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glacierclear · 8 months

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ISN'T BITE ALSO TOUCH? part ii.

fuckboy!leon x gn!reader

content: hurt/some comfort, angst, apologies, reader is sad, brief intrusive thoughts, mentions of alcohol

The seasons change. You can only hope he will, too.

[ao3 link]

…and you didn’t see him for three months.

The shifting grace of Autumn gave way to ice. A once verdant campus green now muddled under gray snow, crunched with grit and soot. Passerbys did not linger. Bundled under layered coats and coiled up scarves, students hastily searched for warmth, leaving the sidewalks barren and lonely.

You relied on consistent distraction. School work that numbed your fingers. A fleeting, creative hobby that lasted all of a week. Outings with peers who’d never consider you a friend. None of it seemed to fix you.

And God, you missed him. More than anything in the world.

But the words looped in your head. The stinging from that night boiled into agony.

I don’t fucking need you.

He didn’t mean it. You knew better than to take his venom at face value. But it nurtured the foulest parts of yourself. Self-loathing feasted like a gluttonous beast, growing fat on the careless anger of his beer-fueled tantrum. Because if there was even the slightest chance of it being true…what had it all been for?

Were you truly just a warm body he used for shallow company? Is it possible you were just as disposable as all the rest?

But those thoughts were never allowed to mature. You snipped the buds and opened another lecture video, paralyzing any hint of an emotional response.

Sometimes you’d see him. In the distance, hovering at the edge of his usual crowd, smiling. Once or twice you even made eye contact, but he’d break it within the first moment, as if he had seen nothing but a fly among trash. It’s on those days that you cried. Cried and cried, until all that remained was bitter apathy.

Angrily, you wished he felt the same. You wanted him to break. You wanted him to regret every moment of that night from the instant his eyes opened that morning. You wanted him lost and abandoned and miserable, just like you.

And, truly, it only confirmed your worst fear. If you were always this hateful beneath it all, he never really needed you.

December bit frost under the brittle edges of your fingernails, and you conquered every day with the determination of an undying plague. Christmas was only a week away, and if you could just make it to the holidays, maybe you’d finally start to heal. There’s catharsis in the new year, meaningless or not. It might’ve been what you needed to forget everything. To forget him.

You trudged back home, your evening class wrapped up and concluded for the day. Friday used to mean something. It meant a weekend with Leon. Drunk, covered in gummy worms, squealing at some god-awful horror movie he rented just to get you to hold him. He used to wrap an arm around you, hugging you tight, promising to the moon and the stars he’d keep you safe from anything.

It was hard to take him seriously with popcorn in his teeth, but now you found yourself fantasizing the memory with teary eyes, although it’s probably just the cold weather.

With rosy cheeks and a dripping nose, you turned your key into the lock, kicking open your door with a disgruntled shove. It was dark. Your roommate left for the holiday early, leaving your dorm hollow and unwelcoming. You hovered in the common area, letting the mask you wore crumble off piece by piece.

Friday used to mean something. Now all you did was rot. You stepped over towards your half of the flat, reaching forward on instinct before a reactionary tug gave you pause. Your door was closed. It wasn’t when you left for class.

You listened, straining to hear beyond the chipped oak, but you received nothing. With a dry mouth, you closed your fingers around the knob, twisting, pushing your way in.

What awaited you inside nearly sent you to the floor.

He sat cross-legged by the bed, curled up on your little, brown rug. All you could see was his back, and the gaudy, expensive headphones clamped shut over his head. His head nodded gently to a beat you could barely make out, and he thumbed slowly through a book yanked off your shelf. It wasn’t the careless flipping of empty words, but the patient turning of pages of someone actually reading.

He never read around anyone but you.

You crept closer, letting your backpack drop to the ground like a lead weight, crashing and jolting Leon out of whatever paragraph he was enjoying. He batted the headphones off his ears, swirling to gape at you with wide, fearful eyes. His eyes.

Your favorite shade of blue.

“Jesus! Scared the fucking shit out of me–” He pressed a palm to his temple, panic easily bleeding away, but in its place you saw him tense, awaiting your anger.

“I scared you? You…how’d you even…did you break into my room?” You met him with accusation, though all you wanted was to hold him.

“...I mean, yeah. Duh. Not like you’d ever let me in willingly.” The dismissive tone of his voice riled you up more than you’d care to admit, and you stepped closer.

“Of course you’d stoop to this instead of just asking. What the hell is wrong with you?” The seasonal chill you felt walking home has all but melted completely. You were a live wire. “How’d you even get in here?”

“Come on. You know I bribe the janitor. We’re bros, me and Jeff.” He donned a cocky smirk.

“Oh, well, that’s great. I’m so happy for you, Leon. Now get the fuck out.” You vaguely gestured towards the exit, glowering down at him with an impatient scowl.

Leon’s smirk dropped. He set down the book, standing to his full height. You forgot how much taller than you he was.

“...no. I’m not leaving. Not this time.” His face hardened into a devastating intensity, prying out your seams one by one. “We need to talk. I need to…fix this.” You watched him flail his hands a bit, attempting to sculpt form to whatever this was.

You knew it would never be enough. No apology or heartfelt confession would repair the damage carved from three months of absence after the worst night of your life.

But you’ve always had shitty taste in guys, and he was the shittiest. You missed him more than anything in the world.

“Fine. Speak.” You settled on an impartial response, arms folded across your midsection. “But I’m really not in the mood for bullshit, Leon. I’m not.”

“I know,” he hung his head. “I know. I…” You were kind enough to grant him patience. The time you knew he’d need. Emotionally stunted didn’t even come close to describing Leon, and any effort on his part to offer honesty is effort you needed to encourage, in your own quiet way.

“I fucked up, okay? I really fucked up. Just like I always do and–” You noticed him halt, sucking at his teeth and wincing as if cinched with pain. “No. I’m not…fuck, listen. I’m not trying to like, make you feel bad for me I just…I always do this. I do, and you didn’t deserve it. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

The words came out stuttered and unsure, as if the mere concept of an apology churned the acid in his gut. And maybe it did. What little you knew of his childhood easily explained his behavior. A blood-red thread woven into his heart like stripes on a cobra.

You nodded, coaxing him to continue. You would not shelter him with yielding platitudes.

“...all that shit I said…I was…god, I was scared. Do you realize what the hell you are? What, fuck, what you mean to me? The most fucking important person in my life and I thought I was gonna lose you over a shitty party.” He was too frustrated to look you in the eyes anymore. You felt cold again. “And you’re right. About all of it. I made you go and I ditched you and then I blamed you for – fuck, and then I didn’t have the balls to do anything for two months–”

“Three months.” You interjected, your lips a thin line, the ice he walked on.

“Three…three months? Jesus, I didn’t…” Leon ran a trembling palm through his hair, wrestling his own relationship with time. “Has it really been that long?”

You nodded.

“...I’ve been a mess. I…my grades are tanking, man, and I can’t even eat.”

Against your will, you deflated with a sad sigh. He did seem skinnier. His face sunken in. His body looked frail under his sweatshirt. You wondered if any of his other friends had noticed.

“You shouldn’t forgive me. I’m not really like, expecting you to. But I…I’m…” The word dangled off his tongue, the teetering step into territory unknown. “I’m sorry.”

For the past three months, you dreamed of this moment. Twisted visions of him crawling back to you on his hands and knees, begging for mercy when he deserved nothing of the sort. Over and over again, you extracted pleasure from the possibility of denying him, turning your back and thriving in spite of him.

You were sure the words would feel great. Amazing, even. But hearing them in person, hearing the shriveled warble of a man reduced to his own imitation, you felt nothing.

The silence stretched for miles. Both of you were too hurt to say anything. From the floor, his headphones faded into quiet before transitioning into another song, lyrics incomprehensible from where you stood, mirroring the noise of your own thoughts.

He broke the emptiness with a cough, and scratched his neck.

“...damn, well, I should…I’ll let you enjoy your Friday, I guess. I’m sorry. I really am, I–”

“You said you weren’t leaving.” The words came out without thinking. Leon blinked.

“...what? I–”

“You said. You weren’t leaving. Not this time. Are you really going to break another promise, Leon?” You’re not stupid. You understood your challenge was nothing more than a thinly-veiled plea to get him to stay. You couldn’t bring yourself to care. Your dignity died with the autumn leaves.

“...oh, I was…I didn’t think you’d – yeah. Okay. Yeah, I’m not leaving. Not going anywhere. Swear on it.” Leon puffed his chest a little, the hopeful beginnings of a smile creasing his cheeks. A real smile.

You shuffled closer, breathing in, filling your lungs with mercy.

“Did you really mean what you said, Leon?” It was spoken so softly, and he leaned closer to hear, just as you hoped he would.

He smelled like cedar.

“...what I said?” There’s confusion in his stare, yet he tilted his head, an eagerness to understand.

“When you said you…when you said you didn’t need me. That I was–” Whatever else you were going to say didn’t matter. In an instant, you’re strangled with warmth. Arms latched tight around your chest, your face smashed into the flesh above his heart.

“I need you.” It’s said so easily. And you knew he didn’t need to think twice. “I needed you every day and I will need you every day after today and…every year and…just, so much, man.” Ruefully, you couldn’t help but laugh. Such an indelicate way of speaking. So thoroughly Leon.

Your arms wrapped around his stomach, squeezing with a reluctant pressure. You still couldn’t believe he was real. But here he was.

“Okay. That’s all I needed to hear.” You went slack in his hold, forgoing oxygen in favor of him. He filled your mind and soul, and you never knew you could miss the scent of Irish Spring so much.

“...okay. Is…Is that it? I mean, not that I– shit, are we good? We chill?” He pried you off, cupping your cheeks with burning palms, searching your eyes for safety. Reassurance.

You wanted to give him that. But pretty words and a warm hug were only enough to quiet your demons. They did nothing to heal.

“No, we’re still not friends.” You said finally, staring away, unable to face his reaction.

“Wait, seriously? What…but I–”

“I don’t forgive you, Leon. Not…not yet.” Cautiously, you gripped his wrists, lowering his hands back to his sides. “I missed you. A lot. But it took you three months to tell me all of this. Three. Months.”

“Yeah, but…you’re actually just…gonna leave me forever? For three months?” It’s not anger in his voice, simply the aching desperation of a heart longing for closure. An answer to every question he had.

“Listen, I…we can be friends again, maybe soon, maybe later. I still wanna see you and hang out and stuff, but…it’s gonna take time, okay?” His shoulders sagged. “You have a lot of things you need to work on, and I can’t be the one to fix them. It has to be you, Leon. It has to be different.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him clench his fists. A vein pulsed on his neck, and you braced yourself for the backlash. The brewing storm he hid behind when he was afraid.

But whatever happened the past three months has drained the fight from his body, and he went soft again, his posture slouching.

“I’ll get better. I will. But…can I ask you something? Can I ask you to promise me one thing? Just one?”

You stared at him again. His ocean stirred, but you stayed afloat.

“Sure, Leon.” you whispered.

“...wait for me. Promise me you’ll still be here when I come back. When I’m…when I’m fixed.” He was so close, you could study each twitch and crinkle of his face. All the voiceless ways he loved you. “Will you let me come back to you?”

It wasn’t even a question.

“I promise, Leon.”

And you loved him, too.

#my writing #resident evil #leon kennedy #fuckboy!leon

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circle-with-me · 1 month

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heal me when i’m broken

pairing: ricky olson x fem!reader

content warning/tags: 18+ MDNI!! mentions of nightmares, panic attacks, comfort, fluff, shower sex, fingering (female receiving), unprotected p in v sex.

word count: 1.6k

tag list: @deathblacksmoke @concretenoah @tearfallpixie @meekahy @cookiesupplier @lacktoesandtoddlerants @sitkowski @collective-heartbreak @catharsis-in-darkness @undead-ahead-wh0re @to-be-written @collapsedglasshouses

authors note: i wrote this from an anonymous request i received where reader wakes up from an intense nightmare and ricky comforts her. fluff and smut were requested. i hope i made your request exactly what you wanted, love. please enjoy 🩷

also big thanks to my bestie/beta reader @deathblacksmoke 🫶🏻

Screams echo around the room as you wake up in a panic. Your body thrashes underneath the sheets, attempting to escape from the horror that had been chasing you in your sleep. A muffled voice repeats your name, but you can’t focus on it. You open your eyes but you’re too blinded by fear, your chest aching from gasping for air.

The voice gets louder and a figure appears in your still cloudy vision. You feel hands grab your wrists and you fight back to break free. The figure pushes your wrists to your stomach with one hand and the other comes to your face. The thumb rubbing at your temple feels familiar. The soft lips that delicately press to your forehead despite your violent movements are not from a stranger or a monster from your nightmares. It’s him.

As his voice breaks through the ringing in your ears, your body stills. Your vision clears and his stormy eyes stare back at you dejectedly. His eyebrows knit together with concern as he pets your sweat soaked hair out of your face. He lets go of your hands, both of them instantly wrapping around him.

“I’m so sorry, Ricky.” You sob into his neck.

He places featherlight kisses to your collarbone, running a finger up and down your arm. You feel your breathing slow down; your heart no longer pounding in your chest.

“Was it the same one as last time?” Ricky whispers.

You nod, whining. He squeezes your arm comfortingly, moving his mouth to your bicep. Ricky watches you as he thoughtfully kisses the tips of each of your fingers until they stop shaking.

“Is that better?” He asks, placing his face in your hand and smiling.

You’re uncertain of how he does it. How naturally he takes the darkness inside of you and chases it away with the lightest touch. You avoided spending nights with him for so long at first — terrified he would witness your nightmares and leave. The memories that haunted you weren’t his burden to bear after all. He finally persuaded you to stay with him, all but getting on his knees to convince you.

You had one of the worst nightmares you’ve ever had that night. He didn’t bat an eye, just held you until the screaming stopped. Every tear was wiped away as they fell. Consistent reassurance was whispered in your ear that you were safe – he was there, and he wasn’t going anywhere. Finally, you fell back asleep some time later, sleeping in until late morning. You found out later that he had stayed up the rest of the night to keep an eye on you, soothing you back to sleep anytime you stirred unpleasantly.

Being loved by Ricky Olson is the easiest thing you’ve ever done.

You gently move him so that you can swing your legs over the edge of the bed. All of your muscles ache and your bones crack as you stretch. You sigh loudly, feeling Ricky’s hand come to the small of your back. He sits beside you, pulling you into him.

“Why don’t I turn the shower on for you?” He asks, propping his chin on your shoulder. “I’ll throw in one of those lavender shower steamers. Maybe that and the hot water will help you relax.”

You lay your head against him, humming in contemplation.

“Will you join me?”

“I will never say no to that question.” Ricky punctuates his statement with a peck to your shoulder, pushing himself off the bed towards the bathroom. He stops at the doorway and looks back at you. Without a word, he holds his hand out for you, gesturing for you to come to him.

You do so without protest, following him into the cold bathroom and sitting on the counter as he turns the shower on. He ensures the water is at the perfect temperature before he sets the lavender scented disk on the floor.

Ricky helps you out of your sweat soaked tank top. You hop off the counter and wiggle out of your shorts and underwear. The water burning against your skin is pleasant. You let it run down your back, the smell of lavender permeating your senses. Ricky steps in not long after, wrapping you in his arms and burying his face in your hair.

The warmth from his body heat and the water eases the pain in your body. You slump into Ricky’s arms and he chuckles as he peels you off of him to wash your hair. He lets you wash your body, now having enough strength to do so. You watch his eyes wander, following the soap suds as they fall down the slope of your breasts and descend to your stomach.

It’s obvious that he’s trying his best to keep his hands to himself. You can see the inner workings of his mind as his tongue darts out to swipe at his bottom lip. He’s unsure if this is an appropriate time given this morning’s events.

You place your hand on his chest and he glances up at you. There’s little communication necessary, just a squeeze of your waist and a slight nod from you has him lurching forward. Your lips are consumed by his, nearly knocking the air out of you when you collide together.

He backs you against the shower wall, lips attached to your neck. The hot water beats down on your bodies as you tangle together. You wrap your arms around his neck, pushing your chest upwards. Ricky takes the hint, smirking, and dips his head down, wrapping his lips around your breast. Carding your fingers through his hair, you give a playful tug. He groans, gripping the flesh of your ass. His mouth is back on yours instantly, desperate to taste you more.

Ricky’s hand drifts up the side of your thigh, then between them, his fingers running through your slit. Gasping into his mouth, you grab onto his shoulders; the sensation causing you to lift onto your toes. He swirls your swollen bud with the pads of his fingers, slotting his knee between your legs.

“Open up a little more for me, baby.” He breathes, nudging your leg gently.

You do as you’re told, giving Ricky the room he needs to slip a finger inside of you. His pace is brutally slow, languidly drawing a single digit in and out of you. The pleasure is too much, yet not enough, and has you begging him to go faster – for more, anything he’s willing to give. All he does is softly shush you, his lips firmly against yours, hips thrusting against you in an attempt to sate his own need for the time being.

Ricky curls his finger inside of you and your vision goes white. As you clench around him, he speeds up his rhythm. You cry out his name, your entire body bucking in his arms as your orgasm rushes through you. He moans in your ear telling you how good you’re doing, moving and bending with your body as you do.

“Fuck..” Ricky pants, his hard cock twitching against your leg. “Turn around, baby. I can’t wait any longer.”

Turning around, you press your body against the tile of the shower wall. Ricky grabs you by the hips, pulling you back to meet his own. He bends over you, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your spine as he lines his cock up with your entrance.

His moans are deafening as he rocks into you. He starts out slow with shallow half-thrusts. You would complain about him teasing you, but from the quiver in his breath, he’s just as affected by it as you.

You call out his name, desperate for him. He runs his hand up your stomach and to your chest, pulling you back against his own. Ricky pumps his cock deep inside of you but his pace is still devastatingly slow.

He swallows every whimper that falls from you, one hand resting on your throat while the other returns to your clit. He increases his pace inside of you only a little, but it’s enough for the coil in your belly to start tightening.

“God, I can feel you, baby.” Ricky grunts in your ear. “Let go for me.”

His words make you clench around him. His resolve crumbles a little as he fixes his arm across your chest, driving his hips into you harder. He bites down on your neck as he spills into you, your orgasm following quickly behind his.

Ricky rinses you off with the now cold water and helps you out. He wraps a towel around you and you sit on the counter per his instructions so he can detangle your hair. He combs each strand with care making sure he doesn’t pull too hard. You watch him with heavy eyes, admiring his dedication. He catches you staring, doing a double take when he notices.

“What?” He asks, huffing out a laugh.

“Thank you.” You reply simply.

“For?” His eyes don’t meet yours this time as he’s too focused on a particularly stubborn tangle.

“For being my safe person.”

Ricky stops dead in his tracks, placing the comb down next to you and focusing his entire attention on you. His eyes search yours for a moment, a small smile on his face. He places his hand on the back of your head, bringing your forehead to his lips.

“Thank you for being mine.” He whispers.

#ricky olson #ricky olson x reader #ricky olson x female reader #ricky olson fanfiction #ricky olson smut #ricky olson fluff #motionless in white #miw #miw band #motionless in white fanfiction #motionless in white fanfic #ricky horror

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ohnoitstbskyen · 1 year

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youtube

The Many Meanings of Bloodborne

At the end of each of my series playing through From Soft's 3D action games (or "soulsbornesekiros" if you prefer (I don't)), when I have constructed my own reading and understanding of the narrative and themes presented by the games, I ask my audience to submit their own ideas and readings, and to tell me what they took away from the experience.

Bloodborne especially, with its multiple alternating layers of dreams and nightmares and constant altering of reality, is a game that not only invites but requires personal engagement and interpretation, and as a result the readings that people sent to me run an enormous gamut of ideas and responses - from people finding kinship with its unknowable cosmic horrors to people for whom the blood-soaked violence provided catharsis from nightmares they've gone through in real life, to deep-dive lore interpretations about the nature of the Great Ones and the machinations of the Healing Church.

I received around a hundred submissions, totaling more than fifty thousand words of essays about the game, which for context is about the length of a short commercial novel.

I've compiled a selection of the ones I found most interesting into the video above, and I commissioned my friend @arteapotstudio to help me create a beautifully laid-out digital book presenting and preserving them as well.

The Many Meanings of Bloodborne fanzine containing a selection of essays and with a foreword from me can be downloaded for free right here.

And if you're interested, you can also find a full archive of all of the submissions I received, organized by essay length as a PDF right here.

#tbskyen #bloodborne #from software #fromsoft #soulsborne #yharnam #plain doll #video essay #essay

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aresianrepose · 1 year

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So like. Everyone typically agrees that like Michael Myers or Freddy Kruger or Mr. Voorhees dying are like good things to happen in their respective horror films right?

So tell me why Joker is any different? Michael only broke out of prison once (I think, I don't go here) and has only killed 98 people (excluding the Rob Zombie movies)? Those are rookie numbers compared to Joker.

We, the audience, are supposed to feel catharsis and joy when Jaime Lee Curtis like brutally murders him and then parades his body through town (and all of the people in town are like Hell Yeah this is morally correct because our town has been repeatedly victimized by this man) before tossing that crusty man through a human sized paper shredder. Additionally, this killing was necessary for the character to move on and heal from her past.

All I'm saying is that like, the people of that town experienced wayyy less horror than what Gothamites have gone through just from the Joker. And there is no "self-defense" against Joker, these poor people just have to hope a caped guy shows up in time to save their asses. And most of the time, there is already a heavy body count before that caped guy gets there and gives some speech about the sanctity of life or some shit.

This killing would similarly be healing for Jason. I agree with the other post floating around right now about how his healing journey would not be realizing killing is wrong or whatever the fuck.

In this essay, I will explain why Jason would be lauded as a hero and given a parade for killing Joker and the parade ending with Joker's corpse being thrown into a fucking wood chipper. As well as how even within the fictional context, the moral debate surrounding killing Joker is so fucking stupid if you think about it for longer than two seconds.

#listen that last halloween movie sucked complete ass #but it got me thinking about how people view Jason as a victim and how we view these huge horror names vs comic book villains #jason todd #clovis writes #it's 2am so this is not eloquent #thanks for coming to yet another Jason Todd TedTalk

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slushiepizza · 20 days

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I just read your 'The Pursuit of Catharsis' and I'M NOT OK BUT IN A GOOD WAY!!!

And because I'm a sucker for angst... I wanna twist the knife in Guy's heart a bit more ❤️

Imagine if Guy - with his name now in the spotlight, his career at its peak and yet he's so miserable to the point of suicidal because of the cheating, of the scandal and the divorce - saw Honey on a random street on night.

Looking just as perfect as the day he lost them.

Looking like they're untouched by time.

Because after losing Guy and working themselves up to be the best version of themselves, to have the healthiest mental and emotional health in their lives, Honey becomes someone else's...

Treasure.

YES, IT'S EXACTLY WHO YOU THINK HE IS!

ANYWAY, THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME! GOOD BYE!

link to the fic

Thanks for reading and enjoying the fic!!! I'm using this opportunity to discuss the Divorced!AU lmao

warning : discussions of suicidal behavior, mental health issues, substance abuse

i. honey being treasure

ough..... that's a really sad idea but now I'm more focused on something specific in this scenario. If Honey later became Treasure, there's the implication that they weren't doing as well as they hoped they were because as mentioned by Porter, 'your friends suck'. And they now have a semi-toxic circle of friends.

I like that, I think. That no matter how hard they try and how far they've come since the divorce- there's always the ghost of it that they couldn't get rid of and managed to sneak away into their life.

ii. Guy's misery and cheating

Hm, about Guy being miserable to the point of suicidal...I do think that he was already like that before he cheated and when he and Honey were still married but had problems. That was sort of my take on his reasoning behind why he cheated actually.

He was just someone who couldn't cope with fame while at the same time craving it severely. He spent all of his time working and tried to remedy his lack of effort into maintaining his relationship with Honey with lavish gifts. He struggled with substance abuse- mainly alcohol but sometimes others- because he refused to realize that he had nothing else to live for now that he's at the top.

When he and Honey's fights got really bad, he'd go on a bender. He'd go for one night stands mostly, and they all have traits that are reminiscent of Honey's. They weren't on speaking terms when he missed their anniversary for the sake of going abroad. And Guy has this feeling that whatever they're dealing with- they won't be able to come back from this. He'd imagine the people and sex workers he'd spend the night with was Honey he was laying with, as and under the blur and haze of the stupor he was in, they might as well be. When people found out about him cheating, the world moves on. He's a Hollywood writer, of course it wouldn't be something people blink an eye at. His career wouldn't take a hit at all.

iii. honey's aftermath

After they got divorced, Honey would move away from Dahlia and live in a small town where they can escape Guy's name and fame. They'd heal but they severely missed someone who used to be their best friend.

Life in the small town was idyllic and had the community they needed to heal. Honey started work as a cargo truck driver, finding comfort in long winding roads in between states. They don't quite care about the cities or fame or success anymore- it's sullied by how things used to be and how Guy turned out.

At a local bookstore new, freshly packaged books was displayed front and center- and it had Guy's name on it. It stated that it was a bestseller and that it's from "American Horror Sensation, Guy". They shrug and tried to feel glad that he got what he wanted. Oh well. The two of them were different people now from the college kids that shared a home, unrecognizable from who they used to be.

They remembered what they used to tell him when he had writer's block and needed the extra push: "Dude! You're good at this. If you ever get published, I'd definitely everything you write."

"Really, everything?"

"Everything. I really do like the way you write."

They buy the copy anyway, unfortunately.

#redacted audio #redacted asmr #redacted guy #slushieanswers #sweet asks

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wangxianficfinder · 2 years

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"Beautiful Writing and Good Plot" Compilation Part 1

We got a request at some point for stories with "beautiful writing and good plot" and I missed it back then, but here's my compilation, just from going through my bookmarks and looking for key words like *beautifully written, *lyrical, *epic, etc. So, in absolutely no particular order, please enjoy! [And feel free to list your own, and we'll do a Part 2 Compilation for all of yours as well!] ~ mojo

~*~

take me back to a time by DizziDreams (T, 144k, wangxian, my bookmark, PODFIC) - lwj time travels to modern wwx

❤️Dignity and Animality by Anielka (G, 37k, wangxian, my post) - wwx is reincarnated as a rabbit for the 13-year interval: watership down fusion... not necessary to be familiar with watership down

hills and rivers by LtLJ (T, 70k, wangxian, 4 works, my post) - post canon wwx settling into his new life with appropriate drama and angst

help is on the way by Vamillepudding (M, 15k, wangxian, my post) - dreamy, shadowy fairy tale feel about lwj crumbling/recovery in wake of yiling patriarch's dramatic demise... happy ending!

wide enough and wild by impossibletruths (E, 64k, wangxian, my post) - Noping Out Of Society With Your Boyfriend And Your 50 Wen Refugees: The Novel

❤️We'd roll and fall in green by x_los (E, 27k, wangxian, WIP, my post, 2 works, series in progress) - in which canon wwx was always a girl

Vagabond by xantissa (E, 65k, wangxian, my post) - post canon case fic

❤️The Fire Lapping Up the Creek by notevenyou (E, 66k, wangxian, my post) - seriously injured wwx after Qiongqi Path canon divergence: lwj caretakes

❤️A Burning Cold by MountainRose (G, 29k, child wei wuxian, my bookmark) - child wwx barely survives homelessness, is chronically ill, and all of canon is slightly different

❤️Dream a little dream of me by Moominmammashandbag (M, 60k, wangxian, my bookmark) - fix it where wwx never dies, he was imprisoned by the Jin and now is rescued

other earths and skies by binghecarer (T, 54k, wangxian, my bookmark) - East of the Sun, West of the Moon fairy tale au

mercy, tear it down. by orange_crushed (E, 33k, wangxian, my post) - wangxian find peace during Sunshot with dom/sub

and his wanting grows teeth by yukla (T, 25k, wangxian, my post) - au where wwx grows up outside the cultivation world but lwj finds him anyway, casefic

the red dark shifting by typefortydeductions (E, 16k, wangxian, my post) - Star Trek, Tarsus IV au

Imperfect Memory by xantissa (E, 62k, wangxian, my post) - war prize lwj au

❤️爱不释手; never let me go by yiqie (E, 69k, wangxian, my post) - post canon case fic

two guys r in love thats literally it by victortor (M, 11k, wangxian, my post) - time travel fix it

seldom all they seem by Fahye (E, 25k, wangxian, my post) - in which wangxian have been betrothed since childhood

come morning light by wolframvonbielefeld (maknaeline) (E, 17k, wangxian, my post) - canon and post-canon, grief, character studies and healing

bring you home by Alasse_Irena (T, 28k, wangxian, my post) - modern au with grief and ptsd and healing

in your skin by darkredloveknot (enheduane) E, 10k, wangxian, my post) - post canon case fic with a little body horror

Grave of a Living God by Gotcocomilk (T, 35k, wangxian, my post) - wwx time travels... but ends up in wen ruohan's clutches

From my heart's ground. by orange_crushed (E, 38k, wangxian, my bookmark) - lwj learns a new cultivation in the 13 years interval

set your old heart free by words-writ-in-starlight (Gunmetal_Crown) (E, 42k, wangxian, my post, 6 works) - canon and post-canon feels and catharsis

❤️As It Should Be by kuro (M, 37k, wangxian, my post) - arranged marriage angst

❤️Ribbons and Heartsongs by jeyhawk (E, 37k, wangxian, my post) - kind of a mesh between space/fantasy/urban fantasy AU

Concerning Rabbits by manta (G, 28k, wangxian, my post) - grief and healing, bunnies and friendships

between the shadow and the soul by cl410 (M, 22k, wangxian, jiang siblings, my post) - post burial mounds wwx is feral and needs help, dreamy fairy tale feel

A Lot of Edges Called Perhaps by hansbekhart (E, 22k, wangxian, my post) post canon getting together

Lost and Found by dea_liberty (M, 36k, wangxian, my post) - post canon healing, but maybe not *plotty*

Yúyīn 餘音 by riotintheheartt (E, 18k, wangxian, my post) - au with god lan wangji and amputee wwx hiding/living in his temple

~*~

Under 10k (so maybe slightly less plotty)

~*~

After by tellthemstories (G, 5k, lan sizhui & lan wangji, my post) - parent-child relationship, grief and healing, 13 years

tonight i can write the saddest lines by sarahyyy (G, 4k, wangxian, my post) - amnesiac lwj learns to love wwx all over again, post canon

the field meets the wood by astronicht (T, 8k, wangxian, my bookmark) - horror with serving of yiling patriarch retribution

you, whose heart would sing of anarchy by doodlebutt (T, 9k, zhuiyi, my bookmark) - #sizhui has full custody of the brain cell; and #rule breaking as a love language

how to tame a dragon by lanwineji (E, 6k, chengyi, my post) - Spirited Away au where lan jingyi trips into another world and discovers jiang cheng

The Feathers in the Thread by deliciousblizzardshark (M, 4k, wangxian, my bookmark) - The Crane Wife fairy tale au

Buried in the Sky, Hallowed by thy Depths by themunchking (T, 9k, wangxian, my post) - in which the Twin Jades are sirens

the sleeper's gift by iliacquer (T, 6k, wangxian, my post) - fairy tale au inspired by Maleficent

the shadow of a name in skin by iliacquer (E, 9k, wangxian, my post) - amnesiac yiling patriarch, fairy tale feel

❤️tie a knife with a ribbon by iliacquer (E, 5k, wangxian, my post) - war prize lwj au, there is some plot with the pwp

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for these hard-working authors if you like – or think others might like – these stories.)

#wangxian fic rec #wangxian #mdzs #the untamed #epic wangxian stories #beautiful writing and good plot #wangxianficfinder compilation post #beautiful writing and good plot compilation #epic mdzs stories #long post

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sanslovesblog · 3 months

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Unraveling Madness: San's Dark Secrets Pt. 4

Summary: You're a brilliant psychiatrist, but you were no stranger to internal conflicts. You had accepted the task of treating Choi San, the psychiatric ward's most dangerous patient due to his violent episodes. Despite skepticism from other staff members, you believed that beneath his destructive exterior lay a vulnerable human being, yearning for understanding and acceptance.

Trigger warning: death

Teaser | Master list | Pt 5

Throughout his tale, Choi San's voice grew steadier, his eyes beginning to lose their haunted expression. There was a sense of catharsis in finally sharing these long-buried memories, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. You listened intently, offering occasional words of understanding and empathy, allowing him to take the lead in the conversation.

As the session drew to a close, Choi San felt a newfound sense of hope beginning to stir within him. He told you about how, as a young boy, he had been forced to watch his parents being brutally murdered by a group of thugs. They had been after something valuable that his father had hidden in their home. In a desperate attempt the father tried protecting the valuable that was hidden while Choi San's mother protected him, she had sent him out to play with a neighbor's child, not realizing it would be the last time he ever saw her. The memory still haunted him to this day, the sound of their screams echoing in his ears like a macabre lullaby.

You listened intently, your expression one of both empathy and horror. You nodded along as he spoke, understanding all too well the depths of trauma he had experienced. As he finished recounting the harrowing tale, you reached out and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Choi San," you began, your voice gentle but firm, "I cannot even begin to imagine the pain you must have gone through. It's incredible that you've managed to survive this far, let alone find the strength to share your story with me today." Your words brought a small, yet genuine, smile to his lips. "You are incredibly strong, and I am so proud of you."

You paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. "I want you to know that I am here for you, Choi San. Whatever you need, I will do everything in my power to help you heal from this. We will face your demons together, and we will overcome them." Her words filled him with a newfound sense of hope, and for the first time in a long while, he felt truly heard and understood. The weight of his past began to lift from his shoulders, replaced by a sense of lightness and relief. He felt lighter, more at peace with himself. He knew that the road ahead would still be long and difficult, but he no longer felt alone. The darkness that had once consumed him was beginning to recede, making way for a brighter future.

As the session came to a close, Choi San thanked you for your patience, understanding, and support. He left your office with a newfound determination to confront his demons head-on and begin the process of healing. Over the next few weeks, he continued to make progress in therapy, learning healthy coping mechanisms and developing a stronger sense of self. The nightmares became less frequent, and the voices in his head grew quieter.

One day, as they were discussing his progress, Choi San felt compelled to share something else with you. He told you about the guilt he carried, the belief that if he had been a better son, a stronger boy, his mother might still be alive. You listened intently, offering words of reassurance and perspective. You reminded him that he was only a child at the time, and that his mothers' love for him could never have been diminished by the actions of others.

Over time, Choi San began to see things differently. He started to understand that his mother would never have wanted him to live a life defined by the pain of her loss. He realized that he had spent so much of his life trying to be the perfect son, the perfect survivor, that he had forgotten who he truly was beneath all the trauma. With your support, he started to embrace his own identity, to find joy in the small moments of life that had once eluded him.

#ateez x reader #choi san #ateez #choi san x reader #choi san x y/n #choi san x you #tw sui ideation #san's darkest secrets #unraveling madness #tw death

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voltstone · 4 months

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LYCOS | tacet anima mea | Master Content Post

Hello! I'm VoltageStone. I write a lot of fics. This being one of them, and it's been in the works for a while. Since November 2022 "a while".

I'm a shit updater, but life has also been nonstop for the past year. Ergo, updating has been...an interesting journey.

This is a beast of a fic. Both in its size and, given this post, its content. In short, this post will be linked to in future updates for this fic, and will serve as an ultimate introduction to LYCOS as far as Tumblr's concerned.

This fic is a Wenclair a/b/o. Extremely violent. Wednesday is unhinged to borderline demented. It does explore sexual content, both healthy, and in the healing of related traumas.

It's Dead Dove, basically. In the name of catharsis, but ultimately because of how...unwell Wednesday is.

...she is honestly the prime reason why it's Dead Dove. I dunno what happened. She just keeps being...really fucking weird, and wants to eat Enid? Like? Literally? In a heartfelt, non-vegetarian way.

Anyway, for those interested, the following is the summary. For the tags and specific warnings (none should be spoilery), keep reading. The tags will have what is on AO3, then I will specify/call attention to important tags and themes, and also add stuff that I know will come in later chapters.

I really do love writing this fic, but I know that it won't be everyone's cup of tea. Ergo, I felt like having a post that gives a glimpse to anybody new.

If you read, I hope you enjoy. If you don't, have a good one.

-- -- --

Wednesday is waning. In her dreams, or by touch, she has been locked to one moment. Her visions know no peace. There is Enid, beneath moonlight, skin a dying shade. Then there's herself between the trees, drenched in blood, with the knife at hand… Her true nature writhes. This is…just what happens when someone like herself snaps. It's happened before, will happen again. Because Enid and Ajax have been together through several moons. And he knows his way around her heats. And Enid seems…happy, until she isn't, and Wednesday has to put her back together. Enid has been stuck in a heat for a while now. And she smells good. She smells really, really good, and Wednesday will kill for it.

or, wednesday still doesn't know what to do about enid, and enid's biology really doesn't help matters. she is going insane.

(there will be bodies.)

General Warnings:

Gore, Extreme/Graphic Violence, Fights, Murder(s), Cannibalism (feat. Autocannibalism), Dismemberment, Drug Overdose (past/mentioned), Body Horror.

Mental Health:

Alexithymia/Emotional Blindness, Grief/Mourning (a murderer's guilt), Addiction (alcoholism, pills, sex), Familial Dysfunction, Dissociation, Identity Crisis, Depression, PTSD, Medical/Sexual Trauma(s), Self-Destructive/Suicidal Tendencies, Psychological Horror.

Other Tags (less concerning):

Demisexual & Aromantic Wednesday, Sun/Moon Motif, a (slight) Gomezification of Wednesday Addams, a Morticiafication of Enid Sinclair, no i am not tagging enid's dynamic you figure that out yourself, Dark Humor, Poe-isms, a very unreliable narrator, healthy depictions of discovering sexuality i promise please the addamses raised wednesday right, that being said, weirdass "courting" behaviors (ex: stealing laundry, then stuffing it into a bed after it was shanked open), addams-flavored terrorism for funsies (gotta teach someone to smile in her headshots!).

Also: Unhinged chapter lengths. None will dip under 20k.

AO3 | Ch.1 Tumblr Post

#lycos fic #volt's library #fanfiction #ao3 #wenclair #omegaverse #wednesday 2022 #wednesday show #wednesday netflix #wednesday addams #enid sinclair

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sapphicbookclub · 8 months

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Author Spotlight: Tamara Jerée

Check out this wonderful essay on sapphic, Black, paranormal romances from Tamara Jerée. Tamara is the author of The Fall That Saved Us, a current club read out today!

As writers, we often hear that we should write the book we want to read. For me, that’s meant writing into a niche that feels largely unacknowledged. The more descriptors I stack—sapphic, Black, paranormal, romance—the shorter the list of books becomes. Finding darker sapphic romance by and about lesbians of color is hard. Stepping into a bookstore, I often feel like there is still a narrow range within which the publishing industry will allow us to exist. Readers don’t seek out our books in the same ways. Especially when compared to the diverse range of literary experiences for white women, I feel the lack.

I can immediately think of a few adult titles that fit into the Black sapphic paranormal romance genre. There’s Darknesses by Lachelle Seville, a romance featuring a sapphic Dracula. I was excited to find that Fiona Zedde, whose contemporary romances kept popping up as a recommendation for me, also writes paranormal romance. Every Dark Desire is the first in her vampire series. (If you’re interested in a comprehensive list, Tuesday Harper maintains a searchable database of Black WLW books here. I stumbled upon some new titles for my TBR!)

In lieu of paranormal romance, I often find myself reaching for sapphic horror to fill out my moody reading list. The Wicked and the Willing by Lianyu Tan is an F/F erotic horror novel set in Singapore that follows a maidservant and her vampire mistress. House of Hunger by Alexis Henderson is a gothic horror novel that doesn’t call its vampires vampires but nevertheless satisfied my need for bloody, brooding sapphics.

I’m compelled by erotic horror—and horror that winks at the erotic—because it confronts our personal and cultural fears and, in doing so, leaves us with nothing more to be scared of. Here, look at our depth and ugliness and resilience and strange pleasures. Ultimately, look at how we survived. Those darker elements influence all my work. I want the catharsis of safely staring down weird and terrible things. When combined with the structure of romance, the guaranteed HEA reassures. Maybe you’ve been through a long night, but you deserve happiness.

I want to talk about the first novel in the Black lesbian paranormal genre that ever made me feel seen as a writer, the one that sank its teeth into me and made me think this is possible; this is where my work wants to be. Published in 1991, The Gilda Stories by Jewelle Gomez follows a queer Black vampire through the antebellum era and into the present before casting her and her chosen family into a speculative future. The novel isn’t a romance, but it does catalogue Gilda’s lovers through the ages—who she chooses to bring into immortal life and how they care for each other in a hostile world.

In the introduction, Gomez discusses how nervous she was about the book because lesbians in her community were skeptical of the rep. Attaching something taboo like vampirism to a Black lesbian protagonist? It was risky. Their concerns remind me so much of the debate in queer circles today over what depictions of ourselves and our communities are proper. We worry about writing people like us as villains or monsters because it would give fuel to hegemonic perspectives that are already eager to see us as deviant and evil.

As one of those readers and writers who finds power in reclaiming the monster, of being an antagonist to an unjust society, I’m thankful for Gilda. And I’m so glad Gomez took the risk. It’s empowered me as a Black lesbian writing romance that confronts heavy themes of mental illness and healing from abuse through a paranormal and fantastic lens. In my debut novel The Fall That Saved Us, Avitue—the succubus love interest—is an unrepentant villain, a sexy bad girl unafraid to show her teeth to a world that’s hurt her. She’s a monster because others have said so, and she wears the title as a badge of honor. The main character Cassiel, however, views Avitue as a savior—from her scarred past and a stagnant present.

The Gilda Stories expanded for me what we can be and do. There’s an infinite number of Black stories we can tell. Black people can be anything we want, including the hot lady monster who gets the girl.

#booklr #wlw books #lgbt books #book recs #sapphic books #diverse books #guest post #the fall that saved us #black sapphic paranormal romance #fantasy

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clarabosswald · 3 months

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Choosing Rebirth Over Revenge After My Release From Gaza

By Liat Atzili Artwork by Haley Jiang

Ms. Atzili is a high school teacher in Kiryat Gat, Israel, and an educator at Yad Vashem, Israel’s national Holocaust remembrance center.

In Israel, the Shoah, or Holocaust, has often been spoken of in recent years alongside tekumah, meaning rebirth, after the survivor generation chose to rebuild a nation rather than lose itself to grief and vengeance. Molded by that spirit, Israel became a refuge for Jews in danger the world over, and has healed its relationships with Germany and other nations that perpetrated or enabled the Holocaust. I work at Israel’s national Holocaust remembrance center, Yad Vashem, where I teach Israeli 12th graders about the Shoah and prepare them for school trips to Poland. As the last remaining members of the survivor generation dwindled among us in recent years, my focus has been on how best to teach students about the Shoah when the eyewitnesses are gone. While preserving the memory of the horrors and losses the Shoah wrought remains important both for young Israelis and for children around the world, the concept of tekumah is also a central component of Holocaust education. Tekumah provides us with the vital life lesson of how to move on with dignity and purpose after experiencing a tragedy, and it is perhaps the most important gift that the survivors gave us. On Oct. 7, the Jewish people suffered our greatest tragedy since the Holocaust. That tragedy came to my own home in Kibbutz Nir Oz, which was burned down as I was taken to Gaza as a hostage. I was held in a home with Gazans and Hamas fighters, with no news of the outside world. Terrified, alone and unsure of the fate of my family, I kept myself going for nearly two months, promising myself I wouldn’t miss the graduation ceremony of the class I teach and imagining reuniting with my husband, Aviv, and our three children. I am a dual citizen of Israel and the United States, and I was released after 54 days thanks in large part to the intervention of President Biden and Secretary of State Antony Blinken. My children, thankfully, survived — one after terrifying hours in hiding, one by sheer luck of having been elsewhere that day, one who staved off the attackers by holding the door of a safe room closed. But my home of 30 years was burned beyond recognition, and the home of my heart — my husband, Aviv — was among the 1,200 killed by Hamas in Israel on that terrible October day. So immense was the destruction, I found that terrorists had even killed my dog, Revi.

When I got out of Gaza, I discovered there was no Kibbutz Nir Oz to return to. I am living in what is called a “temporary arrangement” apartment in the southern city of Kiryat Gat; as of now I can stay here for three years, perhaps longer. My children are of an age when they are leaving the nest, and I am experiencing that bittersweet rite of passage as a new widow, without a home. Now is the time for the world to demand and secure the release of the remaining hostages in Gaza. I want to be reunited with my neighbors. Then will come the time for mourning what we have lost. Neither of these missions ends our work. Beyond the horizon of our pain, we must recommit ourselves to tekumah with the same determined optimism of the Holocaust survivor generation. I see no alternative. Without tekumah, we will only sink further into the cycle of mutual anger and victimhood that has plagued our relationship with the Palestinians for too long. That is not the approach that the survivor generation chose, and in their spirit I do not seek revenge for what I have been through. I am humbled by how my fellow Israelis put their lives at risk to fight my kidnappers, but I do not feel any catharsis in seeing the destruction of Gaza. Instead, I want to focus on building a better future for my three children — and for the children of Gaza. After the Holocaust, a new generation rose up in Israel, focused not on the past but instead on making the future bloom. Tekumah for Israel after this war will mean rebuilding our national identity and moving past the divisive politics that marked the year leading up to Oct. 7. Our adversaries may be dangerous, but no one has the power to destroy our country more than we do ourselves. But for me tekumah is not only about Jewish lives, it’s also about all those lives that shattered on Oct. 7 and after — including those of my non-Jewish neighbors, Israeli citizens, who have been caught up in the battles ever since. It also means working toward a rebirth for Gaza. While I cannot influence the choices that Gazans will make for themselves, I hope those responsible for launching this war are replaced with people who want a better future alongside Israel. After seeing the investment Hamas made in its underground city, it is easy to understand that so much was squandered in Gaza over the past 18 years. Gazan citizens, too, deserve a rebirth, one that imagines a future not of combat but of shared existence. One more arena in which tekumah is sorely needed is in the diaspora. Antisemitism, which is as old as Western society, these days seems to seep into much of the public discourse around Judaism, Jewish people and Israel. I am not blind to my country’s failings, but it is deeply troubling how this conflict, which was started in the most violent way by Hamas, has contributed to a rise in violent antisemitic acts. Tekumah in the diaspora would allow for the full expression of Jewish life without fear, both in Israel and around the world. If the young people among the decimated European Jewish population were able to face the future with optimism after the Holocaust, we, too, can find the strength to repair what has been broken.

#just sharing the whole piece straight from the nyt website #no notes except for the bits i've bolded #ישראבלר #jumblr

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jonsaslove · 1 year

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let me be real for like 5 seconds.

i genuinely…do not understand what story they could possibly be wanting to tell with the jon snow show like, it does not add up.

kit said something along the lines of jon dealing with his grief of losing family, ygritte, coming back from the dead, killing dany, would all be interesting and like yeah i agree. i’ve read a plethora of fix-it fics dealing with this exact topic. but u can’t make a show about a man brooding for ten eps or whatever (do they intend this to be multiple seasons???)

you need catharsis and resolution. and like i’m sorry but jon just? finding some sort of peace and frolicking with ghost and tormund for the rest of his life isn’t that. jonsa ASIDE how would u not have the other starks in the show. s8 left everything resolved but open. all 4 of the remaining starks are separated and there is a distinct feeling of melancholy with all their storylines. sansa’s coronation is hollow without anyone we recognize there to celebrate with her. arya’s long sought after dream of exploration feels more like another escape of the horrors she endured. bran is king, but he has given up the very essence of himself to get there. jon is exiled after saving the entire continent from a tyrant. all any of these characters ever wanted was to be home, safe with their families.

so idk what the show, if it happens, will entail, but it will make me so sad if they don’t dive into what is actually interesting about the surviving starks and all they have lost by the end of the show. but also how they can heal and grow anew, together.

#jonsa #mine #and like obviously the jonsa of it all but extracting my shipper goggles…it’s literally unfathomable for me that they just have a show about #jon and dont even touch on sansa at the very least #like okay arya is still travelling and bran is in the south but she is RIGHT THERE #many thoughts are being had about this 😵‍💫

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 1 year

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Dance, Let it Be (ao3)

@nestaarcheronweek day one: dance. Set post ACOSF, there's only one thing that will take Nesta's mind off the horrors of the Blood Rite and Feyre's labour. Title taken from the George Ezra song Dance All Over Me.

Infinite stars and there’s me and you, there’s nothing needs doing, just keep on moving and be here now with me. Won’t you be here now with me. Dance, dance, dance, let it be— Dance all over me.

***

Eyes closed against the darkness, Nesta felt the music course through her, slipping across her skin like water. It echoed, reverberated, resounded deep inside of her— so deep it could never be carved free, at one with her bones. It was a piece of her she didn’t ever want to be without again, a fraction of her soul she didn’t ever want to find missing. It was exquisite, the burn in her chest as the melody crested and bloomed. The steps familiar and uncharted all at once as Nesta… let go.

Let it be.

I need to drink, Emerie had said, just days after returning home from the Rite. And dance until I can’t breathe.

But Nesta could breathe. For the first time in days, she could breathe, even though her chest ached and her heart hammered. The drums grew louder as the music swelled, and for the first time since coming home, she wasn’t thinking of the Blood Rite or Feyre’s almost death. Not thinking of the sacrifice she had made to bring her sister back, not thinking of the Cauldron or her father. All of it was forgotten, cut loose as Nesta drowned in the rhythm. All of her grief and aching, aching sadness… eased as she moved in time, wrapped in the arms of the beat. The horror, swept away on a swift, irrevocable current.

The dance floor at Rita’s wasn’t a marble ballroom. It wasn’t elegant and refined— but it was enough. Enough to let her forget, to pretend the Rite and all that followed had never happened, enough to drink cheap wine and dance until the world forgot about her. Until it fell away completely, and all that was left was a searing melody— kin to her, somehow.

Gwyn had declined the offer. Seeking sanctuary in the stone walls of the library, safety and security in the depths, the priestess had shaken her head at Emerie’s suggestion, given the Valkyries a wan smile and told them to go without her. Nesta had felt a kernel of guilt stir in her gut, an unease at leaving Gwyn behind but— Gwyn needed the library to feel safe, to forget.

Nesta needed this.

Nesta needed to dance.

With Cassian and Mor and even Elain in tow, they had arrived at Rita’s. To drink, to dance. To forget. As Mor went straight for the bar, Emerie’s hand had been tight around Nesta’s own as the Valkyries headed for the dance floor. Cassian had kissed her cheek as the music pounded, and dimly she heard him asking if she wanted a drink, if she needed anything. She shook her head, and mutely, he took the scarf she had wrapped around her shoulders, fingers light against her skin. He kissed her cheek again, a silent declaration. Go, that kiss said, his hands winding in her scarf as he folded it, tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. His eyes glimmered in the faelights, bright and beautiful, as he nodded to the dance floor, to Emerie, her hand still tangled with Nesta’s.

It was crowded— but they made room for her.

Cleared a space as she spun, alone at first, dancing mindlessly. The only way to clear her head, to lay to rest the memory of Gwyn bleeding in the snow, the sound of Emerie’s screams. To put to bed the sight of Feyre, her life slipping away and taking both Rhys’ soul and Nyx’s with it. Her eyes were closed tight against the onslaught, her hands and Emerie’s entwined again, entangled, with movements that weren’t polished or practised or rehearsed. Nothing like the way she had danced as a girl, and nothing like the way she had danced with Eris at the Hewn City. It was messy and undefined— catharsis in each spin, each step. A kind of healing magic all of its own as she let it wash over her, let it consume her.

The music changed, turned slow, and Emerie’s hand was suddenly free of hers, tugging loose as the Valkyrie drifted toward the edge of the dance floor. To Mor, standing golden under the faelights, holding two glasses of something that glittered and fizzed. Emerie winked as she departed, and Nesta’s hand was taken by another. A stranger, a hand entirely unfamiliar to her, a face she didn’t recognise. Her new partner was tall, willowy in the way that fae often were. An opportunist who had spied a chance to dance with Nesta Archeron and taken it, quite literally, with both hands. Nesta let him— this dance was suddenly a little more structured than the one she’d danced with Emerie, and she needed a partner, and though he was tall, he wasn’t tall enough, not the hand she needed to feel in her own. But he was here— and holding up his arm to let her spin, and spin, and spin just as she’d done at the Hewn City.

There was nothing in her mind but the steps. The rhythm. The beat as she moved. A door closed on the horrors of the past few weeks as she let her head tilt back, eyes closed, feeling the music wash over her, carry her away.

Lost.

She was lost in the music, in a dance with no real steps—

Yet found, when a familiar hand brushed her waist, fingers searching. Nesta didn’t open her eyes as the fae that had been holding her hand slipped away, as his fingers were replaced with others, ones that fit more perfectly between her own. She didn’t need to look. Felt the music swell once more as Cassian’s hand rounded her waist, holding her as she leaned backwards, letting herself fall, knowing he wouldn’t let her hit the ground.

The beat echoed, reverberated through her chest, and he was there, holding her and letting her lead. There didn’t need to be words between them. His touch was the only greeting she needed, the warmth and stability of him the only hello she ever wanted. She didn’t need anything else— just his fingers woven through hers, his hand on the small of her back. When he pulled her up, as she rose onto her tiptoes, his lips brushed her cheek, her jaw. There was a soft smile on his face as she opened her eyes, storm-grey blue meeting hazel flecked with gold.

“I hope you don’t mind my interruption,” he whispered in her ear as a new song struck up, one even slower, with even less movement. “He was looking at you like he wanted to spirit you away.”

Was he? She hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t really even noticed the other man’s face, only danced until she forgot her pain.

“Jealous?” she asked, winding her arms about Cassian’s neck, feeling both of his wrap around her waist, holding her to his chest as the music moved them along. A gentle sway, a breeze across a calm sea.

He grinned, the faelights glinting in his eyes. “Always,” he murmured, lips close to her ear.

Her blood sang, sparked in the way that only he could ever manage, and this— Gods, this was what she needed. The music, the dancing, and him, holding her as she lost herself in all three. A smile bloomed on her face, genuine, for the first time in days.

“Understandable,” she shrugged wryly. “Twice now I’ve won a proposal from a single dance.”

The lips that made her heart beat faster tugged up into a smirk as his hands tightened about her waist, and there was no denying it as they moved to the music, no hiding it at all. He was hers, and she was his, incontrovertibly. “And what would you have of me?” he asked, voice low, barely even audible over the strings and the keys of the piano. “For this dance, what would you have me give?”

Everything, she almost said. Give me everything, all of you, and take all of me in return.

She blinked as the faelights flashed, and hummed as she said, instead, “You could start with a kiss, I suppose.”

Her fingers strayed to his hair, running through the strands as he laughed, the echo of it reverberating through her chest, dancing along the bond that twined his soul with hers.

“Start?” he echoed, raising one perfect eyebrow.

She nodded, and as the piece reached a crescendo, Cassian did kiss her. His lips met hers as he held her to his chest, his hands travelling up her spine, over the nape of her neck, until he cradled her jaw. He kissed her as though his world had fallen away, as though the band had stopped playing, replaced by music of an entirely different sort. Dimly, Nesta heard the piano still play. Faintly, the drums still sounded, but the only drumming she was aware of was the beating of her own heart and his, the bond between them singing, a song that was theirs alone. His teeth grazed her lip, and Nesta kept her eyes closed. This was a different dance, one she could move through forever. His hands strayed, burning a path back down her dress, back to her waist, settling at the curve of her hips. It didn’t matter that they were in the middle of a very public dance floor. Didn’t matter that there would be whispers all over Velaris tomorrow, about how the General had kissed the High Lady’s sister so brazenly, how she had crumbled beneath his touch.

None of it mattered as the music played on and Cassian kissed her, her price for that dance. Nesta let herself be lost and found— let herself fall apart and be pieced back together again by him, by the music. By that dance with the steps that only they knew.

***

The lights were on.

Not the coloured faelights breaking up the darkness, but the bright ones overhead. The ones that signalled it was time to go home, a precursor to sunrise. The band in the corner had finished, and the dance floor was almost empty. She hadn’t realised, not until the lights flickered to life, that the only souls left in Rita’s were those about to go stumbling home. She didn’t know when it had gotten so late, or where the time had gone. It had slipped away from her, and though she could have sworn she had been dancing for an hour at most… the lights above said otherwise. The burning in her legs and the rise and fall of her chest did, too.

Cassian took her hand and tugged her away from the dance floor, taking her carefully folded scarf out of his pocket and draping it back around her shoulders.

“Where are the others?” she asked, looking for Emerie. For Mor and Elain.

“They went home about an hour ago,” Cassian said with a crooked smile, bemusement glittering in his hazel eyes as he untangled their hands and cast an arm over her, tucking her into his side as he headed for the door and the cold night air beyond.

“Huh,” Nesta said, feeling dizzy. She had barely spoken to her sister all night. Hadn’t said a word to Mor, and had barely seen Emerie since that first dance. She had been entirely consumed, wrapped in a dance that even now didn’t want to let her go. She felt the cool night brush her skin as they stepped out onto the pavement, a shiver crawling along her arms, but as she looked up, she saw the sky lightening on the horizon. The inky blackness was starting to melt, the stars hanging in a net of darkness that was growing steadily lighter.

Cassian held out his arms, ready to fly them home, but Nesta shook her head. Looked at the House of Wind in the distance, the lights still on as if waiting to welcome them back home, and then looked beyond— to the moon still bright, the stars still shining. The air was cold in her lungs, but fresh and welcoming, and though her feet ached from dancing all night, she wasn’t ready for home yet.

Not yet.

She wanted to eke this out a little longer, let the night stretch languorously on towards sunrise, not willing to close her eyes just yet.

“Can we walk?” she asked, looking at those stars, still bright in the fabric of the sky.

Cassain shrugged, took her hand in his once again. “If you want,” he said idly, his siphons casting a ruby red glow over her fingers. He looked down at their twined hands, her palm slipping so easily against his own. Brushing a thumb over the backs of her knuckles, he lingered on her third finger before pulling her forwards and pressing a kiss to her temple. “Come on then, Valkyrie. We’d better start walking if you want to be in bed before the sun comes up.”

“And if I don’t want to go to bed?” she asked archly, but letting him guide her home nevertheless. He only smirked.

“I’m sure I could find some other way to fill the time.”

“I want to dance, Cassian,” she insisted, her fingers squeezing his as they reached the river. She stopped on the bridge that spanned it, listening to the Sidra rushing beneath. The dark water was a steady roar, an even, pulsing beat.

“What, now?” he asked, stepping closer and putting his hands on her waist. Hers came to rest on his shoulders, before she dragged one hand down over his collarbone, settling above his heart. Silently, she nodded. She didn’t want to go home— she wanted to stay here, where the rhythm still flowed through her, where the only music was the river below.

“Like this?” he whispered, bending his head until he was at her ear. She nodded as he moved her, swayed with his hands on her hips. It was the very first dance they’d ever shared where she let him lead. Every time they had danced before, he had followed her. Followed her as though she could dance right off a cliff edge and he wouldn’t falter, but fall right beside her. This time though… this time, Cassian led her, his arms around her as his lips brushed her ear.

“You said you won a proposal twice through a dance,” he said, voice rough at her ear.

Even though it wasn’t a question, not exactly, Nesta nodded, rolling her eyes as he cast her out and spun her under his arm. Right in the centre of the bridge, the sunrise blooming overhead, he reeled her back in, somehow knowing what she needed, knowing her steps before she made them.

“And yet, when I asked you your price for a dance tonight, you only asked for a kiss,” he continued when she was back in his arms.

“What’s your point?” she asked with a shrug, both of her hands resting flat against his chest. His heart hammered, she could have sworn it did, could have sworn she felt it down the bond… But he shrugged so casually.

“I think you might have sold yourself short.”

“Oh?”

He hummed, one hand moving until he found hers, resting right above where his heart pounded. His fingers brushed hers, lingered once more on the third finger. With the sunrise reflected in his eyes, Cassian cleared his throat, leaned down until his forehead was flush with hers. Her eyes fluttered, drifted closed as the dance slowed, and slowed, until they were barely moving at all. He exhaled, breathed in deeply, as though he were drawing her in, as though she were the only air he needed.

“Make it a third, Nes,” he said, in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

“What?” she asked, eyes snapping open. His did too, that hazel gaze rooting her to the spot.

“Make tonight the third time you won a proposal with a dance.”

She could feel his heart through the bond, but she was fairly sure hers had stopped completely. Stopped beating entirely and relied only on his to keep her afloat, to keep her standing. She swallowed, blinked.

“Are you asking me to—“

“I’ll get on my knees if you want,” he shrugged, a smirk pulling at his lips, a wicked glint in his eye that told her he’d get on his knees for her at anytime, any given opportunity, proposal or not. She let out a breath of a laugh, one of surprise and… and something that felt remarkably like ecstasy. Something she hadn’t felt for oh, so long.

“Rhys is already planning a mating ceremony,” she pointed out. Cassian shrugged again.

“So? Can we not do both?” He tilted his head, looking at her with an expression of such ease, all boyish charm and confidence. His eyes burned as he took her hand and raised it to his lips, pressed a kiss to the bare skin of her third finger.

“Marry me, Nesta.”

As the sun rose fully in the sky, turning the horizon pink and gold, Nesta framed his face with her hands. The birds began to sing in the distance as Nesta said, at last, the only answer she could ever have given. The only one that made sense.

“Yes.”

#a good dose of nessian fluff mixed in there too #nestaweek2022 #Nesta Archeron #nessian fic

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