#and you don’t have to reblog a post if you doubt its contents!

[aemondsbabe]

A Kindness

summary: you're finally ramsay's most favorite toy, but is that really a good thing?

pairing: ramsay bolton x reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, dark content it's ramsay hello, blood kink but no injury/gore, mentioned major character death (again, no injury/gore), slight au (ramsay wins battle of the bastards), choking, rough sex, dirty talk, humiliation/degradation, slapping, piv sex, unprotected sex don't be silly wrap ur willy, hair pulling, creampie, slight breeding kink, puppy play, boot humping idk how to else to phrase it, slight angst but a happy ending for ramsay lmao, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 6.2k

a/n: my first foray into dark or at least semi-dark writing and my first time writing ramsay! i've had this one in my head for such a long time so it feels really good to actually get it out! hope everyone enjoys and please make sure to heed the warnings with this one!

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

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“Dip the cloth again, you dolt,” you snap, looking up from the scroll of parchment rolled out before you on the table when you hear the coarse woolen cloth begin to scrape dryly across the silver Ramsay’s… thing was supposed to be polishing, “If I have to remind you of that one more time, I’ll tell him you tried to touch me. I wonder which part of you he’d hack off for that, hm?” 

Reek’s eyes go wide at your threat and he nods his head frantically, quickly reaching over and dunking the cloth into the small bowl of vinegar before him. “Yes, m’lady. Apologies, m’lady.” 

A small sigh leaves your lips as you rest an elbow on the table, nose scrunching up slightly at the sour smell that seems to hang like a cloud over the room, the small one by the kitchens.

 Probably where the staff ate, you think, staring blankly at the fire crackling away in the hearth. You’ve tried hard to picture it – Winterfell in its former glory, trussed up with wolf banners and filled with children’s laughter, how it was when the Stark’s called it home. 

Your eyes linger on Reek and for a second, you’re halfway tempted to ask him about it – what it was like living here, being one of them. You don’t, knowing the question would fall on deaf ears at the least, or send him spiraling to the point of being unable to finish his chores, and then it would be your head on the chopping block as well. 

Distantly, you hear the familiar baying of Ramsay’s hounds and your eyes flick up to the narrow slit windows on the wall; you do your best to ignore the way Reek’s head swivels to the sound in the same instance yours does, the way that adrenaline so keenly rushes through you – a burst of panic leading the charge before you have the chance to correct it. 

Anticipation, you remind yourself, jaw clenched, Passion, excitement. 

Your eyes vacantly scan over the parchment you’d nabbed from the library earlier that morning, an account of the birth of Arya, apparently the sister of the one that had actually managed to escape some weeks back, no doubt frozen now in one of the snowy forests that surrounds Winterfell. You don’t really care, your thoughts once again reverting back to Myranda. Bitterly, you remember how he never made her stay behind when he went hunting, never made her watch over his man-servant, never made her second guess.

The last one is a lie, the truth woven deeply into the many nights you’d spent up with her – listening as she fretted about each word she’d uttered to him that day, hoping each one had been right and had been said at the right time, that he wouldn’t find some made-up cause to punish her. Tendrils of jealousy had twisted into you even then, even as she painted a picture of what he truly was. 

Just as men’s voices filter through the windows from the courtyard outside, your lips quirk up into a mean, victorious little smirk. 

It’s her body he fed to the dogs, you think, the voice in your mind a proud hiss, Just like Violet’s and Tansy’s and Kyra’s. You remember the day well enough, remember the shock of seeing your friend's body laying in the courtyard as you’d run out to greet Ramsay, teal eyes staring at nothing. It had been you that had warmed his bed that very night, and all the ones after it. 

“There you are,” a familiar voice sounds from behind you, nearly making you yelp as Reek scrambles to stand up from the table. Before you even have a chance to, a strong hand clasps over your shoulder, stilling your movements, “No, no, don’t get up on my account.” Rusty copper stains color his hand, dried blood outlining each of his nails. You don’t let your mind linger on what the source of it could be.

You whip your head around and swallow nervously as he chuckles lowly, “Ramsay!” You breathe in greeting, the corners of your lips tilting up into a tentative smile, though that’s quickly washed away as you take in the messy splotches of red that stain his coat and tunic, that snake their way up the pale column of his throat and dot the sides of his face. 

He looks every bit the hunter and you wonder, not for the first time, what that makes you. 

“You seem quite comfortable here, pet,” he drawls, leaning down until he’s eye-level with you, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re more at home down here with the help,” he continues, hand tightening to the point of pain on your shoulder, making you grit your teeth, “Than you are in our chambers where you’re meant to be.”

Our chambers. A privilege he never granted her. Stupidly, your heart sings. 

His hand tightens on your shoulder once more, finally drawing a pained whine from your lips.

“Y-You told me to watch him! To make sure he –” You’re cut off as Ramsay unceremoniously hauls you to your feet, clawing at your leather doublet. A cry leaves your lips as the hand on your shoulder tangles into the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging as he forces your head back, blue eyes flicking to your neck as you swallow thickly. 

“I told you to be in our chambers when I return from hunts,” he corrects you, standing to his full height as he holds you tightly, forcing you unsteadily onto your tip-toes, “That I expected you to be at the door, ready and waiting for me.” His lips ghost over your ear as he speaks, his voice a low growl that shouldn’t excite you the way it does. 

“I’m sorry,” you wince internally at the way your voice comes out as a pained little squeak, your hands scrambling to hang onto his forearm, nails digging into the stained quilted fabric of his jacket.

“You know how I get after a hunt,” he suddenly pulls away from you, his hand pulling out of your hair, a gasp leaving you as your heels drop to the floor. You blink as he reaches up, not flinching from years of practice, though instead of striking you or harshly gripping at your jaw like you expect, his hand cups your cheek. Your chest rises and falls as he strokes his thumb over your cheekbone, blood stained fingers now delicate against your soft skin. 

“Today’s was a special one, too. Don’t you remember?” He questions, icy eyes sliding from yours to the red-headed man still standing by the table, glimmering cruelly as he smirks. 

Still, you nod your head, knowing Reek won’t answer. “To celebrate killing Jon Snow,” you breathe, gripping at the leather of his tunic, desperate to win even a scrap of approval.

Surprisingly, he grants it – fixing you with a proud little grin, like how an owner would look at a dog that’s just mastered a new trick. “That’s right,” his hand ruffles the hair on the top of your head, a gesture that should feel demeaning, yet it sends a tingle of pride through you instead, “Seems you can remember something after all.” He pulls away and traipses over to Reek, hands clasped behind his back.

“Surely you remember too, Reek? You were in the kennels that evening when the dogs had their treat, were you not?” He taunts, the playful inflection in his voice entirely for show, “Our little problem’s been dealt with and now we hold not only the Dreadfort but Winterfell as well! What do you think about that, hm?” Ramsay studies the other man carefully, eyes flitting over his face as he takes great pleasure in the subtle twitches of pain that still manage to flicker through the harsh conditioning he’d endured. Your eyes stay fixed firmly on the stone floor. 

“A… A great victory, master!” 

“Yes, a great victory, indeed,” he smiles, watching Reek for another moment before turning back to you. His smile morphs into a cold, callous frown that ties your stomach into knots, each of his steps making your heart hammer faster in your chest. “You know, it’s actually rather amusing,” he starts, bloodied fingers twirling a stray lock of your hair, “How my hounds seem to be continually more well trained than you, pretty little idiot.”

Pretty, pretty, pretty! Your heart thumps dumbly, a rabbit in a snare. 

“I’ll do better!” You whimper, shaking your head frantically as your eyes meet his, “I can do better, really, I was just confu–”

The hand in your hair shoots down suddenly, yanking several strands with it as he clamps it around your neck. “Confused?” Ramsay murmurs, watching with rapt attention at how you struggle in his hold, lips quivering as the words die in your throat, “Really? I give you one task, I ask one thing of you, and you can’t even figure that out? You still disappoint me?” 

He’s not expecting an answer, you know this, and yet you still try to give one as your mouth opens and closes, like a fish out of water, only the faintest little whines managing to escape. You feel faint, both from his grip around your throat and from the myriad of emotions coursing through your veins – your heart twists at the thought of failing him, your stomach is in knots as various punishments flash through your mind, and yet your center still sparks, still sends little glimmers of arousal through you. 

His grip loosens enough to allow you to suck in several shaky lungfuls of air as he snickers, endlessly amused at how eager you still are, how you still yearn so deeply for him. Again, he pats your head condescendingly, muttering little hushes as if you were a crying puppy. “Lucky for you, pet, I have plenty of experience training stubborn bitches,” Ramsay chuckles, blue eyes glimmering with mirth when he feels you swallow apprehensively, “I think we’ll have your behavior corrected in no time, won’t we? Even the stupidest of beasts can still learn a trick or two.”

Before you have time to react, the hand cradling the crown of your head harshly grabs at your hair again, tugging you suddenly toward the door. “Ah!” You yelp, stumbling as he all but drags you behind him, your hands shake as they struggle to grab onto his forearm, “Ramsay, pl–!”

“You should be grateful I am allowing you the kindness of walking!” He growls, sparing you a glance over his shoulder as he leads you through the Great Hall, “Pity I’m so protective of you, really, I’m sure it would be quite entertaining for my men to watch you crawl.” His drawled threat sends a spark of fear down your spine and you pant, chest heaving, as you shuffle behind him; your cheeks burn as several of his soldiers sitting at the long wooden tables catcall as you stagger past them.

Finally, the two of you reach your shared chambers, that fact sending a little torrent of satisfaction through you even now. Unceremoniously, Ramsay all but tosses you inside and you whimper as your hip collides with an edge of the decorative table just inside the door, no doubt hard enough to bruise but at least it breaks your fall. 

“It’s quite unfortunate, normally find your impudence amusing,” he starts lowly, pressing the old wooden door closed with a thud before sliding the lock into place with a self-satisfied grin, “But I know you know better, don’t you, little one?” He asks as he stalks toward you.

Your breath catches in your throat as he stands before you, studying you silently for a second in the same calculated way he studies a deer through the sight of his bow. Not knowing what else to do, you silently nod your head as your eyes slip down to the floor, like a child being scolded. 

“You’ve been with me the longest now,” he murmurs as if you don’t know, one bloodstained hand grabbing at your waist as the other fits around the back of your neck, once again forcing your eyes to his face, “We grew up together, you and I. You know my ways, my rules, isn’t that right?”

Again, you nod your head, bottom lip trembling with the want to explain yourself, although you know that would only make things worse.

“That’s what makes your disobedience so frustrating,” his blue eyes bore into yours as he speaks, his lip sticking out in a mocking pout, “Because you do know better and yet you’re stupid enough to act out anyway, hm?” His tone is sharper now, dangerous like the pointed tip of an arrow.

“I wasn’t acting out!” The words claw themselves out of your throat before you can stop them and instantly you know you’ve made a mistake, but now you’re desperate to remedy it, “I wasn’t, really! I j-just misunderstood you, that’s –” 

Your pleas come to a screeching halt as his hand smacks across your face, the other grips at your jaw tightly, tight enough to make you whine softly in his grasp. Your eyes squeeze shut for a second, cheek stinging, before they open and lock with his again, wild and desperately. 

I wasn’t being insolent! You scream silently, hoping he can somehow hear you, that maybe all of your years with him would’ve granted that ability, I would never! I was doing as you said, like always! 

“I was wrong earlier, wasn’t I?” Ramsay mutters, so close to you that your foreheads nearly touch. Your eyes widen slightly at his words, heart thumping in a hopeful little staccato, though he wrenches that away quickly enough, “You’re not a dog at all, no, a dog would be obedient and docile.”

Your brows knit together with confusion at his words, biting so hard into your lower lip that you’re shocked you don’t taste blood. Although, you can’t help the surprised little gasp that leaves you when his hands begin quickly tugging at the laces of your bodice as your own remain in white-knuckled fists at your sides, the whole of you determined to stay still like a statue, a plaything. 

“No, you my sweet little pet,” he growls sarcastically, low voice morphing into a pleased chuckle as he tugs your bodice off; the shirt below it quickly follows and a small part of you blooms with pride at the happy little sigh he lets out at the sight of your breasts. 

“You’re just a dumb puppy, aren’t you?” He chuckles against your throat, nipping at your skin more so than kissing it, although you relish the feel of his lips on you all the same. “A dumb, defiant little puppy,” he continues, hastily pulling at the ties of your skirts and you whimper despite yourself when they finally fall to the floor, pooling at your feet, “That’s in desperate need of more training.” 

He stops, pausing for a mere second, and pulls back just enough to look at you, no doubt gaining satisfaction from the desperation written so plainly on your face. There’s a hunger in his cold eyes – a predator silently deciding to go for the jugular, nocking an arrow on his bow. 

You whine as he properly kisses at your throat now, his hands rough against your skin as he grabs at your hips. One skims higher to cup your breast, the unexpected gentleness of his touches causes you to shiver and whine in his grasp and into his mouth as he kisses you finally, his full lips moving steadily in time with yours. 

Harsh pants leave your lips as your heart pumps madly in your chest, his touches always work you up so quickly. The thought of him still being fully clothed as he left you bare and vulnerable made you hotter still; the feel of his warm leather tunic against your exposed skin, of his bloodied hands against your supple skin, drives you mad. 

Before you have time to second guess your movements, you begin blindly pulling at the strings on his leather tunic, desperate to feel him against you. Surprisingly, he lets you tug it off of him, granting you a last meal of sorts, and you can’t help but to smile into the kiss, gasping into his mouth as he unbuttons his jacket himself before quickly tossing it aside as well. He’s panting nearly as harshly as you are as the two of you part long enough for him to pull his shirt over his head, your hands immediately go to his chest the second it joins the ever-growing pile of clothes on the floor. 

Your eyes flicker over him as the two of you pause, the knot in your belly growing tighter at the sight of his taut stomach and chest, the low, warm glow of the many candles dotted throughout your chambers accentuating each muscular dip. Your fingers shake as they trail over him and you feel a sick sense of pride twist in your stomach at the fact that, unlike so many men, his skin isn’t mottled with years of scars and bruises. No, his is flawless, a pale, unmarred, ruthless canvas – a flawless killer. 

Of course, he can’t let you have this reprieve for long. A good trainer doesn’t spoil his pet. 

A soft, broken gasp leaves you as one hand wraps around your neck again, slotting perfectly against your throat like a collar, as he walks you a few paces further into the room, closer to the small hearth by the bed. “Kneel,” his command leaves no room for anything but obedience; you swallow thickly, nervously, and do as he says, lips parting ever so slightly when your knees rest on plush bear skin instead of hard stone. 

A kindness, even now. 

Ramsay’s lips twist into a proud grin as you stare up at him, legs folded beneath you with your hands poised perfectly on your thighs, a familiar stance he’d taught you years ago. “Good girl,” he mutters, fingers threading gently through your hair as you moan softly. 

“Thank y – Ah!”

“No,” he chides harshly, tugging your head back by the roots of your hair until your neck is bared to him, your back arched, “Puppies don’t talk, dumb little thing,” he growls, shifting more closely to you in order to gain a better hold on your hair, close enough that you whimper as your front is pressed firmly against the length of his leg, the thick fabric of his trousers rough against your skin as one of his feet slots between your thighs, “A well-trained pet certainly doesn’t.” 

The knot in your belly seizes at his words, aided by the laces of his leather boots brushing oh-so gently against your center, the knotted fabric sticking against the wetness already leaking from your clenching cunt. You whine, high-pitched and frantic when he clutches your hair tighter still, his fist white knuckled against the crown of your head. 

“A well-trained little pet would always obey their master, wouldn’t they?” You can’t miss the breathiness of his voice now, his tone lower and smoother than it normally is, and the sound makes your hips hump against his boot before you can stop yourself, your nipples stiff, nearly aching, as they rub against his trousers. 

A low, rumbled laugh echoes through your chambers when your arms wrap around his leg, fingers digging desperately into the firm muscle of his thigh. “Aww,” he coos mockingly, licking his lips as he watches you, his attention making blood rush to the apples of your cheeks, “Is my pretty little puppy getting off on this? Does your cunt drip when I tell you how stupid and worthless you are?”

The sound of your blood pumping furiously through your veins thuds in your ears, Pretty, pretty pretty!

You whine as you try to eagerly nod your head, his hold on your hair preventing you from moving much, though your hips rut steadily against his boot now – pressing tightly against the worn fabric, the knots from his laces rubbing perfectly over the throbbing little pearl at your center. 

“You look like you’re having fun,” he drawls, cold eyes shining as he studies you closely, chest heaving in time with yours as his cock hardens in his pants, “Are you having fun, little one?”

Again, you try to nod, keening brokenly as your eyes stay fixed on his. You pant harshly against his leg, breath fragmented as they’re punched out of your lungs, the knot in your belly growing tighter and tighter with each pass of your slick center over the laces of his boot. 

He knows, of course. As soon as he ordered you to stay in the kitchens with Reek this morning, he knew – knew you’d follow his orders to the letter, even if they contradicted his previous ones. He knew he’d find you there, knew he’d punish you for it, knew exactly how he wanted to break you down so that it could be him who built you back up. He’s known you the longest, you’d grown up together. He knows, of course he does. He’s nothing if not a thorough hunter. 

A loud, broken whine leaves you when he flexes his foot, pressing his boot harder against you still. You’re helpless to do much else aside from stare up at him, gasping, while your hips buck against him as quickly as your sore muscles will allow, your high barreling toward you at a breakneck pace. 

All of that comes to a sudden, screeching halt though when he moves again, shifting his weight until his boot is just out of reach. The sudden lack of stimulation makes your back arch further still, your muscles taut like a drawn bow. 

“Oh, poor little puppy,” he laughs, watching gleefully as you whine loudly, the peak that had been so close fading away, leaving you aching, “If you thought it was going to be that easy, you haven’t been paying attention.” He taunts, crouching until he’s eye-level with you, smirking as his movements cause his pull on your hair to become tighter, making you wince, though his hand thankfully releases its grasp once he settles.

“Mmm,” you mewl softly as he caresses your breasts again, jumping slightly when he thumbs over your nipple before softly pinching at it, giving the other one the same treatment. Your eyes flutter shut as you arch your back further still, pressing against the palm of his hand as he kneads at your chest, eager for any stimulation you can get.

“Myranda was never like this,” he says suddenly, his voice low, steady, calculated. He smiles cruelly when your eyes snap open at the sound of her name, the back of your throat tight as tears already blur your vision – just like he wanted. “No, Myranda always behaved perfectly, she always did exactly what I said.” 

He leans forward suddenly, the side of his face pressed firmly against yours so that when he speaks, you’re sure to hear every syllable, to feel them punctuated against the skin of your neck. “She was perfect. I never had to punish her for the same thing twice, you know. Not like I do with you.” 

You shudder as his lips press against your skin again, pressing eager kisses against the wet trail of tears running down your cheek. He admires the way your shoulders shake as you sob, the way the subtle movement makes your breasts bounce, the way your cheeks flush so prettily, how your eyes always shine so brightly with fresh tears in them. 

Ramsay loves breaking you – adores the moment when his arrow is finally launched free from his bow, adores the moment he sees it pierce your little heart. He loves you, in his way. 

Not that he’d tell you that.

He lets you sob for a moment longer, all the while pressing hot kisses against your cheeks, relishing the salty taste of your tears as the little droplets of blood still caked to his skin mar your pretty face, staining it with delicate streaks of red. His cock twitches at the sight, black pupils nearly drowning out the blue of his eyes – maybe one day he’d bring you hunting, what a sight you’d be covered in the bright blood of a fresh kill. 

“Myranda never needed training, puppy, not in the way you do,” he nearly whispers, the corners of his lips twitching up into a small smile as he leans back enough to grab at your chin, tilting your face up to his, “That’s what made her so boring.”

“Huh?” You breathe, sobs stalling for a second as you process what he’d just said, your obvious surprise making him laugh lowly again. 

“What? Does that shock you? That I found her boring?” He questions, eyebrow raised, “Why would perfection be interesting?” 

Your eyes search his face as he shifts, kneeling rather than crouching. A little glimmer of pride sparks to life within you as he kisses you again, your lips moving against his frantically, mewling when he pushes his tongue into your mouth and nips at your bottom lip. 

“I never got to train her,” he breathes against your lips, grunting at the way your hands skim over his chest and stomach, grabbing at him so frantically, “I hardly got to punish her; if I gave her an order, she would follow it blindly – it made her predictable, it made her boring.”

“N-Not like me?” You whisper hopefully, meeting his gaze through half-lidded eyes as you pant, your chest pressed tightly to his. 

“No, sweet pet, not like you,” Ramsay smiles, making your heart sing as it leaps beneath your ribs, “I get to train you, don’t I? And punish you when that little puppy brain can’t follow the simplest of orders.”

You should be offended, should feel mocked and belittled, but you don’t. Instead, you nod your head eagerly, preening like a proud little bird at his praise, because that’s what is, really. Ramsay will never be one to sing your praises softly like other men, but he admires you all the same. 

Before you have time to reply, he grabs at your waist and abruptly maneuvers you, manhandling you until you’re poised on your hands and knees, cheek pressed firmly against the fur rug beneath you. 

“I get to play with you, pet,” he drawls lowly, pressing a hand into the small of your back and grunting appreciatively when you arch down like he wants, licking his lips as your cunt finally comes into view, shining already in the low candlelight. He smirks at the way you moan when he presses his hard length against you, grinding against your slit, chest heaving at how warm you are even through his trousers, “Don’t I?”

“Yes!” You nod eagerly, pressing back against him like a wanton whore, nearly dizzy with need when his fingers bump against you as he quickly undoes the laces on his pants, “Yes, yes, yes, please!”

“Ohh, so you can be good, hm?” He teases, groaning in relief when he pushes his trousers down just enough to free his cock, too impatient to remove them entirely, “Seems my training’s working nicely.”

Mindlessly, you nod, willing to agree with whatever he says so long as he gets inside you.

Mercifully, you don’t have to wait long. A loud cry fills your chambers as he presses into you, the slight sting of his thick cock stretching you open making you shiver, a familiar sensation since he was rarely ever patient enough to work you open on his fingers. 

Immediately, he sets a brutal pace, his hips pressing against yours tightly each time he pushes forward, the head of his cock nearly kissing your cervix with each harsh thrust. Your cunt clenches at him greedily and your hands scramble against the rug beneath you, fingers tangling into the furs, desperate for something to anchor yourself. 

“Fuck, tight little cunt,” Ramsay grunts harshly above you, his hands gripping meanly at your hips, hard enough to leave bruises. 

“R-Ramsay, fuck… fuck,” you whimper beneath him, your eyes squeezed shut tightly as the knot in your belly threatens to unravel, your walls pulsing rhythmically around his length each time it spears into you.

He chuckles breathlessly at your little murmurs and runs a hand up the length of your back before grabbing at the hair at the nape of your neck, relishing the little cry you give as he pulls you up until your back is pressed firmly against his chest. “Are you close already?” He mocks smugly, his fingers untangling from your hair to wrap once more around your throat as his other paws at your breasts, his fingers pinching and pulling at your nipples. 

You swallow thickly, throat bobbing under his grip, and nod your head the best you can, grabbing at his thick forearm. 

“Do you think I’m going to let you?” He teases, biting harshly at your shoulder as his hips keep up a punishing rhythm.

You nearly sob at the question, so desperate, but still you shake your head, cunt pulsing around his length. “No, n-no…” You moan mournfully, voice hoarse from his hold. 

He chuckles behind you, his chest rumbling against your back as he kisses and bites at your earlobe, your shoulder, any part of your neck not covered by his hand, each touch driving you mad. “Finally, that little brain seems to be working,” he grunts, laughing lowly as he abandons your breasts long enough to slap your cheek, blessedly soft this time, “I’m having too much fun playing with you to let you go that easily,” He drawls, chuckling once more when you whine. 

“In fact,” he continues, reaching down and rubbing his fingers roughly against your aching bud, just enough to make you cry out before he suddenly pulls away again, tugging his length from you as he lets you flop to the floor with a little grunt, “I want to see you do a trick,” he whispers, rubbing over your ass before smack it roughly, making you jump, “Roll over.”

“Wha –” You start to question, only to be cut off with a loud cry as his hand spanks you once more.

“Be a good fucking puppy and roll over.”

His order leaves no room for questioning and obediently, you listen and roll over onto your back with a little whimper. You keep your legs bent up when you settle, keeping yourself on display for him, clenching around nothing as you eye his hard cock bobbing against his stomach, the tip red and leaking. 

“Good little pet,” he praises, his words going straight to your pearl as you shudder. Hastily, he pushes your legs up further, one hand holding you open as he presses his cock back into you, savoring your loud whine, the way your eyes roll to the back of your head.

He resumes his harsh pace, slamming into you as he chases his high now, blue eyes trailing appreciatively over your trembling body, watching as your breasts bounce with each unforgiving thrust he gives. 

“Please, please, Gods, please!” You whine frantically as he presses his hips against yours, grinding into you, the thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbing against your bud perfectly, “Ramsay, p-please! I – fuck!”

He laughs breathlessly at your cries and leans down when you arch your back toward him, mouthing savagely at your chest, teeth nipping at the fat of your breasts before he licks over your nipples. He knows each touch is only driving you closer and closer to your release, yet he still doesn’t give you permission, a part of him meanly hopes you’ll slip over anyway and give him another reason to punish you, like he actually needs a reason. 

Still, you have been good today and he does love how willing and docile you become when you peak, so malleable – entirely submissive, entirely his. 

He bites and kisses his way up along your chest and neck before licking into your mouth for a moment, eagerly swallowing each desperate little cry before grabbing at your neck once more. Greedy, he turns your head to him, needing to see that empty-headed, hazy look in your eyes when he lets you finish.

His cock jerks at the sight of you, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as you try desperately to hold off, cheeks flushed, reddened lips parted. He grunts, feeling his balls tighten, his thrusts beginning to lose their rhythm. 

“Cum, puppy,” he growls, forehead pressed against yours.

Your lips part in a silent curse as your high slams into you, each muscle in your body contracting at once. Your eyes bore into his wildly as your cunt spasms tightly around his cock, eyes rolling back as he fucks you through it.

“Fuck!” He grunts, growling lowly as his cock spasms within you, your walls all but milking his own high from him as well. His hips slam into you a few more times before he stills, gasping as he fills you with his spend. 

The two of you lay together for a moment, panting loudly against one another. Ramsay is the first to move, shushing you as he pulls his softening length from you, making you whine. 

Distantly, a part of you twists gleefully when you feel his seed drip from you, another thing he never dared do with her. 

“Here,” he says softly, offering you a hand, which you gladly take, letting him help you stand since you doubt you’d be able to on your own. Finally, you stand on your feet, albeit unsteadily, and grab onto the foot of the carved wooden bedframe to steady yourself. Strangely, he stays with you, neither of you saying anything as he holds you, blue eyes studying you as they gleam with some unknown emotion. 

After a moment, you try to pull away, meaning to leave as you always do, not one to wait around for his order anymore. 

“Stop,” he murmurs, only pulling away once you still, “Stay.” He orders, an unfamiliar softness to his voice. Your head reels, eyes staring unfocused as you try to make sense of… whatever this is, whatever his game may be now. 

He returns quickly enough, a damp cloth in his and from the small wash basin he keeps on the vanity. You reach out to grab it, to clean yourself off like you assume he wants, and yet he stops you, holding the cloth out of your grasp until you lower your hand again. 

“Obedient puppies get rewards,” he says softly, all of the harshness from before absent from his tone as he answers your silent questions. You nearly freeze when he presses one small, gentle kiss against your forehead. Finally, he makes quick work of wiping between your legs, taking care to wipe away any of his spend that leaked from you. 

“Thank you…” You nearly whisper, voice scratchy from his earlier treatment. That doesn’t feel like the right thing to say but if it isn’t, he doesn't say. 

Silently, he cups your chin, lifting it enough to give him room to check your neck, trailing his hand over it lightly until he must be satisfied that you’re okay, that he hadn’t treated you too badly. 

Kind, even still.

A few moments later, you recline in the plush bed, watching as he kicks off his boots before joining you, lying with you under the soft blankets. This part, at least, you’re used to – lying together like this but not touching, not cuddling, that’s too intimate, too close. 

He hadn’t said that, wouldn’t say that, but you knew. 

A surprised little gasp leaves you when he pulls you close, hands, clean now that he’d taken a moment to wash them, resting on you gently. One smoothes up and down your arm as he lets you lay against his chest, cheek pressed against his collarbone, his chin resting on your head; the other grabs at your thigh, pulling you to him until you’re tucked into his side, one leg propped over his hips. 

“You did well,” he says softly, chest vibrating under your cheek as he speaks, “With your training, I mean. You did well. I’m… proud of you.”

“Thank you.” 

The two of you are silent after that, neither of you knowing how to handle this new territory that you seem to be spilling into, but you don’t care, not with your heart pounding quickly in your chest. You’d think you were dying if it weren’t for the savage sense of victory threading through every inch of you. 

Proud, proud, proud! The word echoes in your head with each pump of blood through your heart. It was so small, the barest of compliments, but from Ramsay it meant the world. It was something he’d said to you, only you, never to her, not once. Never to anyone else. 

His chest rises and falls under your cheek, breath steady and even. He always falls asleep quickly, normally you do too. But not this time, not tonight, not wanting to let this moment fade just yet. 

He loves you, in his way.

tagged lovelies: @helloworldiamnotarobot @drakonflames @marysucks-blog @watercolorskyy @valeskafics @iamaegontargaryenwife0 @aemshaircare @1997babyyyy @lovellies @little-moonbeam-666 @blackswxnn @wickedfrsgrl @echos-muses @iamawhorecrux @avidreader73 @marvelescape @rae-11 @ms-morningstaarr @chaotic-fangirl-blog @grsveeth0m @twglitching @hb8301 @delulumhaggy @burntliquorlips @simp-hub-bro @badxbabyyy @venchi-cremino @targaryenbarbie @fan-goddess

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#my writing #ramsay bolton #ramsay bolton x reader #ramsay bolton fanfiction #ramsay bolton fanfic #ramsay bolton fic #ramsay bolton smut #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones fanfic #game of thrones fic #game of thrones smut #got #got fanfiction #got fanfic #got fic #got smut #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #smut #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Life in the City 5

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bad friends, creep behaviour, abuse of power dynamics, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You move to the big city and find yourself swallowed up by its chaos.

Characters: Clark Kent, Thor Odinson, short!reader

Note: Heloooooo.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you. No tag list, do not ask for updates.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

As promised, you’re shown to your new office by the end of the day. You put your meagre box of belongings on the desk and unpack a piece at a time. Isn’t an exhaustive task so you take your time. 

You put your watermelon post-its by the base of the monitor’s pedestal and your cell phone screen lights up. It’s been buried in your bag for much of the day but you took it out to reconnect to your work accounts. Melanie’s name fills the top of the screen. You still haven’t responded to her since the weekend. 

You swipe up your phone and cross the office. You answer as you shut the door, eking out a tiny hello as you turn back and bite your thumb. You pace aimlessly as your stomach knots. You don‘t think you’re mad at her, just embarrassed about how it all turned out. She knows how many times your excitement was burnt to disappointment, you hoped she wouldn’t have added to your pile ashes. 

“Hey, girl, you busy? I’ve been calling you all week.” 

It’s Tuesday, you think to yourself. 

“I’m sorry, I just have a lot going on at work--” 

“That’s great,” she interrupts, “did you see my texts? I really am sorry about the other night. You know, I was stressed. Clark was out of town for his job and I hadn’t seen him all week. Really, I didn’t forget about you, I just thought we were meeting Saturday, not Friday.” 

Your mouth slants as you weigh her excuse. You don’t know if you believe her but it could be true. How long have you been friends? Doesn’t she deserve the benefit of the doubt?

“Everyone gets busy,” you say with a brittle laugh, “I totally get it. Next time I’ll be clearer, that’s all. Make sure there’s no misunderstanding.” 

“Of course,” her voice is trills and is overly affected, “I just wanted to check in since Clark said you were so upset.” 

“He did?” You frown as you stop by the desk and take your stapler out of the box. 

“Uh, yeah, he did. So, in the future, if your upset, you can just let me know, hon,” her tone drips like syrup, “we’re friends, aren’t we? I mean, it’s a big city and we gotta stick together.” 

“Erm, sure, I’m sorry, I didn’t think... I wasn’t upset. I didn’t say anything, you know, I was just tired.” 

“Whatever, hon, it’s behind us now, isn’t it? You forgive me?” She pauses, waiting. 

“Y-yeah?” You answer. 

“Aw, that’s so wonderful,” she chimes, “anyway, you sound busy. You must be working so I’ll let you go. Ciao.” 

She hangs up and you hold the phone to your ear for a moment after the line dies. That was weird. Like she wasn’t really talking to you, but more putting on a show for someone. Strange. 

You drop your arm and a knock comes at the door. You wince and put your phone screen down. You face the door and fold your hands. 

“Uh, who is it?” You call out. 

The door opens and a throat clears, “just me,” Thor says as he enters, “wanted to be sure you got some of the leftovers.” 

He has a container in his hands. You try to blow off the tension and force a smile. You drop your arms straight and drag a finger up and down the seam of your pants. 

“Thanks, that’s too sweet,” you chirp. 

“Ah, I made sure to get you some cinnamon cookies,” he nears and offers the container. 

“Oh, my, I shouldn’t,” you accept the box. 

“You shouldn’t?” He wonders, “you’re not on some diet, are you? You hardly need one.”  

You laugh nervously, “oh, no,” you back up and spin to put the container on the desk. You go back and reach into the box, “I just... I have a rotten sweet tooth, you know? Sugar keeps me up.” 

“Mmm, well, you should indulge. Enjoy. Nothing wrong with allowing yourself the small things,” he goads, “so,” he claps his hands, the sound making you jump, “your office. How do you like it?” 

He looks around theatrically as he pivots. You take out your small blue mug with the teddy bear on it and follow his gaze, “it’s nice. Big.” 

“Yes, I suppose you don’t take up much space,” he remarks, “if you need any supplies, you can just let me know.” 

“Oh, um, I shouldn’t. I... I could just contact finance--” 

“Come to me,” he insists, “accounting takes too long.” 

“Okay,” you agree. 

“Are you excited?” He asks as he turns to you. 

“Sure,” you answer. 

“Mm,” he hums, “you’re sweet, but I don’t want you to stress. If there’s anything overwhelming me, don’t be afraid to let me know.” 

“I know, thank you, Mr. Odinson.” 

“Thor,” he corrects you with a wink, “you don’t know want to know Mr. Odinson.” He grins and you look at him blankly, “my father. He’s an old grump.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you put the cup down and rub your palms together, “it’s been a long day.” 

“It has indeed,” he checks his watch, “you’re almost done... I should let you finish.” He flicks his finger towards your desk, “tomorrow, the heavy lifting begins.” 

“Yeah,” you murmur. 

“Don’t forget your treats,” he points to the container, “you’ve earned it.” 

“Right, thanks again,” your smile trembles as fatigue nips at the corner of your eyes. 

“See you tomorrow morning,” he avows before he spins and goes to the door. 

You return your attention to the box as you sense him hovering at the threshold. You think he’s looking at you but you’re too nervous to check. Finally, the door closes and you exhale and close your eyes. You can’t believe how much today has taken out of you and the days to come promise much of the same. 

🏙️

You yawn as you come out of your building, eyelids heavy and itchy as you rub them with your knuckles. You hitch up your bag as you turn down the sidewalk and cross to the stop on the other side of the street. You barely slept through the anxiety and anticipation. The unknown stresses you out more than anything and you really have no idea what you’re walking into. 

You let your head lean back as you give another silent roar of fatigue. You roll your shoulders and urge yourself to wake up. You got to get with it. You can’t show up at the office half-asleep. 

The whir of an engine approaches and you look towards the direction of the bus route. Its too quiet to be a bus. Instead, there’s a vaguely familiar car that slows instead of passing. You squint and cross your arms defensively. You have to keep reminding yourself this is the city. 

The window rolls down as you bounce on your feet awkwardly, “hey,” your name rises in the deep timbre. 

You bend and find Clark smiling at you. Of course! That’s why you recognised his car. 

“Heyyyy,” you say, “what are you doing... here?” 

“Working on a story, actually. Was in the area and... what timing, huh?” He pushes his shoulder up as he keeps one hand on the steering wheel, “you on your way to work?” 

“Yup,” you answer brightly, swallowing another yawn, “bus should be here soon.” 

“The bus? Get in, I’ll give you a ride.” 

“Oh, no, you don’t have to... that’s too far.” 

“Where do you work?” 

“Tempest,” you answer. 

“Tempest? That’s right by the paper. I’ll take you, no problem.” 

“Really?” Your brows arch dramatically, “that’s so nice of you.” 

“Of course,” he pats the passenger seat and the door unlocks with a loud click.

“I owe you one." You open the door and get in, tempted to melt into the seat. It’s so much better than the stiff ones on the bus. Ugh, your head is tenuous at best. It could start pounding at any minute. 

“How are you?” Clark asks as you buckle in. 

“Alright,” you repress yet another yawn, “how are you? How’s Melly?” 

“Melly?” He chuckles, “she’s fine, I think. I'm... fine too.” 

“Oh...” you twiddle your fingers in your lap as he slowly leans on the gas and pulls away from the curb, “just fine?” 

“Yeah, yeah, we’ve just been... talking a lot. You know, relationship stuff,” he drives with one hand, combing his other through his hair. 

“Ah, right,” you nod, “hopefully it’s okay.” 

“Huh,” he scoffs and puts his other hand on the wheel, “you’re a good friend.” 

“I... guess,” you shrug. “I... I just think Melanie really likes you.” 

“Oh, I know she does,” he laughs, “doesn’t keep her from being... how she is. I like her too but we both know she can be very demanding.” 

“She can be,” you agree, “but I think that’s just her personality. Sometimes I wish I could be more like her.” 

“Why would you want that?” he asks. 

“Er...” 

“I just mean, you’re you. Everyone’s different right and you’re just so sweet,” he says, “this world has enough Melanies.” 

“Maybe,” you turn your head and cover your mouth as you yawn at the window. 

“I’m dying for a coffee,” Clark says, his tone shifting smoothly with the topic, “how about you? Green tea?” 

You look at him. He remembers your order? You rub your cheek and drop your hand to your lap. 

“I’m okay, but thank you--” 

“Really, it’s no big deal,” he flips the blinker on, “I need an espresso so, how about it? Iced, hot?” 

You bite the inside of your lip. You really could use a boost. You don’t often get the chance. Your bus ride is too long to factor in a cafe run. 

“Could I get a matcha latte, iced? I have some change,” you open your bag and shove your hand inside. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he waves you off. 

“Really, you’re giving me a ride. The least I can do--” 

“The least you can do is let me buy your drink,” he insists, “because I kinda have a big favour to ask you.” 

“You do?” 

“Yeah, uh, it’s for Melanie. You must know her birthday is coming up.” 

“Yeah, I know--” 

“I really wanna work through things with her and I figured if I threw her a party, maybe it’s better than all this talking,” he joins the queue for the drive thru, “and you’ve known Melanie a lot longer than me so you’re like an expert. Do you think you could help me out?” 

“A birthday party? Well, I... could try. Mel’s always been the one into parties and planning and all that.” 

“I’m not good at it either but you know what she likes. I could use help at least with colours or whatever,” he suggest, “I mean, obviously, you don’t have to. I’m not going to blackmail you with a car ride and a latte.” 

You laugh rockily, “well, I could try. It wouldn’t be so bad and I should do something special. We’re both finally living in the same city. Maybe this would help with us too.” 

“Us? You and... Mel?” 

You give him a look then look through the windshield. You fidget as he rolls up to the speaker and orders. You wait until he’s done. 

“Things were awkward the other day when I crashed your date night,” you say, “I’m sure you caught on.” 

“Yeah, yeah, she wasn’t very gracious,” his tone lowers sharply. 

“It’s okay. She didn’t mean anything. I’m not upset--” 

“Did she apologise?” He asks abruptly. 

“Uh, yeah, of course, but she doesn’t have to--” 

“I think you deserve the apology,” he interrupts again. “You know, you don’t deserve to be walked all over like that. Hell, if I had friend like you, I think I’d treat you a lot better.” 

“I’m not upset,” you assure him, his mood making you uneasy. It’s flattering he would be so upset on your behalf but you’d rather just put it all behind you, “she said sorry, it’s all good.” You wiggle your foot as you think, “alright, I can help with the party.” 

“Ah, yes, you’re a life saver,” he pulls up to the window and pays. He gets the drinks and hands you the matcha before he slips his in the cup holder, “great, I’ll get your number and we can throw around ideas when you have a chance.” 

“Oh, yeah, sure, I could...” the cup soaks your hands in condensation, chilling you, “I’ll do my best. I have a new assignment at work so I’ll be a bit tied up.” 

“No problem, whenever you can. Hope you don’t mind if I send you a couple of pictures I saw,” he says, “tryna come up with a vision, you know?” 

“That’s cool,” you pause to sip the matcha, nearly sighing at the refreshing flow that coats your stomach, “thank you so much for the tea.” 

“Any time,” he says as he pulls out into the street, “anything you need at all.” 

#clark kent #thor #dark clark kent #dark thor #dark!clark kent #dark!thor #clark kent x reader #thor x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #life in the city #au #multifandom #dcu #dc #marvel #mcu #avengers #superman

[monstersandmaw]

Male ‘yautja inspired’ alien x gender neutral reader - Part Eight (sfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

___

Content: violence, threat, some minor injury to the reader, blood. Wordcount: 4311

Your comments on the last one - tags and reblogs especially - made me cackle with pure delight. Thank you. As an early birthday present from me to you, here’s the next part. I hope you enjoy it! It’s been a while since I’ve written ‘action’ like this, so I hope it works! Can’t wait for you to let me know, as always.

Catch up here:

Part One (sfw), Part Two (sfw), Part Three (sfw), Part Four (sfw), Part Five (sfw), Part Six (nsfw), Part Seven (nsfw)

Don’t scream.

Don’t fucking scream.

Do not be that person. Do not. Fucking. Scream.

With cold sweat prickling down your spine and your heartbeat thudding in your throat, you inched your hand over for the tranquiliser pistol that you had set near your pillow only a few hours earlier, just in case. Thank god it was a specially-engineered military issue one, not the unwieldy kind of rifle that vets use on safari from the safety of the back of a jeep.

God, since when did sleeping bags make so much fucking noise?

Was it still out there? You couldn't hear it any more, but it was hard to hear anything behind the pounding of blood in your ears.

The machete lay in its sheath beside the gun, and you picked that up too. Glinting steel slid easily over leather, and then you froze again. The hilt felt clumsy and awkward in your hand. Your fingers refused to hold the grip of the tranquiliser gun properly out of sheer terror. Nothing was working right; you couldn’t see; you couldn’t think. Your finger refused to close on the trigger.

Fuck. The safety was still on anyway.

“Shitshitshit…” you hissed.

In a vain attempt to get your thoughts out of tail-spin, you sucked in a deep, sudden breath and held your lungs at their fullest capacity for a good three seconds before silently exhaling to a long count.

A single, muffled footfall outside sent pine cones skittering against the thin, insubstantial canvas of the tent, and the growling began again in a low, teasing taunt.

It was playing with you.

You genuinely thought you might piss yourself with terror as you just crouched there in the dark, shaking and clinging to your ineffectual weapons.

The footage that Red had showed you of its black, articulated tail going right up through the tough, thick hide of his companion flashed once again across your mind, and you kept on replaying the way the tail had actually lifted their eight-foot tall body right up off the jungle floor like an offering on a spike, with the curved, obsidian talon at the tip of the tail buried deep in their flesh like a harpoon.

Shit.

Croc had been tough enough to survive having his entire left arm ripped off during the crash, but another warrior of his calibre had died to this enemy from the cold reaches of space in the blink of an eye. What chance did a soft, untrained human like you stand?

They cannot be destroyed by radiation. They cannot be poisoned or trapped. They can only be killed by the most skilled of warriors with the truest of aim and the deadliest weapons. The metals and alloys you currently use are insufficient to cause fatal damage to them. The voice of the High Elder rattled through the empty corridors of your brain and you barely stifled a yelp of terror as you stared at the gun and knife in your shaking hands. It wasn’t even a proper gun. There was no doubt about it; you were alone, and you were going to die.

Something pressed down on the canvas of the tent above you and you shrank away against the back wall with a strangled scream. Three black, glittering claws punctured the material and dragged long, slow slices across the fabric with a horrible rending sound. As the rips in the tent widened, out in the deeper darkness beyond, something glinted.

Teeth.

A drop of foaming, acidic drool melted through the polymer canvas and dripped onto the mat between your legs. It etched a small, frothing divot into the surface before the reaction burned itself out, and you tilted your face up to find a maw full of cylindrical teeth bearing down on you like a shark about to attack. Moonlight glanced off the shiny carapace of its elongated head, and a low, delighted growl filled the air as it regarded its trapped prey.

Without even thinking about it, you raised the tranquiliser gun and unloaded two darts directly into the creature’s open mouth. The darts sank deep into its soft palate and it staggered back with a screech that tore at your eardrums. It flailed wildly and crashed into the underbrush nearby, and you seized the opportunity to get out of your tent, lashing out blindly with the machete and tearing the rest of the fabric open before lurching off into the clearing. Out in the open, you felt like a mouse driven from a hole by a snake.

The creature writhed in a patch of brambles for just a moment before it found its feet and rounded on you.

Six feet tall, lanky, bipedal, and composed of a glossy black carapace, flashing teeth, and a tail measuring half as long again as its body, the thing darted at you through the darkness faster than your eyes could follow. It seemed to disappear completely into the shadows only to reappear on your left with another shriek of rage and an open, attacking maw.

You fired the gun but it missed wildly. You only had six shots and you’d used half of them already. Each dart apparently had enough in it to tranquilise one of Big Red’s kind in five seconds flat, but it didn’t seem to have had any effect on their enemy beyond a moment of fleeting annoyance and discomfort.

In another flash of moonlight on shiny, black chitin, it was onto you. It barrelled you backwards into the wreckage of your tent and you landed hard enough that all the air was knocked from your lungs in a stunning blow that left you wheezing. In a tangle of tent poles and canvas, its claws began tearing into your clothes as well before it spun away to extricate itself from the collapsed and splintered tent and start its attack anew.

As it left, it lashed at your face with its scythe-like tail. Searing pain shot across your cheek and you instinctively brought your palm to your face. It came away slick and hot and your skin burned in the aftermath.

With a cry you never would have thought yourself capable of making, you screamed a defiant challenge at the creature, like some kind of berserker before a last stand. You raised the gun and held the machete level in your other hand. If you were going to die, you were not going to go down without a fight.

The creature seemed slightly amused by your reaction.

As it bounded off the nearest tree trunks like a playful cat hunting a small bird, you squeezed the trigger again and caught it between the plates of its armoured throat with your fourth shot.

You just barely flung yourself to the ground in time as it lunged at you, half hoping to slash at its underbelly with the machete as you did, but the blade just glanced off it like a child playing make-believe knights with sticks and dustbin lids.

The edge did sink deep into its flailing tail as it sailed past though, and the creature hissed and screeched. The momentum of its leap ripped the weapon right out of your hand, but the machete stayed lodged in the tail and the creature roared and landed hard in a spray of dry pine needles on the other side of the clearing.

“Oh good, now I’ve just pissed you off,” you muttered as you staggered to your feet again. Now you had fifty percent less weaponry at your disposal, and, thanks to your efforts, the creature had acquired a new and deadly spike in its tail. Wonderful.

Two shots left.

It flipped itself upright again onto its hind legs just as a cloud scudded across the face of the moon, plunging the forest into darkness. The creature took full advantage of your sudden and complete blindness, and launched itself at you.

With another scream you raised your hands as it collided with you again, knocking you to the ground. You crossed your forearms in front of your face just in time to catch it under its lower jaw and deflect the attack. A heartbeat later and it might have closed its mouth around your throat. You shoved at its neck as hard as you could while snapping teeth filled your face and its claws raked into the dirt on either side of your head.

It was still toying with you; cat and mouse, dragging it out for its own entertainment. If it had wanted you dead, it would have simply ripped you to ribbons the moment you left the tent.

Somehow though, you got the gun up with one hand and fired twice more into its horrible mouth in quick succession before the futile ‘click click click’ of an empty magazine made your heart stop beating. That was it. You were out of options and the thing was showing no sign of slowing down.

Desperately you struggled to keep its bear-trap maw out of your face, but you knew you couldn't keep it up forever. Your fingers were slipping, losing purchase on the shiny, chitinous body and the useless gun dropped to the forest floor beside your head. Acid burned at your fingers and slick palms. Spittle sprayed from its array of teeth, hitting the ground around your face and fizzling as its acid drool hit the pine needles. Desperately you tilted your head to the side, closing your eyes instinctively as flecks of it landed in your hair and on your forehead. Adrenaline kept the pain away for the time being, but you supposed a few freckles of acid burn weren’t going to matter much when it was chewing you to pieces in a few minutes’ time anyway.

With one last, long, desperate scream of defiance, you shoved everything you had into one final push against its throat. In response, its injured tail lanced down out of the night and embedded itself in the forest floor beside your ear, just nicking the skin, though you barely felt it.

Oddly enough, the creature seemed enraged to have missed your head with its tail — perhaps the machete had damaged some nerves after all — and it reared upwards in confusion, giving your exhausted arms a moment’s respite. Then you blinked in surprise as it staggered and lurched to one side and brought its clawed fingers to its mouth like it was trying to pull the darts out. So those four tranquiliser shots had done something after all.

It shook its head, perhaps trying to clear its vision, and dropped down to all fours to advance on you again like a hyena, gnashing its jaws and spitting everywhere. While the tranquiliser had clearly done something, it would not be enough to take it down, and you were out of options.

Just as a part of you prepared yourself to die, something whistled through the air and the creature was blown back off its feet to land with a thud two metres away across the clearing, near your ruined tent. You could just make out a long, javelin shaft protruding from its stomach.

A wild, furious, screaming roar sounded from the trees behind you an instant later.

While you just lay there on your back, stunned and shaking, a shadow leapt right over you, briefly silhouetted against the face of the moon. As you watched, as if in slow-motion, you realised they were missing an arm.

“Croc?”

A heartbeat later, as the enemy staggered back to its feet with a now-familiar looking spear still sticking out of its torso, a second missile soared overhead and embedded itself into the chest of the already impaled creature, accompanied by a deeper, more primal roar. Red.

They’d come for you.

Somehow, they’d known.

You started to cry.

Seemingly heedless of the two harpoons that had stabbed massive holes in its chest, the creature tore itself free of them, dragging the spear points out through its own chest and stomach, before hurling itself at the second figure who had come charging out of the underbrush like death incarnate.

Big Red stood over you and bellowed a challenge at the creature. His mandibles flared as wide as they could go, and his arms and chest and shoulders heaved with barely-contained, protective rage. Each step he took towards it and away from you, you felt the ground tremble. He hunched forwards, ready, focused, and Croc circled the enemy on the other side. It was like their sparring match but now they were working together, and the creature had two, fresh warriors to face down while phosphorescent, blue blood spurted and seeped down its shiny carapace.

Even with the tranquiliser in its system, the enemy wasn’t about to give up easily, and even injured, it was still fast and agile, using the trees and the intermittent darkness for cover. It soon sensed that they were protecting you, and it kept trying to circle back to you. It slipped from a branch though when Croc shot it down with a blaster, and it landed with a thud in the leaf litter almost right beside you.

You scrambled back and Red charged forwards with another ear-splitting roar. He caught it around its middle with one arm and slammed his whole bodyweight into it, driving it back with his big shoulder and ramming it into a tree as it reached its wicked claws out for you. To your horror though, you watched as it changed its mind, scrabbled to get a good hold with its claws on Red’s arms, and then sank its festering, foaming jaws deep into his neck.

Big Red screamed in rage and pain and raised both hands, trying to rip the creature’s head right off its neck where it was latched like a leech to his jugular.

While he struggled and staggered backwards, the creature thrashed its tail, but Croc raced forwards, dodged inside the reach of the whip like appendage, and stabbed upwards repeatedly under its elongated skull with a twin-bladed knife until it sagged and loosened its hold, and Red finally tore its head clean off its shoulders. The carcass sprayed some more of its violently-blue, glowing blood around the clearing and then tumbled away to lie twitching in the dirt.

Croc wasted no time and surged forwards for Big Red who had sagged against the tree trunk, grabbing something from his belt and immediately raising his arm to jab Red directly in the throat with what looked like a glowing green syringe. Big Red staggered, slipped sideways, and fell to one knee beside you, heaving and gasping.

Trembling all over, you eased yourself to sit upright, wide eyed with horror. “Red?”

His own luminescent blood was spattering down onto the pine needles too, mingling with the blue of the enemy’s.

Neither one of them responded and you stared, transfixed, as Red keeled over and started to convulse even before he fell to the ground. Croc let out a single scream of horror and distress, his mandibles wide, and he cradled Red’s head in his remaining right hand as Red juddered and shook and bled all over himself. Horrible sucking sounds escaped his foaming, closing throat, his eyes rolled back behind pale membranes, and his limbs went rigid as the creature’s poison hit his system.

“Red!” you screamed and tried to crawl closer but Croc warned you off with a terrifying roar. He didn’t have a free hand to keep you back, but his expression did the job well enough and you froze. “Red…?”

Overhead, a searing white light blasted down out of the dark sky, illuminating everything with a painfully bright glow. The treetops then began to whip and lash about in the downdraft of the approaching vessel, and your ears popped under the sudden boom of engines as it came to a hovering halt above the canopy.

A single figure then descended on a black rope, and for a moment through the adrenaline and delayed shock, you couldn’t figure out whether the new arrivals were Croc and Red’s people or your own until a massive figure crouched down beside you and chittered something at you.

A second later, they were shoved bodily aside with a protective snarl, and Croc’s familiar face filled your vision as he crouched.

“Red?”

“He’ll be fine,” Croc said, though he still sounded panicked. “He’s fine. They’ll take care of him. Are you badly hurt?”

Mutely, you shook your head and tried to see past Croc’s body to where Red was lying eerily still. “Not really. Just… maybe some acid… and a cut…”

“Come here,” Croc said, and he drew you into his one-armed hug while the unfamiliar alien turned from staring at Croc in amazement to dealing with Red with the calm air of a paramedic.

“Croc,” you sobbed, and the events of the last few minutes swept over you.

You were shaking uncontrollably, but he held you close. “We’re here,” he crooned. “You’re safe. You’re safe. It’s dead. You fought with honour. You’re safe. I’ll protect you.”

“Croc, Red…?”

“Shh,” he said, and drew back. “Come on. We need to get you out of here. Take what you need from your tent… and we’ll take care of you.”

You rose on shaky legs and grabbed your rucksack from the wreck of your little tent, stuffing your water bottle and phone into one of the side pockets. There was only the sleeping bag and mattress left, but you didn’t grab either of them before you staggered out into the clearing again. The gun lay empty somewhere among the pine needles, and you had no idea where the machete had gone in the chaos.

In the harsh lights of the ship, you saw Big Red lying completely immobile on the floor, with the newcomer bending over him. “Red?” you whimpered, taking a step towards him. A hand grabbed your wrist and you instinctively twisted out of it. “No! Red!”

Croc growled your name and grabbed for you again, holding firm this time and turning you physically away to face him. “Let them do their job,” he said. “They will heal him. The antivenom won’t take long to work. They got here in time. Let them work.”

“Red…”

“Come,” Croc said, and he led you away to the dangling rope that hung between the trees from the silver ship above. As you cricked your neck up to stare at it, you saw that it was exactly the same as Croc and Big Red’s ship had been, except that it was whole and undamaged, and flying.

Croc clipped you mutely into a harness while you just stood there, and you soon found yourself being drawn up into the open belly of the ship. About halfway up, you realised how much your hands and face were hurting.

Inside, another of their kind stared openly at you before shaking themselves and helping you out of the harness. This one was much shorter than Croc and Red, and was completely white with red eyes and pink ‘dreads’. The third member of this crew, you presumed, was flying the ship.

“Hi,” you said stupidly, and the leucistic alien stepped back a pace before flaring their mandibles at you in something resembling a wary threat display from a cobra. From behind you, another hissing started, and you whipped around to see Croc being winched through the hatch to land in a perfectly-balanced fighting stance. He un-clipped himself and then stepped between you and the other alien, looming over them to growl something at them in their own language. Whatever he said clearly had significance, because they looked at you anew, then bowed their head.

“Come on,” Croc said, guiding you to one side as the alien who had been tending to Big Red lifted him through the hatch on a special stretcher. Their ghostly companion helped to get him to one side and you stared at Big Red’s still, limp, bleeding body lying on the cargo bay floor.

“Croc,” you whispered. He looked so vulnerable.

“He’ll be alright,” Croc said again, though he sounded tense.

You staggered, your knees suddenly going out from underneath you, and before you had even realised you were going to pass out, everything warped and blurred, and you fell backwards in a dead faint.

Waking was a slow process. You clawed your way back to consciousness through a thick, groggy, cotton-wool fog that filled your mind and made everything slow and hard to process.

You finally opened your eyes to find yourself lying on a firm but comfortable surface, with low, warm lighting illuminating smooth, carbon-fibre walls and what looked like a carved amber panel on the opposite wall.

You were surprisingly comfortable, cosy even beneath the blankets, and there was something breathing steadily next to you.

You blinked. A familiar pattern of cream and ochre and iron oxide skin came into focus and you gasped and sat bolt upright, staring. You were lying at Big Red’s right side, and his chest was rising and falling with a regular, healthy rhythm. He had a squashy-looking poultice of some kind over the left side of his throat and bandages around his collarbones, and you gasped softly when you saw that a couple of his ‘dreads’ had been bitten off halfway down their length, but he was alive.

Bowing your head to touch your forehead to his chest as relief washed through you, you stifled a sob and slid your arm around his torso, squeezing. He inhaled more deeply and turned his head with a low, repeated clicking sound in his throat.

“Red…” you whispered and looked up to find him blinking slowly at you. “You ok?”

Carefully, he nodded and turned his head back to stare up at the ceiling. His right arm tightened around you though, and he pulled you down to lie almost on top of his chest. He closed his eyes again, apparently exhausted, and began to purr.

You weren’t sure how long you lay there, clinging to him, but some time later, a door opened nearby with a soft hiss, and you startled and snapped your head up. Croc strode in and ‘smiled’ his mandibles at you when he saw you, and you relaxed.

“Hey,” you rasped. You hadn’t noticed how thirsty you were until then.

He bowed his head. “Are you alright?” he asked and you nodded. He spoke to Red in their language and Red clicked something back at him. “Good,” was all he said.

“Croc, what’s going to happen now? Where are we?”

He nodded and adopted an easy kind of ‘parade rest’ stance while he talked to you. “We are back at the clearing where we crashed. Our commander has given us orders to take you to your facility directly.”

“Croc, you can’t! They’ll shoot you down!” you blurted, sitting bolt upright. “They won’t be expecting it.” You paused and said, “I can try to contact them once I get back in range. I think something on your ship disrupted my GPS equipment on the way out here. My maps stopped working, and I didn’t test it but I’m fairly sure my satellite phone wouldn’t work either. If I can get in touch with them, I can tell them not to attack…”

He nodded. “Are you well enough to come to the bridge and speak via link with our commander?”

You blinked. “Croc, I’m not… I’m not a diplomat or anything… I’m just a researcher…”

He clicked reassuringly at you and Red moved his hand to the small of your back.

“We aren’t here to start a war,” Croc said. “We just want to return you so that you can tell your people the High Elder’s message. With communications open, we can find a solution. You have seen first hand now what you’re up against.” He paused and tilted his head a little. “You need our help.”

“Yeah,” you croaked. “Yeah, we do.”

“You fought like one of us though,” Croc grinned. “We saw you as we approached.”

Red clicked proudly at you and stroked another circle across your back before his hand fell softly away. He was too tired to keep it there.

With a sigh, you slid carefully off the bed and looked down at your ripped and torn clothes. Only then did you remember the way the creature’s tail had cut your cheek too, but when you brought your hand to your face, you found only the slightest bump across your skin.

“What…?” you asked, looking at Croc. “And the acid too…?” You stared at your palms that were both smooth and only a little marked in places.

He grinned and gestured towards Red’s poultice. “It is not just our weapons and technology that is superior to yours. Turns out our medicine works on humans as well.”

“Tell me you didn’t just find that out?” you said. “I’m not a guinea pig…”

Croc didn’t seem to know what a guinea pig was or the significance, but he shook his head. “We knew already,” he said.

“Right. Ok, well, I guess I’ll come and talk to this commander of yours and see if we can figure out how to contact my boss.” You turned to Big Red and placed your palm in the centre of his ridged, muscular chest. “Get some rest,” you said. “And… thank you for coming for me. I don’t know how you knew, but… thank you.”

Red didn’t seem to have the energy to form human speech, but he clicked something at Croc who nodded and turned to you.

“Come,” he said and you followed him out of the room, casting one last look back at Red, who already seemed to be asleep on the low, comfortable bed.

___

Am I forgiven yet? Did we like seeing the lads in action? Do we like the glimpses of the new friends? Is Red gonna be ok?

Next Chapter -->

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[shadeysprings]

Rebound - Part II

—DBF!Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Your night of wallowing in your misery takes a different turn when your dad’s best friend bumps into you at the bar. 

Warnings: noncon/dubcon undertones, oral sex with fingers at play, unprotected sex, age gap (around 20-25 years), kinda SoftDark!Joel but also nah, gaslighting & predatory vibes. Use the warnings wisely and tread carefully.

A/N: Some warnings have been added. I hope you took the time to read it. Don't forget to stay hydrated, babies! Also, SPRING IS FINALLY HERE!

Your feedback and reblogs are highly appreciated. Support Content Creators! And of course, I hope y’all enjoy!❤️

— Previous Chapter

You’re tipsy; swaying, giggling, and smiling like a fool as you stagger out of the bar with Joel just a few steps behind.

The night indeed turned a new leaf when he suddenly appeared—one where you expected to be full of misery and sadness spun into one filled with silly stories of Joel’s childhood and the shenanigans he did with your dad back when they were in university. 

The effects of the alcohol slightly ebb away as the cool air of the late evening, or the early morning—you couldn’t really tell, brushes against your heated skin. You never once thought that Joel could show you such a good time with the gruff exterior he constantly shows off, but he did and it was something you found to be entirely interesting. 

Still, you never doubted the ease of his company, with the both of you always gravitating to one another during the times your dad would host a barbeque back home, or when Joel would be invited over for dinner or a day to watch sports. That even if he was there for your dad, it was you he’d always end up striking conversations with, talking of anything that either of you would come up with.

Pulling out your phone from your purse, you blink slowly and squint as the bright screen glares back at you. Your thumbs tap through the array of apps and you pick the one you need to call yourself a ride home. 

“You’re not drunk texting that weasel of an ex of yours, are you?” Joel asks, warmth surrounding you when he stands close, feeling his hand casually rest over your hip. “You’re too good for that, baby.”

“I’m just ordering an Uber.” you slur, playfully rolling your eyes before giggling and showing him the screen. “It’s late and I have things to sort out and possibly throw away tomorrow.”

“Ordering—” he sputters, “Nonsense. You’re riding with me.” He taps his fingers against your side and gives you a gentle nudge. “I have my truck with me. You like taking rides on it, don’t you?”

The blink of headlights takes your attention and you face the direction of where it came from, seeing the vehicle in question parked at the side of the bar. He’s not wrong, you always preferred Joel’s truck over your dad’s beat-up one. 

“Oh, but I wouldn’t want to impose,” you utter as coherently as possible. “Besides, I might be out of your way.”

“It doesn’t matter.” he chuckles and takes your phone from your hand before slipping it back into your purse and leading you to his truck. “C’mon—I won’t take no for an answer.”

Hank Williams croons softly in the background as you watch the scenery of the night playing through the windows. The lights coming from the lamp posts and the surrounding establishments illuminate the inside of the vehicle and paint patterns on your skin.

The storm surrounding you since you woke up has completely vanished, happiness from the consumed liquor and Joel’s company taking its place and you couldn’t be more pleased with it—a much-needed breather from the stress of a failed relationship.

You startle when the windows suddenly roll down, looking at Joel in utter curiosity then smiling when you see the wide grin painted on his face. The rough winds blow against your cheeks, giving you clarity, and the impulse to scream outside fills you that you grip the handle of the door and lean your head towards the open air. 

“Go on—” You hear Joel say above the eolian din. “I know you want to.”

A giggle leaves your lips and you push further, sticking your head out the window. Taking a deep breath, you let out the loudest whoop you could muster, laughing when Joel joins you, earning weird stares from the passersby down the road. 

You must have looked like an idiot but you didn’t care. You felt free and no one could tell you otherwise.

You watch Joel as he pads around your living room and you wait in the kitchen for the coffee to finish dripping in the pot. You can’t help but notice how comfortable he is in such a small space, with his jacket sitting idly on the arm of the couch and the top two buttons of his shirt undone.

A cup of coffee is the least you could offer him after he paid for your tab and gave you a ride home. Even when the alcohol didn’t seem to affect him as much as it did you, you insisted on the small gesture and having him fully sober up before he drove back to his place. It would also help placate your mind to know he got home safely.

He walks with ease, with surety, as he observes the litter of frames that house photos of your parents and your friends back in university—a smile present on his face. But said smile soon falters when he stops and stares at one frame, in particular, sitting by the low table by the couch, and takes it in his hand, his lips turning into a scowl.

“Is this him?” he asks and you already know who he’s talking about. 

Quickly, you scurry to where he stands, keeping your steps light so as not to trip for being sluggish, and peek at his hands, a frown forming on your lips when the picture catches your eye. It was the day Alex first said that he loves you, solidifying your relationship and turning a new and happy chapter in your life—at least you thought so. 

“I’ll have to take that out in the morning,” you say and move to take it from him. 

But he pulls it out of your reach and flips it in his hand, taking the photo from the holder himself. He stares at it with serious eyes, placing the frame back in its place before folding the picture in the middle, your eyes widening in shock when he rips it in half and crumples it up, stowing the pieces into his back pocket. 

“There,” he says with finality, the smile returning in his eyes. “Now you don’t have to.”

The seemingly rough gesture takes you by surprise but you don’t question him about it. For one, you know he’s looking out for you as one close family friend would, and two, it saves you from reeling back to the happy moments you once shared with the person you now call your ex. And you’re entirely unsure if you would even be able to push through with purging all the memories that surround you that fast. 

You turn to face the kitchen when the beep of the coffee maker echoes through the walls, Joel trailing after you as you make your way to the counter.

“Just black, right?” you ask upon opening the cupboard to take some mugs. 

“A little sugar this time, baby.” he responds, his voice closer behind you. “I’m actually craving something sweet.”

You nod your acknowledgment and switch off the machine, pouring a generous amount of the liquid caffeine into the cups. But as soon as you finish, you stiffen when you feel Joel stand too close, his chest pressing against your back while his hand rests on the edge of the counter with the other finding your hip.

“J-Joel?”

“You don’t have to be alone, y’know?” he mumbles against your ear, your body shivering when you feel the bristles of his beard brush against your shirt. “Why cry over some boy who showed you no love? Who didn’t worship the ground you walked on when you can have a man who will do all that and more.” he breathes, a whimper leaving your lips when he presses his nose against the crook of your neck. “When you can have me.”

His words insight fear within your core and you try to pull away from his hold. But you wince when he tightens his hand on your hip, fingers digging into the fabric of your jeans then loosen all the same only for him to run them around to your front and push you further against him. 

“Joel—” you whimper. “Y-you’re scaring me.”

“You don’t have to be scared of me, baby.” he groans, expert fingers undoing the clasp in a swift motion and you grasp his wrist, fighting him off when he slips his hand through your jeans and into your panties. “It’s just me.”

You struggle against him, striving to pry his hand away and stop it from delving further. But such attempts are fruitful as you feel your cunt fluttering against his fingertips when he grazes them through your folds. 

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of your surroundings, the dregs of alcohol completely leaving your system as you look around to see what you can use to fend him off. 

It’s when your eyes dart over to the steaming coffee cups and you immediately reach for one with the intent of burning the both of you and escaping his devious goal. But he catches on to you quickly and traps your hands with his arm, causing you to drop it to the floor with a loud crash. A yelp of pain retching from your throat when the burning liquid scalds the soles of your feet. 

“Shit!” he hisses, pulling away from you fast. “Clumsy, girl.” You think your plan, though botched, worked. But it doesn’t deter him as you expected and he hauls you off the floor and over his shoulder, thrashing against him as he walks out of the kitchen and through the main room, easily finding his way to your bedroom. 

“Let me go, Joel! Fucking let me go!” You shout and he does, setting you down on the mattress with ease. Once you’re free from his clutches, you charge at him and dismiss the stinging pain of your feet, hands clenched into fists, and begin beating down on his chest. Yet he doesn’t so much as flinch, effortlessly wrapping an arm around you and pressing you roughly against his chest. 

You keep struggling, clawing at him to release you but your movements halt all at once, your spine going rigid, standing shocked when the back of his hand cracks against your cheek, your head snapping to the side.

Your eyes widen, tears threatening to spill as you’re filled with disbelief. He hit you—something you never envisage him to do. You cup your cheek, feeling it pulse in pain and you flinch when his hand takes its place instead, cradling your cheek and then making you look up at him. 

The same expression swims in his hazel eyes, but it fades just as fast as it came and his demeanor flips over once more. 

“Look what you did.” He tuts while he caresses your face. “You made me hit you.”

You blink, uncertain of what’s happening, confusion circling in your head as to what Joel is doing and how he’s acting. 

Slowly, he guides you back onto the bed and you follow as dread grips tightly on your chest. Once you’re seated, he kneels down in front of you, rough fingers tickling your thigh and down to your legs before he holds your foot aloft and wincing when he presses the pad of his thumb against your tender sole.

“Hurts, huh?” he hums before looking up at you. “Are you going to be good and stay still? Let me treat this? Or do I have to get angry again?” 

The words dripping from his lips are sweet like honey yet laced with something dangerous that you agree with reluctance, flinching when he presses a light kiss on your ankle before standing and walking out of the bedroom. 

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#joel miller #joel miller x reader #dark joel miller #dark!joel miller #dbf!joel miller #the last of us #au #rebound #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal imagine #dark fic #joel miller fanfiction #shadeysprings fics

[obitohno]

primeval | 01

satoru gojo x reader

synopsis ⤸

you have never believed in fairy-tales. besides, werewolves don’t actually exist… right?

chapters ⤸

៚ contents

next ᝰ

themes ⤸

fem! reader, 18+, dark fic, werewolf! gojo, human! reader, slow burn, soulmates, omegaverse, werewolves, mating bond, smut, masturbation, cunnilingus, blowjobs, anal, breeding, creampies, ruts, heats, action, angst, graphic depictions of violence, mentions of blood

word count ⤸

4.5k (semi-edited, lowercase intended)

a/n ⤸

this fic was originally posted onto my ao3 as a kakashi/sakura story, but it’s been well over a year since i last updated it, so now that i’m back into my writing, i wanted to change it to a reader fic. i’ve spent hours changing the names/pronouns, but i’m v tired, so if i’ve missed any, pls let me know. i used to read n write a lot of werewolf fics back in my wattpad days, so this story always makes me feel nostalgic ♡

reblogs are appreciated ~

one:

it’s the middle of summer and the first scent you inhale upon entering shirakawa is one of freshly cut grass mixed in with the heat in the air. it’s almost stifling in the back of the car, cramped between two large suitcases, despite all four windows being rolled down. up front, your father hums along to a song on the radio, fingers tapping against the steering wheel as he guides the vehicle towards your new home. 

you scowl down at your feet, clad in a pair of weather-appropriate sandals, toenails freshly painted just the night before.

the move—despite you understanding its importance—isn’t at all what you’d expected when your father had sat you down and spilled the news just six months before. you understand that your father’s job is important to him, and being promoted to head surgeon in one of the country’s top hospitals is an achievement that you can definitely appreciate. however, his success means changes. moving six hours away from your childhood hometown is the one that upsets you the most, you think. your friends, family, all left behind. not to mention that you now have to complete your final year of studies in a place that you’ve never even heard of.

but whilst your father is the one whom has remained optimistic throughout your moving journey, despite being shut in a small car for over six hours, your mother seems to share her daughter’s doubts about moving towns. you had listened their arguments during the weeks that followed your father’s promotion, but eventually, his wife had caved and eventually agreed to the move. but that doesn’t mean your mother is as enthusiastic about the move as her husband is, you conclude, glancing up to see her glaring out of the window. 

shirakawa is much smaller than you had expected. surrounded by woods that appear to expand for miles upon miles, the town is enclosed in the middle, almost hidden out of view. if it weren’t for the sat-nav, you are sure that the entrance would’ve been easily missed, the signpost having been barely visible through an overgrown bush. a few people curiously peer at the car as it rattles its way down the street, the rear end strained under the weight of the remainder of the luggage that your father had rammed into the boot earlier that morning. 

it’s a little after three pm when your little family car finally pulls into its new home in an unfamiliar driveway. 

the house itself looks larger than your previous home, you note as you scramble out of the vehicle when your father finally moves the suitcases out of your way. a waft of thick heat smacks you straight in the face and you grimace, stretching your aching legs. even clad in just a pair of denim shorts and a cropped tank top, the warmth clings to your skin in a way that makes you feel sticky and grimy at the same time. a trickle of sweat rolls down the curve of your cheek and you huff, swiping it away with the back of your hand. 

helping your parents lug their belongings into the house is easy enough. most of the furniture had been shipped over just a week ago, already placed into their respective rooms. your bedroom is located at the back of the house, the window facing out towards the large garden. it appears that your new home is situated at the edge of the town—just a small fence separating the garden from the onslaught of forestation that surrounds the building. it’s almost an eery sight, you think as you step out into the garden after hauling your suitcase into your room. 

the trees provide a form of shading as the garden is slightly cooler, much to your relief. leaning against the wall, you close your eyes, basking in the cooler air that shadows provide. you exhale, head tilting at the sound of the back door opening. your father throws a heavy arm over your shoulder, ignoring your soft grunt of surprise. 

‘what do you think?’ 

your eyes peel open to regard the happy grin on his face. the hope is evident in those glistening eyes of his, and you would have to be blind to not see his unconcealed excitement. it crushes all protests that sit on the tip of your tongue, and you swallow, head turning to look out to the bottom of the garden. gaze fixated to a young maple tree, you shrug, arms crossed over your chest. 

‘it’s nice,’ is your honest reply. you are yet to come around to his idea of moving homes, but you can appreciate the scenery. even under the shade of a large berry tree, the sun gleams down upon the garden, and the scent of grass is almost potent in the air. you deem yourself lucky to have missed out on the pollen allergy that seems to run in the family, your father’s head ducking as he suppresses a sneeze into the crook of his elbow. but despite his now reddened nose, his grin widens and you force one of your own. 

he squeezes your shoulder before removing his arm, seemingly suffering due to the heat. it’s late-afternoon, yet the sun is still high up in the sky. both you and your father are bewildered, and he voices his distaste. 

‘your mother and i are going for a walk into town,’ he wipes a trickle of sweat from his brow, ‘we need to get food—and we also need to invest in a couple of electronic fans. you want to come with?’ 

you reluctantly agree. you’re still exhausted from the car journey, and the heat definitely isn’t helping with your mood. however, you know that it’s way too warm to take a nap, and if even if you could, it’s already almost evening. deciding that you’d wait a few more hours to sleep, you think that it’s best to learn the map of the town for yourself, and you explain this to your father, who agrees. 

‘there’s still a couple of months until you start class,’ he reminds you. you hide your scowl, kicking at a raised mound in the mud. ‘but it’s best you learn the neighbourhood in the meantime. maybe you can make some new friends before you start?’ 

‘maybe,’ you repeat, not bothering to voice your doubts. 

‘c’mon, we better make a move if we want to make it back before dark.’ your father straightens, already turning towards the back door. but just as he’s tugging it open, there’s a rustling that comes from the bottom of the garden that freezes you both.

you stare at the trees as if awaiting someone to pop out, heart thumping its way down your eardrums. there’s a sudden gust of wind that spikes through the warm air, blowing your hair back from your face, and you grimaces as it cools the thin sheet of sweat that has collected on the back of your neck. your father chuckles, breaking the silence, ‘it’s probably just an animal. we do live near the woods.’ 

he enters the house, but you remain rooted to your spot by the wall. you can’t put your finger on it, but something tells you that your father is wrong, eyes straining as you peer into the threads of birch trees that spread out far past where you can see. the wind passes and you’re enveloped in silence, dazed as you stare out into the thickened tree-line. the longer that you stand there, the more you feel urged to close the gap between yourself and the fencing, but just as you take a step forward, the spell is broken by the sound of your mother calling your name. 

blinking, you frown down at your feet. sighing, you run a hand through your sweat-stained hair before making your way back inside the house, kicking the door shut behind you and meeting your mother in the kitchen. ‘i’m just going to get changed and then i’ll be ready,’ she tells you. following her up the stairs, you state that you’ll do the same, deciding to shower once you return from the walk. 

you change into a dress this time, your skin immediately thankful for the lighter fabric, less suffocated as you shove your suitcase to the corner of your room. you’ll unpack tomorrow, you promise to yourself. you’re just expelling a spritz of deodorant when something moves in the garden, catching your attention, and you turn, just in time to see a shadow moving through the trees, barely visible among the trees. heart in your throat, you call for your father, who enters the room just as the shadow disappears from view, merging between the birch trees. 

‘what’s wrong?’ he frowns, following your finger as she points. ‘i told you, it’s probably just an animal.’ he ruffles your hair, but you aren’t paying enough attention to scold him for messing your hair. he places a hand on your shoulder, ‘listen. you’re tired, we all are. your mind is probably just playing tricks on you. there’s going to be all sorts of creatures hiding out there. i’ve heard there’s even wolves.’ 

you disagree. whatever that shadow was, you know that it wasn’t just a trick of the eye. something had been stood right there in the garden, just a few yards from your home. but you do doubt that it’s a wolf, something you have no qualms of arguing with your father about. 

‘it could be, you never know,’ he laughs, poking at your ribs before leading the way down the stairs. 

‘it wasn’t a wolf,’ you argue. ‘and if it was, why aren’t you more concerned? they could be dangerous.’

he laughs again, grabbing his keys from the kitchen counter. your mother raises an eyebrow at your bickering but doesn’t join in as she slings her purse over her shoulder, husband and daughter following her out of the house. your father loiters as his wife locks the door, before you begin the walk into town. ‘if there are wolves nearby, they’re probably domesticated to some degree. i doubt they’d do actual harm to people.’ 

you can’t help but gawk at your father, incredulous, ‘they’re wild animals—of course they’d harm people!’ 

his smile is unwavering, ‘i bet you a twenty you see a wolf by the end of the month and it won’t harm you.’ 

at this, your mother slaps his shoulder, ‘don’t say things like that!’ 

‘what? it could—’

‘i don’t want her frolicking with wolves,’ she glares. 

your father rubs at the sore spot on his shoulder, grumbling something about the women in the family being superstitious. your mother argues that being cautious about wild animals isn’t a superstition, and you trail behind your parents, barely listening to their bickering. the conversation continues all the way until you reach the middle of the town. by now, you’ve received a few too many curious glances than you are comfortable with, ensuring that you’re never more than half a step behind your parents as the three of you weave your way down the street. 

it’s when you’re exiting an electronics store, your father insisting on carrying the fans home rather than having them delivered—despite the cashier’s wasted protests—that you inhale the scent of freshly cut grass once more. this time, the scent is much thicker, and you fight back the urge to gag, barely forcing down a sneeze that threatens to escape. frowning, you interrupt your parents’ conversation to ask, ‘do you have any of dad’s anti-histamines?’

fishing into her purse as you walk, your mother’s brows furrow as she presses a tablet, along with a water bottle, into your outstretched hands. ‘you feeling alright?’ even your father is frowning, hoisting the bag up onto his shoulder. 

‘no’ you look at her pointedly, quickly swallowing down the tablet before dropping the water bottle into her purse. you sniff, eyes watering slightly, ‘can’t you smell that?’ 

‘smell what?’ your mother questions, but she’s not really paying attention, already walking into another building—a butcher’s, you notice. nose crinkling, you decide to wait outside, stomach already churning at the sight of the bloodied pig’s carcass hanging up in the front window. your parents enter the small shop, leaving you to lean against the wall as you wait. the urge to sneeze returns, stronger this time, just as the scent suddenly hits you full force. 

this time, you aren’t able to suppress the sneeze that tickles its way out of your nose, only just ducking your head in time to avoid contaminating a passing woman pushing a pram in front of her. sniffing loudly, you swipe the tears free from the corner of your eyes, groaning as your head tilts upwards. pinching the bridge of your nose to halt the threat of another sneeze, your efforts are wasted, and soon, you’re sneezing not once, but three times, one after the other. groaning, you press your thumb against the ache that’s forming between your brows. the heat seems to have increased by a tenfold, but there’s nothing you can do about it, exhaling with relief at the sight of your mother rushing out of the shop, towards you. 

she shouts your name, and you blink through heavily lidded eyes, watching as she scrambles to rip a packet of tissues from her handbag, shoving one under your nose. ‘w-what are you-?’

‘you’re bleeding!’ she frets, leaning closer to assess your nose. ‘what did you do?’

‘i just sneezed,’ you bite out at the accusation, taking over your mother’s ministrations, all but shoving the tissue up your nostrils. ‘i think it’s the temperature,’ your voice sounds nasally, even to your own ears, and you don’t miss the wince that flits across your father’s face as he inspects your face.

‘we should go home,’ he comments, ‘you don’t look so well.’

wiping at your nose, you ask that he checks that your face is now clean of any blood. ‘i feel fine. it’s just the warmth.’ discarding the soiled tissues into a nearby bin, you massage an index finger to your temple, the ache suddenly searing, white hot pain flashing behind your eyelids. looking up, your gaze meets with a pair of light blue eyes that bore right through yours. however, before you can think about how damn pretty they are, the scent of freshly cut grass invades your nostrils once more, so strong that you can’t help but  whimper, sweat gathering upon your brow. the same uneasy feeling that you had felt in the garden has returned and your vision swims. someone calls out your name, but before you can look, your sight is blackened to nothing.

๑

he hadn’t expected a female human to enter his territory. much less two of them. 

the male, he’d been aware of. geto had mentioned something about a transfer at the hospital a few weeks ago, the best shirakawa can get. suguru may have told him about the male’s familial situation, but if gojo is to be completely honest, he hadn’t really been paying attention to the conversation. 

it’s not as if humans don’t already reside in the town—most that live there are descendants of the founding families of shirakawa. and whilst the wilds are allowed to walk the streets as if they were their own, it is the woods where they thrive. for centuries, those whom want to live docile lives such as the humans do, are permitted to do so, in exchange for the protection provided by the wilds who have millenniums of strength built in their very bones. however, it is no secret that majority of the wilds share the opinion that humans are the weaker species, gojo included. because of this, most of their population remain on the pack territory, situated just a mere hundred miles from the townscape. 

not far enough apart, some still argue. 

but for gojo, it is close enough to keep an eye upon on the town’s human leaders; to ensure that there won’t be another revolt. there hasn’t been one since his tenth year on this earth and he’ll be damned if he lives to see another. the relationship between man and the wild is strenuous enough, but as ruler of the forests, gojo has made it no secret that he will not hesitate to eliminate those who dare to disrupt the peace his father fought many years to create. 

and so when word gets out that the human doctor has finally arrived in town, it is gojo’s responsibility to greet him. to his knowledge, the male is fully aware of the wilds that prowl in the darkness—something which gojo is to be glad of because he’s already met his fair share of frightened humans, weak-minded males and females who simply couldn’t imaginesuch a species to exist. he’s had to eradicate a few of them too, for everyone knows that the outside world is better off not knowing of the creatures of the forests. being spared the duty of exposing his species to an outsider is relieving. 

it is indeed a hot day outside, much like both geto and nanami had complained earlier that morning. the heat clings to the skin of his human form in a way that makes his nose crinkle with disgust, upturned as he makes his way through the town. many of the wild greet him with a bow of the head, gojo’s wild basking in the small sign of respect. the humans do not entirely understand the loyalties of the hierarchy in their kingdom, but most are smart enough to veer out of his path as he comes to a halt across the road from shirakawa’s infamous butcher-shop. 

he stands with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his slacks, eyes sweeping across the street for the face he’s memorised from the file that’s now stuffed in the bottom drawer of his desk. his nose shifts through the different odours intermingling through the warm air, searching for one that he doesn’t recognise. for a few moments, he senses nothing. but then it hits him. 

it’s you that he scents first. 

all sweet, like pollen on a fresh spring day, easily standing out amongst the crowd of humans that bustle along the pathway. your  scent clouds him, the heat of the sun suddenly overbearing as he stares across the road. but there’s something wrong, he knows as soon as his heart-rate spikes, pulsing so loudly in his eardrums that he almost doesn’t hear you speak. 

‘can’t you smell that?’ 

his instincts practically purr at the sound of your voice, gently spoken with the tiniest hint of confusion, and gojo has to grip the lamppost beside him to keep himself from shedding his human skin, his jaw clenched so tightly that he wouldn’t be surprised if it snapped. and when he realises that you also sense him, he exhales, breath uncharacteristically uneven as he struggles to rein in the wild that itches to escape. 

he’s no fool. for thousands of years, pups are taught what to expect when one meets the mate that is chosen for them from the day they are born. it’s been engrained into their very history from the first findings of their species. the humans call them soulmates. 

human and wild pairings are not unheard of. but they are rare. gojo cannot even recall the last pairing recorded—long before his time, anyway. and whilst most wilds are taught that humans will have some form of reaction to being mated, their instincts have been bred out of them over thousands of years of evolution. 

you will never feel the bond as he does, or at least, that’s what has been assumed for hundreds of years. 

and when the first drop of blood spills from your pretty little nose, his throat burns as he suppresses the growl that almost escapes from the centre of his chest. his instincts scream at him to cross the road, but gojo likes to think that he has more self control than that, fists clenching so tightly that his knuckles whiten, and his pulse increases in pace when your eyes meet his, wide and glossy. 

but as soon as you are rendered unconscious, all rationality is thrown out of the window as he’s across the street before he can stop himself, moving faster than humans can blink.

the older woman, your mother, he assumes, shrieks with surprise as he catches your limp body before you hit the ground. 

gojo stares down at you, trying his best to ignore the wild that continues to purr in contentedness with your skin pressed flush against his. several people have stopped to watch, most of which are of the wild, much to gojo’s chagrin. this will be the talk of the pack before he even reaches home, he’s sure. but that’s the least of his worries, as the older woman is now frantically attempting to shake you awake. 

gojo’s lips form a snarl before he can stop it, and he blinks, surprised by his own threat. there is a murmuring in the crowd, and he sighs, knowing the action has not gone unnoticed. the human woman stares at him, her surprise morphing into anger. 

‘i will take her,’ she spits, her hand curling around your limp hand. 

the human man calls her name, and when gojo looks up, he immediately recognises his face. 

the doctor. 

and it appears that he knows exactly who gojo is too. sparing him a nod in greeting, along with a smile that resembles more of a grimace, the doctor turns to his wife, ‘she’s in safe hands.’ 

even gojo is taken aback by this. 

your mother looks murderous as her head whips to glare at her husband, ‘we don’t even know—’

‘i own this town,’ gojo speaks for the first time. he winces at the grate in his voice, forcing down the wild that scratches at the surface. despite being unconscious, you stir at the sound of his voice and gojo’s gaze snaps back down towards you, adjusting your prone form in his arms. ‘if you’d allow me,’ he pauses to swallow, tearing his eyes from your face to your mother’s, ‘i’d like to return her to your home. it’s the least i can do.’ 

the human female is evidently confused, protest on the tip her tongue, but all colour in the male’s face drains as the weight of gojo’s words settle. he suddenly hoists his wife to her feet by her arm. ‘we should do as he says. he owns this town.’ 

your mother wrenches her arm from his grasp, not paying attention as gojo shifts his grip before he stands. he easily towers over both of your parents, but to his surprise, this doesn’t intimidate the smaller woman. she stands still, glaring up at him as the male whispers an excuse in her ear—something about not getting him fired before he’s even started his job. but it seems the heat is irritating her just as much as it is him, and so she reluctantly agrees to allow him to carry her daughter home. 

escaping the leering gazes, the walk is filled with a quietly uttered welcoming. gojo tells the male to meet him the following monday morning for a formal meeting before he starts his work. ‘your care is as important to our kind as it is yours,’ he tells him, eyes glancing towards the female who is yet to calm her anger. 

halfway home, you stir in your sleep once more, face pressed to his chest. you’re so much smaller than him, scent enveloping him in a way that he’s sure he’ll never forget. gojo has to bite his bottom lip to muffle the low growl that rumbles its way down his throat, expanding across his chest. the sound, however, soothes you enough to make you still once more and only then does gojo exhales. however, his wild rumbles upon glancing at the expanse of your exposed neck and he breathes heavily through flared nostrils, grunting as he feels the familiar aching of his canines breaking past the barrier of his gums. by the time the party reaches your new home, gojo’s body is trembling, sweat heavily built upon his brow. 

he’s permitted to gently place you on your bed, hesitating just a few seconds too long before he has to swiftly leave the room in order to escape your mother’s overprotective stance. 

by the front door, the male human escorts him out of the house. gojo’s wild immediately expresses its discomfort, itching at the temptation of a bid for freedom. 

‘it’s an honour to finally meet you—’ the man begins to gush, but the sight of gojo advancing upon him forces his mouth shut, eyes wide. 

‘she’s mine.’ 

gojo seethes, wild just inches from the surface of his skin. his stomach churns and it takes all he has to swallow down the bile that threatens to escape the confides of his throat. he towers over your father, who shrinks back, remembering to bow his head and expose his neck. gojo’s wild purrs at the sign of submission. 

he forcibly inhales deeply, eyes closing. when they open, he’s not at all surprised to recognise the terror on the smaller male’s face. ‘i will have her,’ he promises, but he’s not entirely sure if it’s he or his wild who forms the words on the tip of his tongue. ‘i do not need your approval—it means nothing to me,’ he spits, smiling bitterly. ‘you have until monday to tell her of our kind. not a day later.’ the human male has no choice but to agree, frantically nodding, blinking up at him, seemingly disorientated. whether he even recognises the unspoken threat that loiters in the air—thickened by the human male's unconcealed fear—is a matter to be dealt with come monday morning. 

gojo leaves then, coated in a layer of sweat that heats him in such a way that it blows his pupils. the little control he has struggles to remain in place, only just lasting until he breaks into someone’s garden, by jumping the gate, and marching across the recently mown lawn. he barely makes it to the trees before his resolve uncoils, snapping its way down his arching spine as he hunches over, winded. he form morphs, familiar with the sound of breaking bones, the shredding of human skin that gives way to a thick coat of white fur, two legs becoming four, a whip-like tail standing proudly as he prowls deeper into the trees. 

this form is welcomed with a ripple of excitement as he allows the wild to explore, scenting the air. he doesn’t venture far, nose tracking the stench of sweetened pollen, just a few yards from where his clothes are strewn across the floor. his wild shivers, delight thrumming through his veins as his eyes latch onto the bedroom window of which he knows you sleep on the other side of the glass. he inhales your scent through his mouth, tastes it on his tongue, and swallows it down, allowing it to settle into the pit of his stomach.

mine. 

© obitohno. all rights reserved. do not repost my works.

#♡ jordy is writing ♡ #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk smut #werewolf! gojo #gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo smut #satoru gojo smut #gojo x you #satoru gojo x you

[ladamedusoif]

Visiting - Chapter 8: Sister Winter

(Moodboard by the wonderful @cutesyscreenname)

Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)

Summary: Seeking a change of scenery after her life falls apart, Lydia crosses the Atlantic and arrives in a small New England town, to spend a year expanding her intellectual horizons as a visiting professor of art history at a small liberal arts college. Her growing friendship with Ben Morales, professor of Hispanic literature, forces Lydia to confront the fallout from her past - and raises unexpected questions about the future.

Chapter summary: The morning after brings complicated feelings as Ben and Lydia return to their respective families for the holiday season.

Word Count: 7.7k

Rating: Explicit (MDNI; 18+)

Content (chapter specific): Professor Ben College AU; smaller-than-usual-for-this-fandom age gap (Lydia is 42, and Ben is 47); canon is not a thing here; slow burn; idiots-to-lovers; references to PiV sex; strong language; alcohol consumption; weight and body insecurity; serious self-esteem issues; references to panic attacks and anxiety disorders; references to the holidays; both Ben and Lydia come from families that mark Christmas; angst central.

A/N: The title of this chapter is inspired by Sufjan Stevens' eponymous song, which is one of my go-to Melancholy Winter Tracks. And yes, it was really weird writing Christmas in July.

I'm so grateful for all the love I've had for this story and for this pair. Every comment and reblog and ask is a little lift to my soul!

This chapter introduces Lydia and Ben's extended families. In addition to their chosen and found families, both in work and in their friendship groups, this pair are from closely-knit families of origin - though of course, that brings with it its own challenges.

Further A/N after the chapter to avoid spoilers.

See the Series Masterlist for an outline of Lydia's story and background.

Cross-posting to AO3.

Chapter 7 - Chapter 9

@lunapascal and @julesonrecord - thank you for cheering me on and offering wise and practical advice with this difficult chapter. @tessa-quayle - I am always so touched by your enthusiasm for these idiot dorksicles (a term I am appropriating from Jules).

Taglist:

@lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @cutesyscreenname, @tessa-quayle, @vermillionwinter, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @perennialdoll247, @love-the-abyss, @imaswellkid, @intheorangebedroom, @javierisms, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @littlemisspascal, @khindahra, @pedrostories, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @ruebyretro, @rhoorl

Ben is a deep sleeper - or maybe he was just completely worn out after your exploits that night. 

Either way, he doesn’t even move a muscle as you shift towards the edge of the mattress, fumbling your way out of bed and carefully tip-toeing across the floor, gathering your underwear and dress as you come across them on the floor.

The panic hit you when you woke around 5am, eyes flicking open suddenly in the dark stillness of Ben’s bedroom. The only sound was his soft, steady breathing, interspersed with the occasional tiny snore. In slumber, he somehow appeared even more handsome, more beautiful, snugly nestled into his pillow and hair sticking up at all angles. Fragments of light peeked around the edges of the blinds, picking out some of his features.

Whereas a couple of hours before his lovely face had felt like a comfort, in the wee small hours of the morning it triggered doubt. Your brain promptly forgot everything he had said about how beautiful he thought you were, how much he’d wanted you. Instead, it struck up a familiar, repetitive chorus.

He couldn’t really want you. He’s so gorgeous. You don’t deserve him. He’s sexy and kind and good and you’re a mess. Even if he thinks he wants you now, eventually he’ll realise he’s made a mistake. 

In the light of day, you might have been able to muster the little tricks you’d learned in therapy to quiet the voice of your inner bully. In the early hours, vulnerable and anxious in Ben’s bed, the chorus simply grew more insistent. 

So you carefully get out of bed and pick up your clothes. You pad out of the bedroom and find the bathroom, hoping that a splash of cold water might reset your thinking. 

Instead, the sight of yourself in the mirror just serves as further evidence for the case against you. Your makeup is smudged, settling into every line and wrinkle. You look jowly and heavy: matronly, even, and certainly not worthy of the handsome, good man whose bed you’d shared. 

You feel the defences around your heart building themselves back up again. 

You shouldn’t have let them down in the first place.

Still, you seem to want to somehow change your own mind. You tip-toe back across the hallway and peer around the door into the bedroom, as if maybe seeing Ben might quell the panic that’s beating a frantic, jolting rhythm in your chest. 

He’s still in the same position, his back to you as you stand at the door. There’s not a lot of him that’s visible, save for the tufts of messy hair and the outline of his broad form under the comforter. 

The panic eases momentarily as you feel a surge of affection and want. For an instant, you allow yourself to remember how good it felt to make love with him, to laugh and kiss and hold and touch and fuck together.

You have to leave in a few months. It would have to end one way or another. You couldn’t face that. You couldn’t go through the pain. And what if you hurt him, too? Better to get out now.

You return to the bathroom to dress quickly and quietly. In the semi-darkness, you pad down the stairs and retrieve your shoes, bag, and coat from the hallway. 

What the fuck are you doing?

“I’m getting out before he has the chance to reject me. Before we get too deep. Before I have to go home. Before it has to end. Before I hurt him.” 

Before I fuck it up, like I always do. I always ruin everything.

You remember from Thanksgiving that there’s a little notepad in the kitchen, for shopping lists and reminders. You think for a few moments before writing a note to Ben, folding it over and affixing it to the front of his fridge with a magnet. 

You know this is going to hurt him.

“Better than really hurting him further down the line, even if I’d never want to. I don’t deserve him.”

You try to block out the memory of the evening before, urgent declarations of want and your bodies pushed together against the hallway wall, as you quietly open the front door and leave. 

His immediate instinct as he blinks awake and stretches his long arms is to reach for you, to find your soft, warm body and pull you to him for another kiss, another cuddle; another chance to feel you, so wet and tight and perfect, as he sinks back into you.

“Mmmmm. Morning, baby.” Nothing.

Ben sits up and realises he’s on his own. He wanders around the upper floor of his home, calling your name, as if he’ll summon you out of the ether by repeating it.

He moves down the stairs and into the hallway, now filled with the crisp morning light of midwinter. Still nothing. 

His final hope is that you’re in the kitchen. Maybe you couldn’t sleep. Maybe you were hungry, or thirsty. 

“Lyddie?”

No you. Just a note.

“What the fuck, Lyddie. What the fuck are you doing?”

He leans back against the countertop, staring at the folded piece of paper - at his name, carefully inscribed in your neat, flowing script.

Dear Ben, 

Thank you for last night - it was great, really. I thought it would be easier if I just headed out. I didn’t want to wake you. Safe travels west. Happy holidays. See you soon. - L.

“Fuck.”

The thing that really drove you out of the safe warmth of Ben Morales’ arms and bed and out into the half-light of a December morning, walking home to your empty apartment alone and afraid, wasn’t your fear of fucking up - at least, not really. It was part of it, true, but what tipped the balance was not just fear, but feelings.

You pack the last of your things for the journey home for the holidays and try to ignore that simple fact. You had kept your defences up so sturdily and so dutifully for a long time, until he came along. Until you had to go catching feelings for a man who lived an entire ocean away from you.

You were frightened of fucking up because what you had - the friendship, whatever situation you entered into when he pressed his lips to yours and took you into his bed - meant the world to you. You were scared of hurting him, and of being hurt, because you cared about him so much. 

It was a strange paradox: you had done something that hurt the two of you now, in order to avoid the potential for greater pain further down the line. You’d always had a natural inclination to run from things that scared or overwhelmed you, after all. In your own, tortured logic, it made sense to run from the sheer force of your feelings for Ben. 

As you checked and double-checked the apartment while waiting for your cab to the airport, you remembered David’s words and felt a little guilty. You’d tried, though. You’d tried to let the light in. You just hadn’t expected it to blind you.

You’ve been avoiding your phone, save for sending a message to your family group chat to let them know you were safely en route to the airport. When your mother’s name pops up, you open the message.

MOM: Good woman, Lyd, you’re there good and early! Time to have a nice coffee and a bite to eat. Can’t wait to see you! 

Your mother was always thrilled when you got to the airport ahead of schedule, knowing your propensity for last-minute panic. You had no idea how to explain to her why you were sitting, red-eyed and heartbroken, in an airside coffee shop three whole hours early. 

You still hadn’t opened the two voice notes from Ben. A missed call on the phone, which you spotted after you got through security, then the two notes. Part of you had hoped that if you just ignored them long enough, they’d go away. Typical Lyd.

You take a deep breath and a sip of your enormous festive coffee, topped with whipped cream and sprinkles and reeking of peppermint syrup. You pop in your earbuds and press play.

The sound of his voice is like a knife to the heart. You’d feared anger, but instead Ben sounds like he’s aching.

“Hi, Lyddie - Lydia. I, uh, I got your note. Um. I guess I thought we were on the same page, about… about last night. Maybe not. Sorry if I got the wrong idea. I… anyway. I guess you’re on your way home now, or about to be. I’ll, um - I’ll talk to you. Happy holidays. Safe travels.”

It’s all you can do not to run out of that airport and hop into a cab back to his place, to hold him, to tell him how sorry you are, to beg him to forgive you for being a fucking idiot.

You’ve fucked it up. Told you you would.

You press play on the second voice note. His voice, still cracking a little, sounds stronger, steadier, more determined.

“Hi, just wanted to say - I don’t regret it. I don’t regret that we spent the night together. I’ll never regret that, no matter what. It meant something to me. I don’t want you to regret it, Lyd. Please.”

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you press ‘call’. He doesn’t answer. 

Ben listens to your voice note again while he’s sitting in the departures lounge, a day after you’d passed through. He hasn’t slept very much in the last day and a half. This morning, when he was washing his face and trimming his beard and moustache, he was sure he’d aged a decade in the space of less than 48 hours. The delay to his flight gives him plenty of time to nurse an enormous black coffee, though he wishes it was something even stronger.

“Hi. I’m at the airport. I tried calling, but - I guess you’re busy. Or maybe you just don’t want to talk. I understand why you - listen, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, I don’t know what - I can explain, it’s just - it’s hard not being able to do that face to face. I promise, I can explain. I can. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Ben.”

Your voice catches at that point in the voice note, and he can hear you trying not to completely break down. It breaks his heart every time he listens to the message.

“I guess I will see you in the new year, then? I promise I’ll explain then. Safe travels west. Okay, then. Bye.”

Jet lag is a bitch. But you summon the strength and focus to slip in your earbuds in the privacy of your childhood bedroom at home, and press play on the next voice note he sent you. 

You might be imagining it, but his tone is softer. He still sounds hurt, but calmer, somehow. 

“Hey there. I’m just about to fly out. I got your message and - yeah. Probably best to see how things are in January. Maybe it’ll be good to have some space, clear our heads. Anyway.” He pauses, his voice quieter. “It’s good to hear your voice, Lyd.”

Oh, fuck. He wants space. Fuck. That’s not good. 

You take three attempts at your response before you manage to record a coherent message. 

“Hey. I hope the flights are okay, and that you get there safely. Yeah - um, yeah. Space, clear our heads. So, guess I’ll give you your space, until I see you and can explain. And it’s so good to hear your voice, too.”

You press send, your eyes glancing over the little round picture of Ben at the top of the screen. You say the words you’d left unsaid at the end of your message. 

“God, I miss you, darling.”

TJ Morales waits inside the arrivals hall at San Francisco International with his twelve year old twin sons, Dylan and Carlos. There’s only eighteen months between TJ - Thomas Juan, to give him his full name - and his older brother, and despite living on opposite sides of the country for a decade, they’re very close. It’s become an annual tradition, when Ben returns for the holidays, for TJ and the boys to pick him up.

This year, the three are decked out in an array of Star Wars-themed Christmas shirts to welcome Ben home: Dylan’s printed with a pattern of C3PO in a Santa hat, Carlos wearing a shirt emblazoned with Chewbacca wrapped in fairy lights, and their father wearing a pattern rather sweetly titled ‘We Wish You A Merry Sithmas’.

The running joke in the family was that TJ was the ‘cool brother’, a title he’d given himself when they were in middle school, much to the amusement of their parents. In many ways, that dynamic held fast to the present day. TJ, with his laidback personality, his long dark locks and neat beard, his array of plaid shirts, band T-shirts, and casual hoodies, still seemed to embody West Coast cool in a way that his more serious, anxious brother didn’t. His job certainly helped - a sound engineer for a video game studio, the kind of job both boys could have only dreamed of as they hid their shared Game Boy from their younger sister, Teresa.

Even so, as Ana Morales liked to remind people when she spoke about her sons, when she’d asked a three year old TJ what he wanted to be when he grew up, his answer was clear: “I wanna be like Ben.”

The sliding doors open and passengers begin to stream out, excitedly greeted by their families and friends. The two boys keep watch at the barrier, their dark curls bobbing up and down as they compete to spot their beloved tío first.

“Tío Ben!!” 

Carlos wins this year, waving frantically to his uncle as he pushes his luggage trolley through the doors.

Ben grins widely as he wraps an arm around each of his nephews, ruffling their hair as they show off their new holiday shirts. TJ throws his arms around his big brother, embracing him tightly. “Welcome home, hermano. We missed you.”

As he pulls away, TJ notices how tired Ben looks. His smile, genuine as it is, doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“You okay, Ben?” he asks in a low voice as they follow the boys out of the terminal and in the direction of the parking lot.

Ben nods, putting his arm around his brother as they walk. “I’m okay. Just tired. It’s been a long semester. I’m so glad to be home with you guys - it’s been forever.”

“Can I ask you something, Lyd?”

Your younger - only - sibling, Kate, is bouncing her one year old daughter Evie on her lap while Cora, her older girl, dances around the room and sings along to Encanto.

“We don’t talk about Bru- sure, of course. What’s up?”

“Are you alright? You’re normally full of energy when you’re home for the holidays and you just seem - I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like someone’s turned down your brightness.”

You haven’t said anything to Kate about Ben - well, nothing more than acknowledging him as part of the wider group of friends you’d established at Barrow. You certainly haven’t told her about your growing closeness, or what had happened, or - god forbid - your feelings for him.

It wasn’t that you two weren’t close enough for sharing that kind of confidence. You’d been brought even closer together since your ex-partner had cheated and left. You just felt like if you actually articulated the words, it would make it too real. Too much. Too fragile, too likely to disappear like every other crush or love affair you’d ever had.

“I’m just tired, I think. It was a lot in a few months - moving there, adjusting to a new environment, meeting all those new people, doing new classes. You know I’m always wrecked at the end of the semester.”

Kate raises an eyebrow sceptically while Evie chews on a giraffe-shaped teething toy. “There’s something off.”

You exhale, frustrated. “I’m fine.”

“Did you meet someone?”

Your eyes widen. How the FUCK does she know?

“I don’t know what the hell you’re on about. What gives you that idea?”

“You were happy when we’d talk and FaceTime. You were always so excited going out with your new friends. And now you’re back here you’re tired and gloomy. It just makes me wonder, you know - was there more than intellectual stimulation going on over there. If you know what I mean.”

You roll your eyes. “Jesus, Kate.”

“They’re working you too hard, Benjamin. Doesn’t your poor brother look tired, Thomas?”

TJ exhales and takes a sip of his coffee. He was used to the annual routine - their mother fussing over Ben like he’d been thoroughly neglected since the last time he was home. 

“I asked him earlier and he said he was fine. Didn’t you, B?”

Ben nods. “I’m fine, mom.”

Ana Morales does not seem convinced. “Well, you’ve got a couple of weeks now to rest up. We’ll take care of you.”

TJ shoots a look at the twins, who giggle conspiratorially.

The door into the kitchen opens and Lucy, TJ’s wife, staggers in carrying a precarious stack of lilac-coloured cake boxes printed with the logo for Pun in the Oven, her bakery and coffee shop in the city. Ben and TJ immediately stand up to relieve her of the burden, placing the boxes on the kitchen table as Lucy - or as she’s more usually called, Luce - wipes her brow and grins in the direction of her brother-in-law.

“BENJAMIIIIIIIIN!” She grabs Ben and pulls him in for a hug, smiling widely. “Missed you, man!”

Ben smiles softly at her in turn. “You look great, Luce. Any new tattoos since I saw you last?”

Luce arches an eyebrow and holds out her left hand, revealing a simple outline of a heart in purple ink in the space between her index finger and thumb. 

“Hope you don’t mind, dude. Took some inspiration from your bullseye for this one, just because I always thought the placement was cool.”

Ben spreads the fingers on his left hand, flexing his thumb slightly as he looks at the small bullseye tattoo he had done during his junior year abroad. 

“I’m honoured. Any chance your husband might get a matching one, eh?” 

Luce giggles and wraps an arm around TJ. “You know he hates needles. He got our initials done, that was enough for me. He was so brave.” She plants a kiss to TJ’s cheek, triggering dry-heaving noises from their sons.

Ana surveys the stack of cake boxes on her table. “You didn’t need to, Luce. This is far too much.”

Luce shakes her head and holds up her hands. “Nonsense. Just a couple of the leftovers from today and a few extra batches of the holiday specials I threw in this morning. Plus, for the homecoming…”

She lifts the lid on one of the boxes and pushes it in Ben’s direction.

“Coffee and walnut - your favourite.”

Ben’s eyes light up and he hugs his sister-in-law. “This is the best gift I could ask for. Thanks, Luce.”

“Don’t you think he looks tired, Luce? He needs to rest, poor boy.” Ana tilts her head at Ben, who is already searching for a knife to cut a slice of the cake.

Luce does think Ben looks tired, but there’s something else that’s just not quite right. A sadness, somewhere, or a resurgence of his anxiety. You can see it in his eyes. Maybe her husband knows more.

“We’ll look after him.” 

There’s always been something special about Christmas Eve. As a child it was the anticipation and excitement for the day to come, desperate to go to bed but too excited to sleep. As an adult, drafted in to help prep the food for the next day’s dinner, you peeled potatoes, sliced carrots, and monitored the turkey slowly cooking in the oven while listening to carols and Christmas songs on the radio. 

More than that, there was something in the air - maybe not ‘magic’, contrary to the message pushed in every TV ad since November. But possibility: of transformation, of newness, of togetherness, whether with blood family, found family, or whatever community you chose for yourself.

Or, just maybe, you’d completely internalised A Christmas Carol. Never mind Charles Dickens, that was mostly the Muppets’ fault.

The arrival of your little nieces in recent years has brought back some of the old traditions from your own childhood. You’d been followed around for most of the day by Cora, who had turned three a few months before.

“How does Santa bring all the things, Auntie Lyd?”

You smile and continue peeling potatoes. “I think he has some magic that lets him have a really big sleigh that just carries all the toys for everyone.”

“But then it’s too big and won’t fly.”

“No, it will. Because it’s magic.”

“But then he has’ta come down the chimley.” She gazes up at you, narrowing her eyes. “Should just use the magic to put the presents down.”

You’re stuck there. Thankfully, your brother-in-law Marc arrives in search of another slice of cake, and you palm her off on her daddy. 

With Cora and Evie safely in bed and asleep, you and your parents help your sister and her husband set up the living room, carefully setting out the Santa gifts and filling the little stockings embroidered with each girl’s name. 

Marc takes a careful bite out of the slice of cake and drains the glass of port left at the fireplace. “I don’t know how he isn’t absolutely rat-arsed, with all the port and whiskey and that being left out for him. No wonder he’s falling down chimneys.”

With your parents gone to bed, and Marc watching Die Hard on a random movie channel, you and your sister unwind for a bit with tea and Christmas cookies. She eyes you up, as if steeling herself to make a confession. Or, as it turns out, to encourage you to make one.

“So, who is he?” Kate poses the question at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around her gigantic Christmas mug of tea.

You put down your own mug and sigh.

One of Cora’s favourite questions about Santa Claus is how he does it all in one night. Apart from magic, which even at three she seems sceptical about, you tend to cite time zones as an explanation.

After all, how else could Cora and Evie be already starting to wake up to their gifts on one side of the world, while Santa hasn’t yet visited the extended Morales clan on the other?

With Luce and TJ hosting Christmas this year, they extended an invitation to Ben and Ana to stay with them on Christmas Eve. In truth, they hoped being roped in for an 80s Christmas movie marathon with his nephews would help distract Ben a little. Maybe even get him in the holiday mood. 

By 11pm, Lucy has finished the prep for tomorrow’s meal and is shooing her sons to their beds. Their grandmother retired a couple of hours before to the guest bedroom, carrying a dog-eared copy of A Christmas Carol - she likes to read the last couple of chapters every Christmas Eve, even if Tiny Tim always makes her cry.

“I’m going to head up, babe - don’t stay up too late. You have all the stuff for the sofa bed, Ben?”

Ben turns to acknowledge his sister-in-law, nodding. “All here. Thanks, Luce, it’s really nice spending Christmas Eve with you guys.”

She smiles warmly. “It’s our pleasure. Teej, I’ll see you in a bit? G’night, Ben. Merry Christmas.”

The Morales boys are sitting on TJ’s couch, each drinking a beer while Scrooged plays, quietly, on the TV. 

“You gonna tell me what’s going on?” TJ runs a finger along the condensation on his bottle of beer, sleeves rolled up on his blue flannel. 

Ben fiddles with the cuff of his own, pine-green checked shirt. “As in…?”

His younger brother fixes him with a glare.

“As in what - or should I say, who’s - on your mind?”

“He’s called Ben. He’s a literature professor at Barrow.”

“Her name is Lyddie - I mean, Lydia. She’s a visiting professor. I’m sure I’ve mentioned her?”

“I met him on the very first day. He was my - what did he call himself? - my ‘welcome wagon’.”

“We went to dinner, as we normally do with the visiting people. And we just…man. Clicked. As friends.” 

“I mean, I made a Big Night reference and he got it? Honestly, I hadn’t had such a good time in…I can’t remember. I told him about what happened - the shit hitting the fan, and all that.”

“I guess we just started hanging out. Having coffee, talking - just friendly stuff, you know? She was new, we had a lot in common. I - I liked having her around.”

“He was so sweet to me when I was settling in. Like, I have made some really good friends over there. But sometimes he’d bring me coffee in the afternoon, and - I dunno, I started to look forward to it.”

“She’s unbelievably smart, TJ. Doesn’t think it. Always puts herself down. Same as when you try to tell her she’s pretty. But she’s so fucking bright, I swear to god. And she has the best taste in movies and music. And she is pretty. More than pretty.”

“And he’s so kind and giving. He’s running this whole diversity programme to try to make Barrow less white and wealthy and he’s had so much shit about it from fucking dickheads who think Ben’s not as good as them because he’s Latino and because his parents had to fucking work hard for a living. Assholes. All that and he’s really goddamn handsome.”

“And she’s a bit of a firecracker when she wants to be. You know that culture war idiot Lacroix? She just went for him at the away day because he was giving me shit.”

“He’s so fucking funny. The biggest dork you’ve ever seen. Actually did a ‘reeling you in’ dance at my birthday drinks to get me on the dancefloor. Once, he laughed so hard in my office that his glasses flew off his face. Hanging out with him is - was - so great.”

“She’s got this knack of knowing how to lift my spirits. I said to her one day that I’ve never laughed as much in work before - I meant before her.”

“I was the only person to get who he’d dressed up as for Halloween. That was a fun night - at Evan’s. You know Evan. You’re mutuals with Evan on Instagram, right? We were a little bit merry. Well, a lot merry. It sounds so fucking dumb but we touched and I swear I could feel electricity going off in my brain, and I…I hadn’t experienced that in years. Years.”

��Had her on my lap on the ride home from Evan’s. I put it down to being a bit drunk on Spooky Margs but honestly, I didn’t want to let her go when we got to her place. I’ll explain the Spooky Marg another time, man, you do not want to know.”

“We do - did - a lot of movie nerding out together. Did I show you the gifts he got me for my birthday? And the card? He got me a Hitchhiker’s Guide card. Y’know, because -”

“42. The answer to the ultimate question. She’s 42. I don’t think I said that to you. I guess I should have known there was something there the day I ordered that card, huh.”

“I knew there was something there on my birthday, for sure. And dancing with him, to that song - fuck. For a couple of minutes I just let myself pretend, you know? But he never did anything more, not that night.”

“I wasn’t drinking when we went out for her birthday, but she was. So I didn’t want to make a move, in case she wasn’t interested and felt I was trying to take advantage. But I wish I had.”

“He ended up alone in Barrow for Thanksgiving, so he invited me to come over. I’m sure I told you about this? The parade, the movie? Well, it was - it was really nice. God, that’s such a shit way of explaining it. It was just -”

“Mom did a video call, remember? And she saw her and she was all nice as pie and then she was giving me shit about whether Lydia was my girlfriend, and why wasn’t she my girlfriend because she was so pretty and so funny, and - god. You know what she’s like.”

“And all day I kept thinking ‘I wish I could tell you how I feel’, and then I’d remember I was just fucking visiting. I’m temporary. It’s temporary, by default. And he couldn’t want someone like me. And you know I can’t go through that hurt again. You know, Kate. You saw me at my lowest.”

“I did think about asking her out that evening, TJ. I did. But she’d said some stuff about being ‘good friends’ or something, and I just thought it was safer not to. I didn’t want to ruin what we already had. You know? She probably wasn’t interested, that’s what I thought.”

“I went to give him a kiss on the cheek to say thank you.”

“I turned to meet her. I wanted it, wanted to kiss her.”

“And we kissed, accidentally. For a couple of seconds. At least, I thought it was accidental. Don’t look at me like that, it wasn’t long.”

“I wasn’t brave enough to kiss her like she ought to be kissed. She panicked and I thought she didn’t want it.”

“I should have kept kissing him.”

“We didn’t see each other for a couple of weeks, between conferences and travel. And fuck it, I missed her.”

“We messaged all the time and I still missed him. We didn’t talk about Thanksgiving. Not until - well.”

“So I told her I meant it. Meant to kiss her.”

“I don’t know what it is but tying a man’s tie is so intimate and so hot and - yep. We kissed properly.”

“We ended up back at my place the night before she went home.”

“We…we were together, the night before I came back over here.”

“I’m not being ‘coy’, TJ. I - okay, we slept together. Happy now?”

“Yes, okay, yes, we slept together that night, at his place.”

“And I asked her to stay. I wanted her to stay over. I was ready to drive her home and get her stuff. I would have gone to the fucking airport with her. Anything.”

“I woke up in the early hours and I just - fuck. I just lost it. I flipped. All the dark shit just came roaring back up.”

“She left a note. I couldn’t believe it.”

“The sex was not bad, fuck off! I can’t believe I’m about to say these words to my baby sister but - best sex I’ve ever had. Four times. Four fucking times.”

“I know I’m blushing, dude. It was really, really fucking good. Really good.”

“Who am I, Kate? A fucking cliché? I left him a fucking note? All because I couldn’t handle having real fucking feelings, because I knew I’d fuck it up. Like I always do. And oh look - SHE FUCKED IT UP. Again.”

“I really thought we were on the same page, you know?”

“He left me a voice note. Here, listen.”

“I tried calling her, but she was already at the airport.”

“I called him back. No answer.”

“I don’t think I would have been able to speak to her. She left me a voice note, too.”

“It would be easier to explain in person, right? Wouldn’t it?” 

“Maybe we needed the space and time apart, anyway. Especially if she regrets it.”

“He said we could do with the space. He said he hopes I don’t regret it. How could I ever regret that, with him? I’ve fucked it up, Kate. I know it would have been pointless anyway with the temporary visiting stupid situation, but - still. I ruined everything.”

Kate reaches over to pat the back of your hand, her festive, red and green manicure glittering as the light bounces off her nails.

“You probably didn’t, love. You always think you did. Can I - can I see a picture of him, if you have one? Want to see this nerdy sex god for myself.”

You open your phone and swipe through your pictures, finding one you’d taken of Ben on Thanksgiving. He’s holding his plate stacked with blueberry pancakes, smiling and bespectacled on the couch as you watch the Macy’s parade.

“Here he is.”

Kate studies the image carefully, eyebrows raised. She zooms in and out a couple of times.

“Well, hello, gorgeous! He’s handsome. Really handsome. Look at that smile, whew. And those eyes!” She zooms in and out again. 

“May I remind you that you are a married mother of two?”

“I can look and appreciate, can’t I?” She swats the air as if brushing your comment away.  “Fuck, it’s like someone engineered him in a lab for you. He even kinda looks like a mature version of those imaginary boyfriends you used to draw in your diary when you were thirteen.”

“He is fucking handsome, isn’t he? He’s so - wait, what? How did you know about those?”

Your sister rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Bitch, I read that thing cover to cover. You were so dramatic. Still are. You got any of the two of you together?”

You open your photos and pull up the photos Ani took of you and Ben dancing the night of your birthday drinks. “These are probably the best.”

Kate’s expression changes when she swipes through the set of pictures, zooming in every so often to look at your and Ben’s expressions more carefully. She looks up at you, hands you back the phone, and looks like she might cry.

“You okay?”

“Fucking hell, Lyd, you’ve got it bad. Both of you - I mean, look at the two of you! I know they’re just pictures but on top of everything you’ve said? I don’t think he’s just got a ‘thing’ for you, I think he’s really into you.” She chews on a cookie. “Remind me what you said in the note again.”

You recount the contents of the missive. 

“It’s just… you clearly have serious feelings for him. You’ve told me all these things about this wonderful guy. You told me it was the best sex you’ve ever had. And then you say ‘it was great’ to him in a shitty note?! I can understand why he’s pissed off.”

“I screwed this up, didn’t I?”

Kate throws her head back in frustration. “Still dramatic. You screwed it up a bit, but - surely he’s not that much of an asshole that he wouldn’t hear you out?” She drains the last of her tea from the mug. “Admittedly if it wasn’t Christmas, I’d be putting you on a flight to San Fran. However - talk when you get back. Explain face to face. Don’t assume the worst. I don’t think he can turn off his feelings that easily.”

“You don’t know that she regrets it. You don’t even know why she left without saying goodbye. You said she’d had some rough shit in the last couple of years. She said the night together was great in the note, didn’t she? And she’s been in touch, so… I dunno, man. I wouldn’t write her off.”

TJ takes the last swig from his bottle of beer and slaps his brother on the thigh.

“Can I see a photo of this Lydia, then?”

Ben sighs and digs around in his jeans pocket for his phone. He chooses the one he’d taken of you on Thanksgiving, sitting in the diner with your grilled cheese sandwich and basket of fries. You’re still wearing your glasses after the movie, smiling at him in your thick cable-knit sweater.

“That’s Lyddie - I mean, Lydia on Thanksgiving. She made that sweater herself, you know. She’s a talented woman.”

TJ smiles as he studies your features, zooming in a little on your bright, happy face.

“She’s a pretty woman, too. Beautiful smile, gorgeous eyes - kind-looking, and you just know she’s smart and funny as hell.” He turns to his older brother, wrapping an arm around his broad shoulders. “Your girl is lovely, Hubbell.” 

Ben smiles and huffs a laugh at the reference. “Quoting The Way We Were at me? Hi, Mom.”

“Hey, Ana Morales has good taste in movies! Remember the VHS copy she always used to put on and cry at?”

Ben smiles at the memory. He turns to TJ, eyes full of emotion - worry, sadness, and affection. For his little brother, of course - but for you, too.

“I mean it, Ben. She is lovely. She sounds lovely - disappearing act aside, of course. And the way she’s looking at you in that picture - fuck, man. You can just see how much she likes you. You’ve every right to be hurt and angry, but - maybe don’t give up on her. You’re both too fucking old to let a chance like this slide, bro. Don’t let her go.”

Christmas Day is a chaotic whirlwind of overexcited nieces, a family dinner delivered like a military operation, and fighting over what to watch on TV. Same as it ever was. 

It’s nice. It’s comforting. But you’re impossibly lonely, embrace of a loving (if stress-inducing) family unit aside.

Since you’d cut and run a few days before, the steady stream of communication back and forth between you and Ben had essentially ceased, save for the voice notes. It’s become such second nature to you, the constant contact, and the rupture is all the more brutal as a result.

In the early hours of Christmas morning, lying wide awake in your old bed, you remember that during the Apollo missions to the moon they had a thing called LOS, or Loss of Signal. When orbit took the craft to the dark side of the moon, all communication between Mission Control and the astronauts became impossible for a time. 

LOS was nerve-wracking, particularly in the first attempts at lunar orbit. What if they never re-established contact? What if something happened on the dark side, leaving the crew lost forever while the rest of the world carried on? You have heard the recordings, the hiss of static fraying the nerves of those on the ground awaiting the return of the signal, the sound of a voice spinning through the vastness of space.

You’re in extended LOS, you realise. In spite of yourself, you smile, thinking how in any other circumstances Ben - with his Saturn V model and his Apollo 11 sweatshirt - would love the analogy.

“Did you send him a happy Christmas message yet?”

Kate doesn’t even look at you as she says it, all casual. She’s too busy scraping the remains of the Christmas dinner off the plates before stacking them in the dishwasher.

“The fuck?” Her ability to read your mind is starting to become disturbing. 

She swivels. “Did you send Ben a message wishing him a happy Christmas? If I was you I’d take a nice picture and send it. You look cute in that dress.”

“Do you think he wants a Christmas message from me? I doubt it. He wants space.”

Kate closes the dishwasher and presses the start button.

“I don’t think he knows what he wants, probably. Other than you. I’m sure he wants you, going on the way he looked at you in those pictures.”

You make a whining noise. “That was before.”

“You and your apocalyptic thinking. Unfortunately, Lyd, if you want to fix this you’re going to have to be the one leading the fixing. Start with a message.”

She sidles over to the kitchen counter, where your phone is safely tucked away to avoid doom-scrolling, picking it up and waving it menacingly. 

“If you don’t, I will.”

“FINE. But I’m not sending him a cute selfie, that’s ludicrous.”

You retreat to your room. It takes you a full half-hour to pick a photo and compose a message.

A notification appears at the top of your screen.

KATE: SEND THAT FUCKING MESSAGE

Breathe. Send. Run away.

Ben sneaks another buñuelo from the pile made by his mother earlier that Christmas morning. The sweet, spicy kick of the cinnamon sugar with the fried dough lifts his spirits - as does the sight of his three niblings side by side on the couch, engrossed in a game on Dylan and Carlos’s Nintendo Switch. A twin sits on either side of their youngest cousin, Julia - Jules to all - and helps her manoeuvre the controller and work her way through the game.

Newly-turned seven, and the daughter of Teresa Morales and her Irish husband Pádraig, Jules might be the youngest in the family but is a tiny force of nature. Though he didn’t have favourites among the three, Ben had a special connection with Jules, who routinely mailed him letters and drawings every couple of weeks. He would diligently respond with a hand-written letter, usually enclosing a couple of packs of stickers or a new book for her to read.

“I’M BORED NOW.” Jules hops off the couch and saunters over to her tío Ben, who’s sitting at the table in the dining room off Luce and TJ’s living room. “Can I have a buñuelo?” 

He brushes cinnamon sugar out of his moustache and off his dark red sweater, and looks over at his sister, who rolls her eyes and nods in resignation. “Your mom says yes, so…” He holds out the plate. 

Jules scrunches her nose up in delight as she takes a bite, then cocks her head as she studies her uncle. “I think you might be sad.”

This is a perceptive kid, Ben thinks. 

“I’m okay, Jules. Just a little tired.”

She chews another bite of her snack and shakes her head. “No. I think you’re sad. I can make you happy, though!” She makes a serious face. “Wait here, okay?”

She returns carrying a bundle of brightly-coloured hair clips and what looks suspiciously like a couple of bottles of nail polish. 

“Mama always says she feels happier when she gets her hair done. And has her pretty nails.” 

The little girl perches herself on a chair, sets out her equipment, and gets to work, tongue peeking out as she concentrates on painting Ben’s nails (she adds a glittery topcoat for extra effect) and carefully placing hair clips in his hair. 

“Everyone, tell tío he looks pretty!”

The rest of the extended Morales clan turn to look at Ben. Dylan and Carlos immediately grab their phones to take photos. TJ raises his eyebrows and nods approvingly. 

“That makeover stays put for the rest of the day, Ben.” Teresa is deadly serious, not wanting her little girl to see her handiwork undone. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Thank you, Jules. I feel much better.”

You allow yourself a glance at your phone later that evening, a glass of champagne lending you some extra courage.

Still nothing.

You cast a glance at the contents of the little gift box Ben had left for you before leaving Barrow. A beautiful, dark red notebook, subtly personalised with your initials in embossed lettering - and a set of Nouvelle Vague-themed film button badges.

“Stupendous as always, Luce!” 

Ben and TJ carry stacks of empty dinner plates into the kitchen, the family well-fed and content after their Christmas meal of beef and a seemingly endless selection of side dishes. 

Lucy is preparing dessert, which mostly consists of the cakes and cookies left over at Pun in the Oven when they closed for the holiday the day before, served with ice cream and fresh fruit.

“Your mom did a lot of the work, guys. Can’t take all the credit. Hey, TJ, can you carry this cake stand in with you? Thanks, babe.”

She notices that Ben has a somewhat wistful expression on his face as he sorts out the dirty dishes.

“Hey, I just wanted to say - I asked TJ if he knew what was going on with you, and…”

Ben nods and smiles. “He told you.”

“I’m with him, Benjamin. From what you told TJ, I think this is worth fighting for. Or at least, it’s worth giving her a chance to explain properly.” 

He casts his gaze downwards. “You know, when I saw those photos the boys took of my ‘makeover’, the first thing that popped into my mind was ‘I better send these to Lyd’.”

“You miss her.” Luce pats him on the back. “So why don’t you? Send them, I mean.”

Ben turns to her in astonishment. “Seriously? We said we were giving each other space, time… and I’m still not sure what she wants.”

His sister-in-law rolls her eyes. “If you don’t send her a happy holidays message with one of those pictures - I will. And you know I don’t fuck around.”

He stands with one hand on his hip, bringing the other up to cover his face. “I know you don’t. Shit. Okay. I’ll do it. But only so you - or worse, TJ - don’t.”

Luce does a tiny dance for joy as Ben turns to leave. She spots - and recognises - a baby pink no-crease hair clip sticking out of his dark hair at the back of his head.

“JULES, have you been in our room??”

Ben settles himself at the desk in his brother’s home office, where he’d deliberately left his phone all day. He’s still not convinced that Luce is right about sending this, but she’s a woman of her word. 

He holds your gift to him, unopened, in his hands. He unwraps it quickly.

A pair of brightly-coloured socks, patterned with books and pens. And a soft, hand-knitted, merino watchcap in a Prussian blue, with a little tag stitched inside: Hand Knitted by Me.

He didn’t expect your name to be there, waiting for him, when he turned over his phone.

You had chosen a slightly chaotic photo of yourself that your brother-in-law had taken, of Cora bopping you in the face while trying to stick a huge bow on you. It would at least, you hoped, make him smile.

Happy Christmas, Ben. I was injured in a gifting incident earlier today. - L.

He selects a photo of himself showing off his painted nails, his hair festooned with coloured clips, while Jules beams in the background at her handiwork.

Merry Christmas, Lyd. I got a holiday makeover courtesy of Jules. - B.

You each hope that the other will somehow be able to read, in the gaps, the words left invisible:

I’m so sorry.

I don’t know why you did it.

I care so much about you.

I really miss you.

I think about you all the time.

I want you.

(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more; other dividers by @cafekitsune)

Further A/N: TJ's 'Your girl's lovely, Hubbell' is, of course, a reference to The Way We Were.

#visiting fic #visiting masterlist #mr ben snl #mr ben au #mr ben x ofc #mr ben fanfic #professor ben x ofc #professor!ben #professor!ben x ofc #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal #pedrostories #Youtube

[harfblarf]

“Help my Cat” Scam Going Around

Have you received an ask in your inbox from an account that previously wasn’t following you, pleading for a signal boost on their vet-related post? I got one today, but something felt fishy. Or perhaps “phishy” is more accurate?

Here’s the ask:

Now a couple odd things right off the bat. This is a blog I’ve never seen or interacted with, who wasn’t following me prior to sending the ask, so I immediately wondered how they pulled my name to ask for help. And while the world in general is a shitshow, so I can sort of see why a person would default to saying it “isn’t the best time to ask for help”, they say it with such confidence without knowing me at all.

Odder still, from their posts-- which at least do look extremely normal and human-like, down to the mishapocalypse profile picture-- we don’t share any interests aside from... well. Cats.

The other odd thing is them specifically requesting I reply privately, through DM or a private answer. I wouldn’t think much of it except they’re already asking me to publicly share something on my blog; if I’m going to answer the ask, why can’t I do so publicly?

I scroll through their blog some more. Their pinned post is, indeed, asking for help with their cat:

Weirdly, though, an earlier version of this post uses a completely different name for the cat??

This is bizarre to me and my red flags are pinging louder. Maybe it’s innocuous, though, I mean, it could just be a nickname or something? Why would you change it though?

Also, the post’s ratio is weird-- 101 reblogs to 44 likes. I suppose not too shocking if they’re doing this use-an-ask-to-get-a-boost tactic widely, but the ratio is pretty extreme. I check the notes. Every single reblog with tags has some variation on ‘boost’ or ‘signal boost’; there are no comments. No one has mentioned knowing this person, no one has vouched for the legitimacy of the post... but two mention that they were asked to boost the post.

*EDIT: Per a polite anon, I will clarify that signal boost/boost tags themselves aren't a red flag; what bothered me was that the post's ONLY interaction history came from boosts from seeming strangers. An active fandom blog, active enough to think posting a plea for financial help might get traction, SHOULD have at least one or two mutuals or friends who are willing to push the post and vouch for its legitimacy. Because the only engagement was from people who had clearly been approached via ask, like me, I got the heebie jeebies.

Okay, I’m doubtful enough that I’m not comfortable boosting this post myself. But let me check one more thing.

I search google for the exact phrasing of the help-requested post.

Ah.

There’s well over a dozen blogs pulled up with this exact phrasing. Most of them use the name “Koppi” instead of either “Ashel” or “Biscuit”, but a few use “Ashel”. The oldest result, from 2016, uses “Ashel”; more commonly, these results are from 2022 or earlier this year and again, most say “Koppi”. Also interesting: basically none of these posts exist anymore. Google can identify the exact wording even beyond what I included in my search query using whatever demonic powers allow it to reference removed content, but they’ve clearly been deleted.

Additionally, which I clarify for those like me who attribute Google’s quirks to demonic powers rather than an actual understanding of how it works: if the dates didn’t make it clear, these aren’t the blogs in the notes of falesyorac’s post. I cross-referenced the names. It’s not pulling up those reblogs, so presumably the majority of these results at one time came from someone who drafted and posted the wording to their blog, not from reblogs.

Maybe it was once a real post, maybe it’s always been a scam, but evidently the content of the post has been stolen and recirculated at this point. Along the way I found this as well, an anon warning someone who must have reblogged a version of the scam post:

So this is at least partly confirmed as a scam from another source.

Please be wary, do your due diligence before you put your money anywhere, and block & report falseyorac. I’m not sure the nature of the falseyorac blog originally; it may have been a real account that got hijacked, it may be a very convincing fake, it may be a real person’s blog who is trying to to leverage their innocuous appearance to pull quick money with a beggar scheme. Regardless, it is evident there is not a genuine Ashel/Biscuit needing help today and that whoever holds the falseyorac account right now is trying to pull a scam.

One more thing-- one of those reblog’s tags I showed earlier.

I also have a tag for reblogs of cats. (It’s “cats”.) I suspect this is where this particular iteration of the scam is pulling its targets from-- after all, people who reblog cats enough to tag them must care about them, right?

Finally, I am tagging the people who reblogged falseyorac’s post with tags (there’s too many for me to do everyone who reblogged it at all) below the readmore-- if I messed up and tagged the wrong person and/or you want your name removed, please just contact me and ask. I want to make sure you can see this warning, but I’m happy to untag you if it bothers you for any reason.

@thislilfecker​ / @koreanbibliophilegirl / @kingminyard / @sss-shyshy / @shoutmonishere / @cleocatrablossy / @mothmansass / @aroanehring / @valkyrie-ellis / @jae-writes-fanfiction / @ninja-chibi / @iambecomeahamburger

(A few people’s names didn’t come up when I tried to tag them, so I wasn’t able to include them here, rip.)

#cats #scams #scam #cat #signal boost #warning #boost #mutual aid #community aid #community support #pet scam #donation scam #harf blarf blib blab #i spent too much time on this

[lazyflan]

For de Redditors: Fandom in tumblr

I just noticed that in the amount of post welcoming Redditors to tumblr, there aren't many people mentioning the fandom side, and I think Fandom in tumblr need a little bit more of explanation because of it's relevance in here.

So, here is some info, feel free to ask away in my inbox if there are any doubts tho.

So, welcome! If you have heard about this site before it might have been because of how fandoms are so prominent here (or the hypster side in 2012, but we don't talk about that), but if not, you will realize this soon enough.

Like most thing in tumblr, you can look a fandom through its tags! Though keep in mind that there are many fandoms that have more than one main tag. An example can be Twisted Wonderland, with two main tags #TwistedWonderland and #Twst, most people use both tags when posting and I recommend doing the same in your respective fandoms.

Character tags are also a thing, same rules as fandom tags but it helps you find more content centered around a character in specific.

Also, remember that the blocking button exist! Fandom in here is wild, and it’s incentivized to just block people who you don’t like or if their content triggers you. The same goes with tags! I’m personally a “problematic” kind of blog, so feel free to block me if you don’t like the rest of my content lol. Just don’t start shit up because most people prefer blocking rather than starting discourse. We aren’t as bad as we where in 2012 with fandom wars, so please don’t instigate.

Fandom also expresses itself differently here, there’s a lot more writing, like this blog, where people post small one-shots, headcanons or imagines by request of other people. There is also a lot of recommendations for ao3 fics. And fanart is, like always, very prominent, if you like some fanart, reblog it, the artists always appreciate when their art gets recognition!

There is also the term “Fandom in law” basically a fandom you are not in but know about because of your mutuals. A personal example is how I know a lot about tmnt, but only because one of my mutuals is obsessed with it, I haven’t touched the series in years, and I know the latest news in the fandom!

If you are as neurodivergent as me, you might like fandom statistics, and for that, Fandom exist! It’s basically a blog that post tumblr statistics monthly and generally post about fandoms that are prominent at the moment. They also have a yearly statistic thing with top 100 of different categories like anime, kpop, tv series, movies, etc. It helps to observe fandoms in here, what's getting recognition and stuff.

TLDR: Content in here might be a little different. Don’t be an asshole and start fights and remember that blocking is the better option.

#reddit blackout #reddit migration #fandom #196 #reddit #flan being lazy

[rewritingcanon]

Hi, I know I'm over a week late and all, but I couldn't leave it be cause this subject is really a sensitive matter to me for tragic personal reasons. I want to say that the reason you don't remember James ever "continuously asking Lily out; sexually harassing Lily; always asking her out and not taking no for an answer" is not because it's been a while since you read the books and forgot, no, it's simply because is DOESN'T HAPPEN IN THE BOOKS! PERIOD! It's not CANON and it boils my blood to no end when people make shit like this up and make such grave accusations when anyone owns the books and can check on their own that this did NOT happen in them! I dare anyone to bring forth any passage from the books that says any of that! The more they insist that this is canon, the angrier and more offended and hurt I get! I'm endlessly sorry about anyone's personal experience with such crimes (if I wasn't clear enough, I'm unfortunately familiar with them, too) but that does not change simple facts of what happened in the books, what IS and what is NOT canon and it's not an excuse to spread lies so insistently and passionately. Either this is willfully spreading lies or, and I will give benefit of the doubt, it's just people confusing canon with fanon after being in fandom and reading fanfics too much, in which case I would suggest rereading the books and brushing up with the canon knowledge, before spreading such harmful and hurtful rhetoric :/

hi, thank you for this ask and i’m sorry for what you’ve had to go through as well. yeah, i haven’t heard anyone contradict what i said in that post so i assume it was just something the fandom made up. i’m sure ace just confused fanon with canon— no victim would purposefully be spreading lies like that even if they did hate james because they would know how serious sexual abuse is having gone through it themselves. plus i’ve seen them complain about the same things with what some marauders fans say about snape, so i’m sure they didn’t do it on purpose and their intentions were good. but i won’t put it past other people in the hp fandom/snapedom to use it as a bandwagon to continue shitting on james without doing their due diligence and checking if something as serious as that is true or not.

i do agree that people need to be more focused on what is canon and what isn’t, especially with the harry potter fandom since its so large and very removed from a lot of its content, and especially if they are in the snapedom and the marauders fandom, because both fandoms seem to get the most carried away with their characters in my personal experience. i’ve seen people throw around creepy allegations at many characters and it really hurts and annoys me too, even if those characters are considered nasty. it’s one thing to say something like “[x] canonly likes porridge” (who cares in this instance) or “[x] is canonly gay” (annoying and probably ignorant but also whatever), and then say “[x] canonly sexually harrassed [y]” (….helllo??? cant speak for everyone but its definitely offensive to me lol). sometimes concentrated sub-fandoms may be a little like echo chambers so its good to brush up then and again on certain things. its good to interrogate people’s opinions and challenge them. you dont have to comment or reblog (i know i don’t…. usually 🧍‍♀️) but it can keep you from falling into repeating things that just confuse (or worse, hurt) people more.

#omg guyz yan posted fandom discourse again!!! 😭🙏‼️ #ofc its about marauders era characters smh what is new #also sorry anon for taking so long to answer this. i know this issue is personal to you so i didnt want to rush an answer #harry potter #hp #marauders #pro jily #pro james potter #<- technically not pro james but i dont want a james anti choking me for this #got called a ‘snater’ wayyy too many times for saying things that had nothing to do with snape LOL someone save me #lily evans save me lily evans save me #anti snapedom #anti severus snape #<- idk i rlly just dont want snape fans finding this #ask #anon #rewriting

[codywanfirstkissbingo]

Now that posting is open we just wanted to give you all a quick reminder of the rules of this event!

Please consult our full rules post for the details, and if you have any questions not covered by these rules posts, please don’t hesitate to reach out to our mods! Our ask box is open.

Posting

You have the entire month of December to post bingo fills!

You can either post to our collection on ao3 and/or on tumblr but we do ask that you please tag us @codywanfirstkissbingo AND tag your post with #CWFKB2023 as we don’t want to miss anyone if tumblr drops the ball. 

If you’re posting on AO3 but want us to reblog your fill, please make a Tumblr post with the link and make sure to @ us and tag your post with #CWFKB2023. We’ll be checking the collection when tracking fills and making round-up posts with bingos and blackouts, but we will not be cross-posting every individual fill on AO3 ourselves if the creator has not made a tumblr post.   

Please include a screenshot of your bingo tag with the prompt fill indicated so we know which square you’ve filled!

Fills

Get as creative with your kisses as you want but they MUST BE A FIRST KISS between Obi-Wan and Cody in some capacity. 

Prompt fills should be new works, meaning that they should not be part of an ongoing work-in-progress. Sequels and prequels to already-finished works are welcome! 

Fill five prompts in a row (vertical, horizontal or diagonal) for a bingo. Fill all the prompts on your card and that's a blackout!

Fic: 100 words minimum per prompt fill. To be clear, the kiss itself does not have to last 100 words, though we'd be delighted to see that. (If you want to write more that’s fine! Multi-chaps are welcome!)

Art: One drawing per fill (digital or traditional). Different drawings can be on the same canvas/page if you so wish. Go wild with your compositions.

Podfic: Same requirements as fic. You can collaborate with someone writing a fic specifically for the event or find an existing fic that fills your prompt.

Fanmix: One song per fill- we'd love to see what songs give you codywan first kiss vibes. Try to match lyrics to your prompt but instrumental songs are cool too.

Other: Send an ask with your inquiry! We're more than happy to discuss expanding the fanwork pool to maximize creativity.

Ratings

You can post any work with any rating, but please abide by the appropriate rating/archive warning/tags on AO3 when posting there.

When posting on tumblr, please warn for potentially triggering content in the tags and the header to the post, so readers can filter as needed.

Anything spicy or explicit should go under a read-more tag, and please use a read-more tag if you’re posting a fic that is longer than a drabble (100 words) to be considerate of people’s dashboard feeds.

Anything with any flashing imagery must be tagged with #flashing

Finally– with exceptions for the NSFW or #spicy and #flashing tags on tumblr– you have the right to choose not to warn readers in accordance with AO3’s “choose not to warn” option, but posters whose tags or ratings are deceptive or misleading versus the actual content may have their fills disqualified.

When in doubt, please contact the mods! The mods will contact you about any fill where the tags and ratings raise this concern, with a request that you revise and update your tags and warnings. Our askbox is open but please check our full rules post first!

Combining Prompts

This is a low stakes event and we just want people to have fun! If you want to combine prompts that's totally fine, but we ask that you give each fill its own scene within the larger work. This means there should be a separate kiss for each prompt, even if the 'scene' is a series of types of kisses all in a row.

Swapping Prompts

As all the prompts are randomly selected and not handpicked for participants; we understand there's a chance some of the prompts may not inspire you so we allow ONE and only ONE SWAP PER CARD. Use it carefully if you need it!

Other FAQ’s

What is a butterfly kiss? A butterfly kiss is brushing of eyelashes on skin, or eyelashes together.

Are AU’s allowed? AU’s are encouraged! We welcome canon compliant/canon divergent and AU interpretations of prompts!

What counts as a ‘first’ kiss? We’re open to people playing with and twisting the concept of 'first' but generally we want the kiss prompt you’re filling to be the first kiss they’ve shared of that variety. It does not have to be the first kiss they’ve ever shared, but it does have to quantify as a first in their relationship. We would like an emphasis on it being a first kiss.

#cwfkb2023 #mod post

[thepinklink]

It got too long and heartfelt in the reblog, so I decided it deserved its own post XD

BOOM. MY OLD ART FROM LIKE 2018/19???

This is my bestie's Harry Potter OC that I drew for her! I actually had some similar drawings of both our OCs, but they're not in my possession right now XD and maybe they'll never be! But it's cool to see how very far I'll e come since then.here's some of my more recent art, just so you can see them side by side XD

For me, personally, seeing them side by side makes me giddy. They're so different, it's hard to link them together, hard to look at them and think the same person drew them. But I did. And as someone who grew up with another fabulous artist (@/rustic-space-fiddle), | was always impatient, always discouraged to look at my own art and see everything it was missing. I wanted to draw like Rusty, but I was so very unskilled. I was very eager to reach the day when I could match her skill, when I could look at my art and see in it everything that I saw in hers.

And today, I can honestly, confidently, gratefully say that I have arrived.

Obviously, if you go check out Rusty’s art, you’ll see I am by no means as good as her. But I learned awhile ago that I’ll never be, no one will—not only am I biased that she’s the best artist in the world (because she is), but Rusty draws the way only Rusty can, and the way only she will. Others may draw similarly, others may copy her, but art is like a fingerprint. Each style and piece is unique to the person who drew it. Therefore, it’s unfair for me to compare myself to Rusty when I could never possess her fingerprint in the first place. But that doesn’t change the fact that I used to compare myself to her so harshly—and the fact that to a younger me, I have achieved exactly what I wanted.

2018 was not the year I started drawing. Was it perhaps the year of my first exploration into the digital realm? Yes, but before then, I was drawing horses. I love horses, and I loved them so much they were all I ever drew. My walls were adorned with dozens of drawings of horses. I’ve since fallen out of the habit of drawing horses so regularly, but all those drawings are what started me drawing. I learned to hold a pencil and put it to paper drawing horses, and then from there, I just started drawing everything else. I only recently started drawing in seriousness, in the grand scheme of things. A year or two ago. And then I was drawing people most of the time, and the occasional dog or cat. And there were many bumps along the way—my discouragement at my own ability, as well as my inability to draw digitally, as I was quickly coming to love. The iPad I used at the time simply didn’t support Procreate after awhile, so I was using my sister’s iPad.

There are also the artists which inspired me. Obviously, rustic-space-fiddle was—and still is—my number one support and inspiration, she was my goal. But then I got instagram and I saw people’s different styles, and while I don’t know where exactly the inspiration from them comes from, it’s certainly there, perhaps in the courage with which I now draw. The second biggest inspiration in my life has been, without a doubt, Jojo. Her art style, which I adore, is something I have tried to imbue in mine—I’ve been told before that it can be seen, but I’m unsure of that. Still, even if I do not draw in her style, I think I draw in her energy. In the way that I draw Legend, that style, that goal, that love for him and her art, I think it’s there every time I draw Legend, and even in the other things that I draw too. She may never know, but she is perhaps the only other artist in the world I have ever really hoped to be like.

Anyways. I guess what I am simply trying to say is I’m happy. I’m proud. I’m content with my art, in a way I once hoped I would achieve, and while I know I have many things to learn, I approach them without that lost hopelessness I used to feel, but with passion, curiosity, and the determination to grow better.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. You didn’t really have any reason to read this—even if we have talked, even if we are mutuals, I’m still a stranger whose ramblings about her art hold almost no weight at all. But you did anyways, because you were curious, because you cared, because it was interesting, moving, inspiring. Whatever it was, thank you :)

I’ve come a very long way. And I’ll go a very long way more. I hope you’ll be here to see it all!

#plink draws #plink rambles #sorry that was long #i was very moved XD

[house-of-mirrors]

After reading this thread and the ongoing discourse of Iron vs Fires vs Stones in the railway steel trade, I had more thoughts I wanted to share about the industry, but I didn’t want the reblog chain to get too long so here we are (Also tumblr ate my first draft of this rip). I’m from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, US, which has a rich history of the steel industry, and I finally get a relevant opportunity to infodump. This post will dive into a little more detail about the layers of steel production and where specific contention points between the Masters would be.

As mentioned in the thread, the Bessemer process involves blowing oxygen into the furnace to remove impurities from molten pig iron, thus producing steel. Pig iron is produced after iron ore is smelted in a blast furnace, making it higher in carbon. Blast furnaces are fueled by coke, a processed form of coal. A flowchart of the basic steps from start to finish, with products in gray and locations in red:

Now, I would be remiss if I didn’t share some visuals. A Bessemer Steel Converter, 1889, Rivers of Steel Archives. Source

Not the same one as in the picture, but there is still a Bessemer steel converter standing as a historic landmark in Station Square in Pittsburgh.

Also still standing as a historical landmark, a little outside the city, is the Carrie Blast Furnace. My own photo from when @thedeafprophet​ and I toured. (No, we didn’t sign up for a tour specifically because we were thinking of the Masters, don’t be silly. It was only partially because of the Masters and more for special interest in history and engineering.)

And a photo Prophet took:

Carrie is big and she is beautiful. Now, I know we’re talking about Fallen London, and the UK is very different in history than the US, but I can’t bring up Carrie without suggesting further reading on the Battle of Homestead, which occurred in 1892 after long years of tension between the Carnegie Steel Company and the Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steel Workers. As you can imagine, the company favored increased productivity, longer shifts, and lowered wages. Pinkerton guards were called in to break the strike, and a battle in the early morning ensued which the union actually won, forcing the strikebreakers out by railroad. Unfortunately the union did lose the war, and there wasn’t a significant steelworkers union in the United States until the 1930s. Later, the merger of some companies including Carnegie Steel formed US Steel, which was the first billion dollar company in the country.

The Gilded Age. Yay.

Now that we’ve gone into some detail about the components of the steel process and a small tangent on labor history, the question of which master has its claws in which part of the steel industry comes up. I’ve created this visual aid for the points of contention:

Fires: claim to fuel and the forge. Stones: claim to all that comes from the ground. Iron: claim to metal. The discourse between the three is funny, yes. But really, what difference is there when they’re all cartoon industrialist villains who want productivity and profit above all else! (I cannot overstate how evil real companies in the era were, Carnegie Steel being only one example. The Masters are not an exaggeration except for the fact they're literally monsters lol)

Now, from my own experience, a ton of space is required to sustain an active steel industry for a nation that is building railroads, buildings, weapons, etc. I don’t think Fallen London has that space. Satellite sites exist in the Neath (I have not played much Sunless Sea but I’m aware of the existence of the Iron & Misery Company) but even then it isn’t much. There must be places to mine, places to process coke, places for blast furnaces and places for mills. Molten pig iron must be transported in special train cars between furnace and mill. Quite simply, machines take up space. It makes reasonable sense for the majority of steel to be imported in London. I don’t doubt London is capable of producing some steel, but not the quantities required to sustain an industrializing country.

Once again tangential, but I find it amusing that the Enthusiast of the Ancient World is the one who trades steel at the bone market, and here in Pittsburgh, the natural history museum is named for Carnegie, after he poured money into philanthropy to try to save face after the Homestead Strike. Imagine a museum full of bone market creachures.

But to end on a serious note, the steel industry is dangerous and dirty. Workers up close with molten metal, risking life and limb (and workers in the era of Fallen London having little safety regulations). Use your imagination. Despite the industry’s decline in this region in the 70s and 80s with companies outsourcing labor, there are still active works here. My parents tell me stories about growing up with soot everywhere and the air smelling like sulfur. Today, the air quality is much improved but leaves something to be desired. There is a balance somewhere between heritage, the environment, and employment, and I don’t have the answer to that. Anyway, I wrote this post in my head while driving past some of the works today

#infodump time with R #i spent a while on this i deserve to maintag it #fallen london #i spent entirely too long on this lol but I had fun #obligatory remark I'm by no means an expert in this I just listen to a lot of lectures

[tf2rarepairevents]

Can we participate if we have your main blocked?

Not gonna lie anon... I genuinely can't figure out the intent behind this question. However, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and will answer it legitimately, I guess?

If you weren't aware: the block feature is used to prevent another person from interacting with you. This includes viewing and reblogging your posts. So, its like…? If you really want to make stuff for the event days then sure, go for it, but know I won’t be able to view it/reblog it onto this blog.

This is just really confusing because 1. If you blocked me, why do you want to interact with my event lmao and 2. You can ??? make content for rare pairs without the event ??? Like you can just go do that. You don’t have to be a part of the event. Like go have fun. You don’t need me. Be creative.

#this is in the top 5 of the weirdest asks i've ever received on this website i think #trust me I'm not some king residing over all the tf2 rare pairs or something #ask #anon

[thementalshawty]

You don’t have to post this, and I’m coming to you as a fellow black woman…but I saw that shit play out in real time. That girl you’re reblogging from is NOT in the right. She is leaving a LOT of things she and her ableist ass followers were saying (like calling that op schizo and retard and whatnot). And it’s actually really fucked up that she got everyone riled up with “racism” when she is literally the only one who brought up race.

I can’t believe tarot drama has me defending a random white woman on anon, but here we are. I thought we left this shit in the past after that BLM debacle in 2021.

I’m only coming to you because I actually read and enjoy your content. Idk who these other people were before this blew up but I’d hate to see you being manipulated by such a weirdo who’s crying racism because she lost an argument with someone who didn’t even know she was a WOC until she screamed racism.

The funny thing about this is. I have no fuccin idea what you’re talking about now if you’re talking about what I put the fuccin sigh too, smh 🤦🏽‍♀️, I don’t have to post what? My opinion on the entire thing, since you think I chose sides let me break it down for you, did you ever think it was just because of the drama in its entirety that I was posting and that I didn’t picc a side? which I didn’t. I make love readings so the fact that I saw the fight again over sumn I was defending is the reason I posted this, not why you felt the need to come at me for and You felt the need to come to me anonymously to state a case that you have no idea what i was thinking? You could’ve came to me in the inbox but instead this?? You could’ve respected me enough to give me the fuccin benefit of the doubt, guilty move on your part, I’m not sitting here defending a soul. You and her shit about who’s right or wrong ain’t my fuccin tea 🍵 the whole fuccin shit is sad and that’s the whole point I said what I said , as a blacc woman I have dealt with fuccin racism on here I’ve dealt with people bullying me about my tarot, my sexuality and so on and so forth, ofc she’s coming at you you think she’s wrong the whole thing is pathetic and that was MY point, I’m not sitting here trying to decide if you’re some dumb bitch and she’s some fuccin white knight. ALL OF IT WAS NOT FUCCIN CUTE! Like you said this shit ain’t 2018 and even then the shit wasn’t cute and in case you didn’t get it, THAT WAS MY POINT OF THE ENTIRE REBLOG! Cut it the Fucc out and get tf out of the tarot community if y’all want to be fighting, I’m not piccin sides or none of that I’m here for the ones that WANT to read and have a good time, trust me I’m not being manipulated by a fuccin soul ONLY PISSED THAT ANY OF YOU BRINGING THAT KIND OF BULLSHIT THIS AINT GOT NOTHING TO DO WITH NO FUCCIN BLACC OR WHITE AND IF YOU THINK I WAS SUPPOSED TO CHOOSE YOUR SIDE AUTOMATICALLY BECAUSE YOU ARE BLACC, Smfh. NO MORE FUCCIN DRAMA ABOUT READINGS THATS MY GODDAMN POINT! That other wacc ass shjt is for the birds! If she’s a racist bitch then that’s what she is, what did that have to do with me being done with the TAROT drama on here???

#tarot reading #pick a pile #tarot cards #tarotblr #pick a card #pac reading #tarot community #psychic #free tarot reading #fs pick a pile #answered!!!

[snappedsky]

Fanatics 99.20

Everyone leaves the planet Tourney and returns home.

There will be a short break before the next- and final- chapter as I am going away next weekend and won't be able to post.

*Links to previous and next chapters in reblog*

--

The Greatest in the Galaxy Part 20

“What...a...show! I knew this would be the best competition we’ve ever seen, but I could never have predicted this! This will go down in history, folks, and I’m so happy to have presented the majority of it. Well, for all of us here at Tourney, and every competitor, thank you for watching The Greatest in the Galaxy! This is the AI announcer M1-C, signing off for the very last time.”

Across the galaxy, all televisions tuned into the competition channels lose signal. Viewers turn their screens off and return to their day-to-day lives.

On Tourney, the Resisty ship is parked in a giant parking lot, surrounded by other large ships. In its infirmary, the Battalion are seated on the beds, after having spent the night healing and recuperating. They also turn off the TV.

“That was a good show we put on,” Zim remarks.

“Too bad we couldn’t win though,” Gaz sighs.

“What do we mean?” Squee questions. “We did win. It was like a whole thing yesterday, remember?”

“No, I mean, the competition,” she replies, “we didn’t finish it so we couldn’t win it and get a trophy. We won’t get a trophy for winning a revolution.”

“No. We just helped free countless of beings from the Irkens’ tyranny,” Dib says, “but we won’t get a trophy.”

“I thought the whole point of this was we get a trophy,” Gaz grumbles.

“She’s got a point,” Tak agrees.

“I tell you what, we may not get a trophy, but those two over there can get an award for most injured,” Pepito grunts, pointing to Dib and Squee. Both of their torsos are wrapped up in bandages to cover their burns.

“Pepito, you really gotta let this go,” Dib groans.

“You’re just lucky with Shmoopy’s advanced alien healing you don’t need skin grafts,” he snaps, “I say we ban bombs from the team.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Squee says quickly, “this wasn’t because of my bombs. My bombs are fine.”

“You blew yourself up twice this week!”

“And that was not the cause of this injury.”

“Too bad those cam-bots are gone,” Tak grunts drily as the pair argue. “They’re missing some quality content.”

“I swear, if you two keep this up, you’ll be riding the ship home instead of using the teleporter,” Zim warns.

Squee and Pepito quiet down and grumble, their hands linked together.

The door suddenly opens to Kio, who’s smiling excitedly. “The Irkens are leaving. Do you guys wanna see them off?”

“Yeah,” Zim says and everyone quickly throws on some proper clothes, wincing from their still tender injuries, and hurry out of the ship.

The Massive is parked on the other side of the lot, taking up more space than anything else. Irken soldiers are filing inside, many of them cuffed. Civ and Viv fly around them, making sure everyone behaves themselves. At the back of the group are tallest- only in size now than in title- Red and Purple. Their hands are cuffed and their PAKs have plates drilled over them to keep them from opening. Rory and Zinather stand behind them, surveying everybody. Rory hurries over when he sees the Battalion.

“You got your work cut out for you, Tallest Rory,” Dib remarks.

“No doubt,” he replies, “but it’ll be worth it. It’s time for a major change on Irk.”

“There’s no one else I would trust with this project,” Zim says.

“I appreciate that,” Rory grins. “So when are you finally gonna rule your planet?”

“Eventually,” he replies, “why rush it? It’s not going anywhere, not as long as we’re around.”

“Well, I look forward to the day we become true planetary allies.” The new Irken leader steps back and bows regally. “Until then, my friends.”

The team smile and wave as he follows the rest of the Irkens onto the Massive. Zinather is the last to board. He looks back at Zim and nods. Zim nods back.

Everyone watches as the Massive lifts off, disappearing slowly into the atmosphere.

“Looks like everyone else is leaving too,” Squee says as he looks around. Around the parking lot, countless different species are boarding their various ships and leaving the planet. He spots the Swifs, particularly Nimbel. She meets his eye and he waves. She waves back.

“I guess it’s about time we leave too,” Kio says.

The team head back to the Resisty ship. Shmoopy is in the infirmary, putting together a kit.

“In here are all the salves you need for your injuries,” she explains, handing a duffle bag to Zim. “As well as instructions on how to use them. Follow it diligently, especially you two.” She points to Dib and Squee.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dib grunts.

Kio faces the team, smiling sadly. “I guess this will be the last time we all meet up like this, at least for a while. You’re all gonna be doing your own thing back on Earth.”

“That’s why we did this, right?” Squee asks. “One last hurrah.”

“And what a last hurrah it was,” Pepito adds.

“What about you?” Zim asks Kio. “What are you and the Resisty gonna do now that you won’t need to resist against the Irken Empire?”

“I’m not sure,” she replies, “we haven’t really had a chance to talk about it. I don’t think everyone here actually believes it’s happening. But I doubt we’ll split up. Many of the species on this ship don’t have a planet to return to. And even those of us who do might not consider it home anymore. I’ve been gone from Vort for so long, I don’t think I’ll recognize it.”

“You could always come to Earth,” Dib suggests.

Kio smiles. “I’ll consider that.”

An awkward silence fills the room as nobody knows how to proceed. Then Zim clears his throat.

“Well, Kio, Shmoopy, as always, it’s been an honour,” he says, bowing his head. They both smile softly at him.

“Why you being so respectful?” Tak asks suspiciously.

“It’s creepy,” Gaz comments.

“He’s just feeling uncomfortable,” Dib chuckles and the others laugh.

“Enough,” Zim snaps, “let’s go already. Ready the teleporter.”

“As you wish,” Kio nods and rests a circular device on the floor. It lights up and whirs with energy. “Battalion.” “Resisty,” Zim bows.

With a wave, one by one the Battalion steps onto the teleport pad and transport to its twin on Earth, in Tak’s house.

Johnny, Devi, Tenna, Colton, Carmen, Maddie, and Skoodge are there to meet them. Colton immediately hugs Squee, making him wince painfully.

“Owwwww I’m still so tender,” he whimpers.

“Sorry,” Colton says quickly, letting him go.

“So did we put on a good show?” Pepito asks cheekily.

“You guys were awesome!” Tenna cheers.

“It wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever watching,” Johnny grunts, ruffling Squee’s hair.

“I cannot believe what you accomplished!” Skoodge exclaims, “you revolted against the Irken Empire! You ousted the Tallest! This is...inconceivable!”

“He’s right,” Devi agrees, “it was a helluva fucking show.

“Everything is going to change because of this,” Skoodge adds.

“Yeah, but not here,” Tak points out, “Earth will remain the same as it always has.”

“Maybe,” Gaz grunts, “but starting next week...we won’t.”

She looks up at Pepito and Squee, who glance at each other. A heaviness suddenly hangs over the air.

“Nah, we will,” Zim argues, “even with you three leaving, we’ll still be the same team.”

Just like that, the heaviness dissipates and everyone smiles because they realize he’s right. No matter what changes they go through, or where they go, they’ll still be a team.

#invader zim #invader zim fanfiction #johnny the homicidal maniac #johnny the homicidal maniac fanfiction #iz jthm crossover #myocs #myart

[sitp-recs]

Hey Liv, I sent you a fanniversary message yesterday, but I was talking to my partner about fanfic and fandom and I realized something else that you've had a huge impact on. Before I found your blog, I felt so guilty whenever I'd read certain "problematic" pairings and tropes. I bought into the idea that some YA authors were "creepy" for writing about teenagers in certain ways.

Your posts and reblogs about SALS and similar really allowed me to find acceptance for myself and also gain a way better understanding of fiction and fantasies. I feel like I can not only freely enjoy these kinds of works but I can now intellectually talk to others about it!

The internet is just such a cesspool of hate and judgement, but our little section of the Drarry fandom is just so wonderful for its diversity and acceptance. Thank you for your part in that.

PS. I definitely had some squicks that I never imagined touching before seeing your recs. Lemme tell ya, I've definitely gotten over most of those now 🙃🙃

Part 1:

Oh wow, this is truly one of the most inspiring and rewarding things I’ve heard ever since I created the blog! I don’t have words to express how emotional I got reading this, and realizing I might have had a small impact on something that speaks to me on such a profound level. Making people feel safe and welcome in their interests and kinks has always been my top one priority here. This blog is very much a 18+ space and I did my best to include in my recs a range of ships, ratings, kinks and tropes. I remember I had no expectations of getting any kind of buzz or overall support once people started noticing where I stood, or when they figured out I was a starker shipper lol 😂

As someone who consumes a lot of smut, and particularly the so-called “problematique” stuff - hello age gap my beloved! - practicing SALS and Kinktomato has never been a doubt, it’s more like a life philosophy at this point. It’s the one principle I knew I wanted to follow as soon as I decided to run a blog. And I’m so incredibly pleased to hear that my blog helped you work through all of that in a safe way, but I just can’t forget to mention the amazing work many talented authors - some of them quite big and popular in the Drarry fandom! - did and still do providing brilliant and varied kinky and rare pair content. I’m talking about lqt, shiftylinguini, bixgirl, ruinsplume, Writcraft and so many others. They certainly paved the way for new authors who at times felt unseen, insecure or afraid of backlash. So their courage fuels mine, and their passion for art and creativity inspires me to keep sharing appreciation for these works. Thanks again for sending such a special message and for staying around since the blog’s early days, I appreciate that so much! Honestly, this made my night 💜

#asks #allshielded