#i think he deserves a different coat now. in a color of His Own

[astrovagrant]

i finished trimax. i love u black haired vash and your weird sentient beard - oh it's darcy. okay.

#i think he deserves a different coat now. in a color of His Own #its dark orange here bc i started coloring w that and was too lazy to change it #vash tag #tg tag #darcy #(obliquely) #i have one million billion different thoughts teehee #silver lining

[netherfeildren]

Did the loneliness die that night?

A Fear of God story : Series Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC

Summary: Birdie and Joel's first time.

Content Warnings: Unprotected sex; Creampie; Rough sex; Oral sex; Angst; Hurt/Comfort; Descriptions of medical procedures; Size difference; Size kink; Mutual pining; Emotionally constipated idiots

A/N: Title is from Pablo Neruda's Love Sonnet XVII

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 7.3K

Read on AO3

“You should head home now, honey. No point staying so late. I think we’re done for today.”

“I will, Connie – soon. Just gonna read for a bit.” He pauses the tidying up of his papers to turn and look at you with those milky, discerning eyes of his. He’s been complaining recently that his vision is getting worse – his eyes tired and weak earlier and earlier in the day. You know he’s getting ready to call it quits soon, leave you with the gargantuan responsibility of running the clinic and caring for the people of Jackson all on your own. Your mentor, your friend, your champion – ready to ditch you.

You don’t think you’re ready. You don’t think you’ll ever be ready. You also know it’s not fair to categorize it as that. He’s tired. He deserves to rest. 

You also don’t think he’s going to give you much of a choice in the matter pretty soon. 

“You felt alright today?” He likes to check in on your confidence levels every now and then, knows you like to second guess yourself behind his back.

“Yeah… good. The surgery went well – I thought.”

“Yes, you were excellent. I have no doubt that our patient will recover beautifully.” He winks at you, slips his coat over his frail shoulders. You let a small smile unfold across your face, excellent, yeah, okay. If you could count on anything it was Connie as your number one hype man. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, my dear. I might be in a little later in the afternoon,” he warns, and you roll your eyes into your book where he can’t catch you. 

“Sure thing.” 

You sort of lose track of time into the night. Mainly because a large part of you is loath to go back to your quiet and lonely house. 

Sometimes it feels a little as if you’d spat out your heart in the woods where your sister was killed before you found Jackson, pieces of your memories. And this continuation of whatever it is that you’re doing now, building a life, living, going on, fucking bullshit, is a play act you’re putting on for yourself, for the people you take care of now, Connie who counts on you and relies on you and has been planting the seeds of his future and that of his patients in the soil of your mind. Too many responsibilities for a half girl living a half life. 

What was in that framework of a carved out house, that carcass of that fake life you pretend at when the sun’s high in the sky? Archeological remnants of a person you aren’t anymore, bones of a girl that, in too many ways, had died out there with her sister. 

Too morose. Too morose. Unnecessarily dramatic. 

You have a good thing here, this you know. A second chance, a place to do good. Those things are important. But what else? Nothing but stagnation and the waiting shoes of a great man who expects the world of you, and who you’re more afraid of than anything that you’ll be able to do nothing more than disappoint. Connie expects much from you. His past repeated in bright, shining colors in a world gone to rot. An impossible feat. How to make the most intelligent, most amazing person you’ve ever known, that expects the world of you, understand that all you have to give is little more than nothing?

But besides all that? Besides the crushing weight of expectation and inevitable failure and the certainty that you’ll never be able to be good enough for a world categorized in the before – what else is there for you here?

You stare blindly out the warped glass pane of the window. The house the clinic’s been accommodated to is old. Old, sturdy bones. Reliable. Like the house could weather any sort of storm. Remain standing and provide refuge to any of those who’d seek shelter here. This is what you need to make yourself into. 

But what else is there for you besides this? 

The question rings screaming in your mind. That terribly fraught, agonizingly selfish, humiliatingly ungrateful thought – when yes, you already have so much, but wait, there’s still something, something missing – that whispers that you still want one more thing, something else to fill that hollow ache inside of you. 

You wish someone would just tell you – set the answer before you, feed it to you by hand. Tell me, tell me how to fill the ache, and I’ll do it. You’ve always been good at following orders, doing what you’re told. You like to be told. You like the comfort and security of it. 

And then the bell above the front door chimes – it’s late – and there he is, stepping through your office door. 

“Joel–”

“Went by your house – what’re you still doin’ here? It’s late.” Sometimes it’s like he can read minds. Strange, mercurial wonder of a man. 

You take him in. “Your hand–”

He lifts up his bloody palm, dried rivulets of rust snake up his forearm and down his fingers. “Yeah… got caught on an old nail.” He shakes his head, looks back at you with a grumpy frown, “It’s late, sweetheart. You should be home.”

“I got distracted reading,” you say offhandedly, already up and moving around to collect the supplies you’ll need to patch him up. He really focuses on the most inconsequential details at the most inopportune times. “Come here–” you start dragging a chair over from Connie’s desk towards your own, a murmured, let me, from him, trying to pull the thing from your grasp. You shoo him away, “Sit,” you order, settling the chair in front of your own and pulling your desk lamp to the edge. Stubborn man. 

He falls heavily into the chair, an exhausted sigh following in his wake. “Always getting yourself into messes you shouldn’t be,” you say with a small smile, shaking your head at him. He only grunts. 

“You alright?” he asks gently.

“Yep, I’m okay. You too? Well…besides this.”

“Yeah, I’m alright, sweetheart.” You can’t stand it when he calls you sweetheart, it makes you all soft and desperate and wet. He’s quiet for a beat, and then, as if he can’t help himself, he asks, “Seen Ellie recently?” She doesn’t speak to him, and you don’t know why or what the extent of their relationship is, but you know something isn’t right, that there’s history, and that it hurts him. You know he worries for her because he always asks how she’s doing since you and she had become friends. 

“She came in this afternoon – she’s good,” you say quickly, seeing him sit up slightly at hearing she’d been in the clinic, “She just dropped by to say hi… she’s fine, don’t worry.”

He settles back in the chair. “Ain’t worryin’” he grumbles, another grumpy frown. He’s quiet for another long moment while he watches you set your needle in your forcep, gather the antibacterial to sterilize the wound. “Nancy in?” 

The old nurse who helped you and Connie out with the clinic and lived upstairs was a true wild child at heart. “She’s out with her girlfriend.”

“It’s almost midnight… isn’t she like seventy?”

“Seventy-four, but she has a young spirit, and love has no age,” you give him a pointed look. 

“Jesus,” he sighs. You grip the thick bones of his wrist in a firm grasp, drag the tips of your fingers over his palm, down the lengths of his fingers so that he’ll uncurl them. You think you hear what might be the resonance of something deep and rumbling coming from his chest that has your insides going hot and wet and soft. You want to tell him to not make sounds like that when you’re trying to focus, but you hold your tongue and begin to clean out the gash in slow, methodical strokes.  

 He tilts his head back when you start to drag the needle through his skin with a murmured, here goes. His neck is so thick, strong, the muscles and tendons popping starkly with his exhale, and okay, focus, focus, it’s time to focus now. You start to close the wide gash in his palm with a neat percutaneous closure, a simple interrupted suture with your safely guarded and jealously hoarded Vicryl – Connie has a contact that re-supplies you every few months. 

“Your hands are cold.” 

You pause your sewing to peek up at him. “Sorry.”

A shake of his head, “Should get the heat workin’ better in here.”

“It’s fine,” the drag of the suture through his flesh.

“S’not if you’re cold.”

“I’m fine, Joel.” He hums a displeased sound. 

You can feel his gaze searing into the skin of your face. Your cheeks are burning hot, the backs of your knees sweating. You hate it when he looks at you like this, have caught him several times, more and more frequently, and it fills you with a belly full of fizz and nerves, head dizzy and light. You’re certain that if he were to keep his eyes on you long enough you might get so lightheaded you’d do something really dramatic like faint or throw yourself at him and tell him he’s the hottest man you’ve ever seen in your entire life. 

“Got the longest lashes I’ve ever seen,” he says after a beat, so softly, and you feel your blush burn fever bright and self-respect-meltingly hot. A spearing twist of embarrassment and lust and the deepest sort of yearning you’ve ever experienced in your life boils through you so intensely that you even feel your eyes smart at his words. A tick starts up in your left eyelid from how nervous he makes you. All your anxiety and adrenaline being channeled to that one tiny, singular nerve to keep your hands steady while you sew his skin closed.

“Th– thank you,” you stutter, stupid, you should say something more, something better. What you’d really like to tell him is that he’s beautiful – rough and rugged and beautiful and that you see it, despite how hard he tries to hide it behind his eternal frown. You see him. He hums, and you register the tilt of his head out of your periphery as he settles in to inspect you. You’ve got both your knees tucked between his parted thighs, and as he settles in his chair deeper, he spreads them even wider, pushing his hips forward to slouch low, and fuck, you know you shouldn’t be looking, but you can even make out the thick weight of his cock beneath his jeans. So inappropriate, you chastise yourself, you’re the man’s physician, you’re tending to his wounds, he’s come to you in a vulnerable state, you shouldn’t be ogling and objectifying him. But on the back end of that thought is the whisper that there is absolutely fuck all about this man that is even the slightest bit vulnerable. For Christ’s sake, just look at him, so fucking thick and broad and strong and handsome, with the cockiest air of slight menace you’ve ever come across. You think that there is very little that could make a creature such as this vulnerable. You press your thighs together, pressing one foot on top of the other to squeeze yourself as small and tight as you can, cunt a twisting, wet ache. 

You’d wanted him from the first moment you’d laid eyes on him. It had been something almost intrinsic, instinctual. You’d seen him and all your brain and your body had been able to scream at you was that one, that one, we want that one. So perhaps you do have an answer for that screaming question that wants for more. Sometimes it feels like the two of you have been circling each other like blood in the water all this time. Like you both know, even if you can’t admit it just yet, that it’s just a matter of time until this strange, tense dance the two of you’ve been caught in comes to a head; cracks and splinters like a fault line and swallows you whole.

“When was the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

“Twenty years ago.”

You roll your eyes. “We’ll get you one of those then.”

A soft, uncaring grunt. “What were ya readin’?” Really, the most inconsequential things…

“Boring stuff.”

“Tell me.”

You pause again to look up at him, his gaze entirely sincere and demanding. “Foye’s Principles of Medicinal Chemistry, it’s the two thousand and two edition. Last one that came out before…” you shrug, “It’s a text Connie values highly. I’ve probably read it a dozen times front to back at this point,” you laugh as you work slowly. One of the things you admire most about the way Connie practices medicine is how precise and methodical he is in all his movements and decisions. He works with intention and care and a measuredness that’s something you’ve tried very hard to emulate as best as you can. 

“Hell, sweetheart… you do really’ve got a mind that amazes me.” And his voice is so soft, so contemplative as he says it. As if he too possesses that great depth of ability to be as methodical and patient and precise as you’d like to be. The cadence of him is so profound, almost vibrational, as if the words are carried on a frequency that only he exists on. You pause your sewing once again to glance up at him, and the way he’s looking at you… distracting. You are a weak girl, never one for much bravery or outlandishness, content to always follow the path laid out before you by other more exacting hands, but the way he looks at you, the fire in that gaze, you feel like you could do anything, be anything, and he’d take it in stride, be able to handle it. His gaze makes you want to be brave and reckless. 

You turn your eyes back to his hand, almost done now. “Ah, well… not so amazing, I don’t think. I was always just well suited to books and studying, and in a world like this… wasn’t so useful, I suppose. My father wanted me to do this, he was a physician – a real one–”

He cuts you off, “Hey, you’re a real doctor too. Don’t diminish what you do here, it’s fuckin’ amazing.” He knocks his knee into yours.

“Don’t jostle me, or I’ll stick you,” you scrunch your nose at him. 

-

You’re fucking flirting with him, provoking him, that little scrunch of your nose that always makes him feel like he’s two paces away from death, the lilt of your words ending in an upwards flutter like you’re singing at him, beguiling him. He feels utterly beguiled in this moment. He wasn’t lying when he’d said you’ve got the longest lashes he’s ever seen in his whole life. Long and thick and fanned out so that they cast shadows across the planes of your skin. You look like you’ve got the softest skin ever spun together, weaved on a loom just to come here and bring him to heel, and he wants to taste you so fucking badly, to sink his teeth into the back of your neck like prey and force you to your knees – utterly deranged thoughts that you seem to force out of him with those eyes and those lips and that voice. Your hair is long and shinning and he can smell you, sweet and soft like the evening after a summer rain. It makes him hard. 

The first time he’d laid eyes on you, he’d been shocked into stillness, speechlessness, thoughtlessness. So pretty and soft and then when he’d spoken to you, your mind, you’re so fucking smart, the sound of your voice, the pure, utter goodness you constantly exude. He wants to be let inside. He wants to be allowed to feel all that goodness and sweetness from the inside out. 

He’d forced himself to turn away from you then, to run the other way like a goddamn coward with his hair on fire. That was how much his initial reaction to you had scared the living hell out of him. 

He watches you work slowly now, that plush lip pulled between the edges of your teeth. The feel of the needle sliding through his skin is almost erotic, and he knows that he’ll remember this only as a gift afterwards. The slight sting of the laceration secondary to the blissful agony it is to have your hands on his skin. He wants to kiss you. He wonders if you’d let him. He wants to own you, even if for a moment, to feel like you belong to him, like you’re his. To hold something as beautiful and good as you in his hands. You should be in his arms right now, impaled on his cock. Christ, he can feel himself thickening in his jeans. He feels even hungrier now than before he got here. Seeking you out, going to your house to ask you for help even though he knew he shouldn’t. He’s been so clumsy lately, uncharacteristically so. He wonders if it hasn’t been his subconscious’s way of getting him into situations where he’d need mending, just as an excuse to get himself close to you. He thinks this must surely be the case, entirely transparent and desperate and pathetic. 

You finish the sutures in his palm, and he can’t even feel the hurt at this point, so hypnotized is he by the look of you deep in concentration, trying to mend him. You obviously can’t see that there’s no mending a man like him – not in any real way. But there’s a tiny voice at the back of his mind that whispers that if anyone could, it’d be you. 

You tie off the line of stitches in a tiny little square knot, and reach for a roll of Curlex to wrap his hand in. You’re so small compared to his brutish size, your knees tucked between his spread legs. You’re not wearing shoes, just some thick knit socks pulled over your feet, slouchy and scrunched around your ankles. The size of your thigh compared to his has his mouth going dry. Delicate and built so finely – like a little bird. He wonders if your bones might be hollow like a sparrow’s too, if you’d fly away from him if he dared touch you, and at that thought, that dazed thought, he can’t help himself. He is a weak man, after all, when faced with something so fine, and as you wrap his hand in the bandage he sets two of his fingers over the curve of your knee, rests them there. You jolt slightly, and he stares, hypnotized, at the point of contact. He feels you pause your wrapping for one second, the burn of your gaze on his face, and then you resume your work. No comment, no admonishment. No… he doesn’t think you’d let anything distract you from your work, from what you’ve set your mind to. You seem like the type of person who once your mind has been fixed on something, you see it through to the end, no matter what. He admires that about you.

You reach for a vial of something, a syringe, a softly murmured, undo your shirt, but Joel is shocked frozen. His eyes glued to the place where he’s making contact with you. He hears the soft exhalation of your breath through your nostrils, and then you’re reaching forward to undo the top few buttons of his shirt. He looks up at you then, eyes focused on your task, brow scrunched, you drag your fingers over the skin of his chest, through the hair there, along his collarbone and over the thick hill of his shoulder as you push the fabric covering him back. You do not look up at him, but he thinks he might be able to feel the heat of your blood thrumming beneath your skin. He sits there and lets you do with him what you will. 

When you bring the syringe to the hard muscle of his upper arm, a murmured, small poke, he does not feel it. The needle sinking into his flesh is secondary to the texture of your knee beneath his two fingers. With only his index finger and thumb he circles the joint of your knee, sliding slowly over your soft leggings. You’re so warm here, it feels like the heat of you is singing the tips of his fingers. Good, you should always be warm, always be comfortable. Perhaps the heat in the house isn’t so bad after all. He thinks, for one fleeting moment, that perhaps he should take the burn as a flare of warning, do not touch, something this good and beautiful, is not for the likes of you. But if he’s honest, he couldn’t give a fuck. After all, Joel’s never been very good. He’s always been a little on this side of too violent, too angry, too fractured, too hungry. And now that he’s got his hands on you he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop. The thought of that, the truth he can feel in it, makes his bones hurt, but he is hypnotized. He grips you more firmly in his hand, squeezes gently to feel the soft give of you. You finish with your stabbing of him, fuss with the bandage some more, and he flexes his injured hand once, still watching the place where he’s touching you, feels the tightness of the stitching, but nothing hurts right now. It couldn’t. It feels like his very bones are on fire, flaming within the confines of his skin, but it still doesn’t hurt. You bring your hands to rest in your lap when you’re finally finished. It’s his turn now, and he slides his hand further up your thigh, squeezing gently as he goes until he reaches your arm and grips the bend of your elbow, mumbles your name softly, cups the sharp angle of it in his palm, slides down the underside of your forearm to your wrist where he drags his thumb over the lacework of blue-hued veins there, beneath the fragile membrane keeping you held together. He thinks that the inside of your wrist might just be the softest thing he’s ever felt in his whole life. 

He can sense the cadence of your breathing ricochet up to a hitched, nervous little stutter, and he finally looks up at you, his thumb still strumming that gentle stroke over the staccato of your pulse. He can feel the beat of your heart in your wrist and he wants to feel it against his tongue, wants to feel you pulse around his cock. Your gaze is fevered, manic, full of fire and a shout that sings, finally, finally, finally, you’re touching me, I’ve wanted this just as long as you have. He can see it in your gaze, and an understanding filled with a juxtaposing poignancy he can’t quite comprehend washes over him suddenly. He thinks he might’ve always understood you, from that first moment, that first sighting. There was something in you that called to him, and he’d tried to resist, as of yet, but he is about to fail spectacularly, to fall into you gloriously.

He wraps his other hand around your opposite knee and brings it up and over the wide expanse of his thigh, and then pulls you bodily into his lap. You let out a soft, perfect little gasp, and then you’re there, straddling him. Both of you pause for a second, taking each other in. Your eyes are so wide, a little wet, he thinks you might be a little overwhelmed by him, hopefully as overwhelmed as he is by you. The feel of your lush ass sitting over his cock has him going almost lightheaded for a second. It’s been a long time since he’s touched a woman, and for him to now make his return to physical intimacy with you, he needs to tread very, very carefully. 

You bring one soft, small palm up to his face and cup his cheek, and he thinks he says your name again, but he isn’t entirely sure. His mind’s gone away from him a little bit. He can see each individual, ridiculously long lash up close like this, the strange amalgamation of colors in your eyes, deep and swimming with wanting him – fucking Christ – he might unman himself right here and now, at that look in your eyes, the peeling, dryness of your soft, plush lips where you’ve chewed on the flesh in concentration. You cup his jaw, drag your short nails gently over the stubble on his cheek and through the thick of his beard. He listens to the soft thwick, thwick of your nails catching on his whiskers, and the both of you shudder at the feel in tandem. You have a way of shaking yourself, as if to loosen your muscles, and he thinks, yes, yes, he wants to be let in, this is his chance. He brings his hand up to cup your own jaw, the hollow architecture of the fine bones, his other hand slides down the slope of your spine to curve over the softness of your ass. “Open up, little thing. Let me kiss you,” he says, his voice is almost unrecognizable to himself, low and gravely. He’s sure you can hear the want in it. 

You give a short, wide-eyed nod, and he presses his mouth to yours – watches the flutter of those long lashes shut, he can feel them ghost against his cheeks as he kisses you. Like a bird’s wings. 

He takes your mouth in long, slow, wet sweeps; licks his tongue into you and tastes the sweet inside of your mouth, runs his tongue over the surface of yours.

I’m inside, I’m inside, I’m inside. 

His hand on your jaw slides to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, tugs your head back to open you to him, to deepen the kiss, to take you and taste you as deeply as possible, and you moan, drawn out and whining and for him. Your moans, like your words, end on a little lilt that sing to him, and at that sound he loses himself. He thinks you take him away from himself because he is suddenly made ravenous and of only tenuous control. He groans low in his own chest, his hand on your ass pressing you more firmly into his hard cock, grinds the searing heat between your legs into himself. “W– wanted this for so – for so long,” he presses wet kisses into the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the slope of your neck, pulls the neck of your flannel to the side to lick into the dip of your clavicle. He undoes the first two buttons of your shirt, the tops of your breasts, the flawless skin, the soft contours of you – “Too beautiful for your own damn good,” he growls, pulls you tighter against himself, you’re not going fucking anywhere. 

He wants to keep you. 

He lifts to his feet then, suddenly, taking you with him, gripping you beneath your thighs to wrap you around his waist, and with one brash hand, he sweeps the papers and books off your desk, hears the clatter of your instruments hit the ground, and plants your ass down on the edge of your desk, grips your jaw to hunch over you and eat at your mouth. Your fingers tug at his hair and beard and open shirt, trying to pull him closer to you, your knees hiking up on either side of his waist to press the heels of your socked feet into the base of his spine. 

“Me too, Joel. Me too. Thought it’d never– never happen,” you pant into his mouth, claw harder at him. 

And fuck, to hear that you’ve been waiting for this, waiting for him to come and take you for himself. If he was not already a thing made of thrumming, uncontrolled energy, then he most certainly is now. You pause to look up at him then, a momentary respite of your frantic clawing, and you give him the sweetest curve of a small smile, the moment so private, so acutely intimate, it makes his knees shake.

You move to reach for his belt, but he holds you at bay, taking both your wrists in his grasp and pressing your hands back to the desk, forcing you to lean backwards so that he can kiss at your neck, taste your skin, he nudges his nose beneath the collar of your shirt to get at your clavicle, bites the strap of your bra between his teeth to drag it over your shoulder. “Baby, if you touch me now, this’ll be over before it’s even began.” He bites into the thin muscles of your neck, and you keen for him, sucks a mark into your skin he hopes you’ll wear for days. He wants you marked and branded by him. Your knees hitch higher at his sides and you press your heels into the small of his back, grinding yourself against the line of his cock. You let out a breathy, urgent sort of noise, rolling your little cunt as best as you can against him with your hands restrained as he’s got you. “You want that?” he grunts, giving you more pressure with his hips. Please, please, please, you’re full of the most delicious sort of supplications, and you’re so pretty and so desperate for his cock, and he must handle you with care. 

“M’gonna eat your cunt, sweet girl.” You whine low. He pulls back to take you in, glassy eyes and a deep flush starting at your chest and sneaking up the column of your throat. He tucks his fingers into the cups of your bra and scoops your breasts out. Fuckin’ gorgeous, bends his head to suck one perfect nipple into his mouth and pulls hard on it, enjoys the song of your mewling. He nips gently at the sensitive bud, gives the other one the same adoring attention, and then drops to his haunches before you. The look in your eyes is slightly manic, maybe a little apprehensive. “It’s alright, don’t be scared. Gotta get you ready for me.” All you do is nod. He hooks his fingers under your waist band and starts to slowly drag your leggings and panties down your legs, pulling one foot out, not bothering with the other. One of his hands slides slowly up the back of your calf, the other pulling your leg over his shoulder and spreads you wide by the bend of your knee. Exposing you to him completely. He groans low in his throat, “Knew you’d be beautiful, but I didn’t expect this.” He looks up at you.

“Joel–”

“Yeah…” He leans forward and presses his tongue into your slit, dragging slowly up towards your clit. He thinks he must growl like some sort of animal because you let out a breathy little hiccup, nervous and stuttered and try and press your knee in his grip closed. Nuh uh, he mumbles into your skin, grips you more tightly. He focuses on your clit, kissing and petting at it with his tongue, brings his other hand up to press gently at your entrance. You’re fucking small here, he begins to push a single finger inside and you start to really unravel at that, fucking tight too. He can’t wait to shove his cock into this tight, wet heat. He gives you his entire finger to the knuckle, drinking down your slick, holds there for a moment, and then begins to add a second finger, pumping them slowly, making room for himself inside of you. He scissors his fingers, twisting his wrist slightly from side to side, stretching you in new ways with each careful thrust. Slow and methodical and precise, ever aware that he is handling a delicate thing right now. He watches your face, your eyes flutter closed, your hips tilting to welcome his hand as he fucks you open. All the while he continues to lick and kiss your clit. His fingers find that spongy, sensitive spot inside of you, and you keen as he starts to pet at it, hooking his fingers and beckoning your orgasm forth. He feels your muscles begin to quicken, your head falling back on your neck as your flushed tits heave, trussed up as they are in your bra, and you're so slick, you’re melting down his fingers and into his palm, sweet and salty and musky. And you start to come for him, whining low and needy, your knee hitching up by his ear to press your little foot into the meat of his shoulder, trying to push him away and sit on his face at the same time. You tilt your hips further and roll your pulsing cunt onto his face. Goddamn, you’re fucking beautiful. He is mesmerized. His eyes never leaving your face as your gush all over his face and open mouth. He drinks it all up, licking and sucking and kissing, all while his fingers continue to work you through the contractions of your orgasm. 

Joel, Joel, Joel, you sing his name for him like a little bird. 

When the throbbing pulses have finally gentled he surges to his feet, licking his palm clean of your slick before he presses his mouth to yours and lets you taste yourself on his tongue. He undoes his belt and frees himself. Thick, brutish cock, the swollen head is an angry shade of red verging on purple, precum leaking from the slit. The fat head of it compared to your tiny, fluttering hole is obscene. The threads of his control snap in slow motion, one by one by one, and when you look down to take him in, the size of him, your eyes go big and round and that little foot is back, toeing at him to futilely press yourself away from him. He circles his fist around the thick length as he presses the head to your swollen clit, starts to slide the underside slowly through your wet cleft. 

“No, no, no, no, Joel. That– it isn’t going to fit. No– it’s too big.”

“It’ll fit. I’ll be gentle, don’t worry.” He presses the head into your clit again, hard, and you whimper. “Have you done this before, sweet girl?” Your blush flames even brighter if possible, and he watches the fluttering of those long lashes as you say quietly, “Once,” looking down at where the two of you make contact. One of your small hands has snaked up to grip at his shirt and anchor yourself to him. 

He slides one hand under your thigh to lift you while he lines himself up with the other, and then slowly starts to press inside. And fuck, so, so tight, your walls still slightly fluttering and trembling from your orgasm, hot as sin– “Jesus Christ–” he grits. He holds for one second, only halfway in, but no, no, it’s too much. “Shit, baby. This– This isn’t going to last very long, I’m sorry,” and then grips your ass and shoves all the way inside, hard, almost brutally, all the way to the end of you. You keen high and breathless, clawing at his shirt and skin as he feels you pulse and struggle around him, your muscles working to accommodate his size inside of you. He feels his tip bump your cervix, and he grinds there for a moment. Fucking Christ. 

“It’s too much, it’s too much, please, Joel – I can’t.” There are tears in your eyes. His cock makes you fucking cry, and he likes it, and he wants more. 

“You’re alright, you can take it,” he soothes, pulls out and then shoves back in. You’re impossibly wet, the slick, sucking sound of your pussy trying to keep him inside resounds in the quiet office. He starts to fuck you hard, in even measured strokes. You have to come on his cock. You have to, he has to feel it. “Easy now, settle. Yeah… just like that. Good girl.” Your wet eyes glisten with tears and your mouth hangs open, panting. You’re trembling, the much smaller body trying to force itself to take something so much bigger and remain intact, but he bends his knees and angles his thrusts up to fuck into your g-spot, and he starts to feel the fluttering of your overwhelmed muscles begin to quicken for him again. 

“Christ, you’re huge,” you squeeze your eyes shut, head falling back on your neck, and a single tear rolls down the smooth slope of your cheek. He bends forward to lick it up, fucking animal, and then licks into your mouth, tasting all that glorious desperation. When he pulls back he watches the fat base of his cock stretching you, red cunt, swollen and split down the middle obscenely. He’s sure your little hole is gonna gape for him once he’s done with it. The sight is so fucking pornographic he begins to feel his heavy balls tighten, a searing heat pooling at the base of his spine. 

“You’ve gotta fuckin’ come for me.” He bends to bite the swinging weight of your tit, sucks hard at your nipple as he starts to thrum at your engorged clit. Your hand twists in his hair, the other supporting your weight behind you. You start to roll into his thrusts, and he can’t hold it anymore, he can’t. He wraps a hand around your throat, stiffens and shoves hard and deep, an animal sound ripping from his throat as he feels you clamp down on him, his fist coming down hard on the desk beside you as he growls the start of your name between clenched teeth that turns into a guttural wordless snarl. He doesn’t even try to stop himself when he feels his balls pull up, almost painfully, and he starts to fill the wet heat of your cunt with his come, marking you as his. Fucking his. 

Your contracting muscles pull his spend deep into your womb, and you sing breathy, little sighs of gratitude right into the shell of his ear, heaving tits pressed up against his chest. He dips his chin to lick at the soft mounds and pulls out to spurt the last thick stream of come over your swollen folds. He rubs the spend into your clit with his thumb, pushes the little white trickle into your fluttering hole – he was right, it is gaping for him. His head feels trapped underwater and there’s a rushing noise in his ears. And then a terrible sort of bliss ruining realization settles over him, fuck, how careless can he be, filling you up like this. 

-

His limbs seem to snap with horrified realization. “Shit,” he spits, pulls away from your grasping fingers so quickly you’re forced to catch yourself on the edge of the desk without his support. “I– I’m sorry– I shoulda asked before. I shoulda pulled out, I’m sorry.” He turns slightly to tuck his wet cock back into his jeans, do up the buttons of his open shirt, and you slide off the edge of the desk onto shaky legs, bracing yourself on your chair to keep upright. Your knees knock together pathetically. 

“It’s– it’s okay. My period’s in a few days. We’re okay.” We. You flinch slightly at the word. There is no we in this situation between the two of you. The look on his face is making that painfully obvious. There’s a light in his eye that gleams peculiarly of anger – of fury. That seems to demand: how dare you make me feel like this, how dare you tempt me like this, how dare this thing we’ve both wanted for so long feel so good. Because it had, it had felt so, so good. 

The awareness of the emptiness he’s left in his wake at his withdrawal is almost painful. You feel stretched thin and filled to the brim at the same time. He’d filled you impossibly full, ramming up against your cervix, and then somehow seemingly pressing even deeper. You’re going to be sore for days. Your flannel is long, reaches mid thigh, hiding the vulnerable sight of your used sex from his eyes, but you can feel his come start to slowly seep out of you. 

He runs his hand through his unruly curls, over his mouth and beard. He’s facing slightly away from you, as if he can’t bear to look at you, and the sight of him like this, fucking coward, almost regretful or embarrassed makes a small pinch of hurt and anger curdle in your gut.

“Are you– was that okay?” he asks softly. You push your leggings and panties off your ankle with your other foot, wrap your arms around yourself. “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” you say quietly. You think you almost see him flinch at the sound of your words. 

“Alright… okay–” he swallows. “Okay. That– that was the only time. Alright? That– that can’t happen again. I can’t – I’m not lookin’ to start anything up.”

“Okay.” What else is there to say? You can lie to yourself and say that once will be enough. That you can survive on only one time. You’ve always been very good at lying to yourself. 

He nods once. He’s so uncomfortable, and it makes you angry, nods again, “Alright. Good. I’m sorry again… and thank you,” he lifts up his wrapped hand. 

“Sure, Joel.” He turns and stalks towards the door, but pauses when he reaches it, seems to shuffle back and forth, weighing his options – the risk – and then turns, stalks back to you and takes you in hand. He wraps one large palm around your face, from your cheek to cup the curve of your jaw. The tip of his index finger presses into the outer curve of your orbital bone, his thumb on the edge of your mandible to angle your face up towards him, the other at the small of your back to press you up and into him, “Lemme just… I just want to–” he mumbles and takes your mouth with is. He licks into you, a soft groan of appreciation, of hunger, rumbling out of him. He likes the taste of you, he likes the feel of you, you know he does, even if he wants to pretend at recalcitrance. 

He is a thrumming effigy under your hands. There is something immensely sad and vital simmering just underneath the surface of his skin, and you think: he is so important. You know it now, right now, perhaps, since the first moment you’d set eyes on him. It feels like he owns you – already, in this instant – like he always has, and he’s just been biding his time, an apex predator toying with its food before he decides to gorge himself. You moan into his kiss, let yourself go soft and pliant, sceding all control, all of your will to him. He pulls back, tucks his thumb beneath the cleft of your chin to tilt your head back and peer into your eyes. 

“Sure…” he murmurs. He goes after that, out into the dark night. You stand at your window and watch the span of his broad back as he walks away, the wet feel of him sliding down the insides of your thighs, and you think that you might become quite a monstrous thing under the guiding hand of this desperate want, this terrifying loneliness that seems to abate only in his presence. 

-

He’s on your front porch two nights later, that was the only time, yeah, sure, urging you backwards as soon as you’ve got the door open, his hands in your hair and his tongue in your mouth with a rumbled, just one more time. Taking you for himself, once again. 

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

#FoG fic #Joel Miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x female oc #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #joel miller imagine #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic

[jaelaxies]

𝟕:𝟎𝟕 𝐚𝐦

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･

fluff; wc.: 476.

Kim Jiwoong x fem reader!; fluff fluff; established relationship and skinship; tw: none.

Song recommendation: You’re Beautiful — The Rose (Dual)

Nobody expected this. It was, indeed, a sight to see.

Kim Jiwoong, the tall gorgeous “mysterious” man who every girl in this faculty would drop everything for, was standing like a giant puppy with an enormous lovesick grin while you buttoned his coat, which he had unbuttoned on purpose on the way here, just to see your focused expression: the way you pursued your lips together and bit your tongue a little bit, the soft lines on your forehead and the lovely smile you gifted him when you were done. Your height difference made everything just so much funnier and cuter at the same time, because to thank you with a soft kiss on the forehead, he had to lean down a bit but that gave him the perfect excuse to whisper something only the two of you could hear; making your cheeks go dusty rose and his eyes crinkle with pure joy, his ears matching your colored cheeks.

—I really won the lottery in my past life, babe — As you recovered yourself from the cheesy remark, your hand immediately pinched his cheek, even though softly, he laughed at your weak attempt to get revenge.

—You did, indeed. — Carefully you draped your own scarf around his neck, finishing it in a bow. Red really suited Jiwoong but it was your soft strawberry scent emanating from the fabric and the sweet but firm tone of your words what made his heart race a mile per minute. — But I must admit I am a pretty lucky girl too… I have the cutest boyfriend ever. 

You tiptoed and pecked him on the lips, rushing him to enter the classroom for his final; but Jiwoong stood there smiling like an idiot and wondering what on earth did he do to deserve your pure and honest love; to him, you were too much of a woman and sometimes he just seemed like an idiot beside you; but it was never the case for you, who carefully grabbed his hand, brought it to your lips and kissed it softly; proudly showing him his new “good luck charm” the stain from your lipstick, which was one of his favorites. — Whatever the result is, I’m already proud of you, ok? No worries, you’ll do great. I believe in you!

When he was finally about to enter, he rushed to your position and softly cupped your cheeks pecking your lips so quickly, you barely felt the contact; before disappearing again through the door with a wide grin showing his pearly white teeth. You reached for your lips and smiled too, some way and somehow, he always needed to kiss you last, but it didn’t matter too much, because right now, the lavender haze that was your head was filled with thoughts of your boyfriend and how happy you were to have him by your side.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･

૮꒰ྀི⸝⸝> . <⸝⸝꒱ྀིა finally i can write about my bias!! The way i blush everytime i think about this man... take me to delulu station right now.

tmi: If you're a fellow zerose, who is your bias? im very curious, also i like to know more friends in this fandom because it's a blast ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

Because it's also my first time writing for him i thought something sweet and fluffy was perfect for the ocassion i think i managed to do it, but still feedback is always appreciated ♡

Btw, I'm currently working on a project involving fantasy... it's for a member of enhypen... can you guess who?

Anyways, thank you all so much for all the love and support!

I promise to put even more effort in creating joyful projects for you guys to read, love yall ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა

With all the love in the world,

ੈ✩‧˚✧˖°࿐Stella!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･

#k films #k labels #kbookshelf #zerobaseone #zb1 fluff #zb1 #zb1 x reader #zb1 imagines #zb1 jiwoong #kim jiwoong #seok matthew #jiwoong fluff #zhang hao #sung hanbin #park gunwook #kim taerae #ricky #kim gyuvin #jiwoong x reader #jiwoong moodboard #jiwoong imagines

[oh-no-the-hyperfixations]

hi y’all you remember those tma flight rising fandragons i posted a few months ago? Well theres more- and i need your help to pick out the final fandragon for the original series ^^

Mild spoilers ahead

Nikola- i skried out them Ages ago and i had been searching for their specific color way for Months and months. I’m Very pleased with their genes and outfit. I thought jester gave a wonderful circus tent look, seeing them without their outfit is also quite neat because the Poison gene makes them look like they are smiling a big empty grin. I gave them soap as their final gene because it reminded me of the hard plastic they’re made of And it made them look like they have a clown nose

Jude perry- I wanted her to reference a moth to a flame and burning from the inside out. I tried some different colors and genes but eventually settled on this (i think she matches my agnes really well)

Andre ramos (homophobic vase guy)- i wanted him to look like shattered pottery as if he tried to smash that vase to get his husband back. Just because i thought it’d be fun visually<3 he’s such a fun character i just needed to have one of my own

Breekon and hope- i really wish there were burlier twin headed dragons but i’ll just have to cope with what aberrations give me</3 i gave him the primary gene wasp to look like a mannequin and patchwork to match nikola and the dark circus theme. Waiting for this color way took Ages too

Jordan Kennedy (exterminator ant guy)- he’s been one of my favorite reoccurring characters in the series i really really hope he shows up in protocol. It took like- 6 separate dragons and 2 months of breeding to get his specific colors with the plague eye type.

Georgie Barker- i thought she deserved some mice and her cat the admiral sitting on her shoulder i’m so happy with her colors and her outfit she Looks like a silly little ghost hunting podcaster. I gave her ghost as a tertiary gene to reference her affiliations with the end

Adelard dekker- i’m still working on his outfit (i just cant find anything i think looks good both with his colors and salvaging his “coated in concrete” look but i figured i’d show him off anyways cause he’s Severely under appreciated.

Now heres where i need your help- what should be the final character in my original series to fill in this missing spot? I wont be doing anything from protocol yet because i want to see more of the series play out before i make them fandragons (i might make an exception for mr bozo tho- bro has a cannon design which should be pretty easy to make)

#tma #the magnus archives #flight rising #fandragons #nikola orsinov #jude perry #tma andre ramos #homophobic vase guy #breekon and hope #jordan kennedy #georgie barker #adelard dekker

[cooliofango]

could i get a oneshot of soldier 76/male reader's wedding? recall age (as in around 55) please :D this is so self-indulgent but you know how it is

What A Miracle

Soldier 76 x M! Reader

—————

Ahhhh this gives me really cute ideas~! I’m am honored to fulfill your indulgences! Hopefully my little piece of work here will do the job. I shall listen to 80s and 90s love songs for vibes as I write this.

Enjoy~!

—————

A miracle. If the old soldier had to label this day as something, then it would be labeled as a miracle. Not because it was impossible, of course. He just never thought he would ever experience this moment so far along in his life. Yet here comes (Y/N) to prove him wrong. When Jack first met him, he would’ve never thought that the two of them would end up preparing for something so special. Hell, marriage was never something that crossed his mind until only months before he had proposed to (Y/N). Yes, Jack Morrison was the one to pop the question, as awkward as he was while saying it. (Y/N) thought it was precious and gladly accepted the proposal. It’s what lead them to the moment the two of them were at now. The last minute preparations were about to wrap up to start the beautiful event. 

Jack stood still as Ana fixed up his tie one final time. “There. Now you’re ready.” She spoke with a slight sense of pride- pride in the fact that her old friend was actually settling down and doing something for himself for once. Jack spends so much time saving and protecting people. To Ana, he deserves to have this day. Jack looked in the mirror and stare back at his reflection. The sight was almost unreal to him- like he was a whole different person. He wasn’t wearing any armor. He didn’t carry a gun. Instead, he wore a nice black tux with a light blue button up shirt underneath the coat. For once, he looked and felt like a normal man instead of a soldier who was always on the hunt. And he had (Y/N) and the feelings Jack had for him to thank for it. He wondered how (Y/N) was doing at that moment. What suit was he wearing? Was he nervous? Jack wasn’t really nervous. He didn’t think so, anyways.

“Let’s get going. It’s your big day, after all.” Jack looked away from the mirror to see Ana by the door instead of behind him like she was before. He must’ve spaced out for a moment there. “Right..” Jack cleared his throat before turning to follow Ana out of the room. She lead the way to the chapel where everyone else sat. Both of Jack’s and (Y/N)’s friends and families were there, seated in pews on either side of the main isle. They were decorated with light blue and white ribbon and tinsel along the back with the ends pinned to look like flowers made from the same material. The end of the isle where the bestmen and bridesmaids stood was decorated in a similar color scheme with the addition of beautiful white flowers. The bridesmaids wore light blue silk gowns and the bestmen wore light blue tux’s with white undershirts. It looks just as (Y/N) and Jack had wanted. It was beautiful and everyone could agree as they sat or stood in their place. 

Jack stepped onto the slightly elevated platform where the bestmen and bridesmaids stood as well, taking his place in front of the bestmen. A heavy breath slipped past his lips- one he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Maybe he was nervous. Just a little. Even with his own nervousness, he couldn’t think about his own worries for long. His mind drifted back to (Y/N) in an instant. How was he holding up? Jack hoped that nothing was wrong with (Y/N) in any way. Were things to his liking? Jack looked down at himself, messing with the cuff. Did he, himself, look presentable? Questions like that and more began to cloud his mind. However, the sound of music silenced these thoughts. It was the wedding march.

Jack stiffened for a moment, his gaze darting to look at the large double doors on the opposite side of the room. It felt like a sudden moment of truth washing over him. Like this moment would change everything. Would that be a bad thing? The doors swung open and everyone stood. (Y/N) wore a white tux with a light blue tie and his hair was styled neatly for the occasion. Placed on top of his head was a crown of morning glories, colored to match the theme. His arm was linked with a relative’s who had began to walk him down the isle, a beautiful smile adorning his features. Jack thought (Y/N) looked stunning. More than stunning, actually. He couldn’t find the correct word to describe how (Y/N) looked in his eyes, yet he couldn’t look away from (Y/N) as he stood in a small state of awe.

Jack locked met (Y/N)’s gaze for a moment and took not of how his features grew red in color. (Y/N) was blushing and Jack found that the look only added to his beauty. When (Y/N) finally got to Jack, his relative released his arm to go and stand with the rest of the crowd before them. Jack gently took hold of his hands and rubbed a thumb over his knuckles. “You look stunning..” He spoke in a hushed tone. There was a loving look in his eyes, one he’d only have when looking at the man before him. (Y/N) released a breathy chuckle as if he had been holding his breath as well. “And you’re as handsome as ever.” (Y/N) couldn’t seem to stop himself from smiling in that moment, gripping onto Jack’s hands a little tighter.

The priest smiled at the couple before beginning his speech. One that would bind the two of them together for life. A series of words that would change their lives for what would hopefully be the better. Though it wasn’t long that the man spoke, it felt like it took forever for the time to say their vows to come. “(Y/N) (L/N), do you take this man to be your loving husband?” (Y/N) looked up at Jack, taking in a deep breath. “I do.” He let it out as he spoke and his eyes never left Jack’s being. The priest looked to Jack now and repeated the question, using his name instead. “I do.” Jack’s voice was firm. It showed just how sure he was about this decision. He wanted this just as much as (Y/N) did. And that meant the world to not just (Y/N) but to Jack as well- simply because he never has been so sure of anything else in his life. Not until he had met you, anyways.

A robotic cooing sound filled the room. It was Snowball with a red velvet pillow on its head, the two wedding rings resting on top of it. A few chuckles at the sight came from the audience, the most noticeable one coming from Mei. Snowball stopped before the couple and waited for them to take the jewelry. Each of you took a ring in hand. They were golden bands. The one meant for Jack was just plain golden while (Y/N)’s had rectangle diamonds around the band. (Y/N) took hold of Jack’s left hand to slip the ring on for him. Jack took hold of (Y/N)’s left hand as well, slipping the ring onto his ring finger. Before letting (Y/N)’s hand rest in his to finish the ceremony, Jack raised his hand to press a gentle kiss to his knuckles. 

“With that, I now pronounce you... husband and husband.” The priest chuckled to himself. “You may now kiss the groom.” Jack released (Y/N)’s hands to wrap his arms around his waist while (Y/N) let his hands gently rest on Jack’s chest. In one fell swoop, their lips met in a sweet kiss. Cheers echoed throughout the church, causing (Y/N) to smile giddily against Jack’s lips. It was almost disappointing when they had to pull away for air. However, Jack didn’t pull back much farther, resting his forehead against (Y/N)’s. “I love you.. so much.” He muttered softly to (Y/N), who smiled and pecked his lips in response. “I love you too, Jack.” What a miracle…

—————

Aaaand done! I apologize for how long this took to get out but I hope you like this!

#overwatch #overwatch soldier 76 #overwatch jack morrison #soldier 76 #soldier 76 x reader #jack morrison #jack morrison x reader #overwatch x reader #oneshot #oneshots #overwatch oneshot #overwatch oneshots #requests #requests open

[sleepless-crows]

My Analysis for this Picture

THIS IS WRONG. I AM FIGURING IT OUT. DONT BELIEVE ANYTHING I SAY. ILL EDIT THIS SOON.

First of all, these are just my opinions. You can have your own. I can have my own.

And most of the things I will mention in this post are from my other posts and reblogs. (And I'll likely keep editing this if I find new information.)

Let's start with what I think is happening in this scene: I think this takes place in Kaz's room. The same exact place we see the De Kappel in the show. This is a sort of flashback. And Kaz is giving Inej her first knife after they managed to steal Van Eck's De Kappel painting as it is seen hanging on Kaz's wall.

Next, I will explain why I think this in terms of how it fits timeline-wise and why I disagree with other interpretations.

This will be in bullet form now for your attention span:

I don't think Kaz is removing his gloves or tying her vest here. That would stray too far from the timeline in the books. And if this scene was emotional in that sense, I know Freddy wouldn't act it as it looks in the picture. Kaz looks calm and collected without the jaw clenching and internal turmoil.

Notice how Inej has her hands behind her back. I don't think this fits current Kanej's dynamic (from where we left off in the show or started in the books). It feels like she still views and treats Kaz as her "boss", as show!Jesper calls him.

If you watch Episode 1 of the show when the De Kappel flashes on screen, you will see that the placement of the lamp and the painting are very similar as to this picture. The differences were that the walls were smoother, there was a fancier lamp, and the De Kappel was framed (in episode 1). All of these point to this picture happening before the Slat and the Crow Club finished renovating. This also makes sense if he were to give Inej her first knife early on.

A loophole in this theory is that I always assumed that Inej got her first knife way before she was competent enough to steal the De Kappel with Kaz. But I wouldn't put it past the show to do that.

My Other Thoughts

When I first saw the picture, it reminded me of the eye-contact, Inej-giving-Kaz-the-knife scene before she went to perform. That one. And if this picture is really Kaz giving Inej her first knife, there will be so much parallels and I'm excited for that. (x)

I think with the general vibe of the picture that Kaz will say something really poetic again, like the "No Saint ever watched over me, not like you have" quote. And if that happens, this will definitely be one of my favorite scenes. Also, we deserve a nice quote with the word "knives", don't you think? (x, x)

This is a stretch and absolute clownery. The scene from the teaser of Kaz in front of the De Kappel and this picture. I like to think there is a symbolism between Kaz wearing a coat and hat in the teaser while he was shrouded in darkness. While in this picture, Kaz isn't. (x)

This picture feels like a painting. Every Kanej scene is always so poetic and that was my initial reasoning. After staring at it more, I realized that when we compare the picture and just the De Kappel (which is present in the picture), they have a lot of similarities in color and pattern. There’s a sort of yellow light from the left in both pictures. The green on the walls remind you of the grass in the painting. And then there’s Kaz’s black clothing and there’s a sort of black near the right. (x)

And here is just my lengthy thread of reblogs that show how I came up with my theory. (x)

#i feel like i may not have covered everything yet but so far this is what i've got #kanej #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #grishaverse #shadow and bone s2 #shadow and bone season 2 #netflix shadow and bone #shadow and bone #shadow and bone netflix #shadow and bone season two #sab season 2 #sab netflix #sab s2 #sab #leigh bardugo

[rhysiana]

Because I forgot to add a line I intended to in my meta about kawaii culture in Old Fashion Cupcake re: how Nozue deserves phone charms, I somehow ended up writing 1000+ words about Togawa buying him a vending machine capsule toy instead. (Set somewhere vaguely during the date montage, probably.)

This was how it started:

Togawa had ducked into the stationery store for some new pens on his way back from a meeting and passed the bank of capsule toy machines on his way out. They weren’t new; he’d probably passed them a hundred times. But something about the bright colors, the cute characters, the thrill of not knowing which one he’d end up with caught his attention this time and, well. He had the change in his pocket and he suddenly desperately wanted to see Nozue’s face when he opened his on their next Saturday outing. He turned the crank twice and tucked the little plastic eggs into his briefcase with a feeling of anticipation.

~.~

Nozue looked around the tiny coffee shop as they settled into a booth and then at Togawa, a little quizzically. “This is different.”

Togawa nodded, not quite meeting his eyes as he busied himself with handing Nozue one of the laminated menus from behind the little flower vase next to the wall.

“Did you get a recommendation from someone?” Nozue asked idly as he looked it over.

He was just making conversation, Togawa knew, his automatic salesman’s habit kicking in, but Togawa still felt absurdly like he had to nerve himself up to admit, “No, this is my neighborhood.”

He could see Nozue trying to orient himself. “Ah! I guess we are close to your place. I’ve only been by there in the evening, so I must not have noticed much along the way.”

Togawa looked down at his own menu, not that he needed it. “I come here on the weekends.”

When he looked back up, Nozue had his chin propped on one hand and was smiling softly at him in that devastating way Togawa knew he was completely unaware of.

“By yourself?”

Togawa nodded and sat up a little straighter. “I bring a book.”

“Ah,” Nozue sighed, “that sounds so nice. To read and sip your coffee next to the window…”

“You could do that too, you know,” Togawa said patiently. Someday Nozue would actually recognize that he could actually do things instead of just feeling wistful. Togawa intended to be there when it happened.

“Oh, I don’t really…” Nozue trailed off, flustered.

Togawa sat back again, business-like so as not to scare him off. “You’ll have to find a good place in your neighborhood for us next weekend.”

(He told the little voice in his brain yelling about the possibility of Nozue inviting him into his space more often to shut up. This was for Nozue’s good, not his.)

(He was well aware he was lying to himself, but sometimes that was the only way to stay in control.)

The owner came out of the back just then to take their orders and Nozue relaxed into the familiar interaction. “And the usual for you?” she asked Togawa, barely waiting for him to confirm before she headed back behind the counter.

Nozue was smiling at him again and he could feel a blush trying to start. “Aren’t you always telling me about the importance of variety?” Nozue teased.

“I’ve tried the whole menu!” Togawa protested, but Nozue was laughing and he couldn’t work up much indignation in the face of that.

He decided to change the subject instead. He knew from long experience that the owner took her coffee preparation seriously, so they had a while to wait yet. “I got us something,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket for the capsules.

Nozue stared at them when Togawa placed them on the table in front of him, puzzled. “Aren’t they for kids?”

“Mm,” Togawa confirmed. “But there’s nothing about them that isn’t for adults, too. Kids know how to want things just because they make them happy.”

“I suppose that’s true…” Nozue conceded.

“I think it’s even better to enjoy small toys like this as an adult,” Togawa added. “After all, now I have the money to buy them whenever I want.”

He couldn’t help but smile at Nozue’s now predictable reaction of slightly shocked surprise, like Togawa was giving him permission to break the rules somehow.

“Pick one,” Togawa ordered before he could get caught staring at Nozue for too long.

“What are they?” Nozue asked, one hand tentatively reaching toward them.

“It’s a surprise, that’s the point.”

“Do I get a hint?”

“Something cute.”

“Are we pretending to be girls again?”

“No, you said you didn’t need to think that way anymore. We’re just being people who like small cute things. Like everyone.”

Nozue’s hand finally closed on one of the capsules, and Togawa immediately picked up the other one.

“Let’s see what we got.”

Nozue finished opening his first (because Togawa was distracted by watching him), and the way his eyes lit up when he tipped the little toy out into his hand was worth far more than the ¥500 Togawa had spent.

“It’s so cute!” Nozue exclaimed, holding up a little sleeping dog. “Which one did you get?” he asked as he unfolded the paper that came with it to show how many different ones there were to collect.

Togawa blinked back to himself and finished opening his plastic egg. “Ah, I think this one is a… Siberian Husky?” he guessed, just based on the coloring.

“Mine is the Shiba Inu,” Nozue said happily, squinting slightly at the small print, and then picking up the toy. “Look at its curly tail!”

“Extremely cute,” Togawa agreed, trying to keep his smile dialed down to something that would look normal. “Where will you put it?”

“Ah?”

“You should put it somewhere you can see it, so it can keep making you happy. On your desk, do you think?”

Nozue considered the little dog thoughtfully. “No, I think I’ll keep him at home. He can sleep near my bed too.”

The coffee shop owner arrived then with their drinks and small desserts meant to balance the flavors, and Togawa had never felt so relieved. All in all, this outing was a definite success in his campaign to get Nozue to enjoy life, but it was sorely testing his own ability not to confess all his feelings. He took a quick sip of his coffee, not stopping to check if it was cool enough yet.

“Oh, this is very good!” Nozue said, the sun unfairly choosing that moment to gild him perfectly through the window.

“I’m so glad you like it,” Togawa said, and meant it more than Nozue could possibly know.

[Also on AO3: Kawaii ne]

#it ends up on the knick-knack shelf next to his bed #the first of many of course #and he *does* get phone charms that end up on the handle of his briefcase #I need you to know this #togawa x nozue #old fashion cupcake #rhys's stuff #also I realized while writing this that the coffee shop I was mentally basing it on probably doesn't exist anymore #because it was in one of the coastal towns outside of sendai

[cursedfortune]

❛ I don't even own anything funeral black. ❜

@fallesto

"Hm." The witched eyed him over without any surprise. Her husband was notorious for his white (accented in gold-- real gold), sometimes a hint of blue if he was feeling a bit more colorful. Yet here he was, willing to please her by dressing in black for their next wedding. Another kingdom upon this wretched planet conquered and, as promised, she'd gladly would partake if he wished to throw another ceremony. His love for weddings was perhaps equal to his love for her and the cake that came with it (with the wedding, not her ass - mind you).

Taking one of his arms within her hands, she lifted it to eye the length of his sleeve that was attached to his usual coat of white. It was easy for her to eyeball measurements. It was also easy for her to slightly feel up her beloved, skinny as he was there was still enough definition in his limb for her to amuse herself with.

"I think the answer is quite obvious, then. Don't you?" Mortem commented as her hands slid along his arm before lowering it back to where it had been prior. "I'll make your black tux, you make my white gown." A smile crossed her lips as she, finally, agreed to wear white for him. "I'd like to make you your own version of a witch's dress. It matters not that it'll be a tux, the intent and shade of black is all that matters. In return, I'd like to dress as however you've envisioned me in a white wedding gown."

"What do you say, my love?" Her fingers danced along his jaw before taking his chin between them. A gentle redirect, for gazes to meet and him to know she was quite serious on her proposal. Witches and their manners of being with dressing and colors upon this world may differ from her own, but that wouldn't stop her from sharing her customs with him. He was her partner, after-all. A honorary witch, as some would jest back home. Regulus deserved his own outfit to reflect that value she had for him. Likewise, she had decided it was finally an acceptable time to wear white. Time and time again they proved themselves dedicated to one another. To wear such a shade, especially for an occasion like this, was nothing to scoff about with a witch.

It came with a subtle vulnerability to allow a sacred color to be worn for such an event. Though she was hardly a maiden in body, it didn't stop the witch from being reminded how he could still make her feel like one. Hopelessly in love. The first time he put her in a white gown she had torn it off in front of him in rage. Now she agreed and asked to be put into such a dress. He had earned her love, her trust and kept to his promise of meeting her halfway. She wanted to do this for him and for herself.

It may not seem like much but the implications behind her proposal meant more. If anyone would understand, it would be him. Despite how he could be sometimes, the moment Regulus slowed down to process something he often could see the sentimentality in what she did or said. Like now, when she redirected his attention to her so he could know of she meant it. Or the way her hand left his chin after a moment to brush along his cheek. How could he not know she seriously loved him so?

#fallesto #asks

[the-badger-mole]

No Sound But Silence: A Course Once Charted

Katara's locker was too low. She'd have to ask the principal if she could be assigned a top locker. Her belly wasn't big enough that it was throwing off her balance yet, but the growing baby had caused a constant, dull ache in her lower back, and stooping for her books wasn't helping much. She stood with a groan and shut her locker with her foot. Zuko was picking her up. He had surprised her with a prenatal massage and it couldn't have come at a better time. Katara rubbed the aching spot at the base of her spine and turned to leave.

"H-hey, Katara." Aang stood in the middle of the now empty hallway. His shoulders were bunched up around his ears as he gave Katara an awkward wave and a shy smile. It had been nearly a month since he'd spoken to her. He'd even been avoiding their friends to make sure he didn't bump into her. It had hurt, but Katara had found many ways to distract herself from his absence. It seemed, though, that her friend was finally ready to move forward.

"Hi, Aang," she said. "Long time, no see."

"Um...yeah..." A light blush colored Aang's cheeks and he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. His eyes darted to Katara's protruding belly. She was nearly five months along, and past the point where she could be mistaken for merely bloated. Briefly, Katara considered zipping up her heavy winter coat, but she didn't want Aang to think she was ashamed.

"Did you want to talk?" Katara asked. "Zuko's picking me up, but I have a few minutes." Aang tore his eyes away from Katara's stomach, with some apparent effort. He met her eyes before his gaze darted back to her midsection and then back up again.

"How...?" Aang paused and cleared his throat. He tried again. "I mean...you and Zuko are really..." He gestured at Katara's stomach.

"Yeah, we really are." Katara grazed her hand over her stomach protectively. Aang swallowed hard. Then a second time. Then once more.

"Were you really thinking about killing your baby?" Aang asked. His voice was small, almost shy, but there was a furrow to his brow and a firm set to his mouth. He looked at Katara as if she were someone new. Katara sighed and fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"I did consider an abortion, yes," she confirmed. Aang balked in horror.

"How can you be so...so...blah about that!" he demanded. "It's murder!"

"Aang," Katara's shoulders sagged in exhaustion.

"It is!" he insisted. "I was raised to believe that all life is precious. Even the ones that haven't been born yet. You must think so, too since you chose to keep your baby." Anger, hot and quick, flashed through Katara. Her shoulders stiffened and she glared at Aang.

"I was raised to believe that a woman's choices are her own," Katara countered. "And that no child deserves to be born to a family that can't or won't care for them."

"But what about the baby's life?" Aang pressed. "If the mother can't or won't care for the baby, then there's adoption. There are lots of families that want babies. I'm sure you could find one for yours."

"Do you know how many kids get bounced from foster home to foster home waiting for one of those families?" Katara snorted. "Do you know how many of those foster kids grow into adults with no support systems? Who end up in the same position as the women who gave birth to them? What about the women who are too poor to afford good health care? I'm lucky. My dad has good insurance and Zuko's in a position to support me, but there are lots of women who don't have that. And some of them may choose to have an abortion rather than struggle to raise a child or abandon them to foster homes or the off chance that a good family will adopt them. Or maybe they just really don't want a child. And you know what? That's none of your business.

Aang stared at Katara in shock. His mouth opened and closed around half-formed words. Katara's hands shook in anger. She'd known that her friend had a different opinion on abortion than she had, but she never expected him to confront her like this over an abortion she'd chosen not to get. Frankly, she didn't think he had it in him. Aang was at his core, a conflict avoider, and this was one doozy of a conflict he'd chosen to deviate on. Katara rolled her eyes and started to walk past him.

"You don't believe that," Aang said quietly. Katara froze midstep. She turned back to Aang in confusion.

"What?"

"You don't believe in abortion," Aang said firmly. "You can't possibly believe what you just said, because you are keeping your baby even though you're not even out of high school yet." Katara sighed and pressed her thumb to the corner of her eye. She could feel the beginnings of a headache just behind her left eye, and she prayed for Zuko to call and let her know he'd arrived.

"Just because I'm pro-choice doesn't mean I was obligated to have an abortion," she explained slowly. "Zuko and I went over all our options and I chose to keep the baby. You're my friend, Aang, but if the only reason you stopped to talk to me is to lecture me about considering abortion, then save your breath. It's none of your business." Katara bristled and started to walk off again when Aang caught her off guard mid-step.

"Why?" His voice was almost a whisper. Katara glanced back at him. His eyes were anguished and to Katara's surprise, welled up with tears.

"Why?" Katara repeated, her brow scrunched up. "Why what?"

"Why him?" Aang asked. "Why keep the baby? Why marry him? For the support? Katara, there are lots of other people who would support you. You don't have to marry Zuko."

"I'm marrying Zuko because I love him," Katara said. Surprise kept her rooted where she stood. "I think I've always known I'd end up married to him, eventually. The baby just moved the timetable up a bit." She forced out a nervous half chuckle.

"But what if it's not him you're supposed to be with?" Aang reached out and tried to take Katara's hands, but she stepped out of reach. "What if there's someone better for you? Someone who would have never made you feel like you even had to consider killing your baby?"

"Aang..." Katara rolled her eyes and huffed. "It was my choice. Zuko never made me feel like I had to do anything. He let me decide without trying to force any one thing on me, and that's why I chose this. Chose him. There's no more support I need than what he gives me, and there's no one better for me than a man who trusts me to make my own decisions. If Zuko had tried to force me to do anything, I would have had the abortion and dumped him.

Aang was a child, Katara reminded herself. He was only two years younger than her, but he was still very much a child. That was why Katara wanted to walk away before he said something that would make their friendship unsalvagable. Walk away before he elaborated further on his thoughts on abortion, or on who would make a better partner for her than Zuko. So while he was still gathering his thoughts, Katara spun on her heel and walked quickly towards the exit. Her phone rang just then, giving her an added shield in case Aang gathered himself too quickly.

"Hey, I'm outside," Zuko said cheerily.

"I'm on my way." Katara cast one last glance at Aang. He stared after her with a lost, wounded look, and Katara wondered if perhaps their friendship had already crossed into unsalvagablilty after all.

Part 1... Part 21, Part 22, Part 23

#atla #zutara #no sound but silence #anti aang #anti kataang #katara explains that pro-choice isn't pro-abortion #again... #cw: abortion #tw: abortion #abortion

[empyreasheart]

I RETURN WITH MORE QUESTIONS. and one topic on my mind. xion xion xion xion xion xion XION shes so interesting and your hcs are always so good do you have any about her or the sea salt trio in general. i miss them so much (also i know you have work to do sorry if this is a distraction from it!! feel free to leave this ask for later)

IM FREEE WHICH MEANSSS I CAN TALK ABOUT MY DEAR DEAR XION!!!! no joke i have been thinking about her all day.

first off i LOVEEE xion so much. whenever i see her get attention and love im so happy. when i see her i have a habit of going "XIONNNN" super loudly.

im putting this under a read more cuz its gotten super long oops

my xion headcanons... well first of all i love every reading of her character as a trans allegory & how people intepret her as either trans or nonbinary! i dont think it was done on purpose but shes been claimed by the commjnity and im so happy about it. transfem xion my beloved. second of all shes autistic TO ME but honestly everyone in soras heart hotel is so thats a given. third of all give me xion with big dark brown eyes or give me death!

what id like to see explored in future games / i fanwork: her identity! we see roxas's frustration and anger about being his own person plenty but we hardly see xion upset at her predicament. i think this is because she wants to do the right thing, not because shes okay with the situation. i really want to see xion's feelings about not having her own identity explored, given that everything about her is based on either sora or his memories of kairi and she was basically created in a lab as a tool for organization 13. she should feel weird about existing in the first place, especially next to roxas and naminé, who dont have the same history behind their creation

in addendum to that, i want to see xions character design change to something more unique. she already has a new outfit, but id love to see her have a new hairstyle (whether she grows it out or just puts it up) so she has something different than a mirror of kh1 kairi's hair. i think ive also mentioned that i think itd be interesting if xion had her own eye color after kh3 (side note its bullshit we never got to see her norted eyes in kh3. she shouldve played a bigger role in the story too but thats another rant) to symbolize that shes her own person now, not a puppet meant to copy sora. lastly she !!! deserves !!! her own keyblade!!! there's so many cool keyblades from days to choose from & theres the weapons from her boss fight - theres no reason for her to still be using the kingdom key and i really hope she gets her own soon.

i keep thinking about what you said about xion not being another "nice" girl character and im like... so true. i dont think xion would be mean i want to go about it in a way that doesnt completely rewrite her character but i think exploring how she copes with her past w/ both organizations & her identity & trauma would be interesting, especially with how it parallels to naminé's own way of coping and dealing with her own trauma. theyre like Shy vs introverted to me lmfao i think xion tries to be friendly but overall she prefers to stay close to the people she feels safe around. i want to see xion be rude but in the autism way where she doesnt mean it shes just not aware. and stuff like that i guess. this paragraph was just word vomit my bad

THE SEA SALT TRIO... theyre seriously the family of all time i love them so much. ill just focus on xion here because this is already super long. BUT AXEL LOVES XION SO MUCH IT MAKES ME SICK THEYRE NOT TALKED ABOUT ENOUGH.. the implication that lea subconsciously keeps his coat on in kh3 so xion (and roxas) can recognize him makes me so emotional. also the fact that lea just clicks with kairi because she also holds a part of xion inside her... AND WHEN HE BUYS HER AN ICE CREAM AND HE DOESNT EVEN REMEMBER WHY HES BUYING THREE. UGH. i love them so much. theyre definitely one of those duos found in the trios that dont get much attention which just draws me towards them more (like riku and kairi). i think lea is absolutely riddled with guilt about the events of days so he never lets xion forget that shes loved. i think xion is touch-averse *except* when it comes to roxas and lea because she feels safest around them.❤️

to end i will discuss roxas and xion . they are like a little orange cat and a little black cat to me. halloween colored. theyre so small i love them so much. i imagine when xion first meets the twilight town gang shes jealous bc roxas has other friends :( but roxas assures her shes super duper special to him and no one else can take her place in his life. they have such a unique bond that i dont know if any of the other characters have with each other. just something so special about those two. when it feels like no one else understands they have each other... and i think that makes for some angst when xion struggles with her own issues that even roxas cant relate to

#ask #THANK U FOR THIS IM SO GLAD TO INFODUMP . I TYPED SO MUCH IM SORRU I LOVE HER SO MUCH AND I HAVE SO MANY THOUGHTS

[day0walkersdrafts]

The chill in the night cools Xavier’s searing cheeks. He pats them softly, his supple gloved hands feeling distant and numb from the ale. Xavier huffs out an exhale as he looks up at the blanket of pretty, white stars dotting the nights sky. Brows upturned, he briefly wonders if his patron is looking down, embarrassed of the red heads inability to mingle with the nobility he’d used searing smites to save, only a day prior.

But the celebration had embarrassed Xavier more than the idea of a looming deity disappointed in lending strength to someone who couldn’t be in crowds of people for very long. The respite of the terrace is enough to make his heart stop racing even if it doesn’t help the heat in his face. He should have stopped at the second goblet of wine, and he definitely shouldn’t have chased it with a stein of ale. People had simply kept giving him things; drinks, food, compliments. Touches to his elbow and shoulder and his back. His skin crawls, as if bugs live underneath the borrowed clothes he’d worn for the occasion.

Xavier fishes into the fancy coat pocket for cigarettes he’d rolled just for this occasion, a prepared excuse to need to come outside. He leans with his hip cocked against the stone railing that overlooks the opulent garden. Some of the flowers are so rare that they bloom in colors he’d never even seen before. A young servant girl had tucked a hand under one and named it for him; Smaragdine. She’d laughed, dainty with a blush on her high cheekbones and a hand over her mouth when he’d said ‘looks green to me’.

Xavier reminds himself that the people he’d saved were people, and all people deserved a life free of fear, or pain—even people so rich they owned fenced in gardens, lavish mansions that overlooked a poor town. Smaragdine colored flowers.

He bites a glove off his hand, mumbling under his breath thoughts on nobles as he swaps the glove for a cigarette and holds up a finger. A flame produces from the tip, wavering in the dark.

“Pinch one off you?”

Xavier shouts, nearly climbing into the air. The glove tumbles from his hand, over the railing and down into the darkened garden below. His heart slams against his sternum painfully, shiny night reflective eyes flickering across the terrace to find—

Benji.

“You scared me nearly to piss,” he breathes, teeth having clamped the cigarette to ruin. He spits it over the railing, to join his glove (and secretly he thinks that he won’t bother to find it, hopes that it smacked one of those ugly green flowers right in the face). The tiefling before him steps closer, a hand lifted to brush a crown of dark curls away from his face and back behind his gold adorned horns. His other holds a mostly full goblet of wine, taps it against his hip idly as if trying to find a rhythm better than the one coming from the noble party.

A wide circle of light follows him out the double wide door that he closes with a booted foot.

“Isn’t the expression to death?” In the dark, Xavier can see his expression. He used to think that sneer was mean; like Benji hated him. But it was all different now. Everything felt different. New, sort of untouched. Frail. Weird. Friendly.

“Wouldn’t ‘ave died,” Xavier says as he puts two new cigarettes between his lips. “Just embarrassed myself senseless.” More than I already have, he thinks. Then Xavier lifts a finger again, an ember bursting from the tip once more. He watches Benji step closer and smiles around the cigarettes. “But hells, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” Right as Xavier is pulling a cigarette from between his lips, the one intended for Benji, the cleric drops to one knee. Begins fussing with his already laced boot. He reties it, head tilted down. He’s in equally lavish clothing, something form fitting and dark red, with calf high boots. Xavier keeps hold of the cigarette, watching. He takes a long drag on his own, letting the smoke pool out from his barely parted teeth. The red looks good on him. It brings out the dark eyes he has.

“Do you remember those gnolls we had to cut down?”

“Why are you thinkin’ of gnolls right now?” Benji finally stands, reaching for the outstretched cigarette. The bite of his nasty smile has lessened somewhat, because he’s not around others. Benji seems to smile softer if there’s no one around to keep a performance up for. Xavier takes his own cigarette from his mouth, head tilted back so the smoke goes straight up into the night air. He leans back against the railing, sighing out with a foot crossed over an ankle.

“I just think I’d be having more fun if we were doing that, then this.”

“I’ll be more fun once I finish this,” Benji comments, holding up the goblet of wine. It’s a dark, disgusting red. Dry and tangy—had made Xavier’s nose sting to drink it. He frowns, taking a puff of the cigarette and shaking his head.

“What’s that mean?”

Benji shrugs, nurses a sip of the wine. Immediately puts his cigarette to his mouth after, shrugs again.

“More fun when I’ve had a few?” His voice turns up at the end like it’s a question. Xavier knows it’s not. He lets silence linger for a minute before he turns swiftly, trapping Benji against the railing. Stands in front of him with a big, wolfish smile.

“I like you sober,” he supplies. Xavier offers his cigarette and Benji takes it, a pinch of confusion to his brows to now be in possession of two. Xavier uses the opportunity to snatch the wine from his hand. Benji’s hand trails after it, but Xavier merely leans back. His taller body easily keeps Benji mostly pinned to the railing—even though none of them is touching.

What if we were, though? What if we were touching? Gods, I want to touch. The thought zips into him so quickly he feels witch bolted. Blinks rapidly before drowning the goblet of all it’s horrible wine. It burns going down, makes him sputter a cough while Benji stares at him, transfixed in disbelief.

“There,” Xavier says, wiping the back of his ungloved hand across his mouth. His tongue automatically flicks to catch a bead of wine he’d missed. “Tell ‘em you drank it. Arseholes. Dickhesds. Like, what are you? Their entertainment? Stay sober. I like you sober, plenty, Benji.” He almost wishes he was sober, because that’s his third glass of wine now, and he’d drained it so quickly, the stars suddenly seem to double. He grips the railing to feel more balanced, but it only brings them a little closer.

His cheeks feel warm again, looking down into those big, pretty tiefling dark eyes. Benji has started growing out his facial hair; or rather, has stopped trying to tame it down altogether. It grows in thick, but it suits his face nicely. Xavier would give anything to brush the back of his knuckles against Benji’s jawline. See what it feels like.

“There you are!”

A high pitched voice makes both of the adventurers freeze. Xavier throws a quick look over his shoulder. The Jarl’s daughter stands there, in a bright and beautiful yellow gown. Her hair was once up, in a powerful braided pattern—and it’s since come tumbling down, cascading over her thin shoulders in hypnotizing patterns. The flush to the high apples of her cheeks suggest that she, too, has had far too much of the wine.

“Lady Alma,” Xavier stutters out, quickly stepping to be beside Benji. The cleric takes the goblet from him. He awkwardly bows and there’s a long pause before Benji also bends slightly at the hip. He did not need to read his friends mind to know what he thought of the Jarl’s daughter; of the entire celebration for their band after the slaughter of the mimics that had infested the mansion.

“You promised me a dance,” she sings, skipping out from the doors and toward them. Xavier glances from Benji to her, eyes widened. He feels the warmth rushing back into his face, crawling up his neck and to his half elf pointed ears. It’s not a pleasant warmth; it’s fresh humiliation and nervousness.

“Me?” He points at himself, then tries to laugh it off when she nods excitedly. “No, my lady, I—I did not promise anything. I’m a terrible dancer.”

“My father said you would.” She stops skipping, reaches Xavier with a hand outstretched. She takes it, her smooth palm feeling oddly foreign and distressing against his, sword rough as it is. “My father isn’t a liar, is he?” Xavier feels the steel cage, slamming shut around him. He’s tugged forward, and though he’s taller—and she can’t weigh more than a kitten, he’s as easy to move as a leashed puppy.

When he glances over his shoulder, he finds Benji looking at the empty goblet of wine.

***

Xavier’s hand glows a faint, lovely blue as he secures it around the nape of Benji’s neck and yanks him backward. His back slams into Xavier’s chest plate, the clanging sound of their armor not nearly as loud in comparison to the shouting in the village. Screaming, the occasional gnashing sound of a predators maw. A pack of demon possessed and lead wolves. Their druid yells above them all, in desperate attempts to bring nature under order.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Xavier snarls into Benji’s ear. Despite the viciousness of his tone, his hand loosens. Guantleted fingers, spread, run across Benji’s neck. Down to his chest. He forces their bodies closer as he thinks of the magic. He feels it draining of him, enlightened and beautiful—he feels it go to Benji. Fill him instead, makes the slash of a wound across his shoulder slowly begin to close. To stop bleeding as profusely as it had.

He smells like blood and nothing else and that scares Xavier. He usually smells so—

“Ge’off me,” Benji protests, turning against the arm across his shoulder, the hand on his chest. “M’tryin’ to get to Myrna—she needs—”

“Myrna has been hoarding potions in her pack since we stepped foot through that bleedin’ forest,” Xavier seethes back, pressing himself forward again. There are dark bruises under Benji’s eyes, a gash across his brow that’s healed to flaky, dark blood. Benji’s hand shakes as he puts it to the wound. The spear in his hand droops. He makes frantic glances around the sudden, overwhelming battlefield they’ve stepped into.

“Then who needs—”

“You!” Xavier yells. He throws the battleaxe in his hand to the ground, stepping forward with arms outstretched to catch Benji again. To pull him close. To think the words, to invoke the patron, to feel that beautiful licking flame of magic and heal the other man.

But Benji pushes his hands away, his brow drawn down into a severe, furious expression.

“Don’t waste the energy.”

Something sparks in Xavier so blinding and furious it does feel like an invocation. Like something is pouring straight through him and it is made of liquid flames. His hand shoots forward, gripping Benji’s breastplate. He yanks them together once more, his teeth clenched painfully, lip curled back. Like one of the demon possessed wolves, like something stepped from Avernus or worse. The magic fills him in flash, powerful and all encompassing and angry. The blue glow blooms from him, even his eyes, no longer green, but holy reflective and seething.

The cut above Benji’s eye disappears. The gnarled, torn skin on his shoulder stitches together. The spell is so powerful, no scar even dares remain.

“Don’t ever say that again,” he says, or commands, in a voice double layered in it’s own magic. He feels like it spills out of his mouth, even. The Blessing, the need for Benji to be safe, unharmed. Unwounded.

The tiefling stares up at him. Dark pools of black for eyes, his own hands wrapped around Xavier’s forearm. Holding tight. He looks at a cut on Benji’s chin, that must have come from his sharp, metal gauntlet when he’d grabbed at him. It still bleeds, unhealed. A drop of it lands on his armor. Xavier looks from it, the way it slides and dilutes across pale, silver plating, up to lips. He stares at them, slightly parted. The hint of white teeth, a pink tongue. He feels Benji’s chest heaving, moving to pull in desperate air. His entire arm shakes with how hard he holds the cleric.

Oh.

They sway toward each other. Heads moving, in a familiar gesture, in a well known motion. Xavier’s head tilts as Benji’s does. He feels warmth breath against his skin—this close, he smells like Benji and not blood.

Before their lips ever touch, Xavier shoves Benji back. He lets go of his breastplate. He stumbles back, his heart feeling swollen, wounded, like a bruise fresh to touch. Sweat flattens his hair to his skull, burns his eyes.

“If you’re going to martyr yourself, don’t do it around me, Benji.”

***

The apology letter comes not long after that; but it is just that. A letter. Embarrassed and short and full of shame. And Benji’s is similar. To the point. Open ended, in the sense that it invites a conversation after; but closed all the same, on the subject itself. Xavier still keeps it, but that is one letter he does not reread, unlike the sheaths of parchment he keeps in his pack to keep himself company.

They continue. On and on, but they do not see each other.

Until…

—

For some reason, Xavier is reminded of that nobleman party. He watches Benji bend, on one knee and unlace his boot and thinks of that scene. The two of them, until they’d been interrupted. The empty goblet he’d handed back. The dance he’d blundered through. It feels oddly intimate to watch Benji undress, so he turns back to the water and throws his arms open. Xavier sighs, content, the rich smell of salty water feeling more rejuvenating than any potion he’d been made to drink in the last few weeks.

Not that he’d tell Nettie that.

“Can you believe there are people out there that have never even seen water like this, Benji?” He feels water splashing at his side and glances over to find Benji already hip deep. His tail flicks the glossy surface, sending droplets across Xavier. He steps back, a hand to the hideous scar he’ll never be rid of, across his ribs and snickers.

“Remember when you stole the space on the beach I’d made for my tent?”

“I did not steal your space,” Benji argues, cupping water to splash across his face. “You cannot claim a spot with a boot.” Xavier watches water droplets roll down Benji’s face, over his neck, escape from his facial hair. He watches Benji tilt his face back to the sun above them, and when his dark, wet lashes part, Xavier is staring at the false eye again.

Where did that come from? He wants to ask. Why haven’t you told me about it already? It has to be something bad, Benji. You’ve never mentioned it in a letter. And you’ve not mentioned it since getting here. What bad thing is happening that you aren’t telling me?

Instead, Xavier falls back into the water, to let himself float. His side only hurts a little, a dull aching throb that reminds him of healing bones.

“Try not to drown. Nettie would have my hide and then my soul right from Avernus if she’d spent weeks tending you, just for you to die in the water right outside the grove.”

“Water’s in my blood, Benji—I’m not drowning easy.”

He feels the water shift around him, the reverberations of Benji’s movement. It feels like that, all the time, even out the water. You in a room. I feel that. Xavier lets his eyes close, the sun warm his bare chest. He thinks of the water droplets continuing to slide. Catching in Benji’s ample chest hair, running along the divots of his abdomen. The ridges of his hip bones, where devil anatomy got trapped under skin.

“Thank you for coming out here with me,” he calls to wherever Benji is.

“You practically begged.”

“I did not beg.”

“You said if you did not get out of the grove infirmary that you would tear your hair out—then you made me imagine you bald. Not a sight I’d like to see any time soon.”

“Oh, you like my hair, then?” Xavier throws back the tease, expecting a laugh, but instead hears a hum. He laughs himself then, because it’s a familiar tune. It’s one the fishers sang, bringing in their haul. He remembers his mother singing it, as she shucked oysters. Xavier’s eyes open, the sun pretty above. The song is pretty in Benji’s voice, even if Benji isn’t a singer. It’s so pretty that he feels himself turning toward it.

“How do you know that song?” Xavier’s voice feels distant, even to him. The sun goes too bright then, makes him cover his eyes with a hand. His side twinges, hurts something awful and then nothing hurts at all. Everything feels warm and calm, and pretty. And Benji’s voice gets louder too, gets nicer. Says,

if only you’d come closer. We could kiss. Like you wanted to do, back then. And didn’t. You’d have done it wrong back then but—you can kiss me now. You missed me—I missed you too. And it’ll all be okay now. This way, Xavier.

When he comes too, he’s sitting on the beach, staring at a dire wolf the size of a cart horse. It rips its head back and forth in savage, cruel motions. It’s maw wraps around a harpy’s arm, making it look as small as a childs. Then it rips. The limb gets torn, dark blood splattering fine, light colored sand. Xavier blinks at it. The harpy screams, feral, claws slicing across the black wolfs side. It can’t get past the thick fur, though—and then the wolf’s jaws close around it’s neck. A quick snap and Xavier can hear the spine break.

But his attention is quickly called to the harpy looming over him—and she bursts into a holy, bright white flame. She screams, wings lifting and opening, shadowing him. Xavier stares, lips parted as she lunges forward. Just to be met with another sacred flame, another burst of fire all across her body. She crumbles backward, her corpse floating out into the water.

“Fuckin’ hells,” Xavier mutters.

“Only you would be recovering from some undead and then get attacked by harpies.” The voice behind him makes Xavier stand. He jumps to his feet, smiling toothily. Wolfishly, one might say, like the one that presses in on his side. Xavier’s hand smooths the fur between Lark’s giant ears, that flicker. The wolf keens, presses closer.

“I’m fine, Lark,” Xavier says, still smiling at Matilda. She stands with her arms crossed, beautiful as she ever is. Her hair, a wilder red than his own, is styled in the latest fashion he’s seen beautiful women like herself putting it in. She manages to make it look effortless, and her pale skin doesn’t look sallow beneath the sun. It looks kissed and pretty. Xavier feels such an unconditional platonic love for her he almost darts forward to scoop her into a hug.

But Lark darts between them. He shakes his fur coat out, splashing water and droplets of harpy blood across them both.

Matilda gasps, furious hands raised.

“Lark!” She snaps. The wolf’s giant maw open in laughter, tongue lolling between teeth big enough to snap bones with ease. He bounds up the sloping hill leading away from the water. “I’ll make a rug out of you!” She yells, chasing after him. Xavier steps backward, like he’s going for the water again, to get some of the dark red off him.

Only a hand touches his side. It’s cold—but familiar in it’s chill. Xavier looks over his shoulder. Benji is still staring at the harpy he’d all but incinerated but then those two colored eyes look up at him. Xavier feels the wind leave him, his hand reaching for Benji’s shoulder. Someone to lean against, his knees feeling oddly weak.

“She’s not wrong, you know. Only you have such bad luck.”

No, Xavier thinks. Your eye, Benji. Your eye…

Instead, he looks up the hill where Matilda has caught up with Lark. He flops himself onto the ground, mouth open as he pants happily and she puts a foot to his side. Even from this far away, he can hear her berate him.

“They’re going to have to admit to being in love with each other someday,” Xavier says fondly.

Benji is silent.

—

“Take me with you,” Xavier comments, almost casually. They sit at the top of the hill, overlooking water one way, the grove the other. Xavier looks at neither. He picks at the prepared lunch, none of it appealing to him. His appetite has not returned; Nettie had told him that was her biggest concern. He’d visited the grove only half a season earlier and nearly ate the druids out of house and home. When your taste for a meal returns, I’ll let you loose. So Xavier stuffs the bread into his mouth anyway.

The sun retreats, bathing their world orange hues and—what had been the color of one of those hideous, lovingly tended flowers? Vermilion. Benji had been wearing red that night too. He thinks of the drop of blood from his chin. Xavier has been too scared to wonder if he’d left a scar. He tucks knuckles against his chin, looks down at the spread of food on the quilted blanket Xavier has no doubt came from Benji’s mum. He fingers the edge of it. Safe texture. Soft cloth.

“Wherever you’re going next,” he continues, shrugging a shoulder. “I’d like to come. You never know when you might need a paladin.”

Benji picks up a grape between his fingers, tossing it into his mouth. He shows a brief flash of those sharp white teeth that makes Xavier’s skin feel hot. Nothing to do with the sun, that.

“Don’t tease me,” Xavier says, shoving a hand against Benji’s knee. He keeps them tucked up, like that, to rest his chin on. He laughs when it unbalances him, but Xavier is just as unbalanced, catching himself palm out on the ground. He smiles, feeling bashful. Feeling silly. Feeling, for the first time, in so long, even without the injury, almost normal. Almost okay. “Just say yes.”

“I wasn’t going to say no,” Benji says, letting his legs unfold. He leans back with his hands braced on the ground. His curls fall back, tucked around his horns. Xavier looks at the dark, rich skin of his throat. The facial hair really does suit him, the bastard. The shirt opens at his chest. Xavier tries hard not to get distracted.

“So that’s a yes?” Xavier rolls onto his knees, grinning like the wolf Lark had wild shaped into. Don’t go somewhere I can’t follow you, Benji. I won’t let you. There’s things I have to tell you too. My Oath.

My Oath.

“Well, you’ve got to finish the food don’t you?”

Xavier hangs his head and groans, long and drawn out and it makes Benji laugh. A snort that turns into full laughter, that comes from the belly. It’s one of the best laughs he’s ever heard, because Benji does it full body when he’s really letting himself go.

“You and Nettie are against me,” Xavier mumbles, stuffing fruits into his mouth. He chews obnoxiously, lips curled back.

“I want you to come,” Benji says, his voice oddly quiet. So he finishes the food quietly, as they both decide which view they prefer. The water or the grove; or each other.

#xavier #benji #xavier x benji #bg3 au #i cant believe this is real we are really doing this

[frizzle-tales]

Was asking for a pen too much? Jiyeon wasn’t quite sure what to make out of Taehyung’s tone. Was he mocking her because he didn’t think she’d deserve something at all, or was he touched by her wanting such a souvenir?

“Yes…?” Jiyeon responded to his question, looking at him wide eyed as she tried to read his mood, before she looked down at her feet, slowly growing embarrassed at her request. But then, to her surprise, Taehyung actually told her to go ahead and pick whichever one she’d like, and with a smile and now without any anxious thoughts, Jiyeon stepped forward.

There was a mix of different styles; a few masculine ones with a neutral colorpalette of grays and blacks, and another one in a few tints of green. Jiyeon’s eyes glanced to the shades that caught her attention, and luckily, there was just one left in the basket.

Jiyeon took the pink pen from the batch; the flower illustration along with the precious colors and swirly handwriting was too pretty to pass on. The girl decides to hold onto the pen, making sure not to lose it.

Sohee was watching them closely as Jiyeon offered to prepare Taehyung’s bath and even dinner. No, no, surely they were not that close, were they? Surely Taehyung wasn’t really that into Jiyeon if he didn’t even bothered to give her a ring … he was definitely not that serious with her.

Perhaps Taehyung only kept her around. Of course he’d get bored of Jiyeon fast enough— and realize that he would want a real woman instead.

And until that day… she would wait.

The couple left the office behind and headed back home, and soon their conversation circled back to one of his employees, Sohee.

Of course she would be a good employee. It was obvious that she’d listened to his every word like a puppy wagging its tail. Jiyeon wasn’t sure how Taehyung’s words made her feel; part of her wanted to tell him that Sohee seemed to dislike her, but she didn’t know where to start with the embarrassing lack of proof to back up her claim, so she didn’t, and instead stared out of the window. “I suppose it makes sense that you’d get along more with women your age…” Jiyeon commented, leaving it at that.

—

Shit.

Of course, the bath. Truthfully… Jiyeon was so caught up in getting a reaction out of Sohee that she didn’t realize that she actually had to do what she offered, learning an important lesson on making promises and keeping them.

“Oh! No, no, I didn’t forgot…I will get the bath ready.” Jiyeon replied - knowing it was best to not tell him the truth - as she hung his coat before tidying her shoes and own coat.

She headed upstairs, hearing Taehyung following right after her, grimacing at how he never seemed to let her breathe it seemed.

Jiyeon prepped the bath, leaving the water running as she went to grab a towel and his robe for Taehyung, placing it on the towel rack before she went to check on the water’s temperature. “It’s almost ready…” Jiyeon mentioned, while her thoughts already strayed to dinner. That was it. The mundane routine would start again.

“Your bath is ready…” No, he did mention that they were on first name basis, right? Would that also go for at home? Jiyeon didn’t dare to ask. “…I will get to cooking then.” She figured that now atleast, Taehyung wouldn’t be looming over her and watching her every move as she prepared dinner for them. She took a few steps towards bathroom door but paused, glancing over at Taehyung.

“I forgot to mention… thank you for today. I had fun, seeing your office, and having lunch… It was nice.” Jiyeon smiled lightly— their ‘trip’ outside of the home was surprisingly nice, it was a great distraction for everything going on.

— 🎙️

Right before following the young woman upstairs, Taehyung paused at the wooden stand near the doorway, another small — yet astonishingly genuine — smile tugging on his lips.

He lifted the pen Jiyeon was graciously allowed, admiring the one she decided to choose. Out of all the options, this one was the one she wanted the most. It was kinda.. cute.

She wanted something of his. Something that would remind her of him every time she simply looked at it.

But he soon brushed the thoughts off, beginning to trail behind the girl before too much distance became between them.

As Jiyeon prepped the bath, Taehyung watched while leaning against the doorframe, his eyes gliding over every inch of her body. “Is it now?” He responded to her update, his head cocking to the side. Though, he still pushed himself up, heading into the bathroom whilst undressing his shirt.

She was behaving so well. Taking so much time and care into the small details that made up his bath.

As if she was really his fiancé.

Although, he couldn’t help but to wonder: was this all just an act? A ploy to lower his guard? While he was up here, soaking in her seemingly innocent suggestion, she would be searching for an escape downstairs. An unlocked window. A working landline. Something to leave him.

Ha, did she really think he was that stupid? That he would ever willingly allow that to happen?

Jiyeon’s voice snapped him from his thoughts. His eyes followed her slow footsteps towards the door, through the mirror’s reflection. For a change, he didn’t say anything. Not a single word as he walked in her direction, stepping past her for only a moment to close and lock the bathroom door.

“Aren’t you being so sweet today..” Taehyung stopped in front of her, reaching out to tuck some hair behind her ear. “You’re very welcome, sweetheart. Don’t you see now? Only good girls get rewards.” Both his hands then moved to rest on her waist before slowly dragging down to her hips. “Dinner can wait until later.” He suddenly switched the topic, leaning in closer towards her. “I want you to join me.”

It was the easiest way to keep his eye on her. Make certain she was behaving herself. And why couldn’t he enjoy himself a little while he did so?

His fingers found the hem of her shirt, using it as leverage to pull it off over her head. “There, now you can do the rest.” Taehyung stepped back, nudging the girl further into the bathroom incase she decided to get any sudden bright ideas. “Unless, of course, you’d love me to help you.”

The killer finished getting himself and undressed, and when the young woman did too, he got into the bath, pulling her in with him. He settled with his back against the tub, his behaving hostage between his legs, her back resting against his chest, one arm around her waist. Steam fogged the bathroom mirrors, covered the room in a warm, humid haze.

As the couple relaxed in the warm water, Taehyung’s fingers trailed across her body. Tracing the soft curve of the young woman’s waist down to her thigh. All while his thoughts began to wander; going to places it very well shouldn’t be. No, couldn’t be.

Fuck.

It felt as if his self control was slipping through the cracks the longer time ticked on. The touch of her skin was so addicting, he was on the edge of almost doing anything to feel more. She fit so well between his legs too, back perfectly flush against his chest. The closer she was, the easier he could be consumed by her sweet, vanilla-like scent.

Abruptly, the man cleared his throat, nudging Jiyeon away from him. “Enough, get out.” His voice came out harsher than he truthfully meant to, ice cold as he snapped at her. Frustration was simmering in his veins, threatening to turn into a rolling boil. “Get yourself dressed and go start on dinner. You’ve had a long enough break.”

Realistically, he knew there was no reason to treat her so harshly, but he couldn’t shake off the sheer agitation he felt. Jiyeon was his toy, a mere victim he decided to spare for his own curiosity. A plain jane college student, there were hundreds just like her.

And yet, she was the one. The only one ever in his life who drove him so insane.

#🎙anon #serial killer!taehyung #yandere taehyung

[thatsadorbsyo]

Alexander - 7

FROM THE JOURNAL OF ALEXANDER CORDULA.

28 Thunsheer

Mama,

You must picture me with my hat in my hands, tapping the breast of my coat, because your son is a creature who needs a certain artifice to feel truly humble. That is to say, I need your advice now more than ever before. It’s fitting, in that way of sons leaving the proverbial nest, that I failed to realize the ways you had led me for so many years, or to appreciate your wisdom until I no longer had the ability to just reach over and tap you for its flow. Where do you walk next? With whom do you spend your days? Who is benefiting from your helpful nature? These three questions all ask the same damn thing. I’m not sorry for striking out on my own, but I am sorry for not writing sooner. I’m sorry that I don’t know where to send this letter, and that it wouldn’t have a chance of reaching you even if I did. Not once in all my life did I think to ask how you stay in touch with all of my older half-siblings when you’re never stationary for more than a few weeks, or whether you do remain in correspondence with them at all.

I’ve operated for the past week under the conceit that the act of writing the letters is itself a balm, even if they cannot be sent, and I should stick to this conviction. Alright, then I will write, but writing in my father’s tongue for so many days has exhausted me. Simple words and simple thoughts are all I have space for tonight. Let me tell you of all the foolish things I’ve done today.

I shared a bitter draft of drugs with a witch during a game of chance, and now I’m suffering from knowing too many things all at once. Even as I write this, the world shuffles around me like a flip-book’s pages, showing me outcomes to every action, each one only a step different than the next, until they shift jerkily into logical but ugly motion. I see my friend Ismark -- I should tell you about Ismark -- grow old and tired as he stands in front of me, his hair long and his expression dark. The magnitude of this transformation overwhelms me until I cannot see the man as he is before me, speaking softly into my ear. I know not if he invited me to his tent or asked me if I want another cup of wine, but I say yes to both.

I put my hand upon a hagstone and communed with the entity peering through it. Do you remember when I was very young, and you’d take me on brief trips to the Green? That place where the sunlight had such a drowsy quality to it, golden and diffuse, a glow that stuck in every soft space between blades of grass or leaves on a bush. I thought that if I could just catch it in my hands I could drink the sun like honeysuckle nectar. And I would often sleep for hours behind the low, lavender curtain of a weeping wisteria while you attended your business. You must have known that I was not alone. That things came to me in the fall of blooms, or I, walking in sleep, went to visit them. I know not which of these memories are real and which are dreams, but the creature I sensed through the hagstone was a familiar one from these sojourns. She asked me the color of my dreams, and I told her they were Green.

I tried to show a beast sympathy and he asked, instead, for cruelty. When I told him I meant to hug him, so that he would know how it feels to be touched in kindness, he offered to allow me to hurt him instead. His nature -- the way and the will of this place -- bends my every attempt to connect with him in the image of the monster at the center of the land. I know not what to do about this. I want to be good. I want to be kind. I want to be a friend. I want to do things that would make you proud of me, heroic things, valorous things, deeds great and small. But I did want to hurt him, mama. Not because I hated him, or because I thought he deserved it, but because he’s fully capable of weathering my cruelty -- and willing to do so! -- where others may not be. And what I have found above all else in Barovia is that there’s a well of rot inside me, as there must be inside all men, and I don’t know how else to exorcise it.

All of these problems need an attention to nuance that I, with so many urgent priorities and deadly monsters nipping at my heels, don’t have the time to consider properly. So tell me, mama. What do I do?

Ever your loving son,

Alexander Cordula

#IC post #alexander cordula #curse of strahd #alexander insp

[ofpineapplesanddawns]

all my prompts for the forseeable future will be goth western related for personal reasons. Can we see the first time they kiss? I mean like, not Peter kissing Lucian's cheek, but you know. Both of them and on purpose?

There is nothing wrong with that, haha.

Warning: drinking, Peter is drunk and emotional, mentioned death

On with the fic!

--

"This is some strong shit, bet they made their own hooch." Peter grumbled, looking at the dark colored bottle he held loosely between two fingers.

Lucian looked at it before gently taking it from Peter, setting it next to him on the ground. There was a strong smell of fire and burnt flesh in the air, mixed with blood. Lucian always hated this part, even back during his days as a slave, burning the bodies of dead werewolves and his fellow lycans. But it was best to destroy the bodies of beings like him and... well... Peter.

He knew the truth now, of the multiple bites on Peter's body, of what happened when he was in England, long before the mysterious event that sent him across the Atlantic to hide. He could smell it, just faintly, under Peter's natural scent and the smell of whatever the hell perfume or cologne he wore.

There was vampire there, just under the surface.

He didn't dare bring it up with Peter, it was the last thing he really needed, especially right now.

"Think we should, uh..." Peter hiccuped, trying to reach for the bottle again, it was his fourth and he really, really didn't need anymore of this. "Think we should bury the family?"

The family was a homestead family that had, sadly, been the latest victims of the vampires. A mother and her children, it had been brutal and Peter had been upset, hence drinking the supply of booze he had found in their home.

"I think it would be for the best that they have a proper funeral, we'll have to alert the town." Lucian sighed softly.

"... they didn't deserve that." Peter mumbled, pulling his knees up to his chest, hiding his face in them. He wrapped his arms around his legs, and it took Lucian a moment to realize that Peter was crying. He reached out carefully, rubbing Peter's back as he drunkenly cried.

"I know, Peter." Lucian sighed softly. "No one deserves things like this, but these vampires... they seem quite keen on causing as much chaos as they can. From slaughtered livestock to innocent children, they do not care."

They were quite different from the vampires he knew, and Peter said they were not quite like the ones he was familiar with, but there were so many kind around the world, they couldn't all be the same. This species might just enjoy the violence of their killing rituals, which is a sad way to live.

He pulled Peter close as he continued to cry, the fire starting to shrink, the vampire bodies were burning within.

"Sorry." Peter sniffed, rubbing his nose on the back of his sleeve as he sat up straighter. "I... 'm normally not like that."

"It's alright to be upset over something like this."

"I know, but I'm supposed to be brave, yeah? Vampire hunters don't start cryin' over victims they couldn't save."

"There is nothing wrong with being upset about this. If you were not upset, I'd say you were heartless."

Peter looked at him. "Really?"

Lucian nodded. "I've seen too much death in my time, Peter, and it still bothers me. People say you get used to it, but you never do. I've... I've seen too many friends die before my eyes. I saw my own..." His throat felt tight. "My own wife's murder, it still haunts me, I still cry over it."

The human scooted a little closer to him, and Lucian thought he was going to reach for the bottle again, but instead, he just leaned his head on Lucian's shoulder. "I still cry about my parents, about my girlfriend."

"And that's alright, it means you still care about them. And though you didn't know this family, it's alright to be emotional over their pointless slaughter."

Peter nodded, grabbing at Lucian's coat. "You're... you're a good guy, Lucian. You always know what to say."

"I'm not a good person, Peter."

"Yeah, you are, don't be modest. You just wanna do right by people, even for someone like me, some idiot who doesn't know what he's doing." Peter mumbled, hiccuping again.

Lucian frowned and turned, cupping Peter's face in his hand, rubbing a freckled cheek with his thumb. "I think it's the right thing to do, but I do wanna do right by you especially, Peter."

Brown eyes searched his face. "Why?" Peter asked.

"Because I care for you."

"That's a bad idea."

"I don't care. I've grown very fond of you in the time I've known you."

Peter swallowed. "That's a really bad idea, I'm bad luck, I'll only get you killed."

Lucian smiled sadly. "That's impossible."

"It's happened before." He could see tears coming to Peter's eyes again. "You're too good for me, and I'll only get you fuckin' killed and I can't do that again, I just-"

Lucian silenced him with a small kiss to the side of his mouth. Peter pulled back, looking at him, his eyes wide. "You... fuck, you do like me, don't you?"

"Yes." Lucian nodded. "And that doesn't come easily for me, Peter."

"And... and you know I like..."

"Yes."

"Even though I'm a total fuck up?"

"That doesn't bother me."

"This is the worst place to be saying all this." Peter laughed, it sounded wet, tears were coming down his cheeks again.

Yes, he had a point, but it was too late to really stop it now. "That's alright. May I... would it be alright..?" He suddenly felt nervous, tongue tied.

But Peter seemed to understand what he was asking, as he closed the gap between them, kissing the lycan gentle before desperately clinging to him. He held the human close, for Peter's sake, their lips still pressed together.

He could smell the smoke and fire still, he could smell the hint of vampire under Peter's scent, but none of that bothered him as he continued to kiss the crying man in his arms.

--

I made myself a bit emotional with this one, haha.

#pine box au #lucian x peter vincent #john's drabbles #good omens extended universe

[fireflyhwufanficwriter]

My thoughts on Dr. Stone’s Chapter 232 (“Final Chapter: Dr.STONE”)

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE BIGGEST MYSTERY OF THE SERIES!

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE BIGGEST MYSTERY OF THE SERIES!

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE BIGGEST MYSTERY OF THE SERIES!

My thoughts after reading Chapter 232:

01. Now that I’ve read both Chapter 232 and Chapter 232.1, there are no more manga chapters for me to read :( But I still get to write about them! :D Starting with... oooh, so many colored pages! :D

02. Senku has Whyman on his belt, aww! :) And, y’know, most of those people deserve to be in the “last” chapter’s chapter art... but Magma?! We don’t get Kohaku, but we get Magma?! Really?? :O That’s so weird! XD Even Kaseki or Kokuyou would have made more sense than Magma!

03. Gen as a diplomat; everybody getting together to attend Taiju and Yuzuriha’s wedding... :) Their TWO-day wedding... XD

04. Thank you, Kohaku, for telling us about Senku and the science team, and for asking Ruri about Chrome! :D Chrome, whhhyyy??? XD I mean, I’m glad you got there, but... Ruri deserves a more planned proposal than that! :O But it’s so funny that Ruri was just all for it anyway XD

05. Good point about law and order... Although, I think at this point, Hyoga’s the only one with, like, permanent murders on his record? Although since he was acting as Tsukasa’s second-in-command, some of the blame could fall on Tsukasa, especially since he was pro-murder at the time too, even if it was “just” of petrified statues of older people :O

06. I know they’re serious scientists and stuff, but what if this scientist is an actual fangirl who cosplayed as Senku at work? And Senku himself doesn’t care, so everybody just adopted his attitude and they act like the cosplay is totally normal XD

07. Dr. Senku!! :D Oooh! Does he have academic qualifications now? :O Or is this more of “a knighthood (doctorate) received on the battlefield (stone world)” sort of thing? Either way, yay! :D

08. Taiju bursting in and shouting about Yuzuriha... and Senku responding by saying almost exactly what he said back then, too! Nice callback to the very first chapter! :)

09. Senku has shoes now :O Like, leather ones! And a more modern coat... but at least he still has his cape! :D And aww, cute little Whyman is right there on his belt! :)

10. And the baad science project is revealed to be... a TIME MACHINE... shaped like a Medusa... and being made with Whyman’s blessing :O

11. Wait, how would petrifying victims... how would that help? This part confused me...

12. Byakuya and the other astronauts wearing casual clothes and standing in little Senku’s laboratory... because they’re not super grand astronauts now; they’re six more members of humanity along with the other seven billion... :O They’re looking at little Senku (well the ones who have their eyes open), as if they trust him to save even them, too... :’) And then Senku looks so determined in the next panel, as if he’s really going to try to do it... :O :’)

13. Rei!! We even see Rei!! :D :’) I believe in you, Rei! :D

14. What an interesting roadmap! :) Because yes, it’s about a time machine, but also because many of those parts seem so complex that they could merit their own extra chapters. It feels like the story is over, but Inagaki and Boichi aren’t quite ready to let go of it yet, so they left themselves things they could expand on in bonus chapters that can be released on Dr. Stone anniversaries, as well as promotional periods for anime seasons and maybe even movie and game releases and stuff (like us getting Chapter 232.1 because of the Dr. Stone: Ryusui TV special).

15. We see panels with different characters... including a group panel with Kohaku (with Stanley next to her) in it! :) And of course, the very final panel is of Senku himself, telling us to get excited! :D :O

16. And the manga... if I were being a pessimist, I would say it’s officially over :’( But, if I were being an optimist, I would say it’s officially complete :’)

17. I have to say, I love Dr. Stone, but I wasn’t expecting the final chapter to be like this. I know it’s a science manga, and a shounen, and everything, but a lot of things were set up - Taiju and Yuzuriha, Chrome and Ruri, CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT (ahhhh! :D) AND CHAPTER 140 (ten billion percent my favorite chapter! :D) - that we didn’t get full satisfaction from. We don’t see the confessions :( (We didn’t even get a Senku/Kohaku moment in Chapter 232... whyyyyy????? :’( )

18. WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY- sorry, I couldn’t resist XD

19. But anyway, if the series was going to end without those emotional moments being shown, I think that with with a few tweaks, Chapter 231 would have been a much better ending :)

20. Think about it - we’re on the moon; Senku conducted secret negotiations; and the result was a sentient, solitary, adventurous, Senku-like Whyman volunteering to go to Earth with Senku and the other heroes. And then we get a deep discussion about life, and Whyman’s “WHY” is finally answered :O

21. If, in the same chapter, you add their coming back to Earth; having a victory party; everybody resolving to revive all seven billion people; and Senku telling us to get excited... that could be the perfect ending right there! :D

22. (As a writer of Dr. Stone fanfiction, this might be the ending I end up going with in my writing, come to think of it :D)

23. Chapter 231 was so full of... mystery and life and heart, that... it would have been a great foundation for the ending. So after that, Chapter 232 almost feels more like an epilogue after the end of the story than the actual end of the story, if that makes sense.

24. Or, to put it another way, Chapter 232 sort of feels like Chapter 231.1? Still totally canonical, of course, but... not as... meaningful’s not the right word, but... Chapter 232 doesn’t quite measure up to the mysterious sense of awe and wonder that Chapter 231 has, in my personal opinion :)

25. Congratulations to Inagaki and Boichi (and Caleb Cook and Steve Dutro) on the successful conclusion of the Dr. Stone manga, and I hope it was everything that Inagaki, as the writer, dreamed it would be! :D And congratulations to us Dr. Stone fans as well - we finally learned the secret of the petrification, and we have hope for the future of Senku, Kohaku, and the other characters we’ve come to care so much about! :)

26. As Byakuya said in the first chapter of Dr. Stone: Reboot, “There’re about 8 billion humans down there, right? That’s 1.3 billion for each of us. And anyone carrying the weight of 1.3 billion people... can’t afford to fail!” :O With so many people to share the weight, and honor, of this all-important mission with with Senku, there’s no way they can fail! :D

27. And as for me, I shall go on to write about Chapter 232.1 (which I’ve already read)! :D

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#dr stone #ishigami senku #kohaku #dr. stone #dr stone kohaku #dr. stone kohaku #stanley snyder #oki taiju #ogawa yuzuriha #whyman #dr stone whyman #dr. stone whyman #why-man #dr stone why-man #dr. stone why-man #ishigami byakuya

[mercurygray]

Can you do Andy/Eddie/Marie (or some combination) for "Please don't give up"?

A win like this called for steaks.

First time state titleholders deserved all the laurels they could get, and coaches of winning teams even moreso. There looked to be no end in sight where celebrations were concerned - first the parade, and then a victory rally, and now the proud, pleased pockets of the school board were treating the coaching staff to dinner downtown at the Hotel's subdued, glittering restaurant.

It was the sort of place Eddie would have liked to take Andy on a date, if they'd had the money, but teaching didn't pay well enough for dinners like this, and machining neither, and it wasn't as though this was the sort of place where two men could get a table for dinner and not raise eyebrows. So date night was a couple of burgers and beers at the corner pub, and they were content to get it, and save the white linen service for a really special occasion like this when someone else was paying.

Eddie felt a little out of place, in his suit, which was somehow the wrong shade of black for this room. Not that anyone minded him, a little old nobody assistant coach - the rest of the board and the staff had brought their wives and the comments all seemed to be about who had bought what dress where. And there, at the end of the table in pride of place, was Andy, king of all he surveyed and thoroughly enjoying his steak.

Someone tapped his shoulder, and Eddie turned around, a little surprised to see one of the bellboys from the lobby. Dennis was a freshman on the C team, a beanpole who looked only marginally better in his hotel uniform than he did in his football pads. He was saving, Eddie remembered, to buy a car - that was why he put up with the silly uniform.

"What's the word, Dennis?" Eddie asked the teenager.

"There's a woman here to see Coach Haldane, Mr. Jones." Dennis jerked a thumb back towards the lobby, suddenly mindful there was a stain on his white glove.

"Did she say what she wanted?" Eddie asked, sitting up a little. There was something about women asking after Andy that stopped him cold, the way they did at PTA meetings when someone's mother started talking real sweetly about the bake sale, and what Coach's favorite sweets were, and how it was a shame her own husband hadn't managed to maintain his weight. He'd said something, once, angrily throwing the comment out while they were making dinner afterwards, and Andy'd let the pan scorch giving him a handjob right there in the kitchen so Eddie knew how he felt about it. But it was still there, wasn't it? That idea that handsome, middle-aged football coaches were there for bored, middle-aged housewives to covet.

"Sorry, Mr. Jones, I didn't ask. She's a reporter, maybe? Didn't give a name. I didn't like to interrupt Coach but - "

"I'll go," Eddie said, throwing down his napkin and pushing back from the table. "Ought to be able to finish one meal in peace."

The woman in the lobby had one of those wide-angled coats all the women were wearing these days - black, a serviceable color, with a hat to match, not quite managing to look smart enough for the hotel lobby, and a little handbag on her wrist, glancing around like she didn't quite know what to do with herself. A Mrs. Somebody, probably come to ask what it would take to get her boy in the starting lineup next year.

But then she turned, and Eddie found himself pulling up short, his mouth suddenly dry. God, how long had it been since he'd seen that face?

"I see he ain't managed to get rid of you yet," Marie said, a glimpse of her old sass surfacing for a moment.

"It would take some doing." He was still staring - Marie, here! Different hair, a more modern style, and pumps instead of her service shoes. She looked …ordinary, respectable, the sort of woman you wouldn't think twice about seeing in a grocery store, or out at the park. A little thicker around the waist, but weren't they all? He found himself thinking he'd like to see what she looked like beneath that coat again, how her body would feel again. "I'd hug you if I didn't think people would stare."

She smiled. "I'd kiss you if I didn't think people would talk."

It was all he could do to keep an arm's distance between them when she said that, too many old feelings gushing up from places he'd forgot he buried them. She hadn't been there, in the hospital, and there was no one to tell her, after they'd said they'd thrown his boondockers away because they were too bloody to be any use. Then it had been Andy hurt, and they'd had enough trouble between the two of them to even try. Her whole life had been the Marines - it wasn't like she had a home she could have gone back to, a place they could have started looking. And it was hard enough, just the two of them, and who was to say she hadn't found something better, pretty woman like her?

"How'd you find us?"

"I took a job, in Woonsocket, on the state line. Girlfriend of mine from the Corps had a room spare and after the war I didn't know what else to do, figured one place was good as another. Paper goods - I help with their timekeeping and filing. Anyway, we get the occasional paper, and they like their football. One of our factory managers was telling anyone who would listen about how Coach Haldane was a mill man himself, before he went to school. When I saw the picture I knew I had to try."

"Glad you didn't stop trying."

"I'm sorry for the interruption, I didn't know -"

"You're never an interruption," Eddie declared, before realizing they were still in the hotel lobby, and Andy was still at the dinner with the school board, and there wasn't really anywhere they could go to be alone, really alone, without someone talking. "Ever. But - "

"I can wait," she offered, seeing his frustration. "There's chairs here. Lord knows I've done enough that an hour more won't kill me."

"You got a place to stay?"

She shook her head. "I borrowed the money for the train ticket and didn't get much farther than that. Was hoping - "

"Wouldn't let you do anything else," Eddie declared, without thinking. "It'll be the best surprise he's gotten all year."

She looked skeptical of that. "Better than winning state?"

Eddie looked at her and grinned, thinking of the look on Andy's face when he told him. "Even better than that."

#i have written a thing #andyeddiemarie #marie atcheson #mercurygraypresents