#I went though every page on Archive of our own | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

areyoudreaminof · 7 months

Text

Rhys Week: Step by Aching Step, Son

For @officialrhysandweek Day 5: Family Man.

After pulling Nyx out of the Illyrian War camps, Rhys tries to explain his decision to a disappointed Nyx.

Oh, I'm coming now for you Step by aching step, son Then I'll lead you by the hand And we'll fall into the blue

Foals-Stepson

It was high time to have this discussion, he thought. They hadn’t spoken much the past few weeks. The silence and tension that chaos left behind was still thick in the air. So, Rhys took a deep breath before he tapped the door softly and entered Nyx’s room.

“Hello, Papa.” The boy said, looking up from his sketchbook, as he sprawled out in his large bed. Nyx wings were tucked behind him tightly, Rhys noticed with a twinge of guilt. “Mind if I sit with you?” He asked. Nyx nodded, as Rhys made his way over. Still, he studied his son’s room, taking in the piles of books on the desk that had been pressed up against the wall. Small models of buildings sat there as well. Rhys had never thought much about architecture before Nyx, who built things as sons as he could play. A shirt was thrown carelessly over a chair, while a small wooden owl lay half carved on the dresser. Each and everything in his son’s room, placed just so. It was almost like taking a look into Nyx’s mind, something he and Feyre agreed on was off limits unless needed. Why throw this shirt here? Rhys thought, Who is the wooden owl for? What do you see when you build these models?

I see what the building could be. Nyx's soft reply came to his mind, surprising Rhys, who had not noticed his mental blocks were down. Like Mama’s paintings, I see what they are in my mind and try to match it.

“The owl really isn’t for anyone,” he said out loud, “I was just bored the other day, I haven’t finished it.”

“I remember the owls at the camps.” Rhys said as he stroked the carved beak on the owl. “Uncle Azriel thought they were the other boys trying to steal from us at night, so Uncle Cass took it upon himself to hoot everytime Uncle Azriel went to piss at night.” Nyx chuckled at the memory Rhys sent over; Azriel jumping and pulling up his pants while Cassian hooted from behind.

Rhys settled on the bed next to his son. Nyx had his mother’s talent for art though he preferred to sketch buildings and plants, as well as the occasional animal portrait for his cousins at the Day Court. The short time spent in the war camps was difficult for Nyx, but the reports that made their way back to Rhys made his son’s presence known. Namely, the heir to the Night Court had a penchant for carving the insignia onto every single wooden surface he could, including the posts on Devlon’s tent. Nyx had his mothers talent, and her fire, for better or worse.

Peering over at the sketches, Rhys saw the massive round table with the Night Court insignia drawn in the center. Illyrians and High Fae surrounded it, posed in mid motion. “What is this? It’s really wonderful.” he asked as Nyx tilted the small book towards him.

“Just an idea, I guess. I thought it could be some sort of hall for us and the Illyrians.” Nyx said, as he flipped to another page. A sketch showed a great longhall of wood and stone. “It could be a sort of neutral meeting place. It would be between the camps and the villages. Probably easier.” Nyx shrugged as he flipped back to the sketch of the round table. “I keep messing around with the table though. Round seemed more equal, kind of like what High Lord Thesan has at the Dawn Court.”

“Incredible.” Rhys murmured as he studied his son’s face. His brow was furrowed in concentration as his pencil flew across the paper. Absently, Nyx began to suck on his top lip, the same habit he’d had since he was a toddler. Rhys supposed now was as good of a time as any to talk about his decision to withdraw Nyx from the camps.

It had been less than two years since Nyx had entered. It had been difficult at first. Feyre felt that eight was too young, but Nyx was determined to go. Cassian and Nesta, who had stationed themselves in Illyria, said Nyx had a hard time with the boys as expected, but was managing to train and hold his own. The situation in Illyria was growing more unsteady by the day, and the most recent threat against Nyx was a call far too close.

In the weeks since returning to Velaris, Nyx had been understandably quiet, retreating to his room or the library at the House of the Wind. Rhys knew that Nyx did not know the full extent of the threat the commanders posed, and he knew he could not hide it from his son any longer.

“Nyx, I’m sorry about everything. Pulling you out of the camp, putting you in there in the first place.” Rhys rubbed his eyes, struggling to find the words to pinpoint his feelings.

“It’s alright Papa, I understand.” Nyx said softly as he stared ahead.

“It’s not. I know the camps are hard, and I wanted you to have that experience, despite everything. It’s your heritage, and you’ll rule these people someday.” Rhys replied quickly, “Eight was too young, I realize that now, especially with how things are going. It’s too dangerous to have you up there-”

“I know, I know.” Nyx said, as he bit his upper lip in thought. “I knew it was going to be hard, and I was ready for it. I knew they’d give me a harder time. I guess…” he paused for a moment, mirroring his father’s expression as he too searched for the right words, “You got to meet Uncle Cass and Uncle Az there, and I think I wanted that too. I wanted to find my own brothers and do the Blood Rite. I’m not ashamed of our family or myself, but I feel, I don’t know, frustrated because I can’t control it. I’m the little princeling that got swept away when things got too hard.” Rhys sighed as Nyx quickly added, “I understand why you did it. But I just don’t know where to go from here.” Nyx flopped his head back onto the pillow as he set his sketchbook down on his bedside table.

Rhys put his arm around Nyx’s shoulders, pulling him close to his chest. Feyre insisted their son would never be too old for a hug, and at this very moment, Rhys agreed. Their son was nothing short of a gift, a miracle, one that he tried every single day to prove himself worthy of. Being a father, being Nyx’s father was greater than anything Rhys had ever done in his life, of that he was certain. It was with that certainty that he made the decision to bring Nyx home to Velaris, when Azriel had discovered the plot just in time.

Two commanders from the camp had been planning to clip Nyx’s wings.

It was only by the grace of the Mother that Nyx was with Cassian in the training ring when the males tried to attack. Cassian sent them running and Rhys and Feyre came to fetch their son home immediately, but not before he and his brothers rained hell on the camp. Rhys had not given a second thought to misting those commanders, a righteous rage simmering inside of him at the mere thought of those males even thinking to touch his son in such a way. In the back of his mind, he knew his own father wouldn’t have come to his defense, and that made him more sick.

“I didn’t pull you out because things were getting hard. You are not a spoiled little princeling, Nyx. You were doing so well. Uncle Cassian and Aunt Nesta said as much. I pulled you out because there was a threat against you that I could not ignore.” he felt his heart race, and he took a breath to calm himself.

“Those men who tried to kill me at the training ring? The ones that Uncle Cass chased off?” Nyx said flatly, as he looked up at Rhys.

“They weren’t trying to kill you, Nyx. They were trying to clip you.” Rhys whispered.

Nyx’s eyes grew wide and Rhys felt a wave of nausea broil inside him. He felt a tinge of concern from Feyre down the bond, but ignored it as he turned to fully face Nyx.

“You are my priority, over Illyria, over everything, Nyx. I want you safe, and you were not safe there.”

Nyx nodded as he worried at his lip again, “I didn’t know that’s what they were trying to do. I thought they were like that drunk old male that tried to come after me. I didn’t think it was anything. So, I’m not going back to the camps, ever?” he asked.

“You’ll go back one day.” Rhys promised, “You will find your own brothers and you will complete the Blood Rite. But now is not the time. You will have that time, I promise you that. But you’ll just have to wait a while longer for it. When it is safe, and the situation is under control, you’ll go back. In the meantime you’ll train here and Helion has offered to train you as well.”

“Alright.” Nyx said softly, resting his head on Rhys’s shoulder. “I love you Papa.”

Rhys hugged his son tighter. Ten years had gone by too fast for him, he thought. “I love you too, Nyx.”

A soft knock at the door startled them both as Feyre peeked her head in.

“Any room on that bed for one more?” she asked as both Nyx and Rhys scooted over as she laid down next to Nyx, kissing his cheek. “We love you more than anything, Nyx. Don’t ever forget that.” Rhys felt a quiet sort of harmony over him, the same one he always felt when he was with Feyre and Nyx alone. They sat like that for a while longer, holding one another as nocturnal animals sang outside.

Later, after Nyx had fallen asleep, Rhys held onto Feyre, stroking her hair, as she lay on his chest.

“Should I have told him what those males had planned to do?” he asked Feyre quietly. “And before you make some remark about hiding things, I just didn’t want to terrify him.”

Feyre huffed a small laugh, “You know better than anyone what happens when you hide things. But, I think you did the right thing. He didn’t know exactly what had happened, and I think he would have blamed himself instead.”

“Heard that, did you?” Rhys said, flicking Feyre’s nose.

“How could I not? You were so nervous, I had to make sure you had back up.” she said, as she smiled, “You did wonderfully, Rhys.” She rose, hovering over him and taking his face into her small hands. “You’re a good father, Rhys. A good mate and a good male. It’s not going to be an easy road, whatever happens. But we have each other.”

Rhys pulled Feyre down, his lips catching hers as he held her tighter. They had each other. This was what he fought wars for, what he lied for, what he cheated for. He would make the world better for his son, Rhys promised himself. He had done the right thing for his family, of that he was certain.

#rhysand #nyx #feysand #rhysweek2023 #rhysandweek2023

59 notes · View notes

lexosaurus · 8 months

Text

The Phantom Martian: Chapter 5

Ruh roh, scoob! Danny seems to be angsting pretty hard this chapter! And what's that weapon his parents made? I bet it will have no plot relevance later! Meanwhile, Mark is having fun joyriding on his tricked-out Mars rover. We love that for him!

This is a crossover between Danny Phantom x The Martian. You do NOT have to have read/watched The Martian to understand this fic. Tbh I wrote it thinking that only a few people have read this book forgetting that it had a massive online cult-like following back in the day. I didn't grow up online, clearly

xxxx

Summary: When Astronaut Mark Watney went to Mars, he knew there was a chance he'd never come home. Now, though, he's determined to last long enough for NASA to save him because this whole dying for science thing is not as fun as it sounds.

Meanwhile, Danny Fenton is just trying to keep his identity a secret amidst a potential crisis with his powers. Seriously, what's up with that weird current under his skin? Why is he having so much trouble controlling it? And why does it feel so familiar...?

In a fit of determination (and possible stupidity), Danny goes to Mars to save Watney, only to add to both their crises when he arrives and can't get home. Will NASA save them? Will Danny have a home to return to if they do?

Chapter WC: 5723

Fic Tags: Danny Fenton & Mark Watney, Canon Divergence, Ecton AU

Chapter excerpt under the cut

xxxx

Danny stared at the headline on his phone.

Astronaut Mark Watney found ALIVE

Danny blinked, the words struggling to process in his mind.

The first thing he thought was, who the hell is Mark Watney and why is he on the front page of every website, headline, and social media app?

And then, after an embarrassing couple of seconds, he remembered. Mark Watney. The Ares 3 guy. The astronaut who died on Mars back in November.

That Mark Watney.

And then it took another few seconds for his brain to get it. Truly get it. Because Mark had died on Mars except he didn't die which meant.

“Holy shit.” Danny threw his bag down and flew to the couch. “He's still on Mars!”

#danny phantom #the martian #phicc #my writing #the phantom martian

37 notes · View notes

dj-of-the-coven · 6 months

Note

Hit me with your favorite defunct website

You will regret this.

Have you ever felt isolated by the modern internet, or nostalgic for the way that you can vaguely--but not entirely--remember experiencing as a child? Well I can't speak for everyone, but the past few years certainly have left me feeling that way. Certain nostalgia posts made circa 2021 got my brain churning in that direction, dredging up ancient memories of reading personal blogs and spending hours on flash game websites that were more or less entirely nuked from the internet by my adulthood. The more I remembered, the more distressed I felt by their absence, even though it'd been years since I even remembered most of that stuff existed...

Aside from Animal Jam, I wasn't sure if anything I knew from my mid 2000s-early 2010s childhood experience was out there on the web somewhere--so, I did as any normal teenager would and I started doing copious amounts of research into a subject that basically didn't exist. I discovered the internet archive entirely on accident; spent days examining the layout of early youtube and any other sites I could remember, navigating by year and trying to figure out when everything took a turn for the worst. I started browsing through webcore tags on tumblr just to get close to what I wanted, because "old internet" yielded few results at the time, and google's input was less than useless. Only a few blogs on tumblr had the kind of content I was looking for, but eventually I struck gold when one of them pointed me in a brand new direction of hope.

This is when I discovered neocities.

Of course, I was already familiar with the webhosting platform of geocities from the old days. Geocities was one of the primary hosting platforms that I remembered without the help of research, but you may already have guessed by the lack of a link that it's dead--and you'd be right. It actually shut down back in 2009, which I learned through the same post that advertised its independent successor. For some reason, I'd always associated the memory with the time I was in kindergarten, but the date of shutdown actually confirmed that I must've known about it earlier, making the platform one of my first memories! It's been gone for a while, but not the impression of it that I had as a core pillar in my early web experience. And then there was neocities. What was that? I immediately went to investigate.

Of course, I was mostly doing this in between two late-night bussing jobs to afford my shitty apartment, aside from being in my final year of high school, so progress was slow. At the starbucks next to my school, I was always holed up in the corner during my short window of off-time with a coffee and my computer setup. It took some time, but I began browsing through the top pages one-by-one, following links and cataloguing where they led to. I took stock of which sites linked to one another. Eventually, I noticed a pattern: a lot of them linked back to a website called sadgrl.online, a purple and black neon haven of internet culture run by a webmaster known as Sadness. Everyone say hello to our defunct website of the hour!

At the time, the thing was absolutely bustling. Almost all of the most popular sites on neocities were linked to Sadness' site somehow, usually through her button collection. My own personal site, which I started building around that time, also contained one of her web buttons. She has several, but her most popular one looks like this. (I apologize if you're on mobile. It will NOT look good.)

I was intrigued! In a community so removed from the usual mainstays of the internet, there existed a blog that hundreds of neocities users were visiting every day, and I very quickly became one of them once I finished looking through her thought-provoking essays on programming and web culture. Her site went through a number of layout changes while I was a regular visitor--the vast majority of them are catalogued on the site itself if not also on the internet archive. It was a blog dedicated to the exact thing that I was interested in; what I had been searching for since the modern web started rubbing me the wrong way in my burgeoning adulthood. Her page prominently featured an essay on the faults of centralized internet and her journey to foster a space more accepting of individuality, information, and creativity without thought of profit. I was totally enamored, especially with the appealing gothic graphics that surrounded the lengthy text!

(here's a capture from August 2022)

Aside from Sadness, several other active community members had formed an alliance of websites dedicated to the preservation of old internet culture and the cultivation of unique online spaces. These people called themselves the Yesterweb. The yesterweb was run mainly by webmasters known as Auzzie Jay, Madness, Tsvety, Grafo, Cinni, Vincent, Iris, and Sadness herself, but webmaster Melon (of MelonLand fame) also ran a forum that was parallel to the movement. The yesterweb was a massive project that included an online newspaper, a web radio station, several introductory programming manuals, a forum, web-themed essays from neocities users, button makers, layout creators, and terms and definitions for people new to the decentralized experience. It was easy to get lost in it all... for a time, the rabbit hole felt endless and exciting.

Every day, I returned to check updates on Sadness' various projects while I began work on my own website. She had totally convinced me of my own convictions--I bought the dream hook, line, and sinker. My only goal for a while was for my site to eventually be included in the yesterweb webring alongside all these amazing programmers. I wanted to contribute to the world of creativity that I could only dream of when HTML was still just meaningless jargon to me! But I was too slow learning the languages necessary, and the yesterweb was just growing too fast to be contained. I dipped for a few months to focus on my move to a new city, and by the time I returned, the whole yesterweb had disappeared scorched-earth style.

Okay, so what the fuck happened?

Currently, on the front page of what used to be a hopeful and inspiring collection of internet resources, there's a long essay made by the webmasters who founded the project, detailing burnout and massive stress due to the community growing faster than they could moderate it. It is certainly not poorly-intentioned. However, the discovery was absolutely devastating to me. My dream had gone up in smoke before I could even try to reach it, and I was apparently a part of the problem by caring so much about it. The radio station is gone. The webring was deleted. The forums shut down. My favorite webmasters' sites were no longer being updated. I felt awful for the people who had been affected by all this stress and pressure, but after so long of working to join the movement, I felt betrayed by their abandonment. The yesterweb disappeared in almost exactly the same way the old web did the first time--ripped from my fingers before I was able and ready to participate. And I can only wonder... what happened to the goal of turning the internet back into a place for us? How did it get to the point of ruining these people's lives within the span of maybe two years? I'm really not sure. There's a lot about this story I still don't know, and there's not really a way to access the drama that happened in a discord server that I never joined. The information published on the yesterweb's page is the only reliable source I'm currently aware of.

Still, in spite of it all, Sadness' website has remained one of my major inspirations in programming and web philosophy. I may be in mourning about a dream that died before it could truly live, but whenever I think about the months that I spent eagerly browsing her site for updates, I remember that spark that initially inspired me to begin researching the net in the first place. She was a major player in the game--not the only one. The website that she created was my favorite while it was active, and now it is my favorite website that is currently defunct.

Thank you for coming to my tedtalk.

#web revival #neocities #programming #personal websites

19 notes · View notes

luthien-under-bough · 8 months

Text

I'm a few days late on this, because it all went down as I was on my way to go to go camping for the weekend, but I wanted to make a comment regardless.

On Friday afternoon I was alerted to the fact that someone had plagiarised one of my fics - a two-shot I posted in September/October of last year. This person mixed it with the work of another author in the fandom, and presented it as their own story - in the same fandom and pairing.

At first, it seemed they had just copied the summary of my fic (which is an excerpt from the story itself, and honestly still not okay), but upon closer inspection, I realized this person copied, word for word, almost my entire fic , and pasted it into the second and third chapters of their "story." Essentially every line was copied, the same structure preserved, with minimal changes made.

The rest of their "story" was cobbled together from entire lines and paragraphs taken from another author's fic (an extremely popular one on in the fandom, at that - so I'm not sure how they expected this to go unnoticed or un-called out). So truly this was a straight up ripoff and remix of our two stories.

I think even now, my brain is still reeling from the fact that this person felt it was perfectly okay to directly copy my work (and the other author's), change a handful of words, and present it as their own. I can't pretend to understand what goes through someone's mind to decide to do something like this. I understand the desire to write, obviously, and the struggle that sometimes comes along with not being able to translate your desire to the page. I also understand the desire for engagement with your work, for praise and attention, because let's be real - as much as we may write for ourselves, it feels fucking great for other people to read your stuff and to like it. There's nothing better than gushing over your writing with other fans!

But none of that excuses stealing. And what this person did was theft, plain and simple. And it is completely unnacceptable. You don't get to reap the benefits of creating without putting in the effort. You don't get to take shortcuts. You don't get to LARP as a fic writer.

(This person also had the audacity to include in their author's notes commentary about how "difficult" it was to write certain chapters, or how they drew from their own trauma to do so. When from what I can tell, there was little to no original writing contained within this "story" whatsoever. I don't claim to know what is wrong with this person other than their blatant lack of respect for other writers, but if you have your own issues to work through, do it through your own original writing. Or, if my writing inspired you somehow, leave a comment - don't steal my work.)

The story has been taken down already - whether by the poster themself after a number of readers and fellow writers went to their comments to call out this bad behavior, or due to it being swiftly reported to ao3 as plagiarism - so I don't want to belabor the point. But needless to say, this left a bad taste in my mouth. I'm not going to private my fics, or even archive lock them at this point, but it has made me wary, and left me a little skittish that it could happen again.

I don't want to entirely dwell on the negative, though. The immediate and passionate response from other writers, and readers was so reassuring. It's heartwarming to know that there is a supportive community here that has each other's backs. At the end of the day, this fandom has brought me so much more good than bad, and I treasure the genuine friends and connections I have made.

And I think that might be what bothers me the most - the theft of my work upsets me, of course, but this kind of behavior is what drives people out of fandom, and destroys the communities that so many of us have built. And if you wanted attention and connection - you could have gotten it by writing your own story, and joining one of the many communities that exists in the fandom. I guess if you just want kudos, then the rest of it is meaningless. But if what you wanted out of this was genuine connection with other fans, readers, and writers - well, you did just about the worst thing you could possibly to to ensure you never gain access to that. So in a way, I pity this person.

But make no mistake - if I see this happen again, with this person or any other "author" - my empathy will evaporate entirely.

At the end of the day, this whole situation just made me even more grateful for the friends I've made, and reassured me that there are mostly good people in the fandom - and to not let these bad faith participants ruin it for everyone.

If you made it this far - thank you for enduring my rambling. I have zero expectations for this post other than to serve as the braindump I so desperately needed. Thanks for listening. 💜

#text post #personal #daemyra #house of the dragon #fanfic #fandom culture #plagiarism

29 notes · View notes

darkmacadamien · 7 months

Text

Whumptober 2023, No. 3: Journal

It begins innocuously enough, with an offhanded suggestion from Dr. Sharon.

“You may benefit from keeping a journal,” she tells him, after a particularly grueling session that leaves Jamie discretely wiping the corners of his eyes every time Dr. Sharon glances down to jot something down in her notebook.

“What, like a diary or something?” Jamie asks.

The idea isn’t totally repulsive (unless Jamie thinks about what his dad would say about keeping a journal, which just makes him sick to his stomach), but Jamie can’t remember the last time he’d picked up a pen to do anything other than sign his name. Besides, Jamie had never been any good with words.

“It can be,” Dr. Sharon concedes. “Or it could be a sketchbook, if you like to draw. Other people use it to save newspaper clippings, or to press flowers, or even to just write down their grocery lists.”

“Ok,” Jamie says, “but, like. What if I do it wrong?”

Dr. Sharon, in her infinite patience and wisdom, doesn’t seem fazed by his question. “It’s different for each person. As long as you enjoy doing it, you can’t do it wrong.”

“Huh,” Jamie says, picking at the hem of his shirt. “I’ll think about it,” he promises her.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

And Jamie does— think about it, that is. He doesn’t go out of his way or anything, but one day, while he’s out shopping, he sees a neat little stack of moleskin journals shoved back in the corner of one of those stores that sells everything under the sun.

He picks one up and runs his fingers along the smooth leather cover. The texture is nice, and he likes that the pages inside don’t have any lines, so he doesn’t feel pressured to write neat and proper, and it’s discrete enough that if his dad dropped by unexpectedly he wouldn’t be suspicious of it, so Jamie drops it in his cart and buys it.

Jamie will probably forget about it, anyway, until he finds it again in a year or two shoved in a desk somewhere, and he decides it’ll make a great Secret Santa gift since he understands how that works now.

Jamie doesn’t forget about it.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The journal sits on his kitchen counter, taunting him each time he sits down to eat breakfast.

It’s just… Jamie has no fucking idea what to write about. He knows that Dr. Sharon said it’s different for everyone, or whatever, but Jamie can’t even work up enough courage to put a fucking pen to paper, which is just so ridiculous, like.

He plays football in stadiums filled with thousands of people, but he can’t write about his fucking day without having a nervous breakdown about it. Fuck.

Jamie finally manages to write his name on the first page, which fucking ruins the re-gifting value of the stupid thing ‘cause now Jamie’s staked a claim on it, but fuck it: a win is a fucking win.

The journal still remains on his counter, though, unwritten in other than his name.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Then Jamie’s dad gives him a call, and suddenly, he has something to write about.

Jamie hadn’t even answered the phone, but then he went and listened to the voicemail like an idiot. It hadn’t even been that bad, as far as messages from his dad go.

“Hey, junior,” his dad had started, even though Jamie hates it when his dad calls him that. “I see you still don’t know how that phone works. Or maybe you do! Oh, what am I saying— you’re some big-shot football player now, of course, you don’t have time for your old man.”

His dad had laughed then, sharp and guttural in the way that means he doesn’t find it even a little funny. “Only kidding, only kidding— anyways, I was just calling to let you know that I caught your last match on the telly the other day. Let me tell you, son, sometimes I wonder whether you actually do know how to play football—”

And then he’d gone off, drunken ramblings about how Jamie might as well up and fucking quit if he ain’t gonna take the sport seriously until eventually the beep that indicates time cuts him off midsentence.

His dad doesn’t even mention anything specifically, which means he probably hadn’t watched the game at all and had just wanted to call so he could bitch, and, on top of that, it’s the same old stuff Jamie’s been hearing since his dad started coming around in the first place, when Jamie was still young and hopeful with grass-stained knees and a desperate desire to please.

It fucks with him anyways; leaves him staring at the wall for a couple of minutes after the recording clicks off, his ears ringing like his dad had been there in person to tell him off.

Jamie deletes the voicemail, feeling like that one Greek guy who was cursed to do the same thing over and over and over again, and then that stupid fucking journal catches his eye.

Like those shitty magic tricks that make kids cry instead of laugh, he has a stroke of inspiration.

It takes him a moment to find a pen, ‘cause who owns a pen in this day and age, but when he does, he splits open the journal until the spine cracks, and then he’s off like a shot.

Jamie ends up writing four pages before he finally runs out of steam, his handwriting coming out clunky and too big and crooked from misuse.

He’s not sure if he likes the way it leaves him feeling, like there’s an anvil sitting on his chest, but he decides to carry the journal around a little more often that way if he ever has another desire to jot down his thoughts, he has it on hand.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

He gets the urge to write in his journal three more times that week. Once, after training, when Roy had ripped into him a little more than usual. Then again, while he’s out clubbing with the lads and he catches a whiff of his dad’s favorite beer. And then finally, when he’s looking through articles of himself online, and he finds a gossip rag trashing his hair, the fucking Philistines.

Each time, it leaves him feeling heavy and tired, with a seemingly endless pit in his stomach that sends bile bubbling up his throat.

“I’m definitely doing it wrong,” he tells Dr. Sharon during their next session.

Dr. Sharon raises her eyebrows inquisitively, so Jamie digs his journal out of his cross-body bag and hands it over. Dr. Sharon flicks through the pages carefully, eyes flicking over his writing in that freaky-fast way that would make Jamie think she wasn’t actually reading it if he didn’t already know she was dead smart.

“It’s like, every time I finish writing about something, I just feel so awful. Like, worse than I did before I wrote anything.”

Dr. Sharon hums in acknowledgment. “I notice you tend to write about negative experiences with other people,” she says.

“Yeah, ‘cause I feel like I actually have something to talk about, you know? But then it just feels like I shouldn’t be writing bad about people behind their backs, like. And then I feel bad ‘cause I’m doing it anyway.”

“Would you say that the emotion you’re feeling is guilt?” Dr. Sharon asks.

Jamie snaps his fingers. “Exactly! And since it’s making me feel so bad, I just thought maybe it’s not helping me like it’s s’posed to.”

“That’s very insightful, Jamie,” she praises him. “Have you considered writing about things that make you happy instead?”

“Huh,” Jamie says. The thought hadn’t occurred to him.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

So, Jamie gives that an honest try, too. He writes about when he has a particularly good day at training, or about how he’s always wanted a dog when he sees one during his morning jog, or about how much he loves his mummy.

Then he branches off a little, remembering Dr. Sharon’s point that journals can be used for literally anything, and adds a newspaper article about Sam’s restaurant, and then some magazine cutouts from Keeley’s latest modeling gig, and then the note that Ted had left him after the Manchester City game.

Jamie goes to watch a movie with Isaac and Colin and saves the ticket, gluing it next to a wrapper from a butterscotch candy he’d gotten from Higgins. Roy brings him takeout one day after Jamie scores a hat trick, so Jamie snags the receipt while Roy isn’t looking and adds that to his journal too.

Jamie dedicates an entire two-page spread to a detailed stick-figure drawing of him and Dani playing pick-up, which nearly brings Dani to tears when he shows him.

“Jamie Tartt,” Dani says, his voice all choked up, “this is beautiful. You must let me take a photograph.”

Jamie does him one better and draws another, which does end up bringing Dani to tears, and when he’s done weeping and hugging the daylights out of Jamie, he hangs it up in his locker.

So, Jamie writes in his journal, and he cries on his journal, and he spills over-priced coffee on his journal. He decorates it with tacky glitter, and stickers, and any little odds and ends that strike his fancy.

He makes other people write in his journal, too, like Ted, who leaves him with a ten-page anecdote that Jamie doesn’t really get, but it makes him feel nice anyway, and Beard, who leaves a freakishly detailed self-portrait in red Sharpie, and Nate, who carries it around for an entire day to map out plays.

Jamie even manages to get Roy to contribute, who grumbles about it but takes it home anyway and gives it to Phoebe to sketch in (though Roy does end up leaving a surprisingly heartfelt note on the bottom of the very last page). Keeley uses a page to plan out an entire month of brand deals, and in a fit of unorthodox creativity, Ms. Welton makes a collage of all of Richard Mannion’s worst photos, which makes Jamie laugh because he never liked the prick anyway.

When he’s in Manchester again, he tracks down his mummy, who writes about Jamie when he was a sexy little baby, and Simon, who neatly records his best recipe for lemon tarts (Jamie’s favorite).

Jamie’s journal slowly becomes filled with little pieces of all the people he loves, until one day, he’s waiting for the ink to dry on the final page, with the journal so full he can hardly close it with the elastic band along the side.

Jamie cries a little bit, ‘cause it’d been quite a long journey with the stupid thing, hadn’t it, but then the lads get him another as a Secret Santa gift, so he gets to start the whole thing over again.

#whumptober 2023 #no.3 #journal #ted lasso #fic #jamie tartt #sad jamie tartt #dr. sharon fieldston #afc richmond #introspection

15 notes · View notes

tavyliasin · 4 months

Text

The second chapter went live at nearly 4am my time, which is why I didn't share it here yet, but it's here for you all now! I have some very entertaining responses to share with you all (2 are publicly visible on AO3, and the Discord ones are shared with enthusiastic permission~) Whilst the first part was a lot of tension, talking, and the making of the deal, it gets straight to the spice in the second chapter as the contract is made.

As a reminder, The Scent of Cinnamon is a prequel, set before the events of Baldur's Gate 3, and starting when Raphael and Haarlep meet for the very first time! It includes how Haarlep got their name, and what they looked like before taking Raphael's form. They do hope you will mark their true existence in your memory as surely as Raphael will after their deal is made...

Here are the reviews so far~ (Graphic design is not my passion, sorry!)

SAMPLES OF THE CHAPTERS FOLLOW! ~ Smut below the cut ~

--- --- 1 - The Cambion, The Gift, and The Contract --- ---

They sighed, hand dropping back to their side from where it had been hovering above the thinner and more sensitive skin of the cambion’s wings. “ Fine , if you insist we shall have it all in writing. You are to ensure I do not go hungry. Either provide me with partners to satisfy my hunger, or satisfy me with your own body.” “Agreed.” Lines appeared upon the page in infernal script, glowing on the parchment with the power they contained. “And you shall not lay so much as a finger upon a client without my permission.” “Then make it simple. This room will be mine as much as it is yours. Those you allow to cross the threshold are by rights my own to take, should they agree to it.” They smirked, adding to the letters upon the page. “The house is your domain, but in this room I am the only Master .” Raphael’s ego failed to pick up on the edge of their tone as he easily agreed to the term, and moved on to the next. “Then the illusion must be maintained. Once you have my form, you are to wear it until or unless I specify otherwise.” This time the incubus wavered. “You are asking me to give up the last shred of my personhood, to become you ?” “No. You will retain your personality as you see fit. You are to be my mirror in appearance, I cannot have a stray client or debtor seeing through that. They must believe, at least to a degree, that it is me they are laying with, and not some brothel-hired -” He paused. His finger traced a few letters in the air, moving them around, reforming his own name into something new. “That’s it. Haarlep . A perfect anagram, the version of Raphael that is closer to the Harlot that you are.” “You scorn me even as you wish to use me to your own ends?” The incubus frowned, though the name…was not entirely objectionable.

“The name should be a fitting match for the wearer, should it not? Or do you have a better idea?” He raised an eyebrow, staring directly into the incubus’ eyes. “I suppose I can become accustomed to it, with time.” They looked at the page, filling with more rules as they talked. --- ---

2 - The Contract, The Kiss, and The Cambion's Pride

“Marking me already~” their voice purred close to his ear as they pulled him closer, “do go on, I shall return every mark in kind. I will ensure your body knows nothing but me .” “You are very sure of yourself, Harlot. ” He growled deeply, pushing back against their control again, even as the heat in him built further. “My my, Archduke , you gave me a name and yet you do not use it? Very well…” Their lips pressed to his ear, quickly replaced by sharp teeth that bit down and made him hiss from the moment of pain. They smirked as they licked the droplet of blood from his heated crimson skin. “When you lose control, when you give yourself over to me, when you are ready to turn over your pride to the pleasure that only I can give you, when the only word left upon your breathless tongue is me - that is when you shall call me by my proper name.” “If you believe yourself capable of such a thing, you are welcome to-” Raphael’s voice was cut short. He had forgotten about their wicked tail, but now the almost sharp arrowpoint tip was at his throat. “It is adorable how you fight me even as you want me. How your lips speak of rebellion but your hips are pressing you to my body to seek your greedy release already.” They kissed more softly now, each touch of their lips a heated lie of affection, another spark to his overheated libido. They began to alternate little bites with their soothing tongue when they reached his neck, nudging his frilled collar out of the way even as the tip of their tail still pressed into the vulnerable flesh beneath his chin. “Go ahead, Archduke , let yourself go. We have all night, or longer if I have to - I shall not let you have a moment’s rest until our deal is complete. Do not think you shall get away with finishing swiftly and considering our business finished.” “Haa-” Their tail pressed down now on his tongue, stopping the word even as his body quivered against them with his release. “Too easy, and not even honest. There is more to your pride than preventing the stain spreading through your smallclothes.” They smirked, aware of the damp spreading through the layered finery. All Raphael could do was groan against the invasion in his mouth. The Harlot pressed against him did not seem to care one bit for how easily he had been overtaken by a swift climax, driven over the edge by the stimulation of their voice in his ear, their body possessively gripping him, the scent of cinnamon hot on their skin… --- ---

The chapter titles are active links to the full works on AO3 for those who wish to read the full story so far~ I do hope you enjoy! There's plenty more to come yet, too, though it may take a little longer as I have other works on the agenda and some event pieces for Xmas that need finishing off~ Feedback, loves, is always welcomed~ If I can do better, I should like to know so I can improve and grow. If I'm already doing well? My ego does enjoy being soothed, too~

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #haarlep #bg3 raphael #ao3fic #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #genderfluid haarlep #bg3 haarlep #raphael bg3 #house of hope #raphael the cambion #incubus #shapeshifting

12 notes · View notes

the-present-is-a-gift-au · 2 months

Text

Chapter 24: In Which Twig Receives Some News

The Future Trio left soon after their abrupt arrival— Twig’s home, vacant as it was, wasn’t well enough equipped to house three extra guests, and they were comfortably confident that Twig wasn’t going to die any time soon. On a strict regimen of oran berries and bed rest, she healed up quickly and well. It was a struggle to keep from losing her mind out of boredom, but she made it out the other side alive… albeit with a newfound appreciation for the fluidity of the spoken word as opposed to the dry text of the one book she owned.

She should probably get some actual children’s books before she tried to force herself into reading full-on scholarly manuals. At the very least, they’d probably have some nice pictures. That textbook barely had any diagrams in it, and Twig felt the lack of visuals keenly.

Darkrai made for better company than Twig expected during the process of her healing. Maybe it was just the fact that she now knew him as Ark better than she had as the menace who tried to shroud the world in darkness, or maybe it was the fact that she was actually sleeping through the night now— either way, she enjoyed the conversations they had as she practiced her handwriting in that old notebook she used for kindling and he stitched away at whatever landscape he was embroidering.

Twig pointedly avoided thinking about how one of the thread-paintings looked oddly like Dark Crater. Darkrai had said that they were just places that came to mind from his travels— he could have doubled back there after losing his memories. It wasn’t anything to worry about. Everything was fine. They were getting along great. She didn’t even mind him being around anymore. Everything was fine.

And then Twig opened a letter from Kip and everything went sideways.

“Are you well?” Darkrai asked from somewhere behind her, sounding miles away despite being just a few feet across the room.

She didn’t answer, eyes roaming the page again in the hopes she misunderstood her friend’s looping penmanship. It wouldn’t have been the first time. She must have just misread it. She definitely misread it. She—

“Twig. You’re shaking.”

“I’m good! I’m good. Just— uh—” She cleared her throat. “Um. Kip is back home.”

“Is that not good news?”

“It’s great news.”

“You sound worried.”

“I’m not.”

“Hm.” He sounded unconvinced.

“It’s awesome. I’m just… I’m just a little surprised, is all. Those three years went by real fast, y’know?” She let out a weak chuckle. “Hey, we should probably head out to the market. Don’t you need more thread?”

“I suppose certain colors of embroidery floss have been used moreso than others. Are you certain you’re alright, though? You’re almost pale—”

“Yep! Yep, I’m good. I’m great. Let’s go. I could use the exercise.”

Twig’s leg had healed to almost its former state of wholeness, the only remaining sign of her injury being a slight limp or aching pain when she overdid things. She was able to travel to the market and back with no issue. But she found herself trembling all the while as she parsed the stalls for fruits and spices, the pain seeming to rise up anew and overtake her entire body as she tensed every last muscle in her shaking frame.

Kip was home.

He was home, and he wanted to see her.

He wanted to see her, and she had a Legend attached to her hip who had haunted the poor mudkip’s nightmares for months after their fateful encounter in Dark Crater.

You never thought this through, did you, Twig? Nice going, genius!

Maybe Darkrai didn’t want to meet Kip so badly anymore. Maybe she could just leave him home for a few days… But what if he remembered something while she was gone? What if Kip wanted to visit her at her new house? Didn’t she plan on moving back in with Kip when he arrived in Treasure Town? She couldn’t do that— she couldn’t exactly move back into Sharpedo Bluff with Darkrai stuffed in a suitcase, could she?

There was no way out of the mess she’d gotten herself into. Kip was going to find out about Darkrai eventually, and she was going to have to explain her reasoning for housing their shared worst nightmare— which meant explaining the return of her memories— which meant she would have to go through the gut-wrenching, stomach-twisting experience of baring the ugliest parts of herself to someone she loved.

Dusknoir’s words echoed somewhere in the back of her head. “You were a child. You survived things no child should have to. You were not meant to be clever or strong. You were meant to be loved and cared for as you so clearly needed, as a child must be.” She couldn’t bear the dissonance that line awoke in her— somehow it felt like a balm and a poison in one line. A child. You were a child. Child or not, Twig had left her entire bunker to die, and she knew that Kip would take that news harder than she could put into words.

The trip to the market didn’t last long enough for her to cook up a plan or for Darkrai to forget about her admitting that Kip was back. Sure enough, the first thing he said when they were back through Twig’s front door was about what she said. “I’d still like to meet Kip, if you think it is a possibility.”

“It’s not, Ark.”

“Is he not in Treasure Town? It’s only a day’s journey.”

“It is, but— look, it’s just not an option for you to meet Kip. Honestly, I don’t even know if I can face him myself. And I can’t tell you why.”

Silence. Twig went to work lighting the dark room, having put out all the lights before they left, but found herself hesitating after lighting a single candle. She watched the flame dance and flicker as Darkrai spoke.

“I understand that you have your reasons,” he began. “You’ve always been fiercely protective in the time I’ve known you. It is in your nature as much as nightmares are in mine. But that does not change the fact that I would still like to meet with this character at some point. Forgive my sentimental language, but it feels as though this is something I have been waiting nearly all my life for. There is something significant about your partner’s arrival that I feel within my core.”

She didn’t respond. Staring into the candle made her eyes sting with tears.

His voice lowered. “… Is it not disheartening?” He asked. “To know your dearest friend is only a brief journey away, and yet you refuse to reunite with him despite all the years you’ve been apart?”

“I mean, yeah, it feels awful. But how I feel doesn’t change how things are.”

“Perhaps. But it seems to me that you are using the present state of matters to paralyze yourself. You shouldn’t indulge in fear. And given his history, I’m sure Kip would share that sentiment.”

That last line sent a spike of dread through Twig’s heart. “His history?” She hadn’t ever mentioned anything about Kip’s background to Darkrai other than him being her old partner and best friend. He shouldn’t know anything about his past. What was he talking about?

She put on a nervous smile. “H-Hey, um, Ark? What do you mean by—?”

He cut her off, seeming not to notice her stuttering mumbles. “Returning to the previous topic, are you not eager to return to your former role in an exploration team? You have spoken so highly of the experience. You made it sound like the greatest thing the world could offer— I myself have envied Kip’s status as your partner as a result of the praises you’ve sung.”

She couldn’t deny how much she missed exploring alongside Kip. She opened her mouth to answer that he likely wouldn’t be returning to Wigglytuff’s ranks of explorers before what Ark said clicked in her head. She smiled again, genuine this time, and chuckled. “I almost— pfft, Ark, I almost thought you were hinting that you wanted to join my team!” She couldn’t hold back her mirth. “Wow, I really misread the room there—”

“So you finally caught on this time?”

All the laughter bubbling out of her promptly died in her throat. “What?”

He didn’t take it back. He didn’t say he was kidding, or that this was a prank, or that he had suddenly taken up the cruelty he loved to indulge in during his previous life.

“Wh— How long has that been a thing?! When did you— Why would you— What?!”

Ark put up his hands in a placating gesture. “It’s been a thing since early on in your housing me. I’ve alluded to the concept numerous times rather than outright asking because… Well, you may judge your own reaction as the reason. It seemed as though your heart would give out if I came to you about it directly.”

That was a fair assessment. Her heart really did feel ready to give out in that moment. “No, not why you didn’t ask me to— I meant— I mean— Oh man. Hold on, I need a second.” She took in a long breath and closed her eyes, trying to collect herself. That was a bombshell if she’d ever heard one. She let out the breath in a slow puff and paused before turning her eyes back to Ark. “I was asking why you would want to join Team Venture. You never voiced an interest in exploration teams before, when you— when you had your memories. I guess I’m just confused by that sudden shift. What changed?”

Ark was silent for a long moment, eyes flicking away from her face and narrowing in a familiar coldness as he considered his answer. He seemed almost like Darkrai at that moment, but then the cold glare was gone, replaced by a strange melancholy. He flexed his hand at his side, bringing it up to clutch lightly at his chest. “I don’t think much has changed at all, surprisingly. It isn’t as if I had a sudden epiphany or change of heart on the subject. The thought of joining Team Venture is… something appealing. I suppose it always has been.” He turned back to her. “Is the opportunity not serendipitous in its presentation? Our abilities are complementary. Kip’s resilience is bolstered by your courage, and your combined strength could benefit from my knack for stratagem.”

Her voice left her inaudibly— barely a mournful squeak. “It’s not that simple, Ark, it’s…”

“No matter what obstacles appeared,” he continued, and her jaws snapped closed in sudden terror, “overcoming them would be entirely possible if we three band together.”

(She was in Dark Crater. She was in Dark Crater, and Kip was collapsed and bleeding out. She needed to get to him. She needed to save him. She needed to—)

“Well?” He asked, innocent. “Your answer, Twig?”

She shook herself, gritting her teeth. This was a coincidence. Only a coincidence. That was all. There was nothing special about it. “No,” she replied, voice tight and bordering on furious. “Sorry, but no.”

He watched her light the rest of the lamps throughout the home in silence. Twig caught a glimpse of his face as she turned to light one beside him and found his gaze narrow, but not unkind.

“What’s with the weird look, man?”

He tilted his head, then looked away, almost flustered. “Nothing. Just a sense of deja vu, I suppose.”

With that, he fell quiet, and not another word broke the tense silence in their home.

#pmd2 #pmd eos #pmd sky #pmd explorers #pokemon mystery dungeon #pmd fanfic #pmd fanfiction #pmd fic #the present is a gift au #pmd #pokémon mystery dungeon

3 notes · View notes

nullbutler · 24 days

Note

Hi there I just stumbled upon your black butler webcomic- The Dead The Damned and The Devil. I have been relying on Tumblr to read the chapters and oh my gosh the chokehold they have on me?

Every panel where the twins show up I was scrutinizing their bangs to figure out who was who. And... The way Vincent just... Stopped when he realised that he had been mistaking Estel for Ciel. . . (The twin whom he carried out and the twin whom Lizzie hugged. Why do I feel that both the parties mistook their intended recipients)

Like Vincent is just scratching the depth of what his kids went through. (Better him than the Damn Demon, who would have just endeavoured to make everything worse)

I also really appreciate the unlikely trio of Madam Red, German Brother and a Bloodthirsty Watch Dog. And with Grell as a bonus.

I really don't understand Undertaker's deal. With the way he acts in canon we already know he is despicable...but also desperate to keep the Phantomhives alive ... So him not rearing to conduct an independent search of his own is ... Curious.

Agghhh it's just. The webcomic is soooo good!?! The expressions, the story line, the freaking title (!), OCiel's name, the family tensions, the color palette.. oh gosh I could just...keep on rambling.

Question though- I am unable to find the Chapter 8 of Volume 1 on Tumblr?

Also- would it be possible to include and compile the links to all the pages of the webcomic as a masterpost?

Thank you so much for the incredibly kind words! this gave me hte motivation to actually update the comic so the hotlinks function on ao3. here you are :)

5 notes · View notes

comicaurora · 2 years

Note

I really enjoy how you layout your action scenes and somehow frame specific moments just right, but I have no idea how to even attempt it myself.

What do you recommend reading/engaging with to get better at comic making/page pacing?

Good question!

I've routinely recommended Usagi Yojimbo - feudal japanese samurai adventures and also everyone is an anthropomorphic animal. You may have encountered the protagonist during his regular crossovers with TMNT cuz the creators are best buds.

Really cinematic framing - you can practically see the camera circling - plus a good blend of diegetic and non-diegetic panel backgrounds to make sure the important details draw the viewer's eye. Movements carry weight with the help of flowy fabrics and design elements like Usagi's ears.

Direction of movement is communicated both through rigid elements like sword-direction and flexible elements like whole poses following arcs and lines, and remains consistent panel to panel.

This comic is a masterclass in clarity of movement, and as a bonus it's got a large ensemble cast of secondary characters our protagonist stumbles into one-shot adventures with. Lots of opportunities for weird stuff to happen. Just a fun read overall, and as a bonus you'll learn a lot about clear comic choreography!

So that's fight choreography covered. Page pacing I kind of had to learn as I went along. The early chapters of the comic are paced much more leisurely and not as much stuff happens per page - I favored big splash panels over flow of movement - so I don't know if I have any recommendations for comics that specifically teach you how to do that. If anything, I have the opposite - a comic that has very leisurely pacing and lots of large splash panels and two-page spreads that I nonetheless learned a lot from, mostly in the space of dialogue and character reactions. That comic is Girl Genius, a steampunk adventure comic with a hefty focus on mad science that's been running for most of my life.

If we want to talk about ensemble casts, this comic has an absolutely massive roster, and it's only getting more complicated over time. Every character is unique, most of them have highly complex interpersonal dynamics of various kinds and the status quo is constantly shifting.

Languidness of the page-by-page pacing aside, the comedic timing of this comic is top-notch. The dialogue and banter does its job and then some.

It also has combat/action sequences, but they tend to be secondary to dialogue and banter, and usually serve the narrative by way of character development rather than "how do we take down the strong bad guy?" As a result, the action is often paced more for comedy than for clarity of movement.

But the dialogue is really top-notch, and the way pages are paced seems to be "at least one new piece of information per panel." Single units of exposition will be crowded into one panel, one panel will be spent on new characters popping in to help, stuff like that. If the dialogue abruptly shifts in tone, that's also worth a panel transition, so when characters have sudden moments of emotional vulnerability or genuine concern for each other, that'll usually be notably separated from their previous angle.

It's a good way of making sure that the big dialogue beats hit with a lot of punch. The dialogue bubbles are also subdivided a lot more than in some comics, with basically every sentence getting their own bubble - all serving to make sure that the audience never gets lost in a wall of text and always knows exactly what everyone's thinking and feeling at any given time. For a character-driven story, this is all very important.

It's a good comic, but fair warning, it's got a lot of archives - it took me about three full days to get through it last time.

There are plenty of other good comics, but these two are the standouts I think had the biggest effect on me personally. I might be able to come up with more suggestions if given more specific follow-up questions, though!

#asks #not aurora

96 notes · View notes

choicesficwriterscreations · 2 years

Text

CFWC Writer of the Month: Gryffindordaughterofathena

Each month CFWC highlights one of our many talented fanfic writers and this month’s writer of the month is @gryffindordaughterofathena! We hope you will enjoy learning more about her and her work below! Writer is selected at random. More info can be found on the navigation page.

Blog: @gryffindordaughterofathena

Quick Links:

Blog Masterlist

How do you want to be known on Tumblr? Dri

1- When did you start playing Choices? What's the first book you played?

Spring of 2020! The first book I played was Desire and Decorum, I was also playing the Freshman on the side for diamonds

2- When, and why, did you join Choices fandom?

September 2020, After I had completed Open Heart Book 1 and played the first few chapters of Book 2 that were available, I was trying to find more content, so I googled Ethan Ramsey and it took me to @jamespotterthefirst Bree's fic Lovely, from there I went down the rabbit hole of the fandom and soon had to make a blog to read and interact more.

3- How did you pick your url name?

Before Choices two of my biggest hyperfixations were (still are) Harry Potter and Percy Jackson, so I just mashed my Hogwarts House and Godly Parent to make an url because "Gryffindordaughterofathena" sounds very cool!

4- Go back to your archive and tell us about the first post on your Choices blog.

This post of me squealing about the last chapter of Open Heart book 2. Before that it was all reblogs from other people.

5- How long have you been writing fanfiction?

For this fandom since November 16, 2020 right after Open Heart Book 2 ended, I have some unpublished Harry Potter and Percy Jackson fanfics from around 2015 though

6- What is your favorite Choices book to write about?

Open Heart forever and always!

7- Share the first fanfic you wrote with us. Do you still like it or would you change anything about it?

Whispered to The Stars Honestly speaking, I love all my works, I wrote them, I feel like I am obligated to love them, also this fic was what started it all for me, the outpouring of love I had for the fic is extremely heartwarming. I like what I wrote in there, so no changing anything for me.

8- What is your favorite fic that you’ve written?

Definitely 5 Stages of Grief I wrote it at a time when I had nothing I was sure about, my life, my career, my friends and sure as hell my writing, this mini series of about 540 words came to me at the middle of the night and I handwrote it and it might seem very cliché story writer of me, but every word came from somewhere deep within me and once I wrote the last line it seemed that something changed, with Diana (My MC) finding her way through her depression, it felt like I was finding mine.

9- Do you have a fic that you didn’t expect to be well received, but it was? What about one you expected to be, but it could use a little more love?

Probably It's All in the Chemistry, which was a rewrite of Open Heart Book 3 Chapter 1, I had a feeling that since there are so many authors who write amazing chapter rewrites, mine would probably be unnecessary and not so well received, but I was pleasantly surprised by the love it got.

10- What is your specialty as a fanfic writer?

I don't know if this can be counted as a specialty or if I even have one, but I think it's emotions, I like dealing with the way my characters' hearts work, how each of their convictions make them act differently. People who read my work would probably say tearing hearts apart in less than 300 words so there's that too 😆

11- If you could write only angst, fluff, or smut for the rest of your writing life, which would it be and why?

A tough decision but probably Angst (but with happy endings) so that no matter how sad someone is they can feel the hope of things getting better.

12- Do you ever recognize yourself in any of your MC’s or in your writing?

Definitely! Diana is a projection of myself, she's what I would become if I were someone who saved lives for a living. Her ideals are mine own and her actions are what I'd do in her situations.

13- What element of writing do you struggle with most?

Finding the right voice for my characters, I often feel that they are all very similar. I've been working on it, so here's hoping I can improve.

14- Do you have any neglected work you really want to finish?

My Murder Mystery AU called "Love and Lies", I'd probably get it done sometime in the future.

15- If someone you know in real life (who isn’t involved in fandoms) asked to read your work, would you let them? If yes, what would you recommend they read first?

It would depend on the person honestly. If it's someone who'd read without dismissing it for being fan fiction then sure. One of my best friend's has even read a few of my works.

I'd recommend Five Stages of Grief and A Million Cuts A Million Waves at first.

16- Are there any writers (published authors and/or fanfic writers) who influenced your writing?

So many! From Fanfic Writers, there's Terr @terrm9 who's writing is absolutely beautiful and I have tried putting in that soft casual intimacy of a homely feeling in my works as she does in her's and there's also Ruby @starrystarrytrouble if you read her writing you'll see the kind of rhythmic cadence her words have which I have tried emulating into my own. From published writers, I love English writers like John Green, Leigh Bardugo, Holly Black and Bengali authors like Suchitra Bhattacharya, Sirshendu Mukhopadhyay and Satyajit Ray. To be honest I think every writer imparts something into a reader's works and mine is probably an amalgamation of every writing I have ever loved.

17- Which one of your stories would you most like to see as a movie/series?

Probably My Fix It series and Also Whispered To The Stars because I think it has an aesthetic quite Short Film-ish.

18- Do you write original stories?

Sometimes!

19 - What other hobbies do you have?

I love reading, making jewelry, listening and analyzing songs and gardening and I don't know if this counts as a hobby but I also love playing with my two hyperactive, slightly feral cats!

20 - What’s your favorite emoji?

🥺 this one! I don't know if it's my favorite one but it's most definitely my most used emoji, because I am at a constant state of 🥺🥺🥺

21: BONUS - tell us anything you’d like (if you want to).

First of all thank you @choicesficwriterscreations for selecting me! And secondly, this fandom is my safe space, my little corner of the internet with my little internet friends (most of whom sleep when I am awake) and this place will forever hold a very special place in my heart ❤

71 notes · View notes

wawa-boonliang · 7 months

Text

Flufftober Day 2: Family, Friends, Loved Ones

Summary: brotherly bonding between Hitoshi, Dabi, and Shouto. Based on my BNHA fanfiction Never and Always, Eventually

Aizawa-Yamada Shouto isn’t entirely sure why he’s doing this.

It’s been six months since the adoption was finalized. Life had simultaneously calmed down and become more hectic than ever. Shouto didn’t think he’d ever be able to go back to his quiet, shut-in life-style. He didn’t know what he’d do if he ever had to go back to where he was. What he’d do if he lost all of this, all of the hugs in the morning, all of the hair ruffles in the classroom, all of the forehead kisses and sweet wishes goodnight. What he’d do if he didn’t have the warmth of Bakugou… Kacchan… leaning against his side as he sat on the couch with Explodocat spread across his lap, watching TV as Yamada Sensei… as Papa Mic and Shins– Hitoshi argued over the channel.

What he’d do without the warm flutter in his stomach every time he saw Izuku.

But sometimes… he can’t help but fall into old patterns.

Hitoshi froze and peered over Shouto’s shoulder. Shouto held very still, hoping that if he didn’t move, somehow his… brother… wouldn’t be able to see what was on his screen. Unfortunately, Hitoshi didn’t seem to have turned into a T-Rex, so after a few seconds, Hitoshi cleared his throat and read outloud “New theory, Endeavor is secretly in love with All Might.”

Shouto knew it was hopeless at this point, but he still didn’t move, or speak, or breathe.

“Halfy… what the fuck?”

“...it’s not my theory. I’m just reading it.”

“Why are you reading it? What even is this?” Hitoshi gestured to the screen, before heaving himself over the back of the couch and sliding in next to him, pulling the laptop onto his own lap and exploring the page. “ProShippersUnite.com?” Hitoshi read out in glee. “Is this what you fucking do all day in your room?”

“...not always.”

Hitoshi scrolled back up to the post that had initially got his attention due to the giant fan-created splash art of Endeavor and All Might in a passionate embrace. “Don’t show this to Deku, I think he’d actually combust.”

“I wasn’t planning on it? I wasn’t planning on you seeing either.”

“Well, then you shouldn’t have been on it in the living room.”

Shouto flushed. “I didn’t know anyone else was home.”

Shouto, truth be told, had been feeling a little lonely today. Izuku and Kacchan were with Mrs. Midoriya… Aunty Inko… and Papa Mic was at work doing a Charity Marathon stream for the local children’s hospital for cancer awareness month. He wouldn’t be home for another three hours if all went well. Dad was covering patrol today for Mrs. Joke who was out of town visiting family. And up until a few minutes ago, he’d been under the impression that Hitoshi was with Tokoyami at the other boy’s house. Somehow, being in a public space, even in an empty house, was a bit less isolating than being alone in his room in an empty house.

Hitoshi didn’t seem to notice his embarrassment, or if he did he didn’t comment on it. He was too busy reading through the post. “Oh my god, this person made a timeline. All Might says in an interview that he enjoys a specific spicy noodle dish at a certain restaurant, four days later Endeavor is seen at that restaurant ordering that same dish. God, look at that picture. You’d think with being on fire and all he’d be able to handle spice. All Might changes his costume, a few months later Endeavor also changes up his look with the same shade of blue being the predominant color. That’s hilarious, I never noticed that.”

“It’s oddly compelling,” Shouto breaks his silence hesitantly. These days, even though he… he does love Hitoshi… he isn’t always sure when the other boy is making fun of him or not. He never feels like Hitoshi means to hurt his feelings, even though he occasionally does, but he’d rather not be teased about this.

“I…” Shouto wants to explain how, before he had friends, before he had this… theories were all he had. Stupid things to waste time thinking about, because keeping his thoughts occupied was the only way he was able to… just get through the day. Every day. He’d run ridiculous stories through his head, each one more preposterous than the last, and do his best mental gymnastics to justify them. It was fun.

Some of the only fun he’d been able to take for himself for years.

Hitoshi must hear something in his voice, because he stops scrolling and gives Shouto his full attention. “Yeah, Halfy?”

“Sites like these were how I learned about Dad and Papa,” Shouto said slowly. “And Kacchan and Izuku. Them being a family. Theories about Aunty Inko and Mrs. Bakugou being surrogates. Theories about what quirk Izuku had or which father was biologically connected to which son. And before that… I didn’t really have any friends. Theories like this were… the only way I knew how to talk to people. Pros were always happy to share their own, and they always seemed to like mine too.” Shouto huffed. “But now I know they were probably laughing at me half the time. I hadn’t realized it at the time.”

Hitoshi hummed, but his gaze was focused on Shouto. Shouto knew he was listening.

“I just,” Shouto had no idea how to elaborate on how important things like this had been to him, and the more he said out loud, the sillier it seemed. “I just liked them,” he finished lamely.

Hitoshi kept looking at him silently for a few more moments before clearing his throat and closing the laptop. “Let me ask you something, little brother.”

“I’m older than you.”

“Have you ever tried to prove a theory?”

Shouto blinked. “Only…the EraserMic one.”

Hitoshi grinned. “Ferb, I know what we’re gonna do today.”

♡ღ‿ღ♡ ʕ•̫͡•ʕ*̫͡*ʕ•͓͡•ʔ-̫͡-ʕ•̫͡•ʔ*̫͡*ʔ-̫͡-ʔ ♡ღ‿ღ♡

“How does this prove that Endeavor is in love with All Might?” Shouto asks Hitoshi an hour later as they hide behind some bushes with a video camera liberated from their parents’ room.

Hitoshi, when he answers, addresses his response towards the camera. “I’m glad you asked lil’ listener,” Hitoshi grins, throwing the camera a couple of finger guns. It’s disconcerting, because the grin is all Dad, but the voice is all Papa Mic. It makes Shouto smile despite himself. “We’ll be able to tell by his reaction. Surely, if he isn’t madly in love with everyone’s favorite hero, then he won’t bat an eye. But if he is get ready for an explosive time!”

“Please stop talking like Papa.”

“No. We ready to go live?”

“Oh. We’ve been live.”

Hitoshi freezes, and by his face, Shouto can tell he regrets talking like a mini Present Mic. Shouto feels a strange, unfamiliar sense of glee. A type of glee he’s only recently discovered and is usually reserved for when one of his brothers gets caught doing something harmlessly stupid.

Hitoshi slowly pulls out his phone and clicks onto their website where Momo had hired somebody to set up a page for live streaming. Sure enough, Shouto had been streaming for ten minutes already. Two thousand people were watching, and the chat was very active.

Lmao dude wat

Endeavor? He hates All Might

no no let them talk

lil listener hahaha

omg my babies

Hitoshi kinda hot tho

dat smile damn

Who let them out of hte house unsuerpvised

Present Mic come get ur kid

im worried

plz dont do anything stupid

why

Wait wut imlate to stream

lmaoooo

let him cook

why r u in a bush

put todoroki on camera!

hes not todoroki anymore he got adopted and changed his name

he’s not todoroki

I think his last name is Yamada like Mic

yeah put him on camera!

Where are the adults? Am concerned?

are we sure they aren’t blood related?

Hitoshi punched Shouto in the arm. “Dude, why didn’t you warn me?”

Shouto frowned at him. “I’ve been pointing it at you for the last ten minutes with the light on.” Shouto gestures to the little green light that indicates that the camera is in use.

“How was I supposed to know! I wasn’t looking at you! I was busy.”

Shouto ignores him and points the camera towards the villain fight that they definitely weren’t supposed to be anywhere near. Endeavor had a villain cornered. Shouto hadn’t been paying attention to what the villain in question had done to get the new number one hero on his tail, but that wasn’t what was important. What was important was the several life-sized All Might cardboard cutouts that Hitoshi had sourced from somewhere, and then used his Aizawa-honed skill set to sneakily place just so, peeking out of alleyways, on rooftops gazing down benevolent, inside someone’s car, and even in the window of a shop – the owner lady had been nice when Hitoshi had told her it was a prank on Endeavor.

Since the court transcripts had been made public, the public opinion on the new number one hero had tanked to all time lows. Shouto felt suitably vindicated by this.

They knew the exact moment when Endeavor clocked the first one, the one in the alley, because he froze, letting the villain with the telekinesis quirk get a good hit in with a piece of rubble from the torn up street. A group of civilians cheered. As did their live chat.

yoooooo ten points

Oooooh face shot

lmaoooooooo pog

ouch. i mean lmao. But ouch.

Rofl nice shot

go for the crotch next time!

GIVE HIM THE CHAIR

ahhhh come on, there was a perfectly good car right there. throw that!!!

Shouto the fuck are you doing and why didn’t you invite me

♡ღ‿ღ♡ ʕ•̫͡•ʕ*̫͡*ʕ•͓͡•ʔ-̫͡-ʕ•̫͡•ʔ*̫͡*ʔ-̫͡-ʔ ♡ღ‿ღ♡

Dabi stared in disbelief at his little brother’s livestream.

(He wasn’t entirely sure if he was still able to claim that connection. Not that he’d wanted to for the better part of ten years. But now he wasn’t sure that he could if he did want to. Not since Shouto had been adopted by that sickeningly sweet hero couple. Not since Shouto had been given two new brothers. Or maybe even before. Not since he’d left. But his little maybe-brother had grown into someone that Dabi could see himself being friends with. His little maybe-brother had grown into someone that made Dabi feel a strange feeling of loss in his chest whenever he thought about lost years and lost chances.)

He was all for tormenting Endeavor. But this was lame as hell.

Dabi could do so much better.

“Hey,” Himiko whined. “Are you going? I want to come!”

“No,” Dabi told her sharply, but not unkindly. “One, your obsession with my… brother is weird.”

“Not him! I have a crush on Katsuki!”

“Two,” Dabi steamrolled past, ignoring that. “This is Todoroki business.”

♡ღ‿ღ♡ ʕ•̫͡•ʕ*̫͡*ʕ•͓͡•ʔ-̫͡-ʕ•̫͡•ʔ*̫͡*ʔ-̫͡-ʔ ♡ღ‿ღ♡

The fight went well.

For the villain.

Once Endeavor noticed the second cut-out, he seemed to be on the lookout for more. The villain had used his distraction to first rough him up, and then get away. Endeavor roared as he gave chase, blasting down the street, almost burning a few civilians in his wake.

Hitoshi and Shouto ran to keep up, making sure to stay out of sight.

“Okay,” Hitoshi panted. “Step two.”

“And what would step two be?”

The two of them stumbled into each other, surprised. Out of an alley came the burned, but amused figure of none other than Touya. Shouto blinked twice, then gave an awkward smile. “Hello, To— Aniki. Would you like to play with us?”

A look of irritation came over Touya’s face, but it disappeared just as fast. “Don’t call me that.” Shouto nodded, knowing that Touya wasn’t talking about aniki. Shouto wasn’t sure why Touya didn’t want to be called Touya, but Shouto also didn’t want to call him Dabi. Dabi was a villain name. Touya wasn’t a villain. Touya was just his brother. But then Touya smiled a smile that wouldn’t look out of place on Dad. “But, yes. I would.”

“Great,” Hitoshi said, accepting this immediately and rolling with it, which Shouto thought was just one of the many things that made his new brother amazing. He couldn’t help but feel a burst of warmth at the thought of spending time with both his little brother and his older brother. “So the plan is–”

“No, no, no” Touya interrupted. “I saw what the plan was. It was dumb. No, you need to listen to me. I know how to fuck with Endeavor.”

Hitoshi and Shouto passed a look between them.

“What do you have in mind, Aniki?” Shouto asked. Touya’s eyes glinted in a way that reminded Shouto that while Touya wasn’t a villain, Dabi was.

“I have a plan.”

♡ღ‿ღ♡ ʕ•̫͡•ʕ*̫͡*ʕ•͓͡•ʔ-̫͡-ʕ•̫͡•ʔ*̫͡*ʔ-̫͡-ʔ ♡ღ‿ღ♡

Shouto had never thought that he’d be back here.

Even more than that, he never thought he’d be back here laughing.

Fuyumi and Natsuo had moved out ages ago, so the empty manor seemed even emptier than it ever did. Endeavor was still out, and hopefully would be for a while. Technically, they didn’t break and enter, and therefore committed no crime. Originally, Touya had planned on busting through a window, but Endeavor had never asked for Shouto’s house key back. He’d also never officially banned Shouto from the property.

“So,” Hitoshi said to the camera. “My little brother–”

“I’m older than you.”

“-forgot some things when he left, and so we’re here to help him get his stuff. That’s the official story and we’re sticking with it.”

Touya snorted and hefted his bag of supplies. “Now, for the record, I definitely wasn’t in favor of burning down the entire house and dusting off my shoes,” Touya said over his shoulder. “But trust me when I say, this will be better.”

“Also,” Hitoshi continued. “I, as a hero in training, am absolutely not bugging the house in order to get Endeavor's reaction. No siree.”

“Neither am I,” Touya says, gleefully as he hides a small camera in a painting’s frame. “As a dutiful friend of the family, I’m helping with security.”

From behind the camera, Shouto added. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

oh yes we absolutely agree with you

I believe you entirely

Nope nothing sus here

perfectly innocent yup

I mean i actually do believe Shouto

so we not burning down his house?

omg thats a fucking huge ass mansion

steal a tv

With that, Touya started pasting a giant wall art of All Might’s face to the wall.

“It’s beautiful,” Hitoshi wiped an invisible tear from the corner of his eyes. Then, he got to work moving every piece of furniture ever so slightly to the left, dropping tiny but very sharp plastic All Might figures between cushions and behind pillows. And then he scattered the extras around the floor to hopefully be stepped on by bare feet.

“Which is his bedroom?” Hitoshi asked.

“Furthest door down that hallway,” Touya answered before Shouto could.

“Got it,” Hitoshi disappeared. Shouto debated for a moment for as to which brother he should be filming, but then he decided to follow Hitoshi. Touya seemed to be struggling a bit with getting the wall art to stick. Hitoshi was in Endeavor’s room, putting little stickers of All Might’s face on everything, but in unobtrusive areas where they wouldn’t be discovered right away.

“And the best thing is,” Hitoshi said without looking up from what he was doing. “These are all cheap ass dollar store shit, so if he tries to peel ‘em off they’ll leave that shitty resedue that you need glue remover to get off.”

Shouto nodded, accidentally moving the camera as he did so. When Hitoshi was done, he stepped back and took in the room as a whole. It was spartan, with the only decorations being various awards and trophies that Endeavor had been awarded over the years. The overall color scheme was mostly gray with a few splotches here and there of brown. For as long as Shouto can remember, being called into this room meant pain. It meant kowtowing on the ground until his knees went numb as his father ranted. It meant whipping. It meant a heavy boot on his back. It meant fire. It meant whatever he’d done or hadn’t done had been serious. Going into his father’s room to “talk” meant–

“This is boring,” Hitoshi declared after a moment. “Honestly, we’re doing the man a favor.”

That startled a laugh out of Shouto. Hitoshi darted out of the room and was back moments later with spray cans in All Might red, blue, and gold. Hitoshi tossed Shouto the gold. “Here, baby bro–”

“I’m older than you.”

“-that’s for you. Just put that down on the window sill so it can still see us.” Shouto obliged, and then looked for a long moment at the can in his hands. He tried to think of the perfect thing to say. The perfect comeback to years of abuse. (It was easier to think that word now, now that he’d talked about with the Hound Dog and Dad and Papa and Kacchan and Izuku and Hitoshi. It didn’t hurt as much anymore. Nothing hurt as much anymore.) He tried to think of something profound. Something eloquent. Something suitable to match the crime.

He couldn’t think of anything.

Hitoshi noticed his hesitation. “What’s wrong, Halfy?”

“I don’t know what I want to say to him.”

“I mean…” Hitoshi trailed off and Shouto looked up at him, and then noticed that Hitoshi hadn’t been writing anything at all. Rather, there was a rather impressive mural of a dick on fire. Hitoshi shrugged at Shouto’s bemused look. “It’s not like you have to write a poem.”

Shouto looked at his can. He climbed on the bed, standing up, taking joy in not removing his shoes and idly hoping he’d stepped in dog poop at some point that day. Then he reached up as far as he could go, and started spraying the ceiling above the bed.

“WORLDS WORST NUMBER TWO

I HAVE A BETTER DAD THAN YOU

YOURE A FUCKING DOUCHE CANOE”

Hitoshi watched him, his face twisting with laughter. Then he stood next to Shouto and added a final line.

“PEEPEEPOOPOO.”

Together, they admired their work.

“I am a mature hero in training.” Hitoshi announced.

Touya peeked his head in. “Hows it going in here.” Then he spies the poem. He barks out a short laugh. “Beautiful. Art. Poetry.” He has a drill in his hand, and he makes a hole in the corner of the wall where there’s a good angle to see the rest of the room. He presses one final camera bug into the hole, smoothing it in so that it’s flush against the plaster and nearly invisible unless you know what to look for. Then, he grabs the camera from the sill and points it at the ceiling. “Behold.”

All was still for a moment. And then they heard the unmistakable sound of the front gate opening. “Scramble” Touya hissed. They dart down the hall and towards the back of the house, exiting through the garden and leaping over the back fence. They don’t stop running, keeping up the pace as they leave the manor behind them, but after a moment, Touya starts laughing.

It’s a more free laughter than anything Shouto has heard from his older brother in… ever. He sounds young. He sounds free.

He sounds a bit evil.

Hitoshi starts laughing, too. “Please tell me you got all the cameras set up.”

“They’re recording as we speak.” Touya assures him, still smiling widely as they run.

Gradually, they slow their pace until they’re jogging side by side. Shouto is a little surprised that Touya hasn’t gone his own way yet, but he still has their camera, which is presumably still live streaming, so he doesn’t say anything. Afterall, he’s not exactly complaining that his older brother hasn’t disappeared for parts unknown. Again.

And yet, Touya seems a bit surprised when he sees where the two younger boys have led him. “This… is your new home?”

“Yup.” Hitoshi pops the p. “Papa’s probably home by now.”

Touya stops walking. Shouto and Hitoshi look at him in question. “I’ll, uh,” he pushes the camera into Hitoshi’s hands. Hitoshi looks at the screen for a moment, before saluting and turning it off. Touya watches him do this and swallows. “I’ll see you guys–”

The front door opens.

“LIL LISTENERS YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE HOW MANY CALLERS TOLD ME ABOUT oh, hi Touya.”

Touya ruffled up in affront. “That’s not my name.”

“Sorry, sorry, Dabi.” Papa Mic smiles at him. “Thanks for watching the boys today. Come on in! Shouta set some soup to cook this morning and I think it’s ready!”

“I’m not sure-”

“There’s a place at my table with your name on it,” Mic continues, his face carefully open and welcoming. “Even if you don’t claim it today.”

Touya swallows. “Um.”

“All of our family is welcome whenever.”

“I’m not part of your family.”

“Friends?”

“I’m not your friend.”

“Loved ones, then.”

“I’m not–” Touya blinks rapidly. Mic wags a finger at him.

“Rule number seven in this house,” Mic tells him very seriously. “No one gets to decide who someone else loves.”

“You don’t even know me.”

Mic lets his hand fall back to his side, then he steps back, leaving the door open. “No, I don’t.” He admits. “But I’d like to.”

Touya looks lost. Shouto grabs his hand. “Aniki,” he says. “We have to watch the reaction together.”

Touya swallows. “Are you sure? This is your family. Not mine.”

“You’re my family.”

Touya stares at him for a long moment.

Of course, it’s Hitoshi that breaks the silence, tossing his comment over his shoulder as he embraces Mic and goes inside. “Yeah, Aniki, get your butt in here. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried Dad’s pho. Its fucking to die for.”

Touya turns wide eyes at Hitoshi’s back disappearing into the house. Slowly, he nods. Mic’s smile grows as Touya slowly walks up the front steps, hesitating just before crossing the threshold into the house. Mic, moving slowly so there’s time for him to move, places a hand on Touya’s shoulder. Touya flinches anyway.

“Are you sure?” Touya asks again, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“I’m sure.”

Touya meets his eyes, then nods. He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself.

He goes inside.

Shouto follows, pressing briefly into Mic as he passes.

Mic closes the door behind them.

#fanfic #fanfiction #bnha #dadzawa #eraserhead #bnha dabi #mha dabi #shouto todoroki #hitoshi shinsou #present mic #flufftober 2023 #flufftober #ao3 fanfic #ao3 #wawa boonliang

2 notes · View notes

kalpasio · 2 years

Text

Heart of Stone, Heart of Fire

B is for Boredom

A Kalpas x Apathetic!Reader fic, Chapter 2 below!

Elysia told you very little about your fiery opponent, dodging questions in that way only she can. It wasn’t until you were assigned a mission with him that you got any information.

The job was a Cocoon operation involving you, Sakura, and Kalpas. As you had never been on a mission before, you were mostly shadowing, but it was still important to know your allies. Or at least that’s what your superior said while giving you both of their files, and likewise, handing them yours.

Sakura’s was long with the number of ops she had completed. Whole pages were redacted, but you were given a basic run-down of her strengths and weaknesses. Kalpas’ file was long for a different reason.

He had a record of getting in trouble, including the fight you two had in the gym near the end of the list. There was a large section that had been redacted, but you knew what it meant. He’d spent time in the Deep End. You knew because you had the same black bars covering a much larger portion of your file.

Honestly, Sakura wasn’t sure if Kalpas could read or not, but he certainly like doing it regardless. This meant she usually ended up reading any briefing documents herself and then relaying the information to him. Your file was short and sweet and she expected it to take a minute or two to read.

She was correct, for the most part. It took two minutes to get through everything, and most of that was scrolling past information she wasn’t privy to. You’d joined Fire Moth several months ago, a good fighter with promise. Tended to be excitable, and slightly reckless in battle, but your skill backed up every crazy decision you made, and you seemed like a perfect candidate for the Meta-Morph Surgery.

Everything after that was blacked out. You must’ve been sent to the Deep End right after your test, and for a very long time. More of your file was blocked than was visible, notes only returning when you were tested for the second time and cleared for field work. As soon as the words “Deep End” came out of Sakura’s mouth, she had Kalpas’ attention.

“Knowing how the first test went, either being down there calmed them down or…”

“Aponia,” he ground the name out through his teeth with venom reserved specifically for her. Sakura sighed, tuning out the yelling and flames that quickly filled the room. Resting her hand on her second sword, she thought to herself for a moment.

The discipline she had received had been helpful, it brought her peace of mind, yet few seemed to agree. Would you be of the same mind as her, or did you hold the same resentment her partner was so clearly showing?

The answer was neither.

“My discipline was necessary. A little…more potent than I had hoped, but it has allowed me to continue fighting Honkai. It was for the best.”

Sakura had tried to bring the topic up casually, but you had no understanding of subtlety and outright told her. You had been in the Deep End,, and you had received a discipline. Kalpas was grumbling and pacing the length of the dropship you were on. You sincerely hoped the plane was fire safe.

In a rather impressive feat, the ship landed safely, despite the never-ending muttering. The sight in front of you was depressing, though no one would know it, looking at your face. What had been a small town was now a small ruin. The suburbs of a city who’s name you didn’t even know, and every person who lived there had been corrupted. A small outbreak hadn’t been reported because the family didn’t want to turn in their daughter, and the whole town had suffered for it.

Sakura didn’t need to say anything. There was Honkai in front of you. You knew what to do.

Not even bothering to pull out your sword, you made your way to the center of the area you had been dropped in. Zombies met your first and fell without getting close to hurting you.

On the other side of town, you could hear Kalpas shouting, and even further away, Sakura’s blade slicing cleanly through the air. As you got closer and closer to the largest concentration of Honkai energy, the number of zombies dwindled, and the number of Psychic Honkai Beasts rose.

They filled a mall parking lot—how fitting for suburbia—and at the entrance to the mall stood their leader. Once the first beast spotted you, the others on the outskirts of the group were running your way as well. Fine by you. Rolling your shoulders, you pulled your blade and let them come to you.

One slash was enough to take out the first three. Blocking an attack with one arm, you turned as though to ram your elbow into the beast, but your sword extended past the end of your arm and its tip made contact well before you did. Still keeping a firm grip on the monster, you spun back around, then used your momentum to throw it into the next group of Honkai, effectively clearing out another seven.

You must’ve gone through another twenty before noticing Sakura watching you. Kalpas gave her away, his stomping catching your attention, though it didn’t distract you from the fight at all. Sakura held an arm out to stop him from interrupting you and he actually listened and watched you work. Once all the grunts had been cleared, he jumped in.

Instinctively, your mind told you to tense up when you heard him cackle, but no matter how loud that little voice was, you didn’t budge. He roared and you calmly sheathed your sword. Meteors fell and you walked between the rocks as though it were only rain. Some hit you and you walked away only slightly flushed from the heat.

When you got to Sakura, she was eyeing you openly; something you’d gotten rather used to. Her withering look should’ve nailed you to the ground, but your steps didn’t falter for a moment. Kalpas’ gaze joined hers in staring, until you were out of eyesight and back on the ship.

Sakura and Kalpas walked into the dropship a minute after you, both barely lasting a second before spouting questions at you. How were you unharmed, how many Honkai Beasts had you been fighting, Why had you just walked away, the list goes on.

Kalpas sounded like he wanted to kill you for not answering, but wouldn’t let you get a word in edgewise. When you finally were given a chance to speak, your answers were give in a tone that made the reasons seme ordinary.

“I have an unbreakable shield, and—” More questions cut you off. The hell do you mean ‘unbreakable,’ and Where the hell is it? “And I fought around a hundred. I think. I am unsure—”

“Go back to the shield—”

“A hundred?”

Sakura and Kalpas talked over each other and you patiently waited for them to sort themselves out.

“Yes, a hundred. I believe. That is the rough estimate I saw before fighting.”

“And the shield?” Kalpas was growling in your face at this point, frustrated you still hadn’t elaborated on his question.

“It’s in my file,” you put a finger on the top of his mask and pushed the man out of your personal space. “My MANTIS ‘ability’ if you will.” You made air quotes with the fingers on one hand. “I am able to make a shield, though it only goes so far as my skin, we have yet to find a way to break it.”

Holding up one hand, a faint shimmer appeared around it. Sakura seemed content to observe—which she did intensely—Kalpas, however, was not. His hand came around yours, his nails digging into your palm as he tried to crush your fingers.

Letting out a sigh that was neither angry nor bored, and giving a look that was neither concerned nor happy, you kept your hand out. “I don’t think that is how most people hold hands.”

“I’m not holding your hand,” Kalpas squeezed your hand tighter, though it did absolutely nothing.

“I’m aware,” you moved your eyes to try and find anything to look at other than the mask that was pointed directly at your hand. “It was a joke.” Sakura actually snorted a little at this, before making a hasty exit to avoid the glare sent her way.

Completely unrelated: I was thinking about the timeline and I'm confused how Aponia is like "yeah the Herrscher of Corruption incident was pretty early on." but Sakura has a discipline and it doesn't have any issues, and like she's obviously had it for a while, it's not super new, and she doesn't have a ring from it as far as I'm aware. I just--my brain hurts so bad rn

#kalpas x reader #azaryawrites #honkai x reader #tamalethebear #cross posted on ao3 #i need a nap #I had an exam last week #hhhhhhhhhhhh #don't go to college #it sucks #I should drop out and just write Kalpas stories

8 notes · View notes

queer-triple-a · 1 year

Text

A Vibrant Pair

Introduction

This specific journal is one I just happened across. Apparently the writer had a bunch of loosely bound journals which his family kept around until they were later donated to the town's archive. Luckily this town keeps really good records online so I was able to read it.

The writer of this journal is named Dorian. We don’t have a last name for him.

I’m excited to share the story he witnessed with you.

Content Warnings

Mentions of death (of child)

Mentions of depression/depressive episode

Depiction of grief

Drinking

Period typical sexism (background)

Dorian’s Journal

[right page]

June 28th

I believe I witnessed the beginning of another love story today. Well it’s probably much too soon to say that, but I saw Tace smile. Tace never smiles! She’s always so grumpy in her spot at the bar. I assume she enjoys my company some since she sits at the bar every night, but I’ve never managed to get a smile out of her.

Even when she (on rare occasions) has laughed at my jokes, her lips have barely curled. I know she told me her favorite song is “Lavender’s Blue”, but when the bar rang out with a rendition of it she merely hummed along, lips straight as an arrow.

Clarissa must be something special. This woman, all bangs and bust, came in. She must not be a working girl like Tace is, because her hair was down around her shoulders. It bounced as she walked in. I think Tace might have been focusing on some other things that were bouncing though.

She sat down right next to Tace at the bar. I’ve never seen anyone sit there. Tace likes her personal space and, quite honestly, smells. Working with metal all day means she winds up smelling like tangy metal and soot.

[left page]

Must not have bothered Clarissa though. She sits down next to Tace and asks what she’s drinking.

Tace just looked at the lady and said, “What's it to you?”

“Well I’m new and I want to know what’s good,” Clarissa replied.

So Tace told her to order my house beer and Clarissa did. As I grabbed her a bottle I heard her start rambling to Tace. She told her how she’d had such a hard day going around the town trying to find the courthouse.

Tace asked her why she hadn’t asked for directions. Clarissa sighed at this and said, with all sorts of drama and flair, “Well don’t you think I thought of that! Doesn’t matter who gives them, I can never follow them.”

Apparently this Clarissa is so lost in her own mind she can’t keep along a straight path for more than a few paces before she forgets where she’s going. So she keeps telling us this story. Well more telling Tace than me. She tells her about all the people she met and all the weird looks she got. Funny how a girl who can’t remember where she’s going seems to know everyone she met along the way.

When I returned to them after handing a bottle to another regular at the other side of the bar, I saw it. As Clarissa’s hands waved around the table Tace’s lips curled upward into a smile. Clarissa continued her rant, finally arriving at the courthouse

[right page]

and apparently getting lost in there as well. She was completely unaware of the miracle she’d just made happen in my bar. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.

Tace was still smiling when Clarissa got to the end of her story, which concluded with her filing forms to change her address to our little town. The lovely lady let out a sigh, took a sip of her beer, and asked Tace, “So how was your day?” As if they’d been friends for years.

Tace, her face still in a grin, let out a short laugh. Tace told her about her day (It was much the same as it always is) and Clarissa listened intently, asking questions and commenting where appropriate. The whole time the smile never left Tace’s face. I don’t know how that girl did it, but she made Tace happy, genuinely happy.

Clarissa left while I was over helping another customer, so I don’t know what she said, but she left a bit of a smile on Tace’s face. I raised my eyebrow at Tace who went right back to scowling. I knew pushing her would only make me less likely to ever know what was going on, so I dropped it.

God am I glad Clarissa is staying in town. That was very entertaining.

[right page]

July 2nd

Clarissa came in again today. I like this lady in her own right, I’ve decided. She got here before Tace and was very lovely. She ordered a beer again and sat quietly while I dealt with other customers. Once I showed her some attention and asked about her day, she gave me quite the story. She’d had breakfast this morning with several other women of the town. All was well and their morning was going well, until the neighbors dog ran through the room. This alone may not have disrupted them, but it stuck its snout up the skirt of one of the women. I received a play by play of every woman’s reaction as they resolved this issue and returned to their lunch.

Clarissa knows how to spin a tale. I never know if people’s stories are true when they’re willing to tell them to the bartender, but Clarissa made me want to believe hers. And when she was done she made me want to tell her about my day. She didn’t just ask, she listened. For someone who so loves to talk, she’s got a damn good ear. She kept looking up at me while we talked.

[left page]

Her eyebrows wiggled with reactions even when she had her drink to her lips.

Just as I was wrapping up my tale, Tace arrived. She was in a right foul mood. She slammed my door shut and stomped her way over to her seat. When she first arrived, Clarissa was sitting two seats away from her. Once Tace sat down Clarissa scooted closer.

Clarissa started talking right away, but it was gentler than normal. She asked “Can I ask you what’s wrong? Or do you just want to drink first?”

Tace rolled her eyes and said, “At least let me get one beer in me woman.” Her words were sharp, but I swear I saw the hint of a smile on her face.

Clarissa must have seen that smile too because she sat back and sipped her beer quietly while Tace drank hers down. The moment Tace put the drink down Clarissa started talking again. She blurts out, “So what’s got you so wrapped around your own post?”

Tace scowled again, but there wasn’t much bite in it I don’t think. She gave a glare, but started to tell Clarissa about her day. She was mostly just upset because she’d had to

[right page]

work with another blacksmith today. She hates to do that. She hates the way they talk to her. She says all the men think they know better than her. I suppose I probably would too if I was them. Not many women know what they're doing in metalwork. Gets Tace real huffy though.

Clarissa, just as she did with me, listened intently to Tace’s tale. And when Tace was done and had ordered her second beer Clarissa put a hand on her knee! Clarissa touched Tace in a friendly way and Tace didn’t threaten to brand the woman! Tace just glanced at her knee, then at Clarissa and raised an eyebrow.

Tace said "Clarissa you know I'm not just some boy who'll fall for your charms cause you've got lovely hair?"

Clarissa giggled and said "Tace if you were a boy I wouldn't be interested."

This seemed to satisfy Tace who let the hand rest where it was as she started in on her second beer.

They kept up like this for some time. Back and forth until it seemed Tace’s sharp mood was dulled down. Clarissa’s hands kept drifting to leave gentle touches on Tace. I don’t know what they were

[left page]

talking about because I was on the other side of the bar helping someone else out, but every now and then they’d both start laughing and I couldn’t help but smile no matter what else I was doing. Tace has been the grumpiest person I know for so long, and with a life like hers she deserves a smile.

[right page]

August 6th

I am convinced that Tace is making a necklace for Clarissa. My evidence is:

Tace was fiddling with wire today, wrapping it around a pretty stone

Tace knows how to make really good jewelry which she sells to the local store since few women travel to her Smithy (Though I have heard rumor that Clarissa has begun to spend time there nearly every day).

Tace scowled when I asked what she was making and told me it was a gift.

When I asked who it was for she said it was for someone special. Everyone in town knows the only woman here who Tace bothers to socialize with is Clarissa. The only other people she’ll talk to are me and some of the other old men at the bar.

Therefore the only conclusion I can come to is that Tace is making a necklace for Clarissa. I think Clarissa will like the stone she has chosen. I don’t know much about pretty rocks, but it glinted just a little in the dim candlelight of my bar. When Clarissa wears it around town I bet it’ll glisten and gleam. What a sight she’ll be. A sight I’m sure Tace

[left page]

will appreciate. I suppose that might be the point. Clarissa gets a necklace and Tace gets a new excuse to look at Clarissa.

[right page]

August 11th

Tace and Clarissa sure stirred the pot of gossip tonight. I didn’t even know Tace knew how to wash her clothes. She had her hair behind her shoulders and her outfit looked nice. She didn’t sit at her normal spot at the bar. Instead she found an empty table and sat there. I walked over to her and asked her what she was doing over there. She said she was meeting a friend for dinner. About then is when I noticed the tin on the table. It was clearly a handcrafted tin. There was a small metal flower adorning the top.

Tace caught me staring and told me to knock it off. She said she’d wait to order dinner until her date arrived. I was shocked to hear she was on a date. She rolled her eyes rudely at me and told me it wasn’t that kind of date. Tace insists she will never date a man.

I was going to ask her another question, but her hand shot up to quiet me. I followed her gaze and saw Clarissa.

She was dressed as if she owned all the land in town. Her dress was long, yet the dirt along the ground had not dirtied it on the walk here. In the summer’s heat her dress had short sleeves, barely enough to cover her shoulders.

[left page]

It was gold like the sunrise. Rows of hues adorning a woman who I knew made her own clothes.

I’ve never been one to stare at a woman. This is not true of Tace and when I glanced back at her I found her eyes hadn’t strayed from Clarissa. Her mouth was slightly open and her pupils were wide.

I decided I should probably let them be.

I brought them the food they ordered shortly after that and kept my eye on them as they sat and talked all evening. Tace sat forward, her chin in her hand, while Clarissa regalled her with tales of the drama of the day. Clarissa, who it seems is unaware of how to sit still, moved forward and back with intrigue, her hands flitting about herself wherever emphasis was needed. After the meal was finished Tace pushed the tin toward Clarissa. She opened it with gleeful expectation and found the necklace Tace made for her.

I watched from behind the bar as Clarissa grew still and gentle. She set her hand on Tace’s upon the table and said something softly to her. Their conversation seemed gentle for a time. I forgot the pair was seated there until I heard the gentle chime of Clarissa’s laughter.

[right page]

Throughout the night they grew in volume again. Their conversation never stalling as other tables were fed and cleared and fed again.

When the end of the night came, they left their seats together, bid me farewell, and made their way out of the bar. Clarissa was wearing her new necklace and though they were not holding each other’s hands, their fingers brushed aside each other with every step.

[right page]

September 1st

I do not expect many things from Clarissa. She is a woman who can keep me on my toes. And I can say for certain I did not expect to learn that she is married. Her husband lives some ways away and pays for her to live here.

I suppose it is a sorrowful marriage. Or at least not a happy one, if she lives so far from him and only speaks of him when drunk. And she was quite drunk. She said he never permitted her to drink, though he drank himself. She said he would not approve of much of her social life. I left the conversation after that. I did not want to hear what her husband would think of her relationship to Tace.

Oh Tace. I will have to tell her tomorrow. I cannot keep her from knowing, and she deserves to know. Clarissa is so close to Tace, perhaps she has already revealed this part of herself. Yes. That is likely. She has likely already told Tace she has a husband. Her romantic entanglements are not my affair.

I shall do what I can to think nothing of it until I see Tace again. I shall ask her what she knows about Clarissa’s husband. That is all I can do. It does no good to speculate.

[right page]

September 2nd

I asked Tace about Clarissa’s husband this morning. It was quite awkward. It was clear immediately that she was not aware of this situation beforehand. Rather than be upset about it, Tace seemed to show no interest in the information. Well she pretended not to be interested. I could tell it bothered her though. Tace has warmed some in the past few months and I saw none of that warmth today. She didn’t speak much to me, except to request refills on her drink. She drank more than normal as well. Whenever I would glance over at her from across the room her shoulders were slumped over, as if she was about to fold herself onto the bar.

She stayed long enough to drink 4 beers and then left. I tried to have another word with her before she walked away, but she either ignored me or didn’t hear me.

Clarissa came in shortly after she left.

I asked Clarissa if she had seen Tace when she walked in.

She said she had, but that Tace didn’t respond to her greeting. She seemed confused.

After some prodding, I realized Clarissa had forgotten she had made it known to the bar last night that she has a husband.

[left page]

When I reminded her of this, she dropped her head until it hit the table. She moaned, “Why did I bring up that man? I had escaped him. Why would I bring him up here?”

I brought her a beer and she told me her story.

As it turns out, Clarissa was originally from Petersburg a little way north of here. Her father owned land and farmed. She had three older brothers, all of whom married pretty women. When she came of age her father and mother began to find a man for her to marry. Despite her knowledge of the town's gossip, she had never heard of David Edwardson.

David Edwardson, the son of a wealthier landowner from several towns away, was cordial and respectful toward Clarissa’s father. They courted for three weeks before a deal was made between the men, and Clarissa was engaged to David. She had met him twice by this point and he had been rather flat. She claims the first time they met he said no more than 25 words to her. The second time they met he only spoke to the other people in the room and paid

[right page]

her nearly no mind.

Throughout their engagement she saw little of him. It seemed to her he had no more interest in being her husband than she did in being his wife. The distance between their homes was crossed frequently by traders, so they could send a few letters back and forth. She said her letters were long and full of information about her life, her interests, and questions she hoped he would answer. His letters contained short answers to her questions. Often only a few words, even for her more detailed questions. Not one of his responses took up a full page of the paper.

Things didn’t improve for her once they were wed. She, by her own account, was driven to near insanity by his boring tone. He had enough fortune that he did not need to work on the land himself. Despite his free time he held no social events. He would rarely permit her to attend events out of the home either. Her days were spent alone at home, with only her dull husband and her sewing to entertain her. She read as many books as she could get her hands on in the early days of their marriage, learning to read in an attempt to escape her dull existence.

Until her children. Her first son was born 3 years into the marriage, and they had 2

[left page]

more shortly after. They occupied every aspect of her life for the better part of two decades. David would allow her on social excursions if they were made under the guise of his- son’s well being. She was pacified while her sons were young. According to Clarissa, life was good for about two decades, even if her marriage was still more cordial than any friendship.

Two years ago, shortly after her 50th birthday, Clarissa buried her youngest son.

He was 23 and he was her world. Her older boys had moved away to live with their wives. Clarissa became distraught with grief. I remember how she described this time.

She said, “For a year afterward I locked myself away and tore down relationships with my other sons. I couldn’t bear to love them when I could no longer love them all. My life was back to myself and my husband. My son’s never visited and I didn’t blame them. I became as terrible of a mother as David was a husband.

“For the past year I’ve been begging David to buy me a house in a new town. I needed to reset. 2 months ago he gave in.”

[right page]

I knew the rest of the story. She’d moved into our town and met Tace the same day. She’s started fresh.

By the time Clarissa was done telling me her tale I had other patrons to tend to. I kept coming back to her throughout the night though. I told her I was sorry for her loss. I told her I was glad she’d found our town because I enjoyed her company. I told her she was fun to talk to. I asked if she thought her husband would make her come back home. She shrugged at that. I asked why she hadn’t told us about him. She shrugged at that too. I think she was done talking for the night.

Clarissa, as I know her, is a good listener and a great story teller. She’ll talk to anyone who sits down next to her and listen to their tales.

She left early tonight and settled her tab. She told me she didn’t want to get drunk again.

[right page]

September 6th

I haven’t seen Clarissa in several days, but Tace came in and sat at the bar today. She was grumpy as ever. Well, as grumpy as she is when Clarissa isn’t around.

I wasn’t brave, but the man next to her was. I think it was Peter who asked her how she was. When she grunted he pushed on and said, "I heard Clarissa is married. Wouldn't have guessed that."

I was cleaning a glass nearby and I froze. I could hardly breathe when I saw the glare she fixed him with. Her dark brown eyes clouded with rage and her already grumpy demeanor stilled into a rock wall of anger.

She growled, "Why would I care about the fact that she's married?"

Peter cowered back some and took another sip of his drink. He murmured something, but I didn’t catch what it was. Tace fixed him with another glare then turned forward again. She kept her eyes away from Peter. I accidentally caught them with my own for a moment. She narrowed them at me. I looked away and didn’t naively inquire about Clarissa.

Tace didn’t speak to anyone for the rest of the night.

[right page]

September 14th

Tace was at the bar again today. I haven't written it down, but she’s started coming in daily again. I think upon her visit last week she realized Clarissa isn’t coming around anymore and decided to start up her old routine. Well that worked fine for her for a few days, but Clarissa must have heard she had a routine again because she also stopped by this afternoon.

I got a little nervous when I saw her walk in the door. I’d heard from Sal that they’d shouted at each other when this first began. It took the gossip a bit to travel, but apparently after I told Tace that Clarissa had a husband the two had gotten quite loud about it near Tace’s shop. I didn’t want any screaming here, not before dinner was done being served.

I finished up the beer I was serving at one end of the bar and walked to the other where Tace was sitting. I planned to send them outside if things began to get confrontational.

Clarissa walked right up to Tace. The latter didn’t notice until she was right

[left page]

beside her. Clarissa made no move to sit down. She simply waited until she had Tace’s attention and said, “I know you’re upset with me, but I thought you’d want to know I’m heading home.”

Tace scoffed and said, “Why would I care what you’re up to today?”

Clarissa sighed and said, “Not that home. I’m headed back to live with David.”

Now this caught Tace’s attention and she put down her beer. “When? Why are you doing that?” She asked with urgency.

“Tomorrow. He wrote to me. His mother is ill. He says it is my duty as his wife to be beside him during this,” Clarissa explained. She closed her eyes while she said this. Before that I’d struggled to imagine what she had been like when she was locked up in his house. Now I think I have a clue. There was no emotion on her face. It was relaxed save for her lower lip which she pulled into her mouth to keep it from trembling.

When she opened her eyes after a moment of silence she saw Tace in front of her. I don’t know what Tace was thinking. She’s always been harder to read.

[right page]

Clarissa wears her heart on her sleeve, Tace buries hers much deeper. Tace’s eyes flitted over Clarissa’s face.

After such a pause I expected Tace to ask her to stay, or to bid her farewell. She did not. All she said was, “Okay,” before turning back to the counter.

Clarissa stared for a moment at Tace’s shoulder. Her face betrayed her confusion as several emotions passed over her face. She softly said, “Goodbye,” and left the pub.

The door shut behind her.

Tace’s shoulder’s sagged.

I probably ought not to have gotten involved. I don’t like to tell people’s secrets. I let the gossip come in, but I try not to spread it around. I made an exception today.

I leaned on the counter in front of Tace and told her, “Clarissa doesn’t love him. She never did.”

Tace scoffed, but didn’t look up at me as she said, “I don’t care about him. She’s married. She didn’t tell me that.”

“Have you asked her why?” I asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” She muttered, taking another sip of beer, “What do you care anyway.”

[left page]

“I care about you, Tace,” I told her. And I do. I wasn’t lying.

I’ve known Tace since we were kids. We were never close friends, but you don’t spend your whole life noticing someone without wanting them to be happy.

“Ask her why,” I told Tace, “Go find her and ask her why. Before she leaves and doesn’t come back.”

This got Tace’s attention, “You don’t think she’ll come back?”

I shrugged, “I don’t know if her husband will let her.”

“He let her come here in the first place,” Tace argued.

I nodded, “He did. But that took a lot. I bet it’d take a lot for her to be let away from him again.”

“What do you mean,” She asked. Apparently what I had to say actually did matter to Tace. Or maybe Clarissa just did.

“I can’t tell you that, Tace. Clarissa told me about him and about their marriage, but I don’t feel comfortable spreading that. That’s her story.”

Tace nodded, even as she grumbled about it. She knew my stance on gossip.

[right page]

I let her sit and stew for a minute until someone down the bar asked for a refill. Then I told her, “Go talk to Clarissa, ask her why before she leaves, or you might never know,” and walked away.

I kept Tace in the corner of my eye and refilled her drink when she needed it. She stayed until the tavern got busy. She left sometime during the rush of people. I lost sight of her while I took the order for Frankie and Kellie at the corner table. When I glanced back up she’d left. I don’t know where she went.

[right page]

September 15

Clarissa hasn’t left town yet and I now doubt she will.

She and Tace came in together. They were holding hands! The pair of them walked over to the bar and sat down. Tace sat in her normal seat and Clarissa sat beside her. When I walked up Clarissa gave me her brilliant smile. She ordered a beer for herself and for Tace. Tace rolled her eyes at being ordered for, but didn’t say anything.

I served them their drinks and went to bring food to Joseph and his wife. By the time I returned to the bar Clarissa was in the midst of a story. It wasn’t as bright and loud as it had been in the past. I admit I eavesdropped some while I poured another fellow a drink. I couldn’t hear much, as Clarissa’s voice was softer than normal, but I think it was about her son.

Tace listened intently. Her eyebrows knit together as she took in every word Clarissa was saying and tried to figure out what she wasn’t saying.

[left page]

One time when I glanced over there was a tear rolling down Clarissa’s face. I looked away, not wanting to intrude on their moment, but not before I saw Tace reach up and brush the tear away.

Only a few minutes after that I passed by and saw them leaning gently towards each other, their foreheads almost touching. Clarissa appeared to be crying, and Tace was trying to comfort her. Tace had one hand rested on Clarissa’s arm and the other on her cheek. Words passed the inches between their faces.

They stayed to the end of the night, slowly drinking beer and perking up. By the time I closed Clarissa, with a slight pink to her cheeks, was joyful and vibrant again. She was telling a story about an old neighbor’s cat with bursts of energy and large gestures. Tace watched and listened, smiling and nodding along.

It wasn’t like before though. When Tace used to listen, she would pretend to be annoyed. It had been as though she had thought if she showed too much interest Clarissa would fly away to find someone else to impress.

[right page]

There is something more settled between them now.

Outroduction (is that a word?)

Thank you for reading! I’ve found some other queer stories amongst the old records I look through online. I’ll try to post them regularly so if you want to see more LGBTQ+ people existing, feel free to follow me!

#lgbtq story #queer story #lgbtq+ story #short story #epistolary #your honor they're gay #queer triple a #an assumptive anthology #gay romance #lgbt romance #tavern #tavern romance #gay tavern romance #1700s romance #lesbians #journal #gay journal #historical fiction #historical romance

5 notes · View notes

alleiradayne · 2 years

Photo

A Touch of Evil | Art Master Post

A Destiel Series Sequel to Innuendo

When Dean and Castiel are left to clean up a mess in the archives, they accidentally release an incubus from his 1000 year imprisonment. To regain his power, the incubus takes up residence within Dean and Castiel, influencing their most intimate moments. But they quickly learn that the incubus is draining their lives from them, and if they do not satisfy the demon soon enough, they will die. Do they sate the incubus' lust? Or will they find a way to exorcise him in time?

Chapter 11 - Hell Bent for Leather Summary: Once again, research fails to distract Dean very long. Characters/Pairings: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Word Count: 4,945 Song: Hell Bent for Leather - Judas Priest

Two thumps of heavy boots vaulted the library steps before he spoke. “I’m on to something. I think.”

Dean kept his stare focused on his book. “Sam, if I had a nickel for every time you’ve said that today, I’d have twenty cents. We got three days left, this better be good.”

“No, seriously,” Sam spat. When Dean said nothing, Sam shoved his boots from the chair across from him and sat. “I went back through the Sumerian section in the archives and grabbed everything related to lilit and lilitu. I found this.”

Resigned, Dean looked up and grabbed the weathered book. The leather binding cracked and peeled, raining dust onto the pages of his own book in his lap. “Christ, how old is this?”

“Couple centuries?” Sam shook his head. “Doesn’t matter, just look. Lilit and lilitu were also terms for spirits.”

“Cas mentioned that,” he muttered as he read. On one page, an artist’s take on a wind spirit covered the paper from margin to margin. Though colorless, fine details rode the swirling winds. Squinting helped little, but Dean asked, “Is that… are those people? And is that an… an owl? Does she have wings? What is going on here?”

“Babylonians thought Lilith was a bird-footed woman. With wings. Kinda like harpies,” Sam said. “There are more depictions, like spirits of wind and trees. But the most interesting part I found was an exorcism for these spirits. And it’s beyond any exorcism we’ve ever performed.”

“But we’ve got a sex demon riding shotgun,” Dean stated. “Not a harpie. Or a wind spirit, whatever the hell that is.”

Sam flipped the page in the book. “Does that harpy look a little familiar?”

In a relief on a wall stood a woman with wings and talons. “But that’s not—”

“What about this?” Sam continued, flipping the page.

Another painting, but one that Dean recognized. “That’s a friggin’ lamia. We roasted one of them.”

“I know, like I said, this lore is all over the place. It gets weirder. There are so many potential translations throughout the centuries, lilith could be one of the oldest vampires. And everything I’ve found about incubi and succubi points back to these ancient stories of lilit. Here.” He turned to another page that bore an incantation Dean could barely read. “Aramaic warding incantation against lilit.” He pulled out his phone and, after a few swipes of his thumb, showed him a picture of a bowl with the same incantation written on the inside. “People buried these upside down on their land to ward off night demons. Night demons that would take on the image of one spouse or the other and beget a child just to torment them by killing it later.”

“That’s… really fucked up,” Dean started with a shudder, “but Cas explained some of this to me already. Where’s the actual connection to our demon?”

“This book.” Sam thudded a knuckle on the cover. “It has everything on incubi and succubi in all but name. Each culture, each civilization had their story, their own lore, their own way of warding. But here,” he paused as he flipped to the end of the book, “is a recording of an exorcism performed in the early seventh century. I have a ton of work to do to pick this apart, make sure I understand it, but… this could work.”

Hope. A glimmer at least. Dean closed the book and handed it back to Sam. “You better be—”

“What’s that?”

Sam’s narrowed glare followed a piece of paper as it drifted to the floor. Too late, Dean lunged for it. Retrieved with a snatch, he shoved it into his book and snapped it shut. “Nothing.” He stood and rushed for the southern library door. “I… I’ll uh. You get to work on that exorcism. I’m gonna finish this book in my room.”

Before Sam could reply, Dean rushed through the door and slammed it shut behind him. On his way to his room, a familiar scene played out in his mind. Tension tightened his shoulders at the thought of Sam knowing too much. Oh, he knew the basics, sure. Incubus. Uncontrollable lust. Three-day comas with Castiel. But he had struck a deal, and he knew Sam would not blame him for following through on a backup plan.

The primary plan, if Dean had any say about it.

Safely in his room, Dean sat at his desk and set the book on its spine. It fell open at the inserted page, the thick cover thudding against the wood. Dean ensured his drawing remained intact, withdrawing it from the book. Centered on his desk, he stared at the drawing. With only three days left and only increasing signs of aging—the most recent bout presenting itself as an intolerance of cheese—ensuring their survival had inspired him. Obviously, it had always been his top priority. But such a unique threat of death had spawned in him a devious creation.

He knew why. And a small part of him, a tiny little voice in the darkest recesses of his mind, didn’t care. Because he had created something. He had designed, procured. For the first time in so many years, his hands left behind life. Not death. Might it ruin their love for uncomplicated, no-frills sex? He doubted it. But if he could experience everything in that blueprint, the risk, in his opinion, was worth it.

A smile curled his lips as he stared at the drawing, losing himself in the potential, the anticipation. Whether it was himself or Castiel strung up, Dean was indifferent. He had used Castiel in the diagram, but only because that had been easier than drawing himself. With one primary display on profile and several surrounding angles, Dean had poured every ounce of his creativity into the apparatus. Leather bondage, spreader bar, ball gag, butt plug, paddle—all the new things Castiel had recently acquired but had yet to try. The blindfold and the cock cage required encores, so he had included them as well.

But something was missing, he noticed. He grabbed a blue pencil from the mug on his desk. As he began to draw, the world around him faded, ceased to exist. Reality suspended as though to grant him the time and space to perfect his fantasy. Spirals of blue angled across the open swathes of Castiel’s skin, diamonds connecting leather. Maybe he could use the squat rack in the gym as a hoist—

“Dean!”

The pencil flew from his hand and clattered to the floor with his shout. Castiel stood in the threshold, hand still gripping the handle. “Do you ever knock?”

“I… can if that’s what you would prefer.” He closed the door, then strode to his side. “Did Sam tell you about the exorcism?”

Oh, no. That smile. That brilliantly, innocently optimistic smile. “Cas, I don’t… he did tell me. But I think we should stay realistic. There’s still a chance it won’t work.”

“I understand and agree, but—what’s that?”

His wide-eyed hope had narrowed into a suspicious examination. No use hiding it. He would find out eventually. So he handed the drawing to Castiel and explained. “Plans. Pulling out all the stops. Last-ditch effort to get rid of this damn demon.”

Gingerly, Castiel took the image in both hands and brought it under his nose. How he could see so close to his face, Dean had no idea. But he had no intention of interrupting such intense scrutiny. His eyes popped over the top of the paper. “This is a highly detailed schematic.”

“Most folks would call it pornography, but different strokes…”

“You found what I bought?”

Dean shrugged as Castiel handed the drawing back to him. “I snooped. Was looking for you but you weren’t in your room. The bag was just… sitting there. So I—hey!”

His cry clipped short when Castiel’s lips landed on his. Dean would never know how he had hauled him out of his chair and onto his feet. He suspected some lingering angel strength. Maybe. Or he had always been that strong. Christ, what if he was? Finally, someone that could overpower him—

“Come with me.”

Castiel’s throaty insistence snapped him out of his thoughts. “Let’s just do it here. Pin me up against the door or fold me over my desk.”

“But all the leather is in my room.” He gestured to the drawing. “I’d suggest breaking it all in before attempting that.”

No need to tell him twice. Dean pulled from Castiel and headed for the door. “Good point.”

“Would you—” Castiel paused as he shut the door behind him. “Can you wear it first?”

“You know you can tie me up any day of the week, Cas,” he said over his shoulder. Around the corner, he barreled through Castiel’s door and ushered him through. “And I’ve never done leather against bare skin, so this oughtta be interesting.”

Castiel crossed the room for the bag and withdrew the various pieces of leather to toss on the bed. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“Red?” Dean asked as he approached the bed.

“It was either that or black,” Castiel said. “Red hides blood well.” When Dean glared at him, Castiel smiled and laughed. “That was a joke.”

“It better be,” he replied as he peeled himself free of his flannel. “A waist harness and a… is this a gorget?”

“Another type of harness,” Castiel stated as he slipped between him and the bed. Greedy fingers grasped the hem of his shirt and teased at his skin. “Modular. Allows for different combinations of restraints.”

He raised his arms, and Castiel slipped his shirt over his head. “Restraints?”

“The wrists can be bound to any of the other pieces, as can the ankles. To each other as well,” he explained. As he loosened Dean’s belt, he flicked apart the button and drew down the zipper. “But you knew that, based on your drawing.”

“I… h-had a hunch,” he stammered. Castiel’s long fingers slipped into his briefs. His breath hitched in his throat as he tried to speak again. “You want to take the wheel on this one, or are we both riding shotgun?”

“I am in a… mood? Would you mind indulging me?”

Indulge? With that crooked little grin and that inquisitively arched brow? “You would be indulging me.” He paused a beat as Castiel leaned close. “Sir.”

“That’s a good boy,” Castiel crooned. He ran his free hand through Dean’s hair and grasped him at the back of his head. “Do you think you can please me tonight?”

“Damn straight—”

His thought clipped off with a gasp when Castiel wrenched back on his hair. Those lips, those god damned lips of his, brushed against Dean’s ear as he said, “Excuse me?”

“Ah—yes, sir. Yes. I can please you. Thoroughly.”

Soothing fingertips eased the sting at the back of his head. “That’s more like it. Now…” He paused as he withdrew his hand from his pants. “You are considerably further along than I am.” With a forceful tug, he stripped Dean of his pants, then Castiel gave his first order. “Take the rest off. Then catch me up. Including this.”

Damn him and those too soft fingers. Damn his perfect hands and that baiting smiling, with his crooked lips parting as if to ask, to dare Dean to defy him. And oh, how he wanted to misbehave. Draw out Castiel’s strength, his ire. But he obeyed, first drawing down the shoulders of his flannel, then pulling his henley over his head.

“This,” Castiel said as he hefted the collar, “has some versatility.” He slipped the supple fiber around Dean’s neck, then tightened the strap. The velvety material slipped over his skin, and his heart galloped. As though railing against the restraint, his pulse point drummed back the collar, and dammit all to Hell, Castiel noticed.

“You won’t choke. But it needs to be tight enough not to chafe.”

Dean returned to his task and slipped them to his ankles with Castiel’s pants unfastened. “I understand, sir.”

“It’s not uncomfortable?”

A vehement shake of his head spun the room. “No, sir. It feels… so good.”

“Excellent,” Castiel continued as he gathered up the waist harness. “Now, I’ll put this on, but we won’t be using it much. I imagine…” He paused as he kicked free of his boots and stepped from his pants. With the harness wrapped about Dean’s waist, he said, “It will still look… yes. Divine.”

The leather was all sensual pleasure where the rope had had a pleasant sting to its bite. No leather coat had ever felt so arousing. Son of a bitch, but there was more to it than that. It wasn’t just about the pleasing feel of leather against his skin. Something about being constricted so tightly by fabric as sexy as leather—

Castiel cleared his throat, a harsh, intentional sound. When his vision focused, Dean saw he held a large set of cuffs. Then Castiel licked his lips and said, “Spread your legs.”

“Hng—yes, sir,” Dean stuttered. He stepped apart, cool air soothing the growing heat between his thighs. A shiver coursed up his spine as the leather tightened around the left thigh, just below his groin. He couldn’t help but sigh as Castiel bound the other leg.

“Breathe. Deep inhale, long exhale.”

That one clarifying breath, though ordered, steadied Dean’s racing heart.

“That’s it,” Castiel cooed. He grabbed the final two sets of cuffs, then began binding Dean’s wrists. “Tell me, would you prefer to be on your back or your knees?”

“I have a choice, sir?”

“I am allowing you one.”

Allowing. Fuck, that was hot. “My back. Like… like we were in the archives the first day.”

“Oh, how romantic,” Castiel sang. He knelt to cuff his ankles, then stood. “You are such a sweet boy. My sweet little… honey bee. I consider myself a lucky master.”

“I… I am undeserving of such praise, sir.”

Castiel struck faster than lightning. A resounding smack filled the room as the flat of his palm swatted Dean’s ass, loud as his startled squawk. “I do not tolerate any such talk. Remove these, and I will explain.” As Dean slipped his fingers into his briefs, Castiel continued. “You deserve everything. You are a good boy, and deserve all the love and affection I have.” As he spoke, he attached a short strap to the wrist cuffs. “Sometimes, that affection is rough. Painful. Even humiliating. But we both know how amazing that can feel.” He handed another set of cuffs and straps to Dean. “Ankles.”

As Dean dragged his briefs to the floor, he paused to stare. Castiel’s half-hard cock hung heavy over his sac, foreskin slowly receding as he stiffened. Then Dean knelt, removed his underwear, and fastened the cuffs to his ankles. “I have enjoyed your affection in all the ways you have given it, sir.”

Castiel tilted his head to one side and cupped his cheek. “Knelt before your angel,” he observed. “And in all that red leather. Better put it to good use. Attach your wrists to your thighs.”

Dean did as ordered, the two-inch strap giving just enough length to do so himself. The restriction triggered a kinesthetic memory, rope warped around his wrists and bound to the foot of his bed. But two inches? He could hardly move, and the thrilling panic of such entrapment swelled the ache in his sac.

Loud as a shotgun blast, a latch clicked at his throat, hooking into the golden loop below his adam’s apple. When he looked, a long red leather strap led to Castiel’s fingers gently holding the free end. Then he cleared his throat once more and said, “Open your mouth.”

Too slow. He had taken his time. Licked his lips, breathed in deep, and exhaled to ease his racing heart again. Far too slow.

Castiel tightened the slack in the leash and pulled. Instinctive, he reached, but the clasps binding his hands to his thighs caught. Every muscle tensed to catch himself, but Castiel continued to draw, and as he grasped the base of his half-hard cock, he lifted it to Dean’s lips. “Open your mouth or I will open it for you.”

The jarring flash of memory created not so long ago streaked across his mind. It had been the first thing—the very first sexual act—they had ever done. Dean had dropped to his knees without hesitation that night. Back when he thought he had lost Castiel. When he thought he had driven him away for the last time.

Lucky for them both that Castiel was not so easily deterred. Especially from what he wanted. And Dean would give him exactly that.

With his thoughts spanning space and time, Dean transcended reality. He existed not merely in that present moment but in the past, too, as he dropped his jaw. Sweet skin overwhelmed his tongue as it met Castiel’s heated flesh. And then he coaxed him between his lips, cheeks hollowed to suck.

A guttural groan rumbled through Castiel’s chest, and his head tilted back. That little mantra, that demand for every ounce of pleasure, found him again. More. Give it to me. Irresistible, Dean obeyed and began bobbing his head on Castiel’s cock. Saliva ran down his lips, his chin, his neck, and then everything stopped. He pitched forward, unable to catch himself, and Castiel’s head plunged into his throat.

“I’ll set the pace. Understand?” Dean tapped him on the thigh once. “Such a sweet honey bee.”

When Castiel slackened the leash, Dean slumped back to his haunches. The tip of Castiel’s cock still lay on his lips, and he heaved for breath. Sore already. Even his jaw. After too few seconds, Castiel rolled his hips, the tiniest of movements. But it was enough to slip the crown of his cock between his lips. Little strokes penetrated his mouth, the glans rolling on his lips with each one. Above him, Castiel towered, bright eyes wide as he watched. And then he grasped Dean’s head with both hands, first the right, then the left. Buried in his hair, the rasp of fingertips on his scalp sent a shiver down Dean’s spine.

“That’s it,” Castiel said with a hum. “You just keep that mouth open for me and I’ll fuck it until I come. Would you like that, honey bee?”

He agreed as best as he could with a mouthful of Castiel’s cock slipping in and out of his mouth.

“Good enough,” he growled.

A dark stare shrouded Castiel’s gaze, unfamiliar yet arousing. And a grin so wicked curled his lips, Dean’s heart leaped into his throat. Fingers tightened about his head, and Castiel thrust for long, languid strokes. “I know you can please me, honey bee,” he moaned. “Keep those lips open.”

Dean gurgled a reply, but Castiel muted him with the next thrust. That exhilarating sound, not quite choking, not quite gagging, roused that ache between his thighs. It seemed that it did more for Castiel; dribbles of precum ran over his lips to join the mess. Close, then.

But he could do nothing. Thrust after thrust, the thick heat of Castiel’s cock filled his mouth, and Dean could only sit there. Infuriatingly aroused. Used. Like some sort of bimbo fuckdoll. And yet, as much as he wanted to help, wanted to grab Castiel’s cock and sucking him off until he burst, Dean savored the glorious simplicity, the absolute freedom of letting go. For once, he could just be, just sit there and be and not think. Let someone else do all the work. And Castiel, in his own brand of human nature, did all the work.

Including facefucking him crosseyed.

“Oh, fuck, honey, I’m gonna—I’m—hng.” Faster, shorter thrusts pumped his cock shallowly in Dean’s mouth. Frustrated grunts and growls mingled with his own garbled moans, but not for long. The telltale swell of his cock filled Dean’s mouth, and Castiel’s hips stuttered, stilling. With the tip of his cock between Dean’s lips, the first long jet of cum filled his mouth. Dean closed his eyes and relished the sensation as he swallowed, lips pursed on the tip of Castiel’s cock. A sudden jerking motion popped his eyes wide, and he found Castiel had gripped himself to stroke just below the head. The tip bobbed between Dean’s lips until he came again, a longer shot of pearly white landed across his face, lips, and open mouth.

Dean licked his lips clean and swallowed once more. Before he had a moment to breathe, Castiel bent over, grasped him by the jaw, and kissed him. His tongue swam into his mouth, swirled, sucked, and then parted with a wet slurp. He licked his own lips, then said, “You looked so delicious with my cum all over your face, I had to find out.”

“Did it… did the taste please you?”

“Oh, it did,” he growled. “But I want you now. I want to feel you from the inside. And I want to see you covered in your cum. Up on the bed. On your back.”

The leash slipped from Castiel’s fingers as Dean stood, only to remember that he could not straighten entirely at the last second. The straps at his wrists tugged sharply at the bands on his thighs, squeezing his groin, and he moaned. And then that resounding smack filled the room, a glorious sting prickling his ass where Castiel’s hand had struck him.

“Did I allow you to pleasure yourself?”

“No,” Dean whimpered. “No, sir, I’m sorry, it was an accident.”

Another smack rang in his ears, and Dean bit his bottom lip. He had half a mind to continue his insolence. Next time, he thought.

Castiel jerked the leash to him, then shoved him to the bed. “On your back, now. Knees up.”

Cool air soothed the exposed skin as Dean lay back and spread himself. “Like this, sir?”

Two delicate clinks clipped his ankle cuffs to his thigh bands. But the finality of that sound rang like a struck gong between Dean’s ears. Complete restriction, utter helplessness. Truly, he was at Castiel’s mercy. And there was nowhere else he would rather be. For there would be no mercy. Gone were the gentle touches, the tender kisses, and the slow, sensuous penetration. For his insolence, Dean would pay with his body.

And he was going to enjoy every fucking second of it.

“You know,” Castiel began as he grabbed the bottle of lube from the desk. “I quite enjoy you like this.”

“I am glad that—” Dean gasped at the sudden warmth running down his taint to his asshole. “I uh… I’m glad. That I—” An unbidden whimper interrupted his thought. Muscles spread, relaxed. It was a sensation so rote that Dean wondered how he had gone so long without it. As Castiel used his hole to stroke the head of his cock, Dean could hardly string together three words.

“You are glad… because…”

“I—because I please you,” Dean breathed. “I… I bring you pleasure.”

Castiel tilted his head to one side and smiled. “Good. You should be proud. It takes a great deal of trust to relinquish control.” He continued his teasing, pulling out just enough for the glans to undulate his rim. “And a great deal of confidence to be treated in such… humiliating ways.”

“Tha-ah!”

Obliterated. Any focus he’d retained shattered in the moment Castiel slipped inside him. That sensation, that sublime, stuffed-to-the-brim, spread-oh-so-wide swell, had grown so familiar in the last two months. It might have scared him once. Years ago. A lifetime ago. But in Castiel’s caring arms, Dean knew he was safe. He was loved. He was adored.

He was also very much unable to move. Rote reactions wrenched on the straps at his wrist, his ankles. Every thrust from Castiel rocked through him, lurching across the bed. And without his reach, Dean surrendered to his helplessness, surrendered to Castiel his vulnerability. Tension oozed from every muscle, every fiber of his being, and he floated. Drifted. Rudderless in a vast open ocean of insatiable lust.

Minutes vanished, marked only by their panting breaths. Delirium masked that ceaseless march, reality replaced only with Castiel, his lover, his cock pounding his asshole, his hand as it suddenly grasped him at the base of his own cock and stroked. The room pitched suddenly, a rush of blood vacating his head, and he muttered.

“I’m… sir, I—may I…” He cursed as he tried to reach for Castiel. “Please, I’m—”

Castiel slowed his thrusts, then gently withdrew from him. “Beg, honey bee. Tell me how much you want to come.”

“I can’t… sir, please. It… it hurts, it hurts so damn good, I want it now,” Dean said through his grunts of frustration.

“Aw, so sweet,” Castiel sighed. “So… desperate. Just a few more seconds.”

But those seconds buried their talons in his flesh. Rip, rend, rake, the spurs tore down his walls. And Dean submitted. To Castiel. To that exquisitely vulnerable exposure. To love. What better way to show that than to obey?

So he dug. Deeper than the talons, deeper than the agonizingly sweet arousal. Even when Castiel laid his cock atop his and stroked them together, Dean clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. He obeyed. And it had been worth every torturous second.

Castiel’s hips stuttered, then stopped. Teeth bared, he growled through his release, a carnal sound that softened, lilted, ascended into a gloriously slutty moan. His cock swelled, twitched, and Dean did the only thing he could. He watched the long white ropes lance from the tip of Castiel’s cock. Watched as they landed on his chest, his neck, his stomach. Watched as the aftershocks dribbled more onto his own swollen head.

“Such a good boy,” Castiel breathed. “Would you like to contribute to this mess?”

“Please,” he choked. He squeezed his eyes shut as Castiel stroked them again. “Please, sir…”

“Poor little honey bee can’t even think straight,” he teased. “I suppose you did well enough. Let go, Dean.”

Let go. So simple. And yet, delirious and overstimulated, Dean struggled. He writhed and thrust and squeezed, Castiel stroking and fondling along the way. After what felt like an eternity, that release gripped him, those talons tearing him apart once more, and he came undone. Flex after flex, strands of white mingled with Castiel’s cum, pooling on his stomach, running in little rivulets down his chest, his neck. And the aftershocks never came, for he had nothing left to give.

Before Dean caught his breath, before he even thought to breathe again, Castiel leaned into him. His lips landed on his for a kiss so tender, Dean nearly wept. Again, the instinct to reach, to grasp and pull and pin snapped at the cuffs on his wrists. Castiel hummed a quiet laugh through his nose, then sat up and released his bindings.

Free, Dean stretched his arms overhead and his legs out long over the side of the bed. A cold void replaced Castiel’s warmth when he left his side for an insulated bag near the sink. From it, he withdrew several washcloths, and Dean shook his head.

“Are you kidding me?”

Castiel began to cleanse him, and when Dean tried to sit up to help, he shoved him back down. No point in pushing it. So he relaxed, legs draped over the side of the bed and arms splayed to either side. “This ain’t necess—” He yawned. “You don’t—” He yawned again. “I can—” A third gaping, drawn breath interrupted him, and Castiel’s flat, thin-lipped stare said more than words could.

“Given our situation, I planned this out quite thoroughly. Including clean-up,” he said as he tossed a rag into the sink. “We’d never make it—” Castiel, too, yawned for a deep breath, then continued. “We’d never make it to the showers and back.”

“Thank you,” Dean sighed, eyes rolling closed.

A second rag plopped into the sink, and he began on a third. “I love you, too.”

“My brain’s all fuzzy,” he drawled. “Don’t be—”

When the third rag landed in the sink, Dean opened his eyes, heavy as lead weights. Those gentle blues and the hint of a smile hovered inches from his face, then Castiel kissed him once more. Enthralled, Dean opened to him, and that sweet surrender consumed him once more.

Too soon, Castiel parted from him and spoke. “I’m not mad. I enjoy teasing you.”

“Clearly,” Dean retorted.

A devious smirk crooked Castiel’s. “Do you deny enjoying every second of what we just did?”

From beneath him, Dean shimmed off the bed and discarded the large towel. “No. It was…” He hesitated as he returned to the bed, then drew back the sheets. “It was perfect. Where’d ‘honey bee’ come from?”

“The Google,” Castiel said as he followed Dean beneath the sheets.

He curled in close, head resting on Castiel’s chest as he said, “Of course you looked up pet names on the internet.”

“Do you—”

“It’s perfect,” he said through yet another yawn.

Castiel tugged him tighter, arms wrapped around his shoulders and one hand carding fingers through his hair. An indelible silence carved out a hollow space in Dean’s heart at that moment. It sought room for fear, for anger. And though he wished more than ever to crush that fear, to push it aside and persevere, he succumbed to its impending darkness. But he was safe. He knew that much. He would awake in Castiel’s arms in a few days, and they would find a way through the void.

With Castiel by his side, Dean knew they would always find a way.

This series is complete! Reblogs are loved and feedback is welcome!

#destiel #destiel fanfic #destiel fanfiction #destiel fanart #deancas #deancas fanfic #deancas fanfiction #deancas fanart

2 notes · View notes