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cheriecelestial · 6 months ago

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Jacob Black's Self Saving System Pt.1

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˂∩)♡

Pt 2

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.

“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.

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 !”

“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 ?

A.n - should I make this into a series ? If yes please lemme know if you want to be added to the taglist.

#jacob black’s self saving system #jbsss #scum villian self saving system #scumbag system #scum villain #twilight #jacob black #bella swan #edward cullen #luo binghe #shen quingqiu #svsss #mxtx svsss #mxtx #ducky if you’re seeing this just know I owe you my life and firstborn

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chelseeebe · 1 year ago

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on my knees (for you).

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.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader smut #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson fanfic

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wannabehockeygf · 6 months ago

Text

Scary Love - Brock Boeser

“Your love is scaring me,

No one has ever cared for me as much,

As you do, ooh,

Yeah, I need you here.”

Summary: After going to your hook-up’s place to retrieve something that you forgot, you find him injured, and subsequently find yourself wondering if it’s something more.

Word Count: 3.8k

Pairing: injured,soft!Brock Boeser x guarded!fem reader

Warnings: Injury, alludes to sex, slightly steamy scenes not anything too over the top.

Notes: I enjoyed writing this so much I love my brockstar (please come back to Vancouver I miss you) and this is a new style of writing i've been playing with.

Italics represent flashbacks.

prince charming of hockey 🫡

***

You weren’t planning on this, but today, you were going to your hook-up’s place. After work, before going out with your friends. And it wasn’t even to hook up.

As forgetful as you were, you made sure to always triple-check in situations like these that you didn’t leave anything behind – confronting someone you sometimes have sex with in a casual demeanor gave you the ick.

Maybe you didn’t check enough, because you left your favourite going-out top at his apartment.

Knock, knock, knock.

Nothing.

You knock again, but nothing, no noise, no anything. You pull your phone out of your back pocket, re-read your texts with him to ensure you had the right time, and glance at the apartment number multiple times to ensure you were at the right place.

You were. So why wasn’t he opening the door?

Grabbing the handle, you jiggle it expecting it to be locked, but the door creaks open. You glance around to make sure nobody else is in the hall, and you eventually decide to just let yourself in.

Two large dogs immediately run to your feet, letting out a few stray barks and you crouch down to pet them for a few seconds (how could you not?) before shushing them and standing back up. Closing the door behind you, you wearily look around, making sure this isn’t some stupid prank before calling out for him.

“Brock?” You shout, keeping your feet planted at the entryway, not wanting to intrude.

Suddenly, you hear a thud from down the hall, and a voice that hadn’t made itself known before. “Who is that?” Brock yells, his voice muffled from the closed door you assume he’s behind.

“It’s me,” you reply, a bit louder. “I texted you about coming by.”

There’s a brief silence, and then the sound of his voice. “Right… I, uh, I’m in a bit of a situation right now,” He calls back.

Your heart skips a beat, feeling a mix of concern and curiosity. You know his schedule, although you haven’t seen each other in over a week, and today’s one of his off days, but you don’t know what the hell hockey players do on their days off, and what could be going on right now. "What kind of situation?" you call out, trying to keep your voice steady.

There’s another pause before Brock responds, “Just… just come down the hall. I’m in the bathroom. The ensuite.”

You take a deep breath and start walking down the hallway, the dogs trailing behind you. His bedroom door is open, and you look at the mess of clothes among other things strewn across the floor as you approach the door you know very well as his ensuite. You press your ear to the door before you open it, and you hear a familiar noise… is that running water?

Of course. Of course he’d try to do this, this is what all of them do. You sigh, rubbing your temples while remaining outside of the door, “Are you trying to get me in the shower with you?” You say, quieter this time because of the lesser distance, although your tone is annoyed.

Brock doesn’t reply for a bit, but eventually you hear a deep sigh from behind the door. “No, it’s not like that. I swear. Just come in.”

Rolling your eyes, you push the door open slightly, peeking in. Brock is indeed in the bathroom, even in the shower, but not in the way you expected. He’s lying on the floor of the bathtub, opposite the faucet, the curtain half-closed so you can only see the top half of his body, and it doesn’t look… great. His hair, usually blond but brown from the water, is clung to his forehead as the water pats down on him, his face twisted in pain and his left hand gripping the side of the tub.

Your stomach tightens at the sight of him. This is definitely not what you expected when you decided to retrieve your top.

“Brock, what the hell?” You exclaim, pushing the door open fully and stepping into the bathroom. The dogs follow you, but you shoo them out and close the door halfway.

His eyes flicker open, and he gives you a pained smile. “I… I slipped,” he manages to say through gritted teeth.

Raising an eyebrow, you doubt that he just randomly… slipped, and fell without being able to get back up being in as good shape as he is. You take a step closer, peeking to the right of the curtain to discover his right foot is cast up to his mid-calf.

“Some privacy, please?” He hisses, although his eyes remain wide as he pulls the curtain a bit further to cover himself.

An incredulous laugh escapes you as you cross your arms. “You’re acting like I’ve never seen your dick before, Brock.”

He groans, his face contorting as he adjusts himself slightly in the tub. "This is different," he mutters, clearly embarrassed. "I can't get up. I need your help."

This is when you notice he has a plaster on his face, on his left cheek, furthering the level of injury he apparently has. “What happened?” You question, crouching down to shut off the water, to which he lets out a relieved sigh.

"I was trying to take a shower," he explains, his voice strained. "Slipped on the soap.”

You squeeze your eyes shut in frustration, and a scowl forms on your face. "You're an idiot sometimes, you know that?" you say, your tone softening, “I mean what’s with your foot and your face? Did you get into a fight or something?”

He shakes his head, motioning for you to get a nearby towel which you do. “Got checked pretty hard a few days ago, game against Jersey. Fractured my foot” He replies, helping you dry off his chest before trying not to lean on you too much as you try to help him out of the tub, “And turns out, Quinn’s brothers play hard, and Jack high-sticked me pretty good.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, brute sport.” You mutter, throwing his arm over your shoulder as you get him out of the tub, and once he’s partly on his feet you lead him to his bed which he immediately collapses onto.

You sit on the edge of the bed beside him, feeling a mix of concern and frustration. Brock’s face is flushed with pain and embarrassment as he winces every time he adjusts his position. Eventually, he turns his head towards you, pouting. “You really are an angel, you know that?”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest. “Don’t push it, Brock. You know why I’m here,” You say, scanning the already messy floor for your shirt which you find quickly and try to pick up without getting up, and as soon as the fabric touches your fingers, you’re transported back.

“That looks so fucking sexy on you,” Brock mumbles between kisses, his hands slipping beneath the shirt he just complimented. His hands squeeze the curve of your waist tightly, which makes you let out a small gasp. “I need you to wear that every fucking time you come see me, okay, baby?”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks, remembering how his hands felt on your skin, the way his voice sounded in your ear. It was a far cry from the current situation, with him laid out in pain and you playing caretaker. Shaking your head, you clear the thoughts and pull the shirt free from the tangle of clothes.

“Got it,” you announce, trying to keep your voice steady.

Brock’s eyes flutter open, and he watches you with concern on his face, “You okay?” He questions.

You force a smile, trying to push the memories aside. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you reply, folding the shirt in your lap, “Anyway, aren’t you supposed to have someone help you shower if you’re like this?”

Brock sighs, shifting slightly on the bed to get more comfortable. "Yeah, I know," he admits, his voice tinged with regret. "I just didn't want to bother anyone. Thought I could manage on my own."

You shake your head, disbelief and frustration mingling within you. "Well, clearly, you can't," you retort, trying to keep your voice gentle despite your annoyance. “How long were you laying there before I showed up?”

Brock looks away, his expression sheepish. "About an hour," he mutters. "I didn’t want to call for help since I knew you’d be coming over and my door was unlocked.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, feeling a mixture of sympathy and annoyance. "You're lucky I came by," you say, standing up and looking around his room, "Do you have any other clothes you want to change into, or is staying in a towel your plan?"

He chuckles weakly, wincing as he tries to sit up. "I think I'd rather get dressed," he replies, nodding towards his dresser. "There should be some sweatpants and a T-shirt in there."

You head to the dresser and rummage through his clothes, finding a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt that looks comfortable. Returning to the bed, you help Brock sit up and carefully hand him the clothes. "Here, let's get you dressed," you say, trying to keep your tone light despite the awkwardness of the situation, and your mind ends up where you were the last time you helped Brock with his clothes as you help him put the t-shirt on.

"You know, you could have just asked for help," you tease, your hands deftly undoing the buttons of his shirt. Brock grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "But where's the fun in that?" he replies, his voice a low murmur that sends shivers down your spine. You laughed, feeling the heat between you two intensify as his shirt finally came off.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your thoughts as you help Brock into the sweatpants. His skin is warm under your fingers, a stark contrast to your own. You can't help but notice how his muscles tense slightly as you guide the fabric over his legs, careful not to jostle his injured foot.

As you pull the sweatpants up to his hips, Brock's hand grazes yours, and you both freeze for a moment, the tension between you palpable. His touch feels familiar, too familiar, and it sends a jolt of electricity through you.

“Come on, baby, don't be shy," Brock's voice is a husky whisper, his breath hot against your neck. His hands roam over your body, tracing the curve of your back as he pulls you closer. You feel his lips press against your collarbone, a shiver running down your spine as he kisses a trail up to your ear. "You know you like it when I touch you like this," he murmurs, his voice low and seductive. He takes one of your hands gently, placing it on the crotch of his dress pants, “Show me what you want, angel.”

You quickly pull your hand away, breaking the contact as if it burned you. Brock's eyes meet yours, his expression a mix of pain and something else, something that feels like longing. You force yourself to focus on the task at hand, helping him adjust the sweatpants around his hips before stepping back to give him some space.

"Thanks," he says, his voice soft and genuine. "I appreciate it."

You nod, unable to trust your voice to speak without betraying the turmoil inside you. The memories of your intimate moments with Brock swirl in your mind, making it hard to stay focused on the present.

“Brock,” you whisper, your breath hitching as his fingers trace lazy circles on your inner thigh. “What if someone hears us?” He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “Let them,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. “I want them to know you’re mine.”

You swallow hard, the memory of his words lingering in your mind. It was easier back then, when everything was casual and uncomplicated. Now, with him injured and vulnerable, you can't help but feel like you're crossing a line you hadn't anticipated.

"So, uh, how long are you gonna be out of commission?" you ask, trying to steer the conversation to safer territory.

Brock sighs, running a hand through his wet hair. "Doc says a few weeks, maybe longer. Depends on how quickly I heal," he replies, a hint of frustration in his voice. "It's gonna be rough, not being able to play."

“Wear this,” Brock urges, tossing you an extra jersey from his closet. You take a moment to look at the front, the familiar blues and greens and the trademark orca in the dim light, before turning it around and realizing that it has his name and number stitched into it.

“Yeah,” you choke out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ll get through it.” You’re screaming at your inner dialogue to stop making you think of everything you’ve done with this man, but it’s hard when he’s in front of you, looking all soft and vulnerable.

Brock places a firm hand on your forearm, and you meet his gaze to see that his eyebrows are furrowed, a look of concern on his face. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He questions.

You force a smile, hoping it looks convincing enough to ease his concern. "Yeah, I'm fine," you lie, your voice steadier than you feel. "Just a lot on my mind, I guess."

Brock's eyes search yours, as if he's trying to read the thoughts you're desperately trying to hide. He squeezes your arm gently, the warmth of his touch seeping through your skin and into your bones. “Tell me.”

“You look so beautiful wearing my name,” Brock murmurs, his breath warm against your neck as he holds you close. "I don't know what I'd do without you." You laugh, “You’d survive,” you reply, though your heart swells at his words. “But you’d be a mess.”

You glance at Brock, who’s watching you with a mixture of concern and something else you can’t quite place. He’s waiting for you to say something, anything, and you know he deserves an answer. But the words feel stuck in your throat, caught between wanting to tell him everything and nothing at all.

“Brock, I…” you start, but your voice trails off. You look down, trying to find the right words, but all you can think about are the times he made you feel something more than just a casual fling.

“You're the only one I want," Brock whispers, his voice rough with emotion. He cups your face in his hands, not a care for anything else that’s happening as he thrust into you slowly. "I don't care about anyone else, just you." You blink, trying to process his words. "Brock, you can't just say things like that," you reply, your voice shaky. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. "But it's true," he insists, his breath warm against your lips. "I mean it."

You shake your head, trying to clear the fog of memories. “I just came to get my shirt,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t expect… this.”

Brock sighs, his expression softening. “I know,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into my mess.”

You laugh, the sound bitter and sharp. “Your mess?” you repeat, glancing around the room. “Brock, this isn’t just about your injury. This is… it’s more complicated than that.”

“You're always so guarded," Brock murmurs, his fingers tracing the outline of your jaw. You look away, feeling a lump form in your throat. "I'm not," you protest weakly. He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. "You are," he insists, his eyes searching yours. "But I get it. I've been hurt before too."

Brock's hand tightens around your forearm, grounding you in the present. You glance down at his grip, then back up at his face. His eyes are searching yours, looking for something, anything, to understand what’s going on in your head.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I’m just… why haven’t you mentioned it? The things you’ve told me when I’ve been here before.”

Brock's eyes flicker with a mix of emotions - confusion, guilt, and something else you can't quite place. He lets out a slow breath, his grip on your arm loosening. "I didn’t think you’d want to hear it," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I thought it was for the best to keep things… casual."

You scoff, trying to hide the hurt in your eyes. "Casual? You were never really casual with me, Brock. You say all these things when we’re fresh off of sex, but you never say it when it counts.”

“I can't get enough of you," Brock murmurs, his lips trailing down your neck as he pulls you closer. "You're in my head all the time." You shiver at his words, your heart pounding in your chest. "Brock, we agreed to keep things simple," you whisper, trying to remind yourself of the boundaries you'd set. He pulled back slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that took your breath away. "I don't want simple," he says firmly. "I want you."

Brock's eyes flash with regret as he looks away. "I thought that's what you wanted," he says softly. "I didn't want to scare you off by being too… intense."

You shake your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. "Intense?" you repeat, the word tasting strange in your mouth. "Brock, you were more than intense. You made me feel things I didn’t even know I could feel. I can’t be the only one that feels like this, right? I can’t be the only one who wants more, even though I’ve never wanted that with anyone else in a long time.”

Brock's eyes widen, and he reaches out to grab your hand. "You're not," he says quickly, his voice urgent. "You're not the only one, I swear."

You pull your hand away, the sudden intensity of his words catching you off guard. "Then why didn't you say anything?" you ask, your voice rising with frustration. "Why did you let me think this was just a fling?"

Brock's expression softens, and he looks down at his hands. “Because you’re… you,” he admits his voice choking up, “You’re this beautiful, strong, independent woman and, don’t get me wrong, I’ve done pretty well for myself, but I can't help how I feel about you. How I feel all soft and mushy when you look at me like you want me, and trust me, it’s been an honor to make you feel good with no strings, but I want to be that close to you all the time, in all the ways, Y/N. I kept it casual for you, and I was only honest with you in bed because I literally can’t imagine my life without you anymore and it’s fucking terrifying.”

You stand there, stunned, processing Brock's confession. The vulnerability in his eyes, the raw honesty of his words, pierces through your defenses. This isn’t what you expected when you came here to retrieve your shirt.

You eventually look away, your mind racing with conflicting emotions. You want to believe him, want to trust that his feelings are genuine, but the fear of getting hurt again lingers in the back of your mind.

“You deserve better," Brock murmurs, peppering kisses along your face. You look up at him, confusion in your eyes. "What do you mean?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. He sighs, his expression softening. "You deserve someone who can give you everything," he says, his voice filled with determination. "And I want to be that person for you."

“I’m scared,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper as tears well in the corners of your eyes. “I’m scared of getting hurt. Of losing you.”

Brock reaches out, his fingers gently brushing against your cheek, wiping away a stray tear. “Angel, if I could I’d jump up and lift you into my arms right now, but since I can’t, can you please come to me?”

You hesitate for a moment, but the sincerity in Brock's eyes draws you in. Slowly, you swing your legs over his bed, allowing yourself to be vulnerable. Brock's arms wrap around you, pulling you into a gentle embrace despite his injuries. You feel his warmth, his heartbeat against your chest, and it calms you in a way you didn't expect.

“I know it’s scary,” he soothes, running his fingers through your hair, “On everything that I am, I promise I will never hurt you.”

“I don't want you to go," Brock whispers one night, his voice barely audible in the darkness. His arm is draped over your waist, pulling you closer. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, the warmth of his body seeping into yours. "Stay with me tonight," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. You hesitate, the weight of his words sinking in. "I don't know, Brock," you reply, your voice uncertain. "I don't want things to get complicated." He leans in, his eyes locked on yours. "They're already complicated," he had said softly. "But I don't care. I want you here."

You sit there for a moment, feeling Brock's heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. It's a rhythm you've missed more than you care to admit. Slowly, you pull back just enough to look into his eyes, searching for any hint of deceit or hesitation. But all you find is sincerity and a depth of emotion that takes your breath away.

"Brock," you whisper, your voice trembling, “Can I stay here for a while?”

Brock’s eyes light up with relief, and he pulls you closer, his grip gentle but firm. “Of course you can, angel. Stay as long as you want.”

You sink into his embrace, the warmth of his body seeping into yours. It feels right, being here with him, even if the circumstances are less than ideal. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The dogs, sensing the change in atmosphere, quietly curl up at the foot of the bed.

It feels so right, being here, with him.

#vancouver canucks #brock boeser #Brock boeser fic #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #nhl x reader #Brock boeser fanfiction #bb6 #bb6 x reader

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago

Text

How a billionaire’s mediocre pump-and-dump “book” became a “bestseller”

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

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

#pluralistic #molly white #books #publishing #dunning kruggerands #crypto #cryptocurrency #a16z #venture capitalism #guillotine watch #this is why we can't have nice things #bookselling #the bezzle #bezzles #web3 #blockchain

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whomstdosthouthinkiis · 2 months ago

Text

my two cents on Horikoshi's end notes, and the fandom moving forward.

I know that other bakudekus and myself are #Going Through It™️and we want to be able to wash our hands of an ending we don't feel gives us emotional closure, especially when it comes to Kacchan's arc and their relationship. (I vacillate between seeing it as bittersweet with tints of hope and heartrendingly depressing and an absolute gut punch)

But I feel like a lot of us are jumping to conclusions and conspiracies way too quickly. When Hori says "he's turning off the camera and releasing them from their dramas" he's saying that he's not going to put them through another story. "their dramas" being the trials and tribulation and arcs that they went through over the course of the series, he's letting them off the hook and won't be putting another arc in the story. And, though he may refer to himself as the camera man, turning off the camera is just kinda a normal phrase to mean that the story is over, what ever happens now is up to our imaginations.

Now, I get why we are upset by this, ignoring canon wasn't how we got to be bakudeku shippers. Almost until the very end with very few hiccups, Kacchan and Deku's relationship was the most impactful and compelling one in the series, it grew and changed and blossomed in ways that only made the emotional resonance and investment stronger. They were each others most important person, to the point of insane unhinged acts of devotion, and their relationship was the driver of most of the stories major themes. it's not hard to see the appeal, even without shipper goggles (I legitimately only read the manga for the last 2 years when something bakugo or bakudeku related happened, that's how much this part of the story compelled me)

So, it really sucks to feel like we've been let down, when it felt like we had already made it to the end. I know I will always cherish those 5 months of canon compliant fluffy bakudeku fics and fanart after the first ending. It really felt like we had won in a way.

It sucks that now the last piece of canon we have is giving ammo to people who wish to belittle, hate, and judge us for our investment in, and interpretation of, these characters and this story. And, that all subsequent fan works will be colored by this development of the story, in a way that definitely shifts it in more angsty tragic direction. that this is the final note we leave off on sucks, even if we chose to ignore it, because not everyone will.

That sucks.

BUT, we can still ignore it.

We don't need it to not really be canon.

We don't need Horikoshi's permission to ship them, even now.

We have 400+ chapters of manga, side stories, anime, music, canon content that supports the bond and relationship that we love and hold dear, so much material to continue to interpret, and remix, and adapt, and transform from. so many moments, big and small, that can't be taken away by one chapter.

I know endings tend to re-contextualize things, but we can imagine a timeline that's different, that we like better or think is more compelling, or more fun, or just different. we can imagine 100 different timelines, all diverging from different points, filling in different gaps, and making new paths forward.

I know we're all coping, that our hearts are hurting, but I also see so much strength, and resilience, and creative energy, and love.

The cameras aren't rolling anymore.

Now, WE get to decide what the future for these characters will bring.

And I know we'll give them many many good ones

#bakudeku #bkdk #mha 431 #mha epilogue #bakugou x midoriya #katsuki bakugou #midoriya izuku #dkbk #I'm currently writing a fix-it fic that explores kacchan getting his nerds eyes back on him #so look out for a chapter in a few weeks #it's the mma one I pitched yesterday #long post #jay rambles #431 kvetching

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serickswrites · 5 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

#serickswrites #whump #whumpblr #whump community #whump writing #tw gunshot #tw mcd #tw head ache #tw captivity #tw restraints #tw amnesia #tw torture #tw scientific experimentation #hero #villain #hero x villain #hero x villain community #queue

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the-crooked-library · 2 years ago

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On Horror, Queerness, Mirrors, and Dracula

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

#dracula #dracula daily #jonmina #jonathan harker #mina harker #dracula meta #bram stoker #y'all asked for this #now scream with me bc i've been internally screaming about this for years #it's about the DEVOTION #lucy westenra is mina's innocence #dracula is jonathan's fear of inadequacy #renfield is his humanity #dracula is an evil version of mina i said what i said #that's Partially why jonathan wasn't weirded out enough #like yes yes eccentric old count #but he writes a diary in shorthand #and his fiancee loves train schedules #who's he to judge

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hargreeves-duncan · 2 months ago

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DUDE THAT DIEGO FIC??!!! HOLY SHIT!

soooo…since we both love the man, could I please ask for a DILF Diego fic (HIS MOUSTACHE UGH) where he and reader are having some marital problems, her parents are living with them and causing issues, until Diego finally snaps and takes his frustration (wink wink) out on reader 😏

a/n: anon, i like the way you think… i have not proof read this AT ALL, i just felt inspired to finally write something so… enjoy😉

summary: diego is sick and tired of being the last person in your house to get your attention

warnings: this is SMUT so 17+ for this one, lowkeymean!dom!Diego, degrading, fingering, p in v, gagging/choking (fingers), edging, swearing

word count: 3.5k

A lot had changed in the last six years. For one, you were no longer fighting off doomsday, but since your re-arrival in a corrected 2019, you and Diego had settled down. You’d been pregnant with your first baby girl for a while anyways and you loved one another more than life itself, it was natural succession that you’d get married too and so, you had.

You’d settled more than comfortably into your role as a mother to Grace, so much so that you’d begged Diego for another child to be able to experience having a young child all over again. He had given in to your pleading almost immediately, and that had blessed the two of you with a gorgeous set of twins, Coco and Miguel.

It had been a few years since then and all your babies were not so little anymore but that didn’t stop your constant doting on them. They were your everything and you’d be damned if even the smallest thing were to hurt them.

Diego felt the exact same way, his girls and Miguel were his priority, always, but that didn’t mean that he didn't want some time just for himself with you, time where neither of you had to parent and you could just be yourselves for a while.

He knew that children were needy, and he couldn’t blame them for something as simple as wanting their mother, but he had needs too. Needs like actually receiving attention from his own wife once in a while.

More recently, your mother had fallen ill and your father had gotten far too old to take care of her alone. Now, Diego wasn’t a monster, the first thing he’d done was offer to let them stay at your place whilst your mother got back on her feet. Each and every day she was recovering and, as selfish as it was, a part of Diego hoped that with your parents in the house, it would mean that he would have time with you whilst they looked after the kids. Oh, how wrong he had been.

Your parents didn’t help with the childcare at all. In fact, they required more babying than your three children combined. It was exhausting to be around and, subsequently, exhausting for you to adhere to. By the time all of your children were put to bed each night, you were too drained to even keep a conversation going, let alone anything more.

Diego was tired of only seeing you in passing. He had tried to express his feelings to you several times, but it was only ever met with a wave of excuses and exhaustion. He knew you loved him and that you were doing your best to just get through the day, but the increasing lack of time alone with you was beginning to take a toll on him.

Diego was reminded of it more than ever right now. It was Christmas Eve and you were currently setting the dining table for a hearty lunch for the five of you. Your hair was frazzled as you rushed around the downstairs in preparation of everything, calling out various commands as you did, “Coco, what have I told you about being mean to your brother?”, “Ma, have you moved the napkins?”, “Grace, be my lovely girl for me and go set the table, please.”

All morning, Diego had remained in the same spot on the sofa in the living room, waiting for you to even acknowledge him. The longer he went without so much as a “hello” from you, the deeper his irritation grew.

Diego couldn't take it anymore. He watched you hustle about the house, tending to everyone and everything except him. The kids were fine, your mother had been pampered all morning, your father was being served beer on the hour by you, the food was practically ready at this point and he knew that you’d already set up the table hours ago. You didn’t even need to check up on anything else and yet here he still sat, as if he were a ghost in his own home.

For the hundredth time this morning, he watched as you adjusted the blanket on your mother’s lap, checking up on her and speaking tenderly.

Your father, sat on the armchair beside her, frowned at Diego from across the room, spouting hate once again, “You know, sweetheart, I’ll never know why you chose this one. He just bums around doing nothing all day. A postman, isn’t he? What good is that to a woman like you? You could’ve had anyone, you know-“

Diego’s face darkened, his lip pulling into a thin line as cut your father off, “Could I talk to you for a second?”

He looked over at your father pointedly, trying, and failing, to conceal the frustration bubbling up inside of him at the sight of you at his side, “Alone.”

You frown, slightly taken aback, but you nod, “Yeah, of course.”

You gently squeeze your mother’s wrist and offer her a reassuring smile as you walk after your husband who’s already halfway up the stairs and out of sight, “Keep an eye on Ma for a second, please, Dad!”

“You think I don’t know how to do that! She’s my wife!” You hear your father rambling angrily from downstairs but you don’t hear him, having practically chased after Diego into your bedroom.

He shuts the door behind him and looks up at you with eyes that are both seething and swimming with hurt. You feel your chest tighten.

“What the hell is going on right now?” Diego asks, searching your eyes for any kind of answer.

“I… What?” You reply, head shaking in confusion, “Diego, what’re you…”

“Don’t play dumb with me. You haven’t even looked in my direction all morning, so I want you to tell me what’s really going on.” His words are firm but his voice is tender, you know what he’s really saying, what he’s really feeling. Deep down, he’s still the same little boy who’s terrified of not being enough for his family.

You take a step towards him, your expression softening. "I’ve just been focused on getting everything ready for today," you say, "I’ve just been busy…"

Diego shakes his head. "No, don’t give me that shit, it’s not just today.”

“You’ve been off for weeks now, months… and I… I don’t know what the hell I’m doing wrong so why don’t you just tell me, hm? ‘Cause clearly I’m missing something.” His words come out bitter and resentful as he puts his hands on either side of you, pinning you against the door.

As he pins you in place, you feel his warm breath against your skin. His gaze is fixed on yours, as if willing you to understand, and it pains you to think that this is probably the closest you’ve been to one another in months, “No, Diego, you haven’t done anything wrong. You’re not missing anything, I-“

“We used to be something. We used to actually be a couple instead of a pair of… of… of…” He groans in frustration, banging his fist on the door as his stutter distorts his words. He pulls back, running stressed hands through his hair.

It’s been a long time since you’ve seen him this worked up, this frustrated, and you’re not even sure how to react to it, knowing the distress that you’re causing him.

He sighs, swallowing down the anger in himself as he looks back up at you. His eyes burn as he narrows his gaze on you, “I bet you haven’t even noticed it, have you? How weird things have been?”

You part your lips to speak but he shakes his head. It’s not really a question. He knows that you haven’t, you’ve been far too preoccupied in everything that isn’t him.

He exhales through his nose, “Do you know how many times I’ve tried to get your attention these last few weeks? To get something, anything, out of you?”

You don’t answer and he groans, “You haven’t even spoken to me today, Y/N. It’s two in the afternoon.” He reaches up, cupping your face with both of his calloused hands. His grip is tight and fierce.

He continues, his voice growing more raw with every word, "Every time I try, it’s always the kids, or your mother, or your father or some other goddamn thing that needs tending to. You never pay any attention to me and I’m sick of it.”

His hands drift over your body as he looks you in the eyes, “So, right now, that’s what I want from you. I want all of your attention on me. Nobody else, just me.” He says, as his voice lowers dangerously. He tightens his grip on your waist.

Your eyes widen slightly, hands instinctively reaching for his forearms and grasping them tightly, “Diego, we can’t, I have to finish setting up-“

He practically growls as you says that and he shakes his head, “No, you don’t have to do anything. No one is asking you to. The kids are fine. Your mom is fine. Everything is fine, we can have this.”

“But the twins need-“ You begin, but Diego simply growls angrily.

“No, they don’t. The twins don’t need anything, I do.” He says, his breath growing more rapid.

You protest, eyes softening as you look up at him, “I promise, we’ll do something just us. I just need you to wait for me to finish with lunch and then I’m all yours.”

“No, Y/N, they are fine. They will be fine.” He says, stepping forward, gripping your chin and tilting your head up to face him, “But I want you now, and I’m going to have you now because I need it. I need you. Show me that you need me too and let me have you.”

His grip tightens on your waist and there’s nothing you can do to stop your cheeks from flushing at the unbridled desire in his words, “Diego, really, I can’t, I…”

Diego shakes his head, voice low and gravelly, “Yes, you can. You can do this for me. You’re going to do this for me.”

He’s speaking softly but it’s clear how desperately he wants you. You’d be lying to yourself if you hadn’t missed this aspect of your relationship. The passion. Parenting three toddlers had slaughtered that but right now, what he was offering you…

The fire in Diego’s eyes blazes, dark and determined, as he watches you hesitate. “You don’t get to say no to me today, baby,” he growls softly, his voice low and dripping with frustration. “Not after ignoring me for all that time.”

You glance at the bedroom door, wary of the sound of your children’s voices downstairs. Your lips part to respond, but before you can reply, Diego turns your head to face him and presses you up against the wall.

“You’ve had time for everyone else,” he murmurs, his tone cutting. “The kids. Your parents. Everyone except me. So now, you’re going to give me what I need.”

His hands glide down your arms, his grip rough but deliberate, starting a fire within you. “I’m tired of waiting. I’m shouldn’t be an afterthought. I’m your man, and you’re my girl. We see each other, we put each other first, always.”

He presses his forehead against yours, “You should see me the way that I see you. I’ve been waiting but I won’t anymore.”

Diego’s hands find your hips, gripping them tightly as he pulls you flush against him. “You can handle everything and everyone in this house. So, right now, you’re going to handle me and take everything I’ve been holding back, because if you’re big enough to handle everyone else then you’re big enough to take me, aren’t you?”

Your breath hitches, your body reacting instinctively to the roughness in his tone, the way he’s asserting himself. It’s not just his anger you feel— it’s his longing, his desperation for you to seek him out.

His dark eyes bore into yours, daring you to defy him. “You don’t get to brush me off anymore. You don’t get to be in control today. That’s my job. I speak and you listen.”

There’s a frustration in his eyes that you’ve seen before and you already know that you’re going to be aching tomorrow just from the sight of it.

“You don’t come until I say so. You don’t touch me unless I let you. You’re going to listen to me, Y/N, because I’m the one who’s been here, waiting, and now it’s time for you to finally listen to me.”

His hands run over your hips, a low snarl growing in the back of Diego’s throat, “You’re going to regret ignoring me for so long, baby.” He mutters breathlessly and those words have you trembling already, “Gonna treat you just as mean as you treated me. Show you how it feels.”

Diego begins to press sultry kisses along the column of your throat, his teeth barely grazing the skin. His mustache, a recent and entirely welcome development, brushes over it too, heightening your sensitivity. It’s been far too long since you’ve had him like this, every skim of his touch feels like a million fireworks tingling along your skin.

Diego presses you back against your bedroom wall, his hips trapping you there. He tilts your head and entices you into a kiss.

You can feel his need for you pulsing through his every movement. Diego’s hands are latched onto your hips, tugging you closer and closer, there’s no gap between you and closer fiendishly they tug still.

His teeth catch on your earlobe as he moves back down, pressing more lingering kisses against your throat. His teeth nip at your skin, a sign of his agitation with you. You swallow in anticipation. Diego smirks against your neck, and then he bites down.

You whine in protest but he shakes his head, “Take it quietly. I don’t want to hear a single sound from you. You wouldn’t want to upset your parents, would you?” He asks bitterly.

He eyes flicker dangerously and his hands slip down over your stomach and to your waistband. Your back arches into his touch and Diego laughs, “God, so desperate already. You melt as soon as I touch you.”

His hand dips below your waistband and trails tantalisingly over the lace of your underwear. Your breath catches slightly, “Diego…”

His eyes flicker up to yours, “Can you keep quiet or do you need my fingers to shut you up?” His voice is gritty, harsher than usual and you know you’ll need to make things up with him badly to get out of this.

You go to open your mouth and Diego huffs, “You really can't help yourself, can you?" Diego mutters, his tone laced with mockery. "Always got something to say, even when I told you to stay quiet."

His fingers press more firmly against the lace of your underwear, teasingly slow. You bite your lip, trying to obey his command, but the small gasp that escapes your throat betrays you.

Diego's jaw tightens, and he pulls back his hand. The absence of his touch leaves you aching, he grips your jaw, tilting your face to meet his stern gaze. His dark eyes narrow as he leans in, his lips hovering just over yours.

"Did I not make myself clear?" he growls, grip tightening with every word. "I said quiet."

You swallow hard, your heart pounding as his fingers trail back up to your lips.

"Open," he commands, and like muscle memory, you obey, your breath hitching as he slides two fingers into your mouth.

"There you go, atta girl," Diego murmurs, his voice dripping with both approval and desire. "Maybe this'll keep you from talking over me, hm?”

His other hand moves back to your waist, slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear once more. His touch is rough, demanding, and deliberate, a clear message that he's not letting you get away with ignoring him for so long.

He forces his fingers further down your throat and you whimper softly around them. Diego’s lips curl into a dark smirk as he leans closer, his breath hot against your ear.

"I want you to think about the way you’ve treated me. I want you to remember it every time I touch you, every time I make you fall apart like this. Maybe then you won't forget who I am to you."

His fingers move with more purpose now, he slips his other hand back into your waistband and moves his two hands in tandem, filling both of your holes. Your back arches, a muffled moan escaping around his fingers, and Diego's grin widens.

"That's it," he murmurs, his tone softening just slightly. "I've got you…” You feel drool begin to pool around his fingers.

He pulls them from your mouth, brushing your slick lips with his thumb before gripping your chin firmly. "Tell me who you belong to," he demands, his eyes boring into yours.

"You," you gasp, your voice trembling as you choke slightly, gaining back your breath. "I belong to you."

Diego's expression softens for a fraction of a second, “That’s right, baby.” He leans in, kissing you fiercely, forcing every ounce of his emotion that he can into the kiss.

"I’m gonna help you remember that." he murmurs against your lips, his hands roaming your body once more. He slips his hand out of your trousers and slides them down so that they pool around your ankles.

He flips you around so that your face is pressed up against the cool wall. His fingers linger on the white lace around your hips for a moments longer before he tugs them down too, “Shit…”

Diego groans, caressing a hand over the curve of your ass. He bites his lip and gives it a small tap before he leans in close, pressing his body against yours, “You don’t come until I say you can, remember?”

You nod dumbly, already arching backwards into him. He taps your waist and then he slips in with ease, you’re already slick with want and he lets out a guttural moan as he presses in.

He begins to pump in and out of you, slow, at first, gentle almost, but as soon as you grow used to the pace, his hips snap forward. You groan in protest, pressing your forehead against the wall.

“You can take it. You’re my big girl.” Diego says, pressing deeper and more forcefully still as he seeks his own release.

You whine, eyes fluttering shut as the pain begins to be replaced by a wave of pleasure. You feel that familiar coil twirling in your stomach, “Not yet.” Diego chides.

You groan, biting on your bottom lip, pressing your hands against the wall, anything to distract yourself from the brink of euphoria you feel that you’re on.

Diego’s low moans in your ear do nothing to help your situation. Strained utterances of ‘So good, baby’ and ‘My girl’ teasing you as he keeps pushing.

His pace becomes more brutal, his hips snapping against you as he chases his high, “That’s it, my baby, there you go… finally giving it to me the way I want it…”

His hips rock against you as he groans. His hand reaches up and presses your face against the wall as he seeks his release, “I’m gonna come, baby, shit…”

“Can I…?” You plead, speaking up for just a moment to seek your own release which you desperately need. The stretch of Diego inside of you after so long is too good and you’re barely hanging on by a thread.

“No. Hold it.” He says breathlessly, his breath catches and within seconds he’s filling you up with his release.

He grunts as he presses it back inside you, keeping you stuffed. You could scream, you’re so frustrated. He’s teasing you with his own orgasm, dangling the ecstasy that you so desperately crave right in front of you… and that’s when it hits you.

You won’t be coming tonight at all. He’s doing exactly what he said you’d been doing for weeks - tending to everyone else’s needs but his. He’s flipped it around on you to teach you a lesson.

He pulls out.

You let out a frustrated cry at the realisation and that only seems to spur Diego on further, “You figured it out, have you, baby? Poor thing.”

He smirks, “No, I’m not going to let you come just yet. I’m going to let you wait. A couple of weeks, maybe?” He taunts, slipping his shirt back on.

“Diego, you can’t be serious…” You protest, legs still trembling in anticipation as you attempt to sit up.

“Oh, I’m serious. We’ve got a family lunch to have.” He says, putting on his trousers and biting back the smirk he longs to let out at the devastated look on your face.

“But…” Your jaw drops as you scramble for a solution.

“Merry Christmas, baby.” He winks as he ducks out the door. Funny, you think to yourself, because after that performance no one will be coming down any chimneys for a while.

#fanfic #fanfiction #the umbrella academy #diego hargreeves #diego hargreeves x reader #request #anon

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swordsmans · 24 days ago

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yayayay thank you for the tag, @acewithapaintbrush !! this is so fun

words posted:

53,241 - not bad! a far cry from 2023's 200k+, but it was a rough year so im pleased i managed that much.

additional words written:

13,532 - zine pieces and a WIP, but this is only counting prose. if u know anything about my writing process... i fear this number is much larger but im not dredging that up

fandoms:

one piece, babbeeyyy

highest kudos + highest hit one shot:

highest kudos: the heart is just an organ, the "crew encounters a DF that temporarily suppresses zoan powers" fic

highest hits: step 2: survive anyway, the second half of the "zoro finds out about luffy's poison immunity and subsequent 10 year life loss" fic

new things i tried:

not new, per se, but i definitely went a bit "mask off" with my roots re: horror this year. step 2 and everything rots in the sun were my darkest fics in years i think.

fic i spent the most time on:

by purely 2024 standards, i think i worked on both step 2 and everything rots in the sun for about the same amount of time (~5 months each). if we're going by fic tho then definitely step 2. that took 8 months to write.

fic i spent the least time on:

the heart is just an organ lol. while i was technically kicking the idea around for 3-ish months, actual prose-to-posting time was 4 days.

favorite thing i wrote:

ohh tough question, because everything i wrote this year is a "favorite" for different reasons. i think i'll always be extremely proud of step 2 though (and both step 1/step 2 in general tbh), but everything rots was a feat unto itself.

its very interesting to look back on the two fics i bookended the year with, bc theyre both extremely dark but they have sort of... opposite theses. step 2 is about being unable to focus on the joy of something thats alive because you know it will die, and everything rots is about doing everything you can to cling to the possibility of joy even though you know in the end, itll mean death.

favorite things i read:

how dare you make me choose!! i read so many wonderful fics by so many incredible writers this year, but theundiagnosable's impiety duology is one of those stories i keep thinking about. its a very tangentially/loosely-canon luzo au thatll just flay you alive.

writing goals for 2025:

i actually dont have any real plans to write much in 2025 beyond maybe 2-3 small fics, so we'll see what the future holds. it might be a quiet year tho. (watch--ill say this and then post another 90k beast in july like i did in 2023 or smth. surprise us both)

new works:

ive gooottt some smut ive been batting around. finally. we'll see where that goes :3c

tagging:

i tag...!!! @the-furthest-city-light, @ghostlandtoo, @toxinspired, and @thychesters~!

#answers

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serenaoffaerun · 5 months ago

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Tenacity - Chapter 3 of the "Consequences" series

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.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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…

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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:

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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.)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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:

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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.

#gale dekarios #bg3 gale #gale of waterdeep #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #galemance #gale x tav #fanfic #writers on tumblr #communication #healing #writing letters - who knew?#tara gettin' SO much tuna #these kids are going to learn #angst and fluff #fluffity fluff fluff #i went a little feral #long word count #Not even a little bit sorry

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arkangelo-7 · 4 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.

#bruce wayne #dick grayson #dc comics #dc #batman #robin #alfred pennyworth #robin & batman by jeff lamire #robin & batman #jeff lamire

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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.

#at least Bella died the way she wanted to die #but ugh my heart #bellatrix lestrange #bellatrix black #bellatrix black lestrange #bellamort #lord voldemort #tom marvolo riddle #harry potter and the deathly hollows #deathly hallows

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theladyofshalott1989 · 4 months ago

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"In Which There's a Spooky Surprise": A Sebastian Sallow x MC 🎃 All Hallow's Eve One-Shot

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 ]

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.

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 ]

Happy Halloween!

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