#it’s just. Exceedingly Hard right now. considering everything

[thebutchprinxe]

today my older coworker asked me why i was so Despair and i explained i am part of the T of LGBT and she didn’t respond for an hour and i got very nervous but then. she sent me a wild geese

[pompomchihuahua]

Genya Shinazugawa: A Fish In a Birdcage

It's my favorite boy's birthday and today I want to celebrate why he's possibly one of the most talented characters in the show while still being considered one of the "weakest."

In case it wasn't immediately obvious, Genya is my favorite little guy from Demon Slayer. Everything from his design to his abilities to his personality and story just speak to me.

For this analysis I wanna focus on a little bit of everything, starting with his design.

So from the get-go, the first things you notice about the boy are the huge ass scar on his face and his scrunkly little mohawk. The scar immediately tells you that he has a history. It's an unspoken message of survival and overcoming suffering.

As for the mohawk, well you have to look a little deeper into how Japanese media portrays hair. For early media, it's a sign of refinement and status. To the point that one of the many hallmarks of evil in Japanese folklore is unkempt hair. For the mohawk specifically, it's a symbol of rebellion and a strong, edgy personality.

His clothing is purple and black. Interestingly, purple was, for a long time, banned by commoners to wear as it was exceedingly hard and expensive to get ahold of. By late Edo and early Meiji the tides changed to where it became quite fashionable among common folk to wear purple to the point it got the nickname "old purple" or kodai murasaki. (you can read about it here) But purple can also represent strength.

His sharp eyes, small irises, and furrowed brow all point to a very aggressive design. And! I'd like to note that he's using a katana here, which I'll get back to later in another post!

So! Now, we see Genya's traded out his katana for his iconic gun along with a wakizashi (a shortsword used by samurai primarily for finishing blows, fitting as that's exactly how Genya uses it in canon).

There's a modern misconception that samurai were wholly against the use of firearms during their active periods, but history and art show quite the opposite (here). And seeing as Demon Slayer takes place during the Taisho era, when Japan was seeing a lot of "modernization" and were specifically adopting a lot of Western values, it makes sense to implement a character using a more modern and Western weapon (even his outfit is more of a western style with his pants being a straight cut instead of the traditional samurai hakama that the others wear!).

His hair is grown out and more tamed though still in a mohawk style showing that while he's softened, he still has a strong personality and rebellious edge. Another thing I find cool is that the author gave an in canon reason for Genya's hair length in the Kimetsu Gakuen extra; he uses it to gauge the strength and direction of the wind to redirect his shots.

We also see that he's shot up in height and filled out in physique, a very nice nod to how his demon eating abilities affected his body in the long term.

Overall, Genya's design is efficient without giving everything away. It leaves out the subtle details like his hidden gentle nature and his sharp mind and good heart; which I'll elaborate on now.

One misconception I see floating around a lot is that Genya is below average intelligence. This is probably for three reasons: the extra in the Kimetsu Gakuen universe where Sanemi tells Genya to "get better at his math" and the part in the data book where it says Genya is "never calculating." The third reason is that there's a bit of a stereotype that thug/punk=stupid.

But in Kimetsu Gakuen proper we see that Genya is actually making really good grades.

But test grades aren't everything! Even in canon we find out that Genya is incredibly observant. During the Hashira training arc, Genya says this: "Well, not that Himejima-san is exactly good at teaching it. You need to watch and learn and swipe it for yourself, all right?"

This implies that Genya taught himself the Repetitive Motion technique by just watching Himejima do it. He is a master marksman and described as the ace of his high school shooting club able to make real time adjustments to his aim based on how the wind blows his hair.

Not calculating just means he's not one for scheming, not that he's incapable of critical thought. And Sanemi getting onto him for his math scores is him being a hardass as Genya is within the top 15 in his grade.

He is still a child at heart, something he desperately tries to hide and that is readily apparent in the Japanese version. Specifically in the way he oscillates between using "Nii-chan" (the childish way you'd refer to your older brother, as expected in especially young children or women) and "Aniki" (the rougher way of saying it, translates more as "big bro").

As for his gentle nature, I already made a whole post on how I believe Genya stepped in as the homemaker of the Shinazugawa family. (Which you can read here) He's also described in the data book as regaining his "gentle nature," telling the audience that he was a soft hearted boy growing up.

Look at his soft smile here when he sees that Nezuko is okay! He genuinely cares about their well-being despite Tanjirou having what Genya desperately wants but can't have: family, strength, the ability to use breathing.

He apologizes to Kanata and steps in to help the caterpillar girls in one winged butterfly. He may have a brash exterior, but he's got a heart of gold.

However, out of anyone, no one hates Genya more than Genya hates himself.

Which brings me to my next and main topic: Genya's abilities and how it makes him a fish in a birdcage.

From the very first introduction of Genya's ability, the very narrative sets Genya up as "talentless." "He doesn't have the physical talent to use breathing techniques." As a result, his nichirin blade never changes color. He makes up for this by using his gun, but when he's put into a tight situation, that's when his more unique ability comes into play.

Before we get into that, I want to delve into what the breathing techniques are and what they're supposed to do. For that we go all the way back to the beginning where we meet Makomo who says this: "Total Concentration Breathing accelerates your blood circulation and your heart rate. That causes your body temperature to spike, making you as strong as a demon while being human." So we can conclude that the goal of TCB is to achieve demonic strength.

Which brings me to Genya's most unique and prominent ability; Genya can eat demons to temporarily gain the powers of a demon without fully becoming one. So, if Genya can't use breathing but can gain the strength of a demon anyway, then there should be no problem, right?

Well, it seems that the demon slayer corps is built upon a rather strict honor code and places a heavy emphasis on tradition. Genya not being able to use breathing and having to rely on tainted, evil power, to have to stoop down to a demon's level and consume flesh, in the corps' eyes it makes him lesser. And Genya seems overly aware of this.

He says that Shinobu makes a disgusted face when she sees him and he likely relates it back to him being breathless and eating demons. In one winged butterfly, after he's unable to find the words to reassure another demon slayer he thinks this: "He really was broken. He couldn't do a single thing properly. This was probably why his brother wouldn't look at him."

Hell, even Inosuke throws in his two cents, calling Genya a "wimp" for being unable to use breathing techniques (of which Genya gets really defensive about and starts a fight). He thinks of himself as weak in the infinity castle and unable to really do anything until he remembers Tanjirou's encouragement.

It's safe to say that Genya's self esteem is in the toilet.

He, arguably, has access to a technique that's far more potent than TCB in that it not only gives him the strength of a demon but also gives him the healing and abilities of a demon without the downside of actually being a demon. But because it isn't TCB, he's constantly put down and belittled.

He's meant to fly to the top of the cliff when his real strength lies in swimming up the waterfall. He can still get to the same places but he's looked down upon for his methods.

But there's a legend about a carp that swam upstream against all odds, that leapt up the falls of the Yellow River at Dragon Gate and became a Dragon. It's a story of perseverance and transformation and it's one Genya achieves in his last moments.

Genya achieves his ultimate power; unlocking a blood demon art of his own while still retaining his humanity (and yes, he is still human at this point, Kokushibou confirms as much). It's the ultimate demon hunting technique, parasitic roots that paralyze the target and suck the blood, preventing the target from unleashing their own BDA.

His only thoughts in that moment being that he won't let any of them die. Genya sacrificed everything for his brother, ultimately achieving the goal he had when he was just a child: to protect his Nii-chan. And his brother finally lets his guard down to, switching to the more babyish language (he refers to himself as Nii-chan, saying "Nii-chan will fix this") and it's only then that Genya lets his guard down too. In his last moments, Genya got to be his true self.

A kind, fiercely protective, and loving boy with strength that went beyond what was ever expected of him. He is, possibly one of the strongest characters in theory with so much unexplored potential. His design is solid, telling viewers a lot without giving everything away, his story is compelling (especially to people who are gifted in the "wrong ways") and his personality is complex.

There's a reason I can make so many posts about this character alone and why I have more planned for the bestest boy. But for now! Happy birthday Genya!

[bitbybitwrites]

For the 2024 in review: 9, 19, 30 :)

9. What fic made you feel the happiest to work on?

These types of questions are so hard to answer because for me it's hard to pin point just one fic, so I'm going to cheat and pick more than one 😊

1.) This past year, it was so much fun writing Falling For You . . for you. 😉. Creating Tracy and Mateo are two favorite OCs of mine now and I've got a soft spot for them. The fic was enjoyable to write ( I love a good kid!fic) - I'm still loving how that dream sequence turned out - which I know is a fave of yours as well! The story kind of felt like a little rom-com to me, which gave me all the happy, warm fuzzy feels when everything turned out all right at the end. And you need that every now and then. ( psst . . I saw your suggestion about a little sequel on-shot and it did get me thinking - I might be able to work on a variation of that)

2.) Continuing If I Can Make Your Heart My Home ( Klaine WIP) as been such a pleasure. I'm eternally greatful that @datshitrandom is such a patient partner in crime. I've loved this story from the first ever brain storming session with her and on.

I look back and am exceedingly proud how this story is turning out (yes, I know folks two more chapters!. I'm working on it!). But it is to date the longest thing I've EVER written and I'm so proud of that. I actually checked and I've officially written enough to consider this a Klaine fan fiction novel! 😂😂😂😂. Folks seem to also actually like my long ramblings which is always flattering. And I've just loved everything that this story has become - all the Glee cameos . . all the twists, turns . . the angst ( god I love angst as a reader) . . the cliffhanger chapter endings ( which I know drive a lot of you crazy, sorry - but I'm a fan of those too). This is, I hope in its own way, a love letter to the characters and the show I've enjoyed so much.

3.) Now writing Puppy Love ( a RWRB/First Prince WIP) has been a joy because it is my first dip into the RWRB fandom . . (I've done a few one shots, but this is my first multichapter for those darling boys). I think it's going ok . . the characters are just so much fun to write for - and I THINK I've captured them correctly - I love all versions of them, from the book to the movie!

19. Share your favorite piece of dialogue.

It is for another WIP ( I have so many, I know) but it makes me laugh:

This is from a RWRB/FirstPrince online auction fic which I call: how ardently i admire and love you.

Here Alex is at odds as to what to get Henry for his birthday - so he goes to their mutual friend, Pez, for advice.

Pez’ laughter rang out rich and warm.  “Alex, my dear Padawan, why are you stressing out about this?  You do know that you could just tie a bow around your . .” Pez coughed lightly, his eyes drifting downward as he smirked suggestively. Alex groaned.  “I know.  I know.  I was thinking something else would be better. . . I don't know . . something more spectacular.” “You are seriously underestimating how spectacular Haz finds your dick, my sweet strumpet.”

30. What would you like to write next year?

I have SOOOOO many WIP I want to get back to.

Sanctuary . . ( Klaine fic) for one I want to get back to as well as finishing up If I can Make Your Heart My Home and Puppy Love ( mentioned above).

I also have this prequel for my first ever Klaine fic that I wrote that I'm dying to get more work on.

I actually have 3 chapters of a Klainetober 2024 fic I had started in October but had to put aside . . it's called Blood, Sweat and Tears and I've got 3 chapters writen so far.

There are a couple of historical fics in my WIP bag for both Klaine and FirstPrince that I want to get too . .

So much writing to do . . so little time!

Thanks again for the ask, @mynonah!

To play, click here.

[oohnotvery]

Throwing Good After Bad (Chapter 23) - FINISHED

Scully

They have to take separate cars home from her mother’s house, and because she is historically the faster driver, she beats him to her apartment by five minutes. Although the long drive alleviated some of her building nerves, as she sits in her car waiting for him, her heart starts to pound.

It’s exceedingly clear what’s about to transpire between the two of them. They’ve been through hell and back—literally—over the past few weeks and it’s brought them closer in ways not even the cancer seemed to do. For a minute, she considers that. During her cancer, she recalls how much she tried to pull away from Mulder. Back then, her love for him was strong, but she couldn’t help but think that admitting her love would be cruel. Cruel to give every bit of herself to him, only to have it ripped away from him once she died. Cruel to leave him alone in this world. Cruel to expect him to give her anything in return.

The threat of imminent death isn’t new to either of them. In fact, it’s one of the most reliable parts of her job. But the cancer was slow. It gave her time to think, rationalize, plan. But the fire, the sacrifice—that was instant. Quick. Immediate. She didn’t have the opportunity to consider whether it was fair or not to be open and honest with Mulder about her feelings. All she knew was that she loved him so completely that she had to share it with him. She couldn’t leave this earth without expressing it.

And now she’s about to express that love physically. Openly. Vulnerably. Her stomach clenches.     

Mulder pulls up beside her and shuts off his lights. She glances over and finds him watching her with an unreadable look. It makes the butterflies in her stomach flutter so strongly that she has to look away.

They meet at the door to her building and he hovers behind her as she leads the way to her apartment. Her hands tremble slightly as she inserts the key into the lock. She has fantasized about this moment many, many, many times. One of her most recurring fantasies, in fact, involves him following her home after a long day at the office. As she fits the key in the lock, he suddenly appears right behind her, pressing his long, hard body against her own. He then dips his lips to the crook of her shoulder and plants a wet kiss there, whispering, “I’ve been thinking about you all day.” And then he shoves them inside and takes her roughly against the door.

But none of that happens. Mulder keeps a respectable distance between them, even shoves his hands in his pockets when they walk inside together. She busies herself turning on a variety of lamps and adjusting the temperature, then pours herself a glass of water. He glances around her apartment like he’s never been here before, and she suddenly starts to doubt whether this is right. He doesn’t look quite as eager as he does in her fantasies; nor does he look as aroused as he did on the island. She bites her lip. Maybe the threat of death had that effect too—heightening emotions, elevating feelings to a level they don’t really occupy in normal life.

Her mind clouds with worry and Mulder, being Mulder, seems to pick up on it.

“Everything okay?” he asks tentatively, hands still buried in his pockets. She wishes he would pull them out and take control. She wishes he would bend her over the counter or the table and take her without hesitation.

She nods, but it must not be convincing because he huffs a little laugh.

“This is strange, yeah?” he asks, one of his hands reaching to scratch at the back of his neck.

She whips her gaze to his, alarmed that he would give voice to this thing between them. They aren’t supposed to talk about. They’re just supposed to . . . do it.

“We can wait, if you want,” he says, and her heart plummets. He’s backing out. Off the island, under normal life conditions, faced with the reality of their partnership, he doesn’t want to be intimate with her anymore.

She understands. She quite honestly is having a hard time jumping into the mindset she occupied on the island—fearless with her body, her sexuality, her declarations of love. Now, all she can think about is how strange it will be to touch Mulder, to see his penis. How bizarre it will feel to let him touch her that way. This is her coworker, her friend. Someone who’s seen her throw up, who’s peed in front of her, who’s gotten to know every nook and cranny of her mind, her intellect. That’s a boundary they’re supposed to respect, right? Because what do they become once she shares a different side of herself? How will he see her then? Can you hold in your mind two very different versions of the same person? Are they compatible, or does one destroy the other?

Her mind briefly flickers back to the bath they shared, to the way she pressed herself into him as she demanded he follow her instructions not to leave her. Any time she recalls this particular memory, her cheeks heat and her palms sweat. What must he have thought? How embarrassing that he saw her in such an erotic way.

The sound of Mulder moving through her apartment drags her away from her self-pitying thoughts. Slowly, he begins to click off the lamps she just turned on, throwing them into total darkness. She blinks quickly, her eyes surprised by the sudden change. She hears rather than sees him move towards her, then feels his hands settle heavily at her waist. She sucks in a sharp breath.

“This better?” he asks, his voice quiet, patient.

Her heart is beating so quickly in her chest that she momentarily thinks she might throw up. The darkness helps. It helps not to see him, not to watch them turn from coworkers into . . . something totally new, totally scary.

She nods, the ends of her hair brushing his chin. His palm moves lightly over her waist, skimming up the length of her arm until it’s at her shoulder. His fingers trip around her neck, then edge up into her hair until he’s cupping the back of her head. And then he stills. She hears his breathing, quiet but quick, and that nervous feeling pulls at her gut again. They could stop right here, and it wouldn’t be something they couldn’t undo.

As if sensing her hesitation, he speaks. “Scully,” he says, “I want this more than I want anything else in my life.” He pauses and she stiffens. “I know you want this too,” he says, “but is it too much, too soon? You seem . . . uneasy.”

Momentarily, she is mortified, too embarrassed to answer. He’s exposing her all too quickly.

“On the island,” she replies after a time, “it all seemed so inevitable. Our death. Our . . . love.” She peers at him through the darkness. “If it hadn’t been for the island, would you feel this way about me? Would you want me like this?” She pauses, taking time to gather her thoughts. “And what do I become to you now? What are we to each other? Am I just someone you’re sleeping with?”  

He laughs, low and deep in his chest. “Not a chance, Scully. You clearly haven’t been living in my mind for the past five years.”

She tilts her head in question.

“It wasn’t just the island, Scully,” he promises, and as her eyes begin to adjust, she can see the burning way he’s staring at her. She holds his gaze, unable to look away. “It wasn’t just because we were dying. I’ve felt this way about you for so long, I don’t even remember a time when you weren’t my sole preoccupation.”

She huffs a nervous laugh, her fingers rising tremulously to push a strand of hair behind her ears. “That and the X-Files,” she manages to whisper.

He leans close and his lips brush her forehead. “Fuck the X-Files,” he says through a grin.

That gets a bigger laugh from her, and suddenly she feels a little lighter, a little calmer. His thumb stretches around to slide against her jaw. It is an intimate touch and her eyes close as warmth slides down her spine.

“You agree? It wasn’t just the island?” he asks, and she suddenly realizes that maybe he is also scared of the same things she is.

She meets his gaze, biting her lip tentatively. She thinks of the great, unconquerable feelings she has harbored for him for years. She thinks of the unique, beautiful, otherworldly bond they share, which she is terrified to ruin. But does love ruin, or does it enhance?

She shakes her head. “It wasn’t just the island.”

He smiles, nods, and that seems to clear the air. He bends down and presses his lips into hers. Her mouth immediately remembers his, recalls the shape of his lips and the slickness of his tongue. She raises her hands and sinks her fingers into his hair, just the way she did on the island, the feeling of his thick dark strands soft and pliant under her hands. He leans over her and her back bends slightly, her stomach pressing into his hips. He is already hard enough that she feels him through his jeans, and she opens her mouth in a pant. His lips slide past her mouth down her neck, grazing the soft skin of her shoulder before running back up to capture her mouth again. When his hands leave her hair to slide down her body and grab her ass cheeks, she inhales sharply.

“I didn’t get to these on the island,” he whispers through a cheeky grin, and she grins back.

He surprises her by lifting her into his arms and her body responds as it should, legs wrapping tightly around his waist. Almost as if it were his own apartment, he carries her blindly through the rooms to her bedroom, depositing her gently onto the bed, then standing to stare at her.

She waits breathlessly, half-expecting him to crawl on top of her, to kiss her patiently while he touches her breasts or reaches his hand under the waistband of her jeans. Both would be welcome, certainly.

But instead, he drags her forward until her legs hang off the bed, and then he goes to work on her pants, unbuttoning them quickly and dragging the zipper down fast. He yanks them off and then lifts the hem of her sweater, pushing it up until she removes it for herself. When she sits before him in just her underwear, he grins and strips off his own shirt, then his jeans. She wants desperately to do it for him, to touch him boldly, to demand he undress for her, but she is still too nervous. It is still too foreign, too forbidden. And so she just watches, until he is down to his boxers, his lithe, lean swimmer’s muscles rippling in the dim light from a street lamp.

He leans forward and strokes his palm against her cheek tenderly, as if reminding her that it’s just him, that it’s Mulder, that he loves her. And then he sinks onto the bed, scooting up to the headboard and leaning against it. He gestures for her to come forward. Swallowing against her nerves, she crawls up the bed to him. When she’s at his knees, he takes her hands and lifts her. It takes her a minute to understand his direction, but when she does, she remembers.

She slips onto his lap, straddling his waist, her knees pushed into his hips, her center pressed snugly against his groin. His warm hands span the length of her back, sliding up and down her spine. For two people who have never made love, it is a position with which they are strikingly familiar. She remembers grinding against him recklessly, stupidly, madly, on the island as they tried to trick spying eyes. She remembers pressing her bare center directly against his cock in that sacrificial bathtub, drawing out of him a promise he ultimately wouldn’t keep.

He meets her eyes and she is grateful that he knows her so well, that he knows she needs some semblance of familiarity before they jump into this great unknown together.  

“Remember this?” he murmurs, his hands pulling and pushing at her hips. Her body takes up the rhythm on its own, and as he presses up into her, as his groin intermittently hits at her clit, she feels warmth spread and pool in her panties.

Her mouth falls open as arousal begins to take over, and she is grateful for the way it drives away other thoughts, other concerns. For the first time since this began, she finds the courage to dip her lips to his, to initiate their kiss. He loves it; his hands clench at her waist and neck; his groin shoots up into hers. They both groan into each other’s mouths, and when it’s too good, too pleasurable, she lets her forehead fall against his cheek.

They continue on, the pleasure building and building in her center. She changes angles, leaning back, pressing her hands into his knees to give herself more thrust. His eyes climb to meet hers, his long throat tempting her to lick it, his firm jawline clenching with arousal or pleasure or withholding, she doesn’t know.

At the look in his eyes, her breath catches in her throat. She stills even as need courses through her urgently. He lifts his hands, catching her face in his palms, and draws her back down to him, kissing slowly. His fingers dance across her back to unhook her bra. She’s shifting to allow him to fully remove it when he nods at her underwear. “Those too.”

With a wry smile, she lifts off him and wrangles off her underwear, watching as he too kicks off his boxers. That this is not the first time he has seen her fully naked is a stark reminder of how strange her life is. His eyes flicker over her briefly and then he grips her hips again, grinding her down into his erection once, twice, three times, before he starts scooting down onto the pillow.

“Wha--?” she starts to ask as he cups his arms around her legs and starts dragging her up the bed towards his face.

“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” he mutters hungrily, his eyes running over her breasts before landing in between her legs. He briefly glances back up. “May I?”

This is it, she thinks. This is the moment that defines them from here on out. Everything before this moment was perhaps something they could write off, pretend away, sweep under the rug. But the moment his mouth hits her pussy, there’s no going back. You don’t go down on someone and show up to work the next day as if nothing happened.

She heaves in a deep breath, want and need building wetly and hotly, trickling down her thighs. She suddenly begins to feel it again—that powerful, wanton, reckless, desirous energy she felt on the island. The way it emboldened her, the way it served her.

She doesn’t answer him, just takes his hand and flips it palm-side up. Her eyes never leaving his face, she brings his palm up to the space between her legs and presses him into her, letting him feel how dripping wet she is for him. His mouth slackens as she rocks back and forth against his palm, enjoying the friction it brings. He twists his wrist slightly and then she feels one long finger enter her, and it’s so good that she moans. That seems to do it for him, because he draws out of her quickly and yanks her hips up to his face.

He roughly tugs her down onto his nose and lips and she has to brace herself against the headboard to keep from falling over. One of his hands grips her thigh so tightly she knows there will be bruises in the morning. She’s never actually done this before, and it is momentarily intimidating to sit so heavily on someone else’s face. But as soon as Mulder gets to work beneath her, she is lost to sensation. Are those his lips, his fingers, his tongue, his nose?

“Oh my god,” she whimpers as he brings the focus directly to her clit.

It is so good, maybe the best she’s ever felt. Her hand leaves the headboard to tangle in Mulder’s hair, and he must like it, because he groans beneath her. Her body starts to moves on its own accord, tugging his face even closer, even deeper, building her up and up and up.

She dimly has the presence of mind that although this is really, really, really good, she wants to get to the main event. She releases his hair and lifts her hips, laughing to herself when he chases after her, grabbing at her thighs to pull her back down.

“Stop, stop,” she says through a half-moan, half-laugh as he suctions her clit between his lips.

“No, no, no,” he insists when she again lifts off him to crawl down his chest.

She catches his eye as she scoots down his body, momentarily struck by the dazed look on his face. She leans forward to capture his lips, pressing her body to his completely in a gesture she hopes expresses her gratitude. When she rises off him, he is grinning smugly, and she knows she’s left him with no doubt about how much she loved it.

“Feeling good?” he asks as she begins to slide along the length of his erection.

She smiles coquettishly, enjoying the way his grin falters as she increases her rhythm.

“Very,” she murmurs. “You?”

His eyes are trained on her hips, but he drags his gaze back up to her eyes. “Also very good,” he says tightly, “though I think I haven’t reached my peak.”

She raises an eyebrow in challenge, then shifts and lifts her hips, positioning him at her entrance. His eyebrows crease very slightly in anticipation. When she sinks all the way down, her hands fall forward onto his abdomen and her head drops to her chest as he hits pleasure points previously untouched.

They find a rhythm easily, and she surprises herself by coming as soon as he starts putting pressure on her clit. Her orgasm hits her so hard that it steals her breath, and she falls forward onto him, her chest heaving with great, gulping breaths. He goes still beneath her, fingers trailing up and down her spine and tangling in her hair.

When she is breathing normally again, he shifts them onto their sides, pulling her into his chest and drawing her leg across the top of his legs. His lips fall to her bare shoulder and his hands move restlessly, gripping her waist then hips then breasts as he begins to pump into her again.

“Oh—fuck—yes—fuck—fuck—fuck—” he grinds out, and she feels his teeth sink briefly into the skin of her shoulder before retreating. “Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck,” are his final words before he comes.

When he finally stills behind her, she turns towards him to plant a chaste kiss to his lips. He seems too exhausted to return the gesture even half-heartedly, and she smiles.

“You have a sailor’s mouth,” she muses.

She feels his laugh echo through her own body. “You seemed to enjoy my mouth.”

Her smile grows wider. “Very much,” she murmurs.

They lie in silence for a while, but ever-practical, Scully makes them eventually get up and clean up. Not surprisingly, Mulder turns out to be ravenous after sex, and he orders them a huge pizza which they share along with some bad T.V.

It’s nearing midnight by the time they retreat to her bed.

“I know you didn’t plan on me crashing here,” he says as he tugs her into his chest. “I can go in a few if you want.”

She considers it, feeling that slow creep of unease start to intrude again. What will this new thing between them look like? Will sleepovers like this become their new normal? She’s not opposed to it. They each are already near-permanent fixtures in the other’s apartment.

“I like it,” she finally says. “I don’t really like being alone.”

He hums. “No, me neither.”

After a minute, she glances over at him. “Mulder?”

“Yeah?”

She hesitates. “What do you think about us?”

“Rockstars in every way. Top-of-the-line investigators, sexy-as-hell humans, fantastic bedmates.”

She rolls her eyes even as she suppresses a smile. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t. What do I think about . . . whatever we just did?”

She hums. “That, and other things.”

“. . . . such as?”

She colors slightly. “Such as what we are to each other. Besides the obvious.”

He ghosts his lips across the shell of her ear. “What’s the obvious?”

She shakes him off. “Partners. Friends. Coworkers.”

He sighs. “You thinking it’s time for us to finally get hitched?”

She smacks his arm in frustration. “Can you be serious for once?”

He is quiet for a long time, which makes her hopeful that he’s cooperating. Eventually, he gathers her hand in his and squeezes.

“If I’m being serious about it, Scully, my fantasies about you and me have always stopped in the bedroom.”

She snorts. “How romantic.”

He huffs a laugh. “I don’t mean it like that. I mean—I’ve never even let myself consider that you’d want me as more than a friend or coworker or someone to take the edge off.”

She nods. “I guess I can say the same for myself.”

“When I used to imagine my future, before I met you, I always saw myself alone. Doggedly pursuing the truth, lonely and grumpy and quarrelsome til the end.” He pauses. “But after I met you, that vision changed, and I started to see you by my side. In my eyes, we’ve always been inseparable, committed, loyal. My relationship with you has always been something sacred. It’s something that no one else gets. And maybe that’s why I acted the way I did when Joe came into the picture. Because we’ve always belonged to each other. It didn’t feel right for you to belong to someone else.”

She hums sympathetically, pressing a kiss to his neck.

He continues. “So the part that I never imagined, or dreamed, or even dared to wish for, was the part where you cared about me the same way I care about you.”

“That’s called love, Mulder,” she says gently, ruffling his hair.

He laughs. “So when you ask what I think about us, I think this thing between us changes things as much as it doesn’t. I still see you by my side. I still want you by my side. You’re always . . . you to me first. You’re always Scully before you’re a coworker, before you’re my friend. Before you’re even my . . . lover.”

“Lover,” she whispers naughtily, even as her thoughts turn sentimental.

They fall silent. She feels herself starting to doze off when Mulder speaks again.

“I think you’ve learned I don’t like to be separated from you,” he says quietly.

She smiles to herself. “Does that mean you want to go steady?” she teases.

“It means I’m in love with you,” he replies solemnly.

She knows this already, but hearing it sets her heart racing.

“It means I’ll always see a future with you, except now that future involves . . . everything.”

Everything. Tempting, beautiful scenes flit through her mind. A home, a mortgage, a shared bed. A baby.

Unable to speak, she turns into him and presses a kiss to his lips, enjoying the way she gets to freely touch and taste him now. She presses their foreheads together and nods.

“I want everything with you too,” she admits quietly after a time.

She feels him smile as he plants a few more kisses to her lips, then her cheeks, then her forehead. Eventually, he stills, and after a time, his breathing deepens and his body softens. When she closes her eyes, she dreams of flames and fire, but she isn’t scared. They were forged together well before they entered the fire; they’ll come out stronger every time.

She tucks her head under his chin, inseparable from him even in sleep.

The End.

[tirorah]

Oh, Ami... If only I could give you a big hug. "I'm not kind," she says. "I didn't know that I was such a horrible human being." And honestly, good on her for finally trusting Rei with these feelings, while also acknowledging that Usagi has other friends and Ami doesn't have the right to monopolise Usagi's time and attention.

She knows she's wrong for feeling this way, but she can't control it. She's never had to face this challenge before. Who's to say these dark feelings didn't leak into her actions? That single moment she spent staring when Naru fell into the hole...was that delayed response truly due to shock, or did part of her WANT it to happen?

What she says at the end, that she's been 'deceiving' Usagi and that that makes her awful, really sticks out to me this time around. Because remember what Usagi said once:

If Usagi thinks Ami is a kind person, but Ami actually isn't, then Ami is tricking Usagi. And if she's tricking Usagi, then she's not a true friend.

Now, Ami's been see-sawing heavily on the emotional spectrum for...well, basically the entire show, but especially since the 'Usagi is turning in a Youma' incident. She went from the lowest lows (being out of her depth with no support from Rei or Makoto, Usagi being taken, etc.) to the highest highs (keeping Usagi stable all by herself, successfully lying to Ikuko, etc.). And every time that happens, Ami's emotional state just gets a tad more volatile.

But I think there's something else at play here too. It's a pitfall I'm sadly familiar with: perfectionism.

Ami DOES think her jealousy resulted in Naru being captured. She thinks that because her inability to control these feelings is, to her, a failure on her part. That failure reflects badly on her character, ergo, she's a terrible person. And Ami is taking that really hard, because she's a perfectionist.

There's an unused scene later on where everyone turns in their knitted scarf project to one of their teachers (oh boy, we haven't even gotten to the scarfs yet). Naru receives a grade of 88% and is overjoyed. Ami receives a grade of 93% and is GUTTED.

I see myself in that. To give you an anecdote: The only time I ever cheated on a test was when it was a subject I was exceedingly good at: English, which is a foreign language for me. It was a matter of pride--nay, principle!--that I get no less than a 9 (out of 10) on every single English test. I only cheated on a single answer, but in that moment, my overly rigid moral fibre was nowhere to be found. That's how much I couldn't stand to fail the arbitrarily high standard I set for myself.

Ami is like that for everything. Every subject, every challenge she faces, no matter how unfair, has to be aced. If it's not, she's a failure and a disappointment. Even now, when she has more to live for than studying, she still grades herself on every little thing and considers her high grades the only worthwhile aspect of herself.

Fortunately, Rei and her wonderful stomping leg are about to tell her what's what.

[ao3gobi17]

What I forgot to add to the what if maze runner,

In the books and movies before the kids get put in the maze they wipe their memory so that none of them have any memories of anything before the maze.

So obviously, spider wouldn't recognize Quaritch, would that fuel his anger even more? Or would he be glad, because that means he could keep spider in the dark about what happened and spin his own story about what happened.

Also, in the books WCKD gives the kids different names when they get put in the maze like Thomas' real name before the maze was Stephen. So in this scenario it would mean that spider thinks that his real name is spider. Would that infuriate quaritch even more? Since spider was named after him?

I'm also curious as to how quaritch and the team would handle spiders trauma.

I also think that they would be pretty impressed by what spider can do, since they were pretty self sufficient in the maze.

Maybe spider was a runner and has a great condition that could come in handy (weather it comes in handy for spider or the team remains the question lol)

You could write a good crossover fic out of this, you should consider it!!

That's a great question about Custody-Quaritch and the memory stuff. I think ultimately Quaritch would care more about Spider's wellbeing than how Spider felt about him. I know that's a tricky one because he's done things in Custody that are not beneficial to Spider's wellbeing, but he sees much of it as temporary measures (eg Spider won't be 'kidnapped' forever, because he's going to want to stay with his dad once he gets used to everything). So even though in this MR scenario Q would benefit from being able to shape the narrative to Spider however he liked, he would care more about the distress/confusion Spider would feel if he couldn't remember his past.

And in fact, depending on how you squared the timeline, if Q had only broken out of prison and the government (WCKD is the government, right?) was evil then Q is very much not the bad guy other than the question over whether he killed Paz. He's escaped the bad guys and rescued Spider. So he doesn't have a lot to defend about his actions at this point and he definitely would prefer for Spider to have his memories. Even more importantly, if Spider didn't know who Q was then Spider might feel kidnapped rather than rescued and he might feel suspicious of Q. Q wouldn't have the childhood memories to fall back on either - we cannot underestimate how much Spider's memories of those first 7 years are in Q's favour in Custody.

That was a really long way of saying Q would want Spider to have his memories LOL.

Q would not be delighted that Spider didn't know his name was Miles, he'd be pretty mad at the people who messed with Spider's head like that, but I don't think he'd be so hung up on it just because Spider is named after him. Like if Spider approached Q right now in Custody (hard with a whole cliff between them lol) and said 'I go by Spider nowadays, would you call me Spider? It would mean a lot to me' I think Q would agree to do that for him.

The recoms and Q would both be impressed with Spider indeed - I think they'd all be able to relate to eachother a bit better because some of their experiences and abilities probably align. Spider himself could have quite a different personality from the one we see in Custody too, probably more brash, less serious, less insecure, taking more impulsive risks than calculated risks. So I could see him fitting in with them well. Of course, if he was just super traumatised by everything, then maybe we'd see a different Spider again! I reckon the recoms would have some harrowing tales to tell from armed conflicts, so they might be able to help Spider find some kind of normalcy about what he'd been through and give him hope for recovery.

And needless to say, Q would be exceedingly protective! <3

[plasma-studios]

Chapter 13: the price of power - between mad gods

Error sees Nightmare's lost himself. Nightmare thinks Error's a hypocrite.

It was exceedingly rare for Nightmare to feel anything.

Most of the time, there was just this cool nothingness in his chest, curling amusedly at times and spiking with irritation more often than not; any flicker of emotion was temporary, and there was always the cool purpose behind it all. Even Empathy brought emotions detached, ill-fitting, and clearly not his own.

But very rarely, when he got angry— it was blistering. The coolness would be ash staining his fingers, and he would barely be able to distinguish between himself and the rest of the shadows.

How dare he? That was all Nightmare could think— feel, that was all he could feel— as the Destruction God lounged carelessly in the seat across from him. That was all he could feel; the burning fury raging within him.

How dare he come here, after all this time? And this was his home. How dare he intrude? How dare he? His fury was boiling, but the fear— just a sliver, a splinter — dug into his chest.

He did not know this: this feeling of being stuck, lost, trapped. The realisation that he had been countered; that he could not simply snap and remove the threat in an instant.

The cool calmness of his usual head had left him completely. The terror was making his head spin, and everything came to him sharply, intensely, strongly.

He had power over everything here, save for Error. Here, of all places. His home. His sanctuary. He was safest here. He was home. And yet, here he was, intruding like it was his right. Intruding after all this time. He had not seen Error for a very long time.

And the fear— it was there, lurking, mocking him. The last time he’d been scared had been for a flash, a soulbeat, when he’d learned of Dream stealing his spy away. (How could he? Cross was his, his, his.) But that fear had passed, hadn't it? (He had been scared, hadn’t he? Dream hadn’t been a threat, until he was.)

But the fear now was persisting. Error. Barely— he could understand his own fear. Barely. This fear, this gnawing, persistent dread, was different. Error. Barely— he could grasp it, almost. He did not understand his own fear, but he knew that he was fearful. And furious.

Error. Error. Error. The name echoed, distorted. He could remember almost nothing of him; but the fear was there, lodged deep, stubborn and unyielding. They’d met, hadn't they? Surely. And he knew— oh, he knew, with terrible knowledge— that he feared him.

Error was waiting for him to speak. He was still gazing upon with that lazy gaze, as if Nightmare was nothing to him, as if he was nothing at all.

His mouth slowly uncurled into a smile. “Error. It’s been so long.”

“Mm. Has it?” His mismatched eyes glittered with a strange, abstract amusement. “Oh, it has. So how have you been, Nightmare?”

The shadows were curling over, almost tipping over then dissolving in each other. Nightmare considered it. Was he a friend? Or was this a pretense, a farce?

“Considerably well. But surely you didn’t come all this way, just to talk?”

Error snorted. Briefly something stronger flashed in his gaze, some sort of glitching intensity that could not be captured in more than a moment.

“Well, I did spend an hour getting through your defences. Let me breathe, won’t you?” Yes, to him Nightmare’s defences meant a mere hour. “So tell me,” He said casually, too casually, as Nightmare was beginning to realise— “What trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?”

Nightmare let out a slow breath. A hand on his shoulder. Dull aching in his arms. Throbbing irritation and a soft lulling peace—

These were flashing images.

“I’m sure you’re not entirely ignorant of it all,” He said slowly. “I’d be quite disappointed. I worked hard to get word of my reign to all the corners of the world.”

Error’s mouth quirked up, but the intensity in his eyes was burning. “Well, I’ve seen things. Heard things. I want to hear from you.”

Curious. He felt a shadow of his previous composure brushing past; how had they known each other? Vague ideas were coming to mind. He had always feared Error. But the faith in his power— his fear was so sure. Error was capable of much, surely; and yet, Nightmare still existed, with considerably more power than most. They had met before, and if he knew Error to be so powerful, more powerful than himself— they could not have fought, because Nightmare would have lost, and they were both still here.

If he had known of Error’s power, and they could now exist for this farce of peace, however brief— could they have been allies? Error’s lazy expression— was it casual, not mocking?

The shadows around them were rippling.

“Well, what would you like to hear?” It had been too long. Diplomacy did not feel quite right; it curled over his tongue, sharpening the edge of his words to the near point of sarcasm. He did not quite mean it, but the words came out warped. Different.

A soft whistle left Error. “That’s how I’d expect you to talk to your enemies. Not an old friend.”

“Why would I talk to my foes at all?” He paused. He knew now that at least they weren’t overt foes, but he did not know the nature of their relationship when it came to spilt blood; not beyond a guess, anyway.

“Oh?” He laughed, briefly. “Nice to know you haven’t forgotten all I taught you. And on that note. Need I prompt you? Or will you stop being stubborn?”

The shadows hovered. Nightmare blinked. Was he?

“What do you mean?” Again, his confusion was warped into something darker once it left his lips. But quickly, inwardly any confusion had already been tainted and withering into something rotten. They hadn’t been allies; but not enemies, either. Vaguely, Nightmare quietly pondered if they had once been allies, but had since separated. It would make the most sense. The certainty of the extent of Error’s power was inextricably linked; once upon a time, had that certainty been faith; assuredness in an ally’s ability?

But now there was only fear.

“Your reign. I hear some call it your reign of terror. Any thoughts?”

“What can I say? It’s accurate.” Yes, the cadences of arrogance came to him so much more easily. “If anything, aren’t you the one that owes me answers? Breaking into my home, killing a servant, demanding an audience; I ought to have your head.”

“If it were so easy, I would’ve been squarely dead ages ago,” Error said dryly, unaffected by anything that was leaving his mouth. “And you want to discuss crime and punishment, hypocrite?”

He felt nothing but a soft curiosity that was quickly squashed.

“Then tell me. Oh great God of Destruction,” He leaned in, the shadows rippling again. “What crimes do you find me guilty of?”

“You have always done this. Even as a tyrant, you act childishly.” That made Nightmare rear up, how dare he— “Fear invites change, idiot. How long till this backfires against you? You think you’re the first ruler to use fear?”

“Who in the world can come against me?” In a breath, he realised the answer was staring him in the face. “Is it crime to have power? Is it sin to know what I want of the world, and know how to take it?”

“I seem to recall your worst fear once was turning into a tyrant. Once upon a time, you feared that power would turn you cruel.” His eyes glinted strangely. “What happened? What do you want from this world, Nightmare?”

Power. The word came to him before meaning. It was not untrue; power meant security, power was worth all.

Once upon a time, you feared that power would turn you cruel. Was that true? Why couldn’t he remember?

“Hypocrite.” The hiss came with more power than he’d realised. The shadows were swarming, thrashing around them but leaving a radius between them untouched. As if they were still so afraid. “You, Destruction God. Your name did not arise out of air, did it? You come here, pacifist pretender, when you have more blood on your hands than I.”

Error simply shifted, face still impassive in that infuriating way that made Nightmare want to shred the walls. “I never lied to you about who I was. I thought that’s why you preferred me over Ink. You said I was cruel, but I gave you reality and truth, and you wanted that over Ink’s gentle assurances. Would it be better if Ink was speaking to you now?”

He had said that, he realised, in a glimpse of memory. The shadow of security was brushing past his head; once upon a time, he’d feared Error, but he’d also felt safe with him. Once upon a time, they had been friends; bloody powerful men, but still friends.

“You understood me,” He whispered. Breathed. The thought terrified him. There was no more rage, but fear. There was someone like him in this world. Someone who could challenge him, something that could take everything away— “You knew me. You knew exactly where to poke, what I was afraid of, how I was weak, all and more. If I had a bruise, you’d press on it. If I feared the water, you’d toss a pot of soup into my face.”

“You’d rather soak in your pain? Run away from it all?” There was a brief softness in Error’s eyes. The light reflecting off his gaze blinded Nightmare, if only for a moment. “I bever lied to you, Nightmare.”

“You didn’t need to.” The words came suddenly. Malformed, in his mouth; metallic on his tongue. “Because you weren’t there, were you?”

Error’s face carefully stilled. Oh, how satisfying it was: it satiated something within him, something beyond him.

“What?”

“Because on that day, you weren’t there.” His voice had turned to low rumbles, messy and furious and with all the gravitas one would expect of a God. “You make me feel like a child,” He repeated. “But fear freed me. You think I turned on myself, bastardised what I once reviled for mere power. So they call me a tyrant? A monster? You of all people should know monsters are made when people survive rather than succumb. You of all people should understand, you—”

The darkness rippled around him.

“You understood me once. You know nothing now.”

“How convenient,” Error said dryly. His eyes shone with a madness, glittering and something in Nightmare reared up, something in him faltered— “You made fear your weapon for survival? This is survival to you? You said once that you wanted power for the very same reason. So that no one would ever be a threat to you. But what now? What, would you kill some bumbling fool and call it mercy for yourself? You’ve achieved what you’ve wanted, oh great King of Nightmares. Who is left in the world that could ever be a threat to you?”

“I— you know nothing,” He hissed. Are you not the answer? I have strength and power, and yet I fear you still. It would never be enough. “You think I did this out of malice? In the beginning, I knew no malice at all. I waited. I was waiting for you. Whose fault is that? The only tool I had was fear. You think I spill blood out of petty grievance? Everything I did— do— was to survive.”

Nightmare was breathing so heavily, his chest was heaving. The darkness around them pulsed. This was driving him mad.

“I was waiting. I was waiting for so long.” His voice was almost silent. There was something in him shrieking and contorting and reaching in every direction for the power so cool it was burning him inside out. Like a thousand dying souls, trapped in purgatory. He needed more power. He needed to survive. Nothing else mattered. Even the slightest splintering of his head to think anything else hurt, like a thousand hooks carving into his palm-flesh.

Nothing else mattered.

Error’s face was completely still.

“Night—”

“Get out!” The command shattered the fragile quiet, and the darkness around them was pulsing and throbbing and—

***

His head came to before his body did; free of any burning fury, all there was now was this cool nothingness melting away the last of the fury.

He had been so angry with Error. He did not entirely understand why.

Killer was on his way, he could feel the approaching soul. Nightmare felt the darkness curl in, and he waited, patience drowning out the last curiosities.

***

As Nightmare formed out of shadow, Error was keenly aware of all that had changed since his youth. Even this being, swathed in dark power, had once been the intuitive young Prince. Both images were utterly irreconcilable and yet, they were one and the same.

His fractured memory brought forth mere snippets of past memories from the time so long ago when he’d been the Prince’s tutor; even then, the brief images he captured made it easier to understand how Nightmare had matured.

It was strange to see the way Nightmare’s sea-green pupils honed in on him, and remember the boy’s tendency to hone in on any one task with the same precision and resolve as an archer making their mark. He’d been there when they were planted, and all the seeds in the soil had sprouted now.

With the rare clarity that his head allowed him, he knew for certain that once upon a time, Nightmare had had a tendency to find a reason for fear in everything. That had been why power had called to him, and he had called for it if only for the assurance. Could that call count as being power hungry?

And now, this great Empire built on terror. The seeds in the soil had long sprouted, and the fruit bourn was rotten.

“Error. It’s been so long.” Nightmare’s voice was dry, and laced with disdain. He sat straight-backed, and in a glimmer of amusement Error noted that he had not forgotten the Princely etiquette rules.

“Mm. Has it?” He made light of it. “Oh, it has. So how have you been, Nightmare?”

It was so easy to fall back into banter. And he wished he could say the boy before him was a stranger; he was only half-so. Nightmare’s glare was strong, intense. He really had grown into his own as a God, he supposed. Error met his gaze with impassive calmness.

The fire in Nightmare’s gaze melted away in an instant. Immediately, Error felt the air between them shift, the heat of conflict turning to ice.

Revelation was so close. He scanned Nightmare again and more than ever he could see how the boy’s tendency for exaggeration and paranoia had matured into what he was now. If he lingered for a moment more, perhaps he would find some pity, but—

“You have always done this. Even as a tyrant, you act childishly. Fear invites change, idiot. How long till this backfires against you?” Error almost spat, then realised himself and swallowed the welt of saliva. “You think you’re the first ruler to use fear?”

Nightmare's expression tightened, a flicker of something almost akin to vulnerability crossing his face before it was gone. “Who in the world can come against me? Is it crime to have power? Is it sin to know what I want of the world, and know how to take it?”

“I seem to recall your worst fear once was turning into a tyrant.” Error’s memory was in no condition to be pulling out details that specific from a past so long ago, but Ink’s memory was at least a little more reliable than his own, and Ink’s constant reminiscing had rubbed off on him. “Once upon a time, you feared that power would turn you cruel. What happened? What do you want from this world, Nightmare?”

“Hypocrite,” He hissed. The shadows around them thrashed about; Error was losing him. “You, Destruction God. Your name did not arise out of air, did it? You come here, pacifist pretender, when you have more blood on your hands than I.”

The centuries-old instinct was to fight back— but no, Ink had sent him for answers, and he did not listen to the voices as much as he once had. Maybe he was cruel, maybe he was corrupted, but it was not about him. Ink had sent him for answers, and he’d be damned if he ever failed him.

So he spoke calmly, and though the air was icy, Nightmare was still listening.

“You understood me.” Nightmare’s words were barely audible. “You knew me. You knew exactly where to poke, what I was afraid of, how I was weak, all and more. If I had a bruise, you’d press on it. If I feared the water, you’d toss a pot of soup into my face.”

Fear had always been Nightmare’s weakness. Then fear turned to paranoia, and paranoia to mad ambition. “You’d rather soak in your pain? Run away from it all?” He was turning harsh. You’d rather let the bruise swell? You’d rather die of thirst? Error swallowed the rest of his words, it was not what Nightmare needed to hear. “I never lied to you, Nightmare.”

“You didn’t need to. Because you weren’t there, were you?”

Error stilled completely.

“What?”

“Because on that day, you weren’t there. You make me feel like a child,” Nightmare uttered. That day? Which day? He could not even catch Nightmare’s next words. Which day? The day Nim passed? Surely not the countless nameless days Error hadn’t been there in the Palace. Surely if something so severe happened without him, it would not have taken centuries to learn about it?

“You understood me once. You know nothing now.”

If Error was mortal, he would’ve long died as the darkness hungrily swathed the room from wall to floor, the pressure bearing down as it left just a radius of space around them.

“How convenient. You made fear your weapon for survival? This is survival to you? You said once that you wanted power for the very same reason. So that no one would ever be a threat to you.” His voices were twisting, rearing up— no, he pushed them all away. “You made fear your weapon for survival? This is survival to you?” The words rushed out of him like water out a creek.

“You know nothing. You think I did this out of malice? In the beginning, I knew no malice at all. I waited. I was waiting for you. Whose fault is that? The only tool I had was fear. You think I spill blood out of petty grievance? Everything I did— do— was to survive.”

Nightmare was breathing so heavily. The shadows were thrashing, lashing out, and Error’s fractured mind was piecing it together.

“Night—”

“Get out!” The darkness around them was pulsing and throbbing and he forced himself not to reciprocate when the doors broke into pieces and he was thrown out. He forced himself not to draw his strings anew and— no. He had to get back before he forgot anything. The voices were screaming but they deserved no more from him, and the narrative was coming together in his head in bits and pieces, and if he was right— he had the feeling Ink would want to know before he got to Dream’s door.

With a final piercing look that meant nothing, Error turned and began to walk away. The shadows recoiled from his presence. Albeit reluctantly, but he was still allowed to pass through.

And, well, now that he was no longer face to face with Nightmare, his own emotions were catching up. The voices were clambering to be heard, and the dull ache felt like an old foe, old enough to be an almost-friend. Almost.

He bit his tongue. The slightest whiff of blood grounded him.

Maybe he was cruel, maybe he was corrupted, but he had once been Nightmare’s tutor. He could see fear as the root of paranoia, but— there had to be some catalyst. Call him delusional, but he’d taken Nightmare to have learned how to use fear as a weapon; he’d taken Nightmare to have dug himself out of the hole, to know how to control his own fear and know his limits.

Nightmare would’ve made an authoritarian ruler, perhaps, but not a tyrant. He was smart enough to know there had to be a balance. That fear alone could not last. That fear alone would consume both terroriser and victim.

Error knew that better than most.

And yet, despite the assumptions made in the past, Nightmare had changed.

And even now, remembering the frantic, unstable man that Nightmare had become made something akin to regret wash over him.

On Mercy (ao3: x)

The Council has been at war with the Emperor (more colloquially known as the King of Nightmares) for a long, long time. After defeat after defeat, they find themselves with no option but to request help from his fabled twin.

However, Dream will not help them for free; he locks eyes with Cross, and decides he wants him in exchange for the war victory. It is an easy choice to make.

But Cross is terribly apprehensive, because he his loyalty is not to the Council, but to Nightmare as a spy, and Dream is Nightmare's mortal enemy. Moreover he suspects Dream chose him knowing this, wanting information about his twin; and the issue is, Nightmare is absolutely unforgiving of traitors.

But he cannot offend Dream, for he too is an Immortal and God. He cannot forget that both Dream and Nightmare is dangerous, that any wrong move will end in his demise or worse.

(He forgets, however, that he himself is mortal.)

[OR: A Empire/Kingdoms UTMV AU, where Cross is caught between the crossfire of Immortal/Gods! Dreamtale Twins and some involvement with God!Errorink too.]

Inspired by love, in fire and blood by cicer

Chapter 1-11: (x)

Chapter 12: FLASHBACK II - THE IMMUTABILITY OF FATE

the errorink flashback chapter! w/ dreamtale twins ofc <3

Daydream awoke to the smell of beeswax. The warm, honeyed scent clung to his breath, strong enough that he could almost taste it, but light enough that he awoke gently. Could it be? As he clambered out of bed, Ink’s clear laughter sounded out. 

“I see you’re awake.”

Ink was leaning against his desk, right next to the burning candle. His smile was amused and light.  

“Why do you always light a candle to wake me?” Daydream’s voice was still heavy with sleep. He let out a yawn, and Ink made an amused noise as he stretched.

“Would you rather me shake you awake, little star?” He stepped closer to playfully poke him in the ribs. It didn’t actually hurt, but he fake-winced. Ink had definitely caught onto the act and gave him another curt, amused smile. “I thought this was a gentler way to rouse you.”

“You never do it to Nightmare,” He complained without any real heat. Before Ink could interject, he got to his feet and made his way to the armoire.

“Well, he wakes up on time. You, on the other hand…” Ink shook his head, but his expression betrayed the laughter he was keeping at bay. Daydream’s own face probably was doing the same. “Have a penchant for sleeping in. Shall I help you dress, my Prince?” 

His tone was coy, and Daydream had to bite back his own laughter. 

Ink’s smile widened. “Don’t worry, I promise not to make a fuss.”

Even as Daydream began selecting his attire, Ink continued with his playful banter until he was torn between exasperation and laughter. “What’s the occasion?” Daydream randomly selected his attire after a few glances over. “You’re awfully… accommodating, today.”

“Big word. I should reward your language tutor.”

“Which just so happens to be you,” He said, deadpan.

“Hey, it’s not my fault your old language tutor sucked. I’m a great replacement. And don’t forget that today’s a very special day, Your Highness.”

Daydream paused. What was important about today? He was quiet for a few moments, thinking and contemplating, before drawing up an utter blank.

“And why is it special?” He finally asked. Ink smiled gently.

“It’s your birthday, remember? Now, shall we proceed to breakfast once you’re dressed, or do you have any more complaints about my morning rituals?”

Daydream laughed, shaking his head. “No more complaints. I’ll get dressed.” ***

Daydream was the last to enter the banquet hall.

“Could’ve sworn that tardiness was a cardinal sin.” Nightmare’s dry humour was rewarded with Daydream letting out a sigh, and Ink shaking his head with amusement. 

“At least one of us goes to bed at a reasonable hour,” Daydream countered. The coy smile on Nightmare’s face quickly fell away as Ink turned his gaze on him.

“You caught me reading in the night one time—”

“And I’m sure that was the outlier.” Ink’s gaze was knowing, and Nightmare grimaced slightly. 

“Yes, well, I suppose I am rather fond of staying up late when there’s something interesting at hand.”

Daydream raised his eyebrows, but Ink beat him to it. “I can tell, from the cadences in your speech.”

He raised his hands up in mock-surrender. “Guilty as charged.” A pause. “Is it, uh, bad ? Do I sound pretentious?” 

Ink's eyes softened as he shook his head. “Not at all. Besides, a bit of eloquence never hurt anyone.”

Daydream slowly closed his mouth. 

Ink looked at him no less softly. “Not that you aren’t well-spoken, Daydream. You’re refreshingly direct; take it as a different kind of eloquence.”

“You should read more, though,” Nightmare added. Dream let out a huff. 

Ink chimed in, “Speaking as your tutor, yes.”

Daydream raised his arms up, not too dissimilar from what Nightmare had done a moment ago. “It’s not my fault the texts are so boring!”

“Hey, I teach you those texts.” Ink’s voice held not even a note of offence. “As a Prince, you have to know more literature than bedtime stories.”

“Nightmare’s good enough for both of us. And your stories are good!” He protested. 

“Seconded.”

Ink let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. I’ll tell you both more stories later. But, on that note,” And it was when he picked up his fork that both Daydream and Nightmare remembered the spread before them. “You two should probably start eating before the food gets cold.”

Daydream blinked, then glanced at the table laden with an array of breakfast delicacies: freshly baked pastries, ripe fruit, and an assortment of cheeses and loaves of bread. His stomach rumbled in agreement.

“You’re right,” Daydream said a moment after, both amused and slightly sheepish. 

“It would be a shame to let all this go to waste,” Nightmare admitted. He reached over to serve himself a generous portion of fruit, paused, and sent Daydream a mischievous look. 

“I know that look,” He breathed. “Don’t you dare finish that by yourself—”

Ink chuckled while spreading some butter on a warm roll. “Well, it’s both your birthdays, so I expect you to share.” 

“I was going to. Obviously.” Nightmare huffed as Daydream snatched an orange slice from his plate. “Childish.”

“We’re the same age,” He retorted. Ink shook his head with amusement and said nothing more of it. He watched the two fill their plates with food, then consume them with enough frenzy that made him remind them that they would choke. He let out an amused sigh. The two were still children, after all. It was good that their birthday was starting off on a high note.

“Ink?” Daydream’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Hm? Yes?”

He was looking at him, as if he was confused. “Why aren’t you eating?” Ink blinked.

“Oh, I ate earlier. You know, while waiting for you to wake up.”

Nightmare let out a sound of amusement, but he noticed his gaze lingering on Ink for a moment longer: as if he too was realising it.

“Come on, it’s your birthday, I wouldn’t want to take away from your birthday feast—”

“Are you sure you’re—” Daydream’s voice was cut off by the doors to the banquet hall swinging open. 

The attendant that stepped into the room was unassuming. Dressed in a simple, yet elegant livery of muted green and gold, the attendant’s attire was understated but well maintained. Their hair was neatly tied back, and they bowed before they spoke. “Sir, there’s a visitor for you.”

“Oh?” Ink rose to his feet. “For who?”

The attendant lifted their head, and responded, “For you, sir.”

“Ah. Well, seeing as we’re in the company of His Highnesses, it would have been best for you to address them first.” 

The attendant’s expression shifted slightly, their composure faltering. Daydream frowned. He glanced at Nightmare, who shook his head, as if to say: don’t interfere.

“Please abide by proper protocol in future. Is the visitor urgent?” 

“Well—” The attendant swallowed. “He demanded an audience with you, and mentioned something about an important matter that couldn’t wait.”

Ink made a considering noise. “Conveniently vague. I don’t suppose you have any other details about him?”

The attendant blinked. “Well, he was… also dressed somewhat casually. Inappropriately for Palace etiquette, if I may.”

Ink blinked. 

“Is that so?”

“Do you know him?” Nightmare asked, putting down his fork. 

Ink didn’t glance at him. He scanned the attendant again. “I might.”

“You should go, then,” Daydream suggested. “Don’t keep someone you might know waiting.”

Nightmare glanced at him, but didn’t respond.

Ink eventually let out a sigh. “I’ll have to attend to the visitor, then. Don’t wait on the food on my behalf.”

“We won’t.” Nightmare’s voice was dry, but there wasn’t really any mocking in it. 

The moment the doors closed on the two, Daydream turned to him. “What was that?” 

Nightmare shook his head. “I don’t know, either.”

“I feel kind of bad for the attendant. Why did Ink want him to stick to protocol? It’s not like we ourselves follow it perfectly.”

Nightmare hesitated. “Well— protocol isn’t just protocol. There’s a lot of things that play into it. Him choosing to address Ink before us was sort of implicitly saying that Ink was more important than us. It was basically saying something like, ‘oh, the Princes do everything he tells them to, anyway. Might as well speak to him directly’, y’know?”

Daydream’s eyebrows drew together. “We do do what he wants us to, though.”

“Yeah, but it’s more of a respect thing?” Nightmare sighed. “Don’t let it spoil the day. I don’t think the attendant was doing it on purpose, but things set precedents, you know?”

“Mhm.” Daydream was still slightly uncomfortable with the whole affair. “Hope he returns soon.”

“Me too.” He sighed, then turned his attention back to the food. “Better not let it get cold.”  ***

Ink found Error waiting in the parlour. Once he stepped into the room, Error’s gaze landed squarely on him, and his pacing came to a stop. His mismatched pupils were glitching so much they lingered on any colour for less than a fraction of a second, but even as his fingers were twitching, he did nothing else; as if he was waiting for Ink to speak first.

Ink gazed back at him. Ink didn’t.

Minutes of just silence must have passed when Error finally opened his mouth.

“So,” He said. “This is where you’ve been?” ***

Before this, Error must have had some other life. A family, perhaps. On quieter days his mind wandered too much; on those days there was little noise to take the edge off envy when he took the lives of fearful families clustered together, begging for mercy, like a child stomping on tiny ants. The envy would come, nestled in some deep pit within himself, but it was a small price to pay for the calm of the quiet. 

On worse days, noisier days, he often could not think at all. It was only after, when his clothes were entirely dipped in blood and his fingers caked in dust, that he’d finally remember himself and feel no envy, but regret. Just a sliver.

His oldest memory was shrouded in fear and mystery; even now, he suspected him forgetting it was intentional on his part. All he could remember of it was sharp, debilitating pain: pain so agonising it was worse than death. He never dwelled on the memory for long. The rest of his memories were splintered, fractured enough, that he was never tempted to search them anyway.

Perhaps it was just a dream. Perhaps he never had a life before this. It had been a long, long time since the first time he’d crushed a soul into dust, and certainly not the last. It had been a long, long time for any existence beyond destruction. 

Stories inevitably began to arise, speaking of a creature with the body of a man, the mind of an animal, and the power of a God. They began calling him the Harbinger. God of Slaughter. Then they began calling him the Destruction God, in tales of a merciless monster to be feared and to be reviled. 

He never cared much for stories, anyway. 

There was no reason for his destruction, none at all. But he still did it. Why? Even he understood almost nothing about himself. What was he looking for? His body and mind craved violence and blood, but no joy ever came of it. But if he tried to restrain himself, his own soul would rebel against him until his mind was screaming in his ear: Blood! Blood!

He’d shredded his eardrums into dust, before. Perhaps if he ridded himself of all noise, there would be peace. He tried with his eyes, too. The peace never lasted.

People had tried to offer him things in exchange for his mercy. Coin. Land. Crown. In the beginning, he’d accepted and went away for a time, hoping he would finally be satisfied.

He never was.

Error stopped accepting the offers. There was only ever one thing that could put his mind at ease, even for just a while, and that was blood. 

In the brief bouts of peace on the worse days, he prayed. To any God, really, but himself. Let me die soon enough. How long had this existence gone on? His very being brought ruin to all, even himself. Had he committed some sin, that this was his punishment? Hadn’t this all been punishment enough?

Vaguely, he knew that he should not have lived this long. He’d claimed the lives of armoured Guards, silver-haired wise women, demure Princesses and arrogant Kings, generation after generation. He claimed mothers, then their sons, then the children of those sons.

It became a game, to see just what it would take for a moment of peace. Some days it was a life. Some days it was thousands of.

And then there was the Artist. There were so many stories about him, though they spoke of beautiful watercolours and enigmatic sightings rather than bloodshed. 

The first time they met, it was just another day of ruin. Or it was going to be. Error had caught the first unsuspecting soul in his strings and was ready to crush it to dust when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hello, friend!” And he would grin, but there would be something in his eyes that made Error’s head whisper: Danger! “I wouldn’t advise on doing that.”

Error had jerked back from the touch. “Doing what?” And his voice had been glitching so severely. 

His smile had been gentle, but not kind.

“I know who you are. I know of the devastation you bring. Just because I’ve never hunted you down, doesn’t mean I’ll allow you to bring about your pathetic ruin in my presence.”

Error had blinked squarely. He released the still unaware soul.

Perhaps he should’ve spoken more then, but what did he have to say? Error understood the threat with crystal clarity. He had never run from anyone because his mind had never understood anything beyond its want for blood, but in that moment he had felt something he hadn’t in a long time: fear. It seemed only wise to act upon it. 

He let him leave without much other fuss. Decades had passed the next time he met the strange person. It was a circumstance that could not have been more different: he’d gone to his then spot that could bring him some comfort. It was near the river, where the loud rush of the flowing riverwater drowning out his own thoughts was the rare instance where noise brought him some peace. 

He’d found the Artist there, focused on capturing the river with paint on a canvas. 

And he’d remember, decades ago, when it had been this Artist that made him know fear for the first time.

And, as he realised neither of them had aged, he heard his own voice think: Is he like me?

It was him that spoke first, asking the Artist for his name. He gave it: Ink. Fitting of an Artist. He sat beside him, the soft rustle of the paintbrush filtering into the noise of the running river, and watched him paint.

Ink asked him for his name. He had been the first to.

Probably because he’d been the first to survive Error’s company for long enough to get to his name.

The moment was respite. Ink painted beautifully.

“Why do you do what you do?” He had asked him. He’d done so casually, not looking up from his painting, as if he was discussing anything less complex and contradictory than Error’s head.

“I don’t know,” He admitted. “It’s the only thing that brings me calm?”

“Calm?” His tone had been curious, not fearful. Though, perhaps the curiosity had been a mere farce so not as to scare him off as the first time had.

“I hear everything loudly.” He paused. “Everything is too much to me. When I break things, they go silent. It’s peaceful. I—” Once he started, he couldn’t stop. “I tried to keep away from everything. I made it so I couldn’t hear. But if I don’t spill blood, my mind runs away from me. And everything healed in the end.”

There was quiet.

“I won’t say I understand you.” Ink’s voice had been free of fear, free of emotion. But as he looked his way, there was something in his gaze that Error would later learn to love. “But thank you, for telling me.”

Error had let out a breath. 

“Will you kill me?”

Silence.

The memories of children clambering to their feet only to die, of mothers bent over their children with silent weeping when it meant nothing in the end, they both still died, suddenly came to mind. They had all begged to live. And here he was, asking to die.

“It would be mercy,” He murmured. “Please. I don’t know why, but I don’t age. I cannot die. It would be a mercy, for both the world and I.”

Ink smiled, not gently, but kindly. Somewhat, anyway.

Or was it pity when he looked upon him?

“Error,” He spoke gently, with pity, with sadness. “I cannot.”

Desperation seized him like nothing had ever before. “Please.”

“It’s not that I’m unwilling. It’s that, well… you cannot die, Error.”

He blinked. What?

“You cannot die. Your soul, it’s—” And this was where he paused. Error felt the soul in his chest beating erratically, as it always did, and felt nothing but confusion. 

“Error, your soul cannot die. It’s hardly a soul, at this point. It’s been put through hell, held together by— you should be dead, basically. It’s seriously fucked up. But it’s so fucked up, it doesn’t even know it’s supposed to be dead.” There was kindness, but there was no mercy in those words.

And, in some moment, he understood. He would never die. This was not hell. This was limbo. And that was worse.

“I can’t die, either,” He said quietly. “If that makes it better.”

The surprise took the edge of the grief, if only for a moment. 

“What?”

“I’m a God,” He said simply. “I’m immortal.”

“An actual God?” He stopped. What did the stories call him? The Slaughter God? The Destruction God? But those were just stories, he wasn’t an actual God.

He believed Ink was a God even before he nodded to confirm it.

“I’m not a God,” He uttered before he could stop himself. 

Ink let out a laugh. 

“I know. We would’ve met long before if you were. This world isn't so big if you spend eternity with it.”

He paused. “How old are you?”

“Much, much older than you,” He said plainly. So plainly, it made Error almost laugh. Wasn’t that a miracle? 

So he wasn’t always immortal. Had he had a life before this, a family, a home? 

“Are there other Gods?”

A shorter pause. “Yes.”

“Tell me more.” Please?

Ink let out a light chuckle. “Not about Gods. But sure.” And he told him about meadows, about oil lamps, about flowers, about the mistakes he’d made, the lessons he’d learnt, and so much more.

For a time, Ink brought respite. Peace.

As if in fear of him, his head didn’t dare demand destruction for days after.

His head couldn’t be kept at bay for very long, of course, and soon he had to spill more blood for more peace. By then, he was no longer with Ink, but now he knew where to find him. More or less. It was mostly Ink that came and found him. He shouldn’t have been surprised. He did leave a trail of destruction everywhere he went. 

His head soon adapted to Ink’s presence. If you cannot kill him, because that was unthinkable, his head still feared Ink, make him join you. Spill blood together. It will be peace, twofold. 

Obviously, Error never tried to convince Ink. There was no world where he’d succeed, anyway.

The company with Ink never brought to him again the same amount of peace it had the first time, now that his head had adjusted. But it was still something, and any peace was respite enough. Home became him and his first and only friend: Ink, the Artist, the God, and his dearest friend.

Then one day, he realised he had not talked to Ink in decades. Centuries? Weeks? His only measure of the passage of time had become the days with Ink. And, indeed, he could no longer remember the last time they’d spoken.

Error searched for him, through empty meadows and bustling (hellish) villages, through wastelands and through battlefields, but he found merely air in place of his old friend. He destroyed, was cruel in it, in hopes his friend would arrive and terrorise his mind back into submission (his mind was no more louder than it usually was, this was all him) but he never did.

What did he know, anyway, about Gods? 

He’d begun to lose hope, when he heard of it from stories. It was a tale lacking some immortal monster like himself, or some enigmatic God like his friend. It was a simple tragedy of mortals and misfortune: a Queen that perished in childbirth, leaving behind two twin brothers as mere babes. 

Poor children, someone had spoken. They must have become pawns in the power struggle. 

Someone interjected: Surprisingly, no. I heard many people wanted to take advantage of them, but this new tutor arrived out of nowhere and’s been defending them tooth and nail. 

He was named directly by the Queen as their caretaker, too, so there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

Oh? I guess there’s some luck in every misfortune. And he had stopped listening shortly after.

Some part of him began to quiver. Some part of him, not his bloodthirsty mind, some other part of him, began to whisper: Could it be? He’d imagined it to have been centuries, but had it really been that long? Maybe his head had just twisted it into a time longer than it actually had been, just to torment Error more than it already was.

He found his way to the Kingdom in question, marched into the Palace and demanded an audience with ‘Ink’, and now he was staring his old friend in the face.

But his friend was looking at him as if he was a stranger. He waited for him to speak, as he always did. Tell me why, he begged silently. Tell me why you left. You must have had a reason, right? You always do. He waited. 

Ink just gazed back at him.

It must have been years of silence between them when Error finally broke the ice. 

“So,” He said, the breath in his throat slowing down his words, as if he did not want to utter a word. “This is where you’ve been?”

“Why are you here, Error?” Ink’s tone was flat. Cold. 

Error did not physically flinch. There it was, his mind, clambering to whisper cruel things in his ear.

“You were gone,” He tried. He could not quite explain the tight fury-grief-relief in him, least of all with words.

“I am here,” He said simply.

“To care for two fledgling Princes?” There it was, bitter laughter bubbling up his throat and threatening to spill over. His fingers twitched again. The glitches in his body were fierce, but they burned painlessly in comparison to the bitterness in his throat.

“Their mother is dead.” His tone was flat. 

“So?” It was cruel of him, he knew. It was nothing compared to the words his mind was feeding him. But it was true. They’d seen death. Hell, he’d been the harbinger of it for thousands of souls, if not more.

Then, as if everything had collapsed in on his old friend, all the tension left him.

“She had been my friend.” His tone was flat. No, not flat. Tired.

Error realised it, and his head went silent. His friend was tired.

And, in that moment, he did not care why Ink had left him. He did not care about any of it.

“Can I do anything to help?” ***

“Can I do anything to help?”

Ink’s first instinct was a no, even though it would hurt to reject his friend. But Error, though he had been getting better, was too much of a risk to Nim’s children. Nim had left them to him. He would never forgive himself if they were hurt. He cared about his friend dearly, but—

Nightmare might need him.

He stilled.

Nim had spoken of what she hoped Nightmare would become, and what she prayed he would not, in that last letter. Ink tried, but he was not one with life. He did not love or fear as the living did, and true to Nim’s wish, Daydream and Nightmare were so much less God than the two of them were.

He could only theorise about the way Daydream slept for longer and longer, as if his dreams kept him entranced and enraptured enough that it was harder for him to wake up than stay living, or about Nightmare’s night terrors, or the way he could find fear in everything if he thought long enough about it, the way he fretted over tomorrows, the way he wanted power for the assurance he gave him, the way he constantly sought to know more just in case he needed to, just in case, just in case.

He looked at his friend, and thought, Would you understand them, old friend? ***

Ink should’ve rejected him. Error was too unstable, too cruel— but perhaps he saw something in him, or someone, because he shrugged.

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

A pause.

“Will you stay?”

The same laughter bubbled up in his throat, but it was not bitter. 

And there was humour in Ink’s gaze, too, tired as he was. He was still his friend, after all this time.

“Believe me, you’re never getting rid of me again. Tell me everything.”

Ink’s laugh was mudded by the fatigue bleeding through. 

“Oh, you won’t believe the century I’ve had, old friend.”

[jamieedlund]

What's ur favorite hc for Aaravos?

This is a surprisingly hard question to unpack for a lot of reasons- but I'll do my best to articulate myself (ง •_•)ง

I think this spoke for itself but just in case, here is a short elaboration: if I had to pick a favorite, it would have to be this.

He is someone who - despite all of the odds, despite how the world treated to him, despite being ridiculed, subjected to the worst torture known to man(yes solitary confinement is considered one of the most inhumane methods of torture) for over 300 years and had his name dragged through the mud for literal centuries-

-could still smile so brightly and sincerely like that, affirming that he does, with all of his heart, still very much love this world. However twisted that love might be, however difficult it was for him to learn how to use and express that love in a healthy way, it still speaks volume about who he is as a person.

Now if you have the time, allow me to explain bellow. If not, stop here, the question is basically answered 🙏💗 Thank you for reading!

Hello, if you're reading this that means you are willing to listen/read more about my thoughts and therefore I expect you to have a leveled head and a polite attitude to what I'm about to say.

If not then why are you here there was LITERALLY A STOP BUTTON. Please click off this post, what are you doing with your life wasting it hate watching me? 

With that being said, hello! fellow polite person who is reading this - - - Spoiler there is no illust down here because I'm running low on time on my thesis I'm so sorry ;;A;; Here is the elaboration to why this is my default favorite headcanon!

While I am aware of the amount of WILDLY different headcanons that exist out there for him, which are very popular within the fandom and even taken as gospel, I strongly feel that mine isn't really aligned with some, if not most of the hc out there at all.

Personally, I don't even agree with the canon version of in him ss4.

I'm assuming that you are asking me about my- personal favorite headcanon for him so for now, my answer will be: Ignoring the terrible characterization of him in season 4, my absolute favorite thing about him has to be: Despite everything, despite what everyone says about him, despite how the world perceives him

He is

without a doubt

Someone who loves this world very much.

Again this all ties in with what I'm going to present in my thesis, so I can't elaborate on it too much without giving any spoilers to the case I'm going to present for him. But for now, and especially right now at the time of writing this, they just released another vaguely worded and filled to the brim with plot holes short story regarding his past ... I-- hm I sincerely have no intention to keep up with the series... Therefore my hc will definitely contradict vastly with the horrendous plot holes ridden pre-established canon

-which then made the act of answering to this question exceedingly difficult due to the way I personally perceive him.

To wrap it up, all I want to say is, we could have had it all, a character who would make us cry, laugh and want to root for, had they written him with love and care, rather than trying to stuff him into the shoes a villain, which just felt forced and unnatural. Villains who are terrible only to be stopped have been overdone, and for tdp to be another generic show is a huge waste of potential

Wouldn't most of us have killed for, finally, an antagonist who isn't actually the antagonist but rather the very system that these people are experiencing is the actual villain ? ? ?

Best of all, they could have contrasted this with Callum, our protagonist. In Callum's case, despite being portrayed as one of "the good guys" or "heroes", he has all the reason to hate the world. This in turn create a complex narrative about the nature of people - Or in this case, the hero acting morally righteous despite hating the world vs the guy who was deemed evil and terrible by the world and yet still loves it with all of his heart. It could have been a heart-warming story about how two individuals find their way in this messed up world-- but nope~ non of this is canon :DDD

When in the history of television has any shows have a twist with the "hero" and "villain" ditching their role immediately to become a neutral party to reflect all the flaws in the world they live in? ? ? TDP had the perfect setup, but then proceeded to drop all of the balls spectacularly in ss4...

I always try my best to not touch ss4 but it feels almost impossible to talk about Aaravos w/out addressing the disservice that it did to his character. And that is all, I have to say for now~

Sincerely, thank you for reading.

[atths--twice]

Saw this tweet and had to write a little something about it. ❤️

Reassurance

“Mulder, what are you doing?” Scully asks as she opens the door and walks into his hotel room, a slight smile on her face at finding him looking at himself in the mirror.

“Nothing.”

“Hmm. Didn’t look like nothing.” She crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows, her smile wider now.

He glances at himself again and sighs as he turns to her.

“Have you ever thought about changing your appearance? What you would change if you could?” he asks and she blinks at him, taking a deep breath. He shrugs as she lets it out.

“I wouldn’t mind being a little taller,” she says and he shakes his head.

“No, not that,” he says, glancing at the mirror again. “I mean… your appearance. Your face.”

“Are you suggesting I need to change my appearance?”

“What?! No!” he says, turning to look back at her. “I would never think that you did. I’m asking if you ever thought about it.” He shakes his head again and she smiles, uncrossing her arms.

“I don’t think anyone ever loves everything about their appearance, but no, I’ve never considered plastic surgery.”

“Hmm,” he says, nodding at her and looking at the mirror out of the corner of his eye.

“Why are you asking? Are you thinking about it?”

“No… not… well, I mean…” He touches the tip of his nose quickly and then moves his hand as he clears his throat. “It was just a question. Just a… never mind.”

“I like your nose,” she says and he stares at her, with a look of surprise in his eyes.

“I didn’t say anything about my nose.”

“You didn’t have to say it,” she says softly with a smile and she watches him draw in a breath.

“You don’t think it’s… too…” He shrugs as he gestures to it and she shakes her head.

“I think it’s exactly the nose you’re supposed to have, the one that was meant for you.” She smiles again, stepping closer to him. “You change that… and I think you lose a bit of you.”

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice quiet.

“Yeah,” she whispers, standing right in front of him, smiling as she licks her lips.

“It makes me look… pleasant?”

“I could think of a better description.”

“Like what?”

“Hmm,” she says, reaching out and squeezing two of his fingers. “Distinguished. Notable. Memorable.”

“Attractive?”

She stares at him, hearing the desire for truth despite the casual tone he had used. His eyes hold hers and she smiles as he opens his hand to clasp hers.

“Exceedingly,” she whispers and his eyes widen.

“Exceedingly?” he echoes in a whisper and she nods as she squeezes his hand. He swallows hard and she smiles. “Well, that’s good to know.”

“Happy to have assuaged your worries,” she says and he hums softly.

He lets go of her hand and suddenly pulls her to him, holding her close as he lets out a breath. She smiles again as she closes her eyes and puts her arms around his waist, breathing in his scent.

“Thank you,” he whispers and she hums with a nod as she takes a deep breath and begins to let him go. He smiles as she steps back and tucks her hair behind her ears.

“So, you wanted to show me something?” she says and he nods, pointing to the television.

“Yeah. A video,” he says.

He walks to the television and pushes the tape into the VCR. She stands beside him as he readies it and he clears his throat.

“I don’t think you need to be taller,” he says quietly and she holds her breath as she listens. “I think you’re the height you were meant to be.”

He brushes his arm against hers and she dips her head with a smile, thinking of how she fits in his arms.

Like puzzle pieces interlocking.

She nods as he brushes against her again and their attention turns to the video and back to the case at hand.

[violetjedisylveon]

SW Sapphic Week Day One - Reunion

Summary: After the Empire was defeated, Kaeden retired to the little paradise she and Ahsoka had built together on a distant, peaceful planet. Ahsoka has been dead for twelve years now, and Kaeden spends her days tending to her gardens and living a peaceful life mostly alone aside from Miara's visits with her family.

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: greif, loss, feels but it ends fluffy.

A/N: First time doing one of these things, so I hope I did it right. And I might not do all of them, just the ones I feel the strongest about my writing ability with. Also this originally started off as Kaesoka but then I got ideas and it's got background Miara x Omega.

Day 5, 6, 7.

Ao3 link

________________________________________________________________________________

Kaeden pushed her hat back and wiped the sweat from her brow. I'll need to shower tonight. She sighed and leaned against her garden hoe, examining her work.

The small flower field was slowly coming into shape, crops did exceedingly well on this planet, you could toss the seed out and they'd grow just fine. Her work with the soil was to ensure the most productive output. She had become a bit of an expert in working with soil in recent years. She had worked hard to learn how to turn arid, once considered useless land into something that could sustain life from many experts in planet restoration.

She had no plans for anything that grand, all she wanted was to have enough food to support herself and the community around her, growing it herself was the best way possible.

The other, more exotic plants she had were more of a personal plant keeping hobby but they too had their uses for the community. The flowers she was planning on planting were to sell, she did need credits after all, but she'd give them just as much attention as her more personal plants.

Some of her neighbors joked she was growing a forest, it was more true than she cared to admit. When she couldn't sleep, she would keep herself busy with planting, just planting rows upon rows of trees and plants, it had started small, but as the trees matured, they began to spread themselves. Some of them were almost twenty years old.

She surveyed her gardens, her own self made paradise. It was getting late in the day, she ought to be heading in for the night. Miara was going to visit with her children and wife tonight, it would be good to see them.

She put her tools away and peeled off her sweat sticky gloves, leaving everything in the shed. The lock on her shed was courtesy of Miara. She headed for her house.

As she walked inside, her attention was snagged by the plant that had started it all. The grand, blossoming tree that she had planted with Ahsoka all those years ago when they chose to make this place their secret home. She deviated from her course and went up to the tree. It was strong and powerful and beautiful, just like Ahsoka.

She trailed her fingers through the thin lightsaber burn in the trunk. Ahsoka had accidentally scratched it, just barely, while training once. She had thought it was going to die and cried about killing their plant child. Of course, the tree was fine and recovered from the very light scratch.

She let her hand rest on the bark for a moment, reliving all the memories she had with Ahsoka, then drew away. It wasn't good to dwell on it.

Ahsoka had been dead for twelve years at this point. It had been the longest twelve years of Kaeden's life. She gave their tree a final glance, then it became just like every other tree she had grown.

She headed inside, she had family coming, she needed to prepare.

XXX

Kaeden opened the door and was immediately greeted by loud cheering of her name.

"Kaeden!"

Miara gave her an absolutely crushing hug. Her wife, a sweet woman named Omega, was a Mandalorian, and during their relationship, Miara had increasingly grown in strength to match her. It was certainly paying off, Miara could practically lift her off the floor.

"It's been ages!" Miara said, setting her back on solid ground.

"It's only been a few months." Kaeden responded.

"A busy few months." Omega commented.

"Really? What have you two been up to?" Kaeden asked.

"Talk inside, I wanna see Auntie's forest!" Rayshe'a, the second youngest of Miara and Omega's children, said.

"Be patient." Eyayah scolded her twin.

"Look who's talking!" Rayshe'a shot back.

Kaeden stepped aside to let her family into her home. Miara and Omega had a lot of kids, some of them were adopted and some were biological. Regardless of their origins, all of them were part of her family and she loved each of them dearly.

Her sister's more aquatic children made a beeline for her ponds, they loved swimming in them so much she had adjusted them to be more comfortable for their swimming. It was especially good on hot days when they visited, everyone could have a swim. One child, Brisst, dragged Miara off to go see their favorite plant before Kaeden had a chance to talk to her little sister, only getting an apologetic glance as she was dragged off.

Kaeden brushed it off, she could always talk later. She chose to observe her sister's horde of children and noticed two new children, sticking noticeably closer to Omega and giving her uncertain glances.

One was a little Twi'lek girl, who's light purple skin had the marks of sunburn and sandblasting, and she had silver hair braided down the back of her head. The other was an older, more human looking girl with paler purple, similarly sandblasted skin. Her face was marked with tattoos somewhat like the ones Omega had on one side of her face, she had very short lekku poking out from her silver hair, they only reached just below her shoulders.

The pair were sisters, orphans if Omega and Miara's track record for adopting any kid they found was anything to go off of.

Kaeden approached Omega, the younger girl hid behind her older sister, who got defensive. Omega gave her an apologetic look and said something in Dathomirian that got the kids to relax a bit.

"How'd you come across those two?" Kaeden asked once the pair had gotten curious and left to explore.

Omega sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Well, Boba did a thing, and so no more slavery on Tatooine so there's a lot of stuff going on with that, they haven't trusted anyone for years, but when we visited, Asriq saw the marks and decided the best bet would be to come with me. They've got issues, Merdi has bad nightmares. So now I need to find another therapist. But they're both very kind and sweet, just defensive at first." Omega explained.

Kaeden felt sympathy for the orphaned sisters, for obvious reasons. She was again thankful she and Miara hadn't been orphaned on a world where they were exploited.

"I bet me and Miara's old therapist would be able to help you."

Weskyn was a Zabrak rebel officer, her unofficial job was consoling, particularly after conflict, she had been a therapist during the clone war and taken on helping refugees. She hadn't been on Alderaan so she was doing fine as of now, still a therapist.

"Thanks, I'll be sure to check it out." Omega said.

Eyayah and Rayshe'a burst into the main room, panting and out of breath.

"Mom! Buir(mom)! Ba'vodu(aunt)! Someone's in the gardens!" Eyayah shouted.

"What?!" Kaeden jolted up.

It was impossible for anyone to get into her gardens without setting off a security alert. Only family and trusted friends could come and go, but no one had told her about this.

She ran outside and found a cloaked stranger standing up on the rise next to her tree. Something about them seemed so familiar, Kaeden couldn't put her finger on it.

"Hello?" Kaeden asked, approaching the stranger cautiously.

"It's still here… after all these years, I was sure it would've died… I swear I did something wrong with it… I never did have your green thumb." That voice, that heart shatteringly familiar voice she thought she would never hear in person again.

Her throat tightened with emotion, her eyes stung. No no no. It's not here. They just sound like her, she's gone, she's dead. Kaeden told herself stubbornly. Her body was several steps ahead of her, she was running up to the stranger beside her tree before she had time to think it through. They shyly pulled their hood down over their face. Kaeden hesitantly reached out and stopped halfway, her hand shaking violently.

They pulled their hood down, Kaeden could hardly muffle the sob that escaped her.

Ahsoka. Ahsoka. It was her.

Ahsoka was standing in front of her with a beautifully nervous, apologetic smile.

"Ahsoka?" She choked out.

"Hi Kay… It's been a while." Her voice was a blessing on her ears.

She was suddenly breathless.

"Ahsoka… is it really you…?" she whispered.

"Yeah, it's me." Ahsoka confirmed with a nervous chuckle.

Kaeden reached out her half raised hand to Ahsoka's face. She hesitated again, afraid Ahsoka would disappear when she tried to touch her, yet she felt the warmth radiating from Ahsoka's skin and rested her hand ever so gently on her cheek. Ahsoka leaned into her touch and put her hand over Kaeden's, gently pulling back and planting a soft kiss on her hand the way she always used to.

At this point, Kaeden could hardly see anything through her tears, but she laughed and slammed herself into Ahsoka's warm body. Ahsoka wrapped her arms around her.

"It's really you… it's you…" she cried.

"Yeah, it's really me… i missed you." Ahsoka said softly.

"Where have you been?" Kaeden asked.

"That is a very long story." Ahsoka chuckled.

Kaeden did too.

"I've got time, I'm always up for hearing your stories." She said, looking up into Ahsoka's brilliant eyes.

"I know you are." Ahsoka murmured.

________________________________________________________________________________

Omega's got nightsister tattoos from time spent on Dathomir with Merrin. They are besties btw. Omega's a Mandalorian and a nightsister cause why not?

Orphans on Tatooine after Boba took over just get adopted by Omega and Miara/Mandalorians so there are a lot of new Mandalorian kids now.

Eyayah means echo and Rayshe'a means five.

This was really fun! I'm excited for the rest of the event and seeing all the cool stuff people come up with!

I have ap testing this week tho 😔.

I hope you all have a good day, whatever that is for you!

VJS Out!

[queensectonia]

How 'bout our lord and savior mister Hyness

hi hi hello <3

this should be you filling this one out!! but i will gladly talk about bat grenpa.

1: sexuality headcanon: the ancients were exceedingly free and open about this shit and were also, as a race, sexually unimorphic, which naturally makes their relationship to sexuality COMPLETELY alien (hoho) to our own conceptualisation of the topic, but hyness in particular was just totally Beyond All That, i feel. he had partners of many different genders (and species), and i feel like he wouldn't even bother with a label for himself, particularly not in his recent days where he's far too busy with the cult and self-loathing to have time for anything like that. if you absolutely needed a label, pan would be it, i suppose.

2: otp: okay listen. so you know how hyness is a dark matter cultist right. so stay with me here okay. alright. listen. i have not given up on hyness/02 and neither should you

3: brotp: i feel like our hyness doesn't necessarily have a brotp candidate... he's so Intense in his.. everything... that he tends to swing between either outright hatred or fawning devotion to people once he decides they're actually worth his attention. that's just not a brotp-having Vibe, ya dig

4: notp: again i can't really say i have one.

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: hyness is a god. just straight up. he was the first and longest user of the master crown, which had a multitude of effects on him, chief among them being that the unimaginable amounts of power flowing through him made him ascend. in a universe where gods are inherent features of reality tied to various concepts of existence, hyness is a complete aberration as a being who is, essentially, an artificial god.

deeply ironic given that "artificial god" is exactly what the ancients made in their crafts.

6: favorite line from this character: honestly, the way that he speaks in the royal we. this can be kind of hard to pick up on because sometimes he's referring collectively to the cult but sometimes he uses "we" as a personal pronoun and it is Very good. very character.

... i literally swear he uses 我/我々 in japanese even but i cannot for the life of me fuckin remember right now and i'm not assed to go dig it up. if he doesn't, he does in headcanon

7: one way in which I relate to this character: i, too, would like to hug the darkness

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: ... this is a whole essay in itself because for as much as we love hyness and as much potential he has, he, uh... he's bad. his execution is bad. dear HAL, next time consider not writing a character that's a disgustingly sanist stereotype, and definitely not in a series like kirby, jesus christ

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: there are still parts of the fandom who'll burn you at the stake for even liking the guy so i'll let this one answer itself

[the7thcrow]

600 degrees

~

pairing: bang chan x (fem) reader

summary: you can’t cook. like, really can’t cook. good thing your cute neighbour is here to help clean up the mess.

word count: 5.1k

genre: neighbours au. strangers to lovers. the fluffiest of fluff, slightly suggestive.

warnings: a make-out session, bad humour, minho being a twat of a roommate, and tooth-rotting fluff.

rating: 14+

a/n: hi guys! hope you enjoy this one, it’s so much more wholesome and fluffy than what i usually write, but I'm pretty happy about it. don’t by shy to send me an ask or leave a comment. anything you have to say, I would love to hear. :)

...

..

.

“Fine. Since you won’t come, at least enlighten me on how you plan to keep yourself busy?” Minho asks, casually leaning against your kitchen island. He stares at you, with that familiar condescending smirk you’ve seen far too many times.

“I don’t know,” you state, rolling your eyes. Rising to your feet, you head over to your shared refrigerator, pulling a bottle of Sangria out of the fridge. “But I’m sure I’ll find something.”

“You know, if you want to drink, you could at least do it at the party.” Minho approaches you from behind, placing both his hands on your shoulders. “It’s a lot less sad that way.”

You slap his hand away, letting out a frustrated groan at the laughter he lets out from his own joke. “I get out plenty, quit acting like I’m some lonely cat lady,” you say, grabbing your favourite wine glass from the cupboard. “I like parties, I just don’t like Jisung’s parties. They always get way out of hand.”

“But Y/N,” Minho wines, picking up your freshly poured glass and taking a sip, earning himself a glare. “I never said you were a cat lady, just the lonely part.”

At that you snatch the glass away from his hands. Not wanting to deal with this torment any longer, you walk back to your comfortable, worn-in spot on the couch.

“You know I’m right,” he says, continuing despite the fact you begin to turn up the volume of the television. “And the only way you’re going to change that is by accompanying me to Jisung’s loud, out of hand parties.”

You turn to face him, raising your eyebrows. “Somehow, I doubt my soulmate associates himself with Han Jisung.”

“Well that can’t be right, because I associate myself with Han Jisung?”

“Shut up, Minho.”

Your roommate snickers to himself as he opens the fridge, taking a quick glance at everything - or for a better term, lack of anything - inside. “What are you even going to eat? There’s nothing leftover from last night.”

“I’ll make something,” you say. Frankly, you had expected the outburst of laughter, but that didn’t do anything to simmer down your growing annoyance.

“Make something?” Minho laughs, giving you an incredulous stare. “Y/N, I’ve lived with you for two years and I don’t think I’ve seen you cook anything once.”

“Hey, I can cook,” you return, wrinkling your nose. “But why would I, when I have you to do it for me?”

At this, it’s Minho’s turn to roll his eyes. “Yeah, okay, I take that back. I don’t want you to come, have fun curling up on the couch alone with your three cats.”

“They’re literally yours.”

“Whatever,” he says, opening your front door. “Just don’t burn the apartment down, alright?”

As he closes the door, you flip him off. At first, you aren’t sure if he saw, but you’re given your answer as his laughter echoes down the hallway, fading as he walks further away.

You scowl. Of course you can cook. Well, at the very least, well enough to make a meal for one on a saturday night. Minho didn’t know what he was talking about.

Minho. Your best friend and roommate for the last two years. Man, does the guy have a way of pushing your buttons. You love him, of course. In the weird, bickering, just short of volatile friendship sort of way the two of you had developed.

Still, you can’t deny that even with his painfully irritable nature, he is still a good friend. No matter how many times you say no, he always offers to take you anywhere he goes. He pushes you out of your comfort zone. He’s there to console you when a date goes bad, or you failed a test you studied hard for. He makes all his meals for two, just because he doesn’t want you to live solely off shitty take-out.

He’s your rock. Your platonic other half. Your closest companion.

Which means you are going to prove him wrong, and then rub it in his face as much as you possibly can. Of course, because that’s what friends are for.

~~~~

Then again, maybe you wouldn’t. Or, at the very least, it was going to be exceedingly more difficult now that your apartment was full of smoke.

Covering your nose with one hand, you take the tray of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven. If you can even call them that, as they now held a far closer resemblance to that of hockey pucks. Both in looks, and what you could assume in taste, as well.

Okay, you know chocolate chip cookies don’t really count as a decent meal, but they are the only thing you remember how to cook from when you lived at home. Or maybe you didn’t remember, based on the tray of failure sitting in front of you.

Then, to make matters even worse, your fire alarm starts going off.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath. Now you are going to have to go to the front desk, let them know everything is okay.

Maybe Minho was right, you should’ve just went to Jisung’s stupid party and eaten something there. Putting all the other painful aspects of Han’s parties aside, Felix was his roommate, so the horderves were always excellent.

They were better than your hockey puck cookies, anyway.

Letting out a disappointed sigh, you open your apartment door, prepared to get a rough scolding from the lady working the front desk. However, you are surprised to find a man standing in front of you, his hand in the air, as if he were about to knock.

“Hi,” he says, awkwardly putting his hand back down at his side. He has messy platinum blonde hair, and soft eyes. He’s cute, and the realization quickly makes you recognize him.

“You’re my neighbor,” you say, pointing a finger at him. It’s not until he doesn’t respond immediately that you realize it was a strange thing to say. Obviously, he knows he’s your neighbor, and he might be a little offended you didn’t recognize him immediately.

Then again, the two of you had never really talked before. Everytime you would pass each other in the hall, he’d always give a polite nod and continue walking. Sometimes you’d try to say hello, or start a small conversation, but he always disappeared quickly. It had gotten to the point where you assumed he had some strange, unwarranted grudge against you.

So, it was safe to say that you were more than just a little surprised to find him at your door.

“Uh, yeah, I am. Are you okay? I thought I smelt something burning, and then I heard the fire alarm go off.” He asks, peeking behind you into your apartment, seeing if he can catch sight of any flames.

Instead, his eyes land on your tray of butchered cookies, and he… smirks?

“Oh,” he says, attempting to hide the smile growing on his face. “Having some cooking trouble?”

You stare at him for a moment, watching as his lips pursed together, stifling a chuckle. “Are you...” you begin, your jaw dropping slightly. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No,” he looks down at you, finally letting his grin free. “I would never.”

“Yeah, okay,” you frown, already not enjoying that sarcastic look on his face. You thought you’d be able to avoid that humiliating look considering Minho wasn’t here, but apparently not.

 “As you can see, it’s nothing. So if you’ll excuse me,” you continue, attempting to move past him. “I need to go get my neck rung by the lady at the front desk,” However, he doesn’t budge from his place in your door frame. You cast him a glare, which only makes his smile grow wider.

“Nah, don’t worry, I’ll go let her know,” he says, already turning to walk down the hall. You open your mouth to object, but he casts a glance over his shoulder, snickering. “You focus on cleaning up whatever those black lumps were supposed to be.”

You stand in your doorway, dumbfounded as your neighbor disappears down the complex staircase. Who did this guy think he was, openly laughing at your current predicament? Sure, if the roles were reversed, there’s no doubt that you would do the same. But that isn’t the point.

No. The point is that you are not impressed by the audacity of this stranger, and you are going to make sure that this distaste is known.

Grumbling to yourself, you dump the still smoking cookies in the trash can. It’s a shame, really. You’d thought you were doing so well, too. You thought this would be your chance to prove Minho wrong. Minho. Oh, he would be having an absolute hay day if he were here right now, and the thought only makes your scowl deepen.

“Well,” your neighbor calls from behind you, causing you to jump slightly. He reappears in the open door frame, sticking his neck inside, but not fully crossing the threshold into your apartment. “She’s not thrilled, but the alarm didn’t trigger the main system’s sprinklers, so you’re good.”

You let out a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

The man smiles. “If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly were you trying to make anyway?”

An embarrassed blush casts itself over your cheeks. “Chocolate chip cookies,” you mumble, not meeting his eyes.

He lets out a burst of laughter, smiling widely. You can’t help but notice that he had a cute smile, dimples on both of his cheeks, eyes crinkled. Not that you were looking. Not that you cared, obviously.

“How’d you manage to mess up chocolate chip cookies that badly?”

“I don’t know,” you say, shrugging your shoulders helplessly. “You tell me.” You gesture towards the oven. Your neighbor smirks, walking inside your apartment. He bends down in front of your oven, before taking a look inside.

“Well, nothing seems to be wrong in there…” he starts, before glancing up at the set temperature. “Oh,” he states, before looking back at you, his eyes full of pity. “Oh boy.”

“What?” You ask defensively.

“The temperature. You forgot to convert it from celsius to fahrenheit. See?” He says, leaning away from the oven to give you a closer look. “So you thought you were cooking them at 350 degrees fahrenheit, when in reality they were at over 600 degrees.”

“Oh my god,” you say, smacking your palm against your forehead. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I don’t know,” the guy shrugs. “You could have burnt your apartment down, so I’d consider it a win. You’re lucky I got here on time.”

You cast him a scowl, although you can’t seem to relinquish the faintest hint of a smile creeping onto your lips. You know damn well you wouldn’t have started a fire, and that the man showing up really didn’t stop anything but an uncomfortable conversation with the front lady. You are also sure that he is fully aware of this too, which makes your smirk grow wider. Alright, you’ll play along.

“Right, what ever would I do without you?” you say sarcastically, causing your neighbor to playfully roll his eyes. He leans against your kitchen counter, relaxing slightly.

“Does my saviour have a name?” You ask, opening the fridge to take a look at what’s inside. You feel your stomach rumble, taking a glance at the clock to see that it was already past 9:00.

“It’s Chris,” he smiles, leaning over your shoulder. “So what are you going to eat, now that you’ve successfully butchered the easiest recipe known to man?”

“Hey!” You snipe. “That is certainly not the easiest recipe known to man.”

“Fine, fine,” Chris says, putting his hands up in defense. “Maybe not the easiest, but it’s definitely up there. But putting that aside, what are you going to eat? Because I genuinely don’t think I’ve ever seen a fridge so empty.”

You want to quip back at him, but he’s right. Minho usually does the grocery shopping, but because of Jisung’s party tonight he wasn’t planning on cooking anything.

“Good question,” you sigh, closing the refrigerator door before leaning your back against it. “Maybe I’ll just order some take out. I don’t think my pride can handle another failure.”

Chris smiles. “Or, I have an idea,” he says, his eyes glinting. He heads over to your apartment door, and for a moment you worry that he’s leaving.

No, you’re not worried. You’re curious. That’s all. You were curious whether or not he was leaving, nothing more.

When Chris returns, he has his arms full of ingredients. Spinach, penne, tomato sauce, cream, a variety of spices. The list goes on, and he stumbles slightly, almost dropping the surplus of food onto your kitchen floor. Imagining the mess, you rush over to help him, placing the load of groceries onto the counter.

“I don’t know if you couldn’t tell before,” you say, motioning to your overflowing counter. “But I really can’t cook. I have no clue what to do with any of this.”

“That’s no problem,” Chris smiles, already separating the food into different groups. “I’ll help you.”

“No, no, no. I can’t ask you to do that,” you say, waving your hands in protest. You step in front of him, squeezing yourself between his chest and the kitchen counter, preventing him from reaching any of the ingredients. “You’ve already dealt with the desk lady for me, and brought over all these groceries. You’ve done more than enough.”

He smiles, gently placing his hands on your shoulders and effortlessly moving you to the side. “Why would I bring you these groceries if I knew you couldn’t do anything with them?” When you don’t respond, he continues. “Seriously, it’s no big deal. Don’t worry about it. Just let me help you.”

You sigh in defeat, ignoring the way your heart begins to beat faster in your chest. “Alright,” you say, grabbing Minho’s cutting board from the cupboard. “Let’s do this, then.”

~~~~

An hour later, you find yourself sitting on top of your kitchen counter, Chris stationed by the stove working on the pasta sauce. You had genuinely tried to help in the beginning, you really did. But after Chris criticized your (awful) cutting technique, and said he didn’t exactly trust you to do anything else, you gave up.

Besides, you don’t have a problem watching him work. Over the last hour, you’ve come to learn that Chris is an absolute whiz in the kitchen. Moving from place to place, adding spices by intuition and nothing more. This wasn’t something you could have managed to make yourself in a million years, and it’s obvious that if you tried to assist him right now, you’d only get in the way.

Of course, you’ve learned a lot more about Chris in the last hour than just that. Where he grew up, his hobbies, what he was currently studying at the university. Music theory, as you’d learned. As cool as it sounded, Han had managed to tarnish your image of music majors, but you suppose you could give Chris a chance.

“It’s almost done,” Chris says, glancing over his shoulder to look at you.

“Thank God, I’m starving,” you reply, leaping off the counter to stand beside him.

“What, no ‘thank you, Chris?’ No, ‘what ever would I have done without you, Chris?’” He mocks offence, placing a hand on his heart.

“It’s not even done yet. I’ll thank you after I try it, I promise.” You laugh, rolling your eyes.

“Ah, so you’re only thankful if you like it. I see how it is,” Chris says, crossing his arms in front of himself, pouting his lower lip slightly.

“Guess so,” you say, crossing your own arms mockingly. Chris smiles, those cute little dimples of his dancing across his cheeks.

Then you feel it, that little jump of your heart. The faintest skip of a beat that you’d familiarized yourself with over the last hour. That little hint of anticipation that makes you decide that you are, even if only slightly, a bit interested in Chris.

After all, he’s funny and sweet. Can carry a conversation well, and to understate it, undeniably easy on the eyes. That’s more than enough to give him a chance.

Most of all, however, you like that little flare between the two of you. The sarcasm, the banter. It doesn’t feel the same as when Minho does it, slightly condescending and done purely to harbour your annoyance. No, this is different. It is a challenge. He wants you to quip back, to push further. To make him smirk, or laugh, or roll his eyes.

“Alright, fine then,” he says, taking the large wooden spoon and scooping up some of the pasta sauce. “Tell me if this is up to par, your majesty.”

You aren’t sure if he wants you to take the spoon, or let him hold it for you as you take a bite. You decide to take the gamble, gently moving your lips around the spoon, tasting the sauce. You glance up at Chris, a small look of surprise on his face. However, you don’t miss the flash of something behind his eyes. The faintest hint of affection, interest.

The sauce itself is delicious. A perfect blend of tomato, basil and cream. You hum contently, giving him a thumbs up.

“Chris, this is amazing,” you praise, admiring the small blush that sprinkles his cheeks.

“It’s really nothing,” he says, diverting his gaze and rubbing the back of his neck, shyly.

“No, seriously,” you say, taking the spoon from his hand and scooping some of the sauce up yourself. “Try it.” You hold the spoon out in front of him, and he raises his eyebrows slightly. Your gaze remains firm. A challenge.

Hesitantly, he takes the bite, not breaking eye contact as he does so. You stare at him, watching the way his lips move around the spoon, the intensity of his gaze. The action itself should be innocent, yet you feel a warmth rise to your cheeks.

Chris swallows, taking his lips off the spoon. For a moment, neither of you say anything. You can feel the change in the atmosphere of the room. The spark between you two being brought alight.

You swallow hard. “So?” You ask quietly.

“Yeah, it’s good. Very good,” he says back, his voice low and raspy. He goes to take the spoon from you, and his hand lingers a moment, his thumb trailing the skin of your knuckles.

You feel yourself lean in slightly, fully prepared to take the leap, when suddenly he breaks away from you, eagerly taking a few steps back. He looks away, placing a hand on his face, as if he were ashamed.

“Shit. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I know you’re seeing someone, we shouldn’t be doing this. I’m sorry,” he babbles, completely turning away from you.

You open your mouth to say something, but no words come out. Seeing someone? Where the hell could he have possibly gotten that idea?

“Seeing someone?” You ask, incredulously voicing your thoughts. You grab him by the shoulder, turning him around. “Why do you think I’m seeing someone?”

Chris still refuses to meet your eyes, instead focusing intently on the wall behind you. “The guy that lives here- Minho - aren’t you two?”

“Minho?” You gape, contorting your face in a look of pure disgust. “Ew, gross! No! Believe me, I am not dating Minho, I’d genuinely rather stick this spoon in my eye,” you exclaim, lifting up the utensil.

At that Chris finally looks at you, wearing his own look of pure confusion. “Wait, really? But whenever I hear you guys out in the hall, the two of you are always so… flirty.”

“Flirty?” You laugh at the ridiculousness of the statement. “If by flirty you mean he teases me literally every god damn second of every day, then yeah sure, I guess. But believe me, there is absolutely nothing romantic about that. Not in the least.”

Chris shakes his head, a smile forming at the corners of his lips. “Wow. I am such an idiot,” he sighs, a rediscovered lightness to his tone.

“No, no. Don’t worry about it,” you reassure him. “Anyone could make that mistake, I guess. It’s really no big-”

“No, it’s not just that,” he cuts you off. “That’s why I’ve never talked to you before now.”

“You never talked to me because you thought that me and Minho were dating?” You ask, slightly confused. Even if you were dating, you didn’t see why that would stop him from starting a conversation with you. “Why?”

“Well,” he sighs, his cheeks reddening further. “I thought you were pretty, and based on the way you always quipped back at him, clever and funny as well. I don’t know, it just felt wrong to try and build a friendship with you, knowing how I already felt a little....”  

You smirk, drawing yourself slightly closer to him. “A little what?”

His smile transforms itself from embarrassed to a sly grin of his own. “A little into you, I guess.”

“It really is a shame,” you shrug, trying to hide the excitement building in your chest. “Because here I was, thinking my cute neighbor had some irrational grudge against me.”

Chris leans in, so the two of you are only inches apart. You can feel the heat radiating from his skin, smell the strong fragrance of his cologne. Sharp with lemon zest and mint.

“We could always make up for lost time, you know,” he says, his eyes flashing with mischief.

That is all the invitation you need to break the space between the two of you. You press Chris’ lips against your own, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other along the line of his jaw. His lips are soft, you notice. Tender in the slow rhythm the two of you develop.

He runs his hands up along your figure. One of them finding itself locked in your hair, the other placed firmly on the curve of your lower back. Gently, he leads the two of you away from the stove, placing you so that your back is pressed up against the kitchen counter.

You run your hand down along his chest, reveling in the groan he let’s out as your fingers trail down his lower abdomen. The sound is electricity pulsing through you, charging the room and igniting the atmosphere around the two of you.

His lips leave yours, trailing your jaw before making their way down your neck. Each individual kiss is slow and sultry, sending a shiver down your spine. You take a deep breath to stable yourself, and it does not go unnoticed.

Chris smirks, shifting his gaze to meet yours. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown out with desire. “You know, if we keep this up, the pasta sauce is going to burn,” he says, letting his fingers trail along your collarbone.

“Let it,” you shrug. “I wasn’t hungry anyways.”

Chris laughs at this, leaning forward so his face brushes the crook of your neck. “Yeah, right,” he says, allowing his lips to dust your skin. Suddenly, he bites down, not enough to break through the skin, but certainly enough to leave a small mark.  

You laugh, running your hands in his hair, half-heartedly pulling him off of your neck. “Hey! That hurt,” you exclaim, only half serious.

“Sorry,” he grins, before crashing his lips into yours once again. The pace between the two of you is much faster now, each kiss more passionate. More promising. Your desire rings through you, clouding your mind in a hazy fog of lust. It is dizzying, just how much you want him at this moment.

You're certain he feels the same way, given in how tightly he grips your thigh, his breath ragged every time you break apart. It is messy. Greedy. The two of you so deeply wanting more. More of each other.

You’re about to ask if he wants to move this to the bedroom, when suddenly the apartment door swings open. It’s almost comical, how quickly you and Chris break apart, springing to opposite ends of the kitchen.

“I hate to say it, but you were right,” Minho calls as he walks inside, not yet glancing up from his phone screen. “Shit got out of hand. Someone managed to break the pool table, don’t even ask how, I don’t know either. Almost gave Felix an aneurysm. I swear the kid was about to cry, poor guy. Han had to shut everything down. So you really didn’t miss out on-” Minho stops as he sees Chris, a confused yet bemused expression crossing his face.

“Oh, hey Chan,” he says, causing you to give Chris a look.

“A nickname,” Chris mouths to you, as discreetly as he possibly can.

“What are you doing over here?” Minho asks him, crossing his arms and leaning against the door. He has that smug smirk on his face that makes you want to punch him.

“Oh, well…” Chris starts, casting you a glance. “Y/N made some food, and there was too much of it, so she invited me over.”

“Really?” Minho asks, caught off guard. He walks past you and Chris, staring at the pasta and sauce currently sitting on the oven burners. “You’re saying Y/N made this?”

“Well, yeah?” Chris says, feigning confusion. “Of course, I wouldn’t lie about something like that. Why?”

You have to stop yourself from laughing, looking at the expression of utter bewilderment on Minho’s face. Minho glances at you, narrowing his eyes, before sighing.

“Well then, I guess you proved me wrong on two things tonight, Y/N,” he says, grabbing a bowl from the cupboard.

“What are you doing?” You ask as he begins to scoop some of the penne into his dish.

“Oh, you said there was a lot,” Minho responds, raising one eyebrow. “Can I not have some?”

“Sorry, go ahead,” you say, still slightly flustered by the abruptness of his entrance. Minho finishes filling his bowl and takes a seat at the kitchen island. As he begins to eat, the room is filled with a rather tense silence. You and Chris share an awkward look, unsure of what to do next.

Minho looks up from his dish, glancing between the two of you.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, grabbing his bowl and standing up from his chair. “I’m going to go eat this in my room. Have fun you two.”

Before you can say anything, Minho disappears around the corner, down the hallway leading to his room. You turn back towards Chris. The two of you stare at each other for a moment, before bursting out into a fit of laughter.

“He’s a bit of a mood-killer, huh?” You say, grabbing two bowls from the cupboard, offering him one.

Chris nods in thanks as he takes the bowl from your hands. “Just a little bit,” he laughs, beginning to scoop some of the pasta into both of your dishes.

The two of you take a seat at your counter, spending the meal talking and laughing. Nothing else, the moment has passed, but that doesn’t bother you. You enjoy Chris’ presence. His quick humour and thoughtful conversation.

It really is something that you could get used to, you decide.

After you’re done eating, you walk Chris over to the door, handing him his surplus of spice bottles and leftover spinach.

“Thank you for doing all this, seriously. The food was delicious, you’re seriously gifted. And also, thank you for covering for me, I really didn’t feel like listening to Minho die laughing over the burnt cookies,” you admit.

“It’s no problem, really,” Chris smiles. He shifts all the spices over to his right arm, letting his free hand fall down to his side. Softly, he takes your hand in his, letting your fingers intertwine.

“Listen,” he continues, shyly looking up from your hands to meet your eyes. “If you’re not doing anything tomorrow, you’re welcome to come over for a proper dinner. You know, so I can show you what I can actually make when it’s not a last minute attempt at salvaging a meal.”

You smile a goofy, genuine grin. “That sounds good to me,” you say. Hesitantly, you lean forwards, planting a soft, innocent kiss on his lips.

As you break apart, he hums contently. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, thanks for today. You made my night, Y/N.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Chris.” You watch as he walks over to his apartment door, which is of course, only a few meters away from your own. When he disappears into his own apartment, you sigh, closing your own door behind you. You lean against the frame, letting out a shaky breath, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. It’s been so long since you’ve held any genuine interest in someone, you feel almost giddy.

That is until you see Minho, leaning against the corner of the kitchen wall, watching you with his cheshire smirk.

“Dinner tomorrow, huh?” He asks, walking into the kitchen and scooping himself the last of the pasta.

“What about it?” You retort, not giving in to that pestering look in his eyes.

“Oh, nothing. I’m sure it’ll be good, considering Chan clearly made this,” Minho says, shoveling some of the pasta into his mouth.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say, grabbing two wine glasses from the cupboard.

“Save it, the lady at the front desk told me you almost set the apartment on fire,” Minho laughs as you pour the wine.

You let out a groan, handing him his glass. “God dammit.”

“Don’t blame her though,” he smiles, leaning back and taking a sip. “I wouldn’t have believed you could have cooked that anyway.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

“Had me fooled for a second there though,” he says, patting you on the head. “But more importantly, you like Chan huh?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right. Nice hickey, by the way,” he smirks, raising his eyebrows.

You pull up the collar of your shirt, casting him a glare. “Okay, maybe I do,” you shrug. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” he replies, before taking a second to think. “Just please don’t fuck him or anything tomorrow. Walls are thin.”

You laugh, taking your glass of wine and flopping yourself back down on the living room couch.

“Shut up, Minho.”

~

thanks for reading loves <3

[3rdgymbros]

— title; love, it never dies, it never goes away, it never fades.

— pairing; xiao x reader

— summary; in which, even as a ghost, you still find yourself watching over xiao

— notes; dedicated to @oikadiors. happy birthday, and thank you for being my friend.

Your voice is the first to break the stillness. “No luck?”

The blonde traveller snaps to attention, nearly stumbling down the stairs, and promptly backpedals into the wall. He hits the wooden panelling and stares dead ahead, at how you seem to have materialised from thin air, standing at the very bottom of the landing.

Appearing to be on the very cusp of youthhood, your features are perfect and beautiful – most stunning of all are your eyes, which sparkle with brightness and good humour. A bright blue flower is pinned to the front of your purple robes, which, though made from the finest silks, appear to be a tad old-fashioned, the design of which could never be replicated by the clothing shops so prominent in the harbour of Liyue.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Your lips come together, and you offer him an apologetic smile, your head dipping into a formal bow. “Were you talking to Xiao?”

The boy’s companion gapes at you. Her tone screams volumes of her displeasure. “You know that cranky Adeptus?”

“Fufu, you’re not the first person to call him that.” You use the sleeve of your robes to hide your smile and muffle your laughter. “I managed to get the gist of the conversation. The two of you need to see Xiao, right?”

The traveller relaxes a little, but alertness and curiosity continue to burn in his eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to know how, would you?”

You tap your finger to your lips, considering. “I might have an idea or two.”

Moments later, the three of you find yourselves inside the sugar-perfumed kitchen of Wangshu Inn. Pots bubble cheerfully on the stove, and you call out instructions to Aether and Paimon, watching from the sidelines and occasionally correcting the way that they hold a knife, or strain mixtures into bowls.

“What are we making now?” Aether asks, liberally adding tomatoes to his salad, which is full of bright colours and textures. He’d been so excited to make it that you hadn’t had the heart to tell him that Xiao only ate almond tofu – had been doing so for centuries on end now.

“This is my speciality. It’s called Tau Huay.” You say. You try to pick up a bowl, but your fingers mist through it, and you’re left with a sudden sense of loss. Aether and Paimon are both silent, but you’re acutely aware of their gazes, weighing heavily upon your shoulders. Then you push a smile onto your lips that is broken in several spots. “Would you be willing to help me make it?”

It’s a sweet dish. Almost as sweet as the almond tofu. You know the recipe by heart. Chilled soyabean milk, agar powder, flavoured with a generous amount of sweet ginger syrup. Xiao had loved it, had always fallen upon your cooking with an eagerness that had melted your heart. You remember this much. Your breath catches in your throat.

It’s hard for you to see through the sudden well of tears that threatens.

“Aren’t you coming?” Aether asks, bearing a tray with three of the offerings balanced precariously upon it.

Your voice is scraped raw. “Of course.”

The walk up the stairs is short, but to you, it feels like an eternity, with how slowly you’re moving, your movements mechanical as you focus on placing first one foot in front of you, then the other. Aether and Paimon soon leave you behind in their haste to see Xiao. And in their wake, there is a sudden, hollow silence, accompanied by a frigid soreness buried so deep inside that no amount of heat will be able to wring it out.

“Where did you get this?” Xiao’s voice is sharp, and not nearly as steady as he would have hoped.

Your chest feels hollow. Everything inside you uncoils.

Time is a funny thing. It means nothing to an Adeptus, or to a ghost such as yourself. It’s been centuries since you’ve last seen him, and you find yourself drinking in his every feature; the bright gold of his eyes, his delicate features, the choppy length of his hair. Just looking at him is enough to bring you to times long gone. You can still remember the smell of his skin, the warmth in his eyes when he’d stared at you when he thought you weren’t looking, the calloused roughness of his hands that were exceedingly gentle as they’d held yours.

“That person, there – They told us to make it.”

“Where?”

Comprehension flickers across Aether’s face, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. Your inability to cook. The way you’d materialised from thin air. The oddness of your clothes. “Can’t you see them? They’re standing by the door, just over there.”

You’ve never seen Xiao move so quickly before. He’s standing before you almost instantly, his features contorted as he lifts up a hand, trying desperately to hold onto what little of you there still is.

But it’s a futile effort.

He can’t see you.

He can’t touch you.

You can only watch as his fingers slip through the air, leaving you with a spark of sadness. Your heart twists in your chest, your lips open in a silent cry. Your own pain is reflected upon his face; it’s an expression the two of you are intimately familiar with.

It is a curious thing, watching someone so strong fall to pieces. How quietly Xiao has endured everything that has fallen upon him. But now, with you standing so close, and yet so far from him, the smallest sound escapes from his parted lips, the quietest breaking of a soul.

[babyybitchhh]

Arlong x Reader 18+

Rating: Explicit/R-18+

Words: 4,609

Warnings: noncon/dubcon, monster fucking (?), size difference, over sized genitalia and the buckets of cum to go with it, oral sex, fellatio, eventual consent

A/N: After consulting with my editor in chief, we agreed that the fishmen probably feel a bit like dolphins - firm to the touch but stupidly smooth, a bit clammy - so that's where my descriptive inspiration for this one came from. Y'know. Just in case anyone ends up wondering what the fuck I was smoking while I wrote this. lol And as always, please enjoy! : )

♥♥♥♥

Arlong was not what you would consider a nice man.

There was something mean about him, and undeniably so, but the way he crowds you against the wall late one evening still manages to catch you off guard. You’d thought you had already seen everything his cruelty had to offer. Foolishly, you’d believed that there was a certain line even someone like him would not cross.

Regrettably, you’d been wrong about that.

“W - what are you doing?”

“Don’t be coy.” He mutters while he idly, possessively toys with a strand of your hair between his webbed fingers. “I know you’ve been looking forward to this.”

The cloying stink of booze on his breath hits you all at once and you wrinkle your nose in distaste. You don’t mean to do it. You regret it almost instantly but Arlong doesn’t care for the why or the how, or the rushed apology already forming on the tip of your tongue. All he sees is the discomfort etched across your expression and his demeanor responds in kind, becoming surly and aggressive in the same moment.

With a rumbling grunt, he steps into you and bodily shoves you against the wall. The amount of force in just that simple gesture has you quailing under the imposing weight of him even as you start to shirk away. You think to bolt for safety a little too late and his clammy hand takes advantage of that split second indecision to grab your chin, forcing your head up to look at him.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart? Hm?” He curls himself over you, bracing his other arm high above your head on the wall so he can lean close and get in your face. You’ve never felt quite so minuscule as you do standing there, frozen to the spot and horribly dwarfed by the towering fishman who’s hacksaw nose was mere inches from yours now.

With each passing second, it was becoming exceedingly hard not to panic.

“Am I not to your liking? Is that it? You’ve really never thought about this before?”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You aren’t sure what to say. You don’t know what it is he wants to hear.

Arlong doesn’t wait around for a proper response, though, and instead trails smooth, rubbery fingers down your neck to your shoulder, and then further still to grasp your wrist. You put up no resistance when he pulls, unceremoniously directing your slack hand to the front of his shorts and you jolt at the firm weight pressing up into your palm.

Sucking in a stilted gasp, your eyes go wide at him. “I - I haven’t - -“

“No?” He cuts across you with a faintly disappointed sigh. “Not even a little? You’re not at all curious?”

You whimper, shaking your head when he squeezes and manually forces your hand to close around the stiff outline in his pants. It was big and still growing, as evidenced by the eager twitch it gives at your touch. Shame immediately washes over you when your pussy clenches, the blood in your neck pounding as you try to turn away from him.

“Of course not, w - what would I have to be curious about?”

“You ever seen a fishman’s cock before?”

Your ears were starting to burn. “Nuh … no. Please, Arlong. I don’t - -“

“Come on. I’m sure you’ll like it. There isn’t anything else like it in the whole world, y’know. One of a kind.”

Same as before, he doesn’t give you a chance to sort through your thoughts before taking the incentive. His unoccupied hand drops from the wall and tugs at the waistband of his shorts even while he wrests your twisting hand where he wants it to be. You struggle wildly now, adrenaline fueled fear making you desperate and jerky, but he’s much too strong to break free from. You were trapped.

Horrified, you screw your eyes shut before you can catch a glimpse of what’s hanging between his legs. You’d never seen one before - not a fishman’s, and you would have preferred to keep it that way. The hushed rumors you’d overheard about encounters between people like Arlong and humans such as yourself were nothing kind, after all.

But with very little effort on his part, he clamps your hand into place and you go stock-still at the sensation of porcelain smooth, velvety skin under your fingertips. It doesn’t feel half as repulsive as you’d imagined it would. And, you’re surprised to find, it doesn’t look anywhere near as unnatural as you’d assumed it to be when you apprehensively crack your eyes open and glance at it.

What you had in your hand was just a cock. Nothing more and nothing less.

Albeit a rather large, hefty cock that was a slightly darker shade of blue than the rest of him but still by all accounts a normal looking appendage. If it hadn’t been for it’s unusual color and the staggering size, you could have easily mistaken it for a human’s.

Embarrassed, you flounder for something to say. “It’s … it’s rather nice, isn’t it?”

Arlong snorts and displaces a few of your wispy flyaways with the resulting puff of air, making you shudder between him and the wall. “Don’t try to bullshit me. S’not polite.”

“I’m not.” You insist, shyly forcing your gaze up to meet his. “I expected something different, that’s all.”

“Like what?” He murmurs as he leans his weight into you, not so subtly pinning you under him. You swallow hard, hesitant to say it. But either by virtue of being mildly intoxicated or genuine sincerity on his part, you felt a strange sort of inclination to be honest with him.

“Frankly, I thought it would be more monstrous.”

Arlong manages to catch you off guard again when he outright laughs at that. “Give it time. I’m not fully hard yet.”

Your eyes go big as saucers. “W - wha - -“

He laughs again, somehow even louder this time, and you start to quake with renewed vigor as his cock does indeed continue to twitch and grow in your hand. You couldn’t believe that it would get any bigger than it already was but the proof was right in front of your face. It was still filling out, becoming increasingly more weighty in your palm, and that knowledge terrified you far more than you were willing to admit.

“Don’t look so scared.” He coos, anything but sympathetic when he notices the obvious disquiet casting a shadow over your face. His suddenly good mood did not bode well for you at all. “You said it was nice, didn’t you?”

“Well … well, yes, but - -“

“Here. Let me show you something.”

Releasing his hold on you, Arlong clamps his moist palm down on the back of your neck and unceremoniously steers you forward, away from the wall. You don’t even think to fight it. And how could you when your fate was already sealed? You’d given him an inch by conceding that his cock was not entirely disagreeable and now he was taking a mile.

It was your own fault, really.

“Wait - hold on.” You stammer, panic suddenly creeping into your voice when you realize he was making a beeline with you for the nearest chair. “I didn’t mean it like that, Arlong! I just - -“

“You just what?” He sneers. “Felt like teasing me some more? Thought it’d be funny to tempt me with that pretty little mouth of yours again?”

You sputter in red faced affront. “I never - -“

Cutting you off yet again, he forcefully shoves you down onto your knees. Hard.

You seethe at the splintering pain racing up your legs as he pivots around you to plop down on the waiting seat, his ever present grip on the back of your neck quickly dragging you closer. Arlong’s anticipation for what was coming next was almost palpable, the eager excitement in his motions clear as day. In a last ditch effort, you try to twist away from him but he holds firm even as he works to tug his shorts the rest of the way down with the opposite hand.

“I know you’ve thought about this.” He says it again, breathy now, as if repetition would somehow make it true. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, sweetheart. There’s no need to hide it.”

Whatever biting insult you were going to spit at him catches in your throat and momentarily chokes you when he gets his pants down over his knees, cock springing up in all its full glory. You outright stare, your mouth going dry. Mind blank and pussy aching with phantom pain.

You weren’t sure what he expected you to do with it. He was far too big to fit in any human orifice, surely; but if he was at all concerned about the logistics involved he certainly didn’t show it.

Casually kicking his shorts off, Arlong plants his feet firmly on the floor and shuffles his long legs wide open to welcome you in. The heavy sway of his hanging nutsack seems to taunt you, silently promising a steaming hot load that you weren’t prepared to take. You audibly gulp down your nerves as he pulls you closer, right up against him until the sinfully smooth shaft of his cock is pressed tight against your cheek. It was hard to breathe through the potently masculine musk assaulting your nose and even harder to come to terms with the way your cunt gushes in response to it.

Why was this turning you on so much?

“Arlong … please!” You mewl, helpless to stop it when he relentlessly rubs his cock against your face as if to scent you. “Please listen to me. I never intentionally tried to tease you. I’m sorry …”

“Liar.” A sharp thwack against your cheek accompanies this accusation, the fleshy head of his dick leaving a sharp sting in its wake. “You want me. Just admit that. If you do, your punishment for being such a flirty slut won’t be so severe.”

You bristle at that, trying once again to recoil from him, but he merely pinches your neck even tighter to keep you in place. All you can do is watch in mounting horror as he takes his cock in the opposite hand and starts to pump it, slowly, as if to coax it that last little bit harder. The prominent vein running along the underside visibly throbs for you while he does it, pushing against the thin layer of skin in a rhythmic beat which probably would have flattered you under better circumstances. You hadn’t thought he’d get this worked up over you.

But, to be fair, you also hadn’t expected Arlong to be interested in a human woman in the first place.

“Like the view? You’re going to be a good girl and suck it for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Dazedly, you watch the steady up and down motion of his webbed hand until you eventually find yourself nodding along with it. You felt vaguely like an idiot for consenting to this but there was no denying how tantalizing he looked. For better or worse, you were willing to take the risk.

And that seems to amuse him a great deal, his raspy laugh misting over you even as he adds a twist to his pumping motion, tugging at the foreskin in the process. Scandalized surprise rushes to the forefront of your mind when you catch your first peek of the glans and realize it’s a blue so dark and rich it was almost purple. It’s such a stark contrast from the rest of his uniquely pigmented skin that you immediately want to see more of it, and you lean forward to get a better look with nothing short of rapt fascination. You’d never seen anything quite like it before.

“You’re that interested now?” He murmurs knowingly, snickering faintly under his breath.

“Only a little …”

“Liar.”

But Arlong’s tone holds no real bite this time, and he graciously gives you what you want by rolling the meaty tip back to tuck it behind the ridged glans. The blunt head is just as impossibly smooth as the rest of him, his skin entirely free of pores or blemishes, and so firm that you aren’t sure if there will be any give to it. You’re immediately reminded that you and him were not the same, the differences between you two as glaring as ever.

Without missing a beat, you decide you no longer care.

Reaching up, you carefully take him in hand and a thrill runs through you at the sensation. He’s every bit as silky as he looks but when you experimentally squeeze, it becomes apparent that he’s also relentlessly stiff. You’d thought, maybe, it was just the muscle bound parts of him that were as unyielding as they appeared to be but even this area was so densely padded with fatty insulation that it offered very little cushion. It seemed, then, that the only truly soft spot on his body was probably his ballsack.

Tentatively, you rove your gaze up to look at him. “Can I really?”

“I’ll be pissed if you don’t.”

You scoff, trying not to smile, but when that fails you lean up to drag your tongue along the throbbing vein and hide the curl of your mouth. A triumphant sigh puffs out of him, the hand on the back of your neck relaxing slightly, but he makes no move to completely let go of you yet. The weight of his palm spurs you on and you go up a little higher to flick at the glans, pleasantly surprised at the taste of him. Salty and strong, yet not repugnant. It was a heady flavor, one you’ve never sampled before, and you can’t help but wonder if this is how all fishmen taste. It was strangely intoxicating.

“There’s my good girl. That’s it.” He goads you, leaning back into the chair so he can fully appreciate the sight of you on your knees for him. “Is it as good as you thought it’d be? All you had to do was ask and I would have let you do this a lot sooner, you know.”

Resisting the urge to snap at him to shut up, you use your grip on his cock to angle the tip towards your face. The narrow slit in the center of that purple-blue bud winks at you, oozing a fresh bead of slick precum that glistens faintly in the overhead light. Sticking your tongue out, you lap it up with a hunger you hadn’t expected from yourself and a fresh wave of bitter salt swarms your tastebuds. You moan, very quietly, against the glans before sealing your lips around it.

Arlong’s lean thighs give the faintest jolt in response, his pelvis lifting just enough to nudge his dick a little deeper into your mouth. You allow it, for the time being, far too caught up in the exquisite taste of him to worry about his propensity for being a bit pushy. It was in his nature, after all.

But when you try to take more of him on your own, it quickly becomes apparent that your earlier estimation of him had been right on the money. He was much too large to comfortably fit and you only make it a few inches down before your jaw starts to scream in protest. You pull back to suckle on the spongy head for a moment, laving it with your tongue before deciding to try again. The progress you make is negligible at best, your lips straining around his girth as you furrow your brows and noise a muffled sound of frustration around him.

“Don’t try to force it, sweetheart. You’ll just hurt yourself.” He chuckles, the hand on the back of your neck sliding higher to curl around the curve of your skull. His palm is massive in comparison and you feel your cheeks start to warm when he condescendingly pats your head, tutting at you. “You’ll have to practice hard if you want to take it all someday.”

The heat inside your gut sparks anew as your eyes snap up at his face. He smirks right back, razor sharp rows of teeth glinting dangerously and reminding you, once again, that he was a real threat. An apex predator of the most deadly kind, and you were knelt at his feet sucking his cock like a good little pet. You should have been ashamed of yourself. You probably were going to be ashamed of yourself, later, when the carnal high faded and your senses returned.

For now, though, you’d already made peace with your fate and you pointedly give his cock a rough tug. That only makes Arlong’s lascivious grin widen, though, and you’re left with no other choice but come up off him with a wet, smacking pop to give your jaw a break.

Tilting your head back while you suck in a much needed lung full of air, you pull his cock to your open mouth and set it along your tongue. He hums appreciatively at the visual while you pump the length of him with your hand, letting more precum ooze out of him and onto your waiting palette. A faltering groan rises in the back of your throat at the taste, so heady and potent that it makes your mind spin dizzyingly fast. You couldn’t get enough.

“Heh. I take it you like it then?”

In lieu of an answer, you seal your lips around him and lean forward again, glancing up at Arlong through the fall of your lashes. His stilted sigh of approval rushes straight to your cunt, and you give a needy little squirm as he drags webbed fingers along the side of your face to touch at the pulled taught corner of your mouth. Rubbery palm skirting along your cheek, he reaches further back and then clamps down on the nape of your neck so he can pull you somehow even closer to him.

You’re pressed flush against the chair by the time he’s satisfied, neck straining to accommodate the length of his cock. Your unoccupied hand comes up to brace against his thigh when he starts to guide you through a bobbing motion, the stuffed full schlucking noise of your mouth almost unbearably loud in the otherwise quiet room. It sounds borderline obscene to you but he appears to enjoy it, resting his head against the back of the chair and sighing up at the ceiling with unmistakable pleasure coloring the exhalation.

Your pussy clenches at the sight of Arlong enjoying himself so much, enjoying what you were doing to him, and you offer the glans another enthusiastic suck in return. His fingers twitch against your neck and squeeze, just this side of painful. But he does a good job keeping himself in check, and you put a little more effort into pumping the part of him that your lips can’t reach by way of thanks. He could all too easily rip you in half - in more ways than one - so you appreciated the restraint he was showing.

He doesn’t even seem to notice the change in your hands pace though, his mouth running on drunken autopilot now that he’s let his guard down. Now that he’s fully given himself over to the wet warmth of your maw, he was uncharacteristically eager to heap his praises on you and you were more than happy to soak it all up.

“My good, good girl. Yeah, you like that cock, don’t you, baby? You love it. I can tell. You’ll never want another human to fuck you after I’m done. I’m gonna’ ruin you, you know that? So damn good for me …”

The tingling warmth that spreads through you makes it hard to think straight, your vision starting to swim as if you were looking through a foggy fish eye lense. You never thought he’d talk to you that way. Didn't think he could stand your kind enough to regard you as anything other than a nuisance to tolerate for the sake of his own goals. It may have just been the booze talking, you knew that, but you were still rather pleased by this turn of events anyway.

Your jaw was beginning to ache in earnest, though, and you whimper around his cock as you drag your hand down off his thigh to squeeze in between Arlong’s legs. Gently, you caress the heavy weight of his ballsack, delighted to find that it was just as soft and vulnerable as you’d suspected it would be. He hisses at the contact, hips lifting off the seat of the chair again, but he does it a little too roughly this time and you gag.

Seething through clenched teeth, he readjusts his hold on the back of your head, gets a better grip and slowly thrusts up into your mouth. The careful way he does it surprises you slightly, but you don’t get a chance to linger on that thought for very long because he immediately repeats the motion without giving you a moment to adjust and your eyes start to mist up. He doesn’t quite reach your throat like this, your lips already stretched to their limit and unable to accommodate any more of him, and yet that doesn’t stop you from choking with each drawn out flex of his hips. You were going to be sick at this rate.

Sucking in a faltering wet breath through your nose, you try to brace yourself for his next upward stroke. You weren’t sure how much more of this your gag reflex could take, or your poor jaw for that matter. Being on the receiving end of Arlong’s praises wasn’t worth it if you just ended up spewing your guts all over him, ruining everything in the end. Plus, you were pretty sure he’d just redact everything he’d said if it came down to that. You were damned either way.

Deciding it was best to take a moment and regroup, lest the unthinkable happen, you try to pull off him but the hand on your head keeps you firmly in place. You let out a muffled squawk, as confused as you were terrified of what would happen if he kept going like this. But he doesn’t seem to share any such concerns, and your gaze frantically shoots up at his face when he just keeps shallowly pumping into your mouth. He wasn’t even looking at you, though, his eyes closed and turned up at the ceiling.

“That’s it. Just a little more. I know it probably hurts, sweetheart, but just endure it a little bit longer for me, okay? I’m getting close … I’m getting so close, baby. Can you feel it? I’m gonna’ give you such a big load … ngh, you’ll never be able to swallow it all, but that’s okay. Just … haah, just keep it in your sweet little mouth a bit longer, okay?”

You don’t exactly have a choice in the matter, your cheeks burning hot as reflexive tears streak down your face. Abandoning his balls, you dig trembling fingers into the meat of Arlong’s inner thigh as a painful reminder that you were working on borrowed time here. But he seems to enjoy that, the groaning burst of air that puffs out of him in a sudden rush sending sympathetic shockwaves racing down your spine. Your panties were soaked at this point, uncomfortably clinging to your sticky cunt as you rock forward in a fruitless bid for relief. It was all you could do just to keep your lunch down, though, and you were far too lightheaded to even consider slipping your hand between your legs to rub circles into your clit. It wouldn’t take much to send you over the edge, either.

Even through your clothes, you were sure to cum quick - but how could you possibly think about that right now when he was still thrusting into your mouth at such a staggered pace that you felt as violated as if he’d properly fucked you? It didn’t make sense, how he had such a powerful effect on you when he’d barely even touched you so far. Almost like he had some sort of potent aphrodisiac at his deploy.

Could this possibly be a fishman, thing or was it just an Arlong thing?

“Oooh yeah, baby, right there. Right there. Your mouth feels so damn good. Are you ready? I’m gonna’ give it to you now … fuck, I’m cumming, baby, I’m cumming!”

With a feral, animalistic grunt, Arlong thrusts up off the chair and shoves his cock as far into your mouth as it will go. You sputter around him, frantically noising as your throat constricts and heaves against the pressure. In the same moment, he gives a full bodied shudder and hot, thick ropes shoot out of him to pool at the base of your tongue. Your eyes promptly roll back as you choke around his bubbling semen, face wet with tears and snot, and perspiration, but he doesn’t stop. It just keeps coming out of him, flooding your mouth until you’re sure you’ll drown in it.

So blissfully numb by the time he finally pulls out, you almost don’t notice the absence. It’s only when a fresh string of ejaculate plops heavy against your cheek that you realize he's cumming on your face now, and you obediently stick your tongue out to catch the salty discharge. He doesn’t seem to be aiming for your mouth, though, and you’re left with no other choice than to sit there and let him paint your face white until the pulses gradually slow to a stop some moments later.

The last bit oozes out of him, achingly drained from the bottom of his balls it would seem, as he squeezes it from the base up with an accompanying guttural moan. You let him push your head back down without protest and lap up the sticky bead, much to Arlong’s heaving pleasure.

He was still panting from the exertion, trying to catch his breath, and you were still struggling to swallow the excessive cum in your mouth so you could breathe at all. An odd sense of peace settles in the aftermath and you think maybe, in a far off, dreamy sort of way, maybe he wasn’t quite as mean as you’d pegged him. Someone inherently cruel wouldn’t have been so mindful of your physical limitations, right?

You’re pretty sure that’s not how it usually goes, anyway.

Gathering yourself to the best of your ability, you glance down at the front of your shirt only to outright grimace. You were absolutely coated in sheets of fast drying cum, and you weren’t so sure it wouldn’t stain. Dammit.

“So, uh. Do you always cum buckets, or was that all just for little ol’ me?” You venture to ask, not the least bit surprised when your voice comes out a raspy mess. You’d definitely need some warm tea after this.

“It’s a fishman thing.” He says rather flippantly, clearly unconcerned. “You’ll get used to it.”

Your head comes up in stark surprise. Well. That certainly answered your earlier question.

“Y’know,” you say, speaking cautiously slow. “That sounds an awful lot like you’re planning on doing this again, boss.”

Arlong actually has the audacity to smirk at you, his pale eyes dancing with what could only be mischief, and a not entirely unpleasant shudder promptly races through you in response.

“Again? We haven’t even finished the first time, sweetheart.”

[hopefullystillatheatrestudent]

i'm so excited about you taking asks again ahhhh okay so. if you'd absolutely had to choose. what would be your top 5 cockles moments, and why? thank you ily <3

here’s the thing: there are so many routes i could go down with this, because cockles moments come in all shapes and sizes and formats. these include moments from their panels, their bloopers, the footage we get when they don’t even know they’re being recorded, stories being passed down from photo ops & autographs(one of my personal favorite ways to get cockles, tbh, because they’re all insane), and social media(tweets to each other, instagram posts & comments, etc.). 

SO! since many a list like this has already been made, and i want to stand out from the crowd, what i’m gonna do is definitively give the number one spot to each of these five categories.(i might even throw in honourable mentions because they’re so despicably in love that they warrant that. i really put my whole pussy into this, guys, i hope you’re happy.) 

disclaimer: these are my own personal opinions. but that also means i’m right. so. enjoy. 

number one: top cockles panel moment

so we’re starting off with a bang, because how do you even BEGIN to rank what atrocities jensen and misha commit at jibcon. every single one they’ve had is damning in it’s own right, for different reasons.

however, considering just how much unabashed fuckery they’ve given us to sift through, it’s a good thing i do have a personal favorite despite it all. it’s heartwarming, the sweetest thing i’ve ever seen, AND it’s jarringly cinematic - mainly because it has a whole ass arc to it that was years in the making. it might even be surprising to some people, but my favorite cockles panel moment, and what i consider the one that encompasses their entire gut-wrenching journey from 2008-2013 in the most sweepingly romantic gesture possible, is this one.

i want this burned into my retinas. i am not even joking. when i'm through with my explanation, let me convince you why this is thee most romantic cockles moment of all time.

first, some history: people call this the resume off, but many seem to forget the botched attempt at a resume off a year prior. and yes, you guessed it: it's during their break up. it's a juicy time period for a reason, guys. it came across as exceedingly one-sided and VERY awkward. let me refresh your memory as to just how bad it was, and just how hard jensen was trying and ultimately failing at winning misha over: the funniest part of the whole resume off in 2013??? every joke/bit had literally already been made/done. they were just going through the motions again, but the difference THIS time...is that misha reciprocated jensen's energy. it. is. fascinating. i want to get into it more detail in another post, and i'll link it here when i'm done, but the main takeaway, i think, and the main difference that showcases how much they've grown in a year, is that in jib 3, misha flat out refused to do an accent, and this time around, he indulges jensen for literal minutes. when i tell you they're crazy, they're crazy. i can't wait to actually dive into it later.

ANYWAY, the resume off culminates in this moment here. and, like, a million things happen in this gifset. actually, more like a million and one. the music starts playingneediremindyouthatthesongissingingintherain(h e l p), misha starts dancing, jensen 'perpetually fake grumpy' ackles lets misha think he's not going to join, misha sits down defeated, but no!!! that was jensen's plan all along(look at his stupid fucking smirk) and he offers his arm to his dance partner who immediately grins like a fool, jensen then leads misha into their kick step, they perfectly synchronise and let loose, and are then very clearly having the time of their lives, hanging off of each other with joy and ease. from their expressions alone i can tell that this moment is so. so. so. so! much more than what initially meets the eye. i mean-misha is fighting back the biggest smile i've ever seen. to me, it reads like jensen is offering something to misha, something that misha kind of gave up on expecting, and him offering his arm like that is like, a surprise to him in the best possible way(and it's so not platonic, let me just say that.) as soon as jensen did that, it ushered in a new era of cockles. this panel is jensen and misha's favourite for a reason, and i think this moment is the biggest clue as to why.

whew!!! ok. that took a lot out of me and that was only point one. moving on,

number two: top cockles blooper moment

cockles bloopers hold an extremely special place in my heart, because it shows just how fucking disastrous jensen and misha are. they are so goddamn infatuated with each other that they HOLD UP PRODUCTION ALL THE TIME TO FLIRT WITH EACH OTHER(???). let me repeat. let it sink in. jensen ackles; arguably one of the most professional actors on that show who puts everything he has into each scene, with mountains and mountains of notes to prove it: would rather hold up production to flirt with misha collins. this sounds fake. it's not. he does it. all. the. time. and here's the thing guys!!! i'm gonna let you in on a secret!!! misha loves it. he loveesssss it. on top of that-misha collins: overlooked because he's pranked and people assume he's unprofessional as well, but his only pranks are in retaliation/off-set, and he rarely if EVER causes problems if he can help it....lets himself get carried away when it comes to jensen making kissy faces at him!!! are you actually kidding me!!! i mean. misha. it's just a face. you've seen it a million times. i don't buy that it triggers something in you that strongly....you like it, and you like jensen's reaction. you can't fool me!!! lisa berry's face in that one gifset shows just how fed up the crew is with their gross, coupley boyfriend antics.

i could pull up so many examples. sooooooo many. but my favourite was sealed since the moment i saw it.

i actually already wrote an analysis on it but i can't find it :(((( which SUCKS because i really unpacked the whole thing. i'll try to summarise.

basically, a backstory is part of this too!!! jensen and misha both had a really really hard time with this scene(because it's explicitly romantic there i said it), they sat down for hours and poured over their scripts together, they were super super nervous going into filming, both of them, jensen especially, were super hard on themselves for their performances not being true to their characters but they both complimented the other's work(boyfriend moments fr). so, yeah. they weren't confident going into shooting. and how do they get themselves to feel better???? by cuddling each other, apparently.

a lot. a LOT. happens in this specific blooper. to the point that i saw it years before i knew about cockles and it raised all sorts of flags for me.

1) stop pulling my face towards your crotch(as a thinly veiled request that misha would, in fact, move jensen's face towards his crotch, considering it was jensen moving himself there in the first place. also, why so comfy down there guys???) 2) you're my baby daddy i know(in the most intimate voice i've ever heard please) 3) i know, i know, i love you too i didn't say i love you i know but you wanted to say it etc. misha's right, of course. that's what jensen meant.

it just reeks of comfort, familiarity and intimacy between the two, and it's a moment that is extremely sweet and silly at the same time. they're so <3

number three: top cockles found footage moment

WONDERFUL category. truly the culmination of the cockles experience. many people have said that shipping cockles doesn't work because 'they're just onstage you dummies!! they're playing it up for the audience!!!' here's the thing, love. i could not disagree with you more. once you climb your way up the cockles ladder, you soon learn that they are, in fact, playing their dynamic DOWN, not up. they really are just Like That™, and they could not care less about the paying audience, if we're being honest, considering how much time they take to giggle with each other and refuse to let the audience in on the joke. and i love them for it <3

anyway, my point is that this category is for all you naysayers out there, all you 'jensen and misha's relationship is just for show and is real life queerbaiting'(?????lordhelp???) oh yeah? ok, explain this.

he. he. he calls jensen sweetheart. literally enough said. there's nothing to really add here, except, misha and jared then immediately engage in damage control. jared's method is distraction and misha's is retconning('get out of the car, dude') this was what got me to buy into the cockles dumpster for GOOD good. you don't call your buddy sweetheart accidentally and sound so completely earnest while doing it! especially not when that buddy is jensen ackles!!! you think he would let any of his friends call him that? do you?

one more thing; if it was a slip of the tongue, little mouth thing or whatever, you think jared wouldn't have jumped on it immediately??? i can hear it now. 'did you just call him SWEETHEART???' yeah. that's what i thought. you know why he didn't? because it was too revealing.

number four: top cockles autograph moment

i mean, i think we all know what it's gonna be, and if you don't, well, do i have the piece de cockles resistance that is gonna send you over the edge.

if you haven't heard of this story by now, as a cockles, truther, i'm gonna go ahead and get you to read it, because there is no possible heterosexual explanation for any of it, and you're fooling yourself if you think otherwise.

spoiler alert: it's the story where phones weren't allowed in an auto session, jensen nuzzles himself in misha's hair, leans his full body weight onto him, holds his hand, etc. etc. i'm imploding just repeating this back, actually. also, just, the sheer amount of stories from photo ops where they tackle hug each other or slap each other's asses or sing romantic songs to each other or almost kiss is, frankly, a lot. if i could wish for anything, it would be to witness them in person.

and finally,

number five: top cockles social media moment

this one is super difficult, because there's obviously a lot to choose from. but you know what? full send, i'm going with this one:

i just. what to say about this. how often do misha and jensen watch sunsets together for it to qualify as ‘always’ ??? why are sunsets synonymous with their relationship??? that’s like??? a very romantic thing????? ‘this guy’??? the fact that it’s a CANDID??? i don’t know guys.

that could have been better but i am TIRED so. there you go rose ily

[muchadowriting]

Just Like That- Part 25

Tom Hiddleston x teacher!reader

Masterlist Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4,  Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18, Part 19, Part 20, Part 21, Part 22, Part 23, Part 24 Words: 2.6K Story Summary: What happens when Tom is forced to have a stronger social media presence? How does he respond when teacher!reader sends him a message with one of her student’s writing assignments about Loki?

Part Summary: Everything comes to a head as you two have waited long enough to have one another... Song Influence: “You Shook Me All Night Long” by ACDC

“We need to get out of here,” Tom growled against your lips, seemingly unaware of the onlookers. He had other motives.

The people hadn’t realized that they were watching Tom Hiddleston and his girlfriend profess their love for one another. They did, however, note that these two people were soaked, making out, and dangerously close to taking each others’ clothes off. Honestly, they weren’t far off from the truth.

“That’s a fucking understatement.” If your grip tightened anymore, Tom was going to be without a shirt. Hungry lips went searching for more, aggressively nipping at anything you could get your teeth on. Lips. Jaw. Neck.

“Love,” he groaned weakly. “If we don’t stop now, I’m taking you right here. Right now.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Hiddleston.”

And for a brief moment, you both considered the damaging repercussions. His face would be in the tabloids. He’d lose any sort of credence as a respectable actor. You’d lose your job. No one wanted a woman who had sex in the middle of a park teaching their babies.

Fuck them.

“Alright, love birds. Get a room—,” echoed throughout the park as the radio DJ had spotted the two making out from across the field. Before you two could look over, the music stylings of ACDC began to play with the familiar “You Shook Me All Night Long.”

A faint chuckle escaped Tom’s lips as he finally pulled away from you. “He has a point.”

You wanted to smack him for daring to pull away from you, but once there was some space between you two—it was a bit easier to think clearly. Just a bit. Collecting your purse, you carefully maneuvered yourself so you didn’t give anyone more of a show.

“We’re getting a car,” you informed him, as Tom had already stood up. Your breathing remained quick and didn’t slow down, Tom towering over you. Did he get taller?

“Anything to get us back to the room faster, darling,” he agreed, placing a hand along your waist.

Now the logical thing to do would be to keep your distance from one another until you had some privacy. Is that what happened? Of course not. Waiting beside the road, Tom stayed tangled around you as you got an uber.

“Knocking me out with those American thighs,” beard rubbing against the soft skin of your earlobe. Body melting against his, the only thing keeping you upright was his hold on you. His deep chuckle telling you that he was exceedingly pleased with himself.

Once you were both secure in the car and you had instructed the driver to take you to the back entry of the hotel, you took advantage of the privacy offered. Hand immediately cupped between Tom’s leg, earning a groan on both your parts. Even housed beneath the wet fabric, you could feel just how very hard he was for you. And you knew—it was all for you. Growling, outright growling for you, he devoured your lips. Tongue swirled inside the warmth your mouth provided. Your need for him building, vaguely wondering if he could make you peak before ever entering your wet center.

“We still need condoms,” accent thick against your lips as a hand moved to tangle into your damp ponytail.

“Fuck it,” you asserted, pulling his bottom lip towards you, grinning as you felt him throb against your hand.

It took Tom everything he had in him to focus on the conversation and not slipping a hand beneath your skirt to check if you were telling the truth earlier. “Are you sure? But—.”

“Doesn’t matter,” an interrupted challenge. “Let’s have a baby. We’ll have a litter of them. I’m talking Von Trapp amount,” the words tumbling from your lips, filled with lust and love for the man you were currently tangled in. Had you not been overpowered with need you could have pulled together some scrap of sanity. Not now. All you wanted was him.

Judging by the way Tom’s hips bucked against your hand, and the guttural moan that escaped his lips–he had no qualms with your suggestion. Again, if either of you weren’t nearly as turned on—you’d recognize that you should probably stop and get condoms. But all Tom could picture was fucking you senseless, putting a baby in you, and making sure everyone knew you were his.

“Ours,” he offered, splaying a hand out against your abdomen that sent unexpected sparks right down to your core. Oh, this was a new kink.

“Ours,” you breathed out helplessly, free hand coming to rest over his hand—all you could picture was him filling you up to your absolute breaking point.

“Mine,” he claimed, pulling you closer despite there already being so little room between you two. At least now, the angle made it near impossible for the driver to notice how Tom’s hand slid right up your thigh—and determined you indeed weren’t wearing anything underneath that dress of yours.

As soon as warm fingers found their way to your slippery folds, you squeaked. “Quiet, baby,” Tom cooed, watching as your eyes had slid closed.

You had never been anyone’s baby–and you had never heard the term come from the man before. It was now your new favorite word in the English language.

“Be a good girl,” he ordered and again, were these normal circumstances—you would have thrown a sarcastic remark his way. You weren’t anyone’s good girl.

“Yes, sir.”

Well, that was wildly inaccurate now.

“I’m the only one who gets to hear those delectable noises,” he whispered into your ear, which was hard to concentrate on since he punctuated his point by sliding a finger up and down your wet folds. “Those noises belong to me.”

You nodded dumbly, wishing you could contribute to this conversation, but honestly—did you know how to speak anymore?

“And this—,” he swiped again, this time pausing right before your opening. You didn’t have a clue how many fingers slipped inside of you. At this point, it had been such a long time since anything was in you—it felt like a semi-truck. Again, if you had any sense about you, you’d worry just how exactly Tom was going to fit inside of you. “Mine…”

“Yours,” you chimed in, situating your hips to accommodate his fingers. Your mouth opened to let out another gasp, but Tom was quick to capture your lips.

Thankfully he did render your mouth incapable,  as the car hit a pothole, making your eyes go wide as everything pulsed inside of you. Tom + the Atlanta infrastructure was about to make you cum.

The car came to a stop shortly after, followed by a very awkward farewell from your driver. “Thank you!” you called as you slipped out of the seat, praying that the seats were wet because you two had literally been doused.

The back entrance to the hotel was always less crowded than the main lobby, which was needed since Tom had cracked his mask—-and you were likely dripping. You would have thought that the journey to the elevator would have dimmed either of your desires, but it certainly had not. Slipping into the empty elevator was a sign to continue where you both left off in the car. Suddenly, your back was against the glass, Tom pressing his length to your abdomen.

You were twitching with need. And so was he.

“Tell me—,”eyes peering up into those stormy depths. You adored how dark his eyes became when he craved you. “---say it again.”

He searched your eyes for just a moment, hands securely against your hips. “I love you,” he knew what you wanted to hear and without him needing to request—

“I love you too.”

Then, you were both all hands and mouths and tongues—no longer were you pressed against the glass wall. Instead, you turned into horny teenagers. Giggles and laughter erupting between kisses as neither of you could understand how you became so incredibly lucky.

The elevator gave a much needed ‘ding’---promptly falling out of it into a group of people dressed as different characters from Doctor Who. They were enjoying themselves so much that they didn’t even recognize Tom as more than any other happy convention patron. The atrium allowed for an echo to be heard throughout—excitement and festivities running rampant. It added to your gleeful moods, coupled with your firm wanting.

You fumbled with your purse, trying to locate your room key, as Tom was doing the same–each with the shared goal of getting into the room. However, you simultaneously worked on unbuttoning or unclasping different garments as you continued your quick pace down the hall. Still, all giggles as you caught sight of the other.

By the time one of you got the door unlocked, Tom threw his belt across the darkened room. Your dress was off in a matter of mere seconds, exposing everything but your breasts. Shoes kicked off—one even hitting Tom’s shin with a groan, but he was too busy jumping out of his jeans.

“Shirt,” you ordered, pointing at his article of clothing in the pale light of the Atlanta skyline shining in the windows—-wanting it off.

“Bra, now,” a rumble in the dark, hearing the thick fabric of his jeans puddling on the floor.

Your eyes had barely adjusted, seeking out the form of this magnificent man. All you knew was to follow the order you were so clearly given, tossing your bra to the opposite side of the room. Before you had a chance to become worried about your naked body exposed, even in the dark, you were enveloped by warm arms, lifting you from the ground. Forced to wrap your legs around his torso, you soon came to realize that Tom was naked in record time.

“Y/N—,” he breathed, walking you both backwards until his legs hit the end of the bed.

Your hands searched for his face, a moment of desperation and dread filling you for some unknown reason. It was as if every emotion was on the very tip of your core. At any moment, you could cry or laugh—or sing—or all of the above. “I don’t ever want to be without you,” you admitted in the dark, holding onto him as if your life depended on it. Because–it did. Tonight, you could not imagine a life without Tom.

And if it were up to him, you would never have to… “Oh, darling…” his body aching for you. “I’ve been yours since the first time I heard your voice—recording your class,” continuing to hold you up over the bed, cradling your head in his hand. He could just make out the side of your face in the pale light.

“You have?” you asked softly. “Tom…,” a whisper before a desperate kiss.

The kiss reignited the flame that was near painful at this point, bringing you down to rest against the comforter. Your shared actions became needy once more, sucking on any exposed skin available.

“I need you inside of me,” and it was your chance for words to turn dark.

Tom did not need to be asked twice, hovering over your body as he slowly, smoothly, slid inside your wet folds.

“Oh, fuck—” “Oh, God!”

Your free hand went back to hit the headboard, mouth agape as you tried to find the right words. There were no words besides those of utter amazement. You felt so full, an exquisite pain that could only be brought on by sheer size. It was as though he had reached your core.

“Can I keep going, baby?” Tom questioned in a way that sounded as though he would continue on his motions whatever answer you may give.

“What do you—oh, fuck me!” you screamed, slamming your hand against the board as Tom continued to slide into you. Your cries filled the room, much like Tom was doing to you. All you could say was a repetitive line of ‘fuck me’ over and over until Tom let out a mighty groan, signaling that he was all the way inside of you.

You were so incredibly tight, as he fought against your body to stay situated within you. Already feeling the tension mounting within him, he refused to give in. You weren’t helping matters with your screamed expletives. Each one arousing him more and more. “Fuck…,” he hissed, slowly sliding out—which was absolutely excruciating for you both.

However, when he slammed back into you, your other hand came to rest on the headboard, gripping onto it for dear life. Hips arching into his—you were oblivious to everything else the world had to offer besides the glorious sensations below your waist. Tom could feel you relaxing around him, creating just enough relief to form a rhythm in his thrusts. As soon as he began his carnal melody, your hands released the headboard and found sanctuary around his neck.

He could read your mind, leaning back and lifting you with him until you sat nestled atop his lap, bouncing. Not only were you in sync but when he realized his eyes had been closed, he opened them to be greeted with the inviting sight of your ample breasts heaving up and down. “That’s a good girl. Come on, baby,” he soothed, noting the sweat that stuck your bodies together. “You’re so good at riding Da—”

“Holy fuck—,” you interrupted him, but maintained your motions. “--- if you say Daddy right now, I’m going to cum so hard, but also have to address every past relationship and kink I’ve ever had, so—shit, shit, shit….” you begged, having enough sense left about you that you couldn’t go there quite yet. Yet.

His deep laughter and kiss along your collarbone was his only response, feeling you pulsate against him. It was becoming increasingly difficult for him not to give into that sweet release, so he was relieved to feel you go rigid, gripping onto him as tightly as you could in all regards.

Your cries also played their part as he thrusted up into you, eyes opened to take in everything about you. You were magnificent. The love of his life… You owned him from here on out. And as he felt your body go limp at the end of your climax, by some act of divine intervention—he had enough sense to lift you up and off of him. When you were situated back on his lap, Tom allowed that rolling climax to take control, pressing his forehead against your bare breast as it wreaked havoc over his body. Both of you actively being covered in his juices which luckily would not get you pregnant this time.

After allowing your heart rates to come down and a good wash-up (which could have been done faster had you both not taken advantage of the spacious shower and another orgasm apiece), you laid in bed—wrapped in each others’ arms.

“I’ve learned so much about you this evening, darling,” Tom teased, planting a lazy kiss on your forehead.

A content hum, adjusting your bare leg draped over his. “I don’t know, baby. Sounds to me like someone here has a ‘Daddy’ kink—,” earning your bottom to get a light smack.

“How many children were in the Von Trapp family again? Six or seven?” poking fun at your mention of the family while in the backseat of the Uber, as you gave an equally lazy shove against his chest.

“Seven. I know that because I’m a good girl.”

“I think we have adequately determined that the things said during passion shall remain there. No life altering decisions when you aren’t wearing any underwear,” finding himself drifting off, perfectly at ease.

“So, proposing to you right now is out of the question?” you asked, however Tom was already asleep by the time you finished speaking and you weren’t long for this world either. It was a perfect day.

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

Tag List: @help-i-need-a-social-life @sleutherclaw @lharrietg @clavorhavor @weallhaveadestiny @sunshineintherainstorm @maluisamarvelfan123 @austynparksandpizza​ @mm2305 @simply-a-butterfly @overitall2018 @lunatic-luna @allexiiisss @escapingthoughtsandsecrets @handwithquill @lilywrose @twisted-monster @ilovetardis @immersed-in-mischief​ @kaybeeboop