#I literally physically recoiled from the sound

[awsydawnarts]

YouTubers stop using the waltz of the flowers, marzipan, trepak, and the dance of the sugar plum fairy as background music challenge

#my dancer brain cannot take it #i literally cannot watch safiya nygaard’s videos for months after nutcracker #ballet #nutcracker #mine #one time I was watching a kids class for teacher training purposes like a week after nutcracker and the teacher played the waltz of the #flowers #and that was right after I had been dew drop #I literally physically recoiled from the sound #the dancer post performance music ick is real

[cloudystevie]

scary my god you're divine

»» ──────ஓ๑ ღ ๑ஓ ────── ««

pairing || bucky barnes x f!reader

word count || 3235

summary || he would do anything for you.

warnings || smut! dom! bucky x sub! reader, possessive! bucky, a little bit of subspace, choking, little bit of exhibitionism kink, minor pain play, daddy kink (only three times okay i'm sorry i am who i am), degradation, unprotected sex

author's note || 18+ ONLY. not proofread yet. my very first request in a very long time! Anonymous asked: Could you write a Dombucky x Subreader? And if you wouldn't mind jealous!bucky, already established relationship and his dog tags on reader? hope you enjoy nonnie! as always feel free to send in requests or any asks! feel free to reblog! enjoy!

»» ──────ஓ๑ ღ ๑ஓ ────── ««

Today, a select few from the team are supposed to train the new agents, preparing them for the physical aspect of being an agent. Some made it fun or tolerable, like Steve and Sam, who were born leaders and charismatic. Natasha and Wanda enjoyed supervising the sparring sessions. Tony and Bruce enjoyed using technology to throw new obstacles at the agents.

Sometimes literally.

Unfortunately, your grumpy boyfriend, Bucky, just did not find any joy in training days. He didn’t like giving out instructions and praise unless it was you who was under him. He didn’t like supervising weak punches and miscalculated throws. And technology was just a straight-up no for him.

Usually, he could make himself useful with Steve, throwing out no-nonsense orders without making himself a massive part of the effort.

You were taking the elevator down to the gym floor. Fury had instructed you to check everything out and ensure everything went according to the itinerary. 

The doors open, and you glance around to ensure no immediate problems before letting your gaze fall on Bucky; his eyes are already on you. You offer him a bright smile, which he returns with a smirk, and your stomach flutters like it does every time you see him. You’re about 7 feet away from your boyfriend before you feel a hand on your lower back. You startle and turn around to face the newest agent. He has quickly climbed through all of SHIELD’s tests and proven himself to be of great value. He chatted you up last week at Tony’s charity ball, and you tried to let him down gently since you were already happily taken. Bucky was on a mission that day, and you didn’t want to add to his mental load by telling him about some punk who wouldn’t leave you alone.

Apparently, said punk, cannot take no for an answer.

“Back for more, cutie? You finally break up with your imaginary boyfriend?” Marcus teases, but really, he sounds more taunting than playful. You glance over your shoulder as you move away from his grip, and you already see Bucky glaring directly at the spot where Marcus’ hand was on your back. The stopwatch he was holding in his flesh hand shatters, and he doesn’t even flinch when Steve and Sam apologize for him, asking what was wrong as discreetly as they could but one glance over to where you were uncomfortably held hostage by the lean brunet man told them everything they needed to know. 

Bucky cracks his neck, rolling his shoulders up as he stalks towards you two. His looming presence is felt before you can see him in your peripheral vision. You glance up at him and take an instinctive step back toward his hulking body, breathing a sigh of relief because Marcus has to let up now.

He doesn’t.

“Oh hey, Sergeant Barnes, if you don’t mind I’m actually trying to talk to this chick so…” 

The way he talks about you as if you’re not right there makes you physically recoil. Bucky’s eyes harden; he’s not even squaring up to his full stature, and he already easily dwarfs Marcus. Bucky takes a step forward, and everyone in the room comes to a standstill. Everyone shuddering at the sheer anger rolling off of Bucky and the stupidity of Marcus.

Marcus huffs out a laugh. Maybe he gets a little pasty when he’s nervous because he seems to be digging himself a deeper hole when he says something about how many girls fall at his feet and Sarge, you've got to calm down. She’s not worth all that.

In an instant, Steve and Sam command everyone to return to their tasks, and the room begins to bustle again, but with a specific weary energy that was not there before. The very next second, Marcus is picked up by the collar of his black t-shirt and slammed against the wall, the room rattling with the force of it as all the recruits try to ignore the spectacle before them. 

“Touch her again, and I will kill you,” Bucky promises. “If you look at her, I will kill you. If you even think about her, I will fucking kill you. Understand?” His voice is a low grumble, the words resounding and reverberating as you watch Marcus sputter out panicked apologies and his flailing body while Bucky still looks so self-assured and composed. It's as if he’s not scaring a man to death while simultaneously making you drool.

You call out Bucky’s name, and he looks at you over his shoulder, pinning Marcus with one final glare and shove before letting him go as the agent does the walk of shame to the washroom. It’s almost like you’re frozen in your spot. You’ve seen Bucky get aggressive on missions before, but watching him be so willing to defend you, stand up for you when you couldn’t, not even hesitating for a second when he threatened to kill for you. And the worst part is, you were confident he was dead serious. 

Even worse, something about the principle of the situation was really doing it for you.

On the outside, it might have seemed like you were in shock or panic due to the agents’ actions, so Bucky whisked you away to a private interrogation room on the floor above the gym. The whole elevator ride there, his hand is protectively on your lower back, and you just watch the rigid set of his jaw and the anger and possessiveness written all over his features with unmistakable doe eyes. The air in the elevator is thick, and neither of you says a word. Before you know it, Bucky is easily lifting you and placing you on the metal table in the middle of the dull room, and his eyes are scanning yours for any hint of panic or if you’re upset. His hands cup your face gently, the cool vibranium soothing against your heated skin, and he finally breaks the silence. “You’ve gotta say something, baby. Are you okay? After this, that idiot’s going to be gone. I’m sorry if seeing me like that upset you, sweetheart-” Your rushed words cut off his ramble, “I thought that was really hot.” You say quietly and watch as Bucky’s face contorts from one of worry to one of confusion. 

“The way you stood up for me, you were so nonchalant about killing for me. I can’t lie, James. That kind of did something for me.” You continue, biting your lip and scanning him for his reaction, hoping he didn’t take your words in the wrong way. 

He’s silent for a moment. His chest moving steadily with each breath against yours. 

The next moment, his lips are pressed against yours, and you let a surprised squeak out. Your mouth slots open when his wandering hands roughly squeeze your thigh through your satin pants, getting dangerously close to the heat pulsing between your thighs. Taking advantage of your open mouth, Bucky slips his tongue inside your mouth and you buck your hips to seek some friction against your needy core. The kiss is passionate and renders your breathless as he consumes all of your senses. All you can think, see, smell, hear, and feel is James. 

His name falls from your lips in a gasp, you reluctantly pull away to catch your breath, letting your head lull to the side when he peppers sloppy kisses all over your jaw, trailing down your neck and biting and licking on your sweet spot. You swat at his firm bicep, “You’re gonna leave a mark James, stop it.” Your attempt at scolding him is weak, even to your own ears.

You feel Bucky smirk against your sensitive neck, his wandering hands cupping your ass and shamelessly groping and swatting at you. “Oh really? That’s too bad baby. Gonna be a pain to cover up.” He remarks, voice dripping in cockiness.

You scoff and bite back a whimper when he grinds his undoubtedly hard length against your clothed center. Your hands shoot out to stabilize yourself by holding onto his shoulders, a shiver crawling up your spine when a particularly slow grind nudges your aching clit. “You’re such a bad influence you know that?” Your voice lacks any real conviction. Your hips move in tandem with his, both of you sharing messy kisses and your bodies thrumming with lust and pent up energy. 

“I’ll kill anyone who even thinks about looking at you.” Bucky says assuredly, and you can’t help the mewl that escapes your lips at his words. Your hands shakily going to undo his black jeans as he messily pulls yours pants down, being considerate enough not to rip them considering there was still a little more than an hour until the SHIELD training day was over. “Bucky I need you, need you to please-” Your voice is shaky and desperate, as you struggle to unbutton his jeans. He shushes you gently, cooing at you sweetly as he easily unbuttons his jeans, just enough for you to promptly pull out his erect cock. Your mouth practically waters at his length and girth, and you spit onto your hand and begin rubbing his length, swiping your thumb gently over the tip making him hiss and push his hips into your hand. 

You bite your lip and look up at him through hooded eyes, and he slaps your hand away before tearing your panties in half, the top half covering your swollen clit and the bottom scrap of fabric falling limply against the cool table. You barely have time to scold him for ripping your panties before he’s shoving his whole length inside you in one fluid thrust. Your back arches, your legs wrapping around his waist as your buddy erupts in a shiver, a short scream escaping your lips. He swallows the noise with his mouth pressed against yours as he grunts into your mouth, waiting only a short second before he begins to thrust inside you. His thrusts are slow but hard, making the heavy metal table scrape against the floor with the force of each pass of his hips into yours. 

“You’re mine, mine to touch. Mine to have. Mine to take care of.” Bucky grunts out, his movements picking up in pace as emotion swirls in his voice, his metal hand covering your neck, forcing you to stay upright in a position that allowed you to feel all of him. You sob out, digging your nails into his bicep and nodding your head, already succumbing to that foggy feeling you felt when you were so close to your boyfriend. He tuts at you, swatting your face with his flesh hand with enough force to make you moan out and clench around his length. 

“Nuh-uh sweetheart, you’re not going dumb on me that quick. Use your words, tell me you’re mine. Tell me I’m yours.” His voice is commanding and you force yourself to look at him, pulling on his shirt and tugging on his dog tugs to get him closer, your foreheads pressing against each other as his thrusts continue to get faster. “I’m yours James, only yours. You’re only mine. No one else. Just you.” Your words are slurred as he groans out a good girl in approval and decides that he wants your shirt off. He skillfully manages to slip your navy blue long-sleeve off and unhooks your bra in one motion, freeing your tits to the cold air of the room, forcing the buds into sensitive peaks which Bucky is quick to take advantage of. His hands squeeze and pull at your tits, tugging and pinching cruelly at your nipples making you whine. 

Your bodies are pressed so close to one another, each pull of his hips making his pelvis rub against your aching clit, stray tears streaming down your face and your chest heaving and pushed up against Bucky.

If anyone were to walk in right now the picture would be nothing short of debauched. You completely bare on the table, Bucky completely clothed. Getting absolutely plowed if the screech of the metal against the floor was anything to go by. Your moans get higher in pitch and volume making Bucky grunt, another swat to your cheek making your brain foggy. “Shut the fuck up slut. You want everyone to see you getting fucked like the bitch in heat you are?” But if your moans and increasing wetness are anything to go by, yes, a deep and dark part of you does want that. Bucky laughs at you, shaking his head in faux disbelief and you wrap your lips around his dog tags, enjoying the soothing sensation brought by the cool metal. Bucky looks down at your lips wrapped around the dog tags he never seemed to take off and he let out a wrecked sound. You clench around him at the sound making his rhythm falter.

Before you can even process the loss of his proximity, your back is flat against the table and his dog tags are now around your neck, landing on your chest and glimmering in the dull fluorescent lighting of the room. Bucky slams himself back inside of you, the unmistakable squelch of your wetness filling up the room alongside both of your noises of pleasure. Your high-pitched and pornographic mewls and his low grunts and deep groans. You cry out his name as your head lulls to the side, eyes shutting in bliss as your fingers move to give your aching clit some attention. But Bucky lets out a disappointed grunt, grabbing your jaw in his hand and forcing you to maintain eye contact. “Look away from me again and I won’t let you cum for a fucking week stupid baby.” Bucky threatens. “You better fucking pay attention to who’s fucking you dumb. No need to close your eyes and imagine when you’ve got the real thing right here.”

Each of his words ignites a newfound purpose in Bucky as he pounds into you impossibly harder, his hand swatting against your cheek again and wrapping around your neck, keeping you in place to take all of his thrusts. He knows you always struggle to keep your eyes open and you don’t doubt that he will follow through on his threat. He has always enjoyed testing your weakness and pushing your limits. 

“Feels s’good. You’re so big Jamie. S’big, so good s’too good.” Your words are breathy and frail, your fingers rubbing quick circles around your aching button. A mean laugh rumbles in his chest as he watches the way his dog tags move with your tits, the sight is intoxicating and fuels Bucky to continue his torment. “There she is my dumb little baby. Couldn’t help yourself huh? Can’t help the way your brain goes quiet when I have my dick inside you.” His words should be humiliating but they only spur you on, your fingers on the verge of cramping but the jolts of pleasure are so overwhelming you can’t stop. “Jus’ need you. Need you to make it better. ‘M yours Daddy, only yours.” 

“That’s it baby, I know, I know it feels so good huh. Daddy’s here baby, Daddy’s gonna take care of his needy baby.” Bucky’s head falls back on a moan when you clench around him, your walls pulsing and a ring of cream forming around the base of his cock. Your orgasm was surely just a few moments away and Bucky’s lips curled up in a smirk.

He folds your legs at the knee, sliding you closer to him with the pressure he has on your throat, the angle making him rub against your sweet spot with each deliriously pleasurable thrust. You squeal out his name, getting even louder than before and he shoves his dog tags into your mouth, muffling your garble out unintelligeble pleads to cum. With one hand Bucky squeezes your throat, and with the other he pinches at your nipples, tugging the sensitive flesh before trailing his hand down your body and slapping your hand away from your clit, he moves his lips down to your ears, licking up your earlobe before whispering his command, “Cum. Cum right fucking now or you don’t get to cum at all.” His fingers pinch your clit and the sudden burst of pain has you tensing your legs up, squealing out nonsense around the dog tags in your mouth and reaching your peak. Your body shakes against the table as Bucky pounds you through your high, his words of encouragement falling on deaf ears as you teeter between consciousness and unconsciouness. His body overwhelming your mind and soul. 

His fingers release your throat and you look up at him with watery eyes, bringing him down to rest your foreheads against each other as he nears his own high. Your lips are pressing against each other, “There isn’t a single person in the world I wouldn’t kill for you. I would do anything for you. You are everything to me.” Bucky murmurs in a pussy-drunk stupor. But the words are true, he has said them to you before and will say them a thousand times again. You taught him how to live again, not just survive. 

A broken cry falls from your lips from sensitivity and Bucky’s impassioned thrusts turn sloppy as he moans out your name, pulling you impossibly closer as he fills you with his cum. At the feeling of being completely stuffed by him, your second release is triggered and you shake in his hold as he comes down from his high. He presses lazy kisses against your lips and rubs his hands soothingly up and down your body, easing you out of your submissive state. He gently pulls himself out, using the handkerchief he carries around to wipe your thighs clean, but letting his cum keep your pussy messy. He quickly wipes himself off and helps you dress yourself. 

A few more giggly kisses and you’re pretty much ready to go back down to the gym. Just in time to catch the final thing on today’s agenda: sparring. Bucky walks one step behind you, his hand back again on your lower back protectively as a path is cleared to the front of the ring where your friends are supervising Marcus and another recruit preparing for the second round of their match. Natasha and Wanda offer you knowing smirks and you roll your eyes with heat creeping up cheeks as you shyly glance up at Bucky through your eyelashes to find him already looking at you with a stupid smile. He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek and watches with intent as Steve and Sam coach their respective agents. 

“Looking strong, Marcus!” Bucky calls out and you swat his chest making him laugh. Marcus takes one look at you, Bucky’s dog tags now around your neck and falling on your shirt, teeth imprints on your neck, and swollen lips. Poor Marcus falters, and the other recruit takes advantage of his distraction and easily tackles him to the ground, winning the second round. Bucky takes a single step closer to the ring where Sam is helping Marcus up, and the smirk on your arrogant boyfriend’s face is adorable. “Better luck next time buddy,” he says supportively. Sam flicks Bucky in the forehead, unable to hide the smile on his face, “Dumbass.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x yn #bucky barnes fanfiction

[arieslost]

Omg thank you so much for writing my Oscar x stressed reader I felt like I related so much and your writing is just too tear I loveeeee it ❤️

I was wondering if you could do maybe like on Oscar x like a sick reader or something like that I literally have the worst flue and stomach bug atm

Thank so much -❤️❤️

i’m so glad you liked it!! i hope you’re feeling better by time i post this :((

© arieslost 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

sick day | op81

you always prided yourself in going long stretches of time without getting sick, and if you did, it was only a mild cold that went away within a day or two. so, when you woke up one morning with a sore throat, you ignored it. when your nose got stuffy, you ignored it. when the uncharacteristic headache hit you, you popped some ibuprofen and called it a day.

but then you wake up the next morning and instantly know that this isn’t just a cold. the high temperature flashing back at you on the thermometer only confirms it, and unfortunately you can’t ignore this. not if you don’t want oscar to get sick too. so, when you crawl back into bed and he goes to kiss your forehead like he does every morning, you shy away from him.

“i might be sick,” you manage to croak out.

“might be?” oscar frowns. “honey, you sound like me when i first hit puberty.”

you try to glare at him, but what he said was kind of funny and your huff of laughter turns into a coughing fit that sounds nothing short of excruciating. you think you see oscar physically recoil out of the corner of your eye.

“why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?” he asks once you down a few sips of water.

“because i never get sick!” you exclaim, raising a hand to your head when it pounds courtesy of your own voice. “now i’m a hazard for myself, and you. actually, you probably shouldn’t be this close to me. go away.”

you start pushing him out of the bed with your foot, and he stifles his own laughter as he gets up. “stay there, okay? i’ll take care of you.”

“no, no, i don’t want you to get sick. just leave me here and let me sweat it out or something.” you wave him off, trying to act casual, and then you cough again. “ow.”

“i’ll make tea. does your stomach hurt?” you shake your head no in response. “some toast and eggs too, then.” you open your mouth to protest, but he cuts you off. “and you can’t stop me because the only way to do that is to physically kick me out, and you can’t touch me. otherwise i’ll get sick.”

“i hate you,” you grumble, even though you don’t think you’ve ever loved him more than you do in this moment.

“hang tight, baby. i’ll take care of you.” he blows you a kiss and hurries out of the room.

“don’t burn the toast!” you yell after him, immediately regretting it as your throat feels like it’s on fire the more you talk.

within the next ten minutes, you feel like you’ve sweat through your pajamas, and the sheets feel damp underneath your body. he comes to check on you and only needs to take one look at you to know something’s wrong.

“what is it?”

“i’m just… really hot. and everything feels icky.” you complain.

“okay, baby. can you sit up?” he asks, reaching for a hair tie on your nightstand. “where’s your comb?”

“top drawer.” you say as you push yourself up. “you better not come near me.”

“what are you gonna do about it? cough on me? come on,” he gestures for you to lean forward a little so he can brush your hair. “don’t worry about me. let me take care of you, yeah? no more arguing.”

“fine. but only because it hurts to talk.” you acquiesce, eyes falling shut at the tingles every brush of the comb through your hair sends to your scalp. “feels nice.”

“good,” you can hear the smile in your boyfriend’s voice as he gently gathers your hair up into a ponytail and carefully ties the elastic. “lemme get you some clothes, and then let’s go out to the couch, hmm?”

you want to tell him no, you don’t want to contaminate anything else, but you also don’t want to stay here in a puddle of your own sweat, so you let him help you change into a pair of his sweats and an old t-shirt, and because he’s being so sweet, you don’t pull away from him when he takes your hand and leads you out to the living room.

you situate yourself on the couch, clutching your water bottle in your hands for dear life. not necessarily because you feel like drinking it, but because it’s cold and it feels good. meanwhile, oscar is bustling around looking like he’s doing five things at once. one moment he’s moving the eggs around in the pan, the next he’s getting sheets out of the linen closet, and then he’s in the bathroom with the sink running.

“i could get used to this,” you tease, managing to not sound completely miserable as he brings over two cool cloths. one goes on your neck, and the other rests against your forehead. “ah, my fever’s already gone.”

“nice try,” oscar says, adjusting the cloth on your forehead a little. “eggs are almost done, you ready to eat?”

“are you gonna feed me?” you bat your eyelashes at him, and promptly have your second coughing fit of the morning.

“i might have to, you can barely talk without almost coughing up a lung.” he moves into the kitchen and begins making up a plate for you, followed by pouring hot water into a mug and placing the tea bag in before adding some honey and stirring it. “i didn’t burn the toast, so i expect a five star rating.”

“we’ll see about that,” you say, eagerly accepting the mug of tea when he holds it out and taking a long sip. even though it’s hot, it feels incredible as it goes down your throat. “i’m willing to give you bonus points for the tea.”

“that doesn’t count, i didn’t actually make that. c’mon, have some food.” he takes the mug from you and replaces it with the plate of toast and eggs.

you eat without complaint, but your nose being so stuffy kind of takes away from your ability to taste. all the same, you make your reactions as enthusiastic as possible. oscar’s a pretty decent cook, you both know it, but it’s been a running bit in your relationship to smack talk his skills in the kitchen.

“thanks, oz.” you say quietly when you’re done eating and you’ve drank two cups of tea. “i feel a lot better already.”

“you look sleepy,” he points out, flipping both cloths so the cooler sides can be on your skin.

“no, ‘m fine.” you disagree, even though you can feel yourself sinking back into the couch and your eyelids getting heavy.

“take a nap, honey. you’ll feel even better if you let your body rest.” he stands up to clear your dishes, and you stop him by weakly grabbing the bottom of his shirt. “what’s the matter?”

“nothing, just… want you to stay.”

“of course, baby. one second.” he’s quick to put your dishes in the sink before he’s back at your side, and you waste no time in slumping against him. “are you sure you want to cuddle? you feel pretty hot still.”

“i’m always hot, you tell me all the time.”

he sighs, knowing he won’t win this unless he wants to deal with you being sick and annoyed that he won’t do what you want. “touché, honey.”

you don’t answer, so wrapped up in the comfort oscar gives you even though you’re still hot and he’s often your personal heater. strangely enough, his body heat combats the fever heat in a way that’s so nice you don’t even really notice yourself losing consciousness. meanwhile, oscar leans back against the couch, making sure the washcloth stays put against your head and your ponytail doesn’t fall out when you shift in your sleep.

of course, he ends up getting sick a week later, but you’re quick to drop everything and take care of him, just like he did for you.

word count: 1,340

masterlist — join my tag list here!

note: i once again hate this ending but we move!! thank you for sending this in!

requests are OPEN, and my inbox is always open for comments, criticism, and conversation! feel free to pop in!

reblogs are greatly appreciated <33

dividers by @/saradika

tags: @venusacrossthestars @67-angelofthelordme-67 @emails-i-can-send @nelly187 @cixrosie @fangirl-dot-com @sainzluvrr @imheretoread @mellowarcadefun @yourbane @monsieurbacteria6 @c-losur3 @papayatori @ssprayberrythings @namgification @maih23 @evlkking @witchycarmen @ilovethispookie @maxverstappenfan79 @sya-skies @sweatrevenge5436-blog @kimis-gloves @mia-rrrs @decafmickey @customsbyjcg-blog @bigheartsthings @tania2748 @scuderiadevils @iloveyou3000morgan @ctrlyomomma @hiireadstuff @daemyratwst @arian-directioner @evelyn-ny @avg-golden-retriever

#aries answers #anon <3 #request #op81 week #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri imagine #op81 x reader #op81 x you #op81 fluff #op81 imagine #formula one x reader #formula one imagine #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 imagine

[haikyuuhoo]

if you could change anything, please just stay the same (because i love everything about you)

pairing: gojo x reader (but their relationship isn't the focus of this at all, just a very small part of the foundation)

wc: 876

a/n: meant to take place immediately after the end of jjk 0. sorry for the sads, but i thrive in angst. also sorry for the fact that this is very rushed and probably not great lol i just wanted to write something and this is what happened.

listen

The wind whips around you as you step out onto the roof, and you have to fight to keep your balance as you walk toward the figure standing on the ledge.

He’s got his hands in his pockets, facing out over the rest of Jujutsu High’s campus and staring silently at the rubble that the day’s incidents have caused.

“Do you think it could have been different?” Satoru asks when you approach.

You’re surprised he heard your footsteps over the sound of the wind, but then you remember that it’s probably not that, that he probably sensed your presence—or whatever it is those eyes of his allow him to do.

“What do you mean?” You know he’s asking about today, about the fight and the wreckage and the casualties, but you’re not quite sure which part he’s asking about specifically. “I’m sure lots of things could have gone differently, but we didn’t know exactly what they were planning. We prepared well, I think, but—”

“Do you think Geto could have stayed?”

You’re taken aback, not at all expecting that question, and expecting even less that he would be asking about something that happened ten years ago. You stare at him, weighing your response before you finally speak. “You know he couldn’t have. You let him live, but he would have been killed if he stayed here.”

Satoru hesitates, his body unwavering despite the fact that the toes of his shoes are hanging over the ledge and the wind is picking up. Part of you worries he wouldn’t even try to stop himself if he fell.

His voice is incredibly soft when he speaks next, but you still hear it.

“Do you think, if I weren’t me, he would still be here?”

You physically recoil at the question, and you immediately want to say no, to shout it over the wind, but your throat is closing up and you can’t even attempt to speak before he continues.

“We were the strongest. And then I… I pushed him away, didn’t I? I was so focused on perfecting my technique and becoming the best that I didn’t even realize that we turned into me. And I didn’t even notice what was happening to him, how… not okay he was.” He swallows hard, and you imagine he’s squeezing his eyes shut tight behind his bandages in that way he does when he’s frustrated. “I was so selfish.”

Satoru turns to face you, and you nearly reach out to pull him away from the ledge. You know the fall wouldn’t kill him—not even close—but it still makes your stomach lurch with unease. “If I was literally anybody else, he would still be here. He would still be alive. I wouldn’t have had to—” His whole body shakes with the breath he sucks in. “Do you have any idea how often I wish I wasn’t like this?”

This time you can’t help yourself, you reach out and tug him toward you, wrapping your arms tightly around his torso as if he'll fall away if you let him go. And he lets you, drops his infinity so you can touch him—so he can touch you—and Satoru nearly crumples in on himself, clinging to you as he begins to cry. “I’m trying so fucking hard—”

“I know,” you whisper. You’ve never seen him like this. It was bad when Riko died and worse when Geto defected, but Gojo Satoru has never seemed so small before, has never needed someone to hold him together.

Because he’s the strongest, after all.

He doesn’t need anyone.

Right?

“If I could go back, I would change so much. I would change me if I could, I swear. I don’t deserve to be here any more than him just because I was born with these stupid fucking techniques.”

“Don’t say that,” you say quietly, because you know if you speak more than a whisper he’ll hear that you’ve started crying too. “You’re so good, Satoru. You care so much about these kids and you never stopped caring about Geto. If you weren’t you—”

“If I weren’t me, everything would be better.”

You feel your heart shatter in your chest.

Because you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that it’s not true.

But you stay quiet, the statement hanging in the air, just letting him hold you because you know that’s what he needs right now.

“If I could change anything—”

“Don’t change a thing,” you say firmly. You feel a sob wrack through him, and you bury your face against his shoulder. “Don’t change. We need you.”

I love you.

You know this will pass. That tomorrow will come and you’ll all rebuild, forever altered, but you’ll slowly get better. That he’ll go back to being Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer of the modern age and the typical annoying goofball that you fell in love with.

But for now, you’re content to let him need you, to let him hold you tightly and be vulnerable in a way he so rarely ever allows himself to be, to help him carry some of the weight of the world that was placed on his shoulders the day he was born.

reblogs & comments always appreciated <3

#jjk angst #jjk x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen angst #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojo angst #gojo satoru angst #gojo x reader #gojo x reader angst #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo angst

[jjkeremika]

Games

description: you and eren like to play games. you took it too far

pairing: eren x you, eren x reader, (fem!reader, eren jaeger aot/snk)

****nsfwcontent***********

You were walking from practice when he had appeared next to you out of thin air. You first noticed him from the sudden grapple onto your arm, then the scorching heat radiating off him like the sun in the summer.

“Eren!” you shouted, physically recoiling from the ambush.

The grip on your wrist was tight; Eren’s knuckles were white and the veins in his hand were popping out and your skin contorted underneath it.

“Eren! Eren, what the fuck!” you shouted again as he forcibly rushed you towards the dorms, your tired feet doing the best they could to compensate and carry along.

You didn't need to look at him to know he rolled his eyes at your protest. And it didn't matter how loud you were, nobody would bat an eyelash at the scene; you two fought all the time.

Only when he finally had you inside did he turn to face and speak to you: "I saw you with him."

A ten-pound weight dropped to the pit in your stomach, exploding with excitement and nervousness at the same time, the hollow-feeling made worse by the fact that you didn't know which boy he was referring to, or if it was one of the events he was supposed to see. "You know I saw you with him."

You rolled your eyes. He literally could've asked you about this without damaging your punching arm.

"Seriously? That's what this is all about?" You cocked your hip and crossed your arms, a playful sour look settling on your face. "You're so childish sometimes."

You knew he was referring to some incident, but which one could he have even seen?

You scoffed, taking note of how the vein in his neck looked ever so pronounced, eager to greet you. You felt your mouth salivating. "You saw me with him. What is that even supposed to mean?"

The slight feel of Reiner's muscles when checking the clothes on his body for tears? The flirty wink to Jean when you bounced on your horse while making eye contact? The quick kiss with Armin behind the map before embarking into the woods?

His lip twitched into a light snarl and he took a deep, slow breath, clenching his fists tightly. Touched a nerve. Good.

"You're not even going to ask me who?" Eren took a step closer. You bit your lip to hide the smirk; it was amusing when he was jealous.

While you never actively kept it a secret, it was never at the top of the to-do list to tell the others about your... relationships. Late nights shared between Eren, Levi, Jean, Reiner, Armin--everyone, kept isolated from one another.

You started to play with your fingertip near your lips, not breaking Eren's eye contact. The sound of your heartbeat echoed in your ears as the physical sensation vibrated in your chest.

"Would it make you feel better if I did?" you asked quietly, arrogantly, egging him on.

The best part of it all was knowing they kept you to themselves too. Never once did they speak about how they viewed you, how they felt about you, what they wanted to do and what they did do to you. A secret, a selfish memory for themselves.

His jaw locked and his arms and shoulders tensed, the shadows and light hugging his muscles so intimately, tracing the veins closely.

But Eren... didn't share. Anything. At all. Ever.

Especially not you.

He all but lunged at you until your back made contact with the door and his hand wrapped around your neck, firmly and possessively, like a collar.

You knew that. You liked that about him, how passionate and emotionally-driven he was. It reminded you of how passionate he could be towards you.

You kept eye contact, your hand coming up to pull on his hair in retaliation. You smiled despite the choking hold around your neck. His eyes flicked briefly to your lips.

"You are so dramatic," you gasped with a smile, tugging on Eren's hair, pulling him closer to you. "And so emotional."

He pressed slightly harder onto your neck, his long fingers wrapping around, almost touching at the back. He hardly rested his forehead against yours; you winced slightly from the surprise impact.

"Why do you always have to piss me off?" The whisper spends shivers down your spine that spread out between your legs, drawing attention to the strong pulse.

You chuckled boldly and airily, the hot breath you two shared was making you dizzy. "Stop getting so pissed off then," you huffed, chasing his proximity.

He pressed his body against yours and you felt his erection on your upper thigh, pressing into your thin, battle-worn pant fabric. You heard him moan over the noise from hitting the door and felt Eren's hot breath trickle down the skin on your neck, kissing trails of goosebumps.

"Stop affecting me so fucking much then," he breathlessly huffed in response, then quickly bit at the skin on your neck, soothing the irritated nerves with a flat lick of his tongue. His voice was dangerously low, stimulating nerves deep within your skin, setting off electric signals like a million sparks.

His free hand firmly cupped your breast, squeezing so harshly it took a second for the skin to reform. He tipped his hand in through the shirt collar and under your sports bra, molding the fabric underneath the muscle's stronger resolve.

You boldly reached towards his erection, your hand teasingly lightly cupping the tented structure. You smiled at the gasp of air he loudly inhaled.

"Oh, Eren," you cooed, squeezing lightly, coaxing out another breathless gasp from his parted lips, "but it's just so easy."

"Stop fucking playing with me, y/n," Eren spat automatically, his eyes shadowing with regret as soon as you removed your hands from him body. "Why can't we just be together already?"

You prevented the bubbling chuckle from escaping by kissing him delicately, holding his face closely with a loose grip his chin. "Baby," you whispered against his lips, feeling his heartbeat reverberate against your chest, "you can't even handle me talking to someone else now."

He was quick to speak, kissing you quickly after like he was soothing a wound before it could bleed. "But that's because I know what you're doing with them now." Eren leaned backward slightly so he could look at your eyes.

The weight in your gut that dropped in response was less than pleasant, more guilty for all the games meant to rile him up in some way.

"If you were mine it'd be different," he growled, eyes dark and clouded. You felt his hands move to your chest, you felt him pulling on the buttons of your shirt. "You should be mine."

It was your turn to kiss to soothe the wound. You caressed his cheek softly and quickly thought of something to say to divert the subject. Now wasn't the time for you to make that decision.

His fingers were fast, working the shirt off your shoulders and letting it fall to the floor with the softest noise.

"Prove."

They quickly reached for the final layer, quickly undoing the clasp he was achingly familiar with, and let that drop to the ground with a louder thud.

"It."

Two fingers clasped around your nipple, tightly squeezing, while the other hand grabbed your hip so tightly it would be a shock if there were no bruises. He pawed at your skin roughly, like he wanted to leave a lasting memory.

His lips were drawn to yours harshly, a crash landing that quickly morphed into a harmonious rhythm of smooth lips and rough tongues colliding.

You pressed your knee into his crotch, smiling at the sultry noise that erupted from the depths of his throat.

As quickly as he'd kissed you he'd pulled away. Then Eren had grabbed your arm and dragged you towards the bed, roughly pushing you onto your hands and knees on the ready-made mattress. Not Eren's bed.

"I'll prove it to you" he was speaking roughly, slowly, like the words held knives, "that you're mine."

His hands immediately wrapped around your waist and started pulling on your pants zipper. You arched your back and tried to shove your butt closer to his face. You squealed in delight when you were rewarded with a harsh slap to both cheeks.

He tugged the panties and pants to your ankles swiftly, leaving a red trail from his eager fingernails digging into your thighs. He smacked the right cheek, smiling proudly at how the bare skin jiggled in response.

Eren placed both hands on both cheeks and squeezed hardly, the veins in his hands contrasting against the soft contorted skin in his grip. He kissed randomly around the two jiggly globes, tentatively licking out the closer and closer he was to your clit.

"Prove to you that I'm better than your other boyfriend," he said to break the growing tension in the air, the tension that you were suffocating on as he nosed around the exposed spot between your legs.

The familiar smell from the sheets clicked in. He'd thrown you on Levi's bed.

"Remember when you smiled at me," Eren grumbled angrily as he smacked your ass harshly, twice, groaning at the way the skin rippled in response, "through that fucking window." He pointed at the window and pressed his crotch into your bare bum, the tented fabric firmly slotting between your cheeks.

He bent over and bit your neck, causing you to squeal softly. "Making me watch him fuck you like that." He shoved his crotch into you, forcing you forward slightly.

Your spine shivered at the memory, you'd forgotten about that. That was so long ago. Levi had fucked you in his bunk early morning, when everyone else had gotten up early for chores. Eren had finished early… so did Levi.

Eren’s lips brushed along your neck, leaving soft bites and kisses and a trail of cooled saliva.

"Made me realize how I wanted to be him." He smacked your ass multiple times, the skin tingling and reddening in a handprint outline. "To be the one fucking you."

He pulled his crotch away but he filled the space with his finger, quickly finding the reservoir of nature's lubricant and pushing his finger inside. He used his other hand to undo his own pants.

You moaned loudly as Eren slipped two more fingers inside, moving and folding them in different angles and smirking as he coaxed various noises out of you--enough to craft a symphony.

You rocked your hips onto his hand, sitting back into the force to emphasize the feeling, to extend the contact. You moaned as he increased the speed and force of his finger thrusts.

"To be the only one fucking you." You cried out as he removed his hands and tucked his nose between your legs, anchoring his hands on your thighs as he licked hungrily at your wet clit, like he was licking his name into your skin, carving possession of eren into the sensitive skin.

You moaned out as the finger slipped back inside, the sensation joining that alongside the rough texture of his tongue against hundreds of active nerve endings. Your thighs tensed around his head as the heat inside you continued to build.

Eren used his free hand to guide your hips, rocking them back and forth of his fingers and tongue.

Eren’s fingers slipped out and started subbing against your clit, which made you roll your hips forward and fall to the mattress, rutting his hand against the mattress to increase the pressure and friction.

He started kissing up your spine, each tap sending a tingle from your toes to your spine. You curled your toes as his grip on your hip tightened; he can feel your whole body tense.

So close. You were so so very close.

And then he let go.

The blood pumped so heavily and the heart was so loud and it vibrated from the chest to the toes. Your thighs were still wet.

You recoiled forward from the force of one last smack to the cheek. “I’ll let you finish when you’re mine.”

#eren jaeger x you #eren jaeger x reader #eren jaeger x fem!reader #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #aot eren #eren jaeger smut #snk eren #eren smut #jjkeremika #i have to tag myself bc i wrote it lmao #possessive eren #eren x reader #eren yeager #edit: changed prove you to’ to ‘prove to you’

[bengiyo]

Patts Was Going to Blow Tai. Tai Wanted It. Why That Matters.

Greetings, fellow clowns. I am here once again to gush about La Pluie. This time, I’m here to talk about how they’re pacing the sex in this show, and why I hope this is going to become the new norm in genre.

(gifs in this post borrowed from @wanderlust-in-my-soul, used with permission)

At the end of episode four, the end of episode five, and the beginning of episode 6, this show has shown us that Patts physically desires Saengtai. Their first kiss when Tai was drunk lacked any nervousness or uncertainty.

He checked him out four times when he accidentally walked into his room.

He kisses this man with a relief that only someone pining for a long time can feel.

I highly suspect that Tai is a virgin, but he is not embarrassed our shy about that. Tai is a romantic who literally reads Nora Roberts novels to calm down when he gets too excited (@syrena-del-mar​). We know Tai is a romantic who has recoiled inward from the disappointment about his parents. We know that connecting with Patts has reawakened much of this desire in him. What has been a quiet part of this show is how much the show is quietly affirming that Tai is a man. This is significant for me because of all the ways BL/yaoi often creates an uke for the women in the readership to project onto.

In episode four, at the end of the scene where Tai reads Patts’ letter, he jumps backwards onto the bed, and the show lets Title’s bulge bounce briefly. In episode six, we see what appears to be an intentional fold in his boxers to represent his dick print. Then, after he takes his shower, Tai is still thinking about their intimacy on the floor and the show uses sound effects to indicate that he’s still aroused from the moment. This show wants us to remember that these are two guys, and as such they’re approaching m/m intimacy a bit differently than we normally see from the genre.

After they begin kissing a bit, Tai leans into the moment, signified by an effective use of a prop. As a glasses wearer myself, I might have been more careful with my glasses, but I’m not a horny virgin caught up in the moment!

Patts was clearly fine with Tai being on top of him, and only turns them because he’s intending to do something else for him. See @wen-kexing-apologist​‘s post for a more extensive examination of the hands.

I can’t find the posts where we spoke about this before on Tumblr, but I don’t know a lot of folks in my life who are going to go a dinner with spicy foods and then immediately go back home and have anal sex (often with no lube in BL, though we’ve been seeing condoms more lately). There are so many things guys can do with each other long before that particular act, and this felt like the natural progression of their intimacy for the level they’re at.

We’ve also seen repeatedly how much regard Patts has for Saengtai. When he took him to dinner, he explicitly stated that he wants to know the things that Saengtai likes. He wants to take care of him. He wants things to be nice for him. There’s an asymmetry to giving and receiving head that I don’t think we see covered enough in BL. Patts wanted to do something to make Tai feel good.

Tai was clearly into it.

However, because they were caught up in the heat of the moment, and Patts has a good read on Tai, he stops it.

I am so glad this show was willing to show that Patts had to summon his restraint and allowed him to display a bit of frustration about slowing down. It makes him feel real. He’s waited seven years to be with his soulmate, and it turns out they’re compatible! However, there’s no turning off their telepathic connection. Patts wants to do this right. It’s important to do things right.

I need someone who’s more versed in the yaoi framing around seme and uke to look at the couch scene again, because it felt significant that Patts moved himself to the right side of the frame when he wanted to be closer to Saengtai (something he also did in the restaurant with the dad). I think Patts is showing us and Tai that he is willing to adjust himself to any role he needs for Tai’s comfort, which is his primary goal. It also felt significant that he softened more than he has up to this point to reassure Tai that he can want big romantic moments for himself.

I also loved how intentionally Patts removed his hands from Tai when it was clear Tai wanted him to stop touching.

I have a lot I love about this show. I love how it’s subverting the soulmate trope by having Tai and Patts take their time with each other to figure out what kind of relationship they want to have. I like how they’re doing that even as their friends and families are all-but-rushing them into bed with each other.

This show is special, and I cannot state how relieved I was by how this show has avoided faking us out about sexual desire and tension. I like that this show released the tension built up from the last season in a way that also let us learn more about the characters, and let them learn about each other. I’m going to need this to be the year more BL characters blow each other for the plot.

Thank you for coming to my post.

Special shoutouts to @lurkingshan​ and @ginnymoonbeam​ as well for talking through all the ways La Pluie has been playing with and using romance genre expectations.

#la pluie #la pluie meta #thai bl #bl series #bl meta

[catchyhuh]

TOUCH O THE TISM

lupin’s brain is fucked up! let’s talk about it

and i mean TALK talk about it baby. everyone’s experience with their brain makeup shit is different, and there are many different “symptoms”/traits that tend to overlap between. are they still called mental illnesses. states of mind. conditions? awugh no that sounds even worse. WHATEVER THIS IS ME SAYING this is less about the medical diagnoses, this is just the manifestations of SOME type of neurodivergency that shine through in their weirdo behaviors, habits, and mindscapes. now let’s really go here:

lupin: 

we have discussed before his uncanny ability to shut down literally everything to hyperfixate on one task. sometimes for weeks at a time like IN canon, IN canon he will do this shit and not stop until a) he’s reached his goal/the endpoint, or b) he is physically forcibly removed from the subject in question

this will sound nuts to you but i think lupin is sound sensitive. yes i know but listen. he’s always the first to wince/recoil at a loud sound, even if he’s not TRULY bothered by it-- ex: zenigata shouts, lupin KNOWS he’s going to shout, anticipates the volume, even, but still tenses up, even though he’s grinning and actively enjoying the fact that he brought that upon himself. so, to balance that, lupin has decided he’s just going to be louder than whatever’s out there that could bother him. you may have noticed the company he shares hotel rooms with is almost always reserved and quiet unless he is the one instigating and encouraging the rowdiness. boom baby case and point.

all in all it’s surprisingly only something you notice if you spend a significant amount of time around him. he’s autistic i promise. its just. well. he’s hyperfixated on cash and his special interest is getting bitches

jigen:

jigen is very picky. and i mean cheers i’ll drink to that. nobody touch him. nobody speak too loud. nobody fuck with how he likes his drink. nobody touch his gun (you’ll mess it up) NOBODY DO ANYTHING. save for a very, very select few. 

light sensitive. not very shocking given the fact his hat is almost more of a signature item for him than his magnum but ANYWAY! it’s why he’s so particular that it must be HIS hat!! the thickness, the way it sits, the way it shadows his eyes especially, all of this is important. “but wait” you could hypothetically maybe be saying, “wouldn’t that extend to his bangs? in the whole shielding him from the light sense. wouldn’t it just make more sense if he always kept his bangs over his eyes like that?” yes! you’re so right if you were saying that! i don’t know why you would be but regardless. uh, yeah, it would make the most sense for him to ALWAYS have them pushed over his eyes, but. have you ever sacrificed comfort for fashion. that slicked back look is NICE dude

all n all jigen is the “‘Nobody had Autism until recently’ right cuz your grandpa who only wore the same type of shirt, took the same sandwich to work every day and knows everything about the inner workings of a 1979 Ferrari was SO neurotypical” meme. 

fujiko:

absolute. crown champ of masking. what the fuck. i don’t even think she herself has realized because all of it has been pushed down for so long. which part of this might just be, sorry if this is too realistic and boring but like. diagnosis sexism? people do not notice neurodivergent traits in girls as easily. or that’s what they SAY but they somehow schoolyard bullies can pick up on it very easily! point being, they say that with girls it tends to manifest as talkativeness in the right environments, but when suppressed in those formative years, those girls grow up into women who have a million things to say but only say two of them, meaning her mind is just SWIMMING with insane thoughts and shit. that’s how you get fujikos bro. you have to let that little girl be weird and explain spyro the dragon in exact detail to you or she’ll grow up to be a calculated murderer/world famous thief

now if you actually brought it up she would dismiss you and make some remark like “not wanting polyester to touch your skin isn’t a sensory issue, it’s a lifestyle choice” which. ok yeah haha good one fujicakes but i’ve noticed that you tend to favor dresses/shirts that leave your arms free without any fabric brushing on them, and for someone who’s so focused on the VALUE of fashion you’re cutting the insewn tags off these clothes..? what’s that about baby where did that come from? yeah the joke about “oh yes i totally wear heels because i hate my soles touching the ground, not because i just happen to love high fashion” was funny but you actually do tend to walk around on the balls of your feet barefoot too. that’s not good for you fujiko that can do damage to the nerves in your legs (yes really if you’re reading this and you do that it can cause permanent issues in your legs SO TRY TO BREAK THAT HABIT IF POSSIBLE)

also traces of hyperfixating, just not as obviously visible as it is with lupin. with fujiko it’s almost undercover. like, reading her phone under the table, just happening to suggest watching this one movie that happened to be praised for how accurately it replicates the layout of this one museum the gang has been thinking about infiltrating, a few hyperspecific books mixed in with standard romance schlock she’s most definitely not reading from the library just to pad out that receipt. it’s not so much a conscious choice to microdose feeding the beast so to speak, it’s more that she’s forced herself to commit more to her image than anything, so she’s accidentally pacing herself like that

goemon:

MENTIONED BEFORE BUT WE BELIEVE IN TOUCH AVERSE GOEMON IN THIS HOUSE! DO NOT BE BUGGING THIS GUY SLINGING YOUR ARM AROUND HIS SHOULDER OR YOU WILL GET CHOPPED IN THE GUT!! unless you are one of a select few (are you noticing a trend with the collection here) might also partially be a texture thing too, because i can’t think of another reason someone would subject themselves to the insanely uncomfortable plan of wearing your normal clothes UNDER a tuxedo despite the fact you have to squeeze that giant billowing fabric in there

“bbububut i thought autistic people struggled with eye contact” not goemon ishikawa the 13th bitch. you are getting intensely stared at like a claw machine just barely dangling the prize over the pit. he wants you to know he’s paying attention! he’s listening! sure he might be paying attention to see if he can pick up on nervous tics to tell if you’re lying, and maybe he’s listening that intently to catch you when you slip up, BUT HEY, we don’t know that! to his credit goemon only SOMETIMES realizes how intimidating this can be, and only SOMETIMES intentionally weaponizes it, but… still, very intense eye contact

hell man aside from his stubbornness and pride even his picky food taste might tie into this a bit. anybody who’s been hooked on one specific “safe food” for like two months gets it, especially the fact that goemon can instantly tell when the food is “wrong.” if you cooked this meat for two seconds too long, if you didn’t let the rice sit long enough, if you cheaped out and used some generic alternative-- well on that last one he might not blame you as much because this economy IS pretty rough, but the point is, he can immediately tell and WILL tell the chef to their face “you did this wrong. do better next time.” unfortunately most people don’t take kindly to that and because of goemon’s nature when he’s caught off guard he’ll go “sorry. sorry just let me… let me show you i suppose” and next thing he knows he’s teaching an impromptu cooking course. we went kinda off the rails on this one didn’t we. oops!

zenigata:

if monkey punch meant it when he said “zenigata can’t be stupid, because that would mean lupin is stupid,” then because lupin is insane, zenigata must also, naturally, be insane, in some of the same flavors

the main thing about him is that he’s so damn resilient he doesn’t actually SAY anything unless he really wants to complain. he might be thinking “god why is cottage cheese like this. this is kind of gross” but he’ll still EAT it, “the sun is WAY too bright and i lost my hat AGAIN this fucking SUCKS” but he’s stlil going to be outside because he knows he HAS to be out there. toughing it out and only SLIGHTLY whining about it. really the only time he makes it known outside of offhanded grumbly complaints is when lupin is the source of it. if lupin is like bouncing his leg in the passenger side of the cop car (because god forbid he stuff him in the backseat right) zenigata just grabs his knee and stares at him until lupin is like “oh oops! sorry. is that distracting?” and then 10 minutes later he starts it up again. the line between ‘this is driving my brain insane’ and ‘i just have beef with anything that brings you, personally, delight” is very thin

but ironically zenigata can’t stay still very long himself either. if he’s been stuck sitting for more than 25 minutes he can feel his insides shrinking up and withering away. maybe that’s why he chews on shit like a hyena gnawing off its own leg to escape predators. anything to get the zoomies out dude. 

i don’t have to tell you that this bitch is also dangerously intensely hyperfixating right. i don’t have to go into this? like you. we’re looking at the same guy here. right? okay. so long as this point is understood

#i had drs argue about me for years bro i got this one #lupin iii #lupin the third #lupin #jigen #fujiko #goemon #zenigata

[wordsmithwhumpsandfluff]

Feverish Birdie + Isaac & Spirit caretakers

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

“When do I meet the guy?” Isaac asked, popping a caramel candy into his mouth.

Spirit looked up from her book to glare at him. “Never,” she spat. “Now, study.”

He rolled his eyes, smiling as he opened his own book and began reading a chapter on physical effects of stress. Meanwhile, Spirit was going over the history of Mediterranean cuisine.

The library was quiet, and Isaac was bored out of his mind. He was sick of studying, even if he was doing it because it was finals season. Unable to stop himself, he opened his mouth and asked jokingly, “Do I really need a college degree? I mean, what if I commit my life to using the ice-cream machine at McDonalds? I’m sure I’d get some kind of a discount or something, and my sis would love all the happy meals I could bring her.”

Spirit glared at him murderously before looking back down at her book, saying nothing.

“Or I could become a hot homeless man, and maybe some hot sugar mommy could take me in while I become her trophy husband.”

“She’d have to be blind and deaf to fall in love with you,” Spirit grumbled, not looking up.

Isaac snorted, pulling out his phone. When Spirit heard the music from Subway Surfers begin to play, her head snapped up and she glared at Isaac so hard that he literally recoiled in surprise. He bit down a yelp when she kicked him under the table, and then pouted as she whisper-yelled at him, “Study, you fucking moron!”

He sighed, pocketing his book and reading. He already knew all of this stuff. He didn’t need—nor want—to study!

A full five minutes of silence passed. Then Isaac asked, “Wanna grab some lunch? Then you can tell me all about your boyfr—”

Another kick, and Isaac bit down another yelp, pouting grumpily and shutting his mouth.

— — —

“You are four!” Spirit spat as they walked out of the library with their books. “Four. Freaking. Years. Old!”

Isaac rolled his eyes. “You have a stick up your ass. You should take it out, plant a tree with it, and take some freaking meditation classes in that tree’s shade. Loosen up for once.”

Spirit narrowed her eyes. “I’ll take that stick and beat your stupid-ass with it!”

“Cool down, hot-head.”

Isaac let out a yelp and jumped at the sound of ‘Teenagers’ by My Chemical Romance randomly starting to play loudly, and Spirit casually took her phone out of her pocket and answered it.

“New ringtone? Black Parade? Seriously?” he mumbled. “What, are you emo now? Planning to re-live your middle school years or something?”

Spirit frowned while the phone was still pressed to her ear. “Are you throwing up?”

Isaac looked at her, brows raising slightly.

Spirit was nodding softly. Then she said, “Okay, I’ll be there soon.” And she hung up.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“Birdie. She says she’s really sick. Not throwing up, thank God, but I’ve gotta go.” She began to quickly walk away, but Isaac just followed her.

“Wait,” he said. “I’ll go with you. Did Birdie say what’s wrong with her?”

“Just that she’s been stuck in bed all day because she’s feeling too dizzy and sick to get up. You don’t have to—”

“I’m coming,” Isaac stated, and Spirit didn’t even bother to argue.

They took their cars separately to Birdie’s apartment, and they arrived at the same time.

Spirit was walking very quickly—nearly running—as they made their way to Birdie’s place. Even in the elevator, Spirit paced, unable to stay still. Isaac watched her, unfazed since it was no shock that Spirit was always taking care of Birdie, making sure that her best friend was alright, and Birdie did the same for her.

Spirit got Birdie’s spare key from one of the potted plants by the door, and she and Isaac went inside.

A million smells of candles, plants, and lavender incents filled their senses upon entering. While Isaac shut and locked the door, Spirit hurried to Birdie’s room. Then Isaac followed.

Birdie was buried beneath so many plush blankets that it was nearly impossible to see that she was curled up under them. Even her head was covered. “Bird,” Spirit whispered, pushing some of the blankets down and shaking her best friend’s shoulder softly. “Birdie, wake up.”

With a groan, Birdie pushed the remaining blankets off her face. “I’m awake,” she grumbled, blinking dizzily. “I feel like crap. My head hurts.”

“You look pretty crappy, too,” Isaac teased lightly, referring to the sickly-grey color tinting her dark skin and the fact that she looked a little silly with her hot-pink bonnet on.

Spirit shot him an annoyed look, and Birdie looked at him confused. “Why’re you here?”

“I was with Spirit when you called,” he answered with a soft smile. “Figured I’d help. Other than crappy, how’re you feeling? Nauseous?”

Her expression remained confused and hazy for a second before she shook her head. “No, just freezing.” Clearly, that wasn’t truly all she felt.

Spirit frowned and felt her forehead, cursing softly. “Bird, you’re burning up. You have to lose some of these blankets.”

Birdie pouted in response, shaking her head a bit. “I don’t want to. I’m so cold.”

Spirit shook her head, pushing more of the blankets off. Birdie whined and curled up, pulling three of the remaining blankets back over her head. “Nooooo,” she whined, beginning to tremble under the blankets.

“I’ll go find some meds,” Isaac said, turning and leaving the bedroom.

“And find a thermometer,” Spirit called after him.

Isaac found Birdie’s medicine cabinet in the kitchen. Despite her hippie style, her love of plants and nature, and basically her whole personality, it would surprise people that she really doesn’t believe in most nature-based remedies. Isaac found some Tylenol and a thermometer, and he also found Birdie’s ADHD meds and grabbed those. Also grabbing a water bottle, he went back to the room and found Birdie curled up with only one blanket, trembling while Spirit rubbed her arm gently over the blanket.

“Did you take your meds today?” Isaac asked, placing the items on Birdie’s bedside table.

She shook her head, eyes closed. “Haven’t got up,” she murmured, face half-smushed in her pillow.

Isaac nodded, opening the pill bottle. “How many?”

Birdie groaned into her pillow, unhelpfully. “Two,” Spirit answered for her, rolling her eyes and sighing.

Isaac got two of the ADHD pills, and a Tylenol. “Sit up,” he said to Birdie, crouching by her bed.

Spirit tried to grab Birdie’s shoulders to help her up, but the girl mumbled, “Screw you” and shoved her off, sounding like an upset little kid.

Isaac couldn’t help but snort, and Spirit shot him a glare. “What are you laughing at?”

He shook his head, but was still smiling. “Nothing, nothing.”

It took a full ten minutes just to get Birdie to sit up—between Birdie’s half-delirious state, Isaac’s constant quips and jokes, and Spirit balancing being caring for her BFF and wanting to shove Isaac’s face in a pillow. When they took her temp, she was at 102.

They got the meds and Tylenol in Birdie, and Isaac wet a cold hand towel while Spirit fussed around with Birdie’s record player since she knew that Birdie slept easier with music playing quietly in the background.

“I’m so cold,” Birdie mumbled, looking at Spirit with doe-like, dizzy eyes. She looked no older than fifteen with the towel on her head and. “Can I have one more blanket?”

Spirit shook her head, gently rubbing Birdie’s shoulder. “Sorry, Bird. Let’s wait for this fever to go down a bit first.”

Birdie pouted and curled up on her side. Spirit stayed with her while Isaac went out to his car to grab his books, and he came back in to continue his studying on her couch.

It was a full half-hour before Spirit came out of Birdie’s room, shutting the door softly behind her with a sigh. “She’s finally asleep,” she groaned, going over to the couch and flopping down beside Isaac on it.

Isaac looked at her with a raised brow. “So, am I crazy, or did I hear Bohemian Rapsody about ten minutes ago?”

“She wanted to sleep with her favorite Queen record playing instead,” she said with a casual shrug.

Isaac looked at her incredulously. “Who on Earth falls asleep to Queen?!”

Spirit snorted. “The same person who cooks to it, showers to it, drives to it, dances to it, sings it, and worships it like it’s her God. You’re forgetting, this is the same girl who laid on her back in the middle of an empty street—in her pastel Michale-Jackson-looking homecomingoutfit—and started pedaling her legs in the air while singing ‘Bicycle Race’ at the top of her lungs. She can sleep to Queen.”

Isaac snorted at Spirit’s explanation, continuing to read.

Spirit scoffed at him. “Now you’re studying?”

He cast her an offended look. “I was studying earlier. Against my will, maybe, but I was studying.”

She rolled her eyes, pulling out her phone. She was about to open Webtoon—a guilty pleasure of hers—when a text from Aiden came. She rushed to swipe up to get the notification off her screen, but she accidentally clicked it and nearly broke her phone trying to close her messages.

“Your boyfriend?”

Spirit’s face burned as she glared at Isaac. “Stop calling him that. We’re just friends!”

“Friends with benefits.”

She turned red. “Isaac!” she whisper-yelled.

He laughed at her, closing his book. “Go ahead, text him back. And tell him I say hi.”

Spirit stood, shutting her phone off and shoving it in her pocket. “I’ll text him back later,” she stated coldly, still flushed, and she turned to go back to Birdie’s room. It was a good thing she had because before she even got to the door, she heard a soft thud from inside.

Hearing the thud, Spirit quickly opened the door, instantly worried that Birdie had fallen off her bed. She was half-right.

Clearly, Birdie hadn’t just fallen out of bed. But she had fallen, clearly on her way towards her bathroom. The girl was on her hands and knees, clearly trying not to puke with her mouth squeezed shut.

“Dammit, Bird,” Spirit sighed, walking over and crouching beside Birdie, putting a hand on her back. “C’mon, let’s go to the toilet.”

Birdie shook her head, her eyes turning watery. “Nooo,” she groaned dizzily. “I don’wwwana puke.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure it’s inevitable.” Spirit struggled to help Birdie up and to the bathroom. When she got Birdie down in front of the toilet, she frowned as she noticed her best friend was still squeezing her mouth shut. “Birdie, just let it out. Here, just close your eyes and I’ll cover your ears. Okay?”

Birdie didn’t respond, mouth still squeezed shut.

“Everything okay in here?” Isaac asked, coming into the bedroom and seeing the girls on the bathroom floor.

“She’s gonna puke,” Spirit said. “But she doesn’t want to.”

Isaac came over and crouched by Birdie’s other side. “Hey, midget,” he said, calling her by the teasing nickname the whole group often called her by. “Just let it out. You’ll feel better, and we’ll flush right away so the smell won’t bother you.”

Birdie shook her head, letting out a soft sob with her mouth still pressed shut. But suddenly, her eyes widened, and her cheeks puffed out a bit, and she couldn’t help but let the stream of sick come up.

Spirit quickly covered Birdie’s ears and instructed Isaac to put a hand over her eyes. As soon as the stream ended, Isaac flushed so the smell could be gone right away. Birdie puked two more times, but thankfully didn’t get sick because of her own puke. Immediately, as soon as she was empty, she nearly shoved Isaac out of the way in order to rinse out her mouth in her sink. Isaac went back to the room to put a bin by Birdie’s bed, and Spirit stayed with Birdie until she had successfully gotten rid of the nasty taste.

Birdie groaned, still braced against the sink and breathing heavily. “This is so sucky. I feel gross.”

Spirit wet her hands with cold water from the sink, wiping down Birdie’s face and neck. The tiny girl was still burning up.

“If we tried meds again, you think you could keep them down?” Isaac asked, coming back to the bathroom again.

Birdie shook her head. “I wanna sleep,” she said.

Spirit led Birdie back to bed. Once laying down again, Birdie looked at Isaac and asked, “Can you water my plants? The spray bottle is somewhere in my kitchen.”

Isaac agreed, leaving to go water her plants. Once alone, Birdie reached up to couch Spirit’s face, her fingers grazing a particularly dark bruise on Spirit’s cheekbone. “You got in a fight,” she stated as a fact.

Spirit’s eyes widened at the random statement. “N-no I didn’t,” she said defensively. “I just—”

“You got in a fight,” Birdie repeated. Sleepily, she sighed, snuggling into her pillow before saying, “I know you did. I’m not going to ask who you fought, or why. And I’m not going to tell you to stop getting into fights because I know you well enough to know that you won’t stop. But please don’t lie to me next time, please?”

Spirit sighed, rubbing Birdie’s arm. “Fine.”

Then Birdie peeked an eye open. “And if Isaac over-waters my plants, you’re helping me kill him.”

#thebrilliantidiots #birdie #fever whump #Birdie is a MOOD when she's sick😭 #Spirit and Isaac are such siblings #Lil fun fact: Birdie may be babied by the others a ton (not more than Oliver/ but still) but she's actually the oldest in the group👀

[lewmagoo]

Sleepy prompts with Rhett! Number 19!!

“Stop fighting it. You need sleep.”

rhett was stubborn. some might even say he was as hardheaded as the bulls he rode. and they would be right in that assumption. as much as you loved him, with every fiber of your being, sometimes it was extremely difficult to reason with him. he didn't know when to stop. he had a tendency to work himself to the bone, solely because that was what he'd always done. he gave, and he gave, and he gave. until he had nothing left of himself to give. until he could hardly stand upright because his exhaustion was so overwhelming.

and it scared you, at times. it really did. especially now, with the added responsibility of building a house on top of everything else he was doing for his family back at the abbott ranch. you'd just recently purchased a plot of land together and had begun the process of building your dream home. he was overtaxing himself, trying to put in as many hours as he could at the ranch, while simultaneously putting his blood, sweat, and tears into your own home.

you could see the toll it was taking on him. dark circles under his eyes. a slump in his shoulders, tension in his jaw. and it wasn't just physical, either. it had begun to affect his demeanor. he was irritable and short-tempered. even with you. it festered, and festered, and festered, until you stepped into the line of fire, and he unintentionally blew up at you. and that was when you knew he was at his breaking point. in all the time you'd known him, rhett had never, ever raised his voice at you. not even when he was irritated.

but he lost it. his exhaustion got the better of him, and he shouted at you. "would you just quit?!" the very moment the words left his mouth, he wished he could take them back. your first reaction might've been to recoil, or reprimand him for talking to you in such a way. but you saw the painful regret darkening his face. he was going to beat himself up over this for a long, long time. so you swooped in before he could spiral.

"baby, i'm sor-" he started, but you shushed him. "you're exhausted," you spoke, stepping toward him, lifting a gentle hand to cup his cheek. "i know you'd never speak to me like that under normal circumstances. but these aren't normal circumstances. you're working yourself ragged, baby. and i can't bear to watch it any longer." he let his eyes drift shut, and when he spoke again, his voice wavered. "i...god, i'm so tired. 'm barely able to stand up straight right now." he sounded near tears.

"you're going back to bed," you told him. but he opened his eyes and began to protest. "but i-" he tried, but again, you shushed him. "it's time you stop fighting it. you need sleep. i'm calling your dad and telling him you can't come out today." he looked like he wanted to protest again, but he simply didn't have the strength. he swayed on his feet, and as you pulled him in to wrap your arms around him, he let out a soft, broken sound that resembled a whimper. "just want to sleep for a week straight."

"go and get into bed, sweet boy. i'll be there in a minute to tuck you in." you watched as he trudged back to the bedroom before you gave a call to his dad and informed him that rhett wouldn't be able to come to work. you left out the part where he was quite literally on the verge of passing out from exhaustion. after you made the call, you headed down the hall, only to find that your darling cowboy had collapsed into bed, boots still on, and was sound asleep.

your heart ached at the sight. "my poor baby," you whispered. you padded into the room and very carefully slipped his boots off. once those were off, you pulled the covers over him, and stooped to press a kiss to his temple. "sleep well, my love." and he finally got the rest he so desperately needed.

#asks #rhett abbott x reader

[peachjagiya]

omg wait abt the nicknames !! i thought i was the only one LMAO. I don’t rlly mind much when i see it written out in a tweet/post or whatever but when i hear ppl actually verbally/vocally refer to them as those nicknames…it literally makes me physically recoil and cringe so so hard. like i was watching a youtuber who every 2 seconds called taehyung “taetae” in her whole ass british accent and i just had to pause the video and stop myself from clawing my face off. for some reason it seems like a step too far to me ?? like the members call each other by these little nicknames and when i hear ppl actually verbally calling them that it makes me think…nah cut the weird shit u don’t actually know them like that let’s not call them that. idrk how to describe bc again when i see it typed/written i don’t have a problem or have that visceral reaction lol but i can’t stand actually hearing it.

Haha cute nicknames support group developing here!

In her whole ass British accent

This made me giggle. As a British, we sound so silly being cute like that. It's culturally not our vibe 😂

#my asks

[a-lonely-dunedain]

heeeeeeey so I have mentioned in the past that I have like at least one other LOTRO OC with a shamelessly edgy backstory that I've never posted? well today's the day I post her!

anyway, this is my half-Black Númenórean half-Nurnhoth champion, Margim!

backstory under the cut as not to clog your dash lol

fair warning her backstory is shamelessly edgy in a way that only something written by a young teen can be lol. I've had this character for literal ages and just. forgot to post about her.

Margim was born in the slave-pits in Udun, despite her Númenórean heritage her birth parent wanted nothing to do with her, bc y'know, servants of Sauron are just Like That™. anyway she eventually ended up in the fighting rings of what would eventually be known as Talath-Urui, where slaves and prisoners of Mordor were frequently forced to fight for entertainment. Margim was sent there due to her impressive physical strength, and spent most of her years in comparative isolation where the only interaction she had was either with her captors or those they wanted her to kill. She never thought to try to escape though, as this captivity was all she had ever known, and the wasteland outside of it was all she thought the world outside consisted of. She had never heard anything of the lands outside of Mordor, save that they were filled with evil men somehow curler than those in the service of the Dark Lord. That was, until she actually met one of these so-called "hatful men of Gondor". There was an herbalist from Ithilen who had been captured and brought to Gorgoroth's fighting pits, and he was being kept in the cell next to Margim's. He was not a strong man by any means, seemingly he had only been brought to the pits as fodder for one of the stronger combatants, his presence in the ring would be more of a cruel joke than anything else; one Margim had seen many times before and never found particularly funny. He was also a rather strange man, where most prisoners would avoid speaking to Margim on account of her reputation as one of the most feared Champions of the Pits and her reluctance to speak, like, at all, the herbalist not only spoke to her but offered to help treat her wounds from her previous fight (what he could reach through the cell bars at least) Margim recoiled from him at first, confused at his offer and thinking it might be some kind of trick, after all this didn't line up with anything she had been told about the men of Gondor before. But as their admittedly rather one-sided conversation continued, she learned quite a few things about this man and his homeland she did not expect. most of it sounded fake to her, the ramblings of a man driven mad by despair and starvation most likely. I mean, blue skies? the "sun"? who would ever believe that there was a missive bright floating… orb… thingy… in the sky. the sky is dark, it always has been. she had never seen a flower before and struggled to visualize these strange colorful growing things he attempted to describe. still, she found herself fascinated by this madman, who she learned was named Celeair, and listened intently to all he had to say of the lands outside Mordor, though she did not have much to say in return besides looks of bewilderment. Even if she did think it to be nothing more than a story, it was a… nice story. and she wanted to hear more of it. Well as it turns out, she might not get the chance. Later on when Margim is brought out of her cell to face her next combatant, she finds standing before her on the fighting-bridge none other than Celeair. He somehow seems worse for wear than when she last saw him, if such a thing is even possible, and was not even given a weapon with which to defend himself from her. This was not meant to be a fight, this was an execution. She finds herself unable to approach him. this is not the first one-sided fight she had been expected to partake in, but this was the first time she doubted her ability to follow through with it. the audience of orcs and evil men loudly demanded blood as she considered her next move. If she refused to fight they would both be killed, yet she could not bring herself to raise her mace against the kind madman. Escape is impossible, there is nothing but barren rock and fire and foes beyond the walls of Thorzaf... and beyond that? there is no "beyond that", Celeair says there is but- there's no way any of that was true right? still, he spoke of it with such sincerity. He surely knew he was about to die, he did not have any reason to lie to her did he? but does a madman need a reason-

"BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD!" Interrupts the shouted demands of her impatient audience. A stern calmness came over her face as she made a rather rash decision. It is blood they want? oh, she would give them blood. Before she even considered the repercussions of the act, she turned around and her mace fell on her handler, who was dead before his body crumpled to the ground. in one sweeping movement she snatched his blade as it fell and tossed it to her new friend(?) Celeair.

Their daring escape from the fighting pits and long hard journey from Mordor are a blur to Margim. She remembers she did not think Ithilen was a real place, but at Celeair's insistence that he could lead them there, she trekked on despite her injuries. For all she knew she was chasing nothing more than a faerie tale dreamed up by man more broken than she was. But somehow despite it all, they do eventually make it out of Mordor in one piece. And to her surprise, the sky is not dark.

Margim is not allowed to stay in Ithilen however, and is lucky she was not killed on sight upon entering Ithilen. After all this woman who is visually indistinguishable from the feared Numenorian servants of Sauron (even wearing the armor of one of their commanders that she donned as part of their ruse to get through the black gate) showing up in Ithilen with a captured herbalist in tow would be seen as an immediate threat. luckily Celeair managed to convince his kinsmen to spare her, and while they don't trust her enough to allow her to stay, they allow her to venture north unharmed.

Anyway things are more shaky after that as we're getting out of backstory-territory and into regular story-territory. Margim eventually makes it north to Dunland and is accepted by the Stag-Clan as their champion, and has personal beef with Saurman for trying to start a war in the once peaceful land she now calls her home and trying to drag her very peaceful clan into it. Celeair eventually follows her trail north when he's well enough to travel after his ordeal in Mordor, and now they're traveling buddies :)

#lotro #lotro oc #Margim #thanks Meril for asking me about her and reminding me I needed to post about her lol

[candymonic]

I’ve been really struggling lately thinking about if I’m autistic or if the things I think are signs of autism are my social anxiety and/or adhd.

I need help. I don’t understand how to even look for more information that could help me. Ive read articles that somewhat make me think ‘oh maybe there’s merit in those idea’ but I just can’t find anything comprehensive in words that I can understand that also considers that I have other things that could be causing what I think is autism symptoms.

What if I’ve been masking so hard my entire life neither the people around me or myself noticed anything was wrong? I literally don’t remember most of my life so I don’t even have a reliable source on what I was feeling as a kid. I don’t think I would have talked about what I was feeling if I did feel something. But I don’t know if I did.

I’m very touch sensitive. I can’t wear certain fabrics. Touching something slimey makes me want to cry. I can’t clean up powder because the way it feels through the wet paper towel makes my skin crawl. I also hate wet paper towels. I need thick-ish drinks (chocolate milks) to swallow pills as in swallowing pills with water can make me physically recoil (but also I have a *microscopic* mouth so that could explain that one?). I’m extremely particular about food textures. I can’t eat Brussels sprouts, they make my throat constrict because they feel so bad in my mouth I don’t want to swallow them. That could just be my mom’s cooking being bland as hell though.

I’m sensitive to sound. I can’t be in loud places, it makes me anxious. A little distressed. I have misophonia. I can’t listen to people chewing or swallowing or breathing in my ear, it makes my skin crawl. Now misophonia could be an adhd thing but it’s so bad that I have to wear headphones (not earbuds or I would hear my own chewing, which isn’t *as* bad but still not great) *and* have music in the background when I eat dinner with people.

Sometimes when I’m overwhelmed and tired, I shut down. It becomes very hard to speak, not impossible but I have to charge up my voice in order to get anything out and it’s very mouse-ish. Quiet and meek and mumbly. I become extremely sensitive in this state, no one could touch me or i would want to cry, every sound is louder and makes me jump, even my taste is different. My emotions slow down to protect myself from feeling any more overwhelmed. I saw my brother for the first time in maybe a year when I was in this state and I couldn’t even be properly excited about it. I had to recharge, something that took at least an hour.

I need a lot of time to myself. I am hesitant to go out and do things with people because the only thing I usually do is be by myself (change in routine).

I obsess over things for months to years at a time. I try to learn everything I can about that thing. I love talking to people about what I know. I love learning about what other people know.

And it’s so fucking hard to find information on how this can show in adults because for some reason adhd and autism is talked about like only children have it.

Maybe I’ll feel different once I get into college, but it’d be useful to know this about myself, yknow?

#should I tag this? idk if I want people to see it… fuck it. sorry #autism #adhd #social anxiety

[writingtomygrave]

Writer's Guide: Narrative & How to Write More Intense, Powerful Scenes!

There's nothing better, no more thrilling in any kind of story, than that one scene. That scene that you just can't get enough of - you come back to all the time.

Maybe it was what happened, the tea has been spilled - and boy was it hot - or perhaps it was a climactic action scene, or pivotal moment of change and decision in a character.

Well, that's some of it, but there's a little more behind the scenes (pun intended) that makes these wonderful moments tick. This information helps across all writing, too!

Save your Ammo, Soldier!

There's a few key components that help you know when and how to write this "pivotal" or "intense" scene, the ones that really get the extra garnish and love from you as the author.

These chunks are in any kind of story, be it romance or action, mega fantasy or slice of life, anywhere there's growth in a character and plot, you're going to find a powerful, riveting turning point (or points) jutting at you somewhere.

The biggest thing to consider is: how much is at stake? Obviously, we shouldn't write our most heartfelt exchanges of dialogue over the expositive morning breakfast table. But maybe that one time where the hero is ready to buckle before their most fearsome foes and their fear of failure makes fighting a far fetched fairy tail, and the sweet sister soliloquially slams some sense into the saddened savior... maybe that's important.

Just the same as a song must crescendo and decrescendo, you have to bring fortissimo when it matters and you want to sink your claws into your reader. But to be screaming at the reader while they're simply trying to learn about Susie Sue and her train wreck of a day... that can be a little more quiet, so to speak.

How do I get in?

Alright then. Save your ammo. Bring out the big guns when you need them. Since, as always, writing is all about balance! So let's talk about a different balance, the one that takes your scenes to the next level.

You, as the writer have to control and include three things:

What is happening?

How is the character reacting to it?

What is the character feeling about it?

Most writers' biggest downfall is including only one or two of these things. This is something I discovered while editing some of my own most key events - I got very good at describing the action, or the thing happening to my character, but didn't so much include what he did about it and how he felt/thought about it

As an example, this character, Sorra, is going through an intense and very painful transformation. A lot is happening here; he's transforming physically, which involves lots of tissues and bones tearing and bending in ways they're not meant to, and he's transforming mentally, some because of the pain he's in, and some because of the preceding events.

So, to isolate one moment: I described Sorra's fingers breaking and contorting at the beginning of his transformation. I told of how they locked up and he lost control of them, then how they began to bend and reshape themselves, and the sounds he heard. I told that he recoiled some, but then moved on to the next event.

This is a key moment. My readers were missing out on how painful it was for him, which is in part a feeling, but mostly a question of how he might scream out or question what's happening to him. He might jump back or grip his hand, maybe plead with God or the universe. They also missed out on what was going through his mind. There should be a sense of his total confusion and a sense of a lack of control through panicked thoughts that aren't complete.

And this is important for each and every event along the sequence that eventually forms this scene. I don't just want to see a character die, I want to see details about what their loved ones see in them in death, maybe literally, like how they watch life leave this person's eyes, then know how it made them feel, and personably. Obviously they're sad. But how? Is there a memory they get? A tradition or habit they can no longer carry out?

Through connections with what is happening in the world, in the minds of the characters, and the bridge that lies between them - being the actions they take - readers will be far more moved by whatever riveting event, good or bad, is happening.

Maybe Just use Smaller Bullets...?

So, now that you're wielding your wonderful, weaponized words and you're well aware of how wary of wounding your warriors (readers) you must be, know now that you don't always have to turn this skillset on and off entirely.

Balance it out!!

Even in the most intense of scenes, you, of course, don't have to paint every thought, every action, and every event across the sky. Much like an eclipse, the more impactful you wish to be, the closer these three satellites should crest one another, overlapping, but not blocking one or the other out completely.

When things calm down, it's still important to make sure all of your moons are visible, but let the sun come out first! That is - cycle around a little. As you're telling the duller parts of your story, invigorate your audience with a rotating array of rotund rounds, retaining retardancy in your rate, then reel them in with rapid and rambunctious rotisserie of everything orbiting the reader at once. (Okay fine, I'm done).

Make sure readers see into your character through their thoughts and reactions. This is kind of a long-throw segué into show, don't tell. Do both! When you've done some telling, do some showing. One of the three perspectives will help fill in the gaps of the other two. Sometimes it's good to just say what's happening - readers aren't brainiacs and they can't keep track of all these little tidbits that eventually tell them something. Eventually it's too much to handle. But other times, it's good to let readers realize something through thoughts and actions, rather than you blurting it out.

Your words are weapons, but not every bullet is right for every job. Bust out a differently-sized round... or maybe it's time for a trusty knife instead.

That one scene you rewind to sometimes when you just can't stop thinking about it, sometimes even skipping back just to see it another time... it was good because you got the whole picture. Seeing what your favorite (or least favorite) character did and felt, on top of the things happening to them, let you empathize with them on a deeper level, and root for (or against) them.

#writing #creative writing #writer stuff #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #writing help #writing tips #narrative #narration #storytelling #guide

[abraxos-and-ataraxia]

Crown of Ash and Blood

Chapter 6

Pairing: Eris x Original Character

Word Count: 4.4K

Warnings: brief mentions of torture?

Summary: Eris is cool, calm, and collected.  He’s not known for the fire in his blood, but for his cold manipulation of truth and lies.  Until he meets his match.  Literally.

A/N: I’m sure you knew this breakdown was coming :) sorry not sorry Eris

Masterlist

Eris gripped his hair in rough fistfuls, stopping just at the edge of pain.  His lungs were filled with shards of glass.  Each breath sent fresh agony slicing through him.  Why now?

He’d gone home.  Foolish of him, really, but he’d winnowed with little to no rational thought.  Seeking safety, Eris found himself in his childhood bedroom.  No one would look for him there.

The room slowly darkened as Eris fought for air.  He needed to get himself under control.  Unraveling slowly in the shadows wouldn’t earn him the throne, wouldn’t satisfy the farmers on the brink of revolt, wouldn’t provide answers for Koschei.  It just left him weak.  Eris couldn’t afford weakness.  Not now, not ever.

His next breath dissolved into a harsh sob.  Cauldron damn him, he wouldn’t cry over this.  Gritting his teeth, his grip tightened, pinpricks of pain drowning out the rest.  That, at least, he understood.  He could weather a physical storm.  He’d done it for years.  This was nothing, this female was nothing compared to the centuries he had survived.

Eris still couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the word.  Not even in his own mind.  He recoiled from the very thought, wanting as much distance as he could manage.  As though keeping it at arm’s length would weaken the tether anchored to his chest.

He laughed a bit, feeling like the floor was dropping out from under him.  How could he keep his distance?  He was tied to this now.  Tied to her, he corrected himself.  Mother save him, he had the female stuffed into Evander’s old cabin on the feeble prayer that no one would find her there.  He was on ice so thin, his feet were already wet.

The door swung open slowly, sending Eris into a panic.  A wall of flame roared towards the doorway, vanishing at the last possible second.  He crumpled, unable to look as his mother locked the door behind her, gliding closer to sit at his side.

“I found her,” he said, voice so hoarse it was nearly inaudible.

“Can you tell me?”  Her words sent tears streaming down his face, boiling hot.  He hated them, hated himself for allowing them.  Hated the memory of his father truly boiling the tears off his face, the last time he’d dared shed them.

Eris choked, torn between laughter and sobbing.  “She threatened a squad of Darkbringers with a fork,” he told her.

His mother’s hand was soft, smoothing over his forehead.  In an instant, Eris was six years old again, leaning against her shoulder to hide his face.  To hide any evidence.  “Did she draw blood?”

“Of course,” Eris gave a wet chuckle.  “She used it on me next.”

“Brave of her,” his mother said, a smile in her voice, her fingers gentle as they ran over his head.

“She’s so young,” Eris said, shoulders shaking.

His mother sighed.  “As were we all, once.”

The words bubbled up his throat, scorching his tongue.  “I’m terrified.”  He felt like taking the knife from his belt and finishing the job before his father could.

She simply hummed, the sound as soothing as the circles she rubbed on his back.  “Good.  It means you have something to live for.”

His eyes burned fiercely.  “I already have something to live for.  And I cannot let anything risk our future.”

“Eris,” she whispered, fingers pressing between his shoulder blades.  “This is your future.  And I want you to have it, to love it.”

“I can’t risk you,” he argued, chest tight.  He couldn’t breathe.

“You won’t,” she soothed.  “You won’t.  But what kind of mother would I be if I stopped you from living?”

Eris curled in on himself, panic scouring him from the inside out.  “I can’t,” he repeated, over and over.  “I can’t.”  And his mother sat beside him for hours, just listening.

* * * * *

Days passed, but Eris didn’t return.  Danae spent hours just watching the door, waiting for a knock that never came.  Food would magically appear on the table throughout the day, the only indication that Eris remembered her existence.  Steaming turnovers in the mornings, fresh sandwiches at noon, soups and stews for dinner.  At least she’d gotten an upgrade from cheese and bread.

By the end of the week, Danae had grown desperate enough to read the fishing book.  She entertained herself by crossing out words to make bad poetry.  It worked better when she used the pages with gory descriptions.  She tried cooking, but wound up with a pot of solid porridge, so she resigned herself to Eris’ deliveries.  Danae cleaned the whole cabin again to keep busy.  She even braved the rusty bathtub, which learned to spew warm water after she cursed at it for thirty minutes.  But none of it stopped her mind from circling over her last encounter with Eris.

None of it made sense.  Eris had proven that he was more than capable of turning her to ash if he wished.  And after Danae threatened physical violence not once, but three times, she was incredulous that he hadn’t done so.  No, Eris hadn’t killed her, he ran away.  But why?

No matter how many times she went over it, Danae never settled on an answer.  She doubted she’d ever get one, even if Eris came back eventually.  Not that she was feeling very confident he would.

After seven whole days of silence, Danae resolved to leave the cabin.  If he doesn’t come by tomorrow morning, I’ll escape to Winter, she decided.  It was cold enough that she believed Eris—the cabin had to be near the border.  Which meant a short trek north would land her in the icy court.  If she dared, she could hike across the Middle to hide in Dawn.  Perhaps she’d reach Day eventually.  She hoped so.  Eris would probably mock her plan, considering it was nothing more than bare bones, but at least she had something.

Sunset crawled over the horizon, and Danae lit the candles one by one.  Her belly was warm and full from supper.  Eris had sent some kind of roast, with baked vegetables on the side.  It reminded her of home.

The knock was so quiet, she almost ignored it.  Scrambling off the couch, Danae yanked open the door with such force, her hair blew back from her face.

Eris stood frozen in the doorway, hand still poised to knock again.  “You didn’t check,” he said dully.

“I’d prefer torture and death to another week being trapped in this stupid cabin.”

A glimmer of amusement, quickly stifled.  “Apologies,” he murmured, waiting for her to let him in.  Danae stepped aside, unable to tear her eyes away from him as he walked in.  Something was different.  He looked the same, but there was something missing.  She wasn’t sure how she knew.  “I’ve been busy.”

“With what?”  Something tugged at her chest, and Danae found herself moving to the kitchen, sitting down without being asked.

“Politics.”  He sat down carefully.  Perhaps that was it.  Eris seemed almost…too careful, tentative.  He hadn’t snapped at her once, not even about the wide open curtains.

“Night Court politics always boils down to one thing,” she said with a smirk.  “Our High Lord is a pompous asshole.”  But Eris’ stony facade didn’t crack.  Not even for an answering sneer.  Danae frowned.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to finish our conversation last week,” Eris said, as though she hadn’t spoken.  “Perhaps you can tell me more about the Illyrian conflict.  Are there any aggressors?”

Danae pursed her lips, contemplating how to continue.  “Iron Crest, one of the war camps, has been a hotspot of unrest for the past few months.  Word is, the General managed to stomp out the worst of it after one of their ringleaders died in the Rite.”

“The Rite?”

“Long story, but it’s a tradition to let young warriors practice killing for the first time,” she waved her hand.  “Almost as barbaric as clipping.”

“Where is Iron Crest?”

“I can draw you a map, if you like, but it won’t be very accurate.  I’ve only seen a few in my life, and I’ve never been anywhere outside of my camp, until now.”

“That’s fine, I can try and find a more accurate map later,” Eris said, gaze fixed on the table.  He tapped his fingers, considering.  “What is the current situation with the camps?  Is unrest still at a boiling point?”  The utter lack of emotion in his voice was unsettling, and frankly, starting to piss her off.

“In my camp at least, the males are willing to fight the High Lord for the right to clip females,” Danae said bitterly.  “Windhaven is the camp farthest to the west, and the one the High Lord visits most often.  I assume it’s the one closest to their secret city.  The Illyrians there have fallen in line for the most part.  But every camp resumed clipping the second Amarantha captured the High Lord.  He wasn’t around to stop them.”

“The secret city, Velaris,” Eris mused.  “I’ve never been there.”

“Me neither, I wasn’t invited,” Danae grinned savagely.  “I think they were worried I’d invite too many friends.”

Eris hummed an agreement.  “The city's too well warded for me to gain access.  But if I leverage your information properly, I can likely coerce them into granting access,” he smirked, leaning back in his chair.

Danae eyed him for a moment.  “That’s five truths.  My turn?”

He blinked, taken aback by the request.  But he honored his agreement.  “Ask away,” he said, his smirk gone like it had never been there.

“Where have you been all week and why are you acting like such a tightass?”

Another slow blink.  “That’s two,” he said.

“Fine.  Two truths.”

“I spent considerable time at the Forest House—my family’s home and what serves as the capital for this court,” he said, eyes focused somewhere over her shoulder.  “And as your second question is a matter of opinion, I decline to answer.”

“That’s a fresh load of shit,” she snorted.  “Try again.”

��I don’t have an answer that you will find satisfactory, so I suggest you choose another truth.”

“No, I won’t.  You were an asshole before, but now you’re acting like I don’t exist.  Do you want your information or not?”

“Third truth: yes, I do want your information,” he said, finally looking at her.

“Fuck you,” Danae muttered, kicking back in her chair.  “I have no interest in being treated like a doormat.”

Eris drew himself up in his seat, eyes narrowed on her.  “Would you prefer to trade insults?”

“Yes,” she snapped, leaping to her feet.  The chair toppled to the floor behind her.  “I’m not some prisoner you get to interrogate like it’s a chore.  We have a deal.”

“How I behave towards you was not part of it,” he seethed.

“Finally, an emotion,” Danae crowed with victory, raising her arms in the air.  “For my third truth—”

“Fourth,” Eris said, eyes hard.

Danae glared right back.  “What did you tell the Night Court about me?”

He eyed her as if she’d launch over the table with a knife again.  Maybe she would, depending on his answer.  “I heavily implied that you were still wandering the Middle,” he conceded.  “I told them I left you there, and that you mentioned the trouble brewing in Illyria.  That’s all.”

Relief threatened to weaken her knees, so Danae reached for a distraction, and Eris had always been such a good one.  “My fifth truth,” she said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.  Technically, he still hadn’t answered the second, but she would pick her battles.

Eris waved at her, “Don’t make me wait an eternity, then.”

Danae stalked around the table, holding his gaze with her own until she leaned over his chair.  “Why’d you run away from me?”

* * * * *

Eris clenched his fist beneath the table.  It was easier when he didn’t look at her.  With Danae mere inches away from him, her scent overwhelming, he couldn’t ignore the tug in his chest.  The voice telling him to claim her, take her, devour her.  Not safe, not safe, it chanted.  Of course it wasn’t safe.  She would never be safe.  He had too many enemies, too many who would delight in finding a weakness of his to exploit.  Not safe.

He gritted his teeth.  Eris had stayed away for days, trying to get his emotions back under control.  He had never felt so unhinged, so driven by his base instincts.  Days spent resisting the urge to go to her, knowing that it was the stupidest course of action he could take.  With his carefully crafted mask in pieces, Eris was the biggest threat to her and to his own plans.  As long as he failed to leash himself, he was a risk.  Even thinking the word that plagued him was a risk.  One he couldn’t afford.

Eris thought he could manage to fulfill their deal, extracting information from her, so long as he stayed level-headed—or at least pretended to be.  He told himself it would work, so long as she stayed far enough away, he couldn’t reach out and touch her.  He hadn’t realized she would set fire to his blood like he was so much kindling.

How could he allow her to break him so easily?  When had he become so pathetic?  So weak?

Eris wondered if things would be easier if he simply dropped her in another court, another continent.  If she disappeared, would he finally regain his senses?  That abominable tether in his chest writhed, rebelling at the thought.

Eris couldn’t withstand the warring halves of himself, feeling as though he was being ripped apart at the seams.  And he couldn’t quite manage to ice over his raging heart.  He wasn’t sure he could regain it, the chill that kept him safe for so long.

Not safe, he thought numbly.  He was the reason.  And if he couldn’t find a way to smother his own reactions to her, she would never be safe.  None of them would be safe.

Eris chose an easier fight, abandoning the one in his own mind.  He snarled up at Danae.  “Back.  Off.”

Instead of picking up a fork or a dagger or some other sharp instrument, like he expected, Danae simply snorted.  She turned her back on him and muttered, “Coward.”

Eris had to admire her ability to find his most tender spots and slice deep.  And perhaps he would later, when he wasn’t setting his chair on fire and stalking her like a male possessed.  Somehow, she left him unable to reach for rational thought, a victim to his roiling emotions for the first time in centuries.  But when he realized what he looked like, who he looked like, Eris stumbled to a halt.  The flames extinguished throughout the cabin, including the candles and the logs in the fireplace, immersing the room in sudden darkness.

He heard her gasp, felt a tug on that damned bond.  He ignored it, shoved it down deep, buried it beneath layers of scar tissue and memory.  And he prayed that it wouldn’t resurface.  He prayed he had enough control to master it.  He had no other choice.

Taking a breath, Eris reassessed.  In the dark, he didn’t feel quite like a rampaging beast anymore.  Perhaps he could find some small sliver of sympathy for Tamlin.  Perhaps Eris would join him in the wilds, rather than bring everyone down with him.  He almost laughed at the thought.  His father might even die from the shock of it.

“Eris.”

In answer, he lit the candles.  One by one, the wicks flickered back to life, illuminating Danae’s face slowly.  Her eyes met his, refusing to back down from his stare.  He wondered what it would take to make her afraid of him.

Danae interrupted his downward spiral.  “I knew I’d piss you off eventually,” she said, smiling wickedly.

His anger evaporated entirely, and Eris slumped into another chair at the table, since his old one was still smoldering.  He rekindled the logs in the fireplace, sending a bit more light through the room.  “Apologies,” he murmured.

Danae waved a hand.  “I did it on purpose.”

“You really must have been bored this week, if you were desperate enough to make me burn this place to the ground,” Eris said, mouth fighting a smile.  He couldn’t encourage this, them, her.  Shouldn’t.

“You would be, too, if you had nothing to do but clean and pace the same room for seven days.”

He nodded slowly, closing his eyes.  “Can I get you anything?”  What the hell was he doing?

“What do you recommend?  Nothing outdoors, obviously,” Danae said.  He’d bet money she was rolling her eyes.

“Books, wine, willing females,” Eris said, snorting softly.  He opened his eyes to see her reaction.  Sure enough.

“No to the females,” she snarked.

“Males, then,” Eris’ mouth twitched again.  Cauldron damn him.

“Surely you have other hobbies.”

Eris paused, considering.  In truth, bedding females wasn’t his activity of choice.  He’d leave that to Loren.  Rather than answering, he summoned a chess set, the carved wooden pieces rattling with the impact on the table.

“What’s this?”  Danae’s eyes were wide, curious.  She tested a few pieces, rolling them between her fingers.  “A board game?”

“Chess,” he corrected.  “I take it you haven’t played.”

“I can imagine a few ways to use these pieces, but they’re probably not correct,” she grinned, tightening her hold on the bishop as though she might lob it at him.

Eris shook his head.  But a part of him was grinning, pleased with her proclivity for violence.  He swiftly choked it.  He snapped his fingers and a pile of books appeared on the table.  Including a chess manual.  Danae just laughed.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Eris said, rising wearily.  His stomach twisted, urging him to stay.  Urging him to do something so horribly stupid.  He knew the moment he lost the battle.  “You can tell me what else you remember about the Night Court, and perhaps show me if you’ve learned anything from that,” he pointed to the manual.

“How long will it take to beat you?”  Danae’s eyes gleamed with the challenge.

“I’ve been playing for hundreds of years,” he said, dry as bone.  “I imagine it will take a while.”  Hopefully before his foolish urges got them killed.  Or worse.

* * * * *

Danae quickly learned that she was too impatient for chess.  She dutifully read the guidebook, but wound up tossing it aside after suffering through two chapters.  When Eris thrashed her later that night, she read the third chapter.  He beat her handily.  Twice.

So she spent the following day forcing herself through the entirety of the horrible handbook.  Partly because she itched to beat him, but partly because Eris declared they would exchange their truths over the course of the game.  If she lost too quickly, she missed opportunities to question him.  Eris had the upper hand when it came to information; she refused to let him keep it that way.

Just after dusk, Danae set up the chess set, determined to prove she had learned something.  Eris always arrived around the same time, and that night was no exception.  She opened the door at his knock, but he didn’t meet her eyes as he walked in.  He was limping slightly.  Danae frowned deeply.  “What happened,” she demanded, following him to the table.

“Nothing of import.”

“Not true,” she said.

“Actually, it’s a matter of perspective.  I think it lacks importance, therefore I’m telling the truth,” Eris corrected, sitting down in his usual chair.  He didn’t rest against the back, she noticed.

Danae moved a pawn forward two spaces, glaring at him.  “What.  Happened.”

“What always happens,” he said, mouth twisting.  “My father.”

Her brows lowered like a guillotine.  “Why?”

“Wait your turn,” Eris jerked his chin at her, encouraging her to sit, rather than looming over him for the entirety of the game.  She obliged.  Humming softly, Eris moved his own pawn.  “How often does Rhysand send his people to check on the camps?”

“Most of them?  Only once a year since Amarantha.  The problem camps get more frequent visits, and the visits usually only stop once someone’s dead.”  She eyed the bishop, considering, then moved another pawn.  “Why did your father hurt you?”

Eris’ face was still as stone.  “I failed to give him a report in a timely manner, and I was punished accordingly,” he said, so matter-of-fact that Danae nearly forgot they were discussing his father.  “What happens when more than one camp rebels at once?”  He shifted another piece.

Danae scrambled to switch topics after Eris’ revelation.  “I don’t think it’s happened.  Well, after Hybern, there was some dissent in multiple camps, but most of them were just grumblings.  The General only really visited one camp, since the others fell in line quickly,” she said, thinking back.  “My camp wasn’t one of them.  The leaders kept things quiet, not wanting the attention.”  Her bishop, this time.  “What did he do to you?”

“My father enjoys the whip.  Though he doesn’t always get his own hands dirty, he likes to watch.”  Eris' voice remained surprisingly level, but his amber eyes were like chips of ice, fixed on the board as he made his next move.  “How do the Illyrians react to visitors?  High Fae visitors?”

“Not well,” Danae said absently, unable to look away from him.  “In my camp, females were forbidden to speak with any outsiders.  Even other Illyrians.  The males will usually ignore High Fae, not that they go through the Steppes often.”  She paused, biting her lip.  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You can keep feeding me information,” Eris said, swiftly capturing her bishop.  Danae barked a curse, slumping in her chair.  “Give me something useful.  We’ve all but exhausted the topic of Illyria.  Especially since I’m not interested in starting a war there.  Yet,” he added, as an afterthought.

Danae pressed her lips together.  “I don’t know what else you want,” she said, shifting a knight.

“You promised all kinds of things in the Middle,” he scoffed.  “I find it hard to believe you can’t think of anything worth my time.”

She blew out a rough breath.  “I can tell you about the moonstone palace,” she tried.

“Useless.”

“Why don’t you tell me some things,” Danae snapped.  “Maybe I know something important and don’t even realize it.”

“Our arrangement was for you to share secrets, not the other way around,” Eris said, shaking his head.

“Ah, of course,” she sneered.  “With such encouragement, I’ll be sure to remember the High Lord’s weaknesses in no time.”

Eris narrowed his eyes at her, but appeared to consider.  “I suppose it can’t hurt to tell you,” he mused.  “You can be rather clever sometimes.”

Danae rolled her eyes, “Thank you, how kind.”

He ignored the jab.  “There is a potential threat to Prythian, a mysterious and powerful male on the continent.  I’m trying to figure out what he wants before we’re blindsided again.”

Her brows raised.  “We?”

“All the courts,” Eris bit out.  “Are potentially affected by this.  I don’t want another war.”

“Weren’t you just plotting one in Illyria?”

He waved a hand.  “That’s just in case your High Lord ignores my ultimatum.  I’ll ruin him if I have to.”  Eris tilted his head, regarding her curiously.  “This male, Koschei, is trapped at a lake.  I assume he is looking for an escape and I need to figure out his plan to do so.”

“Because you don’t want him to escape?”

“That, and I suspect he already has his claws in various courts here.  Night, for certain.”  Eris tapped his fingers on the table, playing with one of her captured chess pieces.  “He made a bargain with Feyre Archeron’s father, exchanging something for the temporary freedom of one of his enchanted slaves.”

“Woah, hold on,” Danae pressed her palms to the table.  That name was familiar.  “I met a female named Feyre once.  Who exactly is she?  And what do you mean by enchanted slaves?”

Eris stared at her.  “Feyre Archeron is your High Lady.”

“What?”  Danae blinked rapidly.  “I didn’t know High Ladies existed.”

“Neither did I,” Eris scoffed.  “Apparently Rhysand never bothered to announce his mate’s new role outside of his precious city, along with ignoring both magic and tradition.”

Danae thought back to the woman at the palace.  Feyre hadn’t said much outside of agreeing with the High Lord, so quick to believe his accusations of treason.  She hadn’t even met Danae, but apparently Feyre needed no evidence to justify invading her mind.  Surely if the female was the ruler of the Night Court, Danae would have known it?  Or was it a title in name only?  Did Feyre know anything about the people she ruled, or was she in the dark as well?

Eris continued, not waiting for her to come to terms with Feyre’s identity.  “As for the slaves, I must admit I don’t know much.  Koschei apparently entraps women, turning them into swans.  But he made a deal to release one of them, a human queen, for an indefinite amount of time.  I want to know why, and what he traded her for.”

Danae gaped at him.  “I don’t know anything about this,” she said, eyes wide.  “I’ve never heard of magic birds or queens or anyone named Koschei.”

“I assumed,” Eris said dryly.  “I want to know what you think.  If you were a powerful death-god, trapped for centuries, what would you want?”

“Escape, of course.”

“Beyond that.”

She thought about it for a moment, fingertip tracing the edge of the chess board.  “Males only ever want one thing—power,” Danae said.  “Whether it’s in the form of a weapon, an alliance, or control over another.  True power is the ability to do what you want without repercussions.”

“Is it?”

Danae nodded slowly.  “If Koschei is so powerful, but was somehow tricked or trapped, I imagine he could want revenge.  Unless the person responsible is dead.”  Then she shook her head sharply.  “No, I think he wants power.  He needs more to escape because he’s not strong enough on his own.”

Eris watched her, those amber eyes piercing through her.  “He’s been acquiring women through the centuries—control over others,” he agreed.  “He’s made alliances in the past, and I fear he’s trying to arrange one with my father.”

“If none of that has been enough to free him,” she ventured.  “What else could?”

Eris stilled.  “Something Made.”

* * * * *

Previous • Next

#eris x oc #eris vanserra x oc #eris vanserra #eris vanserra fic #acotar fanfic #acotar fic

[myfairstarlight]

A Dance With The Devil

AO3 Link.

Rated: T

Length: 6.6k

Canon Divergence: What if instead of Crowley going to Heaven after the ball, Aziraphale went Downstairs?

⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

If you asked Crowley, throwing a ball in which people are stripped from their free will and, unconsciously, have to comply with a certain higher influence isn’t very… angelic, he’d even call it demonic, rather, but he supposes he is not about to say that out loud. Aziraphale looks much too pleased with himself and Crowley would hate to burst his bubble.

Except he’ll have to, just not about that topic specifically, at least. Weaving through the crowd, Crowley quickly finds the angel standing on the side, observing his work in a dark corner, a giddy smile on his face.

Crowley sighs internally.

“Angel,” he calls, noticing Aziraphale straighten his back at the sound of his voice, “Making it rain is one thing but a ball with…” he cuts himself off. He did tell himself that’s not what he’s going to talk about here. “Look, there’s something wrong, there’s something really wrong—”

“Well, perhaps you could tell me,” Aziraphale interrupts, turning around with a giddiness Crowley hasn’t seen since he’s been able to put on a magic show, “while we dance?”

And just like that, once more, Aziraphale puts Crowley off-balance. “... You don’t dance.”

But Aziraphale only giggles. He fucking giggles. And then he grabs his hand anyway despite his sort of negative response to the invitation, and starts dragging him towards the dancefloor. Only for a split second, Crowley forgets himself, mind zeroing in on the warmth of his angel’s hand, before the blinding lights of the chandeliers hit him and he comes back to his senses and stops. It has the effect of surprising Aziraphale who almost falls back at the sudden recoil if it wasn’t for Crowley stabilising him with a hand on his left shoulder.

"Wait. I don't— not, in front of the lots of them, it's not for human ears," Crowley says suddenly, pulling them back into the shadows and Aziraphale looks at him with big saddened eyes.

"But I really wanted to dance!"

“Angel—” he groans, accepting defeat. “Do we still hear the music from upstairs?”

Aziraphale squeals. Honest to God squeals. Crowley is getting distracted once again as the angel rushes them upstairs, it’s nothing short of a miracle that he doesn’t use a miracle to get them there quicker, really. The upstairs is a mess, however, with piles of books scattered everywhere, making it impossible to truly move without stumbling on them.

“Uh, hold on,” Aziraphale says, “I may have run out of miracles here.”

That's a lie. Even so, Crowley rolls his eyes and with a single hand gesture, the floor clears as the books squeeze their way through the overflowing shelves. “Listen I really need to tell you—” Crowley starts only to be rudely interrupted when the angel shushes him with a finger against his lips.

“Tut tut, while we’re dancing! We would not want to break the Jane Austen rule now, would we?” Aziraphale says and he looks so pleased, it confuses Crowley to no end because isn’t this whole farce about Nina and Maggie? Why is his angel so adamant that they have their moment as well?

(A seed of hope starts to bloom in his heart. He tries to burn it down.)

“Ugh, fine.”

Aziraphale jumps in place, clapping quietly, before he offers his hand just as the music downstairs picks up again. "Wonderful! Shall we then, my dear?"

Crowley stares, heart quite literally stopping. My dear. Did he… did he hear that right?

"Crowley?" Aziraphale calls, now looking concerned. "You've stopped time again."

That snaps him out of it pretty quickly. "I have?!" The demon quickly looks down to see that both the humans and even the demons outside are now awfully still. "Oh, I have." He should have done that earlier actually, now he can finally speak without interruption. "Perfect, look—"

"You really don't want to dance do you?"

"Oh, would you shut up for a second about your dance?!"

Aziraphale physically recoils at that, holding the hand he was reaching out with to his chest, and while he doesn't seem too surprised by Crowley's outburst there's a hurt look in his eyes that makes the demon's heart squeeze uncomfortably.

He breathes in. "Sorry. Sorry. I'm sorry, I'd… I wouldn't mind dancing but there's kind of a demon invasion incoming. Like right outside the bookshop's doors and people will get hurt if we do nothing."

"What!" Aziraphale exclaims, now rushing towards one of the windows, but the demonic fog is obscuring the view. Even so, it seems to be enough for him to believe Crowley. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?" Crowley just gives him a look. The angel flushes. "Oh right. My apologies."

Crowley just waves his hand. Apology accepted or whatever. He’s not petty enough to ask for the dance right now.

“Alright, a plan,” the angel says, “of course, we need to bring Gabriel— I mean Jim to safety.”

“You’re still on that?” Crowley groans.

“Of course! I’m not throwing him into the jaws of danger! And anyway, this bookshop is technically an embassy so we should be safe as long as no one invites them in.”

Crowley sighs. “Fine. But let’s still get the humans out, one of them might provoke them and accidentally invite them inside.” Some humans really have no sense of self-preservation. A faulty design. “Shax hasn’t arrived yet and they’re kind of… you know, aimless if no one’s ordering them around so we might be able to get everyone back to their shop without any harm.”

“Might need a big miracle for them to just follow without question,” Aziraphale points out.

“Indeed.” Crowley offers his hand. “Or we could do it while time is stopped right now, I just need your support.”

Aziraphale stares at his hand for a while and although Crowley can tell he's already made up his mind, he still seems quite frustrated. Eventually, the angel grabs his hand, but not without a tired groan as he mumbles, "All I wanted was one dance."

Crowley would find his petulance cute if his mind wasn't presently preoccupied with the danger at hand. “Come on, angel, after.”

That makes the angel perk up, a smile finding its way back to his lips. “After, really?”

He really wants that dance, huh. “Yes, after.”

⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

After, turns out to really be much after. Once they’ve successfully managed to bring the humans to the coffee shop and Aziraphale puts them to sleep, they pretty much collapse as soon as they are back in the bookshop, and time resumes its course because neither of them can hold on for much longer.

“Yeah let’s never do that again,” Crowley groans, draped over an armchair and trying to block out the noises the demons are making just outside.

“Ugh. Reckon we alerted Heaven again?” Aziraphale from where he’s leaning against a pillar, holding the side of his head.

“Hope not, can’t deal with more here.”

“Everything alright? Where did everyone go?” Gabriel asks with wide-eyed innocence and curiosity. “And who are those guests at the door? We’re closed!”

“Don’t invite them in!” Crowley exclaims, suddenly jumping to his feet and immediately regretting it. “Argh, it’s like a hangover and I can’t miracle it away.”

“Jim would you just— go to your room while we sort this out please?” Aziraphale says then, pushing the former archangel towards the staircase. The clueless angel, fortunately, listens without any further prompting, a subtle buzzing sound following him up. “I suppose he never managed to squash that fly.”

“Pity, pesky, annoying little things,” Crowley mumbles then claps his hands. “Alright, a plan. What have we got?”

“Um… I still have the circle we can power up but again, as long as we don’t invite them, they can’t get in.”

“So, we’re stuck.”

“Seems like it.”

Then there’s the sound of glass being smashed and a sign falls at their feet, trying to spell out “Hand over the angel”. Key word is trying.

Aziraphale huffs and makes direct eye contact with Shax. “Now that’s just rude, we’re literally right here we can hear you.”

"You're running out of time," she petulantly says.

“Aren’t ya the one on a time limit?” Crowley chimes in. “What would Beelzebub even say if you fail huh? Gabriel is not here, you’re just wasting time and making a fool of yourself.”

“Well, I—” She clears her throat. “Then your angel is coming with us. One is better than none, I'm sure Lord Beelzebub will have a good time torturing information out of the soft one. Besides, since he's renegade, it won't even alert Heaven.”

Crowley actually laughs out loud then. “Oh, you’re really funny—”

“Alright,” Aziraphale interrupts, “perhaps your boss will be less stubborn and actually understand I’m telling the truth.”

Shax starts to smile, already summoning the elevator to Hell. She extends her hand and Crowley slaps it away.

“Hold on, angel, what are you doing?” the demon hisses, grabbing Aziraphale’s shoulders and pulling the both of them aside, away from Shax’s shifty eyes and the demons’ annoying groans.

“Making a plan of course,” Aziraphale replies nonchalantly and he tilts his head just a tiny bit as if sending a message Crowley isn't getting. He can already feel panic start to overtake his whole body because the angel looks way too determined and Crowley knows that look, and he knows nothing he can say will change his mind.

“I’m coming with you,” he decides.

“Crowley no, I need you here, to protect Gabriel, just in case.”

“Screw him, I need to protect you!” Crowley recoils at his own words, feeling his cheeks warm up. “Um, I mean—”

He cuts himself off when gentle hands reach for his face. “And I need you to trust me on this,” Aziraphale says, baby-blue eyes staring right into his soul. “Call it a feeling.”

“Angel— Aziraphale,” Crowley says, putting his hands over his angel’s. “You know how it is down there. They could destroy you, you don’t have holy water.”

“They don’t know that and they still think I'm immune to hellfire,” Aziraphale points out in a low voice. “But it won’t come down to it. I just… I got a feeling about this.”

Crowley frowns. “What feeling?”

“Love.” That just makes Crowley more confused as he takes a step back and wonders if his angel hasn't just lost his mind in the middle of all this. “Don’t look at me like that!” Aziraphale protests, “Since Gabriel’s been here there’s just… so much love surrounding him. And I wonder…”

Crowley stares. And then he shakes him. Literally. “Are you drunk? Did you use too much power? Go lay down, I’ll handle this, scare them away or something.”

“No— Crowley!” Aziraphale slaps his hands away, readjusting his clothes.

“Hey, lovebirds!” Shax calls, “If there’s no angel with us in the next minute we’ll… uh…”

“You’re so great at threats,” Crowley yells back and the other demon takes it at face value once more and says ‘thank you’ under her breath. Crowley decides not to comment on it this time to focus on Aziraphale again. “See? Not the brightest bunch, we can just wait it out until they get bored and have to leave.”

“We can’t just hide away forever. And we can’t hand Gabriel over either. So I’m going, I’ll have a nice chat with your former boss about how I’m absolutely not hiding an archangel in this bookshop, and then I’ll come back! Easy-peasy!”

“Nothing with Beelzebub is easy-peasy, angel.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and grabs his hand to hold against his beating heart. It betrays the seemingly confident and calm facade the angel is showing him. "Then I'll make it easy, make the impossible possible. Remember? It's like magic. Trust me?"

And those are the real magic words, aren't they? Trust me. It's always been about trust, between them.

And it goes against Crowley's every instinct really. He's worked so hard to protect his angel, to keep him away from Hell as much as possible, and especially away from Beelzebub. He sighs, just like earlier, rendered oh so helpless under those angel eyes.

"Ngh, alright. But you better come back to me in a night’s time or I'll wreak havoc downstairs to get you back and give them Gabriel."

Aziraphale has the audacity to laugh. "I know you will. But you won't have to. I promise I'll come back to you." He squeezes Crowley’s hand. “I promise,” he repeats.

And Crowley decides fuck it.

With his free hand, he reaches for Aziraphale’s coat lapel and pulls him forward. Between one breath and the next, Crowley almost hesitates as his lips are now only an inch away from Aziraphale’s but the angel doesn’t shove him away, he stays perfectly still, waiting, breathing perhaps a little heavier than he was a second ago, eyes wide and expectant. And so Crowley breaches the small gap between them.

Aziraphale makes a sound, the tiniest kind of whimper, and then Crowley feels him squeeze his hand once more and slip another one behind his head, bringing them even closer. Crowley exhales shakily, unaware he even had been holding his breath. He can taste sweetness on the angel’s lips, surely from the cakes he was eating earlier and Crowley, against his better judgement, smiles into the kiss. It’s quite clear they are both clueless about what to do here as they simply stay like this, lips locked to each other and revelling in the warmth of the embrace and the kiss.

(He’s seen humans do it, it shouldn’t be this hard, right? Something is missing, however.)

And then, Aziraphale, as he always does, gets curious. He tilts his head up just slightly and starts moving his lips, experimenting with the feeling. Crowley freezes for a second before following the angel’s lead. Their joined hands intertwine while Crowley’s right hand slides from Aziraphale’s shoulder to his cheek as he deepens the kiss. His tongue parts Aziraphale’s lips as he seeks more and more of his angel’s taste, just in case he may never be able to indulge in this feeling ever again. Aziraphale responds in kind, his hand on Crowley’s nape tracing gentle circles as he lets Crowley take and take and take.

And yet, the demon is the one who pulls back first, breathing in deeply as he rests their foreheads together.

“Come back to me, angel, or I’ll…”

“I know,” Aziraphale says softly. “You still owe me a dance, dear.”

Crowley smiles. “I do… I do.” And then, he reluctantly lets go and watches him walk through the doors where Shax was impatiently waiting.

⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

This is not Aziraphale’s first trip to Hell, but funnily enough, unlike last time disguised as Crowley, demons are actively avoiding him instead of pushing him around. He supposes he would have the ability to smite at least the lesser demons with one snap of his fingers, not that he’d do that and actively start a war. He's not quite sure how much power they think he has, but he better walk as if he had an immense amount.

(To any keen eye, he fails horribly. Fortunately for our angel, most demons do not have a keen eye.)

Shax is much more nervous than she appeared on Earth, eyes shifting everywhere as if expecting an incoming attack. Aziraphale supposes demons would be inclined to stab each other in the back, after all. The amount of souls stumbling around isn’t helping either.

“Is it always this busy?” he can’t help but ask. Heaven is always so empty in comparison, surely humanity should be more equally divided between them, right? Or guardian angels haven’t been doing a good enough job lately… not that he can say anything about that since he was one of those guardians.

“It’s never-ending,” Shax replies with a dismissive hand gesture, which might as well mean “shut up”, so Aziraphale just rolls his eyes and puts his hands in the pockets of his coat as they continue their way down.

That’s when he feels it, the first hint of a positive emotion ever since he’s stepped out of the elevator, here, right outside Lord Beelzebub’s door. Aziraphale presses a hand to his lips while Shax knocks on the door and demands entry. Yes, he knows that feeling very well and would recognise it anywhere.

He knew something was not quite right. He's always known how Crowley's love felt like, but the one surrounding Gabriel and following his every step…

“I just need the angel, Shax, you can leave,” he hears Lord Beelzebub say.

“But—” the demon starts to protest.

“I said leave!” There's a growl to their voice and Shax immediately recoils with a frown.

She grumbles something Aziraphale doesn't quite catch before stepping aside. "You heard the boss," she says grumpily before turning on her heels and leaving.

Well then. Aziraphale rubs his hands before pushing the door open. Lord Beelzebub half-lays on a green couch when he enters, idly playing with the flies surrounding their head. They barely move to acknowledge him but for some reason, Aziraphale doesn't quite feel the nervousness he'd usually feel creeping into his back whenever he had to report back to Heaven and face the archangels. It is not to say Lord Beelzebub isn't intimidating, he's seen what they're capable of after all, but he supposes the lack of formality in the encounter helps.

(And perhaps, just perhaps, seeing the Prince Of Hell unceremoniously draped over a piece of furniture reminds him of another demon with whom he never felt in danger.)

“They didn't tie you up,” Lord Beelzebub says at last, still not looking at him.

“I suppose they did not feel the need to, I did come of my own accord, so it was very kind of them,” Aziraphale replies.

“They're fucking useless is what they are,” the demon groans, finally sitting up. “I told them to bring me an archangel and they brought me a principality.”

Aziraphale shrugs at that.

“What surprises me the most, though,” Beelzebub continues as they stand up and slowly make their way towards Aziraphale, “is the fact you're alone here. Where's Crowley?”

“In my bookshop.”

Beelzebub frowns. “He didn’t follow you? I find that hard to believe.”

“I suppose he has enough faith in me to know I’ll come back to him safely.”

That’s when Aziraphale catches the faintest hint of a smile as Beelzebub looks away, quickly replaced with bitterness and envy. The buzzing of the flies intensifies and Aziraphale swallows.

“And you’re here, why? Because it’s clearly not because Shax managed to capture or threaten you.”

That makes Aziraphale wonder if Beelzebub even expected Shax to succeed in her attack on the bookshop considering the dismissive tone of their voice or if they allowed the attack to get the demon off their back for a little while.

“I’m surprised you’re just asking me instead of… torturing me or something,” the angel replies first.

Beelzebub scoffs. “Gotta give credit where it’s due, an angel like you must have some guts to come here on his own. Us demons like that.” Their grin is almost genuine there. "You sure you're not Fallen?"

"Quite sure," Aziraphale replies. Then he starts humming that song Gabriel has now stuck in his head as he pretends to think of what to say next and the reaction is immediate. Beelzebub freezes and even the flies are suddenly dead silent. Aziraphale prepares for impact, instead, the Prince of Hell just stares at him in disbelief, and the angel is overwhelmed by the sudden amount of love and hope radiating from the occult being in front of him.

"Crowley tried to protect you but you do have Gabriel, don't you?" Beelzebub growls.

"Well, he doesn't have his memories right now, but yes. The only thing he could remember was that song."

And there it is, the rarest sight of all perhaps— a genuine, fond smile on Beelzebub's lips.

Aziraphale was right. His and Crowley's ex-bosses are in love. Who would have thought? He tries to tone down the giddiness he feels inside but even then he keeps playing with his fingers behind his back and rocks his feet back and forth.

"Take me to him, now," Beelzebub orders but the intended threatening tone fails with the way they seem to be shaking with excitement. "I need—"

"To see your angel?"

Beelzebub falters. "Yeah, that. Wipe that smug smile off your face, you bastard. Ugh, why are you annoyingly easy to talk to?"

Crowley says that too, Aziraphale thinks idly. "I have a lot of questions, however."

"I bet you do."

“Notably… how did that happen?”

“You really think I'm just gonna tell you.”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Well, you can't enter my bookshop unless I invite you in, and if you try to hurt me instead Heaven will be notified if I get discorporated which would perhaps start a war since both sides have been wanting a reason, even though I've been technically fired. However, I am guessing neither of us wants that, considering who is waiting for us in my bookshop.”

Beelzebub blinks. Then huffs out a smile. “You're a right bastard, are you sure you're not Fallen?”

“Quite sure,” Aziraphale repeats, chuckling. “So?”

⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

As a new day dawns and Crowley can feel his patience run thin, the phone of the bookshop suddenly rings. The demon rushes to it just as he sees from the corner of his eyes Gabriel come out of his room, curious as always about the sound.

“Fell’s bookshop—” he starts grumpily.

“It’s me!” his angel’s voice interrupts him immediately, a giddiness to it that confuses Crowley.

“Aziraphale? I was about to head down there—”

“Don’t! I’m okay, I promise, dear.”

Crowley swallows at the pet name. Alright, that will still need some getting used to.

(And a voice in the back of his mind thanks his luck he even has the opportunity to get used to it.)

“Where are you calling from? How did you escape?”

“So, funny story.”

“He’s calling from my phone,” a new voice chimes in and Crowley physically recoils by instinct.

“Beelzebub?!”

“Hello, Crowley.”

“What the fuck,” is all he can respond to that. His old boss doesn't sound angry, though, no, they sound amused, even happy somehow, and now that's the scary part. His angel is incredible, but not that incredible.

“We'll explain everything when we get back here, could you just tell Gabriel to wait with you and stop trying to squash that fly that follows him around?” Aziraphale says. “His memory might be in it.”

“In the fly,” Crowley deadpans. But a part of him also wants to slap himself because why didn't he think of connecting the fly and Beelzebub before?

“Yes yes, everything will be explained!” the angel insists. “We're on our way!”

And then the line cuts off. Crowley stares some more at the phone, wondering if he hasn’t imagined the whole conversation to soothe his own worried heart, before putting it down just as Gabriel reaches him and simply tilts his head in question. The demon groans when he hears the faint buzzing sound of a fly at the same time.

“I can’t believe I didn’t think about it first, stupid,” he laments as he extends a hand for the fly to gently settle there. He covers it with his other hand and then looks at the former archangel. “Still not remembering shit?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Name Beelzebub ring any bells?”

Gabriel frowns and for a quick second recognition slips into his eyes before it disappears once more. “No, but that’s a funny name!”

“Jim’s dumber if you ask me,” Crowley mumbles. “Anyway, Aziraphale is coming back soon, with good news, apparently.”

“Oh! Should I prepare some tea? Do you want some?”

“Did he teach you how to make coffee?”

“Yes!”

“I'll have that, then.”

“Jolly! Be right back!”

Crowley watches him walk away to the kitchen, happily humming to himself that same damn song. He sighs and collapses into the armchair, getting a whiff of Aziraphale’s cologne at the same time. He groans, hating the way his heart squeezes still with worry. He trusts his angel, he does, but this… protectiveness, he can’t exactly get rid of it anyway.

He feels the fly start to get agitated in his hands and reluctantly lets it go just as the doors of the bookshop burst open, quickly followed by a pained whimper.

“There was no need for such violence, your demons already broke two of my windows!” Crowley hears Aziraphale complain and that prompts him to immediately jump to his feet.

“Force of habit, my bad,” Beelzebub? Apologising? Now Crowley must be hallucinating.

“Angel!” Crowley calls, and the only reason he doesn't run up to him to hold him in relief is because his ex-boss is standing right in the middle of them, crossing their arms with a raised eyebrow at him. “Lord Beelzebub.”

“Hello again, Crowley,” they drawl. "So. Where's Gabriel?"

“Making tea and coffee,” Crowley automatically replies then remembers himself. “Alright pause, can I have the explanations now?”

“I'd rather not,” Beelzebub huffs. “Oh, there you are!” they exclaim next as they see a fly approaching. “You kept a good eye on my angel, didn’t you?” they coo at the insect and Crowley feels like he’s having an aneurysm.

So he decides to focus on Aziraphale instead, getting around Beelzebub to reach his angel. Immediately, he grabs his face.

“What are you doing, dear?” Aziraphale asks although he doesn’t try to push him away.

Crowley falters slightly at the “dear” once again. “J-just checking that you’re not hurt.”

“I’m fine,” the angel insists, gently prying his hands away to hold instead. “I assure you.”

“Good, good, that means I don’t have to fight anyone.”

“Honey, you’re not a fighter.” And Aziraphale has the audacity to sound amused.

“Not the point, angel.”

(The angel, unfortunately, does have a point, however, because when faced with a battle, our demon’s first instinct is to run with his angel draped over his shoulder, not to fight.)

That is when he gets the nagging feeling of being observed. Slowly, Crowley turns around, just in time to see Beelzebub look away in a poor attempt to pretend like they were not intensely staring. Before Crowley could comment on it, Aziraphale squeezes his hands once and then lets go.

“I’ll go get Gabriel, I’m afraid he broke the kettle with the time he’s taking. I’ll let you two talk.”

Before Crowley could protest, Aziraphale slips away, running upstairs to the kitchen which does leave the demon alone with his former boss.

They stare at each other.

“I did think that promotion thing was weird from you,” Crowley says eventually. “Searching for a replacement, I should have realised something was off.”

Beelzebub rolls their eyes. “And you didn't.”

“I was… protecting someone.”

“So was I. And stop being vague everyone knows you’re in fucking love with that idiotic angel.”

“Don’t call him idiotic—” Crowley hisses. “You're one to talk, the Supreme Archangel, really?”

Beelzebub scoffs but they let a proud smile take over their lips. “Go big or go home, as they say.”

“How?!”

“Your boyfriend knows, I'm not repeating myself.”

“You willingly told him?”

“... He may have threatened to not invite me in if I didn't tell him.”

That makes Crowley snort. Yeah, this does sound like Aziraphale.

“If you had just told me we were in the same situation…” Crowley trails off.

“You wouldn't have believed me,” Beelzebub deadpans.

“Aziraphale did.”

“He's an angel. That's a prerequisite.”

Alright. Fair enough.

“Still, it would have saved us a lot of time. And stress. Was the “book of life” thing even real or were you just trying to scare me?”

“Oh no, that’s very much real but… if you keep this quiet, me and Gabriel can pull one last miracle so Heaven gets off your back.”

A beat of silence. “That’d be… nice.”

Beelzebub grimaces. “Don’t ever say that again.”

They are saved from a retort from Crowley by the two angels joining them once again, each holding two warm cups. Crowley sees Beelzebub straighten their back, eyes zeroing on an oblivious Gabriel who comes forward with a huge smile.

“Hello! You must be the important guest! I made you some hot chocolate, a tradition here,” the former supreme archangel cheerfully announces, handing a mug to the — former? — Prince Of Hell who takes it, a bit dumbfounded.

“Oh wow, you weren’t kidding, there are literally no thoughts behind his eyes right now,” Beelzebub says, glancing at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale shrugs, making a beeline for Crowley and handing him a mug full of coffee. Crowley takes it absent-mindedly, eyes focused on the odd pair that are his and Aziraphale’s ex-bosses.

He still is wrapping his head around the idea. It doesn't feel quite real yet. He's not sure it will ever feel real.

“That would be an odd thing to lie about, isn't it?” Aziraphale replies. “You were saying something about the fly being a sort of box?”

“Right.” Beelzebub takes a sip of the chocolate then puts the mug down. They whistle to call the fly back next to them. Then, they beckon Gabriel closer who follows, even leaning down to get to their height after setting down his cup as well. “Open your eyes wide.”

Crowley cringes when the fly goes into Gabriel’s right eye. Silence fills the bookshop as they all wait while Gabriel stands still, motionless. Then suddenly, Gabriel gasps loudly, stumbling a few steps back. Beelzebub reaches forward to help him find balance again. Their eyes meet and Crowley sees the way both of their bodies relax at the mere sight of each other. At the same time, he feels Aziraphale rest a hand on his right arm, not quite grabbing him, but there.

“We should… we should give them some privacy,” the angel says. “I’ll tell you everything if you want to.”

Crowley looks at him, then back at their ex-bosses who seem lost in each other’s eyes, then back again at Aziraphale.

“Sure.”

Truth be told he couldn't care less, he needed some alone time with his angel.

⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

In the privacy of his bedroom, Aziraphale sits down at his desk and sets down the cup of tea next to a manuscript he had been writing. Almost immediately, a certain demon slithers his way into his lap.

“I still can't believe we indirectly helped our bosses fall in love, angel,” Crowley laments, voice muffled against Aziraphale's coat. “I mean Gabriel and Beelzebub? In love? Sounds like a joke.”

“Don't be mean,” Aziraphale admonishes.

“They tried to kill us.”

“And now they have a debt towards us.”

Crowley groans. “True. I need a nap now.” And the demon promptly closes his eyes, arms tightening around Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“Dear, the bed is right there.”

“You’re more comfortable.”

Aziraphale flushes happily and simply relaxes into the chair.

Only later do they learn the whole truth when Gabriel and Beelzebub come knocking at the door. Crowley doesn’t let go of Aziraphale however and simply glares at the pair when they enter.

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel exclaims, now dressed again in a perfectly tailored suit rather than the clothes Aziraphale had lent him. Crowley hisses at him when the archangel tries to approach. “Alright, territorial.”

“A demon thing, don’t mind him, silly angel,” Beelzebub says while having a very obvious strong grip on Gabriel’s arm.

Aziraphale only smiles at the sight of them. He’s never really been the resentful type after all, and he’s an angel, who thrives on displays of love even if from the oddest places. Crowley is resentful enough for the two of them anyway.

“Anyhow, we’ll be out of your hair in a few,” Gabriel says, ignoring Crowley’s glare. “I guess… I need to say thank you, for not just handing me back to Heaven.”

“Well, you said something terrible would happen to you.”

“And you had no reason to believe me.”

Aziraphale shrugs. That's true enough. And he had been tempted to just throw him out a couple of times but then he knew he would have felt incredibly guilty. Gabriel without any of Heaven’s influence reminded him too much of a lost human child. Aziraphale has always had a soft spot for children. “Good thing I did, then.”

“Not sure he deserved it though,” Crowley mumbles but it is low enough, only Aziraphale hears him, who scoffs but doesn’t reprimand him.

“I always thought you were annoyingly trusting, even for an angel,” Gabriel comments then clears his throat, “I suppose that’s why I subconsciously ended up here, anyway.”

“You’re just rambling, spill out what you really want,” Crowley sighs.

“That miracle you managed to perform on Gabriel, we could do something similar with both of you so neither Heaven nor Hell can recognise you,” Beelzebub explains then. “Gabriel will then do some big miracles here and there to get them away from here so you’ll be definitely left alone, they’ll be too busy chasing us.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Are you sure? It sounds… tiring, to always run.”

“Nah, we’ll be fine, it sounds kinda fun to mess with them,” Gabriel dismisses. “And we’re more powerful than you.”

“Okay, that last comment wasn't necessary,” Crowley says, rolling his eyes, then reluctantly untangles himself from Aziraphale to lean against the chair instead and offers his hand. “Let’s get this over with.”

⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

A week passes. Crowley and Aziraphale now stand at the window of the bookshop looking across the street, where they can see Nina and Maggie talking while working together in the coffee shop.

“In the end, they did not need neither a sudden downpour nor a ball, did they?” Aziraphale comments idly.

“I suppose not. We don’t know humans that well, I guess,” Crowley replies.

“You think this will last, this time? I can’t imagine what chaos Heaven and Hell are in right now, the Supreme Archangel and the Prince Of Hell, disappearing…”

“Not our problem anymore, is it?”

“No, I suppose not. At least… until what they warned us about starts.”

Armageddon, the sequel, or the Second Coming. Crowley already has a headache thinking about it. But they'll be fine. He has faith. As long as they're together.

A beat of silence. Droplets of water start hitting the windows as gentle rain descends on Soho. Crowley slowly tears his eyes away from the streets to focus on his angel who’s already looking at him, a soft smile on his lips.

“Say dear, is it after yet?” the angel whispers.

Crowley had almost forgotten. In the week since Beelzebub's and Gabriel's departure, they had been too stressed to think of anything else. Perhaps they were tricked, perhaps they'd get erased from the Book of Life at a moment's notice. They held each other tightly that first night after a day of debating running away or not. Then the next day they walked around Soho, checking on the other shopkeepers as Aziraphale gave them each the book he had promised them, although they all seemed to have forgotten why he even promised to give them away in the first place. On the third day, Muriel came knocking at the door of the bookshop and they both worried it was the sign the miracle had failed, but the sweet angel reintroduced themself as new in town, pretending to be human again, searching for a job, as if they had never met before and Aziraphale was unable to tell them no and offered them the assistant role Jim had left behind. On the fourth day, they started to accept that a new chapter of their life had begun after all and spent that day leisurely walking around Berkeley Square, watching the kids play and the ducks swim, they even had a nice picnic where they laid down and Aziraphale read him Pride and Prejudice. On the fifth day, Crowley moved all his plants into the flat above the bookshop. On the sixth day, Aziraphale took the Bentley for a spin and Crowley, sitting on the passenger seat for once, was appalled to learn his car liked to play favouritism.

And on the seventh day…

“You really wanted a dance, huh, angel?”

“I would not give up my books and make such an effort to set up a ball for anyone, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “I desired my own Jane Austen moment.”

“Is a dance in the rain compatible with what you had in mind?”

The angel chuckles. “You really insist on your rain.”

Sometimes, Crowley wonders if Aziraphale has simply forgotten how their second first meeting ended with the first-ever rain on Earth. One he may or may not have caused himself.

“It’s more than just rain, isn’t it?” Aziraphale says anyway with a knowing look.

“And it’s more than just a dance after all, angels don’t dance, do you?” Crowley replies, offering his hand. “So. May I?”

Aziraphale takes his hand and then drags him upstairs instead of outside. Crowley frowns, but then Aziraphale miracles a way up to the rooftops.

“Oh,” is all Crowley manages to muster before he’s the one leading the way once more, dragging a giggling angel behind him.

“We’ve done this before, haven’t we?” Aziraphale comments, shielding his head with his free hand as he looks down on the busy streets of Soho. “The roofs of Paris.”

“Would you rather have a dance there? The city of love, after all…”

Something flickers in Aziraphale's eyes and Crowley can't hold the gaze for more than a second. They're both quite surprised he's the first one to use that word.

“No,” the angel answers, squeezing his hand and bringing it closer to his chest where Crowley can feel his heart beating feverishly. “Here is perfect. It's home, isn't it?”

Crowley replies by catching Aziraphale's other hand to kiss the back of it.

(He's seen the movies, that is typically how the gentleman makes it clear to his dame that he's interested, right? In any case, fortunately for our demon, the trick is working because the angel only falls deeper. Metaphorically speaking, of course.)

Rain is still falling, this time without Crowley's interference. Blue eyes and yellow eyes lock under the cloudy sky of London. The angel wraps his arms around the demon's shoulders while the demon cradles the angel's waist. Their foreheads rest against each other as they start to gently sway to the tune of a wild nightingale's singing in their heads. Crowley breathes in and lets himself fall deeper as well.

Further down, sheltered inside a mildly busy coffee shop, Maggie looks up when she finishes cleaning a table. She becomes distracted then, and a smile graces her red lips. Soon enough Nina slides to her side, nudging her slightly to bring her back to Earth.

“What got you smiling like that, sunshine?”

They're not dating. Not quite yet. Still, Maggie's heart soars at the nickname.

“Oh just. Look.” She points to the top of the bookshop, forcing Nina to lean down to be able to see.

“Is that Mr Fell and Mr Crowley dancing? On the rooftops?” Nina asks although she knows what she is looking at. But they almost seem like they're flying, and she is starting to wonder if she has gotten enough sleep.

“Seems like it,” Maggie smiles. “They're cute.”

“They're nuts is what they are,” Nina huffs, straightening up. “Under that rain? Would take a miracle for them not to fall.”

“I don't know, I think it's romantic. I'm happy for them,” Maggie says, secretly wishing such a thing for herself. She shrugs and promptly goes back to work on cleaning a few more tables.

Nina spares one last glance at the bookshop then Maggie's retreating back before she goes back behind the counter to take more orders. Really, she's just glad that these two odd men who tried to meddle with her own relationships figured out their own at least.

One day, she'll get there as well. And hopefully, Maggie will be right here to hold her hand.

One day, she'll be ready to dance again.

#good omens fanfic #good omens fic #good omens fanfiction #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #my fics #good omens s2 spoilers

[roxie-the-princess]

You should do Witch of Blood complete stranger I’ve never met in my life

wow hello there person ive never met even though we follow each other thats crazy

anyway witch of blood

Witches are served by their aspect, in both meanings of the word. While witches at first glance may seem to be well-off or blessed by their aspect in some way, the truth is more complicated. Witches are characters that are put into some position of power or authority or responsibility, or given things to help them, typically related in some way to their aspect, but they tend to wish they weren't.

Feferi, Witch of Life, was seemingly well-off, being the heiress to the throne of Alternia, but she hated the way the planet was run- she was heiress to a throne she didn't want to inherit.

Jade, Witch of Space, was raised by a first guardian that protected her and wouldn't let anything bad happen to her. Unfortunately, that came at the cost of being alone her entire childhood. Later on, after becoming godtier, she was blessed with the powers of a first guardian- but she wasn't really a huge fan of the new dog instincts, and she certainly wasn't a fan of being taken out of the action because she was too strong to get involved.

The path of the Witch is a double-edged sword- you're granted many advantages because of your aspect, but too much of a good thing can be bad for you.

A Witch's powers come from taking back control. When life gives a Witch lemons, they don't make lemonade- they rearrange the atoms of the lemon to make cookies. A witch breaks the rules of their aspect to do something no other class can.

Lots of Life players can raise the dead, but it took Feferi, the Witch of Life, to literally create an afterlife in the dreambubbles.

Jade, Witch of Space, literally breaks the laws of physics by resizing objects without changing their density or mass, which allowed her to transport all the Lands of the beta session to the alpha session.

Blood is the aspect of bonds. While blood is often tied to the familial, the bonds of blood are those forged by friends. It is also, of course, the aspect of literal blood- along with pain and suffering.

At the same time, it is the opposite side of the coin to breath- the aspect of freedom. Blood can be an aspect that makes its heroes feel like they have no choice.

A Witch of Blood, served by their friends and loved ones- They might feel like they're held captive in their own home or among their friends, even when they have the witch's best interests at heart.

A Witch of Blood, served by pain- Others empathy may cause them pain, when all the witch wants is for them to be happy.

A Witch is not all bad to be, though. Once they take back control, they will do amazing things.

When breaking the rules of blood, several potential powers come to mind. I'll separate them into a few categories.

Breaking the rules of pain- being able to endure anything without feeling pain even if your body can't handle it, being indestructible but still feeling pain, feeling good instead of bad when someone hurts you, getting stronger instead of weaker when injured, erasing the downside of some attack that would normally have recoil, etc.

Breaking the rules of bonds- counteracting forces of gravity and attraction, magnetizing things that aren't magnetic, etc. (gay marrying somewhere in a place where its illegal???)

Breaking the rules of blood- A troll could easily manage to use powers of another caste, changing their own genetics, etc.

There's probably loads of other cool ideas, witches are pretty insane when it comes to ideas for powers. These are just a few I thought sounded cool.

#homestuck #witch of blood #classpect