#with each subsequent re-read
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thatswhatsushesaid · 1 year ago
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I am routinely baffled by any criticism of jgy fans' interpretation and defence of his character that can be boiled down to "but genre conventions!!!!" as if defying genre conventions isn't how newer, cooler, more interesting stories end up being told.
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glitterdustcyclops · 1 year ago
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btw i'm still thinking about what happens next, i sent it to one of my friends because i thought she'd find it compelling and that prompted me to start a re-read, i got to "no matter what" before i had to go to bed and just
the writing is absolutely masterful, to the point where i forgot i was reading a fictional story, it completely feels like something that actually happened and you are unearthing it layer by layer. and just the way it creates tension, that uneasy dread that just slooooowlly ramps up and up and up the further you go, to the point where you're hurtling towards inevitable trainwreck after inevitable trainwreck with no way to get off the ride? incredible work.
all these little hints and set ups pay off and wallop you directly in the face, and then all the moments of humor and the cutesy-indie art style just add in more dread and existential bleakness on top of all the actually really dark horror of the plot in the best way
as i put it to my friend, i've always had a thing for stories that take full advantage of the unique characteristics of the media they're being told through, stories that cannot be told any other way but the way they are, and this comic really understands that. no other media quite captures the toxic voyeurism of Being Incredibly Online and passively observing The Worst People go through horrible shit, digging through the artifacts of a life, a blog, to Consume as Entertainment
no one is free of sin here, not even us reading the comic, and it's so good, 10/10, absolutely cannot wait for the next chapter
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ereborne · 7 months ago
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Song of the Day: April 15
"Something in the Way She Moves" by James Taylor
#song of the day#it's been two weeks + two days since the last song of the day#the issue is you see that I started the songs up again in December because my insomnia was fucking up my perception of time#and I wanted some kind of regular marker to help me keep track#and then what happened two weeks + two days ago is that I lost all track of time and subsequently the songs of the day failed#I'm gonna see if I can keep up again for a bit now that I've re-restarted without an alarm on my phone#but if I miss any this week I'll just give in and turn the alarm back on#updates from the last two weeks are going to sound so chaotic let's see#I got a new project at work /and/ I got demoted /and/ I got added to a higher access level /and/ I'm in charge of a new database#yes all of those things together. I'm to be an accountant now! not instead but in addition to my other stuff. should be interesting#I didn't get April Fools off like I was scheduled to because all my scheduled vacation got unapproved#(I was here for about twenty nonsequential minutes to boop people and I'm glad I made time for it. extremely fun to boop)#I lied shamelessly to get eclipse day off and we went on a full-day roadtrip and it was wonderful. everything I dreamed and more#I killed one of my baby succulents through clumsiness and rabbits ate my pea plants but my sage and cabbages look promising#got a massive pot of mint flourishing on my porch and the horseradish is gorgeous#got Duncan lights and plants and a filter system for his frog tank but we haven't set up the substrate yet#so there's just potted plants sitting inside a terrarium. very amusing honestly#I've been playing a little Stardew and eating a /lot/ of hot sauce and tofu#drinking tons of klass aguas frescas--especially the soursop one. holy shit is it good. the mango and hibiscus also#and these past few days I've been sleeping better#for most of those two weeks I was getting a handful of twenty-minute naps each workday and then crashing unwillingly on the weekend#I haven't read any comic books since February :'( this weekend we're going to costco and then I'm reading comics until Monday#what have y'all been up to? I've missed being around#edit: oh shit the actual song part. anyway this is James Taylor! makes me happy and helps me settle. good vibes songs#I'm half-panicked about work all the time recently and then also today was tax day (Nick's taxes. blegh)#James Taylor doing some heavy lifting round here
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cheriecelestial · 4 months ago
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Jacob Black's Self Saving System Pt.1
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disclaimer *:・゚✧*:・゚✧ crack.swearing.not proofread
synopsis *:・゚✧*:・゚✧ Jason, a self-proclaimed no. 1 Stephenie Meyer hater, finds himself unexpectedly transmigrated into the very novel he disdained. Following this ironic twist of fate, he is now tasked with the challenge of creating a better version of the story himself.
a/n *:・゚✧*:・゚✧ Inspired from @duckysprouts ’s series. It’s so good ⁉️‼️. If you haven’t seen it already, PLEASE GO CHECK IT OUT. Like finally svsss content that isn’t shizun sphinx cats or binghe skin creature abomination. Art and concept so fresh it made my heart cry with joy and pulled me out of my three-month long writing slump. So, I humbly present this as an offering to our lord and savior, Ducky. Comment, Reblog and Like (∩˃o˂∩)♡
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Twilight by Stephanie Meyer was a modern classic in its renaissance era with a large cult that loved to hate it. Set in a place with relentless rain, mist shrouded forest and an ethereal light piercing the gloom — the light being the one of only Edward Cullen. Though the statement is subject to fan bias — he was a man, rather sparkly vampire, who somehow managed to be both irresistible and perpetually constipated. 
Nonetheless, his charms never overshadowed the stellar performance of our female lead, Isabella Marie Swan— better known as Bella — a teenager who gained worldwide fame for having a personality less vibrant than a wet cabbage. Together, they navigated the perilous world of teenage angst, vampire baseball, millenia old racist italian politicians and werewolves with a curious t-shirt allergy, all in an impressively monotone palette.
It was a heartwarming tale that began with awkward stares, cryptic yet nauseatingly clichéd conversations and Bella’s inexplicable attraction to danger, making the romance as thrilling as it was perplexing. Meanwhile, the supporting cast of her high school friends, each with their own irrelevant quirks and subplots, served as convenient plot devices — appearing and disappearing at the whim of the author.
And as if her love life wasn’t tumultuous enough, Bella befriended Jacob Black. A werewolf who, unsurprisingly, hated all things vampire and Edward Cullen in particular. Between Edward’s brooding, Jacob’s abs and Bella’s classic damsel-in-distress antics that made poor Elena Gilbert seem unremarkable by comparison — the story unfolded with the subtlety of a glitter bomb and reached unprecedented heights of melodrama. Something that helped the tale become a global phenomenon, demonstrating that improbable love stories can indeed shine in their own sparkly “skin-of-a-killer” fashion.
“This has to be the worst piece of literature I’ve ever read in my life.” Those were strong words from a man who spent years and at least six hundred dollars collecting softbacks and hardbacks in every special and limited edition the series offered. Jason Black was an anti-fan who lived to scoff at the literary mediocrities of authors who, after taking one look at their drafts, believed they deserved to be released into the world as actual literature. Such people, often inspired by similar works, spawned their own deranged narratives, subsequently contaminating the sanctity of literature. 
In layman’s terms, Jason was a fervent hater of the highest order. He had a long list of things he despised about the series, yet curiously, re-watching the movies and re-reading the books always found its way to the top of his to-do list every other weekend. But do not get him wrong, not once did he say anything in favour of the series. Jason simply considered it one of those brain-rotting pieces that needed to be experienced to truly appreciate the beauty of classics like Emily Brontë and Jane Austen.
_username_1 : Bruh stfu. You’re probably an unemployed loner with nothing better to do in life than to be a keyboard warrior.  
_username_2 : then idk buddy don’t read it ? It’s not that hard. 
Jason huffed at the screen crossily, his fingers dancing over the keyboard unsure of what to type next. With a sigh, he stretched his arms as if preparing for battle. And a battle it was — being an anti-fan required more dedication, practice and patience than being a regular fan. What he didn’t realize was that he had knocked a water bottle off the table onto the frayed cord of his PC.
He couldn't fathom why people defended it as if their lives depended on it. If he ever met Stephenie Meyer, Jason would have a long talk with her about the plot—or rather, the lack thereof. With the number of plot holes in the books, they could qualify as swiss cheese. The inconsistencies were glaring: if sunlight made them sparkle, wouldn't they still sparkle during the day, just less brilliantly ? How did Jasper and Alice not overhear the phone call despite having super-hearing ? Why did Jasper go ballistic over a papercut when he attended a school where students would get paper cuts and scrapes all the time ? Why were vampires and werewolves the only species to exist ? And why was Bella, or more specifically her blood, so exceptional ? Did she perhaps descend from a line of flavourful blood havers or was it due to her mother's partial albinism ?
Was she special because she was the female lead, or was she the female lead because she was special ? There were so many unanswered questions and half-assed excuses for the events in the story that most explanations came from clever fans trying to make sense of things the author clearly put no effort into planning or thinking through. These questions had plagued him since he first read the series, and the lack of satisfying answers only fueled his irritation. So much so that Jason was embarrassed for the author. Regardless, he didn’t like the direction this conversation was going so he did what any intelligent person would do, i.e., spew hate comments and log off. 
edward_my_bbg : Dumbfuck novel, Dumbfuck author 
And as if on cue, a new notification popped up, dragging him back into the fray. It was another comment, this time mocking his apparent obsession with the series he claimed to hate. Jason’s face flushed with irritation as he furiously typed a retort, but before he could hit send, his screen flickered and went black. 
He looked down and realized the water bottle he had knocked over had short-circuited his PC. With a groan, Jason leaned back in his chair, staring at the dark screen. It seemed the universe had decided to give him a break from his self-imposed battle. His hand fumbled in the dark for the plug only to feel water on the surface. The sharp pain and crackle of electricity were the last things he knew before he plunged headfirst into endless darkness.
[Activation Code:「Dumbfuck Author, Dumbfuck Novel」 ]
[System activated] 
[Pairing command successful]
“What system ?” Jason asked out loud into the void even though he knew that it was most likely a figment of his imagination. He hadn’t expected to receive a reply however he did receive one much to his surprise. 
[Welcome to the system. During the opening of the 「you can you up」system currently in its development phase, we wish to provide you with the best experience. It is our sincere hope that during the process, you will achieve what you have stated: to transform a piece of stupid writing in accordance with your wishes into a high-end, expansive, and classic work. We wish you happiness.]
Jason blinked, trying to make sense of the message. He glanced around the dim room, half-expecting to see some kind of holographic interface or futuristic display but there was nothing. Just the voice in his head and the darkness. “What the hell is this ?” he muttered, feeling a mix of confusion and curiosity.
[You have been selected to participate in the beta phase of the 「you can you up」 system. Your task is to improve the story you despise, turning it into a masterpiece. All resources and guidance will be provided to you. Do you accept this challenge ?]
Jason hesitated, the situation seemed absurd, yet a part of him was intrigued. As he sat in silence, a thought occurred to him—what if he could actually fix all the plot holes that drove him up a wall ? Maybe this was his chance to prove he could do better. But then, the possibility of all of this being real seemed too slim. How did he get here ? What happened to him after the electric shock? Was he dying, or was he already dead ? "And if I don't accept ?" he asked, uncertainty and fear bleeding into his voice despite his attempt at maintaining his composure. The system responded quickly in the same mechanical tone as before.
[Your connection between your former body and soul was severed before the initiation of the program. If you choose not to accept, you will be returned to your previous reality with no changes made. This opportunity is unique and will not be offered again.]
“Severed from my body ? Wait— doesn’t that mean I’ll die if I don’t accept ?” Jason's question hung in the air, met with nothing but silence from the system. The lack of response only confirmed his fear.
The system's silence was deafening, seemingly pressing him to make a decision. Realizing he had little choice, Jason took a deep breath. “Fine, I accept,” he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. How bad could it possibly be ? 
[Command acknowledged. Initializing story rewrite mode.]
The void around him began to shift and wrap. Till now he felt as though he was floating with no sensation except the system’s sound. His reality dissolved into swirling colours and Jason felt himself being pulled into a vortex. When the chaos settled, he heard a man’s voice call out to him. Unlike the clinical tone of system, this voice felt comforting and personal. He could feel tender warmth run through him however he couldn’t quite figure out what the voice was saying. 
“Son ? Can you hear me ?” 
“Dad ?” Jason murmured involuntarily, his voice hoarse as if he had just woken up from a long sleep. The gravel in the voice reminded him of the joys of his childhood when his dad was still — wait a second. Who the hell is that ?
His eyes struggled to focus as his eyelids fluttered a few times. Eventually, he was able to make out his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was the ceiling. Unlike the damp ceiling of his old apartment with its peeling plaster and harsh lighting, this one had old glow-in-the-dark moon and star stickers. It wasn’t familiar, but it seemed oddly comforting, like he had known it all his life. He slowly turned his head and saw a middle-aged man sitting on a wheelchair beside him with concern clouding his face. The man's russet complexion was lined with wrinkles yet his hair was long and lustrous.
“Where am I ?” 
“You’re at home. You’ve been asleep for so long, it’s alright if you’re confused. Take your time son.” The man he called ‘dad’ answered sincerely.
Jason’s mind raced as he tried to piece together what had happened. The familiarity of the room and the comforting presence of the man didn’t align with the reality he remembered. In that moment, everything came back to him—his death, the void, the system, everything. Jason went into what could only be described as psychological shock. His brain went on autopilot.
The man reached out to grab Jason’s hand, but Jason flinched and pulled away. Slivers of hurt flashed in the old man’s eyes as he slowly withdrew his hand. Jason hadn’t meant to react so harshly, but the information dump combined with the influx of sensory input, he was simply too overwhelmed to cope.
“I-I think i need some space. Do you mind ?” Jason spoke each word carefully, then added, “...dad,” feeling strangely guilty for hurting his feelings. The old man nodded slowly and wheeled himself out of the room. As soon as he was gone, Jason jumped out of bed and ran to the mirror. "Who the FUCK is this?"
Staring back at him was a boy, fifteen or sixteen, with the same russet skin as the old man and glossy black hair that looked like it belonged in a shampoo commercial. Recognizing the features, Jason knew this could only be one person.
 [System activation successful ! Binding your role as : Jacob Black]
[System : Booting Up]
Jason, now Jacob Black, stared at his reflection in disbelief. The reality of his situation hit him like a shit ton of bricks. He brought his fist to his mouth and sobbed into it, and here he thought college was devastating. “But I’m Team Edward,” he choked out between sobs. “That’s so fucked up.”
[Thank you for initiating the execution of the system. You are not bound with the account ‘Jacob Black’. All resources and guidance will be provided to you in due time. Initial B points : 100]
Jason—Jacob—felt a rush of confusion and frustration. “Now what the hell are B points ?!” he yelled, his voice reverberating off the walls of the unfamiliar room. The loudness of his own voice startled him, making him realize just how different everything felt in this new body.
[As the plot progresses, a number of opportunities to gain more points will be available. Please make sure your B points are not lower than 0. Otherwise, the system will automatically impose penalties.]
He stumbled back from the mirror, running a hand through his hair, which was definitely longer and thicker than he remembered. He could feel the strength in his limbs, the vitality of youth coursing through him. Yet, despite the physical vigor, his mind was in turmoil. He had transmigrated into the very novel he hated; the universe always seemed to have a field day when it came to ruining his life. Jacob looked around the room that was littered with the relics of a life he had to now live — a cozy bed with rumpled sheets, a desk cluttered with schoolbooks and posters of motorcycles, bands and scenic landscapes on the walls.
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“Um, so is Bella here ?” Jacob asked, scarfing down the bacon his dad made for him. Despite stressing over the role he was supposed to play in the story, he quickly adapted to his new life. He had a family, a house to live in, no worries about finding employment, no bills or taxes, a social life—or at least he assumed he had one—and, most importantly, no backaches. In hindsight, this might not be all that bad.
“Oh, you remember that ? Charlie said she’s arriving in a couple of days,” his dad, Billy, replied. Jacob felt a strange mix of anticipation and relief. Unlike most unfortunate transmigratees, he had no death flags to worry about, so he could sit back and watch Bella and Edward fall in love without “Jacob” interrupting them. Maybe he could even make things easier for Bella by acting like the perfect wingman. Who cared about making a better story anyway ? And once he had seen his OTP together, he could take his ticket out of town after the wedding and never return so that he could avoid the whole Renesmee business because some fates are worse than death.
[WARNING: Your plan is extremely dangerous and constitutes a violation. Please do not attempt it, or the system will impose strict penalties.]
Jacob choked on his water as the sudden warning window popped up in front of him. For a moment, he was so immersed in the domestic comfort of his new life that he almost forgot about the cursed system. His father looked at him with concern.
“Water went down the wrong pipe, that’s all. Nothing to worry about,” Jacob said awkwardly, trying to reassure his father. So you can read minds now ? He internally taunted the system.
[It is a feature designed to ensure maximum support for the user.]
“That’s bullshit. Also, what do you mean by violation ?” Jacob asked. Does this system really have no respect for privacy ? If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was some kind of Zuckerberg’s meta gimmick.
[You are currently at the beginning stage. OOC function freeze is activated. You must complete the beginning stage before any functions can be unlocked. If you perform any actions against the original ‘Jacob Black’ role before the functions are unfrozen, a certain number of B points will be deducted.]
Given his extensive time spent on the internet, Jacob was well aware of what OOC meant, and he knew it wasn’t a good sign. OOC stood for Out Of Character, referring to actions taken by a role that deviated from how the character was originally written.
“FUCK OFF. I’m an adult. I already finished my degree and Bella is like, a baby. And you can forget the whole Renesmee shit too. Bella belongs with Edward and and I have no intention of pursuing either her or her future daughter. So back off, you creep of a system.”
[WARNING: The system is issuing another alert. If your B points fall below 0, you will incur a penalty, which involves being automatically transported back to your original world.]
“You know, threatening me with death is really getting old,” Jacob stared at the warning message with his anger mounting. It felt like the system was encroaching on every aspect of his new life, imposing rules and restrictions without offering any clarity or real support.
He took a deep breath, trying to push past his irritation. There was no point in arguing with an automated system, especially one that clearly had its own agenda. Jacob decided to focus on what he could control. He needed to immerse himself in his role as Jacob Black and complete the introductory stage without attracting undue attention. The system’s warnings might be annoying, but he couldn’t let them derail his efforts to adapt to his new life.
As he finished his breakfast, Jacob glanced around the house. It was warm and welcoming, albeit a little messy, which was understandable. He and his dad were the only ones living there and according to his dad, he had been inexplicably unconscious for almost a week. Keeping the house tidy wasn't exactly a priority for a man worried sick about his son.
“Thanks for breakfast… Dad,” Jacob said, still not used to the idea of having a father again. There was the whole issue of stealing the real “Jacob” ’s life, dealing with imposter syndrome, and the guilt of replacing the memory of his own father by calling this old man his dad. But that was an existential crisis he chose not to mull over at the moment, especially on the precipice of the story's start. Call him selfish, but he preferred to focus on his blessings.
“I’ll go take a walk. I’ve been asleep for a while, so I need to… uh, stretch my legs,” Jacob said awkwardly, hoping Billy wouldn’t notice anything strange about his behavior.
“Sure thing, son. Also grab some red meat from the store for dinner. A growing kid like you needs that protein. And buy yourself something nice with the leftover money,” Billy replied, taking out his wallet and handing him some cash.
Jacob stared at the man in awe. As a kid who had bounced around the foster system after his dad died, he was used to being scorned and neglected. This might be part of the reason why he had become a social recluse, spending his time bashing bad literature and authors online. To him, Billy Black was the closest thing he had ever seen to an angel.
Jacob took the money, still feeling a bit dazed. “Thanks, Dad,” he managed to say, pocketing the cash. The air filling his lungs was much fresher than the pollution-riddled air of the city he used to live in. Nature seemed a lot nicer than he remembered. So, here's a lesson for the kids—don’t wait until you die and get transmigrated into a novel you hate to understand the importance of getting outside and appreciating nature. In short, go touch some fucking grass before it’s too late.
Almost as if by instinct he found himself at La Push beach. He wandered through the familiar yet new surroundings, trying to piece together his plan. If he was going to be stuck in this world, he might as well make the best of it. He thought about the story and mentally reviewed his plan. He would stay under the radar, be friendly but unobtrusive and focus on blending in with the locals. If he played his cards right, he might just manage to navigate this strange new life without getting points deducted by the system’s restrictions.
After strolling along the shore for a while, Jacob found a rock to sit on and watch the ocean. It was a stark contrast to the urban jungle he was accustomed to, this place was serene and almost idyllic.
“Ayo, is that Jacob ? Hey, Jake !” he heard someone call out. A moment later, a boy close to his age ran up to him, followed by one more. “Um, hey guys. How’s it... going ?” Socializing wasn’t one of Jacob’s strong suits; in fact, it was the exact opposite of the skill he had meticulously avoided developing over the years.
“Man, the whole crew was freaking out about you. You were out cold for a week and for no reason !” One thing Jacob appreciated about the system was the introduction tags above each character’s head. The boy speaking was named Quil, his cousin from the Quileute tribe. He knew these interactions were unavoidable, given their significance to his new role in the plot.
“Well, I got better ?” Jacob attempted a witty quip but cringed at how poorly it landed. To his surprise, the two boys just laughed. “I’m just glad you’re okay. Stop by Sam’s sometime; he’s been asking about you,” Embry said, giving Jacob a friendly slap on the shoulder.
“Wait Sam ? Right of course. Duh. Sam’s place. Got it.” Jacob replied, blinking in confusion for a moment. Sam Uley was the Alpha—or at least the to-be Alpha—of the pack Jacob was supposed to join during New Moon.
[Mild OOC warning]
“Ay man, you feeling okay ?” Embry asked again, noticing Jacob’s hesitation. Jacob froze, Embry Call was the real Jacob’s best friend and if he figured out that Jason wasn’t really Jacob, it would spell massive trouble for him.
Jacob forced a smile. “Uh, yeah. I just—” He quickly tried to think of something. What would Jacob Black say in this situation ? What does he do to feel better ? He racked his brain for answers, knowing he needed to play the part convincingly, at least till he found a way to unfreeze the OOC function.
Go bother Bella ? a small voice suggested. Bella’s not here yet dumbass, another voice countered sharply. After years of social isolation, Jason’s inner dialogue had evolved to the point where he could have entire discussions with himself. No, he wasn’t schizophrenic.
“—I was just going to grab some red meat to chow on and uh y’know, work on my bike,” he finished, hoping his voice didn’t betray his nerves.
Embry and Quil exchanged a knowing look, which made Jacob's anxiety spike only to burst into laughter. “Classic Jake. At this rate, you might end up marrying your bike,” Quil teased and Jacob laughed along, though he desperately wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out again.
“Just take it easy, yeah ? We don’t want you passing out on us again. By the way, there's a sale at the store on the other side of town,” Embry squeezed Jacob’s shoulder reassuringly again. The familiarity they seemed to share with him was comforting, even if he felt like an imposter. He knew he had to get up to speed quickly if he wanted to maintain this facade. They soon parted ways and Jacob headed towards the store.
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The store lady was overly enthusiastic upon seeing Jacob. He couldn’t tell if it was because of his face or the fact that he was a regular. As Jason, he had always been below average in looks and physique. Whereas, by the virtue of being the second male lead of a popular teenage romance novel, Jacob Black was undeniably attractive. With his deep-set dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and beautiful long hair, he looked like someone Jason would have envied. Maybe he could try his hand at modeling once the story ended, because there was no way he was putting himself through college again.
And as unpredictable as the weather of Forks was, it began to rain. Normally, Jason would wait it out and then go but now that he as in Jacob’s body, he thought to test his body’s limits. Like c’mon a little drizzle isn’t going to hurt a big strong werewolf alpha-to-be. He stepped out into the rain, feeling the cool droplets on his skin. It was refreshing, almost invigorating. Jacob’s body seemed to handle the cold and wet far better than Jason’s ever did. As he made his way back the store, he noticed people giving him friendly nods and waves. It felt strange to be acknowledged so warmly, a stark contrast to the anonymity he was used to.
At the red light he stopped, waiting for it to turn green. Sure, there were no cars around and he could have just walked, but road rules were no joke. He liked this life too much to risk having it taken away by truck-kun. “Hey system, is double isekai a thing?” he asked. The system didn’t reply, so that was probably a no.
Jacob glanced to his side and saw a person standing under a large black umbrella. A strong sweet scent pricked his nose. How strong does this guy’s cologne have to be to reach me even with the rain ? There was a name tag hovering above the person’s head, but it was obscured by the umbrella, as was his face. One thing he had learned was that only people relevant to the story had name tags over their heads, which meant this person was a character in the story. He looked down at the stranger’s hand—it looked like porcelain.
Jacob felt a sense of foreboding, creeping up his veins. His instincts were on high alert, telling him that this stranger was no ordinary person. The rain began to pour harder, each drop bouncing off the asphalt with increasing intensity.
The person probably noticed Jacob staring and as he did, the umbrella tilted slightly, revealing a glimpse of a pale, almost ethereal face with piercing golden eyes. The moment their gazes met, Jacob was momentarily blinded by a brilliant golden aura radiating from the name tag above the person’s head.
[Edward Cullen]
Jacob’s heart skipped a beat. Of course, it had to be Edward. What were the odds of encountering your favorite character on the very first day of your new life ? He felt his knees weaken. Despite the dim lighting and gloomy setting, Edward was undeniably striking. The rain seemed to fall more slowly around him, as if even the weather was reluctant to mar his flawlessness . His tousled bronze hair framed his face perfectly and Jacob felt an inexplicable urge to reach out and touch it. Despite all his criticisms of the novel, Edward had always held a special place in his heart for reasons Jacob couldn’t quite explain.
Damn, this mf looks anemic as hell. Maybe I should feed him. It was a half-serious thought, borne from both concern and his internal struggle to reconcile his feelings towards the character with the reality of his situation.
[OOC WARNING! OOC WARNING!]
[Edward Cullen is your enemy.]
“Fuck off, he’s my babygirl,”Jacob shot a mental retort at the system in exasperation and a streak of protectiveness. The system’s declaration that Edward was an enemy wasn’t misplaced given Jacob’s role in the novel but that didn’t mean it wasn’t at odds with his feelings.
Edward had always been his favorite character, a source of fascination and admiration. This was supposed to be his chance to explore and perhaps even improve upon the narrative, not to be embroiled in conflict with a character he held dear.
Jacob didn't even notice when the light turned green and Edward started walking away, his steps soundless on the wet pavement. Acting on impulse or perhaps some hidden desire, Jacob found himself walking towards Edward and grabbing his elbow, accidentally knocking his umbrella aside. Edward stopped and turned to him as the rain continued to soak them both. His gaze was like a sharp, unyielding beam of light, cutting through the rain. His eyes, an unusual shade of golden amber, held a depth that seemed to pierce directly into Jacob's soul, scrutinizing every hidden corner of his being.
[OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC!]
[EDWARD CULLEN IS YOUR ENEMY]
I’m so stupid — I forgot completely. Jacob and Edward haven’t met yet. Maybe… maybe I can salvage this ? Be a dick and still be nice ? He definitely didn’t want to end up on Edward’s bad side, nor did he want to break the system’s rules. Annoying as it was, the system was what kept him alive. Though he’d never say it out loud, he was terrified at the thought of dying, again. The system’s constant reminders of their supposed enmity were starting to grate on him, but he couldn’t afford to make more mistakes. What was a man to do when every choice seemed fraught with peril ?
Ack — he’s staring. Can he hear my thoughts ? I hope not. He and Bella meet soon, if I remember correctly so— Jacob’s anxiety skyrocketed under the weight of that gaze. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat drumming in his ears. A tight knot of dread twisted in his stomach and whether it was the rain or not, he could feel cold sweat forming on his palms. He needed to say something—anything—that wouldn’t completely derail the plot but also wouldn’t make Edward hate him from the start, even if it was inevitable.
“Oh uh — my bad, dude. I just thought you looked kinda sick so I thought — I mean,” Jacob scrambled for an explanation, forcing a nonchalant tone as he released Edward’s elbow. He felt like a small animal trapped in the headlights of an oncoming car, desperately searching for a way to escape unscathed.
“—Uh, here.” He shoved the raw steak he had just bought into Edward’s arms. The system fell silent for a moment, as stunned by his actions as Jacob was. The sound of the rain was almost deafening as awkward silence stretched between them. Edward looked down at the raw steak in his hands, confusion and surprise painting his features.
Without waiting for a reply, Jacob quickly turned on his heel and hurried away, his footsteps splashing through the rain-soaked pavement. “Later ! Get that iron up and be the lady killer you were born to be !” he called over his shoulder. After walking a few metres, he paused briefly and added,“ And seriously lay off the sauvage man !”
As he put more distance between them, Jacob’s thoughts began to spiral. What had he just done ? Did Edward think he was completely nuts ? Or worse, could Edward have read his thoughts and seen through his facade ? Jacob shuddered at the possibility.
[Why did you do that ?]
“I don’t know okay !? I thought it’d help with looking y’know less dead when he meets Bella.” He shrugged. Explaining himself to the system felt pointless considering it was neither his parent nor his babysitter. The system remained silent, as if considering his response, Jacob rolled his eyes.
[OOC ! -20 B points ↓ ↓ ↓]
“Oh come on !”
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“Still staring at that bag of steak, Ed ?” The pixie-haired woman leaned over her brother’s shoulder, teasing him.
“Go away, Alice,” Edward muttered, his gaze still locked on the steak as if it held some profound answers of the universe. His fingers occasionally running over the plastic, making the blood inside to squelch against the surface.
“Seriously what’s up with you ?” Alice frowned, dropping the banter. Ever since Edward had returned, he’d been fixated on this bag of steak that suspiciously smelled like wet dog. What was even more peculiar was the fact that she hadn’t had any visions of this event. Normally, Alice caught glimpses of all the interesting things happening with her family throughout the day but she had no clue how Edward had ended up with that steak. And from the look on his face, Edward didn’t look like he was divulging anything either.
“Nothing just… trying to figure someone out.” Edward sighed. Alice was his favorite family member, and he seldom told her off but this was something he couldn’t even make sense of himself. If he told Alice, she’d likely blow the whole thing out of proportion. But despite everything, one question kept lingering in his mind.
Who was that man ?
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A.n - should I make this into a series ? If yes please lemme know if you want to be added to the taglist.
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chelseeebe · 1 year ago
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on my knees (for you).
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a/n: more virgin!eddie tales WOOO!! i just can’t shake this little pathetic man and i want to write him being so down bad for ever and ever. thinking of some steddiexreader that includes the little virgin boy too…
this is a continuation to seven minutes in heaven but really can be read on its own, it just mentions events that happened in the first fic.
18+. smut. mentions of weed. eddie being horrifically pathetic again. no mentions of y/n.
eddie’s sure you’ve pavlov’d him.
his cock springs into action the second you appear. and see that wouldn’t be a bad thing except for the fact that he sees you multiple times a day, in class or around campus and it makes him look like a dirty perv.
even now, he’s sat trying to kill it off as you sit next to him eating your lunch. thigh brushing against his every now and again and his mind is going wild. he’s trying to think what would happen if he just lifted you onto the table and fucked the shit out of you right here.
well, in all actuality, he’d probably last all of about ten thrusts before busting a nut and subsequently dying of embarrassment. maybe it’s not wise.
the thing is, now you had this little arrangement with each other, his erections had been ramped up to level ten. and he solely blames you for that, by the way.
he’d never known someone to be so eager all the time. you’re like a fucking rabbit. tearing at his clothes the minute you’re alone already soaking your little panties. eddie had debated swiping some last time he was over but had decided against it at the last minute which he sorely regretted the second he got home.
it had mostly just been a lot of you riding him in an attempt to get him to last longer than just a few minutes so you hadn’t really.. experimented much. he didn’t mind though, getting to stare at your tits bouncing in his face as you fucked yourself on his cock? how could he complain?
your fingers wrap around his knee, leaning in to his ear, ‘i’m free for the next two hours.. what about you?’ ever so slowly traipsing your fingers higher, his cock jumping to attention. not here. please not fucking here.
he’s got steve harrington sat opposite and really does not fancy having to explain to him as to why he’s this hard at lunch time.
it wasn’t like it was a matter of life or death but it was just easier to keep doing this without everyone knowing. because then it becomes a thing and nobody wanted that. eddie’s sure at least some people have gathered what’s happening. especially argyle who had woken up rather confused to find you spooning him on your tiny couch, but had just let out a tiny bro? and fallen right back to sleep.
‘i-i have class,’ tentatively placing his hand on yours to stop it ascending any further. eyeing the other participants at the table. oh fuck. steve definitely knew. looking over with a slight glint of humour in his eye, waiting until you re-emerged from eddie’s ear to say something.
the stupid smug prick. he probably couldn’t wait to humiliate eddie in front of all your friends. then he’d swoop in with his blonde highlights and tinted strawberry lip balm. he couldn’t stand it.
surely you weren’t interested in that? really, eddie is the complete opposite of whatever the fuck that is and there’s no way in hell you’d continue to fuck him if you weren’t a fan.
‘skip class for me?’ you whisper into his ear. for me. for me. fuck. he’d do anything for you. you could’ve told him to flip the table so you could fuck right here and he would’ve.
his breath hitches in his throat but he nods quickly, squeezing your hand and dipping his head low. the bulge in his jeans was fairly obvious at this point but maybe if he got up quick enough no one would be able to tell.
your hand vacates his leg, leaving a burning sensation in it’s wake. you’re shoving your shit into your bag, standing from the shared table. oh you meant now. while over your friends were still here. you were going to walk off together. to your room. oh god. that wasn’t obvious, was it?
‘where are you goin’?’ steve asks, watching intently when you jab at eddie’s shoulder to make him move. he does immediately, grabbing his back pack and determining just how he can slide out of here without showcasing his hard on to the world.
‘we’re going to smoke.. that alright with you?’ you remark, hands poised on your hips. eddie loved it when you were like this. his heart racing faster every time you scolded him or pouted those pretty, plump lips his way.
‘sweet, i’ll come!’ argyle sits up straight, awakened by the mention of weed. of course.
‘no,’ you bark, getting fed up of waiting for eddie to stand up and instead grabbing his collar, yanking at the denim, ‘sorry, closed invitation,’ wiggling your eyebrows at the long haired boy.
this elicits a chorus of ooohs from the table as eddie finally slides from the bench, turning immediately to follow your lead. he felt like a massive loser following you around. if you got him a leash and told him to get on all fours he would. and he likes think that that’s understandable.
‘oh my god they’re so annoying,’ you hush, his legs rushing to catch up with your irritated strides. did he look like such a lost dog to other people? not that he cared much.
‘i know.. it’s steve,’ he replies, realising that there was probably too much venom in that response to pass it off as something casual. yeah, maybe he was still a tiny smidgen jealous that you two had such natural chemistry. he is human after all. anybody would be.
‘he’s an ass but it’s all of them, so nosy,’ you chuckle, linking your arm with his now that you’re out of view of your prying friends.
he had wondered if you were ashamed of him, or to be seen with him at least. it was understandable, you were literally smoking hot and he was.. a pathetic little nerd who was completely obsessed with you. but to stand up and quiet openly lead him off to your room in front of everyone, maybe you weren’t.
‘you’re not like.. ashamed to fuck me, are you?’ regretting it the instant it came out of his mouth. he didn’t want to know the answer really. and even if you were, he wasn’t going to complain. it’s not like girls were falling at his feet, let alone girls as pretty as you.
‘no!’ you hit his arm, expelling the breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding, ‘eddie be serious, it’s not like they don’t all know anyway,’ rounding the corner to your house.
he had snuck in a multitude of times over the last few weeks, in fact it was every day at this point. running up the stairs past nancy’s room, thinking how much easier it would be if you were on the ground floor. then he might be able to shuffle through your window and back out in the early hours.
you fumble for your keys, knowing that the house would be empty at this time and quite proudly let him in the door. he doesn’t reply to your answer because he had assumed that the pair of you were successful at being incredibly sneaky.
‘do you have a problem with it being a secret?’ you ask, the door slamming shut behind you.
oh god no. even if he did, he’d never tell you in fear of ruining it all. the only thing he wanted to do was to rub it into steve’s annoying face. ha ha. this massive loser had gotten into your pants before he had. well, at least he thinks.
‘no,’ it comes out sounding more like a question than a statement, which he chastises himself for straight away. if he had half the confidence any normal person had, he would’ve stopped this conversation in its tracks. shoved you back against the wall or something and shut you up with his mouth.
‘no?’
‘yeah, no,’ he repeats, sounding much more assured in himself.
‘good,’ you mutter and he notices the glint in your eye, hints of a smirk beginning to appear. he blinks and you’re stood before him, eyeing up his lips. his jeans had just got a hell of a lot tighter.
isn’t it crazy that someone’s eyes could have that affect on someone? or actually, how just the sheer presence of them in the room could have someone stumbling over their words.
‘i.. don’t care at all,’ staggered breaths as he’s backed up against the wall, shoulder blade hitting into one of the framed pictures on the wall. he wants to yelp at the pain but instead keeps his eyes solidly on yours.
he’s been practicing you see. watching any and all videos he could find of how to be a dominant man alongside copious amounts of porn and had gathered a bunch of mens help magazines. they were supposed to teach him how to be more strong willed, to flip the upper hand over to him.
except, they’d really done nothing at all. well actually, he’d now discovered that his hand was no longer sufficient compared to the earth shattering orgasms you’d given him. if there was a way for him to bottle that feeling, he’s sure that it’d be more addicting than heroin. probably make more money, too.
‘shall we go upstairs?’ you ask, eyelashes fluttering. yes. god yes. he’s desperate to get upstairs and into your room so he can disappoint you for five whole minutes this time.
‘yes.. yes please,’ his chest rising and falling rapidly. everything he had practiced had gone to shit the second you’d touched him. brilliant. 
you simply smirk, grabbing his hand to lead him up the stairs the exact same way you had the last five nights of this week.
shoving him into your bedroom and kicking the door shut behind you. you’re ferocious with it. and he wonders if you needed him as badly as he needed you. he just longed to be inside of you or next to you or just in the same room as you. he needed that feeling pumped into him intravenously.
you’re on him the second the door’s shut, grabbing at his chest, his shirt and his pants all at once. pushing him back towards your unmade bed with such urgency that he stumbles, pulling you on top of him. your lips are everywhere, pecking at his jawline and his neck. going over the violet markings you’d left previously. he was embarrassed about them at first but had quickly learned to appreciate them and the fact that you weren’t afraid to mark him.
you’re shuffling out of your jeans already, kicking them off of your ankle as you rest your knees either side of his thighs. he only notices because the frilly lace waistband of your panties catches against the button on his jeans. are these what you wear normally or is this something you did for him?
a low moan is pulled from his throat when your skilful fingers unbutton his jeans and make their way onto his rock hard cock. did you paint your fingernails for him too? the shimmering violet looked so good wrapped around his cock. he’s sure any colour would as long as it was on your hand.
‘always so hard for me, aren’t you?’ you mutter against his neck, still fondling his sensitive balls. his toes curl in his socks, keeping both feet firmly on the floor in an effort to ground himself.
there’d been a few instances of him cumming.. prematurely. and by prematurely he means, the second you touched him. he blames those times on the weed though. it was the only reasonable explanation.
‘s-sit on my face,’ he blurts out, unaware of what dark hole that had come from.
your eyes narrow, gazing down at him with your mouth hung open. that was definitely the wrong thing to say. he’d seen it in this one video and had started salivating at the thought of your pillowy thighs wrapped around his ears.
eddie hadn’t quite been able to make you cum yet. like, he was certainly making progress and you’d gotten close a couple of times but you had ultimately had to get yourself off. which he loved to watch.. he just wanted to be involved. he lived in pure amazement at how you just seemed to get there so quickly. sometimes it wasn’t even a minute with your hand between your thighs and you were whining and writhing around. how?
‘eds.. that’s- are you sure?’ eyeing him cautiously. why didn’t you just trust him? he’s pretty confident he had the technique down, ashamedly having practiced on his hand one night. yeah, that was awkward.
and the erection it had given him was too.
‘i’m sure.. please,’ he had figured out that as soon as he begged for something, he pretty much got it. maybe you had a fetish for pathetic men or something but all he had to do was plead a little and you were pouncing on him.
‘do you even know-,’
‘-yes i know what to do,’ he barks a little hastily. at least now you’d either punish him or would listen to him. either was fine.
you eyebrows fly up your forehead and he thinks for a second that he’s really in the shit. his cock jumps at the thought of you slapping him again or even better, wrapping your hand around his neck like you’d done the other day. now that really got him going.
‘okay.. but if it’s too much let me know,’ lifting yourself from his waist and shuffling upward towards his head. he’s drooling just thinking about it. wrapping his arms around the backs of your thighs just as the man in the video had. he could keep you in place perfectly like this.
‘come on,’ he sighs, watching as you slide your underwear down and off to the side, stopped just before his eager, salivating mouth. everything he had practiced came down to this very moment and he was more than ready to show you what he’d learned.
‘you’re so bossy now.. i don’t like it,’ frowning down to him, hand coming to hold onto your headboard. he had hoped that you’d pull on his hair again but was for sure not going to ask. ‘remember to tell me if it’s too much.. slap me or something, i’ll know,’ biting down onto your bottom lip.
he nods quickly, eyes sliding away from yours to your pussy poised above him. now, he didn’t have any much experience with pussy but he’d say that yours was perfect.
without wanting to waste anymore time, he pulls you down onto his mouth, tongue immediately lapping at your folds. just the way he’d practiced. he didn’t really have any preconceptions of what pussy would taste like but he’s pleasantly surprised. he’d keep you here all day if he could, who needed to breathe anyway?
‘ho-holy shit,’ you remark, clawing at your bed frame for a little balance. he thinks that’s a good thing, eyes trained on your face to determine whether he was doing this right or not.
his tongue slides up, circling around your sensitive clit. yeah, that’s it. he can tell when your eyes roll into the back of your head, hips stuttering on his face.
‘jesus eddie,’ you breathe, just hearing his name tumble from your lips does fucking wonders for him. it’s all the encouragement he needs to continue his assault on your cunt.
he murmurs something in utter gratitude when your hand leaves the headboard to instead tangle into his hair. mouth vibrating against your pussy which is another hit. the gorgeous sounds of your moans fill the room, only slightly muffled by your legs over his ears.
it’s now or never. he has to pull out the big guns.
tongue leaving your clit to slide into your dripping hole. soaking his chin, his lips and probably his shirt in your arousal. he didn’t mind one bit. it’s like a badge of honour to know that he was responsible for the mess.
‘fuck,’ you hiss, fisting his curls as your eyes squeeze shut. eddie wants to scream when your eyes roll back, his fingers digging into your fleshy thighs.
oh my god. this was paradise. utter heaven. his heart swelling a little knowing that you were cussing fretting because of his mouth. you were so gorgeous from this angle. well, from all angles but particularly this one. looking totally blissed out on top of him, your lips opening to let out the most insatiable noises he’d ever heard.
your fingers yank at his curls, legs trembling around his flushed face, ‘i’m gonna- eds, i’m cumming,’ thighs clamping around his head as your hips roll forward on their own, trying to escape the overstimulation.
eddie’s desperate to keep you there, using his palms to hold you steady while he’s literally making out with your pussy. lapping at your clit, at the juices that now covered his face. except his stomach tightens, slowing his pace until he realises what’s happening.
oh shit.
his hips buck up into the air on their own and his boxers feel incredibly wet and sticky. he’s just came in his pants by eating you out. that’s ridiculous. utterly unbelievable that someone could be that tragic.
you were definitely going to laugh at him when you realised but there’s literally not a chance that he could hide that. he lets go of his grip on your thighs, moving one hand over his crotch as you shuffle off of him.
bastard. pathetic fucking bastard.
you hadn’t even touched him yet. how was he going to explain that? i’m just so sickly obsessed with you that i came in my pants. that didn’t sound like anything a normal person would say.
his eyes remain shut, laboured breathing as his mind attempts to take him out of this room and far, far away. it’s not fucking working. especially not when he can hear your panting next to him, the rustling of the sheets as you sort them out.
your eyes travel to his covered crotch with a confused expression until you notice the dark latch and it finally clicks. ‘did you cum in your pants?’ you exclaim and he thinks that this right here might just kill him off.
he nods quickly, point blank refusing to open his eyes. it was easier this way, at least his tears of embarrassment would be somewhat hidden. you could’ve just done the polite thing and ignored it. made up some excuse about going to class and then you could disappear from his life. god, why did you have to be such a-
‘that’s so hot,’ you continue, cutting his thoughts short at just the right spot. pressing your warm body into his side as you settle into bed.
‘what? no it’s not..’ brave enough to open his eyes to look at you, confusion plastered over his face. surely you were just joking. no woman in the history of the world would find his inadequacy hot.
‘who are you to tell me what i can or can’t find hot?’ prodding at his cheek, offence ribbed throughout your response.
this surely requires a marriage proposal or something of that nature, right? like, there’s not a possibility that he could ever let you get away now.
his lips twitch into a smile, taking his hand from his crotch to wrap his arm around your shoulder. the confidence was next level and almost unheard of but he had to show you a little appreciation after you’d just told him his premature orgasm was attractive.
‘don’t ever tell me what i can and can’t like again,’ you jokingly warn, resting your head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.
he speaks up after a few moments of silence, unsure of if you’re even still awake, ‘thank you.. for letting me do that,’ staring up at the ceiling. eddie thinks that he likes eating pussy. really likes it. especially yours.
you laugh sleepily, throwing an arm over his torso. it’s music to his ears. if making you cum was top priority, then making you laugh was a solid number two.
‘you don’t have to thank me every time,’ yawning into his chest. it’s technically still the middle of the day but if you were going to sleep, he sure as hell wouldn’t complain.
instead he’d lie there as still as he possibly could. kinda like when a cat falls asleep on your lap and you just can’t move for the rest of the day. he’s prepared to take that sacrifice.
-
he must’ve dozed off at some point too because he wakes up to a short knock on your bedroom door.
you’re dead to the world. completely unaffected by the sound, curled into the blanket. super adorable with your cheeks squished togeth-
the door knocks again and he jumps up, not wanting whoever it is to wake you. he hadn’t exactly thought of the consequences of answering your door. half naked at that.
‘oh! eddie.. wasn’t expecting you,’ nancy responds, eyebrows flying up her forehead. he’s such a moron. it would’ve been ten times easier to just ignore the door because now he had to explain why he was stood in his underwear in your room.
perfect.
‘oh yeah.. got too high.. had to sleep it off, yanno?’ chuckling awkwardly, desperately trying to hide behind the door. he hopes to the high heavens that his boxers aren’t stained. he’d either look like the worlds biggest creep or like the completely pathetic freak that he was. he wasn’t keen on either option.
only you could know just how pitiful he truly was.
her eyes travel to his bare legs and back up again, ‘uh huh.. well, we’re ordering pizza if you two want in..?’ giving him a tiny smile. she’s so polite that now he just feels weird. god dammit, they’re friends, his pasty little legs being out should not make him feel so exposed.
‘oh yeah uh.. i’ll ask her,’ glancing over to your very unconscious state on the bed. he wasn’t keen on the idea of waking you but did think that it’d be rather unforgivable if he didn’t. plus he was hungry.
‘okay.. don’t take too long,’ wiggling her eyebrows at him and disappearing off back downstairs. shutting your door with a quiet click.
fucking nancy wheeler and her politeness.
he slinks back over to the bed, shaking your shoulder ever so gently, ‘hey.. wake up,’ trying his hardest not to alarm you.
it works somewhat, your eyes springing open as you wake. blinking up at him from your blanket cocoon. he feels terrible but man’s gotta eat. it does occur to him now that it would’ve been a pleasant surprise to wake you with a pizza rather than just so abruptly.
‘wha- what?’ rubbing your tired eyes as you come to. you’re so cute like this, he wouldn’t mind waking up to this sight every morning. okay, maybe he’s getting ahead of himself here.
‘er.. they’re ordering pizza.. nancy asked me if you wanted anything?’ still standing sheepishly over your bed. his eyes trail down to where your thigh had poked out of the duvet, how they were keeping his face warm barely a few hours ago..
‘oh,’ you sigh, ‘yeah.. just cheese please,’ snuggling back up into the bed, ‘there’s a twenty on my desk, get whatever you want,’ closing your eyes again.
‘oh.. okay,’ he nods, even though you obviously can’t see him. deciding that this time, he’ll be more appropriately dressed to converse with your roommates. seemed like the right thing to do. plus he’s sure robin would definitely have plenty to say if he came downstairs half-dressed. and none of it good.
he ignores the money on your desk. as fucking if he’d let you pay for your own food after you had so graciously fed him earlier. not happening. like, ever again.
following the voices into your kitchen to find nancy and robin sat around the kitchen island, phone poised in her hand ready to go.
‘you’re in luck, i was just about to call.. what d’you want?’ robin asks, raising a singular brow. nancy had obviously filled her in on what had been behind your bedroom door.
‘just cheese.. please,’ ignoring how ridiculous the unintended rhyme made him sound.
‘is that for both of you?’ she looks on, a glint of something indescribable in her eye. he wishes he knew how to decipher women. you’re all so fucking complicated and weird. in the best way, of course.
‘uh.. yeah?’ looking on tentatively, unsure of what she could possible be implying.
‘she won’t share, better to get your own,’ she nods. oh. she was being nice. he’s sure there’ll be a catch somewhere.
‘oh right.. okay,’ he fumbles around in his pocket for his wallet, tossing a couple twenties onto the marble. maybe if he covered their food too, he’d get in their good books and would be welcomed back with open arms. he’s sure he could endure that.
pay for food and get magnificent pussy in return. seemed fair.
the two girls sit in silence until he gets to the bottom of the stairs and then robin pipes up once again, ‘will we be seeing you around here regularly, mr. munson?’
he pauses, staring back into the kitchen at the two girls. he’s not sure how to even respond. because actually, he’d been at your house every night this week, right under their noses. and if he were to hazard a guess, he’d be here most of next week too. and the next.
okay, maybe he was getting ahead of himself.
‘uh.. maybe?’ he shrugs, chuckling nervously. robin’s eyes are like slits, staring him down. she’d always been rather intimidating and now was no exception.
‘hm,’ she nods, shooing him off back up the stairs, ‘you’re dismissed,’ still clutching onto the clunky plastic phone.
he disappears rapidly, not wanting to hang around to find out what else she was going to pry about it. eddie reckons that he’s good at secrets, but if he was truly pressed, he’s not so confident in his ability to keep quiet.
you’re awake when he returns to your room, still dozing in bed but awake. he slinks back in, grateful to be away from their prying questions. you’re so sweet like this. not that he didn’t also adore the bossy, demanding side of you but he appreciated the docile part too.
‘you didn’t take my money,’ you point out, frowning at him from the pillow. he shuffles over to your side of the bed, smiling sheepishly.
‘i wanted to pay.. to say thank you,’ he nods, fiddling with his belt loop. he’s aware that you had already told him to stop saying thank you but he truly had to express his gratitude somehow.
‘stop doing that,’ you frown, glaring up at him, hand appearing from the blanket to grab onto his shirt. ‘if i didn’t want to have sex with you, i wouldn’t,’ fisting the material to pull him closer to the bed.
eddie’s not the most sturdy, stumbling and ultimately falling on top of you, just about catching himself before his head smashes into yours. that’d look really good to the girls he was trying to impress if he gave you a black eye, robin would probably get the pitchfork ready to murder him.
you squirm beneath him but your smile says it all, still clasped onto his tee. you’re slightly intimidating like this, well, you were all the time. but especially like this. just mere millimetres away from his face, gazing up at him with those bright eyes. he’s sure they held the glow of a thousand suns in them.
he breathes out shakily, fully aware that his entire body weight was on top of yours, ‘yeah.. shit, sorry,’ far too mesmerised by your eyes to want to move just yet.
‘apology accepted,’ you grin, smashing your lips to his, hand still fisted into his shirt. it’s lazy and messy, tongue creeping into his mouth the second you get the chance.
eddie can feel your thighs move, spreading apart to pull him in closer despite the barrier between you. holy shit. he didn’t think he’d find this so incredibly hot. grinding against you between the blanket.
downstairs, robin and nancy share a certain look when they notice the faint knocking of your headboard against the wall. robin’s nose curling the second she realises just what was happening. feeling the instant regret of ever asking him if he was to be around more often.
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mostlysignssomeportents · 9 months ago
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How a billionaire’s mediocre pump-and-dump “book” became a “bestseller”
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If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:
https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/15/your-new-first-name/#that-dagger-tho
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I was on a book tour the day my editor called me and told me, "From now on, your middle name is 'Cory.'"
"That's weird. Why?"
"Because from now on, your first name is 'New York Times Bestselling Author.'"
That was how I found out I'd hit the NYT list for the first time. It was a huge moment – just as it has been each subsequent time it's happened. First, because of how it warmed my little ego, but second, and more importantly, because of how it affected my book and all the books afterwards.
Once your book is a Times bestseller, every bookseller in America orders enough copies to fill a front-facing display on a new release shelf or a stack on a bestseller table. They order more copies of your backlist. Foreign rights buyers at Frankfurt crowd around your international agents to bid on your book. Movie studios come calling. It's a huge deal.
My books became Times bestsellers the old-fashioned way: people bought and read them and told their friends, who bought and read them. Booksellers who enjoyed them wrote "shelf-talkers" – short reviews – and displayed them alongside the book.
That "From now on your first name is 'New York Times Bestselling Author' gag is a tradition. When @wilwheaton's memoir Still Just A Geek hit the Times list, I texted the joke to him and he texted back to say @jscalzi had already sent him the same joke (and of course, Scalzi and I have the same editor, Patrick Nielsen Hayden):
https://www.harpercollins.com/products/still-just-a-geek-wil-wheaton
But not everyone earns that first name the same way. Some people cheat.
Famously, the Church of Scientology was caught buying truckloads of L Ron Hubbard books (published by Scientology's own publishing arm) from booksellers, returning them to their warehouse, then shipping them back to the booksellers when they re-ordered the sold out titles. The tip-off came when booksellers opened cases of books and found that they already bore the store's own price-stickers:
https://www.latimes.com/local/la-scientology062890-story.html
The reason Scientology was willing to go to such great lengths wasn't merely that readers used "NYT Bestseller* to choose which books to buy. Far more important was the signal that this sent to the entire book trade, from reviewers to librarians to booksellers, who made important decisions about how many copies of the books to stock, whether to display them spine- or face out, and whether to return unsold stock or leave it on the shelf.
Publishers go to great lengths to send these messages to the trade: sending out fancy advance review copies in elaborate packaging, taking out ads in the trade magazines, featuring titles in their catalogs and sending their sales-force out to impress the publisher's enthusiasm on their accounts.
Even the advance can be a way to signal the trade: when a publisher announces that it just acquired a book for an eyebrow-raising sum, it's not trumpeting the size of its capital reserves – it's telling the trade that this book is a Big Deal that they should pay attention to.
(Of all the signals, this one may be the weakest, even if it's the most expensive for publishers to send. Take the $1.25m advance that Rupert Murdoch's Harpercollins paid to Sarah Palin for her unreadable memoir, Going Rogue. As with so many of the outsized sums Murdoch's press and papers pay to right wing politicians, the figure didn't represent a bet on the commercial prospects of the book – which tanked – but rather, a legal way to launder massive cash transfers from the far-right billionaire to a generation of politicians who now owe him some rather expensive favors.)
All of which brings me to the New York Times bestselling book Read Write Own by the billionaire VC New York Times Bestselling Author Chris Dixon. Dixon is a partner at A16Z, the venture capitalists who pumped billions into failed, scammy, cryptocurrency companies that tricked normies into converting their perfectly cromulent "fiat" money into shitcoins, allowing the investors to turn a massive profit and exit before the companies collapsed or imploded.
Read Write Own (subtitle: "Building the Next Era of the Internet") is a monumentally unconvincing hymn to the blockchain. As Molly White writes in her scathing review, the book is full of undisclosed conflicts of interest, with Dixon touting companies he has a direct personal stake in:
https://www.citationneeded.news/review-read-write-own-by-chris-dixon/
But this book's defects go beyond this kind of sleazy pump-and-dump behavior. It's also just bad. The arguments it makes for the blockchain as a way of escaping the problems of an enshittified, monopolized internet are bad arguments. White dissects each of these arguments very skillfully, and I urge you to read her review for a full list, but I'll reproduce one here to give you a taste:
After three chapters in which Dixon provides a (rather revisionistd) history of the web to date, explains the mechanics of blockchains, and goes over the types of things one might theoretically be able to do with a blockchain, we are left with "Part Four: Here and Now", then the final "Part Five: What's Next". The name of Part Four suggests that he will perhaps lay out a list of blockchain projects that are currently successfully solving real problems.
This may be why Part Four is precisely four and a half pages long. And rather than name any successful projects, Dixon instead spends his few pages excoriating the "casino" projects that he says have given crypto a bad rap,e prompting regulatory scrutiny that is making "ethical entrepreneurs … afraid to build products" in the United States.f
As White says, this is just not a good book. It doesn't contain anything to excite people who are already blockchain-poisoned crypto cultists – and it also lacks anything that will convince normies who never let Matt Damon or Spike Lee convince them to trade dollars for magic beans. It's one of those books that manages to be both paper and a paperweight.
And yet…it's a New York Times Bestseller. How did this come to pass? Here's a hint: remember how the Scientologists got L Ron Hubbard 20 consecutive #1 Bestsellers?
As Jordan Pearson writes for Motherboard, Read Write Own earned its place on the Times list because of a series of massive bulk orders from firms linked to A16Z and Dixon, which ordered between dozens and thousands of copies and gave them away to employees or just randos on Twitter:
https://www.vice.com/en/article/n7emkx/chris-dixon-a16z-read-write-own-nyt-bestseller
The Times recognizes this in a backhanded way, by marking Read Write Own on the list with a "dagger" (†) that indicates the shenanigans (the same dagger appeared alongside the listing for Donald Trump Jr's Triggered after the RNC spent a metric scientologyload of money – $100k – buying up cases of it):
https://www.nytimes.com/2019/11/21/books/donald-trump-jr-triggered-sales.html
There's a case for the Times not automatically ignoring bulk orders. Since 2020, I've run Kickstarters where I've pre-sold my books on behalf of my publisher, working with bookstores like Book Soup and wholesalers like Porchlight Books to backers when they go on sale. I signed and personalized 500+ books at Vroman's yesterday for backers who pre-ordered my next novel, The Bezzle:
https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/53531243480/
But there's a world of difference between pre-orders that hundreds or thousands of readers place that are aggregated into a single bulk order, and books that are bought by CEOs to give away to people who may not have any interest in them. For the book trade – librarians, reviewers, booksellers – the former indicates broad interest that justifies their attention. The latter just tells you that a handful of deep-pocketed manipulators want you to think there's broad interest.
I'm certain that Dixon – like me – feels a bit of pride at having "earned" a new first name. But Dixon – like me – gets something far more tangible than a bit of egoboo out of making the Times list. For me, a place on the Times list is a way to get booksellers and librarians excited about sharing my book with readers.
For Dixon, the stakes are much higher. Remember that cryptocurrency is a faith-based initiative whose mechanism is: "convince normies that shitcoins will be worth more tomorrow than they are today, and then trade them the shitcoins that cost you nothing to create for dollars that they worked hard to earn."
In other words, crypto is a bezzle, defined by John Kenneth Galbraith as "The magic interval when a confidence trickster knows he has the money he has appropriated but the victim does not yet understand that he has lost it."
So long as shitcoins haven't fallen to zero, the bag-holders who've traded their "fiat" for funny money can live in the bezzle, convinced that their "investments" will recover and turn a profit. More importantly, keeping the bezzle alive preserves the possibility of luring in more normies who can infuse the system with fresh dollars to use as convincers that keep the bag-holders to keep holding that bag, rather than bailing and precipitating the zeroing out of the whole scam.
The relatively small sums that Dixon and his affiliated plutocrats spent to flood your podcasts with ads for this pointless 300-page Ponzi ad are a bargain, as are the sums they spent buying up cases of the book to give away or just stash in a storeroom. If only a few hundred retirees are convinced to convert their savings to crypto, the resulting flush of cash will make the line go up, allowing whales like Dixon and A16Z to cash out, or make more leveraged bets, or both. Crypto is a system with very few good trades, but spending chump change to earn a spot on the Times list (dagger or no) is a no-brainer.
After all, the kinds of people who buy crypto are, famously, the kinds of people who think books are stupid ("I would never read a book" -S Bankman-Fried):
https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2022/11/29/sam-bankman-fried-reading-effective-altruism/
There's precious little likelihood that anyone will be convinced to go long on crypto thanks to the words in this book. But the Times list has enough prestige to lure more suckers into the casino: "I'm not going to read this thing, but if it's on the list, that means other people must have read it and think it's convincing."
We are living through a golden age of scams, and crypto, which has elevated caveat emptor to a moral virtue ("not your wallet, not your coins"), is a scammer's paradise. Stein's Law tells us that "anything that can't go on forever will eventually stop," but the purpose of a bezzle isn't to keep the scam going forever – just until the scammer can cash out and blow town. The longer the bezzle goes on for, the richer the scammer gets.
Not for nothing, my next novel – which comes out on Feb 20 – is called The Bezzle. It stars Marty Hench, my hard-driving, two-fisted, high-tech forensic accountant, who finds himself unwinding a whole menagerie of scams, from a hamburger-based Ponzi scheme to rampant music royalty theft to a vast prison-tech scam that uses prisoners as the ultimate captive audience:
https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle
Patrick Nielsen Hayden – the same editor who gave me my new first name – once told me that "publishing is the act of connecting a text with an audience." Everything a publisher does – editing, printing, warehousing, distributing – can be separated from publishing. The thing a publisher does that makes them a publisher – not a printer or a warehouser or an editing shop – is connecting books and audiences.
Seen in this light, publishing is a subset of the hard problem of advertising, religion, politics and every other endeavor that consists in part of convincing people to try out a new idea:
https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/04/self-publishing/
This may be the golden age of scams, but it's the dark age of publishing. Consolidation in distribution has gutted the power of the sales force to convince booksellers to stock books that the publisher believes in. Consolidation in publishing – especially Amazon, which is both a publisher and the largest retailer in the country – has stacked the deck against books looking for readers and vice-versa (Goodreads, a service founded for that purpose, is now just another tentacle on the Amazon shoggoth). The rapid enshittification of social media has clobbered the one semi-reliable channel publicists and authors had to reach readers directly.
I wrote nine books during lockdown (I write as displacement activity for anxiety) which has given me a chance to see publishing in the way that few authors can: through a sequence of rapid engagements with the system as a whole, as I publish between one and three books per year for multiple, consecutive years. From that vantagepoint, I can tell you that it's grim and getting grimmer. The slots that books that connected with readers once occupied are now increasingly occupied by the equivalent of the botshit that fills the first eight screens of your Google search results: book-shaped objects that have gamed their way to the top of the list.
https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2024/jan/03/botshit-generative-ai-imminent-threat-democracy
I don't know what to do about this, but I have one piece of advice: if you read a book you love, tell other people about it. Tell them face-to-face. In your groupchat. On social media. Even on Goodreads. Every book is a lottery ticket, but the bezzlers are buying their tickets by the case: every time you tell someone about a book you loved (and even better, why you loved it), you buy a writer another ticket.
Meanwhile, I've got to go get ready for my book tour. I'm coming to LA, San Francisco, Seattle, Vancouver, Calgary, Phoenix, Portland, Providence, Boston, New York City, Toronto, San Diego, Salt Lake City, Tucson, Chicago, Buffalo, as well as Torino and Tartu (details soon!).
If you want to get a taste of The Bezzle, here's an excerpt:
https://www.torforgeblog.com/2023/11/20/excerpt-reveal-the-bezzle-by-cory-doctorow/
And here's the audiobook, read by New York Times Bestselling Author Wil Wheaton:
https://archive.org/download/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_459/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_459_-_The_Bezzle_Read_By_Wil_Wheaton.mp3
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serickswrites · 3 months ago
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Get Up III
Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6
Warnings: gunshot, mcd, head ache, captivity, restraints, amnesia, torture, scientific experimentation
"Why won't you work?" Villain growled as they watched as their tenth attempt to revive Hero failed. They stared down at Hero's pale, empty eyes. "Why won't you wake up?"
They had been trying for the better part of a week to revive Hero. Each subsequent failure was enraging. It was even more so because as far as they could tell, everything should be working.
"It's more than electricity," Villain muttered as they re-read their notes for the fifteenth time. "But what elements are missing? How do I tether your essence?"
Hero didn't respond. Villain began to wonder if the bullet in Hero's brain had destroyed something vital to the process. "I am so close. I know I am."
They had failed to revive their fallen minions as well. They had burned through enough bodies that they knew what would destroy a body. But they still hadn't figured out what would bring them back.
"One more try for today. Because I am going to bring you back. And then I'm going to kill you slowly, painfully. Because no one gets to kill you, but me."
***
Hero wasn't sure what was happening to them. Their head hurt, worse than any headache they had before. They were laying on a cold, metal slab. How had they gotten there? What had happened?
They strained to remember as they struggled to open their eyes. It was so bright here. Their eyes hurt as they tried to open them.
What had happened?
"There you are," a voice that had Hero's blood running cold came from nearby. "I was wondering how long it would take for you to get here," Villain said with a sinister smile as they stared down at Hero.
Hero swallowed. Their mouth was so terribly dry. They couldn't speak. Why were they with Villain? What had happened?
"Welcome back to the land of the living, Hero."
Tags: @ftl-faster-than-life @wankusbonkus @lili-loves-whump @nolittlenightmare @d-cs
@daemonvatis @bisexuawolfsalt @pic-star01 @st0rmm
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the-crooked-library · 2 years ago
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On Horror, Queerness, Mirrors, and Dracula
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Your wish is my command (you may or may not regret this). 
Here’s the thing - I love horror, and I love patterns, and I think the best horror is always in some sense symmetrical.  It might not be obvious, but what’s the point of staring into an abyss if you can’t see your own face reflected back?  The symmetry itself comes in any number of different twists, whether it is familial, communal, erotic, or individual, and most of these apply to Bram Stoker’s Dracula. 
The centre of our novel rests on the Harkers.  So, starting with Jonathan - his experience in Transylvania is a twisted version of his life back home.  Dracula is reserved but eloquent, seemingly caring and occasionally affectionate, he reads train schedules and they spend hours upon hours in conversation; which is a dark mirror to Jonathan’s train schedule-loving, passionate but serious Mina.  It may even be said that the Count is re-enacting a caricature of traditional heteronormative domesticity - he maintains the household, waits on his guest himself, and blows him kisses from the stairs.  His possessiveness of Jonathan is the only way a vampire like Dracula is capable of understanding the bond Jonathan shares with Mina.  The Count states that he, too, feels love; but he is written by a closeted gay man in the late 19th century, so his imitation of married life is both a lie and a tragedy.  He is a shorthand for forbidden, wrong, and corrupting desires. 
At the same time, Mina herself also has a same-sex connection in the beginning of the story, and her relationship with Lucy mirrors the relationship between Jonathan and Dracula.  They cling to each other, in a sense; despite being excited about the prospect of their impending marriages, there is some trepidation associated with this new stage in life.  A common part of a dowry used to be a shroud, simply due to the frequency at which Victorian wives died in childbirth soon after the wedding; and even provided a survival, the transition to married life was still a loss of innocence.  As such, Lucy’s affection for Mina is the last expression of her girlhood, and she herself is the personification of Mina’s.  Lucy is, therefore, the direct antithesis of the Count; her death and subsequent rising change Mina the same way that Dracula does Jonathan, establishing a firm duality between the Harkers and their respective vampires. 
The other characters are reflections of each other, as well; the suitors defend while the brides terrify, Van Helsing wants to preserve life while Renfield wishes to consume it - and even further, the old Hungarian lady cares enough about  a stranger to give Jonathan a cross for protection, while Lucy’s own mother lets Dracula into the house herself, selfishly ignorant of her daughter’s needs and the doctor’s orders.  Another parallel is drawn again between Jonathan and Renfield, who represents directly what he could have been, had he not escaped from Dracula’s grasp; which makes Renfield’s vehement, last-ditch attempt to protect Mina perhaps all the more poignant.  In him, she sees the resilience of Jonathan’s humanity; while he gets to see exactly what she could become after her turning  - in Dracula himself.  These dualities are integral to the story’s thematic structure, and therefore inextricable from each character’s development. 
There is really too much to say about each individual dynamic to fit into one rant, but for the current purposes, I can forgo the details.  They all converge as it is on Jonathan and Mina, and thus, the central theme of this story is devotion.  If Jonathan had truly broken, like Renfield, Mina would have stayed by his side; and if she had fully turned, like Dracula, he would have adored whatever shred of her still remained.  In madness and in death, in happiness and sorrow, in sickness and in health - until the echoes start to sound like wedding vows. 
@stripedshirtgay​
@bluberimufim​
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serenaoffaerun · 3 months ago
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Tenacity - Chapter 3 of the "Consequences" series
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It's finally here!! Thank you all for your patience. Because of the physical letter writing I drew for Tav and Gale's back-and-forth, this took much longer than I anticipated. Plus, the story just kind of...ran away with itself... This chapter comes in at a word count over 8,000 and I don't know how that happened LOL.
Big thanks again to @alpydk who started off this series with what was supposed to be a one-off angst story, and allowed me to write my own sequel chapters to finish the story my own way. (Alphydk's chapter 2 can be found here.) As my first long-form writing in over a decade, it's been a fun challenge to take two characters I love so much and get them out of a position I wouldn't have put them in in the first place. 💜
Without making you all endure any more of my "propensity towards verbosity," I present chapter 3: Tenacity (complete with hand-written letters!)
Summary: After agreeing to try to re-establish their friendship/relationship by writing letters back and forth, Tav and Gale set out on their journey of communicating, listening, and healing. You better believe they're both going to hold on for dear life.
Word Count: 8,289 (I'm not sorry.)
CW: References to depression, alcoholism
Tags: GalexTav, angst/fluff, pre-established (albeit rocky) relationship, future smut? (no spoilers...), brief mention of infertility (in a positive way??), depresso espresso, communication, healing, Tara's getting ALL the tuna.
[I'm sure I left some out, I'll come back and add to it once I get this on AO3 - coming soon!!]
Screenshot: Taken from my own gameplay. Please do not re-post as your own.
NOTE: For those who don't want to read Tav's mediocre (but improving) handwriting or Gale's flowy cursive, the text version is printed below each letter (including doodle descriptions!)
9/2 4:45PM Pacific - EDIT FOR MORE NOTES:
My underlines went away when I copy/pasta'd from GoogleDocs, and now I realize that you can't underline because of links, so they're bolded and italicized instead.
REGARDING BHAALSPAWN INFERTILITY - this is NOT canon to BG3/DnD/Forgotten Realms. I totally made this up to fit my literary needs. 😉
Alpydk's chapter 1: Consequences
Chapter 2: Acquiescence
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Tav assessed herself before she even opened her eyes. Between the wine and the crying, she was probably the most dehydrated person in all of Faerûn. The pounding headache she was used to. She'd made blackout curtains for a reason, after all. But the soul-wrenching nausea, that was new.
Being blissfully infertile, she knew there was no risk of pregnancy. One of her permanent "gifts" as Bhaal's former Chosen was the ability to be as promiscuous as she pleased without fear of pregnancy in order to weasel her way into the hearts, minds, and pants of any of her previous victims. Not that she'd needed that ability since the Nautiloid, or especially her subsequent severing from said god. But this was no ordinary nausea anyway. It was coming from somewhere much more complex.
Among the growing list of sensations Tav noticed from her downward-facing zombie position on the couch, she found two long-lost friends: the physical feeling of being simultaneously sated but also achingly empty in her core, and...hope. Surprisingly enough, she realized it was the latter that brought on the nausea.
Crippling anxiety, overwhelming depression, stabbing guilt, these are feelings she was familiar with and knew how to handle: with denial and alcohol. Just ball it up and shove it in the "future ulcer" pocket by the stomach and cover it up with a bottle of wine or two.
Hope, on the other hand, is a fickle bitch. It introduces the possibility of a better future. The idea that things could get better. Then comes the uncertainty.
‘Desirable things in life are never guaranteed,’ she told herself. ‘You can always lose them. Don't get TOO comfortable! You might still have to live the rest of your life without the man you truly believe is your soulmate.’
Tav had NEVER believed in the idea of a ‘soulmate’ before. That was even more laughable than ‘love at first sight.’ But she’d come to believe it now.
‘And you fucked it up, didn't you? You let yourself have the worst lapse in judgment, then you doubled down on it by screaming and being a hurtful wretch. You did this. You did this and you don’t deserve forgiveness, you don’t deserve mercy. No one else will ever fill the hole in your heart, so you’re going to die alone and unloved. That’s what you deserve.’  
The words from the voice in her head kept playing on a loop for the last six months and they wouldn’t shut up. Drowning them out with wine and sleep had become her modus operandi. There’d been nothing to look forward to, nothing to hope for. It was the way things were going to be, she’d accepted it. Especially in the last few months after Waterdeep. She couldn’t have her heart broken again if she didn’t expect anything.
But now, new words were taking up space in her brain. His words.
‘…there was a time that we’d also brought out the best in each other, once. I refuse to believe we can’t find our way back there again.’
‘Fuck.’ Those words had stolen her breath. Given her reason to think that there was a chance. That maybe he would give her the mercy she knew she didn’t deserve. Gale was just that kind of man.
If that were truly the case, though, why did he shut her out so quickly in the first place without getting to even talk about things. Why did he go straight to the biting comments and yelling instead of showing any kind of signs of forgiveness being a possibility.
‘Because you ripped out his heart that was already broken and threw it on the ground with all the remains of any self-confidence he had left after Mystra, you inconsiderate, unfaithful monster. It’s a wonder he’s still alive.’
These were the new conversations Tav now had running back and forth in her head and that’s where the source of the nausea was seated. In the unknown future where happiness still existed. Along the path that could go to life-long depression and loneliness or a blissful existence with the man who completed her, and she wouldn’t know which way she’d end up traveling until she got there. It was terrifying.
‘I refuse to believe we can’t find our way back there again.’
Face still mashed in the couch pillow, she balled up her fist and slammed it down into the cushion. Depression wasn’t going to win today. Or any other day, for that matter, at least not like it had been. She would not allow herself to be swept up in the waves of self-loathing and doubt to the point of being non-functional. Not anymore.
She took a deep breath and sat up, eyes still closed. There was a warmth on her face that she knew would be the late-morning sun coming in through the living room window. As she cracked her eyes open, she winced as the light seared into her brain and fired off pain signals. Slowly, she stood up, walked across the room, and felt around for the blackout curtains.
Medicine. Shower. Food. In that order.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Looking around the room later that day, Tav felt pretty proud of herself. Once she got herself cleaned, fed, and a bit more clear-headed, she opened the curtains again and opened all the windows. Her little depression hole needed a good airing out.
Starting with all the trash, she got rid of the wine bottles, the old food, even the bin filled with dirt and burned clothing. After washing off surfaces and sweeping floors, she put all the books back on the shelf, keeping a box full of scrolls and a quill pulled out on her desk. One sandwich and two sinks full of dishes later, it was nearing night time, but she had one more task ahead of her: the letter.
She’d been chewing over words in her head all day, but she still had no idea where to start. How do you even begin a letter like this? ‘Hi, Gale’? ‘Dear Gale,’? ‘Esteemed Professor Dekarios,’? If the greeting was this difficult, how would she even move on to the rest of the letter? She knew for damn sure that she wasn’t quite ready to be fully emotionally vulnerable, especially with him (even though he’s the only one she should ideally be emotionally vulnerable with…).
‘Welp, might as well just start,’ she said to herself as she sighed.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
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Hi Gale,  [in the top right hand corner was a little swirly doodle with some flowers and leaves. Next to it was written ‘I don’t have fancy paper, so I tried to do something cute?]
I’m having trouble starting this letter, so I figured maybe just admitting that is as good of a place as any. I don’t know what to say, I don’t know what you want to hear, I don’t know what will help or what will just hurt… Here’s what I do know:
-          I’m sorry. [there are tear stains on the paper here]
-          There’s no excuse for what I did.
-          I don’t even know if I know the reason for what I did.
-          I don’t feel like I deserve your patience, your forgiveness, your mercy, anything, really. Your anger is totally justifiable.
-          I don’t know who I was that night or in the months following.
Except, I do. I’d reverted back to the person abomination I walked away from. The hateful, murderous, evil, wretched thing I said I’d never be again. Yet, I can’t claim that I wasn’t in my right mind at the time either. I never lost consciousness. I was aware of the decisions I was making. I just don’t understand why I made them in the first place, other than I’d lost hope. I’d stopped trusting you. I’d assumed you were going to leave me and go back to Mystra or pursue godhood where you’d no longer be…you. [Next to this is a small sketch of a broken heart.]
Here's what else I know:
-          You didn’t deserve that.
-          I don’t deserve you.
[Below this was another item that was heavily crossed out, but you can make out the words ‘I still’.]
(this letter is a mess, I’m sorry. I’m just…flustered)
[On the right side of the paper, there was a list of four items outlined in a rectangle, above which was written ‘Good things’ – a question mark had followed this, but it was crossed out with an X. The four items are:]
-          I took a shower today.
-          I cleaned my house for the first time in weeks today.
-          I’m going to stop drinking for a while.
-          I’m exhausted and I’m going to bed.
It’s not ‘the letter of a lifetime,’ but it’s a start. I hope you’re well and that your students aren’t giving you too much of a hassle. Can’t be as bad as slaying a whole camp of goblins, right? [Here there was a small doodle of a goblin head, X’s for eyes and tongue sticking out, laying in a pool of blood next to a sword.]
I look forward to hearing from you. Take care of yourself, please.
-Tav
P.S. I’m working on my handwriting. I’m sorry if any of this is illegible. Not really a subject that was covered in “Bhaalspawn University.”
[At the bottom of the letter was drawn a curvy vine with leaves, flowers, and flower buds.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Gale swallowed thickly as he held the letter in his trembling hands.
‘She did it. She actually wrote, and it wasn’t full of anger and insults. It was a real, honest-to-the-gods attempt at talking.’
His eyes shimmered as he re-read two lines over and over again:
-          You didn’t deserve that.
-          I don’t deserve you.
His heart ached as he pondered the fact that she thought so little of herself. It made him remember his inner monologue after the debacle with Mystra and the orb. All Gale told himself for a year was that he’d made mistakes so huge that no one should have to ever bear the burden of his presence again. Anyone who showed any affection towards him, platonic or otherwise, was a fool who was wasting their time. They’d just end up being let down by this depressed shadow of a former Archmage. Knowing that Tav was the one now who truly felt she wasn’t deserving of forgiveness or mercy brought tears to his eyes.
He felt a bit lighter, however, at the implication that she even cared whether or not she was worthy of him. Not only cared, but was taking bolder steps forward. She’d apologized, she’d wished him well, she’s taking care of herself… Then it dawned on him that she’d gotten so low that a task as mundane as taking a shower was to be celebrated on a list of positive things.
Oh, did he remember that pit of despair well. He’d spent a year down at the bottom of it. Cut off from all outside contact, forgetting (or refusing) to eat, going days, even a week or more without bathing because he didn’t have anyone to see anyway. No point in expending the energy.
Now, however, Gale was at least teaching. That had kept him going. Even if he didn’t interact with many people outside of Blackstaff Academy, he was still getting dressed, going to a place with other people, and teaching Faerûn’s youth to harness and control the Weave.
But what of Tav? How often was she seeing others? It seems she had relocated after all. The return address is listed in Daggerford, a town not far south of Waterdeep full of retired adventurers, artisans, craftsmen, and farmers. A relatively quiet place compared to Baldur’s Gate, but still a city with plenty of opportunities. (And only a three-, maybe four-day travel from Gale. That would explain how easily she ended up in Waterdeep in the marketplace on that cold, rainy day…).
He remembered her telling everyone how much of a hero she’d been at the reunion party. What happened to her adventuring? Would she even be home enough for their letter-writing to be consistent? She’d made no mention of her activities, that was something he’d want to follow up on. As much as it would have previously brought him satisfaction to see her put in her place for everything she’d said, cut off from others and alone, now it just caused an ache in his chest.
The threads of his bitterness and rage had already begun unraveling. He’d been letting the truth sink in since the reunion: Tav had acted reckless and lashed out because she was scared. Scared of losing him. The thought of him abandoning her for Mystra or for godhood drove her to seek pleasure in someone else. Yet he hadn’t bothered to get to the root of the problem at the time. All he knew was that he had his heart broken. He had been betrayed. He had been ‘abandoned.’
He sighed heavily as the pangs of grief and remorse started to take hold. What a fool he’d been. A self-centered, arrogant, quick-tempered fool. But he shook those thoughts out of his head. This wasn’t the time to keep dwelling on what he had or hadn’t done in the past. Where the ball of anger had resided in his chest, just as roiling and hungry as the Netherese orb had been, he felt the tension had begun to break apart. There was still much healing to do, but now there was a little room for the patience and understanding he’d wished he’d displayed before.
He re-read the letter again, chuckling lightly at her doodles and scratches. Her handwriting had much improved, she gave herself too little credit. It was good to see she still had her silly sense of humor as well. She hadn’t been completely robbed of her beautiful qualities.
Draining the last sip of wine in his cup, he arose from his spot on the balcony and walked inside to sit at his desk. One thing nagged at him before he could start writing his response, though. Underneath the bottom list where she said she didn’t deserve him, she’d written something and then furiously scratched it out. He thought he might know what it said, but didn’t want to get carried away if he was wrong. Holding the letter carefully in front of the lit candle on his desk, he stared at the scratches, trying to piece together the words underneath. His breath caught when his eyes brought them together:
‘I still’
I still… Still what? I still hear the voice of the Dark Urge? I still won’t forgive you?
No. Given the context of what was said and the direction they were going, it had to mean only one thing. He would only allow himself to think it was one thing.
‘I still love you.’
Hoping with everything he had that it was true, he took another deep breath and pulled out a scroll from his desk drawer. It was his turn now.
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Dear Tav, [In small writing to the right of the greeting, it says (my ‘fancy paper’ is at the academy) with a winking face doodle.]
Sometimes I think I’d prefer a good goblin massacre to a room full of hormonal teenage wizards learning to control a firebolt spell, but each day is a new adventure, after all! [After this sentence, Gale had doodled a flame, his head/hair with wisps of smoke, and in small writing with an arrow pointing to the drawings, (I tried).]
Thank you for your thoughts, and especially for your apology. I can’t in good conscience say that everything is forgotten, but I fully believe we are on the right path forward.
I would also like to apologize, because you deserve it. You are so much more deserving than you think you are of kindness, understanding and, yes, when I am able, forgiveness. I understand, likely better than anyone else you might know, how strongly self-loathing can take hold.
Which is why I want to tell you that I’m proud of you. I don’t know what you’ve been up to in recent months. I heard you telling the others about some adventuring opportunities, but I gather from your letter that self-care had gone by the wayside. I’m proud and happy to hear that you’re starting to focus on yourself. Yes, I agree with you: showering, cleaning, limiting alcohol intake, and even being tired enough to go to bed are all good things. I hope you continue being kind to yourself.
Admittedly, I’d fallen into a similar rut. While I get plenty of social interaction at the academy, my extra-curricular life has been…non-existent. I come home to my tower, I usually remember to eat, I grade papers, stay up entirely too late researching, and then attempt to get enough sleep to repeat that schedule ad nauseum. The cleanliness of my home, and myself, had been sorely neglected. But as you are focusing on self-improvement, I shall endeavor to do likewise.
Speaking of self-improvement, that’s where the letter-writing idea came from. Rather, through Tara’s efforts to help me during my year of isolation. She’d suggested I do some journalling to write out my thoughts and emotions regarding Mystra. Not only to get them to stop rolling around in my head, but to be able to articulate them. It did help, quite immeasurably, in fact. That’s why I’m so thankful you’ve agreed to this in the first place. I feel like it will serve us well. [A filled-in purple heart was drawn here.]
Actually, I can’t tell you how many letters I started writing to you in the last six months. I really did try. It just always felt…wrong, somehow. Like it wasn’t the right time, or my words weren’t sincere, or they’d fall on deaf ears. But I’m so glad we’re ‘talking’ now. I’ve missed you, Tav… [A filled-in but broken purple heart was drawn here.]
Tell me what you’ve been up to! Tell me your thoughts. Tell me any and everything you want to. I’ll be waiting to take it all in.
Yours,
Gale
[To the left on the bottom, Gale had drawn an open book with an ink pot and a quill. In the middle on the bottom, Tara had been drawn, wings outstretched, lying down, eyes closed, with a small note: (Tara’s sleeping on my desk and she’s adorable!). On the right under his signature, Gale drew a wand with sparkling stars and a curved line of weave making a flourish.]
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Dear Gale – [Here, she had drawn a wand with stars similar to the one he’d put by his name in his letter]
Thank you for saying that you’ve wanted to talk this whole time. That makes me feel so much better. I never put quill to parchment, but I started countless letters in my head. Like you said, it just never felt right. [After this, Tav drew a scroll, an ink pot, and a quill.]
This does feel like the right path at the right time, but to be honest, Gale…I’m scared. I’m scared to put everything on the table again. With how much I got we got hurt last time we allowed ourselves to be vulnerable with each other, I can’t go through that again. Nor do I want you to go through it again. [Tav had drawn two filled in broken hearts after this paragraph.]
It humbles me to think you feel I’m deserving of good things. Truly. I don’t feel like I am, so I suppose it’s good that someone in this world does. Your encouragement in taking care of myself is unexpected, but ultimately not surprising. That’s just who you are. I’m thankful to hear that you’re taking it upon yourself to improve as well. [Here, Tav had drawn some grapes and cheese on a plate, and to the right of it, a broom and dust pan.]
I fully understand, however, that you can’t forgive me, at least not yet. (I wouldn’t forgive me either.) Hopefully I can begin to earn it over time. I’m not going to sit here and defend my actions with trying to find solace in Mizora’s…experience. It wasn’t even fulfilling, if it makes you feel any better. (It won’t, I know you). It was just tricks of the mind and a devil’s words of promises for things I didn’t even desire. (Perhaps the ‘old me’ would have.) I regretted it immediately, yet it has marked me forever.
But I know that how it left me afterwards is not the point. The point is why I let myself go along with it in the first place. I’ve done a lot of thinking in the last months, especially since the reunion. Let me preface this by saying that I am not shifting the blame. I still made the decision to give in. However, after days and weeks of your near-obsession with the Crown of Karsus, I could see that look in your eyes. You couldn’t stop thinking about the power it could offer. Power that we know all too well would only corrupt you and change you. Then, your meeting with Mystra, introducing her back into your life with her deal to get rid of the orb for the crown… I could feel you slipping away from me.
[On the left side by the words Crown of Karsus, Tav had drawn the crown with a big ‘X’ through it. Near where Mystra is mentioned, she drew a scared ‘Mystra,’ identified as ‘witch bitch,’ being threatened by Tav with a dagger.’]
What I should have done was keep talking to you, seeking reassurance. I should have spat in Mizora’s face and told her to get the fuck out. [In this area, Tav drew herself spitting in Mizora’s face.] I should have sought solace in your embrace, in your words, in your love… But one thing I need you to understand: I was brought up my whole life to be let down. Every success came with a defeat. Every win came with a loss. Every gift came with a sacrifice. You were the most important gift I will ever have in this world or the next. I was positive I was going to lose it, so…I don’t know. I think maybe I wanted to push it from myself first before it was taken outside of my control? Mizora approaching me with her “offer”… She knew exactly what she was doing: giving me an “out” that she knew I would take because I was at my most vulnerable.
For all my accolades being a “Hero of Baldur’s Gate” and savior to many, I clearly didn’t have the strength to stand up to her temptations. I let her use the fact that I have major trust issues to weasel her way into my deepest fears and exploit them. I didn’t have a chance. It doesn’t excuse my actions, but I hope it at least explains them.
I’m running out of parchment. You asked what I’ve been up to. If it’s of any comfort, things are going well enough. I’m eating mostly regularly, I’m keeping up with the chores, and I’m even starting to finally organize some garden space in the yard. I’m trying to spend some time outside every day, and I’ve replaced the wine with various teas. They’re small steps, but they’re steps.
I don’t know if I’ve gotten us closer to any kind of resolution, but hopefully my words can fill in some of the gaps. I look forward to hearing your response.
Thank you, by the way, for giving me something to look forward to again.
I’ve missed you too. Very much so.
Humbly yours,
Tav
[At the bottom left of the page, she drew a cup of tea]
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Dearest Tav, [to the right of the greeting, it says in smaller writing (I apologize for the condition of this letter. It was rather difficult to write.) The letter is littered with smudges where tears had fallen and letter had been re-written over them.]
As I wrote my last letter and have been pondering your response, it weighs on me just how grave a mistake I also made. The blame for our downfall does not fully rest with you. (Let me finish…)
Feeling like you’re not worthy, like you made too big of a mistake to recover from; you know how familiar I am with those thoughts. Looking back, this means I should have been the one who was there for you the most. Yet I wasn’t. I was the furthest one away.
I agree with you that my anger was justified. I’d felt like I’d been told I wasn’t enough for you, which is exactly what I feared from the beginning. In my mind, you had openly told the entire world that Gale Dekarios, fallen Archmage of Waterdeep, scorned by Mystra herself, could not, in fact, make you or anyone else happy. You had to go find your pleasure elsewhere.
Where my mistake lies is in never stopping to think how much you had to have been hurting in order to find solace in Mizora in the first place. I don’t think I even gave you the chance to confirm you hadn’t been possessed, quite frankly. It’s no wonder your defenses went up immediately. My reaction, while potentially understandable, was absolutely awful.
I am so sorry that I never gave you a chance to talk things through before letting my hurt and rage take over. What I should have done was walk away and screamed into the void instead of at you before hearing any kind of explanation. I suppose I figured there would never be one good enough. Never did I think until recently that I could have possibly had something to do with you feeling pushed in that direction. I should have been more reassuring. I should have given you no reason to doubt my love for you and my dedication to you.
The possibilities that came with the crown had taken over my waking thoughts, and even infiltrated my dreams. Providing an eternal life without conflicts for both you and I sounded like the perfect solution, and I became hyper-focused. You had tried telling me that you were scared, that you didn’t want me to lose my humanity. I just still thought I was smarter and had this whole grand plan all figured out and you would realize it eventually.
[Before the next paragraph is drawn an infinity symbol, a heart nestled into the loops on either side.]
But I didn’t do enough to put your mind at ease. I didn’t help you understand that I wouldn’t have actually left had it come down to choosing between you and the crown. I never, never would have left you, Tav. As I shouted rather rudely before, I only ever truly wanted you. I assumed you knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt, so I didn’t spend any time reinforcing it. I let my focus drift too far. Then, I left you scared and alone afterwards with no chance to explain. I, the ex-Chosen and ex-lover of a goddess, from whom he should have learned humility after his hubris, the man to whom you showed so much kindness and understanding and support when anyone else would have run in the other direction, I couldn’t even show a fraction of that back to you.
Taviela, my heart, I am so, so incredibly sorry that I wasn’t there for you. When you pulled me from that portal and later heard my harrowing tale of foolishness and desperation, you stood by me. You took care of me and encouraged me, and I threw that back in your face at the first opportunity. It will be a long time before I can forgive myself for that. But I humbly, honestly, and hopefully ask if you could ever forgive me. I understand if you cannot, but know that I will spend the rest of my life proving myself to you.
Please keep telling me your thoughts, Tav. I want to hear them. I need to hear them.
Repentantly yours,
Gale
P.S. I’m far too emotional at the moment to do many little doodles, but yours warm my heart. Please keep doing them. [A filled in heart was drawn here. He had also drawn a simple version of the wand and stars under his name.]
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My Dearest Gale, [Across the top of the page was a wand, a wavy line of weave, and small stars.]
I’ve been staring at this parchment for at least an hour, but I haven’t been able to write anything until now. I’m sobbing at your words. Your insight about everything I put you through, the weight of what happened after all your hurts and insecurities from Mystra and the orb, the fear of being inadequate to me… That weight is almost too much to bear. I’ve berated myself for months now for hurting you, but the full impact never hit me until I read it in your words. I want to fall on my knees and cry at your feet and beg for mercy. But how could you possibly ever forgive me? I’m sorrier than you will ever know for allowing you causing you to feel that way again.
Also, to think that you are taking any of this upon yourself so strongly, I really don’t know what to say about that either. I still feel like this is all due to my deficiencies. My weaknesses. My fuck-ups. But I can understand where you’re coming from, wanting to take some responsibility. All I’ll say is that there is nothing to forgive anymore. I hold no more ill will towards you. We both acted like children throwing tantrums, but we were each already pushed to our limits and didn’t stop to think about, well, anything, really.  [Tav had drawn 5 filled in hearts here, along with writing (I don’t know what else to doodle here because I’m also emotional).]
It feels cheap to keep coming back to my upbringing, but it’s an unfortunate reality where I’m concerned. Everything was always a bitter fight of either words or daggers. There was no real “communication” to speak of. There were no “feelings” shared. It was all cruel lessons with harsh punishments. ‘Be a bitch, or get walked over’ was something I told myself a lot. I never truly learned to stop and step back and give things time to breathe. Putting myself in another person’s shoes is something I’ve forced myself to learn, especially during our adventures.
I have a confession to make. When I (literally) ran into you in Waterdeep a few months ago, it wasn’t just happenstance. I’d come there with a purpose. The downward spiral had begun weeks prior and I was nearing rock bottom. I came to look for you. To see if you were possibly even half as miserable as I was without you. I was certain you would be, and that it would give me a reason to approach you. We would be on common ground and might actually be able to talk. [On the right side of the page, Tav had drawn an open book sitting in a puddle of water in the rain. On the pages of the book it said ‘I’m sorry about the books.’]
But then I saw you. You were in the marketplace, smiling, making small talk with the merchants, even laughing with them. You looked full of life. You looked like you were doing just fine – without me. My heart dropped into my shoes and I’d considered just walking away, never letting you see I was even there. But something in me snapped. I apparently just had to get in a couple more digs before I walked away forever. That was childish and unacceptable and I’m sorry I put you in that position. (I don’t blame you one bit for the Hold Person spell, for the record. I deserved it.) [Tav had drawn the symbol for the Hold Person spell here, along with Tav approves.]
Please forgive me, but I’m emotionally spent. I think I’ll wrap this up to send in the morning, go sit on the back porch with a cup of tea, and just think for a while.
Still yours,
Tav
[Along the left side of the bottom of the page, Tav drew a small flower garden. On the right side, a cup of tea.]
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My Darling Taviela, [On the right side of the top of the page was carefully drawn an eternity symbol. Inside each side was a heart – a G written in the one on the left, a T written in the one on the right. Next to it, Gale wrote:] (I’ve been doodling this a lot lately.)
My heart aches for you, for us both. You’re right. There’s nothing to forgive anymore. We were both stretched so far beyond our limits, no wonder we broke down. We both have acted out of turn, we both have put ourselves through the wringer, and we both built impossibly high walls around ourselves. I’m happy to say that I believe we can push those walls down now. I want to move forward in whatever way we can, even if that ends up being as friends (though judging by your comments, it doesn’t sound like that will be the case, but please correct me if I’m reading the situation incorrectly).
I have a confession for you, in light of your revelations regarding our “run-in” in the marketplace. It was all an act to save face out in public. The laughter, the ‘life’ you say you saw in me, the light-hearted interactions – they were all a façade. I was miserable without you, however angry I was. After that interaction, it got even worse. I felt awful immediately, leaving you standing there shivering in the rain. [Gale had drawn a hand getting smacked by a ruler with words in a bubble outlined in sharp angles: BAD WIZARD!] I couldn’t believe that, even though there was some provocation, that I’d still reverted to such a childish response. I sank further into my depressive state. I almost didn’t come to the reunion with our companions either, actually. It felt like more of an effort to get myself put together than I was capable of. Fortunately, Tara snapped me out of it.
Speaking of Tara, I’ve been working on getting her to be more understanding. I’m sure you have noticed that her protectiveness of me overrides any kind of empathetic nature towards anyone who has caused me even a lick of hurt. But she’s come a long way in understanding both sides of our…predicament. I’ll keep at it, for both of our sakes. [A trail of small paw prints was drawn after this.]
I’m pleased to say that I’ve been keeping up with the cleaning, [on the right side of the page, Gale doodled a robed hand holding a sparking wand next to two balls of dust that look like rabbits. Underneath was written, (dust bunnies).] I feel like I finally have a handle on my students and my lesson-planning, and I’ve found joy in cooking meals again. Too much time is being spent grading sub-par assignments in the evenings, I’ll admit, but it comes with the territory. My heart has been all the lighter in the last couple of weeks, and it’s all thanks to you: your words, your patience, and willingness to work on…well, us.
What have you been up to lately? Any more adventuring opportunities coming your way? Are you doing any traveling? I wonder if there’s any chance our paths might cross in the near future.
I’ll admit, my mind has been wandering to thoughts of seeing you again. I miss the warmth of your embrace, the sparkle in your smile, the feeling of home when I look into your eyes – I feel like a part of me has been missing since our falling out.
I was actually thinking… What would you say to coming back to Waterdeep for a proper visit?
Take care of yourself, my darling [a filled-in heart was drawn here]
Gale (no fancy drawing in my name this time. Just me, missing you.) [above this, Gale had drawn a side profile of himself from the chest up, looking down, eyes closed, a tear falling from his eye.]
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The letters had been going back and forth at a regular, weekly pace. It was about six weeks after the reunion, which already seemed like forever ago. They had come so far, and his words made her realize that she missed him more than she knew was possible.
However, when Tav saw the last question in Gale’s letter, she froze. Her chest tightened and her breath quickened. She got dizzy, her hands shook, and her mind raced, tears threatening to overflow onto her cheeks. She was having a panic attack.
She threw the letter in her top desk drawer, slammed it shut, ran down the hall, and pulled the lever for her shower without bothering to warm the water first. Fully clothed, she stood underneath the cold deluge until her breathing slowed and she could process her thoughts.
The nausea was back. She sat on the floor on a towel and just let the water drip off her. Tucking her knees up to her chin, she stared at the wall and focused on her breathing. She wanted nothing more than for Gale to walk in the room right now, pick her up, and hold her in his lap, caressing her hair and whispering comforting words to her until she felt better. But as much as she wanted to feel his arms around her, to smell his scent, to run her fingers through his hair and more, she was absolutely terrified.
All she could think of as she started rocking back and forth was that she was going to end up hurting him again. She cried and cried until she resigned herself to lying down on the floor and crying herself to sleep, shivering in her damp clothes.
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A week went by and there was no response from Tav. Gale tried to brush it off, attempting to convince himself that perhaps she had gotten a chance to do some traveling, and was running behind sending her letter.
Nine days went by and his resolve started to falter. He replayed every word in his head that he’d written in his last letter. Was he moving ahead too fast? Did he assume too much? Did he push her too far? He ached to see her, to hear her voice, and to comfort her. But he could NOT let himself fuck things up again…
On the tenth day, he sent just a short message in hurried writing, requested for the utmost urgent delivery.
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Tav,
I’m truly, deeply sorry if I’m pushing you too far. You don’t have to answer the last question. We can continue just writing if that’s what makes you comfortable. I’ll do whatever you need, but I cannot, I will not lose you again.
Please, talk to me, my love.
Gale [A filled in heart was drawn after his name.]
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Sleep never found him that night. He let his brain run through every worst-case scenario it could come up with. Tears were still crawling down his face every so often as he saw the faintest colors of the dawn coming to greet the eleventh day. Thank the gods he had the next couple of days off for Midsummer…
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On the afternoon of the twelfth day, Tav’s response arrived. Gale didn’t even go back inside or shut the door. He ripped open the envelope and tried to steady his breathing as his shaky hands held her letter. He let himself take a deep breath and fall back against his door frame as he read:
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My precious Gale,
I am so very sorry for the delayed response and for making you worry. I don’t know what came over me, but when I saw you asking to see each other again…I panicked. I had a full-on panic attack, after which, I slept for days. I lost all track of what day it was or how much time had gone by. I kept picking up my quill and the words just wouldn’t come. I’m so sorry. Your words in the message I received today snapped me back out of it. Thank you for checking on me. [A filled-in heart was drawn here.]
Gale, I can’t bear the thought of hurting you again. I’m not saying that I don’t want to see you. Believe me, nothing would make me happier. My dreams of getting to be near you, to hold you again, to be held by you, they are my greatest source of comfort. But we haven’t spent any time together in person since the reunion, and we spent months before that acting like completely different people.
What if we can’t change, Gale? What if seeing each other brings out all the anger and spite again? I can’t forgive myself, even if you have. I don’t know what to say – I can’t lose you again either, I won’t survive it. And I fear that I will become upset by something and fall back into my old ways of dealing with arguments: with juvenile pettiness and venomous words. I’m so scared…
In fact, I’m going to deflect now so I don’t dissolve into another panic attack.
To answer your other questions – honestly, adventuring hasn’t happened in a while. I was being truthful at the reunion when I said I’d been adventuring and helping people. But coming back from Waterdeep is when I started to shut everyone out. My house descended into chaotic messes that I didn’t have the energy to clean, I stopped eating regularly, I was drinking at least a bottle of wine a day, and I slept all the time. I have enough money set aside that I can get away with not working for quite a while, but that won’t last forever.
The gardening is going well now though! I haven’t killed so much as a tomato plant! I’m growing flowers and selling bundles here and there. I’m also growing my own vegetables and some fruits, though I haven’t begun selling those yet. I’m getting the itch to start baking, however… I’ve found a great deal of fulfillment in creating (growing) some kind of life now instead of dwelling on the memories of taking it. [Along the left side of the page, she drew a tomato plant crawling up the side. Along the right, she drew a plate of danishes and a cup of tea.]
I’m so sorry again for worrying you. I just froze because I don’t want you to get hurt. I’ll get this sent to you as quickly as I can, but please tell me your thoughts. I’m hoping your insight can be of some comfort.
With all my heart,
Your Tav
[At the bottom of the letter, Tav drew the same symbol Gale had been doodling on everything he could: the eternity symbol with the hearts in the middle, one with a G, one with a T. Next to it, she wrote:] (I tried… Yours looks much nicer.)
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My sweet Taviela, [Their infinity symbol with hearts and their initials was on the top right.]
Thank you for explaining the reason for the delay. I completely understand, and I’m sorry to have caused you to panic. If I may offer some encouragement, however, perhaps I can help quiet your heart.
Neither of us are under anywhere near the amount of pressure and stress that we were at the time back in Baldur’s Gate. We are taking care of ourselves now as individuals, fully independent of others, and neither is a crutch for the other. This bodes well for quelling any fears of being too dependent on each other for our own good.
We’ve seen what damage can be done by careless words and actions, and we’ve walked back from that ledge – together. Now we’ll be more aware of the warning signs should we become frustrated with each other again. We’ve talked about what we can do to avoid arguments in the future, like walking away for a breather, should we need to. Lest you have any unrealistic expectations, please remember that we will become frustrated with each other and we will likely have some arguments. That’s only natural for any two beings that have a close relationship. But we have some experience now and wisdom gained. I truly believe that we can be better for each other. We can change. Together. [A filled in heart is drawn here along the left side of the page.]
If you are comfortable thinking about the possibility of visiting, I have a proposition for you. Some simple guidelines that will help keep us in check as we try spending time together again, under completely different circumstances.
-          I will get you set up in a lovely room at The Yawning Portal for one week. The bartender owes me a favor for clearing out some riffraff a few weeks ago. Then you can have a place you feel comfortable retreating to without feeling trapped in my tower, should you wish to get some space.
-          So as to not put too much pressure on either of us too quickly, we can have a date each day, but we don’t spend the entire day together (at least not every day). It may be midsummer, but I still have regular responsibilities with the academy that I need to see to. Besides, that will give us time to individually reflect on our time together and how we’re feeling.
-          At the end of the week, we can talk about how things have gone and what direction we should go at that point. We won’t pressure each other, and we’ll agree that we won’t be disappointed if one person needs more time than the other. Above all, we need to make sure our friendship stays in tact.
So, what do you say? Look! I even got Tara’s stamp of approval! [On the side of the page is an ink pawprint.] (Do you have any idea how much convincing it took to get her to put her paw in ink? I owe her tuna for weeks…)
I won’t pressure you, but if you’re amenable to this plan, we can do this as soon as you’d like – even next week. Having said all that, if you still want to take things slower and keep writing letters for now, I will fully support that decision and be delighted to keep doing so.
If you will allow me, however, I would like to make one last plea: I want to see you, Taviela. I need to see you. My heart aches for you and my arms feel so painfully empty without you in them. I long to curl my fingers into your hair, to hear your contended sighs, to be lit up inside by your laughter, and, when you’re ready, to make love to you and cover you in affectionate, healing kisses until every hurtful word we’ve ever exchanged is erased from memory itself.
I know you’re scared, my darling. But I believe in us. I believe things will be different this time around. I hope and pray to every god and goddess who will listen that you can find it in your heart to take the risk.
Come here to me, my love, and we can keep walking our way forward - together. [A filled in heart is drawn here.]
I eagerly await your reply, whatever it may be.
Yours always,
Gale [A doodle of a wand surrounded by stars is by his name.]
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Tav’s hands trembled. Gods, she missed him so much it physically hurt. Especially now that she knew how much he was missing her as well. Sitting at her desk, she re-read his last full paragraph with tears flooding her vision and heart filling her chest, not to mention a familiar heat between her thighs. She knew at that moment that her desire and her renewed trust in Gale Dekarios FINALLY outweighed her fears. She didn’t even need to think about her response. It was short and sweet:   
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Gale, my love, [Their eternity/hearts/initials symbol was drawn on the top right.]
I’ll set out tomorrow by horse from Daggerford and will arrive at the Yawning Portal on Sunday evening around dinner time. I sincerely hope your arms will be waiting for me, because I’ll be rushing into them the moment I see you. [A filled-in heart was drawn in.]
Just don’t be holding a stack of books this time… [ Tav had drawn a doodle of a winking face here.]
Yours always,
Tav
P.S. I doubt we’ll be waiting long for those healing kisses… I know we’re going to space out our time together, but stay with me the first night? Help me “settle in” to Waterdeep? [Tav sketched a set of lip prints in the bottom right.]
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Tears fell from Gale’s eyes, but happy ones this time. He could tell his cheeks were flushed too from her “P.S.”… He laughed at her jab about the books, then folded up the letter and brought it to his lips, kissing the edge she would have folded with her soft hands.
He had planning to do. 
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arkangelo-7 · 2 months ago
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Re-reading “Robin & Batman” by Jeff Lemire and I have Thoughts. A lot of Thoughts.
Like, it’s so interesting to me that Bruce decides to turn Robin’s first experience on the Watchtower and subsequent meeting with the other side kicks into a full-on mission. Alfred gets upset—he wanted Dick to just enjoy himself and not worry about The Mission, for once—and while Bruce definitely went about it the wrong way, I do think he genuinely had good intentions.
You have to look at it from Bruce’s perspective. In Bruce’s eyes, he doesn’t feel like he’s entitled to step into a father-figure role without offending the memory of Dick’s biological father, so he defaults to a pretty basic human instinct, which is to Protect the Baby.
You see little moments of it through the series, and not in the way you’d necessarily expect—because nothing about Bruce is normal. Instead of wrapping Dick up and coddling him, his Protect the Baby instinct instead shows itself in how he constantly pushed Dick, making sure he’s always working harder, always a step ahead, always more prepared and tougher and smarter than anyone else out there. Basically, the best and most natural way for Bruce to show that he cares is by training Dick not to get himself killed.
Alfred doesn't really get this, and honestly neither does Dick, really—and I'm not saying anyone's wrong or right, just that they all have a different perspective that makes it difficult for them go truly understand where each other are coning from (especially Bruce's.)
So while on one hand it's a little disheartening as a reader to see Bruce act so callously towards Dick, we have to understand that its coming from a place of love—as abstract as that may be. Bruce just wants to Protect His Baby in the only way he knows how, because he genuinely cares for Dick and therefore has a need to insure that he survives. Because everyone Bruce has loved is dead, and he can't let that happen again. Not to Dick. Not to his baby.
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vechter · 2 months ago
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time travel fic recs? dick grayson relevant? THANK YOUUUU <3
gonna be a mix of time travel/time loops/de-aging:
persephone's in hell by Whiskey: i've recommended this one before but rlly, this is the dick grayson thesis. fresh off being fired from robin, dick travels to the future and it is a stunning realization of grief and pain. fic of all time <3
The View From Jade by lowflyingfruit: multi-chapter fic in jason's pov where he travels back in time to before dick was robin. excellent characterizations and grappling with the meaning of robin- both to dick and to jason.
SYNCHRONICITY. by orpheusaki: multi-chapter fic where robin!dick and nightwing!dick swap places. an excellent character study of both dick and bruce. there's grief and comfort and it's all so wonderful.
Overcoming Our Antecedents by Batbirdies: i read this one a while back but i remember enjoying it. not rlly time travel but multi-chapter fic where jason gets de-aged to a time before his death. cue the subsequent angst from bruce and dick.
Hereditary by nighhtwing (divineauthor): pretty sure i've recommended this one before too but i just have so much love for this in my heart. one-shot where bruce travels back to a time when his parents were still alive. amazing characterization for bruce and just rlly good consideration of what his kids and pseudo-family members mean to him <3
Breath Of Life by commanderquill: damian and dick getting sent back to a time before the graysons fall. it's been a while since i've read this but i remember feeling equal parts horror and awe by it. wonderfully complex and the writing rlly hooks you in.
In This or Any Other Universe by wildsofmarch: nightwing!dick accidentally travels to robert pattinson's world. a real delight to read with very witty dialogue and a hyper-competent dick grayson.
the grief wheel by dustorange: it's not a real fic list without one of malilah's fics. alfred trapped in a time loop when the waynes get shot. a great portrayal of a young bruce and the collective tragedy of the waynes <3
cast on/cast off by hellsreluctantheir: one shot with dick and jason trapped in a time loop! the banter, the chemistry, the energy- all great, all extremely engaging to read.
Today? Yesterday? by dickgraysonwayne (TheMightiestPen): one shot where dick is trapped in a time loop. dick and tim centric so you already know i enjoyed this one immensely. whacky comic shenanigans and a beautiful insight into the love and faith they have for and in each other
love watching you go by butch_chastity: dickroy!!!! one shot where roy is stuck in a time loop in the outsiders era. i love them so much aaaah i just love this one so much. i re-read it every few weeks <3
One Thousand, Three Hundred and Nine Hours by TheSilencer: all the bats sans dick get stuck in a groundhog day type of situation. it's a pretty good read even if i don't agree with some of the character dynamics. a bit darker in tone/themes tho so just a warning if you're not into that
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motherfuckingmaneater · 1 year ago
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Having now finished my complete re-read through of the Harry Potter books from start to finish it’s clear now to me the reason people don’t think Bellamort is canon is because they’ve never read the books — or perhaps they have but not for many years like myself.
I get it, if you watch the films you see her being pushed aside or you see how little they speak to each other but that she seems hooked on him, you wouldn’t ship them. I wouldn’t ship film Bellatrix/Voldemort either.
But what you don’t see is their closeness in the books. You don’t see the absolute jubilation he feels (happiest he’s been in 14 years which is the time they’ve been separated) when he successfully breaks her out of Azkaban. You don’t see the aftermath of his fury that Harry escapes his clutches once more, when everyone else is battered and brutalised except her. You don’t see the subtle compliments he pays her that he pays no one else. You don’t see the confidence which he puts in her. Better yet you don’t see the lack of anger he displays towards her when the horcrux is taken from her vault, but the fury he rains onto everyone else. You don’t see that in most situations like in meetings or more importantly in casual settings let alone when he’s at his most dangerous Bellatrix is sat closest to Voldemort whilst everyone else is at a good distance away. You don’t get to see that she’s closest to him even when he’s wounded and everyone else quickly backs away but her and no, he does not shove her away when she offers to help him. You don’t see the way Voldemort’s fury explodes with the force of a bomb when she dies. You don’t see the way his fury throws everyone in his vicinity off their feet he’s so angry at her loss. You don’t see the way he forgets about those he’s trying to kill and tries to avenge Bellatrix by killing Molly Weasley as the very last act he commits before he tries to kill Harry Potter and subsequently dies himself. You don’t see that in their deaths they fall side by side, that she was the one left standing with him till the end, Voldemort’s last and best.
Anyway, my re-read is done now and I am heart broken at Tom Riddle’s death once more.
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theladyofshalott1989 · 2 months ago
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"In Which There's a Spooky Surprise": A Sebastian Sallow x MC 🎃 All Hallow's Eve One-Shot
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Summary: Married!Sebastian Sallow is in for a spooky surprise at Sirona's yearly All Hallow's Eve masquerade.
Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x Male MC (Damien Evans)
Word Count: 1,900
SFW
Note: You can also read this one-shot on AO3! If you enjoy it, please feel free to give it a kudo, a comment, or whatever floats your boat! (Please and thank you.) [ AO3 Link ]
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Sebastian adjusted the mask on his face as he glanced around The Three Broomsticks, searching for his dashing husband. In theory, he should be able to spot Damien easily. But in practice, it didn’t quite pan out.
Firstly, he couldn’t very much wear his glasses over his mask, so the world was a bit blurrier than usual. Then, on top of that, Sebastian and Damien had agreed to not divulge their costumes to each other before meeting at Sirona’s All Hallow’s Eve masquerade event. 
All Hallow’s Eve, which also happened to be Sebastian and Anne’s birthday, was still a handful of days away, but Sebastian always enjoyed the holiday. Mostly because Damien loved to play dress up, which usually led to another—more sensual—experience. Obviously, that wasn’t likely to occur at Sirona’s esteemed establishment, but perhaps later, when they returned home. Oh yes, that would be positively glorious. Sebastian would trust the events of the night, wherever they may lead. 
At the time they’d decided to keep their costumes a secret, Sebastian had found the idea enticing. But past-Sebastian hadn’t known that he would have two errant potions explode in his face this afternoon. The clean-up had been exasperating, to put it kindly, and the subsequent scolding he’d given to his students for being so careless with their ingredients had set him in a sour mood. 
So, here he was, dressed as a “vampire.” Sebastian had thrown something together with very little thought: black trousers, a black shirt, black, leather gloves, and—yes, you guessed it!—a long black coat and boots. He didn’t bother with fangs. He'd debated adding a dab of strawberry jam just below his bottom lip, but he knew it wouldn’t be there long, especially if he ever found Damien. His husband simply adored everything sweet; it was a wonder he’d ended up married to Sebastian, as grumpy and irascible as he could be. But, to be fair, Damien often brought out Sebastian’s agreeable side. Not that Sebastian would ever admit that out loud. 
And then, of course, there was this damned mask, which was currently pinching his nose. He adjusted it again with a sigh.
“Hm,” a woman in a gaudy purple dress with long trailing coattails said as she appeared before Sebastian. Her mask was designed in the shape of a giant orange bow tie. 
Sebastian chuckled quietly to himself. It was clearly Sirona. Only Sirona would dare to don Peeves's garish attire. And, since she was the host of this party, she must be greeting everyone upon their arrival.
“Let me guess,” she continued, inspecting him up and down. “Death! No, no, wait! A crow.”
Sebastian released a hearty chuckle. “Not even close. I’m—”
Mirabel, her long red hair a conspicuous giveaway, swooped in, cutting Sirona off with a recitation delivered in a shockingly accurate Transylvanian accent: “Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!"
Sebastian’s eyebrows shot up. “Mirabel, you know Dracula?” 
"I re-read it every year!" she exclaimed, beaming under her green mask adorned with what seemed to be actual vines. She must be a Shakespearean character. Perhaps Queen Titania? Or wait... no, Puck seemed more her style.
He gave it a try. "Lord, what fools these mortals be!"
Mirabel clapped deliriously. "Oh, well done! Well done, Sebastian!"
Sirona started tapping her foot on the floor. "I’m waiting."
Sebastian rubbed his chin in mock contemplation. He wracked his brain for one of Peeves’s more well-known phrases, settling on, "Naughty, naughty, you’ll get caught-y."
Sirona quirked a smile, patted Sebastian on the back, and before departing—her arm looped through Mirabel’s—whispered in his ear, "Damien's upstairs, haunting the corridors."
Damien was a ghost then, Sebastian mused to himself. That costume should be easy enough to find. 
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It turned out Sebastian was sorely mistaken. He downed the final dregs of his Butterbeer. Damien was still nowhere to be found. Damien wasn’t avoiding him, was he? They hadn’t had an argument lately… Had Sebastian forgotten something? No, their anniversary was last month. He’d given Damien a beautiful hardback edition of his favorite novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray. So, if Damien wasn’t cross with him, where was he? 
Sebastian deftly maneuvered past a few other partygoers, weaving back and forth through the buzzing crowd. He couldn't recall ever seeing the inn this packed, but he supposed it was good for business. Sebastian had already indulged in three Butterbeers within the past half hour, and he was now debating when—if at all—it would be acceptable to have another without appearing overly eager.
As Sebastian made his way up the stairs, his mind wandered, until something caught his attention: a shadow, barely visible, drifting past the edge of his vision. He froze, eyes narrowing as he focused on a figure up ahead wrapped in what appeared to be a long, flowing white sheet, gliding soundlessly down the hallway and into a room. A chill crept up his spine, but curiosity overpowered caution. Without thinking, Sebastian hurried forward.
The hallway seemed to stretch unnaturally as he approached, the friendly chatter from the crowded stairwell and the room below replaced by a suffocating silence that pressed against his ears. He slipped into the room after the mysterious figure, but found it... empty. Completely and unnervingly empty. Had he imagined the haunting apparition? The stillness of the room was stifling, as if the very air itself was holding its breath.
Before Sebastian could fully process the strangeness of it all, the door behind him slammed shut with a deafening thud. The sound echoed through the hollow room. Sebastian’s heart lurched into his throat. He spun around, but the door remained still, shadowed and menacing, as if it were mocking him. His unease deepened, crawling up his skin like long, spindly spider legs. He shuddered. 
With a shaky breath, Sebastian approached the door, hand trembling as it hovered over the handle. He twisted the knob, then pushed. The door creaked open easily. Too easily. Was he expecting it to be locked, trapping him here? He chuckled quietly to himself. Of course not! The door must have slammed shut due to a breeze from the window. He glanced back over his shoulder to confirm his theory. 
The solitary window in the room stared back at him. It was closed. There was no breeze. There was no reason for the door to have shut in such a forceful manner. There was no reason for the door to have shut at all. How peculiar. A cold sweat beaded on Sebastian's forehead, and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t shrug off the tension growing in his shoulders.
After one last long glimpse, Sebastian exited the room, swallowing his unease. Damien wasn’t here, and lingering any longer seemed... unwise.
But as he stepped into the hallway and back down the stairs, something seemed terribly wrong. The once bustling stairwell, crammed with people, had become a yawning void. Not a single soul remained. Where did everyone go? 
“Hello?” he called out, his voice cracking. No answer came. Only a vast, unsettling silence.
His steps grew quicker, but the sound of his footsteps seemed too loud, too isolated in the emptiness. He descended the last few steps, his heart pounding louder with each tread, until he reached the bottom. 
And then: a chorus of voices. Too loud, too synchronized, as if they’d been waiting for him all along.
"SURPRISE!"
Sebastian stumbled backward as someone cast Lumos and the room flickered to life, revealing dozens of unmasked familiar faces gathered before him. Damien stood at the forefront, a white sheet draped over his shoulder, a mischievous grin on his face as he held up a massive birthday cake—chocolate, of course—adorned with candles, also now lit.
"Happy birthday, Bash!" Damien exclaimed, signaling to the assembled guests with a nod of his head, his hands currently occupied. "Did we surprise you?”
Sebastian nearly collapsed from relief. “It’s not my birthday until next week,” he stammered back, clutching his chest. 
“The better to surprise you with, my dear." Damien leaped forward and pecked Sebastian gently on the lips, somehow managing to not drop the cake or set Sebastian on fire in the process. Placing the cake on a table, he allowed Sebastian to snuff out the candles, then conjured a serving knife. “Who wants a slice?” he asked amid the crowd breaking out into scattered conversations. 
Sebastian took three deep breaths in succession. 
Unsurprisingly, Damien noticed Sebastian’s sorry attempt at a recovery. “Alright, love?” he asked, brow furrowed. 
“Alright now,” Sebastian replied, waving off Damien’s concern. It wouldn't do to spoil Damien's romantic gesture. 
Damien’s gaze lingered on Sebastian for a moment, scrutinizing his face. Sebastian must have schooled his expression well enough—the mask, which he was still wearing, may have helped a little—to convince Damien he was telling the truth, for only a few seconds passed before Damien nodded, then resumed cutting the cake.
Sebastian glanced around the busy room to take in the throng of people. The only loved ones missing appeared to be Anne and Ominis. Sebastian presumed they were at home with Leigh and Albert. The other week, Ominis had confided in him that Al, barely a year old now, was having a rough streak of sleepless nights. If Anne and Ominis needed to stay home to get some rest, so be it. Sebastian didn’t blame them. They could always have a smaller, more intimate birthday celebration later. 
Once everyone had a slice of cake—Damien cutting the largest slice for Sebastian, but stealing a bite or two when he thought Sebastian wasn’t looking—Sebastian finally mustered the strength to smile. His shoulders relaxed.
Damien met his gaze, his mouth full of cake. 
“Thank you,” Sebastian said.
Damien swallowed. “Of course,” he replied. “Anything for my brilliant husband.”
“Maybe not so brilliant.” He let out a nervous laugh. “Did you know, I nearly sent myself on a wild goose chase?”
“Oh?”
“I thought I saw someone enter a room upstairs, but it was just my imagination.”
“No, that was me," Damien said through a chuckle, rubbing at his stubbled chin. 
“What?” Sebastian shoved him lightly. “Be serious, D. It was terrifying.” Damien had never been much for stealth; he lit up a room far too effortlessly.
“Terrifying? Little old me?” Damien's eyes sparkled; he looked far too pleased with himself. It was both delightful and infuriating. He continued: “I had to cause a diversion so everyone could hide!” 
Sebastian blinked, taken aback. “How did you ever manage?” 
“I Disillusioned myself, of course,” Damien said, smirking devilishly. “Had to, really. I’m rather conspicuous, you see.” He grabbed his belly and shook it, releasing a hearty laugh. “Especially lately.” 
Sebastian grinned. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. And good thing you learned that spell from me.” He mussed Damien’s hair in an affectionate manner. “You’re welcome.”
“You old softie,” Damien teased, his cheeks turning a rosy shade of pink. He grabbed Sebastian’s hand and planted a soft kiss on the back of it. “Thank you, my love.” 
Sebastian pulled Damien in for a real kiss, not this hand-kissing nonsense. “I positively adore you, my own personal ghost-husband,” he murmured against Damien’s lips.
“Love you too, my…” he trailed off, inspecting Sebastian with narrowed eyes, “vampire?” he finished, one eyebrow raised. 
“I knew you’d get it.” Sebastian smiled, leaned forward, and gently nipped Damien’s neck. “You’re mine now. Eternally.”
Damien burst into an infectious peal of laughter. “I’m not so sure the mechanics of that works with ghosts, but I catch your drift.” He flicked Sebastian’s nose. “Eternity sounds perfect.”
[ AO3 Link ]
[ Read the whole series ]
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Happy Halloween!
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tuesdayisfordancing · 1 month ago
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Me, wisely, in the first chapter: Hm this fic seems pretty toxic about forgiveness in an upsetting way!
Me, an idiot: keeps reading and getting re-upset during each subsequent chapter
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nametakensff · 9 months ago
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Happiness (D/isco E/lysium, M/M)
Final part of my little three fic series - here is the follow up to 'Revelation' and...it's a monster. 17.4K. If you actually manage to stick with it all then I commend you <3
K/im angrily confronts H/arry about his inappropriate conduct. H/arry reluctantly reveals why. Fucking ensues
~~~~~
Content:
M/M, past M/F, hinted past M/M if you squint, H/arry has a sneezing fetish, K/im is a kinky motherfucker, cold sneezes, sympathetic sneezes, manually induced sneezes, rapid sneezes, mentions of dust allergy sneezes, sexual fantasies, masturbation, hand jobs, dry humping, frotting, finger sucking, mentions of anal sex, mentions of blow jobs, some mild mess, spray, sneezing on someone, licking spray off fingers (sorry lmao), edging, (brief) orgasm denial, elements of domination/submission, some voyeurism/exhibitionism, verbal teasing, dirty talk, praise kink, embarrassment/humiliation, graphic descriptions of semen, crying a little during/after sex (guess who), K/im and H/arry like each other a lot more than either of them realised
CW: (unintentionally perceived) public masturbation, drug and alcohol mentions, potential heart attack mentions, potential priapism mentions, bullet wound mentions, self-hatred, H/arry is still a mess, internalised homophobia, H/arry experiences a lot of shame re: the fetish and describes himself with degrading language, K/im is perhaps a little too forward initially, mentions of dead bodies (in a murder investigation / gallows humour way), mentions of potential STDs (K/im is just being cautious)
Notes:
Takes place in the canon game timeline so again, please don't read if you don't want spoilers!
For the sake of the fic, the bed in the coastal shack is a proper single large enough for both of them to lie on and the room has a working sink. I had to let these men clean themselves up
K/im should not be doing this with a concussion but. It's my fic, so
EXTREMELY NSFW - Minors DNI!
It has been at least five days since you first touched yourself to the thought of Lieutenant Kitsuragi sneezing. You have touched yourself in a similar fashion every night since – up until a bullet to the thigh and your subsequent fevered unconsciousness prevented you from doing so. You did not mean to make a habit of it, but the orgasmic release the thoughts ultimately lead to is almost as addictive as any drink or drug. The fact that the Lieutenant has sneezed multiple times each day in your presence has made resisting your nighttime jerk-fests damn near impossible.
The fantasies have evolved into an increasingly varied (and sordid) collection of scenarios. Your favourite is the one starring Kim as your butler, burying his face into a feather duster to alleviate his allergic misery by inducing an endless series of sneezes. Naturally, you play the role of the voyeuristic employer, watching the scene unfold from your grand office chair and stroking your cock until you cum all over the hardwood surface of the desk that Kim has just finished cleaning. It is incredibly self-indulgent and fantastical, which naturally makes you cum with the force of a firehose. Every morning it is a little more difficult to look the Lieutenant in the eye. He is completely innocent to your sins, and you are a filthy pervert.
You still have your cold. Now that you have returned to the fishing village with the fierce seaside air whipping at your face, your nose runs without cease. You have been using an endless supply of Frittt brand pocket tissues, having abused Kim’s loaned handkerchief so much so that not an inch of fabric has been left unsoiled. Your nostrils are tingling, threatening to flare with every laboured snuffle.
It really isn’t a terrible cold – but it appears to be a persistent one. You’ve certainly sneezed far more from previous illnesses. One cold in your thirties left you bedbound and sneezing almost like clockwork – you had noticeable abs, then. You remember this, and you remember thinking to yourself that the torso-crunching sneezes that barrelled out of you were just as effective as any targeted exercise.
The persistence is one thing. The suggestible nature of your cold sneezes on the Lieutenant is another. You had both been good-natured about this admittedly comical routine, in which you try not to sneeze, fail, and sneeze anyway – followed immediately by Kim in a near-identical fashion. Today has been a difficult day, however – you are drawing closer to the end of your investigation, and you are both exhausted. Objectively absurd though it may be, neither of you can any longer find much amusement in these twin responses. Neither of you bless each other. The most excruciating (meaning: cock-teasing) thing of all is that Kim has abandoned any attempt at holding back. He is more and more frequently sneezing openly, or in the general direction of his fist – a lazy covering at best, doing little more than dousing his gloves in a delicate burst of spray.
Actually, there is something that arouses you more. As Kim continues to sneeze, his immaculate composure begins to falter. You are not referring to the ways the sneezing overpowers him. It is more so the fact that following each sneeze, the Lieutenant has started to moan. Quiet, shaky sighs at first – now full-blown groans of exhaustion - and what you hope is an element of indulgence at the post-sneeze sensation of relief. They sound practically orgasmic to your one-track mind.
Try as you might, every time the Lieutenant sneezes and sighs, you grow hard. It is perhaps more accurate to state that you have spent more time hard than soft. You wonder if this is enough for you to start worrying about a potential case of priapism. It is rather impressive – at your age and with the recent blood loss you experienced. Perhaps you ought to embrace this as a display of virile masculinity.
Either way, you have very little way of masking this unfortunate physical response. You shuffle awkwardly – you have also tried tucking your cock upwards and into the waistband of your trousers. You are almost one hundred percent positive that Kim has seen you pawing at your responsive genitals more than once but seems to be intent on ignoring it. You understand. You’re not sure how you would address the situation were you in his position. You ought to be more embarrassed but the triple combination of illness, drug withdrawal and injury saps you of fucks left to give.
You have no time to stew in your own thoughts. You are here to ask Lilienne if you can borrow her boat to get to the Islet. You manage to do so and almost leave the interaction unscathed. Almost.
“HAAAAEEEISHHHH!! EISHHHHHhHhuu!!”
The tickle once again renders you helpless and you sneeze twice – loud enough to send a nearby seagull sky bound. You turn away from Lilienne just in time to spare her an unfortunate baptism. The post-sneeze ecstasy leaves the skin of your forearms breaking out in goosebumps, hidden by the sleeves of your Disco blazer. It takes all of your remaining composure to fight off a full-body shiver. You straighten up sheepishly and wipe the result of your sneeze out of your moustache with a crumpled tissue. A blush is creeping over your face. Making a disgusting spectacle of yourself in front of a woman you have attempted at least four times over the past couple of days to ask out on a date (to no avail) does nothing for your morale.
“Bless you, officer!”
You mutter a small thank you from behind the tissue. If your dick hadn’t already been hardening in anticipation of Kim’s reciprocal reaction, that enthusiastic blessing would have done the job. Speaking of the Lieutenant – Lilienne has barely finished addressing you when he spins around – gracefully, controlled and completely balanced, unlike your own frantic whiplash motion – and sneezes thrice uncovered into the cold sea air.
“Hhp’Tsschhh! hHD’Tschh!! Hh! HahHD’Tzshiew!! Ahh, mon dieu…”
They sound like they feel incredible. Before you can do anything to avoid it, you are mentally constructing a detailed visual of the sneezes that the Lieutenant’s expert timing and manners had prevented you from witnessing. What do you expect after committing every sneeze you have glimpsed to memory to then masturbate to with vigorous abandon? Your prick is like iron between your legs. Lilienne turns to Kim with a look of surprise.
“And bless you too, officer! I don’t like the sound of that.”
Whatever Kim is saying to her in response, you miss. Your focus is lasered in on the tip of his nose, moving slightly side to side as he tends to his nostrils with a neat blue handkerchief. You want to be holding that handkerchief for him. Better yet, you wish it was your own hand wiping his nostrils clean. Thought after lewd thought overpowers you. You are painfully hard.
You should really rearrange things down there before Lilienne notices your erection to end all erections. You cup yourself as subtly as you can manage – you’re not sure what you’ll be able to achieve stood mere feet away from the two of them. The waistband trick requires two hands – maybe if you were to turn around?
Before you get a chance to try, Lieutenant Kitsuragi has fixed his eyes on you. You freeze in your tracks, as if paralysed by his gaze. A distinct feeling of combined shame and guilt overcomes you, not unlike the way a child feels when caught with their hand in a cookie jar. Except you are not a child – you are a 44-year-old man, with his hand on his cock. His eyes flash down to your crotch almost imperceptibly before returning to your face, darting about as if in attempt to locate any  visual cue that may implicate whether you have indeed gone batshit insane. It is likely a matter of seconds, but it feels like an eternity as you watch the subtle shifting of his facial features through a spectrum of confusion, shock, disbelief, shock again, and finally – rage.
This anger is unlike anything you have seen pass over the Lieutenant’s face in your week together. It sends a spear of utter self-hatred straight through you. You really have reached an all-time low, Harry-boy.
Lilienne appears not to have noticed the intense stare-off between the two of you – likely because it has lasted approximately 1.5 seconds and is broken by Kim thanking Lilienne for her cooperation and asking that she excuse the pair of you for a moment. His gloved hand reaches out and grips your bicep, hard enough to hurt. Anxiety overwhelms you – he is mad mad.
He marches you the short distant to the shack you have been staying in, shoves you through the door and follows behind you. He does not slam the door, although you can make out enough tension in his slender frame to see that he would very much like to do so. The screech of the rusty hinges is more than enough to amplify your anxiety. He turns to face you, and you shrink in on yourself, feeling naked and exposed within the shooting range of his ire. Your legs are weak – particularly the one in which a bullet had been embedded. You sit on the edge of the small bed and watch him watching you. He looks for a moment like he may be too angry to speak. At last, he opens his mouth.
“What the fuck is the matter with you??”
The Lieutenant’s thick accent and heightened emotions intensify the remark. You are sweating. Shame practically radiates off of you. You’ve truly done it now. You say nothing in response to him, hanging your head in misery. He continues.
“I have been nothing but supportive of your unconventional methods of policing. For all the outrageous things you have said and done, you have genuinely done some excellent work. I have given you the benefit of the doubt for your drug problems, the amnesia, your emotional outbursts - but public masturbation? In front of a female citizen? You really are a piece of work.”
Your face burns. Every word aches, cutting into you like a blade and whittling you down into a hollow receptacle of disgrace.
“I wasn’t – I wasn’t masturbating!” These words tumble out of your mouth before you have a moment to reconsider. The Lieutenant glares at you, clearly not buying it, but he makes no move to cut you off. Your mouth is dry and your hands are shaking. You open your mouth again.
“I was trying to…relieve some pressure. I wanted to hide it. I didn’t mean for you - or Lilienne - to see...”
Your voice sounds reedy, pathetic – incriminating. Maybe if you could stop sweating like a pig, you could actually convince Kim that you are not a sex pest. Shockingly, something in your expression as you look up at him with pleading, frightened eyes convinces him to believe you. He blinks owlishly, then reaches up to massage the bridge of his nose under his glasses. He sighs, a deeply exhausted sound – it seems to physically deflate him, as if the tumultuous anger trickles out of him with the exhale. You watch, clutching your hands together nervously, as he removes his glasses all together and drags a hand down over his face. It rests on his mouth for a few moments longer, and then he is putting his glasses on and looking at you with a mixture of exasperation and pity. His eyes are the first to dart away from your exchanged glance. He clears his throat. You wait.
“I can’t believe I’m about to suggest this, but…Listen, detective, do you-? Need some time to yourself? I’ve noticed you’ve been tense. I thought it might have been your injury, but I suppose I was wrong. At this point…” He hesitates, clasping his hands behind his back. “At this point, having a moment to relieve yourself might actually be pertinent to the progression of the investigation.”
It is your turn to blink, dumbfounded at what you have just heard. Is Lieutenant Kitsuragi actually suggesting you should jerk off? And that your jerking off is of utilitarian necessity? You should confirm this.
“You want me to whack off so that I can focus on the case?”
He looks pained by your turn of phrase; it is much harder to feign professionalism when his own suggestion is bounced back at him in cruder, less obfuscating language. He nods all the same and clears his throat.
“If you think it will help, I will excuse myself and be back in-” He glances at his sports watch. “Twenty minutes.”
Wow. Twenty minutes is probably a whole nineteen minutes too generous given your current state of rampant and unforgiving arousal. The way the Lieutenant falters indicates, however, that he is doubtful of your capability to achieve orgasm even once. You can’t really blame him. He did admit to thinking you were well into your fifties. You nod your head.
“You’re unwell, and injured – I don’t think it would do you any good to continue working this case when you’re also so – distracted.”
He is actively skirting around the issue and choosing his words carefully. It doesn’t change the fact that he is recommending that you pleasure yourself whilst he awkwardly stands outside and waits for you to finish. This makes you visibly cringe. Your own embarrassment only fuels the Lieutenant’s. He clears his throat again, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He takes your silence as an indication of consent.
“Well, then. I’ll leave you to it, officer.”
You watch helplessly as he turns to make an exit. Before the Lieutenant is even able to grasp the door handle, however, you hear a frantic intake of breath. Fuck. There is no mistaking the sound of the Lieutenant fuelling up for a sneeze – but this time it occurs with no prompting on your part. He is clearly very sensitive today.
“hHupt’TSSCH’uu!! Merde…”
You watch it all go down – the way his slender frame shudders, shoulders jumping as he is temporarily unbalanced by the voracity of his own release. It isn’t especially loud, but you can tell that it is powerful. You bite your lip. Do not moan. I repeat – do not. Moan.
You moan. It seems violently loud in the small room. Both of you freeze in response. If you didn’t want the ground to swallow you up before, you do now. Despite the humiliation, the utter mortification of it all, your cock is leaking through the fabric of your trousers. Maybe Kim, still facing away from you, will think you have already started working on yourself, and will simply step outside and pretend he doesn’t share the same planet as you for another twenty minutes. Crisis averted.
Luck is not on your side. The Lieutenant turns around. He is looking at you as though studying a particularly challenging crossword puzzle. Were he a dog, his head would have been tipped inquisitively to one side. You are sweating bullets.
“You know, detective…” He starts, and you do know. It is over. You know he has put two and two together. In a way, it is surprising he hadn’t clocked on sooner, but you imagine this is due to his general acceptance of your sporadic and unpredictable behaviour as a rule of thumb.
“If it didn’t sound so ridiculous, I would think…no.”
He turns to leave again. This should be an auspicious turn of events for you, but for whatever reason, you feel disappointed. Burdened. You realise you want the relief of exposure, like a sinner spilling his guts in confessional. You should keep your mouth shut and wank your miserable cock in peace.
“You’re right.” You groan. You do not look at him as he turns to face you. “I’m sorry.”
Was that worth it, Harry? Was it really worth it to confess? You can only wait for his response in silence. You aren’t breathing. You’re convinced that if you breathe, it will scare him away.
Since you are not looking at the Lieutenant, you do not see the expression of contemplative fondness on his face, nor the sparkle of curiosity in his eyes. He is taking in the sight of you, curled in on yourself like a naughty child. You hold yourself rigid as he starts to speak.
“So you mean to say – that when I sneeze…?”
Just hearing that word enunciated in his soft, enquiring tone is enough to trigger another rush of blood to the face. It is a miracle there is enough left north of your belt to do so. You whimper, which only makes you blush harder, and nod your head in way of response. This is pure torture.
“Hm.” The small sound that leaves the Lieutenant is a cross between a huff of laughter and a hum of consideration. Your eyes swivel up to meet his own. You had expected disgust, reproach – not amusement. He is smiling ever so slightly – the corners of his mouth are turned up as he takes you in, arms crossed over his chest. He no longer radiates waves of irritation and confusion. The man before you exudes confidence and control. Your cock throbs shamefully and deposits another glob of precum into your underwear. You open your mouth to speak, but words fail you.
“You really are an interesting man, detective. I’ve never even heard of this particular fétiche before.” His words must trigger a sudden realisation in him. A look recognition passes over his features, and you know he is connecting the dots – looking back at all your behaviour this past week and re-contextualising it. He snaps a thumb and forefinger together. “This makes perfect sense.”
His scholarly enthusiasm is somehow unsettling to you, as if you are a specimen he is examining. You now regret disclosing this sordid piece of information. What had you been expecting, really? For him to put on a show for you, like one of your sick little fantasies? Stupid. You hang your head.
“Yes, I’m a huuuuge pervert, Kim. Now please leave me alone to my shame.”
Oh god, are you going to cry? You’re actually going to cry, aren’t you?
“I never said that, Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor.” His tone is suddenly overwhelmingly gentle. It only makes your eyes prickle harder with tears, threatening to overflow. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”
He means it, too. He sounds incredibly regretful, perhaps even a little pained. You can’t look at him, but his palpable remorse at unintentionally beating you when you are down seems to open the floodgates. You feel the reluctant confession blurting out of you before you’re even entirely sure of what you’re going to say.
“I forgot about it, like everything else. Until I didn’t. Until you…” You wind your hand through the air.
“Sneezed?” Kim fills in helpfully, though you wish he hadn’t. It goes straight to your cock.
“…Well, I suppose in a strange way I ought to be flattered.”
You do look at him now, and see him smiling at you supportively. He looks a little apprehensive – but who wouldn’t in this ridiculous situation. Your heart beats wildly in your chest. A single tear runs down your cheek as you blink. You’re about to say something really, really stupid.
“I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”
God, Harry. Stop. Stop now.
“Thinking about my – my sexuality. And what it means. And you told me you’re a member of the ‘homosexual underground’. I – I think I might be too.”
The Lieutenant looks back at you, wide-eyed. You need to abort this. Kill him. Kill yourself. Anything that stops you in your tracks.
“I mean, I might be a partial member. I like women. I…there was…someone. She smelled like apricots and – oh, god-!”
A wave of sadness engulfs you. You start to sob, uncontrollably, like a little boy, and cradle your head in your hands. Wow. You really nailed it, Harry. You sure don’t do anything in half measures. You told him his sneezing gets you hard, that you have an inexplicable man-crush on him, and you even threw in an ex-woman-person reference to spice it up, all before crying! You should write a book on how to be the biggest fuck up known to man.
The bed dips as Kim comes and sits beside you. He rests a tentative hand on your shoulder. It is awkwardly limp – he is uncomfortable with physical displays of affection. Something tells you he has not touched somebody conciliatorily in a long time, likely by choice. But he is trying, and that is more than you could have ever expected you deserve. You cry a little harder.
“Harry,” he sighs. “You’re overwhelmed right now. Don’t force yourself to think.”
Ordinarily, he would have followed this with some comment about focusing on the case over personal matters. That he doesn’t shows you how much empathy he is affording you in this moment of distress.
Your crying eventually begins to taper off into little gulps and hiccups as the Lieutenant rubs tiny, tentative circles into your shoulder. Incredibly, your dick has barely softened.
“I’m –! Sorry-!” You gasp out. It sounds pitiful, almost hysterical. Kim just continues to rub your shoulder until you run out of steam entirely, before handing you an opened pack of tissues to clean up your face. As you do so, he takes the opportunity to speak.
“As far as sexual fetishes go, detective, this one is pretty tame. Harmless. A little unsanitary, maybe, but not without a certain appeal.”
You pause in your ministrations. He notices and seems suddenly ashamed by his own forwardness. He clears his throat and retracts his hand.
“Khm. Anyway – as for the homosexual underground – or bisexual underground, as the case may be for you…It certainly isn’t a crying matter. It can, at times, even be fun.”
Ooh, the Lieutenant’s got jokes. You appreciate this reassurance. The crying has left you wiped out and extra sniffly. You have to blow your nose in four different tissues before the congestion subsides. Kim doesn’t flinch at the gurgling sounds you produce.
“I’m going to leave you alone for a while, like I said.” Kim utters after a couple of moments of silence.
As the Lieutenant stands, a foreboding sensation of fear washes over you. You do not want to be alone right now. Before you can stop yourself, you are reaching out at lightning speed and gripping his wrist with one huge paw, halting his departure. Kim freezes and looks down at you. You stare back up at him. His face shifts through a series of emotions before solidifying into an impassive mask.
“Officer. You need to let go.”
There is not contempt in his tone, but his voice is firm and commanding. You are compelled to release him. You do not stop looking up at him. You have no idea what kind of face you are making, but it is apparently making it very hard for him to withdraw the way he had intended. His face is relaxed, but his eyes are burning.
He is the first to break eye contact with you. He strides towards the door and opens it in one swift motion, hesitating for just a moment to look back over his shoulder at you, and then he is gone. The door closes behind him with a decisive click.
Well. That was horrible. You are dejected and alone. You have driven the Lieutenant away, finally. Rejection stings in your throat and swollen sinuses. And you are still. Fucking. Hard. The brief respite of a mind-numbing orgasm might give you fifteen to thirty seconds of ecstasy before the pain sets back in. At this point, bereft of narcotics and alcohol, you will take it.
You flip yourself onto your back, pushing your head into the flimsy pillow and opening your fly with fumbling hands. You manage not to injure yourself as you pull your throbbing cock out of your underwear. It is a deep shade of red, almost nearing purple in your desperation, and even as you wrap your fingers around it in a familiar grip, it drools clear liquid from the sensitive head. You cannot help yourself. Now that you have started stroking and pulling, rubbing the copious precum all over your length, you cannot stop. The shame and the sadness recede at the pure animalistic pleasure of it all. Your head falls back and you moan. One of your hands reaches up to squeeze a nipple through the cotton of your shirt, and you gasp.
It will not take you long. You feel the heated pressure building inside of you, your cock twitching as you caress it in all the ways you like best. Pure, mindless masturbation. You do not want to think thoughts, but you are about to. They skim the surface of your consciousness – your fantasies, some memories. They blur together in a miasma, barely comprehensible the way you dart back and forth between them, but they are turning you on all the same. You are so, so close. Your mouth tips open in a pre-orgasmic moan.
The door of the shack slams open, and the shock nearly makes you orgasm on the spot. The Lieutenant is cursing and closing the door behind him, making sure to lock it. You push yourself up and fumble your dick back into your underwear, hissing as you attempt to close the zip of your fly. It is impossible, so you hold your hands sheepishly in front of your crotch instead. Kim watches you, an intense expression of – need? Desire? Surely that isn’t the case. You can barely think straight. You swallow, head spinning.
“Kim, what-?”
Your words set the Lieutenant’s in motion. He all but lunges at you, pushing you back on the bed and partially straddling you. Your hands fumble to grip at his waist, steadying yourself as the bedframe creaks violently at the activity. It occurs to you for a split-second that the elderly washerwoman outside may be able to hear the ruckus you have been making from where she sits tending to her clothes – she may be blind, but she is certainly not deaf. You banish the thought with a rapid blink of your eyes.
You look up at Kim in sheer disbelief. He is breathing heavily – not nearly as heavily as yourself, almost panting on the brink of orgasm – but heavily, nonetheless. His hands grip your shoulders firmly, and he worries his bottom lip between his teeth whilst his eyes rove over your face. And then he is leaning forward and kissing you.
For a moment, your mind short circuits. Not in a million – no, a billion-trillion – years, did you think the past week had been leading up to this moment. The Lieutenant’s lips are wonderfully soft as he works them against your own. It takes a couple of seconds for you to relax, shocked as you are, but then it is electric and instinctual and you are moaning against him, yanking his pelvis down against your own. You open your mouth and his tongue slips in immediately, and then it is even better. You both groan in tandem, as if neither of you can believe how good it feels. The kiss is like a practiced dance – you both know when to bite, when to suck, when to pull back and when to dive deeper. It is simultaneously saccharine and downright fucking filthy. You cannot believe the pair of you haven’t tried this before.
Kim breaks the kiss, sucking on your tongue before pulling back with a lewd pop – you chase him but he holds you in place by your chin.
“Do you want this?”
His eyes dart nervously back and forth behind the thick lenses of his glasses, slightly foggy where your activities have steamed them up. You lunge forward, intending to show him just how much you want this with another kiss, but he manages to hold you back. He is deceptively strong.
“I need to hear you say that you want this.”
He sounds so, so desperate. You realise right then and there that you are a fool for him.
“I want it.” You breathe out, and before you have even finished he is kissing you again. Your head reels, and you feel yourself beginning to tip back onto the bed. Kim goes with you, kneeling with a leg on each side of your torso. He presses the length of his body against your own, and you feel his hardness pressing against the soft flesh of your gut. Your hands travel up and down his back, frantically, squeezing his ass one moment and gripping his shoulders the next. Your cock pulses and pulses between your legs.
And then you feel it. The tickle. You have ignored it for far too long. All that crying and snorting has left you vulnerable to future attacks. All it takes is for one poorly timed deep breath through your nose as Kim explores your molars with his tongue, and you know you cannot fight it. You yank your head back, eyes beading with tears and face cringing in pre-sneeze agony. The resulting sneeze is going to be monstrous – more so than usual. Your lungs suck in a desperate inhale, chest expanding against Kim’s and raising him a good inch higher above you. He seems to understand all at once, angling his face as far away from your own as he can.
You manage through sheer willpower to tilt your head in the opposite direction and over the side of the bed. It tears out of you in a cloud of spray - an angry, irritated explosion.
“IIIIEEESSSSSHHHHTTTtt!!!”
Your hands squeeze reflexively at Kim’s hips. The intensity of the outburst shakes the both of you and the creaking bedframe. Fortunately, you have not pulled any muscles as you awkwardly crane yourself away. The Lieutenant scrambles for purchase atop you, reaching out to steady himself with one hand on the wall.
Your head has barely flopped back onto the pillow before you are cringing with a second, even deeper breath. Your nostrils flare wide in preparation, and you do the whole thing all over again.
“HHHAEEEEEESSSSSCCHHHHHhhh!!!”
You do not have enough energy to be embarrassed by the roaring, desperate nature of them. It felt so fucking good to let it all out. The tickle must have been brewing for some time and you had simply been too distracted to realise. You groan a little, reaching up with one hand to rub your tingling nostrils on the skin of your wrist. You mutter an apology under your breath before angling upwards, pressing your lips to the Lieutenant’s and resuming the kiss.
When he pulls back mere seconds later, you are terrified that you have disgusted him with your indulgent display. And then you remember.
Kim sits back, resting his ass on your pelvis and nudging up against your cock. You gasp as he shifts, clutching his hips hard enough to leave bruises. He calms your squirming with a hand to your chest, holding you down on the mattress. His expression is deeply irritated as his own tickle begins to crest – one eye squints against it, and his mouth drops open to take in gentle hitching breaths. Your hips give an involuntary thrust, jostling him slightly above you. The head of your cock, clothed only in your sticky underwear, ruts against him.
Your entire world narrows down to watching Lieutenant Kitsuragi’s building sneeze. You realise you are involuntarily holding your breath, eyes roving from the flare of his nostrils to his creasing forehead to the way his tongue presses just so behind his bottom teeth. He has raised his free hand loosely before his face. Your cock twitches as he fans his face once, twice, and the mere suggestion of it seems to be enough to have him gasping one last time, nostrils flared to capacity, before he is jerking above you.
“hHDT’TSZCHhhh! AhhDTt’TZsCHh’uu!!”
The bed shakes beneath you as he rocks forward twice.  Your entire body feels like a live wire of sensation as you watch him through unblinking eyes. Your fantasies were erotic, but being able to actually feel the Lieutenant’s body strain and tremble as the ticklish urge overwhelms him is something else; the unguarded, desperate expressions as he lets loose are painfully arousing. You do not make out any visible spray but you can feel, from behind the pathetic semi-covering of his hand, each burst of air across your collar bone and neck. You shiver in ecstasy.
The Lieutenant pauses for a moment and leans back again, preparing for a third sneeze. You take advantage of his shifting to free yourself from under the press of his palm, pushing yourself up on your elbows and leaning closer to him. You want to feel the next sneeze on your face. It really seems like it is going to happen, too; Kim is so overwhelmed by the tickle in his nose that he appears to look straight past you, focusing all of his concentration on the sensation as it builds, and builds. He shivers, a delicious little trembling motion that you feel travel through him and down to your own hips, before gasping one last time – an audible, desperate “Hahh-!”
At the very last moment, he tilts his face away from your own, raising the back of his hand in front of his face with his palm towards you. It is a poor attempt at shielding you from his sneeze – you can still make out every minute detail of his face as his features draw tight. It is the slight downwards tilting of his head that spares you any real contact, but the proximity and poor covering means that you can see the fine aerosol that bursts from his mouth and nose as the uncharacteristically harsh sneeze overwhelms him.
“hHUPT’TZSCHhh’uuu!! Nnn…”
The cloud of spray glitters briefly in the air beside you before dissipating just as suddenly. Your hips buck again and you cannot help the guttural moan that pulls itself out of you. His own little moan of relief drives you insane. You wish he hadn’t turned away, but you say nothing – the last thing you want is to spook him. One wrong move and you might wake up trembling in the throes of a nocturnal emission. It is starting to feel very much like one of those kinds of dreams.
But ohh, that third sneeze had been wet. As well as leaving the Lieutenant visibly shaken, it has left a tantalising sheen of dampness on his bottom lip. As Kim blinks, taking a moment to recover, you reach out to swipe across the surface of the moistened skin, drying his mouth and transferring the wetness to your thumb. You hesitate for a moment. The Lieutenant is watching you silently, one hand still outstretched and pressed against the wall, a little taken aback by this unpredictable action. Maybe you should apologise.
Fuck it. You lick your thumb clean, moaning a little in both arousal and shame at what you have just allowed yourself to do. It was a stupid thing to do. If Kim walks out of this room with immediate effect and refuses to work with you any longer, you have only yourself to blame. This time, for sure, you have taken things too far. You brace yourself, awaiting the Lieutenant’s reaction. You force yourself to lock eyes with him.
You were not expecting to see an even more intense look of desire boring back into you. You watch as Kim removes his gloves before using his own forefinger to finish what you started, wiping away any residual spray.
“You really do like this, don’t you?”
There is a hint of amusement in this question, which is not really a question at all but a damning statement. It does not sound manipulative or sadistic, however; he seems to be genuinely enjoying your lascivious responses.
“Sorry, god, sorry,” You mutter anyway. Once again, his enthusiasm has had an adverse effect on your own sudden brazenness. You do not know how to do this. The dreamlike haze of arousal has up to this point protected you from the sobering reality that you are now engaging in sneezing fetish sex activities. With a man. With Precinct 57’s Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi. Your life has been full of ‘what the fuck’ moments, but this has to be waaay up there, man. This was so much easier in your fantasies where you alone had control.
Kim shakes his head. His smile is heated, but kind.
“Don’t be.” He murmurs. “It’s intriguing. You’re intriguing, Harry.”
He reaches towards your face as he speaks. Your mouth is already hanging slightly open in gormless disarray, so it is with little resistance that he slips the middle and forefinger of his right hand – yes, Harry-boy, the very same one he used to tend to his mess – between your teeth and onto your tongue. You start sucking on them almost immediately, flushing with pleasure at the sensation and the compliment. Kim’s breath hitches and he moans, a deeply satisfied purr of a sound that goes straight to your throbbing cock. Your underwear is now drenched, sticking to the head of your cock in the aftermath of his most recent nasal display. You are painfully hard and entirely desperate, sucking on those fingers like they’re the best thing you’ve ever tasted.
“Ahh, detective…” Kim sighs. His voice is low and thick with arousal of his own. You shift underneath him so that he is no longer straddling you with a leg on either side, moving backwards slightly and manoeuvring one of your thighs – the uninjured one - between his own. He goes eagerly, enthusiastically. You press up and between his legs with purpose.
There is no lack of certainty as he bucks back down onto your leg – Lieutenant Kitsuragi is hard, and he is rubbing that hardness against you whilst you suck on his fingers. You have no idea how you have managed to pull this off, but there is no point in overthinking it – especially when every drop of blood in your body feels as though it has pooled exclusively between your legs. You clamp a hand down around his wrist for leverage and start to increase the intensity of your oral stimulation. Your head bobs slightly as you suck the digits in and out of your mouth, swirling your tongue around the tips of Kim’s fingers. His breath catches, and your eyes dart up to his face. Your cock twitches at the sight of his glittering brown eyes, heavy lidded and pupils blown as he follows the motions of your ministrations.
A swell of pride fills your chest. You realise that all you’ve ever really wanted since meeting the Lieutenant is for him to like you. He has stood by you despite the fact that you’re – well, you. And he actually does seem to like you, as inexplicable as this may be. You intrigue him. He said so himself. You don’t want to disappoint him – you want to make him feel good. Allowing yourself to acknowledge this desire for Kim outside of your own one-sided, pornographic fantasies fills you with a burning determination to do just that. Operation ‘Make Kim Orgasm’. Fuck the case, fuck this stupid murder, fuck police work – this is what you were made for. If that sounds dramatic, then so be it. You’re a dramatic kind of guy.
Kim rolls his hips against you as you press your tongue between his fingers, taking just the tips back into your mouth as you pull back up and suck hard.
“You’re a tease.” He says this in approval. You moan, and the hum this produces seems to please him very much.
A moment later, you regretfully pull back, another sneeze teasing your sensitive sinuses. This frequency and persistence would be irritating under ordinary circumstances, but with the promise of triggering a sneeze (or three) from the Lieutenant, you embrace it. You take a deep breath through flaring nostrils to stoke the subtle itch into an all-encompassing tickle. It is so effective that you sneeze immediately, on that inhalation alone.
“AEESSSSCHHHHHhhh!!! Hh…”
It shakes you so violently that you slump back against the pillow, bereft of all energy to remain partially upright any longer. Your back was starting to ache anyway. Your hands return to the Lieutenant’s hips as you look up at him expectantly.
“À tes souhaits,” he offers, even as a look of distinct irritation begins to cloud his features. You moan, and your cock jumps in your pants.
You only have to wait a matter of seconds before Kim’s breath begins to hitch. An irritatingly strong gust of wind from outside causes the entire shack to creak. You strain your ears in a valiant attempt to drink in every little inhalation over the sound of it.
What the Lieutenant says next could have been taken directly from one of your dirty little fantasies. As you gaze at him, your own breath hitching for notably more dick-related reasons, he raises a loosely-curled fist up to his face – or rather, just beneath it, leaving you plenty of room to watch – and begins to speak.
“Hh-! Ohh, Harry, you’re going to m-make me-! Hhdt-!!”
You almost cum on the spot. By sheer willpower you manage to hold back. Your forehead beads with sweat as Kim inhales definitively, bucking forward with four shuddering sneezes, supporting himself as before with a hand to the wall. You are certain if he had not done so he would have been thoroughly unbalanced.
“hhdt’Tszchhu! hHUpT’Tschu! HDT’Tzsshh! hH-!! Ahh’TSshh’uu! Ahh, mon dieu…”
You do not miss a single detail, intent on committing this painfully erotic performance to memory. The way his fine eyebrows draw together, contorting his brow in desperation. The way his nostrils flare with each contraction to almost double their resting size. The way his jaw flexes as his teeth clench together. It is a sight to behold, and you lose yourself in it.
You have been unable to keep your hips from bucking upwards, rubbing yourself against the surface of the Lieutenant’s thigh. He blinks, looking utterly drained for a brief moment, and it is one of the cutest things you have ever seen. No grown man has any right being that adorable. Once he has recovered, he presses his thigh firmly between your legs, binding your balls up and against your cock. You gasp, and he smiles, rutting against you.
“Excuse me.” He sniffles as you writhe. “That felt wonderful, I must admit.”
Fuck. You really must be dreaming. He has taken to this like a duck to water. How can he possibly know exactly what to say, and when? It is just as good as you imagined it could be – no, it is better. He is playing you like a god damn fiddle.
The Lieutenant shifts atop you, extracting his slender thigh from between the squeezing grip of your own as you dry hump him like your life depends on it. Your resistance forces him to pinch the meatiest section of your uninjured thigh – you jerk in shocked pain and release his leg as intended. He rubs the tender skin through your trousers, then squeezes into the space between you and the wall, lying on his side next to your supine form and swinging his right leg over your thighs. Your arm instinctively reaches under him to encircle his back.
“Sorry.” He apologises, smiling at the small frown on your face. “I’ll make it up to you.”
And just like that, he is reaching past your open zipper and into waistband of your underwear to grip your cock. You whine his name, embarrassingly loud and high-pitched. Your captured shaft throbs and leaks onto his fingers. His hand reaches up to collect the moisture, pulling back your foreskin ever so gently – and then he is pumping you in a steady rhythm. It is intentionally slow; you are close, and he knows this.
“Tu as une bite énorme…” You hear him mutter. Your chest swells with masculine pride. That’s right, baby. You are huge.
But holy fucking fuck, this feels – it feels – it’s so good. You wonder if he does this often – whether he touches himself just like this, or if this particular technique is reserved for other members of the homosexual underground. You groan, your head pressing back into the pillow and allowing him to work you. The skilful motions of his hand slowly build the pleasure until it sends small waves of ecstasy through your extremities, like miniature orgasms in their own right. When you do cum, it is going to be mind blowing. Your hand claws at the fabric of his bomber jacket, the other clutching the bedsheets.
“Kim…” His name rumbles out of you, a warning of the explosion to come.
Suddenly, his fingers encircle the base of your cock in a cruel, tight O. Your orgasm is halted in its tracks. Your cock throbs valiantly against its bondage, trembling as though in hope that the mimicry of orgasmic convulsions will trigger the real event – but no dice. A strangled groan tears its way out of you.
“Nooo…! Why…! You said you’d make it up to me-!”
You turn your head to face him. The look you flash him with your baleful green eyes would put the cutest puppy dog in the world to shame. They are glossy, wet with tears of betrayal. He looks at you fondly, but you can tell he is enjoying toying with you like this. Kinky bastard. You should have known.
“There’s no rush.” His voice is a seductive drawl. “I don’t want you to finish yet, Harry. I want to ask you some things.”
He is serious. The ring of his fingers does not loosen in the slightest. You sigh. You’re the questions guy, not him. You don’t much like the idea of an active interrogation whilst your swollen dick quivers dejectedly in his grip, but the promise of eventual orgasm softens the blow. You will humour him.
“Do your own sneezes turn you on? Do you remember that from before?”
Okay, wow. Straight to the meat and potatoes of the issue. Your cock twitches to hear the word ‘sneeze’ in his lilted accent again. You look to the ceiling for a moment of silent contemplation.
“I’m – not sure. They feel nice.” Your eyes swivel back to the Lieutenant’s face. “I like the effect they have on you more.”
Kim is softly biting his bottom lip. His eyes look heavy and heated – you imagine he might look the same after several glasses of wine. Except he’s somehow drunk on you – on this insane coupling.
“I can see that.” He shifts slightly, pulling himself partially atop you. He releases your cock from the grip of his right hand for the briefest of moments before replacing it with his left. His right hand begins to roll your balls in their sack, tugging at them expertly. You don’t doubt you could come from this sensation alone if he would only release your cock.
“You poor thing…” he murmurs against your cheek. “I must have been torturing you all this time.”
Arousal shoots through you like a bolt of lightning, electrifying and filthy.
“Kim, please-! Fuck…”
You could go insane. You cannot remember the last time you have been so intensely turned on for so long without the release of orgasm. Your entire body is an exposed nerve ending. Kim just sighs, pressing a gentle kiss to the dimple on your chin.
“Tell me what you like about it. Explain it to me. Try your best.”
He isn’t going to let you cum until you divulge this information to him. You could easily overpower him if you wanted – you are a hulking beast of a man compared to his compact frame. You could flip him over and rut against his ass like a caveman. But you won’t. You will do as he asks. You swallow audibly.
“I like – thinking about the way it feels, for you. About the t-tickle,” You are blushing like a maniac, tripping over your words. You cannot look him in the eye. “…And how good it must feel for you when you finally sneeze.” You pause, screwing your eyes shut in mortification.
“Go on.” Kim encourages you, making his way to your earlobe and nibbling on the sensitive flesh.
“I like the faces – and the noises – you make. When you lose control.” You swallow again. “You’re so put together. It’s a…nice contrast.”
It is simultaneously humiliating and invigorating, hearing in your own voice a comprehensive explanation and breakdown of your sexual deviancy. Kim pulls back from your ear and rests his cheek on your shoulder, fingers still plucking lazily at your sack.
“You know, I’m not all that put together.” He smiles. “I have my moments.”
Lies. He’s the most put together man that was ever put together. Granted, the amnesia hasn’t left you with much of a frame of reference for this, but still.
“I’m not very put together right now, or when I barged in here knowing you would be – touching yourself.”
He actually looks a little bashful when admitting to that. It’s cute. You kiss the tip of his nose.
“Could have fooled me. You quite literally have me by the balls.”
Kim smirks and squeezes your sack with considerable pressure. Your eyes roll back into your head with a throaty groan of appreciation.
You cannot take much more of this – this constant thrumming of arousal. You could have orgasmed any number of times by now, but either through your own or Kim’s suppression, you have not. You want to cum. You need to cum. You want the Lieutenant to cum, too. You want him to know how badly you want it. Say something, or you’ll go mad with desire.
“I want to make you cum. I want to fuck you ‘til you scream my name, and then I want to fill you with my cum while your writhe on my cock.”
Umm…Okay, then. Good god, Harry. You’ve only just had your first homosexual kiss. Reel it in.
Luckily, this pornographic confession seems to have been an entirely appropriate thing to say. The Lieutenant looks at you with a downright predatory expression of hunger. Your cock gives a frightened little twitch.
“We don’t have time for that,” His voice practically rumbles, both in your ear and vibrating against your palm where it rests on his back, sending a heated shiver through you. “But we can definitely do something else.”
He moves to sit back up, but it is poorly timed with an emerging tickle in your nose. You frantically pin him against your chest in a sudden bear hug – he initially squirms in your grip before the rise and fall of your torso against his own clues him in to the fact that you are going to sneeze yet again. He relaxes against you, pressing his face into your neck. The frames of his glasses dig in a little uncomfortably, but the closeness is thrilling and intimate.
You do not have time to enjoy the feeling of the Lieutenant draped over you – the sneeze rushes out of you, shaking the bed, and you, and Kim. You try to aim it so that your spray doesn’t just rain down on you both, but also angle it up enough that you aren’t sneezing all over Kim’s jacket. You imagine he would be less than thrilled if you did. You manage to avoid making a mess but the fabric of his jacket still ripples with the force of your release.
“EEEISSSHHHHHUuu!!”
Luckily, it is just the one - it leaves you trembling in equal parts exhaustion and hedonistic pleasure. The motion of your body bucking against the Lieutenant’s felt especially nice in this position. You loosen your arms and wait for Kim to pull away. You are confused when he doesn’t do so immediately, and then the sound of a wavering inhale freezes you in place. All sensation in your body seems to subside apart from the heated skin of your neck where the Lieutenant’s breath hitches, preparing to sneeze. You feel the tip of his nose pressing against your jugular, his glasses digging into your jaw. Time seems to stand still as Kim’s ribcage expands under your hands, and then he is shuddering against you, smothering his sneezes against the column of your throat.
“HH’Dtsshh! Hh’Mptschh!! NGx’tsshh!!”
You arch your back, gasping, each little sneeze sending a shivering wave of warmth through you. It is one thing to watch Kim sneeze, but to feel him sneeze against you, pressed as close as he is – your brain feels as though it is short-circuiting.
He gently shakes your arms off and sits up, wiping his mouth and nose with the back of his hand. He casts you a sheepish, almost embarrassed look that lets you know he had not intended to sneeze against you, but one glance at the dumb, almost drunken expression on your face and he looks a lot less sorry.
“Pardon,” he mutters, reaching into the interior pocket of his jacket. You watch as he takes out - a condom. Wait - he carries condoms with him on police investigations? Perhaps he carries them everywhere he goes. You should be more prepared yourself, quite honestly.
He rips the packet open skilfully with his teeth. You think he is going to slide the condom down your own length – it won’t fit, you want to say - but the sight of the Lieutenant opening his fly with one hand in expert timing and whipping out his cock leaves the words dead in your throat.
You stare at Kim’s erection. It’s not as big as your own, but it’s definitely a decent size. It’s pretty, too – a nice thickness, a neat head, curving a little off to one side. It’s fucking beautiful, actually. Your mouth waters at the sight of it resting in his loose grip. He watches you watch him, pumping the length of it a few times before teasing the head, making himself gasp. Your own neglected dick spits a jet of precum onto your lower stomach.
You reach greedily for his cock, but he gently slaps your hand away. When he rolls the condom down his length, panic hits you like a freight train. Is he going to fuck you? In the arse? Oh, god. You want him to fuck you up the arse. You think you might want that more than you want to fuck him up the arse. You gape at him, fingers flexing and eyes roaming his face.
“Listen, Kim, I- I’ve never done this before, and don’t get me wrong I – I want to, but I’m not – I don’t think I can-!” Kim silences you with a finger to the lips.
“Harry, I just said we don’t have time for that.” He laughs a little, and your entire body slumps back onto the bed as every muscle relaxes at once.
“Ohhh, thank god…” You hear yourself mutter, like a total asshole. Kim just laughs.
But then what is the condom for? Your brows furrow in confusion. He picks up on this immediately and sighs, still massaging his cock in a leisurely fashion.
“This is just a precaution, detective. I mean no offense, but I’m not sure I can trust your sexual history in light of the amnesia and unpredictable behaviour.”
It’s a totally fair point, but you still don’t entirely understand the point of it if you’re just giving each other hand jobs. Don’t ask. You have a feeling it’ll all make sense in a moment. You look up at Kim, and whatever expression you’re making seems to melt him, leaning forward and pressing a sweet kiss on your chin. He seems to really like the dimple there.
“Don’t worry. This is going to feel great, I promise.”
Kim shifts on top of you, hovering above you with a hand planted either side of your head. He pushes your shirt up over the expanse of your stomach then aligns your hips together until – fuckkkk. You toss your head back in pleasure. The Lieutenant begins to thrust against you, reaching between you for a moment to smear your wetness all over his sheathed cock, and you are sliding together with the most delicious friction. You buck up against Kim, arrhythmically at first before finding the perfect complimentary motion to his own thrusts. Nothing could have prepared you for how good it feels to have his cock sliding up against your own. Your toes are curling in an instant, and you are making embarrassing little mewling sounds.
Kim leans closer, hovering above you on deceptively strong arms. Your hands grip his jacket as his breath tickles your ear.
“I think I’m starting to understand, Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor,” he murmurs, drinking in the sound of your groans. “The way you shuddered against me when you sneezed – it’s always wonderful to feel the physical result of somebody losing control. A good sneeze is like an orgasm in its own right.”
Ohh, fuck. He’s too good at this. Or maybe you’re just easy? Either way, your balls are starting to draw up and you can feel the pressure building as your cock gives a heavy, pre-orgasmic throb against Kim’s. And still he talks.
“Just now, you said you wanted me to fuck you. I can do that. I can make it so that it’s all you think about. You’ll dream about it every night, and wake up wishing my cock was inside you…”
He purrs into your ear, a continuous stream of dirty promises, and you’re imagining it all, imaging him fucking you, then you fucking him, images flood your mind and your cock is throbbing and everything tenses before –
Release. Pulsing, gyrating release. The pleasure is monumental – all you can do is submit to it, washing over you in waves and pulling a shuddering moan out of you. Your weakened heart flutters as the sheer magnitude of sensation incapacitates you. You had been denied for too long, and now it seems as though the orgasm is actively trying to kill you out of revenge. You do not care. It feels so, so good. The best you’ve had since god knows when. It feels like it could go on for an eternity. In reality, it is over in a matter of seconds, but when it finally releases you, twitching and gasping in the aftermath, you feel almost reborn.
As you wind down, you are aware of Kim murmuring gentle words of encouragement and praise. You feel him kiss your cheek. He is handling you carefully, like you are a delicate flower and not a muscular slab of a man. You are enjoying it immensely. You let yourself be soothed, sinking into the mattress as the afterglow leaves you floaty and relaxed.
It dawns on you, as you come back to earth, that Kim is no longer thrusting against you. Well, he is a little, but only minutely, barely enough for you to make out. He has shifted his hips slightly so that he is no longer pressing directly against your sensitive cock, but against your hip bone. His cock is rock solid against you, and you realise in a sudden wave of shame and disappointment that he hasn’t had an orgasm of his own.
“You didn’t cum,” You manage.
“No.” Kim confirms, resting his face in the crook of your neck and shoulder. He seems to like it there. You like that he seems to like it there. “I’ll need a little more time than that.”
You wince. You were so turned on and came so hard you barely had time to reflect on the fact that your orgasm had taken a whopping 40 seconds to crest from the moment Kim’s dick slid up against your own. You’re not even a minute man. Teenage boys last longer than you. You are unable to prevent yourself from letting out a pained, reedy whine as these thoughts consume you.
“S’rry…” You mutter, and to make it all worse, a couple of tears begin to spill down the sides of your face and into the burning shells of your ears. You focus on a patch of discolouration on the ceiling and attempt to astral project your body out of there. It does not work.
Kim pushes himself upwards and positions himself in a seated straddle above you. You offer no resistance. You do not look at him until he forces you to do so with a firm grip on your chin, pulling your face towards him. Even then your stubborn eyes only swivel to look at him once he compels you with an authoritative “Harry.”
He is looking at you fondly. You’re not sure how much more you can take of his relative kindness. It’s probably just the post-orgasm loopiness and raised temperature, but you swear you can make out the faint glow of a halo around his head.
“Don’t apologise. You held out for a very long time – an impressively long time, given how worked up you were.” He gets up off the bed then, taking the few steps over to the small basin and wetting the washrag lying beside it. You turn your head to watch and see that his erection hangs insistently in front of him, though it has wilted a little. The surface of the condom is slippery, covered in your semen and pre-cum.
“This was never about me, anyway. I got…carried away.”
He sounds…pained. You wonder if he is feeling a regret similar to that of an unsuccessful one-night stand, once the orgasm has cleared his mind. Only he hasn’t even had an orgasm. You feel a pang of guilt in your chest, not only for him but faint memories of various drunken affairs. You have a feeling a lot of women have slammed the door of your apartment behind them, their own orgasms neglected as you lay there in selfish completion. Fuck. Say something before you ruin things even more.
“I like when you get carried away. I want you to get carried away.” You push yourself with no small amount of effort to sit up against the wall, legs swung over the side of the bed.
You watch Kim’s profile. He says nothing, but he’s smiling. He slips the condom off of himself and flicks it into the nearby bin. You watch with a sinking heart as he tucks his half-hard cock back into his underwear. It feels like rejection. This is totally harshing the mellow of your earth-shattering orgasm, man. He turns with the washcloth in hand, takes one look at your face and smiles at you with such naked adoration you almost swoon with it.
“What’s that look for?”
You shrug, eyes darting around like a desperately guilty dog.
“Officer.” You look back at him. “We are still in the middle of an ongoing murder investigation.”
He is such a square. How he can be this level-headed and persistent whilst he’s still at half-mast is beyond you. You snort out of your nose like a petulant child. That was a bad idea – your forgot that you have a cold. You scramble around you looking for a tissue, but before you find one Kim is cleaning up your mess with the washcloth. Your ears burn. Having your nose wiped for you like a child should not be this arousing, but it is. Kim folds the washcloth and works downwards, cleaning the semen from your skin and the trail of hair that covers the length of your torso.
“Don’t look so disappointed.” His face is so close to yours. “If you still mean everything you’ve said when we’ve closed this case…” He whispers against your mouth. “You can do whatever you want to me.”
You lunge forward too quickly and awkwardly crash your teeth against his own. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, sinking to his knees in front of you and craning his neck upwards to maintain contact. You lean forward, clutching his shoulders with flexing fingers. He is such a good kisser. He does amazing things with his tongue whilst his hand still works on scrubbing your torso clean, working its way to your crotch, and –
Kim breaks the kiss and looks down your body. He is wearing an expression of utter disbelief, which you would find incredibly amusing if it wasn’t aimed at your person.
“What? What’s wrong??” You ask in horror, clutching his shoulders tighter.
He doesn’t answer you. He reaches one hand between your legs. You cannot help the obtrusively loud moan of pleasure that rakes its way out of you as he squeezes your cock.
“Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor.” He says despairingly. “You’re still hard.”
You look down. The swollen head of your cock peers back up at you, twitching happily within the constraints of Kim’s fingers. Huh.
“Oh. Uhh. So I am.”
The look of bemusement Kim flashes you is objectively too funny for you to not grin back at him, so you do. He raises an eyebrow.
“Is this normal for you? Do you remember?”
“I’m. I’m gonna say no.”
“No, you don’t remember, or no, this is not normal?”
“Yes.”
The Lieutenant blinks. He sighs heavily, releasing your cock. It throbs angrily at the sudden absence of his expert fingers. If a cock could pout, yours would.
“Harry.” He places his palms on each of your thighs, making sure to keep his touch light on your injured leg. “The entire reason I suggested you take care of things is because I thought it would provide you with some relief and mental clarity.”
The Lieutenant doesn’t seem angry – maybe a little concerned. You get the distinct impression that he is beginning to think you may actually have a medical issue of some kind. Your regard your stubborn erection. It doesn’t hurt – you hadn’t even noticed its persistence because you are still enjoying the buzz of your afterglow. Are you still aroused? You ought to test that. You picture Kim leaning down and sneezing all over your crotch. When your cock gives a heavy throb in response to this thought, drooling more clear liquid down your shaft, you relax. You’re not suffering the early stages of priapism; you’re just insanely horny.
Kim has been watching you think. He also watches your cock bob in the air with poorly feigned disinterest. You think, despite it all, he is secretly happy with this outcome. Perhaps a little flattered that he has managed to work you into this rabid state despite the multiple factors of injury, illness and drug withdrawals working against you. You are hyperaware of the grip of his hands on your thighs. He has very nice hands - angular and masculine, but delicate in their motions in a way your own huge paws are not. You should tell him to get to work with those hands of his.
“It’ll go down soon?” You offer instead.
Spoilsport.
Kim looks up at you like he doesn’t believe you in the slightest, because he doesn’t.
“Humour me, officer. When might that be?”
You shrug noncommittally. He sighs again, eyeing your cock. It twitches a little under the scrutinization.
“Do you need to have another orgasm?” He asks you. It is a sincere, almost clinical question for which he would like a straightforward answer, almost like a physician consulting with a patient. That doesn’t stop your hips from squirming in response.
“I…don’t know if I can.” You admit.
And you mean it. Earlier this week you may have suffered a genuine heart attack. You were shot in the leg just over 48 hours ago. Another orgasm of that magnitude may kill you. You ponder this a moment longer. There are definitely worse ways to go, and you trust Kim to take good care of your corpse should your petite mort just become…mort. The Lieutenant is patiently watching you, still crouched in front of you. You could do worse that Kim Kitsuragi, Harry-boy. Just blow your load like a man and enjoy the ride.
“…Fuck it. Sure.”
You stroke your cock experimentally. It feels as intense as if you’d never come in the first place – the only evidence to the contrary being the floaty, rejuvenated feeling your previous orgasm bestowed upon you. Once you start touching yourself you can’t stop. You groan and tip your head back against the wall. Yeah. This probably won’t take long either.
You realise after a moment of passionate self love that Kim has made no move to either offer a helping hand or leave you to handle yourself alone. He’s watching you work yourself with naked interest, eyes heavy-lidded and bright. When you groan in response to your own teasing fingers rubbing gently over your frenulum, you hear his own moan of appreciation and feel the flexing of his fingers on your legs. It is his own sigh of arousal that seems to break him out of this intense observation. He stands up, and you look up at him, meeting his heated gaze with your own.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” He says, pushing his glasses up his nose but otherwise unmoving. His own erection tents the front of his cargo pants.
“Don’t go.” You say. “Stay.”
He smiles down at you. It makes your breath hitch.
“You want me to watch?”
“I think you want me to want you to watch.”
“I want to get back to the murder investigation.” He teases.
“Please. Don’t talk about murder right now. I’ll never cum that way.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” He smiles at you. He is finding some enjoyment in this – standing over you while you masturbate yourself furiously. You find yourself enjoying it as well – so much so that it takes you a moment to take offense.
“I’m not! – not that fucking weird, damn.” You mutter. He just laughs.
“I want to make you cum.” You offer after several beats of silence. He fidgets in response, a small movement that would have otherwise signalled a routine shifting of weight from one leg to another, were it not for the obscene tent in his trousers.
“You should focus on yourself.” He breathes out, sounding almost as out of breath as you.
“What does it – look like I’m doing?” You get out between moans.
You’re getting close. It feels good to stroke yourself with your own practised hand, but you can’t help but feel like you need more. The Lieutenant is the entire reason you are in this position in the first place, and now he’s not even touching you. His sneezing was the catalyst for a whole new world of never-ending arousal and homosexual revelations.
You should ask him to sneeze for you. The thought is simultaneously thrilling and mortifying. It is one thing for Kim to barge into the room and start kissing you, and sneezing all over you because he can’t help it – yet another thing entirely for you to request his active participation. Perhaps you don’t need to ask. All you need to do is sneeze again, and it will certainly trigger a reaction of his own. You sniffle experimentally, but all you get for your efforts is an uncomfortable burning sensation. It is just your luck that the second you actively want to sneeze, you cannot. Fuck.
Why do you find yourself hesitating like this? You couldn’t have imagined a more positive response from the Lieutenant before. He called you intriguing. He dirty-talked you. He rubbed your dicks together and compared sneezing to orgasm. What’s the worst thing that could happen?
You regard the Lieutenant. Sexually charged energy practically oozes from him as he stands before you. His pupils are blown and his body bows towards you with a subconscious desire for closeness. All physical signs, not least his solid cock, point towards his want for sex with you, and yet – he’s just standing there. Watching. It occurs to you that he is potentially holding himself back now because his uncharacteristically enthusiastic advances have spooked him into a form of cowed paralysis. For a rigid professional like the Lieutenant, niche fetish sex with a fellow police officer is a huge deviation from his usual composed behaviour.
You take this all into consideration, and open your mouth to speak.
“I want you to sneeze for me. Please, Kim. I’m desperate for it.”
Your voice is steady, if not a little strained, but you have said it. It is out in the open. Your face heats in anticipation, heart fluttering in your chest, and your arousal seems to amplify at the thrill of voicing these most erotic desires out loud. Kim makes a low noise in the back of his throat, and you are worried for a moment that he is going to bolt out of the door, but then he is stepping closer, standing between your legs and cradling your cheek in his palm.
“Okay.” He smiles at you, and the relief is overwhelming. He looks excited– it is as if he had been waiting for you to put into words what you really wanted from him. You have a feeling that you had been dead on the money about the source of his reluctance. He had taken too much control of you, far too quickly. He didn’t want to look desperate, or lecherous in his handling of you, even though you went easily, enthusiastically. He had said you could do whatever you wanted to him – granted, he had meant this for a time in the future when you had more blood in your brain than your dick, but. Either way. Perhaps all you had to do was use your fucking words.
The Lieutenant is suddenly glancing round the expanse of the shack as if looking for something. When you ask him what he is doing, he looks at you as if it is obvious.
“I can’t just sneeze on command, but there doesn’t appear to be anything dusty in here for me to use. Isobel is clearly a fastidious cleaner.”
That last part expresses a deep respect for the old woman’s neatness despite her visual impairment. He says it so matter of factly that it takes a moment for the sheer eroticism of what came before to wash over you. Your cock drools down your knuckles at the thought of Kim willingly inducing an allergic reaction in himself, proposing he do so as if it is the most normal thing in the world. You picture him again with a feather duster, teasing his flaring nostrils until he cannot take anymore. He seems pleased with your immediate physical reaction, running his hand through your hair. You thank this morning’s Harry for the decision to shower despite the pain in your leg.
“Don’t you need to sneeze? That’s as effective a method as any.”
You sniffle again, but it is the same result as before – which is to say, nothing at all.
“Fuck…” You tilt your head back against the wall in disappointment. Perhaps you had better let this idea go and just think about tits or something.
You remember then, in a flash of foggy memories, a certain fool proof method for inducing a sneeze. A small, twisted piece of coated wire – the kind you might use to seal an open bag of food. You remember using it, tickling yourself into a relieving, shuddering sneeze when the urge refused to crest without external encouragement. God. Maybe you like your own sneezes more than you previously thought. You feel another stubborn memory, just on the periphery of your consciousness that refuses to reveal itself to you. Nevertheless, you have a hunch – no, a suspicion - that you are not the only person upon whom you have used that little tool. This confuses you. You had been so convinced this was a secret you had never shared with anybody, but now you are not so sure. But who? It wasn’t…her, at least. You decide to bury this troubling thought before you develop a headache or start to cry.
Anyway. This tool. You have a feeling. A feeling that in the lining of your blazer, through a small rip of the fabric…You reach inside, and moments later, you are staring at the small twist of wire pinched between your thumb and forefinger. The Pavlovian elevation of your heartbeat at the sight of it only confirms its intended usage.
“Umm. I think this should work.” You hold the small tool up to the Lieutenant, your expression a confusing amalgamation of sheepishness and excitement.
He takes the tool off you and brings it closer to his face, squinting a little at it through his glasses before a look of recognition spreads across his features. His lips quirk up into one of his small smiles. You swallow audibly.
“I’m assuming this is intended for internal stimulation?” His smile widens as you nod, squeezing your cock for good measure. “Very resourceful, detective.”
He twirls the small piece of wire between his fingers as if testing his grip. You are giddy with anticipation, practically vibrating with it. Kim uses his knee on the outside of your leg to push it inwards – you instinctively move your legs closer together, out of the wide spread you had adopted as you slumped back against the wall. He hums in appreciation at your quick understanding before kneeling in a partial straddle atop you, knees pressing into the mattress. It squeaks in protest anew at your combined weight, but neither of you pay it any mind.
Kim rests his left hand on your shoulder, twirling the wire between thumb and forefinger of his right and watching your reaction. You swallow thickly.
“Please,” You whine. “’M so close…”
“Okay.” He leans forward to kiss you for a moment, and you almost reach up to pull him back into it before you remember that more kissing means less sneezing. “But if you’re still hard after this, I’m driving you to the hospital.”
He isn’t joking. You nod obediently, trying your best to look innocent and failing spectacularly. Kim hesitates for the briefest moment, as if it dawns on him how ridiculous his current position is – how every decision and success he has undertaken in his career and life in general has led up to this bizarre turn of events – before slipping the tool into his slightly flared right nostril.
Almost immediately, he is pulling back with a look of pained irritation, but it is not the kind either of you were looking for. He coughs a little before rubbing at his nose frantically with the heel of his palm, eyes scrunched shut.
“Kim - shit, are you okay?” You ask him, concern overriding the way your cock twitches at the sight of him roughly manhandling his nose.
“Ahh, sorry, sorry,” The Lieutenant apologises, slowing the motion of his hand. He lowers it again and smiles bashfully at you, eyes watering ever so slightly. He looks so cute in the moment you barely suppress the urge to gnaw on his glasses.
“I think I was a little overzealous. I didn’t expect that sensation.” He moves the tool back into his nostril, trying again.
You watch in fascination, eyes roving over his face, taking in every little detail as he tickles his nose for you. His nostrils are your favourite thing to watch, predictably. They are incredibly expressive, and the shape of them lends to a wonderful flare. Each little twist and thrust of the tool triggers another series of uncontrollable twitching. The eroticism of this moment cannot be understated – you feel so good, so unbelievably turned on that your hand has paused on your cock for fear you will come before he has even succeeded in initiating a build-up.
Suddenly, the Lieutenant’s breath catches. You hold your own involuntarily, as if any sudden movement will scare his budding sneeze away. Your eyes wander from his flaring nostrils to his furrowed brows to his mouth as it falls open. His tongue cups itself, pressing slightly against his full lip. You briefly imagine the feeling of that tongue wrapped around your cock as he sucks it down. You resist touching yourself, intent on enjoying every moment of this. The second you do it is game over.
“Oohh, I think-!” Kim manages to gasp out before the sneezes are tearing their way out of him – a desperate little triple that leaves him shivering in your lap.
“hHUPT’Tschh’uu!! Hhdt’Tszschhh’uu! hHADT’TSCHhhtt!!”
He aims them at your chest, but mostly catches your neck and chin with the light spray. Your skin feels electric with sensation. You swallow your groans to avoid drowning out the sound of his releases, cock throbbing heavily with each one. It is hard to imagine that you could be more turned on than in this current moment, especially as Kim sighs heavily, orgasmically when he has finished.
“Ahh, my god. That felt so good.”
It doesn’t matter if he is only saying it for your benefit, or if it really is the case – you��d put money on both – and you allow yourself to groan openly at last. Your free hand reaches up to clutch at the front of his shirt, more to tether yourself to him than anything else.
“Did you like that?” He purrs, knowing full fucking well that you’ve probably never liked anything else quite so much in your life.
“Yesss…” You manage, hesitating for a moment before offering a “B-bless you” that you stumble over as if it is the naughtiest, dirtiest phrase known to man.
“Thank you.”
He sighs emphatically, delighted to see you squirm and blush. The Lieutenant rests the hand still clutching the inducing tool on top of your own where you are crumpling his meticulously ironed shirt into a wrinkled mess. He leans forward, holding his face just in front of your own. He sniffles, then smiles smugly at the flicker of your eyes to his flaring nostrils.
“Harry.”
You murmur an affirmative, unable to do much more as his deep brown eyes seem to stare into your soul. It makes you feel a little drunk – the fun, relaxing part before the anger and shame sends you into a spiral of self-destruction.
“Why aren’t you touching yourself?”
The Lieutenant could read a phone directory aloud and that voice would probably still have the same effect on you. Soft, but deep and commanding. It sends shivers down your spine. Before you can answer him, he is murmuring against your lips again.
“Touch yourself for me. Be a good boy.”
You can be his good boy. His best boy. You sigh against him, fingers moving to firmly encircle your cock before his words even fully sink in.
“Yes,” you breathe out, beginning to stroke yourself obediently. Your other hand releases the front of his shirt and moves to grip his waist instead.
“Good.” He smiles, leaning back once more, hand gripping your shoulder firmly whilst the other slips the tool back into his waiting nostril. “Here’s your reward.”
You watch in what can only be described as adoration as the Lieutenant starts to tickle his nose again. You are trying to hold out, keeping the squeezing rhythm on your cock as slow as you can manage, but the longer you touch yourself the harder it is to do so. A few moments later, Kim’s nostrils give a definitive twitch. You hear him suck in a shuddering breath. This time was much faster – he is figuring out the best spots to tease in an impressive display of aptitude.
The Lieutenant’s face freezes in pre-sneeze agony for a beat, and then he is tilting forward with another round of sneezes, hand squeezing your shoulder tight.
“hHPT’Tsschh!! HdDDZT’Tzshieww!! ‘TSCHhh’uu!!....HAHd’tsschht!!
These, too, were aimed in the general vicinity of your upper torso, though the last one – a straggler – seems to catch him off guard. You feel the delicate spray that bursts out with it settling over your left cheek, some on your lips. You shamelessly lick them clean. It wasn’t a particularly messy affair, hardly even wet enough for you to feel it, but a thrill rushes through you all the same. Kim doesn’t notice, pausing for a moment to scrub at his itchy nostrils with his knuckles and scrunching his eyes shut as he does so. It is both endearing and erotic that he makes no effort to hide just how much these sneezes tickle and tease.
“Bless you-!” You all but growl at him.
“Thank you, detective.”
He is enjoying this immensely, which only makes it better. You doubt, despite the lax and forgiving nature with which he has approached some of your more…unpredictable behaviours, that he is the kind of man who does anything in bed that he does not want to. He wears his arousal well – he doesn’t blush so much as he seems to glow, radiant and healthy.
“This is fun.” He admits, out of the blue, returning the tool to his nose. “I wonder why I’ve never thought to try this before.”
Because you’re not a huge fucking pervert, you do not say. You imagine he finds a certain appeal in having some power over when he gets to sneeze. He can enjoy the release when the reflex is triggered by his own hand and following his own decision to do so. It is an entirely different ball game to when his allergies or suggestibility render him helpless in environments he cannot control. Now he has an opportunity to indulge in the sensation – and it certainly does no harm that he is reducing a large man like yourself to a quivering mess whilst doing so.  
Before you realise it, your muscles begin to tighten in pre-orgasmic tension. Your hand is stroking your cock mercilessly, doing everything it can to drive you closer and closer to climax. It is working on autopilot, for which you are grateful – you don’t want to miss a moment of this thinking about anything that isn’t the Lieutenant.
“Kim…” You whine. You mean to say more – that you’re close, you’re going to cum, something to that effect. You don’t manage to, but the desperation with which you utter his name is enough for the Lieutenant to understand.
“Are you going to cum for me?” He murmurs, rubbing his thumb in small circles against your clavicle.
You sure fucking are. Your hand is a blur over your crotch, your frantic efforts almost sending vibrations throughout the protesting bed frame. You try not to think too much about the expressions you’re making. Kim has already been witness to your O face and certainly doesn’t seem to have been deterred by whatever he saw. He’s watching you with a hungry look even now, working his own face into a different but not dissimilar mask of desperation to your own.
Suddenly, his hand is squeezing your shoulder especially hard, thumb digging into bone and muscle.
“I think – if I -!”
He is trying in desperation to communicate something between hitching breaths, but it is futile. He inhales hugely, audibly gasping at the intensity of the tickle he has inflicted upon himself. He makes no effort to remove the tool this time.
“AhHH’TSchhTt!!-‘TSSChhh!-‘TSSh’uu!! – god, I-! AESSCH’uu! Hhp’Tzshieww!*
A wave of heat consumes you, the eroticism of the moment almost unbearable. You realise that Kim has found a sweet spot and deduced that simply holding the tool in place will result in an endless barrage of sneezes. Your cock throbs, drooling down your knuckles as you caress and squeeze yourself stupid. The hand resting on Kim’s waist grips him more firmly, a kind of anchorage, though for whose benefit you are not entirely sure.
“IhHd’TSsch’uu!! aAHDd’TszchhT!!-TTSChh’uu-ttschht!! Fuck, it’s so -! HahDD’TZSCHHhht!!”
The bed shakes under your combined efforts. You moan loudly, wantonly, almost out of your mind with desire. You wish you could shut yourself up – not out of any kind of embarrassment or shame. You’re beyond that now. But your own noisy exclamations are beginning to drown out the sound of Kim’s relentless sneezing. They have been increasing steadily in pitch as his body fights to mollify the tickle. There is no relief to be found, however – as long as he presses that little piece of wire against his sensitive spot, he will sneeze ceaselessly.
“Hupt’CHShh’iew! Hhdt’CHhhssh!! Hh-!! HhGG’TSzsch’uu!! TZSSCHh’iew!! Hhd’TZSCHshhtt!!”
They have been spraying your chest, neck and face indiscriminately, as it is all the Lieutenant can do to keep himself upright and find enough air to breathe between each convulsion. That most recent sneeze is also the most productive yet. You blink reflexively against the spray misting over your cheeks and nose, tangibly more wet than the preceding baptisms you have received. Kim’s pink, flaring nostrils are beginning to glitter with moisture. You almost feel envious that it has taken him such an intense series of sneezes to develop a bona fide runny nose. You can only imagine the mess you would have made by this point.
Unable to clean himself up throughout the continuous onslaught, you notice the tiniest string of saliva drips from the Lieutenant’s bottom lip. You want to lick it off, but all you’re capable of in the moment is fucking your own fist and moaning low and loud like a cat in heat. Your orgasm is mere moments away – it is building so intensely that your earlier fears of simply cumming yourself to death reemerge. You couldn’t stop the frantic motions of masturbation if you tried, however. You are a wanking machine, operating purely on animalistic impulses.
The Lieutenant, it appears, has reached his limitations. He looks dizzy and breathless, glasses askew and eyes streaming in irritation. He removes the tool from his nostril and drops it between you, realising much the same as you have – the cruel little press of that wire would have made him sneeze and sneeze until he passed out.
He clutches your shoulders with both hands now. You stare, utterly and totally enraptured, as his breath hitches towards yet another release.  Removing the direct source of irritation seems to have stoked some kind of residual tickle – and by the absolutely miserable twist of his features, it is perhaps the most intense of them all. Your cock shudders with the first pulse of your orgasm.
My god, you might die. You might actually die, you think, as the steadily cresting pleasure curls your toes and begins to pulse through you in luxurious waves. It is so overwhelming that you are unable to make any noise at all. You manage to watch through unblinking eyes as Kim tips forward with a punishing double.
“hHAhdt’TSZCHhh’uuu!! HhHDT’TSZSChhst!!”
They spray across your chin and neck, deliciously wrenching and wet. The Lieutenant gasps, head shaking almost imperceptibly as the tickle grinds vindictively against his sinuses – one final ‘fuck you’ - before he is lurching forward with a definitive, body-crunching explosion.
“hhHAHPT’TTZSSCHHhtt’iewww!!!”
It is the loudest and wettest sneeze you have ever heard from him. More importantly is the fact that he has managed to aim it down his body, chin squeezing against his collar bone. It drenches your cock in a teasing cloud of spray, the cooling sensation of it settling onto the delicate skin and elevating your orgasm beyond anything you thought imaginable. You are reeling with it, trembling pitifully.
Completely without means to control your own shuddering, you are helpless to fight it as your head drops back against the wall, thunking hard enough that there is pain even through the tremendous pleasure. You feel Kim slip a hand between your skull and the wall, cradling it protectively as you continue to shiver. The jarring movement seems to have triggered you to find your voice again and you moan stupidly, eyelashes aflutter.
Unlike your first orgasm, when the pleasure finally releases you this time, you slump as though dead. You have never come so close to losing consciousness from orgasm; you didn’t know it was something you were physically capable of (falling asleep immediately after the fact or passing out from drugs not-withstanding). Your breathing finally regains some semblance of consistency. Your eyes fell closed at some point and you make no move to open them. As you twitch with the occasional aftershock, wilting dick in hand, you feel Kim disembarking and hear him moving round. Your lascivious cock gives a few appreciative twitches at the sound of him blowing his nose.
“Harry. Harrier.” Kim calls your name softly from above, and you realise that you have started to doze.
“Mmf.” You grunt. You wish he would leave you to your peaceful oblivion.
A sudden cool sensation against your face makes you jolt slightly, eyes fluttering open. You look up at Kim, who is watching you with undisguised fondness and amusement, pressing a damp cloth to your cheek.
“Hi.” You manage.
“Hello.” Kim replies, before moving the cloth over your face and neck with a mechanical efficiency.
You grunt a little in indignation at being jostled here and there. You imagine this is what a milk drunk kitten being groomed by a fastidious and overbearing mother cat would feel like. Kim ignores your protests, wiping your dick clean with several quick strokes.
“Sorry.” He slows down just a little when you hiss and jerk as he works over the head of your cock, rubbing the over sensitised skin with tender care.
Your sticky hand is the last to be cleaned. You offer a lazy smirk as he wrinkles his nose at the sheer amount of mess you have made. The cloth, which you realise had been one of his many clean handkerchiefs, is tossed into the bin without a second thought. When you continue to sit there, arms hanging loosely at your sides, he clears his throat and looks pointedly at your crotch. Oh, right. You tuck your cock away, finally and blessedly flaccid.
“Do you normally make such a production of orgasm?” Kim asks in faux irritation, pulling his gloves back on.
You know he liked what he saw – he just likes to tease you. You ignore him, unable to formulate a witty or biting remark in response. Your brain is still jelly. Evidently your legs are, too – the second you try to stand, they are buckling under you. Kim steadies you, supporting your weight as best he can, until you are able to stand on your own. You swoon a little from the sudden rush of blood.
“You okay?” He asks, patting your back as you wash your hands in the basin.
“Fuck, man. I’m better than okay. I’m the living embodiment of Disco, baby.”
You giggle a little, loopy from the rush of endorphins. Your head also feels about a thousand times clearer, your morale at an all-time high – which gives you all the confidence you need to follow through on what you have been dying to do for days.
You turn to Kim, some variation of ‘The Expression’ plastered onto your face. With one fell swoop, you are scooping him up and depositing him roughly onto the bed, pulling a startled and rather undignified squawk out of him. Before he has time to stand up, you lower your mass over him, pressing a thigh between his legs and up against his cock and balls. The moan that escapes him is an unexpected and embarrassing to him as it is intoxicating and motivating to you. His hands reach up to grip your shoulders.
“You’re hard.” You mutter, before leaning forward and pressing a series of kisses to the exposed column of the Lieutenant’s neck.
“Astute observation, detective,” he breathes out, using his grip to pull you closer and arching himself up against you.
“I still want to make you cum. Will you let me now?” You nose along his jawline, careful to avoid pressing too hard and ruining the moment with a poorly timed sneeze. He shudders and bucks up against your leg, squeezing his thighs around it.
“Yes. Fuck, yes.”
That’s as clear an affirmation as you’ve ever heard. You reach between his legs, balancing over him on one arm. As nice as it felt for the position to be reversed, you can’t deny that your present arrangement is reaffirming to your masculinity. You spit into your hand, then manoeuvre his rock-solid cock out of his pants and hold it for a moment in your palm, getting a feel for the weight and thickness of it. You look down the lengths of your bodies in appreciation at the pretty head, beaded with moisture. You swipe over it with your thumb, spreading the wetness around and pulling a shaky sigh out Kim in response.
Before you can begin to stroke the Lieutenant, he is gripping your chin with one hand and forcing you to look at him.
“One thing before you start.” His brown eyes burn into your own. “If you ever pick me up like that again, I’m breaking both your arms.”
He is only half joking. He appreciates your wanton displays of virile masculinity, but he does not appreciate being caught off guard and thrown around like a toy. You nod within his grip, and he releases you, pulling your face to the crook of his neck and moaning in appreciation as your hand starts to pump him. He temporarily lets go of your shoulder to reach down and pull his t-shirt up to his nipples before resuming his hold, gripping you almost possessively.
“Is that an appropriate way to speak to your superior officer, Lieutenant?” You tease. There are times that you are especially grateful for the heavy timbre of your voice, and now is one of them.
You work your way over Kim’s neck with tiny kisses. His jugular flutters under your lips with each frantic beat of his heart.
“I believe it’s warranted when you’ve made your superior officer orgasm twice by sneezing on his person.” He murmurs, intoxicatingly breathless, into your ear, making you shudder involuntarily. You feel the smile on his lips as he nibbles gently on your ear lobe. Oh, god. He’s a monster. He’s going to eat you alive, and you’ll happily let him.
“God. You can’t be doing that. I’m serious, Kim, you’ll make me hard again.”
You don’t want him to stop. You want to lie there and let him tease every inch of your body. But this is no longer about you. You are overflowing with endorphins and post-orgasmic rejuvenation, and it is the Lieutenant who has brought you to such a state. He deserves your total and undivided attention.
It feels wonderful to stroke his cock, and you seem to be very good at it, if Kim’s increasingly enthusiastic moans and gasps are of any indication. His skin is velvety soft in your calloused palm, and everything feels perfect and grounded and right. A sudden wave of emotion overcomes you as you realise this is the happiest you have been in a very long time. You blink the traitorous tears away before they threaten to fall, but there is still a lump in your throat. You’re beginning to suspect you are just a regular sex crier.
“I can hear you thinking,” Kim gasps out.
You lift your head out of the crook of his neck to look into his face. He looks amazing like this, as though he can barely believe how good it feels, eyebrows furrowed and teeth worrying his bottom lip.
“I’m thinking about you.” You murmur, pressing your thigh even harder against his balls and squeezing his cock with a purposefully slow upstroke. He writhes under you, and the half-strangled sob he makes as his hands scramble for purchase on your blazer is possibly the best sound you have ever heard in your life (sneezing aside).
“Harry-! Plus fort, comme ça…!”
You obey, increasing the force of your grip as you squeeze him, a steady and punishing rhythm. His closed-mouth groan of approval spurs you on.
“I meant it all. Everything I said. And I’ll still mean it tomorrow, and the day after that.” You know this, with the strongest sense of clarity you have experienced since the start of your amnesia. “I want to fuck you. I want you to fuck me. Do you want that?”
You omit the ‘do you want me’ part.
“Fuck…” Kim mutters.  “Fuck, yesss.”
Your heart is overflowing. You feel hope, real genuine hope, for a better future. One where maybe you don’t hate yourself, and happiness isn’t something reserved for the rest of the world while you stand on the periphery looking in. You watch his face, his head thrashing from side to side on the pillow. He grits his teeth, eyebrows furrowed in ecstasy. He’s done for. Push him over the edge.
“I want you to cum all over yourself. Make a mess for me, Kim.”
The Lieutenant gasps, tossing his head back as his entire body tenses underneath you. His cock spits in your grasp, painting his torso with white stripes of pleasure. He is certainly making a mess; the sight makes your mouth water. You rub him through it, drinking in his soft whines and hitching breaths. You’re impressed by the amount of semen that spurts out of him – you wonder if he is as disciplined with his orgasms as with his cigarettes. Maybe he’s in the middle of a dry spell. Or maybe you’re just that good. It is probably an amalgamation of all three reasons.
You stroke him until he reaches down to tap on your wrist, signalling over-stimulation. Your movements cease and you loosen your grip, cradling his twitching cock like a delicate treasure. Your eyes haven’t left his face. The serene look of satisfied blankness makes him look youthful and handsome. Your heart aches to look at him, but it’s a sweet, gnawing agony that you would rather endure.
When he opens his eyes to glance at you, a shy little smile playing on his lips, you are unable to stop yourself from leaning forward and pressing your foreheads together. The frames of his glasses dig into your face, but you do not care. Still, you make a mental note to do this again sans spectacles. He reaches up to wrap both arms around your shoulders. He is much more affectionate post-orgasm than you would have expected, but you have learned a great deal of things about him today that have equally surprised and delighted you.
“Good?”
“Very,” He presses a small kiss against the side of your mouth. “I need a moment. Fuck.”
You cannot help it. You beam like a moron. You can add ‘Sex God’ and/or ‘Certified Orgasm Donor’ to your extensive list of talents. Let yourself have this moment before you must return to the cruel world of responsibilities and capital. You lower yourself onto Kim, soft gut resting against lithe stomach, closing the gap between the two of you entirely. You remember the copious semen a moment too late.
“You’ll ruin your shirt.” Kim protests weakly, but his heart is not in it. He sounds half-asleep.
“Whatever. I have a spare.”
Several spares, actually. A veritable wardrobe of bold fashion statements just waiting to be made as you limp around Martinaise.
The pair of you lie there in satisfaction until the threat of impending sleep urges Kim to shove your uncooperative mass off of him. You sigh, sitting up on the bed and removing your blazer and shirt. You use a dry section of the shirt’s fabric to clean Kim’s torso and cock before it is unceremoniously balled up and tossed in the bin, alongside the equally as tarnished washcloth and handkerchief. Sorry, Isobel. The room is muggy with the smell of your sex.
You look through your things for another shirt, pulling yourself together, and in time Kim stands and rights himself too. He wets (and wastes) another handkerchief going over his cock. The pair of you dress and clean in relative silence.
“Well.” You offer up to the air after several minutes, wincing only a little as you lean carelessly on your bad leg.
“Well.” The Lieutenant echoes.
The two of you wear matching expressions of smugness. That was some ground-shaking sex, and you both know it. You don’t need to say anything – following a successful conclusion to the murder investigation, this will happen again. It will probably even happen again following an unsuccessful outcome, unless that outcome entails significant maiming and/or death.
The Lieutenant lets you lead the way, and as you step out into the waning afternoon sunlight, the world seems just a little bit brighter.
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oristian · 2 months ago
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Do you think Azriel's history with other women will negatively impact Gwyn and Azriel as a couple, especially if something happens with Elain in the beginning? I love the healing and banter potential of Gwynriel, and I just know they'll understand each other's pain deeply. But I feel like Gywn suffers so much from feeling tainted and unworthy that I doubt she believes anyone can love or want her. She's very self-sacrificial, so she probably has suffered extreme suicidal idealisation. With all the parallels she has to Rhy's character, I hope SJM isn't cruel enough to make Gywn know who her mate is only to see him lust after someone else (even if it'll be fleeting or brief)
On the other hand, I know Azriel's fixation on Elain is born out of desperation, extreme loneliness and envy of his brothers being mated. I think they're both using each other as rebounds. His trauma is centuries deep, and he needs a lot of healing/closure with Mor. Despite all that, I think Gwyn deserves a mate who would wait for her above anything else the same way Rhys, Cassian and Lucien have. Sorry this is lengthy, but what are your thoughts?
This is actually very convenient because I was just chatting with @acourtdelaluna about something very similar to this premise. I actually do have a few thoughts on this!
Long story short, no, I do not think that Azriel’s current lustful feelings towards Elain will negatively impact his potential relationship with Gwyn. I personally do not believe that SJM would want to write something so dramatic and a subplot that is very irrelevant to the overall narrative. Simply look at Aelin with Dorian and Chaol before Rowan, or Dorian with Sorscha before Manon, or Bryce with Connor before Hunt—SJM wants romance and love, not heartbreak. Even the one chapter where Cassian was jealous of Eris in ACOSF was only utilized to showcase to the readers that, yes, Nesta and Cassian are mates, nothing more.
From the current direction (re: roadblock) of Elain and Azriel, there is not much closure really needed between them. SJM will have to do something quickly in the beginning of the next book that fully puts an end to them on page for those who have yet read the bonus chapter, but she does not have to dwell on them—they did not have much pertinence to the overall plot, after all. A clean separation will do the trick, or a conversation between them where Elain puts everything to rest.
Azriel and Gwyn are very similar when it comes to self image and self worth. The difference is that both view each other as good—Azriel respects Gwyn and experiences admiration for her, while Gwyn is gunning for his attention and appreciates his presence. While the reader has the added information of Azriel and Elain, I do not believe that the actual characters will have that used against them in any way. It would create tension between Gwyn and Elain that does not need to be explored.
I do have a headcanon that Gwyn does know about the mating bond already, but my secret fantasy is that Azriel and Gwyn discover it together when they both least expect it.
I do agree that both Elain and Azriel are using each other for different reasons. Elain’s reasoning is tied to Lucien and the subsequent mating bond—the extent of which, no one knows until her POV. Azriel wants a mate and has waited centuries for one. You’re right in the regard that he sees Rhys and Cassian happy in their relationships with their mates and he feels envious. I also wonder if the bond has already snapped between him and Gwyn and he’s been confusing the pull and frenzy of the bond with his attraction to Elain.
I have faith in SJM and her ability to write a relationship and I have faith in Gwynriel and Elucien. I believe that Azriel will be written as the mate that Gwyn needs, and vice versa.
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