#so i'm terrified of even posting snippets

[zackmartin]

Can I just say that I love your writing and you always inspire me! I love you! 💜

I literally love you with my whole heart and this means so so much 💕💕💕

[mirrortouchedsea]

head in hands i started another mhyk wip

[the-modern-typewriter]

In a recent post you said most of us weren't here for vampires but I beg to differ; your vampire snippets are literally enthralling. If you're in the mood to write another one, here's an excuse for you to do so (pls they're so good-), preferably with an enemies to lover vibe? Who doesn't love a little dramatic tension, right? Thank you!~

"Don't turn around."

The human paused, heart slamming in their chest at the voice. The hall of mirrors was eerie around them, all shadows and neon and flashing lights and distorted glass that offered them no sign of the vampire behind them. After a beat, the hunter kept walking, gaze trained to the wall of mirrors lining the left.

Somewhere, in the distance, they could hear screaming. It was difficult to tell if the sounds were horror or delight.

"What happens if I turn around?" the human asked.

"I'll have to kill you, and neither of us wants that."

"I'm a hunter. I'm pretty sure we both want that fight. Kinda how it goes, you know?"

Yet, the hunter didn't turn around. They had a weapon on them, of course, because they always had a weapon on them. But they hadn't come to the fairground to wage battle against terrible evil. The night was supposed to have been a fun one, candy-floss sticky and sweet with first kisses. A stupid lump wedged in their throat. They hastily wiped the remnant tears from their eyes.

They felt the vampire move next to them, though they heard no steps and felt no breath. Only the slight emanating chill of the undead. Despite themselves, despite knowing better, they searched the glass for any sign. There was nothing.

"What do you want?" the hunter demanded.

"What do you want, coming here?"

"I didn't know this was vampire territory."

"I suppose you are just a baby hunter. How old are? Sixteen?"

"Seventeen," the hunter snapped.

The vampire chuckled. "Seventeen," they echoed. Musing. There was something in their voice that the hunter couldn't quite read.

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

The hunter rolled their eyes. They supposed they should have been terrified - on any other day they would have been. They hadn't technically done their first solo hunt yet and even one vampire was not a creature to be taken lightly. Everything in their head was too loud for terror. Too raw.

"Is it the girl you liked, or the boy?" the vampire asked.

"Excuse me?"

"The boy and the girl who were kissing here, not long ago. That you saw. I saw you see them. You looked like you'd been staked through the heart. Which is the one you liked?"

The hunter whirled, furious. They caught a blur of movement before an icy hand clamped over their eyes, slamming them back against the glass hard enough to knock the breath out of them. They were surprised the mirror didn't shatter. Their head throbbed and a low whine of pain slipped free of their throat. The vampire caught their wrist before they'd finished reaching for a weapon, grinding that into the glass behind them too.

"I said," the vampire's lips pressed against their ear, voice a sudden lethal hiss, "don't turn around."

"And I don't take orders from vampires!"

"Touchy subject, was it?" The vampire's grip tightened hard enough to hurt.

"If you're going to kill me, just kill me!"

The vampire was silent, at that. They did not retreat, but their grip eased enough to be only iron instead of something painful. Their body felt hard and lean and strong against the hunter's. Dangerous and gorgeous. Nothing like the gentle wholesomeness of-

"The boy," the hunter said. "Eddie."

"Eddie. And you are?"

"Fuck off, leech."

"You're hot," the vampire said. "Eddie's an idiot."

It startled the hunter enough that the venom died on their tongue and their mouth dried. They'd expected - well, anything but that perhaps. They would have gaped at the vampire if they could see past the press of darkness over their eyes. They were sure their jaw dropped.

Hot. A vampire had just called them hot. Maybe they had concussion. A shiver ran down their spine.

"Want me to kill her for you?" the vampire asked, conspiratorial. "Bet I could make it look like an accident."

"No! She's my friend."

"Some friend. Want me to kiss you?"

The hunter - the hunter had absolutely no idea what to say to that. Well. They knew what they were supposed to say. No. Nada. Absolutely not. Vampires were vampires, and the only acceptable way to deal with them was to stake them.

The vampire chuckled again, presumably at their expression. They pressed a kiss to the hunter's throat, above their jugular. The hunter's breath hitched anew.

"God, you're so angry and so hurt," the vampire said. "I want to eat your heart. You're gorgeous. You can cry again if you like, I won't mind. I won't judge."

Vampires, their parents always said, craved life. It was why they were found so often in bars, or fairgrounds, or the other high points of the night. It wasn't just hunting. They were drawn to the sound, and the vibrancy, like ravenous ghosts clawing at the wounds of the world.

Somehow, it made the hunter feel less pathetic. For all those chuckles, it felt a bit like power. They could only imagine what their parents would say to that. No doubt they would berate the hunter for their unforgivable stupidity, because vampires killed hunters and hunters killed vampires and if the fairground was actually a travelling coven then -

"Do you want to kiss me?" the hunter asked.

"Yeah."

"That's embarrassing for you."

The vampire scoffed.

"And crying alone in a funhouse over some boy who doesn't even know vampires exist is cool?"

"I thought you weren't judging."

"Vampires are all shameless liars. Didn't your parents teach you that?"

Despite themselves, the hunter snorted.

"It's because you're not normal," the vampire said, in a different voice. Quieter. Suddenly serious. "Not like them. Can't do the things they do, because you're too busy stuck trying to slaughter the likes of me. Eddie's normal. Safe."

The hunter swallowed.

"Yeah."

"Yeah," the vampire echoed once more.

The vampire kissed them then, or maybe it was the hunter that started it, but it was clumsy and shockingly gentle and good and definitely the dumbest thing that the hunter had ever done. But they weren't thinking about Eddie anymore. It was impossible to think about Eddie with that cold perfect mouth and the adrenaline searing heat through the hunter's body. Every instinct in their body screamed danger and it was the most glorious distraction from heartbreak.

Their body arched against the glass, pressing foolishly closer.

They were left panting.

Then the vampire kissed them again, and it was a little less clumsy, more claiming, like the vampire was learning how to do it. Like maybe they'd never kissed anyone either. Like maybe they really were seventeen, and had thought their life would all work out differently.

"Next time," the vampire said, and nipped their lip just enough to draw blood. "Don't turn around. I've gotta go."

They shoved the hunter away, and - the hunter wasn't sure if they were left alone with the empty reflections, because they didn't turn. They looked at themselves, all dark eyes and hurt and confusion, in the glass.

All hunger.

They smiled, wiping their own blood from their lip.

They did look hot, actually.

For at least a moment, they walked out of the hall of mirrors feeling better than before.

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

no doubt ── s. jy (sneak peek!)

update: this fic's been posted! click here to read <3

↳ summary ── struggling to balance a world tour, endless responsibilities, and...well, the sting of getting dumped by his girlfriend, jake finds peace & comfort confiding in you—one of his closest friends. what begins as lighthearted late-night phone calls while he's away on tour deepens into something more, quickly pulling you both into uncharted emotional territory. as your connection with jake intensifies, so does your inner turmoil—torn between the comfort of your easy relationship with him and the terrifying possibility of falling for someone you're not even sure you can have in the first place. but jake? jake has absolutely no doubt of what he wants—and spoiler alert? it's you.

↳ pairing ── jake x f!reader, [ft. childhoodbestfriend!jungwon, bestfriends!enha]

↳ genre ── idol!jake, friends to lovers!au || fluff, angst, crack

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── hai everyone, the freaking turmoil & HOLD this fic has on me,,,has me writing til 8AM in the freaking morning because CLEARLY ─ i have unspoken issues . anyways here's a teaser of my recent hyperfixation that i'm sharing with the world. at the rate i'm writing this every night (& morning), it should be out soon (hopefully) :3 also this snippet i decided to include is my attempt at angst...i hope yall enjoy !

also send me an ask/comment if you'd like to be tagged !!! <3

snippet under the cut!!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

“Y/N.” 

His voice is quiet, almost drowned out by the muffled hum of music and laughter seeping from the party you should've escaped from a long time ago. You stop in your tracks, swallowing hard before turning around.  

Jake stands a few feet away, his usual easy confidence replaced by something raw, almost broken. He looks disheveled, his hands clenching at his sides as though they're the only thing anchoring him.  

“Can we talk?” he asks, his voice low but unsteady. 

You stomach twists, but you steel yourself, "What do you want, Jake?"  

You shift your weight and instinctively cross your arms, a defensive barrier between you and the boy you spent too long letting into your heart. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the vulnerability in them makes your resolve falter. 

He takes a hesitant step towards you before exhaling shakily, running a hand through his hair.  

“I—I messed up tonight. I didn’t mean to...," he trails off, his words fumbling, his eyes searching yours in desperation.  

"...to completely ignore me all night? Make me feel like nothing?" You finish for him, your quiet voice breaking despite your attempt to stay composed.  

"No. God, no. You're not nothing," he says quickly, his voice faltering on the last word. "Y/N, you matter so much to me."  

“Well it definitely didn't feel that way,” your voice is barely audible, but you finally look up at him, the hurt bubbling to the surface. “After everything you said—promised, everything we talked about…” 

"I know, I just—" he hesitates, his voice barely above a whisper. He takes a tentative step closer, his movements slow and careful, like he's afraid you'll shatter if he gets too close. "I was nervous." 

"It’s been so long, and I didn’t know what to say, how to act. I wanted to get it right—to make it perfect—but instead, I just—" he stops, dragging another frustrated hand through his hair. His eyebrows knit together in that familiar way that once made your heart flutter, but now only adds to the ache in your chest. 

You let out a hollow laugh, the sound foreign even to your own ears, “Well, congratulations, Jake. You managed to mess it up anyway.” 

“Please,” he looks devastated, his hands trembling at his sides. “Y/N, please don’t think I don’t care about you. I do. More than you know. I just—I don't know how to do this. I panicked and I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear."  

You look at him, your eyes stinging with unshed tears as you take a shaky breath, “Then why was...why was she all over you tonight? Why didn’t you stop her?” 

He falters, his shoulders slumping under the weight of your question, “It wasn’t what it looked like. I didn’t—I couldn’t—” 

“You couldn’t,” you echo, the words spilling out in a rush now, each one cutting deeper. “I should've known. Let me guess, she wants to get back together, right?"  

Jake's silence is deafening, and it immediately answers your question. He opens this mouth, but nothing comes out. The way he looks at you—eyes wide and filled with regret, lips trembling as if searching for the right words—confirms everything you’re afraid of. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, a shaky breath escaping your lips—the sound caught somewhere between a sigh of realization and a choked sob. No matter how hard you try, the wall holding back your emotions cracks under the weight of it all. The doubts you've tried so hard to bury suddenly resurface, crashing over you suddenly, each one carrying the sting of every insecurity, every fear you’ve ever had about this moment, about him. Your chest feels tight, your heart splintering under the realization that everything you were afraid of might be true. 

"Jake, I can't do this," you whisper, shaking your head. "I can't be the person you lean on while you try to figure out what you want."  

"No, no—Y/N, I do know what I want," he pleads, his voice cracking as he tries to step closer. "And it’s you. Always been you, Y/N. Everything I said before—I meant it."  

His words hang heavy in the air, the faint echo of the party music filtering through the cracks in the door and into the quiet hallway. You look away, refusing to let him see your tears finally spilling over.  

"You promised," you let out softly. "You promised you wouldn't hurt me. You said you'd prove that I could trust you, that I didn't have to be scared. You knew I was worried, Jake. And you hurt me anyways."  

"And I swear I meant every word I said. I still do," Jake says, his voice desperate. He steps even closer, his hand reaching out and brushing yours, but you pull back before he can close the distance. "You have to believe me. Please, Y/N. You're the only one I care about."  

You shake your head again, the tears now freely slipping down your cheeks despite your best efforts, "I don't know if I can believe that anymore, Jake. I wanted to, I really, really did. But tonight..."  

Jake’s face falls, the weight of your pain crashing into him all at once. His lips tremble as he struggles to hold himself together, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. This was the first time seeing you in so long, and this sight of you—broken because of him—cuts deeper than he thought possible. His voice is barely above a whisper, raw and pleading, “Y/N, I’m so sorry. I—God, please. Please give me a chance.” 

You look at him—at the boy who's become your safe space —and all you feel is the ache in your heart.  

"I can't do this right now, Jake," you finally let out a deep breath and take a step back. "I think I just need space."  

The words hang in the air like a death sentence. His breath hitches as if your words physically hit him in face, "Y/N..." 

Your phone suddenly buzzes, a text from Jungwon letting you know he's outside. You glance down at it, then back at Jake. For a moment, you hesitate, your heart screaming at you to stay, to give him the chance he's begging for. But your head knows better. 

"I have to go," you murmur softly, turning away before the tears threaten to spill all over again. You force yourself to keep walking, fighting the overwhelming urge to look back—to let him pull you into his arms, where you wished so desperately you belonged.  

Frozen, Jake watches helplessly as you walk away, his chest tightening with every step you take. Everything feels like it's caving in, regret clawing at him the more he sees you walk further away. He opens his mouth to say something—anything—but the words fail him, silenced by the weight of his own mistakes.  

The hallway falls into a haunting silence, broken only by the faint echo of your retreating steps, a cruel reminder of what he's just let slip away.  

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

not my usual style of light-hearted crack...but sum of the other parts are still very rom-commy bc im sucker for dat shtuff :3

let me know if you'd like to be tagged !

<3, addie

[kookooluvr]

TEACH ME HOW TO LOVE — PART 6.5

jeon jungkook, a fellow professor at yonsei university, is your friend, co-worker, and secret bed buddy. you have rules set in place to make sure there are no misunderstandings in your little arrangement. the #1 rule is as clear as day; no catching feelings. simple, right? wrong. let's see how un-simple it gets when a certain economics professor falls for an emotionally unavailable political science professor.

pairing: professor!jungkook x (fem) professor!reader, fwb to lovers

genre: fluff, angst, smut, fwb au, economicsprofessor!jungkook, politicalscienceprofessor!reader, slow burn, some emotional constipation, some sappy moments, lots of sexy moments.

rating: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

w/c: 5k

warnings: sunghoon, sunghoon and more sunghoon !!! teenage oc meeting her first love, lots of new warm, fuzzy feelings, cheating 😤😤😤 sunghoon is honestly just a piece of garbage, enter oc's knight in shining armour: my sweet, precious angel baby jk at the end 🥹

a/n: hey cuties !!! 6.5 is just a little flashback to show some snippets of oc's relationship with sunghoon. nothing we don't already know, just some backstory. i'm sorry for taking so long to post this one but i promise part 7 will be out as soon as possible 🫶🏼

taglist: @rpwprpwprpwprw @livinluvl @puppybunnyjkay @mimi1097 @bumblebee-21s-blog @koosluvss @sou-17 @svnbangtansworld @junecat18 @shrek-the-destroyer @tastykookoonut @sturniolowrld @palomanazareth @chimmisbae @daskewl @ramyun-h @heyitsroshni @matryoshka-poetry @almatiarau @gukkie7 @ambiee3 @blueberriesm @milkk1400 @yuriouki @lovelovethebeatles @somehowukook @deedeeps @emily-hung @jkaxl @bhonbhon @bearchermer @annafarrr @in-out-inbetween @mar-lo-pap @123xxx0o

SERIES MASTERLIST

SPOTIFY PLAYLIST

At the ripe age of sixteen, you're not the kind of girl who goes to parties. Your parents are strict and you're responsible. The kind of responsible that means curfews are followed, grades are prioritized and lying to your parents is an absolute no-go. Until tonight.

"You need to relax," Jihyo mutters as the two of you squeeze through the house's front door. The party is already in full swing. Music blares from the speakers, bodies are pressed together in a mass of sweaty teenagers, and the scent of cheap beer and cologne lingers in the air.

"I am relaxed," you grumble back, even as you pull your sleeves down over your hands, suddenly feeling out of place and self-conscious in big square glasses and dirty Converse.

Jihyo snorts. "Yeah, and I'm the queen of England." You huff, rolling your eyes. "We shouldn't even be here."

"Correction; you shouldn't be here. I, on the other hand, am thriving." Jihyo grins, already scanning the room for familiar faces. "Oh! I think I see Haeun! I'm gonna go say hi. I'll be right back, okay?"

You watch as she disappears into the crowd before letting out a sigh and making your way toward the kitchen instead. If you're going to be here, you at least need something to keep you occupied, preferably a soda. The idea of drinking alcohol at a party where you know almost no one is far too terrifying to risk.

You squeeze past a group of people and reach for a can of Coke from a cooler box filled with ice and drinks in the middle of the kitchen. You crack it open and take a sip. You take a few sips before realizing how awkward you must look, so you get your phone out and pull the only move you can think of; pretend to text someone and check the weather app every few seconds.

"You don't look like you want to be here."

The voice is smooth, casual and dangerously close. You freeze and tilt your head to find a boy standing before you, leaning against the counter with the kind of confidence that makes girls' knees weak.

Park Sunghoon.

You know who he is before he even introduces himself. All the girls here know Sunghoon. He's a senior and quite popular apparently. He's the kind of guy who always has someone's attention on him, the kind of guy who never has to try too hard because everything seems to come naturally to him.

And right now, he's looking at you. You of all people.

You grip your can of Coke a little bit tighter. "I'm fine," you mutter just a tad bit too quickly, realizing that you sound far from fine.

Sunghoon tilts his head, not trying to hide his amusement. "Uh-huh."

You shift under his gaze, suddenly feeling small. "I'm just here with my friend."

"Jihyo, right?"

You blink, surprised. "You know Jihyo?"

He chuckles. "Yeah. I'm friends with her cousin."

You nod, feeling a bit unsure of what to say next. He studies you for a moment before speaking up again. "You don't come to parties often, huh?"

You hesitate, mentally kicking yourself for making it so obvious. "Not really, no."

"Do your parents know you're here?" He chuckles, sounding almost like he's mocking you.

Your face burns hot, your eyes drifting down to your sneakers. "Of course they do."

"Liar," he whispers.

You swallow thickly, feeling your pulse jump in your throat.

Sunghoon grins, his eyes softening at the evident nerves in your body language. "Don't worry, I won't tell," he teases, taking a sip of his beer.

You stare up at him, wondering why he would possibly choose to stand here and talk to you when there are so many other girls. He's smooth, too smooth, too effortlessly charming. It's dangerous, yet you can't help but welcome the butterflies in your stomach every time he looks at you.

"Come on," he says suddenly, reaching past you for a big bag of chips on the counter, his arm brushing against yours in the process. "If you're not gonna talk, at least eat something."

You blink up at him. "What?"

Sunghoon tears the bag open and holds it out for you. "Chips," he deadpans. "I know you've been standing here trying to look busy. Eating is the easiest way to do that."

Your mouth opens and closes as you try to deny it, but you know he's not wrong. Reluctantly, you reach into the bag, plucking out a single chip. "This is stupid."

He grins, popping two into his mouth at once. "Maybe. But it's better than awkwardly pretending to text someone who isn't texting you back."

That almost makes you choke on your chip. "Excuse me?"

His eyes twinkle with amusement, his grin growing wider. "I saw you earlier. Very convincing performance, by the way."

"You're insufferable," you mutter, glaring at him before shoving another chip into your mouth.

"But I'm right," he chuckles.

You hate that you can't think of a comeback. You hate that the look in his eyes makes your heart pound. You hate that you don't mind spending the rest of the night speaking to him.

It happens on a random Thursday, the kind of day that usually comes and goes without any significance.

You're sitting cross-legged on his bed, flipping through one of your textbooks while he's sprawled out beside you, absentmindedly tossing a baseball into the air and catching it.

It's been a while since you officially started dating, and even though you're still getting used to being someone's girlfriend, it's been fun and easy.

The window is cracked open, letting in the crisp autumn air. The faint sound of distant traffic hums in the background, mixing with the rhythmic thump of Sunghoon's baseball hitting his palm. You underline a passage in your notes, trying to focus on studying, but your boyfriend's movements are distracting.

"Do you ever take university seriously?" You sigh, not looking up from your notes.

He snorts. "I'm a third-year, baby. I've earned the right to slack off sometimes."

You roll your eyes, highlighting another sentence. "Yeah, must be nice, hm?"

He hums, catching the baseball one last time before tossing it into the drawer of his nightstand. He shifts, turning onto his side so he can watch you study.

You try to ignore the weight of his gaze. It's impossible.

"You know," he muses, reaching out to toy with the hem of your sweatshirt, the one he gave you, slightly oversized on you, the sleeves bunched at your wrists. "I think you secretly like spending all your time studying just so you don't have to pay attention to me."

You scoff, flipping a page. "You're delusional."

Sunghoon smirks, tugging lightly on the fabric of the sweatshirt. "Seriously. I could be dying over here, in desperate need of love and affection, and you'd still choose your stupid textbook over me."

You raise an eyebrow. "I think you'll live."

He sighs dramatically. "I guess I'll survive."

You shake your head, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips. "You're such a baby."

"You're so mean to me. You're lucky I love you."

Your breath catches. You look up, startled, and that's when you see it, his expression shifting, his playful smirk faltering like he just realized what he said.

He blinks at you, his confidence wavering for the first time since you started dating. "Uh..."

You stare at him, your heart pounding.

Sunghoon lets out a nervous chuckle, shaking his head like he messed it up. "Shit, that wasn't how I meant to say that for the first time."

You're still frozen, slowly processing his words, watching as he hurries to sit up, looking restless all of a sudden.

"I was gonna wait," he murmurs, looking disappointed with myself. "Make it special. Maybe plan a big date or something." He looks at you, his face suddenly serious, his eyes searching your expression. "But...I don't know. I was looking at you just now and it just...it just slipped out. But I mean it."

Your lips part, but no words come out.

A flicker of uncertainty crosses his face. He exhales sharply, visibly pulling back. "Shit. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything."

That snaps you out of it. "No."

"No?"

You shake your head quickly, setting your textbook aside. "No, don't take it back."

His eyebrows furrow. "But-"

You reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, your grip firm. "I love you too."

The tension in his shoulders disappears immediately. His eyes widen slightly, like he wasn't expecting you to actually say it back.

"Yeah?" he murmurs softly, squeezing your hand with a wide smile on his lips.

You nod, feeling an intense warmth start to bloom in your chest. "Yeah."

He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, cupping your face in his hands. "I love you," he whispers, his voice full of something so warm, so certain, that it makes your chest ache.

And when he kisses you, soft and slow, you think, 'This is it. This is forever.'

You never thought moving in with your boyfriend would be easy, but standing in the middle of Sunghoon's apartment, surrounded by boxes labelled in messy handwriting, you realize you underestimated just how chaotic it would be.

"You own way too much stuff," he grunts, setting down the last of your boxes by the couch. He wipes his brow, glancing around the room like he's just now realizing how much space your things take up.

You place your hands on your hips, raising an eyebrow at his tone. "Excuse me? I only brought the essentials."

Sunghoon snorts, lightly kicking one of the boxes with his foot. "Unless you consider twenty scented candles an essential, I think you're lying."

"I like my apartment to smell good, thank you very much," you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest.

He grins, stepping closer. "Our apartment," he corrects you, playfully tapping your chin.

Right. Our apartment. That's crazy. It's not just his apartment anymore, it's yours too now.

Sunghoon studies you for a moment, his expression softening. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just...taking it all in, y'know?"

He smiles, reaching for your hand to lace his fingers with yours. "Come on, let's unpack later. First, I think we need to do something important."

"Like what?" you ask, tilting your head.

He grins and starts tugging you towards the kitchen. "Finding a space for all your mugs."

-

By the time you finally finish unpacking, mostly unpacking, it's late and you're exhausted.

Sunghoon stretches his arms above his head while he walks to the bedroom, letting out a big yawn. "Okay, I vote we officially stop being productive for the night."

You groan in agreement, flopping onto the bed. It smells like his detergent mixed with his cologne. It's so distinctly him and you love it.

Sunghoon chuckles and plops down beside you, rolling onto his side to look at you. "This feels kinda surreal, doesn't it? Like, you actually live here now. I can't kick you out when I get sick of your yapping."

That earns him a pinch to the bicep.

"Regretting it already?" you scoff.

"Are you kidding? I've been begging you to move in for months," he grins, scooting closer.

You giggle as he nudges your nose with his. "You're ridiculous."

He smiles, genuinely smiles, before propping himself up on his elbow, his face turning serious. "This is just the beginning, y'know."

You furrow your eyebrows in confusion. "Beginning of what?"

"Of our life together," he smiles, cupping your cheek in his hand. "I'm eventually gonna make you my wife and have you barefoot and pregnant in no time."

That earns him another pinch.

You smooth down the skirt of your dress for what feels like the tenth time, glancing around the restaurant with wide eyes. It's the nicest place you've ever been to. Marble floors, candlelit tables, waiters in black vests who speak softly and pour your water with practiced precision. Even the chandelier above you sparkles like it's been polished specifically for tonight.

"You didn't have to go this all out," you murmur, glancing at Sunghoon from across the table.

He leans back in his chair, looking far too relaxed in his tailored suit, his hair styled perfectly, a glass of red wine cradled in his hand. "Come on," he scoffs with a soft grin. "You're always saying I don't take you anywhere fancy."

You let out an amused snort, your eyebrows raised. "I meant, like...movie theatres with reclining seats. Not this."

He smirks, taking a sip of his wine before setting it down on the white linen tablecloth. "This is better though."

You look around the restaurant, your eyes wide. "This place probably costs more than our rent."

"You should be proud, ___. I'm interning at one of the top law firms in Seoul. We might as well live like it," he scoffs.

You smile but something in your chest twists. You've noticed the change in him lately, how he carries himself differently, speaks more carefully, drops names you're unfamiliar with. There's a polish to him now, like he's already halfway to the man he's trying to become, and you don't know if you're even worthy of that man.

"I am proud of you, baby," you mumble, trying to lighten the mood. "This just...must have cost a fortune. You know I would've been happy with takeout and a movie for date night."

"I know." Sunghoon leans forward, taking your hand in his. "But I wanted tonight to be more special than that."

Your eyebrows furrow. "Why?"

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He pulls out a small black velvet box and places it on the table, unopened.

Your eyes almost bulge out of your head, your heart pounding, your mouth suddenly feeling incredibly dry. You can't speak, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights.

"Look, I know we're young," he murmurs, looking a little nervous. "And we still have so much ahead of us...but I also know I don't want to go through any of it without you."

Your breath hitches.

"I've known for a long time that I want to marry you, ___."

He opens the velvet box. Inside is a diamond ring, big but classy. It's classic and simple, and it looks expensive enough to make your heart race and your head spin. Sunghoon stands up from his chair and moves toward you, dropping to one knee beside the table. The whole restaurant feels like it fades to a low hum.

"___," he murmurs, his eyes shining, his voice steady. "Will you marry me?"

Your eyes grow glossy. You've talked about the future, always in vague, hopeful ways. You've talked about maybe moving to a new city someday, maybe getting a dog, maybe getting married and having a baby.

But this is suddenly so real.

He looks so sure, so ready. When you look at him, you don't just see a boyfriend anymore. You see someone successful, someone who wants to be with you forever, someone who could give you a life that looks like this.

You say yes.

Because you believe it's right.

Because you love him, and you want to love him forever.

You're balancing a bag of groceries in one hand and your keys and purse in the other when you unlock the door to the apartment.

It's later than usual, but not by much. You told him you'd be studying late at the library but you finished early and decided to surprise him with a nice dinner, something warm and comforting to break through the tension that's been sitting between you both for weeks now.

Grad school has been intense. Between classes, research, your thesis work, and the never-ending string of appointments for wedding planning, you've barely had time to breathe, let alone focus on the growing distance between you and Sunghoon.

But tonight, you want to try. You want to remind him that you still choose him, even when life is chaotic.

You're toeing off your shoes when you hear it. A soft, breathy sound. Muffled. Familiar.

Your stomach knots. You take a few tentative steps down the hallway. The bedroom door is slightly ajar.

Then—

A moan. A voice you recognize. Too well. You freeze. Your heart drops.

No. No. No. No.

You push the door open and there they are.

Sunghoon and Minji, one of your old university friends. She's straddling him, his hands gripping her waist, both of them frozen in horror the second they see you.

The grocery bag slips from your hand, apples and a carton of milk crashing to the floor.

Minji scrambles off of him, trying to cover herself. "___, I...I didn't know you were-"

"Get out," you whisper.

She hesitates, glancing at Sunghoon like she expects him to fix it.

"I said get out!"

Minji jumps, grabbing her clothes and bolting from the room. You're left standing there with shallow breaths, hands shaking, staring at the man you're supposed to marry.

Sunghoon stares back at you, sheet around his waist, mouth opening like he wants to say something but nothing comes out.

His lips part. Then close. Then part again. All you can hear is the ringing in your ears. The room spins. Your stomach churns. You feel like you might be sick.

Suddenly, you turn and walk straight into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you and locking it. You barely make it to the sink before the sob rips out of your chest. Your hands clutch the porcelain as you struggle to stay upright, the weight of what you've just seen, what you know, crashing over you all at once.

The betrayal feels like fire, burning through your ribs, crawling up your throat, threatening to swallow you whole. Your mind keeps playing it on a loop. His hands on her. Her voice. His face when he saw you.

You drop to the floor, pulling your knees to your chest. Your breath comes in short, shallow gasps, tears streaming down your cheeks with no sign of stopping. You cover your mouth with both hands, trying to muffle the sounds clawing their way out of you.

This was supposed to be the man you were going to marry. The one who promised forever. The one you trusted. And he threw all of it away.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. You don't know. You sit on the cold tile floor, hugging your knees to your chest, your eyes red and puffy, your entire body wracked with silent, aching grief. Eventually, your sobs quiet into nothing. You don’t feel better. Just empty.

Numb.

When you finally unlock the door and step back into the apartment, the silence greets you like a slap.

You walk out slowly, your legs stiff and heavy beneath you. You find him sitting on the couch, fully dressed now, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He looks up when he hears your footsteps, eyes red, hair a mess, guilt hanging from him like a second skin.

"___," he mutters softly, like he doesn't know how to say anything else.

The pain bubbles up again, but this time it's sharper, steadier. You cross your arms, standing a few feet away like you can't bring yourself to get any closer.

You stare at him, feeling completely hollow. "How could you?"

He rises from the couch, cautiously stepping toward you. "I wasn't thinking. I- there's no excuse. I fucked up. Please, please, let's just talk about this-"

"Talk about what?" you snap, fresh tears building again. "How you cheated on me? How you fucked her in our bed? Fine, let's talk about it."

Sunghoon runs his hands through his hair, pacing desperately. "I know...I know I messed up. I never meant to hurt you."

"You never meant to-" You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. "Sunghoon, you fucked someone, my friend of all people! In our bed! You fucked everything up!"

He stops pacing, jaw tightening, expression darkening like he's been holding in frustration and resentment and he just can't hold it in any longer.

"Maybe everything was already fucked up, ___."

"What are you-"

"I felt alone, okay?" he groans, rubbing his hands over his face. "You were never around."

Your brows knit together. "Are you fucking serious?"

"I needed to feel like I mattered again!" he snaps. "You never made time for me!"

You shake your head, completely stunned. "I was working my ass off to build a name for myself, a life for us. I was doing it all...for us, Sunghoon!"

His expression contorts, bitter and broken. "Every time I looked at you, you were buried in your books or talking about centrepieces or venue options. You never stopped. Your degree, the damn wedding planning, it all mattered more than me and my needs!"

You laugh, cold and hollow. "Don't you dare stand there and act like the victim. You cheated on me. For God knows how long."

"I know I did," he mutters, but the guilt starts fading from his voice, replaced with something harder. "But you weren't giving me what I needed. I needed someone who actually made me feel like a man."

Your heart twists, a mix of pain and rage clawing its way through your chest. "So, this made you feel like a man? Is that it? You needed to fuck someone else, someone I considered a friend, so that you could feel like more of a man? You couldn't talk to me and try to fix it?"

He exhales, turning away from you. "I tried."

"No," you mutter shakily, your voice breaking. "You didn't try hard enough."

You stare at the man you thought you'd spend forever with, and he doesn't look like the boy who you fell in love with. The boy who promised to never hurt you. He just looks like a stranger now.

"I was loyal to you," you scoff, tears blurring your vision. "Even when it was hard. Even when I was exhausted. I chose you every single day, even when you made it so hard to. Even when you lost your temper, even when you would scream at me, even when you made me feel bad about myself. I still chose you, Sunghoon!"

Your voice turns into a sob, your cheeks stained with mascara, your bottom lip trembling.

"Why couldn't you choose me? Why couldn't you think of our future?"

"It stopped feeling like ours a long time ago," he mutters, his voice growing softer. He looks away, looking ashamed for a fleeting second before he doubles down. "You did this to us."

The silence that follows is deafening.

You stare at him in complete and utter disbelief. You almost laugh, almost, but it sticks in your throat, tangled in heartbreak and disbelief.

"I did this?" you echo.

Sunghoon's expression is tight. "I'm not saying I was right, but I felt alone. I felt like I didn't matter to you anymore," he mumbles, looking down at his feet.

Tears slide down your cheeks, hot and silent. "You were everything to me."

He looks at you, regret starting to crack through his pride. "Baby..."

Your mouth parts, but the words catch in your throat. You want to scream and break something. You want to rewind time, go back to just an hour ago when you were standing in the grocery store aisle debating whether to buy basil or parsley for the dinner you never got to make.

He takes a step toward you but you shake your head, backing away. "I can't believe you'd do this. After seven fucking years. I really hope she was worth it."

His eyes glisten but it's too late. The damage is done. And just like that, you know there's no coming back from this. No amount of apologies or explanation can undo what he did. So you turn around, walk to the bedroom, and start packing a bag. You walk over to the nightstand, the one where your wedding planner notebook still sits, pages dog-eared and scribbled with half-finished ideas.

You slip your ring off without hesitation. It's heavier than you remember. You place it down on the wood with a soft clink that sounds louder than the city traffic outside. It's final, inevitable.

Without looking back, you turn and walk out.

The guest bedroom in Jihyo's apartment smells faintly like lavender and fabric softener, but after almost two years, it no longer feels temporary. Her place is bright, filled with colour, yet you feel like a shadow haunting it.

You wake up slowly, sunlight filtering through pale curtains, but it doesn't fill you with warmth. Some days are harder than others. There are still days you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling until your chest aches. Days when food tastes like cardboard, when your body feels too heavy to carry, when the memories creep in—him, his laugh, his scent. Jihyo's been your main support system. There are still days when she has to physically drag you int the shower or sit beside you with a spoon to your lips to force you to eat something.

This morning feels better, even just slightly.

You pull yourself out of bed and walk to the kitchen where Jihyo is already buzzing around, dressed and ready for the day. Her presence, as always, is a source of comfort.

"Big day!" she exclaims, pushing a fresh cup of coffee into your hands.

You take it with a grateful smile. "You mean terrifying day."

She gives you a look. "You'll be great. Just don't cry in front of the students. They're probably still hungover from the weekend and dealing with their own shit."

"That's...fair," you snort.

Jihyo tilts her head, her voice growing gentler. "You sure you're okay to do this?"

You nod, looking determined. "I have to be."

You have to be ready. You transferred to Yonsei for a fresh start. You have a new job, apartment hunting, maybe thinking of getting a cat to keep you company. There are no more wedding plans taped to the fridge or a ring on your finger. It's scary, but you're ready. You have no other choice but to be ready.

-

Standing in front of the main entrance to the building, clutching a leather folder to your chest like it's the glue holding you together, you take a deep breath to try and ease the flutter of nerves in your stomach.

When you walk in, the hallway is filled with a soft hum of conversation in the distance, the low shuffle of students moving from class to class. You're so caught up in the quiet rhythm of it all that you nearly run into someone rounding the corner.

"Oh- sorry!"

You step back quickly, your folder nearly slipping from your grasp. The man in front of you blinks, just as startled.

He's tall, dressed in slacks and a pale blue dress shirt rolled up to the elbows. His hair looks soft, a little tousled like he's been running his hands through it all morning. His glasses sit on the bridge of his nose and his eyes, round and kind, widen slightly when they land on you.

He's handsome in that kind, unassuming, doesn't-know-he's-hot way.

"No, no, I'm sorry," he rushes to say, bowing politely. "I didn't see you there."

You shake your head, offering him a faint smile. "It's okay, I wasn't really watching where I was going."

The awkward tension only lasts a second before he smiles, gentle and warm.

"Are you new? I haven't seen you around here before."

You nod. "Yeah. First day."

He nods in understanding, adjusting his glasses before offering his hand. "I'm Jungkook. Professor Jeon to my students. I teach economics."

You shake his hand. His grip is firm but not overpowering. His palm is warm, comforting.

"I'm ___. Professor ___ to mine," you murmur. "Political science."

"Welcome to Yonsei," he smiles, his eyes crinkling at the sides. "We don't usually do hazing rituals for new staff, unless you count being thrown into an 8am lecture with uninterested students."

His smile makes something flutter in your chest. It's not romantic per say, you're not ready for that, but there's something safe about him. Something reassuring, like the soft hum of music you didn't know you needed to hear.

"Thanks," you murmur, shifting the folder in your hands. "Still trying not to get lost."

He grins. "I still get lost, and I've been here a while."

You laugh, the sound catching you off guard. It's been a long time since you've done that.

You look at him, taking in his slightly crooked tie, the way his glasses slip down his nose when he glances at your schedule peeking out from your folder. He kinda reminds you of a puppy.

He clears his throat. "If you need anything, uh...printer passwords, coffee recommendations, a tour of the faculty lounge, I'm happy to help."

Your lips twitch. "Is that all a part of your job description?"

He chuckles. "It is when the new political science professor looks slightly terrified."

You roll your eyes, but you can't keep the smile from tugging at your mouth. "Not terrified. Just...mildly overwhelmed."

"Mildly," he repeats, nodding like it's very serious business. "Got it. In that case, I'll keep my offer for coffee on the table."

You laugh again, softer this time. "I might take you up on that."

"Good." He pauses, then gestures towards the hallway. "You headed to class?"

"Yeah, but I'm not really sure where I'm supposed to be," you murmur sheepishly.

His eyebrows raise, the corners of his mouth turning upward. "I can walk you to wherever you need to be...if you want."

You hesitate, but only for a second.

"Sure."

As the two of you start walking side by side, something loosens in your chest, ever so slightly—the knot that's been there since the breakup with Sunghoon.

You're not ready for anything big. You're still healing. Still learning to exist in your own skin again, but for the first time in a really long time, something flickers quietly in the back of your mind. Maybe, not today or tomorrow, but someday something good can start again.

And maybe it starts with a boy in glasses and a crooked tie, holding open the door to your new life.

PART 6 || PART 7

[y-elleven]

hi veny!!!! for ur tshd au, can we have rin as the monster please? i know u mentioned otoya first but i think creature rin could have so much potential!!!!

(p.s. i hope u get ur manga soon w/o damages💔)

hi nonnie!! i'm currently still powering through the otoya ver. so have this snippet in the meantime. i'll write + post the full thing tmr (maybe), so i hope u like this for now!!

rin is your best friend.

you have matching bracelets, go to school together, hang in your rooms and just exist in each other's space with all the entitlement that comes with known each other since before either of you even knew how to spell your own names. your first meeting at age five included a plastic dinosaur getting chucked at your head and a lot of crying. but when his older brother directed him to hold your hand so he could lead you both to an adult with little fuss, you held on tighter and hadn't let go since.

when sae left for some overseas soccer program a few years later, rin grew colder and less enthusiastic about anything but soccer. in a sleepy town like yours where the last exciting thing was watching the older itoshi brother leave for the city though, you learn to roll with his barbs and stick close to the most interesting person you know. the gods know rin needs it. for a guy who insists so strongly on being by himself, he's terrible at being alone.

lately though, he hasn't been feeling like your best friend.

the hiss and pop of a can opening up draws your attention back to the present.

rin doesn't sigh when he swings a leg over the bench to sit beside you, but his posture tells you that he's in one of his usual moods again. grumpy, standoffish, weirdly fixated on becoming self-sufficient and strong as soon as possible — what a handful. he remains colder than the snow dusting the streets.

he passes you the drink and tucks his pale hands back into his jacket, settling down in the space beside you per your routine. even if he says getting "treats" after school every day is a waste of both time and money, he still follows you to the store the nice auntie next-door runs, always. habits are hard to break for a guy like him.

you thank him for the canned coffee you'd been heckling him to buy you during your entire walk here. you don't bother hiding your laugh from the face he makes when you receive the can with both hands either. your fingers are red from the cold, so you're more than happy to wrap them around your successful itoshi-rin-scam. you take a sip and watch him just sit in your periphery. you don't even like coffee, but you keep drinking it anyway. it burns your tongue.

the silence stretches. one second. then two, three, four — slowly twisting like balloons into animal shapes. there's a buzzing from somewhere beside you and your gaze flickers to a moth on the lamp hanging by the shop's entrance. its wings flutter in response to an imagined breeze, looking like eyes blinking back at your own uneasy stare. teal eyes don't blink back at you though.

rin's hand on your wrist is the only reason you don't flinch.

"y/n?" he asks, in that faux unaffected tone he always uses.

rin went missing a few weeks ago after a fight with his brother. apparently, sae had returned earlier than expected and met with rin by chance at your school's soccer field. something happened that led to rin running away into the trees and sae knocking at your door at 6 in the morning the next day. his voice, strangely hoarse, carried the same unbothered frost in rin's, but his red-rimmed eyes said everything he couldn't. it had been terrifying to listen to — rin ran off into woods when the snow was falling heavier than usual. sae had spent the better part of the night calling out for his little brother to come back, armed only with his phone's flashlight and a voice that was quickly losing itself to the dry cold. sae only stopped and went back home when a few of your neighbors came out to see what was going on. he almost looked ashamed, standing at your doorstep with red fingers and even redder eyes. he'd asked you to come with him and the rest of the adults to look for rin.

("he might come if you call."

"you're making him sound like a dog.")

obviously, you went.

you didn't find rin on the first day. not on the second either. not on the third, the fourth — it was hell for you and sae. the adults started whispering. the other kids slowly started to stop attending your searches. sae grew wearier and angrier with each passing day while you clung to an optimism that you'd find him eventually if you just kept looking harder. in the temporary absence of your best friend, you clung to the next best thing until you could hold his hand again. you can't read rin's brother very well, but even you can tell he didn't particularly enjoy your company. the feeling's mutual. you'd prefer rin over sae any day. you just want him back.

the ending was anticlimactic but a good one: rin came back on his own after a week of being lost. he doesn't have any memory of what he'd been up to despite the agitated concerns from the adults around him. he seemed much more focused on getting something to eat and sleeping in his bed. sae left the next day.

now, you're sitting with rin. on the bench you've both been frequenting since middle school after class. his hand on your wrist is ice cold. you've long outgrown your "childish" habit of handholding, but you offer anyway. teasing him is part of your routine too.

when he puts his hand in yours with no fuss and curls those pretty fingers around your palm, the buzzing stops.

he makes a comment about you being stupid for not bringing gloves, mindlessly squeezing your hand like he's trying to warm them without noticing. it's a thoughtful gesture. very sweet and fitting for a tsundere-type like rin.

rin hasn't held your hand like this since you were ten.

snow keeps falling around you. the cold sinks past the flimsy shield your blazer provided the longer you sit there. the hand still in rin's grasp is slowly warming up. your other remains wrapped around your cooling drink.

rin doesn't like holding your hand. he also knows you don't like coffee.

you find it hard to look away from his eyes. teal and cool, unlike anything in this small town. unique. unnerving.

uncanny.

it's like you're caught in an impromptu staring contest. rin doesn't blink so neither will you. your eyes sting from the dry cold, but you refuse to lose first. you relent and adjust to rin's moods on a daily basis, so little victories like these are important.

rin is important. so important to you. you want him back.

the question that's been clawing at your throat ever since rin returned slams against your ribcage, or maybe that's just your heart trying to beat out of your chest. he's always given you butterflies. you think the moth you saw earlier must've gone somewhere else. it's so quiet now.

you really, really hope you're wrong.

"hey, can i ask you something weird?"

[victoria-daydreams]

He Comes At Night

AN: Currently stressed the fuck out from a summer course I'm currently taking so I'm posting this snippet of the Remmick fic I'm currently in the process of writing to make me feel better.

Summary: Inez was always told that the blues is what attracts the devil to sinful souls, but as she would soon discover in a terrifying encounter one night, so do Irish folk songs.

The cool New York air nipped at Inez's cheeks as she wrestled with the stubborn lock on her shop door. With one final tug, the latch clicked shut on the door, the small bell above jingling its final farewell of the day. Humming softly to herself, she chased away the day's lingering anxieties, the melody a familiar comfort.

"Come all you fair and tender girls. That flourish in your prime. Beware, beware, keep your garden fair—"

"Let no man steal your thyme," a voice finished from behind, smooth as aged whiskey with a lilting Irish brogue.

Inez whipped around, her heart leaping into her throat. The stranger was leaning against a streetlight pole, a shadow against the streetlight's glow. The man's presence was jarringly out of place amidst the brownstones and the familiar rhythms of her neighborhood.

"Let no man steal your thyme," he repeated, the words a low croon rolling off his tongue with an almost sensual cadence.

The lyrics lingered in the night air like a promise.

"I wouldn't have guessed a woman like ye," he paused, the implication hung in the air, unspoken yet potent. Here she was, a colored woman in Harlem, steeped in the lore of the Emerald Isle. Yet, his tone wasn't malicious, but tinged with something that felt disconcertingly like a strange, appreciative fascination. "Would know such an old Irish ballad," he finished, subtle amusement coloring his voice.

There was something peculiar about the man's accent, it wasn't the brogue she'd encountered before. It was older, richer, with how it lingered on certain vowels or curled around the edges of the words making them sound both familiar and foreign. Inez's eyes darted over him nervously, taking in every detail she could. Tall and lean, dressed in fine clothes, but the strangest thing about him was how he molded himself just so to be beneath the flickering glow of the streetlight. It kept his face was perpetually shadowed, eyes completely hidden beneath the brim of his fedora, but she could make out the unsettling pale pallor of his skin.

Something felt…off.

New York might've been a melting pot, but a man like this, lurking in Harlem at this hour, was out of place. Inez kept her hand near the opening of her duster coat pocket, it held more than just her gloves.

"And I wouldn't have guessed a white man would be walking around Harlem at this hour, but here we are," she said, her voice tight. "Lost your way, mister?" Inez questioned, her brow quirking up.

"Lost?" he echoed. He pushed himself off the lamppost, moving with a fluid grace that was nearly predatory and in such a way of staying just out of the light. "Hardly. I was drawn here," he corrected, chuckling slightly.

The stranger exuded an aura of old-world charm, yet something about him made her skin crawl. Subtly, Inez's hand slid further down into her coat pocket, thumbing the switchblade nestled there, but not taking it out.

"Let me guess, you've come to slum it with some of your white friends in our jazz clubs?" she wondered, a touch of sarcasm creeping in her tone. "Get your fill of the 'exotic,' before heading back downtown?" she went on.

A beat of silence stretched between them, his gaze fixed on her. It was an unnerving moment. He didn't react to her defensiveness, didn't even seem offended by her jabs. He merely cocked his head, and then, a slow smile seemed to bloom on his lips, just barely visible in the shadows.

"Yer voice carries that song like it's a secret," he finally said, his voice a low, seductive purr that made the hairs on Inez's neck raise. "How'd ye come to know it?" he wondered curiously. "Such a delicate flower, blooming in such unexpected soil," he remarked, a glint of his teeth flashing underneath his hat.

Inez bristled, caught off guard by the shift in his tone, but she couldn't ignore the goosebumps that rippled down her arms. She stuck her chin out, trying to project an air of confidence she didn't feel.

"I used to work alongside Irish immigrants for a family uptown when I was younger. Old Mrs. Kavanagh from County Clare sung that one often while working with one another. Said thyme was for strength, lavender for sleep, and rue for protection. Said a girl needed all three in this world," Inez answered, holding her ground, though every instinct screamed at her to run. "Especially a girl like me," she added, with a hint of bitter humor.

His gaze, still unseen, felt like a palpable weight on her.

"She was right," he agreed, his voice nearly a purr again. The sound sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. "Strength, sleep, and protection. All necessary in a world so…" he trailed off, drawing closer. "...eager to take," he finished, making it sound like both a promise and a threat. The way he lingered on the word suggested a vast, unsettling understanding of that eagerness.

Inez swallowed thickly, her heart suddenly thrumming a faster rhythm. There was something about the way he said it, the glint of something ancient and knowing in the shadows that danced around his eyes, that made her skin crawl and her stomach flutter all at once. It was a confusing, unnerving cocktail of fear and a strange, unwanted attraction.

"She usually was," Inez agreed, her voice a little breathier than she intended. "That ballad always stuck with me. It was her mother's song. Or maybe her mother's before that. I never knew where it came from—just that we always sang it. Maybe it crossed oceans just to find me. Maybe it waited," she guessed, her gaze drifting off for a moment. "Music doesn’t care where it lands. Neither do stories," Inez mused, her voice softening slightly, vulnerability peeking through her guarded exterior.

Her words hung in the air, unexpectedly poetic and the man seemed to hang on its every syllable. There was something about the stranger's focus made her feel unnervingly exposed.

"No, they don't," he cooed, his voice caressing her like a feather. "Stories and songs, they have a way of finding those who are meant to hear them," he reckoned. He stepped closer, his shadow lengthening, swallowing the space between them. "Like moths to a flame, drawn in by the promise of something more. You have a voice that could raise the dead," he paused, his shadowed gaze seemingly fixated on her lips, "Or perhaps, tempt them from their slumber," his voice dropping to a near whisper.

He closed the distance between them until he stood directly beneath the streetlight, though even then, his face remained obscured by the brim of his hat. The air around him felt cooler, almost unnaturally so, nipping at her skin. He tilted his head again, a slow, deliberate movement, like a predator assessing its prey.

"And you, Inez, what stories do you hold?" he wondered, his voice a tantalizing rasp that seemed to vibrate through her very bones. He took another step forward, and this time, the predatory edge in his voice was undeniable. "What secrets do you carry?" he pressed, his voice a low rumble.

Inez felt her heart all but stop, her blood turning into ice in her veins. He knew her name. He knew it without her ever telling it to him. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, standing at attention. Panic tightened within Inez's chest, her fear cold and sharp. Her bravado thoroughly pierced. Inez took a step back, putting distance between them. However, the man only mirrored her, closing the gap, his movement impossibly fluid. One step quickly became many, as she continued to backpedal, the click of her heels echoing in the sudden quiet of the street. Inez's eyes remained locked on the stranger's, her breathing becoming unsteady.

"Go ahead, sing the next verse for me, darlin'," he coaxed, the seductive timbre of his voice enough to make her weak at the knees, despite the terror that clawed at her throat. His eyes, finally caught the light for a moment, seemed to glow with an unholy intensity. "Let's see if you know the rest," he insisted, his lips curling into a smile.

She shook her head no, her throat suddenly dry. The man's eyes seemed to burn into her, a silent challenge and a morbid invitation all rolled into one. The streetlight above them flickered and briefly, Inez could make out the lower half of his face. The corners of his lips....his chin, both areas were both glistening with wetness.

"Is this man fucking drooling?" Inez thought, completely bewildered.

"For when your time is past and gone. He'll care no more for you," He sung, his voice a low, hypnotic drawl.

"Why don't you go back to your side of the city? Plenty of Irish pubs to go hear your fellow countrymen perform it," Inez responded nervously, her eyes darting around, searching for an escape route. "Or better yet, go back wherever it is you came from," she added, trying desperately to regain her composure, "You reek of trouble," she spat.

Inez stumbled, her heel catching on the crevice in the sidewalk as she retreated backwards, colliding right into a solid form.

"Oof!"

"Jesus!" she exclaimed.

"Woah, easy there," a deep, familiar voice chuckled, a strong hand steadying her. "Everything alright here, Inez?" he asked, cutting through the tension.

Whirling around, Inez looked up to see her friend, Louis, his brow furrowing with concern when he saw the terror in her eyes. Louis was a mountain of a man, his shoulders broad and his gaze fierce. He glanced up, a protective glint in his stare as his eyes narrowed on the pale stranger who was invading Inez's space. He stepped between Inez and the stranger, using himself as a protective barrier between the two. Inez knew how this appeared to Louis, all he saw was a white man, looming over a colored woman on a dimly lit street. And, he would be right.

"Everything alright here?" Louis asked again, his grip tightening on the saxophone case in his hand.

"Yeah, yeah, let's just go," Inez said quickly, with forced casualness. She grabbed Louis' arm and linked it with hers, her fingers feeling cold and clammy. She tugged him away from the stranger. "It's nothing, just a nosy tourist," she explained, her voice tight with urgency.

"Inez—" Louis started, but she cut him off with a frantic look.

She needed to get away, to clear her head and shake off the unsettling feeling that had taken root deep inside her.

Arm in arm with Louis, she hurried down the sidewalk, her heart hammering against her ribs. She could feel the stranger's eyes on her, burning into her back. Nervously, she risked a glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting to see him following. But, he remained where he was, a dark, silent figure beneath the streetlight, an unnatural stillness surrounding him. He didn't move, didn't call out, didn't even seem to breathe.

[theoneandonlysemla]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by: @chiqita @hircines-hunter @sanzas-reverie @skyrim-forever @elavoria

Tagging: @dirty-bosmer @ladytanithia @heavy-metal-dick @pocket-vvardvark and anyone who likes to participate!

Good thing I prepared this post already while editing the next chapter of DwD going out on the weekend! Because my, I had not only the shittiest shit day but also kind of a shit week so far. It be like that sometimes and after some cry sessions, I'm back to the Elder Scrolls grind.

I started working on a detailed version of Moronturd's family tree, the interesting side of course (meaning that of his shit father and the... patriarchy? in it). You'll see what I mean as soon as I'll post about it. It will be very, very spoilery for Morotar's entire arc but hey, I need to get it out :P

So, as promised, I bring you a snippet of the big chapter 25 (11k words yippie!). Nevri and Morotar have reached Helgen, that is flooded by Imperial soldiers. As they for once had a good time on their travels, the banter goes on. Under the cut for length!

“Vilod,” Morotar greeted the man and bowed his head to him.

“General Morotar, what a surprise to see you again so soon? I thought you were back in Alinor by now, wasn't that the plan?” the Nord answered in a rough voice, swinging heavy with the so usual rolling R.

Morotar leaned his upper arms on the bar, bringing his head level with Nevri's face for once. She wasn't short, especially for a Dunmer, but this giant, who was surely close to seven feet tall, towered over her by a whole head. A shy glance in his direction revealed that he didn't seem to take the innkeeper's question ill and instead gave a smug grin.

“And the plan changed. Immediate business had me stay here for a while longer. Have you seen the captain yet? I have some news for him,” Morotar spoke.

“Must come in here any minute, then you can catch him. Does not miss his evening ale. Do you wish to stay the night?” Vilod inquired and shot a curious glance at Nevri.

She bit her lip, unsure when to speak. Those two men seemed to know each other well and she assumed that Morotar had stayed here often before, hence the missing animosity.

“One night. Two rooms, for each of us, if possible,” the Altmer answered.

“Two rooms?” Vilod shifted his weight from one leg on the other, a small muscle under his eye twitching. “There’s one available with two single beds, if that is alright. But I can shift some patrons around, making two separate rooms available. If you like, General.”

And there it was, the familiar fear of power, that Nevri had missed in anyone else in this hall until now. The innkeeper was terrified to not serve the Thalmor to his wishes, dreading his anger. So close to the root, Vilod must know what the Dominion was capable of. And that had taught him to obey.

“What do you say? If you rather want this room alone, I can get a bed in the keep.”

Morotar had turned his head to her, this thumb resting on his lips and a questioning look in his eyes, that was of a strange softness. Nevri blinked once, then twice. In disbelieve, she swallowed the urge to ask what he had said, as she had understood it quite clear but wondered about his polite behaviour.

“I don't mind sharing a room,” she blurted out, when the innkeeper was already getting nervous. “All those nights around the campfire, I got used to your snoring.”

The Altmer rose a brow, then took the key from Vilod’s shaking hand. The innkeeper pointed to a door close to the bar and Morotar rose from his position, glancing down at her. Nevri wished to sink into the ground and disappear from Nirn in that exact moment, but only heard a stifled, grunting laughter from him. She turned, headed for the door to their quarter for the night.

“I do not snore,” she heard Morotar say behind her, just loud enough for the innkeeper to hear too.

“Oh, you do,” she answered, but bit on the inside of her cheek just after.

He opened the lock with a click and let her step in before him, holding the door open. Nevri found herself in a sparse room, like they had been in so many inns before. Two beds, both standing at the walls, a dusty carpet between and bedside tables next to them. Next to the entrance was a tall wardrobe, one she did not plan to use.

“Are you deliberately spreading false information?” he asked just after the door was closed.

“Never. And on top of that, you talk in your sleep. Kind of annoying, more than the snoring, if I’m honest,” Nevri blabbered on. “Right or left?”        

“Oh, tell me, what do I talk about?”

Damn, he was not letting go of it. Nevri decided for the bed on the left and put down her bags, turning to face him. An amused smile played around his features and for a moment she thought she might melt if she was looking any longer at it.

“The usual business. How Altmer are superior, your strategic plans, how the Dominion wants to conquer all of Tamriel, the secrets of the Thalmor… Oh what else was it?”

Of course, she joked, but inside her that one word did not let go of her. Nymph. That was, what he had once called her and he was oblivious of this, so terribly empty was his mind. Still her heart accelerated with the mere thought of it and the memory of his caress.

A nudge of his fist met her shoulder, careful not to hit her with the spikes of his gloves. “Those are crucial information; I trust you’ll keep those sealed?”

“I’ll see, but I don’t think the Stormcloaks would listen to one of my kind anyway. Perhaps I will sell it to the highest bidder?”

“Then milk them like a cow, get a good price,” he laughed.

[bootlaceworm]

Solitary Bee!Autobot High Command

vague as hell descriptions for these guys. Sorry! The specifics are subject to change but it's okay. Earthspark is the background of this AU but I make up my own designs... I'm so cool like that. Also deepest apologies to any screen readers I'm not sure how legible the alt description is!!!

i am essentially playing toys here. i have taken earthspark apart at the seams and then remade it. S1 is mostly canon compliant though. probably

Information dump under the cut ↓

Pre VS Post-Earth AB High Command

The Autobot High Command was once much, much larger. At its peak, it consisted of:

Optimus Prime

Elita One

Ironhide

Prowl

Jazz

Ratchet

Red Alert

and more!! I havent figured everyone out yet

Currently, it's just Prowl, Elita, Megatron and Optimus. The Earth mecha previously hypothesized that Cybertron is dead and any mecha inhabiting it is also dead, but then Prowl showed up!

ELITA ONE

Elita is a very capable SIC, but has a sharp attitude and while alluring in general, is not exactly charismatic. She has fantastic war stories and took part in the original rebellion against the senate before the factional split.

She is a highly decorated general with several monstrosities under her belt.

With the limbo that came from Megatron joining and then immediately getting unofficially integrated into the HC, Elita has become a little bit pissed off. Optimus, you can't just do that! That's stupid!

General snippets:

Elita was handmade by a blacksmith during an economic lapse. She originally was a dual-wheel model with heavy armor and strength. In Functionist Cybertron she tested, ran and operated heavy equipment. In wartime models like hers would probably be enlisted as multi-use canon fodder because theyre just so durable

She has a vague moral backbone... her strongsuit was doing all the things that made Optimus queasy. This was a lot of things in the early days of the war.

Elita was the one that found Bumblebee when she popped out of the hotspot

Very angry. Elita crashed out several times during the war. Jazz so eloquently put it; "when she was mad, the world around shrunk away in fear!"

Earth needs has led her to adopting a somewhat sillier behavior. Frankly, it has not mellowed her intense personality out in the slightest. Bumblebee remains terrified of her to this day, but that might be a Bumblebee thing. It does make children more receptive of her, though.

Jawbreaker thinks Elita is SOOO cool. Elita has tried her hand at being some kind of mentor to him. Unfortunately, Elita is no exception to the 'terrible with children' rule of HC. As evident by Bumblebee.

She is a TANK. She is the heavy hitter and the hit taker!! She has a big heart but its also full of nails and ash

OP has probably destroyed his friendship with Elita. Communication faltered on Earth. Is Megatron in the HC? Is he a co-leader? Is he the new SIC? Elita doesn't think he should have the power he has at all!! Not this early, at least.

Probably the most 'on task' out of the Big 3 (OP, Megs & Elita). She doesn't think Optimus is taking this seriously, and is also convinced that Megatron is still malicious even if she respects his attempts at 'doing better'

elita should also probably be trying to 'do better' though... looking at that war criminal resume

PROWL

Prowl is the Autobot paperwork guy. He makes everyone's life easier, and is also the Chief Tactical Officer. He's polite to a fault, and somehow comes off as a prick all the same, which probably has to do with his unnerving gaze. Those eyes pin you to an operating table, it's extremely unpleasant. Nobody has ever told him this.

He's level-headed and neutral toned, and most of his emotions have to be picked apart through knowing him for a long time and being receptive to micro-movements.

When he showed up to Earth, he immediately crashed upon seeing Optimus and Megatron in tandem with each other. He does not trust Megs at all.

General snippets:

The reason nobody has told Prowl he has a clinical stare is probably Jazz's fault. Jazz wholeheartedly believed that Prowl would tear his own face off if it came to it.

i drew his lineart with the wrong brush

Has an unspecified history with Tarantulas as a reference to IDW. Uhhh he hates the guy and does not trust him anywhere near the Terrans. He's definitely scared of him but the whole thing is in the background

Prowl's extreme caution was given to Bumblebee. There is a running gag in my head about Bumblebee's hab on the Ark being in multiple places at once. Prowl approved of this. HC rule of 'being atrocious with kids'

Prowl is disabled. He has 'crashes' pretty infrequently, but they build up and can be perpetuated by stress. Lengthy crashes can cause processor damage through heat so he has several cooling mods. Crashes make him extremely disoriented.

His existence as a tactical officer was top secret for a very long portion of the war. this made him very isolated

i have genuinely no idea where i got the 'polite, terrifying, comes off as a prick' interpretation of prowl but its there and its not leaving

okay thats it i dont have anymore energy left to pump into this thing

[roystartt]

Lightning Doesn't Strike Twice (Except When It Comes To Me And You) - Chapter 1

Summary: It's the first thunderstorm since Bobby died and Buck has never felt more alone.

Relationship: Evan Buckley/Tommy Kinard

Chapters: (1/?)

Word Count: (3'170/????)

Tags: Time Travel Fix It, TW for Panic Attacks and Self Loathing

On A03: (Here)

Author's note: This is my first fic I have written in over 10 years so its probably rough and it's not beta read but I'm posting this scared anyway.

Snippet under the cut:

It was the witching hour.

Not something Buck would usually ever make note of, outside of teasing Chim and Eddie, he didn't really believe in that kind of thing, but it was hard to deny how supernatural the air felt right now. Rain was hammering down outside, abnormally loud against the windows of the house, a sharp metallic smell lingered in the air. Every few minutes large bolts of lightning struck through the air with an almighty clash that felt preternatural to Buck. It was almost enough to make Buck believe this was the work of warring God’s and not just nature.

Another unmistakable flash of light followed almost instantly by a booming roll of thunder had Buck ducking down and hiding himself in between the kitchen island and the counters. He tucked his knees up under his chin and tried to make himself as small as possible. 

Logically, he knows this is just as safe as any other place in his -Eddie’s house. But everywhere else had felt too exposed, too at risk, especially with how close this storm was to his neighbourhood.

So here he was; a grown man trying to hide from a simple thunderstorm, terrified.

Using one shaking hand to roughly rub away the tears that were threatening to fall from his eyes he clumsily pulls up his contacts with his other before hesitating. This wasn’t the first thunderstorm that Buck had had to endure since his coma, but last time Bobby had been waiting on the other side of the phone ready to respond despite it being 1 o’clock in the morning that time. He’d been patient with Buck, happy to stay on the phone and remind him that they were both okay, both alive every time a new bolt of lightening had struck. Had stayed on the phone, quietly telling Buck stories about his kids, open and vulnerable in a way that he didn’t get often until long past when Buck had managed to slip back off to sleep.

Now Bobby wouldn’t respond if he called. Just like it had been months since he’d gotten a reply to his daily check-in.

He scrolled through his contacts, pausing a couple of times, contemplating. Maddie had two little ones at home, she didn’t need her younger brother, a grown ass man, calling her at 3 in the morning just because he was a little scared. The next name he considered, he dismissed almost as quickly. There would’ve been once where he would’ve been confident the other would answer. Now he’s not sure that had ever really been the case. He quickly scrolled past it, trying to push down on the acrid taste of bitterness that was coming up to fight his panic.

Buck’s thumb hovered over one last name. This one Buck felt confident would answer. When hadn’t he? Always giving and giving, never asking for anything back, every time Buck called for another favour instead of the apology he knows the other man deserves. He wonders at what point Tommy stopped expecting an apology when he answered and instead resigned himself to being dragged into more trouble at the hands of Evan Buckley. Another bolt of lightening had Buck jumping and pressing the call button even as he berated himself as stupid and selfish.

Ring.

Ring.

‘This is Kinard, I’m probably up in the air. Leave a message and I’ll call back when I can.’

At the sounds of Tommy’s voicemail message, Buck let out a gasp and then another before they turned into full blown sobs. Turns out he’d used up all of his favours after all. He should’ve known better than to expect his ex-boyfriend to answer a call from him at 3 in the morning to talk him through a panic attack over a silly little thunderstorm.

Continue reading on AO3

[embrosegraves]

𝔻𝕖𝕔𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕝𝕪 𝕊𝕞𝕦𝕘

(request) Carlos Sainz Jr x Reader "Are you decent?" "Probably not morally, but I've got clothes on, if that's what you're asking"

Dating a Formula One driver meant that life would never be smooth sailing. For a lot of people, this was terrifying and if you were honest with yourself, it did scare you a bit at first. However now that you were a few years into it, it wasn’t as bad as you once thought. Sure there were moments that you wished you could live even a tiny bit more privately, but such is life unfortunately. One thing you were grateful for about this chaotic spin on life (besides your boyfriend of course), was that your career was thriving. There was no way your career wouldn’t thrive. You were a lifestyle vlogger with access to the unadvertised side of a world famous athlete. 

You had been filming snippets of your life long before you had crossed paths with Carlos. Having been in the vlogging business for 8 years now, you had been dating Carlos for 3. Carlos was well aware of your career choice and while it had taken him a while to get used to you filming every other week, he eventually came to terms with it. He even managed to start having a bit of fun with it. Your fans always loved when Carlos made a cameo in your videos.

Currently, Carlos was getting dressed in your shared ensuite, having just finished showering after his training session, while you were filming in the kitchen. Today had been a filming day for you. You had taken the camera with you as you went grocery shopping, explaining that you were planning a home date for Carlos and yourself. You filmed as you went shopping for a small gift to give Carlos and you filmed as you prepped the food you planned to cook with Carlos later. 

Originally, you were content with waiting for Carlos to be done before you even went near the bedroom but you had forgotten something that you had left on your vanity. Camera in hand, you thought why not record the retrieval as a sort of spy-esque montage. It would be fun for the fans and yourself, and who could say no to pretending to be a spy? Opening your bedroom door, you moved the camera in a way that made it look like you rolly-pollied your way across your room. Making sure the camera was facing you, you began to ‘sneakily’ rummage through everything on your vanity in search for the “hidden jewel that had been stolen by pirates”. However it was nowhere to be seen. 

“Alright guys, I think we’ll have to give up on being spies. I’m pretty sure I left it in the ensuite because it’s not on my vanity.” You explained to the camera. “There’s just one problem. Carlos is currently in said ensuite and I have no idea if he’s naked or not. Which isn’t normally a problem but I’m selfish so I’m gonna gatekeep that from you all.”  

You quickly made your way to the ensuite door and knocked loud enough for Carlos to hear over his music. You could hear him turn off his music. 

“Yeah?” He called from inside. 

“I’m filming.” You said. “Are you decent?” 

“I mean probably not morally, but I’ve got clothes on if that’s what you meant.” You heard him laugh to himself as you opened the door. You poked your head through first, just to be safe. Seeing that he was indeed dressed, you moved the camera to face him. 

“I’m keeping that in, I hope you know that.” 

“I would hope so, that was hilarious. The people need to know that I’m funny.” He walked up to you and gave you a kiss. “Did you need something?” 

“Mmm.” You hummed as his hands came to rest on your hips. “I honestly don’t even remember what it was.” 

Carlos chuckled before he grabbed something from the bathroom counter. He held it in front of you with a smirk on his face. 

“It wouldn’t happen to be the mini ring light that you always forget to put back on your vanity, would it?” 

Your sheepish smile told him everything he needed to know.

overall, I'm pretty happy with how this turned out. With twitter in shambles over what happened, I thought I'd post the Carlos request I had in my drafts, as a treat/distraction.

I hope you all enjoyed!

Likes, replies and reblogs are always appreciated!

[starrycassi]

Okay, I'm actually obsessed with your 'jayvik works for silko au'. I like that Viktor is the face of their work, the confident one that everyone knows (and fears, as they should). Also, I imagine Jayce like he looked in THAT council room scene in e8s2 (he looks SO hot in those dark clothes and the beard, damn (and I'm ace so that's saying something, lol)). Just slightly longer hair maybe.

I think Jayce would be in denial for a few years about the true situation he's in, regarding not just Viktor and their power dynamics, but their work and Silko and the situation in Zaun in general. But then he would have a epiphany about it and then slowly realizes stuff and accepts it surprising well. By the end of the time skip he's completely on board with what he's doing (though in the same way Viktor is, and the two conspire together).

You said we can ask for more of the au so, if I may maybe request a tender moment between the two? Like their love confession or them getting together. Just Viktor being vournelable with Jayce and it's the firs time ever he is with someone since like really early childhood. And he's freaking out internally about it but just wants to so badly.

Or the scene where Vi and Cait meet them (mainly Jayce) post timeskip (does it happen the same time Vi and Jinx meet for the fist time? Or is it different). I just kind of want to see Caits reaction to Jayce being alive and the whole, he's working for the kingpin, making weapons and is married to an infamous henchman/silkos inventor/the Herald/whatever Viktor is. I think it would be hilarious.

What's your Ao3? Would you consider posting this au there?

First of: I'm SO glad people like this au because it's been on my mind ever since the show barely came out!! This + crow queen + the meadow au are the very first ones I developed for Arcane and I've been slowly going insane over them. Hehehe. I do have to preface this by saying: when originally created, it was done with *League* lore in mind. I've had to tweak and adjust things for them to make sense with some of the newer backstory + revelations. Which is one of the main reasons as to why I've only posted it as ideas/snippets. I don't even want to get into the logistics of how Piltover would evolve without the hexgates (since their creators are buried deep in the underground and refuse to work with anyone in the council) or what the presence of not only one, but now *two* apparent heirs for Silco could entail. It's a very nice idea that I love, but it's nowhere near as fleshed out as it needs to be for me to write a fic :((

One of the main reasons I enjoy it is the subversion of their power dynamic! In this one, is Viktor who has to step out and defend Jayce when needed (there's actually a scene very similar to the last EP of S1, where Viktor has to cement Jayce's standing as his *partner* (meaning, equal, so please stop trying to kill him or undermining him) in front of Zaun's chembarons. Though Jayce eventually ends up earning his own name and reputation! I've actually got a small scene for that in the works, but basically people's perspective of him goes: that's herald's new boytoy (is he going to last?) > that's herald's new lap dog (is he trying to steal sevika's spot?) > He is to Viktor what Sevika is to Silco + they fuck > that's herald's new apprentice (is he good enough for the title) to, finally > He Defender (or smth idk not quite sure of his Zaun Tittle yet), Herald's partner, Jinx's second favorite. Jayce has to fight tooth and nail for his spot at Silco's chain of command, but once he has it no one dares question him. People fear provoking them both because of The Herald's vindictive vein as much as they are terrified of The Defender's (I'm between that and warden really) senseless rage. However, Zaunites do start going to Jayce for help, since he is the kinder and more approachable out of the bunch. Silco lets Jayce run around fixing houses and "playing hero" because it's actually gaining them a lot of sympathy and making more people slowly rally behind his ideals.

I've also given silco a bit more of a political incline. There is a draft of Jayce and Viktor convincing Silco to start a small public school, but it's still a "maybe", since there's the whole child labor aspect and allat.

And, yeah. Jayce is completely in denial for almost a year. He's lost everything he's ever known, was faced with the crude reality that piltover will, can and has turned its back against one of their own. He's bitter and humiliated, after all, Jayce does have a bit of an ego in the og show and everything that transcends here hurts him. Also, Viktor and Silco are both spewing shit about Piltover in his ear every single day (not without reason lol). But you are generally right with that analysis!! When he does have the final breakdown, he bounces back fast as hell. He becomes really codependent with Viktor and Jinx in those times, then gets better and better at accepting the cards he's been dealt.

I'm still debating about the plot point of Viktor and Jayce conspiring to take over Silco's place and *actually* do something for Zaun. In this au we would have: them trying to win over Sevika, secretive plotting, them do their best to properly mold Jinx so she will eventually rebel (or, in case Silco is taken out by that point, she can step in and allow them a place at her side)

Also I'm SO glad S2 gave me a proper image for visualizing Zaunite Jayce. I was screaming at my computer when I realized that all my dreams had been answered. I'm debating giving him streaks of color or something. Idk yet.

I WILL write that as soon as I'm out of finals lol. I also have one of Viktor's efforts to convince everyone of Jayce being treated as his equal and the way they meet. It's all a bit convoluted.

Some things I'm not quite if I should change yet;

Originally, Singed cut off Viktor's leg and gave him a prosthetic, framing this as "getting rid of the bad parts". This would eventually evolve into the whole cyborg-viktor we see in the games. There was also a very homoerotic situation where he got Jayce to cut off his hand when the wrist stopped answering properly. Idk sorry I've a lot of weird kinks in store for them.

This also meant Viktor giving Jayce modifications. One thing that im definitely keeping is that he gives Jayce sharper canines + possibly adds a "venom" mechanism so he can better defend himself. They experiment on each other as a way to show love okay. Also Jayce gets a piercing. Idk where how or why but I need this man pierced. Maybe him and Viktor get matching ones like Alternate Ekko and Alternate Powder. Gold and Silver little bands. Why not.

There was a whole thing about Viktor just kinda going ham and trying to add body mods to their already shimmered soldiers.

Et cetera

Edit: I want to clarify that I understand that sevika is loyal to ideas, not people. She is loyal to Silco because he is the best bet they have at the moment, and then to Jinx for the same reason (yes she definitely cares for jinx but u get the idea). Still, they would have to work REALLY hard to convince this woman to put her life on the line to betray the biggest mob boss around. She does stand by them and their ideas a lot of times, wanting Zaun's betterment as much as they do.

[fivie]

oooooh grishaverse au!!!

Woo yeah!!! Yeah I love the Grishaverse books, especially the Six of Crows duology, and I wanted to put my beloved Les Amis into that world and cause problems for them and so that. Is what I did.

It's a multichapter story that I'm trying not to post until I've written all of it due to my UMW trauma, but it does have a much more streamlined plot than UMW so I'm hoping that at least first-drafting the whole thing before sharing will be achievable 😭 It's set in Ketterdam. Grantaire is a painter. Enjolras is a Heartrender. (Can I make it any more obvious 🎵)

Lil snippet:

“I know you're afraid,” Enjolras says. “I can hear your heart.” He absently taps his knuckles against the bedpost, in the exact frantic rhythm of Grantaire's pulse.

“Stop that,” Grantaire snaps, embarrassment and anger swelling to join the fear in his chest. “Of course I'm afraid. My friend was abducted, I got shot and now I'm the prisoner of a Ravkan spy ring.”

Enjolras ceases his tapping and ponders a moment. “You're right,” he says finally. “Apologies. You've had quite an evening.”

“Also I've never met a Grisha before,” Grantaire says.

“You met Joly,” Enjolras points out, and Grantaire remembers all over again that Joly is apparently also a secret Grisha. Has been all along. Part of him is still sure that Enjolras must be mistaken.

“I didn't know,” he says.

“Does it change how you think of him?”

“Of course it changes things. But…I don't know. He's still Joly.” Grantaire frowns as a thought occurs to him. “Wait, he's not a Ravkan spy too, is he?”

Enjolras laughs quietly. “No,” he says.

“Thank Ghezen for that,” Grantaire says. “I don't think I could take anyone else not being who I thought they were.”

Enjolras laughs again, more of a snort this time. “Was Eirik so important to you?”

“I liked his accent,” Grantaire says in a weak attempt at a joke.

“Ah.” Enjolras shakes his head. His Kerch is crisp and convincingly native—Grantaire doesn’t think he can hear even a hint of a Ravkan accent in it. Spies have to be that good, he supposes. “I'm very sorry to disappoint you.”

“You're not disappointing,” Grantaire tells him honestly. “Just terrifying.”

[notwritinganyflufftoday]

OC Kiss Week - Feb 10th - Desperate

I'll be sharing snippets (both canon and post-canon) of Sasha and Faro's love story in A Little Prayer for Dead Gods. So you can expect to see a lot of cute and sexy moments this week.

content warnings: kissing

'Making up for lost time' is one way to call it, another would be 'a dam bursting'. There is so much he wishes to tell Faro, but anything he can't tell him with his tongue preoccupied will have to wait until later.

After the flood has come and gone.

While their mouths are connected, Sasha's hands wander across muscular skin he hasn't felt in so long. He's still so warm and comfortable and smells like rain in the summer, the only home Sasha would ever want to return to.

Does Faro feel the same way about him?

He opens his mouth to welcome Faro inside and finds him digging his fingers into his hair, pulling him closer in their never-ending quest to melt into each other completely.

Faro's grip is tight, as if he's terrified Sasha will slip through his fingers and disappear forever.

'I'm not going anywhere without you. I'm yours. I'm yours. I'm yours.'

Even though he's unable to speak, he believes Faro will hear the answer to his silent pleas from the beat of his heart and his shuddering breaths.

His body lights up at every touch, more sensitive than ever, after their time apart. It's not fair, he wants this to last forever like Faro promised. But he won't be able to last long, enduring the undivided attention of his merciless God.

Faro bites down on his lip, not enough to hurt, but enough to drag a groan out of Sasha's throat.

He's harsh and soft, nipping one moment and going back to kissing the next, almost like he knows exactly how to mend Sasha's broken heart, one little piece at a time.

Taglist: @eatinghemlocks, @foxgloves-garden, @sarandipitywrites, @northwyrm, @trixierosewrites,

@walkman-cat, @asher-writes, @seastarblue, @aloeverawrites, @firesidefantasy

@tracle0, @thelaughingstag, @ravenekrops, @frantheram, @cacophonyofwords

[fiddles-ifs]

[ID: A banner-style graphic featuring a coyote's open mouth on a dark black background. Orange all-caps text near the bottom of the image reads: "happy birthday Greenwarden." /end ID]

Happy birthday to my firstborn problem!! I'm trying really hard to not think about how long it's actually been, but to celebrate Greenwarden being mysteriously old I'm posting a former Patreon snippet! I'm also announcing that 1) I quit me day job, and 2) I'm going to be compiling a bunch of Greenwarden shorts that would have gone up on Patreon if I had kept it up. More on that to come when I get all my ducks in a line.

GRAVEROBBING AND NECROMANCY FOR DUMMIES

Marianna & Tracker. 16+. Grimdark Fantasy AU. Scofiddle Pepper Rating: Bell Pepper.

Content Warnings: Blood, minor wounds, implied mind-control, mentions of death.

Mausoleums always have a certain smell — mold, mildew, cracking damp stone. The decay of rock and mortar, but never flesh. The sarcophagi are tightly sealed with both wards and wax, partially to keep the smell at bay. No air, nor Light, nor hands will ever creep inside them. The Silent Mercies do their grim work and do it well, keeping them locked up tight. Then they leave — that's the extent of their dues to the dead.

They can count themselves lucky. Corpses don't exactly make great company. Particularly when some of them are itching to come back.

You can't help but feel like there are eyes on you, your torch cutting through the dark, damp guts of the tomb. An intrusion. Indigestion. The violent, flickering orange light makes the shadows greasy. You'd use a magelight, but you're already dancing on the razor-thin line between bravery and stupidity; you don't want to risk waking something. Someone. 

They were people once, allegedly, but you know what pride morphs people into.

Particularly powerful necromancers resist even the cleansing fire of holy Light, their sentience existing in each molecule of ash, slowly piecing themself back together with sheer will and hate. It may take hundreds — maybe thousands — of years, but eventually they will come back. So, the Temple does what it can. The liches are bound, still conscious, and placed in a sarcophagus. The sarcophagus is sealed — with prayer, with wax, with chains and locks both physical and magical — and a mausoleum built around it. The Silent Mercies make their rounds indefinitely, strengthening the wards and installing ever more complex locks. Hundreds of years turn into thousands.

The hopeful end result is a stark raving mad lich warlock that will, if all goes well, blissfully prefer the judgment of the Light before they suffer one more second of silent, unmoving, stagnant solitude. Time and again the methods of the Temple are proven effective. Terrifying, and effective. Most choose to vacate their own bodies than live in the dark for an undetermined amount of time. Unable to move. Unable to see. Slowly withering away, mummifying, rotting in your own skin. Whatever you’re going to find will not be human anymore – if it was ever human in the first place.

You cross the dusty, time-ravaged stone floor to the sarcophagus at the far end of the room. It's a short walk. Mausoleums are traditionally small, most especially the ones outside of temples, reserved for the vilest of the old guard, the lichkings who dared to try and defy death. Beings that rejected humanity, even rejected immolation, and should not under any circumstances be within spitting distance of a residential area.

Zoning laws: the bane of all undead tyrants. 

There's only one — which is nerve-wracking. It sits placidly on a raised dais set with small, half-melted candles, as if it’s waiting for you. A frozen slime trail of old wax meanders down the dais, caught in time. The thrum of magic tickles your fingertips. Brushing, like a cat would, up against your palms and skittering up your arms. Both a beckoning and a warning. Temptation.

It's wrong. A singular coffin is like finding a singular roach. Not wholly uncommon, but it sets your teeth on edge. 

It means one of two things: either the Temple managed to burn the master’s undead servants, even the stubborn ones. Or, worse – they’re afraid of what it might do with nearby corpses, even sealed away.

Your arms itch. You set your torch in a conveniently placed wall sconce and start working to get your mind off things.

The Temple of Light may not like to admit it, but what they do is magic. The prayers wielded by their paladins and clerics are incantations; the talismans created by their monks are charms, woven out of somewhat less mathematically inclined sigils. Magic. They hang and burn people for it in the streets, but it keeps their mausoleums tightly locked and their church in power.

Like any spell, a prayer can be broken with a little bit of reverse engineering. And you are very good at breaking things.

Maybe it's the uniqueness of your situation, or maybe you were just created with something special, but seeing the patterns in the weave and weft of magic comes second nature to you. Almost like a physical thing. A golden projection of arcane artistry.

It's a complicated spell; the Woodsman lived hundreds of years ago, long enough that even its very name was forgotten. The ward is centuries of layers, each one getting more and more complex as the Silent Mercies learned what incantations and motions were most effective at keeping the dead at bay. Trails of cold, melted wax dripping down time. A beautiful puzzle, just for you. You're always half-giddy, knowing that you may very well be the only one who can truly see the work, the history behind it, and that you might be the only one smart enough not just to break it to pieces, but coax it open.

Enough. You need to be fast.

Your forehead tenses, brows knit as you start reversing half a millennia of spellcraft. Delicately, slowly, you work out the motions, but in reverse. A twist of your hand, fingers curled, your arm moving in hypnotic diamonds and stars and spirals. Shapes designed to trap and contain. The fingers on your other hand open and close in the same fractal rhythm half a canto ahead, parsing out the right steps in the dance before you walk the dancefloor.  You're a conductor, ripping carefully crafted sheet music to shreds. The torch flickers.

There's no sound but your own short, elated huff of laughter when your hand slides into place at the ward's terminus. Deep in your hindbrain, a lock falls open with a satisfying click!

“Don't move.” 

Oh. That's a sword — you feel the tip of it caressing the nape of your neck. Slowly, carefully, you raise your hands to the sides of your head. You’re unarmed, and thankful you have gloves on.

“Turn around.” 

It’s not like you have room to argue.

You’re face-to-face with the tip of a shiny, well-polished blade. The silver coating makes your back teeth itch. You feel it vibrating, still coming down, hypersensitive to atomic changes in the air. You’re also face-to-chest with an extraordinarily tall cleric in their classic white and gold armor. An immediate, violent chill settles into your spine.

She’s hard-faced, hair cut bluntly short; she gives you the impression that her only expression is scowl. You prepare yourself to fire and run. It’ll set your research back months – maybe even a year – but you’ll live.

“Explain yourself.” You’re taken aback by that – you do a quick three-point look around the room and with your head and then spread your hands out a little further.

“I mean,” you say, “I think we both know I’m not supposed to be here.”

She doesn’t like that. Her hands choke a little tighter around her sword grip, leather squealing and platemail clicking as she shifts even deeper into a fighting stance. The sword gets a little closer to your face. A sweat breaks out between your shoulder blades.

“You’re a mage.”

“And you’re a cleric.” Impasse. Stand off. Stare down. Neither of you are willing to make the first move – maybe she’s hoping for a peaceful resolution. That you’ll go gracefully to the stake.

Fat chance, but something changes when she opens her mouth to reply.

You don’t like the look that falls over the cleric’s face – wide eyed, eyebrows to the hairline, mouth half-open. The blood leaving her face. The slight tremble in her steady hands. Fear.

Slowly, you twist your neck to look behind you.

The Woodsman’s coffin is open – a deep, yawning blackness slides out of it, liquid trapped inside thin film. On the coattails of the light-drinking sludge, a skeletal hand slides, damn near leisurely, out of the sarcophagus. What follows is a horror of ancient science. Half human, half… something else.

The antlers crown its head, but the head is canine, deep pinpoints of light inside empty sockets. Mummified skin knits across bone, thin as paper and patchy in places. Its teeth are bare to the world and yellowed with centuries. You watch the slick, black flesh form an amorphous mass beneath the skull, the arms nothing but bone haphazardly slapped onto an overgorged slug.

You were hoping it wasn’t in there – everything you’ve learned told you it had probably vacated its body years ago. There had been no activity for so long – no plague of nightmares, no major possessions, no strange activity in the flora and fauna  – and yet. The Woodsman slithers out of its unlocked tomb on a tide of melted void-flesh, rises on it until it has to bend, its shoulders scraping the ceiling of the mausoleum. It opens its mouth wide – skin and gristle clinging to its jaw in loose strings – and shrieks.

It’s shrill and piercing. You’re concussed, briefly, slapping your hands over your ears. You feel it – in your head. Scraping the inside of your skull, dark wordless whispers in your hindbrain. It knows you. It sees you. It’s in your head.

The cleric pushes you behind her, nearly to the door in the tiny mausoleum. You’re confused – still concussed. You don’t run.

“Go!” She shouts, swinging and hacking at the growing sea of rotting flesh. She swings too wide – the silver-steel scrapes against the walls of the mausoleum and sparks. The Woodsman just keeps growing. One by one, the candles and torch are swallowed whole. A deep, endless black. A tidal wave of nothing. 

You’re not about to argue. You turn tail and run out the door.

Two steps past the tomb, you stumble to a stop. A quick, hard-breathing glance behind you lets you know that the cleric already isn’t doing well. She’s fighting like an animal, punching what she can’t cut. Every slice is swallowed up by more reeling, lightless flesh. You still feel the Woodsman’s scritching little claws, furrows in your soft, pliant brain. Every iota of you recoils away from it. But that cleric – she let you go. 

You look down at your hands. The dark leather gloves, fingertips worn, the edges frayed.

Shaking, you slip them off your hands and leave them in the grass.

You grab the back of the cleric’s breastplate and yank her back into fresh air, swapping places in one smooth transition. You don’t know what she sees. If she notices the dark, blue-black corrupted skin of your hands or the bright runes squirming over your arms while you reach deep in yourself for something destructive. The bands around your wrists and throat mark you as a Thing – something broken loose. The Woodsman tugs at your tattered ghost leash with an interested spiritual hand, head cocked. Your programming demands you kneel for consumption, and your knees twitch before you get yourself back under control. You almost see a wink of recognition.

Little homunculus, the Woodsman whispers, curling around the base of your skull like a cat, so far from home.

“Shut up,” you say, and light up the room.

The Temple of Light has claimed the lichkings reject holy fire and immolation – they just haven’t tried something hot enough. Your fire is pure destruction, white with heat, blinding against the greasy black corruption sludge coating the walls. The Woodsman shrieks – pain, rage, confusion. Spikes of pain explode behind your eyes, and you burn them away too.

You wade through the muck, scorching it all to ash, beating the Woodsman back until it tries to seek refuge again in its sarcophagus, huddling in the pit. A child taking refuge in a cellar.  Curled at the back of a cell. Useless, useless.

You reach out with a flame-licked hand and clamp down hard on its muzzle.

“Shut up,” you hiss, and watch fire make cracks in its skull. It rakes your arms with bony claws, opening bloody gashes in your flesh. The blood sizzles and evaporates almost instantly. 

The Woodsman’s head explodes with a loud crack, bone shards ripping through the skin of your cheek. The rest of it goes limp in a heap. What’s left, you turn to coal dust, just in case. When you’re done, all that’s left of the Woodsman is a greasy soot stain coating the floor, walls, and ceiling. It’s a little gruesome. Reminds you uncomfortably of blood.

You coax the flames back in, lower and lower, wobbling with exhaustion, until a comfortable, warm dark swallows you. There’s light in it – ambient, soft reflections of the moon outside. The sarcophagus is a welcome resting spot, using its high lip to stay half-standing. Even then, you see little spots in your vision, the edges going blurry. A few drops of blood slide out of your nose and splatter on the ground. Your ears are ringing.

“You’ve got red on you.” You jump.

The cleric is standing there, wiping blood and slime off her face. One of her eyes is nearly glued shut, an open wound on her brow pouring red down her cheek and under her collar. You give her a once-over before you weakly tilt your chin up.

“So do you,” you say. She nods – holds out her hand.

“Marianna.”

Cautiously, you cross the floor on shaky legs to take it, and give her your name. The one you picked for yourself – it feels nice. To introduce yourself, for once. She almost crushes your hand. You’re comparatively weak.

“You saved my life, mage,” Marianna says. You grin with a mouthful of bloody teeth, an acknowledgement.

Then, your body finally gives up. You’re blissfully unconscious before you hit the ground.

[rriavian]

So I don't usually post writing for other fandoms but I was testing ideas for Dead Boy Detectives to try and think about character voices and I may have started a bit of a fic. So thought I'd share :)

Spoilers for season one below, but aside from being a Charles & Edwin focused fic I am still not quite sure what this snippet is going to turn out to be (or what I'm calling it).

-

The Cat King puts a binding spell on Edwin.

A binding spell.

Edwin—previously escaped from hell, previously traded between demons, Edwin—and the playful menace can’t have known any of that but oh does it make his blood boil anyway. Charles can see how it winds Edwin up, a tension outside of whatever other reason his friend finds the Cat King unsettling, can see the anxious way Edwin fiddles with the metal when he thinks no one is looking.

How he twists and twists at the band around his wrist.

The chain.

That's what it really is, after all, and Charles does his best not to trip over it. He tries not to tug, doesn’t want to force Edwin to constantly think of that while he’s trying to focus on escaping the trap. It’s not always possible, there are times when Edwin raises his arm to his face, jerky, eyes wild as they lock onto the metal around his wrist. There are times where it creeps into conversation. Charles tries for playful, tries for a teasing calm and doesn’t know if that’s right, waits as Edwin’s haunted eyes find his and can't relax until he watches the glimmer of panic abruptly dissolve.

It's only when Edwin scoffs with his usual dignified affront that Charles can breathe again.

But there remains a shadow in his friends green eyes.

And Charles still doesn’t know its exact shape, doesn’t know for sure what's tormenting his friend—has seen him with dolls, in houses, on cases, has seen unflappable, steady handed Edwin shaking as he turns their heads away—but through it Charles sees the silhouette of a nightmare. There's a part of this he knows enough of to understand. Charles can see a journal rendered useless, a trap sealed all the way, a maze constructed so that no matter how precise a map is it will never, ever matter. An oversight corrected by a monster that’s only saving grace had been it never saw escape as a possibility.

The Cat King’s gift introduces a terrifying what if.

One that replays over and over in Edwin's eyes, whispers every time he looks at it. The creeping, niggling fear that perhaps the second time his captor will be smarter.

And Charles can’t soothe that.

He can’t change it. He can only listen to the tightness in his friends voice, how sometimes it goes high and sharp as if he’s forgotten to breath, as if Edwin has forgotten that he doesn't need to. Charles can only listen and seethe and wish that he knew how to break that fucking binding spell.

He watches Edwin realise he's trapped in one place without the assurance of being able to run.

Even in hell he’d had that.

Even in hell Edwin had at least been able to run.