#the latter half of this book GRIPPED me

[blazeball]

i keep going insane over the starless sea when it is like, objectively kind of mid i think, but i cannot ever get this out of my head i feel like it altered something. In my brain

[macfrog]

I miss our beloved scom family. How are they doing this fine day?

god, i miss them too. here's what they probably got up to today.

something blue 3.6k words | series masterlist warnings: y'all know the drill: being a mom.

Sarah leads Ellie, the way she always does, into the kitchen at seven a.m. sharp.

She stops by Joel first, squeezes into his size at the counter, and pushes onto her tiptoes. When he sidesteps to let her see (even though he point-blank refused to let you), she wraps two arms tight around her sister and hoists her up.

“Pancakes!” the three-year-old squeals, and loses her grip on her plastic dinosaur. He falls headfirst into the counter.

“Shh!” Sarah hisses, slinging Joel a disgruntled look. She sighs and swipes the T-Rex from his hand.

“The heck you lookin’ at me for?” he grumbles.

The girls eye you the entire walk over to the table. One as suspicious as the other. Sarah moves smooth, floats over to her spot with her chin skyward.

Ellie thumps at her heels, staring you down and almost stumbling into a chair.

“Careful, Nel,” you whisper, and her poker face cracks. You turn to Sarah. “I know it’s pancakes. It’s the only thing your dad ever figured out how not to burn.”

Joel’s shoulders jump. He swallows the laugh in his chest and says nothing.

Ellie sucks the chocolate clean from her dinosaur’s head. Last week, she decided his name was Bill. You, Joel, and Sarah are still trying to figure out where the hell she came up with it. Whoever he’s named after, she doesn’t like him much – not with the rate she lobs him around.

Kid’s an enigma. She suits it just fine.

She stares at you, still, as Sarah helps her up into her chair. Judders forward with each shove under the table. Comical, the two of them; like Pinky and the fucking Brain, you once told Joel – though you’re still not sure who’s who.

Your eyes drop to a stain on the toddler’s outfit. “You want me to wash that yet, Gagarin?”

She looks down. An arm swishes up to dab at the tangerine splotch. She grins, amused with herself, and shoves the dino back between her gums.

Sarah shakes her head. She turns back to you and flashes a trademark Joel frown. Eight years old and somehow, she manages to encapsulate the same fifty-six-year-old, unimpressed glower.

“Nel,” she turns, uttering between teeth, “You can’t wear dirty clothes today, remember?”

“I don’t think spacesuits are allowed at preschool,” you sigh as you push yourself up. “Much too sophisticated – huh, baby girl?”

Ellie giggles and flings her arms to the ceiling, sending Bill in a somersault across the table. She’s in nothing but pull-ups underneath the onesie – although it’s rare for her to ever be in much more than her pull-ups and, usually, one loose sock.

The suit means she’s feeling fancy. But what the fuck for?

All of Sarah’s leftover chaos, the magic she left in your veins after she was born, seems to have poured into her little sister. Smaller, mightier – more reckless, but not half as savvy.

Rarely seen without one of her prehistoric pals in her fist; evidence of what she had for lunch smeared around her lips. Chasing after Sarah, after Shimmer, after a butterfly that found itself trapped in her bedroom last month.

She scaled a chest of drawers trying to reach it. Joel caught her just in time. Some nights in bed, you can still feel his heart pounding from the scare she gave him.

Chalk and cheese. Sarah and Ellie. The former calm, composed. Candid and levelheaded, book smart and (alarmingly) wise beyond her years.

The latter – well.

It’s her first time on the planet, too, you try to remember.

You wander over to the washer, tossing the suit into the drum. You dig an elbow into Joel’s side and he flinches.

“Can I see yet?”

He turns, shielding whatever’s in front of him with a wide shoulder. “Not yet, baby. Not done.”

“You’re taking fuckin’ forever,” you mumble, pressing the words into his shoulder blade. From the corner of your eye, you watch the girls babbling to each other, scratching Shimmer between her floppy ears.

Joel twists, still hiding with his hands, and dots a tiny kiss on the tip of your nose. He smells like coffee and toothpaste. It still dizzies you every time he’s near enough for you to breathe it in.

“I’m almost done. Promise.”

You steal a kiss from his lips and smirk, stepping away. “Okay,” your eyes drift down to the counter, “If you say s…Alphabet sprinkles?”

His jaw slackens, moves like a bubbling fish. “Uh – they’re for – they’re for somethin’…Duck?” he clears his throat, “Tell your mom what they’re for, would ya?”

Sarah freezes. She stammers just like her dad. She does a lot just like him.

“A…a…a school project,” she says, and stares down at the dog.

“A – a – a school project?”

Your daughter nods. Still fixed on the smudges of sable around Shimmer’s eyes. “Bake sale.”

“You never told me about any bake sale,” you cross your arms, “What’d you make?”

She’s quick as lightning. “Cupcakes. But we haven’t made ‘em yet. Tonight, right, Dad?”

Joel’s voice is hoarse with panic. “Tonight,” he rasps.

You lean back against the counter, eyes shifting to the right. A different tactic. A rogue tactic, that’s for sure, but she has her moments. “���Nel?”

Your youngest looks up from her belly button.

“Not Nel,” Joel pleads, catching your eye for half a second.

“Why not Nel?”

His voice drops. “That kid would spill a state secret if you dangled a marshmallow in front of her.”

You tsk. “That’s mean. And wrong, anyways. The reason they have state secrets is ‘cause of kids like her. We should be proud, Miller.”

Ellie’s clutching the dinosaur when you look back over, chewing on his tail. She blinks back, and you wonder if there’s anything other than mastermind plans of mischief behind her eyes.

Joel says she has the same look in her eye that you do. Like you’re in on something the rest of the world has yet to catch up on. Twins, from the moment she stumbled ass over foot out of your body.

She talks just like you, and acts just like you, and – some nights, chatting sleepy gibberish under the slow turn of her rocket ship nightlight – you figure she must think just like you, too.

The perfect little riot.

Joel nudges you away, whispering, “Go on,” and you snicker, pushing off.

The sun combs through the room, glinting off cutlery and radiating from your daughters’ smiles. They chat and giggle and kick their feet; Sarah blows raspberries and Ellie sprays saliva all over the table when she tries to copy.

This is life, now.

You used to wake up to a silent house, sip your coffee and watch the oven clock count down the minutes until you had to leave for work.

You used to keep the radio on, even when you were out back – just to feel like someone was home with you. You used to sing to yourself as you flicked every light off at the end of the night.

Now, the laughter lives in the walls. It echoes even when you’re home alone. The oven clock counts down until there’s another pair of smaller hands in yours; until your man’s arms are back around your waist where they belong.

Come nightfall, you pluck odd socks and toy cars from under the couch. You tuck your children into bed, nuzzle your nose into their cheeks. You curl up beside Joel and trace shapes into his palm.

I love you, you write, some nights.

Dickhead, on others.

It takes a village, they all say. And sure, sometimes it does.

Sometimes, though, all it takes is two neighbors, a handshake deal, and a little bump named Duck.

“Woah, Nellie,” Joel chuckles, setting the first plate down. He clicks his teeth and taps a light knuckle on the girls’ hands, locked in a death grip. “Play nice. I got yours here, too, kiddo.”

Ellie straightens immediately. She watches, eyes fixed and glasslike, as her own breakfast is presented to her. And then she breaks into a wide grin, cheeks swelling. Her heels thud thud thud on the legs of her chair.

You lean over, cocking your head to see.

Two stacks of fluffy pancakes – a healthy dollop of chocolate spread on Sarah’s, and Ellie’s drizzled in golden syrup. Shards of strawberry and slices of banana scattered over the towers; blobs of whipped cream like clouds.

And on top of each, in clumsy sprinkle letters: Duckie and Nellie.

Sarah grins, two front teeth brand new and beautiful. She picks up her cutlery and raps them against the table, a nervous jitter about her.

You realize, just as her eyes flicker across yours, that she’s not beaming at her pancakes.

You realize, as he sways over to your side, that she’s beaming at him.

He’s holding two more plates. He sets his own down, a messy crater carved into the chocolate.

Your brows pull. “What happened –?”

“Bill happened,” he scoffs, shooting Ellie daggers.

She’s too busy tearing her stack apart, mixing a paste from syrup and cooked batter. There are few things the kid loves more than food and mess – and nothing she loves more than both at the same time.

She looks out of her mind happy, smothering the glossy mixture all over her cheeks, chewing in contentment.

“Like ‘em?” Joel asks, and you glance up.

“Yeah,” you laugh, eyes welling, “I love them. What’s the occasion, Miller?”

“Just…” his head wobbles as he considers it, “…we wanted to ask you somethin’.”

You turn to Sarah.

She’s still smiling, wider than you’ve ever seen. So bright that you worry she might shatter the glassware on the table.

“We?” you ask, smiling much the same.

She gives nothing away, and yet, at the same time – everything. Her knee bounces with excitement. Her breathing quickens.

“You wanna read yours?” Joel asks, tilting the plate in his hand.

You laugh, shaking your head. “No,” you sniff, “I’m scared.”

He lowers the plate.

The letters blur in and out of focus as you blink.

Red, green, yellow, pink. The second M is an upside-down W. The Rs lean into each other, chocolate pushing from the middle of the letters. A question mark crafted from a C and half of another letter.

Your lungs jump, though you knew it was coming. Though you’ve talked about it for months, now.

Let’s just get it outta the way, make it easier for the girls when we’re older. Few forms to fill out then it’s done. We don’t gotta make a big deal of it.

Can’t afford to make a big deal of it, anyway.

Wouldn’t want to make a big deal of it.

You’ve never been one for big deals.

This is a big deal. This is a big fucking deal, Joel.

All multicolored, flecks of whipped cream on them. Silly little alphabet letters.

Marry me?

Joel kneels as you swivel around to him. He kisses your cheek, takes your hands, rubs his thumbs across your knuckles.

“Look,” he says, voice trembling, “I know we said we wouldn’t make a big deal of it. But…you gotta let me make a big deal of it, honey. You gotta let me make a big deal of you.”

You laugh, tears spilling down the front of your shirt. Your heart is pounding, body alight with nerves or excitement or both, in one lightning bolt of feeling.

It’s everything you ever wanted, and nothing you ever expected.

“Everything I have –” Joel says, “– the kids, the house, the dog – I found it all with you. Because of you. I love you so much, and I can’t – I can’t take another minute that we’re not…”

His hands squeeze yours, and you swear you feel your pulses align. Beating together, two hearts on the same bassline.

He swipes the tears from your cheek, catches them in his palm. “…It don’t have to mean anything, I know that – but you, darlin’…you mean everything. What do you say we go do it?”

It’s the easiest thing in the world. And not just because you knew it was coming, knew to expect it soon enough.

Joel could’ve asked you the minute you found out you were pregnant with Sarah, and you reckon you would’ve said yes.

It’s easy. Loving him is so easy. Being with him is so fucking easy.

Coffee at sunrise, low volume TV in the bedroom. Skin and sheets, marks on your neck and chest and thighs. Laughter for breakfast, homework for dinner. Two bodies squeezing into one tiny shower cubicle, Joel’s hand over your mouth to muffle your giggles.

“Today,” you whisper, cupping his jaw. “I want to do it today.”

“Today?” his eyes flash over your shoulder to his daughters, “We gotta take the girls to –”

“No, we don’t,” your head shakes, “Do we have a marriage license?”

“Got it last week.”

“Then they come with. We get all dressed up, all four of us, and head down to the courthouse. We’re married by the end of the day.”

He laughs, loose and disbelieving. Shakes himself back into the room. “Today,” he repeats. “As in, right now?”

“Right now, baby.”

“Okay. Yeah, alright. Today.”

“Ask me.”

Joel’s cheeks lift. Tears disappear into his beard.

You lean forward, lining your forehead against his. “Ask me, Miller,” you whisper.

It’s no big deal. It’s a regular Wednesday. Packed lunches and dinosaurs with Nutella in their teeth.

It’s no big deal, but when he asks you, time stops.

“Will you marry me?”

“Fuck yeah, I will.”

Sarah takes forty-five minutes to apply your mascara, some powder, and a pink lip. She promises she’s being neat, and you tell her you don’t care – you’ll love it either way.

She says she knows, but she promises she is anyway.

Ellie curls up in your lap and twists your necklace around her fingers. She asks four times if her spacesuit is dry yet.

“Ellie,” Sarah warns – and you know it’s serious when she uses her sister’s real name – “You can’t wear a costume to a wedding.”

“Mama is!”

“No she ain’t! Brides are s’posed to wear white. Mama’s dress ain’t white. What you got on is fine,” she decides.

Ellie knows better than to keep arguing. She catches her heel in her hands, huffing. “Wanted to be an ass-traut.”

You catch Sarah’s eye. Don’t.

She bites her giggle.

“You are an astronaut,” you squeeze your toddler, “Our astronaut. Whether you’re in your spacesuit, or you got your big bare butt out for us all to see.”

She giggles into herself, a sound sweet enough to convince the sun to rise at dawn. Her baby teeth are small and wonky. She snorts, settles in your arms again, and watches Sarah lean in with the lipstick.

You lift your chin, holding steady. “Is Dad ready?”

She pauses, letting go of her breath. “He says he’s been ready the last half hour,” she mutters, and dabs more color on.

“Is he nervous?”

Her eyes lift. Eyelashes long and thick – black mascara that you made her pinkie swear she’d wipe clean the moment she gets home.

She smirks. It’s like looking in a mirror. “Are you?”

You press your lips together, blending the pink. “Little bit. You think that’s a good sign?”

“Mhm.”

Sarah straightens, capping the lipstick. She smiles at her masterpiece. “You look beautiful, Mama.”

“Well,” your chest fills, “I’m only beautiful ‘cause you made me that way, Duck.”

Joel’s voice sails upstairs and into the little pink room.

“Courthouse is closin’, sun’s almost down, they’re diggin’ my damn grave already. Are we good to go, or what?”

Sarah grins and leaps over an upturned toybox in the middle of her room. She pirouettes out to the landing, pursing and then smacking her lips together.

You fix Ellie’s skirt and lead her out after her sister. “’s go, Nellie.”

“Mama,” she tugs at the fabric, “I gotta…Need…need…”

“Shit,” you whisper, watching the ballerina twirl downstairs to her dad. “Uh…Duckie?”

“Hi, pretty Duck,” Joel calls, catching her in his arms. He spins her around and the skirt of her dress billows.

Her little heels click when he lets her down. She keeps on spinning, watching herself in the mirror.

“Baby?” Joel calls. “Y’all ready?”

“Nel’s gotta go!” you reply.

He scoffs. “She nervous or som’?”

“Or som’,” you sigh, walking the kid into the bathroom.

Ellie takes about as long as a three-year-old should, to be fair to her. It requires an amount of determination that right now, neither of you have the focus to lend it. Potty training doesn’t wait up, even for weddings.

Eventually, she announces with a triumphant shout that she’s done, Mama! – and claps her hands as the toilet flushes.

You carry her downstairs, heels clunking on the solid wood. At the bottom you set her free – and she sprints out to join her sister on the lawn.

The pair run circles around one another. They cartwheel on the grass; they race Shimmer and use the flowerbeds as hurdles. They dirty their dresses – ivory stained with bursts of green – though they look better that way, anyway.

They take turns playing Swingball with the only remaining racket (a mysterious disappearance that neither will own up to, and both are most certainly involved in). Sarah tells Ellie that she won – and the smaller girl throws her fists in the air and roars in victory.

Joel stands on the porch, hands in his pockets, watching. Even from behind, you can see the shape of his cheeks: he’s smiling. He crosses one foot over the other and taps his heel against the wood.

You emerge from the house slowly, quietly. “We didn’t get matching corsages this time,” you say, and he turns.

He starts, as though he glitches for a second. As though his world tilts on its axis, just from looking at you. His expression softens, his lips curve into a smile.

Then he breathes a laugh – a shaky thing, like he’s seventeen again, watching his homecoming date saunter over.

“That’s alright,” he replies, and slips a hand into his suit pocket. He fishes out two white tulips. “Remembered Alice dropped these off the other day. Here.”

Delicately, lighter than the breeze, he tucks the flower behind your ear. He steps back to admire his work, just like his daughter did.

All the best parts of you, you reckon, are the parts that are loved by them.

“How do I look?” you ask.

Joel sucks in a shattered breath. “Beautiful,” he chokes, like it’s all his voice will allow. He sniffs, drags his knuckles across the bottom of his nose, and says, “You ain’t never looked more beautiful.”

“Your turn.”

You take the second tulip from his fingers and drop it into his breast pocket, turning it until it looks perfect. “There,” you pat his chest, “Now we both look beautiful.”

He steps forward, dipping his head to kiss you. Arms around your waist, hands splayed on your back. He laughs against your lips. “Don’t think I don’t know what this is,” he mumbles, tugging at the pale material.

“It still fits!” you say, running a palm down the smooth silk. Flashes of light, a squealing guitar, heated kisses and a thudding bassline. It spins past your eyes as he leans in again.

He tastes the same. Less alcohol, sure – but that same, sweet-as-honey, instantly intoxicating taste. Like you were a goner before you even hit the mattress.

You look back up, and Joel’s eyes are on yours.

“After two kids, it still fits,” you whisper.

“Hm,” he muses, glancing down. His hands slip around your ass. “Looks even better than it did then, Mama.”

You laugh against his lips. “It’s my something blue.”

“Oh, yeah?” He lifts an eyebrow. “What else you got?”

“Well, something borrowed –” you hold your left hand up, a plastic ring glinting in the sunlight, “– Duck gave me some of her finest jewelry. Something new –” you wiggle your earlobe, “– Mother’s Day earrings, and…something old…”

Joel tilts his head. His expression tightens, tightens, tightens – until he understands. He clicks his teeth and steps back. “Funny. You’re so funny, I ever tell you that?”

You giggle, letting him drag you across the porch. “I’m just bein’ realistic, man. What else do I got that’s as old as you?”

He ignores you. It makes you laugh even harder.

It always did.

The wind surfs through silk, lifting your skirt as you stride over the driveway. Your hands stay interlocked – and you know that, secretly, Joel’s as nervous as you.

He whistles and his daughters look up.

“Serena, Venus,” he calls, nodding to the truck. “Get in.”

They skip over. Sarah takes her dad’s hand – the picture of royalty as he aids her up into the backseat – and Ellie swings into your arms.

You strap them in, point fingers to warn them not to bicker, and climb in the front.

The doors slam closed and you exhale slowly. Two kids aren’t any more complicated than one – especially in yours and Joel’s case – but holy shit, they’re tiring.

They compare dresses in the backseat. What color is yours, Duck? Pink, Nel. Is mine’s pink, Duck? Yours is yellow, Nel.

Joel’s hand slips around your knee. He smiles. Gives your leg a little squeeze. He flicks the radio on, and an Eagles track sways through the cabin. He fixes the tulip in your hair, peppers kisses along your wrist.

His voice is as soft as Henley’s, when he asks –

“Wanna go to a wedding?”

[moonysweetheart]

Something happens and I'm head over heels

summary: James suddenly realised he likes Yn, but will his clumsiness allow him to confess?

pairing: james potter x fem!reader

word count: 1,073

warnings: none :)

“Padfoot! Moony! Wormtail! Reunion! Emergency reunion!!!” James bellowed as he stormed into the Great Hall, grabbing Peter and Sirius by the backs of their collars and dragging them along.

A few students glanced their way, mildly curious, but most quickly lost interest. It wasn’t exactly unusual for James to burst in yelling, nor was it the first time he’d called an “emergency reunion” in front of everyone. The last time it happened, Remus had teased him mercilessly—with Marlene and Lily enthusiastically joining in—for summoning them to help him choose a decent pair of swim trunks because Yn was joining his family on holiday.

“And what’s so urgent now, James?” asked Remus, his voice calm but tinged with sarcasm.

“I can’t talk here, Moony,” James said in a hushed but intense tone. “Someone might hear, and then they’ll tell her before I do!”

“Could you please let go, James? You’re suffocating me,” Peter wheezed, coughing for dramatic effect. James muttered a quick “Sorry,” releasing both Peter and Sirius, though the latter shot him an exasperated glare.

“You need to get a grip, Prongs,” Sirius said, smoothing out his shirt. “You look like a madman half the time.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Let’s just get to the dormitory,” James insisted, his eyes wide and urgent. “I’ve discovered something. Something really, really important. And I need your help.”

The three boys exchanged glances, a silent but mutual question passing between them: What now?

“Okay, spill it, Prongs. What’s all this about?” Sirius asked, folding his arms.

The group exchanged glances. James was running his hands through his hair like a madman, sporting a desperate yet ridiculously happy grin. He glanced around the room conspiratorially before leaning in to whisper.

“I think—no, wait—I know,” he grinned wider. “I love Yn.”

His smile practically split his face.

“Didn’t you skip a few steps there?” Peter asked, amused. “Like, you like her, you start dating, and then you fall in love. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?”

“Apparently not,” Remus cut in, smirking. “James is trying to be the new Romeo. Who knows? Maybe the new Werther—completely desperate and lovesick.”

“Who’s Romeo?” the other three asked in unison.

“And what the hell is a Veader, Moony?” Sirius added, looking both puzzled and offended.

“Forget it,” Remus sighed. “I keep forgetting you lot barely read magical books, let alone Muggle ones. Anyway, carry on, James.”

“I already told you!” James exclaimed.

“What do you need us for?” Sirius asked, raising a brow.

“Yeah, mate,” Peter chimed in. “You’re the one who has to tell her how you feel. We can’t do that for you.”

“I know that,” James said, exasperated. “But I need you guys to handle the girls. Distract them so I can get some alone time with Yn. My mum says women like sentimental men. I want to plan something special…”

Thud, thud, thud.

A knock on the door made them all freeze.

“James, are you in there?”

The boys exchanged wide-eyed looks. Remus clamped a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh at James’s utterly panicked expression.

“It’s Yn,” James whispered. The boys all nodded, smirking at his antics.

“Yeah, James, it’s me,” Yn called from the other side of the door. “Can you open up? I need to talk to you—you mixed up our Potions assignments today!”

James looked helplessly at his friends, who gestured for him to get on with it.

“Hi, Yn,” James said, his usual confidence wavering. The words I love you, please date me teetered on the edge of his tongue, but he bit down, tasting a faint hint of iron.

“Hi, James,” she replied with a warm smile, stepping into the room. “Hi, boys!”

“Hi, Yn!” they chorused, suddenly very interested in the ceiling, walls, and floor. Yn grinned at their obvious attempt to avoid eye contact.

James frantically gestured for them to leave, but his “subtlety” was anything but. Before they could escape entirely, Yn stopped them.

“Come on, guys, there’s no point. You can stay.” She shot James an amused look, then turned back to the group.

“Your friend here,” she began, her tone teasing, “mixed up our Potions assignments. We’re supposed to analyze and annotate our Amortentia samples by tomorrow.”

Everyone except Yn looked utterly baffled.

“You know what James did?” she continued. “After class, he grabbed my cauldron instead of his. I ended up with his potion.” She walked over to James’s desk, opened his cauldron, and lifted the lid.

“Now, James,” she said, her voice almost playful, “tell me—what do you smell?”

Remus caught on first, his grin spreading as realization hit him.

“I… I…” James stammered, his brain stalling.

“It’s your scent,” Yn said, her voice softening. “Mixed with new books, cinnamon rolls, and lavender.”

The words hit him like a Bludger. The air seemed to stop.

“And your Amortentia?” she continued, her smile growing. “It smells like the beach, mint, apple pie… and my scent.”

She leaned in slightly, her grin now unmistakably smug.

“I like you too, James. A lot.”

For a moment, he was frozen, his brain struggling to catch up. The boys stared, equally stunned. Then, a grin began to spread across James’s face.

“Speak, Prongs!” Sirius shouted.

“Oh my gosh, Yn, I fucking adore you!” James exclaimed, scooping her up and spinning her around. When he set her down, his hands cupped her cheeks.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

“Of course I will,” she said, laughing.

“I love you!” He kissed her cheek. “I love you, I love you!” He kissed her temple, her nose, peppering her face with kisses.

“Merlin, Yn, why did it take me so long to figure this out?”

“I think we were both afraid of ruining our friendship,” she said nuzzling on his neck and smiling warmly. “And maybe a bit stubborn.”

“Good thing I’ve got a smart girl to guide me. My girlfriend.”

“My boyfriend,” she replied, her grin matching his.

From downstairs, Peter’s voice rang out. “You guys want anything from the kitchen?”

“No!” James shouted back, then leaned in to whisper, “I’m spending the afternoon with my girl. Just us.”

“You’re so cheesy,” Yn giggled.

“You’ll get used to it,” he replied, his smile softening before he kissed her again.

Hi! Here’s a quick story that popped into my head today. Hope you lot have enjoyed.

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Bye!!

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

[weskie]

What You Deserve (Albert Wesker x afab!Reader)

18+ | 2700 words, salacious use of tentacles, post re5 wesker, one of those things that was meant to be sweet but became nasty, amab!reader version here | Fic Directory

You've taken such good care of him. Isn't it time he rewards you? Be careful though. Some things are still a little… new.

You were something else.  Frankly you always have been, but now more than ever.

Despite waves of self loathing and rampant depression of which he would never confess, Wesker’s recovery has been as smooth as you could make it.  Pain medication kept most of the lingering aches away and Uroboros had ensured he lived to see another day.  Other than a weakened body riddled with scar tissue from his little dunk in the fires of the Earth, he couldn’t complain terribly much.

Even after his fusion with Uroboros, Wesker was still a mere man unable to escape the more… basic urges.  He’s always considered arousal to be like an itch.  Sure he could scratch it, but he could also ignore it and let it go away.  He often chose the latter, but, with little else to occupy him besides literature or your company, such a choice became significantly more difficult.

You notice his state quickly, though you say nothing of the tented blanket that only seems to continue rising the more he tries to ignore it.  You simply take his hand and squeeze, occupied with your laptop while Wesker rereads the same line of his book over and over again in a poor attempt to settle down.  When he tips his head back against the mountain of pillows he’s propped against, you give him a knowing look.

“Want some help?”  You ask, thumb brushing against his knuckles.

Does he?  He did go waist deep in lava. Thus far, it had seemed Uroboros took care to heal his nerves in all other places, and he’s never noticed a lack of sensation in the times where he’s had to touch himself to bathe, but what if he can’t feel enough to… perform well for you?  Was it even the full act of sex that you were offering or simply assistance in relieving him?

Perhaps the uncertainty was written across his face because you turn to face him, hand rising to stroke his cheek and trail into his unstyled hair.  Your touch spurs another aching pulse between his legs.  “Only if you want to,” you say sweetly. 

He pretends to consider your offer, but his answer was yes the very moment you spoke.  The second your thumb brushes his lip, he’s tugging you onto his lap.  He swallows your protests with ease, groaning weakly into the kiss.  Wesker knows you’re afraid to put your weight down on him, still so worried about agitating his aches and pains.  He has half a mind to grip your hips and help you grind against him, but you’re taking charge before he can.

“Let me,” you murmur, lips trailing down his neck.  You halt at the collar of his sleep shirt, moving away only to help him pull it over his head.  Your hands land on his sides, smoothing up and down slowly, stroking reverently at the juxtaposition of softness and patches of scarring.  Each motion brings you closer and closer to his chest until you’re kneading his pectorals, thumbs brushing against rosy buds in such a way that leaves him panting.

It really has been a while… the throb of his cock confirms it.  He has half a mind to just tear at your clothes and rush you to take him, but you seem to sense his impatience just as easily as you’d noticed his need.  “M’gonna take care of you,” you whisper sweetly, palms coaxing him to rest fully against the pillows. “You deserve it.” You slip so easily down his body, blanket falling away to reveal black boxer briefs that have clearly garnered a little wet spot from such light teasing.  “Just relax.  Shut your eyes, sweetheart.”

He does as you say, releasing a shuddering breath in anticipation for what’s to come.  It turns to a gasp the second your tongue laves the dip of his hips.  Your hands steady him with gentle pressure, shirking their duty when you decide to skim your nails over ticklish flesh and wring a breathy giggle from him.

He can feel your smile as you kiss further down, sensation dulling when your peppered love finds its way to the band of his underwear, renewing once more when you peck sweetly at his inner thighs.  Wesker’s hips seek you of their own accord and he’s lucky enough to feel at least one press of your lips to his covered length before you make your way back up.  He practically bucks into your grasp when you take hold of him. 

“Seems like everything's in working order,” you coo playfully in his ear.  

Wesker finds his lower lip to gnaw on while you stroke him slowly.  His hands paw at your clothes, eagerly trying to expose you.  His eyes flutter open, pupils blown wide around distorted hues of red and blue still vying for dominance over one another.  He’s just about got your shirt off when that hand of yours dives beneath his waistband, milking the most humiliating whine from him imaginable.

What's wrong with him? Why is he so… desperate? 

His hands leave you to shimmy out of his underwear, hissing at the cool air and the mere sight of your hand around his weeping cock.  He turns back to you, keening into a kiss as he tries once more to tug at your clothes.  He hoists your leg over his hip, palm smoothing to take a greedy handful of your rear, playing with your flesh as you’d done with him.  Everything about you is bliss itself, from your slow, torturous strokes to his cock to the slide of your tongue against his.  You should be bare against him, skin to skin, letting him feel every inch of you. He needs it. He needs you. 

Suddenly, a humming laugh escapes you, reverberating against his tongue before you break away.  “Again, huh?”  You breathe.  

Again… yes. 

Once more, tendrils have wound their way around you to do his bidding, but this time for more… salacious reasons.  Each one wriggles under your clothes in some way or another.  You aid them in their quest to strip you, tugging your shirt and pants away with ease while the masses slither just as eagerly as his hands explore.

It’s so cute how you squirm for him.  It’s as if the tables have been turned oh so perfectly, leaving you just as red in the face as you’d made him.  He may not have his full strength yet, but this?  This more than makes up for it.  One tentacle coils at your waist, holding you perfectly in place as the others find themselves far more… occupied.  Your giggles turn to breathy moans, each one sung perfectly for him.  You’re like an instrument only he can play, your pleasure a melody only he can create.

“W-Wo– Ah!”  You gasp, head lolling to the side the very second one of those slimy appendages creeps between your legs.  Your first instinct is to clench your thighs together, though you don’t get very far with having been straddling him.  The tip of it swipes your clit, making you buck and whine.  “Al!”

Tantalizing was… not a strong enough word for the sight before him.  These appendages have always carried a degree of wetness, some leaky black ooze that only ever left a small mess, but now?  Oh, now they leave clear glistening trails along your flesh that make his cock utterly ache.  It’s as if he’s painting you with his own arousal, picture perfect and drenched in his love just like you should be.  The tentacles trail over where he wants to see you marked most: your chest, your neck… all the way down to your pretty little pussy.

“Al, I–” You try, but you’re whimpering as more slithering lengths join in to curl around your thighs.  He didn’t even have to lift a finger…  There’s so many things he could do with you.  He could lift you, surely, to his face.  Slide his tongue that’s been so starved for you between your sopping folds.  Or he could lower you onto his cock right now.  Forget effort; you wouldn’t have to do a thing.  He could simply maneuver you accordingly, bounce you up and down with their grip on your body until you were both fucked senseless.  Or…

Wesker’s chest rises and falls with each open mouthed breath, watching with wide eyes as three smaller tendrils approach your cunt.  You squirm, but you show no sign for him to stop even as they alternate swiping along your slit.

“I-I thought– mm!”  You try, words as shaky as your trembling body. “T-Thought I was gonna t-take care of you instead…”  

“You are…” he breathes, utterly hypnotized as more tentacles join the fray and suddenly, without warning, you’re spread completely for him, slithering lengths taking your legs while smaller ones part your drenched pussy lips.  You’ve been put on exhibit, and oh… how you writhe and keen under his sopping touches.  All Wesker can do is simply lie there, cock torturously hard at the sight of you like this.  He dares not touch himself; he dares not even imagine it lest one of those lengths creep to coil around it to satisfy the urge.

“A-Albert– ngh!”  Every cry you make fuels whatever hidden desires lurk below the surface of his mind.  Nothing in the world could’ve prepared him for the sight of an extra thick tentacle slinking along your leg, coiling up and up until it presses at your entrance.  “O-Oh my god!”  You mewl, head falling back.  “I don’t– I don’t think I can– that’s too big… Al, I don’t think I can– Ah!”

Exhilaration runs down his spine as though every nerve in his body fired at once.  Watching it press into you, seeing every ounce of slick drip from its effort to wriggle inside as you keen and mewl and cry out his name over and over again as if to pray to him…  Wesker licks his lips, panting heavily, fighting to keep control despite that knot in his gut threatening to give at any moment.  His fists bite into the sheets, threads popping as they give way to his strength.  

“O-Oh g-god,” you sob, barely audible over wet squelches.  “P-Please… Al, p-please!”

“I…” he tries, but he has no words.  Nothing in the world could possibly explain this– why it was happening, why he was allowing it, why… why he fucking loves it.  

But he does know why, deep down.  Past that layer of perfect prudence and discipline lies the truth.  You deserve this.  You deserve every ounce of pleasure he can stuff into you.  For all that you’ve done for him… you deserve everything. 

You cry out over and over again as the thickness fucks in and out of you, slick drizzling from your cunt down your ass and onto the bed.  It soaks his hips and cock, oozing off to coat the sheets and surely seep down into what was now a ruined mattress.  But he doesn’t care.  Not one bit.

The tentacles wriggle all over you, slithering and rubbing against tender flesh, restraining the intense trembling of your legs as you dangle helplessly.  He can practically hear it hitting the depths of your cunt, each noisy, wet thrust coupled with your sweet songs a promise of your never ending pleasure.  And oh… you deserve it.  You deserve all that he can possibly give you.  You were there for everything.  The good, the bad, the horrifying…  Every part of him is yours, which means you get this, too.  

The first time you cry out his name is perfection in and of itself.   You come undone so beautifully.  He has to grasp his cock and squeeze the base damn near to the point of harming himself just to keep from blowing his load right then and there.  Watching you practically seize in his slithery grasp, hearing you gag and gurgle on one that had slipped between your lips, knowing you’re so fucked out of your mind that you could do little else than suckle its length as if it were his cock… 

Even then, it’s like he can feel it.  The sensation is dull, but it is there.  Your lazy tongue, the clench of your throat, the warmth of your breath, the throbbing quiver of your cunt– it’s all fucking there, and it’s all for him.  You belong to him.  You’ve shown him so many times, over and over again that he has you, heart, mind, body, and soul.

“That’s it, dearheart…” he coos, shaky voice barely more than a murmur.  “You’re– you’re doing so perfect… You’re taking me so well.”

He feels you clench up again, walls trembling as you approach your next release.  You always did like when he’d purr such things in your ear.  It warms his heart in the strangest way to see it work just the same now.  

“O-One more for me.”  Wesker rasps brokenly, heavy breaths leaving him as he watches with an unyielding gaze.  He will not miss a second of this.  “It feels good, doesn’t it…? I can feel it too.”  He wants nothing more than to hear you come undone for him once more.  As if understanding his thoughts, the appendage in your mouth slips free, prompting you to gasp and choke desperately for air.  

You moan nonstop as if it were the only sound left that you could make.  It’s like you’ve been robbed entirely of higher thought and fell into a mindless state, one that could only comprehend the thickness ramming in and out of your cunt.  Your sweet noises pitch up more and more with every passing second, signaling your next climax is near.

Wesker wills the tentacles to tilt you upright, the big one still fucking into you despite the position shift, and you whine weakly at the change.  “Come for me, my sweet.” He commands, rising from his position to cup your cheeks between his hands.  As if fully understanding his order, you do exactly that, falling apart with a breathless scream cut off by the thick length slipping from your cunt while the others force you down onto his cock.  “Oh, god!”  He roars, face falling into the crook of your neck to muffle his own cries as his release hits him like a lightning bolt, coating your ooze slicked walls with his seed in heavy spurts.  

Albert’s eyes are clenched shut, but he swears his vision has gone white.  There’s nothing.  Nothing at all is left in this world except for your limp form in his hold and the heat of your flesh between his teeth.  Even when the oxygen in his lungs has gone stale, he still forgets to breathe.  It’s your trembling fingers curling at his nape that remind him he’s even still alive.

The two of you remain like that for some time, long enough that his legs go stiff and each slithering length once wrapped around your body retreats back into him.  You’re both covered in ooze, but he can’t find it in himself to care.  Not yet, at least.

You’re limp in his grasp, but he can tell you’re awake from the occasional scritch to the base of his neck or breath fanning against his skin.

“I… apologize.” He eventually murmurs.  It’s all he can think to say.  Certainly, you both would be having quite the conversation about this eventually.  But, for now, this much is due.  “For… having lost control.”  It isn’t even an exaggeration.  At some point, all thought went out the door.  There was only the two of you and every salacious desire he couldn’t suppress. 

He needs to become better at that.  

“Mm,” you hum weakly, fingers threading through his hair the way they always do in the afterglow.  “You’re full of surprises…”  There’s a hint of amusement in your voice.  That good natured softness with which you’ve always treated him.  “We gotta… mm, when my legs work again… it’s shower time.”

He couldn’t agree more.  For now though, he means to simply hold you, still buried within your heat.  You feel like home.  What luck to have found you…

And what bliss to know you’ll stay.

[danikamariewrites]

Could I request reader having trouble falling asleep so she goes to Cassian in his office and he lets her cuddle him on his lap while he works and just super fluffy? 🥰

Can’t Sleep Without You

Cassian x reader

A/n: I love soft Cass sm 🥰

Warnings: none

Turning to try and get comfortable yet again you let out an annoyed huff. You had tried everything to get to sleep. Tea, counting backwards, reading some of your book, but nothing was working.

Reaching out to Cassian’s side of the bed you grip the cold sheets. Your mate was working late again. Sometimes Cass puts too much pressure on himself and you hate seeing him push himself too far.

You had tried cuddling his pillow as a replacement for him earlier but that failed to help you. If anything it made you miss him more.

Sighing out again you realized you have two options. Lay here awake for a few more hours until Cassian comes to bed or go to Cassian and sleep in his office.

You chose the latter. Swinging your legs off the bed you shoved your feet in your slippers and set off down stairs. You didn’t even bother knocking, you just slowly opened the door, slipping into his office.

You love Cassian’s office. There are old maps and weapons from different centuries hung in the walls. The book cases are stacked with war and strategy tomes. And the chess set you got him a few solstices ago is on the coffee table between the leather couches near the fireplace.

It was homey in here and it just felt like Cassian. Whenever he’s in Windhaven you spend most of your time reading or working in here. As you looked around Cassian had paused reading over a camp report, staring at you curiously

“Y/n,” he said softly, “what’s wrong sweetheart? I thought you’d be asleep by now.” As you pad across the plush carpet you let out a big yawn. You stop next to Cassian’s chair, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

“I can’t sleep. I’ve tried everything but I think it’s because you’re not with me.” Cassian’s heart swelled with adoration at your confession. He gently pulls you on to his lap, you rest your head right over his heart.

“Can I stay with you until you’re done?” “Yes, sweetheart. If you fall asleep I’ll carry you.” He pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead before going back to reports.

Between his scribbling and steady heart beat your eyelids started to droop. Within minutes you were fast asleep on Cassian’s chest.

An hour later Cassian was ready to call it a night. He would’ve kept going if you hadn’t come in and fell asleep on him. Looking down at you the corners of his mouth turned up into a sweet smile. He brushed some loose hairs away from your serene face.

Cassian stood, careful not to wake you. Once back in your room he placed you under the covers and tucked you in. After he undressed and slipped under the covers Cassian was still staring at you.

He slightly adjusted his wings which caused you to stir. Looking at Cassian with half open eyes you let out little groans, inching toward him. You cuddled into his side falling right back to sleep.

[galaxysupreme17]

A Coven Road Trip

Y/n = Your Name

Agathario x daughter!reader

Coven of Chaos x teen!fem!reader!

The mid-morning sun glinted off the SUV’s windshield as the Coven of Chaos embarked on their magical retreat. Stacked with snacks, luggage, and a healthy dose of chaos, the cramped vehicle was an explosive powder keg waiting for the first spark. Y/n, wedged between Agatha and Jen in the middle seat, was already feeling the tension rise as Rio expertly swerved around a tight corner, narrowly avoiding a truck.

“Rio!” Billy yelped from the backseat, clutching the armrest for dear life. “Could you maybe not drive like Hydra is chasing us?”

“Hydra doesn’t scare me,” Rio said calmly, her hands relaxed on the wheel as if she were cruising down a suburban street. “Besides, we’ll get there faster if I—” She jerked the wheel to avoid a pothole, and everyone in the car tilted sharply to the left.

“Mama, I think I just saw my life flash before my eyes,” Nicky groaned dramatically, clutching the seatbelt across his chest.

“You’ll be fine,” Agatha replied without looking up from her book. She was completely unbothered, her arm draped protectively over Y/n’s shoulder as her daughter snoozed peacefully against her. It starkly contrasted Jen, who was gripping the door handle so tightly her knuckles were white.

“Why are you so calm?” Jen hissed at Agatha. “Rio is a menace behind the wheel!”

Agatha smirked, finally looking up from her novel. “Because I’ve survived worse. Plus, I trust my wife. She’s a very… effective driver.”

“That’s not reassuring!” Billy exclaimed, eyes wide as Rio executed a flawless yet terrifyingly fast merge onto the highway.

In the driver’s seat, Rio’s lips quirked into a small, knowing smile. She glanced at the rearview mirror, catching Billy’s terrified expression. “Relax, Billy. We’ll make it there in one piece.”

“That remains to be seen,” muttered Alice, seated in the back row beside Lilia. The latter was busy fiddling with the car’s Bluetooth system, attempting to connect her ancient playlist.

“I got it!” Lilia announced triumphantly as a hauntingly operatic tune from centuries past blared through the speakers.

“Oh, come on,” Billy groaned, leaning forward. “I was about to connect my phone!”

“You snooze, you lose, kid,” Lilia said, reclining smugly. “This is real music. Let’s educate your young ears.”

“Educate?” Nicky interjected with a raised brow. “This sounds like the soundtrack to a haunted castle. Maybe let Billy have a turn before I start summoning ghosts.”

“Hilarious,” Lilia deadpanned, rolling her eyes. “But no.”

Billy groaned again, louder this time. “Y/n, help me out here!”

Y/n stirred, blinking sleepily. She glanced around, assessing the situation with half-closed eyes before mumbling, “Lilia’s got seniority. Deal with it, Billy.” Then she nestled back against Agatha’s shoulder.

“Traitor,” Billy muttered, crossing his arms.

“At least she’s not complaining,” Rio quipped from the front, her voice tinged with sarcasm. “Unlike some people.”

“Speaking of complaining,” Jen interrupted, pointing at the map on her phone, “you missed the exit ten minutes ago! We need to turn around.”

“We don’t need to turn around,” Agatha said coolly, her eyes still scanning the pages of her book. “There’s another route up ahead.”

“No, there isn’t!” Jen shot back, her tone sharp. “If we keep going this way, we’ll be in the middle of nowhere.”

“Perfect place for a magical retreat, don’t you think?” Agatha countered with a sly grin.

Y/n groaned, rubbing her temples. “Mama, Jen, please, can we not argue? I’ll start crying, and you know what happens when I cry.”

The SUV went silent. Agatha’s expression immediately softened as she turned to her daughter. “Sweetheart, no need for tears. We’ll sort this out.” She shot a pointed look at Jen, who rolled her eyes but relented.

“Fine,” Jen muttered. “But if we end up lost in the woods, I blame you.”

“Duly noted,” Agatha replied, her smirk returning.

The car settled into a tenuous peace, though the atmosphere remained tense. Billy slumped against the window, sulking as Lilia’s music played on. On the other hand, Nicky leaned forward, resting his chin on the back of Y/n’s seat.

“Hey, Mama,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. “How do you put up with all of this? It’s like a circus in here.”

Agatha chuckled. “It’s called patience, darling. You might want to practice some.”

“Patience? With these people?” Nicky teased, gesturing broadly. “I’ll need a lot more snacks for that.”

Y/n tossed a granola bar at him, hitting him square in the chest. “There. Consider it a down payment.”

“Thanks, Y/n/n,” Nicky said with mock sincerity, unwrapping the bar. “You’re the real MVP.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Billy muttered, still pouting about the music.

The SUV pulled into a gas station an hour later. While Rio refueled, Agatha stretched her legs, her commanding presence drawing attention even in the mundane setting. Y/n followed, leaning against the car as she watched her family interact. Despite the chaos, a warmth in their dynamic made her smile.

“Feeling okay, sweetheart?” Agatha asked, noticing the soft expression on her daughter’s face.

Y/n nodded. “Yeah. It’s just… nice, you know? Being with everyone, even if it’s a bit of a mess.”

Agatha chuckled, pulling her daughter into a side hug. “A bit of a mess is an understatement. But it’s our mess.”

Nicky wandered over, hands stuffed in his pockets. “So, what’s the plan when we get there? Group meditation? Ritual chanting? Or are we just winging it like usual?”

“A little of everything,” Agatha replied. “You’ll see soon enough.”

“Great,” Nicky said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Can’t wait to see what chaos you all have cooked up this time.”

Rio approached the group, her gaze softening as she took in her family. She ruffled Nicky’s hair affectionately, wrapping an arm around his shoulders before turning to Y/n. “You holding up okay, princess?”

Y/n smiled up at her, nodding. “I’m good, Mami. Thanks for not hitting any more potholes.”

Rio smirked. “No promises on the way back.”

The final stretch of the drive was quieter, with Y/n and Nicky taking turns telling stories from their childhood to entertain Billy. Even Rio chimed in occasionally, sharing a rare anecdote that left everyone laughing.

When they finally arrived at the cabin nestled in the mountains, the tension had melted away, replaced by a sense of camaraderie. The group spilled out of the SUV, stretching and surveying their surroundings.

“Home sweet home,” Rio declared, tossing the keys to Agatha. “Next time, someone else can drive.”

“Noted,” Jen said, still looking a little pale. “But I’m definitely not volunteering.”

As they unloaded the car, Y/n caught Billy’s eye. “Still scared for everyone’s sanity?” she teased.

“Absolutely,” he replied, though his grin betrayed him. “But I guess there’s no one else I’d rather go insane with.”

“Hear, hear,” Nicky said, slinging an arm around Y/n’s shoulders. “Let the chaos begin.”

Y/n laughed, pulling her brother and Billy into a loose hug as they headed inside. Rio watched them fondly from the porch, her arm slipping around Agatha’s waist. “Our kids are something else,” she murmured.

Agatha smiled, leaning into her wife. “Perfectly chaotic, just like us,” she quipped with a smirk.

The retreat had only begun, but Y/n already knew it would be an unforgettable weekend with her chaotic, magical family.

[deiaiko]

#20.1 Sulk

Her footsteps echoed through the hallway, stopping in front of one particular room where her god resided in. She knocked on the door to make her presence known, not expecting her god to answer. Not today, at least.

Hwaryun opened the door and saw her god curled up on the sofa. He peeked at her and quickly looked disinterested at her presence. She considered it better than getting herself kicked out before she could talk some sense into him.

She invited herself in and went straight to the pantry. "Grace couldn't come today, so he asked me to look after you. Would you like some tea?"

Her god didn't answer, but he did perk up at the name. She brewed him a cup of tea anyway, adding a little more sugar than she would have liked for herself since her god had a sweet tooth. She set his cup on the coffee table and took a seat on an unoccupied sofa next to him.

Viole sat more upright, still hugging the sofa pillow. He gave her a once over before he went back to staring into the far off distance. "Why can't Hyung come?"

Hwaryun took a sip of her tea before answering, "He said he needs time for himself."

"Is it because of me?" Viole mumbled into the pillow, eyes shadowed by his long bangs.

"No. He's grieving for his late friends."

"Oh." Viole loosened the grip on the pillow, although only momentarily. "Can I see him?"

'I want to be there for him' was what his gaze seemed to say. Her god was such a compassionate person; it was endearing. Still, she had to shake her head. "You won't be of any help to him with your plate full."

"Why? What does that mean?"

"You have a lot on your mind. It's better to sort them out first before helping someone else." Hwaryun traced the edge of her cup, "Do you want me to guess or would you like to tell them yourself? Putting words into your thoughts will help you to untangle it."

Viole blinked. "I don't know. I feel bad."

Hwaryun hummed. "Do you know the cause of it?

"...Rachel." Viole turned his head away. "My chest aches whenever she comes to mind."

"She betrayed your trust, didn't she? It's expected that you feel that way."

"I've been…I just wanted to help her. Yet…" Viole trailed off. "I know I have forgiven her for making me live like this. But…"

When Viole couldn't find any words to continue, she decided to help him fill in the blanks. "You feel sad and angry because it feels like you're wasting your time thinking about how to get her back, only for her to walk away from you."

Viole buried his face on the pillow, staying quiet.

Hwaryun decided to help herself to the cookie jar on the coffee table and pulled out a book from her pocket. Opening the bookmarked page, she began reading where she left off while she waited for her god to gather his thoughts.

Moments later Viole shifted on his seat and mumbled, "Miss Hwaryun, why should I keep going?"

"To climb the tower?" Hwaryun didn't look up, even though her book was quite boring. "Or to be FUG's slayer?"

Viole stiffened at the latter question. Unlike the book, her god was easier and more interesting to read.

Hwaryun took another sip from her half empty cup. "Well, if you refuse to be a slayer, then what would you be?"

Viole didn't reply. It wasn't like they gave him enough time to think about it before.

"Being FUG's slayer isn't that bad, you know? You have backup here, and we will support you with whatever we have. Connections, money, information. I'm sure Jinsung, Grace or Agni had told you how important those are to help you climb the tower."

Viole bit his lip, "I know that. But that's–"

But nothing they could offer would satisfy him, Hwaryun knew. Because her god didn’t care about money or fame. What he wanted was companionship, his cherished friends, and FUG had cruelly taken that away from him. However, "Believe me, it could be a lot worse than what you have now."

"How much worse could it be?" Viole's voice cracked a little. "I just…want to be with my friends, is it too much to ask?"

"Is it?" Hwaryun clapped the book close, eyeing the untouched tea on the table before looking to its owner in his eyes. "Considering everything I've seen in my lifetime, you're quite lucky your friends are still around."

Viole blinked, staring back at her with a look that could kill. She realized she had worded it like a threat.

"Don't take me wrong, I'm just saying that in general. The tower is just a cruel place, and people who climb it know that they must put their lives on the line to get what they seek. People kill and die for a lot of reasons, and we are no exceptions." Hwaryun placed her finger on her eyepatch, "This eye could have been my life, if I didn't dodge in time. Did you get what I mean?"

Viole frowned. "Then what do I do? I don't want to lose anyone anymore."

Hwaryun hummed thoughtfully, "That is impossible. All you can afford is to do your best by getting stronger, so at the very least, you won't see them get killed in front of you."

Fear reflected in Viole's eyes and he gritted his teeth. "How could you say such a thing?!"

"It's not impossible. If Hansung were to take Khun and Rak as a hostage, would you be able to fight back and win before he's able to hurt them, or worse?"

Viole bit his lip.

"Hansung wouldn't do that, don't worry. But I couldn't say the same thing with other rankers and regulars that will come across you."

Viole considered her words for a long time. "...I don't think I would be okay if I lost them."

"I know." It would be just like what happened with Jinsung.

Viole suddenly jumped down on his feet, staring sharply at her. "They are all still alive, right? My friends, I mean."

"Yes, they are. Grace would have told you otherwise if anything were to happen."

"Then, do you happen to know who Hyung's friends that's…?

Hwaryun shook her head, "No. None that we knew of."

"Ah." The sulking brokenhearted boy he was before was no more, and Hwaryun couldn't help but smile at her beloved god. "Do you think I can help him somehow?"

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[theyjusthowl]

Tidbit Tuesday

I know I skipped last week but my master's kicked my ass and I couldn't find the time to sit down and write :( Anyway I'm back. This is getting ridiculously long, like I'm going to hit 100k any day now.

Without further ado, I give you the very first moment Derek and Stiles are alone, this is where it starts and the memories they'll reflect on through the years.

His father sighs and starts quietly picking on his veggies with the fork, dragging them around the dish. Stiles is almost at the door, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, when his father says, "Don't do anything stupid."

Stiles snorts half heartedly. "Have you met me?"

Derek isn't even hiding. He's leaning on his car, holding the passenger door half open. He's smirking like the cat that got the mouse, and the scene is so out of place that Stiles has to roll his eyes.

"It's raining," Derek says, slowly, almost as if he expects Stiles to not have noticed.

"Yeah thanks for the forecast, didn't catch the weather report today."

Derek's eyebrows arch comically. Stiles would expect anyone else to say something, but knowing Derek, that's all he's getting, so he makes his way to the car and ducks inside. The book is in the dashboard, right in front of him, and he's about to reach for it when Derek's right hand shoots out and wraps around his elbow in a vice tight grip.

"Your hands are dripping," he says, neutral.

Stiles recoils in his seat. "Okay, I'm sorry Madame Pince."

Derek loosens his grasp on Stiles's elbow. "That one was Laura's."

Stiles doesn't cope well with this depth of emotion from Derek. He wants to say something snarky that will raise Derek's hackles, but he comes up short, so he hunches in on himself like an angry teenager and stares at the book.

Derek takes a sharp turn and the book lands on Stiles's lap, where it stays for the rest of the ride. Stiles isn't sure where they're going, if they're going anywhere or Derek is giving him a distraction.

Stiles finds it's the latter. They end up driving to an overlook up the hills. It's a nice spot, great for making out in the privacy of a car, but it's a school night, and it's raining, so they're alone.

[a-sparrows-melody]

The Mortal Instruments - Cassandra Clare

DISCLAIMER: These are my opinions. I do not mean harm - neither to the creator of this wonderful series, nor to the fandom and any of its followers. If you do not agree with my opinion, please do not engage merely to fight with me (I don't like it).

The Mortal Instruments series by Cassandra Clare is a mixed bag of brilliance and flaws, particularly when revisited with a more critical eye.

I'd started reading this during a reading slump, so the books seemed absolutely perfect - filled with fast-paced action, vivid world-building, and a character-driven plot that never felt dull. The relatable flaws of the characters, especially Clary's ideals and Jace's identity crisis arc, made them endearing (at least in the first four books).

The first three books stood out, reflecting Clare’s meticulous research and captivating writing style, which skillfully incorporated advanced vocabulary. These elements created a strong and powerful narrative that resonated deeply, making the books a joy to read (especially during a reading slump, when you want nothing serious).

Simon's character was sort of relatable as well, and Magnus and Alec's relationship was really sweet. Isabelle was fairly fine as a character (mind you, I'm only talking about the first three books) - so no qualms for any of them (they were written as well as they could have been written).

However, the series' latter half falters. The fourth book was fine, merely as a check-in on beloved characters, but by the fifth and sixth installments, the story had fallen apart. The writing style had lost it's grip on me.

Clary's transformation into a Mary Sue (reminiscent of Bella from Twilight), was particularly disappointing. Her character became obsessed with Jace, reducing her personality to just her relationship with him (you know those high-school couples that make dating their entire personality?). Additionally, Clare’s portrayal of Clary’s victim complex was frustrating; in every battle, Clary does so little yet ends up needing the most care - which felt unrealistic and annoying.

Sebastian was just straight-up psychopathic (which was great - I love psychopathic antagonists) but he should have remained dead, in my opinion. The Lilith plot-line was just an unnecessary appendage.

A significant shortcoming of the series is its superficial treatment of human emotions. Despite being a character-driven story, the emotional depth of characters like Clary and Jace is often glossed over. Their traumas are mentioned but never fully explored, making their reactions feel shallow and disconnected from their experiences. For instance, the death of Jordan Kyle, a close friend, is barely acknowledged, with the characters quickly moving on without much reflection or grief (literally they're like: oh, that's sad. Hey, those are funny, undersized pajamas!).

The series also became repetitive, with a recurring plot cycle involving Jace getting possessed -> shutting down/running away -> Clary attempting to "save" him (read: putting more people in danger).

This redundancy, coupled with the lack of emotional realism, made the latter books feel like a letdown. Ultimately, the series should have ended after the first three books - which delivered a powerful message about a neglectful government and a flawed revolution. The decision to extend the series only diluted its impact, turning it into a disappointing follow-up to an initially strong start.

Yeah, I don't think I'll read the rest of the Shadowhunters mega-series

-X-

Trying books reviews for the first time! Yay! Any thoughts?

[bekkachaos]

Fuck it Friday 🔥

starting this because it's Friday here and I wanna know if y'all would read this because I'm a SICKO and started writing some post-apocalyptic Buddie (because I can't stop thinking about the book All That's Left In The World)

tagging these wonderful people if they wanna share x

@monsterrae1 @the-likesofus @eddiebabygirldiaz @bi-buckrights @shortsighted-owl @elvensorceress @loveyourownsmiilee @doublecheekedkinard @loserdiaz @spotsandsocks @wildlife4life @jackluvsdaniel @belovedbuddie @bidisasterevankinard @wh0rebehavi0r @thewolvesof1998 @bucksbisexualawakening @weewootruck @daffi-990 @spagheddiediaz @honestlydarkprincess @loveyouanyway

He pushed through the pain and got himself back up. It was starting to get dark and he needed to find a sheltered place to rest for the night, if he could call it that. He had barely slept in the three days since he injured himself, even before that it's not what he would have called it. Fitful bouts of sleep and nightmares and evenings in the dark listening to the wilderness come alive and looking up at the stars imagining he was anywhere else.

As he hobbled through the woods he caught a glimpse of something between the trees and felt his heart begin to pound, he was either in so much pain and hallucinating, or by some miracle he had managed to find a cabin for shelter.

He struggled towards it, he couldn't focus on anything other than making it to the door, his hand gripping tight to the wooden porch railing, the other to his makeshift crutch, and then he heard the sound of a gun cocking behind him.

"Not another step."

Eddie was frozen in place. How long had it been since he heard another person speak? Weeks? Months? He wasn't even sure anymore.

"Turn around."

Slowly he shuffled his crutch around, wincing in pain again and still using the rail to support his weight as he let himself look back and past the barrel of the shotgun now pointed steadfastly at his chest.

It may have been odd, given his predicament, but for some reason his first thought was 'so I'm not the last one left'. He knew he wasn't of course, but it was easy to forget that fact.

The man who held the gun stood only slightly taller than he did, shoulders hunched up so his arms looked bigger as he adjusted his hold around the barrel with his finger on the trigger. His jaw was set, nostrils flaring as his unnaturally bright blue eyes stared out at Eddie's unwaveringly. He was intimidating, sure, at least he would have been if Eddie wasn't close enough to see the fear in his eyes. The gun was certainly helping though.

"Not here to rob you," Eddie said, and had he been in better shape he might have put his hands up.

"What do you want?" the stranger asked, inching the gun closer.

"I'm hurt, it's getting dark, just looking for a place to rest," he said.

"Well you can keep walking," he said roughly, and it made Eddie grind his teeth together.

"That's not working so well for me," he growled, and for a fleeting moment the man's eyes flitted down to his leg, the latter half of his jeans torn and drenched in a mix of fresh and dried blood.

"I know," he said, eyes back up to Eddie's. "I watched you walk up here."

"And you're still going to send me away?" Eddie scoffed.

It didn't surprise him, people didn't trust each other anymore. If you saw someone, you stayed away from them unless you absolutely had to. A desperate and hungry person would do just about anything to survive. Lie, steal, kill. Eddie had had plenty of uncomfortable encounters since he left the base, and each one gave him even more reasons to steer clear of people. If you were out on your own, you had to do what you needed to if you wanted to survive. The minute you let your guard down around someone, they'd betray you. He didn't say anything, just kept his hard stare on Eddie as if waiting for him to give in, but Eddie was in too much pain, too tired, too hungry, and too sick and tired of the woods to go back out there. "Listen man, all I need is some shelter, I'll sit under that porch while you barricade that door if that's what it comes too," he said. "But I'm not leaving." "Do you not see that I'm holding a gun to your chest?" he said, raising an eyebrow and making Eddie look him over for a moment. "You're not going to shoot me," he said, and maybe it was not the right time to be calling someone's bluff, but there was something in the stranger's eyes that made Eddie take the risk on it. "And why not?" he asked, an irk of irritation spreading across his face. "Because you don't want to shoot me," Eddie said. "You think I won't?" Eddie nodded towards the side of the gun. "Not with the safety on."

[liaromancewriter]

Beautiful Day

Premise: When Kyra feels sorry for herself, a friend changes her perspective.

Book: Open Heart Characters: Kyra Santana & F!MC (Cassie Valentine) Rating/Category: Teen. Angsty Fluff Words: 940 TW: Mentions of cancer and chemotherapy

A/N: I've wanted to write this story for a while now, but waited until I could do it justice. It's set during the latter half of intern year/book 1. Submission for @julychallenge prompt "friendship"

She did not want to be the Cancer Girl. As she entered the last few months of her twenties, she was determined her thirties would be about Kyra Santana. Maybe she didn’t know yet who that woman was, but she was excited to learn more about her.

A wave of sickness rose from her stomach to her throat, but she stubbornly tamped it down. For now, though, Kyra mused, that journey to self-exploration would have to wait.

Her hands gripped the edge of the treatment chair’s armrest, fingers clenching and unclenching around the padded material. Tilting her head back to stare at the ceiling, she counted backward from fifty and felt the nausea recede by the time she hit ten.

This wasn’t her first rodeo with chemo. She barely even felt the port under her collarbone, pumping drugs directly into her veins. But it was a reminder that she wasn’t whole. This device that sat just below her skin, a disc-like bump visible above the neckline of her loose-necked top.

Her mood turned morose, leaving behind the hopeful optimism of a few minutes ago. The disease had defined her twenties, and with six months of treatments in this round, it would define her thirties, too.

Who was Kyra Santana, if not Cancer Girl?

“Uh-oh. I know that look. Do we need to jump out of a plane again?”

Startled from the stormy thoughts clouding her brain, Kyra looked up into the teasing green eyes of Cassie Valentine, a half-grin lifting the corner of her lips.

“I’m game if you are,” Kyra chuckled, noting the expensive-looking gift basket she was carrying.

Her heart sank at the idea of having to throw out what would no doubt be fancy chocolates, gourmet cookies and other goodies. She didn’t know how to tell Cassie that her stomach was not up to such snacks.

When she finished a session, it took all her energy to get home before she crashed, let alone eat anything rich. Most days, she barely managed to keep anything down.

“Once was enough, Wonder Woman,” Cassie rolled her eyes, pulled up a visitor’s chair and plopped herself down.

“Here, this is for you,” she handed over the gift basket wrapped in cellophane with a red bow on top.

Kyra stared at the unusual basket in bemusement. Instead of snacks, there was a stack of multi-colored plastic cards fanned across wrinkled tissue paper.

“I figured you wouldn’t have the energy to cook after your sessions,” Cassie explained when Kyra arched one brow in question. “So, I got you gift cards for food delivery apps, restaurants in your neighborhood, ride-share apps and the like.”

Cassie leaned in and pointed to a brightly colored envelope tucked under the cards. “There are also a couple of gift certificates for nail salons and day spas for when you want to shake off the Chemo Blues.”

“Marry me,” Kyra blurted out, overwhelmed by the gesture more than the basket. An indescribable feeling of gratitude filled her chest.

Cassie gasped and pressed a hand dramatically to the base of her throat. But a small giggle escaped her lips. “Wow, you’re easy to please. Of course, you did flirt with me the first time we met.”

“You flirted back,” Kyra reminded her, grinning, unoffended.

“I can’t help myself,” Cassie shrugged, mirth swimming in her eyes. “It’s in the genes.”

“Well, if you ever want to experiment or play for the other side, I’m your girl,” Kyra teased, knowing her friend was only into guys.

“Deal!” Cassie winked and threw her head back in laughter.

The nurse entered the infusion room then. She checked Kyra’s vitals, asked about any adverse reactions to the drug protocol and made notations on the chart before leaving them alone.

Kyra adjusted the blanket across her lap, tucking her forearms under the fleece. Although she’d been hot earlier, the cold from the air conditioner now raised goosebumps on her skin.

“You don’t look as harried as the last few days,” Kyra commented, scrutinizing the lack of dark circles under Cassie’s eyes and the neatly tied blonde hair, not a strand out of place.

“The ethics hearing is over. I get to practice medicine again, doing what I love,” Cassie said, stretching her legs and crossing sneaker-shod feet at the ankles. “I didn’t realize how much I loved being a doctor until I thought it might be taken away forever.”

She paused and smiled softly. “Plus, it’s a beautiful Spring day, and I get to spend my break with my friend. Life is good, and I’m blessed.”

“It’s that easy, huh?” Kyra mused, disbelief coloring her voice. “Even with the long hours y’all work, grumpy attendings and PITAs?”

“Even then,” Cassie said, waving away the objection. “My father always tells my brother and me to be thankful for the small stuff and not sweat the big stuff. I’d forgotten that lesson this year but won’t again. I have two more years of residency left. I’m going to practice medicine my way and not worry how someone else would do it or what they’d say.”

Kyra nibbled her lips as she reflected on Cassie’s words. “Before you came, I was sitting here feeling sorry for myself.”

“And now?”

“And now,” Kyra sighed softly and blinked. “And now I’m grateful I have someone who’d give me a basket filled with gift cards instead of useless stuff.” She glanced at the window. “I can see the sun shining outside and smell spring in the air.”

She reached for Cassie’s hand, squeezing it in gratitude and friendship. “It’s a good day to be alive, and I’m blessed.”

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

All Fics & Edits: @bluebelle08 @coffeeheartaddict2 @crazy-loca-blog @jerzwriter @lady-calypso

@mainstreetreader @peonierose @potionsprefect @queencarb @quixoticdreamer16

@justyourusualash @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction

Submissions: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

[leethepiper]

PJO/HOO/TOA Fic Recs

Note: I consider Son of Sea Foam to be the greatest pjo fic I've ever read, so even if none other on this list interest you, I think you should try that one.

Son of Sea Foam

“She’ll never claim me,” he whispered. Silena shook her head, eyes wild as she looked around for anyone who could be watching.

“My mother doesn’t remember half of her children as it is,” she said with a note of bitterness. “If you do something to impress her, it won’t matter. Return the bolt in her name. She’ll claim you if you act the part. If you stay unclaimed then they'll figure out what you really are," she said, squeezing his hands tightly. Percy's heart sped up.

"I - I don't know the first thing about Aphrodite-"

"My mother was born of sea foam," Silena cut him off. "And if you're really who I think you are... you are the sea. You can pull this off," she said and touched his cheek. "Get the bolt. Survive," she said. Percy swallowed.

"What if I can't act the part?" He asked. Silena's expression went blank for a moment. Slowly, she slipped off her bracelet and placed it in his hands.

"If you're going to be one of us... you better learn."

Or

AU where Percy has to hide the fact he's a Big Three kid otherwise he'll be killed on the spot. Unfortunately for him, unclaimed kids tend to raise the most suspicion... but he might have found a loophole in the form of Aphrodite.

how to debate with your fellow olympians in a professional manner (a guide by apollo)

Apollo returns to Olympus. Meg McCaffrey's fate is decided.

Gods' Eye View - Book 1: The Hidden Oracle

I tried to keep my face impassive as my little brother hurtled through the air.

It did not pay to show weakness while in the company of other gods. Passion, yes- but not weakness. That’s why Father had called a council meeting, after all. To show us Apollo’s trials, everything my twin would have to suffer through for having dared to oppose him. It was his way of reinforcing his iron grip on us, of showing he still had power, after the debacles and humiliation from the Second Titan War and the Second Giants War - particularly the latter, as Zeus did more to hinder the efforts to combat Gaea than to help. If we’d all done what he’d commanded, we’d be destroyed by now.

Zeus would never admit to that. Not out loud. But he knows we’re all thinking it.

So naturally, my little brother is his scapegoat. ------------

Zeus calls the Council together to watch Apollo's punishment.

No Light in Sight

Apollo has been missing for the past 2000 years

 

"Who's that?" Percy says pointing at the statue in front of him.

Annabeth looks at the statue before answering, "That's Lord Apollo, Patron God of Camp Half-Blood"

The Patron God? "Why haven't we seen him then?" He questions, because surely the patron god the camp would at least make an appearance

"Thats because he went missing 2000 years ago"

Used To Hang My Head Low~ Now I Hear It Loud (We Gon' Burn The Whole House Down)

Day 16: Nymphs and Negligence

Primordials were defeated by titans. Titans were defeated by gods. Why does everyone assume it's the demigods who will destroy Zeus? Everyone overlooks the nature spirits.

They'll learn.

 

Or: Grover notices a few things about Zeus and has some things to say about it. Unfortunately for Zeus, he talks to Apollo.

True Love Is Taking Turns Lying (and Believing)

day 2: growing pains. Saw this and all I could think of was a) Taking Turns by the crane wives and b) REVOLUTION AU OH YEAHH BABEYYYYY

Soooooo here we have Apollo suffering, as we all love, and his family slowly seeing the Real Him (tm)- and maaaaaybe preparing for a revolution.

Maybe.

(Okay yeah. Some of them are definately preparing for a revolution the more they learn about Apollo.)

(*cough* *cough* artemis *cough* *cough*)

One Light, Higher Than The Sun~ Invisible to Some (Until It's Time)

Day 9: The Hour Past Midnight

Send Me Anywhere~ Take Me Out (I'm The Well They're Gonna Drag You Down)

Day 12: Revenge served cold

Was i NOT supposed to write the beginning of another revolution fic in response to that prompt???? well i dont care either way. It's a revolution fic :)

Sunrise

At 10,000 years of age, Apollo falls to Chaos. With the last of his strength, he sends his memories through the fabric of Space-Time.

At 1 day of age, Apollo refuses to let the story be the same as last time.

Vi Va La Revolution.

 

SkyFall: Season 1, Arc 1- The Rising Sun.

In which Apollo lives through his early life, forming alliances and rewriting mythological history while striving to keep his siblings and family safe from threats outside and within their home. Will he succeed? Or will Fate prevail once more?

One thing is for sure, Apollo remembers.

And he will take his vengeance.

Trials of Apollo - New Prophecy

The Oracles have all be restored, Apollo has gotten is immortality back. He appears at camp to visit Meg and his kids, he finds that fate is not yet done with him.

Hello Ocean, My Old Friend

Poseidon keeps getting offerings from Percy’s baby sister. He doesn’t quite know how to feel about this small child vying for his attention…At the very least he would keep Zeus from blowing up whenever her prayers interrupted council meetings.

Or

Rick Riordan gave us Estelle Blofis and I am thrilled. She's going to get Poseidon to attend family events even if every god on Olympus kills her.

Lester Papadopoulus and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Lester wakes up in an alleyway with several broken bones, a mysterious voice ringing in his head, and only a New York Junior's Driver's License as a clue to who he was. Overall, not the best way to start a Quest.

But hey, at least there's this random 12 year old girl to keep him company.

Family doesn't end in blood

Three times Amphitrite saw Percy help sea creatures, Plus the one time Percy needed help

travel youtuber nico + some guy he's dating

nico has a travel youtube blog, and also a crush/boyfriend who tags along sometimes

"You must make your own choice.": Reconstructing Apollo's Journey within Riordan's Narrative

“I was the worst of the gods,” he says, dropping all pretenses as he sings of his failures to the myrmekes. Because I loved too much. Because I felt guilty. Because I kept trying to do more. Because I kept changing my mind.

These are unforgivable sins for a god. That’s what Apollo and all of his divine siblings have been taught. That’s what they’ve all, in time, learned to believe. Good people don’t survive on Olympus.

And Apollo is, above all, a survivor.

So Apollo doesn’t want to believe he’s a good person.

This is incredibly uncharacteristic of me, he makes sure to specify every time he does something kind, every time he finds himself unable to hide his shame or guilt or doubt, to hide how much he cares, well past the point where we start realizing that it is, in fact, perfectly characteristic of him.

the jackson files

Makin’ pancakes @makinbaconpancakes Does anyone know who the fuck Percy Jackson is???

Oranges are spicy @ronaldmcd Whomst?

Makin’ pancakes @makinbaconpancakes Check rachel dares insta story

Oranges are spicy @ronaldmcd k

Oranges are spicy @ronaldmcd Okay somebody find out who this kid is right damn now.

-

Rachel Elizabeth Dare posts a video of Percy on her instagram story. it all just spirals from there.

Mother of Heroes

Hestia is the goddess of offerings. She is the goddess of Home. She is the goddess of flame. She is the eldest child of the titans.

She is tired of hearing the demigods beg for acknowledgement, and dying without it.

So they're hers now.

Dona Eis Requiem

Really. Apollo would need to have words with the Oracle of Delphi. The one time it has him recite a prophecy instead of Rachel, and it predicts the downfall of Zeus. Couldn't it at least wait until he was not in the presence of his father?

Secrets of the Sun

“No, that kid is too similar to me… way too similar... Almost like he’s…” Apollo’s eyes widened.

“Like he’s you from the future?” Persephone finished.

Dionysus asked incredulously, “You don’t seriously think that right? There’s no way you would ever dare to look like that!”

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

This is literally just a Trials of Apollo reading the books fic. Hope you enjoy!

 

[Discontinued until further notice]

way down we go

Apollo slipped off the ledge and fell into Chaos.

Down and down he went, the void swallowing up all that he is, he was, and he could be. Darkness. Upwards he rose, gold swirling around him, all that could have been.

Apollo tumbled out of his bed with a yelp, the fall to the floor far bigger than he was expecting it to be. The soft carpet nearly gave him a concussion, his mortal body feeling weak and fragile after that fall into Chaos…

Wait. After his fall?

golden eyes, ocean eyes

There was a moment between birth and ascending where a newborn god was vulnerable, the touch of pure immortality still grabbing a hold of them. Immortality, after all, was not a thing to be created or destroyed. It was the concept of unchanging permanence, and one could not be born or dying permanently, forever.

And those who are not gods cannot see a god’s true form without irreparable harm.

The only thing Apollo ever saw was his sister’s true form.

AKA

Blind!Apollo AU, where this changes everything and nothing at all

Make Hay While the Sun Shines

At the end of the Tower of Nero, the big fight with python ends with him losing. But maybe not, because Apollo wakes up to find himself, in his Lester Papadopulous mortal form... in southern California, 2006?!?!?!?! Self-confidence zapped after his failure with the nightmare snake, with no friends or enemies/murderous exes in sight, currently in unknown territory due to recent character development with a different perspective on life, and about half a decade of history regressed. He plans to lie low, and wait this out, while no imminent danger or uncertain perilous fates surround him. This is the past, before his trials, before any of the prophecies meant anything. He should be able to stay of trouble. It's a foolproof plan. Completely. With no flaws. Surely, surely, this time, nothing will go wrong.

He should've remembered what Percy Jackson said about jinxing himself.

[e-vasong]

For the writing prompt: “breeze”! Whatever characters/fandom strikes your fancy (not that the exercise seems to ask for a specification anyway).

"Microfiction" said the challenge. "Drabble." Anyway, here's almost 2700 words of IWTV Devil's Minion fic. I'll probably give this a polish and post on AO3 at some point!

I'm still taking these. Just submit with the understanding that I'm averaging about one a day lol, so it may take me a hot second to get to get through em all!

31 - Breeze

TWs: Suicide (minor character), police violence, homophobia, and also just...whatever Armand and Daniel have going on.

Daniel caught himself on a lamppost before he could crack his skull open on the curb. “Go fuck yourself, man,” he slurred. He couldn’t tell if he was having trouble speaking because of the drugs or because he’d just been batoned in the face by a goddamn cop, but either way he sounded like an idiot.

He pushed himself upright in time for the officer to take another swing, stumbling back a step as he narrowly avoided the blow.

“Are you trying to fucking kill me?” Daniel spat out a glob of blood, and suddenly talking was a hell of a lot easier. He knew that ecstasy hadn’t been cut with anything! And honestly, the longer this cop tried to bash his head open, the more sober he got. “I’m a journalist, you know. People will notice.”

It was a lie, but that at least gave the man pause. After a moment’s hesitation, he flicked his baton closed and tucked it back into his belt. Then he grabbed Daniel by the arm and shoved him over the hood of the nearest car, hard enough that his nose cracked against the metal. Another break for the books. God fucking damn, that hurt!

“You’re under arrest for indecent behavior and solicitation. You have the right to remain—” 

“What?” said Daniel breezily, watching the rivulets of blood from his nose run down gray-painted metal and over the car’s hood scoop. “Come on. You can’t prove I wasn’t offering to blow him for free. So really, the only thing I’m guilty of is attempted sodomy, and judging by the look of you, you probably know a thing or two about tha—Jesus, man!” The officer wrenched his arms behind his back at a vicious angle, holding them there with one hand and using the other to press Daniel’s head back down. And then, because Daniel had nothing to his name but a notebook, a pen, and a journalist’s eye for weak spots, he added, “Right, so I’m guessing it’s been a while?”

Daniel’s arm dislocated with a sickening pop. He grit his teeth through a quiet shout, jarring his other elbow back in an attempt to do—well, to do something. Draw a little blood of his own, maybe. 

The weight on his back vanished, but his poorly aimed blow didn’t so much as jostle up against the cop’s grip. Probably because that, too, was now gone.

It didn’t take a genius to guess what—who—had interfered on his behalf. The longer Daniel ran, the better he got at realizing when he was caught. He did not need to feel the warning press of teeth against the back of his neck to know that he was pinned, did not need to see a grey fin slicing through the waves to know that he was being circled by sharks. 

Daniel pushed himself up onto his good arm and turned around. And he found, of course, that he was right, though he could not decide whether he was more dismayed or pleased to have his instincts confirmed. Point to the former, Daniel really wasn’t ready to die—not yet, ideally not ever. But then, if he did die here, he’d at least get to take this stupid fucking cop with him, which was certainly a point to the latter sentiment.

The cop stood a few feet back now. His expression was frozen in a furious grimace; his arms were stiff at his sides. Beside him stood Armand, who was leaning forward slightly so that he might regard both the officer and Daniel at once. 

He was beastly in this light and all the more beautiful for it, lit half orange by the streetlamps and the rest of him cast in shadow, the fine features on that side of his face barely visible except for that blazing amber eye. 

This was too poor a neighborhood for someone like Armand. He seemed so dreadfully out of place, in those designer Oxfords and perfectly tailored clothes. That coat alone must have cost more than most people’s yearly salaries. And here Armand was, about to get blood on it! The gall of him.

Armand smiled coyly up at the cop, then leaned in and whispered something. He spoke for what seemed like an age, with the same tenderness and curiosity that one might give a lover. Eventually, the cop’s expression smoothed out into something resembling horror, or perhaps grief. And when Armand finally finished, the cop, blue eyes welling with tears, turned to Armand and staggered into his arms for an embrace.

“Please, please, please,” he was saying. Then he asked something in an incoherent mumble, and Armand, who had brought a comforting hand up to rub a slow circle into his back, replied without compunction.

“It’s alright,” he said, but it was more stern than kind. “Don’t be afraid, just go.”

Wiping his face, the officer leaned back and nodded. Then he turned around and walked quietly away.

Armand waited until he was out of eyeshot before he turned back to appraise Daniel. 

“What did you do to him?” Daniel asked. He could not say he especially cared, but he nonetheless felt obliged to ask. To try and do…something, because if he didn’t and the guy turned up dead, he’d feel pretty crummy about it.

Or worse, he wouldn’t.

“Ah,” said Armand, his mouth parted slightly in surprise. He tilted his head to the side. “How particular you are. I always forget.”

Daniel blinked.

The weight on his back had vanished. As had the grip on his hands. And he must have turned around at some point—maybe he was concussed after all, Christ, his head was pounding—because he was upright again. The cop was gone. And in his place stood Armand, who wore a fancy dark coat and clothes that suited him too damn well to have come straight off the rack. When this man found the time to visit the tailor while hunting Daniel like a dog, God only knew.

He held himself carefully still. There was no point in bolting—Armand could outpace him even when Daniel wasn’t sporting a head injury and dislocated elbow. “You’re here,” he said, nose stuffed up with blood. He was relieved despite himself. “You gonna kill me now?”

“Oh,” said Armand, in a sympathetic tone that Daniel recognized quite well after nearly two years of this damn game. “Daniel. No.” He cast his gaze briefly upward to the stars, then brought it back to Daniel with a small smile. “I had hoped to ask you about this city’s ‘subway.’ But not tonight, I think.”

“You don’t know what the fucking subway is?” Daniel muttered, as he shivered in the breeze. “Trains’ve been around like two hundred years, man.”

Armand only shrugged, but there was some tension in it. The line of his shoulders was taut. “I would have you enlighten me, Daniel Molloy,” he said, with an almost paternalistic sort of impatience. He removed his coat and draped it gently over Daniel’s shoulders. With the first few buttons of his dress shirt so artfully undone, as they always were, Daniel could now see the lovely curve of his exposed neck. The flex of muscles as he spoke. “Now, will you come with me?”

It was not entirely a question. How could it be, when Armand already knew what the reply would be? Still, Daniel answered. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

As Armand led Daniel to his car, a black Rolls Royce that somehow hadn’t been carjacked yet, it occurred to Daniel that he was perhaps a bit insane. Sooner or later, Armand would tire of their game. And when he led Daniel to his death, Daniel would doubtless go willingly.

“Your self-preservation does leave much to be desired,” Armand remarked as he started the engine. “You nearly make the game too easy.”

He drove Daniel to the St. Regis, where he acquired a sprawling suite for the both of them with a generous handful of cash that he didn’t even bother counting. Once they were settled, he made a few swift calls while Daniel dozed on the bed. 

“Daniel,” said Armand, tapping him on the cheek when Daniel fell too deep into restfulness. “You must stay awake.” 

When Daniel swatted his hand away, Armand sighed. And this time Daniel really woke up, hauled back to consciousness by Armand’s firm grip on his mind. 

“Stay out of my head,” he snapped. Armand smiled indulgently down at him and acquiesced, but the damage was done now. Daniel was wide awake, and sleep seemed hopelessly out of reach.

He stayed up until someone knocked on the door. It was a doctor, or at least Daniel figured he must have been, since the guy marched right over to the bed and started checking Daniel’s injuries over. The whole forty-five minutes he was there, the doctor steadfastly refused to look either of them in the eye and only spoke to ask Daniel blunt, disinterested questions about how he was feeling, if something hurt, whether he could lift his arm over his head, etcetera and what the fuck not.

Once Daniel’s elbow was popped back into place, his nose set, and his concussion confirmed (a mild one, said the doctor to Armand, when Armand had made a sharp noise of displeasure, keep an eye on him just in case, but he should be fine), the doctor left—and Daniel was allowed at last to close his eyes. 

Armand paced. Then he sat on a chair nearby, one foot crossed over onto the other in a way that would have been nearly sensual if he weren’t so damn still. He would have seemed more natural if he were carved out of stone. The world’s sexiest, saddest gargoyle.

Finally, Daniel groaned and turned over.

“Is something wrong?” Armand asked. The words were mild, but not without genuine interest. 

“I can’t sleep with you just glowering at me over there,” Daniel said. “Get in bed. You fucking sleep, right?”

Armand was quiet for a long time. But eventually he stood and walked very slowly over to Daniel. He laid down on the opposite side of the bed so they were facing each other, though they were practically a mile apart because it was a California King. Armand stayed on top of the covers like he was afraid to dirty the mattress. He was still fully dressed, too, except for his coat. 

“Are you comfortable?” Daniel asked, abruptly, because that seemed the thing to do. Armand was paying, after all. 

“Entirely,” said Armand, but he was so quiet that Daniel had to strain to hear. “What did you want to do?”

Daniel stared at Armand for a moment. Was this another one of Armand’s clever little tests? If he did not come up with a suggestion clever enough, interesting enough, would Armand rip his throat out on the spot? Would he make Daniel leave?

But Armand’s eyes, bright as always and alive with some unnameable emotion, revealed nothing, and Daniel was too tired for games.

“I want to sleep,” he said finally. If Armand was going to kill him for that, so be it. Daniel burrowed deeper into the blankets to block out the dim light, and then he promptly passed the fuck out.

He did wake up the next morning, which probably meant that he hadn’t pissed Armand off too much, though there was neither hide nor hair of the vampire to be found. 

Oh well. Daniel took a desperately needed shower and fumbled with the coffee maker to produce a half-decent cup of joe. 

When Armand returned, it was with bags full of clothes and the promise of a brunch reservation. “Pick anything you like,” he said, beaming as he upended his prizes onto the settee. “Quickly. I want to take the subway!”

Daniel laughed.

They did take the subway, though. It seemed to delight and disgust Armand in turn, and he admitted as they got off at 14th Street/8th Avenue that he had not been to New York since a brief visit with Louis in the sixties.

The Met seemed as fair a bet as any for activities that might dissuade Armand from killing Daniel a little longer, so Daniel took him there next. He seemed to enjoy it, though certainly less than Daniel himself did. He could not help it, with Armand, who had lived through the creation of so many of these pieces, beside him, sharing secrets about them that no mortal alive could know. Except, now, for Daniel.

But no, it was the newly opened Transport Exhibit that truly enchanted Armand. His excitement was almost incandescent in its intensity. He regarded each gutted train car with the sort of reverence that most people reserved for Mecca, for Angkor Wat. Holy sites.

“Ah,” said Armand, when they finally left. “A moment, Daniel. I meant to get the curator’s name. When the exhibit closes, I might see about acquiring a few of their displays.”

He presumably meant some of the models, or at least Daniel hoped he did, but the mental image of Armand trying to find enough space in some random mansion to store a century-old train car made him crack a smile anyway. “Sure. I’ll wait here.”

It wasn’t too chilly, considering that it was a January evening in New York, but it nonetheless took only a few moments for Daniel to get too cold to tolerate standing still. Spotting a newsrack, he grabbed one of the day’s papers and flipped it open. This one was the New York Times, those assholes. They kept rejecting Daniel’s articles, and so he was starting to think the editor hated him. 

Which was fine. Daniel disliked them right back. For all their talk of progressivism, their editorial board was barely centrist, though they were at least better than the Wall Street Journal. Boring, boring, boring. It took until the fourth page for Daniel to find a headline that caught his attention, and even then it was for all the wrong reasons.

POLICE OFFICER KILLS SELF, JUMPS OFF BROOKLYN BRIDGE

There was a name attached—Officer Gary Taylor—but no photograph. No way to know for sure. The article was not an obituary or even a profile; mostly it was a half-hearted interrogation of whether the pressure of the job was making cops off themselves. Even the author’s overly generous insertion of quotes barely gave the paragraphs enough connective tissue to crawl across the finish line. These were all the tells of an article that was thrown together at the last minute, a desperate write-up shoved in before they sent the day’s paper off to the printers.

Taylor was predeceased by his wife of 10 years, and he leaves behind three children aged 8, 11, and 13.

Daniel stared down at the page with a small frown, until familiar footsteps came up behind him.

“What are you reading, Daniel?” asked Armand.

Nothing, was what Daniel probably should have said. Instead, he said: “Some crazy fucking cop jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge last night. Isn’t that weird?”

Armand’s expression betrayed nothing. “I see,” he replied. “Does that bother you?”

Daniel considered it. The kids, he thought. The kids bothered him. He wasn’t good with children. He definitely didn’t want any of his own—they were messy and loud and demanding and he generally didn’t like them, even the ones he was related to. 

But he knew a bit about what it was like, being faced with death at such a young age. Childhood before that understanding, before brutality reality set in, was a bit like a coin perfectly balanced on its side. For better or worse, it couldn’t last forever, and the way in which it fell set you upon one of two branching paths. Acceptance and healing, or—

Well. A path that led right about where Daniel stood. 

So yeah. He felt bad for the kids. But when it came to Officer Taylor…

“He was a person,” Daniel said finally. He folded the newspaper in half and tucked it into his bag. “But people die all the time.”

Armand’s smile faded slightly. “Yes,” he agreed eventually, averting his gaze. “I suppose they do.”

[weskie]

What You Deserve (Albert Wesker x amab!Reader)

18+ | 2700 words, salacious use of tentacles, post re5 wesker, one of those things that was meant to be sweet but became nasty, afab!reader version here | Fic Directory

You've taken such good care of him. Isn't it time he rewards you? Be careful though. Some things are still a little… new.

You were something else.  Frankly you always have been, but now more than ever.

 Despite waves of self loathing and rampant depression of which he would never confess, Wesker’s recovery has been as smooth as you could make it.  Pain medication kept most of the lingering aches away and Uroboros had ensured he lived to see another day.  Other than a weakened body riddled with scar tissue from his little dunk in the fires of the Earth, he couldn’t complain terribly much.

Even after his fusion with Uroboros, Wesker was still a mere man unable to escape the more… basic urges.  He’s always considered arousal to be like an itch.  Sure he could scratch it, but he could also ignore it and let it go away.  He often chose the latter, but, with little else to occupy him besides literature or your company, such a choice became significantly more difficult.

You notice his state quickly, though you say nothing of the tented blanket that only seems to continue rising the more he tries to ignore it.  You simply take his hand and squeeze, occupied with your laptop while Wesker rereads the same line of his book over and over again in a poor attempt to settle down.  When he tips his head back against the mountain of pillows he’s propped against, you give him a knowing look.

“Want some help?”  You ask, thumb brushing against his knuckles.

Does he?  He did go waist deep in lava. Thus far, it had seemed Uroboros took care to heal his nerves in all other places, and he’s never noticed a lack of sensation in the times where he’s had to touch himself to bathe, but what if he can’t feel enough to… perform well for you?  Was it even the full act of sex that you were offering or simply assistance in relieving him?

Perhaps the uncertainty was written across his face because you turn to face him, hand rising to stroke his cheek and trail into his unstyled hair.  Your touch spurs another aching pulse between his legs.  “Only if you want to,” you say sweetly. 

He pretends to consider your offer, but his answer was yes the very moment you spoke.  The second your thumb brushes his lip, he’s tugging you onto his lap.  He swallows your protests with ease, groaning weakly into the kiss.  Wesker knows you’re afraid to put your weight down on him, still so worried about agitating his aches and pains.  He has half a mind to grip your hips and help you grind against him, but you’re taking charge before he can.

“Let me,” you murmur, lips trailing down his neck.  You halt at the collar of his sleep shirt, moving away only to help him pull it over his head.  Your hands land on his sides, smoothing up and down slowly, stroking reverently at the juxtaposition of softness and patches of scarring.  Each motion brings you closer and closer to his chest until you’re kneading his pectorals, thumbs brushing against rosy buds in such a way that leaves him panting.

It really has been a while… the throb of his cock confirms it.  He has half a mind to just tear at your clothes and rush you to take him, but you seem to sense his impatience just as easily as you’d noticed his need.  “M’gonna take care of you,” you whisper sweetly, palms coaxing him to rest fully against the pillows. “You deserve it.” You slip so easily down his body, blanket falling away to reveal black boxer briefs that have clearly garnered a little wet spot from such light teasing.  “Just relax.  Shut your eyes, sweetheart.”

He does as you say, releasing a shuddering breath in anticipation for what’s to come.  It turns to a gasp the second your tongue laves the dip of his hips.  Your hands steady him with gentle pressure, shirking their duty when you decide to skim your nails over ticklish flesh and wring a breathy giggle from him.

He can feel your smile as you kiss further down, sensation dulling when your peppered love finds its way to the band of his underwear, renewing once more when you peck sweetly at his inner thighs.  Wesker’s hips seek you of their own accord and he’s lucky enough to feel at least one press of your lips to his covered length before you make your way back up.  He practically bucks into your grasp when you take hold of him. 

“Seems like everything's in working order,” you coo playfully in his ear.  

Wesker finds his lower lip to gnaw on while you stroke him slowly.  His hands paw at your clothes, eagerly trying to expose you.  His eyes flutter open, pupils blown wide around distorted hues of red and blue still vying for dominance over one another.  He’s just about got your shirt off when that hand of yours dives beneath his waistband, milking the most humiliating whine from him imaginable.

What's wrong with him? Why is he so… desperate? 

His hands leave you to shimmy out of his underwear, hissing at the cool air and the mere sight of your hand around his weeping cock.  He turns back to you, keening into a kiss as he tries once more to tug at your clothes.  He hoists your leg over his hip, palm smoothing to take a greedy handful of your rear, playing with your flesh as you’d done with him.  Everything about you is bliss itself, from your slow, torturous strokes to his cock to the slide of your tongue against his.  You should be bare against him, skin to skin, letting him feel every inch of you. He needs it. He needs you. 

Suddenly, a humming laugh escapes you, reverberating against his tongue before you break away.  “Again, huh?”  You breathe.  

Again… yes. 

Once more, tendrils have wound their way around you to do his bidding, but this time for more… salacious reasons.  Each one wriggles under your clothes in some way or another.  You aid them in their quest to strip you, tugging your shirt and pants away with ease while the masses slither just as eagerly as his hands explore.

It’s so cute how you squirm for him.  It’s as if the tables have been turned oh so perfectly, leaving you just as red in the face as you’d made him.  He may not have his full strength yet, but this?  This more than makes up for it.  One tentacle coils at your waist, holding you perfectly in place as the others find themselves far more… occupied.  Your giggles turn to breathy moans, each one sung perfectly for him.  You’re like an instrument only he can play, your pleasure a melody only he can create.

“W-Wo– Ah!”  You gasp, head lolling to the side the very second one of those slimy appendages creeps between your legs.  Your first instinct is to clench your thighs together, though you don’t get very far with having been straddling him. The tip of it ghosts over the length of your cock, making you buck and whine.  “Al!” 

Tantalizing was… not a strong enough word for the sight before him.  These appendages have always carried a degree of wetness, some leaky black ooze that only ever left a small mess, but now?  Oh, now they leave clear glistening trails along your flesh that make his cock utterly ache.  It’s as if he’s painting you with his own arousal, picture perfect and drenched in his love just like you should be.  The tentacles trail over where he wants to see you marked most: your chest, your neck… all the way down to your twitching shaft. 

“Al, I–” You try, but you’re whimpering as more slithering lengths join in to curl around your thighs.  He didn’t even have to lift a finger…  There’s so many things he could do with you.  He could lift you, surely, to his face.  Slide his tongue that’s been so starved for you from base to tip and wrap his lips around the head of you, suckling away at your dribbles of arousal.   Or he could lower you onto his cock right now.  Forget effort; you wouldn’t have to do a thing.  He could simply maneuver you accordingly, bounce you up and down with their grip on your body until you were both fucked senseless.  Or…

Wesker’s chest rises and falls with each open mouthed breath, watching with wide eyes as three smaller tendrils approach your hole.  You squirm, but you show no sign for him to stop even as they alternate swiping along your opening.

“I-I thought– mm!”  You try, words as shaky as your trembling body. “T-Thought I was gonna t-take care of you instead…”  

“You are…” he breathes, utterly hypnotized as more tentacles join the fray and suddenly, without warning, you’re spread completely for him, slithering lengths taking your legs while smaller ones find their way to your rear, baring your hole to him.  You’ve been put on exhibit, and oh… how you writhe and keen under his sopping touches.  All Wesker can do is simply lie there, cock torturously hard at the sight of you like this.  He dares not touch himself; he dares not even imagine it lest one of those lengths creep to coil around it to satisfy the urge.

“A-Albert– ngh!”  Every cry you make fuels whatever hidden desires lurk below the surface of his mind.  Nothing in the world could’ve prepared him for the sight of an extra thick tentacle slinking along your leg, coiling up and up until it presses at your entrance.  “O-Oh my god!”  You mewl, head falling back.  “I don’t– I don’t think I can– that’s too big… Al, I don’t think I can– Ah!”

Exhilaration runs down his spine as though every nerve in his body fired at once.  Watching it press into you, seeing every ounce of slick drip from its effort to wriggle inside as you keen and mewl and cry out his name over and over again as if to pray to him…  Wesker licks his lips, panting heavily, fighting to keep control despite that knot in his gut threatening to give at any moment.  His fists bite into the sheets, threads popping as they give way to his strength.  

“O-Oh g-god,” you sob, barely audible over wet squelches.  “P-Please… Al, p-please!”

“I…” he tries, but he has no words.  Nothing in the world could possibly explain this– why it was happening, why he was allowing it, why… why he fucking loves it.  

But he does know why, deep down.  Past that layer of perfect prudence and discipline lies the truth.  You deserve this.  You deserve every ounce of pleasure he can stuff into you.  For all that you’ve done for him… you deserve everything. 

You cry out over and over again as the thickness fucks in and out of you, slick drizzling from your ass onto the bed.  It soaks his hips and cock, oozing off to coat the sheets and surely seep down into what was now a ruined mattress.  But he doesn’t care.  Not one bit.

The tentacles wriggle all over you, slithering and rubbing against tender flesh, restraining the intense trembling of your legs as you dangle helplessly.  He can practically hear it hitting the depths of you, each noisy, wet thrust coupled with your sweet songs a promise of your never ending pleasure.  And oh… you deserve it.  You deserve all that he can possibly give you.  You were there for everything.  The good, the bad, the horrifying…  Every part of him is yours, which means you get this, too.  

The first time you cry out his name is perfection in and of itself.   You come undone so beautifully, cock spurting your release onto his chest.  He has to grasp himself and squeeze the base damn near to the point of pain just to keep from blowing his load right then and there.  Watching you practically seize in his slithery grasp, hearing you gag and gurgle on one that had slipped between your lips, knowing you’re so fucked out of your mind that you could do little else than suckle its length as if it were his cock… 

Even then, it’s like he can feel it.  The sensation is dull, but it is there.  Your lazy tongue, the clench of your throat, the warmth of your breath, the throbbing quiver of your walls– it’s all fucking there, and it’s all for him.  You belong to him.  You’ve shown him so many times, over and over again that he has you, heart, mind, body, and soul.

“That’s it, dearheart…” he coos, shaky voice barely more than a murmur.  “You’re– you’re doing so perfect… You’re taking me so well.”

He feels you clench up again, walls trembling as you approach your next release.  You always did like when he’d purr such things in your ear.  It warms his heart in the strangest way to see it work just the same now.  

“O-One more for me.”  Wesker rasps brokenly, heavy breaths leaving him as he watches with an unyielding gaze.  He will not miss a second of this.  “It feels good, doesn’t it…? I can feel it too.”  He wants nothing more than to hear you come undone for him once more.  As if understanding his thoughts, the appendage in your mouth slips free, prompting you to gasp and choke desperately for air.  

You moan nonstop as if it were the only sound left that you could make.  It’s like you’ve been robbed entirely of higher thought and fell into a mindless state, one that could only comprehend the thickness ramming in and out of your hole.  Your sweet noises pitch up more and more with every passing second, signaling your next climax is near.

Wesker wills the tentacles to tilt you upright, the big one still fucking into you despite the position shift, and you whine weakly at the change.  “Come for me, my sweet.” He commands, rising from his position to cup your cheeks between his hands.  As if fully understanding his order, you do exactly that, falling apart with a breathless scream cut off by the thick length slipping from your ass while the others force you down onto his cock.  “Oh, god!”  He roars, face falling into the crook of your neck to muffle his own cries as his release hits him like a lightning bolt, coating your ooze slicked walls with his seed in heavy spurts.  

Albert’s eyes are clenched shut, but he swears his vision has gone white.  There’s nothing.  Nothing at all is left in this world except for your limp form in his hold and the heat of your flesh between his teeth.  Even when the oxygen in his lungs has gone stale, he still forgets to breathe.  It’s your trembling fingers curling at his nape that remind him he’s even still alive.

The two of you remain like that for some time, long enough that his legs go stiff and each slithering length once wrapped around your body retreats back into him.  You’re both covered in ooze, but he can’t find it in himself to care.  Not yet, at least.

You’re limp in his grasp, but he can tell you’re awake from the occasional scritch to the base of his neck or breath fanning against his skin.

“I… apologize.” He eventually murmurs.  It’s all he can think to say.  Certainly, you both would be having quite the conversation about this eventually.  But, for now, this much is due.  “For… having lost control.”  It isn’t even an exaggeration.  At some point, all thought went out the door.  There was only the two of you and every salacious desire he couldn’t suppress. 

He needs to become better at that.  

“Mm,” you hum weakly, fingers threading through his hair the way they always do in the afterglow.  “You’re full of surprises…”  There’s a hint of amusement in your voice.  That good natured softness with which you’ve always treated him.  “We gotta… mm, when my legs work again… it’s shower time.”

He couldn’t agree more.  For now though, he means to simply hold you, still buried within your heat.  You feel like home.  What luck to have found you…

And what bliss to know you’ll stay.

[oswlld]

oswlld's monthly wrap up: march

note: i am trying something a bit different this year, so bear with me as i figure out how i want to format this. i wanted to spend more time sharing what i consume, beyond what i rb, and put my thoughts in one place. these posts are okay to rb

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When We Cease to Understand the World, Benjamín Labatut [started 02/24, finished 03/14] What an outstanding example of blurring the lines between fiction and reality. I am content in never knowing what’s real and imaginary in the lives of these people. May we never forget that for every new idea challenged, there is a real person with real emotions and motivations behind it. 4.25⭐️ in storygraph. — No Stopping Us Now: A History of Older Women in America, Gail Collins [started 03/03, finished 03/30] This book makes some strong points, but comes off weak in its execution. By having it be told decade by decade, it becomes hard to follow along when so many names and events are being tossed around. Without a firm thread tying all the themes together, the achievements ended up feeling lackluster when it should leave you feeling a sense of pride and hopefulness. 3.25⭐️ in storygraph (I rounded up, but it feels more like a 3.15)

23.5 Degrees, GMMTV [started: 03/08, ongoing] What a breath of fresh air!! With my busy schedule, I managed to catch the first two eps and I’ve loved every minute of it. It doesn’t take itself too seriously, while still keeping a tight grip on its sense of identity. The series soaks up every aspect of its space theme like a sponge. Content specifically made for me, tysm! As much as I have tried refraining from consuming more high school settings, I couldn’t help but be enamored by what I have seen so far. I have paused this series for now, but hopefully I’ll be caught up before the end of April. I should be able to watch it live on Fridays in May. Until then, I will miss them dearly! — Always a Witch, Netflix [started 03/28, in progress] At this time, I have only seen episodes 1-5. So far, it’s a very straight-forward series. I am restraining myself from calling it predictable, because there are one or two things that really turns some tropes/themes on its head. But all-in-all, I am still waiting for this show to grab me. For a show that checks all the boxes that really makes a core jessi show, a series with time travel, magical realism, and found family, it has yet to completely sweep me away. Time really got away from me this month, but I will finish this series sometime in the next two weeks. We shall see if the latter half gets better.

Taylor Swift: The Eras Tour (Taylor’s Version) [watched 03/15 thru 03/18] I have seen this live and did see the original film in theaters last year, so this experience was more of a rewatch. This time around, my parents wanted to watch some of it with me so we made a whole evening of it on 3/15 so that was really neat. I will be traveling a lot in April and will be taking an audio copy of this to keep me entertained. — Oscar Nomination Season [started 02/17, ended 03/24] All of my initial reactions of what I managed to cover this Oscar season is in this post. Some of the strongest categories I have had the pleasure of covering this year were the Best Documentary (feature), Best Production Design, Best Live Action Short, Best Documentary (short), and Best Animated Film. I have several more films to tackle later this year, but my overall impression this Oscar season was just alright. One or two films have hit an extremely high note for me, but no worst of the worst.

BEYONCÉ, Beyoncé [relistening] During the pandemic, I really got into waching YT reaction channels reacting to full albums. One of my favorites is HTHaze and he is only beginning his listening journey through Beyoncé’s discography (yes, for the first time!) His reaction to Beyoncé’s self-titled made me want to relisten to it in full for the first time in years. I tend to only revisit a few songs through the years, but I do love going back to albums after time has past to recontextualize everything all over again. I’ve had my longtime faves from my 20’s but in my mid-30’s, the songs that hit harder now are: Pretty Hurts, Haunted, and Jealous. — Bewitched, Laufey [first time listening] The same YT channel got me to listen to this album. I am guilty in having my first listen be through his video first before diving into her album properly. With that said, the brain rot went FULL ROT. I love LOVE her compositions. Having learned from her Tiny Desk that getting a grand piano influenced the way she wrote her songs makes the whole conception so much grander. Her voice is soooo, it’s SOOOOO !!!!!!! I read a comment somewhere that her dream is to rejuvenate jazz the same way Taylor Swift did with country for a younger generation and that really spoke to me. I truly believe she is heading in the right direction in achieving that. My favorite run of songs goes from: Haunted, Must Be Love, While You Were Sleeping, Lovesick, California and Me, Nocturne (Interlude), and Promise. Those seven songs in that succession is so GOOD, ahH! — Once the Musical [relistening] Every spring, I fall into a Once spiral and it just gets deeper and deeper. This time though, I only tackled the core faves on YT rather than committing to the full audio (w/ Arthur Darvill and Joanna Christie). Although Arthur Darvill’s Leave will forever solidify his Guy as my Guy, Declan Bennett is The Guy of Guys for me. My mandatory relistening experience always goes: Arthur’s Leave, Arthur’s Say It To Me Now, Declan’s Say It To Me Now, Declan’s When Your Mind’s Made Up, Zrinka's If You Want Me, Once’s Spotify Jam Session. And it would all be on a loop lol. — Cowboy Carter, Beyoncé [first time listening] This is still fresh in my mind, having only listened to it in its entirety once through. My first impression is that it’s one of her most cohesive albums to date. Having had the first taste of what she would eventually achieve all the way back with Lemonade and The Gift, Cowboy Carter feels like a natural progression in her discography. I don’t have a top songs list to provide at this time, as I would need more time with the album. Fav songs come with time. Although, I did listen to 16 CARRIAGES when it was released several weeks ago and I knew then it would be a spectacular album. What a phenomenal single to lead a phenomenal homecoming.

Where’d You Go Bernadette, written by Maria Semple and narrated by Kathleen Wilhoite [started 03/22, finished 03/29] I… I didn’t like this. And that’s alright. Even if I didn’t like the premise or the characters, I did enjoy the format of the narrative and the narrator (especially her singing!!). But in the end, this was just not meant for me.

—

As it is still March when I am writing this, I wanted to endcap Women’s Month with a special shoutout to two women in my life that have been working with me to improve my overall well-being: Wendy (personal trainer) and Sofia (life coach). I am in a better headspace because of the work and trust they have in me to build a life I want. I cannot wait to see what I am capable of this time next year.

[sophieeeikli]

Blood & Brothers: A Close Reading and Analysis of Dante Émile's "Dioscuri"

Blood and Brothers: A Close Reading of “Dioscuri” by @orpheuslament​. By Sophie E. Eikli. Available on Substack.

The world is formed anew, as is our vocabulary. Tumblr poet Dante Émile begins his piece with a title, Dioscuri, which holds no meaning as can be divined through English language save for a single title given to a unique dynamic. The word refers specifically to that dynamic of those poorly fated twins from Greek mythology; Castor and Pollux. They are the masculine in the divine-and-mortal set of twins, having been born alongside Helen and Clytemnestra out of the nonconsensual union of Zeus and Leda. The word itself comes from the Greek ‘Dioskouroi’ meaning ‘Sons of Zeus’. The word may also whisper of similarity to the English ‘obscure’, something which is definitely present in the piece by Émile.  

The piece begins in conversation with a seemingly invisible speaker. “Your blood is my blood is your blood is my blood,” uttered by an unknown voice to an unknown recipient. This sentence is repeated twice more in the poem, at the middle and at the closure. The pronoun ‘your’, is also repeated steadily over the course of the piece, while “I” is never named- save for the invisible, yet heady I present in the repetition of “my” in the line which has already been named. This proves the existence of a first-person speaker kept tantalisingly out of the reader’s grip, without revealing its identity. Is it Émile commenting through his own work, projecting to a specific person in an act of poetic espionage? Is it Pollux to his mortal and less radiant twin? Is it Castor to the son born as what he is not; glory and divinity? My suspicion is that the truth lies somewhere between the latter options, and that the unsureness is deliberate. Castor and Pollux’s blood is the same, not just genetically but in reality. The line “your mother never looks you in the eye” could indicate that it is Castor speaking to Pollux, but this is something that cannot, and should not be, confirmed. Although fraternal, they both carry the traits and evidence of a fated conception.

Aside from its title, the poem walks a fine line between pretentious and relatable as the meat of its text keeps it grounded in modernity. There are no heady Greek words, nor are there Latin ones. And yet it brims over with the past. Émile begins by thrusting the name of Castor into the present in an act of bait-and-switch, placing the two of them in the setting of a motel bathroom, and yet the present is scarcely mentioned again. The poem laps back through time, going from a “motel bathroom” to the reflection of their “once [having been] a light to sailors” until the devastating final blow that delivers Castor and Pollux to Hades. The piece exists within a context of Greek antiquity. The present is not gone, but it barely registers against the weight of the past.

To all who grazed the Tumblr poetry sphere of the mid-to-late 2010’s, tell me if this sounds familiar: Dionysus in the present, owning a bar. Aphrodite, a stripper. Zeus, a marine or some other authority.

Those who had a Tumblr account in the mid-2010’s may be aware of the pervasiveness of Classical Greece within the poetics of that time. Many of them are gone now, their blogs reduced to half-memories and deactivated urls. While some of them, such as New Zealand’s Darshana Suresh, went on to publish a book, I have no idea if any of them continued to write. Because of time, and disappearance, and ghosts, I cannot find the exact poems to reference. Therefore, I can only ask for your belief in the fact that one thing was almost always present in a Tumblr poet’s portfolio: the Ancient Greeks in the present, haunted by a lack of belief. This is not a denigration of that poetry in the slightest; as a teenager I found myself uniquely represented in the ambitious poetry of fellow teenaged and young adult poets who often suffered with mental health problems of their own. It was also a heavily queer environment, in which there was no question at all regarding the relationship between Akilles and Patroklus. There existed a genuine artistry and love for the source material that marked it as an artistically unique subsection of poetry.

Another uniting force for the Tumblr poet community was its metaphorical patron saint; Richard Siken. An absolute crescendo of his time, Siken released the collection Crush when he was barely 19 in 2005. Even today his work entertains a sense of immortality, often being used in so-called web weaves (e.g; “Sorry / about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.”(Little Beast)). Even I have a not-so-hypothetical desire for a Siken tattoo on my left arm. His work is manic, bordering on surrealistic as he blends time and space, but more than anything it is intensely physical. There are many, many times in Crush where the word ‘blood’ is used. Hearts are swallowed, cows fall from the sky like rain, houses and people are burned at regular intervals. There is also a very heavy presence of second person in his poetry.

In several ways, Dioscuri feels like a testament and subversion of these things. There is the heavy presence of the past within Émile’s poem, but it is manipulated in a way that contrasts those poems from 2015. Unlike the pieces of which I think, which could alternately place Dionysus at a bar or Ikaros in a First World War fighter, Émile begins in the present and pushes backwards into the past. The thick love of these brothers is constant and unbearable, with Pollux eventually resolving to pull his mortal brother with him into the stars. The language, too, leans progressively more into the Antique with epithets such as “God-sent white bird” – which is interestingly used to describe the “dove” that “you once buried”, rather than another white bird which is their father in the myth of Leda. – being paired with reflections on the soul dualism (“A soul splits in two, / that which has always been yours to share”) which Plato credits to Zeus in his Symposium. While a line near the beginning of the poem asks “Who in Hell knows who speaks first”, the ending describes one waking “Down in Hades.”

And yet the present does exist, reaching through Pollux’s grief for his brother killed in Troy. “I’m not reaching Heaven if it’s not with my brother,” he says to his “old man”, Zeus. While it could be a meditation on the skies to which Castor and Pollux eventually become stars, Heaven’s capitalisation leads one to wonder whether it is not a reflection of the immortality of that brotherly bond, pushing back out from that motel bathroom at the beginning of the poem. Whether it is not Pollux’s bloody and codependent love for his brother that breaches time, space, body. There is blood all over this poem, and inside of it.

There is blood everywhere, and one cannot help but notice that some of it belongs to Richard Siken. Some of the lines seem to be subconscious redirection of Siken’s images. Although it may be overreaching, one could see the “wild horses running through your hair at night” as an honouring of Siken’s “How it was late, and no one could sleep. The horses running / until that they forget that they are horses.” (Scheherezade). There is also something very resemblant in the demand to “Keep the shattered moonlight under your pillow”, which could resemble the physicality of Siken’s “Look at the light through the windowpane” (Scheherezade). Faces don’t just become bloody, but are bloody already. A bloodied fist meets a pre-bloodied nose. Catastrophe is written into the DNA of the poem right until the fateful cry of mortal Castor: What have you done, what have you done. Not a question, for the answer is known by both. The answer is them both.

For such is the love of brothers and of twins in Émile’s poem. Their love is codependent and damaging, but no more damaging than the conception that made them. The poem demands that one apologise to their mother while simultaneously reminding that “it’s not your fault if things always end this way”. They hide under covers in the motel just as they hide together in the night sky. They guard each other in every reality and every plane.

To end, I have only one request of our dear poet:

Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us. Tell me we’ll never get used to it.

Credits given to:

Dioscuri by Dante Émile

Little Beast, Scheherezade & others by Richard Siken

Darshana Suresh and other Tumblr poets