#I MAKE A RETURN TO THE LAND OF THE LIVING

[sunlightmurdock]

hands to yourself | dilf bradley bradshaw x nanny!reader (18+)

surprised with an afternoon to himself, bradley takes advantage of the alone-time, thinking about the woman he can’t have.

warnings: shameless pwp, bradley is down bad for his nanny and hasn’t touched himself — or anyone — in a long ass time. masturbation, pining, swearing, fantasising about oral and such. voyeurism, kinda, he gets walked in on. I may write a part two for this but idk yet. I just needed to write a lil smth about him touching himself. Wc: 3k

this is the lingerie set I was thinking of but imagine whatever ya like x

…

Bradley drops his keys into the bowl by the door, they land with a stark rattle. The faint tan-line between his brows disappears into the crease that caused it as he frowns. He looks towards the stairs, and then wanders in the living room. His boots tap softly against the floor.

“Kids?” He calls out into the unfamiliar quiet.

Nothing. His eyes widen in slight panic, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair as he looks around him. The floor is spotless — their toys are stored neatly in their bins, there aren’t any new stains on his rug, and there aren’t any cartoons on his television.

The sound of his boots on the ground are unnerving; he can’t bring himself to admit that he misses the sounds of chaos he usually returns to. He wanders through the house, making a beeline for the backyard. Sunny day like this, he figures that’s where he’ll find them.

Nothing. The yard is completely empty beside the laundry hanging out to dry. His mouth feels dry.

Once the mid-day mind fog dissipates, Bradley’s panic starts to, too. That birthday party. You’d mentioned it twice this week already, and once this morning. He’s just forgetful at the minute — — you know how crazy work has been for him.

He pauses, standing in his unusually clean living room, and purses his lips. His hands come to rest on his hips while he looks around him. He isn’t used to this.

Usually, within seconds of him walking through the door, he’s got a kid attached to his leg or a fight to break up or a permission slip to sign.

There’s nothing that he needs to do.

Nothing urgent.

Nobody else home.

Lifting his wrist, he takes a quick glance down at his watch and considers what to do with his sudden freedom. Birthday parties take a couple of hours, right?

He takes one final look around him, his eyes catching on the laundry drying outside. Clipped to the line is a power-blue balconette bra. He’s seen it before. The day he accidentally walked in on you.

Since you moved in four months ago, Bradley has been especially careful about knocking first. He wishes he could say it’s because he’s a gentleman. Really, it’s just because it made it hard enough for him to keep his hands to himself the first time.

There had been a heatwave that week. You had the afternoon off but Bradley hadn’t been able to find the sunscreen, and his kids are damn near impossible to keep out of the sunlight. With them arguing downstairs and trying to figure out the lock to let themselves out, he just wasn’t thinking and he hadn’t knocked.

“Hey, do you know where you put the—“ He’d stopped, frozen, taking in the sight of you sprawled across your bed. His bed. The bed he gave to you when you got the job of living here. A red popsicle between your lips and a book propped open in front of you, wearing nothing but a powder-blue set.

“Oh—“ Your eyes had gone all wide and surprised, too shocked to move, just like him.

The only thing that reminded him that he even had the option to move was the sound of his son running up the stairs to hurry this process along. He had slammed the door shut, blushing furiously, and turned to face his eldest.

“Found it, dad! It was in my backpack.” Grinning, he had held up the bottle of sunscreen and Bradley had just been forced to continue with his afternoon like he hadn’t seen anything at all.

When he finally peels his eyes away from the line of drying clothes outside, his gaze lands on the basket of dried and folded laundry sitting on his kitchen counter ready to be put away. Sitting right on top, is a glossy looking pair of blue panties that match the bra on the line.

Bradley’s already been kicking himself for his behavior since you got here. It’s downright shameful, the things he lets himself think about you. You’re half his age, first off. Second -- he’s your boss. You live in his house. His kids think you’re their best friend.

They think you’re just here because you love hanging out with them so much, not because their mommy and daddy couldn’t get along for the life of them and daddy works too much.

His mouth waters. Staring at some blue lace in a laundry hamper and his mouth’s practically watering. He’s pathetic. His guy friends keep telling him he needs to get back in the game, start moving on — he hadn’t been so sure. But then, he’s never almost popped a hard-on over a thong in a pile before.

He can picture you so perfectly in them. Your round ass barely covered by the material, legs kicked up behind you and your ankles crossed. When he closes his eyes, he can picture you facing the other way. Your face toward the headboard, your ass right in front of him.

His slacks grow tighter as his neglected cock stirs to life. It occurs to him that he can’t remember the last time he jerked off. Maybe sometime before his middle kid got the flu? — Around a month ago, maybe. His nights since then had been primarily spent clearing up puke.

The sad part is, the thought only tends to occur to him when he’s at work. Home is always far too hectic. For a while now, he’s been stuck working late into the night with a boner while he’s flicking through candidate paperwork and flight logs.

Well, he’s thinking about it now, and he’s got the place all to himself. No locking himself in the bathroom and letting the shower run, trying to think of anything but the growing list of chores he has to do to keep this house functioning.

He swallows thickly.

He’ll tell the guys that they’re right. He needs to get back into the game; get his head on right, stop pining over his nanny. Tomorrow. For now, he lifts his hand and takes the underwear, smoothing the sheer mesh between his index and thumb. Closing his eyes, he hopes that you won’t notice they’re gone before he can return them.

He twists the cap off of an ice cold beer, leaves his boots neatly by the door and walks calmly upstairs. From there, he clicks his bedroom door shut and steadily takes himself out of his uniform, dropping it into his laundry hamper.

Finally, he settles down against his headboard with his phone in his hand and your panties in his lap.

Porn will make this better. It’s less weird if he’s not necessarily picturing your face. It’s not — but he might have a better chance at looking you in the eye later if he tells himself that.

Not that any of this feels exactly regular.

He inhales and shifts, and scrolls. Birds are still tweeting outside, singing early afternoon songs. His teeth nip at the inside of his cheek as he scrolls aimlessly until he finds a thumbnail that looks halfway doable.

All alone, the house feels especially quiet when the first moan spills from the speakers. He flinches at the sound and scrambles for the volume button, then hesitates. He doesn’t have to be quiet. He doesn’t even have to be ashamed. Shit, it’s a little late for that.

His brows knit together a bit, cocking his head as he examines the babbling girl on the phone screen. His hand stirs to life from where it had gone limp on his thigh, finding his cock through the grey fabric of his boxers. With one last cautious glance to his closed bedroom door, the silence beyond it confirms to him that he’s okay.

Wetting his lips with his tongue, he strokes himself over the material. The video isn’t particularly interesting, not when Bradley’s head can fill itself with far more interesting material at whim. His mind starts to wander back to that dream he’d had of you in the nurses outfit— that one had hit him hard, literally. He could barely look in your direction without getting hard for two days.

Soon enough, he’s hard and straining against the briefs. But that’s thinking about you, and that’s not allowed. He shifts restlessly and goes back to scrolling, palming himself absently. Finally, he comes across a video that sparks something. The thumbnail is of a girl with swollen lips and a cock in her mouth. It’ll do.

There we go. He huffs, that red-hot desperate feeling spreading down his neck and covering his shoulders. Making like it’s going to swallow him whole. Bradley lifts his hips to shuck down his boxers, tucking the waistband under his balls, still prepared for a hasty recovery at the sound of the garage door opening or something. He glances down at himself, remembering the days his thighs were narrower and more taut and he wasn’t noticing grey in his pubes.

If he wanted this done quick and fast, he’d spit hard into the centre of his palm and get to work. It’s been a long time since it hasn’t had to be quick. He thinks he has— he turns a bit and pulls open the drawer of his bedside table, rummaging blindly at the back until he comes up with what he’s looking for — lube. It’s practically full, not like he has been using it much.

A drop in the middle of his hand is enough, he figures. Turning his attention back to this new video, he settles, cupping the weight of his shaft in the palm of his hand. He gives it one slow pump, following the length, coating himself a bit. Real slow, his eyes study the screen, working the lubricant against his skin.

The actress bobs her mouth around the on-screen cock enthusiastically, moaning around him, raking her fingertips along his thighs. He locks his fist around himself, warm and tight, wet. It’s not a mouth but it’s the closest he has felt in a long time. If he closes his eyes, it could be your mouth.

You’d take him slowly, at first, ease him into it with that taunting nature you’ve let him glimpse at. He wouldn’t close his eyes; wouldn’t take ‘em off you. His hand steadies into a lazy rhythm, picturing the way you’d look up at him through your lashes.

The way you’d suck, and flick your tongue across his swollen tip. He shivers as he swipes his thumb through the precum beading there, stroking it all the way back down, stuck on imagining what it would feel like with your saliva joining the mix.

A pleased, feminine hum of approval comes from his phone and Bradley’s body responds just as eagerly, his hips twitching into the thrust of his palm. Sweat beads at his forehead as he slows to the point of almost stopping, dragging this out — making a point of exploiting his time alone.

He blinks hazily and finds a glimpse of blue, remembering suddenly the souvenir he had taken. The pitiful scrap of fabric he’s so wound up over sits against his thigh, looking suddenly small in comparison to his cock. He lets himself go and grabs hold of the fabric firmly, balling it tightly in his fist.

The soft lace bristles at his palm. Freshly laundered, they don’t smell of anything but detergent. It plays to the weaker side of him, gnawing at him, leaving him desperate to have something beyond what’s in his head. To know your smell, your tastes, your sounds. He shudders as he wraps a hand snugly around himself once more, this time, with an added layer of lace and soft mesh.

His head falls backwards, mouth hanging. Like this, it’s even easier to pretend. The image of you straddling his thighs, rocking your pussy against him while wearing nothing but these has him finally relaxed. Zen, even. A groan dies in his through, coming out more as a deep and baited sigh. He lift his hips, fucking into his fabric tangled fist.

Sometime between picking up your panties and now, the video has moved on without him, the blowjob forgotten. If he was to open his eyes, he would find that she’s on her back, being fucked into a mattress. He doesn’t need to. Stars burst behind his eyelids as he steadies up to the rhythm of her moans, skin hitting skin.

You’ve been living here four months now and you haven’t stayed out once. He wonders if you’re as wound up as he is. If you’ve thought about him the way he thinks of you. How downright desperate you’d sound moaning against his pillows while he finally gets to feel you. His left hand jumps, grabbing a firm fistful of the sheets beside him.

The shame he feels has been checked at the door, he lets himself think that you might have looked at him, that you might want him. He chases the feeling, his chest heaving with heavy breaths. Pumping the blue mesh around his cock, imagining you rocking yourself on him. Something gentler, more spry. It feels good. You’d feel good.

His imagination is better than he gave himself credit for.

His wrist twitches and he slows, feeling his thighs tighten as his heels press into his mattress for leverage. He chokes out a sound that he won’t admit is closer to a whimper than anything else, panting hard as he lets the rush ebb a bit. Pursing his lips, he draws out a slow exhale.

His mouth hangs open, eyes dipping to watch himself loosen up with the material, finding himself with just his bare palm once again. He takes the blue fabric in his left, opening it up and examining the dampened marks of his precum and the lube.

Just like that, he’s back in the guest room — your room — and you’re wearing that blue set. It’s dampened like this, but not because he has made a mess of it, not yet. Because you have. You’re soaking through it, looking up at him with that awe-struck look on your face. Your mouth open wide but this time there’s no red popsicle.

“Fuck.”

“Shit.” You whisper, catching the diaper bag that had almost fallen from your shoulder as you cradle the sleeping infant against your chest. Quiet as a mouse, you click open the front door and toe off your shoes.

She’s dead-weight in your arms, probably drooling on your shoulder. Her two older siblings will be causing all kinds of mischief and consuming sugar in all of its forms at their cousin’s birthday party for the next three hours. Given that the party lines up almost exactly with the fifteen-month-old’s nap routine, you figured you would take her home to rest so that you could get around to putting away that laundry you had started.

You’ve got a thousand things on your mind. A million things to do before Bradley gets home that evening. Truthfully, you’re a thousand miles away as you stroll upstairs and walk to the far end of the hall to the nursery. You lay her down and adjust the baby monitor, setting up her white noise machine routinely.

Her bedroom door clicks shut behind you and you take a moment to consider your priorities. Laundry takes precedence, even though you want so desperately to crawl into bed and sleep for an hour. You huff, groaning to yourself as you walk back downstairs to find the basket you had abandoned.

As you round the stairs and walk through the hallway, a choked sound spills from under the wood of Bradley’s door, something deep and breathless. Already halfway to the kitchen, you don’t hear a thing.

The video stopped a while ago but Bradley had stopped watching it even earlier. His head is thrown back and his lips are parted, his features creased in concentration as he chases his high. He thrusts into his fist, white-knuckling your panties with his free hand, his heart thundering in his chest. “God, fuck.”

He doesn’t have a clue that he isn’t alone anymore. He didn’t hear the minivan, he didn’t hear the front door. He doesn’t hear you rush back up the stairs with the hamper hiked against your hip.

He walked in on you. He stopped, and he stared. You were interrupted, so you can’t blame him for slamming the door shut. He’d missed, or ignored the signals since. The looks, the touches, staying up with him until your eyelids are so heavy that they’re barely open because he’s kind of an insomniac. Nothing. You’ve been beyond curious, desperate to know if he has been blowing you off on purpose or if he’s just clueless.

Clueless yourself, armed to put away freshly folded t-shirts, you grab the door handle and push it open. He works late, always. He’s rarely home before bedtime on work days. He told you this morning that he’d try not to wake you when he came in. And yet — there he is.

You get a glimpse of him before he registers the click of the door, before he spots you. Brows furrowed, eyes screwed shut, his curls dampened and hugging his forehead. Sunlight catches on the beads of sweat as they trail his glistening middle, spilling across his strong, softened middle. Broad shoulders flexed, the veins in his right arm straining through the skin, fucking his palm.

He reacts quickly, but there’s little that can be done. His eyes spring open and his hand releases himself, his body flushing a deeper shade of red at once. Thighs spread, he doesn’t have much time to cover himself before the door whips shut again.

You press your back to the door, staring at the ceiling. On either sides of it, you each have a moment of silent consideration.

“… are you okay?” He asks weakly.

He gets a soft squeak of acknowledgement as an answer and starts to wonder how you’ll ever be able to talk to him again. God, he hopes you don’t quit. The kids love you, and you’re incredible, you make his life liveable. His mind races, trying to come up with some kind of way to fix what you just saw. Everyone masturbates, it’s normal, it’s healthy—

“Was— Was that my underwear?”

Shit, Bradley thinks, he’s done for. There’s no coming back from this. You’re going to tell every nanny in the state that he’s a creep and work is going to eat him alive while he tries to juggle three kids alone. He curses breathlessly, fixing his underwear to cover himself and pushing himself out of bed.

He’s stuck for a second, considering if it would be better to give you time or to go after you. His eyes widen as the door clicks again, and pushes slowly open.

Your eyes rake over him, standing tall at the foot of his bed in nothing but his boxer-briefs. Still, regrettably, balled into his left hand, is your underwear. Powder-blue. He follows your gaze and looks down at the fabric, cursing his own stupidity, wondering if it’s too late to drop them.

You wet your lips with your tongue as your gaze flickers across. He closes his eyes and wills it to go away — he had just been so close, so caught up in it. It’s still rock hard, straining against the grey fabric, dampened at the tip with a spot of precum.

All of those signals and efforts come to a head. After four months of pining, you can’t just wander downstairs like this never happened. Laundry can wait. “You want a hand?”

…

tags: @royal-sunflower @redbarn1995 @atarmychick007 @jessicab1991 @seitmai @bellaireland1981 @roosterbruiser @tenderly-hopeful-collection @bradshawsbaddie @tgmavericklover @cevansbaby-dove @lyn-js @mynameismckenziemae @perpetuelledaydreaming @diorrfairy @sparklehippie17 @heatherbabees @prettiewittie @forgiveliv @oleksiak-pettersson @illegalxhood @fantasticpeacestarfish @rockstxr-x @d0main-expansion @diorsmores @mydarlingrose @sticksticklettuxe @alrightyyaphrodite @bowchickawowowww @aquafairy777 @eternallyvenus @maxwell-era @devil-angel-winchester @roosterishot @rosiahills22 @literally-iconic @brinaaa10 @foggyturtleknightangel @a-serene-place-to-be @aragorn-02 @sunflowercharlie13

If your name is here but isn’t tagged, it may be your settings that won’t allow me to tag you fully!

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut #rooster bradshaw imagine #rooster x you #dilf Bradley #bradley x the nanny #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster Bradshaw smut #bradley rooster bradshaw fic #top gun: maverick smut

[blindmagdalena]

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter four )

18+ 5.2k homelander x plus size f!reader. office romance, stalking, voyeurism, office sex, cunnilingus, cream pie, breast play, flight sex, lite overstim, riding. nebulously takes place post s1. part 4/4. AO3 link. CH I CH 2 CH 3

Homelander takes what's his, and you get what's yours.

welcome to the final chapter! thanks so much for reading. i really enjoyed the dynamic between these two, and i hope you do, too. 🖤

Homelander doesn’t hold it against you that you take him up on his suggestion to be absent the following day. He leaves a little peace offering in your office to say as much: a mug for your collection that reads simply, You’ve Been Mugged. He adjusts it seven times on your desk before he finally leaves it alone, surveying your office a while before letting himself out.

The thugs he lasered down in the alley don’t garner much attention, but it’s enough to warrant a statement on the truth of what happened. With them dead, the truth becomes whatever he makes of it, and his truth is that two vagabonds were assaulting a cherished Vought employee before he put a stop to it.

It’s precisely the kind of hero story the public loves.

“I acted on instinct,” he tells the newscaster. He relives the moment as he tells it, recalls only to himself how fierce you had been. How determined you were that if you were going to die, you would die fighting. “They were going to hurt her. I like to believe any good citizen in my position would have done the same.”

Madelyn taught him that conviction without contrition would always read as arrogance, so he speaks firmly but with a furrow to his brow, and he closes his eyes when he inclines his head to accept praise. No matter how dead she is, her voice remains an echo in his mind: follow the script, and you’ll be fine.

They use his words to segue into a discussion of gun control, and Homelander’s mind drifts somewhere distant, hearing without listening to the petty squabbles of humans crying about their little toys and laws. He supposes this is how God feels when humans pray to Him over every minor inconvenience. Bored and painfully above it.

While it’s easy enough to keep himself distracted during business hours, Homelander’s life comes to an abrupt halt alongside the end of the working day. Like the equipment that broadcasts him, there’s little use for him once the cast and crew goes home. All around him the employees commiserate at the end of their work day and pass around invitations to the bar. 

He receives none. 

Not that he would accept them if he did.

Seeking both council and companionship, Homelander finds himself in Noir’s apartment, seated in the chair Noir keeps for him. It’s the only one the hero owns, what with his interior design being deeply steeped in westernized ninja nonsense. The place is half dojo, half living quarters.

He laments his situation to Noir, explaining his patience in courting you, the lengths he’s gone to endear himself to you on a personal level, and the bitter sting of your rejection.

“See her,” Noir writes in his sketchpad, sitting on the floor on the other side of the low table. “If glad to see her, good. If not–”

Homelander snorts at the series of knife sketches that follow. He has no doubt Noir would put an end to anyone for any reason Homelander gave. Simplicity has allowed Noir an unwavering loyalty to Vought, and as an extension, Homelander himself. Luckily for you, he has no interest in that happening. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Noir,” he muses, clapping his hands on his thighs before he stands up. “You’re right. I’ll go see her. Thanks, buddy.”

Noir offers two thumbs up. A true uproar of approval.

Under the cover of darkness, Homelander returns to your house, the flight path a familiar one now. He lands silently on your roof this time, cocking his head. He’s not confident he’ll be able to resist your siren pull if he approaches now. He folds his hands behind his back and peers through each layer between him and your bedroom, stopping when he can see you.

You’re nestled deep in the splay of your blankets, lips parted around shallow breaths. He bites his own bottom lip, remembering how badly he’d wanted to feel them. Taste them. He’s certain now that if he allowed himself to be close enough, he would. Denial, for as much as it stung in that moment, has only made him hungrier for you. Fuck, the way he’s craved you from the moment you first brushed him aside.

He watches you shift in your sleep and his eyes narrow, honing in on a familiar flash. His stomach flips–it’s his cape, the fabric pinned between your blanket and your body. You really are sleeping with it, the star spangled blue fabric tucked up under your chin. Do you smell him on it? Homelander groans softly. Like your underwear in his bedside drawer, you sleep with a trophy of your own.

“Fuck,” he says, aching. His heart, his mind, his cock–all of it at once a cacophony of vicious yearning and impatience. The urge to peel the roof like a sardine can and carve his way straight to you nearly knocks the wind out of him, has him preemptively reaching for the shingled surface.

Only the lingering wound to his ego gives him pause. He’s been bitten once, leaving him shy to instigate, but this revelation feels like progress. You’re aching for him as much as he is for you. He’s sure of that now. It’s time that he made you feel that ache. Feel his absence. Then you’ll realize the foolishness of your coy game.

Clenching his jaw defiantly, Homelander lifts up into the sky.

He’ll be benevolent when you come to your senses.

The next day, Homelander keeps himself scarce, preoccupied. Ashley is perkier than usual, thrilled–if not suspicious–with his easy participation in whatever inane business she brings to him. It helps distract him from the endless feeling of waiting that he’s enduring.

He sticks stubbornly to his schedule, fantasizing about the torment his avoidance has surely wrought. He’s tempted a time or two to break, but each time he remembers the mortified Oh! you uttered before he kissed you, he refocuses himself.

You’ll come.

Not before lunch, but that is the perfect opportunity for it. He makes himself more available then, tapping his fingers against the armrest of his chair. 

No sign of you.

He gives you the benefit of the doubt. A meal to embolden you.

Then you’ll come.

He waits.

Lunch long since over.

He waits.

The day is winding down.

He’s fucking tired of waiting.

Where the hell are you? He’s given you the entirety of the day to seek him out, ample opportunity to come thank him for his gift, to address the aching thing ruminating between you. You’d be a fucking liar to say you don’t feel it, too. By midday, he’s seething with impatience and hurt. There’s no chance he’s going to let you stand him up.

It’s precisely the wrong time for Ashley to rear her head back up. “Okay! That’s that, now regarding the amnesty for–”

“Ashley!” He snaps, a harsh and throaty sound. “Would you shut the fuck up?”

She stops in her tracks, staring wide-eyed. Of course it was too good to be true.

Homelander all but leaps to his feet, pushing out of his chair so hard that it flips backwards and into the wall in a heavy clatter. She clutches her vPad to her chest and quickly back steps out of his way, watching in frightened bewilderment as he storms from the room, making a beeline towards your office.

He doesn’t bother knocking this time. Still, his restraint is undeniable when he pushes your door open. He barely catches himself from pushing the damn thing clean off the hinges.

Your head snaps up from your computer, eyes wide. He hears your heart jump and he savors the alarm that shoots through you. Payback for the awful misery you forced him to endure in the hours since he last saw you. Still, the sight of you disarms him. For all his seething anger, there is something small in him that retreats it when your eyes are on him.

There’s a heaviness to your gaze that his strength can do nothing to alleviate. No incredible feat of his can wrench away what it is he wants from you. What he needs. It’s something you have to give him willingly, and that alone is enough to temper his rage. The familiar fear that you won’t.

He marches to the front of your desk and levels an accusatory finger on you.

“You like me,” he hisses, bending to brace his opposite hand on your desk.

You blink owlishly, lips parted. That clearly wasn’t what you expected him to say. He’s not sure it’s what he meant to say. “Homelander–”

“No,” he says, voice pitched low, a warning. “No, no. No games, no workarounds. You like me. You do. And I like you. So,” he abandons his point to make a vague encompassing gesture, but he doesn’t know what to say next. He didn’t think this far ahead. All day he had practiced the calm benevolence he would show when you approached him, chastised and yearning. He has nothing to back up this frenzied play for.

You stand. Homelander rises to his full height with you, jutting his chin out. He watches you with all the wariness of a wounded predator as you circle around your desk, your hand gliding along the wood like you would flank a horse so as not to spook it.

He can’t determine the intent behind your gaze. He angles his body towards you, facing you head on. You look like yourself again, in your element and free from the fawn fear of the alley. He can’t entirely decide which way he prefers you. When you were in his arms, he was your hero. In your office, his position feels more precarious.

The silence stretches on for hours–or seconds, it’s impossible to say–before he can no longer stand it. Sucking in a breath, he–

You kiss him.

Homelander goes shock still, hyper aware of your lips pressed feather light to his, your breasts against his chest, your hand on his forearm. He doesn’t know when he closed his eyes, but he senses when you begin to pull away. 

In a flash he cups your face in his hands and pulls you in deep, inhaling sharply, like  he’s only just remembered how to breathe. He kisses you, kisses you, kisses you as if he can trap you in the cycle of it. You don’t resist, you don’t tense. Instead, you sigh an angel’s breath against his lips. Only then does he break to look at you.

“I don’t understand,” he says, bewildered, flushed.

“I do like you,” you say, eyes glassy.

His brows pinch. “But… That night–”

“Wasn’t right,” you interrupt. “I wanted to kiss you, but not like that. Not then. Not because you saved me, not because I was in shock, not because of…” you rock your head side to side. “Whatever other bullshit… You let me down that night.”

“Let you down?” Homelander echoes, taken aback. “By saving your life?” He asks, his temper a perpetual simmer ready to flare. He’s immediately tempered by your hands taking his wrists, squeezing. You hold his gaze and your expression is gentle, but there is a firmness in your stare that he finds intoxicating. Not an ounce of fear, even when his anger emerges.

Good. You shouldn’t be afraid of him. He saved you.

“I was shaken. Badly. My date was an entitled asshole, those men, they tried to…” You shake your head, holding his hands to your face. “I didn’t need you to be a man. I needed you to be a hero. I wasn’t ready.”

A light in Homelander’s eyes flicks on. You just weren’t ready. He’d been right after all. He fixates on that, choosing to forgive you for that, at least.

“Well, why didn’t… You could have said something,” he says, feeling like a deflated hot air balloon, all slack expansion and heat with no purpose.

“I would have,” you say, your cheeks soft and round in his hands, lips slightly puckered from his hold on your face. “But you ran away.”

“What? I–” He laughs incredulously. “I did not run away.”

“Flew away,” you say, pushing in to kiss him again. He screws his eyes shut. Fuck, fuck. Oh fuck. He’s been dreaming of this, aching for it. To feel you against him, wanting him as much as he wants you. “Pretty fast, too. Looked like you shot straight up to the moon,” you say, breath hot and sweet on his lips.

“I…” He swallows, hands slipping down to either side of your neck, thumbs tilting your chin up. “I’m sorry. I wanted you,” he says, trailing his parted lips along your jaw, kissing and breathing you in the way he’s craved to. He can feel your skin growing hot against his lips, hear the uptick of your pulse as your heart begins to race.

“Do you still want me?” You ask, voice lower now. It sends a delicious hot pang all the way through him.

“You have no fucking idea,” he murmurs, nipping at the lobe of your ear, desperate to test the give of you under his teeth, the feel of your soft and yielding flesh branded into his memory the moment his lips touched your skin.

A knock snaps his attention away from you, but it isn’t at the door. He looks down and sees that it’s you knocking on your desk. “So take me,” you say, voice laced with heat. His lips split into a wicked grin. He snatches the edge of your heavy wooden desk and effortlessly tips it backwards until everything slides off of it, clattering to the floor. He lifts you up, relishing your delighted little yelp, and places you down on the cleared surface like a doll, stepping in between your legs. 

He kisses you again. Let me in, demands the press of his tongue. You yield to him, but it’s far from a surrender. Your tongue meets his eagerly, tasting him as much as he does you. Tasting you. That’s what he wants. He wants to map every inch of you with his tongue.

Homelander slips his hand between your legs, pushing your skirt up out of the way. He presses his fingers to the heat between your thighs, rubbing through the thin fabric of your panties. You sigh that same seraphic sound against his lips, slipping your hands up into his hair, already taking a handful of it to tug gently.

He breaks the kiss and takes his fingers from you after the barest tease of pleasure. The impatient sound you make goes straight to his cock, as does your flustered expression. He brings his fingers to his lips and drags his tongue over the leather of them, sliding them past his lips to give a quick suck. It’s not enough, too slight a hint of you. He needs more. You watch him with rapt attention, giving his hair a demanding little tug.

“You can pull as hard as you like,” he tells you with a smile, tilting his head against the grasp you have on his hair. “Tells me I’m doing a good job.”

“I’ll tell you when you’re doing a good job,” you rasp, giving his hair a sharp pull and then a downward push. That sends a shiver down his spine.

Fuck yes.

Homelander sinks down onto his knees, lifting each of your legs up over his shoulders. You give a little gasp when he yanks your ass to the edge of the desk, giddy with the way he manhandles you. He swallows, mouth dry, thirsty for the wet, heady smell of your pussy. He maneuvers his head under your skirt until he’s close enough to drag his tongue up the soft cotton of your panties. Your breath hitches and your grip in his hair tightens while you egg him on with sharp little rolls of your hips.

He closes his eyes, giving a rumbling moan for the taste of you, even through the fabric. He laps until the fabric is soaked, clinging to your skin, and he can feel your clit swollen and stiff on his tongue through your panties. He closes his mouth over it, sucking you through your underwear while you writhe above him, keeping yourself quiet.

That won’t do.

He wants to hear you.

He wants the whole fucking Tower to hear you.

Hooking the crotch of your panties with his finger, it only takes one sharp little tug to tear them, exposing you to him.

“Homelander,” you moan. The sound of it lances a spear of heat through him, leaves his cock throbbing needily in the rigid confines of his cup. He groans into you, rocking his hips against the empty air. The only proper answer is to dive in, to close his lips around your clit and finally suck the rich nectar of your cunt without the filter of fabric between you. You taste even better than you smell, like salt and sex and sweet ripe fruit. It overwhelms his senses immediately, his eyelids flickering. 

The more he laps at you, the silkier your pussy becomes. Between circling your clit, he drives his tongue deep into you, drinking you down noisily and messily, a parched man gulping from an oasis. Your thick thighs are tight on either side of his head, your pulse pounding in his ears. He moans low and wicked for the taste and feel of you.

Your grip on his hair tightens sporadically, sharp little tugs that match the staccato cadence of your breaths. “F-fuck, your tongue feels-feels fucking unreal,” you moan, grinding down against it. The strength of it, the slight thrum of restrained power that courses through him, and the sheer relentlessness of his stamina is driving you wild against his mouth. “Fingers, use your fingers,” you tell him. He loves the rawness of your voice, the authority and desperation in your demand.

Removing one of his gloves, he moves his bare hand to the sweltering wetness of you, teasing his finger just below where his tongue is rubbing your clit. His index finger slips easily into the slick mess, and he savors the quiver of your velvet walls around it. He lets you ride his finger, stays all but still while you greedily bounce your hips, both hands fisted in his hair. You use him for your pleasure, and it makes him delirious with want.

Homelander's gaze flickers up. He peers through the layer of your skirt to catch a look at you, to watch you while you cannot watch him. You’re losing track of yourself, lips parted, eyes glazed with pleasure, shivering with each flick of his tongue and dive of his finger. Euphoria looks good on you. 

Christ, he has been patient. He would chastise himself for waiting so long to touch you, to taste you, to feel you, but he can’t bring himself to. The wait gifted him with this exquisite hunger, and he proved something important; you both yearn for the other. You crave him. He can see it in your hazy eyes, taste it in the spill of your sweet cunt.

You belong to him. He needs only to take you.

One finger becomes two, and then three. Your heels dig into his shoulders and fuck yourself down on them, moaning recklessly now, not caring who hears you. It’s music to his ears.

“Fuck, Homelander, I-I’m coming, I’m-don’t stop, don’t stop,” you beg prettily. You don’t need to, but he enjoys the song anyway. He laps at your clit in quick upward pulls of his tongue, lips creating a seal around it. His brows furrow tightly, his own neglected arousal pounding through his body like a wardrum, but he doesn’t touch himself, too focused on you.

Your whole body locks up tight when you come, breath caught in your lungs, your clit fluttering delicately. He presses his tongue to it, savoring the taste of your euphoria, how it floods your system and changes the flavor of you. Your pleasure grows his hunger into something monstrous, something demanding, but there is satiation at least in bringing you this, in showing you all the things he will be for you.

You’ll never want for anyone–or anything– else ever again.

Homelander doesn’t stop. You begged him not to. He finger-fucks you through the aftershocks, lapping up every drop of your pleasure, stroking you inside and out while your cunt squeezes his fingers. He doesn’t stop until he feels you pushing him away, your sweet songbird moans sounding more like whimpers, oversensitized. He withdraws his fingers, giving one last noisy slurp before emerging from beneath your skirt. His face is shiny and wet with your slick, his pupils blown black. He's panting, looking every bit like a beast lifting its bloodied head from the belly of its kill.

Crawling up your body, still predator hungry, he rests his knee on the desk between your legs. He cups either side of your face, fingertips digging possessively into the back of your neck. He meets your eyes, pinning you with the intensity of his gaze, wordlessly drilling into your mind that this moment, this feeling, this tingling warmth in your body is him.

I did this to you, his expression reads. You’re on my lips, he says by pressing them to yours, kissing your own taste into your mouth, his body throbbing, desperate for an ounce of that same relief. You’re mine.

To his amazement, your eyes mirror his own savage hunger. You kiss him hard, shamelessly licking into his mouth, huffing shallow breaths from your nose. “Lie down,” you tell him, voice as sweet and coarse as raw sugar. “I’m going to ride you.”

Homelander doesn’t need to be told twice. Exhilarated, he rolls over, flipping you with him and steadying you above him in a fluid motion. The desk isn’t as long as he is tall, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already half suspended in the air with his own excitement, helping you with overly eager hands that fumble alongside yours with his belt, which falls to the ground with a distinct thud. He gives a little jump at the voracity you rip his zipper down with, grinning.

Together, you shuck his pants down to his thighs. You grip him through his red briefs, a fractured moan falling from his lips.

“Cute underwear,” you coo. His cheeks flush to almost the same shade. You flatten your palm over his cock and he bites back a whimper, teeth sinking into his tongue. You give a light squeeze, fingers curling around his cock through the fabric, and he lets out a rough breath. “You feel close,” you tell him, stroking him in a loose fist, your hand warm, the fabric soft.

He nods fervently, the friction and your voice already teetering him towards the edge. He makes a sound of both anguish and relief when you release him, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. You tug his underwear down, his cock bouncing free, engorged and dripping precome.

“Don’t move,” you tell him, bracing one hand on his chest and sliding forward, your other hand moving between your bodies to steady his cock against the rapturously hot press of your soaked cunt. His hands fly to your hips, fingertips biting into the softness of your body. You allow him that, focused entirely on the act of taking him into you. The fat head of his cock it slips inside, evoking a sweet little gasp from you, and Homelander fights not to slam in the rest of the way.

Both of your hands fall to his chest, your eyes meeting his. He holds your gaze, mouth twitching around silent sharp breaths. He watches you sink slowly down the length of him, engulfing him in such sublime rapture it’s a wonder he doesn’t come right then and there for the feel of you alone. His grip on your hips flexes and he gives a sharp little thrust up, forgetting himself to the divine feel of your pussy.

“I said don’t move,” you remind him breathlessly. God, you’re beautiful like this. The fluorescent light behind your head haloes you, giving you the look of a debauched angel he plucked from the heavens to have and keep as his own. He expects you to move, to bounce yourself on his cock like you did his mouth and his fingers. He wants to watch your tits bounce, see your face clearly when you come on his cock, but the only part of you that moves is your hand.

His gaze drops and quickly darkens, watching intently as you stroke your clit. The initial contact alone makes you jerk, makes your pussy spasm and squeeze him so good he almost chokes on it. Your only response is to sigh, tipping your head back and spreading your legs a little wider, taking him deeper. He wants so badly to fuck you, to slam you down and rail you until your desk cracks in half.

“Mmmm, fuck,” you moan, rubbing yourself in circles, the lewd noise of it loud and irresistible to his ears. “Fuck, fuck–ah, god,” you start to pant, head falling forward, brows tightly pinched. You’re so sensitive after the assault of his mouth, the flavor of you still fresh on his tongue. The faster your fingers move, the closer he feels you get, the clench around his cock steadily tightening. He wants to thrash, but you keep him pinned in place with your look of expectation and pleasure. You’re getting off on him as much as you are your own fingers, on the swell and throb of his cock inside you, on the sheer power you hold over a god.

You’re loud when you come, nails clawing into the chest of his suit. Homelander’s eyes roll back, lips parted on a soundless cry of his own. The spasming heat of your release is too much and he loses himself to it, eyes flaring up with crimson light as he comes with you, every shudder of your climax stroking and milking him of his own, flooding you with his own wet mess.

His restraint breaks with the dam and he sits up abruptly, startling a noise from you, which he swallows with a hard kiss, cupping the back of your head. He holds you still and he fucks you, lifting from the desk entirely so that he alone supports your weight, driving you deeper onto his cock. Your legs tighten on either side of him, shaking. 

Out of his mind with pleasure, he tears your blouse open with his teeth, diving in close to lick, suck and bite at your chest. He buries his face between your breasts, holding you tightly as he fucks you both through your respective orgasms, the slap of flesh against flesh echoing obscenely in your office. 

Hitching your legs properly around his waist, he bounces you on his cock until the pleasure borders on pain and a secondary shock rolls through him like another orgasm, stealing his breath. Only then does he finally slow, mouthing languidly at your chest until he sucks your nipple into his mouth. He moans against you, grinding to an eventual halt. You comb your fingers through his hair and goosebumps erupt across his body, which shivers in the euphoric aftermath.

He loses track of how long he stays suspended like that, lost to the overwhelm of sensation. Your legs go slack while his angles slightly upward, his face pressed to your chest, your head resting atop his. He nuzzles at you, bleary eyed and slack with pleasure. He kisses a trail up to your clavicle, your throat, your jaw, smiling in the loose, easy way that only a good fuck can never make him.

“Wow,” he says after a while, voice thoroughly frayed.

You giggle, groggily lifting your head. He adjusts until you can relax against his chest, fold your forearms across it and settling your chin atop them, admiring him. He touches your face with his ungloved hand, stroking your cheek with his thumb, then the curve of your bottom lip. His smile widens when you kiss the pad of his thumb.

“Wow indeed,” you say, swinging your legs lightly. “Can’t say I’ve ever been fucked mid-air.”

“One of the many benefits of dating me,” he purrs, caressing your cheek with his knuckles. He kisses you again, drifting slowly back down, unhurried.

Your brows lift lazily. “Who says we’re dating?” You ask, but your smile keeps his hackles from rising.

“Me,” he says, eyes crinkled at the corners. He lands gently on the desk, helping you to it. “You and I are officially going steady.”

You give a thoughtful hum, carefully untangling your limbs from his. You slide off of the desk while he puts himself back together, your knees trembling faintly. “Fairly sure asking someone out requires a question mark. You know. The asking part. You didn’t even buy me dinner.” You attempt to button up your shirt, but it’s obviously a lost cause.

He exhales a quiet laugh, pulling you back into his arms. “Well, I certainly ate.”

“God,” you laugh, rolling your eyes, but they don’t stray from him for long. There’s a sparkle to your gaze that he wants to capture in his palm and never set loose.

“Will you go out with me?” He asks, lips brushing yours.

“Mmmmmmmm….” You hum once more, drawing it out, feigning a great deliberation. “There’s something you should know first.”

He quirks a brow. “What’s that?”

“My guilty pleasure,” you say, nose bumping his.

Intrigued, he inclines his head to prompt you to continue. Can’t be worse than mine.

“Superheroes,” you say conspiratorially. “Can’t get enough of them. Loved them my whole life. Especially this one in particular…”

He breaks into a frayed, charmed laugh. “Let me guess, name starts with an H?”

You suck in a breath through your teeth, lips curved downward in a mock grimace, and nod subtly. “ Total fangirl. Embarrassing, right?”

Homelander shakes his head. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never felt guilty about pleasure. Where’s the harm in it?”

The harm inflicted on those thugs couldn’t count. They had it coming.

“Harm to my pride, my ego, my reputation,” you list, tapping his suit to punctuate each one. “I made a pretty big fuss about not liking you. I had myself convinced that my Homelander only existed in my fantasies, and you were just the guy who plays him.”

My Homelander. The words stir an unexpectedly sentimental surge of emotion that wells up from somewhere deep in his chest. He clears his throat lightly. “What’s the verdict now?”

You sweep him with an appraising gaze. “Still deliberating.”

He clicks his tongue, nodding. “I don’t suppose I could arrange a meeting with the jury?”

“They’re available for dinner tomorrow,” you say, the tilt of your lips sly. 

“It’s a date,” he murmurs, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. You kiss him, pressing your smile to his. He doubts he’ll ever tire of the softness of your lips, or the easy way you melt against him. He wraps his arms around you, content to let this moment pass only because he knows there will be more to come. He’s determined to make every one of them better than the last.

All of the pleasure, none of the guilt.

#homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #my writing #x reader #yandere x reader

[separatist-apologist]

Fuck Me Up, Florida

Summary: Elain has some regrets- she'll bury them in Florida.

Read on AO3

Before:

Elain stood on the edge of her cottage, arms crossed over her chest. Maybe they’d taken things too far this time but there wasn’t room for this interloper, this stranger from an even stranger land. She and Lucien had lived in the swamplands for centuries—they would outlast the so-called witch seeking to take their territory.

But Lucien’s face…oh. He knelt beside her, head bowed as blood crusted over his golden skin. “You should go—”

“I’ll kill her,” Elain replied calmly, drawing forth the magic pulsating against her fingertips. She might lack Lucien’s ability to shift himself at will, to take on the terrifying form of the alligators that guarded the waters, nor could she rip out a throat with her teeth.

Elain could merely gaze into the future and reshape it to her will. 

The witch—Amarantha, they called her—was from another place with crueler, colder rules. Her magic was just as old, but twisted and dark and wholly out of place in the warm, sunlit paradise. Elain had seen how it ended, saw the witch crumble to dust, though when she tried to see how, the future shifted wildly into a kaleidoscope of color. 

The witch could be defeated. She would be defeated, if only for what she’d done to Lucien.

So Elain waited, dagger hidden beneath the cool material of her skirt, while Lucien continued to kneel beside her. He wanted to leave while they were still intact, but Elain refused. This was their home. She’d give it up over her dead body. 

“Is that so?” Amarantha purred, stepping from seemingly thin air. Everything about her set Elain’s on edge. She was bone pale, with eyes so black they seemed to bleed against the whites of her eyes. Her hair was the same shade of freshly spilt blood and around one long, spindly finger she wore a ring made from a real, moving eye.

Her dress slithered against the mud, silencing the once lively world. “You’ll leave over your dead body?”

Lucien’s head snapped up, tasting the iron tang of magic mere seconds before Elain did. Amarantha pointed at Elain, eyes burning with deathly amusement. 

“No—!”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Amarantha purred. Elain was frozen, trapped in a swirling mass of air. “She’ll be back.”

“Don’t,” Lucien pleaded. “I’ll do anything—”

“I want nothing from you. Only her and her meddling sisters. Let’s play a game…just to make it fair. I won’t kill her, little demon. She’ll be reborn and given one mortal lifespan. Bring him an offering of flesh as a sign of our bargain…and in return, if you can convince her to tell you she loves you, I’ll return her memories.”

Elain wanted to scream at Lucien not to take the deal. It was a fools errand—to rob her of her memories, to make her think she was mortal and then present her with a male who looked so inhuman no human would ever stand to be in his presence.

Say no, she tried to plead with her eyes. Feyre and Nesta would avenge her. Lucien looked up at her, face still freshly scarred, and shook his head. He knew it was impossible—a fools bargain. And still.

“It’s a deal.”

Elain took a breath.

And then she was gone. 

Now: 

She didn’t know how it happened. 

One minute Elain Archeron had been listening to Graysen go on yet another tirade and the next…the next her hands her bloodied and Graysen was laying there lifeless, eyes glassy and tilted toward the vaulted ceiling. If she wanted to be honest with both herself and God, Elain would have admitted that she’d simply lost her temper.

He wasn’t yelling at her. Not this time, anyway. Instead, Graysen yelled about immigrants, he yelled about his politics, he yelled until his face was red and he realized that the only person left to yell at was her. And Elain was simply tired of apologizing.

She’d wanted him to just stop. To give her a moment to think, to settle her galloping heart. Even when she slept it was never peaceful, never deep. She tiptoed through her own life, making herself small and sweet so as not to draw his ire.

She’d always been that way.

What had been different, she wondered? 

But she knew the answer to that, too. Two years of marriage—and two years of infidelity. She’d discovered it the week before when his phone lit up at three am, just in time for Elain to get up and use the bathroom. She couldn’t say what was different about that night, too. Maybe it had been the Georgia heat. Or maybe her body knew something her brain did not. Elain had spent the night scrolling through hundreds of love sick messages, and a hundred more that painted her out to be a frigid, standoffish wife who didn’t care about her husband's needs.

Any woman dumb enough to believe the tired story of the neglected married man deserved whatever she got. Which, in Elain’s estimation, was a man who yelled about everything all the time. He didn’t yell at that other woman, though. 

He called her beautiful.

Elain could still remember when Graysen had talked to her like that, too.

So when he started yelling, Elain’s patience was already shredded thin. There was simply no more good will left. She’d picked up a heavy crystal face and smashed it over the back of his head. Graysen had pitched forward, forehead slamming against the sharp edge of their coffee table, rendering him dead before he ever connected with their hardwood. 

She’d intended to turn herself in. That was the reasonable thing to do. Nesta was a lawyer, Feyre was married to old money—she figured she could spend a decade or so behind bars, even if orange did wash her out. 

The world worked in mysterious ways. As Elain was picking up her phone, 911 already dialed, her phone dinged a warning.

Hurricane Elaine scheduled to make landfall on…

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

Elain burst out laughing. Hurricane Elaine? Really? Surely it was some cosmic joke and yet…

“Hello?”

“Sorry,” Elain said, still laughing like a lunatic. “My daughter, she…sorry.”

The annoyed operator on the other end huffed out a sigh, assured Elain it happened all the time, and ended the call. 

Hurricane Elaine.

Elain was on the Florida-Georgia line, just far enough from the worst of the coming storm. It was a six hour drive to Destin, risky considering Elain had moved her husband's dead body to the back of his truck. If anyone noticed or stopped her, it was all over.

But if they didn’t…

Oh. But if they didn’t.

Graysen had a timeshare in Destin. It wasn’t much, though he was proud of it all the same. She’d never liked it, truth be told but in that moment, standing beneath a starry Georgia sky, Elain used their points and booked a week. It was the kind of thing Gray would do. He never wanted to evacuate, never took these kinds of threats seriously. Elain would dump his body in a swamp and then say the water simply swept Graysen away. 

Maybe it would take her, too.

Elain didn’t have a preference one way or the other, truth be told. She merely thought getting away with his murder was another outcome she could live with right alongside being swept away by the sea. She thought about all of it as she drove in the dead of night, amazed by the traffic trying to leave Florida as Elain tried to enter.

Every couple songs on the radio warned about the impending storm. She didn’t care. Eain was giddy by the time she pulled into the resort, careful to hide Graysen’s body beneath a tarp. It couldn’t stay in her car for long without risking being caught, not with the Florida humidity. She simply needed to check in to make her story believable, and hope no one bothered checking the security cameras.

“You’re brave, checking in,” the cheerful woman at the front desk told her. 

“Or stupid,” Elain replied with an easy smile. “My husband thought we’d have the pool all to ourselves.”

“Ocean, too,” the receptionist said before handing Elain the keys. “We aren’t required to evacuate but if things get any worse, you should.”

“I will,” she swore like a liar. All she needed was that key and a plausible alibi, after all. She’d been here, not committing any murders. Was it a crime to be stupid? No, especially not in Florida.

They could suspect her all they like, Elain didn’t care. She was free of Graysen without the mess of a divorce.

Would she feel grief once the dust had settled? When Graysen was nothing more than a few picked over bones at the bottom of a swamp would it all hit her? Would relief turn to misery? Would she lie awake in bed missing the warmth of his body?

Climbing back into her car, already warmed from the Florida heat, Elain decided she couldn’t let herself care. Not right then, anyway. Besides, if Elain was honest with herself, she was having a disturbing amount of fun.

Rolling down her window, Elain let the wind ruffle her hair like an affectionate parent as she grinned, cheeks pink from the humidity. If a hurricane was on its way, the world gave no sign of it. Though, Elain had turned from Destin to make her way toward a swamp that would become Graysen’s final resting place. 

Good riddance, she thought. This was where she’d bury all her regrets, her mistakes, her ghosts. Maybe herself, too, though it was too early to make that determination. Maybe once Graysen had been dumped and Elain was alone in the resort, hurricane winds pounding against the roof. 

Maybe. 

Truth be told, Elain didn’t want to mourn or miss him. Her whole marriage felt like she’d been grieving a man who’d died the day she met him at the altar. He’d once been kind and sweet, had looked at her like she was the sun and he was merely a frigid planet begging for warmth. He’d been the one who’d changed, who’d embraced cold so brutal no light could penetrate his rotted heart. 

Killing him had been an extreme course correction and yet…and yet Elain couldn’t find the empathy people had always praised her for. Couldn’t find anything but the knob of the radio and then her voice singing along, loud enough to be heard over the rush of the road. Nevermind that there was a dead body in the back of her stolen truck—the songs were all bops as palm trees became cypress and  mangrove. 

The air was thicker somehow, as if charged with magic. It was tempting to think that was just Florida itself and not her own delirious joy seeping out of her. She was nearly finished with the whole debacle. Her heart pounded as she pulled off the main road, tires betraying her in the mud as she crept deeper into territories unknown. 

This was the hard part. As Elain cut the ignition, she considered for a moment the absurdity of her plan. If it worked, it would be sheer luck and nothing else. There was blood in her apartment, tire treads in the mud, and a hurricane on the horizon. She ought to go back to her original plan and call her older sister for help. Nesta would know what to do, would be able to get her out of serious trouble.

Elain knew if she dumped this body, there would be nothing Nesta could do to soften that blow. There would be no painting Elain as a victim but the aggressor, the abuser—everything Graysen had been before she took his life and made him part of the Florida ecosystem. 

Elain took a breath before deciding fuck it. She’d come this far, hadn’t she? Might as well see it all the way through. Elain hopped from the cab, flats sucked into the mud so deeply she thought she might need to abandon them altogether. Managing to get her feet out of the mud, Elain pulled the tarp she’d half wrapped Graysen in from the back of the truck until his body slid to the ground.

The Florida heat was getting to her. Or, maybe it wasn’t the heat that was making her feel a little manic but the humidity—whatever it was, Elain let out a soft laugh before grabbing Graysen by his limp arms. She tried hard not to look too closely at his gray skin, eyes trained on the path ahead. Just get him the water, she told herself.

Television hadn’t prepared Elain for how heavy a dead body was. Graysen didn’t look like such a solid man but right then, Elain wanted to scream as she inched him forward, sweat dripping from her nose.

She was leaving DNA everywhere—if she didn’t get caught it was simply law enforcement refusing to do their job entirely. As she dragged him toward the murky water, Elain considered that she was merely digging her own grave, too. She ought to climb in after Graysen and let the alligators have her, too.

In the end, Elain kicked Graysen into the water with a heaving breath of air. He plopped into the green tinted water with a heavy splash that silenced the insects, if only for a moment. Shoulders aching, she braced herself against the sticky bark of a leaning tree, eyes closed.

It was done. She’d done it. There was no going back now. She could have turned back anytime before Graysen sank to the bottom of the swamp but now…now there was no way in hell Elain was getting in that water to try and drag him out.

She needed to leave. Spend the week in the timeshare at the pool until the hurricane hit and then…she didn’t know. She had no plan, no idea how to go about things and she was terrified to google any of it. 

Elain opened her eyes, surprised to find she wasn’t alone. A man was coming toward her as he pulled thick, auburn hair up off his face in a messy bun.

“Are you alright?” he asked, eyes gleaming. Three long, vicious scars cut down one strange, gold eye that didn’t match the brown of the other. 

Elain nodded her head, heart pounding in her throat. What had he seen? Mouth dry, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, Elain could do nothing but wait as he came toward her. He wore light clothing that looked far more comfortable than her own, the white cotton of his shirt sticking against the muscular contours of his chest. 

“What are you doing so far out here?” he pressed, eyes sliding from her to the water just beneath her. There was no evidence of what she’d done if he ignored the path she’d carved through mud and vegetation dragging Graysen’s body. And if he walked just half a mile toward the gravel road, she’d find Graysen’s truck parked, the doors flung open and likely filled with mosquitoes. 

“I like nature,” she told him. It wasn’t even a lie—Elain worked for the botanical garden back home and maintained her own in the backyard she’d once shared with Graysen. “I’ve always wanted to see a swamp.”

“Could have taken a tour,” he said, eyes twinkling. “The alligators are real aggressive out here.”

“They can’t be that bad if you’re out here,” she shot back, unsure why she was being so combative with this man. 

Something green glimmered beneath the collar of his shirt, inked against his skin. What kind of tattoo was it, she wondered? 

“I practically live here,” he replied as he came closer, hands jammed in his pockets. 

“You work in a swamp?”

He only shrugged. “It’s a living, right?”

“Well, if you’re not afraid of gators, neither am I.”

He came closer still. “There’s worse things in gators out in the swamps.”

Elain froze. There she was, in the middle of nowhere talking to a stranger who had appeared seemingly out of thin air. Her hair curled in the humidity, her face slick with sweat and yet he seemed serene. Unbothered by the heat, the heavy air, or their surroundings. Elain took a step backward.

“Right. Well I uh…should be going.” He didn’t try and stop her, seemingly amused as she made her way back up the path. “Watch yourself, Elain. There’s a hurricane coming, you know.”

She only nodded, turning her back on him to rush back to the car. She was too stressed to deal with the stranger in the swamp. Elain didn’t let herself think about him until she was back in the room at the resort standing beneath cool shower water.

Watch yourself, Elain.

Had she told him her name? Elain genuinely couldn’t remember. The stress of everything was getting to her—maybe she had. In that southern kind of way, a greeting that included letting him know who she was so he knew she was no threat at all.

Why not tell him what she’d done, too? Hi, I’m Elain Archeron and I murdered my husband. 

Make it easier on the police when they went looking for witnesses. She could have given that man the murder weapon had it not been shattered in hundreds of pieces on her living room floor. Still, Elain replayed that parting sentence over and over in her head. Elain, Elain, Elain. Why had she told him her name? Why hadn’t she asked for his? 

Should she have done something more? Assured him she was just a normal woman lost in the heart of a swamp she had no business being in? Had he watched her drag that body and merely waited to see what would happen? She was more concerned with getting caught than what she’d actually done, which also worried her.

What kind of person murdered their husband? 

She did, apparently. Elain didn’t think she was a bad person—just sad. Mad, too, that things hadn’t worked the way she’d wanted to. Angrier still that she’d loved him the way she had and in the end, it hadn’t even been good enough. She still remembered insisting to Nesta that Gray was her soulmate and their love was the thing of legends. It was love so pure, so perfect, so timeless that one day people would write books about it.

She supposed she hadn’t been wrong about that last one. Some true crime junkie would pick up this story and write about her. Would they call her a Black Widow? No, she decided as she laid there in the dark listening to the wind. She had no intention of remarrying, after all, and certainly wouldn’t kill another man. But they’d come up with some other offensive nickname for her, labeling her without really knowing her heart. 

Elain fell asleep easier than she’d expected to, though her dreams were confusing and vivid. She was back in that swamp, wading deeper and deeper into the water as something made its way toward her, gold eyes reflecting the moonlight onto the water. Blood—no, hair—fanned out behind the creature and when he raised his head to smile, teeth sharpened to a point.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, his voice cutting through the still night. Elain couldn’t move, frozen in place as he came further and further out of the water. The green on his neck, she realized, wasn’t a tattoo but scales and behind him, a tail propelled him forward just as surely as his legs did.

She couldn’t scream. Trapped in mud, Elain could only stand as he came closer and closer, water dripping from his bare chest. The opaque water obscured his bottom half which was for the best—she was certain she didn’t want to see it. 

He reached out to touch her, golden skin somehow glowing in the moonlight, and—

Elain woke to the sound of thunder, sheets sticking to her sweat soaked skin. The doors to the balcony attached to her bedroom were flung open and though it wasn’t raining yet, puddles of water pooled on the tile floor. Elain sighed loudly, palm pressed right above her breast in an attempt to silence her screaming heart.

It was just a dream. A nightmare, truly, borne of her guilty mind and her fear she was going to be caught. Elain forced herself to get up, grab a towel from the bathroom, and wipe up the water. This time, she made sure she locked the balcony doors so the wind wouldn’t blow them open before she crawled back into bed.

The nightmares were the same, though. 

And when she woke, the doors were opened again.

Unwilling to take it lying down, Elain went down to the front desk to ask if she could be moved. Her doors, she explained ruefully—if there was a hurricane, she didn’t want to deal with water flying in. The person at the front desk was far less sympathetic to Elain’s cause and though they didn’t say so, it was clear they thought she and everyone else still at the resort was an idiot.

She tried not to let it bother her. 

She needed to just stick to her plan. It was a terrible plan, admittedly, but it was too late to back out, now. Elain spent the day sitting outside by the pool holding a book in her hand, too nervous to read even a page. She kept waiting for the police to descend on her, led by the man haunting her nightmares.

There she is, he’d say with open accusation. There’s the woman who murdered her husband and thought she could get away with it. 

They didn’t come. Frantically checking the news every couple of minutes, Elain found more warnings of the tropical storm about to descend on them, found other stories of murder, but nothing about her. No one had called to check in on Gray—not even the woman he was having an affair with. Elain had his phone sitting on her bedside table, monitoring it for anyone who might be worried about him.

No one was. 

It was almost too easy. 

If it hadn’t been for the nightmares, Elain might have just turned around and gone home. Maybe that would have silenced her nightmares. Elain dreamt of the man again, noting the way the green scales seemed more repetilian than those of a tattoo. This time, as Elain waded into the swampy water, she found her voice again.

“Who are you?” she asked, white nightgown floating around her.

He offered her a truly terrifying smile, those teeth tinged red in the moonlight. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he told her again, his voice a haunting melody. 

“Why?”

He was close enough she could smell the earthy scent of him. It was familiar, somehow, though she was certain she’d remember if she’d seen him before.

He merely cocked his head, standing to his full height. Water sluiced off his body and though she knew this was merely a dream from her stressed out and panicked brain, Elain’s eyes dipped between his legs all the same. Now she knew it was a dream because men should only have one appendage…and this man had two. What was wrong with her? 

He didn’t seem concerned with her gaze—not amused nor offended. Instead, he stepped forward, reaching for a long curl between two long, strong fingers.

“Mate,” he whispered, reaching for her before she could stumble back. It was just a dream, she told herself…and yet it felt real. Elain swore she could feel the sharpened claws against her back just as surely as she could feel the warm water enveloping her.

“What about alligators?” she breathed, earning a soft chuckle from the creature holding her.

“You don’t need to worry about anything harming you,” he said, dipping his head to run his nose along the shell of her ear. 

“Because this is a dream,” she said, eyes closed.

Another laugh drew shivers up her spine. “Whatever you say.”

But it was a dream, even if it felt real. She knew she’d wake up and the door would be open because subconsciously she wanted to get caught. “What’s your name?”

“Lucien,” he replied, running a finger over her cheek. How long had it been since someone had touched her like this? Like she was special, cherished—loved? 

“Why are you waiting for me?” she questioned, deciding if it really was a dream, maybe it didn’t have to be a nightmare. Maybe she could enjoy herself in the privacy of her strange fantasies. Maybe the scales, which she found softer than she expected them to be, were representative of something. 

“You’re my mate,” he murmured. Hadn’t she just read a book about that? The men hadn’t been so strange looking—merely more handsome versions of humans, their ears a little pointed, their teeth a little sharper. Elain relaxed in his arms as she realized she was merely trapped in a strange dream about the men she read in books.

“Of course,” she said, amusement lacing her tone. He cocked his head, wet hair plastered to his bare shoulder.

“You don’t believe me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Elain declared blithely, kicking her feet gently in the water between them. “I think I left a body in here.”

“He’s gone now,” Lucien informed her. Oh, how Elain wished that was true. “Who was he to you?”

“My husband,” she said mirthfully as she inclined her head toward the moon overhead. “He yelled a lot.”

Lucien’s grip around her body tightened. “Did he hurt you?”

“Not in the ways that matter.”

“They matter to me,” he said, and of course they did. Elain loved herself and this man was merely an extension of her own mind. Still, pretend or not, it felt good to have someone care about her. 

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” she told him, turning to look him back in the eyes. It was here she found those scars again and wondered what had caused them. Would her mind fill in the gaps for her? “Who did this to you?”

He chuckled, catching her wrist to press a kiss to her open palm as she tried to run her fingers over the grooves. “Another male was interested in my territory. He tried to take my eye, I took his throat.”

“How very vicious of you,” she teased. “Are you half alligator, then?”

“Simply put, I suppose,” he said, the amusement in his gaze sharpening to something she didn’t recognize. It was almost desperation that stared back, a plea to know something she had only forgotten. Elain felt the strangest rush of deja vu, though it faded into the night before she could grasp it, a balloon whose string was just out of reach. 

“What are you? Can I ask that?”

“You can ask me anything you like,” he told her, his voice dropping an octave. Elain felt a rush of want as he waded further into the water, clearly unconcerned with the lurking danger. 

“I am…” he trailed off, clearly trying to find the words before he turned to look at her again. Elain was tracing the scales adorning his shoulders and neck like tattoos, trying to remember the last time she’d touched anything reptilian. “Old, I suppose.”

“How old?”

“Old,” he emphasized. 

“You don’t look old,” she said, half laughing at how predictable her daydreams were. 

“I age slowly,” he informed her solemnly. “You did once, too.” “Oh? Before what?”

Skimming his hand over the top of the opaque water, he said, “You’re my curse, now.”

“How do you break the curse?”

Those strange, reflective eyes found the same glassy water they were floating in. He didn’t say, but Elain knew because this was her dream, her fantasy, her imagination. “It’s love, isn’t it?”

He looked so hopeful as he met her gaze. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. 

It was a dream. “You seem like you’d be extremely easy to love.”

Pressing his forehead against her own, Lucien exhaled softly. “Let me show you.”

Lucien brought them to the opposite end of the swamp, unconcerned with his nakedness or the fact that she was openly staring at him. Well, not at him so much as what was slowly rising between his legs—two appendages, one longer than the other by a good inch. Elain didn’t need him to explain how they worked, though she was curious as to the point. Surely, from an evolutionary standpoint, one was enough? 

Taking his hand, Elain let him lift her from the water, well aware he was just as fascinated by her form which was no longer hidden given the way her nightdress clung to her body. 

“What are you going to show me?”

Lucien didn’t respond. Instead, he grabbed her by the back of the neck and kissed her, sharp teeth grazing her bottom lip. Elain let him, reflecting that even though this man was a monstrous figment of her imagination, it had been a while since someone kissed her like they meant it. Like they wanted her. Maybe, she thought, this was some kind of weird metaphor. The only man who could ever love her was a monster, after all—just like Graysen.

Or maybe she was the monster.

After all, she was the murderer. Lucien was just a man she’d seen in the swamp that would one day testify at her trial while she remembered how they’d had sex in a dream. Elain kissed him back, surprised to find he tasted warm and sweet—like a warm, summer day. This was the type of dream she liked—the sort where she could feel pleasure without the endless guilt that seemed to fill her. 

She could taste blood in her mouth, slipping back into her throat as his tongue chased after it, kissing her with a frenzied hunger that Elain wished was real. The trick was not waking up before she came—Elain had never quite mastered that 

She knew it was a dream for sure when he lifted her nightdress, swatting her hand when she tried to touch his bare skin. 

“Just you,” he breathed, scales glinting in the moonlight. No man would ever, she decided as Lucien ran his own hands down her now naked form. It was almost like touching herself, forcing an awareness of her body that Elain rarely had. She didn’t pay attention to how it felt when someone's fingers teased her breasts or the way cool skin felt against her own. Or, she hadn’t in so long she’d forgotten what true pleasure could be like and he hadn’t really done anything. 

“What do you like?” he asked through a heavy breath of humid air. 

“I…” Elain was suddenly too embarrassed to tell him. Everything felt real—Lucien sank to muscular knees, his thick tail curling around the pair of them.

“Do you like this?” he asked in a husky voice as his forked tongue traced shapes against her upper thigh. To keep balance, Elain slid her fingers into his thick, silken hair. 

��Yes,” she admitted while he lifted her leg up off the ground, hooking it over his broad shoulder. Little ridges adorned his spine, flexible when her toe brushed up against one. Elain was fascinated with his form—more man than creature, but not human at all. She might have demanded an answer had that tongue of his not licked up the length of her.

Elain nearly toppled over, but Lucien wrapped a strong arm around her waist, pulling her closer while cupping her ass in one of his large, strong hands. He groaned with pleasure, the sound drowning out the screaming, watchful cicadas in the background.

“And this?” he demanded, licking again.

“Yes,” she breathed, head thrown back so she could look up at the stars. If she’s been more articulate, she would have told him that she liked it too much, and Gray had never wanted to do it. It took too long, he’d complained which of course only made it take longer. Elain was so self conscious every time he did go down that she never finished and often just counted to two hundred, faked it, and let him move on. 

“I need to taste you,” Lucien informed her, pulling her so close against him she wasn’t convinced he could breathe. She would have told him he was already tasting her if she’d been braver and less afraid that at any moment she was going to wake up and realize the whole thing was just a really weird, yet really good dream. 

Because it was her dream, Elain didn’t have to worry she was taking too long. In fact, Elain wanted to drag her pleasure out. His tongue was just rough enough to provide the smallest amount of friction while his mouth was otherwise soft and warm. Perfect, she decided with a sigh. 

She wanted to spread herself out. Maybe Lucien knew it, or maybe the ground merely hurt his knees. All she knew for certain was in the span it took to draw breath, Lucien was on his back and she was straddling his face, staring down the length of his rigid, muscular body. She wanted to touch him and so she did, spreading her legs as wide as she could get away with so she could lean against him.

Lucien moaned when she pressed a kiss against his stomach. Distracted, she half forgot what he was doing with his mouth. It was just…well, two cocks were endlessly fascinating to her. Why? What was the point? Elain reached between his legs and took the thicker, larger one in her hand. It was ridged, she realized with wild desperation. What would it feel like? Would her mind even know? Was she imagining this because she’d been shopping for vibrators a month earlier and stumbled upon some truly strange looking dildos? 

“Fuck,” Lucien panted, inclining his head away from her swollen pussy to look at her. “You don’t—it’s fine, just…just come here—”

Lucien put his mouth back on her with a vengeance, determined to distract her so thoroughly she couldn’t pleasure him, too. It was a game now, trying to get him off even as waves of pleasure began to build in her chest, threatening to drown her at any moment. Had anything felt better? 

Lucien writhed beneath her, prompting Elain to reach around for the second one and grip it, too. He gasped, breath warm against her throbbing cunt, before returning to licking circles around her clit. 

They came within seconds of each other—though Elain didn’t get to see any of it. Body throbbing, the sound of thunder crashing pulled her from her dream, body still roiling from her orgasm.

“Christ alive,” Elain swore softly, pushing the blankets from her body to close the balcony doors again. She knew she’d locked them before bed, had pulled the handles to be sure they were firmly locked.

Water was pooled on the floor again, her bare feet splashing in puddles as she made her way back to the ensuite bathroom. All Elain could think about was the man—the stranger she couldn’t stop dreaming about and his strange, inhuman features.

She’d nearly forgotten why she was dreaming about him. It was only after Elain had cleaned everything up did she recall that oh, right. She’d killed her husband and her brain was apparently trying to decode this information in the form of giving a strange swamp man two penises. 

Elain was going insane. Seeing things that weren’t there, manifesting her own downfall. Was this what if felt like to be haunted? Only, there were no ghosts—only her own guilt tormenting her while she slept. 

Elain shoved a chair against the balcony doors before she went back to bed, forced to lay on the opposite end because the mattress felt wet, too. Sweat, surely.. And the swamp man didn’t return, though when she woke the chair was back in its original place beside the window and the doors were open again. Outside, the world had gone red, the sky tinged with blood. Elain felt as though she’d manifested it herself, though that was pure arrogance to think she had any affect on the weather. 

Her phone was screaming at her to get out, pinging emergency instructions from the resort on where to go when the hurricane made landfall. Elain planted herself in her bedroom determined to see this lie through. It was the kind of thing Gray would do, besides—he never too much stock in the hysterics, as he called it. 

And she was so pathetic that she would have sat beside him and waited to die. Elain told herself she’d be fine, even as fear skittered up her spine. Sirens blared just outside and when she stepped toward the window, Elain could see the storm on the horizon. She took a breath, intending to go sit back in bed and try and read her book. Elain would have, too, had she not seen him coming out the sea itself, eyes trained on her bedroom window. He was merely a dot, a doll walking so far below her Elain was positive he couldn’t see her. 

And yet she knew he could. Wind whipped around him, blowing his hair this way and that though he didn’t seem bothered by it. Elain watched, mouth half open, as a palm tree was shoved violently to the ground as though a giant hand had pushed it there. But the man didn’t budge, kept walking as though it were a perfectly normal day.

Oh god.

Elain rushed to the door, locking it before making her way out of her bedroom. Where was she going to go? She turned, standing in the living area, eyes trained on the beach. The man was gone and for a moment, Elain consoled herself that she was just crazy. He didn’t exist, her mind had merely snapped and when this was all over, she’d check herself into an asylum. 

Elain looked away for a moment, turning toward the little kitchenette she hadn’t used. “You’re okay—” The glass shattered, sending Elain flying to the floor, arms thrown over her head to avoid getting hit by debris. Unable to hear her own thoughts over the wind, Elain tried to recall what she should do in the middle of a hurricane.

Cool fingers curled around her upper arm, hoisting her up into the air. Elain turned her head, horrified to find herself cradled against the half naked skin of the strangely scaled man. “You,” she accused, certain all this was his doing.

His smile was grim, eyes wide and round. He looked scared. “Me,” he murmured, his deep voice cutting through the noise. “It’s time to go home.”

“I’m not going—” the wind screamed as water pelted the pair of them, stinging her skin with each new assault. He didn’t seem concerned at all, ignoring the glass crunching underneath them as he walked her toward the bedroom. 

“We’re going to die—”

“You’re going to remember,” Lucien interrupted, tail swishing angrily behind him. He looked catlike in the stormy dark, eyes glowing like sunlight cutting through shadow. 

“You’re not real,” she breathed as he ripped her night dress in half. He certainly felt real.

“You know me,” he breathed, staring down at her. “You love me.”

“You’re a monster,” she replied.

Lucien grinned, betraying two rows of sharp teeth. “I’ll show you a monster.”

She tried to push him away but Lucien knew better. Knew he could have her if he wanted her—had already touched her, tasted her. Her protests were weak, silenced the moment his mouth was back on hers. He was real—they were real. She almost forgot about the screaming wind rattling the windows and pushing glass around the living area. 

“You brought me an offering,” Lucien panted, hitching her leg up around his now bare waist. When had he taken off his pants? “Tell me you love me.”

“What offering—”

“The body. Your husband,” he spat, eyes darkening at the memory. “Tell me you love me.”

“I hate you,” she replied as he wrapped both hands around her bare thighs and wrenched them open.

“Wrong answer,” he replied. Elain kicked at his chest as Lucien lined himself up not just with her pussy, but her ass, too. 

Their eyes met. “Does this feel real, now?” he whispered, inching himself forward just enough to punch the lungs from her breath. “You know me.”

“I don’t,” she replied as something metallic lodged itself in her nose. The world was ending in an explosion of air and water and yet a strange bubble seemed to exist around them. Words, just on the tip of her tongue, if only she could remember them, begged to be released. To finish a spell long since cast.

Lucien waited for a heartbeat, his hope etched over his features. When Elain said nothing, Lucien pressed himself closer to her, cocks intruding on her body like an old, familiar friend. Elain swore she’d never felt anything like it and yet her body stretched on instinct to accommodate him. Even when Elain wriggled, trying to create some resistance, her body simply allowed him to slide easily inside.

“Why two?” she panted, gritting her teeth to adjust to the feeling of being stretched to capacity. 

“I can’t impregnate my mate if she doesn’t feel pleasure,” he replied breathlessly. His hair fell like a sunlit curtain between them, his eyes bright and earnest.

“Lucien,” she breathed, nails cutting against his biceps. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you—but who are you?

“Yes,” he managed, pulling himself out of the sticky wet that was her body. Spitting in his hand, Lucien lubricated his shaft now halfway buried in her ass before he thrust himself back in and

Elain was forced to admit that it all felt good. Her back arched of its own accord, eyes rolling upward in her skull. The ridges lining his cock made each new thrust sharper, the pleasure brighter. 

“Our bond goes beyond marriage,” Lucien told her as colors filled her vision. “What we have is stronger than love.” His fingers stroked between her legs, rubbing tight circles around her clit until Elain was panting and writhing. She was going to come right alongside the hurricane bearing her name and then what? The windows would give way and the world would one day know of the woman who died because she decided fucking was more important than evacuating.

She didn’t care. Elain pulled him closer, running her hand over the flexible spines running the length of his back until she found the tail protruding just above the swell of his ass. 

“Please,” she begged, wrapping her legs around his waist. Lucien whined in response, sweat dripping down his forehead as he ran his nose along her own.

“I can’t stop,” he told her, pressing a kiss along the corner of her mouth. “If you don’t say it, we start all over.”

“I love you,” she said, half meaning it. What did hurt, she decided? He was so obviously insane and maybe so was she, because she was still fucking him, wasn’t she? Maybe this was what she deserved. 

Lucien’s pace quickened and with each new thrust a new memory came flooding through her awareness. A cottage on the edge of a swap, a cauldron filled with bubbling liquid. A male half hidden in the water, gold tinged eyes looking for predators as his red hair fanned out behind him.

Amarantha.

Her horrible bargain.

Elains vision.

“Lucien,” she said, fisting his hair so he had to look back at him. He recognized her words, the look on her face.

“You’re back,” he whispered, still thrusting into her though his rhythm slipped into wild, animalistic thrusting. 

“You feel exactly as I remember,” she told him, dragging her nails down his back. “What took you so long?”

“Let a man wallow for a century or two,” Lucien replied, kissing her again. “Come for me. Now.”

She did, though not because he told her to— because she was already desperate and close and Lucien was pushing every button she had. Elain tightened around him as Lucien babbled unintelligibly about how wet and tight she was. Some things, she supposed, would never change. The world would.

But not them. Never them.

Lucien came loudly, roaring over the wind she’d forgotten about. Was there a hurricane? Had she been afraid of it? That seemed almost laughable to her now. Turning her head as Lucien buried his own in the crook of her neck, Elain stared out the window coated in violet raindrops. 

For a moment, the storm was the only sound between them. 

“You borrowed my magic,” Elain accused once his breathing steadied. She could feel his come leaking down her leg, slipping between the spaces his cocks occupied.

“You didn’t know how to use it,” Lucien replied with a sheepish grin. 

Elain poked him in the ribs. “Is she dead?”

“Not yet,” he told her, gaze darkening. “Feyre drove her out a century before.”

“Let's finish it, then.”

“In time,” Lucien promised, withdrawing himself so he could offer her his hand. “Home, first.”

Elain grinned. “Home, then.”

#happy friday #elucien #vangator time

[cooking-with-hailstones]

In case you were wondering: are the campus protests even important? Do they matter? Are they making a difference?

Yes, yes. They are making a difference.

Video description: Bisan, a young Palestinian woman, is speaking directly to the camera. She is wearing a black shirt and a keffiyeh.

Video transcript (I did my best but missed a few words)

I’m 25 years old. I’ve lived my whole life in Gaza Strip. I’ve never felt hope like now. Never. I mean it’s magical feelings running in my veins right now. In my head, I’m in Gaza city, in the north of Gaza Strip rebuilding my city after this genocide has ended. Even started to dream that my friends from Yafa, Haifa (unsure), majdal, are returning to their cities after being displaced for 75 years. These young heroes in universities at America and around the world are stronger than the last occupation in history. And for the first time in our lives as Palestinians, we hear a voice louder than their voices and the sound of their bombs and even stronger than their control in all aspects of our lives. 

In the 70s, the occupation, Prime Minister said, after decades of killing Palestinians, stealing the lands, establishing the state of Israel over the lands that “the adults will die, and children will definitely forget.” 

Wait. Is that the greatest (unsure) in history? Because it’s children and youth who are leading the movement for a free Palestine. everything they have on the line to demand justice and end of the genocide, and a new era of the world, not based on oppression, exploitation or colonialism. 

Do you know what the best part is? demonstrations and calls for boycott in the academic institutions are not limited to a certain people from certain religion, culture, color, religion, race, or maybe economic level. We are all different so we can no longer be accused of anti-Semitism, serving some agendas from outside, we are just different people calling for the same thing. People to people and people to justice. 

200 days I’ve spent escaping death every single minute were not in vain. And those 40,000 innocent souls were killed during these days were not also in vain. And this is the first time to feel and tell you this. 

Keep going because you are our only hope and we promise we will hold our ground and tell you the truth always. And please, don’t let their violence scare you. In Arabic, we say (Arabic phrase). In English, that means “they don’t have other options, but trying to terrify and silence you” because you are demolishing decades of brainwashing. You are making the change. The real change. Their violence means that we’ve begun to affect them deeply. Believe me, we are in the bottom of this bottle and we’re very very close to the end of this genocide. Maybe even closer than anytime before. Thank you. Thank you for each one of you, because you made us, me and my people feel that we are free. We are heard. We’re going back to our homes, and land. 

(Through tears) I have spent the whole night thinking about every video I see, you shouting for Palestine, you protesting for Palestine, you are dancing, singing for Palestine I feel it here in my head that I am going back. And I am free, and one day, we will celebrate it in, in Gaza together. Keep going and we will too. Salaam. 

(if anyone can help with my transcript, it would be much appreciated!)

#Palestine #free palestine #wizard bisan #bisan owda #Gaza #columbia university #columbia protest #campus protests #yale university #emory university #video #described video #Instagram

[tirralirralirra]

something I love about having read/watched frieren and dungeon meshi concurrently is getting to see that, despite their similar broad genres (fantasy, DND-esque settings, failure op elf girls /lh), they are two very distinct stories that ultimately achieve the same* thematic goal through different narrative means.

like you have frieren's contemplative, almost slice-of-life style storytelling that focuses on how the connections between people make an impact, and how it's beautiful to cherish the memories of those we love, even the small ones (especially the small ones), and that being alive is so, so beautiful because of those things. Then juxtaposing this with the overall narrative of a literal journey to a land beyond in order to meet with the dead, while not losing focus on those that are alive. Frieren as a story takes time to explore the small things that make life beautiful (fields of flowers, the beauty and not the power of magic, stargazing and sunsets with your friends).

and then you have dunmeshi's tight narrative arcs that are built around urgency (saving falin, first from digestion, then from...chimera-ization), but also continually return to the same concept as a core tenet to both the literal narrative structure around meals and the overall story: to eat is a privilege of the living. That there is joy to be found in eating because it means you are alive, that you survived. That taking time to take care of yourself is honoring your life. That death is a part of life through the acts of killing monsters to eat, and that the dungeon's condition where a soul remains tethered to the body is unnatural.

For that last bit, I love how we're just introduced to the concept in the beginning as a bit of world building, something you might just take at face value of, "oh, I guess this is how this works in this story", and over the course of the story the characters start to interrogate that reality, culminating in Marcille's realization at the end that they took death for granted because of the dungeon's condition:

[ID: Manga panel of Marcille looking down in thought and saying "Look, this might sound a little weird, but...I think the entire point of this journey we went on....was learning how to accept death.]

(Panel is from the ehscans version, will update with official eng when the final volume releases)

I also love that the story takes the time to say, look, you can be in a hurry, but you still need to take care of yourself. Eat well, sleep well, What will you achieve in the service of yourself or others if you don't take care of the most basic qualities to survive first? The most recent episode is a good example of that with the focus on shuro vs. laios, and then there's this reinforcement of the idea by the end:

[ID: Dungeon meshi manga page showing Laios, Chilchuck, and Senshi shouting "A balanced diet!!" "R-regulating our daily rhythms!!" "And moderate exercise!!" respectively, followed by the three in various poses in front of the word "VICTORY" and Laios saying "If we watch these three points...we'll naturally work our way to strong bodies!!"]

Anyways this is all very disorganized and I have other things I need to do and I could write a more cohesive, actually organized thought piece on all of this with like, coherent points, but I don't really like to delve into literary analysis on my fandom account. it just lives in my head, rent free. thank you for coming to my ted talk tumblr. don't expect to see more of this, lol.

*I say same goal, which is not to say the only goal. stories can have more than one theme, it's ok if you disagree with me on this, but please bear in mind that I'm speaking very, very broadly.

#dunmeshi #dunmeshi spoilers #frieren #frieren spoilers #esque thoughts #dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #meta esque

[mikashisus]

Abandon Ship

"had i told the sea what i felt for you, it would have left its shores, its shells, its fish, and followed me."

— nizar qabbani

summary: With one of the Remurian fleets hot on your tail and stolen treasure of the crown on your ship, you were ready to take to the Eastern Seas.

When one of your crewmates catches a mermaid of all things on the outskirts of the Dark Sea, you finally think you’ve hit the jackpot when it comes to treasure.

In the end, however, you come to a startling revelation: is all the treasure in the world really worth more than a life? And suddenly, you have to make a choice… either a huge sum of gold, or the man you’ve fallen head over heels in love with.

pairing: mermaid!neuvillette x fem!pirate!reader

content warnings: angst, slight mentions of traff!cking (not detailed, dialogue centered), foul language, mentions of alcohol, violence, mentions of trauma, mentions of torture (not detailed, dialogue centered), blood and injury, and suggestive themes

other disclaimers: very canon divergent, takes place a few hundred years before the archon war, mc would have a pyro vision if this was post-archon war, mentions of other characters, use of ocs for plot purposes

regula solis epoch masterlist

ch.1 wc: 5.7k

author’s notes: it was about time i made a pirate/mermaid au, and who better to do it with than neuvillette.

originally, this was also supposed to include wriothesley, but after awhile of deliberation, i decided not to. instead, one of my ocs is gonna be a second lead to fill in the love triangle.

if u get attached to my oc, im sorry. dw tho, he also appears as a second lead in one of my venti fics ;)

CHAPTER 1

The Remurian ports were exceptionally busy in the late afternoons, when the sun was falling slowly over the ocean’s horizon and the cerulean waves lapped roughly against the wooden docks of the harbor. Deep oranges and enchanting pinks filled the sky as the sun cast a golden glow upon the faces of the passerby.

Merchants shouted eagerly, their voices overriding one another as they fought to ring in new customers. People from all walks of life filled the harbor, stopping briefly to awe at the wares being sold at the vendor stalls. The lively chatter echoed through the late afternoon air, accompanied by laughter and the occasional discord.

A family passed by, their thick accents revealing them to be desert folk from the lands ruled by the Scarlet King. They gawked at the gorgeous, finely handcrafted Remurian jewelry a vendor was selling. The vendor welcomed them with a warm smile and a friendly wave. Despite the language barrier, the two parties grew to understand one another through mere gestures and patience.

The heat from the bodies packed together in the vicinity and the warm Summer air did not help to alleviate your growing frustration. As you shuffled through the tight crowds of the busy harbor, someone shoved their way past you. You sent them a sneer and returned their sentiments with an elbow jab, before tipping your hat over your eyes and upping your pace.

As you walked, the golden feather on your belt jingled loudly, joined by the sound of the tiny silver bells adorning your boots.

A cool, refreshing evening breeze blew past, knocking your hat up. The sky was beginning to fade into a wondrous blue. The wind of the North appeared ever-present, causing a smile to break out onto your lips at the thought.

Wherever you were in the world, her protection hovered over you like a safety net.

The heels of your boots clacked against the cobblestone as you turned your attention back to the task at hand. All you needed was a few tools to fix a cannon.

The last ones you owned had been tossed overboard after one of your crewmates broke them in half due to his rather hardy grip. The matter was not one of utter importance, but you preferred to have working cannons at all times.

Thankfully, you knew someone in the harbor who would be more than willing to give you the tools you needed. Your eyes wandered the harbor, searching for the shop with a wooden fist as its logo. The tools shop could be easily visible during the day, but not so much at night. It was a relatively small shop; It branched off from the well known blacksmithing shop in the city.

One too many times have you paid a visit to the forgery owned by a man who was old enough to be your father. You spent way too many Summers in that forgery, hacking away at iron with one of his hammers and wiping the sweat from your brow.

The forgery was always scalding hot, putting even the most blazing Sumeru summers to shame. The heat always made you feel dizzy and dehydrated, as if you would melt into a puddle right where you stood. Stepping outside after a long afternoon’s work always felt refreshing. The fresh breeze felt like icicles on your scorching skin as you dumped a bucket of ice cold water over your head.

You were lucky you never suffered from a heat stroke.

Absentmindedly, you kept a hand steady on your scabbard. Upon reaching the tools shop, you loosened your grip. The blade at your hip had not been pulled for quite some time, though you always kept a hand resting on its hilt.

After years of carrying it with you, you adopted a habit of staying on guard. It was a mere precaution your father taught you to take during your childhood when he first let you pick up a sword.

The excited chatter of the harbor began to dwindle as the sun fully faded over the horizon and the sky was cloaked in a blanket of blues and purples. The crowds that once took homage on the docks severed like the late afternoon breeze. Vendors packed up their wares for the night, and the loud hustle and bustle hushed into idle whispers.

The loud clacking of your boots against the pavement came to an abrupt stop as you eagerly greeted the man standing behind the counter of the tools shop. A warm smile graced your lips.

You couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief that this young man was the one manning the shop at this hour. The gods seemed to be on your side of the sails as of late.

“Mory!”

You tipped your hat in greeting and leaned your elbow against the wooden countertop. Your other hand came to rest in a fist on your jutted out hip. One of your legs crossed over the other as you let the counter support half of your weight. The golden chains on your hat jingled with your movements, as did the golden feather hanging from your belt.

“Business boomin’ today, I presume? Sure looks like it did.” You motioned to the small amount of tools missing from their display, and the diminishing crowd behind you.

The harbor was closing for the day. You were awfully lucky you arrived when you did.

The young man before you scoffed. “Not much, ‘m afraid, Cap’n.”

Mory Maye was a young man of only eighteen years old, with tousled dark brown curls on his head and striking hazel eyes that bore directly into your soul. His skin was perfectly kissed by the sun, a testament to the years of working harsh summers in the openness of his father’s forgery, as well as a depiction of his mother’s Sumerian genetics.

It was the very same forgery you worked in before your father taught you the ways of the sword.

His father, a kindhearted and deeply compassionate man who was undeniably loyal to those he considered his family and friends, was Tyler Maye; or, “Ol Ty” in the streets of the harbor. Due to the man’s ailing health, he assigned young Mory to take over the forgery for him in a few months’ time, when he would be leaving the comfort of his home to go stay in a hospital where his health would be monitored constantly.

His declining health and your time out at sea hindered your chances of visiting him. The man treated you like his own daughter, yet you would not be able to see him from here on out. Your status as a criminal blocked out any chances you had at possibly paying him a visit while he was in the hospital. Although it saddened you, there was absolutely nothing you could do about it.

As for Mory, he occasionally worked at the forgery with his two brothers, Lear and Nicolas. When he was not working under the blazing sun at the forgery, he was manning this tools shop and selling wares to the same few customers who stopped by— one of them being you. It was practice for when he would take over both businesses.

His work at the forgery was evident in the calluses on his hands and his bulging muscles. Anyone could spot that he was a hard working boy that spent long hours refining weapons since he was ten years old. Many were more than impressed with his handiwork and physique— namely, the girls in the city that walked in circles around the shop just to watch him hack away at iron with a hammer you once used during your time working there.

One of those girls was the daughter of a nobleman that stopped by everyday to start idle chatter with him. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that she was deeply infatuated with him and was desperately trying to get his attention. She was akin to a lovesick puppy. However, she was incredibly soft spoken, and it did not help that Mory failed to realize her shy flirting time and time again. He was a little dense when it came to love.

“How long will you be ‘ere, Cap?” He questioned, watching as you placed a small bag of coins onto the countertop.

A sigh escaped your lips. “Not long, I’m afraid. Plannin’ to leave Remuria and head off towards the Eastern Seas pretty soon.”

A sound akin to a disgusted grunt left his mouth. His tone dropped down to a serious one as he made eye contact with you. “Better watch those seas, Cap. They ain’t kind… ‘specially since they’re close to that ‘Dark Sea’ the sailors keep talkin’ ‘bout.”

He wrapped a small set of tools in a bag made of cloth and took the gold coins you gave to him. He stopped short as he finished counting, “You gave me twice as much the price, Cap.” He sent you a confused glance.

A hand reached forward to ruffle his hair, messing his curls up further. A smile graced your lips. “Buy yourself that nice broadsword you been eyein’ from Idostin. Consider it recompense to Ol Ty for all that he’s done for me all these years.”

A small pink tint appeared on his cheeks, hardly visible due to his finely tanned skin. A bright smile broke out onto his face, revealing his pearly white teeth. He nodded curtly. From his relaxed shoulders and his giddy expression, you could tell he was more than thankful. “Thanks, Cap. I reckon I will.”

You nodded and sent him a pointed look. “And talk to that girl, while yer at it.” You took the bag of tools and tied it to your belt. “Ol Ty’s gonna start pesterin’ you ‘bout a partner soon. Hop to it before the naggin’ begins.”

Knowing that old geezer, he was more than likely already bothering Mory about the matter of marriage and finding a partner. Your own father used to do the same when you were Mory’s age.

The young man rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. A frown made its way to his face. “I know Pop’s wantin’ to see me married before he goes, but I don’t wanna force myself. Plus, I got my whole life to find the right person. I…” he sighed, “I think I already have.”

The look he sent you said it all. For many years, you have known of his obvious crush on you. The time spent together in the forgery and in your father’s backyard refining your swordsmanship spoke of years of longing glances tossed your way and standing way too close for comfort. His jokes and laughter that permeated the air as you slacked off instead of working, his invites to the beach, and the gifts that he brought you— they all told of his feelings for you.

But you were too old for him, and he needed to know that.

Turning the boy down was never easy, but you felt as if you had to shout it in his face now for him to actually get it through his thick skull. The way his face fell, filled with heartbreak and despair, was also never easy. But it had to be done.

He shut his eyes tight, a heavy sigh leaving his lips. His brows furrowed together in hurt. As his hazel eyes opened to glance up at you with the look of a kicked puppy in them, you felt the guilt well up inside you.

“I know, Cap.” The hurt in his cracked voice did not help with the guilt you were already feeling. “I’ll talk to Lady Madeline the next time she stops by Pop’s forgery.”

Through your guilt, you mustered up a small smile and clapped him on the shoulder. For a young man with experience working in a forgery and muscles bigger than most boys his age, he winced at the impact of the smack. You didn’t hit him that hard, did you?

“Glad to hear it. I’ll see ya when the sea brings us back to Remuria.” You bid him farewell, the guilt from before leaving your veins as you began to leave the shop.

He returned your warm smile and waved high into the air. “May the North Wind bless your sails, Cap!”

The ship rocked carefully along the incoming tides on the edges of the shore. The sun had completely fallen over the horizon, long replaced by a blindingly white moon high in the dark sea of stars.

It was a quiet night. The sounds of water dripping from the ceiling of the cave and the soft chatter of sailors on the ship were a welcome melody. In the distance, a bird chirped as it flew through the cloudless sky.

Taking a seat on the edge of the ship and dangling her feet over the side, she listened to the soft gossip of the sailors working on the ship behind her. Before the captain returned, lots of work had to be done. The ship had to be thoroughly cleaned, everyone’s clothes were to be washed, a new import of fresh food and water had to be picked up from the harbor, and the small boy on board had to be fed and babysat.

She recounted the day’s events.

Before the captain left for the harbor, she helped in thoroughly cleaning the ship and fixing the cannons. The captain also helped out with retrieving the fresh goods from a friend of hers nearby. After all of that work was finished, she gave a few final orders to her crew, and disembarked on a small trip to the harbor to buy new tools to fix one of the cannons.

Leni let out a content sigh as she closed her eyes. It was the perfect night for a stroll. She had taken one earlier during sunset. It was a quick stroll, as she had to return to the ship and carry out the captain’s orders in her stead. Though it was only a few minutes, she was thankful for the respite from the constant rocking of the ship.

Although she had gotten used to being on a ship, there were times when she missed being on land and on stable ground. Months out on the sea were quite tiring. A small break from it to take in the Remurian Summer breeze was very much needed— not just for her and the captain, but for the rest of the crew as well.

In the distance, she spotted a familiar figure making their way towards the cave. She squinted, trying her best to make out the figure in the darkness. Upon seeing their hand wave high into the air to greet her, a bright smile erupted onto her face. She jumped up from her spot.

The sand was damp in the cave, causing your boots to sink as you walked. Due to the criminal record The Night Howler’s crew possessed, you had to dock the ship a safe distance away from Capitolium, Remuria’s capitol. That was why the ship had to be hidden in a grotto behind a waterfall. It was a safety precaution.

You walked up the sturdy wooden ramp leading onto the ship and greeted your crew with a tip of your hat. You placed your hands on your hips as

you began barking orders around the ship.

“All hands! We take to the seas in ten minutes!”

Letting out a sigh, you untied the bag of tools from your belt. Vincent, your main handyman on board, walked up to you. You placed the bag of tools into his large, callused hand.

He was a rather large man, with scars all over his biceps and a full beard that made him look older than he was. He was taller than most of the crew and acted as everyone’s big brother. Any heavy duty work was passed to him to handle. Out of the entire crew, he was one of the most reliable.

He took the bag and let out a heavy sigh. “‘M rather sorry ‘bout the tools again, Cap’n.”

He had a thick South Remurian accent that most of the sailors in the royal navy possessed. A majority of the South Remurian population had this accent, as did you and your late father. However, your accent was not as thick as Vincent’s.

A reassuring smile made its way to your lips. “No worries, Vin. Those ones were old anyway. We needed a new set.”

Some of your crew was idly standing by, chatting amongst each other as they prepared the ship. The loud clapping of your hands drew them out of their stupor, making them flinch. You sent them a pointed look as they turned to you.

“We leave in less than ten minutes! Do you lot not know the meaning of ‘get to work’? Or do I have to show you?”

They vigorously shook their heads and picked up their pace, preparing the ship faster than before.

“No, Captain!”

Your brows narrowed. “Then get to it!”

The sound of your yell prompted them to move faster. They scrambled along the deck to do as they were told. You turned back to Vincent with a sigh and an expectant look that told him to get moving. He did not need to be told twice. He cleared his throat and excused himself before shuffling his way down below the deck to fix that stubborn cannon.

A smooth voice permeated the air as your first mate sauntered up to you with her hands on her hips. “Look who’s back from the port!” She let out a giggle, “You sure know how to make an entrance, Captain!”

Leni, your first mate, had luscious black curls that were currently tied up into a high ponytail with a bandana. A few stray strands of hair fell to frame her round face. Her copper skin shone like bronze under the light of the lanterns littered around the ship. Her viridescent eyes were a welcome sight after the hours you spent in the harbor.

The sleeves of her tattered white blouse were rolled up to her elbows, exposing a few of the cultural tattoos dancing along her forearms. Two of the top buttons of her blouse were undone, and a beaded necklace lay flat against the curvature of her collarbone. A few golden bangles adorned her left wrist.

As she stopped in front of you, your shoulders immediately relaxed at her presence. You let out a huge sigh of relief and brought her in for a tight hug. The smell of saltwater and Sumeru roses wafted off of her person. They were a contrasting combination, but it comforted you nonetheless.

The two of you met during your days of working in Ty’s forgery, when the sun beat down harshly on your damp skin, and the heat from the furnaces made you dizzy. At that time, she was only a visitor to Remuria. She claimed to have been on vacation, but appeared to be by herself with no one to accompany her. With what little money she had, she asked you in her native language to repair her mother’s old polearm.

You didn’t quite understand what she said at first, but you could tell from her hand gestures alone that she wanted the weapon repaired.

With careful and precise work, you dutifully restored the weapon. You admired the finished work, complimenting the original craftsmanship of the handle, and the cultural symbols engraved into it.

Leni, with as much effort as she could muster, thanked you for your work in Remurian. To your surprise, she picked up the language quite quickly by listening in to the conversations happening around her in the city. You offered to teach her the language in its entirety, and she gratefully accepted.

You learned more about her family when she moved in with you.

Both of her parents had been born into a tribe in the Sumeru Desert. There, they were dancers who carried dual swords and practiced a sacred art passed down through many generations. At the time of Leni’s thirteenth birthday, her parents had passed away unexpectedly due to reasons that were unknown to you. However, with the way she spoke, you knew it most likely had to do with matters within their tribe.

In a hurry to escape, Leni fled the desert and sought refuge in Remuria, where she began anew after meeting you and your father.

Despite whatever she may have faced before you met her, you were more than grateful that she was here, standing tall in front of you with a blinding smile on her face and filled head to toe with enthusiasm. Her smile was always a welcome sight when you harbored any stress or worries.

Whenever she smiled, her eyes would close and crinkle together, dimples would dent her cheeks, and her small nose would scrunch up. She always showed her teeth as well, where you could spot a small gap in between two of her teeth on the upper left side of her jaw— supposedly from a time when she got a tooth knocked out of her mouth. She had freckles, too; They were just barely visible, but if you focused hard enough, you could see them.

Vincent returned from below the deck, wiping the sweat from his brow. He walked towards you, his hands covered in grease and the smell of gunpowder wafting off of his person.

“We’re ready for departure, Cap’n.” He told you. Before you could ask, he answered your unspoken question with a hearty smile. “Tha’ stubborn cannon is fixed, too. No need ta worry ‘bout it anymore.”

You returned his smile and let out a relieved sigh. “Good. Make way for the Eastern Seas!”

At your command, the ship began to take off, slowly rocking as it gained speed and disembarked from the cave. As it passed through the waterfall, freezing water poured over your head, drenching you head to toe. You let out a small laugh.

The cold water felt refreshing on your hot skin after spending your afternoon in the blazing sun. The nighttime air was brisk, though it was not cool enough to fully get rid of the sweat forming on the brows of your crew.

The ship picked up speed as it left the mainland, easing into a steady pace as the waves passed gently underneath. The ocean was calm tonight. It was a stark contrast to the raging storm you faced upon entering Remuria two months ago. The sails of your ship were blessed with a fairly serene voyage this time, it seemed.

As the wind blew, ruffling your hair, you noticed a look of contemplation on Leni’s face. She stood shoulder to shoulder with you, her hands on her hips and her chin held high. An aura of confidence radiated off of her. It was one that dared others to challenge her. The crease in her brow made you wonder what was on her mind. There was a subtle movement in her thin lips that looked almost like a tug at her bottom lip.

She had a habit of biting her bottom lip whenever there was something troubling her. That, and she would begin playing with the gold bangle on her wrist. At that moment, she reached for the bangle on her wrist and began fiddling with it. Immediately, you knew that something was worrying her. Before you could open your mouth to ask what was on her mind, she spoke.

“Where are we headed now, Cap?” She questioned, gently jabbing you in the side with her elbow.

“Inazuma.” A smirk appeared on your lips as you watched her verdant eyes go wide in mixed horror and surprise. “The land of the Narukami is a frightening one, but we’ll conquer it like we always do. Plus, I know someone within the merchant’s guild that would be more than willing to take that bounty off our hands.”

The wooden deck creaked under your boots as you retreated into the captain’s quarters. With a bit of hesitation, Leni followed. She allowed the door to slam shut behind the two of you. The cabin was encased in a brief silence, the only sound being the splashing of the waves outside your closed windows.

The bounty you mentioned sat on your table in the middle of the room, the pure gold and vibrant emeralds glittering in the light of the moon that filtered in through the glass window to your left.

The stolen crown of Queen Catalina weighed heavy on the ship like an anchor. The prized possession was worth more than the entirety of Mondstadt and King Remus’ treasure vault combined.

Next to you, Leni sent you an uneasy glance. “(Name)... is this really going to sell for a high price? It’s not even from Remuria… it’s from Western Mondstadt’s god king.”

Unlike you, Leni did not know much about the gods of other lands. She had been born into a tribe that worshipped The Scarlet King and the Goddess of Flowers. They did not have much knowledge on other gods— besides Morax, but that was an entirely different story.

As you approached the table, you reached for the crown and picked it up, being careful not to touch the emeralds embedded into the gold. This crown was the real deal, with authentic emeralds carved expertly to fit into the base, and a special engraving on the inside that spelled out the queen’s full title:

The god of memories, Queen Catalina Elizabeth Blair.

“It’ll sell for higher than the price we require,” you reassured Leni. “Do ya know how famous Mondstadt’s Queen is? She’s the firs’ god to ever roam the icy, Northern plains. The Thousand Winds themselves answer to her. Celestia favors her. That god king has the whole of the world an’ the heavens wrapped around her finger. Her stolen crown will land us a heap of gold— more gold than we’ll know what to do with!”

An exhausted sigh escaped Leni’s lips as she closed her eyes. She crossed her arms over her chest. “What beats me is why the crown was in King Remus’ treasure vault. Why is it in Remuria if it belongs to a god of Mondstadt?”

You let out a small scoff and gently placed the crown back onto the table. You shrugged and leaned back against the table. “Who knows? The gods are always at war. It was probably stolen by one of King Remus’ royal fleets after the Daybreak War that lasted a hundred years.”

The Daybreak War landed itself a spot in the history books in the wake of its aftermath. It was a notorious war spanning over an entire century, involving two relentless god kings: King Remus and Queen Catalina. It was said to have begun at daybreak, and ended a hundred years later at the very same time.

Historians claimed that almost half of Teyvat’s general population had been wiped out during the war, and that Celestia itself had to personally intervene before the two gods called a ceasefire.

It all began when King Remus attempted to invade Queen Catalina’s territory and disturb the peace and tranquility of the Northern icy plains of Mondstadt. He took half of her people under his rule, proceeded to treat them poorly, and took away any rights they had to their prior freedom. This act of defiance and unfairness severely angered the Queen of the North.

Talk that spread in the streets of every nation spoke of how the Queen’s wrath towards King Remus was enough to bring down the heavens, rip open the sky, and shake the very core of the earth. Her undying love towards her people and desire to regain their freedom was incredibly admirable. It was also extremely rare for a god to have that much kindness and compassion in their heart.

The Queen of the North called for reinforcements from the Thousand Winds, upon which they answered her calls. She emerged from the war as the victor. Her power and her strength was a force to be reckoned with, and the gods that roamed the lands of other nations were well informed not to pick a fight with the Queen of Mondstadt— lest they face retribution from the endless whipping winds.

Even Decarabian, the god of storms who resided in the opposite direction of the Queen’s territory, knew better than to test her patience. However, in recent years, he slowly began inching towards her land, and soon enough, he would begin to cross the border.

You awaited any news from the friends you had in Mondstadt regarding any signs of potential war. If another war were to unfold, you would be called back to your mother’s homeland to fight alongside the Queen and her knights.

The Queen of the North had your utmost trust and loyalty. If she commanded you back, you would go without hesitation.

The Night Howler, the ship you inherited from your late father, was a fugitive ship in Remuria. It was not only because you had stolen directly from King Remus’ vault, but also because you pledged loyalty to Her Majesty, his sworn enemy. However, you had no intention of returning the crown back to her.

You did not harbor any guilt, as you were already aware that she did not care for the item in the first place. You were free to do whatever you pleased with it. You could even keep all the money you received from selling it off.

A worried call from one of your crewmates drew your attention away from the conversation.

“Captain!”

You shared an uneasy look with Leni, before she rushed forward to swing open the door to the captain’s quarters. You followed her out onto the deck. The crewmate that previously called out to you handed you a spyglass. You took it without question and adjusted it as you held it up to your eye.

An involuntary groan of frustration left your lips. On the horizon, encased in a thin layer of fog, was a Remurian ship belonging to the navy. Its sky blue sails billowed in the wind as it sped across the restful waters. The intense glow of the moon passed over the shimmering golden crest of Queen Iris.

A chill ran down your spine as a breeze passed by. It served as a warning of the upcoming chase that was likely to occur.

A scowl formed on your face. Of the entire naval fleet of Remuria, the ship that had to be tailing The Night Howler was one of Queen Iris’. It seemed your luck was starting to dwindle.

Leni sent you an expectant look, to which you placed the spyglass in her hand. After a moment, a small gasp escaped her lips.

“Queen Iris. Of all people.”

A scoff left your best friend’s peach colored lips. She tossed you a glance filled with exasperation. “She wants the crown back for her King.” You couldn’t help but agree with her.

The infamous Queen Iris was the Southernmost ruler of King Remus’ territory, overlooking the Irenian Sea that connected Remuria and the ancient land of Natlan. Among King Remus’ four lords that were given a snippet of his power, Queen Iris was the most feared and wealthy.

The woman was strong-willed, strategic, and witty. She possessed the largest naval fleet of the four lords. Currently, the estimation stood at ten thousand men and women alike. She required the best of the best. Those who wished to join her ranks could not be seen as mediocre. They had to be perfect— no more and no less.

That said, the expectations and pressure she held over their heads was an inexplicable amount. Any sailor was lucky to not work under the devilish lord of the South.

And to be on opposing forces of Queen Iris was to be doomed with a fate worse than death itself. Lucky for you, you were smarter than the scrawny, brainless men she sent after you time and time again. You, on countless occasions, out-witted her fleets and sent them running with their tails between their legs.

Needless to say, you haven’t seen the same men twice. You could only assume they were disposed of after their failed attempts of dragging your ship and your crew back to their beloved Queen.

Instead of treating this like a life or death situation, you treated this like a game of cat and mouse.

Queen Iris liked to believe you were the mouse simply because your ship was smaller than her fleets, and your crew was not made up of trained soldiers. Trained soldiers or not, your crew was some of the finest swordsmen you have ever met. They outclassed Iris’ royal fleets anyday.

If Queen Iris wanted to play another round of this seemingly endless game, who were you to not entertain her? After all, you were used to being on wanted lists. She could try her scare tactics all she wanted, but you were well informed on her battle strategies by now. You had the upper hand.

Although she was given power by a god, it did not scare you in the slightest. She was not even half of what King Remus claimed to be. Neither he, nor his four lords scared you. The only god that did was the wrathful god that was Queen Catalina’s lover.

“Full speed ahead, men!” you yelled. “If it’s a game Lady Iris wants, then it’s a game the devil will get!”

The sound of laughter filled the air as the crew rushed around, preparing the ship accordingly as it lurched forward at the highest speed it could possibly go. You placed your hands on your hips as a smirk made its way onto your face.

Leni let out a sigh. “You’re enjoying this too much, Captain.” Her verdant eyes were glossed over with a tinge of annoyance for your behavior. You simply nudged her with your elbow.

“Am I? Come now, my dear Leni. The Queen is gracin’ us with her attention once more! This is more attention than any of those snotty royal navy boys will get from her in their lifetimes!” You wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into your side.

Another sigh escaped her lips. This one was filled with exhaustion. A smile tugged at her lips. “I have no doubt in your abilities to outsmart her, Cap. Lead us to victory once more.”

author’s notes: i know what you're thinking ... "ray you haven't finished your other fics yet!!!" I KNOW IM SORRY I PROMISE I'LL FINISH THEM 🙏 anyways, welcome to volume one of the regula solis epoch!! this is a fic series that takes place a few hundred years before the archon war and is very canon divergent. however, i'm going to try to stay true to the lore of remuria to make this more realistic!!

taglist — (open) ;

divider: @/cafekitsune

next | masterlist

#— ☀️ the regula solis epoch #— 🌊🐚 abandon ship #genshin impact #genshin #genshin x reader #angst #neuvillette #neuvillette x reader #genshin neuvillette #neuvillette x you #pirate au #mermaid au #fontaine #genshin impact au

[climbthemountain2020]

Flame of Autumn - Chapter 16

Part 17/26 | Ao3

Eris

It had been a week since the worst and best day of their lives thus far, and Eris was fighting every single base urge the mating bond thrust upon him each time he saw his mate and knew she was pregnant with their child. He’d barely let her leave the room since, both because of the sudden protective streak he was experiencing, but also because it had triggered something feral in him that required him to pull her naked body back into their bed every time she tried to depart it. She would giggle and they’d resume right where they left off, touching and laughing and exploring each other again. It was like they were experiencing the frenzy of the bond all over again, but Eris wasn’t complaining. 

He knew this couldn’t last–knew something would disturb this fragile, glorious peace–but gods, he wanted it to.  

That morning, a letter had arrived in their rooms requesting his presence in the throne room at sunrise, and he was regretting his duties every second he spent not in bed with Tilly. She was still sleeping, bordered by dogs on each side, as he kissed her gently and left their rooms. He knew she’d been tired lately, and he wasn’t going to wake her for no reason. He left a note with her breakfast, remembering fondly the first time he’d done so, and tried to make this one a bit sweeter. 

Good morning, beautiful creature 

You simply looked too peaceful to wake, and I hope you’re having wonderful dreams–of me, obviously. I brewed your favorite tea, set to stay heated, as well as procuring more chocolate tarts. I’ll be back in an hour or so. 

All my love, 

E

He tucked it under the pillow when he set her tray on the night table, taking another look at her and wondering how he’d possibly lucked into this. Beron aside, he didn’t know how anyone could have received such fortune in life. Perhaps the universe was finally allowing him a reprieve in exchange for the previous five centuries of torture. 

He walked to the throne room, cracking his neck as he went and preparing mentally for whatever Beron had in mind. He tried to smother the happiness he felt so it wouldn’t show on his face, letting that steel mask slide into place as it always did. He walked in with purpose, sketched a bow, and rose. 

“How may I be of service, father?”

“I need you in Dawn Court to finish brokering the deal for the new adaptive armor we commissioned.” Eris was aware of this deal. Thesan had agreed, after much negotiation, to create armor for the soldiers of Autumn. It had certain specifications in mind, made them stronger, heat resistant, and less likely to melt in the case of an onslaught of fire magic. It wasn’t out of the ordinary, but Eris hadn’t done much with it at this point. It wasn’t a particularly difficult trip, though. They might even be able to stop by Day Court and talk to Helion before returning home. 

“Yes, father. When will we be leaving?” 

“Tomorrow morning. You will need to go alone, and be subtle there. I don’t want to risk anyone seeing you and thinking we’re brokering some type of alliance. That’s the last thing we need.” Eris was immediately uncomfortable with Tilly being left behind, his instincts roaring within him to stay nearby and protect her, protect their baby.

“Understood, father.” 

“I will be off to the mortal lands for meetings with the human queens.” This information did shock Eris, but he kept his expression schooled. 

“The human queens? I did not realize we were still in contact after the mishap with Brialyn.” 

“Yes, I am building contacts with them. More allies can never hurt, especially not when they have a tense relationship with the Night Court.” Beron leered in a way that sent a chill through Eris. At least Beron would be far from Tilly in his absence. “Do not disappoint me, Eris. This is a very simple deal, and I need it to go through without any issues.” Eris simply bowed. 

“Yes, father.” 

On his way back to their rooms to pack, he thought about how he might approach the meeting with Helion. He could send a parchment from Day that was unlikely to be intercepted begging for an audience, then go straight there after Day to speak with him. He could see if Helion would be willing to at least help break the charm preventing Beron from being poisoned so that they could try again. Truly, he knew Helion wouldn’t do anything to compromise Alanna’s sons, as much as he hated Beron. He knew he’d be safe in Day, even if he wasn’t well-liked. He could explain the situation to Helion, and perhaps he would warm more if he knew the details. As a last resort, he could even exchange his knowledge of Lucien. Eris didn’t like it for anyone’s sake, least of all his mother’s, and he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. 

Tilly had just risen when Eris returned. She was sitting there on the still-ruffled bed, eating her pastries. She smiled at him as he came inside, and Eris thought he’d never seen anything quite so beautiful. Her red hair was tousled, waving lazily in the low light, and she was wearing a silk dressing gown that slipped deliciously off one freckled shoulder. 

“Got your note!” She held it up with a grin. “Thank you for the tea and tarts. I might live off tea and tarts if you let me.” He laughed as he came and sat on the side of the bed, giving her a kiss and tasting the chai and chocolate on her lips. 

“I’m surprised the dogs aren’t here begging.” He’d practically had to pry Hestia away from Tilly this past week. She and Cinder had become incredibly protective, going nearly everywhere she went and growling at anyone else who got too close. 

“I gave them their breakfast a bit ago and I may have given them some sausages to get a little reprieve.” Her smile turned guilty as she said it, but her eyes were filled with mischief. He reached up, letting his hand graze her jaw lightly. 

“I have to go away for a few days.” Her face dropped at the news, worry creasing her brow. 

“Why? I can’t come?” He knew she would worry–he understood. 

“It’s just a few days in Dawn. I need to finish a deal for Beron, who will, blessedly, also be gone from the Forest House.” Tilly breathed a deep sigh of relief. 

“Well, that’s not so terrible. Despite missing you while you’re gone.” She smiled, but it didn’t quite meet her eyes. 

“I’ll be missing you every moment I am away. Perhaps you and my mother can spend some time together. I know she blooms when he’s gone, and it’ll keep you company, too.” She smiled and nodded. 

“I’d like that.” 

“And you’re good to keep the glamours up while I’m away?”

“Yes, I can do it. Not like I’d be using any other magic without you here.” She laughed a little, and he relented, kissing her again. A few quick pecks turned slower, more sensual. He could never get enough of her, and he knew that no measure of time would satisfy him. He trailed the kisses down her chest, sending all the love and affection that burned through the pathways of his heart down the bond and into her as she inhaled deeply. 

He pressed a kiss to the spot beneath her navel as she sighed in contentment. He inhaled, loving the mix of flames and oranges that washed over him. It was going to be the longest few days of his life. 

“Are you absolutely sure you’ll be alright while I’m gone? Perhaps I can figure out a way–”

“Eris, it’s fine. I have spent so much of my life by myself. I can manage a few days.” He pouted, putting on a dramatic show for her as she laughed. 

“I am hoping to get a letter to Helion. Perhaps he might be able to help.” Her expression sobered as she sat back up, Eris rising with her to press a kiss to her bare shoulder. 

“Let’s hope he will.” 

Tilly

Tilly rolled stiffly across the bed, bumping the sleeping dogs and earning grumbles as she did. 

“Oh, hush. I can’t help it that I can’t sleep. You’re the ones choosing to be here, anyway.” Eris had been gone for a day now, and she missed him sorely, but it was so much worse at night. She hated sleeping away from him–had grown so used to his warm body curved around hers that she couldn’t sleep without him here. Even with three dogs on the bed, she felt cold and lonely. She rolled again, tugging the bond lovingly and sending sweet thoughts through that mighty ribbon to him. It took barely a moment before she felt it echoing back, his amusement–likely at her still being awake–dancing around with love and devotion. 

At this distance, the bond was so incredibly faint–delayed, even–but she was glad for it only to know he was safe and to have that small bit of comfort. She and Alanna had done tea in the garden that afternoon which had been a nice reprieve, especially with the lack of Beron’s overbearing guard lingering over them like a dark cloud. Tilly loved how much lighter the Lady of Autumn was when she wasn’t being chained down by Beron’s presence, but it made it so much more painful to see her locked back down upon his return. 

They’d discussed flowers and the weather, and Alanna had tentatively mentioned the upcoming solstice, but nothing about the ticking clock hanging over their heads. A part of her wondered if Alanna didn’t sense it, didn’t already know about the grandchild cradled within Tilly’s womb. They would have told her, but they didn’t want to be responsible for giving her a single additional piece of information that Beron could torture out of her or punish her for keeping from him. They’d have to figure out soon how long they planned to hide this before they absolutely couldn’t anymore. She hoped Eris’ meeting with Helion would produce some good leads and keep them from worrying about it altogether. 

Another roll and a frustrated sigh. She was probably only about two months along at most, and the uncomfortable nights would only become more commonplace from here. At least with Eris around, he could provide his warm hands pressed against her back for some relief. She smiled at the thought. Eris was going to be such a wonderful father, and as terrible as the circumstances were, she couldn’t help but feel genuinely excited about the prospect of seeing him in the role. She could imagine him rubbing circles into her back, holding her hands as she brought their baby into the world. She could picture Eris so vividly holding him or her against his chest, tiny tufts of bright red baby curls perfectly puffing up from the blanket. The visual brought tears to her eyes, as most things seemed to these days. 

A frantic pounding on the doors broke through the darkness. 

“Matilda! Matilda, help!” 

Alanna. 

The dogs were barking and snarling, and Tilly shot out of bed, grabbing her dressing gown to wrap tightly around her as she ran to the door. The pounding was growing louder and more hectic. 

“Matilda, please!” She threw up her glamours and waved down the wards in the same breath, swinging the door open in a panic. 

“Alanna, what’s–” 

But it wasn’t Alanna she found on the other side. 

She was greeted with the twisted smile of Aradnus, holding a handkerchief covered in a bright blue powder. The voice had been a trick of magic, and in the seconds it took her to put it all together and try to slam the door on him, he’d gotten his entire arm around her throat and pressed the cloth to her nose and mouth. She could think of nothing as her vision began to blur, her senses dulling rapidly. She struggled wildly against him, the dogs snarling and snapping behind her as he kicked the door closed on them, dragging her out into the hall. 

As the darkness closed in, she tried to reach out through the bond to warn Eris, but the golden thread of flame was nowhere to be found. 

Taglist (lomls): @cauldronblssd@queercontrarian@byyalady@thelovelymadone@clockwork-ashes@lovingkelj @lilah-asteria

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #eris x oc #eris vanserra #eris acotar #vanserra brothers #flame of autumn #arranged marriage #allies to lovers #eris vanserra x oc #acotar smut #Eris smut

[mezzy303]

The new one piece chapter has me spiraling sdjkfshf so here's a theory that crossed my mind and is becoming more plausible the more I think about it

Spoilers (obviously) under the cut

The tl;dr is: What if the world of One Piece has always had rising sea levels/sinking land? What if these natural events happen in an 800 year cycle? What if there was way more land (like the real world) before the formation of the World Govt?

I'm not gonna get into the details of why that is bc that is a different mind boggling discussion and it isn't really important here. But if there's always been that threat, it would explain so much about the Void Century and the True History.

As many people have already pointed out, the threat of the world sinking into the ocean explains why Noah was needed. It's a giant ship half the size of Fishmen Island that was meant to be raised to the surface, likely for the inevitable future where there's virtually no land above water. It could be that threat never happened at the end of the Void Century so Noah wasn't needed, but what if it did happen? This would suggest a huge event happened that caused sea levels to rise 800 years ago.

This ties into my next point, that the Great Kingdom was part of land that is now underwater. We've already seen that there's underwater ruins from Jinbe's cover story where Wadatsumi was throwing ruins onto an island, one such ruin being a poneglyph, meaning that kingdom (maybe the land that island was once part of) was either part of the Great Kingdom itself or allied with it. So it wouldn't be a stretch to consider that the Great Kingdom is also currently below the ocean. It would also have made it easier for the World Govt to completely erase the Kingdom from existence, since it was already underwater and inaccessible to most people other than Fishmen. I can't recall if any ruins that are Void Century old have been canonically shown, which would mean either they've been completely destroyed with nothing left, or the areas have been continuously lived in and renovated, or they're in the ocean and the majority of structures currently on land is younger than the Void Century AKA people moved to higher lands when sea levels rose. It could be all the above too! If the Great Kingdom was at risk of sinking, then Noah might have been meant to carry their displaced citizens.

If those during the Void Century knew sea levels would soon rise, it might have been the reason for all the turmoil that started the Great War. Conflicts over limited resources, about who will live and who will die, general fear and anxiety, things like that. The 20 kingdoms that eventually formed the World Govt might have been suspicious about how the Great Kingdom was using their resources and went to war with them. Maybe they were threatened by how much power the Great Kingdom had as they prepared for the natural disaster (ie. the ancient weapons and Noah; from what we know from Egghead, technology was incredibly advanced at the time). Maybe it was just all boiled down to wanting control over a terrifying situation.

If the land sinking into the ocean is a natural phenomenon, then Joy Boy's apology to the Fishmen and mentioning of his return would mean that the event would happen again. Maybe it happens in an 800 year cycle, which explains why Joy Boy (and those sea kings in the Fishmen Arc) knew that Noah was still needed and how he knew exactly when he'd return. It also explains why Rayleigh warned that if he told Robin about the Void Century when the Strawhats first arrived at Sabaody, she "wouldn't be able to do anything about it as she was then." I think I've always assumed this had to do with the formation of the World Govt and how to dismantle it, but it might actually be about how the world is sinking and through following the poneglyphs, one would find the way to save those in danger of being displaced. The Ohara scholars had discovered this, and now Vegapunk is continuing their legacy by making this info public.

And as I'm writing this, I'm realizing that if sea levels rise/land sinks in an 800 year cycle, this might be the "true history" of the world, or at least part of it considering Joy Boy's story made the Roger's Pirates laugh. But it certainly is important and relevant as the wikia site describes! But why would the World Govt try to hide this? I'm not entirely sure. Maybe for the sake of having control over information and thus having power over the world, but there could be so many other reasons. There's hints throughout the story that suggest they're still preparing for a world with almost no land though, such as the Tequila Wolf bridge that's supposed to connect islands together, and the fact that the founding monarchs moved their families to Mary Geoise on the Red Line. Law also stated in Punk Hazard that the Govt has been researching growth hormones to turn humans into giant soldiers, and they've been doing this for centuries. It's possible that the research was really for the capability to walk through parts of the ocean when there's no longer any land above water.

Anyway my brain is fried thinking about all these things lol. There's so many other factors to consider but I'll save that for a later time when I get more sleep sjdkfhsdk

#i hope this all makes sense in the morning LOL #i feel like that always sunny meme #one piece #one piece spoilers #one piece 1113 #joy boy

[mysticscorpia]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera Characters: Christine Daaé, Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny Additional Tags: A couple of children OCs, But they're not who you think they are, I like using parallels in my writing, Kind to Raoul, I made this tale up, Stories of the North?, death mention, Grief/Mourning, little bit of romance, post-musical, Post-Canon, Fix-It, AU, Set in Sweden, They have fields

Summary:

Christine finds a long lost man from her past, and listens to his tale.

BIG ANNOUNCEMENT! 

I’m now offically on AO3! I’m still EnigmaWritesStuff, though!

But, here’s the FFN link too, incase that’s your prefered one! 

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14248829/1/The-Bird-and-the-Whale 

I credit both @birdstooth​ and @nipuni​ in my AO3 author’s notes about their inspiration for me, for this phic! Thank you guys, keep being awesome!

#enigma writes stuff #poto #poto fluff #phanfic #phan fic #christine x erik #erik x christine #Enigma writes #I MAKE A RETURN TO THE LAND OF THE LIVING #I SURVIVED ISH #poto fic #Erik #erik the phantom #raoul de chagny

[ruthlesslistener]

The most disgusting fucking thing that zionists keep circling in response to palestinian suffering and people crying for an end to a genocide is the fucking cries about the thousand killed on october 7th

I don't care how many settlers died. I don't care. I don't care because 1,000 dead does not ever equate to 100,000 murdered and lost. It doesn't equate to all the horrendous suffering and the torture that Israel inflicts on innocents. It doesn't equate because human lives are not a fucking math equation and yet it becomes extremely fucking apparent that to these people it is because they view palestinian lives as so much lesser than those of the settlers that thousands of them cannot pay back the life of one colonizer

'Civilians shouldn't be killed' is the most neutral thing that can be said about a war and is IMPLICIT to saying that the Hamas attack on october 7th was poorly planned. But when israeli civilians are actively participating in the genocide of people they already were tormenting then it becomes really fucking hard to think of the people killed as innocents, and when they are being used as the justification to set military dogs on 4 year olds and to selectively target and destroy safe havens and ignore peace treaties then it is altogether. I dont care that nearly two thousand filthy fucking colonizers died because there is NO justification for the river of blood spilled in retribution, nor the painting of a race of people as terrorists despite only a scant handful of them being willing to bloody their hands in retribution for decades of torment

#vent #im seeing red #blood needs to be spilled. this is a toll that cannot go unpunished #i want every israeli leader and every government official to be burned alive and have their bodies thrown in the sewers #and if you try to make this about religion im tearing your fucking throat out with my bare hands #how DARE you insinute that judaism calls for this. how dare you view this as anything but a sullying of a holy book and a holy people #this isn't about religion. this is about conquest. this is about the rape of a land and the slaughter of its people #i want them dead and i want their bones to nourish the land #so that at least some part of their sick lives dont go to waste when palestine is returned #and i want the civilians of israel to be renamed as palastinian immigrants and forced to live with the ramifications of what theyve done #by god i dont know how they can even consider themselves as human anymore when the state washed it so thorougly from them

[ierogenvy]

it could be argued that the current trend of leaning into traditional female gender roles - women claiming to not want to work, to be anti feminist, to wanting to be housewives, and even the concepts of girl math and girl dinner - is derivative of the 2015 trend of cottage core. in this essay i will -

#dont mind me #essay oncoming? i don’t think so #not from me anyway. not yet. but there’s something here i think #not to mention the increasing influence of conservative christians and the right wing both in political and regular life #i saw people discussing (at some point in the past. dk names or dates) that cottage core is a modern age wish to be a colonist. to find some #cottage in the woods you can claim and make your own. to live off the land in a purely fictional way that isn’t tethered to the reality of #what it would take to do that. to farm to raise livestock ti actually live away from other people in that way #not to mention the colonial aspect of just taking some land and claiming it #so this modern anti feminist wave is similar to me. a return to the 1950s rather than the colonial era

[zincbot]

sometimes i see takes on firebenders that are. not very well thought out.

#lok #i'm specifically talking abt legend of korra cause i never really seek out atla fics #okay specifically. people like to put firebenders as victims of hatred and discrimination in republic city. i've seen it a lot #and sometimes it makes sense #but sometimes. like you have to remember that they don't ever show this social dynamic in the show. for good reason #the history of republic city is that of colonization from the fire nation. and statistically many people have historically been heard by #individual firebenders even outside of the war #*hurt by #so obviously there's a societal distrust that can definitely be seen. and there's an attitude in the earth kingdom that republic city should #be returned to the earth kingdom. despite it no longer belonging to the fire nation either and being independent #but basically. both fire nation and earth kingdom people have been living in republic city for a long time #and in both groups especially more nationalist ones there is an attitude where they look down on mixed people #but basically in republic city especially it's not a one-sided conflict. there are those who get along with their neighbors #and those who don't #it's unfair to put firebenders and fire nation people as the sole targets of discrimination in republic city. republic city is very unique #like. fire nation people in ba sing se is a different story #but even then this attitude stems from the conflict caused by the war. #basically. cultural relations in republic city are messy #especially between fire and earth people due to the history of the land and the city itself #but it's not a thing where earth kingdom people (and those who look like them) get an automatically easier time than fire nation people. #that's not how that works. it's extremely situational. #mako and bolin's mixed identities are really interesting. but a few too many times i've seen #'everybody loves bolin cause he looks earth kingdom and everybody hates mako cause he looks fire nation' that's not it. there is more nuance #ANYWAY. i love the cultural intricacies of avatar and i'll talk abt them forever

[fruitsofhell]

Last reblog has me thinkin a lot about Kirby remakes. You have Kirby’s Adventure and NiD where the artstyle is so glaringly different between the two it’s like you have to choose a side. And from what I’ve seen the fandom tends to (intelligently) show favoritism towards the original NES look. 

Then you have KSS and KSSU, the base of the last post, and I find the differences between the games to be slight yet substantial. Maybe I’m just blind and all 16-bit games look the same to me, but I couldn’t even tell the sprites were different the first time I played KSSU, but after actually playing KSS I could really feel the difference. The original has a much harsher and more gritty style, that I think a lot of people feel hasn’t aged well, but atleast I still think has tons of merit. For certain characters who need that darker or more expressive touch like Meta Knight and Marx I find the old sprites more flattering in a way. And I think the garishness of the pre-rendered backgrounds SHINES in Meta Knight’s Revenge because that sort of gross clash against the usual style is heightened for a mode about Meta invading with his war ship and foreign ideals.

But that actually brought me to our latest remake in RTDL DX. And like there is nothing really WRONG with the new style, it just makes me miss the wii game. The wii game looked basic in a really charming and balanced way that I think is lost in how bright and cell shaded the new game is. The worst sin being scenes that are meant to have more dynamic lighting - like inside Magolor’s ship or in the final cutscene as Another Dimension crumbles - where the more cartoony style just doesn’t gel. But like honestly, if it weren’t for very on the nose divisive stuff like Dedede’s redesign and the character outlines, it would be very hard to make a case for the merit of the original. Just cause to the average person in every sense of the world the new game looks like an upgrade graphically - Shinier, higher detail models, fancy new animations, and the ritz.

I hope over time people do come to really appreciate the wii version’s merit in it’s simplicity, mainly cause it’s another big comfort Kirby game so any change to it made in the remake rubs me the wrong way lmao. But also I do think it has some outside of my uber personal opinions.

#kirby #kirby's return to dream land #kirby's return to dream land deluxe #krtdl #krtdldx #kirby's adventure #kirby super star #shut the heck up #2am thoughts #i feel like even the series itself likes to give most credit to the originals so thats a nice thing to think about #i am also still salty about lore changes but i think those are also part of what i mean about the old games simplicity #magolor being from halcandra or not was like answered wholly by world building and envirornmental storytelling #but then the text says something that makes no gotdamn sense #and i mean i could have lived without mago epilogue BUT I DO LOVE IT DONT GET IT TWISTED #im really happy they chose to add on to that kinda plot hole #i just wish it left what was there in tact (merry magoland being ostensibly canon) #also ive mentioned the gameplay loop in the original is like really easy to just blast straight through #the new loop between magoland and the story mode is a bit more exhausting #once again its just like do i want the quick simple fix or the big meaty adventure #and idk sometimes i want the simple one #tag talking

[lyfeward]

forever rotating in my head the concept of Amis and the Messenger being friends and traveling companions. the Messenger possibly going home with him when he finally decides to return to Perendale. the whole plotline that exists in my head . . . the ideal outcome being Amis merging with the spirit of the Blasted Hills after giving the people control of their home . . . Amis being reluctant to go only because he will be leaving his friend behind. the spirit understanding and, yes, strengthening the bond that already exists between themself and Amis, but letting him go on the promise that he return when the Messenger has met their end . . .

#OOC / HOLLY. #it's a lot trust me #Amis who has been trying to cure the blight and the Messenger a sentient darkspawn #the healer befriending the disease #both of them united in a desire to help others #and the whole Perendale plotline . . . #just on its own without the Messenger it punches my heart out #but when you add the Messenger?? when you add Amis ONCE AGAIN denying eternal rest because he cannot abandon a beloved friend?? #the spirit understanding because Perendale values these bonds between people and communities?? #the promise to return when the Messenger dies?? living just to accompany him to death?? #then returning to give himself to the land and make it whole?? being truly at peace?? #being no longer the Pilgrim ever wandering but still the Healer mending the broken and forsaken?? #I know I'm being very vague about the details #I have them I just don't know if sldkgh they're really of interest #I'm just feeling emotions and I want y'all to know

[transhoverfish]

OH FUCK BELOW ZERO'S FIRST ANNIVERSARY WAS THE 14TH!!!! I MISSED THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY!!!!!! I THOUGHT IT WAS TOMORROW!!!!!!!!! NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!

#did everyone else forget or was i the only one planning on making a post :( #well. HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY BZ... I LOVE YOU THROUGH YOUR FLAWS..... #flaws include: froze to death on land and lost an entire inventory of items (tools and 1 titanium not included) #but upon returning to the exact location every single item was gone (AN ENTIRE INVENTORY BESIDES ONE FULL TOOLBAR AND A TITANIUM) #and also there was a piece of titanium that stayed put in the purple vents through three reloads in that same file #that one hurt me deep bz. it hurt me DEEP. but i FORGIVE YOU. DO NOT BREAK MY TRUST AGAIN #bz my beloved <3 #also unrated but like. subzero still sounds so much cooler than subnautica below zero. and its so much more fun type subzero #so like #subzero my beloved <3 #ANYWAYS. RARE UNSCHEDULED POST. IM TIRED AND I NEED TO WRITE SO MANY THINGS DOEN FOR MY WRITING BUT IM NOT #GOOD W WRITING THINGS DOWN I LIKE THEM TO LIVE IN MY BRAIN UNTIL I DUMP THEM IN A DRAFT #BUT ITS ALL JUST STRINGS OF LORE OR INFO ABOUT VARIOUS DIFFERENT THINGS AND I CANT JUDT STORE IT ALL ILL FORGET #THESE FINAL TAGS HAVE NOTHIN TO DO WITH SUBNAUTICA I JUST. VENTING MY ONE CHRONIC FORGET YOUR STORY BRAIN CELL. #THANK YOU FOR LISTENING ILL FINISH MY MARG FANFIC EVENTUALLY I PROMISE!!!!! THIS YEAR IS THE YEAR!!!! #subnautica #below zero #subnautica below zero

[pizzabookbuying]

was like deliriously happy for the past few days and I had no idea why but now I’m pretty sure it was because it was warm-ish for the first time in like a month

#and when I say warm I mean a few degrees above freezing #I also had LOADS of caffeine which didn’t help #But I felt like that one SpongeBob episode where he’s wearing a flower around his face #I could not stop giggling it was actually so embarassing to be in public #*I was also working on much fewer hours of sleep than normal #but also do you ever make a new ?friend? and you’re just insanely in love with them because they make you so happy and the world is so #bright and sparkly all of a sudden?? …yeah #hoping the delirium can clear enough for me to return to reality and process some of these emotions because living in crazy-land is fun but #it’s difficult to have human interactions like that #was a huge clown seriously like I’d be having a convo w any of my friends and could not stop giggling #like YES I do fall HARD for people but usually not this comically