense of his fangirls lol and I guarantee there’s at least 50 fake dating Oikawa fics so here’s my spin on that with Joshua lol. I was also half tempted to make Joshua like one of my friends, who, for some reason decided our senior year to join our school’s swim team that I didn’t even know we had lol while he was on the varsity soccer team but I decided against it for simplicity lmao 

Release: TBA

Word count: TBA

Wen Junhui: Racing Hearts and Skating to Love

Summary: Getting the chance to perform at an end of year celebration? Amazing! Having to perform a paired performance with Wen Junhui? Not amazing! Don’t get it twisted! You don’t hate Junhui, in fact it’s the opposite. You’ve been silently crushing on your fellow skater for months, and now you’re going to have to create and perform a paired program with him. Which of course meant having to spend weeks with him, and getting close to him to actually practice. But you can do this, it’s only for a few weeks, your heart can handle it. Hopefully it can, at least.

Warnings: cursing because I can’t help myself lol

Extra info: it’s never mentioned but it’s a uni au lol, reader wears contacts and glasses because I do too and I love Wen Junhui so next question lol and literally all my knowledge of ice skating comes from the time I was obsessed with Yuzuru Hanyu like a year or two ago so I apologize for the inaccuracies of the sport lol

Release: TBA

Word count: TBA

Kwon Soonyoung:  Goal- Wait Watch Out!

Summary: Meet cute except it’s not cute and you probably have a concussion from the rogue soccer ball to the head. All you were trying to do was drop off your roommate's lunch since she forgot in the morning and now you’re being carried by a concerned goalie and your roommate treating you like one of her athletes. At least the goalie carrying you is cute? 

Warnings: cursing since I can’t help myself, and of course injuries (a concussion) since that’s the plot lol 

Extra info: uni setting, my knowledge is very limited on soccer and all that I do know comes from when my librarian would let me stay in the library while the cup was going on last year instead of making me go do errands for the teachers during my student aide period lol and putting Hoshi as goalie is most definitely brought on by Jeonghan’s monthly meeting pics of him as the goalie lol

Release: TBA

Word count: TBA

Jeon Wonwoo: Scheming Love 

Summary: When your coach told your team that you guys would play a skirmish against the boys volleyball team for fun, you felt your heart freeze. Now you weren’t scared of the boys team, you believe your team is fully capable of beating them in a game. No, what scares you is the fact that it means you have to play against Jeon Wonwoo, one of the middle blockers on the team. And your longtime crush. Normally you’re confident as a libero, doing your best to make sure your team’s defense’s on top and making sure the ball doesn’t touch the ground, but with Wonwoo on the court at the same time? Maybe you should start apologizing to your team now. Wait, why did they have a team huddle while you were helping the manager bring the water bottles? And why are they smiling at you like they’ve just made the greatest plan in the history of the world? 

Warnings: cursing as usual, and threatening to strangle someone (as a joke lol) 

Extra info: high school setting, reader wears glasses because I do too and I love Wonwoo lol. One of two fics that are fueled by my Haikyuu brainrot that’s coming back thanks to the movies and the new content that’s been coming out recently. Wonwoo as a middle blocker is brought on by this twitter artist that’s drawn Tsukishima in some Wonwoo stage outfits and that has caused me great pain I eat it up every time and reader being a libero is because that’s my favorite position lol 

Release: TBA

Word count: TBA

Lee Jihoon: Wait Where Are You Going? Come Back!

Summary: You really didn’t plan to watch your university’s baseball team play today, especially since it was so hot out and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky to provide some shade to hide under. But alas, your best friend insisted on dragging you along, wanting to watch her boyfriend play. Sure that’s fine and dandy, but why drag you along? At least the catcher’s cute, or what you can see of him on account of his mask. Wow, he's really muscular and is he giving Seokmin signs on how to pitch- wait why is your best friend and her boyfriend pushing the two of you after the game is over? And why are they running away? Oh, she’s gonna pay for this once you get through his conversation with the cute catcher. 

Warnings: cursing as usual, and betrayal from your best friend and Seokmin lol 

Extra info: uni setting, I’m like 85% sure Woozi said he used to play as catcher when he played baseball so that’s why he has this position. I don’t know anything about baseball besides one man named Shohei Ohtani and that getting hit with the ball hurts like hell (and all the injuries Dr. Mike on yt covered lol) 

Release: TBA

Word count: TBA

Lee Seokmin: Breaking News! Falling in Love is Scary!  

Summary: Being part of your university’s blog and radio show is great, until you’re being forced out of the studio/office and out in the open to go interview the baseball team after a recent winning streak. Normally this job would get assigned to another team member, but after a recent bout of frat flu ravaging your crew, the interview is left up to you. Whatever, just get the answers to the prewritten questions you have and the sooner you can go back to the studio/office to work on other things. Or that was the plan before the pitcher, Lee Seokmin, took an interest in you and suddenly seemed to pop up everywhere around campus. Or aka, grumpy reporter x sunshine baseball player. 

Warnings: cursing as per usual, and you being a hater for no reason lol 

Extra info: uni setting, I don’t know much about baseball other than the fact that I would kill to see DK in a baseball uniform 

Release: TBA

Word count: TBA

Kim Mingyu: Red Bandage of Fate  

Summary: When you joined the athletic team as a student trainer and got assigned to the university’s soccer team, you wondered if the team’s number 06, Kim Mingyu, the ace of the team and top scorer, was the same Kim Mingyu who basically lived in the training center, constantly in need of treatment for his never ending list of injuries. And please, slow down with the injuries, the center’s almost out of athletic tape and bandages, you’re begging him to please be more careful out on the field. 

Warnings: cursing because I can’t help myself, and very obviously injuries (I’ll come back to be more specific with the injuries lol) 

Extra info: uni setting, I’m taking an intro to athletic training class this sem so I know some stuff about treating athletes but again it’s intro class so beware if some things aren’t super accurate lol 

Release: TBA

Word count: TBA

Xu Minghao: Filmed Lovestory  

Summary: When you agreed to help film your friend’s practice for an upcoming competition, you didn’t think much of it. You’ve done it thousands of times. Put on your skates, a couple of extra layers so you won’t freeze, use her phone to record her, and follow her out on the ice. It’s simple, really, and a great way to spend Saturdays while also getting some exercise in between your tiring uni life. What you didn’t expect is somehow to agree to film the practices of one of her skating friends. Her very handsome skating friend, you might add. So now your weekends are fully booked for the ice, but watching Minghao skate on the ice, it’s not so bad. 

Warnings: cursing as per usual 

Extra info: uni setting, as I mentioned with my Jun fic, all of my figure skating knowledge comes from the time I was obsessed with Yuzuru Hanyu like a year or two ago so again I apologize for the inaccuracies of the sport

Release: TBA

Word count: TBA

Boo Seungkwan: Tangerines, Confessions and a Supply Closet  

Summary: When you agreed to be the boys volleyball team’s manager, you didn’t think you’d spend your high school career taking care of the team. Yet, here you are, in your senior year and the only reason some of your players are even here (and why some of them are passing their classes, seriously signing up as a manager became a lot more than just handing out water bottles!). The only reason you’ve been able to stick around as long as you have is because of the team’s setter, Boo Seungkwan, who makes your job of wrangling the team a little easier. Now if only you could get the team off your back about confessing to him before the two of you graduate, that really would be great. 

Warnings: cursing as per usual, threats to kill an entire volleyball team (all jokes), and getting locked in a supply closet 

Extra info: high school setting, this is the second fic that is 100% fueled by my Haikyuu phase that is slowly coming back due to the movies and the new content that’s been coming out recently. And out of all the sports, this is the one I’m most knowledgeable in since I actually watch matches (shout out to Lim Sungjin and Heo Subong). Also I had such a hard time giving Seungkwan a sport since he does so much I decided on volleyball because the thought of him playing makes me want to bark so there’s that 

Release: TBA

Word count: TBA

Chwe (Vernon) Hansol: Quick, He’s Not Watching! 

Summary: When your older brother told you to wait for him in the bleachers, promising to give you a ride after your night class, you didn’t think much of it. If you’re lucky, you’d be able to take a nap in the bleachers waiting for him. What you didn’t expect was to somehow catch the attention of one of the midfielders, Vernon. As you come around more and more often, you find the midfielder always making an effort to say hey to you, and even stealing some of the team’s snacks for you. Now you just wonder if he’ll make a move before your brother notices the two of you getting closer with each other.

Warnings: uni setting, cursing as per usual, and older protective brother that means well but doesn’t go about it the right way 

Extra info: I deadass looked up what the positions in soccer are because I have no idea what goes on in the sport even though one of my friend’s played our entire high school career 

Release: TBA

Word count: TBA

Lee Chan: You’re Not Too Bad 

Summary: You didn’t think that showing up to your best friend’s, Seokmin’s, baseball practices would make one of the players hate you, but here you are and apparently Lee Chan hates you. Or so you think at least. The rest of the team loves you, especially since you always bring them plenty of food to feed them throughout practice (it pays to be a nutrition major) and always try to help out even though you’re not an official manager. But it’s no biggie, it’s not like Chan hating you bothers you, nope, not at all. But maybe you’d skip out on stopping by Seokmin’s practice for the week… Yeah that sounds like a good idea. 

Warnings: cursing as per usual, Chan being a bit of an asshole but it gets resolved don’t worry 

Extra info: uni setting, Dino being assigned baseball is all because of the 231105 fansign where he was given a baseball jersey and glove, and I still don’t know how baseball works

Release: TBA

Word count: TBA

[dreamingofep]

Sinned Awakening: Reimagined pt. 1🩸

An AU Elvis fic

(Vampire!Elvis/ Vampire Austin! Elvis x reader)

Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Prompt: Elvis is fighting his need for blood, making him weaker by the day. Then you walk into his life, making you the perfect target for his next meal. But an unknown force is making this more difficult than he expected... [Elvis' Perspective]

TW: Cussing, heavy mentions of blood

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 2.9k

A/N: Hello everyone! Happy October 1st! As much as I dislike fall, I LOVE spooky season. 🤭We're kicking off the month with Vampire Elvis in a new reimagined story. I'm very excited to be writing this and has been on my mind for quite some time! I love how the story turned out but this was another path I played with for a while. It's a different view and there will be interesting twists coming soon! Please enjoy!

If you'd like to start from the beginning, start here or Ao3! Hope you enjoy and message and comment what you think.

February, 1973 🩸

His eyes burned with pain and his throat felt on fire from thirst. He hadn’t fed in a few days of being back in Las Vegas and he was really feeling the ramifications of it. He knew he needed to take better care of himself. It was doing him no good starving himself for long periods of time. It just made him thirstier and more of a risk to be around any humans. 

His lack of control posed many threats to the people around him and his career. Singing in front of thousands of people every night, all of them smelling more tempting than the last, made him easily distracted. He loved performing, that’s what he was made to do, but if all he can think of was blood, he couldn’t perform the way he should. 

This place was a never ending distraction for Elvis and he secretly liked it. He liked he could feed as much as he wanted and not get obscure attention for it. People loved him, he was thankful for that, but here people came for miles to see him and wanted to get as close as possible to him. He hadn’t been performing in the 60s and his fans missed him. He welcomed it and it just gave him an easier way to feed. 

Everyone wanted to be invited to an Elvis party. That was the best thing anyone could hope for. For Elvis, it was his favorite time to feed. He’d sit in his normal chair that would be in the corner of the suite and like clockwork, people would come by one by one hoping to meet Elvis. The suite would normally be so packed that no one would see him take a bite from anyone. His men would normally block off most of the crowd so no one would see what he was doing in the corner. They controlled the people who wanted to see him and not let any wandering eyes see him feed.

Compelling them was the easiest way to get someone close to him but the girls, oh the girls wanted to be as close to him as possible without needing to be compelled. It was less work for him which he liked. They wanted his attention desperately and he could sense how they were wanting him sexually. He was too hungry to focus on something like that usually. Every once in a while he would please them but not before feeding from them first. 

He got word that a new housekeeper would start tomorrow and he grew anxious. He had the same housekeeper the last four years and she was never an issue. She kept to herself, didn’t ask too many questions, and sometimes, he’d feed off of her. Right at three, she’d normally come up, clean for a bit before he compelled her to come to him and let him feed. It was the perfect routine. She was never scared of him forgot all about it by the end of her shift. 

Now he’d have to start all over again with you. He’d have to earn your trust a bit so he can get close to you with out scaring you off. But he was quite apprehensive about that. His control was limited and having to meet a new person that would be around for hours on end was going to be tough. 

*

It was a minute before three and Elvis paced his bedroom nervously. He couldn’t do this. He was so starved and wasn’t sure if he could stop himself from feeding on a human. He tried to drink some blood from a blood bag but it was no use. It tasted like water compared to something fresh. He tried to calm himself down, he couldn’t freak you out the second you walked into the room. 

The sound of your nervous heartbeat made his eyes flash open. Just the sound of your heart has him drooling. You were apprehensive too and he liked that you were feeling the same way. It meant he could savor the sound of your heart as you stood before him and he wouldn’t have to do any extra work. He puts on his jacket and takes a look at himself in the mirror. He ran his hand through his hair and straightened out his tucked in shirt. His eyes were always the most telling thing when he was hungry. They haven’t been that illustrious blue he was born with. Lately they’re dark pools of a tumultuous sea. They were almost leaning black in dark lighting which made it more obvious he was not human. He picks up his gold sunglasses off the side table and puts them on. He had been making this a habit the last few years and thankfully no one questioned his fashion choice.

He hears the front door open and the sound of your heart beating loudly and uncontrollably. It enticed him and he needs to take a few deep breaths before walking out there to see you. He finally finds the strength to calmly leave the bedroom and greet you. The door opens and your scent hits him like a train, he has to hold his breath so his fangs won’t descend. Oh God this wasn’t good. He didn’t expect to be so taken back by your scent. He snaps himself out of his thirst driven thoughts and straightens his posture before speaking. You had your back turn to him, taking in the whole suite and what a disaster it is after last night’s party.

“About time you showed up,” he says gruffly.

You turn around quickly and he feels his heart shudder in his chest. You were beautiful. You were probably the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes on. You weren’t plain like most humans, no, you were exceptionally beautiful. You had that immortal perfection that only came with being turned. He listens to your heart beat again, checking if you are indeed human. It dances away as you look at him and witness him for the first time.

“I’m very sorry to keep you waiting Mr. Presley. My name is y/n, I’m your new housekeeper.” You say timidly, placing out your hand in front of you to shake his.

He can’t touch you, he doesn’t trust himself to feel your warm skin on his before pulling you in and sinking his teeth into you. He just stares at your hand reached out and doesn’t move an inch. You get nervous and quickly put it down.

“Umm, where would you like me to start cleaning?” You ask, your voice upbeat and trying to hide the fact of feeling like this is rejection in some form. 

“Where do you think,” he snaps coldly. He winces at himself for being so abrasive toward you but it was the only way for him to keep a hold on his raging thirst. It was extremely difficult to be this close to you. He had never had such an issue with a human before. Sure, the smell of their blood made him hungry but this was much worse. You smelled sweet like honey and he was dying to know what you tasted like, slowly running through his veins when he fed.

“Okay, no problem. Do you mind if I open the drapes so I can see what I’m cleaning?” You ask with a smile. 

“I don’t care, just get it done,” he says coldly. He walks away from you and he tries to slow his breathing. Each breath in was excruciating for him. The entirety of your presence was making him feel intoxicated and ravenous.  He sits down in his usual chair and watches you open the heavy curtains. The sunshine fills the room and makes him wince a bit. He was used to the way the sun felt on his skin but it still wasn’t the most comfortable feeling in the world. It shone on his entire body and singed his chest and face. At least it made him a bit distracted for now and didn’t have him obsessing about your scent.

He watches you look at him with a desperation. You couldn’t help but love the sight before you. He grimly smirks to himself, he knew his looks drew people in and there was nothing he wanted more than to pull you in closer. He wanted you here on his lap with his teeth sunk into your warm neck. He bites his lip, trying to not think about that scenario too long or his fangs would show. 

But it was no use, you were so tempting to him. He must be so starved that he can’t even think straight. He’s hardly breathing as each breath he takes makes it more excruciating than the last. His mouth watered at just the sight of you. Elvis followed you to every room you cleaned partly because he didn’t want to be away from your thunderous heart but also he was trying to map out where he should bite you.

There were too many options for him to choose from. He can just turn you around and bite you as you were sure to scream. No, that wouldn’t be as enjoyable. He knew he had to compel you to get closer to him. He needed to gain that trust and quickly. You were nervous as you noticed him following your every step. He would stay abnormally close behind you which only made you feel more on edge. 

Going back out to the living room, he can feel his mouth water and his heart hammer away at the thought of feasting on you. He needed to hurry up and decide how and where he was going to bite you. Something about holding you in his arms seemed pleasing and the ideal way to feed on you. He wanted to feel your heart beat close to his. Maybe he can take you into the bedroom, tease you for a bit to get your heart racing even more. No he didn’t have the patience for that tonight. He needed you now. No charades or stalling. He needed to compel you now, get you on his lap and feed until his heart was content.

You were still too antsy and wouldn’t stay still. He has to this quickly and efficiently.

“There’s a bottle underneath the piano,” he grumbles.

You quickly make it to the piano and set the bench aside, kneeling down on your knees to crawl underneath.

Now, its time to feed off of her or you might just die, he thinks to himself.

He watches you scan for the bottle but there isn’t one. He sits on the piano bench and waits for you to crawl back out. His chest heaves in anticipation and feels his mind haze over in a feeding frenzy. He feels his eyes start to shift and the black veins start to crack across his face. He winces as he tries to hold back this monster inside of him who craves blood so much but its no use. He opens his eyes and can feel the burning red heat of them. His canine teeth sharpen into long fangs, both top and bottom and he starts to tremble.

You stand back up and he grabs your hand. You gasp when you see his face.

“Sit down honey, don’t panic,” he compels you. Your eyes blow open, scared out of your mind.

“Oh my God!…W-what the hell,” you quiver, your heart galloping uncontrollably.

Elvis is a bit baffled you didn’t listen to his command. Maybe he was so starved he couldn’t compel anyone that easily. It couldn’t be though, he had found himself in a lot of situations where he was starved but always was able to compel and feed off of someone with ease. He won’t give up this easily, he needed to feed.

“I said sit down honey, I need you close,” he says smoothly, trying to compel you again. You shake and nod your head at him, carefully taking a seat next to him. 

“Don’t hurt me please,” you beg.

How is she fighting me? How is this possible?

His patience was running dry. The drunken haze of your blood being so close to him has him not thinking clearly any more. He needed to bite you.

“You won’t remember this I promise,” he says gruffly.

He pulls you close, wrapping his hand gently around your neck and bares it to him. You cry out for help, scared out of your mind. He growls contently as he lets his hunger take over. He sinks his teeth into your neck and his eyes roll back when he tastes you. God he had never tasted something to delectable and savory. Each drink he took was better than the last. He gulps your blood greedily and pulls you onto his lap. He needed you closer. He wanted to feel your heart beat against his. You whimper because of this and pull at the lapel of his jacket. You liked being this close to him even though his bite was excruciating and he keeps drinking. You gasp for breath as pain rocketed through your entire body.

Elvis didn’t want to stop feeding, you were too delicious and he had never felt so fulfilled. He makes soft, pleased groans as his hands slither down your back and tries to comfort you through the pain. He liked how you felt in his arms, it was a new experience for Elvis. He could sense how much you liked his touch through this all even though his bite made you uncomfortable. His mind starts to wander and think if he should make love to you. He didn’t like causing you pain and wanted you to feel something good after all of this.

He squeezes his eyes shut, dismissing such an idea. He needed to focus on getting his strength up. It was working though, he felt his strength rise and felt so much more alive. He needed to stop feeding soon or else his venom would enter your body, changing you into a vampire. Your body began to feel weak in his arms, whimpering for him to stop biting you. You gasp for breath as he takes the last few mouthfuls of your blood. Everything inside of him told him to keep biting you but he fought those instincts as hard as he could. 

He carefully takes his fangs out of you and gasps for breath. He felt like he was in a euphoric haze, so completely drunk on you. You lift your head back to look at his terrifying eyes. You were frightened beyond belief and shoved at his chest to get away from him. You fall back and hit the ground, scooting away from him as quickly as you can.

“What are you?! Oh my god what did you do to me?!” You scream at him, bringing your hand to the open wound on your neck. Tears started to fall down your cheeks as you panic over what he did to you. Your blood still flowed out of your neck and made Elvis still feel ravenous by the sight.

Elvis stares astonished at you. How were you still not compelled? It couldn’t be possible! He grew frustrated and needed to get you out of here and forget all about this afternoon. He gets up and wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. He felt as strong as he has ever been. It was a huge change and he liked how he felt.

“I didn’t bite you, you’re not going to remember the pain or any of this, go home now,” he compels. He felt incredibly strong and was sure you’d obey this time.

You stare at him stunned and don’t move.

“What! No! What did you do to me?” You scream.

Panic begins to set in and he goes to you and picks you up off the floor. He looks into your eyes, anger starting to take over him. Why weren’t you listening? He could make anyone obey him without even trying normally.

“What is wrong with you? Why won’t you listen? Why won’t you forget,” he growls. You shriek in fear looking into his soulless red eyes and his sharp fangs close to your face again.

“What’s wrong with me?! What the hell is wrong with you?! You’re a-, you’re a vampire!” You scream at the top of your lungs and twist out of his grasp.

You quickly run to the door, needing to get out of here as quickly as possible and get help.

“Help! Help me!’ You scream.

In a blink of an eye, Elvis runs to the front door blocking your way. You scream again completely shocked, not expecting him to be so quick. His brain scrambles what to do about you. It’s the biggest rule of being a vampire; don’t let your existence be known to humans. It should be pretty simple. He never fed out in public and always did it secluded to ensure his privacy. But for whatever reason, you could not be compelled. He was at his peak strength at nothing was working on you.

“Let me go!” You yell at him.

He shakes his head at you, “I-I can’t. I can’t let you leave,” he says nervously.

“What are you going to do to me?” You ask anxiously.

“That’s something I need to figure out,” he says darkly.

*

*

Tagging:

@neptuneismysister @velvetelvis @ccab @presleyenterprise @theresalwaysep

@prompted-wordsmith @sillybookmarks @dkayfixates @ellie-24 @rktismylife-blog

@myradiaz @tacozebra051

@thatbanditqueen

@flwrs4aust @emma181873

@austinswhitewolf @eliseinmemphis

@everythingelvispresley @chasingwildflowers @idontwanttoputanything. @ohjustpeachy_

@elvisalltheway101 @austinsmutler @kingdomforapony.

@generoustreemystic @claire-elvisgirl

@ashtag6887 @burnthheparaphilia @richardslady121

@jaqueline19997

@returntopresley. @iloveelvis @rimartin11@that-hotdog.

@louisejoy86 @misspresley @cattcb @annapresley8

@arrolyn1114 @raginginkedslut @epthedream69

@mh777ep1938

@50sexyshadesfashionista

@oldhOllywOod @hooked-on-elvis @livelovedilfs @sloppiest-of-jos

[sleepingdeath-light]

elias gallagher smut hcs ; 18+

requested by ; nobody / self indulgent

fandom(s) ; the groom of gallagher mansion

fandom masterlist(s) ; here

character(s) ; elias gallagher

outline ; “smut hcs for elias”

warning(s) ; sexually explicit content, dominant leaning switch!elias gallagher, impact play, loss of virginity, bondage, edging, overstimulation, pet name kink, role play, praise kink, oral sex (reader receiving), clothed sex, clothed grinding, voyeurism

minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

as one might expect from a young man of his era, elias was a virgin when you two first met and it took him a long while to feel comfortable and confident enough in himself and with you to bring you to bed — of course he’s lacking in practical experience and will need some pointers and guidance from you the first few times you’re intimate, but he’s also not some naïve young boy who knows nothing about sex and kinks (his hefty erotica collection speaks for itself) and he’d rather not be treated like he is

during your first time together as a couple, elias took on a more submissive-leaning role and looked to you for guidance and permission throughout — not to say that he was completely lost and floundering, mind, more so that he acknowledged his lack of experience and used your first time as a chance to get familiar with his new body and to learn what you enjoy in bed so that he can commit everything to memory and become a much better lover going forward

(he was also extremely sexually sensitive and vocal during your first time, barely able to look you in the eye for more than a moment or two as he whimpered and whined through his words and trembled and squirmed under your attentions — but still doing his best to keep his focus on you and your pleasure no matter how tempting it was to just lay back and let you fully take the lead)

he definitely has a thing for bondage, whether that means tying you up or somehow being restrained by you, and his preferred category is absolutely decorative bondage — a material that’s strong enough to keep you in place without being too rough on the skin, a series of intricate knots that are a roughly equal mix of functional and flattering, and an end result that leaves the restrained person in the perfect position for whatever acts you agreed upon prior to being tied up

(needless to say there’s a lot of trial and error and experimentation to be done here, particularly on elias’ end as it’s not as easy to restrain a ghost as it is to restrain a living person so your options are much more limited)

when he’s in a more dominant role, elias falls under the category of ‘pleasure dom’ and much prefers to indulge you to the point of overstimulation as opposed to denying you until you’re in tears — of course he does still enjoy edging and teasing you, and will get a bit mean with you if you ask him to do so, but that doesn’t come as naturally to him as simply pleasuring and praising and worshipping you until you’re too far gone to do anything but moan and sob and weakly cling to him as he makes love to you

that being said, when he’s taking on a more submissive role elias is very open about the fact that he enjoys you putting him in his place and being a bit rough with him — sure he’s always your good boy and he always tries his best to do what you ask of him, but he’s also up for being slapped around every now and then (he may be dead, but he’s not made of glass so don’t be too afraid to experiment; you have a safe word for a reason!)

e.g. call him your ‘good boy’ and praise him for doing ‘such a good job’ for you when he’s actually done well and has followed all of your instructions and not pushed himself too far for your sake, but don’t be too afraid to scold him for cumming without permission or to tie him up and edge him until he’s crying and begging for release because he enjoys that just as much (if he didn’t he’d call the safe word immediately)

he definitely enjoys some light role play here and there, even going so far as to incorporate specific pet names into each scene if that’s something you also enjoy — bonus points if you propose recreating something from one of his favourite novels, but he also has a soft spot for anything involving a set dom/sub dynamic (especially if it involves the use of titles like ‘my lord/lady’ or ‘sir/ma’am’)

he has a massive and mutual praise kink, and he’s extremely liberal and genuine about the praise he gives you (which is usually clear enough from the look on his face as he says it) — and any amount of earnest praise you offer him in return is sure to have a broad grin spreading across his face as well as a deep blush creeping up from his neck to the tips of his ears (and specifically calling him your ‘good boy’ is going to have him squirming and whimpering when he’s submitting to you)

he loves going down on you, particularly if you happen to sit on his face as he does so, and it’s endearing just how quickly elias gets cum drunk with you — he’s closing his eyes and grasping at your thighs to keep you in place, he’s moaning and groaning and whining and whimpering against/around you as he pushes you towards your climax, he’s eagerly swallowing every drop of your release that you give him, and before long he’s so caught up in the taste of you that he’s not going to stop until you physically push him off of you (after all, it’s not like he needs to breathe anymore)

clothed sex and clothed grinding, as odd as either of those may sound when listed alongside the likes of impact play and bondage, are two things that elias absolutely loves doing with you — bonus points if this is combined with slow morning sex where you’re both still half asleep and clinging to each other in bed, but again he’s happy to make out with you and pleasure you whenever and wherever the mood may strike

(just as long as it’s not in front of others… he may not be the stereotypical prudish aristocrat, but he’s nowhere near as adventurous as your average exhibitionist)

elias has a voyeuristic streak which makes it extremely easy to coax him into pleasuring you (if taken advantage of on its own) or to punish him for one reason or another (if combined with bondage and a ‘no touching’ rule, which he’ll do his best to abide by no matter how frustrated he may become)

if you’re just looking to seduce him then your best bet is to set him up to walk in on you touching yourself to him and invite him to help you finish or to help you clean up, depending on whether he walks (floats?) in on you in the midst of masturbating or right at the point of climax

if you’re wanting to tease him then you can go one of two routes depending on just how mean you want to be:

(1) if you only want to test his patience then you can tie him up and instruct him to watch you as you touch yourself, only giving him the go-ahead to make love to you or tend to himself after you’ve finished.

(2) if you want to be a bit mean and really make your poor husband suffer then you can tie him up and make a show of tempting him: slowly stripping your clothes, straddling his lap, forbidding him from touching you as you grind against his tail and kiss along his jaw and neck (always lingering just above the cut), and making all sorts of lovely sounds in his ear as you get closer and closer to climax — if you play the cards right then, by the time you’re finished (in more ways than one), you’ll be rewarded with a whiny, teary-eyed elias who can do nothing but weakly buck up into your hips and beg for you to let him touch you

either way by the time your dear ghostly partner is done with you, you’ll be struggling to walk the next day

[official-lucifers-child]

so tempted to write a story where a group of people all have a missing limb or some sort of disability or injury, and each of them perfectly helps and supplements each other? like someone who’s missing a leg and someone whose hands shake working together to make dinner for the group because the former can use their hands and follow instructions and the latter can push the former’s wheelchair around the kitchen, and someone who’s blind and someone with really really good eyesight but they’re missing three fingers on their dominant hand and entirely missing their nondominant hand so they work together to be the sniping team and the former sets up the rifle and the scope while the latter keeps watch and aims the gun and they’ve figured out how to do this seamlessly because they’ve been working together for so long that they’ve become one unit, they’re addressed as one unit in their group.

and maybe the sharp-eyed one and the one missing a leg bonded over their lack of limbs and are often seen together sparring and testing their limits with and without prosthetics, and maybe the blind one likes to hold the shaky one’s hands and trace words onto their palms and maybe it helps them both calm down and relax after a mission, and maybe they’re really good at baking together and maybe they’re the only artistic ones in the whole group so they work together to paint their bunker or headquarters or whatever and they use a chunky, thick paint so that the blind one can run their fingers over the walls and feel the ridges and bumps of the dried paint.

there’s probably more ideas here of how they all could interact and bond and work together, but yeah i just think it would be cool to see people coming together and being able to do what they enjoy (cooking, drawing, sniping, maybe mechanical work, or writing mission reports, idk) because they all fit together to help each other.

(and that’s not even the tip of the iceberg of possibilities)

[tommarvoloriddlesdiary]

not me updating this post (it's more likely than you'd think)

-

Dust and debris spread like a fine mist through the air. 

Harry can see the storefront across from him. The window’s glass has large looping letters, their outline gilded and just catching what little light shines through the smoke clouds, but he can hardly make out the words. He feels so dizzy.

What’s going on?

At first the world is straight, if a little blurry, and then it is not. He’s tilting—no, falling—Harry is falling; he’s been pushed, shoved? The culprit is running off somewhere into the smog, and he catches himself with his hand on the brick behind him. He thinks it must hurt but can’t really feel it. 

There’s definitely something going on here, Harry nods almost to encourage himself. And he’s sure of it because, even though it‘s painful to look at (now that he’s seen it - he can’t stop staring), spellfire is sparking up and down the alley. Probably a fight, but who’s fighting? And - what’s that?

A large chunk of rubble, he realises. Then he corrects himself—chunks. 

Oh. 

They make an impressive line through all this dust and whatnot to the point where things actually seem visible. And now that he’s sort of able to see and mostly paying attention, Harry’s noticing that the chunks aren’t coming from nearby buildings; they aren’t falling from the sky.

He watches, brows raised, as the ground a bit off in the distance breaks, cracks, and almost crumbles out of itself. The massive stone tears straight up and away, shooting at harrowing speeds towards—something, Harry’s certain. Their mass is being used as projectiles. 

Woah, he thinks and hopes he says it out loud because whoever’s doing that needs to hear this, now that’s wicked. The magical strength required to do that must be enormous, but judging by their wavering and almost wild flinging energy, it lacks in any refinement or skill. Whoever is doing that is desperate. Scared. So, not wicked, probably.

Harry’s tempted to find the poor bastard and give them a pat on the back, maybe take them out for a pint. Hell, he could use one right about now. He’s feeling pretty desperate and—well, maybe not scared—but definitely confused, too. 

Which brings him back to: What’s going on?

Waking up in the middle of an ongoing fight is what Harry had been expecting; what he hadn’t been expecting is waking up in the middle of what looks like Diagon Alley if he squints a bit and tilts his head to the left.

Deciding he’s overstayed his wall welcome, Harry straightens up, cautiously keeping his hand on the brick for steadying. He dusts himself off rather pointlessly and gives his Auror robes a quick pat down. No wand. 

That’s a problem. Nothing he can’t work around, but it’s a problem long term. Thankfully, he isn’t out of practice with wandless spellwork, but it vastly limits what he can do to lend a hand with whatever the hell is going on here. 

And he’ll really have to lend a hand and get out of here as quickly as possible. Ron is no doubt losing his mind with worry, and they still have to take care of some rouge wizards reaping havoc on a small wizarding community in Alfriston. If Harry really is in Diagon, he’s a long way away from there, so time is of the essence. 

Seriously, what happened anyway? What did that wizard throw at him?

It occurs to Harry then that he should probably give more attention to the wizards currently throwing things at him because one of those large pieces of rubble abruptly interrupts his train of thought and sightline. He gathers whatever magic he can and prepares to apparate away from its path, but—

Nothing. 

He tries again. And again. It’s getting closer. 

Then on his fourth attempt he feels something grating against his skin and realises—anti-apparition wards. 

Something is not only going on… but is very wrong. 

Harry’s eyes widen, and he ducks, rolling out of the way and further into the street. The world continues rolling even when he stops, vertigo crashing over him all too suddenly and forcing him to catch his breath; Merlin, Harry feels like he’s dying. 

He only gets this way after portkey travel or long-distance flooing—how he got here does not agree with him at all. And watching as that stone impacts the shop window he stared at earlier, Harry startles at another simple revelation. 

He can’t hear. 

He takes a deep breath and coughs, tries again until he feels calmer and doesn’t choke with every lung full. He can hear, but it isn’t anything substantial, only a low-volume, high-pitched ringing noise that echoes around in his head. He feels nearly delirious. And a bit like he’s going to be sick. 

Mindlessly, Harry steps back and out of the way of a nasty-looking violet spell, its shade almost neon. He takes a moment to assess his body more carefully.

Fingers, toes—check. All limbs, head is on straight, joints are bending the right way—he’s perfectly fine. He doesn’t feel any major injuries but forces a pitifully weak healing charm from within - out. He’s shit at wandless healing even though everyone swears otherwise, so it doesn’t ease up the nausea, but it does fix his hearing. 

He almost wishes it hadn’t.

Screaming louder than banshee cries, whizzing spells, explosions echoing, the dull droning of the wards, buildings breaking, shouts, crying, pleading—the world is so much louder than Harry is expecting, and he flinches, holds his hands against his ears at the onslaught. 

It takes some time, more than he wants to tolerate, and a few more close calls with ugly spells, but when Harry finally gets his bearings, he jumps into the fray. 

It’s hardly a thought to magic away most of the debris in the air, and with it gone, he takes in his surroundings. His head whips back and forth, taking stock of what’s newly visible. Harry’s unsure where to begin and who to ask for an explanation of what is even happening. He can’t spot any familiar Aurors, but there are definitely people scattered about in uniforms…

Harry nearly pauses at that. Yes, there are definitely people dressed in uniforms. Ones that are dark and black and flow like ink and look eerily familiar, and others that look strikingly like Sirius’s old—

“HELP!”

Harry’s eyes unerringly find the source of that scream—a young woman clutching a child. 

Their backs are up against the broken remains of a side alley, and her body is trying to cover the kid, hide them, to the best of her ability. A wizard in dark robes blocks their only way out, wand held stiffly in a tight grip - it’s pointed straight at them. 

Harry’s already moving, but his eyes squint, disoriented as he catches the unmistakable glimmer of silver reflecting off sunlight from the side of the wizard’s face. And this does make him pause. It makes him pause just long enough to feel and humour the stomach-swooping horror of recognition—of wrongness—that sight causes. 

It’s certainly a good thing that Harry has gotten to be so proficient at pushing down and sealing away horrors of all types and that he continues to be fast on his feet, quick on the draw. Helpful, too, that his wandless stupefy is still in top form. 

The wizard crumples to the ground, and Harry’s assist goes unnoticed in all the chaos. Yet the woman finds his eyes anyway, obviously having noticed him earlier, maybe even calling out for Harry specifically. She peers up at him, relieved and overwhelmingly grateful, but stares for a beat too long. 

And Harry, long used to prolonged stares, gives her no mind. He quickly comes over to help escort her and the child somewhere safer. She mutters something as he lifts the mute kid into his arms, their eyes wide and blinking. Harry balances them mostly on his left - his right hand holding their back steady, but he wants to keep it free to cast just in case. 

“What was that?” Harry asks while waiting for the kid to get comfortable and finish tightly wrapping their arms around his neck. He releases his hold on their back once they settle, and he takes a gentle but resolute hold on the woman to help guide her out of the alley and any direct fire. 

She’s shaking violently, but when she repeats herself, her voice is more confident—louder. “I- I didn’t know you had become an Auror, James. I thought you only g-graduated this summer?” She asks.

For a moment, only a moment, all of Harry’s battle-hardened instincts fall away. 

He feels his shoulders drop from their tense hold, and he—he just can’t believe what he’s heard. She doesn’t look anywhere close to his parents’ ages had they still been alive, even by wixen ageing standards. Really, she looks much closer to Harry’s age, maybe a couple of years older, give or take. They had probably gone to Hogwarts together for a while, so then why—

Why does she think he’s his father? James, she called Harry, like they are friendly. Like they know each other. 

Shock. Harry can excuse this as shock. He sorely wants to, but that feeling of wrongness is rearing its ugly head once again. 

So he decides not to say anything at all. Harry stays quiet and focused. He stuns anyone suspicious they come across and brings them both to a mostly unharmed shop out of the way with a blessedly working floo connection in a warded office in the back. 

The kid gives him a big hug before they leave, still mute, still blinking with wide eyes, and the woman turns to Harry, puts one hand on his arm, squeezes him once and says, “Stay safe, James.”

He watches them leave.

Breathe, Harry, he tells himself. And it almost works because he can hear the wet gasp and feel his chest move up and down with it. Yet he remains breathless, his mind whirring and unable to catch a thought long enough to actually think—until his feet start moving.

Harry exits the building and, with a clarity he doesn’t truly feel, rounds the corner. He’s confident that Twilfitt and Tattings should be just here, only a few feet away. When he arrives at the distinct shop front, still standing on what Harry can only guess is unadulterated rich-pureblood spite, the store looks nothing like the clothing shop he’s seen hundreds of times before. 

Unsettled but always willing to take a gamble, Harry sticks to the edges of the alley and makes his way further up Diagon, closer to Horizont. He avoids bouncing spells and crumpled bodies and casts when he has to all the way until he spots the familiar sign of Ollivanders. 

With careful hesitation and a churning deep in his gut, Harry tries something with no small amount of hysteria. He holds up his hand right before the shattered glass of Ollivanders’s main window and says:

“Accio Harry Potter’s wand.”

Harry stands there foolishly for a moment, lingering. Nothing happens. 

A short laugh rushes out of him; vicious relief nearly causes his head to sway, but he can’t help it. For a breathtaking moment, he had almost convinced himself that he’d felt something like a tingle, like a response from his magic that something was about to happen. 

Shock, Harry reminds himself. She was just in shock. 

He shakes his head to clear it of whatever madness had briefly held him and readies to shoulder open the door and commandeer a temporary wand. Even an incompatible wand will be better than nothing if he continues lending a hand to the Aurors on the scene. But before he can even take a step, his eyes catch movement in the darkness of the shop. And—Oh, that’s coming straight at me. 

“Whoa!” Harry ducks and turns to watch as a wand takes an arching turn and bounds straight towards him again. But this time, Harry is ready; he catches it with a smart thwack to the flat of his palm. 

The immediate warmth and pure magic radiating from this wand floods his veins unlike any other—but that’s a lie. It’s exactly like one other. One other wand from when Harry was eleven. His very first wand. 

He looks at the fine holly wood in his hand, feels the blazing heat of what is no doubt a phoenix feather core, and the familiar curves and juts of its crafted exterior, and conjures no happiness at the sight of his old friend. Harry feels dread take hold of his very being, leaving him cold and wrung dry. 

“Tempus,” Harry mutters, and like delicate clockwork, the spell casts flawlessly and more naturally than any spell Harry has cast in ages. The time of day and month are troubling enough, but the year really causes its own upending. 

1978.

Harry takes a deep, steadying breath in. He locks all the terrible and horrible things he’s feeling away in a small corner of his mind, shoving it all into a cupboard under the stairs. And he takes a deep, steadying breath out. 

He nods once to himself and holds his wand in a textbook grip. Logic and Auror instinct, but more prevalent, war instinct, sinks its familiar claws into the still healing scars of his mind. 

He leaves Ollivanders and makes his way carefully up Diagon Alley, distantly acknowledging that he hasn’t done as good a job as he’s hoping at concealing his anxieties. His casting is too accurate and decidedly not as innocent as it’s been. He trades stupefy for spells that may lean a little darker than any Auror really should be using.

He can’t say he has the element of surprise on his side. Still, the terrorists attacking the alley aren’t exactly looking out for an Auror dressed like Harry, so he has a precious few moments of them treating him like a civilian before realising their grave error. 

But, by then, Harry has blasted them halfway across the alley. They’re face down on the cobblestones or missing a limb or two by the time their ah-ha moment of ‘civilians don’t normally fight like that’ echoes in the quiet of their unconscious minds.

As Harry gets closer to the heart of the battle, picking off black-robed wizards one by one and gathering appreciative and perplexed looks from Aurors, he realises that faces are beginning to gain an awful familiarity. He wants to hex himself—of course faces are starting to look familiar. He knows an ungodly amount of wixen who fought in the First War. He’s heard numerous stories of their bravery and seen photographs of them, after all, and Harry really should have known that seeing them would be inevitable, even now—even when he isn’t ready.

But he hasn’t ever travelled this far back in time, so can anyone blame him for being caught by surprise?

Because—there she is.

She’s fresh out of Hogwarts. Classes must’ve only ended a month or so ago. And she’s standing at the heart of the battle. The August sun lends an unfairly clear day to the gruesome attack and shines on the brilliant auburn of her hair, all tied back and away from her face like a flaming whip. Gods, there she is.

Harry is shocked still, eyes locked on the sight of Lily Potter.

And he pays for it with a gnarly gash to the side of his ribs.

Gasping out, he quickly breaks from his trance and curses his inability to stay focused. Harry fires back with his own cutting spell; of course, the much nastier sectumsempra won’t be nearly as easy to bounce back from, but Harry just can’t muster up the fucks to give at the moment. 

Mum—Lily—is the one who stops his next assailant, though Harry doubts she even notices her assistance. It turns out she’s the one ripping stone out of the earth and flinging it at anything silver and moving. And, Merlin, it’s nearly charming. He’s going to throw up.

It takes a blue spell, its colour vibrant and just off enough for Harry to connect that it isn’t anything friendly, barely missing her, for him to decide enough is enough.

Harry centres himself and pulls at his magic. He aims his wand at the ground beneath his feet and chants until small spikes start erupting around them like saplings from the cobblestone. He doesn’t stop until they grow taller and taller until they tower over every head and every thatched roof, and until all the ruined pathways around Diagon Alley have become impractical and claustrophobic. 

Startled cries come from every direction; Harry thinks he hears bones snapping from those who can’t thread the needle before the spikes grow too close, like a dense forest. No one is spared of his sudden anger…

…no one except for Lily Potter, who stands in a small circle of safety. The spikes around her have curved inward, lending shelter. When Harry finally catches her gaze—oh no, oh no, oh no—he finds that her arms are raised. Almost like Harry’s a robber, and this is all just some kind of hold-up. He feels the urge to laugh die as quickly as it comes.

Not a soul moves, but Harry isn’t one for inaction. He lifts his wand and casts a sonorus; he speaks, “If you are a follower of-“ Harry mindfully avoids His name, unaware if the taboo has been enacted, “the Dark Lord, I believe you’ve caused well enough damage today. Leave.”

It’s silent for a long moment. And then, suddenly, the sharp snap of the anti-apparition wards shattering is all Harry hears. He can almost feel the rain of its magic falling down all around them, preceding the sounds of loud pop-pop-pops from the Death Eaters tucking tails and running away. 

Harry is a little shocked that simply demanding they leave works. Then again, turning all of Diagon Alley’s streets into some giant’s version of an Iron Maiden in the heat of his anger is probably something to be wary of. When the last pop fades, and all is quiet once more, Harry transfigures the cobblestones back. Once again, marvelling at the easy control with his holly wand.

It dawns on Harry, now that the battle is cleared up as best as he can manage, that he has no way of returning to his time and nothing to immediately keep that thought from taking hold and consuming him whole. He stands, mind racing and paralysed, as multiple hesitant thanks, thank you so much, you saved us, are whispered his way. And he could really do without the reminder of how irreparably fucked he’s just made the timeline, but, you’re welcome, he supposes. 

Then, through the whirlwind of his breakdown, he feels two gentle hands on his arms, pulling him out of the dark and into the eye of the storm.  

“Excuse me?” Harry looks up at green, sage and fresh like a vegetable garden, like summer’s grass on a quidditch field, like sprigs of thyme on a holiday roast surrounded by family; he looks up at the eyes of Lily Potter and startles at the sound of her voice.

Is this what she really sounds like? Harry remembers her voice clear as day from—well, it’s nothing he wants to think about now. But he doesn’t remember it sounding like this. So bright and so…

“So young…” Harry mindlessly replies. And Lily Potter’s answering frown is enough to leave him sorry for the rest of his miserable life.

She turns her careful attention to Harry’s bleeding shoulder, and he finally realises she’s trying to heal him. He doesn’t mention that he isn’t too worried about it and that the gash on his ribs is way worse because she starts speaking again, and all Harry wants to do is shut up and listen to her voice forever.

“Speak for yourself, firecracker,” she says. “You look about my age and handled yourself better than any of these Aurors.”

Firecracker? Harry mutters soundlessly. He’s bewildered at the idea of his mother giving him a nickname like that, his mother giving him a nickname at all. Something screaming and rotting and twisting in his soul mourns the loss of it until now.

“This doesn’t look as bad as I’d thought. Do you feel any intense pain? Any sharp shooting down your arm or back?” She asks.

Harry shakes his head slowly and in a daze. She hums, doubting, “Well, even if it doesn’t hurt too badly, let’s get you to St Mungo’s and patch you up—“

Harry steps back and out of her gentle hands, shaking his head with much more clarity. “No. No doctors. I can heal it myself well enough.”

Lily’s eyes widen, and something on his face must scream that he’s planning on making his great escape—it doesn’t matter where as long as it isn’t here in front of her of all people—because she suddenly grabs his wrist tight enough to bruise. “Wait! I’ll listen! I won’t force you to see a healer, but please,” she grips him even tighter, “we haven’t had a… a victory like this… in a long, long time.” 

Her eyes pry into him; they search and search, and she must find something because she steadies her panic and softly demands that he - “Don’t go.”

Harry can only stare, horrified, at his own mother standing before him, young and alive and begging him not to go.

He’s saved from answering as they’re interrupted by a loud shout, “LILY!” 

A man full-on tackles Lily Potter with force strong enough to pull Harry with them, but madly, all Harry can think is that - Mum has quite the grip.

And now that he’s so close, Harry quickly deduces that the new link to their growing chain is none other than James Potter.

Harry’s eyes blink slowly; a bone-weary exhaustion takes staunch hold of him as he listens to his father ask after his mother’s well-being. Finally, Lily speaks over him firm and unyielding, “James. I am fine. Where on earth have you been?” 

“I was dealing with some Death Eaters towards the mouth of Knockturn—but that doesn’t matter! What matters is that you promised to stay by me, and in less than two shakes of a fairy’s wings, you were nowhere to be seen.”

Lily scoffs, “I cannot believe you are blaming me right now when you are clearly the one who wandered off first! We agreed to stay near the centre, and, oh wow! Would you look at that? That’s exactly where you found me, isn’t it?”

Harry cannot believe he’s watching his parents have their first domestic argument, and he isn’t even technically born yet. This is cruel and unusual. Wait, are they even married? 

“Okay. Agree to disagree,” James nods. Lily’s got that look on her face that Hermione sometimes gets with Ron, like he’d better say the right thing in the next four seconds, or he’ll get a nasty left hook to the face. Harry feels his stomach drop right out of him at the thought of never seeing Ron and Hermione ever again. Oh god. And then, James continues, “We are both at fault.”

James’ eyes stray towards Harry, looking long and hard at his face. He finds Lily’s tight grip next and asks, “Who’s tall, pale, and ready to be sick standing beside you here?”

“What?” Lily asks, and her eyes fall on Harry, too. Her mouth parts in a horror Harry feels immensely. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry; I promise I didn’t forget about you. It’s just that James is so distracting, and oh merlin, I haven’t even introduced myself—“

“Lily, take a deep breath. And maybe let the man go?”

“James, you have no idea what happened. But you would if you’d have been here.”

Harry clears his throat, “Um,” James and Lily both turn and give him their full attention. Oh, that’s awful. How does Harry simultaneously feel like the youngest and oldest person here? He’s clueless about what to say next but settles on, “Um… I’m Harry.”

“Harry,” James and Lily say it together. Perfect unison. Lily’s eyes are wide, but her smile is wider, and James looks extremely confused and nearly half as put out. His brows furrow until they almost touch, and he comments, “My grandfather’s name was Harry.” He frowns and corrects himself, “Well, his name was Henry, but we all called him Harry.”

Oh. Should Harry have given them a fake name?

“James…” Lily murmurs. She isn’t quiet enough for Harry to miss her following words, “He looks a bit like he could be your brother, doesn’t he? Even a bit like Charlus?” James silently and slowly nods, his eyes still locked on Harry.

“What did you say your surname was again, Harry?” James asks with all the subtlety of a hippogriff, like he’s trying to be slick. 

And Harry, no stranger to risky bets, replies, “I didn’t. But it’s Potter. Harry Potter.”

The silence that follows is the loudest he’s heard yet. Wasn’t he nearly deaf earlier?

Until—“Lily. You got a good grip on him, yeah?” James asks.

“Of course,” she nods like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

James grins. “Hold on tighter, then.”

The sudden gathering of magic in the air has Harry’s hair standing on end. He knows what’s coming but doesn’t truly process it until he catches sight of James’ wand out, and by then, it’s too late.

They apparate out of Diagon Alley.

[sheepwithspecs]

FFXIV Write: Day 1

Prompt: Steer Ship: Arenvald x Fordola Summary: Two friends, swimming in the loch 5 fulms apart bc they're ????

Reminder: FFXIVWrite is all about writing and having fun, so these unedited first drafts might have a few grammar/syntax mistakes. If you're interested in seeing the idea fleshed out into a proper oneshot, be sure to let me know via comment, dm, or in the tags! : ) Also, you do not have to have read "Set with the Sun" to understand the story, but it will make more sense if you have

“C’mon, Fordola! Have you ever known me to steer you wrong?”

“There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?” Fordola crossed her arms, her eyes firmly locked on the jagged peaks that rimmed the far horizon. Past experience had quickly taught her it was far better to feign interest in something else—anything else—whenever Arenvald adopted his signature pleading expression. The man was easily twice her size, with more muscle by the ponze than most heavyweight fighters; even so, he had the nasty habit of softening his gaze just enough to make her resolve crumble to dust.

“In any case, I’m not about to tip you arsefirst into the loch!” she snapped, shoulders hunching against the weight of his request. “You don’t even know if you can still swim,” she added, arguing just as much with herself as with him. “Besides: if you drown, you won’t be there to admit the whole thing was your idea in the first place. We both know that if something happens to you out here, with no witnesses, I’ll be swinging on the noose by nightfall.”

“You can give me a proper dressing down when we’re both floating around the Aetherial Sea,” Arenvald responded with usual aplomb. “But if that’s the way you’re going to be about it, I’ll just tip myself instead.” Fordola spun on her heel, not entirely willing to call his bluff. True to his word, he’d already managed to pry one boot off his foot and was working on the other.

“But—wait—that—” she sputtered, casting her eyes about in the hopes that perhaps a guard or even a worker from the Saltery would be around to help her talk him out of this latest fool idea. But it was her bad luck that the guards seemed to take a more lax approach whenever Arenvald managed to coax her past the city gates. The general consensus amongst the guards seemed to be that she and Arenvald were the perfect babysitters for one another; as long as she was keeping him out of trouble, she was too busy to run off. His disability had not stopped him from trying to seek out the adventurer’s lifestyle; if anything, it only made him more determined to find the limit of his capabilities by exploring the world around Ala Mhigo… which apparently also meant literally sinking or swimming in the briny waters of Loch Seld.

“Tch!” Sighing, she began to remove her armor; for all his merits, Arenvald was notoriously obstinate. When he set his mind on something, it was nigh impossible to change it; sometimes it was better to just go along with him, for better or worse. It would be better for them both if she was in the water at his side. Her mind had already summoned the horrific image of him slipping below the surface, sinking like a rock before she could dive in after him; even worse was the thought that if he did sink, she might not have the strength to pull him to safety. She shook her head, unwilling to entertain the thought for long; to dwell on something like that was never a good idea.

If he did go under, gods forbid… she would simply have to pull him back up again, no matter the cost.

Hesitating only a moment, she whipped the tunic over her head, leaving her in little more than her chemise and pantalettes. The lack of clothing didn’t bother her, not exactly; she’d seen worse, in both the Garlean and Resistance barracks. It was more the question of if he’d be tempted to look at her, and if she wanted him to look at her, and if either of them would bring attention to it, and… a multitude of other strange, confusing thoughts that were best pondered over when she wasn’t standing beneath the blazing sun.

Clad in his smalls, Arenvald had already wheeled himself into the shallows. He’d clearly picked the spot beforehand for its natural ledge, only a yalm or two of rocky shallows separating dry land from the yawning chasm of the loch. The water lapped around his chair as he studied the drop, clearly wondering how best to enter the water without actually tipping himself over. Before she could so much as move, he shrugged to himself and half-fell, half-dove straight off the ledge and into the deep.

Fordola bit back and gasp, splashing into the water after him and fearing that he would already be lost from sight in the time it took her to reach the ledge. Her fears were, thankfully, unfounded; Arenvald resurfaced with a laugh, shaking back the wet bangs from his face and looking up at her with a broad, toothy grin.

“See?” he crowed, squinting against the sunlight as he paddled in place. “I told you there was nothing to worry about!”

“This chair is going to rust,” she grumbled, ignoring his teasing look as she wheeled it back to dry land. She stacked their clothing on the seat, ensuring the brake was firmly in place; the last thing either of them needed was to be fishing their clothes from the water’s surface. “Your little Scion friends didn’t pay gods-know-what for some fancy new chair just so you can ruin it by soaking in the loch.”

“A little water won’t hurt it.” He rested his elbows on the ledge as he watched her. “Now, are you going to come swimming, or do I have to enjoy this nice, cool water all by myself?”

“Keep talking and see if I don’t leave you floating there.” This earned her another laugh, water rippling as he moved to float on his back. Still, he wasn’t lying; the loch was refreshingly cool, enveloping her limbs in a chilly embrace that directly contrasted the sweltering sun. She couldn’t help but dive beneath the surface, sighing out her relief as the crown of her head instantly cooled.

How long had it been? She couldn’t recall the last time she’d gone swimming for the mere pleasure of it. Casting her mind back, she realized with a jolt that it must have been in this very loch, swimming with Yda all those years ago. Back then, she had been nothing more than a grieving child. Now she was the Butcher, a traitor to both the Empire and her own people. What would the woman say if she could see her now?

Resurfacing, she blinked the stinging salt from her eyes and looked around to find Arenvald still floating, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand.

“Look.” He pointed to the mountains, already glowing with the first orange streaks of early evening. Fordola couldn’t help but let her lips curve into a smile at the sight; within two bells, it would be her favorite shade of red.

It was strange; despite her position in society, despite the countrymen who spat on her, despite the guards who still didn’t trust her, despite everything: she still loved this land. She loved the sunsets and the sunrises, the mountains dark shadows against the eastern skyline, the wispy clouds hiding the first and last stars, the heavens painted in bold brushstrokes that sparked her curiosity, even after all these years….

“I read once that if the sky looks red at night, there will be a storm the next day… or maybe it’s supposed to be red in the morning? I can’t remember.” She swam up next to him, shivering as a large fish grazed her leg beneath the water. “Either way, it’s beautiful.”  

“Aye…”

“What do you mean, aye? You’re not even looking.” He was staring at her instead, tendrils of blonde hair floating around his skull like an odd halo. The paint was starting to come off in the water, streaks of white like tears across his cheeks.

“Well… maybe I found something more beautiful to look at instead.” A blush rose up her neck, tingling where flushed skin met cool water. Fordola scoffed, splashing him without thinking as her cheeks began to burn in earnest. To her immense relief he took it in stride, sputtering as he wiped at his eyes with both hands. The rest of the paint smeared across his forehead, putting her in mind of an opo-opo.

“Here—” She smoothed the wet hair from his forehead, scrubbing doggedly at his face with her hands until the worst of the paint was gone. It was startling how soft he looked without it, broad cheekbones smoothing into the rest of his face without the stark color to contrast them.

Taking his face in her hands, she pretended to check for any paint she’d missed while studying his features, memorizing as much as she could in the hopes that she might be able to recall it later. Arenvald swallowed nervously, lips quirking in silent confusion, but made no attempt to brush her off. Her thumbs traced his jawline, eyes trailing from the scar on his forehead to the way his tongue darted out to swipe over his lips and then back to his own—questioning, uncertain, hopeful. Droplets clung stubbornly to his lashes, glinting in the reflection of sunlight off the surface of the waves.

“Fordola—” he began, and then her lips were on his and there was nothing more to be said. Salty, wet, a little chapped, but the simple peck sent a queer thrill through her all the same. Heart beating double-time, his hands on her cheek, her shoulder… and then she went facefirst  the rippling waters of the loch.

What in the—?!

Arenvald broke the surface with a choking cough, bent nearly double in the water as he fought to regain his previous buoyancy. Water streamed from his hair as he managed to take in one breath, than another; her lungs burned just from watching him.

“I’m okay,” he managed, waving away her attempts to help. Pushing the bangs from his eyes, he graced her with a smile that was somehow as charming as it was sheepish. “I, erm… I got so distracted that I forgot I needed to swim….”

“That—” For a long moment, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe. She managed a sort of grimace, feeling about as mortified as he looked. Thank the gods that no one had been around to see them; she wasn’t sure she could live down that sort of embarrassment. The Butcher, capable of drowning a man just by kissing him… the Resistance guards would have had a field day with this one.

“Listen… just don’t mention this to anyone else, okay?”

“Why would I do that?!” She purposefully turned away, putting some space between them with a firm breaststroke. The sky was brighter now, ablaze with color, the mountains practically shimmering with the last of the day’s heat.

How long have we been out here? she wondered, turning towards the towering stone walls. It wouldn’t be long before someone would be sent out to look for her, if they weren’t already scouring the city streets. She thought briefly of H’sutyo, the thaumaturge that had been her main guard on primal missions. The woman would be furious if she were sent on a mission to capture a runaway conscript and instead found her splashing happily just outside the city gates.  

Is this… it? Was this that elusive hope Yda had begged her to hold on to? The idea that one day she might be free to waste time in idle play, to swim for the enjoyment of it? To kiss a boy and wonder what it meant, to worry over the notion of having a crush on someone—to be allowed to have a crush on someone, rather than being forced to push her own emotions to side time and time again?

Was hope nothing more than the freedom to simply be?

“Hey.” Arenvald swam after her, powerful arms sluicing through the water. “Are you okay?” Are we okay?  

“Aye.” She nodded, gesturing vaguely towards the city. “I was just thinking that they’ll be looking for me soon, at the palace.” A half-truth, but better than nothing.

“Damn, you’re right.” He winced, clearly haven forgotten that between them, only he was free to go as he pleased. “I guess it’s probably time to head back….”

“I guess.” They turned towards the shore, though neither of them made any real effort to swim back.

“Listen—” Arenvald cleared his throat, scratching at his cheek as he managed to look everywhere except at her. “Do you think we might, uh… try again? O-Once we’re back on land, I mean,” he added quickly, everything from his ears to his chest lit up in a dark flush. “Only if you want to, though!”

“Try what again?” He gaped at her in shock, his face relaxing only when she could no longer smother her own teasing smile. “Oh, that. We can try again… but only if you promise to tell that little lordling friend of yours what happened.”

“No! Gods, no! I’d never live it down!”

“That’s my offer.”

“Fordola, please!”

[writer-darling]

About You

Rating: G (General Audiences)

Pairing: Jack Russell (Werewolf by Night, 2022) x GN!Reader

Warnings: ANGST. Hurt/comfort. Mentions of injuries and bruises. More-than-friends-but-not-a-couple trope. Mutual pining. Coziness. If there are any that I missed, please inbox me to let me know and I will add them in :)

Word Count: 2k

Summary!: Based on the song by The 1975. Jack always responded to letters. Always. What happens the one time he doesn't?

******

Early morning train rides are always a gamble. Sometimes, they were peaceful. You could easily slip into a quick nap with how smooth the ride could be on those days. Sometimes, it was chaos. If it was riddled with teenage students who commuted to the nearest high school, it could easily be an hour’s worth of hell. But today was thankfully not one of those days. As the morning drizzle drips down the windows, the train seems to be in a world of its own. You’re tempted to take another one of those naps but honestly, the worry in your bones is keeping you from doing so. You glance around at the other passengers for a moment in an attempt to soothe your nerves.

The train is sparsely-packed today. A couple of girls sit a few rows away, college-age. They sit and smile at their phones, laughing quietly amongst themselves. The shorter girl with her hair in a ponytail tilts her phone screen towards her friend, who laughs and suddenly blushes, making her look so much younger.

A man in a brown suit sits on the other side of the aisle from you, also in a window seat. He has a pair of earbuds on and his laptop is open on one of the train’s small tray carts as he talks in hushed tones to the screen in front of him. Likely some sort of business meeting from the seriousness of his tone and the furrow of his brow. A black suitcase sits next to him on the unoccupied seat beside him. 

Another glance around shows you an elderly couple that sit beside each other at the very back of the cart. The two old ladies hold hands tightly as the blonder one of the two rests her head against the shoulder of her companion.

That last image makes you smile a little. But all too soon your thoughts go back to Jack.

You usually aren’t much of a worrywart these days, but Jack’s uncharacterisitic lack of correspondence has quickly changed that. You’re not exaggerating when you say Jack is an immediate responder. To texts, to calls, to letters even. His letters almost always get back to you within 1-2 days' time. The longest he’d gone without getting back a letter was a couple of weeks and that’s because his response had gotten lost and arrived later than he had assured you. Now, his last correspondence has been almost two months. Not to mention his last phone call or text had been a week or so before that. 

When you’d reached out to his mom, she had voiced similar concerns, though there was something in her voice that sounded much less worried than you felt.

“I’m sure he’s alright.” She’d said. “He’s likely just busy.” She’d said.

Still, it’s done little to reassure you. There was just something in your gut that told you something was very, very wrong. You were almost tempted to file a Missing Person’s report, but when you’d voiced that idea to Jack’s mom, she had assured you that she would do it herself. Yet, it’s been weeks since then and no police have reached out to you at all. 

Which makes you think that, hey if she’s not too concerned, why should you be, right? After all, other than Jack’s mom, you’re his closest loved one. You know that like you know the Earth revolves around the Sun. So then, what is going on? You sit there in the train’s window seat, watching the blur of the forest pass you by as the train makes its way into town. The City Limits sign greets you in another green and white blur. Why hasn’t he written back? 

Suddenly, an awful, gut-wrenching thought hits you:

Maybe he’s forgotten about you. Not literally, of course. But maybe, just maybe, he’s finally let go of that friendship you both have cherished so much. Maybe he no longer cherishes it the way you do. The thought tastes like bitterness in the back of your throat and you don’t realize you’re crying until you glance down at your open notebook and see the tears staining the blank page. That must be it. If his mother isn’t worried… if he hasn’t made any effort to reach out… then maybe… maybe he just doesn’t want to. Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest and suddenly, your pen is flying across the page, more tears staining and blurring the ink in some spots as you write.

You express your sorrows onto the page, and one page becomes two, then five. Possibly your longest letter to Jack yet. In 40-plus years of friendship, this is your longest and possibly most depressing letter yet. You’re still crying when you disembark into town and walk to the nearest post box. You slip the now-enveloped letter into the blue box and try your best to get a grip as you make the trek to your job now, opening up your umbrella as the drizzle starts to become a hard downpour.

Jack’s body ached like he’d been hit by several trains as he stumbled back onto the property, his body still recovering from last night’s transformation. His clothes were practically torn to shreds as he walked over to the mailbox, limping slightly. His body was near-entirely black and blue from so many bruises, but he’s not too concerned about that. Two months had somehow flown by as he’d been tracking monsters and creatures all over the country. Another rescue mission for Ted last-minute had stolen every ounce of his attention for the last three weeks. He’d been completely unaware of the passage of time. 

Until he saw the letters.

He knew it had been some time since he’d last responded but had it really been so long? It must’ve been. Given the five unopened envelopes sitting in his mailbox. It had made him smile to see so many of your letters greeting him home. Like the warmest hug he could ever hope for, only second to the real thing, of course. Until he opened them…

“I miss you on the train, I miss you in the morning… please write back soon…” Jack’s eyes immediately filled with tears as he finished the last of your many unanswered letters, his heart squeezing painfully in his chest. His fingers ran over every tear stain, every smudged letter, and finally on your rushed signature at the bottom of the page. He grabbed his phone from his desk drawer and finally turned it back on. An influx of messages and missed calls greeted him. All from you. How could he have been so careless?

His eyes scan over the notification banners of every message, each one sounding more and more saddened than the last. He’d missed you, of course he’d missed you. He always missed you. But these last few missions in particular had left him little time to breathe let alone think about anything other than what had been directly in front of him. He had been surrounded by different terrains and different creatures for so many nights. One of those times in his life where he’d been forced to be more monster than man, simply for survival’s sake. Thankfully Ted had kept him somewhat sane. So, when the ManThing had gone missing once again, he’d been pulled back into the Wolf’s mentality in order to save them both. 

As he read the last message he knew what he had to do immediately.

“Ay no. No, no, no, no.” He didn’t even bother to pack a bag, booking the quickest flight he could as he left the house only after a quick change of his clothing. 

He had to make this right.

You’re in bed, your mind still on Jack and the letters. It’s late in the day and the last twenty-four hours since you sent the last letter have been somehow harder than the last two months combined. Bleary-eyed, you grab your phone and open it up. Still no call-back, and your messages haven’t even been read by Jack yet. You decide to send one more text. Just one more.

“Have you forgotten about me?” 

You expected maybe a text. Or a call. What you don’t expect is an urgent knocking on your door only moments later. Your heart skips a beat and you almost run to the door, your mind telling you it's impossible even as you yank it open and take in the sight before you.

“Jack?” He’s out of breath, his hair hanging in his face as he pants, leaning himself against the doorway. You only barely notice the taxi that dropped him off leaving your driveway a moment later. “H-How-?”

“How could you?” He asks, and he sounds wounded. You’re at a loss for words, relieved that he’s here but confused as to how he got here. All you can do is take in his appearance. He looks tired, he looks worn down. His eyes have the deepest shadows you’ve ever seen on him and his scruff is the most grown out he’s ever had it. But all your mind can think is: heshereheshereheshere. You don’t realize he’s speaking again until he bends down slightly to meet your eyes. 

“Do you think I’ve forgotten about you??” He demands, upset, but not angry. His voice is a grave, intense whisper and the pain in his eyes makes the hazel in his eyes burn like molten amber. Pure incredulous disbelief paints his features and you can’t respond for a full minute.

“You… You didn’t answer my letter. My messages, my calls… You always answer my letters.” You mumble in response, your voice almost detached as your mind just can’t register the fact that he’s standing right in front of you. He slumps for a moment, nodding, before stepping towards you and sweeping you up into his arms. You both embrace each other tightly and despite the restriction, you find yourself able to breathe in what feels like ages. He’s safe, he’s warm, he’s here. Your eyes close as you melt into him, feeling one of his hands cradle the back of your hair, while the other rubs your back. You’re both silent, just breathing together and reveling in the fact that you’ve reunited. You pull away after a moment, just to look at him again. Your eyes dart all over him as you soak in as much of his appearance as you can.

“I was away. I wasn’t home. I felt my phone. I-I’m sorry.” The words stumble out of his mouth quickly as he makes you meet his eyes. Your gaze locks on his for a moment as you try to catch your breath, your mind still lightly spinning. 

“I thought you forgot about me.” Your voice is almost timid as you speak and you see something in his eyes change. A fierce shift of protection you rarely ever see in Jack. He hugs you again, even tighter this time and the two of you don’t speak for a long moment as he holds you close to him. His scent permeates your senses and you breathe in deeply, your eyes closing as you bask in his warmth.

“Ni lo pienses.” His voice is a low mutter into your hair as he rubs your spine gently with his palm, his touch comforting and reaffirming his presence. You let out a shuddering breath that’s almost a laugh as you melt into him further and he melts right back. Both of you somehow keep each other upright as you hug one another so tightly you’re almost sure you’ll have bruises in the morning. But that’s the last thing on your mind right now. You pull away to bring him into the house, getting both of you out of the chill and the rain into the warmth of your house. You both feel like thousand-pound weights have been removed from your chests.

He’s here... and he's not going anywhere.

******

I really need to write more Jack stories. He brings me so much comfort, I can't explain it.

Jack Russell TagList: @jedi-in-crocs @kayleezra @amandanik23 @mandy-sings

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[gamesception]

Sception reads Cass Cain #16

Batgirl (2000) #4, ongoing discussion story: Peterson & Puckett art: Scott and Campanella

There's a kind of simplified narrative that's grown up in discussions of Cassandra Cain in terms of how things went wrong and who's to blame. Because by the time Cass is strutting around the pages of Robin as a generic and vaguely racist Dragon Lady villain things have obviously gone wrong, and I don't think any Cass happenings before the reboot can really be thought of as 'going right' again. It's tempting to just blame Beechen, the writer tasked with authoring the infamous heel turn. It's even more tempting to blame DiDio, the editor in chief who tasked Beechen with the job, who famously disliked legacy heroes in general for how they 'aged' their predecessors. Certainly Beechen should have done more research before writing Cass, and you won't ever catch me defending DiDio's tenure as chief editor of DC. But the simple narrative that everything was great with Cass until DiDio and Beechen ruined her out of nowhere is glossing over a lot of mistakes that happened before that.

The league of assassins retcon that needlessly overcomplicated her backstory; sending her to Bludhaven with nothing to do there and all her important story arcs and character relationships left unresolved in Gotham; the flanderization of David Cain that kicked the foundation of her character out from under her; the mishandling of her relationship with Babs. And the first big mistake happens right here in issue 4, in the very earliest days of her ongoing, with her original creative team still at their height.

Years back, when I looked her first introduction in Batman (1940) #567, I talked about how the decisions to make Cassandra mostly mute set her and her stories apart, making them unique in the comics landscape. I'm convinced that Cass's writing team was mostly aiming at what this did for her stories in terms of the comic medium - by forcibly restricting the use of words to tell the story, it put the emphasis back on the art, not just to convey what was happening but also what the main character was thinking or feeling about it.

Even in that initial introduction, there was a sequence where whole pages went by without any words at all. It was unique, it was different, creative, it exercised the unique aspects of the comic book medium.

What I don't think Peterson, Puckett, and Scott considered as strongly is what it meant in terms of Cass as a character with a disability, something the mainstream superhero comics landscape really doesn't have enough of, and in particular something that connected her to Barbara Gordon as the previous Batgirl, at the time still in the wheelchair acting as Oracle. I've alluded a bit to how Cass and Bab's respective disabilities, one physically gifted but linguistically impaired and the other physically limited but the master of communication for the bat family, makes them perfectly matched as superhero partners but also sets up an interpersonal conflict between them as each kind of becomes a personal avatar representing what the other lacks.

And while that is there in the book, the creative team is clearly so much more invested in Cass's relationship with Bruce and the whole the whole Bruce/David/Cass dynamic of fatherhood and guilt and violence - and in terms of that plot thread Babs mostly exists to offer a better life of sincere human connection, if only to add a note of tragedy as Cass inevitably throws herself deeper into Bruce & David's mirrored lives of violence and isolation.

But Cass is Batgirl, so it would have been nice if the creators put more effort and page time into her relationship with the previous Batgirl, and the disability angle was the best way to do so, and at some point, on some level, Peterson & Puckett did understand this.

After all, it's how Cass was originally introduced. Sure she struggled, but despite seeming nearly impossible, with Barbara's help she was making progress none the less.

Special thanks to StephanieBrowntheSpoiler for pointing this bit out, as I had missed the connection between these scenes when I looked at this issue way back when.

Also look at bad sad dad David here, crying, overwhelmed at the thought that his daughter might be able to speak to and understand him, like he's been blessed by some divine miracle, even though he's literally the reason she couldn't speak in the first place. Such a shame that over time his character would be reduced from this compelling ball of contradictions to a flat generic villain. But that's a rant for another day.

Anyway, Cass as a mute protagonist is a big deal, both for internal story reasons (connection to and conflict with the previous Batgirl) and external reasons (representation as a disabled hero, unique use of the comic medium). And more besides - thematic ties with her emotional and personal isolation, which in turn ties in to her full face covering spooky costume design, and so on.

...

So you'd think I'd just object outright to the writers just having Cass learn to speak, and honestly I kind of do, but I also have some sympathy on this front, because as I've also repeatedly pointed out making Cass mute presented unique difficulties that arguably outweighed the benefits, particularly given the collaborative nature of mainstream superhero comics.

A mute protagonist puts a lot of weight on the artists ability to convey personality and emotion through facial expression and honestly not many artists were up to the challenge, especially with Cass's full face covering mask. This put serious limits on her cross-over presence which in term limited her presence and appeal for general DC comic or bat book fans who weren't specifically Cass fans following her in her own book. Sadly giving Cass the ability to speak didn't end up improving this much, I can't blame P&P for trying.

On the representation angle there were also issues, as Cass wasn't just a rare disabled hero but also a relatively rare east-asian hero, certainly within the bat books, and being mute meant she often fell into a silent subservient ninja girl cliche in the guest appearances she did get, which isn't exactly ideal either.

...

So yeah, I can absolutely see reasons why Peterson and Puckett might have decided that nearly-fully-mute Cass was in retrospect a mistake and why they needed to change it, but that doesn't stop me from hating how they did so. Which basically amounts to 'a wizard did it.'

This is terrible for a couple reasons. First of all, a key part of the tone of Cass Cain's batgirl is the grounded, low fantasy, 'street level' focus. Remember the one rule?

No costumed criminals. No supervillains. No wacky sci-fi shenanigans. Not because any of that stuff is bad - all of that stuff is great! But it's also antithetical to the smaller, more personal, more human stories that the Batgirl creative team was aiming for, stories like the one we saw in issue 2. But now that grounded tone is always going to have the specter of this random psychic wizard guy floating over it, making his presence known with every thought bubble and speech balloon.

Worse, Cass learning to speak was important. It meant something. Remember again how she was introduced:

Struggling, with her own effort, with Bab's help, making slow progress, but making progress, and making it together. This plot thread was the emotional and narrative backbone of the two Batgirls' relationship, and only four issues in Peterson and Puckett are throwing the entire plot in the garbage.

The writers will try to keep a version of it going with Cass still being unable to read, that doesn't carry half the weight of being unable to speak or understand words, which is probably why the writers very infrequently bother to bring it up, and it never gets a satisfying resolution - she learns to read off panel while evil from another wizard and once she's good again we just never speak of her as a disabled hero any more.

What I keep coming back to is that this is something Cass and Babs should have achieved together, not something hand-waved away by a wizard. If the writers decided that Cass being non-verbal was more trouble than it was worth and needed to be resolved quickly instead of agonizingly slowly over the course of her ongoing, then Cass & Babs should have found a believable breakthrough themselves.

...

And while I'm treading dangerously close to 'fix it fic' territory, there was such an obvious break through they could have used right there that I can't help from bringing it up. Because if fictional mute human Cass has such a hard time learning to speakbecause her brain was trained to interpret gestures and movement instead of spoken words, well, there just so happens to a language communicated by gestures and movement instead of spoken words, one in common use by actual mute people right here in the real world.

Yeah, duh, right? Hell, we've already seen Cass using hand gestures to convey meaning in a sign-language-adjacent fashion in issue 2

And again here in issue 4

Just, like, have a scene where Barbara's had a frustrating teaching session with Cass, maybe she's complaining about it to Dick or someone while sitting around outside, and she happens to notice somebody signing and has a eureka moment. Or maybe Cass rescues someone who signs and they try to sign 'thank you', and Cass is able to understand them from context and body language and realizes the gestures are a way of talking and she just gets it, and then she can excitedly go to Babs, that works too, though I'd be more inclined to give the little victory realization moment to Babs since she gets so few victories in this book.

And of course Babs will already be fluent in ASL because that's something that would be believable even if it hasn't already been established somewhere that I don't know, and suddenly they start making progress quickly, knowing ASL can help her learn to at least understand more spoken words more quickly even if actually speaking stays awkward and difficult due to never training those muscles during her development. Breakthrough in one issue, Cass frantically learning signs and making progress faster progress understanding spoken words the next, and by two issues later you can have Cass talking in speech bubbles or narration boxes implicitly translated from sign to written English the way comics do for any other language.

Plus, you could have cute domestic scenes of the other Bats learning ASL to talk with Cass, the kind of thing that really would make her feel more like part of the Bat Family.

The fact that, as far as I can remember, the concept of sign language is never mentioned in Cass Cain's stories, in or out of her solo title, is the kind of thing that makes me think her original creators never thought of her inability to speak in terms of disability representation, because if they thought about actual mute humans even once while conceptualizing this 'mute hero who understands body language instead of the spoken word' then the way actual mute humans use a language spoken in body movements to communicate would have come up. Like, at all.

....

Of course, I'm not the first to suggest Cass be fluent in ASL, as an alternative to psychic wizards or otherwise. It's a common enough fanon thing that it even has some pretty well reasoned push back:

Sure, Cass learning ASL super fast wouldn't be realistic, because yes, ASL is a lot more complicated than just pantomime gestures, it's an entire language, and learning any language would be an agonizingly slow process for someone who grew up without any. And yeah, ASL isn't one to one signs to English, so learning ASL wouldn't necessarily make learning to understand spoken English any faster or easier. Though I would counter that /part/ of Cass's difficulty learning to speak, separate from her brain's difficulty processing language, is that her audio processing wasn't trained to distinguish the particular sounds of speech and her mouth was never trained to produce them - this is referenced in this issue in that even though she can understand and think in english after the wizard changed her brain, she still can't speak it herself yet. Her brain would still have difficulty processing sign language, but her eyes and hands wouldn't have any trouble seeing and reproducing it.

But realism really isn't the important part here. The exact nature of Cass's disability is already tied up in her unrealistic upbringing and, for lack of any better terms, super powers. Those powers allowing Cass to pick up ASL unnaturally fast at least has some grounding within the unrealistic aspects that have already been established for her character - certainly more so than a random psychic guy just magicking spoken English into her brain. Because that's the alternative. If it were entirely up to me I would have preferred Cass continue to struggle with Babs' help as she slowly learns to communicate over the course of several years rather than all at once in issue 4. This hypothetical 'sign language communication breakthrough' proposal is based purely on the assumption that the writers had already decided wordless Cass was just too difficult.

And at least this would be Cass and Babs achieving communication together through their efforts - however arbitrarily abridged - rather than their core character driving plot line being magicked away.

........................

Geeze, looking back this post is very negative, and I don't like that. As much as I think this decision was completely wrong headed, as many issues as I take with Batgirl #4, it's still her original team in their prime, so there's still a lot nice to be said about it. This post is too long already, but I wanted to end off buy saying stuff I liked about the issue, and I don't want to spend a third post just on issue 4, so here's a lightning round of compliments.

The two panel spread of the psychic guy touching Cass's head and her martial arts turning into the word 'TALK' is so good. Like, I hate the storytelling move here, I hate what these pages mean for the narrative, but the execution is fantastic.

The transition between these scenes, where Bruce is devastated trying to tell Alfred about the video and Alfred's like 'you're bleeding, whatever it is you're worried about can wait' before Alfred sees the video, and then after compulsive parent Alfred is all focused on the little kid in the video while annoyed bruce is left to tend his wounds on his own? This is a cute little bit for both of these characters and it always makes me smile.

This whole page is great. Cass celebrating a successful mission by going out to do more work, the goofy smile and fist to the forehead 'hard headed' bit, Babs worrying over Cass, the level of clutter and detail on oracle's desk, the bricks and all. Babs balling her fist over the live mic to talk to Cass as she heads out. Those big boxy yellow pouches on Cass's belt - have I talked about how much I love those, and how important they are to the look of the costume? The way they break up the otherwise too much black with a nice spot of color in the middle, add some visible weight to what is otherwise a very ethereal and acrobatic character design. Anyway, just, this whole page, great stuff.

The contrast between effortlessly taking down multiple armed goons early in the issue, vs. her comedic, even cartoonishly goofy loss to the random mercenary lady after the psychic wizard magicked her body reading super power into talky words, leaving her effectively defenseless. That 'Oohf' face as she takes the first punch is hilarious. Also, hey, those pouches again.

...

There's a lot more I like about this issue, but yeah, post too long already. Even if this team is doing things I don't agree with, they're still doing those things /well/. And it's not like anything done in this issue ruins Cass's character or book outright. It's a faltering step in a wrong direction, and sadly only the first of many, but in the mean time the stuff that's great is still great here. And the issue ends off promising some serious personal drama, both with Bruce leaving to confront David Cain and with Cass struggling to comprehend her first real defeat. I'm eager to get to that stuff, and leave my complaints about issue 4 behind.

[sunset-of-the-void]

okay ive been trying to organize my thoughts forever and its not exactly working so. i'm just gonna launch things in as short and concise as i can make it so i dont ramble incoherantly forever (/lh)

so,, i'll start with my perception of norton, because by god i think i should think about him more,,,

i'm not gonna touch on his mom because i have no clue what the fuck happened to her honestly, but i think norton's dad has always been kind of. accidentally distant? like in a way you could tell he cared for his son, but there was probably always an air of stress/tiredness about him (similar to norton as he aged) that got worse from the black lung and aging, and also the way that they were never guarenteed to have necessities all the time was something that occupied his mind a lot. (i imagine personally that while the two were never close, norton could understand the reasons why hence choosing to stay by his side once he fell bedridden)

also, while norton probably didn't work in the mines for his entire life, he'd probably do small jobs on the side to help out with funds, especially considering his lack of an (official? authentic?? i cant recall the word im looking for) education in canon, so you know. he's been aware of the concept of money and status for a while i'd assume, even moreso when he starts working in the mines as a teenager (which i'd assume is when his father's illness starts worsening as well) and people there are just. ruthless i'd imagine. considering in his trailer he looks (debatably?) younger than the other men it's probably from both a mix of him being a newer worker and possibly being worse off than them as well plus the stress on him having to be the only provider for two people, one of which is ill as well, as a teenager proobably doesnt help much with the situation either...... i've not much to add other than this, though touching on his personality in the manor, despite being reserved and a liittle grumpy he is very sweet once you get past the walls he put up! he's the type of person to help someone who needs it (albeit he may make a show of being reluctant about it) but he does know what its like to struggle and how much a helping hand could mean to someone. he's still very empathetic in my mind :]

very very briefly onto andrew because if i dont limit myself this will be soo much longer. but i'll try not to get too excited and i'll cut out most of his life (pretty much all of it up to about laz cemetary)

so basically andrew also had similar situations being born in poverty, while norton managed to gain financial security as he became a prospector (i think?) andrew didnt really. get that at all. even when working with laz (if he did, there wouldnt be a reason to be tempted by grave robbing, right???) and i personally assume people would price gouge him for the sake of him being "impure" or whatever, so even with the pay from mikhail/percy it never really lasted quite long enough,,,,

andrew only left after getting caught by marshall, and fled immediately after the (accidental) murder. (to summarize it shortly andrew panicked and stabbed him a few times with the shovel and then accidentally buried him while he was still alive in a nearby patch of dirt) and he showed up to the manor with. practically nothing. he had a change of clothes, his shovel, and some trinkets that were dear to him, and to me he kind of traveled on foot the nearly whole time to the manor (using the funds he had left from the final deal of the "slabs" to take a train as far as he could with the money)

so now like.. the actual current important thing (sorry dhsjdjfj......)

once andrew shows up to the manor he's in ah. generally pretty bad shape. and people kind of have one of two reactions of either "wow this guys one of the stranger ones" or "this guy needs. a lot of help" (depending on how you look at it) and norton kind of realizes almost immediately from andrew's general anxious demeanour and gaunt figure that he has nothing going for him, so why would he make that worse?? plus in the manor norton kind of gravitates away from nobility/aristocracy i believe and andrew is very. noticably not either of those, andrew is just grateful that norton's not reacting negatively to his very presence and he puts a lot of trust in norton. (like, norton gets a fuck ton of life stories that luca and emil dont hear about) im working on a fic of their first technical interaction and im not sure if i'll ever finish it since ive been stewing it since like.. april but they're cute to me

Hello! Very excited to read through this

To be honest i dont think norton's mom is mentioned like ever. At least in nothing i personally have read. I do agree that hia family would have been distant. They were in living in poverty and it puts a strain on anyone much less a family. To me it aids in norton's cutthroat nature of just having a life of anything but the suffering of poverty.

I would love to read the fic once you finish it! I really like andrew and norton getting each other as they have both been ostracized from society for being poor and then for Andrew being albino! I was going to have a lot more to say but i dont think it would have added much to this. I will be marinating on thoughts for this thank you so much for the ramble friend!

[stabknives]

1 4 and 10 for vyktash uwu

oh and 1 for v/b as well :3

‼️‼️‼️‼️ THANK you for the visit Dorian. Enjoy your stay...

Under the cut bc this got loooong.

1. Starting simple, how did they first meet?

While I've briefly touched on Vykrum's connection to the House of Hope, that's not very specific, and a lack of specifics isn't very FUN.

Vykrum originally started visiting the HoH for the portal room, so it makes the most sense that they would meet there. I doubt Vykrum would be coaxed into exploring the house indepth before meeting young Gortash, and there are plenty of reasons why a slave might be tempted to try utilizing a room full of portals to escape lmao. Especially one as clever as Flymm.

(Also. Idk why and this is sort of off topic, but does anyone else struggle to call him 'Enver'. It feels gross. I Don't Like It.)

Anyway. Vykrum is coming back to the HoH just as Flymm is picking the lock to the door. He needs to Get in that room Flymm is fucking around with. So he misty steps his ass behind that kid and goes You Are Not Picking That Effectively. Let Me Pick It. Stupid Boy. And Flymn is like ohhhhh I really don't like you already. Even though he's probably seen Vykrum around. Possibly approached him before playing up the poor little orphan child aspect for sympathy points he definitely doesn't receive lol.

Vykrum helps him pick the lock, and thn immediately snitches to Nubaldin or someone else in the HoH 👍 because part of sneaking around isn't getting caught, child. Do better.

[Tooltip popup that says ENVER FLYMM WILL REMEMBER THAT in bold ominous letters. Like a telltale game. But scary.]

4. Do they fear each other?

Yes. No. IT'S COMPLICATED. They both know the other is capable of utter insanity. Vykrum has seen a young Flymm beat a starving dog to death to prove a point, seen him lie with nary a tell on his face, has watched him steal and kill and maim and. Do some other stuff I'd rather not get into here. And he found it all kind of funny. For lack of a better word.

And when Gort is old enough to fight back. Jesus. Jesus Christ. I don't understand why Vykrum doesn't get scared of this guy. This thing. Human shaped machine. Dearth of joy and so on. What if I did every fucked up thing to you that you've ever done to me and I do it better and I do it worse.

The black hole is swallowing everything up. The ocean is washing away everything you hold dear. But do you blame nature for being destructive? Is it healthy to live in constant fear of a natural disaster? No. Of course not. It's just something that happens to you. A mushy box of infant gore, wrapped in a ribbon. Your legs covered in blood when you wake up in the middle of the night aching. Is it your blood? Is it his? Does it matter? This is nature. Here comes the rain again. You know the stormclouds well.

Gortash was forced to suffer through Vykrum's cruel and unusual tutelage, which included but was not limited to: getting his knuckles beaten with a smoking pipe while playing the piano, eating raw human flesh stripped from his own arms (after trying his luck with manipulating Vykrum into giving him food via crying), getting a tooth pulled out for every drow word he can't instantly read… but unlike some of the other freaks in the HoH, Vykrum wasn't attacking Gortash because he thought he was an easy target, or because he particularly relished in his agony. He was doing it because he thought Flymm could handle it and because he thought it would make him stronger.

Um. Abuses you bc I care <3 terrorizes you bc I want you to succeed and become strong and escape one day <3 and if you don't well. Idc. You're weak then. A waste of time, but at least entertaining.

^^^ This shit probably pisses off Gortash immeasurably. And he probably has what a normal person would describe as nightmares about it but instead he just gets angry and hunts Vykrum down with a magic flintlock pistol and shoots at Vykrum as they scurry around the estate lawn.

All this to say. I don't think they fear each other. Per say. They might be wary of what the other is capable of and watch each other like you would watch a rabid animal but. Overall they have something much more sinister going on ect ect.

10. How would you describe their dynamic together? Is one more powerful than the other, or are they on equal footing? (Who is the hydrogen bomb and who is the coughing baby?)

I've joked around about them being like. A toxic boy mom and a kind of hateful little Freudian cuss that wants to bang his mom as much as he wants to strangle her to death. But that's like. An oversimplification and it's kind of condescending to both their characters.

Vykrum starts out as the hydrogen bomb because. Flymm is a literal coughing baby. He's like. 9 when they first meet. Kind of an unfair matchup. Yes, Flymm is absolutely a dangerous child, very talented and smart, but. If I punched the world's smartest toddler I would win. Because I'm a fully grown man. And so is Vykrum. Even if his constitution stat is Insanely Low, It cannot possibly be lower thn that of a malnourished child living in hell.

But fret not Gort fans. The machine always comes out on top. (NO TOP JOKES. 💥💥💥) Vykrum is physically frail, and an adult Gortash is absolutely anything but that. Lol. Yes, Vykrum is still a very talented necromancer and cleric, but by the time they unhappily reunite, they're far more evenly matched - although the needle is slightly tipped in Gortash's direction, thanks to his connections. Vykrum might be clever, but people don't fucking like them, and people LOVE Gortash. Even me. Sorry Vykrum.

It's kind of hard to lash out against someone physically and socially more powerful thn you when the closest graveyard is miles away and you would shatter every bone in your hand if you tried to slap 'em around now.

Thanks for the ask! Gonna answer V/B (⁉️⁉️⁉️ V/B ASK!!!) separately so this doesn't get any more crowded.

[sugutoad]

Matchup Trade for @averagetoyakinnie !

# s.black

ஓ๑ I was extremely tempted to pick anyone but Sirius because I have done only one other matchup of Harry Potter and I had chose him too but this man was literally so perfect for you. I’m not necessarily good at convincing others on why I chose a certain person for them but I do hope the following makes more sense to you and possibly even convince you:

ஓ๑ Sirius seems to cross almost all your checkboxes concerning your ideal type. He is absolutely a snarky individual who often goes far and beyond to tease his partner but he does have a sense of awareness of when to stop. Canonically book wise, Sirius is said to be extremely tall — which most of the fandom unfortunately ignores because they focus on the height of his actor. This isn’t really a popular headcanon but I stand on my life that Sirius has soft and chubby hands. Imagine looking at his sharp jaw, only for him to have the babiest soft cheeks. He absolutely loathes them tho. Always being there for you? Check that box for sure! Sirius supports you through thick and thin no matter what! And do not fret the slightest, dear. He visits all your sports events and absolutely spoils you with ice cream if you win or even lose. After a lost game if you are frustrated, he will take you home and sit with you to watch some of your shows. The whole concept of television doesn’t really come to him too well but he loves it. Normally I don’t look much or focus on ideal types, but when I chose him and then saw that you had included an idea type, I was even more excited to do this matchup!

ஓ๑ I understand that your mbti (ENTP) and Siruis’s mbti ( ESTP) don’t exactly go hand in hand with one another because of how similar they are but I think that is the perfect thing. You have a similar way of thinking and that allows you to know how the other person is. And arguments do happen but nothing big. It mostly consists of you scolding him for doing something stupid or bickering like an old married couple about small things (like if pineapple belongs on pizza.). But the both of you are so charming and chaotic with one another that is actually scary to Mcgonagall. Besides the similarities between your mbtis, the N and S helps you to differentiate ideas when presented information. That way, almost no information is not being used as you both have different ways to get certain information. 

ஓ๑ When he first met you on the train to Hogwarts, you looked so cute to him. Awkwardly fumbling your fingers and a distant yet shy demeanour is what had charmed in the first place but was he in for a journey as he began to know more of you. This duo is a chaotic rule breaker type. But at least you try to keep him out of detention so you have your limits to ruler breaking at times. But when you have an interest, he will keep his big mouth shut for hours as you ramble on and on (he will certainly try to get himself into your interest so you both can discuss it. As much as he loves listening to you, he loves talking too.) Someone should have taken a picture of this man's face when his innocent idiot said something sexual :) For visuals, his mouth was slightly open but in a smirk and his eyes were wide opened (don’t forget the single raised eyebrow)

ஓ๑ Though it’s normally you giving him advice and comforting him, especially after a bad day with his family, sometimes it’s switched. He knows how energetic you are but he understands more of you. So when you run off your social battery, he holds you quietly, occasionally saying a joke to lift up your mood or just some sweet words. 

ஓ๑ He is a growing boy, ok? He needs food. Lots of food. So you can imagine his delightment every time you bake or cook him something. 

ஓ๑ Similar to you, one of his major love language is physical touch. This probably originated from the lack of affection he received as a child so now he is pretty much a clingy teddy bear! At first you thought it was cute but sometimes it is overwhelming. You would be trying to study or practise for a quidditch match, he will almost never let go. But no matter how many times he touches you, when he walks past you and your fingers brush against yours, it still makes your stomach flip with butterflies.

ஓ๑ He is actually in love with you. Like seriously (see what I did there?) The way you are a bubbly shine of light that blinded him with your upbeat smile and the beautiful way that you love almost everything, seeing the beauty in everything surrounding you. Even during Azkaban, his only possession was a small photo of you. And when he saw you again, he held you for almost eternity but for him it still wasn’t long enough. Nothing could ever make up for the 12 years he spent without you. 

ஓ๑ Also what do you mean he is dead? (Delusional) Last time I checked, the both of you are married after he escaped from Azkaban and have a son named James Black. 

ஓ๑ Hopefully I convinced you? This is a pairing that most people wouldn’t have seen coming so it is certainly harder to explain my reasoning behind it but I think that is what makes it so perfect. 

Other Potential Matchups: Literally none because my head couldn’t think of anyone but Sirius for you. 

[klmwrites]

Here is the 2nd and final deleted scene from my recently completed fic: When Generation X met Z! Please enjoy 😊

1st deleted scene

DELETED SCENE #2: Lokun's fight with the council (placeholder title) - from When Generation X met Z

“Dooku has defected.”

The woman who was pacing in the middle of the council chambers stopped. 

“I’m sorry?” She then looked towards Obi-Wan first, but when the ginger averted his eyes she made eye contact with the Grandmaster for confirmation on those words. And when he nodded, she froze. How? When did this happen?

“We received visual confirmation of various representatives from Separatist planets landing in Serenno not too long ago, and Dooku welcoming them with open arms.” As he spoke, Mace Windu removed a hologram from his pocket and proceeded to play a holo recording of just that. Indeed, the footage was undeniable - the woman saw Dooku’s signature red and black cape fluttering in the wind as he shook the hands of each representative and ushered them through the double doors of castle Serenno. 

The woman narrowed her eyes. “How long ago was this?”

“A week.”

The woman exhaled through her nose sharply, mastering her best neutral face before turning to face Master Yoda. “Send me to Serenno. I’ll uncover the truth of the situation and report back to the council.”

“Strong faith you still have, for my old padawan.” Yoda observed. “Admire your tenacity, I do. But no longer the man you knew, Count Dooku is. Sending you to Serenno, suicide it will be.”

“Suicide?” the woman asked, intrigued by the Grandmaster’s choice of words. “And why is that? I am a Jedi Knight, and a fully trained espionage agent. I can handle myself.”

“We do not doubt your abilities Ashleigh. That’s not why we are hesitant, rather it’s due to our lack of intelligence on Serennian soil and its defences.” Obi-Wan now spoke up, trying to soften Master Yoda’s words. But Lokun was having none of it. 

"What difference would it make if someone else was sent out? Doing so would also mean certain death for them!”

“We are not sending anyone out to Serenno.” Master Windu’s stern voice cut through the ever so rising tension in the room like a knife. “Serenno is deeply entrenched in Separatist territory, and at present shows little to no regular military activity. It is off limits until we can find out more information about the place.”

“And how in the name of the force are we going to do just that if we are not even going to consider breaching into enemy territory? Information doesn’t just come preloaded into the council’s holocomms, you know!”

“Lokun!” Windu barked back - a feat done so rarely on the part of the older man that it even took his colleagues by surprise. “The decision is final.” Lokun remained rooted to the spot, fists clenched tightly till her nails formed half crescent indentations into her skin. Her head was now bowed downwards - in disappointment or fury was anyone’s guess - and took deep breaths. Anger swirled around the Jedi Knight like a fumes, and like a hungry fire licked the very recesses of her mind, tempting her to open the floodgates she had kept sealed her entire young adult life until now: the temptation to tap into the dark side. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She made a promise - and promises were sacred. Master Katri had taught her this ever since she was a junior padawan, and that breaking one’s promise is a telltale sign of a distrustful person. Distrust is not the Jedi way.

Truth is, Lokun had tapped into the dark side at a really early age. At the tender age of 13, she had tapped so deeply into the dark side that she had managed to conjure force lighting. Watching the streaks of crackling, pure energy shoot out from her fingertips and target her opponent was quite the experience - one that put her in an unconscious state for half a day. Since then, Master Katri had made it her duty to teach her padawan how to contain her anger for which Lokun was grateful. Against all odds; against the naysayers that came in the form of Senior Jedi Masters and even some members of the Council, Katri remained adamant on keeping Lokun as her student. And in a surprising turn of events, Master Yoda publicly backed Katri's decision.

Since that day, Lokun was determined to uphold the Jedi code to the best of her ability - in honour of her late master’s memory. And we weren't about to break that streak now. 

When Lokun looked up once more, she was met with a half observant, half knowing look from Yoda. 

“Want to know why paired you with Dooku, I did?” This question caught the woman off guard, as did the other councillors. Some were leaning forward in their seats, all attention on the little green troll.

“If that is possible, yes.”

Yoda snorted good naturedly. “Paired you with Dooku I did, was to curb his draw to the dark side. Always learning, we Jedi are, therefore though a padawan takes instructions from their Master, the Master should learn from their padawans as well. Learn to contain the dark side since your Initiate days, you have. Hoped Dooku could have learnt from you in that regard, I did.” The Grandmaster sighed. “Too arrogant and self-centred, Dooku had become. More cynical, Qui-Gon’s death made him with the Order.” He now looked towards her, in which Lokun was prepared to swear she saw tears glisten in those big, wise eyes of his. “Failed my old padawan, I have. Failed to look out for the signs, I did.”

The room was silent at the Grandmaster’s confession, each taking in Master Yoda’s words in their own way. Lokun’s heart shattered for Master Yoda, for she of all people knew how it felt to have disappointed others; to be a disappointment when you were expected to be at the pinnacle of things. 

“Master.” The woman now stepped forward and knelt before the green figure. “You have not failed. My Master Yan Dooku was a good man, a good jedi. A man who was excellent in his sabre skills as he was in his mental prowess. He moulded me into the person I am today, and if not for his tutelage i would still be stumbling over my own feet every time I wield my sabre; I would not have been encouraged to pick up Jar’kai, nor would I have had the skills of negotiation that we as an organisation seem to be lacking.” Lokun smiled at the memory of Dooku using the training sabre to swipe her feet the first time they met - how frustrated she was at him back then! “People change, such is the nature of things. After a certain stage, a Master cannot be blamed for the actions of his padawan; such is the necessity of accountability and the understanding of agency.” 

Lokun stood up and gave a sweeping glance towards the rest of the council: Some were looking at her with admiration(Obi-Wan), others with scepticism (Mace Windu). She powered on nevertheless. “Why Dooku defected I do not know. Though I was his padawan, Dooku had always been a private man. I was not made privy to his inner thoughts or feelings throughout my padawanship with him, and such status quo remained long after I was knighted. But what I do know is this: the man defected for a reason. He made his bed, and he is prepared to lay in it in the long run. What I simply wish to know is what motivated him to do so and why.”

Yoda nodded. “Misjudged you, I have. Alot about reading people, I wish I learnt from Dooku.” the green troll chuckled at the hypocrisy of his own words, before giving a discreet glance towards Master Windu, who simply raised an eyebrow. “One observation about you, Dooku made. Told me, he did. And after listening to you, right he is.”

Lokun raised both eyebrows in curiosity. The Grandmaster now hesitated slightly, as if contemplating if what he was about to say was appropriate in the given setting. 

“Little value for your own life, you hold. Onto a higher goal you cling to, so as to feel a sense of satisfaction and purpose.” Yoda’s tone softened, as did his voice. “Always available I am, if you need someone to talk to.”

Normally, most people would feel a sense of relief when being assured by the Grandmaster of the jedi order, but for Lokun it created an opposite effect. She felt disgusted. 

“Excuse me.” And with those words she turned abruptly and left the chambers, leaving behind a worried Master Yoda, a concerned Obi-Wan Kenobi and a frustrated Mace Windu.