#at this point I stalk their ao3 pages

[wafflesrisa]

“What do you mean there’s a critical lack of gen fanfic in this fandom??”

/Rolls up sleeves and grabs glass beakers labelled “Found Family”, “Platonic Fluff” and “Gratuitous Whump”

“GUESS I’LL HAVE TO WRITE IT MYSELF”

/mad scientist noises

#top gun maverick #top gun #for real this fandom is so thirsty and like ok you do you but where are my gen found family creators #where are you my friends #why are there like two fandom creators who write gen fluff #at this point I stalk their ao3 pages #enough is enough this weekend the gratuitous time travel gen found family wing fic is happening #it’s going to be a steaming pile of gratuitous found family fluff #/ratchets gun/ guess I’ll have to do it myself

[emepe]

— Pairing: Eren x Reader, friends to lovers

— General info: series, 18+, modern AU, serial killer AU, smut, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

— Summary: Fate is a tricky thing. Certain situations can’t be avoided as much as certain people’s lives can’t be kept from intertwining. With a serial killer on the loose, and unexpected relationships blooming, how will the universe intervene?

— Chapter summary: The killer has the police fooled. Meanwhile, you and Eren enjoy more of each other’s company.

— Content warnings: slightly nsfw, dry humping, make out, mention of stalking, murder, mention of torture, mention of rape.

— Notes: Welcome to chapter 7 <3 If anyone else would like to be added to the tag list, lmk. Happy reading!

Links: Read on AO3 | Chapter guide | Masterlist

lost signs

“Detective.”

A meek voice pulls Levi's attention from the paperwork scattered across his desk, as a fresh manila folder is promptly set down before him.

“The notes on the autopsy.” 

Every other task is instantly abandoned as the raven-haired man grabs the folder and goes through the pages of the autopsy report, along with the notes provided by his subordinate. 

Less than an hour later, Levi's knocking on the door of his captain's office, staying true to his habit of walking in before being invited.

“What do you have there?” 

Erwin Smith barely spares a proper look at Levi as he continues scrolling through a file on his computer. 

“Carly Stratmann's autopsy notes.”

Erwin simply nods, not showing much interest in the topic but not yet doing anything to shoo the stoic detective from his office. 

“You're the lead detective on this case. Don't tell me you need me to hold your hand for this.” 

Levi clicks his tongue at the remark, but straightens his posture to keep up his stern appearance. 

“I think we need to raise a few alarms.”

Erwin shoots a menacing look in his direction, but purses his lips before he can spout another sharp remark.

Levi Ackerman hasn't been working the homicide department for long — just barely a couple of years after transferring from property crime, and just as many major cases under his belt. 

His sudden need to raise alarms doesn't come as a surprise to Erwin. The man's got good instincts, albeit he's a bit too quick to act on them for Erwin's liking at times. And that's when he intervenes to rein him in.

On a day when he's so burnt out from work, the task is even more annoying to take on than usual.

“Is it the same M.O. as the Langnar case?”

“Not exactly, but—”

“I'll stop you right there, then,” Erwin firmly says, holding a hand up to make his point, hoping he can cut today's coolly disguised frenzy short. 

Though calm and collected — practically icy — on the outside, detective Ackerman has been letting his personal convictions sway his thinking since the Langnar murder. 

Erwin doesn't care to know much about his subordinates — it's just a job — but he knows Ackerman has a beloved niece of similar age to the recent murder victims living in the city, and it doesn't take much to deduce that's where his hidden worries stem from. 

“There aren't many coincidences, it's true,” Levi states, resisting the urge to harshly spit the words at his superior. After all, a man who wants to be heard, has no need to raise his voice. “But even if these are isolated cases, it wouldn't hurt to… I don't know, set up a curfew… send out more units to patrol at night. Erwin, two women were murdered without a trace of DNA from the culprit.”

He sighs, then mutters the next few words under his breath.

“That's not a fucking coincidence.”

Erwin leans forward into his desk.

“Alright, Ackerman, I'll humor you for a minute.”

His hands clasp together, his chin resting on top as he formulates a question.

“Aside from the lack of DNA and the fact that they're women, is there anything in the autopsy reports that's enough to suspect we've got a serial killer in our hands?” 

Levi tenses his jaw, tongue rolling against his cheek before sourly replying.

“No.”

Erwin's eyebrows rise as a sign of finality. But Levi stands his ground, taking his gesture as defiance.

“I get your point. Stratmann could have nothing to do with Langnar. Maybe it was someone they knew or maybe it's not. If that's the case, are two criminals better than one? Is that what we're hoping for?”

Erwin's stern gaze falters for a split second, but he recovers just as quickly.

“How do we discard a serial killer in the making? What if this person hasn't fixed themselves on their M.O.? We can get them early in their career if we make a move right n–”

“We can't make moves based on gut feelings.”

Erwin's statement makes Levi shrink back for the first time since walking into the office.

“Langnar was tortured. Her injuries were consistent with weeks of trauma. Choked, handcuffed, cut, beaten, sliced at the mouth post-mortem, and dismembered. A very tedious and meticulous process, wouldn't you say? She had to have spent weeks in captivity and that points to either a person who was close enough to lure her into their trap or a stalker who observed her before kidnapping her.” He gestures for Levi to hand him the file in his hands, snatching the folder and ripping it open once he's close enough. “Stratmann was sliced at the neck, choked beforehand, raped post-mortem. It's sloppy and clear to have been done on a whim.” 

“She was left in a dumpster, too,” Levi reminds him. “Just like Langnar.”

Erwin presses his lips into a thin line, his thick eyebrows weighed down with severity.

“That's not enough to go off of. We can't cry ‘serial killer’ over one measly coincidence.” 

Levi can feel himself wavering at Erwin's arguments. 

“Can we at least impose a curfew?” he asks.

Erwin heavily sighs, enough for the movement to be caught on his now slumping shoulders.

“As I said, bring me solid proof of a connection and we'll talk.”

“Okay. Spill,” Mikasa orders as soon as she scurries out of the bathroom and plops down criss-crossed on the sofa.

It's Saturday night and you and Sasha are staying over at Mikasa's place for a girl's night.

The living room floor is littered with blankets, cushions and pillows, and the television is playing a random horror movie that has gone ignored since Sasha wondered out loud how Eren was doing a few minutes ago. She seemingly asked nobody in particular, but it was clear you were meant to respond with both girl's eyes set on you the moment the green-eyed man's name came up.

You figured the sleepover was a cover for an ambush. The girls formed a separate group chat for just the three of you, coincidentally the day after your first date with Eren and have been asking to get together for the past week. 

You tug nervously at the sleeve of your pajama top, shying away from the expectant gaze that seeps through Mikasa's face mask.

You shrug.

“What do you wanna know?”

“Who made the first move?” Sasha asks, scooting closer to you as if that means she'll get more details.

You ponder for a moment. It's hard to tell. Eren was first to ask you out two months ago, but you were the first to kiss him last Saturday. In a way, you both had a chance to steer the wheel.

When you explain this to the girls, they swoon, falling into a fit of excited giggles.

“I never pegged you for the bold type,” Mikasa grins, lightly smacking your shoulder. “I bet Eren loved that.”

Sasha nods in agreement, giddy.

“I can't believe you didn't tell us right away,” Mikasa pouts. 

“I don't think you would've remembered, Mika,” you say. “You had three Long Islands that night.”

“Still, it would've been nice to know,” she sighs dramatically. 

“Okay, so you got together the night of the Halloween party,” Sasha reviews. “But what about the day we went to Sunrise? I totally thought you guys had a thing going on back then. I mean, Eren never left your side, even before you got hurt.”

The apple-picking trip seems like so long ago, but the memory remains fresh in your mind. You smile at the mental image of Eren's serious expression as he claimed to never have been so curious to know anyone before you.

“Oh my gosh,” Mikasa squeals, aggressively smacking Sasha’s back as she's reminded of something. “She was feeding him peanuts on the way there. They were so shy, it was adorable.”

Instinctively, your hands come up to cover your face in embarrassment. It didn't even register until now that the people in the backseat witnessed the awkward exchange. 

Now that you've tasted the lips that brushed against your fingertips that day, the reminder seems even more embarrassing. 

You smack your cheeks lightly in an attempt to ground yourself. The girls watch you amusedly, exchanging knowing glances in between.

“Have you guys… you know.” Mikasa raises her eyebrows suggestively.

Warmth floods your cheeks again.

“Not yet,” you murmur. “We're taking things slow.”

She looks surprised, but nods in support.

“Of course,” she says. “Slow is good.” 

“Says the girl who pounced on Jean after one of his gigs because she was jealous.” 

“Hey!” Mikasa whines, growing shy at the accusation. “I had to get a message across. He was being petty.”

Sasha throws her head back in laughter.

“No, he was just stupid. He had no idea you liked him back until that night.”

Your gaze flickers between the two girls as you piece their conversation together. 

A blushing Mikasa picks up a cushion and chucks it at Sasha’s face who easily avoids the blow and laughs at the raven-haired girl's pout.

“Whatever,” Mikasa groans. She turns to look at you, features instantly shifting into a more cheerful expression.

“So how do you feel?”

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“About Eren.”

“It's only been a week,” you explain.

“So?” she shrugs. “You guys have been spending a lot of time together, haven't you? Armin told me Eren's been driving you to work everyday. That means you've had a lot of one-on-one time.”

Shyly, you lower your head, focusing your gaze on the black and white pattern of the comforter laid beneath you. Your fingers mindlessly trace over the texture of the fabric.

“I guess so.”

Both girls smile.

“So what's the verdict?” Sasha asks.

“I… I really like him,” you sigh, lips tugged into a smile. “Like… really really like him.”

Another round of excited squeals and giggles echoes through the room. 

Their thrill only encourages you further, pushing you into a tangent of how thoughtful Eren is and how he always manages to hold you with so much care, bringing you peace each time he's close. 

“He makes me feel safe. Is that weird to say?” 

Mikasa shakes her head as she peels off the mask from her face, wrinkling the sheet into a ball and chucking it across the room to the trash can in one corner. She misses by an inch.

“Not at all. I don't mean to sound old-fashioned but you have to be with someone who makes you feel cared for.”

Sasha hums in agreement as she shoves a handful of popcorn into her mouth. She holds a finger up, asking you to wait for her to gulp down the snack.

“And someone who makes you laugh, also very important.” 

You nod along with Mikasa.

“Oh, and… well, when you get to it… someone you're sexually compatible with,” she adds. “People like to pretend it's not a big deal but it really is. Sex is okay but great sex with someone who knows how to touch you is where you find out if you're in sync. There needs to be communication and understanding and care. It's so fucking important.”

Mikasa looks down at her friend as she pats her head affectionately.

“You're so wise for someone who doesn't have a boyfriend.”

Sasha quirks an eyebrow.

“Hey, just because I'm not blurting it out to everybody doesn't mean I don't have anything going on.”

Mikasa hums contemplatively. 

“Do tell.”

The conversation takes a turn to Sasha’s latest sexcapades, and you take turns with Mikasa to look surprised at the stories she shares.

By the end of the night, when you're all teetering the edge of sleep with a third movie serving as background noise, your mind drifts back to the emerald-eyed boy who makes you laugh so easily, draws every emotion from you, and cares for you like it's what he was put on this earth for. 

Water pools at your feet out of thin air. You’re stuck in a dark void with no end, yet the water your eyes frantically search the source of keeps rising at a startling speed, soaking little by little into your clothes until it weighs you down.

Running seems futile. The void has no end and the water keeps steadily climbing up your body, so who knows how long you’ll have until you’re fully submerged — with no exit in view. Even if you could run, the weight of your drenched clothes would only pull you back. But you can’t even move anyway, you realize. You’re stuck in place, feet unable — or unwilling — to even take a couple of waddling steps. 

The water is up to your hips now. With trembling hands, you reach down and scoop at the liquid. It’s thick and with a smell so rancid it stretches through the infinite length of the emptiness you stand in. The water’s filthy. 

Your hands drop at your sides in an unsettling daze. The next second, your breath grows shallow and you start pulling at your feet as the water reaches your neck. Tears prick at your eyes as you cry at your feet, begging for them to move, to lift from the ground so you could at least make some weak attempt at reaching the surface for air. 

Suddenly, a light. Pure white shines brightly from far ahead, where a golden silhouette stands at the threshold between darkness and light — the void’s borders. The other person bangs their fists at the invisible wall keeping you apart, yelling something you can’t make out. Are they yelling at you? No, they don’t even seem to notice your presence. So who are they yelling at? Up at the sky… They’re yelling something up at the sky. But what are they saying? Who does the golden silhouette even belong to?

Your left foot unsticks from the ground unprompted. A sharp breath is all you take before you make your first step toward the light, hand midair to call for the figure’s attention. Just then, an unknown body pulls you into them from behind, crashing your body down into the murky water, where your lungs fill with filth and your eyes flutter shut.

You wake with a small gasp coming through your lips. Still stiffened by the strange dream, your eyes are all that wander the unfamiliar room. The television is set to a screensaver, likely triggered by an extended lack of attention to whatever on-demand production was playing before you fell asleep. There’s a clutter of takeout containers on the coffee table and used glasses with remnants of soda that can safely be assumed to be flat by now. 

Slowly, you stir on the velvet green sofa you’re lying on, when you take note of the firm hold around your waist, followed by the soft exhales released onto the crown of your head. You look down at the familiar watch wrapped around the wrist of the hand that holds you in place.

Oh, you think. That’s right. I’m at Eren’s place.

He’s been having trouble catching up on work, meaning he’s had to stay up late for the past couple of nights. He’s a stickler about getting a good night’s rest, so the temporary change in work shifts has thrown him off quite a bit. You told him to stay home and rest — that you could go to the movies another time; next Sunday was fine with you — but he insisted on seeing you, even if it meant a more casual hangout in his living room with Chinese food and a comedy-drama film from the 2000s playing on the TV. 

At some point in the evening, the late hours caught up to him all at once and he even managed to get you to stay with him, wrapped in his arms as his sleepiness found its way to your body as well. 

Craning your neck, you peer at Eren’s sleepy face from the corner of your eye. You smile. He’s got an innocent look about him even in his sleep. His lips are parted just enough to take and release soft breaths. You sink back into the couch, wiggling around to find the comfortable position you were previously in. 

Eren feels you moving and his arm instantly pulls you closer to his body. His warmth transfers through every layer of clothing, enveloping you in a warm embrace. In his sleep, he mumbles a string of words you can’t quite comprehend under his breath, but the vibrations against your back coax you back into a peaceful slumber. 

The next time you wake up, it's already getting dark out. The coffee table has been cleared of its mess, and the body lying behind you is no more. Forced by the absence of his arms around you, you trudge out of the living room to look for him as you rub the sleep from your eyes. 

He's in the kitchen, back to you, filling a glass with cold water from the fridge. 

Leaning against the threshold, you watch him adoringly, marveling at his toned figure from behind. He chugs his first glass of water down, refilling it as soon as he finishes. As he brings the glass to his lips once more, he turns around, eyebrows rising slightly when he takes in your presence.

“Boo,” you smile, standing straight and making your way over to him.

He abandons the glass of water as soon as you meet him, opting to use his hands to push you closer to him by the small of your back as yours rest on his shoulders.

“Did I wake you?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“Just felt lonely, all of a sudden.”

An amused air blows through his nose. 

Your hands find a way to his hair, fingers carding through the strands as he keeps his gaze fixed on your face.

His hair has gotten longer, and the strands around his face now cover his forehead, tickling the skin. It’s not messy, by any means, but it gives him an edgier look. The duality of Eren Jaeger’s appearance is a wonder to you. He’s got a way of tipping the scales between cute and sexy with every little thing he does. 

You smile at the few rebellious locks that poke out, still fixed in the angle provided by his nap.   

“What?” he asks, mirroring your smile.

“Your hair’s getting long,” you murmur.

“I’ll get a haircut soon, don’t worry,” he replies, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth, amused by the way you follow after him once he starts retreating from the contact. He kisses you once more to keep you from pouting.

“I didn’t say anything,” you chuckle. “If you want to grow out your hair, that’s fine. You don’t have to keep it short. I was just pointing it out.”

He shakes his head, humming in denial. 

“Nah. This part’s starting to bug me. I just haven’t had time to get it cut,” he explains, brushing back the hair covering his forehead. He proceeds to squeeze your waist on either side. “But what do you prefer?”

“I don’t know,” you mutter with a shrug.

“Gun to your head, which looks better?” he smiles.

His extremist question earns him an eye roll but you answer him nonetheless after a beat.

“I like your short hair,” you finalize earnestly. 

He grins, cupping your face with one hand as he places a kiss on your cheek — then on your jaw, and one in the crook of your neck.

“Yeah?” he murmurs against the sensitive skin.

You nod, a small smile dancing across your lips at his tender affections.

“You look very handsome with a clean undercut. The day I met you I actually thought you were really good-looking.”

He pulls away from his task on your neck to stare at you in disbelief. 

“And yet you refused to go out with me. I can’t believe you.”

He shakes his head, clicking his tongue in mock disappointment.

You laugh. The sound swells him with pride — it lights up the room.

“Looks aren't everything, dummy. You're so shallow.”

It's your turn to feign disappointment while he stands there, amused.

“Right, right,” he nods. “I forgot you fell for me because I'm a strong and dependable man.” 

He flexes his muscles, making a whole show out of his pointed remark.

You roll your eyes, but the warmth creeping up your face is hard to deny. 

“Isn't that right?” he teases.

You don't humor him with an answer — there's no real need for it.

With his hands settled comfortably on your hips, he guides you backward, until your back is pressed against the counter, before he hoists you up and sets you onto it with ease. You welcome him between your thighs with a smile, breath hitching when he caresses your knee over your jeans and buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“My baby,” he coos, pressing an open-mouthed kiss onto your skin. 

You giggle at the teasing meaning behind the affectionate name, heart fluttering at the feeling of him smiling against your skin.

The both of you keep your positions for a while — him breathing in your perfume while you stroke his soft hair tenderly.

Being with Eren feels so easy. It's a wonder how comfortable you feel with barely a week tallied for your relationship. Each morning and evening when he drives you to and from work have definitely helped. 

After your sobbing confession outside of your apartment, you apologized for making Eren feel as though he was troubling you by being so attentive. 

All the accumulated trauma in your heart had ironically made you the perpetrator of making him believe there was no real place for him in your life even after you accepted his liking for you. He didn't ask any followup questions that night, but he understood and vowed to be patient.

You're still trying to be okay with that — his unmoving loyalty. But it's easier to accept when you remind yourself he wouldn't stick around if he didn't want to.

Looking down at the boy in your arms, you smile. He can be so childish at times — teasing you, insisting you hold him, easily shaken by a few late nights. And yet there was something so comforting in his behavior. He's always so happy to see you, making sure to clock in quality time hours — not that he didn't enjoy the daily drives, but it wasn't exactly a date. Not to mention his unwavering need to make sure you're safe. At least his rare stubbornness has good reason.

Reluctantly abandoning the comfort of your neck, he lifts his face to meet your eyes. His gaze bores into yours, engulfing you in warm pools of emerald. 

A lazy grin takes over his features. 

“I like that,” he murmurs.

Your eyebrows twitch in confusion.

“This,” he explains, bringing a hand to your head and mimicking the strokes you've weaved into his hair. “It feels nice.”

An airy chuckle escapes your lips and you make a point to stroke his hair more.

His face hovers over yours. His hands rest on either side of you as he leans into your affections. His eyes flutter closed as he sighs at your touch. 

You look up at him mesmerized by his angelic features. It's true you've always thought he's handsome, but this closeness makes you appreciate every detail of his face even more. His long lashes, the faint freckles on his nose, the thick eyebrows that are softening with each feel of your fingers combing through his hair, the perfect plump lips that whisper your name. 

It makes your heart pound against your ribs loudly, the sound echoing in your ears as your hands grow sweaty.

That's when you decide to pull him in for a kiss. His eyes flutter open for a split second of surprise before they close again, at peace and happy. Your hands lose themselves in his hair as his wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter by the small of your back.

The contact is painfully slow, with measured pecks in between deeper kisses. He melts into you, lips softly grazing yours, breath fanning across your mouth as he nips at your bottom lip with his teeth to later soothe the area with his tongue. His lips slot warmly between yours, dragging out at a snail's pace before coming back. 

The tip of his tongue pokes between your lips, shy but determined to be granted the access you so easily provide. A soft moan bubbles up your throat as his tongue caresses yours with vehemence. It's unusually hot, but the foreign feeling of his tongue in your mouth is greatly appreciated, marked by the way you desperately try to pull him even closer, in hopes that he can swallow you whole.

The pit of your stomach flutters and stirs with the most pleasant tingle when one of his hands travels to the back of your neck and he pushes his hips against yours. Despite the layers keeping you apart, it's easy to tell he's grown hard from the sweet exchange. He's rock solid under his pants, the delicate moans that bounce off your tongue and onto his making him bigger with every passing second. 

He knows you can feel it, but you don't seem to mind, your head too dizzy with the collective sensations being fed to your body — his warm tongue, his bulge brushing your most sensitive spot over your jeans, his left hand holding you in place by the back of your neck while the other firmly squeezes your waist as he's consumed by the passionate kiss. 

You cling onto him, thighs drawing closer to keep him flush against you. His hips roll against yours, brushing so deliciously against the spot that's growing wet beneath your clothing that it sends a tickle up your insides.

He sucks on your tongue, the act drawing more lustful mewls from the back of your throat. 

You're feverish, your face burning when your shirt happens to rise, exposing your midriff to his calloused fingers which were so careful not to touch any new skin before the incident. 

There's a string of saliva that connects your mouths when you finally break your fervent makeout. His lips are swollen and glossy with your saliva, as you're sure yours are with his. 

“Eren,” you weakly whine in between breaths. 

“Hm?” he hums, as he parts from your mouth to leave a trail of wet kisses down your neck.

You shudder when he swirls his tongue against your sweet spot before gently kissing it.

You whine his name again, though your voice has a stronger shape to it this time.

He turns to face you, pecking your lips just once before easing his grip on your body.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Slow, I remember.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. 

His nose brushes against yours as he tilts his head to press a calmer, cooler kiss onto your lips. 

“I want to, by the way,” you admit bashfully, avoiding his blown pupils and opting to look at a blank point on his shirt. “Just… not yet.”

When your gaze flickers to his, he's looking down at you warmly.

“I understand,” he murmurs. 

Your eyes flit toward the window, reminding you of how late it's getting.

“I should go, it's already dark out.”

Eren nods, pulling back from the counter until you both notice the tent in his pants. You tear your gaze from the area, searching for something of interest elsewhere. 

He blushes, ready to express an apology for his body's reaction to your wanton moans and feverish kisses, but you hop off the counter and trail off to the living room to search for your jacket before he can, leaving him to softly laugh at your meek behavior as he makes his way to the bathroom. 

When he comes looking for you in the living room a couple of minutes later, you're seated on the couch, waiting patiently for him. 

You smile upon his return, no trace of embarrassment left on your features.

“Do you really have to go?” he asks.

Your expression softens but you nod.

“We have work tomorrow. And I know how you get if you don't get your beauty sleep,” you tease. 

He rolls his eyes, but wears a playful smile nonetheless. 

“No. I mean,” he takes a deep breath. “You could stay the night… if you want to.”

His voice grows timid with every word as he gauges your reaction to his offer. He doesn't want to be pushy, by any means, but he hopes you'll accept.

He watches you chew on your bottom lip, unsure of what to say.

“Unless, of course, that goes against the whole taking-things-slow agreement,” he awkwardly laughs. “But I just… figured you should know… I wouldn’t object to you spending the night. No funny business. Just… to sleep.”

A breath of relief pushes past his lips when a small smile finally grows over your previously troubled features.

“Maybe not tonight,” you say. “But I’ll think about it.”

His lips curl inwards to hide his smile before he holds his hand out to you so you can head out the door together.

Eren swings your linked hands as you travel down the hall from the elevator. It's a habit he's developed over the past few days after seeing you cry for the first time.

The image lingered with bitterness in his head the entire night. It still pops up every now and then, reminding him he has to do everything in his capability to keep it from happening again. 

As you walk to your door, hands comically swinging more aggressively each time with Eren's playful attitude, he marvels at your laughing face, feeling at ease with everything concerning you. 

He finally eases up on his swing when you reach your door, but your fingers remain laced with his until you absolutely have to part ways.

“Sorry I was so tired today,” he says, holding your hands up to compare the difference in size. He presses his palm against yours, eyes shimmering at the sight before he grabs your hand and brings it to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently. “I'll make it up to you next time.”

“I don't mind just hanging out,” you say, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “It's fun.”

He smiles as he watches you fish your keys out of your jacket pocket with your free hand. The click of the lock always comes before letting go, but it's fine because he still gets to see you tomorrow morning for the drive to your office. 

You turn to him, leaving the keys dangling on the lock as you drape your arms around his neck.

“By the way,” you murmur, pressing yourself further into his chest when his arms wrap around your waist. “You can spend the night at my place, too, if you want.” 

His features twitch and his eyes light up with interest at the offer.

“No funny business,” you add, before pressing a kiss on his cheek. “Just to sleep.”

He laughs.

“Of course. What kind of guy do you take me for?”

You smile, affectionately brushing your nose against his with your eyes closed.

“Just thought I'd let you know.”

“I’ll think about it,” he murmurs mockingly, echoing your response from earlier.

You look up at him quizzically.

“Do I sense some competition over whose apartment we stay at first?” you accuse. 

“I’ll get on my knees if you want,” he quips without missing a beat, not bothering to be cool about the topic.

You giggle.

“Perfect. I love pathetic men.”

He stifles a laugh, eyes twinkling in amusement as a reflection of yours. Then he turns on a comically serious expression.

“Baby, I’m as pathetic as they come,” he firmly states, which makes you laugh even more.

“You're such a dork,” you giggle.

He hugs you tightly, playfully rocking your connected bodies in the middle of the hallway as he peppers your face with kisses, relishing in your amused squeals.

The giddiness in your expression remains even after you're both standing still and he's no longer attacking you with kisses.

“Thank you for making time for me,” you smile. “I mean, you already do so much with driving me to work and everything. If you’re ever not in the mood, you can—”

He cuts you off with a chaste kiss to your lips.

“It’s my pleasure.” 

You bite back a grin and nod.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs before letting go and beginning his journey out with backwards steps.

“Bye, Eren,” you smile.

Before he can turn on his heel, you catch up to him, instantly making him drop his confused expression for a much softer one when you press your lips against his in one last kiss goodbye. When you pull back, he's got a goofy grin on his face as he waits for you to explain yourself. 

You smile shyly.

“For the road.”

November 4, 2024

I found out where my angel lives. It's not too bad a place, but I'm sure she'll like the room I'm fixing for her better. I'm working on a way to get some of her favorite things over to my place. Hopefully she won't miss them too much before I can reunite her with them. 

I'm so relieved. It was worth keeping an eye on her for the last few days. The only downside to come out of this is that I have to see that jerk's stupid face everywhere. He just can't leave her alone for a damn second. 

It pisses me off to see him touch her like it's nothing. That should be ME kissing her and making her laugh. Not him. He shouldn't be allowed to touch her. Still, she looks so happy each time. But I can't be mad at her. I could never be mad at my angel. She'll realize soon enough that I'm the one meant for her. I just have to suck it up in the meantime. It's bad enough that I have to keep my distance for now but do I have to see her smiling at the wrong guy, too? I can't take it. 

She's gotten prettier. It seems impossible but it's true. I could look at her for days on end — and I have the past week as proof. Her smile is brighter and she's practically glowing. It only makes the wait even harder but I still have so much to get done for her arrival. I can't wait to see the look on her face when I finally bring her home with me so we can be happy together.

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taglist: @erenjaegerwifee @youatemylollipop @okaystopwhore @bakuhoethotski

#eren yeager x reader #aot fanfiction #snk fanfiction #aot x reader #eren x reader #eren jaeger x reader #eren jaeger fanfiction #eren jaeger smut #eren jaeger x y/n #eren jaeger fluff #eren yeager smut #eren yeager fanfiction #eren yeager x you #eren yeager x y/n #snk smut #snk x reader

[londonfoginacup]

A New Larrie’s Guide to Tumblr

A probably incomprehensible, certainly incomplete list of what you need to know; whether you’re coming from a different platform or discovering Larry for the first time. 

My credentials

Hello! I’m Emmu. I’ve had tumblr since… 2008? Maybe 2009. I moved over from deviantArt and used Tumblr as a personal art blog for many years. I joined the One Direction fandom in 2014, so my 1D blog has 8+ years at this point. That being said, I will get on my soapbox a bit during this. Please excuse me, I’m quite passionate about cultivating a happy and healthy fandom.

What makes Tumblr different

The biggest thing that makes Tumblr, as a site, different from Twitter or Instagram is the rejection of algorithms. The “following” tab on your dashboard is in chronological order (and if it isn’t, you can – and should – change that), and the “for you” tab is both a recent feature and rarely used. Tumblr has very little algorithm, and the algorithm they have isn’t very good. It means that you’ll get the most god awful ads you’ve ever seen on this site, because they don’t utilize your data well. And that’s to your advantage.

Tumblr is a great place because you can curate what you see more than other social media. The people that you choose to follow are the only people that you see on your dash (unless you choose to follow tags, which I guess is an option? @lululawrence says “it is and it used to not do anything unless you went to the search page and then it would like autofill your followed tags options, but NOW they take those followed tags and plop them on your dash... SOMETIMES. usually only on mobile. but if there's only one new post in the tag, it shows you that post OVER. AND OVER. AND OVER AGAIN. IT'S SUPER ANNOYING ACTUALLY. SO I STOPPED FOLLOWING TAGS. lol anyway”).

So, the site is in chronological order. This is its biggest selling point.

There is also the opportunity for long posts. Masterposts. Things that are searchable without having to read through pages of screenshots or condensed twitter threads. You can write a whole lot more without worrying about character limit. People publish whole fics on here (I suggest ao3 for that, but tumblr is technically an option!).

Another important thing to know about tumblr is that the archives on tumblr run deep. There are newer larries here, and a lot of them, but you can also find older larries. People whose 1D blogs go back to 2010 or 2011. You can dive into the archives and read firsthand accounts of what was happening with One Direction or larry at that very time. Doing a bit of research means you find cute fetus pictures of the boys, but also you’re able to figure out for yourself whether something actually happened. Rumors always seem to spread quite easily and fandom memory always seems impossibly short, but here on tumblr you’re able to find out for yourself. That means the next time you hear about how xyz thing happened a long time ago, check out some of those archives and see what you can find.

Also, my personal favorite part of tumblr is that old posts are just as valid as new posts. Find a masterpost about RBB and SBB from 2015? Go ahead and reblog that; bring it back to the circulating dash. People will love that. Find a fanartist that you really like? Search through their tags, reblog anything you want. It’s not considered stalking or weird in any way. We love bringing back old posts here. Tumblr is a website where you’re not meant to just talk about the present. 

The cultural difference between Tumblr and Twitter

Speaking of the ways that tumblr and twitter are different, let’s talk for a moment about the 1D fandom in particular.

I’ve held this theory for a while that the twitter (and instagram) algorithm is fracturing the fandom. Because twitter is so dependent on the algorithm, people are more likely to split apart and join smaller and smaller communities based on smaller, more specific opinions. Tumblr, being a place where you don’t just get a post on your dash because someone else liked it, doesn’t have those smaller cliques. There are larries, and there are antis.

(if you get really in the weeds, there are also larry shippers [who don’t believe they’re together but like to read it in fic], and houis [who think they were together but broke up], but I just don’t hear about them as much).

While I do occasionally hear about blouies on my dash, for the most part this is a culture that exists primarily on other sites. 

On another note, because tumblr doesn’t have that handy algorithm, we have to work to make it a more active space. Likes don’t do anything here for anyone other than you, and it doesn’t really change anything about what you’ll see on your dash. Think of them more like the bookmark setting on twitter or instagram. Reblogs are necessary to get anything spread. Anything that you enjoy, or that looks interesting for any reason? Reblog it! That’s the only way other people will see it! And leave a happy comment in the tags if you’ve got one (more on that later). 

And, while lurkers do exist in this fandom (and we love them), it’s important to get an icon and blog header that make you look like a real person. People on tumblr have long been in the habit of blocking shady blogs, mostly because of a bot problem, so if you want to lurk, you have to look like a lurker. Maybe reblog a post or two to establish yourself, and make sure you don’t accidentally look like an icon-less bot posing as a sugar daddy. 

How to set up your account

Okay, so you’ve got a tumblr. Let’s take a minute to fix up the settings so that you’re not getting, well, the worst version of the site. 

My advice is to start by going into your dashboard preferences and:

Turn off the best stuff first (it’ll just show you things you’ve already seen)

Turn off “include stuff in your orbit” (you’ll see terrible posts that are mostly NOT in your orbit)

Turn off “Included based on your likes” (again, you’ll see posts you hate)

Turn off “shorten long posts”. It’s a ridiculous setting that, like many things on tumblr, had potential but was rolled out in an incredibly unhelpful and user unfriendly way.

Once you’ve got that squared away, go into filtering and block any tags and content you don’t like, as that is always proper fandom etiquette. Not seeing things you don’t like is your responsibility, not the responsibility of the person posting them. I personally suggest adding the topics you don’t want to see to both the content list and the filtered tags list, as that gives a much better likelihood of posts that are particularly unsavory for you getting caught by the filters. Please also note this might need to be done on both desktop and the app separately as, depending on where tumblr is at the moment, these filters do not always carry over from one application to the other.

Now scroll down to tumblr labs. These are their experimental things. Some are good! Some are very bad. They do change, though, so this might get out of date pretty fast.

Personally, I enabled fast queue

And disabled everything else

ALSO, an important note, if you are using the apple app, you need to go in and turn off the adult content filter. No idea offhand where that is, but it means posts that include tags like “mine” and “girl” are blocked. It’s ridiculous. 

Who to follow and how to find them

So, you’ve got a new tumblr and need people to follow. This makes sense! To really fill up your dash, I’d suggest the following

Find one person you like. There’s a good chance you know at least someone from twitter who also has a tumblr, so you can start there. If you’re not from twitter, or are looking to start fresh, you can dive into the search function (I’ve never tried finding someone this way myself, but searching larry stylinson or something similar would probably get you started)

Find the people they reblog from and check out each of their blogs! Follow people that make you happy

Follow some update accounts! Thinking of some off the top of my head, there’s @HLUpdate, @Stylesnews, @dailytomlinson, @HLDailyUpdate, or @neilswaterbottles (there’s definitely more though). 

Follow some fanart or fic rec accounts! 

I’d always suggest @1d-fanart or @hlcreators for art. 

For fic, you could check out @hlficlibrary, @ficsyoumayhavemissed, or @thelarriefics. 

Or, recurring fic fests! @onedirectionbigbang or @wordplayfics, which happen every year.

And if you end up not enjoying someone you’ve followed? Unfollow them! It’ll make you happier.

How to interact with posts

Tumblr is all about tags. Do you have a comment or thought? Reblog a post and say your thought in the tags. That way anyone you follow will see it, and the person who made the post will see it. This way a post doesn’t end up with a lot of cluttery additions that don’t mean a lot to the average person reblogging it, but if you browse the tags of posts you’ll find lots of interesting things. Tags can be used to keep track of things, too, of course — some people tag all pictures with who’s in them, or tag art or fic with tags that mean they can find them again. Tags are versatile! But reblog, don’t just like, and tag! The more you interact, the happier content creators are!

What not to do

Don’t repost. If you see something you like on tumblr, reblog it. Even if it’s a really old piece of fanart (like circa 2011). Reblog that old post! Reposting means people don’t get credit, and it doesn’t link back to them. That’s not cool, and in the long term makes fandom less happy.

How to cultivate a happy and healthy fandom

Send happy anons! Ask how people are doing, do question memes, say how much you loved fic/art/edits, etc.

Reblog art. Reblog fic. Reblog what makes you laugh. The more you reblog, the more other people see, the more the fandom moves! Content creators just want their things seen; every time you reblog, their phone gets that little notification and you’ve given someone a bit of happiness.

Unfollow people who annoy you. Follow people who make you happy!

If someone has a take about 1D that you don’t agree with, don’t tell them or send them argumentative anons. Find people who will agree with you, and complain to them privately. Or make your own post, not shading anyone, just presenting your own opinion and theories!

Remember that everyone is a real person. Cut them some slack when you find them being annoying. But also, unfollow. Curate your dash.

#I made this like #in the spring? or summer #and then felt like it was too pretentious to post lmao #anyway maybe this will help someone! #foggy essays #that's a tag that WILL have more in it eventually #once i write my essay about Carolina #...which i was supposed to do back when it first came out lmao

[to-the-stars8]

Reviving Love

Jason Todd x Reader AO3

Chapter 3

Jason hadn’t meant to stalk your Instagram page, but it was too tempting. Your profile was public and you posted just the right amount that he could put pieces of your life together from the time he died to the present. Eventually, he had scrolled down far enough that he surprisingly found a picture of you and him.

By the shit mid-2000s Instagram filter and the poor iPhone quality, it had to be right when the two of you started dating. Jason subconsciously ran a hand over his cheek, feeling the stubble and small scar on his jawline as he stared down at the smooth-skinned, rosy-cheeked boy in the photo. It had been before the years got to him, and it was almost an anomaly to see himself so content. He’d forgotten he had been at one point.

Jason shut off the phone, the picture brought him back to reality. Even if he did see you again, he felt too unattractive to ever approach you. No, the scars on his body and the bitterness that hung off every word he said would probably turn you away. He sat on his bed, thinking about how if you saw him again you would probably be deeply disappointed. 

And, scared because, as far as you knew, he was dead. That much would be obvious. 

Jason cursed Dick again for bringing you up. He didn’t know if it was pathetic or not that he was thinking of an old flame from back when he was a little more than a teenager. Surely, you probably hadn’t thought of him in years as it looked like you had moved on with your life. In any case, he was happy about it and tried to do the same. 

The only time he’d ever thought of you before was when you popped up occasionally in his dreams. He’d wake up, and wonder what the fuck that was about. Then he would get up to work out, cook, or anything else so he wouldn’t dwell too much on the thought of you. 

This time, Jason got up to get something to eat as hunger was starting to burn at the corners of his stomach. When he opened the fridge, the light illuminating the dark room, there was nothing. Well, almost nothing. There was a pickle jar, expired cheese, and some beers but nothing that would constitute a good meal for a growing boy as Alfred would say. Defeated and hungry, Jason resigned himself to the horrible fate of having to leave his apartment to go to the store. Groaning, he pulled on some pants and a hoodie before grabbing his keys. 

It wasn’t too late in the evening so plenty of people were still going about, leaving work to return home or going out for the night. Honestly, Jason didn’t find it all too bad. In fact, in a certain light, Gotham could be nice. In a late eighties neo-noir kind of way. The sound of the people on the street with the traffic in the background under the light rainfall made Jason feel at home. It was the diamond in the rough. 

The light rain was a nice relief from the lately warmer weather as summer was finally fading away to let autumn in. Luckily, the store was right around the corner from his apartment, so being outside in the light drizzle wouldn’t be too much of a hassle. 

The store owners greeted him as he entered. Another thing he liked was this part of Gotham, the one not seen by people like Bruce. It was familiarity, a general tough, arms-length kindness that was much appreciated by him. 

“We’ve got those cigarettes you like so much, Jason,” The old man said. “Those imported ones, ya know?” 

“You know I can’t pass those up,” Jason laughed. “Let me grab some groceries and I’ll come back up here to grab ‘em.” 

With a laugh, Jason playfully waved off the old guy as he did the same, wandering down one of the many aisles. Bread, cheese, meat, and soda—The meal made for a growing boy. Jason wandered up and down for a little while, pausing at the selection of condoms before laughing to himself. Nah, he wouldn’t need those any time soon. 

He was about to turn down another aisle when he bumped into someone. “Shit, sorry,” He said, finally looking up. 

Just his fuckin’ luck, he had bumped into you.

#jason todd and bruce wayne #jason todd #jason todd x reader #romance #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd x you #red hood #red hood x reader #batfamily #bruce wayne #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd fic #jason todd robin #batman #dc batman #alfred pennyworth #dc comics #Reviving Love

[zenkindoflove]

Elucien 4

4...where it hurts.

Okay, nonnie, I actually was pretty inspired by this prompt because it fit nicely with an idea I've had for a one shot for quite sometime. So you are getting more than a drabble today, my dear. This fic is dedicated to @crazy-ache who requested this idea from me a few months ago and I've been sitting on it.

Embrace (an Elucien one-shot)

Summary: Elain is on a journey of embracing her Faeness. When studying Lucien's pierced ears, an idea forms in her head that she can't shake. (~2,800 words)

Read on AO3 or under the cut

Elain swirled her drink in her glass, staring at Lucien’s earrings. He sat next to her on the pink sofa, engaged in a heated card game with Jurian. Jurian insisted on betting because otherwise, where was the fun if there were no stakes? There were two stacks of money on the table, mostly on Lucien’s side as he was beating Jurian senselessly. Vassa sat at the window, ignoring them, lost in her book. Nesta and Cassian had visited yesterday, still on their emissary duties and checking in with both Lucien and Eris, and Nesta brought the Queen the latest romance novel that had her and the other Valkyries swooning.  

That left Elain with nothing to do but to study her mate and his distinctly Fae beauty. 

Their relationship was slow and steady in its development. She arrived at the manor just two months before, determined to use her powers to solve Vassa’s curse. They hadn’t made much progress in that direction, but everyday Elain felt herself becoming more in tune with her powers, some of which had been surprising to discover. At first, it was awkward with Lucien, but once the ice broke, they quickly gravitated towards each other. Lucien insisted on helping her with her powers, and it allowed enough proximity that Elain found all of her reluctance concerning him and the bond chipping away day by day. As she suspected long ago, falling in love with Lucien was easy. She hadn’t told him that was what she was doing yet. The physical and romantic side of their relationship was so new, and Lucien was careful not to put any perceived pressure on her to be so forthright. But she had a feeling that those words would come tumbling out of her soon enough. 

For now, she sipped the whiskey he had poured her and studied the earrings that adorned Lucien’s ears. It was unheard of to see a human man wear jewelry in his ears. She read about pirates in some of the fairytales she consumed as a child wearing them. But she had seen that Fae were not shy about decorating themselves. Lucien embraced this part of Faeness wholly, with a gold hoop through his lobe, another in the cartilage just below where the point of his ear began, and just above that, a diamond stud. His other ear only had a gold hoop in his lobe as he opted for an asymmetrical style. 

“You’re a cheat!” Jurian shouted, throwing his cards down on the coffee table. He dramatically stood from his seat as Lucien heartily laughed at him. 

“I’m just better than you, Jurian,” Lucien shrugged his shoulders lazily. 

Jurian grumbled as he tore away and stalked over to Vassa, still engrossed in her book and not even looking up at his outburst. Without warning, he scooped her up from her chair, earning him a surprised yelp and some violent swatting. 

“Put me down, you brute,” Vassa scolded. “I was just getting to the good part.” 

Jurian peeked over to the page open in front of them, his eyes quickly scanning over the text. “Oh, well I can certainly do all of that for you. You don’t need this trashy book.” He plucked the book out of her hands and tossed it across the room. 

“Hey!” she protested but did little to fight him as he carried her out of the room, heading for the stairs. 

Lucien and Elain stared after them with knowing smiles. Every night was the same. After dinner, they would socialize and play games in the parlor, and every night, Jurian and Vassa would work themselves up into a mood until they quickly retired, their intentions of what they were leaving to do obvious. 

When they were gone, Lucien leaned back in his spot, relaxing against the back of the couch and throwing his arm up to extend behind Elain’s shoulders. He turned his mismatched eyes on her, his lazy smile now turning into a sly smirk. 

“Did you cheat?” Elain asked. She felt his fingers run through the ends of her hair as she turned her body sideways to face him. 

“I would never,” Lucien feigned innocence leaning forward to grab one of her legs that were folded together on the couch. He pulled her ankle over his lap, his touch light as he caressed her calf. Even through her stockings, she could feel the warmth radiating from his fingertips. “Jurian thinks he doesn’t have a tell, but I have his figured out.” 

Elain scooted forward until she was directly next to him, her leg now bent over his lap and his fingers trailing higher up. She played with the ends of his molten red hair, finding the braid he almost always wore hanging down from his temple. “What’s his tell?” 

Lucien inhaled deeply, and Elain knew he was likely scenting her, looking for a sign of what direction their evening would go. 

“He squints his eyes when he has a good hand,” Lucien said, and Elain could feel the vibrations of the deep timbre of his voice through his chest. “Like this.” 

Lucien did an impression of Jurian, his face strained in concentration as he pretended to look at a hand of cards. Elain giggled immediately, all too familiar with the face that Lucien mimicked. She saw it from Jurian often, realizing it did usually accompany some boastful display. 

The hand playing with the ends of her hair slid up to cup the back of her neck. Lucien leaned in close, his face hovering centimeters from hers. Elain braced herself against his chest, feeling his heartbeat through his shirt, which was splayed open over his chest as he relaxed for the evening. But Lucien didn’t kiss her like she expected, instead, taking the moments he lingered to breathe her in and running his fingers higher up her thigh. He was teasing her, she realized. Baiting her to make the next move and kiss him first. Elain almost did. She knew as soon as their lips touched, they would tangle themselves together, kissing, touching, and grinding until it became obvious that they needed to continue things in the bedroom where they could close the door from any prying eyes. But Elain had been turning an idea over in her head all day, and she wanted to express it before they lost themselves in each other. 

Elain trailed the hand touching his braid to his ear, running her fingers over his earrings. Lucien emitted a low hum, almost like a purr. She discovered with him how sensitive Fae ears were, especially the pointed tips. She loved the way he responded to her when she tugged at his earrings with her teeth. It often earned her a fiery return of his passion. 

“I had an idea today,” she started, rolling the smooth gold of his cartilage hoop between her fingers. 

“Mmm,” Lucien responded, his eyes closing. 

“I think I would like my ears pierced like this,” she announced. Lucien popped his eyes open, clearly surprised by her admission. 

“Really?” he asked. 

Elain spun the diamond stud, “Yes, is that hard to believe?” 

Lucien lifted his hand from her thigh and tucked a strand of hair that had fallen forward behind her ear. “You have been shy about your ears.” 

It was true. Once she was Made, she often wore her hair in a way that hid her ears. In the beginning, her ears were the biggest reminder that she wasn’t human. As time passed, she had gotten more used to her new body, and her ears didn’t bother her as much, though she didn’t really want to draw attention to them.

“I’m in a new era,” she declared, straightening her spine proudly. “Is it not common for Fae to pierce their ears?” 

“It is,” Lucien smiled up at her, dropping his arm around her from her neck down to her waist.

“And am I not Fae?” 

Lucien squeezed her, his smile growing wider. “You are.” 

“Okay then, I want to pierce my ears.” 

“Right now?” he asked, arching the eyebrow over his good eye. 

“Do we have the right tools for it?” 

Lucien thought for a moment and then grinned in triumph, “Come with me.” 

They unfolded their bodies from the sofa enthusiastically, hopping to their feet as Lucien guided them up the stairs to his room. Once inside, he immediately went to his closet, rummaging around. Elain propped herself on his bed, her mind wandering to the night before, when they had entered this room under different circumstances. Lucien had tossed her from his shoulder onto the mattress, pouncing on top of her before sealing his lips to hers. 

Lucien emerged from his closet, holding a sewing kit. He laid it down on his dresser, opening the drawer to pull out a velvet bag. He emptied the contents, several earrings falling out onto the top of the dresser. 

“So, how many do you want?” 

Elain was caught off guard. She hadn’t really considered that far. “I’m not sure.” 

“Okay, well, where would you like them?” 

“Here,” Elain touched her cartilage just below her point. “On both sides, I think.” 

Lucien nodded his head and plucked two diamond studs out of the pile. He opened the sewing kit, removing one of the thicker needles. 

Elain’s impulsiveness started to catch up to her. She hadn’t thought about how it might hurt. Her ears were pierced when she was eight years old at her mother’s insistence. She remembered being afraid and the sharp pain. But what she remembered the most was the healing afterwards, and how red and puffy her ears became and that it was uncomfortable to sleep. 

“What is the healing like, for fae? When I was human the process took several weeks.” 

“Well, I could heal you immediately. That’s what I did for myself when I did these,” he gestured to his ears. “And my nose.” 

“You pierced your nose?” Elain couldn’t disguise the shock in her voice. 

“Yep, when I was young in Autumn. My brothers teased me mercilessly for it and took turns trying to rip it out.” 

Elain’s excited joy turned sour, her protective instinct kicking up in her gut. Every time she heard stories about Lucien’s brothers, it made her feel violent and ill. Even though Lucien had explained that out of all of his brothers, Eris was the least of the worst, she still glared at him during their meeting yesterday. It seemed to only amuse him, and he called her little sister several times with mock affection. 

Lucien must have felt the pivot in her emotions down the bond because he turned to face her with a warm, knowing smile on his face. “Thinking of skewering my brothers again?” 

“Yes,” Elain crossed her arms over her chest. 

Lucien chuckled before leaning against the dresser and producing a flame in his hand. He ran the needle through it until it turned bright orange. He extinguished his flame and the metal turned black and then back to chrome. 

“Well, I’m afraid the only one who is getting skewered tonight is you, doll.” 

Elain restrained the comment that popped up in her head, failing to hide her wicked smile. Lucien stepped forward with the needle, eyeing her as he kneeled in front of her. He reached out and bopped the tip of her nose and winked, “You have a dirty mind. You need to focus.” 

Elain rolled her eyes and pulled her hair back. As she tied it behind her head, Lucien stood up and sat on her left side. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, his question free of judgment. Elain could tell that if she changed her mind, he wouldn’t think her cowardly. He was giving her the freedom to push her boundaries or pull them back, as was his way with so many of the things she explored these past two months. 

“I’m sure,” Elain nodded her head. “And healing me after sounds nice. I would like to be able to sleep on my side tonight.” 

Elain closed her eyes as Lucien leaned forward with the needle. He manipulated her ear some, examining it before she felt the sharp tip touch her skin. 

“I’ll do this fast,” he promised. “Now, take a deep breath in.”

Elain filled her lungs with air, pushing their expansion to their limit. 

“And exhale.” 

As she pushed her breath out, Lucien pierced the needle through her ear. She felt the tight sting, but it disappeared in a flash. Lucien stood from the bed, to grab one of the studs from the dresser. Elain could feel that the needle was still lodged through her ear. 

“That was a lot less painful than my memories from childhood,” she said, watching him carefully as he sat down next to her again. 

“This will hurt a little too,” he said. “But we can do the same thing.” 

Lucien guided her through changing the needle for the earring. Once it was in place, she stood from the bed and walked over the standing mirror in the corner of his room. It was the perfect placement for the shape of her ear. Elain admired the sparkle of the diamond, turning her head as the stone caught the dim light of the room. 

“Do you like it?” 

“I do,” she said. “Let’s do the other one.” 

Lucien was as gentle with her other ear as he had been with the first. When it was all done, and she confirmed she was satisfied, he healed each piercing one by one with a kiss. The light touch of his lips sent shivers down her spine that made her giggle shyly. When he was done, Elain tested them, spinning and tugging the jewelry. It felt the same as her lobe holes that had healed over 15 years ago. 

“That’s remarkable,” Elain said, impressed. 

Lucien smiled at her, “We could do some more if you want. Any place too.” 

Elain caught the wiggle of his eyebrows, and she placed her hands on her hips. “I don’t know what you’re implying, sir.” Though her mind wandered to some interesting places indeed. 

Lucien shrugged his shoulders and flashed her a playful look before turning back to the dresser to put the earrings and sewing kit back. Elain admired her appearance in the mirror again. Somehow, she felt more feminine now. She also felt a surge of pride. This was certainly not something any human women did, and even her sisters hadn’t embraced the practice, given that the Night Court was much more concerned with adorning themselves in tattoos rather than sparkly jewelry. But the only thought that crossed her mind was that this suited her. 

Strong arms pulled her close, and Elain could see Lucien in the reflection, pulling her against him. His breath was warm as it skittered across her neck. His lips traced the shell of her ear as he ran them up until he reached her point. Elain melted in his arms, her limbs covered in goosebumps. 

“Beautiful,” he whispered, his hand sliding down her waist as he caressed her hip. Elain pushed her backside against him, feeling his strong thighs against hers. He squeezed her as he pushed back, and Elain felt the evidence of his need for her pressed into her rear. 

He nipped at her cartilage, just over her new piercing, and the sensation was new and exciting. Elain dug her fingers into his hard forearms, tilting her head to offer her mouth to him. She hadn’t tasted him since this morning, and now, all she wanted was to fall into bed with him and taste every inch of him. 

Lucien kissed her lips with hunger, capturing her bottom lip. They moaned in unison and Elain turned to embrace him fully. They kissed in deep, sensuous undulations in front of the mirror, their hands touching and squeezing as they ran up and down each other’s torsos, their tongues in a tentative dance until the tension was too much to bear. Elain felt her feet leave the floor, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He walked them back to the bed, taking the opportunity to squeeze her soft flesh. She expected him to toss her on her back again, like he had last night, but instead he sat down, holding her close so she straddled his lap. Elain ran her fingers through the soft silk of his hair, devouring his mouth as she delighted in her position of control. Soon, Lucien was falling on his back and Elain was pinning him to the bed, rocking her hips over his, tossing her head back as her earrings glittered in the candlelight.

Kiss prompts.

#elucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #elain x lucien #pro elucien #elucien fanfiction #zenkindoflove: embrace #kiss asks #ask games #kiss prompts #i have a few more outstanding ones in my inbox that I'll get to eventually as I become inspired #just wanted to let you all know i haven't forgotten them

[chenziee]

Second of my three pieces for the @opblondebombshells zine!! It's available for download for free, so check it out! ✨

This one is with perfect illustrations done by @trashchaser, please just look at them they're so beautiful ;__;

[ Read on AO3 | Ko-FI | Commissions ]

----------

“White Knight” Cavendish in Trouble?!

NEW WORLD, Grand Line | by Absa

Is “White Knight” Cavendish in some kind of trouble? That was the question running through our minds as we stalked—excuse me—secretly followed everyone’s favorite Pirate Prince after anonymously interviewing him about the cursed Straw Hat’s Grand Fleet. (See yesterday’s World Economic Journal for details.)

When we said our goodbyes, we noticed Mr. Cavendish was slightly nervous about the time, as if he had somewhere else to be. Naturally curious what had the usually confident pirate so out of character, we decided to see what was going on.

His first stop was his ship… but we knew that couldn’t be it. And so, we waited patiently for two hours for him to come back ashore—and boy, was the wait worth it! My dear readers, the sight this man made! He was shining even brighter than usual, his outfit flawless and worthy of a front page on the most prestigious fashion magazines and perfectly accentuating his princely appearance. It was clear he put a lot of care into his look today and it honestly made us wonder whether he spent the entire two hours just getting ready.

Having seen him walking away looking like a fashion star, it was quite obvious he had an important meeting (or perhaps, a rendezvous?!) ahead of him. And we couldn’t miss out on a scoop like that.

But then, we couldn’t believe our eyes when we saw him approach—believe it or not—none other than the most hated pirate on all the seas, Bartolomeo the Cannibal!

It was near-impossible to hear what they were talking about, but from the few words that carried over to us it was clear the hooligan was scolding his partner for being “three fucking hours late!”, to which Mr. Cavendish simply shrugged, smelling his beloved rose and muttering something—something that only made the Cannibal throw his arms into the air in annoyance.

Mr. Cavendish seemed unphased by his barbarian behavior, however. He smiled brightly, so much in fact that our visual transponder snail was momentarily blinded when we tried to take pictures. He didn’t even protest when after a few muttered complaints, Bartolomeo grabbed his wrist to drag him somewhere, not at all fighting the violent grip on his hand the entire time they walked together.

Confused by why the “White Knight” would let himself be treated this way, of course we followed them. We were surprised even further when they arrived at an expensive looking restaurant, where the two of them were led to a table that was seemingly booked in advance.

What were they talking about? Was the Cannibal blackmailing him somehow? That was something we aimed to discover when we sneaked inside the restaurant.

Unfortunately, it was not possible for us to get close enough to the pair without a waitress tripping over me and becoming my wife—I mean, without being discovered.

What we can tell you, however, is that they ate a full course dinner together, chatting the whole time. By the way Bartolomeo rolled his eyes a few times, it seemed that Mr. Cavendish talked about himself a lot—but on the other hand, he also looked annoyed whenever Bartolomeo would start talking about something excitedly, pointing at a copy of Straw Hat Luffy’s wanted poster he pulled out of his wallet for some unknown reason.

At one point, it looked like they got into a fight with their faces very close to each other. It almost looked like they were kissing… but as the Pirate Prince and the Cannibal being that close is frankly unthinkable and honestly straight up impossible, we are assuming some secret information was being passed—possibly to threaten Mr. Cavendish!

What is going on between them?

Is “White Knight” Cavendish in danger?

Can he get rid of Bartolomeo the Cannibal somehow without harm coming to him?

We shall keep an eye on them and keep you, our wonderful readers, updated on the wellbeing of your most beloved star in the following issues of our magazine!

For now, we can only pray for Mr. Cavendish’s safety together.

- If you are able to provide us any more information on this matter (or want to become my wife), please contact our editorial team via the News Coo! -

#one piece #bartocav #bartolomeo #cavendish #bartolomeo x cavendish #they are so dumb i love them #also i will NEVER get over the secon papparazzi shot chaser just KILLED IT #it's so beautiful 😭 #katie pretends to fic #blonds zine #zine stuff #zines #also yes absalom wrote this one ahaha #forgot to add the alt text because i'm a dumbass #added now xD

[someoneintheshadow456]

I said before, now that Cait Corrain’s true self has come out, I can finally elaborate on what happened with her. To put a long story short, I was one of her very first victims - long before she became an original fiction author and back when she was known as Enterprisingly on AO3 - the author of Play to Win.

I know that #reviewbombgate was back in December, but at the time, I did not know about it because I’m not involved in BookTok. However, I WAS involved with the Reylo fandom, albeit indirectly.

The final chapters of Play to Win went on a tangent that seemed bizarre to me at the time. In fact, it seemed so strange that I brushed it off almost completely. It was only when I found Play to Win’s Wayback Machine page after recalling memories of the Reylo fandom last year when I read the chapter properly (instead of skipping ahead to get to the Reylo scenes). And a proper reading made me realize what was so unnerving about it:

Anyone who has engaged with my blog (especially from 2015-2019, when I used to post a lot more content about my personal life) can see the strangely... specific way this character was described. In order to go into this level of depth, one has to have been following me intently and keeping tabs of all the personal things I posted.

And then, she goes from eerily specific descriptions, to straight up maliciously lying about me:

Keep in mind, this screed takes up an ENTIRE chapter in itself. Said character, Ejya Fjord, is a background NPC who is mentioned a total of 121 times in a 161,000 word story. In fact, her name is mentioned so little that you could be forgiven for not remembering her at all:

You'd think, if someone would do something like this, I had to have done something terrible to her, or even just gave her a negative review. But I never did.

As you can see here, I have only engaged positively with her. Since Play to Win was also taken down and you can’t see old comments on Wayback Machine. Unfortunately after this, I can only give my word without receipts.

Play to Win was published first in 2018. I reviewed her story in March of 2018, possibly even earlier. In my review, I praised the writing, worldbuilding, and dialogues, but gave a small constructive criticism in that the politics could be better integrated into the story without feeling disjointed.

In the very early chapters, Ejya was clearly intended to be 100% Swedish - as one can tell from the name. However, at some point in the later half of the story, she retroactively became mixed race and a rival for Ben's affections, while Ben seems to be having none of it. It's clear these choices were made to portray me as some kind of horny fangirl for Kylo Ren who will stomp on other girls for his sake:

When I read the last chapter first, I was horrified. But now I'm just... bemused that someone would ever see me as some kind of calculating vixen who dresses like a Euphoria high school student and only likes masculine hobbies to pick up dudes. When in reality it took me until 2020 to be able to type the word "sex" without having heart attack and have never so much as posted a selfie on here.

It's also funny that Ejya is petite and flat chested while my actual body type is the exact opposite... which she would know since she stalked my blog so thoroughly. Almost as though she's implying something about her own insecurities...

Initially, I was under the impression that Corrain targeted me because of my association with @ainomica - due to her ruffling the Reylo fandom’s feathers (and ending up on Corrain’s hit list) over her opinions on John Boyega. However, that controversy happened in 2020. When Corrain wrote this libel about me, @ainomica wasn’t even on her radar, not to mention it was a year before we had ever even met. This libel was done to target me, and me exclusively.

In essence - Corrain weaved libel about me into her story because my existence pissed her off. We know now that Corrain had a penchant for targeting sapphic authors and WOC almost exclusively. So it's safe to say she was just being a typical white saviour liberal who shows what she actually thinks of minorities when they don't toe the line.

While this does make her less unhinged in my eyes than using me to target someone else, it still means that Corrain was, and always has been capable of aggression towards anyone she’s remotely offended by. Especially if said person happens to be a minority of some kind.

#reviewbombgate #cait corrain #reylo

[meanlesbean]

Here, have 1,400 words of Majora's Mask angst. inspired by a conversation with @gintrinsic-writing about Link having to pick and choose who to help on the final cycle. I'll put this on my ao3 in a few days when I think of a title. (Edit: better ao3 version up now)

————————————————

On the afternoon of the final day, the Milk Bar is empty.

Madame Aroma won’t arrive for another few hours. In twenty minutes, one of the members of the town guard will show up, but he won’t stay long. He’ll order one of the special drinks that Mister Barten won’t let Link try, chug it all in one big gulp, and then lay his head down on the counter to weep quietly for four and a half minutes. When he’s finished crying, he’ll ask for a shot of something off the top shelf—surprise him, just this once. Then, after his last drink, he’ll shake Mister Barten’s hand, put his helmet back on, and leave.

Unlike some of the other guards, he won’t abandon his post. When the moon falls and swallows the world, he’ll bear witness to the end from his station at the town entrance. 

Right now, it’s just Link and Tatl at the counter. Mister Barten is sweeping up on the stage, and he’s got the phonograph playing some soft piano music instead of the usual Indigo-Go’s songs, which Link is grateful for. Mister Barten isn’t as talkative as he usually is, but Link hasn’t been able to figure out if it’s because it’s the final day or if it’s because Link won’t talk himself. Either way, it’s quiet. The nice kind of quiet too, unlike the Stock Pot Inn, which gets creepy after Anju and her family evacuate. Even with everyone gone, the floorboards don’t stop creaking. 

It’s a good place for thinking and planning. That’s the most important thing left for him to do.

Or at least, that’s what Link thinks. Tatl has other ideas. 

“Are you going to squeeze in an afternoon nap or what?” She buzzes around him like an insect. Link’s adrenaline from the battle against Twinmold had worn off by the time they got back to Clock Town, but Tatl always takes longer to settle after a fight. She lands on the counter to take a small sip of her Chateau Romani, kindly poured into the smallest shot glass in the bar by Mister Barten, and then flies a few more laps around his head. “If you don’t go to bed soon, you won’t be rested before the reset, and I know you’ll stay up with Romani instead of sleeping the next night. I don’t want to be rescuing my brother while you’re in one of your moods.”

Link waves a hand out to get her to stop circling. He gives her a pointed look and then taps the end of his pencil against his open bomber's notebook twice. It’s a portion of his records of the first day, near illegible now with how much information he’s crammed onto the pages. That’s why he’s got a few clean sheets of paper ripped out and put to the side. If this is really the final reset, he can’t afford to waste time with indecision. 

“Huh?” Tatl says. She floats over the notebook to examine it, washing out the pages in her golden light. She flutters and makes an annoyed chiming noise. “What are you getting at now? There can’t be anything else to add on here. You’ve stalked everyone in Termina long enough already.” 

Link shakes his head and holds out his hand. Tatl lands on his palm, her magic tickling at his skin like the sparks from a light arrow, and he lifts her up to his shoulder. His posture relaxes as soon as she sits, the warm buzz of her magic trickling down through his chest and back. An ache he hadn’t noticed in his upper back disappears. It still feels a little weird sometimes, having her nestled in the crook of his neck. The first time her wing had brushed against his neck, he’d almost hit her on reflex, and she didn’t talk to him for the whole day after. Navi had always preferred to perch on top of his head. 

On one of the clean pages, Link lists out all the hours, from six o’clock to five o’clock the next morning. He repeats this for the next page. For the last one, he adds an extra hour at the end and draws the moon and its hungry maw.  Next, he circles Romani’s name in his notebook. On his new timetable, he writes her name between the hours of two and five in the morning. 

He knows that Tatl understands because he feels her go still, then huddle closer to him. Still, he flips through the notes he’s taken, over two dozen pages, for emphasis. Some of his notes are about the temples—he hadn’t made it through the Snowhead or Great Bay temples on his first attempts—but even excluding those, there’s too much. 

Tatl doesn’t speak. In his notebook, Link sees Pamela’s name, and he circles it like he’d done for Romani. When he looks at his timetable though, he pauses. He and Tatl have restored the flow of the Ikana creek and healed Pamela’s father three times: once very late into the night of the second day, once in the morning of the first day, and once more in the evening of the first day. From what Link can tell, Pamela doesn’t sleep well when her father is cursed, and that means Link can free her father at any time.

Pamela needs her father. He knows that, even if he doesn’t fully understand it. She’s young and scared and alone, and Link shouldn’t make her wait. When he looks at the blank time slots of the first day though, all he can see is dozens of other things he needs to do. If he’s going to reunite Anju and Kafei, he needs to spend the afternoon in Clock Town so can talk to Anju. And while he’s in town, it only makes sense for him to help the Great Fairy and go solve the argument in the mayor’s office. He should free at least one of the Giants on that first day too—he can make his way through the temples pretty quickly now, but he couldn’t rush the battles against the beasts holding the Giants captive. Potions and fairies don't work as well when he doesn't sleep. He’d learned the hard way that one little mistake in those battles could take him hours to recuperate from. 

His hand holding the pencil is frozen above the paper. Link stares at the blank pages. 

He feels Tatl release a tiny, quivering breath. Her wings flicker against him a few times as she leans forward. “Okay. We’re not going back to the Stone Tower on the first day. I need a break from that horrible place, and you need to get at least some sleep before going there again. You can take a nap in Romani’s bed, or in Epona’s stall since you’re a little freak, after we defend the ranch. We’ll go to Ikana and free Pamela’s dad and the Giant afterwards. Got it?”

Link nods and picks up the pencil. He gives himself two hours to sleep, then blocks off the rest of the morning for fixing Ikana. Tatl lets out a little ringing noise in approval, then says, “So, we’re going through the whole ordeal of getting Anju and Kafei back together, right?” He nods again. “Okay, then write Anju’s name in the two and eleven thirty times slots.” He does. “We need to go to the ranch and talk to Romani at some point during the day. Let’s do that at five so we can stay for dinner. We can go to the cucoo shack before eating too. Helping Grog always makes you smile.”

Link puts down the pencil. Before Tatl can scold him, he brings his hand up to where she's perched, and he closes his eyes and presses her closer against him. Tatl shifts a bit, and then she wraps both her small arms around his hand. He trembles, and she doesn’t say anything. 

She lets him hold her like that for a minute before she starts pushing him away. “Move your hand, would ya? I can’t read anything like this.”

Link pulls away from her and picks up the pencil again. Tatl pats his shoulder. It feels like raindrops. “Okay, let’s finish filling in the first day. You ready?”

When Link nods, it's the truth. 

“Good. We’ve got this.”

Link believes her.

#majora's mask #loz fanfic #legend of zelda #legend of zelda fanfiction #loz fic #my fic

[reds-skull]

BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

So remember how I didn't like how short the last chapter was? Well this one is almost as long as the longest chapter I've ever written (insane how when it goes smoothly and I don't feel like the words are fighting me, I actually write more!)

This chapter is called "Droops and Decays"

Page 11 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable 4:

And a knight, wearing the blind man’s colors, Brings his sword forth and calls, halt beast, Leave my brother to be, release him from your bloody maw. The blind man steps forth, hands raised, And he calls his brother-in-pain, lower your steel, This monster is unharming, it is calm, And it needs guidance, as the blind do. The knight asks, why would the blind lead the sinners? And the blind man answers, when all other paths are blocked, We can only move forth on ways seen only by the unseeing.

Ghost doesn’t sleep in the company of others. It is not because of the person in the room, his body and mind just genuinely, physically, can’t trust anyone anymore.

(He wonders if it were Price-)

So Ghost lets his eyes rest, while his mind turns and churns over the events of last night.

“I know ye would rather leave me to die, go scurry away to whatever hell ye crawled out of. But we both know ye can’t. Now, would you rather die alone…”

“…or fight together?”

Soap… no, John MacTavish. He has quite the bleeding heart, offering to work together with the man that pointed a gun to his head not an hour prior. He wonders who he was before being discharged, if fighting alongside him tonight was how it would’ve been to work with him.

(He wonders if he could trust him-)

The 141 will arrive to the wreckage they left any moment now. Instead of finding the Sergeant, they’ll come across the charred remains of the Hunter’s soldiers. Ghost knows they’re smart enough to figure out neither of them are dead, considering there are no tire tracks beyond the destruction.

(If he were to burn and die, would Price be able to tell his body from the rest-)

He wishes he could sleep. Would’ve been more useful than the shit that’s stirring around his brain right about now.

(Maybe talking to Soap could be more useful-)

The Sergeant wouldn’t want to talk to him. Not after what he’s done. 

(No better than the Hunter, no better than Roba-)

(But he wants to-)

Ghost doesn’t want things.

(That’s Simon’s job-)

Simon is dead.

(Simon can’t be dead when Ghost is still living-)

Soap shifts next to the window, and sighs. Ghost gets reminded of the way the Sergeant stirred in his sleep, his eyes scrunched up like he’s trying to close them in his dream. He took mercy on him then, kicked his shoulder lightly. Soap grasped at it like a lifeline, eyes snapping wide open to swivel around the room.

(Searching for ghosts-)

It was then he started wanting, Ghost reckons. Wanted to know what burrows into Soap’s mind, what crawls beneath his bed to sink its claws while he sleeps.

(Wants to see the beast himself-)

Fucking hell. Since when does Ghost care what other people bloody dream about?

In an attempt to stop all those buzzing thoughts, Ghost opens his eyes. Soap is still by the window, rifle in his hands, clicking lowly as he fidgets with it. He looks about as lost in his mind as Ghost was just a few moments ago.

(He wonders what Soap is thinking about-)

Ghost sits up, internally annoyed with his own stupid mind. Soap looks at him as he stretches his limbs slowly, taking stock of their condition.

“Yer leg’s faring better?” the Sergeant asks.

Surprisingly, it is. The muscles no longer shake, even if he has a general feeling of weakness across his body.

Ghost raises from the tarp, “affirmative. Ready to move?”. Soap jumps off the table, and opens the door. The fields outside are bright and calm, wheat stalks idly swaying in the soft breeze.

They return to the road, Soap still tapping at the metal body of the rifle. Eventually, he speaks up, “you think Price and Gaz reached the trucks already?”

Ghost spares him a glance, “certainly.”

The Scot slows his steps, “...maybe I should go back-”

“By the time you reach the trucks, the 141 would be gone.” It took them hours to get this far.

Soap sighs, dragging a hand over his hair, “fuckin’ hate that yer right.” He catches up to Ghost.

(He wants to know more-)

He doesn’t need to-

(He needs to know more-)

“How do you know Price?” Ghost instantly curses himself.

Soap raises an eyebrow, “how do ye know him?”

“I’m not telling you shit, Sergeant.”

Soap crosses his arms, “then I’m not tellin’ ye shit either.”

Fuckin’- how did he get stuck with such a childish, impudent, little bastard.

“Everyone knows Captain Price.” Ghost almost growls, bluffing through his teeth. Soap’s eyes light up like he caught him with his pants down.

“Aye”, Soap smirks, “everyone in the British Army knows the Captain. But not everyone knows how he looks.”

He leans in closer to Ghost, “no, ye had to be in a high rank fer that. Said ye were SAS, Lieutenant? I’m thinking ye weren’t lying after all.”

Bloody wanker. He’s not fucking stupid.

Soap leans away again, finally answering his question, “well, I didn’t know Price too personally. Was on a few missions along his squad. Tried to recruit me before I got… discharged.”

Ghost narrows his eyes. So that’s the game he wants to play. Give me a bone, I’ll give you something to chew on. As much as he wants to be annoyed, he supposes that’s fair.

(Now that he’s been given a hand, he wants the whole arm-)

“Why did they discharge you?”

Soap’s smile falters, “disobeyed direct orders one too many times. Killed an HVT they needed alive.” his blue eyes dim, “sliced his neck and choked the blood outta him.”

Ghost frowns, “how important was the fucker that they booted you out?”

Soap stops walking, Ghost turning around to face him.

“Ever heard of Vladimir Makarov?”

Ghost blinks, “you’re not-”

“I am.” Soap’s face twists, in grief or in anger, Ghost can’t tell, “I’m the one that killed Makarov.”

They stare at each other, Ghost mind whirling. If Soap is the one that… 

Everyone knew what Makarov was planning. The power vacuum he left was huge, leaving Konni Group to disintegrate. Leaving people like the Hunter, to attempt to take his place in the twisted international power game.

“Ye can tell me Ah’m feckin’ daft, I’ve heard it all.” Soap starts walking, his frame more taut than usual.

Daft? “You eliminated the biggest nuclear threat since the Cold War.”

Soap laughs bitterly, “yer talking like Ah’m a fucking hero.”

“None of us are heroes, MacTavish.” Not with the amount of blood on their hands.

Yet, men like Soap… Ghost can’t say he’s evil. He’s too… compassionate for that.

Soap looks ahead, eyes fogging over with memories, “...said that to Price once. He told me…” He refocuses on Ghost, “...forget it.”

(What did Price say-)

“What did he say?”

Soap huffs, a sad smile on his face. “He told me about his previous Lieutenant. How he was a man of many sins.”

Ghost’s heart stops beating.

Soap continues regardless, “but he said Lieutenant Riley was his most caring soldier. Would always fight as hard as he can to bring everyone back home.” he turns to Ghost, whose breath caught at the Lieutenant’s name, “for those he saved, the Lieutenant was a hero. At least, that’s how Price saw it…”

“Ah wanted to be like him, back then.”

Ghost barely managed to whisper the words out, “and now?”

John smiles, “now Ah want to be better.”

His eyes shine so brightly, Ghost thinks at the back of his mind. His body is still as a statue, ceasing to exist in the now, sinking into the dark waters of the past.

(Yet Simon feels more alive than he’s been for years)

Ghost continues to scan the horizon, as the city comes into view. It becomes clearer and clearer what causing the sounds echoing through the lonely fields.

Someone is fighting against the Hunter’s soldiers. And they’re vastly outnumbered.

“What should our next move be?” Soap crouches next to him, overlooking the battle.

Well, Ghost’s goal is to find a high ranking soldier, bring the intel on the antidote out of them (gently or violently depending on how cooperative the tosser will be), and find it. He’s working with limited time - who knows when his body will lose the fight against the poison and simply give up.

Soap however… Ghost still doesn’t understand why he’s here. All he knows is that the Sergeant seems to hate the Hunter’s soldiers about as much as he does.

He supposes it’s good enough for him.

“Need to capture a soldier.” Ghost murmurs, combing for stragglers.

Soap does the same, “shouldn’t we help whoever’s fighting ‘em?”

“Don’t think they’re gonna hold up for much longer…”

The Hunter’s soldiers swirl like a swarm around one house, flashes of rifle muzzles coming from opposite windows. The fighters are cornered. It’s only a matter of time before they get overwhelmed-

Soap Jumps over the wall they were hiding behind, and starts running at full speed towards the fight.

“Sergeant!” Ghost shouts after him, “where in the bloody hell do you think you’re going?!”

Soap doesn’t spare him a single glance, swinging his stolen rifle to aim at a few soldiers, “Price and Gaz are in that building! I cannae let them die!”

Ghost’s eyes widen. He looks over to the house again. The Hunter’s soldiers are closing in…

(Price would never leave him-)

(The Lieutenant was a hero-)

(You saved them, Simon. Why?-)

(No man left behind, except when the man is Simon Riley-)

(I can’t leave them to die!-)

Ghost heaves a breath, pulling out his pistol and taking point next to the Sergeant. Soap finally looks at him, face contorted in confusion.

“If we want to do this, we need to make the soldiers split up.” Ghost says, already calculating how many hostiles they’ll need to take down, “we don’t have much to work with, but they don’t know that.”

Soap nods, “divide and conquer, eh? Sounds good.” He scans the left of the house, “I’ll take that side, circle around that building and get into a higher position.”

“Copy, I’ll take right.” that side has more winding alleys, where Ghost can pick soldiers off one by one with his knives.

“Understood. What if ye-” Soap cuts himself off, and Ghost watches how he chews on his own lip.

“What is it, Soap?”

The Sergeant’s brows furrow, “nothin’, uh… good luck.”

Ghost doesn’t answer, Soap already leaving for his path.

(Simon asks himself, if it means Soap cares whether he lives or dies-)

He needs to focus. They don’t have the night to cover them anymore, pale blue skies leaving no shadows for men like him to melt into. Ghost takes a long way around the nearby buildings, until he finds a little group of soldiers.

He unsheathes a knife, long and serrated edge gleaming under the sun. In a flash, he yanks one soldier back, burying the knife in his throat, twisting and pulling it out. The man is dead before he hits the floor.

His squad mates only realize something is wrong when they turn to talk to him, finding the soldier in a growing puddle of bright red blood. Ghost is already changing angles, quickly walking around another soldier to pull them back and grant him the same fate.

Panic spreads through them, more and more joining the search for Ghost.

More and more victims for his ruthless blade.

When the number of hostiles dwindles, Ghost circles back to the house Price and Gaz were holed up in. He watches them from afar clearing the surroundings, before opening the front door and stepping out.

He can’t see Soap anywhere. Something pinches at his chest, and a wave of concern wrecks through him.

It makes sense, that he wouldn’t return to Ghost. He did technically kidnap him… surely he was waiting for a right moment to buck it.

Hopefully, he met up with Price. The Captain will insure his safety, in that Ghost doesn’t doubt.

(He’s dead, he left you, he’s captured, gone, lost, your fault, your fault-)

Ghost hears footsteps behind him, and in a blink grabs a rifle from his latest victim and points it at the source.

“Relax, jus’ me Ghost.” Soap raises his arms, mildly annoyed.

Ghost instantly lowers the gun, “why didn’t you leave?”

The Sergeant looks around, inspecting the carnage Ghost left behind, “for one, when I say we’re fighting together, I fuckin’ mean it.” he mutters the rest, “unlike someone ‘ere…”

Soap steps forward, and Ghost can see how his hands are absolutely covered in blood, “and… I’m still not done.”

“What do you mean?” Ghost asks, stare climbing up Soap’s bloodied forearms.

Soap’s voice lowers, “you’re after the Hunter, right? I want him dead.” If Ghost was a lesser man, he would tremble at Soap’s tone, “What they’re doing to this city, killing and destroying everything in their path, it needs to stop. And Ah know the only way to do tha’ is to take them out.”

Ghost wants to tell him he’s stupid, for sticking his nose in business that’s not his, for endangering himself like this, that it’s not his job, that he should turn his back. Injustice will always exist, and in the long run, this city won’t matter.

(But Simon’s heart beats faster, his eyes shine bright, and he wants to see Soap succeed)

(he wants to make sure he succeeds)

Soap snaps him out of his reverie, “ye said ye needed to capture a soldier?”

“Affirm. We need intel on the Hunter’s location.”

The Sergeant’s grin is sharp when he replies, “could always build a little trap from ‘em…”

Ghost huffs, his mouth stretching into an unfamiliar smile, “nobody would fall for that shite, Sergeant.”

Soap sputters, “ye did!”

“Yes, because I was broken.” Ghost starts walking out, knowing they won’t find any living soldiers on this side, “your needlessly complicated contraptions will be a waste of time to build. We just need to find one distracted wanker, grab him and tie ‘im up.”

Soap walks beside him, “good thing there’s plenty of feckers out here.” he grumbles sarcastically.

Ghost hears the quiet sound of someone sneaking in the alley in front of them, and it takes a great effort to suppress the urge to shoot when the person rounds the corner.

“Stop right there!”

Gaz stands in front of them, gun pointed at Ghost. He glares at him, jaw clenched.

“Gaz!” Soap calls, hands raised to calm him, “just wait-”

“John, come here. Don’t let him grab you again.” Gaz orders. Soap, to Ghost’s surprise, keeps his feet planted beside him.

(Simon, in his heart, knew the Sergeant would keep his word)

“No. Stop aiming at ‘im, and listen to me.”

Gaz’s rifle doesn’t stray from Ghost’s head, “John-”

“Kyle.” Soap snarls, “fuckin’ listen to me for a second mate!”

The SAS operator pauses, slowly lowering his guard, “what the fuck is going on?”

“Ah know it’s crazy-” Soap starts.

Gaz cuts him off, “it ought to be if you’re protecting the bloody Ghost!”

Soap continues, “But I need to stick with him fer now.”

Ghost watches Gaz’s eyes flicker between them, “if he’s threatening you brother-”

“He’s not doing shit to me, Gaz.” Soap growls, “I… I need to kill the Hunter. And Ghost is my only way to do that.”

Gaz’s brows furrow in sadness, “John… Didn’t your therapist tell you to stop chasing this- this adrenaline?”

Ghost wants to laugh. Soap isn’t doing it for the thrill, that much is pretty fucking obvious at this point. No, the Sergeant’s goal is far more noble than that. He considers pulling out a knife again, maybe make a show of threatening Soap to get Gaz off his back, but…

(Simon doesn’t think he can see the light shatter in Soap’s eyes as he’s being betrayed again-)

What Ghost forgot is, Soap and Gaz are friends, and the Sergeant is an honorable man.

“Ah can’t jus’ go back to Scotland and pretend this never happened! I have to stop it, Gaz.” He steps closer to the man, “please…”

Gaz shakes his head minutely, “if you die-”

“I’ll die a soldier, a fighter. For a good cause, trying to protect innocent people.” He stands in front of Gaz, “what better way is there to go?”

Gaz’s eyes soften, his grip on the rifle drops completely, “...I don’t want you to die.” he almost whispers.

Soap pulls him into a hug, holding onto his friend tightly, “I died the moment they discharged me. Here, I feel more alive than I have the past year.”

“You- why didn’t you tell me?”

Soap lets him go, still holding his shoulders, “what is there to tell?” he asks in a sad tone.

They’re quiet for a moment, before Gaz sighs, looking up at Ghost.

“If you hurt him, I’ll chase you to the end of the fuckin’ earth, and make you regret ever picking up a gun.” he barks at Ghost.

Ghost, for his part, doesn’t answer. His word will not be trusted either way.

(But Simon knows, he won’t be able to hurt Soap anymore-)

Gaz turns to talk to Soap again, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to bail you out after this, mate…”

Soap hums, “I understand. What about Price? Will ye be alright?”

“Don’t worry” Gaz smiles sadly, “I never saw you.”

As if on time, Gaz’s radio crackles, “Lieutenant, have you seen anything?”

Ghost’s heart jumps, as if the Captain is talking to him.

(As if things are still as they used to be-)

The Lieutenant presses the comms, “negative, whoever it was disappeared.”

“Copy, circle back to the house, we’ll keep looking.”

“Rog, out here.” Gaz clicks off his radio, and nods at Soap. “Good luck. Don’t you dare fuckin’ lose, Soap.”

The Sergeant smirks, “wouldn’t dream of it, Lieutenant.” he shoves Gaz playfully.

The Lieutenant laughs, “fuck off, Sergeant.” Gaz’s eyes shine suspiciously, and suddenly he drags Soap into another hug.

They exchange a few words Ghost can’t make out, and Gaz retreats, leaving to find his Captain. Soap continues to watch him until he turns a corner and vanishes from sight.

The Sergeant sighs, muttering to himself, “hope I don’t fuckin’ regret this…”

Ghost is sure he will.

(Simon hopes against hope he won’t)

#call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #cod soap #cod ghost #cod gaz #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #BLOOD||HUNGER #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghoap #call of duty fic #call of duty fanfic #call of duty modern warfare #cod fic #cod fanfic #so yeah i was quoting makarov last chapter in his convo with soap in the mw3 flashback #Ghost and his inner monologue as Simon is so fun to write #this man is mentally fucked up <3 #and Gaz got promoted to Lieutenant bc he deserves it tbh

[ravenclawella]

True friends don't get mad, they get even.

Available on AO3 2099 word count Characters aged up (7th year) 18+ (Mature themes) Minors DNI Heavily influenced by New Girl: Season 1 Episode 22.

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

Summary: 'Imelda takes it upon herself to get revenge on Sebastian for you.'

[You and Sebastian are fighting in the common room at the end of the night. Sebastian is clearly in the wrong. This is the end of the conversation/argument]

“Jealous? You think I’M jealous? You have some nerve!” You exclaimed, thinking back to the many times Sebastian had pushed himself in front of any boy who had gotten too close to you. “Aren’t you?” He smirked, looking you up and down. His arrogance caused your anger to bubble over. “Sebastian Sallow, you are INSUFFERABLE. Why don’t you just go and date whoever you want if you want to act that way.” Your jaw clenched, not realising what you had said before it left your lips. His face dropped in shock. “Maybe I WILL” he spun and stomped to his dorm, ignoring Ominis’ judgmental gaze on him. Ominis briefly looked up to where he assumed you were and gave you a sympathetic smile. “I’ll try and talk to him. You should sleep now. Let’s talk tomorrow.” The boy followed after his friend, the eerie red glow of his wand disappearing down the hall.  You breathed in deeply and let yourself fall to the couch, shuddering from the frustrated tears that were threatening to fall.  “That boy is an idiot. I don’t know why you put up with him” Imelda snickered and plopped herself down beside you. When she noticed that you were crying she put a tentative hand on your shoulder. “Hey, shhh. Don’t cry, shh. It’s okay. It will be okay.” She frowned at the entrance to the boys dormitories. Your sobs continued despite your attempt to fight them. “Let’s get you to bed. Mmm?”. She pulled you to your dorms and helped you settle into bed, repeating how much of an idiot Sebastian was being to you. Once Imelda confirmed that you were asleep, she snuck out of her dorm and made her way to the boys dormitory with a mission in her thoughts. The image of her tear stained friend etched into her mind.

Imelda placed a hand over Sebastian's mouth, causing him to wake in a confused state. She pressed her finger to her lips, indicating for him to be quiet. He lifted an eyebrow and watched as she indicated for him to follow her outside of the dorm. She sat herself in the common room and looked at him like a lion stalking her prey. He lazily sauntered over to her, loosening the tightness of his pyjama pants as he stepped. Imelda dove on him, crashing her lips into his causing him a brief jolt of shock. He had expected to listen to her talk about you, how he needed to apologise to you for his behaviour earlier. He certainly hadn’t expected this. He froze from the unexpected kiss and fell back into the couch from Imelda’s hasty shove. She straddled him with ease and looked down at him in disgust. “Close your eyes” She commanded. With a smile, he closed them. Imelda rolled her eyes and pulled out her wand, pointing it to his groin. With a quick whisper she cast her spell and his eyes snapped open. Imelda’s eyes were the last thing he saw before he passed out from the pain. They were the eyes of predator.

[In the great hall at lunch]

“Hey, has anyone seen Sebastian today?” You ask your friends at the table. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I sent him to the infirmary last night.” She pulled out her book nonchalantly. “What? Imelda? When did you? Why did you?” You stuttered, packing up your things. You couldn’t bear to see Sebastian hurt, no matter how much of a moonmind he could be. “Heh, you should have heard him cry.” She chuckled, flipping a page in her book calmly.  “Imelda, what did you do?!!” “I made him pay for hurting you.” She looked up briefly “He will think twice before looking at another lady. That’s for sure” She smirked as she lifted her cup of tea to her mouth. “Oh my god, Imelda!” You shook your head at her and hopped over the bench. Without looking back, you strode towards the infirmary. 

[Earlier that day, in the infirmary]

“Oh, you’re finally awake. I was worried when I found you passed out in the common room alone. What happened?” Ominis asked, concern laced his voice. Sebastian brought his eyebrows together. “Imelda…err. She did something to me” he frowned at his hands. “What? Imelda did? When were you in the common room with Imelda?” Ominis asked “Last night. After curfew” he mumbled. “Oh, Sebastian, I thought you were serious about Y/N. To think you would entertain the thought of someone else…. Wait a moment, you said Imelda did this to you?” Ominis’s face puzzled. “So you two weren’t…” He brought his hand to his head, confusion growing. “Hah. No. Y/N is the only one for me” Sebastian stopped abruptly. “But the matron has informed me that I need to, umm, stay still for a little while for this healing potion to work properly.” “What did Imelda do to you?” Ominis questioned “She …” Sebastian mumbled, slurring the rest of his sentence. “What was that? I didn’t quite catch that?” Ominis tilted his head towards his friend, hearing the embarrassment in his voice. “She broke my penis” he mumbled. Ominis pressed his lips together, trying his best to avoid the laughter that wished to escape. He was only able to contain it for a few seconds before the cackle erupted, causing the nurse to walk over. “It’s not funny” Sebastian hissed as the matron entered their section. “Mister Gaunt, I need to inform you that with your friends condition you must refrain from speaking about anything that may excite him.” The matron gave Ominis a knowing look, before realising that he couldn’t see her expression. She leaned down and whispered the point she was trying to make in his ear.  “[…] It will cause him quite a bit of pain until he heals.” The matron then stood up and left to attend her other patients. Ominis grinned towards his friend with a glint in his eye.

“So, Sebastian. Are you going to apologise to Y/N for your behaviour yesterday? You truly were in the wrong, you know. You shouldn’t have let that other girl fawn all over you.” Ominis asked. “I dunno.” Sebastian shrugged and shifted in his bed. “Well then, I suppose have no choice” Ominis grinned further “What?” Sebastian squinted at his friend’s mischievous grin. “Dusty tomes” He announced with a whisper “What?” Sebastian raised an eyebrow at his friends strange announcement. “The restricted section.” Ominis continued. “What are you…” Sebastian froze, his body tensed up. “Ominis this isn’t funny…” “Dueeeeeelinggggg” Ominis added, making sure to enunciate every syllable  “AHHHH” Sebastian screamed in pain, clutching at the bedsheets. “Ominis. Don’t please dont.” The pain from his groin flowed to every inch of his body as result of his friend toying with his hormones. “This is pretty fun, don’t you think? I really must thank Imelda for this ingenious idea.” Ominis chuckled  “No Ominis.” Sebastian paused to breathe in deeply. His breath was ragged from the torturous pain. “This is not fun. Stop” Sebastian ground his teeth together. “Are you going to apologise to her?” Ominis asked with sincerity, tilting his head. “Maybe” Sebastian grunted “Not good enough Sebastian.” Ominis clicked his tongue “What? Wait, no…” Sebastian’s eyes flew open “Forbidden spellllllssss” Ominis let the syllables tumble and flow from his tongue, the words caressing his friend in the worst way. “AAAAAAHHHHHH. OKAY OKAY I’LL APOLOGISE. FUCK.” Sebastian gripped the charmed bag on top of his groin, trying to gain some pain relief.   “ Y/N taking down a troll” Ominis hummed, a grin plastering his face.  “I SAID I’LL APOLOGISE. OMINIS. PLEASE.” Sebastian pleaded with his friend, tears rolling down his cheeks. Ominis stood up and tipped his head to his friend.  “I better hear that you have apologised to her by dinner time. Tick Tock, Sebastian. Tick Tock” He mimicked his wand swishing side to side like a clock hand and walked away with a smirk. He truly would need to praise Imelda for her late night antics the next time he saw her. 

[…]

You bumped into Ominis as you flew through the corridors to find Sebastian. “Oh, Ominis! I’m so sorry, are you okay?” You quickly looked him up and down to make sure you hadn’t caused him any pain from your crash. “Perfectly fine, my dear. I was just visiting our dear friend” he chuckled, brushing himself off. “You’ve seen Sebastian? How is he?” The worry in your voice caused the boy to shake his head. “Despite his rudeness yesterday, you still worry for him” He smiled, “He’s been asking for you. Best head there now, if I were you.” He tilted his head in the direction of the infirmary. You quickly thanked him and continue your jog.

[…] 

“Oh my god. Sebastian! Are you okay?” you exclaim as you find the boy in bed, looking a little flushed. “I err. I will be. Just need to wait for the potion to work it’s magic.” He chuckled nervously. “What did Imelda do to you?” You looked him over frantically, trying to find an injury. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” He shrugged. “It’s not nothing. Why would you be here otherwise” You frowned. While you continued your staring match with Sebastian the matron strolled over. She quickly whipped the sheets off Sebastian and removed the charmed bag from his groin. Sebastian’s face flushed bright red at the sudden disturbance. “Sorry dear. I just need to renew the charm on this and you can have it right back” the matron explained as she quickly charmed the bag and gently placed it back, pulling the sheets back over him. Sebastian groaned as he took in your expression of the sudden intrusion. “Are you kidding me? I WAS WORRIED FOR YOU” You frowned at him and turned to walk away when his hand grips your wrist. “Y/N. Wait!” Sebastian pleaded. You stood there for a moment before you exhaled and turned back to face him. “Ominis said you were asking for me?” You squinted your eyes, not looking away from his face. Sebastian paused. He had told Ominis no such thing, but he wasn’t about to defy his friend after what had transpired between them earlier. “I. Yes. I want to apologise for my behaviour yesterday. What I said. What I did. I didn’t meant to hurt you. I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry Y/N”. He looked at you carefully. His apology was completely sincere as he stroked your hand. You sighed “You know I can’t stay mad at you Sebastian. I just wish. I just wish you knew what you were saying before you said it. Or doing before you did it.” You shook your head. “I’m working on it.” He tipped his head, keeping his eyes on yours.  “So. Imelda did this to you, huh?” You scanned him up and down. “What did she do?”  “She broke my penis” he frowned before seeing the shock capture your face. “With a spell. It was nothing like that” He added, cursing himself for letting his sleep induced state allow Imelda to be close to him like that. He would have never allowed anyone but Y/N to be in such a compromising position with him. “I didn’t realise she would go so far for revenge” you chuckled slightly. “Yeah, she’s a true friend” he added with hint of sarcasm. “I will never get on her bad side again. Or yours, for that matter. I really am sorry”. You sighed at his repeated apology and leaned over, planting your lips on his. He lifted up his hand to cup the back of your neck, pulling you in for a deeper kiss “AAAAAAARRRGGGGGGHHHH” Sebastian screamed against your lips, his head wobbled. You looked at him in surprise, his eyes met yours briefly before he passed out, his head hitting his pillow with a soft thump. The clicking of shoes announced the matron running towards the noise Sebastian had just made. “My goodness. I should have warned you not to do anything to excite the boy. Any excitement will cause him quite an amount of pain!” She explained. “Excitement?” you questioned, only to be met with the nurse raising her eyebrows at you with a knowing look. You blushed in response and looked to the boy who was passed out in the infirmary bed with his lips parted in a smile. 

#I loved writing this #Sebastian sallow #Sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow x reader #ominis gaunt #imelda reyes #inspired by new girl #ravenclawella writes #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fics #hogwarts legacy sebastian

[floraracoon]

Gems of Dupont - Rewrite

Since it's been bothering me these past few days, this is a list of how I would rewrite a fic I wrote last year, called The Gems of Dupont on Ao3 if I were to do so.

Spoiler Warning if you want to read the fic then read this

Premise: There is a group of students who while anonymous, are known to have a lot of power. Namely, they have a history of getting rid of unsavory figures in the school or associated with it. Their current targets are Marinette (stalking, minor abuse of power, and her actions towards her 'rivals'), Adrien (bystander, actions as Chat Noir towards Ladybug, etc.), Lila (obvious), Alya (misinformation, slander, and something else), Mme. Bustier (bystander, emotional manipulation, poor teaching methods), Mr. Damocles (fraud, neglect, etc.), and Fu (facing the consequences of his own actions)

Problems: A scene that I did not flesh out enough to show the reasoning behind it, too many characters involved in the takedown, illogical plot points, involving characters that make no sense, and moving too fast due to me losing interest but not wanting to go on hiatus or abandoning the work.

The Rewrite:

Establishing the Gems -

The sign of the Gems (a wreath of gems on Mme. Mendelieve's door) is shown, causing rumors to spread through the school

Adrien, Alya, and Lila ask what they are, giving them the full explanation

The Gems are a group of six that every year go through and gather evidence of people's wrongdoings, before giving them to those that would cause the most change. This most of the time results in someone leaving the school. When they are done, gems are left where the person sits. Each gem represents something, and while there are six Gems, there are more gems.

Chloe scoffs out loud while Lila internally scoffs. Chloe thinks she is immune, as she has never been hit before. Lila scoffs because she thinks she hasn't been caught, to begin with.

Cut to a group chat, where two people are arguing over the nicknames they have in the chat. "Eye candy" seems particularly frustrated and claims they bring something more to the team than their good looks.

Safety Measures -

We see a week pass, with people becoming more and more anxious waiting for something to happen. Some sign that this wasn't a fluke. The first week is always when it is that they send out the warnings, where are the warnings?

But one day, as Nino walks in, having not arrived with Alya due to her running off to record an akuma fight, he finds a note sitting on his desk. The note contains a list of numbers and timestamps. A small doodle of a gem sitting in the corner.

On another day, Rose finds a small slip of paper that has Prince Ali's phone number on it, also with a small doodle of a gem in the corner

Luka opens a note left on his bed. He finds the chords for a song, with no lyrics. Each page has small annotations of cherry blossoms in places where lyrics would be, and a doodle of a gem in the bottom corner.

Kagami is surprised when a note falls out of her locker, with a message in brail saying "He hesitates, where is his backbone?". A gem is engraved on the page

The first -

Alya is the first to go down. After a fight between her and Nino that results in their break up, she learns that her parents got a similar note to the one that started the fight.

The numbers and timestamps were coded for different videos on the Ladyblog. The one for Nino was instances where Alya endangered him and those around him. The fight was about her recklessness, and her want to get up close to akuma fights with little regard for her safety.

The one her parents got, however, was every single time she had endangered herself.

The two of them were busy with work often, so they only really watched the videos Alya sent them. Often those were the ones where she stayed safe for the most part or had a lot of views.

So they opened her blog, to investigate what these timestamps were, only to find their daughter once again throwing herself into situations she shouldn't have. Along with countless posts trying to figure out the identities of people who were trying to protect the city and a single post that had them questioning her integrity.

The next day, Alya was pulled into distanced learning. She was also grounded until further notice, with no blog posting for one day per timestamp listed.

Will continue this post tomorrow, as this is getting really long

#mlb rewrite #mlb fandom #mlb au #mlb fanfic #alya cesaire #nino lahiffe #rose lavillant #juleka couffaine #luka couffaine #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #lila rossi #chloe bourgeois #fanfic #fanfic rewrite #miraculous ladybug #gems of dupont

[thejostenator]

Golden Boy Orange: Chapter Seven

I live! And its only been like seven months since I last updated. For those of you who don’t know or have forgotten (and, once again I wouldn't blame you), this is my project to tell AFTG from Matt’s perspective. If you haven’t read the first six chapters (or if you need a refresh) you can read them here on Tumblr, or out on Ao3.

Tagging those I know were interested all those aeons ago haha (@youhaveahomeinmyheart, @accal1a, @sickbunsbro, @tntwme, & @stay-because-now-you-have-a-home) but if you want to be added (or removed) to (or from) the tag list, just let me know

Matt had decided to stay up until Neil got back. If Neil was going to up and obey the Monsters’ every beck and call, against common sense and reason, it was the most Matt could do to wait and hope and put him back together at the end. Dan had done the same for him after Columbia, and since Neil had come out of his trip down there far better off than Matt had, hopefully little more intervention would be needed. 

He knew the gesture couldn’t turn back the clock if the monsters did fuck Neil up, but it was the most he could do. He just hoped it was enough.

He’d taken to busying himself on his computer as the hours slid slowly by. His monitor was the only light in the room, bathing him in cool blue, and by this point he was doing little more than clicking links, going back a page, and then clicking them again. He had been reading up on the Raven’s stats, but he could only do it for so long without feeling sick, and he’d let it dissolve into this mindless pattern, just enough to keep his bleary eyes open. 

The door swung open and Matt snapped out of a daze he hadn’t realised he’d been in. 

“You good?” He heard himself ask, voice tinny in his own ears.

Neil nodded, and had the grace to look a little guilty. “Yes. He’s teaching me Raven drills.”

Matt stood up and shut his computer down. “You’re going to hate getting up in the morning.”

Neil murmured something unintelligible, then promptly turned to the bedroom.

Matt considered asking him to repeat it, but he’d figured out by now there was no point. Instead, he collected his thoughts with a deep breath and went to bed.

He was asleep before Neil was even finished changing.

Wednesday, June 21st:

Nicky and Aaron were having a heated spat in German, the foreign language in the middle of the changing room meaning it was probably about them or one of them, and even though it was indecipherable, it was hard to ignore. Still, Neil seemed to be having particular trouble tuning it out; Matt was curious, but their new striker was rapt, hands trailing down from adjusting his collar as he listened with not-so-subtle confusion.

Seemingly finally noticing the attention, Nicky’s voice took on a pleading tone. Aaron’s response was short, succinct, and probably something along the lines of “Fine.”

Nicky shot something back, and Aaron deigned to reply in English to tell him to fuck himself.

“Hey,” Matt interrupted. “Break it up, you two. What the hell?”

Aaron scoffed as he pushed himself off the bench, barely giving Matt a second glance as he stormed from the room.

Matt looked from his departing figure in the doorway back to a glowering Nicky.

“Nicky?”

Nicky put on his best wounded look, tilting his entire body towards Matt in a purposeful change of tone. “Aaron hurt my feelings! Kiss it better, Matt?”

Seth spat out his favourite slur and stalked from the room looking like Nicky had just asked for Matt to fuck him raw against the lockers.

Matt ignored him and raised his best sceptical eyebrow at Nicky. “You guys all right?”

More fake emotions. “Of course we are. Why?”

Matt looked to Kevin (silence), and then Neil (the slightest of shrugs — a small reaction, for someone so visibly affected).

Matt dropped the subject, following Aaron and Seth out a few minutes later.

Neil’s only other real interaction with him that day was a quick assurance that he’d be fine when leaving for another evening practice with the monsters, and since Matt opted not to wait up this time, he was asleep when Neil crept back in. Thursday went by much the same.

Friday, Wymack’s call came in; the ERC had finally decided to stop tiptoeing around the truth, and they’d revealed to the Exy-loving world that the Ravens had come South.

Matt flicked on the TV in their dorm just in time to catch the anchorman’s wild gesticulations and mile-a-minute ranting. One of his guests was shaking his head in exaggerated disapproval, and the other trying and failing to interrupt.

Matt leaned forward on his seat. “Here it comes,” he breathed. “They’ll be all over us like white on rice. Coach’s phone is going to be ringing off the hook for weeks.”

Seth cracked open another can of beer. “I didn’t sign up to be part of a freak show. Let’s just send him back north and be done with it.”

It was clear 'him' was referring to Kevin.

Neil twitched. “Why do you hate him?”

Seth shot Matt an are-you-seeing-this look, which Matt opted not to return. 

“Told you this kid was stupid,” Seth said, taking a swig and then belching.

“Why do you hate him so much,” Neil clarified, “that you’d wish such a thing on him?”

“Because I’m sick of him getting everything he wants just because he’s Kevin Day.”

Matt opened his mouth to speak, but Seth cut him off with a warning finger.

“Do you know what fame gets you, shitface?” He spat. “Everything. All he has to do is ask for it, and someone will give it to him. Doesn’t matter what. Doesn’t matter who. The world is dying to give him anything he wants.”

Neil looked quietly uncomfortable, but there was a real hint of anger in there Matt couldn’t help but appreciate.

“When he broke his hand,” Seth trailed on, “his fans cried for him. They flooded our locker room with letters and flowers. The amazing Kevin Day can’t play anymore, they said. Their lives were over. They’d grieve the loss forever.”

Neil shifted in his seat on the couch, and Seth took that as his cue to lean right into his personal space.

“But tell me, when’s the last time anyone cried for you? Never, right? They’re there for Kevin very step of the way, but where were they when we needed them?”

Neil blinked. “So you’re jealous.”

Seth raised his beer can like it was a fist. “His life is not more important than mine just because he’s more talented.”

“You have to admit your attitude makes it hard for anyone to care about you,” Neil said bluntly.

Matt snorted, and Seth shot him in irate look.

“You and Kevin both have impossible attitudes, but he can play better.” Neil finished. “Of course they chose him.”

Seth looked on the verge of violence. His drink can fist was still raised. “Look here, shortbus-”

“He has a point,” Matt cut in quickly. “This is your last year, Seth. Maybe it’s time for a fresh start. Give the people someone to rally behind and you’ll win them over.”

Down came the drink hand, and Seth slouched back on the couch. “What’s the point? We’re the laughing stock of the NCAA and Edgar Allen is going to massacre us this fall. It doesn’t matter what I do. No one will ever recruit a Fox to the pros.”

“Awesome attitude, Seth,” Matt said drily. “Way to encourage the rest of us.”

“I am encouraging you,” Seth said, taking another vehement swig now that he no longer had to reserve his can for use as an improvised weapon. “I’m encouraging you all to stop being stupid. You’re not going to get anywhere so long as you play for this team.”

“You’re too big of a coward to try,” Matt said. Dan’s enthusiasm and Kevin’s know-how were getting to him. Also, Seth was being a little shit and it was annoying.”Neil and I will prove you wrong. Right, Neil?”

“I’m just here to play,” came Neil’s curt response. “I don’t care about the future.”

Matt blinked in surprise. Unexpected answer, from someone doing nightly practice of Raven Drills with Kevin. “You don’t really believe that.”

Neil shrugged. “Afraid so.”

Matt looked between them, dumbstruck. Waiting for something else, a “ha gotcha!” that never came.

Seth raised his beer in a silent toast, somehow managing to look both smug and angry.

“I can’t believe you two,” Matt said at last. They responded with silence, and Matt looked to the heavens, then got up. “I guess our dinner plans are scratched. I’m not going downtown if the press is out and about; I don’t care how many campus police Chuck gave us. Let’s see about ordering in and watching a movie or something.”

Neil nodded, and Seth took a sip.

“You guys sit here and wallow in self-defeat or something while I check with Dan,” Matt said, then turned to leave.

As he walked out, he heard Seth shift on the couch, turning towards Neil.

“Maybe you’re not as stupid as I thought,” he said.

“Maybe I am,” Neil responded, and then Matt was gone.

#all for the game #the foxhole court #all for the gay #aftg fanfic #aftg fic #writers on tumblr #a03 writer #a03 fanfic #a03 fic #read on a03 #neil josten & the foxes #neil josten #seth gordon #matt boyd #aftg matt #matt boyd pov #danielle wilds #dan wilds #tfc fanfic #tfc

[cartoonscientist]

oh mannn so after I typed up that alternate timelines post I hammered this out in like a day because I was just POSSESSED

it's also on ao3 here if you prefer that

And They Lived Happily Ever After -or- Weird, Pretty, Pretty Weird

ships: Magic Woman/Ice King, Betty Grof/Simon Petrikov

summary: The Ice King reflects on how everything changed when a special lady mysteriously showed up in his life. Or, one love story recorded over another on an old VHS tape.

notes: contains colorful ableist language and references to sex and violence. and manga.

  Ice King didn’t really know where the weird pretty lady had come from. She just flew into his window one day and asked to go on a date, like an angel or a beautiful seagull. It reminded him of a comic he was pretty sure he’d read, about a sad lonely guy who wakes up to find a girl who, get this, is already his girlfriend in his apartment. He’d always thought that sounded like a pretty good deal, just a nice lady who would love you and be friends with you without you having to put in any of that pesky flirting legwork. What busy, high-powered wizard had time for things like that anyway?

  It wasn’t all perfect to begin with. She actually kind of stressed him out at first, always acting like she had important things to do that he couldn’t understand. She would startle and run off and start talking to herself when he just wanted her to stay and hang out. Worse, she even tried to get him to do boring complicated things that sucked and made him feel bad. The pretty weird lady was kind of a scary pretty weird lady sometimes, come to think of it.

  But it seemed like maybe she just needed to spend more time getting to know him to really relax and get out of her shell. There was a time he thought she wasn’t going to see him again. They had a fight, or at least they did according to her, and she said she needed time to process things. She was talking really fast, saying a lot of words that would get you a lot of points in Scrabble. It didn’t really register with him because he was too disappointed that he’d somehow managed to make her upset again . Women and their mysteries, right?

  Apparently she processed them really well! He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before she came back (it was hard to maintain a calendar when the pages would just end up scribbled on and scattered across the castle), but she was the happiest he’d ever seen her. She was darting and dancing around the way she did when she got excited, and as soon as she saw him she ran up to him and gave him a hug, bouncing with enthusiasm even as she held him.

  “Simon!” She squealed, nuzzling into the side of his beard. It didn’t really make sense because it wasn’t his name, but it was her special pet name for him and he thought it was kind of cute. Weird ladies with their weird nicknames.

  “Hey, you! You’re doin’ a lot better now!” He sniffed her hair, a privilege he got to enjoy as her Boyfriend. She pulled away and looked up at his face, still smiling.

  “What was I doing before?”

  “Oh, you know. You were all down in the dumps. It’s not real important. But now you’re good!”

  “I am so good, you wouldn’t believe.” She did a little spin and as she did, tossed a bolt of pink energy at a nearby boulder that left behind the smoldering engraving of two bees kissing, with the appropriate floating love hearts.

  He learned more about her on their dates, which were pretty crazy awesome to tell you the truth. It seemed like she knew all the best spots in Ooo to collect spell ingredients, or just have a seapolyp fight or snuggle under a crying willow. He was embarrassed to admit he didn’t travel much, mostly to places like the laundromat and the Magic General, but she just said he was adorable, which made him like her even more.

  He learned that she was a wizard too, but didn’t go to meetups, and she called herself Magic Woman.

  “Look!” She said, excited, holding aloft a section of warped branch. “I found this when I was stalking the forest for shrooms. It really looks like, like, a prehistoric fish? And I did some magic stuff to it too. To enhance the effect. I get immense vibes from it.”

  “Woah.” He traced the lines with a claw. “This is like, a super advanced artifact.” Magic Woman was so cool and good at being a wizard that it almost made him jealous sometimes, but then he would remember that she was his girlfriend and it would change to pride. Something about taking something from her and holding it, examining it, something important, that they found… Deja vu could be so weird.

  “So, um, I thought, if you like it, you can have it. As a romantic gift.”

  “Wow, that’s probably one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me!” He planted a messy kiss on the lens of her glasses and she giggled. “I’m gonna put it right on top of my microwave so I can look at it whenever I go in the kitchen. That’s a spot for special stuff!”

  This pleased her greatly, and she almost threw him off balance tackling him with a hug. “ Yes! That’s exactly what I wanted to happen! I’m a freakin’ genius!” She devolved into a bout of contagious laughter and they ended up cackling together on the icy floor.

 After they had regained their breath, Ice King thought of something that he was pretty sure he’d thought of before but forgotten before he could ask it. “You’re such an awesome, nice, pretty magic lady, and I was hecka lonely for like, ever before you showed up. Where did you even come from?”

  She stopped to think for a moment. “You know, I don’t know! Mars, maybe? Mars feels like the right answer.”

  “Heh! I don’t know where I’m from either! Crazy how we have so much in common, huh?” His left hand found a discarded fleece blanket that was only slightly dirty, and he clumsily started wrapping it around them before Magic Woman helpfully straightened it out. “But if you are from Mars, that’s cool! My girlfriend is from Mars.” He couldn’t help but beam saying it. His girlfriend. His. Girlfriend. Who slept over at his house all the time and really, really loved him.

  “My boyfriend is an ice wizard with a karaoke machine that has two microphone jacks!” She grinned and hugged him again. That was one of the great things about her, she was so energetic and full of affection. It seemed like her magic was electric and vibrating, and so she was too, unlike his cold, harsh elemental magic. Then her mood seemed to shift a little, to something more serious. “Look. You wanna talk realness, Simon? You wanna go into some serious, uncut Wiz Biz to get your fix, scratch your eldritch knowledge itch?” Her hair had begun to blow lightly in some unseen breeze, which meant she was feeling some intense stuff. Maybe ready to unleash all kinds of powers.

  “Yeah! I’m open to all the weird stuff!”

  “Okay. So like, inside my brain, I see the cosmos. That shit is always rotating, it’s gyrating, pulsating, complicating, undulating, aggregating, contemplating… It makes me crazy good at magic because I can see all the little guys holding hands that our reality is made of.” She waved her hands broadly for effect. “I think it pointed me to you, because all I can remember about coming here is wanting to see you. And now that we’re together I feel like… I found someone I was missing. Does that sound weird? I feel like I missed you for a long time even though I don’t think I ever knew you before. But it feels like I knew you, and we were friends. More.”

  “Honey, you’re gonna need to print me up a TV Guide if you want me to follow all that.” He paused. “But… you know what, I think I get it. I kinda feel like I know you too, but I didn’t wanna tell you because the ladies don’t always take that stuff so good.”

  “Then we’re cosmically fated to be soulmates!”

  “You really think so?”

  “Yeah! I really really think so.”

—

  “Boys! Your cool big brother has good news!”

  Finn looked up from his attempt to whittle a toy sword, which was admittedly turning out more like a bent popsicle stick. Ice King and Betty were walking- no, they were skipping? Something like skipping but less coordinated? Towards him, hand in hand. He jumped up straight into a standing position from his cross-legged pose on the grass and almost tossed his project aside before reconsidering and setting it gently on a nearby stump. Jake didn’t feel up to moving yet, so he simply rotated his head 360 degrees. “Hey, Simon! It looks like you and Betty worked things out, huh? That’s great!”

  Betty cocked her head to the side, amused. “Who’s Betty? Is that one of your little pengies, Simon?”

  “Nah, that one’s not in the rotation yet. It’s a cool name, though! Really pretty.” An idea came to him suddenly. “Hey, you know how you call me Simon as our special couple thing? Your girlfriend codename can be Betty if you want.” She seemed to like this idea.

  Finn looked out of the corner of his eye at Jake, who pulled his mouth tight and gave a tiny shrug. He felt kind of sick and cold, the way he did if he realized a monster had been stalking him for miles without his knowledge.

  “That’s actually what we came here to tell you about!” Betty crowed, sounding unusually melodic. “We’re going steady now and we’re gonna get officially soulbound in Wizard City this winter.” She looped her arms around Ice King’s shoulders and dropped into a dead weight, almost toppling him. “Two moonrises sealed inside a crystal coffin with fragrant herbs, our blood circulating into one another’s veins through the palms of our hands… It’s going to be so romantic!” A squeal that would have been girlish were it not so discordant.

  “And you’re invited!” Ice King added, handing Finn a crumpled napkin with some markings scrawled on it in ballpoint pen.

  “Don’t worry! I’ll make fancier invitations later and they’ll explode into birds and butterflies and stuff when you open them.” She wiggled her fingers. “They’ll be super cool, you’ll see!”

  “That’s awesome, dude.” Jake gave the couple a thumbs up. “I’m really happy you two found each other, you seem really good together. Happy.”

  “Jake, can I take you aside for a sec to talk about… chimichangas? Like the logistics of chimichangas?” Finn asked, somewhat nervously.

  “No problem, you know I’m up for an emergency fried burrito discussion any time of the day.” Jake replied. “Hey, can you lovebirds give us a second?”

  They walked some distance away, and Jake casually shaped himself into a small dome tent so they could have some privacy. Finn was wringing his hands, something he didn’t normally do. “I’m not alone in thinking this whole thing is super messed up, right? I was worried Betty would get all messed up from Magic Man’s nasty-ass body moisture, and she totally did! And now neither of them remember who they are and it’s so frikkin creepy! That’s worse, right? That’s twice the crazy wizards now.”

  “Finn. Finnland. Little Finn bro.” Jake stretched an arm down from the ceiling and gently patted the human’s shoulder. “Sure, stuff happens that isn’t ideal. People get messed up all kinds of ways as they walk the highway of life, man. I mean, now at least they’re both equally donked, right? Betty doesn’t miss her old boyfriend and now Simon has a mashed potato brain lady friend to keep him company.”

  “I guess.” He sighed. “It just seems wrong. She wanted to help Simon so bad and now she’s just… fine with everything.”

  “Maybe it was stressing her out, trying to help him. They both seem like they’re doing much better, right? Sometimes you try to build a go-cart and you end up just having a good time playin’ around with the fruit crates. I get that they’re weird and kinda scary, but they’re having a good time.”

  “Maybe.” Finn bedgrudged. “It just makes me really sad that Betty time traveled here and everything, and she just ended up turning into another magic person with Problems.”

  “It is sad.” Jake said. “But it’s less sad than if like, she fell into a volcano or got eaten by a giant bear or whatever. At least now they can be together.”

  “Yeah…”

  “Now let’s get back out there and ask those two nuts where they registered for freaky blood magic sex coffin gifts.”

  “...Sure, bro. Probably at the weird cursed stuff store, right?” He still couldn't really get on board with the whole thing, but if it was true that they were happy... He didn't feel comfortable even holding any of that information in his brain yet. But he would probably only make things worse if he got upset. Simon could be really sensitive, and Betty was already acting emotionally weird the last time he saw her...

  “Haha, probably! Wizards, man.”

  “Yeah. Wizards.”

#adventure time fanfic #adventure time #petrigrof #ice king #betty grof #simon petrikov

[blackjackkent]

The Mystery of the Night

Pairing: Karlach/OC Tav Characters: Karlach, Male OC Tav, Jaheira, Mattis Rating: G Warnings: None Descriptors: Fluff, light angst, BG2 throwbacks, Selunite monk Tav, holidays, Faerun religion, cute ending. Word Count: 3.4k Setting: Early relationship, at Last Light Inn Summary: Karlach tries to figure out what gift to get her new boyfriend for a holiday she knows nothing about. Jaheira helps her out with a look into the past. other bg3 one-shots | i welcome fic requests!

“Where's Hector gone? I haven't seen him since dinner.”  Karlach does her best not to sound overly concerned. It isn't like Hector needs her supervision, she reminds herself, or that she has any right to demand his whereabouts. 

A few nights' sex, a few ‘I love you's, and I've gone all clingy, she thinks with a rueful grin. But… well, there’s no escaping the fact that she feels his absence when he isn't nearby. And though they’re safe as they can be in their current camp at Last Light, it’s impossible to forget the danger lurking all around them in the dark. 

Astarion, lounging in his tent, looks up with a lazy grin and absently turns a page in his book. “Our fearless leader went for a walk,” he says with pointed disinterest. “Some Selunite holiday tonight, I believe, or something equally ritualistic and dreary.”

“Chk .” Lae'zel is sitting nearby, idly examining one of the githyanki discs they found in the underdark; she shoots Astarion a baleful look sidelong. “Simply because you have no appreciation for the value of divinity, elf, does not mean we are all so impoverished.” She turns towards Karlach and adds brusquely, “He had business with the priestess on the upper floor of the inn. No doubt you will find him there.”

“Oh. Right.” Karlach nods a few times and wanders away hastily, before Astarion can put in any more pithy observations. 

A holiday? Hector didn't say anything about a holiday, but of course the Selunites must have them. Damn, I wish he'd mentioned it. She isn't much for religion but she knows how important it is to him; she'd have celebrated with him if he'd asked. Instead, he’s upstairs with Isobel… 

She recognizes the sharp little burst of heat in her chest as jealousy and can't help a soft laugh at herself. Really, Karlach? We're not going down that path. Besides, you've been together a week. 

Nevertheless… if it’s a holiday for Hector, it’ll damn well be a holiday for her too. The least I can do is find him a present, right? 

She turns, shoulders squared purposefully, and stalks out of camp towards the inn. 

Read More on AO3

#bjk plays baldur's gate 3 #hector carlisle #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 fanfic #baldur's gate 3 fic #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fic #baldurs gate 3 #karlach x tav #karlach/tav #jaheira bg3 #karlach cliffgate #karlach bg3 #karlach #queuing this to go back into the fandom tags in a different format #(i see a lot of writers posting their stuff in this format rather than just the ao3 link) #because i'm really proud of this one dammit XD #also i spent way too long on photoshopping the holy symbol in the header together #so i'm proud of that too XD

[gh0stlyfixation]

Hi everyone!

This is a side blog, meaning I cannot respond to commets, however, my person blog is @sm2020 and sometimes I respond from that

USED TO BE Mikaelsonblog2-0

THIS IS A 18+ page, MDNI because I do write and share smut, but you can also find some fluff and angst

Reminder: I write mature themes sometimes so please make sure your community settings are adjusted so you can see posts with the mature label on them if you are over 18!!! I wish tumblr would make this more public so more people knew.

Im currently fixating on Simon Riley so I apologize 😅

Ao3 is: Catrinam20

I’m going to be making some changes to this blog.

Keeping up with the trends (mostly my obsessions), I’m going to be making this a multifandom page. Here’s who I’ll be writing for:

James “Bucky” Barnes

Steve Rogers

Eddie Brock/Venom

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Johnny “Soap” McTavish

König

Captain John Price

Daemon Targaryen

Harwin Strong

If there is another character you’d like me to write about in any of these fandoms, please go ahead an request it! More than likely I will write it.

Just a reminder: I do get your request! I’m very slow though because I’m a perfectionist and sometimes get writers block 😭 so if you have requested something and you haven’t seen it, I’m working on it! I don’t want anyone thinking I’m ignoring them or never got it, I just want it perfect for you. I also work an unhealthy amount of time so that plays a big part on why I'm slow at writing.❤️❤️❤️

Rules and info:

This is a 18+ page, MDNI! I can’t stress this enough.

I will not write about reader being stalked by said character. Will not write a yandere character, something about a extremely possessive man to the point of being an unhealthy relationship does not excite me. I will not write about reader being kidnapped and held against there will by said character. I will write possessive or protective, but the character knows you are your own person and if the character ever wanted to leave him, it’s okay to do so.

I write mostly female, however I try to keep things gender neutral. I can write for male, I can’t promise it’ll be good. Just be clear in your request🤍

I post regularly, but I don’t post on weekends because that’s when I work more on request. I also post as I finish fics. There will be grammar mistakes🥹

Thank you💙

#klaus mikaelson imagine #elijah mikaelson imagines #kol mikaelson imagine #simon ghost riley imagine #konig imagine #daemon targaryen imagine #harwin strong imagine #damon salvatore imagine #bucky barnes imagine

[thetalesofno-one]

Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 1, Ch. III -43 Tallies-

D&D Campaign Retelling Part 1/? Chapter 3/5 ~5.3k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk

Summary Forced together by the mists and lost in a strange new land, our four strangers run into a grim omen along their path and a fork in their road. The Ghost, the Rebel, the Charmer, and the Holy Man finally reveal their names where the deadmen carve their messages on the bones of trees. Read Previous Chapters also available on AO3

Time seems timeless in this place. 

No light wanders behind shaded skies, no sun, no stars. All the heavens diffused entirely behind grey skies hung so low the tops of the barren trees stretch their fingers to touch the clouds. A heavy shroud without breath, suffocating the land. Grasses greyed and withered, thin as straw, dry as hay. Their stalks rustle lightly in the rain with an endless shifting that carries the mind to places beyond. Luring thoughts away from the land like a dream.

Left in the rustling silence, Emet’s mind wanders.

The dim dissonance with the world bringing back memories of a darkened shop thick with the scent of paper and leather. Of a worktable scattered with various tools and thread, half sewn signatures left in a neat stack beside a half drunk and forgotten glass of wine as he remeasures a board and pares the edges of supple smooth leather, the scrapings curling across his fingers. Of candlelight flickering long through the sunken day, windows ever cast in the shadows of spires. Of night slipping over the city like a thief, light fingers pocketing the sun in velvet black without so much as a blink of notice from the little shop. The candles burning ever bright, the day’s end only realized when the flame flickers thin and the darkness steals the workman’s light.

Fingers pricked with needle thin scars and paper thin cuts lighting another candle. Hair loosely tied back, a few strands always slipping free as he smooths the marked tape along a new edge and carefully notes the measurements with a tailor’s precision. Of a guillotine blade sliding through a stack of vellum and trimming its edges to a fine point, a perfect block to be folded. Of the smooth texture of bone between his fingers, the gentle scrape as he runs the folder across the edge of a bent sheet, turning a bowed page into a sharp crease. Glue sticks to his wrist from a missed spot on the wooden table, the book shaping in his mind before its pieces are folded and glued and sewn together. 

And all the while, the quiet loneliness whispering at his back with a phantom silence. Not of presence, but absence. Empty. The weight of a space where someone should be, infinitely loud in its stillness. Its siren voice chased away by the endless work. Its words unheard and yet unignored. Every movement his, every breath slipped through his teeth with no other lips to catch it. Scarred hands reaching for tools no other fingers brush across. And all the while knowing when he finally stops, the kitchen will be empty, the home devoid of spiced currents in the air, the bed cold. The bitterness left in tasting the flavors of an old life when you know now the sweetness of another.

“There is a scent of death.”

Emet’s attention snaps from lullaby memories. The holy man stopped along the muddy road, bent nose turned up and sniffing the air.

“Maybe undeath.”

The blades are in Emet’s hands before the old human even finishes his sentence. The broken glaive hanging dangerously from his hand, vicious tip polished to perfection and flashing brilliantly in the dim light. A stark contrast against the dark bloodstained cloth wrapped around its shattered haft. 

The charmer knocks an arrow into his charred longbow with the fluidity of someone who has fired it under dire circumstances. A faint scent of smoke whispers past as his fingers tug the string lightly, ready for trouble. 

“I don’t like this,” the rebel whispers, slipping her arm through a shield—a small round thing of black and gold painted metal. A coil of whip hangs from her belt but she reaches for metal instead. The short blade slips free of its sheath with a faint hushed breath.

The all too familiar stench of death doesn’t yet reach Emet’s nose, but he has no reason to doubt the holy man in this. Eyes flickering through the mist, resentment wraps itself around Emet’s chest and burns through his scars. But there is no place for spitting out what has been earned because of the hand that offers it. Not when it comes to undeath. Emet calls on his forsaken power. Soul reaching out beyond himself with clawed grasping hands ready to take what might be denied, he stretches out his inner self toward a god he isn’t sure will answer. Toward a god who heard his screams and turned away.

Power floods through Emet’s irises in a dim display. Pale grey light ignites his faded eyes in a hollow glow burning with ghost fire, and though they do not shine with the brilliant white of beacons as they once did, the divine sense is not gone entirely. Not yet.

The rebel glances up at him with an unreadable expression, but he ignores her and scans the mists around them. If anything undead or fiendish in nature lurks nearby, the divine power flowing through him will draw his attentions like someone taking his chin and gently pointing him toward unseen dangers. But no phantom fingers grace his scarred jaw or pull at his divinely heightened senses. Whatever smells of death here must then truly be dead.

Giving a nod to continue on, the holy man presses forward with the slow and quiet feet of a hunter stalking its prey. The faded light falls from Emet’s eyes after a moment and he feels the divine slip away from him with a cold chill. The rebel still stares at him with narrowed eyes and uplifted brow, but her lips remain sealed. Whatever question lurks in her mind, he suspects she no longer needs to ask it. A curiosity that seems less about the ability and more about the person wielding it. 

Though he no longer wears his holy symbol or any sign of faith emblazoned on his person, no trace of a past better left buried, it is not uncommon knowledge to those of faith that only paladins—knights of gods—are blessed with such an ability. And Emet realizes he’s let something of himself slip in front of knowing eyes.

The rebel’s lips part—

The scent finally reaches them.

Sickly sweet and turning the stomach with a heavy wave of bile. Both enticing and revolting in that way only death can be. Corpse rot. There’s no doubt. Not but fifteen feet down the road, a human body decomposes half off the path with arms outreached toward the road as though it breathed its last in a desperate crawl. A young man once, clothes torn by brambles and thorns with flesh pockmarked by the beaks of birds feasting on an easy meal. A tarnished copper compass spills out from that outstretched hand, its red needle trembling and twisting uncertainly as though unable to find North.

The holy man kneels beside the body and looks it over without touching the overly soft and rain sodden flesh. The boy’s skin shifts across his bones with gelatinous ripples as the old man accidentally shifts the mud in taking a knee. A slimy sheen has already settled over the pale flesh like melted fat. Long strips and sharp pecks break through the wet surface to expose the black and purple insides, dark as a bruise, the blood long clotted and rotting. White bone peaks out from cheeks a fingertips, the nose half consumed. The birds have eaten well.

The holy man narrates his findings softly. Scratches from branches and brush, gaunt flesh, sunken eyes—what remains of them, at least—but no visible mortal wounds. The young man died from exhaustion of all things. The holy man’s eyes take on a dark and certain stain when he says the word. 

Exhaustion.

How the holy man knows, Emet isn’t sure. But he never was the best at healing during training. Healing required not just blind faith like those outside of holy orders assume when they beg healers to fix their every ailing, but also knowledge of medicine. A bone cannot be knit together without knowing how its structure is woven together. A crushed hand cannot be reconstructed if one does not understand the pattern of nerves and vessels, tendon and ligament. Or rather, it will heal with faith alone, but it will never be the same again without knowledge behind it.

Emet has always been better at the unmaking…perhaps that’s why they were put together during training. 

Him and Azemir. 

Wrapped eternally like wax around the cold stillness of Emet’s heart, his name brings warmth to the hollows of Emet’s soul where nothing grows. Ever a flame without shadow, a sun without night. Healing and warmth have always been more of Azem’s specialty and Emet wonders how long it will be before he can touch those healing hands and feel their warmth. How far he must go to set things right again. When they will talk without so much distance between them. Or if whatever has happened in these mists will delay his journey. He will walk a hundred lifetimes seeking a way back if that’s what it takes. He will carry the weight of that name forever.

Sickening chills drift and trail cold fingers across Emet’s body snuffing out the thin flame of Azem’s name within his soul—always touching, always grasping. He shudders and crawls within his own skin wanting to shrink away, wanting to claw them off. They touch and grasp and choke and scream—

The calming coolness of one washes away all the others for but a moment. And Emet can breathe. Just one breath. Before they drift back like the sea and cling to him as algae on an anchor. But it’s enough. Why they grow restless, he doesn’t always know. Perhaps a reminder of the promise he made them so it doesn’t settle unfulfilled.

Emet’s eyes follow the old man’s ministrations with that name balanced delicately on the tip of his tongue. The way the old man’s rough and calloused hands move light as feathers over the boy’s corpse as though the kid can feel anything anymore. Pain is beyond him now, but still the old man moves gently. Emet isn’t sure what he is searching for. Perhaps some other answer than the one he already knows and something in the holy man’s expression settles like wet sand over a stone when he finds no other. The warm candle flame in his eyes dimming beneath a cold and familiar wind.

The old man rests a hand over the boy’s rotting one in a strange gesture of comfort. Bowing his smooth shaved head, he whispers blessings beneath his breath. Emet isn’t sure why the old man bothers. There’s nothing left to save.

Nudging the broken compass after his prayers and looking to where the boy’s hand falls, the holy man quirks his mouth sadly. Perhaps seeing another blessing where there is none.

“The boy was going this way,” he points to the opposite side of the wagon trail toward a tree bearing faint tally marks—43 of them. An arrow carved into its bark points away from the muddy road toward a thin path cutting deeper into the woods. A jagged knife cut through the trees, all but unnoticed if it weren’t for the arrow to point the way.

“You want to follow the dead’s path,” Emet asks incredulously.

“Why not?” The charmer steps over the rotting corpse’s outstretched arm to get a better look at the path behind the body rather than ahead, “He’s probably a criminal trying to leave, so I’d say follow where he came from and we’ll find civilization.”

“Why would you say he’s a criminal?”

“Why else would he be out here?”

“Why are we out here,” the rebel counters.

The holy man looks up from body, “And we are not criminals.”

The rebel gives the holy man a nod, “What the old man said.”

“I am not that old.”

Emet looks over the kneeling holy man. Crows feet spiderweb out from his eyes into well worn paths, tracing old channels. Deep lines folding into the leather of his human face, ripples and cracks where great emotion has marked it forever in memory. The echos of pain and joy held forever in weathered lines. Calloused rough hands scarred with the burden of much hardship dust off his knees as the holy man stands from the corpse. But no light cracks and pops fill the air as his bones settle. And he springs back from his crouch with ease, not even bothering to lean on his shepherd’s staff. The skin past his toughened hands bears much scarring and yet a youthful smoothness. 

If he is not old, then he lived a life full of immeasurable hardship.

The holy man quirks his head to the side and returns Emet’s stare, “Why are you looking at me like you are reading stones in the sand?”

“Human ages are a bit difficult for elves to determine,” Emet admits.

“I am thirty-two.”

The charmer and rebel both snort.

“Nah, mate,” the rebel crosses her arms and grins, “You’re at least sixty.”

“I am not lying.”

She smiles, “Whatever, old man.”

The holy man scrubs his scrawled salt and pepper beard, gesturing off to Emet, “I am not old, he is old. Elves are always old.”

Emet concedes that with a shrug. He’s already lived more years than most of those with him could hope to ever reach and lifetimes before that.

“Yet he looks closer to thirty-two than you, old man,” the rebel continues, picking her nails with a sly grin.

“That is because he is an elf.”

“And I’m not?”

The holy man sighs.

“Ah, I’m just fucking with you, grandpa” she chuckles, “I know I’m half human.”

“You are half—what are you doing?”

The charmer barely pauses his light-fingered search of the dead boy’s pockets, finding more interest in stealing from the dead than their idle chatter. The holy man is about to admonish him further when the tiefling carelessly flips the body onto its stomach and continues his search through pockets.

The holy hand throws up a hand, all conversation on age and good looks forgotten.

“Eh! Eh! Devil boy! Respect the dead! I already took his compass if that is what you are looking for.”

The charmer ignores him, his hands continuing to wander across the ragged clothes and slipping into the pockets and folds as though it is a dance they have performed many times before. His fingers wander with a speed born of practice, seeking whatever the dead may hide. But his search is fruitless, the tiefling finding little more than a small pocket knife like used to carve the tree with its 43 tallies. He turns the small blade this way and that in his red hands, dark nails tracing the edge before pricking his thumb atop the tip. No blood flows along the blunted edge.

With one quick toss, the useless blade flies over his shoulder, “I’m a bit too far gone for respecting the dead at this point.”

The holy man frowns deeply, those ancient lines creasing in old paths. He turns away from the grim display and takes out his feather once more. Whispering more quiet words meant only for the far reaching ears of gods, the old man holds the brilliant feather out before him like a candle in the dark. After a breath, he releases the stem and watches it flutter listlessly to the wet ground. The stem settles first in the mud, its tip angling lightly toward the deadman’s path.

“I think we should go this way.”

Emet’s lips curl into a faint snarl, “How much faith do you have in that feather?”

“A lot of faith.”

“Do you honestly trust that more than the actual, factual compass you have in your other hand?” The rebel asks with no small amount of skepticism, the moment of warmth shared between them only a moment ago blowing away with the breeze.

“It has never lead me wrong, nor has my god. Besides,” the holy man tosses the tarnished bronze compass to the rebel, “this does nothing. It is broken.”

“I can’t fucking map-read,” she growls as she snatches it from the air with a loud clang as the compass hits the edge of her shield. The rebel palms the bronze and glass bauble in her hands, watching it a moment and expecting the needle to settle. But the sharp red spine continues to wobble and spin as though unsure.

Her eyes narrow, “I don’t think it’s meant to do that.”

“I have never had a compass,” the holy man shrugs, “but I did not think so.”

“Hey, poncy bloke,” the rebel looks up at Emet, “You look like you know how to use this kind of shit.”

Emet arcs a sharp brow at the nickname. In the absence of anyone having offered up their names, it was inevitable they’d all call each other something. But poncy bloke? Not exactly his first guess. Most people went with ‘giant’ or ‘tower’. He’s even heard ‘statue’. 

The rebel’s arm swings out with the compass and all the world slows. Emet’s breath catches and his eyes lock on that approaching hand like a blade plummeting toward his gut. For a moment he can’t see, his vision crystalizing on that hand and blurring all the world around it as he instinctively steps away before he’s even realized what he’s done. His body moving without thought, shifting back as though about to be skewered in a fight before the moment ends and only an open palm offering a compass hangs before him. 

A strange look crosses the half-elf’s face. 

Emet thought he was starting to get better about this. Hand-shakes, fingers brushing when taking a drink from a server’s hands, shoulders getting bumped in a crowded tavern. All of these things he could handle with a steadying breath. But all of those things are expected touches. Expected moments that he can predict and prepare for, ready his nerves to stand firm. But the more unexpected the approach, the more he steps back into the shelter of himself like a fox cornered between stones with nowhere to run from the wolf’s shadow. And his body reacts with all it knows in that moment. Fear.

Emet shifts his blade arm deeper beneath the dark cloak draped over his shoulder, drawing attention away from the hand wrapped tightly around the glaive’s broken haft with a light cough as he forces his clenched fingers to release. He breathes, thankful he did not draw steel this time. 

Acting as though nothing happened, Emet stiffly leans over when the rebel gives the compass a little shake, beckoning him to take a look. Her face immediately screws up, recoiling as though he’s some shit-faced drunk at the bar thick with the scent of whiskey and lust and offering her the best lay of her life. Emet doesn’t understand the shift in her expression a moment before he realizes he’s a very large man looming over this young woman despite the distance his previous reaction put between them. The half-elf’s discomfort is readily apparent and Emet quickly puts some space between them after a brief glance down at the compass.

“No, it’s not supposed to do that,” he says gently.

The compass disappears in one of the rebel’s belt pouches as she shuffles away from him, risking a look over to the holy man as though asking him to interpret what the hell just happened. The old man only shrugs lightly.

Everything is going wrong, that’s what happened.

He almost apologizes, but the words catch in his throat. What if doing so makes them ask why he practically jumped away from her. Those aren’t questions he’s ready to answer, so better to not give an opportunity for them to be asked.

“So we have a feather, a broken compass, and I’m hoping you’re a tracker,” Emet says to the charmer, trying to plough through and trample into dust whatever walls this disaster of a conversation brought up before anyone thinks too hard on it.

The tiefling regards him a moment before flicking away a piece of dried grass twirling between his long fingers, “I rely on instinct and I’m with the old man on this one. His dumb feather pointed to where I wanted to go anyways.”

“Thank you, young boy,” the holy man nods.

“Watch it.”

“You keep calling me ‘old man’, why can’t I call you ‘young boy’. It is better than ‘devil boy’, no?”

“You’re fair game,” the tiefling bites back, “I’m not.”

Emet pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing, “Would it not be better to call each other by our actual names instead of these substitutes.” He cuts a glance at the rebel to his side, “Creative as they are.”

The charmer scoffs, “Let’s not get sentimental.”

“First names, then.”

The holy man’s eyes widen incredulously, face scrunching as though Emet just suggested the moon is an illusion, “I only have one name. Are you supposed to have more?”

“Typically…Your name and a family name.”

The rebel murmurs something under her breath about having too many.

“That is a…weird revelation, but okay.” The holy man lifts his hand in greeting, “My name is Roshan, but you can call me ‘old man’ if you like.”

“Emet. We’ll leave it at that for now.”

Both the charmer and rebel suddenly find great interest in some moss on a tree and a particularly long strand of dried grass as Emet and Roshan’s attentions fall on them in expectant silence. 

“I can just call you ‘devil boy’ and ‘lovely elf lady’ if you want,” Roshan offers.

The charmer rolls his eyes and flicks away the chunk of moss, “Evrrot. You can call me Evrrot.”

Kicking a loose stone on the ground, the rebel keeps her voice low. Perhaps hoping no one will actually hear her, “Most people call me Evie.”

Roshan nods after each one, fingers twirling in his beard as though he can tie each name to his memory, “Emet, Evrrot, Evie. Everyone is an ‘E’. That is strange, but okay.”

“So we’re done here?” Evrrot asks, “Everyone all happy with their little names?”

He walks off down the deadman’s path without waiting for an answer, abruptly ending the conversation that was more akin to pulling teeth than basic introductions. Roshan quickly follows with a grin, resuming his practice of trying to walk ahead of Evrrot, further irritating the charmer tiefling into a faster pace.

Emet and Evie watch them hastily disappear between the trees, left behind again. Realization slowly dawns on them as they share another look that this will likely be their shared fate quite often in the days ahead.

“You know,” Evie says, “I get the feeling that wherever we go, we’re gonna end up in the same place anyways.”

“As do I,” Emet sighs. 

“We could just keep following this muddy slop road and they’d probably end up right behind us.” She shrugs, “We could just go.”

“Tempting, though I get the feeling we shouldn’t be separating in a place like this.” He glances around the dark and silent forest pointedly, the mists shifting into strange shapes and shadows in the distance.

“Mmm, probably right,” she groans. “Come on then.”

Evie ushers Emet ahead of her and they follow the already fading silhouettes of Evrrot and Roshan. Both still vie for who gets to lead without there ever being a winner. Though from the near permanent curl to the old human’s lips, Emet suspects Roshan takes the game itself as a win.

The arrow carved into the tree above forty-three sharp tallies—every slash bearing down harder than the last, the groupings becoming more sporadic and wild, telling a tale of madness and desperation—points them down a narrow footpath. The trail is thin, quickly forcing them into a line as the trees and brush crowd in eagerly to either side. Branches reaching out to snag on their clothes and boots sinking in the thick slosh of earth. Roshan and Evrrot are forced to relinquish their game of footsie. ‘Devil boy’ comes out on top as he slips ahead of the holy man through a rather narrow bend where two barren trees crowd as desperately close as lovers in a storm. Despite the loss, Roshan casts a secret little amused grin toward him and Evie. A promise their game is far from over.

Though the scent of decay and rot gradually gave way to bitterly sharp winter air as they walked beyond the corpse along the road, it returns again, thick as ever in their lungs and threatening to make them choke. Ahead, an eerily similar tree with another forty-three tallies looms near the path with a bowed back, its branches nearly sweeping the dried grasses. Another arrow continues to point further down the path. But it’s the second body that makes this repetition unsettling, a shiver passing through their bones as though someone walked over their graves. 

A bulking husk, ribs splayed open in grim offering to the meal of its soft blackened innards spills out across the path. Bloated gases wafting from the entrails with fresh release as though only recently released from the prison of bone. A half eaten yawning skull grins up at them through the sinew of the face it once wore, hooves splayed out in deep grooves as though the beast tried to keep running until the very moment of death. The rotting horse rests on its side, never to rise again.

Evrrot studies the body from a good distance where the smell is not quite so overwhelming. Emet notes he doesn’t pinch his nose from the stench as though it is one he well accustomed to. In fact, none of them do. An odd revelation, but one Emet isn’t yet sure of what it means. His own line of work often sent him delving into crypts and left him covered in the rot of decay for hours before he could finally scrub it off. But the average person does not easily handle such a scent without practice. The newest recruits to the order often went on several missions before they could stand it without bile filling their throats. His own first experience left him nauseated for days and unable to keep anything more than light broth down.

Evrrot steps over the splayed hooves, “Alright, so that dead guy was on this horse obviously. Probably riding away from whatever settlement is down the path. His horse dies, he goes on foot, and then he dies.”

“Or the other way around,” Evie counters, “Horse could’ve thrown him, then the horse went and died.”

Roshan hops lightly over the body, kneeling by the tree with a dagger of his own and carving a new tally to the set, “Maybe he was carrying the horse,” the old man offers sagely, “He was very tired.”

All eyes turn on him and Roshan simply grins.

With the tally carved, Evrrot quickly jumps ahead of the holy man and presses the group further down the pointed path. Emet steps carefully over the corpse, glancing back at Evie to see if she desires a hand. But the half elf stares off behind them, unawares. The path they’ve walked is already half swallowed by mist, the large wagon trail long gone from view. She twists back with a sigh, face quickly shifting as she gives him a glare to move. They continue on.

Eerie becomes troubling when the path leads to a third tree with the same forty-three tallies and another arrow. The lack of a corpse this time does little to alleviate the hook twisting in Emet’s stomach. It lifts and snarls his insides, not in pain, but in anticipation. Anticipation of the moment it will all go wrong. 

This is what it felt like that day. The day he should’ve listened to his instincts.

The arrow points to a swallowed path. All sign of trail and trees vanish behind a solid wall of fog so thick Emet cannot see even a glimpse of what lies beyond. It bisect everything perfectly, trees ending abruptly as though severed by blade. As though a curtain were drawn across the land on a giant stage. The line the mist cuts across the path is unnaturally defined, too sharp and perfect and to be natural, yet permeable as proven by the grasses swaying in and out, vanishing instantly on the other side, yet returning again.

The foreboding hook twists deeper with the echo of Emet’s past. Of dark crypts and silent darkness, a day that started in laughter and ended in screams. Blood spilled beneath the sickening brightness of beautiful sunny day, the color forever tainted in red. They should’ve stayed on the well-worn wagon path. They never should have cut through these godforsaken woods. His instincts tell him to turn back now, but going back on his own still seems a far more foolish idea in these unknown lands. 

Emet steels himself. A chilled touch settles over his shoulder. If the self-chosen leaders get him killed—if they ruin what he’s given everything for—Emet will never allow them a moment’s peace. Not in this life or the next. He already knows Kelemvor will never collect his twice damned soul. Not after what he did. So he’ll have all the time in eternity’s glass to make good on his vow. Maybe this one he’ll keep.

“This repetition is how the kid died.” He glares at the severed path, “We’re going in circles.”

“This isn’t the same as the last tree,” Evie says, “The old guy put an extra mark in that one. Plus, no dead things.”

“Not yet.”

But Emet suspects they will pass that tree again and the horse one beyond. And if his instinct proves right, they will do so again and again until they too die of exhaustion, carving tallies into trees until they can carve no more. There’s madness here and he’ll be damned if it catches him off guard. But the dead kid probably thought the same thing. Now he rots with a skeletal finger ever reaching for the path that killed him. A warning they did not heed.

The wall looms before them, vast and endless until it vanishes into the grey of the skies. Tendrils of thick mist swirl and twist like eels against the edges, unseen bodies pressing against the glass but never breaking through. The snaking, winding movement is almost hypnotic in the terrible silence.

Evie’s eyes narrow, “Anyone else think this fog is fucky?”

“Yes,” Emet and Roshan answer in unison.

The holy man taps his staff, warm dawns light spreading across the wood like honey. Though it glows in the deep reds and oranges of the morning sun, the light does little to chase away the sickly grey of this place. 

He nods satisfied, “But this is the path, so let’s go.”

Emet blanches as Roshan lifts his shepherd’s crook and presses toward the wall of fog without another thought. He vanishes instantly. Whatever god this holy man follows, Emet hopes they have as much faith in their followers as Roshan does in them because this is about as foolish as sticking your hand in a nesting viper’s den and trusting it will not bite.

Evrrot—never more than a half step behind the holy man—strolls past the moon elf as casually and carelessly as choosing a garden path to stroll, vanishing almost instantly behind the old human. Not even a shadow is left to hint at their passing.

Emet stands speechless, too shocked to believe what he’s just seen.

The words finally come to him, “Well, fuck.”

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