#this was... harder to make than i anticipated 😅

[elizabethshaw]

Fifteen and Ruby in every episode

Boom

[juletheghoul]

covetous

a/n: Jesus Maggie, you really called me out on my bullshit for this one. Originally I want this story to just be a bunch of sexy encounters in a morally questionable world, now we're talking about feelings and love and how the hell did we get here? (This is how I would imagine him the first time he sees his Girl) Please enjoy this un-beta'd, barely edited request. All mistake and errors are mine! please enjoy

Warnings; 18+ no minors, Marcus pov, vague but big-legal age gap, there's no actual sex, but memories of it, vulgar yet romantic musings, master / slave dynamic (power imbalance) he’s still pretty possessive, Marcus calls reader Girl, reader calls Marcus Dominus - let me know if I missed any!

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 1.1k (😅)

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist series masterlist

War is easy. It’s a language he’s fluent in, something he excels in. He is blessed enough to have survived more battles that he could count and has been more than rewarded for his prowess. Battle plans, marches and military strategy are almost second nature, the fury, the heat of battle, all that he can anticipate and it’s probably the main reason he’s come this far in his life. 

Soldiers, camp life and brutality, those things are easy for him to understand.

Other matters, love, affection, attraction; these things are…harder. 

Physically, he’s perfectly adequate. He's never been ignorant to his looks, or his build. He knows that he fills the societal ideal for a man. He’s broad, he’s strong, he has a good face and no physical flaws.

He’s never been short of attention from the fairer sex either but that doesn’t mean anything as far as he’s concerned. He’s had his trysts, and he thinks he might have even been in love before but his luck seems to stop, and stay within his vocation. 

In his younger days, he’d broken his fair share of hearts, he’d been gifted the virtue of many a virgin in hopes of tempting him into a marriage. None of them had held his attention for more than that one night, and sometimes, in the late hours wherever he found his rest he secretly feared the Gods might be punishing him. Withholding the partner he hopes to find as payment for those broken hearts left in his wake. 

As he grew older, wiser and more practical he learned to ignore that little emptiness. He saw it more as a blessing. Would he be where he was now with a woman waiting for him? Would he have hit his station with children bearing his name pulling at his thoughts in the middle of battle? Perhaps the Gods had simply made a trade. His life, or his heart. 

He’d been content with his lot in life, until he’d seen her. 

She’d served at a gathering he’d been loath to attend. His eyes tracked her, the shine of her hair, the curve of her hip, her pretty smile. Her eyes had locked with his for half a heartbeat and he’d felt it in his belly. A rolling, like waves in a stormy ocean. 

She’d gone about her business, efficiently fulfilling her duties while the guests all spoke animatedly around him. He’d joined in after reigning in his reaction, but she’d taken every ounce of his attention with her. 

He’d negotiated her purchase the next day. 

-

She was quick. She learned everything faster than a lot of the others in his service, and she seemed to anticipate his needs before he spoke them. Most of the time, he barely needed to say anything at all, and so he kept quiet. Kept his thoughts, and his feelings to himself. 

His biggest need though, was her. He wanted her bad enough to hurt, to ache.

He was well aware of the practices in other houses. Slaves were there to obey, and in most houses that meant obeying with work, and with their bodies. He saw no issue in this, it was the way of the world. No matter how badly he wanted her though, he couldn’t make himself order her to spread her legs for him. Maybe it was a foolish, childish thing but he wanted her to crave it just as he did. He wanted her wet, he wanted her begging for him, he wanted to see pleasure and lust on her pretty face. 

He wanted her to want him. 

A year passed, and every second in her presence was exquisite torture. A torture he submitted himself to freely and with a perverse pleasure. It was a test of endurance, until the fateful night she’d come to him with her wet tunic, all of her body on display through the sheer fabric. The shadow of her cunt had sent him into a frenzy and when she’d come back and caught him fucking his fist he’d thought it was just another form of punishment. 

It was that look on her face though, that heavy lidded, open mouthed way she stared at him, nipples hardening that had finally made him crack. 

That first night he’d taken her, he’d stayed up in his bed, almost blinded with want. Her body had not alleviated the craving for her, if anything, it’d only made it worse. He’d replayed their encounter over and over, obsessed with the taste of her on his fingers, obsessed with the feel of her lips on his. From then on, she’d only cemented her hold on him. Her quiet obedience, her subtle seduction, the way she’d managed to scrape the shape of herself onto his brain.

She’d made herself the figurehead in his mind, the holy place at which he prayed, the Goddess he served. If he could, he’d light a thousand candles at the altar of her cunt, and pray to them daily.

He fought harder to return to her, he took note of her wants, of her preferences, and made sure to cater to her, despite no one in the house, not even her realizing. He dismissed the younger boys that lusted after her, he was covetous of her to the point of violence. A small smile from her could dictate his mood. The thought of her in pain made him feel like some feral wolf caught in a trap, ready and willing to chew part of himself away to reach her. 

Sometimes, after he’d spilled inside her, he’d let her fall asleep in his bed and relish the way she clung to him in her sleep. It was a double edged sword though, their stations in this life. A part of him fears that her want is only an act, a way to endear herself to him, her Dominus. A foundation to earn her freedom, or coin, or influence through him but then he sees the shy way she smiles at him and his fears are silenced to nothing. 

She cannot fake the way she flutters around his cock, she cannot pretend to feel nothing, not when he sees the same jealousy he feels shining through her eyes at the mention of the mostly political proposals he’s denied. The things she says, the way she takes her pleasure from him, all of these things only compound his delusions that just maybe, she feels for him a fraction of what he feels for her. 

It’s a sort of madness, truly, how that part of him that was the perpetual soldier had in so many respects switched their roles, had given her a control–a power he was sure she didn’t realize she had. 

He was sick with want for her, ravenous, and yet unable to soften himself in a way that would make her see the truth, make her see just how much she truly meant to him. He couldn’t make himself show her, that whatever she asked of him, he’d do with a smile.

For now at least. 

- Tag list: @frannyzooey @greeneyedblondie44 @lola4pedro @221bshrlocked @artsymaddie @supernaturalgirl20 @sleep-tight1 @sherala007 @cannedsoupsucks @thirstworldproblemss @ilikechocolatemilkh @freeshavocadoooo @hrk-fic-recs @maxwell--lord @the-feckless-wonder @kirsteng42 @thisshipwillsail316 @feministfanboi  @stevie75 @readsalot73 @pedrostories @tobealostwanderer @mandocrasis @elegantduckturtle @diogodxlot @alczysz17 @evyiione @absurdthirst @beskarboobs @andruxx @littlemissoblivious @1800-fight-me @maievdenoir @gracie7209 @omlwhatamidoinghere @magikfanatic @frankiecatfish @pedritoispunk @studythoreauly @missswriter @pintsizemama @mswarriorbabe80 @a-trial-run-on-paper @la-le-lu @chickadee-djarin @dobbyjen @rosiefridayrogersunday @ajeff855 @johnsrevelation @the-witty-pen-name @zombiesnips-blog @sarahjkl82-blog @fan-of-encouragement @queenofthecloudss @deadhumourist @felicisimor @toomanystoriessolittletime @what-iwish-you-knew @pedrostories @athalien @bi-thewayy @literallydontlook @pedrosbrat @gamingaquarius @luxmundee @iamafadedmoon @nakhudanyx @littlemisspascal @grogusmum @recklessworry @heyitmelexie @killyspinacoladas @gothicxbarbie @evildxad @dragonslarimar @spideysimpossiblegirl @chemtrail-mix @breezythesimp @altarsw @artooies-scream @staygolddindjarin @softsweetedbeauty @littlemisspascal @yuiopiklmn @squidwell @just-blogging-around @bbyanarchist @girlofchaos @maddiedrmr @frasmotic @acourtofsnakes @buckybarneshairpullingkink @astoryisaloveaffair @harriedandharassed  @shirks-all-responsibilities @androah @alwaysachorusgirl @dindjarinsmut @captain-jebi @gallowsjoker @tusk89 @dadbodfanatic-x @naiomiwinchester @blazedprince @avidreader73 @mr-underhills-things @avengersfan25 @tastygoldentaters @nyotamalfoy @mymindfuckery @its-nebuleuse @missladym1981 @inept-the-magnificent @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @ladyofmidlo72 @greenvita @honey-on-your-tongue @ladylovesloki @alexiamargot06 @purple-fig @picketniffler @somedayheaven @flw3rrr

[azsazz]

Shots & Spins

Hockey!Azriel x Ice Skater!Reader

Summary: Req from @kristijenner19: I saw you were thinking about hockey!AZ because same. How about a fic where she's a figure skater and they're trying to teach each other their respective sports. Imagine poor Az trying to do a spin/jump/twizzle and a reader who can barely ever make a shot into a goal

Bonus points if they switch their skates and have to re-learn how to skate with the new blade

Warnings: Mild panic attack, mentions of readers injury (torn ACL), trauma from coaches (verbal) mentioned.

Word Count: 3088

Other Fics in the Hockey!Az AU: Penance, Shut Out, Out of Order, All's Well That Ends Well, Brr-eakdown

HOCKEY SZN SOON MY LOVES 💙💙

Notes: I swear I meant to make this cuter but of course, I had to give it some angst 😅

_________________________________________

“What is this?” You question. You’re probably being rude, with your nose scrunched in disgust. With the way you’re holding the pair of skates as far away from your body as possible, you’re pretty sure you look like the biggest bitch on all of campus. But for the life of you, you can’t figure out why Azriel has handed you hockey skates.

“They’re skates,” Azriel answers. You rip your glare from the offending skates at his obvious response. Your heart stumbles in your chest at the sight of his pink lips twitching, begging to reveal that grin he spends most of his time expertly hiding.

You don’t even realize you’re leaning closer in anticipation, so eager to see that smile until the hitch of his breath snaps you back to consciousness.

You rock back on your heels so quickly you nearly tumble over. Would tumble over if it weren’t for Azriel’s quick reflexes, his large hands enveloping your waist and steadying you back on your feet.

“Thanks,” you reply flatly, dipping your chin to the ground to hide your flaming cheeks. There’s not an ounce of amusement in your body.

“You’re welcome.” You don’t like the smugness in his tone or the way he’s playing with you. Tilting your face back up, you muster all the annoyance lancing through your veins at his retort, shooting him the nastiest glare.

“That’s not what I meant, Az, and you know it. Why am I holding a pair of hockey skates?”

Azriel sits on the bench beside the empty arena, and you want to pout. Why would you want to spend any more time at the rink than you already do? You’re bone-fucking-tired and your knee is feeling stiff. You overdid it in practice this week, trying to get back into the shape you were in before the time you’d been forced to take off, and it’s hitting you hard. All you really want to do is crawl home, roll out your muscles, and dive into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

When you don’t join Azriel, he says, with a humor you don’t feel, “Don’t tell me you forgot about our little bet. Or how you so gracefully lost it.”

Of course you hadn’t forgotten. Who could forget losing at something as simple as a race across the arena? Afterwards, you tried to blame it on the differences in the ice, how it was colder and harder than you were used to, as it was prepared for the hockey team’s game later that weekend.

A rookie mistake, honestly. One that you’ve been kicking yourself over up until this very moment. Well, if you could kick with your injured leg, that is, you’d be doing just that.

You grind your teeth as a memory rises to the forefront of your mind. Your coach’s voice rings in your head, shrill and reprimanding. Why would you take such foolish chances? You need to get your head in your sport or you’re never going to make it on the Olympic team, let alone the University team.

Shame presses down on you, and your eyes prick at the criticism you should be used to by now. Your private coach from your time before Velaris University, Amarantha, had been very creative with her insults, always coming up with comments worse and harsher to cut down any semblance of confidence you had in your sport.

You bet she’s thrilled that you won’t be back in her presence until you’re healed enough. If you heal enough to relearn the very trick that took you out of the running for the Olympic team in the first place.

It must be a thing, coaches insulting their prodigies. You glance at Azriel from the corner of your eye and wonder if his coach is the same way. If Rhys is brutal with his teammates.

And you hate losing. It was Azriel who you wished forgotten about the bet you’d so stupidly agreed to, but here he is, wearing the same look that got you into this position in the first place.

You take your time studying him as you mull over how to get out of this. Azriel’s broad shoulders take up the space of two people, and his deep, dark hair falls over his brow, growing out into the perfect flow all the players seem to be sporting right now. You wonder if it’s superstition or they actually like the look. His thick lashes sweep as he bats them, and your cheeks take on a pink hue as he pretends to preen under your attention.

“Look,” he all but sighs, giving up his act. He leans back, reaching over to grab something out of sight. When Azriel rightens himself, he holds a pair of figure skates, a sheepish smile on his face. The apples of his cheeks mottle with pink. “I got myself figure skates, so we can both look like fools out there. Together.”

Fuck. The sentiment makes your throat tighten. He doesn’t have to be so damn thoughtful, you’re hardly even friends for Mother’s sake.

“Fine,” you manage when you can speak again. You plop onto the bench beside him. Your knee throbs dully in protest, but it’s nothing you haven’t been able to smother before. You’ve worked through worse conditions than hockey prepped ice, have skated in casts and aches so deep you weren’t sure you’d be able to compete at all if it weren’t for your raw love for the sport and your brutal stubbornness, holding yourself to the highest of standards.

And it’s not like you’re going to be doing your usual tricks. No, that’s all Azriel. All you have to manage is a few forward spirals, twizzles, and perhaps an axel just to show off a little, because there’s no way he’ll be able to recreate all of that in one go.

You just hope your knee stays steady for a few more hours.

The both of you lace your shoes in silence. The hockey skates are so different from your figure skates, you note. The blade is much thicker than you’re used to, more curved too. The boots are shorter, and you grimace at the lack of ankle support.

Not to mention you’re not entirely sure how well you’ll be able to stop without your toe pick.

Azriel leads you to the ice. You step on tentatively, giving the new skates a test. They have a lot more give than you’re used to. They’re not as snug, but easy enough to navigate. Muscle memory kicks in and after a few sluggish runs up and down the ice, you think you’ve gotten the hang of it.

The rest of this bet should be a breeze, especially compared to how Azriel is faring.

His face is contorted with a concentrated frown. He looks stiff as a fucking board, which make you giggle and him complain about. “How the hell do you wear these things? I can barely even move my ankles!”

“Practice makes perfect, young Padawon,” you tease, testing how best to shift your weight on the new blades. The pressure on your knee isn’t terrible, thanks to the looseness of the hockey skates.

“Yeah, yeah,” Azriel waves you off. He trails behind you at a slower rate, focused on getting used to the stiffness of the figure skates on his feet. “Just wait until we scrimmage.”

Ugh, no thanks. This is just perfect for you, the both of you out on the open ice, all alone. You don’t want to ruin this peaceful bliss by bringing your competitive personalities into it.

“I knew if we raced under different conditions I’d have won!” You exclaim, zipping past Azriel again, showing off. He glares playfully, but you’re much too busy admiring your skates to notice the way he’s tucked his lip between his teeth, hiding a satisfied grin.

His toe pick digs into the ice, grinding down as he gets a feeling for the foreign piece, but his eyes stay glued on you.

“Ready for a stick and gloves already, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know,��� you throw a smirk back in his direction, crossing your arms over your chest and cocking a brow. “You ready for twizzling?”

“Twizzlers?”

You roll your eyes at his lame joke, but your heart still skips at his wry smile. It’s more than cute. You push off your blade, moving closer to him.

Which is fine, until you try to use your toe pick to stop, only for the realization to hit that there isn’t one on these skates.

You go barreling into Azriel, who catches you in his arms. Your motion throws him off balance and before you even have the chance to squeeze your eyes shut and brace yourself, you’re both falling to the ice.

Azriel hits with a grunt that reverberates through your bones. You’d think that Azriel breaking your landing would be less painful than it is, but with the way the muscle is packed on his body, he’s just as hard as the ice that’s no longer beneath your feet.

“Sorry,” you cringe. It comes out breathless and embarrassment flushes your cheeks, but you’re frozen to your spot and all too aware of how his large, warm hands are wrapped firmly around your waist.

“No worries.” Your lashes flutter as his breathy whisper caresses your face. He’s probably just winded, that’s why he sounds like that. Yes, that’s exactly what it is. “Didn’t think to remind you how to stop.”

“I know how to stop,” you argue, but there’s none of your usual fire tainting the words. You can’t even muster one of your famous glares that you reserve for the normally broody hockey player. You break eye contact as the humiliation begins creeping in. You scratch your nail distractedly down the waffled fabric of his olive colored henley. “I just…forgot, I guess.”

The hitching of his breath in his chest shifts your body and you jolt, the situation slamming into you like a truck.

You scramble off Azriel, grimacing at the sound of your blades clinking against his. His grip loosens, hands falling away as you slip to the ice beside him.

You shoot to your knees, then not-so-carefully climb to your feet. Azriel holds his hands out from where he’s still lying on the ground, like he’s more than ready to catch you again should you fall.

You’re positive the heat of your cheeks could melt the entire arena’s ice right now. You need to get the fuck out of here before you embarrass yourself further. You need to never show your face around here again. You’ve already transferred schools once, what’s one more time?

Azriel calls your name, but you hardly hear him over your racing thoughts. If the sheer embarrassment wasn’t enough, Coach Weaver’s voice now fills the rest of your head, screeching about your recklessness and how you could’ve injured yourself—

He’s quicker than you thought, or you’ve been trapped in your mortified headspace for too long because Azriel’s on his feet, towering over you and pulling you into his chest.

“I’m sorry,” your voice trembles and his hands tighten around you. He lets you bury your face into his chest and pretends not to notice the tears dampening the fabric of his shirt. You’re fucking trembling, and his heart is pounding just as hard.

This is all his fault.

“Breathe, sweetheart, breathe,” he tries to console. He looks around frantically, like one of the sports therapist students or coaches might be walking past the rinks this late at night. There’s no soul in the building besides the both of you, everyone resting for their busy weekends of competitions and away hockey games. “Please.”

You focus on his words, how he guides you, three seconds in, three seconds out. You focus on the soothing patterns he’s drawing down your back, focus on the beating of his heart and latch onto his scent: night-chilled mist and cedar.

“Sorry,” you croak when you finally manage to calm yourself and slide a step back. Your gaze sits pointedly on the ice. You don’t want him to see you like this, a woman who’s about to fucking crumble.

“Don’t be,” Azriel says softly. His hand finds your face, and as much as you don’t want him to, he lifts your chin. You don’t fight it, emotionally exhausted. You should have asked for a raincheck, but you can admit to the fact that Azriel’s gentle touch is a comfort that you can’t help but lean into.

Sad, hazel eyes meet yours. They’re more golden brown than green, a forest of hues backlit by a burst of gold. Your breath hitches as he drags a thumb softly across your lips. They part, even though you don’t mean them to, and the whisper of breath that leaves you passes over his hand, crawls up his arm, and sends shivers down his spine.

“You okay there, sweetheart?”

You’re not sure you can hold yourself together enough to answer his question without completely melting into a puddle at his feet.

Your silence must be answer enough. Azriel takes both of your hands in his own and guides you back toward the bench where you left your shoes. His grip is reassuring, and you’re so tired that you don’t even have it in yourself to sling a witty remark his way.

For what might be the first time in your life, you allow yourself to be taken care of.

You can’t even muster a chuckle at the way he stumbles over the toe pick on his way off the ice, or the way you’re waddling in these skates. You feel anything but graceful and strong right now, but with Azriel’s hand in yours, it’s not as off-putting as you feared it might be.

“Sit,” he says, keeping his fingers clasped around yours as you heed his command. It brings you eye-level to his hands, puckered and pink and scarred to hell. They’re beautiful in every way. He embraces his story, and it’s an incredible strength, one you’re much too terrified of attempting to recreate.

“Azriel, no,” you protest, jolting forward when he lowers himself to his knees before you. You plant your hands on his shoulders, ready to force him away because you’re more than capable of taking your own skates off.

He catches your wrists, and you didn’t think his eyes could soften any more, but they do, and you melt. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Let me take care of this for you.”

You try to swallow past the knot in your throat to thank him but are unable to. Instead, you nod and reluctantly sit back.

Azriel’s gentle with his movements, like you’re a wild doe that he’s helping free from a snare. He unties the tight knots, and your heart pinches when he struggles for a moment. You wouldn’t notice if you weren’t watching so intently, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Like he knows you need to see this.

You carefully keep your mind from wandering into how good he looks like this before you.

He slips the first skate off, and you stretch your toes. It’s a reflex. Azriel smiles, peeking up at you just in time to catch your blush. His gaze ducks away before you become embarrassed, setting your foot down and holding your other ankle, lifting to get to work.

You hiss softly at the ache in your knee.

“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” Concern laces his voice, and you’re quick to reassure him.

“No, no,” you cringe a little at the lingering sting. “It’s nothing.”

“Sweetheart.” Azriel says sternly. Seriously. “That reaction wasn’t nothing. What’s wrong?”

You sigh, defeated in more ways than one. You don’t want to admit that the injury that threw your entire career off-kilter is acting up again. You’d rather not have anyone know.

Perhaps Azriel is different. Or, maybe he’s forcing you, because the gold in his eyes is intense, pinning you to your spot. His mouth is set in a straight, firm line. He looks like he means fucking business.

You avert your gaze. You’ve never admitted defeat like this, but if Azriel can wear his scars so proudly, maybe you can too.

“I tore my ACL a few months ago.” You admit, sniffling. You can feel the shock in Azriel’s gaze, but you refuse to look him in the eye. He’s the first person at this school outside of your coach who’s hearing it. You’ve never been so vulnerable, especially with someone you hardly know. You press on nonetheless. “It’s been fine up until now.” A white lie. “But it’s been a little sore since I started practicing my jumps again.”

“How many months is ‘a few’?” He questions, and he’s not going to like the answer, so you opt for brushing over it.

“I’ll go back to seeing my therapist,” you offer instead, but even you’re not too sure how much truth your words hold.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Azriel says, and you don’t want his sympathy, but you’re too exhausted for your usual anger to stir to life. “You need to take care of yourself, before it gets any worse.”

His sentiment has your nose stinging, eyes prickling once again. What the fuck is wrong with you these days? Get it together, girl. You can cry in your own room, not in front of the hot boy who’s helping you with your godsdamned shoes.

You drag your gaze back to his. “I will.” You think.

He studies you for a moment before nodding, accepting your answer whether he believes it or not. You don’t have it in yourself to care right now. No, you just want to be back in the safety of your dorm.

Azriel is even more careful removing this skate and helping you slip into your shoes. He makes quick work of his own, and while his head is down, you admire his stature. Broad shoulders and chest that tapers into a tight waist, an ass for days.

You’re not done drooling over him when he stands, offering you a hand.

You slip your palm into his, ignoring the electricity that zips down your arm. You’re hyperaware of him by your side, and it’s only when he’s absolutely sure that you’re steady on your feet that he drops your hand.

You try not to feel too disappointed at the loss.

“Let’s get you home, sweetheart,” Azriel offers, and you trail him from the arena, your heart feeling a bit fuller with the nickname.

_________________________________________

Azriel Hockey!AU Tags:

@whyonearthisyourusernamethi-blog @going-through-shit @crazylokonugget @lilah-asteria @girl-who-writes-stuff @moosemahboi @sherayuki @lyinginameadow @acourtofatboydreams @blackthorngirl @shadowsingercassia @evergreenlark @hannzoaks @bloodicka @whyshouldihaveanam3 @elle4404 @cherry-cin @quinzzelx @i-am-infinite @feeriqueivre @blightyblinders @kennedy-brooke @nyxbranwenn @dee-writes-smut @konaanaria13

[egglygreg]

“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.”

Matthew 10: 29-31 NIV

Whoo boy this was quite painful to colour 😅 trying to make all the colours work next to each other was much harder than I anticipated, and it was really hard to make sure the whole thing stayed legible.

I’ll be putting it up on my Redbubble today (the other scripture arts I’ve done are already up on there)

[inquisitornocturn]

≪─ ᴀ ᴍɪɴᴜᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍɪᴅɴɪɢʜᴛ: ᴄʜ.17 - ᴛᴡᴏ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅꜱ ─≫

⋟ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Sebastian LaCroix/f!reader the Ventrue neonate

⋟ ᴛᴀɢꜱ: y/n etc is not used, overall story rating - E, graphic descriptions of grave injuries.

⋟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: An email, looking innocent enough, asks you to meet. You go because it might benefit you, always looking for a new opportunity to advance your position if possible. Yet you don't know that it will lead you to look your Beast in the eyes, barely able to resist Its beckoning call. The Sabbat has not forgotten you.

⋟ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 7,556

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: Sorry?😅

⋟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ʟɪꜱᴛ: [link] | on AO3 [link]

Waking up is harder than you have anticipated while you are lying in bed before the dawn breaks outside of the windowless walls of your bedroom. Now that you’re up again you feel sore, your body is still healing. You should’ve consumed some blood, should have maybe even used Heather, but she wasn’t around and you didn’t want bagged blood, even if that blood is Sebastian’s, still waiting for you to partake. You didn’t have a chance yet to ask him about it and realized that you’ve been holding onto that bag like it’s the finest champagne. And you have tasted some of the best damned champagne in the world in your previous life.

With a wince you sit up and rub your hands as if trying to get warmth back into them. It’s useless, you know it, but familiar and mortal actions didn’t have time to abandon you yet. You haven’t been in this undead state for as long as some, you know this. And you catch yourself wondering what’s the oldest kindred out there. Vaguely you recall Beckett speaking of Antediluvians, but you’re pretty sure he told you that he doesn’t believe any are still around. Well, that’s a thought for another night, perhaps.

First you shower, then turn on the TV while you dry your hair and dress, and you find yourself thinking about that bag of blood in the fridge. It’s not the only one there, with Vandal’s so called help you’ve managed to stock up in case anything happens, but those other bags do not call to you like the nameless one.

After getting briefly distracted by the newscaster’s announcement of some parents rioting about video games, you again catch yourself thinking of the bag, but this time the thought goes further. To Sebastian, to his voice in your ear as you rode him in the car and then to his angry yet bloody face that somehow, and for some reason, even now turns you on more than the sex itself.

Then the door below opens and closes, making you return to present.

“Mistress, I’m home!” Heather calls out in a cheery voice and you put down your brush, leaning over the railing to look down on her. The woman’s red hair is as attention-seeking as ever but you find it endearing and smile.

“Where have you been?”

Heather, who stopped by the TV to listen, suddenly snaps her head in your direction and beams a smile. “I’ve got something for you.” With a bounce in her step and her heavy heels thumping up the stairs, your Ghoul wastes no time getting to you.

You give one more glance to the TV then grab the remote from the computer desk and shut it off. Next moment – Heather is right in front of you, slightly out of breath but her face is a perfect picture of joy. Like a child who has done well in school and wants her parents to acknowledge that.

“What did you get for me?” You raise an eyebrow and cross arms on your chest while Heather gropes around in the back of her tight jeans pocket, then she takes out a rolled-up stack of cash. When you glance at it and frown ever so slightly in confusion, the woman steps closer and offers you the money.

“I got… My college loan check today. I want you to have it.” Heather gingerly holds the roll of money, her eyes pleading for your approval and for a second you just stand there, stupefied.

“Your… college?” Mouthing like a fish out of water, you can’t believe that you forgot that Heather, your dear, helpful and eager Heather has… had… a life outside of these apartment walls. Something sharp grips at your chest and you swallow.

“Yes, I was going to get a degree in fashion but… I feel like that’s a waste of time. So this money, I want you to have it and I will drop out of college so that I can run errands for you! And do other things.” She smiles shyly to you, clearly hoping that you approve. “That’s the least I can do to earn my keep.”

Hesitating, you stare at the money and reach out. Heather doesn’t thrust the roll into your hand, holding it with her fingertips like a stack of Franklins and Grants might bite her if she keeps it to herself for too long. But you don’t take the money either. Only for a brief moment you liberate dollars from her hold and then place it back into Heather’s palm, putting your hand over her fingers so that they wrap around the money roll.

“Mistress?” Heather looks from where your hand covers hers back to you and you sigh, picking your words carefully.

“Heather, I don’t mind if you stay with me or that you do things for me when I ask, but I don’t want you to drop out. Take evening classes if you wish to keep helping me, but don’t…” How do you convince a Ghoul that there are more important things in life than kindred blood? With a sigh, you try again. “Listen, just keep going to college, okay?” Now you smile to her with what you hope is a gentle, reassuring smile instead of a sharp, hungry grimace. “Finish your studies and once we’re somewhere else, far away from Skyline and somewhere better, maybe you can start designing clothes for me. Before all of this I used to have quite a luxurious life and I do have an eye for good quality garments.”

The way Heather’s eyes light up is like a Christmas tree. She stares at you, eyes wide, mouth open, smile so big it’s impossible that her cheeks are not hurting. And then you feel her fingers grip the roll of money tighter and you pat her hand. “Thank you, Mistress! I will! I will! I’m sorry I didn’t think about how my degree could serve you, but I see that now! Thank you.”

With a turn on her heel, Heather literally skips to the stairs and bounces down, humming to herself happily. Amused, you observe her with a smile and then chuckle slightly, then shake your head. She’s so easy to please and you don’t disapprove of that at all. In a world of difficult kindred you are happy to have someone who wears their motivations and emotions on her sleeve.

Despite Heather’s cute humming and partial singing as she rummages through the kitchen, which you are assume she is stocking with kine food after hearing plastic and paper bags rustle, you turn on the radio and sit by your computer. Entering the ever-ironic password you see that you have three emails. One of them is a spam, something about dick enlargement pills again, another one is from Sebastian. It has nothing beyond the time, date and location, which you presume is for your Adoption. Friday, 2AM, Venture Tower. Nothing unusual here. However, what is unusual is the last email titled: Let’s meet

You click on it and skim the short message, then lean back in your chair, doing it all over again. Your eyes flick to the sender’s email address, you don’t recognize it but it doesn’t matter, and then you reread the email again:

The Pier. Tonight. 9s wants to meet you. 1AM. – D

You don’t need to be a genius to know that Damsel sent this and that Nines wants to meet you. For a moment you find it funny how she’s trying to be cryptic but ends up being blatantly obvious anyway. Thankfully, the computer clock shows that you have about an hour to get to the Pier and that should be enough if your car didn’t get broken into again. You just had it fixed after last time, courtesy of Heather taking care of it and returning it to you last night, which she announced with a note she left on your bed. But should you go?

Nines went into hiding after LaCroix announced the Blood Hunt. Meeting him might be dangerous. And what if it’s his plan to, well, you don’t know, maybe kidnap you and try to negotiate with the Prince. You very much doubt it would work, of course, but Anarchs might be stupid enough to try since, if Bertram is to be believed, entirety of LA is buzzing with gossip about you and Sebastian.

Still, you can’t deny that you’re curious. Maybe they want you to be a mediator, although you are not sure what you could even do to call off the Blood Hunt. Sebastian, for all his shortcomings, does not seem like the type of guy to fuck around with such orders nor is he the one to go back on them on a whim, or if you ask him real real nice.

Sighing, you read the email again. Shit, you have to go, you know you do. Not for Nines or Damsel or Anarchs and not for Camarilla or LaCroix, but because you don’t want to miss out on any potential chance to advance yourself. And even if it is just Anarchs trying to contact seemingly one Camarilla member (although you’re not really a member yet, as Strauss pointed it out so politely to you before) that is willing to talk to them. A benefit is a benefit and if you can somehow avoid both sects hating you then that simply makes your unlife all the easier.

You log out of your email, pick up your purse with a gun in it, throw on a jacket and head downstairs where you finally feed. Heather’s blood is rich, thick and warm as you gulp it down. It nourishes you, heals your bruises and sore flesh, mending last remnants of the explosive encounter from last night and you stand with your Ghoul limp in your arms for a moment longer, enjoying the sensation of warmth spreading through you. Only when that feeling begins to fade as quickly as it envelops you, you lay Heather on the couch, take off her glasses putting them on a coffee table and leave, with radio quietly keeping the unconscious woman company.

Ride to the Pier is enjoyable. Cool night air, warmth of the summer night, Deb of Night playing your favorite song as you make a turn and inhale deeply. With every passing mile you smell salt in the air more and more. And then not long after that you begin to hear gentle lapping of waves against stone and wood.

When you park you lock the car and head down to the beach. You stop for a moment when your shoes sink ever so slightly into the sand and your gaze turns to the old barrel that was used by the thin-bloods that you met here before. E and his lover Lilly. Now they are gone, spooked away because of what is happening in LA. You cannot blame them, you would leave too if you could but you can’t. Not because you’re more than just a thin-blood, not because you have nowhere else to go, but because you are working towards something here, and then there’s Sebastian.

You wonder what he’s doing right now as you walk the sandy strip to the stairs and climb them, looking around for any sign of Nines or maybe even Damsel. You don’t know if she will be here, but considering you have been cordial towards one another before, or what counts for being cordial when it comes to Damsel, you expect her to be here too and not want to snap your spine in two. That’s what you hope for. Reality, you know, might be wildly different from your expectations.

Stopping by the arcade you take note of some goth kids playing one machine that has Call of Duty on the side, partially obscured by their bodies. You observe them for a while, watching them laugh and yell when the pinball doesn’t cooperate in the way they want and you realize you’re smiling. You remember when you were so young, but that’s not the part that’s getting you nostalgic right now. It’s the fact that they are alive. So alive it’s almost painful to observe.

They won’t have to worry about politics with fangs and stakes. They won’t have to worry about sunlight or the Beast. They won’t have to worry about what it is to accept that you’re a monster now, a predator designed to kill rather than create. They won’t know… they won’t know…

Smile disappears from your face and you feel like you’re choking up. The kids are still hooting and hollering, one kicks the machine, another one claps his pal on the back. They don’t see you where you stand in the shadow and tears gather in your eyes. Maybe you weren’t the happiest in your previous life, but you were…

you.

Picking a handkerchief out of your pocket you dab with it under your eyes and get shocked when you see that the fabric is stained with blood. You didn’t realize that when vampires cry, they cry in blood. Urged to hide this from any mortals who might see you turn to the railing, facing the ocean, and quickly clean up. Thankfully you have a small hand mirror in your purse and so you don’t have an issue with this task. Yet with sorrow you realize that it’s just another thing that makes you monstrous unlike those goth kids in the arcade. For them every day is Halloween if they choose, but it’s a choice they can make. You don’t have such luxury.

With an inhale of salty air you look back at them, then sigh and pack up your purse again before you proceed further along the Pier. You can’t allow your sentimentality get the better of you, not now. Another lapse in vigilance like this could lead to your Final Death and you may have lost your previous life, but this one still has things to offer and that’s something you’re not willing to let go quite just yet.

As you look around you don’t see anything out of the ordinary. Besides the kids at the arcade you see some couples walking the pier, one or two bums digging through the trashcans, but not much else. You make your way to the spot where a body has been strung up before, cops milling about and gossiping about strange claw marks, but nothing there either.

Then, as you look left and right while walking farther, you hear a short whistle and look who it might be. Behind a corner of a closed snack shop, you notice a pale face, red painted lips and a beret covering the top of crimson hair. Damsel.

With vigilance you look around if anyone is watching you, confirming that no one is, and rush to Damsel while trying to keep your heels off the wooden planks so that you make as little sound as possible.

“Took you your sweet ass time.” She hisses when you make behind the corner and you glare at her.

“I’m on time, you bitch.”

“Made us wait anyway, Cammy bootlicker.”

“Can you two settle down.” A male voice you immediately recognize as Nines’, even without spending much time with him, interrupts the brewing argument and you both look at him.

Nines comes from around another corner, hands in pockets in show of his harmless intentions, but his eyes remain focused and sharp, bouncing from you to Damsel and then to the pier behind you that is lit by the lampposts. “Come here, I shouldn’t be this much in the open.”

Glancing at Damsel and with her looking briefly back at you, you two follow Nines behind the shop where it’s just a narrow passageway against the railing. It’s not too secluded or private or even secure, but at least it’s not like standing in the middle of a Pier, just waiting for a shot between the eyes.

“Why am I here?” You ask and Nines sighs, then looks at Damsel as if wanting for her to go away, but she’s firmly planted where she’s standing and just looks back at him with determination. Or maybe defiance. Maybe even both. You don’t focus on that right now, but noticing how protective she is of Nines nearly makes you smile. You push it down.

“You’re close to LaCroix, right. There’s rumors.” Nines starts and you have to do your best not to roll your eyes. Of course there are rumors. Goddamn it. “I won’t retell them right now, but let’s say they imply that you have a more personal relation with the Prince than I first thought when meeting you.”

“You suckin’ his cock, Cammy?” Damsel snarls and you refuse to look at her, focusing on Nines who scalds the redhair with a glare equal a death threat.

“And the point of this is?” Folding arms on your chest you try not to feel irritated. Not because the rumors are correct or that they are spreading, but because both Nines and Damsel for sure see something like this as if it’s an immortal stain upon your very soul.

Nines hesitates for a moment, affixes Damsel with another glare clearing telling her to keep her mouth shut, then turns his pale eyes to you. “I want to know why Blood Hunt was called.”

You frown a little, confused. “Don’t you know?”

“I know what LaCroix officially had said, but I want to know what really happened. I didn’t think he would risk an open war with us and yet here we are.” For a brief moment you notice Nines’ clenching his fists in jeans’ pockets. You wonder how much effort is it taking him not to lash out.

What can you tell him? That you’re at fault? That what you said to Sebastian is what led to this? You glance at Damsel and she’s watching you like a hawk, not even blinking. When you turn your gaze back to Nines, he’s waiting patiently. You know, and you don’t know how you know this but you do, that Nines won’t let you walk off if you tell him that you don’t know anything.

“You assume just because there are rumors I know anything of LaCroix’s plans? Please.” You scoff and that’s not a lie. Maybe you can tell them nothing if you keep telling these half-truths.

“You’re a Ventrue too. Maybe he has an inclination to include you more than he would another fledgling.” Nines is clearly trying to tease the information out of you, like a fabric stuck beneath a heavy couch.

“He gives some favors because we’re in the same Clan, like the Skyline apartment and some more allowance but that’s about it.” You shrug, trying to keep yourself nonchalant.

Suddenly, before you can even react, being too tense and too focused on Nines, Damsel lashes out, her bent arm is against your throat, crushingly strong and you gawp at her, trying to inhale out of habit and still deeply ingrained instinct of breathing. Her face is close and you smell smoke and decay. But her eyes take up your entire world. Pale, sharp and angry. “We know about your little Adoption, you Cammy whore! Tell us what you know!” She doesn’t yell, but it’s a sharp hiss that sprays spittle upon your face and you grimace with disgust.

“Damsel!” Nines jumps in, prying her arm away from your throat and you glare at Nines as you rub your neck.

“Yes, I’m sure it’s the charming personalities of your gang that are so welcoming to the kindred.” Is all you say while Nines is trying to keep his grip on Damsel. She in turn tries to get at you, snarling unlike an animal.

“Shut your mouth!” She rises her voice and Nines tries to hush her. It’s unsuccessful until he steps in between you and her. Whatever exchange they have, a nonverbal one, you do not see. Instead you straighten your back and brush the front of your shirt with your palms.

“Even if I know anything, you assume I’ll tell now?” Whispering, you try to speak to Nines and after a moment longer he finally takes his hands off Damsel and turns to you, still blocking her view of you with his back.

“I just want to know what’s going on.” He frowns and you raise an eyebrow, maybe a tad too arrogantly, but you can’t help yourself.

“As if you don’t know. You killed Grout, that’s all there is to it. Someone saw you.”

Nines’ lip curls with a restrained snarl of anger but he nods slightly, not taking his eyes off yours. “That’s what I have been told I have done.”

“Told?” You scoff and nod to Damsel behind him. “That’s what you told her too? That you’re innocent?”

“You-!”

“Damsel!” Nines throws a bark behind him and you only hear a disgruntled huff, but the woman remains quiet. “I am innocent, fledgling.” He continues his conversation with you, arms limp by his sides, but you know he’s ready to act at a moment’s notice. “Don’t believe what LaCroix is telling you.”

You frown, eyeing Nines head to toe. You’re not sure what his deal is. Why he would try to convince you that he’s not culpable when-

He doesn’t know it was you.

Swallowing with tension you look into his eyes again. Only now you realize that if it was Nines there, he wouldn’t need this whole charade, he would know that you saw him at Grout’s mansion. That it was you who pointed Rodriguez to LaCroix and was the cause for the Blood Hunt that the Prince dropped upon Nines.

He doesn’t know, but you do.

With your mind reeling and picking your words with extreme care, you clear your throat, stalling for time. You know you have to talk and you glance to the side of Nines, seeing only Damsel’s arm moving, like she’s folding and unfolding it, then back to Nines’ face. “If I believe you, what do you want me to do about it? I can’t change his mind.”

A hint of surprise washes over Nines’ expression but he exhales and shakes his head ever so slightly. “No, I’m not asking for you to debate with LaCroix on my behalf.” Then there’s another hint, one of anger, but he composes himself before it takes over and steps towards you. He’s not that much taller than you, but this close you can smell perfume, grass and gunpowder on Nines, making him appear imposing and intimidating. “I just want to know who pointed at me.”

Your throat contracts, the tension is palpable and you know that you either sell him the lie or all hell breaks loose in about two seconds. So you hold his gaze and you don’t step back, despite the wall behind you being only mere inches away. You could dart to one side or another, but you know Damsel would be on you in a moment even if Nines somehow let you slip by. Shit, you’ve been through fights, many of them by this point, but you never felt this sure, bar that one time when LaCroix was furious and fucked you on a carpet in his office, that your next words will decide more than just the state of your wellbeing.

“I do not know. Sebastian is not sharing these things with me.” Your words are slow, each syllable measured to be even, calm and give off a sense of truthfulness. “All he told me when I returned to the mansion is that someone saw you there and asked what I saw.” Realizing you’re treading close to revealing yourself, you add with unease. “I met a hunter there, some sort of guy who called himself Bach. I thought it was him who killed Grout, but he seemed unaware of that either. That’s all I know, Nines.”

Seconds tick pass, or at the very least it feels like that. Eye contact remains unbroken and neither of you blink. You sense Nines’ powers or maybe it is his emotions that you feel, you cannot be sure, but you allow him to stare at you for as long as he wishes, trying to discern if you’re telling the truth.

“You’re not going to believe her, are you?” Damsel pipes up and you feel a muscle in your face twitch but you still don’t move. Nines remains silent as a grave for a moment longer, then his shoulders appear to relax.

“I think I do believe her.” He eyes your face and despite Damsel swearing behind him and kicking something into the water, Rodriguez remains still, then leans closer.

Your eyes widen and your first instinct is to lean back, but then you stop yourself, letting Nines short beard brush against your cheek right before he whispers into your ear. “If I find out that you do know and are lying…” He inhales through what sounds like clenched teeth and your jaw tightens. “Then both you and that dick you ride won’t leave the LA unless it’s in an urn.”

The same muscle twitches again and you try to keep your face otherwise blank of emotion but when Nines pulls back, he suddenly grabs you by the back of your neck, tugging you to him but not so that you run into his body and his thumb presses painfully into your cheek. He sees how fury immediately flares up in your eyes, but you say nothing, just grimace with anger. Giving your head one sharp shake, then another, he digs his thumb in deeper, pulling your lips askew until he sees a fang. “I don’t know what your deal is and truthfully, I do not care to know. But keep this in mind – you chose the wrong side.”

Then Nines releases you with a sudden and rude shove to your face, making you stumble slightly to the side. Looking at him through the hair strands now loose upon your eyes, you swipe the back of your hand over your lips and scoff. “I’ve done nothing to you.”

“Not yet. Eventually you might. Try not to and who knows, maybe, just maybe, we can work together. But I know where your loyalties lie, even if you’re not lying to me right now.” Nines looks away, towards Damsel who is observing the scene with quiet anger. “Let’s go, this was a waste of time.”

She casts one more glance in your direction but follows Rodriguez who takes a turn around the shop and you listen to the footsteps until they disappear. Then and only then you lean against the wall of the shop and exhale, closing your eyes. Shit, it wasn’t supposed to go this way.

So much for the meet and greet, you smirk to yourself and sigh, lifting your face to the night sky. You could use a smoke but you have none. Back in your mortal life you used to be a social smoker and completely forgot about it since your Embrace, but now… now you would appreciate that familiar foul taste in your mouth and the delicately burning ember in your fingers.

Well, no point in lamenting that. So you spend another moment to smoothen your clothes, your hair and tug the strap of your purse back onto your shoulder. Then you’re off. You have no other plans tonight and you prefer to lay in bed and think of the Adoption anyway. It’s in two days and there are many things to consider before then. Presence of Strauss officiating the whole deal is probably the most concerning one. Not because he’s a threat, but because despite Maximillian being cordial and even friendly with you he’s still a Tremere and blood magic, admittedly, disturbs you.

A sudden palm over your mouth to muffle the scream that erupts from your throat, arms around your body pinning your hands to you, and then your feet leave the wooden planks. You don’t know what’s happening, it’s so sudden, you didn’t even hear anyone approaching and when you quickly scan around yourself with eyes only, that’s when you see them. The typical Sabbat shmucks, similar to the ones who attacked you the moment you arrived to Downtown. Except this time Nines is not here to save you.

One of them, and there’s four of them this time including the one holding you, steps forwards like a de facto leader and snarls with a grin. You smell stench of old blood and rot on his breath, wincing with disgust.

“What is it, little girl, pissing your panties already?” He chuckles and the others echo it like it was the best joke they have ever heard. You frown at this and the man tilts his head slightly, like you’re a specimen in a petri dish. “No buddies to save you, eh?”

You can’t answer, but you don’t move either. Struggling right now would be futile so you just stare down the enemy in front of you, bidding your time. It can’t be the end, you think. Not even they would be willing to break the Masquerade because someone might come around. Too big of a risk even for Sabbat’s lackeys. Well, you hope it is, at least.

“Don’t worry, we have a little present. From us to your beloved Prince.” His grin is wider than should be possible and you quickly glance at the other two behind him, but they are just chuckling like brainless apes. Who knows, maybe the shovelheads are indeed brainless. But what do they want with you?

The answer comes in a form of a wooden stake that the leader slowly takes out from behind himself where it was tucked into his belt. As if trying to create a dramatic effect, he brings it right before your eyes and you see that the wood is old, chipped, scuffed and caked in blood of who knows how many kindred. Fuck, maybe kine too, you can never be sure with these nutcases.

“See this?” The leader giggles like a schoolgirl at her first dance. “This will send the Prince a nice message.” The stake gets drawn back and you watch how the man pulls his arm back. Your eyes widen despite yourself. Someone, anyone? Nobody?!! Nobody will come?! “One that tells him that he shouldn’t send his bitches to meddle with us!”

The arm swings, the stake pierces the air and then you choke out a pained gasp into a dirty palm pressing against your mouth. The strike goes through your chest and you feel it ripping your shirt at the back where it emerges. Strangely, the pain of your body comes second.

And then comes the dark.

──────────────────────────────────────────

For a moment you don’t know where you are. When you open your eyes the lights blind you and you wince, rising your arm to cover them from the brightness that is assaulting your vision. And then you feel it.

Pain.

Everywhere, exploding in your body like a chain reaction. You moan, then whine and eventually scream through clenched teeth as agony wracks through your body like a deadly stampede. You try to move, but besides that one arm you draped over your closed eyes, you’re not capable of action any longer.

“Fuck…” You whine, your voice broken and weak. The worst is the pain in your chest where you vaguely, through the daze of agony, recall being staked. Forcing yourself to move at last, you let your arm slip off your face and you scowl at the light but blink slowly, trying to move as little as possible. Only then you realize that you have one eye swollen shut.

“Don’t!” A voice comes and you’re not quite sure who it is, not sure even of gender because you’re still trying to adapt to your new excruciating present. “Don’t touch her!” Ah, a male, some guy. Are you still with the Sabbat? Did they take you somewhere?

You move your eyes and even they feel like unoiled cogs in your skull, grating painfully when you turn them to the side. First you see your fingers, mangled, bloody and broken, then you look to the other side and finally recognition is beginning to dawn upon you. Gilded walls and ceilings, paintings, a crackle of a fireplace.

Only when these things settle in your consciousness is when you comprehend that you’re not alone. The man is here, it should’ve been easy to understand that but you’re so dazed that facts come in pieces of a fractured puzzle. He’s talking to someone, hard to understand what about even though his voice is not quiet or hushed.

“Leave! Leave now! Find those responsible! And k-!” A pause as your one good eye wanders the luxurious ceiling. “No, don’t kill them. Bring them to my haven. I will deal with them there.”

Footsteps. How many people? Two? Maybe more, impossible to tell. Another fact reaches your mind – your ear is full and you can barely hear. You are still too much out of it to understand that it’s your own blood that has coagulated there, acting like an earplug. More footsteps. It can’t be the Sabbat, can it? Why would they… No, but…

Your thoughts are jumbled, your body aches in a way that makes you think of your Embrace, maybe hurting a fraction less than that. So much pain, so much, so much…

Tears gather in your eyes and your vision swims with red. You can’t move. You’re too afraid to move. Even laying here, wherever you are, is a torturous existence. You can’t do this to yourself, you can’t make yourself move even a finger.

Yet, just before you sink deeper into pity of self and wallowing at your current state, a face appears above you. Worried pale blue eyes and knit blonde brows with couple strands of hair over one of them, lose from otherwise perfectly slicked back hairdo. “Was it Sabbat? It was them, wasn’t it?”

Sebastian.

You swallow, feeling like your throat has been slit but you don’t know if it’s just a feeling or your reality. He stares down at you, fury blazing in his eyes and lips tense with anger. “What were you doing there?” He demands and you try to open your mouth and speak, yet nothing comes out. How can he be so cruel and not see how you look like? You must look awful, judging alone from how you feel.

Maybe it’s the effort that you put in, maybe it’s the pleading look in your eyes, but Sebastian’s expression suddenly shifts from barely contained rage to something of a worry. Pity etches itself in his features and he sighs, bringing a hand up and stroking your hair. Only now you feel that something isn’t right there, right before you notice there’s blood on his hands.

What’s more, as you finally become more lucid, Sebastian is not wearing his jacket. Sleeves of his dark grey shirt are rolled up and his tie is nowhere to be seen. “They banged you up pretty well.” He says with another sigh and moves same hand from your head to the side of your face, gently stroking it there. “They left you for the sunrise. You were found on a Pier by…” He trails off then shakes his head just a little. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here now, safe.”

Despite your body being nothing but a field of pain, you feel soothed by his gentle touch and you relax, at last feeling the panic retreat to the dark crevices of your mind, set aside for another alarming situation that you are sure will happen in the future, endlessly. That’s your existence now.

“Here, let me help you.” Sebastian eyes your form and frowns slightly, unable to completely disguise his reaction because of how you look right now.

His inspecting gaze notices everything, all at once: the torn clothes, the broken bones, leg and an arm, including the fingers you too saw that were broken; the slashes and cuts, your abdomen crudely torn open, intestines glistening like dull snakes and dark in color; the hole in your chest where the stake was lodged before he himself removed it; the broken esophagus, your brutalized face and the incave in your skull are not the last of your injuries. He sighs again, kneeling by your side, hands bloody from when he gathered your insides and put them back into your body. That was merely fifteen minutes ago.

Unable to look at your destroyed form any longer, Sebastian gazes at your face. How did the bruising happen, he’s not too sure. If you fed recently, that may have mimicked mortal physical response to the abuse the Sabbat put you through. He wonders if they did all of this before or after staking you. Questions can wait, you’re in dire shape and yet he lingers, hesitating. Not because he doesn’t want to help you, but because that one eye that is trained on him is filled with such a desperate need. Yet it’s laced with tenderness, with… feeling that he didn’t expect. LaCroix’s plan wasn’t that. It wasn’t you, falling for him genuinely and truly.

Another sigh, why he cannot stop Sebastian doesn’t know either, but again it happens and he looks at his bloody hands, then blinks away the hesitation. He has to help you. You need it.

“Here.” He says again and brings a wrist to his lips, using a sharp fang to slice a razorblade-like line and only when the vitae begins to drip is when Sebastian lowers the wound to your lips. And you watch it, hungrily, your throat working so painfully you want to scream. After first few drops land on your lips, you agonizingly stick out your tongue and Prince sees that even this appendage of yours is trembling with strain. This can never happen again.

You don’t hear what Sebastian says, maybe it’s meant for himself and not for you, but then his wrist is pressed to your lips and you close your eye, letting his cold, rich blood trickle down your throat. That part of you starts restoring itself first. When it does, you begin sucking on the wound, drawing blood into you. More, more, more…

“Slowly, you’re in a very unfortunate state, my dear. You need to be careful.” Sebastian says gently and you’re sure you never heard him this tender before, but that gets immediately ignored. The moment your body begins mending itself is when your Beast wakes, needing and craving for more blood. Yearning to escape the agony of Its fleshy chamber of torture.

You don’t feel anything else. Neither the alarm or even a speck of shame. You rise, your body moving on its own. Grabbing onto the wrist that is providing you with salvation, with a salve to soothe your hurts, you pull yourself into a sitting position. Sebastian’s first instinct is to reel back, but he remains where he is and just smiles softly. And he sees what is happening too. How something in your eye that snaps back to him is feral, yet familiar.

He lets you feed.

And feed you do, but the more you drink, the more you need. And you don’t stop moving. First you sit up, then lean into the wrist, gripping it with both hands. Bones crunch as your fingers set themselves back and you use them too to hold your prey still. But that’s not enough, still not enough and you get to your knees, with a stagger nearly falling into LaCroix’s lap but he steadies you with his other hand. “Here, here.” He soothes again like you’re a babe who just scraped a knee and yet it’s something more intimate, more tender.

Sebastian guides you to him, letting you press your still broken body to his, keeping your intestines inside because you’re right against him. Your hands grip his shoulders, bloody smears appearing even on a dark fabric and you hold on for a moment then your mouth detaches from Prince’s wrist. Blood drips from your lips. His blood, and Sebastian smiles, not reacting when you suddenly grab his jaw with your slick with crimson fingers, harshly turning his head to the side and eye his neck.

“Go ahead, my dear. You need this.” Encouraging words make it even through the fog in your mind and you hesitate for a second, eyes flicking over Sebastian’s face, but seeing that same accepting, calm expression there, you can’t stop yourself. Nor do you want to.

Opening your mouth you focus on the vein there, bluish beneath his pale, colorless skin. Then you descend, sinking your fangs deeply, biting his flesh with the rest of your teeth like a feral dog. So that he doesn’t pull back. So that he doesn’t escape. And then you drink.

Mouthfuls of blood begin filling your stomach in quick succession and you hear Sebastian moan by your ear. A moan of ecstasy, of pleasure, and his hands encircle you tightly, holding you like he never wants to let you go. Sebastian doesn’t tell you to slow down, instead he just keeps you against him and lets you drain him.

More and more and more. Your vision fills with a different kind of red, not like the one you experienced from tears. No, this one is a blinding shade of scarlet and you almost lose yourself. Just like that, almost a hair away that you nearly give into the Beast, almost consume. But you put everything you have in you, the willpower, the very soul and your undeniable feelings for Sebastian. You think of them and you resist, peeling your mouth away from his neck with a deep gasp just to choke down last of the blood before you gulp down any more. Trembling, you collapse in his hands and cling to the shirt that’s now completely soaked through at the front.

“Are you alright?” Sebastian’s voice is but a whisper and you nod slightly, resting against his chest while the Prince strokes your hair even though it’s matted in blood. “Rest, but we will need to wash you up before you can leave.”

“It-“ You pause, cough and Sebastian pats your back gently. “It was the Sabbat.” With your voice sounding gravely and rough, you remember his earlier question and to your surprise you feel Sebastian’s body lose some tension.

“Only they would be such savages with someone like you.” He admits and gently lifts your face to him by your chin. You can see him properly now, the swelling already went away and the Prince looks tired, his eyes sunken. You did this to him, drained so much of his blood. Yet your heart fills with warmth so much that you almost choke on it.

Oh God, you really love him…

“Sebastian.” You start but he scoffs with mild amusement.

“No need to apologize. Be thankful instead.”

“No, that’s not-“

“Shh.” He croons and presses his lips against yours, taking away the words that you want to say, feelings that you want to confess. Of course you kiss him back, but you want him to know. You need him to know.

Pulling back slightly, you rise a trembling hand and caress the side of his temple, brushing those lose strands away from his forehead. “Sebastian, listen-“

“Your Adoption is in two days, my dear.” He says and your eyes focus on his instead of wandering all over his face. “What is that important that I have to know right now? You just got better. Is it something the Sabbat said?” While Sebastian speaks, he too rises his hand and unsticks a hair strand from your forehead. The gesture is tender, almost loving in nature and you swallow heavily.

“No, it’s… it’s not important.” You force a smile upon your face, however small and Sebastian nods, satisfied by your answer.

“You need to learn to prioritize, my dear. Right now that priority is getting you back on your feet. You may have fed generously, but you will need more. You are not fully healed.” Now it’s your turn to nod while he keeps pushing your stiff with dried blood hair strands away from your face.

Still, you try to protest, however carefully. “I feel better.”

“Of course you do, you drank my blood and quite a bit of it too.” With a chuckle Sebastian looks into your eyes again. “You’re tougher than I thought. But I’m sure that credit goes to me as well.” You’re still slightly confused and it takes you a moment to understand that he’s making a jest, about you drinking his blood. Again your heart fills with immeasurable warmth and you let out an unexpected laugh, feeling happy despite what happened to you. “There, you’re smiling.”

You don’t know what to say or even if you should, so instead of speaking you lay your weary head on Sebastian’s shoulder and close your eyes. He resumes his careful strokes, this time over your back, and you listen to him simulate breathing like he’s trying to further soothe you.

People say everybody hurts, but not you. Not tonight. Not while you’re in Sebastian’s arms like this.

You want to stay like this forever.

[pedriache]

HEYYY i wanted to req an arda fic cause thats my BAE fr🤞 so it goes like this arda and fem!reader are good friends (who secretly like each other) and then one night their feelings come out SOMEHOW and then after they like start kissing/making out and its just this emotional moment between them that theyve been waiting for for so long😋😋😇 UGH I CANT I LOVE HIM

Midnight love — Arda Güler.

Pairing: Arda Güler x Fem!Reader

Summary: Telling your best friend a guy asked you out would usually be an exciting moment, both equally excited. But after telling Arda, he only seemed nonchalant, not necessarily caring. And you would be damned if you didn’t figure out why.

Word count: 1.04k

Disclaimer/s: none! just a little jealous!arda though..

A/N: ARDA REQS MAKE ME A VERY HAPPY WRITER. Wait I lowkey don’t know if I followed this req very well… feel free to ask for more i’ll try harder next time😅

The sky above twinkled with a billion stars. You loved visiting Arda’s family home on the outskirts of Altındağ. It was rare when he was home, that you’d have time to do so, but you’d gotten lucky by having a four day weekend.

Now, you two both sat on the back patio, your heads tilted at an awkward angle to watch the stars, a tradition you’d had since you both were kids.

“Oh!” You suddenly shoot upright, causing the boy to do the same, his eyes shining in surprise. Your heart flutters as you look at him. He looked so good tonight. “You’ll never guess what happened at work the other day. I’ve been meaning to tell you all day!”

Curiosity takes Arda over as he leans back on the couch, his head lulling to the side with a smile, “yeah? Tell me what?”

“Okay, y’know that one guy, Marcus? The one who I work the morning shift with?” You continue slowly, building up anticipation.

Arda’s eyes, still glued on you, narrow at the mention of Marcus. You’d brought him up during a few facetime calls, but it never seemed too important. Plus, Arda never enjoyed hearing you talk about men like that.

“What about him?” Arda clears his throat, not knowing why this conversation was starting to get in his nerves as it’d just started. It could mean nothing. Marcus, could mean nothing.

You lean back on the couch, “he asked me out.” You shrug.

So he did mean something. Right. Okay.

“Oh, that’s cool.” Is all he says.

That’s it. No ‘congratulations’ or excitement. Just, ‘oh, that’s cool.’ ?? His face even lacked emotion and he’d diverted his attention back to the sky, pushing aside the conversation like it was nothing.

Your eyebrows scrunch together, “that’s all?”

Arda’s eyes flicker to yours, a look of confusion on his face. “Yeah? What else am I supposed to say?”

Now you were just flat out peeved. “Uhm, I don’t know? Something other than your monotonous ‘that’s cool’” You mock his voice, “I mean, seriously?”

Pursing his lips, Arda looks to the stars, silently begging them for the right words. He knew exactly why what you said had him acting like a dick, he just couldn’t admit it. If he did, that meant he could potentially ruin what you two had. If he didn’t, and you were going to go on that date, he’d potentially lose you for good.

You, on the other hand, weren’t afraid to admit how much you liked Arda. You’d known for years, but he was always so.. confusing, so you chose to keep it to yourself. Now you could move on, but now he was acting like this.

“What’s your actual fucking problem.” You laugh dryly, your eyes burning holes into his head.

“Congrats!” Arda sighs, “I hope that date goes well, i’m happy for you.”

Pursing your lips, you cross your arms. “I didn’t say I said yes.”

You didn’t say yes… You didn’t say yes?

The boys brown eyes flicker toward yours, “what?”

“Yeah, I said no—why are you smiling?” Your eyebrows furrow, noticing the way his lips had tugged upwards ever so slightly.

“Smiling?” His face falters, “i’m not smiling?”

“I literally saw your lips twitch, you were totally smiling!?” You laugh, although it was more out of confusion than actual humor. “Fuck are you smiling about?”

Arda shrugs, his lips pulling into an amused, thin line. “Nothing, nothing.”

You don’t let up though, “bullshit.”

“I—“ He huffs, “I’m just surprised you’d turn him down. You’ve been complaining about being single recently, so I find it funny that you turned him down, that’s all!”

Yeah, I wonder why i’d do that. You think. Because of you. How can you not tell?

You hadn’t noticed you’d dazed off, your mind wandering to Arda once again. How could he not notice how you feel after all these years? With how many hints you’d dropped, it seems crazy to think he doesn’t know. Maybe he did, maybe he was just avoiding it because—

“Hello? Earth to you?” Arda’s waving his hand in front of your face.

Blinking, you pull yourself together. “Y’know.. For someone so smart, you really are stupid.” You sigh, your shoulders slumping slightly as you look at him.

“What?” He’s the one speechless now.

“You’re just very oblivious, it’s insane, honestly.” You didn’t mean it in a rude way, you were just baffled. “I rejected Marcus, because I didn’t want him to ask me out, I wanted—“ You shut yourself up, your mouth snapping shut.

Arda’s eyes search yours, his heart hammering in his chest. “You wanted me to.” He finishes for you.

“Yeah.” You admit, hesitantly looking back to him. “But—“

“No!” He interrupts, “no, no ‘buts’, please.” Arda’s eyes soften, his hands reaching out to cup your cheeks. You hadn’t realized until now how close you were, how close you had been.

“Oh.” You clear your throat, “okay.”

“I didn’t want Marcus taking you out either, i’m just pissed he had the courage to do it before I did, I was being a baby.” He rambles, “i’m sorry.”

“Can we just stop talking.” You ask, leaning into his touch, your eyes flickering from his eyes to his lips. “Please?”

Arda feels his chest swell a few sizes as he takes a second to stare at you, overwhelmed with emotions he’d tried to bury for so long.

“Of course,” he whispers, lips brushing against yours delicately.

With one hand cupping your cheek, the other trails down to your hip, pulling you impossibly closer. He was lost in you, and you in him. Every feeling you’d felt for each other prominent in the way neither of you seemed to need more air. Your breaths mingled in between kisses, smiles mirroring each other.

You, finally pulling away, giggle. The sound music to Arda’s ears. He grins at you, placing two kisses on your flushed cheeks.

“I should’ve done that a long time ago.” He murmurs, head resting in the nape of your neck where he leaves another soft kiss.

“Yeah, you should’ve.” You hum, pulling his face away to look at it, taking in his lopsided grin. His eyes, his nose, oh you were so screwed.

DTS , @halfwayhearted <3

[darkluminosity]

1,6,11,12,13 for the writeblr ask game :)

Hi anon! 👋🏼 Thanks for the questions! This is going to be quite a long post since there are five questions to answer 😅

1. What was your writing-highlight this year? What made it special and how will you reflect on it next year?

The biggest writing highlight for me was starting to post my work at all. It was initially terrifying to think about sharing my writing with the world, especially online, where people can hide behind their keyboards. But what made it special is that by doing so, I've made some really wonderful friends and have learned a TON about myself, writing, and other neat things! (Plus, it's so heartwarming to know I'm not alone in my writing struggles, lol.) I'm excited to continue this journey with other writers, especially delving into other methods of writing, POVs, characters, genres, maybe even co-writing... it's been fun!! I have a lot of ideas and want to challenge myself in the new year. 😉

6. Did you make any new writeblr friends? give a shout-out! if not, it's time to praise one of your old besties <3

Yes, I made some dear moots! Huge shoutout to @fi-niamh for being my first AO3 friend and for the enormous support in encouraging me to start sharing my writing in the first place.

Also a shoutout to @chaotic-snowflake for the major help with my action scenes (I'm thanking you in advance lol), for some beta reading and for helping me to jump on board the Kaeya train lol 😆 (and lastly, for the fun co-op times!)

Also a shout out to @kimoawo for being my first writer friend who's also a fellow Diluc main! I appreciate the gift fic you did so much too 🥰 and the co-op memories!

You three Genshin fanfic writers have specifically inspired me so much through your writing and through our interactions ❤️ I appreciate you!!

Also shout outs to my other writer and creator friends @agirlandherquill, @17panicattacksinatrenchcoat, @jaysc0ve, @deadghostgirl12345 and @mousiekosmos!

11. Which scene was harder/easier to write than anticipated? why?

I'll answer these for Fighting Winter since that's my main WIP right now.

The chapter with Kaeya going into town was probably my first major hurdle, only because I've never written so many different characters in one chapter before. But Kaeya helped to move that one along.

Chapter 17 (Panic) was one of the toughest overall so far, because it was just really long.. I also had various ideas I wanted to capture and keep in one chapter. I could see some parts very clearly in my mind, but putting the scene into words and having the proper emotional buildup was tricky. Plus, I had to think about some of the details and do some research.

The first four chapters of Fighting Winter were easier to write than I expected. I wrote the first drafts on a 5-hour plane ride and while waiting in lines at the airport. And chapter 4 is still my absolute favorite (along with chapter 17) 🥰

12. If your character(s) had their own new year's resolutions, what would those be?

Hm, I'm not sure how to answer this... they're not my characters lol (I'm borrowing them 😆).

In the context of Fighting Winter (at the moment), Eula would probably resolve to learn more about Diluc. Kaeya wants to truly reconcile with Diluc, and Diluc just wants to break the curse and protect Eula.

In general (outside of Fighting Winter), I don't know what their new year's resolutions would be. I think Diluc and Eula would resolve to protect Mondstadt, although their methods are different. And I'm not sure if Kaeya would have any formal new year's resolutions 🤔 I feel like he goes with the flow on things.

13. How did you change as a writer? did you learn anything new? started to plan instead of pants? share your wisdom!

The most important writing tip I've learned is to enjoy the journey instead of always focusing on the end goals (whether it's finishing the story, writing a certain amount of words per day or staying on a strict schedule, etc.) and I'm also learning to take care of myself along the way. 💙 I've been using writing to help me learn more about myself and to challenge myself to grow as a person.

[queen-scribbles]

Overdue

Title's ironic now, since this is a few days late. 😅 Happy birthday to my best beloved @haledamage, Tragen/Marii won out for your present again, hope you enjoy! ^^ ---

For the first time in he couldn't remember how long--perhaps since founding the Alliance--Tragen was relieved to walk into the training room and find he had company.

Of course, that was likely due to who the company was. "Aramarii."

She paused mid-stretch, turning toward him with arms still raised over her head. "Tragen." She finished the stretch and let her arms fall, weight settling on one leg. "To what do I owe the honor, Commander?"

He chuckled sheepishly at her teasing tone. "I believe I'm a few days overdue for our rematch, Battlemaster Wrinn." He tipped his head toward the weapons rack on one wall. "If you have the time...?"

In answer, Marii extended one hand toward the rack and a pair of quarterstaves flew to her grasp. She offered him with a wry smile. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten."

"Never." Even were he not the type to keep his promises, there was something compelling about her. Something that drew him in, made him want to know her better.

Something, he was sure, completely unrelated to the kiss that ended their last match.

Much as he had enjoyed it.

Tragen shooed the thought away, holding the quarterstaff at the ready as the two started circling. "A commander's work is never done, even with assistance, but I told you I'd be free for a rematch."

"And you always keep your word?" Marii probed, her gaze going from his feet to his shoulders to his face.

"As much as it is in my power." He studied her in return; her brown hair loose, the tension in her muscles, hunger in her Force presence.

The anticipation broke a moment later, as she lunged forward with sure steps, her staff clacking against his when he blocked. "Where did the Sith find you?"

A mirthless chuckle as he turned the block into a strike of his own, the memory a dark one. "On my way home from school."

She barely dodged, surprise flickering in her sense. Though whether at the words or the fact he'd shared them, he couldn't tell. He took advantage of the opening, regardless. The first strike hit just above her elbow, the second she blocked.

"Shame the Jedi didn't beat them to it," she mused, aiming a low slash at his knees.

He sidestepped, struck at her midriff. It was a thought he'd had more than once, but, "You know what the philosophers say; our experiences make us who we are."

Marii twisted away from his strike, swung a backhand that caught him across the shoulder blade. "True. It's hard to argue with the end result." Her staff clashed against his and she leaned on it for leverage. "Though our paths might have crossed earlier..."

Tragen shifted his stance to press harder into resisting her, but didn't end their stalemate. Not yet. "And how might that have gone, one wonders."

"One does." She braced leaning in, so close he could see the sweat beginning to bead at her hairline.

"Although" --he pushed back slightly, then sidestepped when she bore down harder-- "don't the Jedi have rules about certain things?"

Marii stumbled forward, recovering to twist away from his follow up. Quick on her feet, this one. And her recklessness meant there wasn't much of a plan to parse, just educated guesswork based on what he knew of her.

Which wasn't nearly as much, thus far, as he wanted.

"They have rules about a lot of things," she said, smirking at him and twirling her staff, lunging as she goaded, "was there a particular one you had- in- mind-?"

He deflected her flurry of strikes that punctuated the last few words. "I believe you could hazard a guess, Aramarii" --he knocked aside her staff, ducked behind her and used his to pull her back flush against his chest so the next words were all but whispered in her ear-- "considering how our last match ended."

She stilled, breath catching, skin warm through both his tank top and hers. "If memory serves," she cocked her had to slant a look at him, "you were quite happy with that interruption, Tragen." She got a hand up and pushed the staff enough to slip free.

"Touché," he chuckled, watching her dance back out of reach. She bit her lip and he grinned. "Perhaps we should see if we can actually complete this one, hm?"

Marii spun her staff with a flick of her wrist. "That sounded like a challenge."

Tragen arched a brow. "Perhaps it was."

She feinted left, attacked midline, and the next few minutes were a blur of attacks, parries, one nearly cornering the other before tables turned. She was very good, among the best he'd fought, and he could see how she'd earned the role Battlemaster, he thought, as she was crowding in close one moment and halfway across the room the next. He had the sense of her rhythm, though. Knew her pattern.

And thus it ended with Marii's back against the wall, Tragen's quarterstaff pinning hers to the durasteel above their heads, both breathing hard as gazes locked.

Her chin tipped up expectantly.

In the split stuttered heartbeat before he could close what little distance remained, Tragen's comm beeped.

He very nearly dropped the damnable thing on the floor and stepped on it. But his equally damnable sense of responsibility had him pushing off the wall, dropping his staff to the floor and feeling frustration from Marii the mirror of his own as he clicked to reply. "Yes?"

"Everything alright, Commander?" Theron, his voice torn between concern and curiosity.

"Sparring. Good workout," Tragen deflected, arching a brow when Marii smothered a snort of laughter, leaning her head back against the wall. He raked loose hair back toward his ponytail, only just realizing its disheveled state. "Did you need something?"

Things being what they were, of course he did. There had been contact, someone claiming to have information that would help undermine the Zakuulan battlestations, perhaps even the Spire. Only wanted to meet with the Commander.

"That sounds like a trap," Marii snorted when he relayed what duty called. She collected their weapons from where they'd dropped on the floor.

"Perhaps." He cocked his head, watching her return the staves to the rack and mentally cursing the broken moment. "Care to play back-up?"

"What?" She spun to face him.

"This... alleged contact is a former Jedi," he said. "Or so they claim. Seems fitting to have my own former Jedi to watch my back." A half-smile tugged his lips. "And I think we're past due seeing how well such a vaunted recruit as one of the Order's battlemasters works alongside the Alliance Commander."

She tipped her head in exaggerated thought, then shrugged. "Your back is worth watching; wouldn't want the Alliance losing its leader so soon."

Nice save. He nodded. "Take an hour to clean up, gather any gear you may want, meet me in the hanger."

---

Both proved overeager--Marii was already pacing a walkway when Tragen entered the hanger at the forty five minute mark.

Unfortunately, Lana shared Marii's concern this was a trap and insisted on joining them. "We don't know if this mysterious and convenient ex-Jedi is alone or with friends," she pointed out. "Not to cast aspersions on either of your skill, but I fail to see how more back-up is a problem."

Her expression was all but a challenge for them to find an excuse that didn't give anything away. (Did she suspect?) So Tragen and Marii were cornered into slightly-sulking agreement, resigned to her presence meaning no privacy aboard the Dawn. It led to a far more stilted voyage than Tragen had hoped for, and he was relieved they were only going from Odessen to Zakuul.

The interrupted intention still sat sour in his thoughts, and his attention drifted to Marii as they headed to the provided coordinates in the Old World district. The muscle definition in her arms, the determined set of her jaw-

He wrenched his focus back to the task before his gaze could drift to her mouth and his thoughts to things he didn't want Lana picking up. He'd never wanted to kiss someone so badly as to be annoyed at denial of his chance before.

Just one more way Aramarii Wrinn was a--very pleasant--surprise.

---

The former Jedi contact was on the level, a soft-spoken Mirialan who didn't know Marii but knew of her. She handed over the datapad with something akin to relief at having it out of her hands, but balked at accepting an offer to join the Alliance with a polite 'I'll consider it, but I don't wish to forsake the good I can do here'. Tragen understood and didn't press. He was just relieved it hadn't been a trap. Lana could be insufferably smug when she got to say I told you so.

Unfortunately, she got to say it in a different regard-- they were ambushed by skytroopers on the way back to the ship. Enough that it would have been a close thing for just Tragen and Marii to handle. Even with how easily they settled in sync with each other, her twin shotos and his dualsaber moving to fill gaps and dispatch enemies. Lana didn't comment on the unexpected level of synergy between Wrath and Battlemaster as they hurried the rest of the way to the Celestial Dawn, but there may have been a knowing set to her mouth.

Tragen was all too happy to let Lana take the controls for the trip home. He, at least, had not escaped unscathed.

"You alright?" Marii asked, watching from the medbay entrance as he felt gingerly at the pair of blaster burns that dashed along the edge of his shoulder.

He nodded even as the probing made him wince. "Largely superficial. A reminder I'm human and thus not infallible, but they look worse than they are."

"Still, better safe than sorry, right?" She crossed the medbay to reach past him for a bacta patch, her arm brushing his as she retrieved it. "Hold still."

He obliged, not missing how close she stood to apply the patch to his arm, nor how her touch lingered, smoothing and securing the edges more than strictly necessary. He didn't mind. "Thank you, Aramarii."

She looked up at him, slight uneven lilt to her breathing. "You're welcome, Tragen."

She paused a moment, and the second she started to lean back, Tragen caught her arm and pulled her into a kiss. Not taking any chances.

"Hmm." Marii hummed fierce approval as her arms circled his neck and she kissed him back. Deeper, deeper, fingers tangling in his hair, her enthusiasm pressing him against the bacta tank until she broke the kiss just enough to gasp a breath and mumble, "I was wondering if you were going to do that," into his mouth.

Tragen huffed a laugh. "I'd hate to let it get too long overdue," he murmured as he settled his hands at her hips.

Her hand came to rest against his jaw, lightly tracing the scars that pocked his skin. "I think I like that you're a stickler for keeping your word," she said playfully, before kissing him again, deeply enough to swallow the chuckle that rumbled in his chest. ---

(Tragen's not usually this flirty, and YET it feels in character with her, what has your girl done to him? XD)

[fangirlincorporate]

Okay so I’m definitely going to be posting to Ao3 eventually because I’m getting too much enjoyment out of this. So, here’s Ch3 and I introduce to you the literary embodiment of my kid sister who I absolutely adore and have never once included in any of my stories and decided this is the one. Though our relationship did not start out in the friendliest of terms 😅 we argued and fought more than we got along but these days? She’s my baby sister and I love her. And I’m the iconic elder sister lol (she bullies me and I just think she’s the cutest)

I got out my dictionary for this one, and I am genuinely laughing as I reread this. This is good, the ending though? Not sure I like it.

It’s an Untitled Mess— Senku x Hikari Ch3

I woke up warm and at peace.

That was my first clue something was off. The Stone World had not been warm, let alone comforting or peaceful. It was cold and damp and unforgiving. That fact was solidified by last night's storm. A roaring God that had seemingly ripped the sky apart with rain ready to drown me, and wind howling threats of destruction.

But right now?

I was warm.

Safe.

Suspiciously…soft.

The second clue was the smell. Not bad. Just… very distinctly <i>Senku</i>. A mix of iron and ash, dried plants, and that strange mineral tang that followed him everywhere like static cling. Like science had a scent, he’d absorbed it into his skin. Less chemical than what I knew and more earthy, but Senku all the same.

The third clue was the arm slung across my waist. Loose, comfortable, and there. I didn’t dare open my eyes. The haze of sleep was slowly replaced by clarity.

I froze.

Not metaphorically. I mean full-on statue mode. Like I’d been re-petrified right there under the pelt.

Because Senku Ishigami, Science Boy, King of No Touching, God of Personal Space, was still asleep, mouth slightly parted, his forehead resting on the crown of my head like I wasn’t his worst idea in cuddle-based experimental design. His heart beat under a trapped palm, and I couldn’t make heads or tails of how we got here. He’d held me, and not just until I had fallen asleep like I had anticipated, but through the night.

<i>Senku Ishigami held me.</i>

I didn’t mean to smile. Not really. But it snuck in anyway. Something soft and barely there, curling at the edges of my lips. And then the memory of everything I’d said the night before hit me like another thunderclap.

And we were, oh hell.

We were intertwined. Limbs overlapping, our legs a tangled mess under the pelt that had slipped from our bodies. I didn’t know how it had happened. Maybe I’d rolled. Maybe he had. Maybe the wind had shoved us together like two reluctant action figures. I didn’t care.

There was one blaring thought in my mind going off like an alarm. I was wrapped around a man who considered “hugging” a foreign concept. I tried to shift, moving slowly, starting with one of my legs.

Bad idea.

His body shifted, breathing remaining the same, hopefully deep in REM. His body closer somehow.

I stopped breathing.

“Senku?” I breathed his name, terrified of getting an answer. To my relief, there wasn’t one. It was a struggle not to panic, but I repeated ‘he’s asleep’ in my head like a mantra. Just take it slow.

Slowly, I shifted, trying to slip out from under his arm without waking him. I tried not to move rashly, keeping my movements methodical and smooth. I was almost clear. So close.

But then his arm tightened around my waist.

My breath caught in my throat. <i>What the hell?</i>

I stilled, not daring to so much as let out a breath. His breathing was still steady, deep, sending a relief throughout my system. I did not want to have a post awakening discussion. The pre-sleep discussion was more than enough. His movements were purely reflex, surely. So, I shifted again, trying to slide my legs free from his. I was almost there.

Then, once more, he pulled me closer. I could feel the warmth of his chest against my face, and it was starting to get harder to ignore the pressure against me.

Was he pretending to sleep?

I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t want to assume. Even if this was a joke, I doubted it would play out like this. Maybe it was a coincidence. No way, the sun wasn’t even up, and if Senku was awake he’d be teasing me right now. Or, feigning indifference, acting unbothered, amused by my discomfort. Nothing bothered Senku, and it was a relief knowing this was nothing more than what he had said last night. A way to lower my cortisol. A cuddle experiment for lack of better words. Yup, that made it easy. An experiment gone slightly awry.

I tried again holding my breath, and this time Senku made a noise shifting and rolling over. Success! I cheered inside, scooting my body far away from the atrocity I awoke to. Going back to sleep was out of the question. My gaze lingered on his sleeping face for a moment longer silently thanking him once more before climbing down. Careful not to slip on the slick wood. The ground was soft under my feet, squishing underneath. I scrunched my face in distaste.

“Yeah, I am not built for this. O inferi,” I grumbled deciding since he hadn’t woken up I could do as I pleased for the time being. I’d continue my endeavor to make powder from shells, calcium carbonate, when the sun was a little higher.

“See Senku, I know things too.” But that was just my photographic memory coming into play. There was a faint glow from the sun whispering its rays across the tops of the trees. Not quite morning, but a break from the shadows of the night. Enough light to guide me between the trunks, but I still treaded carefully. The search for my sister began. Starting with the clearing I’d been revived in. She couldn’t have gone far, right? My hope was that she had been protected by tree roots. Maybe even buried in the ground. I hoped silently, despite how scary the idea was. It would be much harder to locate her even if it meant she was safe.

I came across statue after statue once again creating false stories to ease my mind. Sparing the broken ones a glance, swallowing a lump at the sight, and hating how relieved I was when I didn’t recognize them. However, they were still a person. A sibling, parent, child, friend, a spouse even. Affected by something Senku couldn’t understand yet. The petrification beam. Scarier than the Black Death if I thought about it too much.

“Shlama amukhun,” I whispered to each one, brushing aside the remnants of moss and debris. By now the forest floor was illuminated too, and I sat down in the remains of my stone prison putting my face in my hands.

“Where are you?” I whispered to the open air. “I’m failing at my eldest sibling's duties. I’ve been failing. Sora, forgive me.”

I pictured her chubby little face, blonde curls bouncing as she skipped. Her big blue eyes staring up at me in awe. I could almost hear her voice, and my heart lurched painfully in my chest.

<i>“Hikari! Watch this!”</i>

I smiled, touching my lips to keep them from trembling, remembering how she wanted to show me her back flip. Something new she’d learned in her gymnastics class. We were eight years apart, so she was seven. Sora loved to point out that she was going to be eight in two weeks. A true big girl, almost to the double digits. Proud, innocent, and reverent of her big sister. Though I never once felt worthy of the musings of a seven-year-old. Especially now remembering her creeping into my room while I did my make up, plucking eyebrows, and checking every angle of my face.

<i>“Hikari, come outside and play with me.”</i>

<i>“I’m busy, Sora. Go bother someone else.”</i>

<i>“You’re no better than that weirdo next door!”</i>

She slammed the door with a huff, and I carried on like nothing had happened.

“I’m the shittiest sister known to sisterhood,” I spoke into nothingness, brushing stray tears from my cheek with the back of my hand.

There was a crackle of sticks, and my head snapped over to see a deer grazing lazily. It lifted its head, staring at me, and then faced forward. Its gaze lingered, so I followed its line of sight.

A petrified hand stuck out of the ground, and I rushed toward it. The ground was soft enough from the rain I was digging in with my bare hands. Uncaring for germs, or the fact my nails were getting broken, fingertips splitting, I dug furiously. Grabbing a sharp stone to aid me. Slowly revealing a small arm, a shoulder, and there she was. Half her face now out of the dirt, and I renewed my efforts struggling to dig her out.

“I found you,” I whispered, relieved, wrapping my arms around her neck. “Thank god.”

I kept working despite the sweat and grime until I could wrap my arms around her waist, shifting her to loosen the dirt. Her body broke free, and I pulled her up to level ground. She was heavy, too heavy for me to stand her up, but I could see her fully now. Her arms out at her sides from landing, part victory pose, part instinctive balance. Her face beaming in pride. Her eyes had been closed when the green light appeared, her back to it, and I had rushed forward protectively, making it to her side with her completely unaware of what was going on. The moment was left frozen in time.

“I’m going to bring you back. Not right now, it’s not safe for you. Wait a little longer, okay?” I brushed a finger against her cheek and stood up.

“You’ve surpassed double digits, and skipped all the way to four digits. You can consider yourself a big girl now.” I’d laugh if my throat didn’t grow tight. My saving grace was knowing where she was. I could see she was safe and fully intact, now all I had to do was start phase one. Acquire soap. Senku would handle the rest. Reviving everyone was way beyond my capabilities, and I just had to have faith it was within his.

I headed in the direction of camp until how I woke up made me veer in the direction of the coast. I wasn’t ready to face Senku, who would undoubtedly be awake by now. If he needed me badly enough he could come find me.

I found the same traitorous stream I had before, and followed along the edge. Twice as careful this time, so I didn’t fall in. It grew wider farther down, and I stopped to admire the view. The brightening morning sun shone through the canopy of trees, and it sparkled against the water. It didn’t look so traitorous now. I knelt lower, letting my fingers trail over the edge, and remembered how dirty they are. I washed them with a sigh shoving down the blatant reminder that the open wounds of my fingertips were now a bacterial concern.

“Scaredy cat,” I mumbled to myself. It was true though, as much as I hated it. Beneath my fingers in the water were dark shiny blurs, like black glass. I picked up a large chunk with sharp edges. I’d seen this before. Obsidian. I didn’t have pockets to put it in. Didn’t know for sure if it was important, but kept it in my fist anyway, standing on my feet.

I remembered offhand that Senku had told me that obsidian naturally fractures in conchoidal patterns. As I walked past a large set of boulders I double backed looking from the obsidian to the stone in front of me. I started carving. Slowly, methodically, and occasionally breaking the edges, but over time, the letters began to appear. Not massive, but large enough for my poor eyesight to read even when I stepped back. My fingers were cramping and growing incredibly sore. I managed to etch the first word onto the surface. I pressed on, unaware of how much time was going by.

The sound of the forest circled me, the wind whispering secrets, and the only disruption was the scraping of obsidian against rock. Granite, hopefully, it would last longer, but I had no way of knowing. I huffed a laugh knowing Senku would. I’d seen the Mohs scale, but that didn’t mean I understood it perfectly. He would also tell me I’m wasting precious time. Right now? I didn’t care. I traced a finger over the first word smiling to myself proudly.

“Viximus,” I said out loud. “Viximus et vivimus.”

<i>We have lived, and we will live.</i>

I sighed, stretching my fingers, wishing I were ambidextrous. My left hand is relatively useless right now. A stabling force once I started to carve the rest, but useless all the same. The shadows of the trees slowly shifted over me, but gauging time was a Senku thing. Not a me thing. This? This was me. Heart emoticon underneath to top it off.

“That is oddly hilarious.” I tilted my head to look at the bird on my right. “Only human who can read, speak, and write Latin? Not so hilarious.”

At least Senku would understand the emoticon. I let the obsidian fall to the ground and decided to head back to camp after all. Would I tell him of my carving? Absolutely not. He’s made fun of me enough already.

“Where have you been? We have work to do.” Senku spoke clearly, annoyed.

“Haven’t forgotten,” I spoke with a sigh. “Consider my absence a slight deviation from my main priority.”

“Guess you should be grateful then that the paralogist with a god-complex hasn’t.” He pushed something in my direction. In a surprisingly well made pot was a mixture of…something. Off white, bubbly, and I raised an eyebrow looking from the contents to him.

“Am I supposed to know what this is?”

“What you’re looking at is an amphiphilic surfactant synthesized through high-alkaline hydrolysis. You wanted soap. I made you soap.”

“Wait, really?! Te nunc osculari possum! Gimme.” I reached forward, but he held it away from me.

“Talking about animals now? Possums aren’t native.” I attempted and failed to pull it from his grasp. “Hands off! It needs to cure. This is a process, not a miracle. Unless you want to risk burns and dry skin.”

“So like for a day or two?” I asked with a pout stepping back.

“Try a week or two.”

I clicked my tongue distastefully.

“I will wait impatiently. Not that I have a choice in the matter. So now what?” I asked with a sigh. Lifting my hand toward my face only to drop it to my hip. Old habits do in fact die hard.

“I’ll be working on revival experiments. You collect resources and food.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I waved a dismissive hand. “You’ve been doing this for months, I suppose I can take over. I will fail miserably, I’m sure.”

“Don’t fall in the water this time.”

“I was trying to look at my reflection!” I said defensively.

“Vain.” He pointed at me.

“Uncultured.” I shot back.

“Pedantic.” His tone suggested boredom. I raised a brow, not even close to being impressed.

“Solipsist.”

“Narcissist.”

“The lack of accuracy with that has me suspicious that you don’t even know what that means, but I’ll play ball. Reductionist.”

“Pretentious.”

“That’s a big word for you. Again, inaccurate. Philistine.” I offered, waiting with a smirk for him to continue.

“You want accurate? You’re a walking entropy increase. A dead-end hypothesis. A defective catalytic agent. A zero-point energy system.” He huffed a laugh, standing up, planting a hand on his hip. “A non-stop chemical reaction with no equilibrium. A statistical outlier with no logical progression. I’d call you a quantum anomaly, but even uncertainty has its limits. Shall I go on, or do you need time to think about those?”

“At least I don’t have the intellectual inertia of a black hole, sucking the fun out of everything. Leave it to you to turn playful banter into a vacuum sealed thought experiment. Joyless, sterile, and ten billion percent devoid of charm. Gaudii interemptor,” I added in a sharp breath turning away with a basket in hand.

“Nothing says ‘I lost’ like dragging a dead language into the fray. Ten billion percent unnecessary.”

He was smug, and I was irritated. Insufferable. I cursed my predicament the entire time I tossed something in the basket muttering in what Senku has dubbed dusty incantations. Growing bored I grabbed a stick methodically writing down the Greek alphabet. Random symbols in the dirt to anyone else, but to me? This spoke of the ancients, something lost and forgotten. Of people and culture that I alone knew of. I could hear voices in these symbols. Whispers of humanity even the modern world pushed aside. Philosophers, poets, mathematicians even, breathed life into these symbols. Each one carrying the weight and pulse of history.

I started with A, alpha, simple yet holding the weight of the beginnings of language. Connection and beauty. Then B, beta, these symbols were used in the modern world too, but not commonly. Military tainted it, took away the beauty, science twisted it, and global leadership spat it out like a cherry pit.

“It’s a tragedy, really, Senku. Your dismissal of what you deem unnecessary. The Greeks wrote the foundations of philosophy, science, and art in these very letters. And yet you can’t even look at them without thinking it’s a waste of time. Bordering blatant disrespect. Even your precious science was influenced by language. Greek and Latin go hand in hand with Isaac and Galileo, but you don’t care for that now do you?”

I sighed adding depth to the symbols despite knowing they would disappear and become illegible in no time. I stood to my feet and continued my task, knowing I’d deviated plenty for today. And if I went around carving symbols into trees the only one who’d see them would be the cornerstone of illiteracy himself. An affront to language, breathing proof that letters can die.

“Not on my watch,” I muttered, tossing a rock I acquired into the bushes. “Damn autodidact.”

I foraged for as long as I possibly could before making my way back. Senku was in his laboratory doing who knows what, and I dropped the basket in the doorway. Inside were petrified sparrows. Pots and primitive tools were organized in the chaotic way that breathed Senku.

“Promise me something,” I stated, and he didn’t even spare me a glance. “At least look at me. I’m being serious.”

That got his attention, and he put a hand on his hip giving me an incredulous look.

“You can go on about how things will ten billion percent be okay, but you don’t know that. I know better than most how smart you are—”

“Is this a roundabout way to point out you don’t think I can do this?” He sighed diverting his attention again.

“I have no doubt you can. That was never even a thought.” I paused my words, chewing on them, but pressed on. “I found Sora, and someone has to look after her if I’m not here anymore. Don’t give me a quick one-liner about being ten billion percent sure I’ll be here. So promise me you will look after her if I can’t. Swear it.”

“Should I bleed over an altar while I’m at it?”

“If a blood oath has meaning to you, then, yes.”

“You over-dramatic ex-biologist. I’m not bleeding for you. I plan on saving everyone. You, your sister, Taiju, Yuzuriha, and everyone else. I don’t need to make you a promise. Everyone is going to live. All seven billion of us.”

I didn’t have a follow-up. I leaned against the frame, closing my eyes, and crossing my arms over my chest.

“It still doesn’t entirely make sense to me why you revived me in the first place. Taiju or Yuzuriha, absolutely. Me? I’ve been a horrible sister, an even shittier friend, and an annoying over dramatic neighbor coupled with layers of emotions and phobias galore.”

“I think three thousand years of petrification is enough of a prison sentence for those transgressions don’t you think?”

“Only if those against whom I have transgressed have forgiven me.”

“Is saying if only the ones I’ve hurt forgive me difficult for you?”

“No. My vernacular varies. Am I forgiven? Is that plain enough for you?”

“For what?” Maybe this was his way of adding to my suffering. Maybe he didn’t know, and I concocted a problem in my mind. I clicked my tongue looking out toward the treetops.

“For being stupid. Science used to be our thing, but then I left you to your own devices. Chased popularity like it was an Olympic medal. I wanted high school to be different. You didn’t care when people talked, or bullied us, but I did. It was childish. Do I need to go on?”

“That’s old news, Hikari. Nothing of importance now.”

“Did it bother you?” I asked quietly, not bothering to look in his direction. “That I walked away?”

“Do you know me at all?” He countered. “If you think I sat around brooding or crying you need your head checked.”

“That’s not what I asked. I’m not even sure you can cry. I’ve never seen it, and we’ve lived next door to each other since you were two.”

“I was just glad I didn’t have to hear your whiny voice anymore. Always afraid we’d catch on fire or something.”

“How many rockets did you blow up? Your bedroom was across from mine, separated by several feet of open air. I’d hear explosions in there too, ya know. My fear was valid.”

“And your presence was greatly missed, I assure you.” His words said one thing, but his tone was dripping in sarcasm.

“But you still showed up for dinner on Tuesdays like clockwork.”

“Because it would have offended your mother if I didn’t.”

“So you do have standards! I suppose I can say this now. It’s been long enough, but please tell me I’m not the only one who noticed mom had the hots for Byakuya. It was beyond obvious.”

“Was it?”

“Anyone with eyes could see that.” I continued, but the air seemed to shift, so I glanced at him. Something about his eyes was different now. Something new, and I wasn’t sure I wanted that imagery burned into my mind.

Oh.

“It did bother me,” Senku said after a beat of silence. “Like I said. I’m not a machine. Now if you’re done prattling, help me with this.”

[ppnuggiexxx]

I'M FREE TO COMMENT!!! My headcanons for Satan, Sitri, Amy, Belial, Zagan, and Mammon spanking him request is so good! Don't worry about it! I did request a lot of characters after all! I love it especially how eager Satan is 😁, it could be a punishment for throwing a fuss about spending time with the other kings 😠, he's more than happy to indulge you anytime 😉, his tail would be wagging if he had one 🐶, he always moans & encourages you to go harder 😳, he won't leave until his butt is scarlet ♥️, he leaks precum from anticipation O///O, how desperate you are to squeeze Sitri's butt like me 🤣, he's more than happy to indulge you (⁠゜⁠o⁠゜⁠; he would let you know you can go harder if you did it softly 👍, it turns him on if you're rough with him O///O, Mammon would do it since it would make you happy ☺️, he only wants you not to restrain your greed 😏, how he encourages you though ⁄⁠(⁠⁄⁠ ⁠⁄⁠•⁠⁄⁠-⁠⁄⁠•⁠⁄⁠ ⁠⁄⁠)⁠⁄, he would get hard with his heart racing the more you do it 💓, he would even boy items to give you more options 🪙, Amy absolutely loves it 😍, it's a punishment for him arguing with Amy 😅, he couldn't help but blush when you're also doing in front of an audience 😳, he would try to hide how hard he is while glaring at him 😠, he felt like he's in heaven when you start 😇, Satan might give you advice that would excite him more 🫴, Sitri isn't happy that he's getting it but not him 😠, you should be punishing Jiyu 😅, Belial does enjoy it despite not getting hit much 🤭, he's willing to try it out & you need to be gentle 👍, he doesn't mind occasionally & would let you know 👍, Zagan would have prefer something else but he would take it 👍, he blushes as he prepares himself especially he's naked but you're not 😳, he definitely came to enjoy it O///O, and he would cry the harder you go 😭 Thank you so much for doing my request because I love it so much :)

OMGGG I WASNT EXPECTING FEEDBAKC BUT TYSM !! im so glsd you liked them :D im sorry again for how short thry were 😔👊 but i def tried my best to keep them in character 🫡🫡 BUT TYSMMM i love reading feedback and responses to requests 😍it makes my day so much !!! feel free to request again if you ever wish too !! :DD

[mya-valentine]

Cracking the Surface: Juri’s Hidden Struggles

Synopsis: Itadori’s training sessions with Juri take a dark turn as she pushes him harder than ever before. After showing a rare moment of vulnerability, Juri becomes increasingly aggressive, using their sparring as a means to vent her own frustrations. As Itadori struggles to keep up, he begins to sense that her harshness isn’t just about making him stronger—it’s about the internal battle she’s facing. His growing empathy clashes with her desire to keep her walls up, creating a tension that only deepens when Gojo steps in, hinting that Juri’s anger is rooted in her own painful past.

A/N: This one is pretty long😅

The next morning came quickly, and with it, the familiar dread of Juri’s training sessions. Itadori arrived at the training grounds early, his body still aching from the previous days but determined to push through. As usual, Juri was already there, waiting with her usual air of confidence and intensity.

“Morning, brat,” Juri said, her tone sharp and commanding. “Ready for another round?”

Itadori nodded, his expression set with determination. “Absolutely. I’m ready.”

Juri’s left eye flashed briefly with purple cursed energy as she assumed her fighting stance. “Then let’s get started.”

The training session began with Juri pushing Itadori through a series of grueling exercises. She tested his speed, agility, and endurance, her attacks coming at him with almost supernatural speed. Itadori struggled to keep up, but he was getting better at anticipating her movements. Each time he thought he was making progress, Juri raised the bar even higher.

After a particularly brutal exchange, Itadori staggered back, panting heavily. Juri was on him in an instant, her speed making it almost impossible for him to react. Her foot connected with his side, sending him sprawling to the ground. He groaned in pain but forced himself to look up at her.

Juri was standing over him, her expression hard as ever. But today, there was something different in her eyes—a flicker of something softer, something that didn’t quite match her usual harsh demeanor.

“You’re holding up better than I expected,” she said, her voice slightly softer than usual. “For a while there, I thought you might break sooner.”

Itadori, catching his breath, looked up at her with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. “Thanks, Juri. I’m doing my best.”

Juri’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, then she shook her head, as if shaking off an unwelcome thought. Her expression hardened again, the softness disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. “Don’t get complacent. You’ve still got a long way to go.”

Itadori nodded, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. He stood up, ready for the next round, but his mind was preoccupied with what he had seen. Juri had let slip a hint of something beyond her usual tough exterior—a vulnerability or perhaps a flicker of empathy. It was a side of her he hadn’t seen before, and it made him reconsider his earlier assumptions about her.

As the training continued, Juri’s intensity remained unwavering. But Itadori noticed that her attacks, while still fierce, seemed to have a different edge. There was a careful precision to them, as if she was pushing him not just to break but to genuinely improve. 

Despite the grueling nature of the training, Itadori felt a newfound respect for Juri. He could see that beneath her tough exterior, there was more to her than just a sadistic trainer. There was a reason behind her harsh methods, a purpose that went beyond mere cruelty.

At the end of the session, Juri stepped back, her breathing slightly heavier than usual. She wiped a bead of sweat from her brow and glanced at Itadori with a hint of satisfaction.

“You did well today,” she said, her tone still stern but with an undercurrent of approval. “Keep this up, and you might actually make a decent sorcerer.”

Itadori smiled, grateful for the acknowledgment. “Thanks, Juri. I’ll keep pushing myself.”

Juri nodded and turned away, her usual aloofness returning. “Good. Now get some rest. We’ve got more training tomorrow.”

As Itadori headed back to his room, he reflected on the day’s events. Juri’s brief slip from her usual demeanor had given him a glimpse into her true self—a person driven by something deeper than just anger and revenge. It made him more determined to understand her, to break through the barriers she had built around herself.

He knew that earning her respect would be a long road, but for now, he was content with the small progress he had made. And as he prepared for the next day, he did so with a renewed sense of purpose, ready to face whatever challenges awaited him—both from Juri and from within himself.

The next day, when Itadori arrived at the training grounds, something felt off. The air around Juri was different—charged with tension, like the moments before a lightning storm. Her usual smirk was nowhere to be found, replaced with a hard, almost emotionless expression. She was already in her fighting stance, cursed energy crackling around her as her left eye glowed with its usual fierce purple hue.

Itadori felt the shift immediately. Something was wrong.

“Morning, Juri,” he greeted cautiously, trying to gauge her mood. “Ready for today?”

Juri didn’t respond with her usual sharp banter. Instead, she narrowed her eyes and cracked her neck. “Get in position,” she barked, her voice colder than usual.

Itadori blinked, surprised by the sharpness in her tone. He took his stance, bracing himself for the usual drills, but before he could even prepare fully, Juri launched herself at him with blistering speed. Her foot connected with his chest, sending him flying back into the dirt, knocking the wind out of him.

“Focus!” she snapped, her voice laced with frustration.

Itadori scrambled to his feet, clutching his chest, but Juri was already on him again. Her strikes were faster, harder—more aggressive than anything she had thrown at him before. He barely had time to dodge as her hand shot toward his face, only to feel the searing heat of her cursed energy skimming his cheek.

“What the hell, Juri?” Itadori coughed, trying to recover. “I’m trying!”

“Not hard enough,” she snarled, her movements almost a blur as she circled him, each attack sharper and more dangerous than the last. “If you can’t keep up, you’ll die. Simple as that.”

Itadori was struggling to block her attacks, and for the first time in weeks, he felt like he was barely surviving instead of improving. Juri was relentless, and the usual careful precision in her movements was replaced by something harsher—almost like she was venting.

He barely managed to avoid a vicious kick aimed at his ribs, skidding to the side as Juri’s heel cracked the ground where he had stood.

“Is something wrong?” Itadori shouted, trying to catch his breath. “You’re going way harder than usual!”

Juri paused for just a second, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “Shut up and fight, brat.”

Itadori raised his arms in defense, but her next attack came at lightning speed, her fist crackling with cursed energy as she slammed it into his guard. He grunted in pain as the impact rattled his bones.

This wasn’t like her. Sure, Juri was always tough, but she never fought like this—so wild, so full of anger. It was as if something had snapped inside her, and she was taking it out on him.

“You’re—you're pissed about something,” Itadori said, his voice strained as he blocked another flurry of kicks. “This isn’t about the training, is it?”

Juri’s eyes flashed dangerously, and for a moment, her movements slowed. It was just a split second, but Itadori caught it—a flicker of hesitation. Her jaw clenched, and she gritted her teeth.

“Don’t pretend you know me, Itadori,” she growled, her voice low and laced with venom. “You’re just a kid with no idea how the world really works.”

Itadori’s brows furrowed. There it was again—that hint of something deeper, something that she was trying to bury beneath her tough exterior. He remembered the previous day, when she’d let her guard down for just a moment, and how it had made her seem… human.

Was that what this was about? Had she realized that she’d shown too much?

“You’re pushing me harder because you let something slip yesterday, aren’t you?” Itadori asked, his tone softer but still firm. “You don’t have to—”

Before he could finish, Juri was on him again, her kicks landing faster than he could process. Pain exploded through his body as she delivered a roundhouse kick to his side, sending him crashing into the dirt.

“I said shut up!” she roared, her voice trembling with something more than just anger. “You think this is a game? You think you understand me? You don’t know a damn thing, kid.”

Itadori struggled to push himself up, coughing as the wind was knocked out of him. He winced as he clutched his ribs, but he didn’t back down. “I know you’re hurting,” he managed to say, his voice rough. “You can act tough all you want, but I’ve seen it. You’re carrying a lot of pain.”

Juri’s eyes flashed with rage, and her cursed energy flared up around her like an electrical storm. She raised her hand, and for a moment, Itadori thought she might actually finish him off.

But then she froze. Her hand hovered in the air, trembling slightly as the purple glow in her left eye dimmed. She stared at him, her face contorted with a mixture of frustration and something else—something raw.

“You don’t get to talk about my pain,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “You haven’t lived through what I have. You don’t know what it’s like to want revenge so badly that it eats you alive.”

Itadori, still on the ground, looked up at her, his eyes filled with empathy. “I don’t know what you’ve been through, Juri. But I know that carrying it alone isn’t going to make it better.”

For a moment, Juri just stood there, her breathing heavy, her fists clenched so tightly that her knuckles were white. She looked away, biting down on her lip as if trying to keep her emotions from spilling out.

Then, with a sudden burst of frustration, she turned her back on him. “Get up,” she muttered, her voice low. “We’re done for today.”

Itadori pushed himself to his feet, still aching from the brutal session. He watched as Juri stormed off toward the edge of the training grounds, her body tense, shoulders rigid with barely-contained emotion.

Itadori didn’t call after her. He knew better than to push her any further right now. But as he stood there, watching her walk away, he couldn’t help but feel like he had glimpsed something real, something vulnerable beneath her walls.

And for the first time, he wondered if Juri wasn’t just training him to be stronger—maybe, in some way, she was trying to train herself to be stronger too.

Later that evening, after Itadori had managed to recover from the brutal training session, he found himself standing outside Gojo’s office. The door was slightly ajar, and he could hear Gojo humming some upbeat tune from within. Taking a deep breath, Itadori knocked.

“Come in, Itadori!” Gojo’s cheerful voice called out. “I was wondering when you’d drop by.”

Pushing the door open, Itadori stepped inside to find Gojo lounging casually in his chair, legs propped up on the desk, his usual blindfold in place. He waved lazily at Itadori. “So, how’s training going with our dear Juri?”

Itadori hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Uh… about that. Today was… intense.”

Gojo tilted his head, his smile unwavering but his tone curious. “Intense? How so?”

Itadori shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know if I did something to piss her off, but she’s been pushing me way harder than usual. It’s like she’s angry or upset about something. She’s not just training me anymore—she’s venting.”

Gojo’s expression didn’t change, but Itadori could sense his interest deepening. “Oh? Did something happen between you two?”

“I think she’s mad because yesterday, she let her guard down a little. She said something kind of... nice, and I think she regrets it. Today, she was just... different. It felt personal.” Itadori looked down, unsure how much to share. “I tried talking to her, but she just got angrier. I’m worried she’s pushing herself too far.”

Gojo listened quietly, tapping his fingers against the desk as Itadori spoke. Finally, he sighed and lowered his feet from the desk, leaning forward slightly.

“Sounds like Juri,” he said, his voice a bit more serious. “She’s got a lot of baggage, and she’s not exactly the type to talk about her feelings. But it’s good that you’re noticing these things. Means you’re growing in more ways than one.”

Itadori nodded, though he still felt uneasy. “Do you think you could talk to her? I just don’t want her to go overboard.”

Gojo gave him a reassuring smile. “Leave it to me. I’ll see what I can do. You go get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

Later that night, Gojo found Juri at one of the secluded training areas, her fists still glowing faintly with cursed energy as she practiced her kicks and punches in a storm of speed and electricity. The air crackled around her, and her left eye glowed purple, casting an eerie light on her face. She was clearly still fuming from earlier.

“Yo, Juri,” Gojo called out casually, leaning against a nearby wall, arms crossed. “Heard you gave Itadori quite the workout today.”

Juri didn’t stop her movements, but her eyes flicked toward Gojo for just a moment before she resumed her training. “If he’s still breathing, he’s fine.”

Gojo chuckled, unfazed by her cold demeanor. “You know, Itadori’s worried about you. Said you seemed a bit… off today. Care to share?”

Juri scoffed, finally stopping her relentless assault on the invisible enemy. She wiped sweat from her brow, her expression sharp and guarded. “What, now you’re a therapist, rat? I’m fine. I’m doing what you asked—training the brat so he doesn’t get himself killed.”

Gojo stepped closer, his usual easygoing smile still in place, but there was a glint of seriousness in his voice. “You’re pushing him harder than normal. It’s like you’re trying to bury something, Juri. He’s not just another tool for you to vent your frustration on.”

Juri rolled her eyes, turning away from him. “You should be grateful I even remembered our deal and didn’t just end the brat. If I really wanted to, I could have snapped his neck. I’ve been nice.”

Gojo tilted his head, his smile not fading but his tone becoming more pointed. “Killing Itadori would’ve been breaking the deal. And we both know you’re not going to break it. You need me as much as I need you, remember?”

Juri’s jaw clenched, but she said nothing, her back still turned to him.

“Look, Juri, I get it. You’ve got a lot on your plate,” Gojo continued, his voice softening slightly. “But Itadori’s just a kid trying to survive in a world full of curses, same as you were. You don’t have to be so hard on him.”

At this, Juri turned sharply, her eyes flashing with anger. “Don’t compare me to him. He doesn’t know anything about surviving. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have everything taken from you. He’s just some clueless kid, and I’m supposed to train him? Why should I care?”

Gojo remained calm, his gaze steady. “Because you know better than anyone what it’s like to be angry, to want revenge. But you also know that holding onto that anger alone will eat you alive.”

Juri’s fists tightened at her sides, her cursed energy crackling again as her frustration surged. “I don’t need your lectures, old man. I’m not some lost soul you can fix. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Gojo sighed, giving her a look that was almost fatherly. “I’m not trying to fix you, Juri. I just don’t want you to destroy yourself before you get your chance to take down the people responsible for your parents.”

For a brief moment, Juri’s guard faltered, and Gojo saw the raw pain in her eyes, but just as quickly, she slammed her emotional walls back up.

“I know what I’m doing,” she repeated, more to herself than to Gojo. “And if Itadori can’t handle it, that’s his problem.”

Gojo nodded, stepping back with a small smile. “Fair enough. But try not to kill him, okay? He’s got a lot of potential, and I think you see that too.”

Juri didn’t respond, but as Gojo walked away, she stood still, her expression unreadable. She hated how easily Gojo could read her, how he always managed to get under her skin. But more than that, she hated that he was right—about Itadori, about her anger, about everything.

As she resumed her training, she couldn’t shake the image of Itadori’s concerned face from her mind, and it only fueled her frustration. She didn’t want to care, didn’t want to let anyone in. But no matter how much she tried to push him away, Itadori had gotten under her skin too.

And that, more than anything, terrified her.

The next few days passed with Juri pushing Itadori harder than ever. Every training session was brutal, her strikes faster, more precise, and always teetering on the edge of being lethal. She never once gave him a break, barely allowing time for him to catch his breath between rounds. Itadori didn’t complain—he could see the storm brewing behind her eyes, the frustration, the rage, and something deeper that she refused to show. But it was always there, lurking just beneath the surface.

Gojo’s words weighed on her, as much as she hated to admit it. The fact that Itadori’s concern had actually gotten to her made her feel weak, and weakness was the one thing she couldn’t afford. Not when her every waking moment was fueled by the need for revenge. She kept reminding herself that Itadori was just a job, a means to an end, someone she was training so she could eventually get close to Sukuna.

But every time she saw him panting on the ground, his body bruised and bloodied but his spirit still unbroken, something tugged at her. He reminded her too much of herself, and that’s what pissed her off the most. His resilience, his determination—it was familiar in a way that made her uncomfortable.

On the fifth day of their relentless training, Itadori collapsed after a particularly harsh round, chest heaving as he tried to recover. His face was covered in sweat, his muscles burning, but even then, he managed to lift his head and smile at her.

“I’m… getting… better… right?” he panted between breaths.

Juri, standing over him, crossed her arms and stared down at him, her face hard as stone. “You’re still too slow.”

Itadori groaned but didn’t argue. He knew better by now.

Juri turned away, walking to the edge of the training grounds to take a moment for herself. Her fists clenched and unclenched, electricity sparking between her fingers as her cursed energy flickered with agitation. She had been on edge ever since her conversation with Gojo, and Itadori’s relentless optimism wasn’t helping.

“Why do you keep trying so hard?” she finally snapped, her voice cutting through the silence. She didn’t turn to face him, her back still to him as she spoke. “You know you’re in over your head. You’re never going to be strong enough to take on Sukuna. You’ll just end up getting yourself killed.”

Itadori, still lying on the ground, blinked up at her in confusion. He wasn’t used to Juri speaking like this, and it threw him off. “I… I know it’s dangerous. I know Sukuna is stronger than anything I’ve ever faced. But I’m not giving up.”

Juri’s shoulders tensed. “You say that now. But when you’re staring death in the face, we’ll see if you’re still so eager to keep fighting.”

Itadori sat up, his breathing finally starting to steady. “Why are you so sure I’m going to fail?”

Juri whirled around, her left eye glowing with purple cursed energy, her expression fierce. “Because you’re too soft, kid! You don’t know what it’s like to lose everything, to have nothing but hatred driving you forward. That’s what it takes to survive in this world!”

Itadori stared at her, his gaze steady despite her outburst. “And that’s how you live, isn’t it? With nothing but hatred pushing you?”

Juri froze, her jaw clenching as her cursed energy flared even more violently. “Don’t pretend you know anything about me.”

Itadori slowly rose to his feet, wiping the sweat from his brow as he faced her. “I don’t know everything about you, Juri. But I’ve seen enough to know that there’s more to you than just anger. I don’t think you’re as heartless as you want me to believe.”

Her fists tightened, sparks of electricity dancing around her knuckles. “You don’t know anything,” she growled, her voice shaking slightly. “I’ve already made my peace with what I have to do. This is who I am now. Revenge is all I have left.”

Itadori’s gaze softened, and despite the pain radiating through his body, he took a step toward her. “Maybe that’s how you feel now. But it doesn’t have to be.”

Juri’s eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by his words. Her cursed energy flickered for a moment, the glow in her left eye dimming as she stared at him in disbelief. “You really think that, don’t you? That I can just… stop?”

Itadori nodded. “I do. You’re strong, Juri. But there’s more to strength than just fighting. You don’t have to keep carrying all that anger by yourself.”

Juri turned away again, gritting her teeth as she tried to push down the emotions that were threatening to bubble up. “You don’t understand,” she muttered, her voice barely audible. “I can’t just… stop. My parents—everything they took from me—I can’t just let that go.”

Itadori watched her, his heart aching for the pain she was clearly carrying. “I’m not saying you should forget what happened. But if you keep letting it consume you, you’ll lose yourself completely.”

There was a long silence between them. Juri’s breathing was shallow, her hands trembling at her sides as she fought to maintain control. She hated that Itadori had gotten under her skin, that he’d seen through the walls she had built around herself. She wanted to lash out, to tell him to shut up, to stop pretending like he knew anything about her pain.

But she couldn’t.

Finally, she turned back toward him, her expression unreadable. “You really don’t give up, do you?”

Itadori smiled, though it was more tired than usual. “Nope. Guess I’m just stubborn like that.”

Juri stared at him for a moment longer, then let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. If you’re so determined to keep going, then we’ll keep training. But don’t think for a second that I’m going to go easy on you.”

Itadori nodded, his smile widening just a bit. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

As Juri prepared for the next round, she couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of frustration and something else—a feeling she wasn’t used to. It wasn’t trust, not yet. But it was something close.

For the first time in a long while, Juri felt like maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t as alone as she thought.

.

.

.

The Burden of Strength Masterlist

[frozenwolftemplar]

🌈for the ask game?

Lol, every partially-finished thing still languishing in my drafts 😅

Seriously though, looking at the fics I've posted, that one's a little tricky to answer. The first one that comes to mind is my Carmen Sandiego fic '3 A.M.,' where I had to fight tooth and nail for pretty much every word, but I literally wrote that in the endnote for the final chapter, so everyone knows it. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Thinking harder about it, two more come to mind. First, 'Memorable.' (the one with Cass and the lighthouse). I don't often write multi-chaps, so pacing and plotting and just writing something of that length is something I find difficult on a good day. The fact that most of that fic was written through a pretty bad case of post-covid brain fog and fatigue, i.e. a series of not good days, made it all the harder.

The second one would be Koll Island: Insanity. That fic is based on an AU PocketProtector created (I highly recommend any and all her 'Tangled' fics, especially 'Decay'), where the Moonstone drives Cass insane and her and Cap live on a tropical island now (there's more to it than that, but that's the gist). On top of wanting to make sure it honored Pocket's vision for the AU, the story I wound up telling dealt with some pretty heavy themes of Cap coming to terms with his and Cass's new situation and accepting that new normal. I knew where Cap needed to go, mentally, and wanted to make sure I conveyed it in a way that really communicated the change he goes through; it wound up being harder than I anticipated (really happy with the result, though!).

For some more isolated themes or scenes I struggled with:

-the opening scene of 'Once Upon a December;' I was so anxious for that fic to live up to the idea in my head that I gave myself writer paralysis and re-wrote it three or four times.

-Cass's worries about her future that make up the second half of 'Burned but not Broken.' I had (and still have) so many thoughts and feelings about Cass's Burned Arm, organizing them all into something coherent while still making sure the fic clipped along at a nice pace was quite the challenge.

-Chapter 13 of 'The First Night.' It just would not come together for reasons that I still can't figure out.

Thanks so much for the ask! This was fun!

[charleslecerec]

Okay, so since it's taking my an eternity to update Permanent Mark (I'm writing and rewriting one scene over and over cause I never quite am happy with it) I'm posting here a little snippet of the 4th chapter (it's the start of it). The chapter is currently sitting at 10k words and I estimate it would take around 2-3k more to finish 😅. Anyway, the snippet's under the cut 🙃

--

The photograph sat at the bottom of both his chat with Pierre and his chat with Joris. Their last messages to him. Charles had yet to answer them. A full day later. Arthur had asked too, but he hadn't sent the picture and Charles had had the chance to talk to him in person yesterday at dinner. Charles was just glad his mum didn't like to gossip online. Else, he would have had to explain it to her too. And see the look in her eyes.

He was lying down on a couch in a random break room in Maranello he had found unoccupied after finishing his workout. He probably should’ve already gone home, started packing, and had a light dinner. There was a car coming to pick him up at his apartment tomorrow morning at 6am. He wasn’t even going to have time to sleep even the 6 hours and a half or so that he was used to unless he left right now. If Alessia knew he was still in the same place he laid down after their workout post sim work, she would scold him. After all, Charles knew he was going to be making her job harder when he turned up tomorrow with a bunch of knots on his back, a crick on his neck from the position. He still didn’t move. 

The hangover yesterday had only reminded him that he wasn’t as young anymore, and he definitely couldn’t drink like that and expect his body to deal well enough with it so that he could be functioning at 100% for the next race. He still had a lingering headache that the hours at the sim had done nothing to help with. And despite everything that followed, Charles had still pretty much enjoyed himself. Would do it all again. Even now, at the factory, he could feel the residual of the happiness brought by their result two days ago bouncing off the walls. It was in the way he could still see most of the lights turned on through the windows in the buildings on the other side of the complex, in the way he could hear chatter in the offices next door, laughter. People pulled off extra hours because they felt energised by their good result. 

Too bad it wouldn’t help much. 

Charles had a feeling his hours on the sim hadn’t really done much to fix their setup for Turkey, which their car just wasn't  suited to, and on top of that he wasn’t comfortable with the way the car felt. And if he wasn’t comfortable in the sim, he could already anticipate the car being a legitimate nightmare on the actual track. Hence why he was still lying down. It wouldn’t even matter if Charles turned his performance down on Friday because he fucked up his back here, the general pace of the car would mask it. He could pick it back up for Qualifying. 

Hence why he didn’t really care if he stayed there, becoming one with the couch, for longer than he should’ve. So Charles had kept scrolling down social media, catching up on his friends’ lives through small captions and pictures of their kids growing up. Trying not to think about Joris’ and Pierre’s texts, about the pictures, about the headlines. Trying not to think about Max. Max, who wanted the kind of life —sans the constant exposure— that Charles’ friends were constantly sharing on their socials. Max, who heavily implied he wanted a family with him. Charles didn’t know why he kept coming back to that fact, instead of the other two big headlines of Max’s first approach to him after almost eight years. He was retiring. He wanted to come out. Both facts still managed to be obscured by the other thing. Even if Charles just wanted him back in his life as a friend. It was a tough pill of information to digest. That after eight years, when it came the time that Max wanted to walk away from the sport and settle down, his thoughts had still gone to Charles. Charles had been trying to digest it for a month already. 

The clock marked 9 pm by the time he closed Instagram and went back to Whatsapp, sending a quick text to check if Arthur was still around and wanted to have a late dinner. Although Charles would’ve gone straight to bed if he could, too. He was still tired from Sunday, and from the workouts Alessia had put him through to burn the alcohol away. While he waited, Charles felt unable not to go into Joris’ chat, staring at the pictures from the tabloid once again. To an outsider, it would just look like two coworkers waiting for a cab. But Charles knew exactly what both his friends were thinking when they saw the picture they sent him. 

There were only two pictures. In the first one Max was on the phone, Charles was standing a few feet away with his eyes closed. He and Max weren't even standing close. Charles was clearly drunk. The look in his eyes, his stance, the flushed face. That was what the article was honing in on. A drunken Charles Leclerc, celebrating a measly P4. How low he had fallen. A drunken Charles Leclerc being 'helped to a cab' by Max Verstappen. 

In the second one, the one both Pierre and Joris had sent him with a few '??????', Charles was getting into the cab while Max held the door open for him. And it wasn't the gesture itself that made them send it, though, no. Charles was sure that was not the reason why both of his best friends had texted him. It was the way he was looking at Charles, the way he placed his hand on the edge of the car door frame so that Charles’ wouldn’t hurt his head going in. It was the fond expression on Max's face that did it, clear as day even in the blurry picture. 

Yes, they were fond of each other. But the general public, their fans, didn't know that. They had never really been too close during the weekends back when they were together. Kept their distance for most of the time they were actively working. Back when they were dating, spending time together during the weekend had been times they could count on one hand and reserved for when they knew there were no journalists hanging around, only team personnel that already knew about them and knew to keep their mouths shut. 

Charles didn't want to know what they were talking about on social media after that tabloid released the pictures. It hadn't even been a day when Mia came to find him at the gym to yell at him, Charles only halfway through his workout under the attentive gaze of Alessia. It was Tuesday afternoon now, two more meetings with Mia, countless hours on the simulator, and Charles knew he couldn't leave his friends’ messages sitting unanswered any longer. 

Probably because they would think —if they didn't already— that the silence or lack of an immediate answer was enough of a confirmation. In reality, Charles hadn't even texted Max after he boarded the plane. Hadn't even had time to do so. 

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

Hellooo my lovely! 💖💫I am here to distract you! If you're up for it, I'd love to hear your answers to the gold obsidian egg and van gogh tapestry questions of that writing ask game you reblogged? 👀 Sending lots of love and good thoughts your way!!! 💛💛💛

hiii lovely 😘 why are you always just the absolute sweetest?? 🥺💞

gold obsidian egg: what do you treasure the most about your wip?

ooooh i had to reflect on this, because although i absolutely treasure writing four walls, i'd never really paused and tried to distil into words exactly why! i think there are probably two main things:

1) escapism - i love being able to completely immerse myself in characters and a world that feels so vividly real to me, and the safety/freedom of exploring the complexity and wonder of relationships and connection in such a safe space 💗

2) world view - this is going to be harder to explain, but i'm going to try 😅 whenever i write something, i get really immersed in the headspace of my protagonist - like to the point where i'm going about my daily life i'll find myself thinking about the way they'd experience the same environment that i'm in, almost get like - little flashes of being them?? eg, when i'm out walking and i feel my keys in my pocket, it's like for a split second i'm alex in four walls with his little set of miles's keys (i probably sound insane 😭). that's always been a feature of my writing process, but i feel like i've been able to connect to alex in this fic more vividly than i've ever connected with a protagonist before, and i've just absoltuely loved the process of immersing myself in his headspace and trying to view/describe the world in the way i imagine he might. and idk, putting myself in someone else's headspace also just constantly gets me to reflect on the experience of how different situations/emotions/internal thought processes really feel which is something i find endlessly fascinating.

it probably sounds ridiculous, but it's actually changed the way i view so many everyday things around me - like there are things i notice differently or didn't notice before from spending so much time in his headspace. also, writing in a way that i imagine might be how alex in four walls would think feels like it's just opened up new gateways for me in my writing and the way i use language.

god sorry, that was a very long and rambly answer and god knows if it even makes any sense to anyone who isn't me - in short: there is a lot that i treasure about my wip 💜

van gogh tapestry: do you create from any specific emotion? what drives you?

oh wow, this is such a good question. in terms of what drives me - i honestly don't really know, i've just always written and always have a drive to create characters and worlds through that particular medium. i genuinely don't feel like me if i'm not writing something. but i think also it comes from a drive for deep (and safe) emotional connection - and that's something that comes from my connection with the characters i'm writing, their connection with each other, and the connection i have with the people who're reading it too.

i've always been someone who feels things very deeply, so i think i'm quite largely driven by a desire to express the emotions i maybe don't get the opportunity to or feel to big to in real life. i'm not sure if there's any specific emotion that drives me - i think it's more just that sense of feeling everything so poignantly that does. for four walls though, i do feel like i drew particularly on the emotions of belonging and pining. i also notice that i always write best when i'm in a state where i'm feeling things particularly poignantly, even when those feelings can be quite negative or challenging ones - i don't know why, but that's usually when i feel like i connect best with my writing.

okay that's enough before i go off on a whole other tangent 🤦‍♀️ these answers have ended up being way more in depth than i'd anticipated - anyone who's read this has really ended up with quite the little glimpse into my psyche 😅

[sexywomens25]

Online Dating vs. Traditional Dating: Pros and Cons

Hey there! So, let’s get real about dating. You might be wondering, “Should I swipe right or take someone out for coffee?” 😅 If you’ve found yourself in the dating dilemma, you’re not alone. Online dating and traditional dating each have their own sets of perks and pitfalls, and figuring out which one suits you best can feel like trying to choose between pizza and tacos (spoiler: you can have both).

In this friendly chat, I’ll break down the pros and cons of both online and traditional dating, so you can make an informed decision that aligns with your vibe. Let’s dive in!

The Basics: What’s the Deal?

Online Dating: The New Frontier

Online dating has become the norm, thanks to the digital age. With apps and websites popping up like mushrooms after rain, it’s easier than ever to meet potential partners from the comfort of your couch. You can even do this while wearing pajama pants—no judgment here! 😜

Traditional Dating: The Good Old Days

On the flip side, traditional dating is all about face-to-face interactions, blind dates set up by friends, and the classic “meet-cute” moments. You know, like bumping into someone at the coffee shop and spilling your drink all over them. Ah, romance!

The Pros and Cons of Online Dating

Pros of Online Dating

Wider Pool of Potential Matches

When you swipe through profiles, you can connect with people you’d never meet in your regular life. Imagine a world where your soulmate is just a click away—sounds dreamy, right?

Convenience is Key

You can date from your couch, your bed, or while waiting in line for coffee. No need to dress up or even leave the house. Just grab your phone, and you’re good to go! 🙌

Filtering Options

Most dating apps allow you to set filters for age, interests, and even height. So, if you’re not into skydiving or people over 6 feet tall, you can easily avoid them.

Cons of Online Dating

Too Much Choice?

Ever heard of “analysis paralysis”? With so many options, it can be overwhelming. You might spend hours swiping, only to end up feeling like you didn’t really connect with anyone.

Catfishing and Dishonesty

Unfortunately, not everyone is who they claim to be online. You might end up chatting with someone who has a profile picture from 10 years ago (or worse, someone else's photo!).

Lack of Genuine Connection

It’s easy to hide behind a screen. Some find it hard to establish a real connection when they’re just texting or video chatting. You might miss that magical spark that comes from face-to-face interaction.

The Pros and Cons of Traditional Dating

Pros of Traditional Dating

Authenticity and Real Connections

When you’re face-to-face, you get to see body language, hear tone, and feel the vibe. It’s a more authentic experience that can lead to deeper connections.

No Ghosting (Usually)

In traditional dating, it’s a bit harder to just disappear on someone. You’re less likely to get ghosted when you’ve met in person.

It’s More Fun!

Let’s be honest—there’s something fun about the thrill of meeting someone in real life. Whether it’s a casual coffee date or a fancy dinner, the anticipation adds to the excitement.

Cons of Traditional Dating

Limited Options

If you live in a small town, your dating pool might feel like a kiddie pool. Traditional dating might limit your options and make it harder to find that special someone.

Time-Consuming

Let’s face it, meeting people in person takes time and effort. You can’t just swipe and chat; you often have to go out, get dressed, and actually interact.

Pressure and Awkward Moments

First dates can be nerve-wracking. You can’t hide behind a screen, and sometimes those awkward silences can feel like forever. Ever sat through a date where the only thing you could think about was what to order for dessert? Cringe!

Making the Choice: Which One is Right for You?

Now, let’s be real—there’s no one-size-fits-all answer. It really depends on your personality, lifestyle, and what you’re looking for. Here are a few questions to help you decide:

Are You More of a Social Butterfly?

If you thrive in social settings and love meeting new people, traditional dating might be your jam. You can enjoy spontaneous outings and the thrill of connecting over shared experiences.

Do You Prefer Convenience?

If you’re busy with work or life in general, online dating offers flexibility. You can chat with potential matches whenever and wherever you want. Just be sure to take those conversations offline when you feel a connection!

Are You Open to Both?

Why not give both a shot? You might find that a mix of online and traditional dating suits you best. After all, life’s too short to limit yourself!

Tips for Navigating Both Worlds

Online Dating Tips

Be Honest: Use recent photos, and be truthful about what you want. It saves everyone time and heartache.

Stay Safe: Always keep your personal information private. Meet in public places for the first few dates.

Keep it Light: Don’t stress too much about finding “the one” right away. Enjoy the process!

Traditional Dating Tips

Be Open-Minded: Sometimes the best connections come from unexpected places.

Ask Questions: Get to know your date by asking open-ended questions. You’ll learn more about them and keep the conversation flowing.

Have Fun: Remember, dating should be enjoyable! Don’t put too much pressure on yourself or your date.

Conclusion: Your Dating Journey Awaits!

So, there you have it—the pros and cons of online dating versus traditional dating. Each has its unique flavors, and your choice should reflect what makes you feel comfortable and happy.

Whether you’re swiping away on your phone or chatting up someone at a local coffee shop, just remember to be yourself and enjoy the ride. After all, dating should be an adventure, not a chore! So, what’s your next move? Are you ready to swipe or socialize? Either way, may the dating odds be ever in your favor! 😊

[r0und3bitch]

BFF's 💔- G.O.M.D (get off my dick):

Summary: One thing leads to another...

Warnings: 18+ ONLY!!!!! Best Friends Kink, Daddy Kink, Hair Pulling Cursing, Cum Kink (sort of? i think? LOL) Good Girl Kink, SLIGHT (sliiiiiiiight slight slight ass) play

Notes: One GIF can change your whole day and one post can drive you to do wild things. 😅😮‍💨🫠Like write this entire little one shot in RECORD TIME. MINUTES. If there's spelling errors, stfu. This is the quickest I have ever put something out. I have no one but myself, @mackenzielovee and @lovedetlost to blame for this one.

Song Inspiration: J. Cole - G.O.M.D.

Rafe could barely comprehend what was happening as you flipped him around on the couch. What had started out as casually fooling around was quickly escalating to more— much more than Rafe had anticipated. 

Yet there you were, bringing yourself down so hard on him he nearly screamed as he watched his best friend coat her walls with every inch of him he had to offer. 

No one was home and both of you were taking full advantage of that. There was not a single soul to hear you. 

He licked his lips at the sight, your hand gripping the side of his neck for support, watching your face contort wildly as you rode him, nice and slow making sure you took your time on him, giving Rafe the view of his life. 

“That’s it…” he breathed deep in your ear, biting at your skin slightly. “That’s it. Good girl…”

He pinched at your nipples through the nearly see-through tank top you were wearing, bringing his teeth down to bite gently on your hardened nub through the fabric as you moaned wildly. He lost  it the second he pulled the fabric up to expose your bare chest, catching your bare nipple between his teeth. 

His hand reaches around your neck, grabbing at the back of it to pull you closer to him, lips only inches apart. 

“You really want it, baby?”

You can’t believe he even asks to ask. Truth be told, he doesn’t. And he knows it too, proof before him as he watched you become an actual mess before him with his own eyes. Still though, he fucking loved to hear it. Needed to hear it. 

“So bad, daddy…”

Instinctively his hand finds its way to your hair, fingers pulling you back with a delicious tug, doing dangerous things to your already intensified state. 

“Rafe…”

He feels you start to tremble on top of him slightly, bringing his hands down to grab at your body to help move you up and down on top of him. He watched as your forehead falls to his as you glanced down to watch yourself take him. Over and over and over again, face melting into every emotion to ever exist. The image of you doing so is the most amazing thing Rafe Cameron has ever seen in his life. 

“You like watching yourself fuck me, hmm?” He asks, dripping with control. But this time, you want it. And for once in the entire twenty years you’ve known him, you let him have it. Let him have you, full control over you, in every way possible. 

And the second you give it to him, you know deep down it’s what you’ve always wanted. 

The feeling of him hitting the deepest parts of you leaves you too stunned to speak— too dumb to know how to use words as you nod your head up and down. 

“Me too, baby.”

His lips are on yours before you can process it— his kiss is bruising but beautiful— so beautiful and removed from yours too quick it’s like you have whiplash when he pulls back. 

You feel that familiar burn in your lower half, mind fucked so dumb you don’t even realize what you’re doing as your fingers find your clit, so desperate— more than you have ever been in your life for a release. 

Rafe slaps your hand away with a smack not a second later, earning a loud gasp from you, riding him faster now— the hardest you ever have— even more desperate for your release now at the loss of contact. 

“I thought you were gonna be my good girl?”

Your begging now, could plead with actual tears if you let yourself with him now, face set in a full pout as you slam your walls down around him harder now, your pace relentless. 

“I am, daddy…” 

The feeling of his fingers replacing your own on your clit makes you shriek. 

“Then why are you riding my dick like a little slut, baby?” 

The noise you make at his words should truly be illegal, making Rafe feel things he didn’t even think remotely possible, let alone with his best friend. You feel Rafe slip his other hand down your ass, and when you feel his finger slip easily into your other hole, you know you would do absolutely anything in the world for him. 

When he feels you clench down on him, he knows you have only seconds as he watches you unfold on top of him, loving every single second of it so much he wishes he could just watch this on repeat— not that it doesn’t already live rent free in his mind. 

When you recover from your high, it takes only one split second glance at you for him to know you’re plotting— and whatever it is that mischievous little grin you’re giving him while still riding his dick is doing dangerous things to him, his own release imminent. 

“Wait—please cum in my mouth, Daddy—”

He’s too stunned to speak at first, mouth falling open upon hearing your dirty words, your pace still just as unforgiving as he forces himself not to blow inside you. 

“Please daddy, I’ll do anything. I’ll be a good girl, promise.” 

One final mesmerizing look up at Rafe seals your fate.

“I need to taste you, Rafe. Please…”

He poses his earlier question to you yet again, his voice thick and raspy. 

“You really want it, baby?” 

Only to be met with the exact same response. 

“So bad, daddy…”

The last thing you see is him licking his lips again, the sight making you moan out loud as Rafe catches you on your upward thrust, pulling you off his dick with ease, tugging you down to your knees to bring your mouth where your other lips had just been, your tongue already swirling down his length, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you finally get what you want.  

“You’re gonna be the fucking death of me, you know that?”

He watches you literally nod, all while your mouth stayed curled around him beautifully, both hands coming up to wrap around what little your mouth couldn’t, the feeling sending Rafe into onvillion as he cums deep in your throat with one deep final thrust as your eyes bulge, finally getting to taste him—absolutely loving the way it feels—the warmth of him coating different walls this time, both of you nearly crying at the feeling as he grabs your chin, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb. 

“Good fucking girl…” 

...

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