#throws less than a drabble into the void and runs

[maacbrem]

Vax reaches out to take her hand again. Keyleth is so warm, and he aches to touch her by increments, to remember the curve of her hip bone and the lines of her scars. When she draws back he lets her go.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because what else can he say? There are only apologies and all the ways he’s seen their future go in every world but this one. “I understand -”

“Do you?” She snaps, not just pulling away from him but recoiling. “Really? Because you’ve spent the last thirty years being whatever you are now, but I’ve had to spend them as a person.” He lets the blow land like a fist to the gut. She doesn’t look like she regrets it. She looks everywhere but at him when she says, “I’ve had to learn a lot about grief, but nothing could have prepared me for this.”

[physalian]

Fanfiction is valid form of literature and deserves respect because:

Corporate meddling often takes long-running series and runs them into the ground to squeegee out as much money as possible, ruining characters, relationships, lore, and magic systems that fix-it fics repair

Just because it is provided for free and by unpaid writers who slave away tens of hours of their lives trying to entertain people, doesn’t make the content that can come from it any less powerful

Fanfic is the place to go for under-represented themes, tropes, and characters in the outdated or unwilling canon

Fanfic is the place to go for fixing problematic plot decisions and characterizations that did not age well

Fanfic is the place to go when the real author becomes a TERF feminazi and the poster child of “death of the author”

Many fics are longer than published works and can do that because they’re entirely digital, bound to no printing limitations, and update per-chapter, as opposed to per-novel, often written without and endpoint in mind

Fanfic is a safe space to explore identities that the canon pretends doesn’t exist, like queer characters and non-monogamous relationships, as well as (theoretically) a safe space to share and explore kinks and have your very own Gay Awakening

Fanfic is bound to no rules of the publishing industry and explores new ways of written works like chat/text fics and drabbles and unconventional forms of narrative layout

Fanfic is also not written by committe or dictated by editors and publishing houses telling you what you can and can't include in your story

Fanfic is a springboard for many original authors

It’s a celebration of canonical works and should be welcomed by all creators of those works, not panned and litigated against when, again, it’s free and earns its writers no money

Fanfic, by its repetitive and familiar nature of throwing known characters and elements into a new situation is less intimidating than an entire bookstore of uncertainty, and still encourages people to read when they otherwise might not

Fanfic’s approachability is helpful to people with neurodivergence, as comforting to fic readers as bargain bin bad movies are to everyone else, or watching reruns of the same 90s sitcom that might not be any better written

Fanfic fosters a community of like-minded people that you might not otherwise find due to geographical location, social status, economic status, or for people who are unable to enter physical public spaces due to disability or anxieties

Big books are expensive and heavy and demand investment when a bad or boring fic does not, and there’s plenty else to fill the fanfic void where a bad book just makes you feel duped for buying it

It’s no more toxic a community than any other hyper-insulated realm of fandom like professional sports, toy/comic book/action figure collecting, LARPing/D&D, or videogaming, and has this reputation because it’s predominantly enjoyed by women and young girls (the terrible scourge that we are)

[bikerfromthevoid]

Drabble: Divination

Vynnie had been looking forward to the Occult Faire for a couple weeks. There had been some spooky happenings in his home that he had been throwing the entire book at to reduce. An occult faire sounded perfect for having some of the things he'd need, maybe advice if it seemed that hopeless to him. But, more than witchcraft protection, he was looking forward to this faire cause of his date. Since the day he'd met the metal singer at his venue, he'd been absolutely twitterpated with the man. It felt impossible to keep up his suave, cool demeanor when it came to Lynx. That didn't mean he wouldn't try. So he put on a nice high-collared leather jacket, his best cologne, and took an extra ten minutes to make sure his hair was perfect. And the date started off great, right up until their first booth. Moon divination! The Light and Void didn't play well together, but he had never considered the Moon. It was the night elf woman, Mirri, running the booth. So was this Elune's divination? Did She even do that? He realized how clueless he was to night elf culture and beliefs, but he was no less curious when the cards were laid before him. He tried not to think too hard about which one to pick and lifted up the 6th card in a lineup of nine. "Ah, the Waning Twelve card. Along that path lays the steps of Medicine. Calm stillness abides. After a time of chaos and pain there comes a time of rest and healing. Tender from damage inflicted and reminders of what was lost. Gain strength and clarity from healing quiet and inner reflection. Rejuvenate your spirit and come out stronger than before." It was overall positive, sure. A large portion of people would scoff at this and tell him that it's all just generalized to seem relevant. But no. This hit him a little bit too close to home. What hadn't his people lost. What damage had not been inflicted upon him from the Scourge, from his exile, his time in Revendreth. It's felt like one hit after another, and he was not one to sit down and process. Quiet inner reflection? That time was spent quieting voices in his head. He knew that his reaction would be plain on his face, and he couldn't let his time with Lynx be- Ah, Lynx. He turned to watch him select his card, and the man was absolutely beaming with excitement. A new job, new friends, and this handsome elf next to him. He'd been just living life moment to moment, preparing for when the good luck ran out and the next big trauma arrived to be dealt with. But in reality, it wasn't. His 'calm stillness' was here, and it wasn't going anywhere. He put on a smile, and resolved in that moment, that his healing was happening, and there was no shame in it. He'd take the punches as they came, but they would not distract him from the joy he'd been experiencing. For the rest of their night, he was shortly unburdened from the Void, and the expectations of his position, and the dread of work. But he couldn't forget to stock up on protection spells from these witches! ((A quick little drabble based on a reading from @siennablaze219 and mention for @talthorn-sylvoran 's Lynx! Thank you both for the RP!))

[bennydwight]

TGAMM Season 2 One-Word Drabbles

I have a lot of feelings and a random word generator so have some unedited prompt drabbles.

(Mostly season 2 centric, but some could be more ambiguous)

Disturbance

Life goes on, nobody any the wiser, but Scratch can’t shake the feeling that something looming has irreversibly, ominously shifted.

(In the basement, away from prying eyes and wandering hands, an empty soda bottle gathers dust.)

Like

Scratch could forgive the hormones (eventually, as long as he was getting fed), but the minute he heard Molly admit she ‘like-liked’ the kid next door, they were all going to find out really quickly if ghosts could throw up.

Background

It’s sometimes easier seeing life from behind the scenes, never the main character but a helpful supporting role instead. Someone who can see the bigger picture without the singular, blinding spotlight.

(As Libby watches Molly storm back into the gym, Scratch nowhere to be found, she worries for the actors on this stage.)

Shape

Scratch’s malleable build brought endless humour to the family. (No matter what he turned into, he was always exactly the right size to fit in Molly’s arms.)

Victory

He’d done it. He’d gotten Molly to see his perspective, to ditch the ghost hunter forever and remain by his side, her closest friend and hers alone.

(The expressions she adopted when she thought he wasn’t looking didn’t make this feel like much of a win.)

Interface

Andrea truly was a child of technology. She controlled the world through screens, electricity and circuitry as a part of her as blood and bone. She’d seen the power her face commanded, and now, numbers and words blooming into functions and commands under her deft touch, the same power flooded through her fingertips.

Brainstorm

Darryl was no slouch at schemes. The ideas cooking in his head were brilliant.

(The ones he dreamed up with June were genius.)

Week

Monday. Move in.

Tuesday. Barbecue.

Wednesday. A haunted book shop.

Thursday. An invitation.

Friday. A dance.

Saturday. The reappearance of a lonely, aching void in the center of Ollie’s stomach. It never seems to go away.

Prey

Despite their shaky reputation with non-believers, the Chens are among the most highly respected ghost hunters in such circles as people who respect ghost hunters. It is their livelihood, their passion, their purpose. Without it, the Chens are nothing.

Ollie watches one of June’s more lethal traps snap shut and he winces.

(He’s never winced before.)

Right

Andrea’s parents send her to bed without supper. It’s an empty threat, after they’ve retreated to their offices for the evening she has free run of the house, but it stings that they made the effort.

(The right thing is not always the easy thing.)

Authority

The robe hangs off Scratch’s form like a death shroud, and the taste of responsibility leaves his mouth sour. With it comes the weight in his core, like his heart has somehow returned but twenty pounds heavier.

(He is heard. He is respected. He is obeyed. He is terrified.)

Climb

He is a creature of the night, of shadows and deceit, blinded and rattled by the brightness of the sun. He shrinks back into familiarity, but she is impossible to resist.

(Step by uneven, blundering step, Molly leads him back into the light.)

Descent

Then he shows up, and Molly turns farther from him than she ever had before.

(Her radiance flares like a sunspot and Scratch wants to be happy for her even as the darkness drags him back under.)

Cycle

The pressure has lessened, almost to nothing, but Molly still gets an excited thrill the morning she wakes up with blood on her sheets.

(It takes her less than a week before she’s ready to go back to being a child.)

Paradox

She’s amazing. She’s insane. She’s being manipulated. He is. She can’t know. She must. She’s innocent. She betrayed him. Ollie lays awake, staring at his bedroom ceiling.

(Molly McGee puts everything he’s ever known into question.)

Season

“I didn’t think ghosts could get hay fever.”

“Shut up and pass me the antihistamines.”

“Will these even work on you?”

“I’m willing to try anything at this point, and if you don’t gimme now I swear I will wipe snot all over you!”

Mine

Nothing is as vivid after the first memory fades, and Scratch wakes up some nights with a cloud of brown curls bobbing in a summer breeze, the phantom condensation of a cold drink cooling the ectoplasm of his palm, a familiar abyss of the same sensation he’d felt more potently more recently: the day the McGee’s left his house.

(He guards these sense memories jealously. Nothing could take them away from him again.)

[koocycle]

play thing | drabble series (iii)

pairing. basketball player!jungkook x female reader

summary. jungkook is aware of the fact that you’re not his to love, yet he’s determined to show you what you’re missing out on.

wc. 2435

warnings. mild explicit language, suggestive themes.

taglist. if you’d like to be added, please send me an ask!

previous / next

“Do you think he would notice if we’d fuck here?”

The question is ridiculous yet amusing to the ear, but you’re still having a hard time finding it in yourself to laugh at the remarkable query. And that’s most likely because Jungkook’s voice falls heavy in the shell of your ear even as you attempt to ignore him the best you can. Yet the act seems harder than usual when his pretty fingertips start gazing over your clothed waist, softly nipping at the flimsy material of your tight shirt in between his pleasing, tattooed fingers.

“He would.” So I wouldn’t try anything if I were you, is what you mean to add, yet the words don’t manage to slip any further than your charming lips that seem sealed shut as soon as you look at him in the eyes.

‘‘Do you think he would care?’’

This one seems to shut you up soon enough – you’re not entirely sure if the answer to that will suit your fight against the man behind you, and the jerk knows that. Because you don’t even have to look at him to see the grin that’s growing on his pretty features.

It’s taking you one more look upon the living room of which is connected to the rather chilly kitchen you’re finding yourself in before you can come up with a decent answer. The silence hurts your ears, but you have no other choice than to stay quiet by his side. Both you and Jungkook know the situation you’re finding yourself in, lying won’t do you any justice.

Your boyfriend’s dyed, blonde locks are astounding and vibrant alongside his fellow teammates on the sofa. They’re yelling at something that happens in the game playing in front of their noses, multiple chaotic arms pointing at the big screen and already loud voices which are only increasing in volume. And you can only guess there’s no good coming out of it.

“Of course he’d care.” You carry on your act, and you’re not entirely sure if it is you or Jungkook you’re attempting to convince here, but it doesn’t seem to work either way, “He is my boyfriend, after all.”

All the lights in Minho’s apartment are turned off, the only ounce of lighting available being the one coming from the big screen in the living area. And that might as well be for the best, considering Jungkook’s sneering eyes that are boring holes in the side of your face right now. He doesn’t seem satisfied with your answer, certainly not when your lips grow into a content, irritatingly smug grin. You probably think you’re the shit now.

“Are you sure about that?” He questions, the fingers that were previously playing with the fabric of your shirt tightening in the heat of his palm as for right now. He can’t keep his hands to himself today, but it seems like you don’t really mind the way today’s play is going.

“So if I do this,” both his hands position themselves down your waist, finding their place on your hips before he slams his chest against your back, “he would come running to punch me in the face right now?”

When his head dips into the crook of your neck, a gasp is leaving your lips and it’s only feeding onto his ego, especially when he can feel you freeze under his fingertips. His lips are only inches removed from the skin on the side of your throat, yet his hot breath spreading down its place is taking an enormous toll on you.

His fingers tighten around both of your hipbones, head dipping even further down your neck to place a wet peck on the spot, a gasp leaving you once a pair of dampened lips make contact with you skin.

‘‘He’d kick me out of his shitty dorm?’’ He stupidly laughs in the crook of your neck, the vibrations against you being anything but sly, but you doubt he even worries about something silly like that. ‘‘Don’t fool yourself, ___. He isn’t even looking.’’

His index fingers that were wrapped around your hips just earlier make a move to tilt your chin up, yet the action doesn’t seem to revolve around him – no, he’s making you look up at Minho. And even though the feeling of his fingertips isn’t overbearing underneath your chin, merely being there for moral support, you don’t make a move to pull your gaze away from your boyfriend.

‘‘Do you think he would care?’’

You don’t need Jungkook to constantly remind you that Minho doesn’t give more than 2 fucks about you, because you’re able to do that yourself just perfectly fine. But what gives him the right to talk about your relationship like that? As if his opinion is relevant to you even the slightest way – he’s ridiculous.

‘‘Cut it out, Jungkook.’’ You snarl in between your gritted teeth, the sweet tone from before completely disappearing as you feel yourself heating up now.

‘‘Or what? Are you going to tell him?’’ His lips are making movements that send shivers down your spine, and you have to refrain your head from falling down to rest on his shoulder, ‘‘I think you’re enjoying this far too much to be putting this to a stop, no?’’

‘‘You’re nothing special.’’ You say, but your body language proves him otherwise. The heavy weight of your head is betraying you, the way you fall limp in his embrace proving his every word to be correct.

He pays no attention to your previous statement, not feeling the need to prove you wrong when both of you already know the deal, ‘‘Tell me why you’re here today.’’ He says instead, voice lower than before.

‘‘Did you invite yourself over because you wanted to spend some time with your boyfriend,’’ flat hands slide down over your clothed belly, large palms reaching lower to the place you desperately need him, ‘‘or because you knew I’d be here?”

You stop him before he can get too far, your own hands clutching own just as desperately. ‘‘Me being here has nothing to do with you.’’

The lie is obvious and perhaps a little lacking in itself, the eager tone in your voice merely being there to overpower him. The attempt was there, but the execution could have been worked on.

His fingers are playing with the belt loops of your jeans, solely hooking his thumbs through them as he pushes you more against him – which he doesn’t even have to put a lot of effort into, not when you sloppily fall against him with your hips wedged to his own, no fight notable in your body. He uses his tallest fingers to reach out from their place to hover over the closed zipper that keeps your panties hidden – and you can’t find it in yourself to break away from him.

‘‘Go to your boyfriend, then.’’ He says, his breath tickling underneath your ear. ‘‘I’m not holding you back.’’

You’re sure it’s the conceited tone in his voice that has something snapping inside of you – most likely the thick layer of confidence nagging at you to stay in your lane. And you have to remind yourself that you’re completely falling for him, melting in his embrace as if your boyfriend isn’t mere feet away from the two of you. As if this Jungkook guy has some kind of effect on you.

Pfft. As if.

You don’t say anything as you remove your body from his own, and neither does he. Yet both of his arms fall slack besides his posture when you look back at him, the tip of his tongue pocking the inside of his cheek. And you know it irks him, yet you’d have to walk over his dead body for him to say it out loud.

If he wanted you to go to your boyfriend, then you will. He can kiss your ass for all you care.

Stupid, hot basketball jock.

With no seats left over of which are relatively close to your boyfriend, you find yourself sitting on the arm of the couch. Annoyed and pissed beyond your limits. He doesn’t reach out for you to make you feel included alongside his friends and neither do you wait (nor want) for him to do so.

You don’t know where Jungkook is, and you force yourself not to care about him for much longer. He didn’t follow you into the living room like as you assumed he would, and for all you know, he could have silently left already the dorm already.

The idea of that doesn’t sit right with you, though. The void in the pit of your stomach is only expanding at the thought of you sitting here with Minho and his friends, watching some stupid game you’re barely interested in. With you being here, bored and out of your mind, does nothing to spark your boyfriend’s interest – and it’s not like you expected much different when you walked through his door today. Your mind is already looping down a hole of excuses you’ll be throwing into his face as soon as you can get out of here.

‘‘Minho,’’ you eventually speak up, fingers nudging his shoulder. ‘‘I’m leaving now.’’

He only hums in response, a quick and effortless ‘‘mhm’’ leaving his closed lips. Eyes trained on the screen in front of him as he unappealingly munches on some popcorn, the greasy saltiness sticking to his fingertips.

He’s not asking you why you’re leaving, and you don’t think it’s happening any time soon. Except doesn’t matter this time, because again, you didn’t expect anything else to happen. His friends are focused on the game, so you’re no use to him at this moment. Not when he can’t show you off in front of the world.

As if on cue, Jungkook comes strolling into the living area as soon as you stand up from your seat on the armrest. A bright red, nearly perfect looking apple rests in the center of his palm as he’s chewing on the remaining pieces in his mouth, flawless and sharp eyebrows just slightly furrowed.

He barely looks at you as he walks by, feet moving to his previous spot on Minho’s cornered sofa, yet he raises an unabashed eyebrow once he catches a glimpse of you. As if asking you where you’re heading to, but at the same time telling you he could care less if you were actually to leave.

That’s a lie though. You know that much.

Seeing the way he falls down on the couch with a huff, cockily munching on the sweet pieces of apple on his tongue; you can see right through him. He doesn’t want you gone.

The guy enjoyed shoving all the blame on you tonight, telling you how much you needed him, yet you know he is in an all too eager frame of mind for your presence just as much as you are for his. And it’ll be a hard job to get him to say it out loud, but you might as well think Jungkook is a challenge you’d gratefully accept tonight.

So in honor of him, you’ll stay just a little longer.

‘‘What are you doing?’’ Minho’s voice rummages through the room when you suddenly decide to slip into his lap, knees on both of his sides as your ass pokes out on his thighs. It doesn’t grab the boys’ attention just yet, only a few glances here and there before they quickly avert back to the game, scooping more loads of popcorn and coke down their throats.

But you can feel the eyes of a certain someone on you.

‘‘I want to cuddle with you.’’ You shrug, resting your head on the base of his shoulder, angled perfectly in a way where you can take Jungkook’s expression in. The dude doesn’t look happy. ‘‘I’ve missed you.’’

Jungkook doesn’t even pretend as if he’s interested in the game, not towards you nor his teammates. They’re not paying much attention to him, anyways. His harsh stare is only locking with your own as he slumps down his seat on the sofa, legs spread apart before you attempt on not looking down once he does so.

‘‘Did you miss me too?’’ You don’t want a genuine answer from him. Heck, you hardly hear him once he mutters an uninterested ‘of course I did’, and instead your fingers lock with his, guiding them down your ass.

And you’re glad his larger hands rest there without question, in full view of the guy you currently have wrapped around your finger. You can see his tongue poking in the inside of his cheek again, which is more than a good sign. He repositions himself quite a few times in his place, hoping the daggers he’s shooting in your direction are put into good use and you’ll back the fuck off soon enough.

There’s no luck on his side when your fingers come up to rest on your boyfriend’s jaw, solely being there for show when your lips make contact with the skin underneath his jawline.

‘‘Do you think they would notice if we’d fuck here?’’ Your voice is sharp and confident in the crook of his neck, the volume of your voice loud enough to catch some ears in the room.

Minho’s head shoots down to look at you as soon as the words escape your lips, totally caught off guard as well as the other boys who seem shocked as well – yet you couldn’t care less about them. Jungkook’s eyes are boring into yours and that’s all that matters at this right moment.

He’s stopped munching on the apple pieces in his mouth, swallowing them down his throat with some effort, his hand is tightening around the pretty colored fruit as he can already feel his body heating up at the sudden reference.

‘‘I don’t think they would care.’’ You continue to blabber on, the guy on the other side of the couch feeling a little tense in the current situation he’s finding himself in.

‘‘Babe..’’ Minho’s uncertain voice booms through his chest as he continues to mumble something about the game, but your focus isn’t on him. Instead you have found your center of attention elsewhere.  

Else, where his hands drop down in between his spread legs, cupping the inner sides of his thighs. His jaw clenched so tightly that you’re able to catch the sharp jawline from this distance as the two rows of teeth are clutched against one another – unable to open up.

You’re leading this game. And you’re loving it.

taglist — @jinsalpaca @moonchild1 @annenhypen @fan-ati--c

[optimistic-dinosaur-nacho]

The Picture - Drabble

Soft!Ransom Drysdale x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Body shaming, Language, Mental Health Issues, Implied Smut Request:  @stop-obsessing-over-those-actors​ ooh can we get a ransom x a reader with self image issues? i like fics that discuss/cover mental health because i think it’s important to discuss😊

Three Fics in One Day? Dino is on a roll here people, can I get a whoop whoop? Dino be working on fics at 3am and she’s on a fic streak right now!

You attended to your boyfriend’s family little get-together party. It was a simple dinner to gather around and it was your second time since you saw them. Ransom was your 1-year boyfriend and he kept you away from his family as much as possible.

Last time you saw them it didn’t go bad. You guessed it was just him wanting to stay away from his crazy family that get into fights or don’t filter their mouths. Ransom doesn’t have a filter as well but you learned to get used to it.

So, that day you put on a nice autumn-like outfit. You put very little makeup on and managed to fix whatever looked a bit off to you. A knock hits the wall and you could see Ransom peak in the doorway. “You almost done, we’re gonna be late and you know how those assholes are.”

You look down at your outfit and scowled at it, “Ugh. I feel too... strange in this.” Ransom looks at you through the mirror and grins. “You look fine. Come on. We need to be there on time.”

You turn away from the mirror and walked over to him, “When are we ever there on time, huh?” You asked with a grin, Ransom tilts his head at you and you pecked his cheek with a kiss. “What are you standing there for? We have to go,” You say, watching Ransom stand there like he was a four year old being kissed for the first time.

He turned around and followed you out.

Once you got there, you put your foot out and heard the dogs run over. Ransom closes his door and jumps back from the dog. “Hey! Stop it,” He says, you come around the beamer and run a hand down his forearm. That led him to scowl at the dogs and pull you into his side.

Walt stood outside with his cigar in his mouth, he pulls it out to speak, “Well, well, well... look who decided to show up late as usual.” Ransom ignores Walt without even looking at him.

“Why start the dinner when we get here? It’s not like we’re here for you guys.”

“Then why come, asshole?” Walt asked, watching you two head inside the home. “Because we love a good show at the table.” You softly grin and Ransom caught it adding a grin himself. You hear people chatter in the large room, spotting almost everyone on the room so quick.

Linda was the first to turn, “There you are!” Ransom gently lowers his arm from your side and Linda makes her way over to you. “Hello, darling,” She says blankly towards you like you weren’t any new to her. She hugged you, but lightly taps your shoulders for a split second and parted away from you.

“Ransom, we aren’t gonna start things at the table, so let your girlfriend do the talking.”

You stared clueless at his mom not calling you by your name. The family joined at the table while you sat next to Ransom. The family started talking things you didn’t want to be in so you listened to Joni who sat across from you.

“So, Y/N,” She says, “Where’d you get your outfit?”

You softly grin and messed with your sweater a bit, “Ransom got it for me. It was a gift. My mom made this scarf for me though.” Joni tilts her head and her fingers held up to her lips. “Isn’t it a little small on you?” She asked.

Your face changed immediately at her question, “I’m sorry?” Ransom didn’t seem to catch the conversation just yet. Joni grins, “I mean... it looks a little small on you.” You reached up to your face, trying to hide your front as much as possible. 

Joni was some type to judge outfits a lot and people’s appearances. Her outfits costed more than yours did. And to think someone who has the best clothing, has their own Flam! Business, they would always ruin others. 

After that conversation, you hide yourself from others, you barely ate as well. The actions made Ransom think something was upsetting you, so he thought to leave early. He took you back to his car, held the door open for you and closed it once you got in.

You crossed your legs to feel less of it. Ransom got in and started the car, “Hey, you okay?” He asked.

You nodded your head and shuffled a bit, “Yeah.” Ransom reaches over and puts his hand on your thigh to show you some sign of affectionate. You didn’t shrug it off, you just let it happened. He took a glimpse at you, “You know I give zero fucks about my family. You want to talk shit, I’m all here for it. We can ramble all night.”

“It’s nothing.”

“You see, that’s the problem. You’re shutting me out,” He says, “I was honestly doing good at that dinner and throw me a bone here.” You shook your head and Ransom figured to not push it any further because he knew how much of pushing you to your limit could go wrong. So he kept his mouth shut like he never does to his family.

That night, you just gotten out of the shower, standing in a pair of panties and a shirt. You hear Ransom come in and you brushed your teeth, washing your mouth out with water, you lifted up your head and felt a pair of hands glide to your hips. 

“You ready to talk now?” He asked, his face lowers to yours, “I’ve been patient for a couple hours, knowing you were quiet throughout the rest of those hours.” You turn your face so you could see the tip of his nose in your view. He leans a bit over and kisses you gently. Once he pulled away, his blue hues looked deep into yours. “You’re going to tell me what’s the hell is going on with you.”

You look into the mirror and he followed your gaze in the mirror as well. He then realized what you were thinking. How your eyes scanned your body coldly. Gently his hands lay flat against your stomach. “If this is the damn problem, you shouldn’t worry about it. Fuck my family. I know they treated you shit since I brought you in the first time. I can read their pea brains and I’d say fuck them.”

His arms lift up to hold your chest and he pushes you back against his chest. “This is the best picture to have in my mind. Just you. Only you.” His lips delicately kiss your neck and his chin bumps your ear. “You know I’d like to see the picture better on the bed.” You see him kneel down and picks you up, taking you out of the bathroom towards the bed.

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[aikoeisbon]

Haunting

Levi x Reader

TW: Self Harm

Therapeutic drabble. May be triggering to some, but it's how I help myself.

The sweltering heat of a midsummer's day had convinced a large amount of the survey corps to remain inside, and as a result, the stables were void of all people. You, on the other hand, had been scheduled to care for the horses on this particular day. You had discarded your jacket, opting to wear your undershirt as you worked to muck out stalls and feed the horses. As hot as it was, you figured your steed would appreciate a nice, cool bath, so you slipped her halter on and lead her down the long pathway of the stable towards it's rear, where the buckets and water were. You rolled up your sleeves as you began to fill the buckets, throwing sponges in there and allowing them to soak prior to lathering your horse with a bit of blandly-scented soap.

"Oi." A voice startled you as you snapped your head up towards the source of the noise. Levi was approaching your mare, hand outstretched for her nose while his eyes flickered down towards you. You heaved, carrying two buckets of water to beside your horse before shifting to return for the third, only to find Levi carrying it over with ease.

"Thanks. What brings you here?"

"I was looking for you. Hanji said you were on stall duty." Levi replied as you poured water onto the mare's back. He grimaced as she shook her coat, flinging specks of water onto his face.

"Did you need something?" You inquired as he wiped the droplets off his face with his forearm.

"Erwin wanted to speak with you." He stated in answer, watching as you began to scrub the mare with a sponge.

"The Commander?... Must be important then. I'll be finished in a bit. And here I was thinking you missed me." You raised your gaze up to meet his grey orbs and shot his a humorous smirk as you hunched over a bucket, rinsing the sponge and returning back to washing the animal. She dropped her damp head down, pushing Levi with it as she raised it against him, using him as a scratching post.

"Tch, cut that shit out." His brows furrowed, irritated with his now somewhat wet uniform with pieces of black fur here and there. He pushed her head away from him, in which she had responded with a low nicker. Levi moved beside you, reaching for a sponge to help out. As he went to stand straight again, his eyes picked up a bit of color from your arms. He trained his gaze on your flesh as you scrubbed away, his expression becoming flat as he identified the dull red stripes. The more closely he paid attention, the more lines he discovered- though these were white. Living in the underground, he was not blind to the fact people did this to themselves. Though as hard as things were for them, he still somewhat struggled to understand why. He understood being angry with yourself- even to the point of hating yourself or your situation so much you were suicidal. But to worsen your pain by making it physical? He could not wrap his head around that. From what he saw in the underground, whatever you were feeling or going through must have been as dismal and extreme as it would be in the underground. It caused him great concern, but his unenthused face did not reflect that. He simply narrowed his eyes, and shot his hand out for your arm.

"What?" You said almost defensively, startled by his sudden movement. It hadn't clicked what he was doing until you followed his line of sight, only then realizing your scars were in plain sight. You furrowed your brow, attempting to pull your arm back to your chest only to find it was secure in Levi's grip.

"Why?" He muttered, snatching your other arm in his iron grip as well. His chest tightened when he saw the same type of marks on that arm as well.

"Let go." You commanded, your voice quiet and low. His grip was unrelenting, his stare stern and serious. "Levi, let go!!!" You raised your voice, throwing your hands down in another attempt to free yourself from his grasp. He released you just as quickly as he grabbed you again, this time by your upper arm rather than your forearms. "Stop it!" You complained angrily as he led you to sit down. He noticed you wince as he grabbed you, and could only imagine why.

"Tch." He frowned. "Don't move." He ordered as he left you at a bench a near distance away. You watched him quickly finish bathing your horse, the fury in his eyes not at all wavering. The pit in your stomach was creeping up your throat. Would he find you disgusting now? Would he think you were too much to handle? Crazy? A risk? A liability? The anxiety you felt over those thoughts did nothing but intensify the longer this dragged on, until finally Levi walked past with your horse in tow. "Come on." He commanded, his voice still cold. You knew him better than anyone, you've seen what love looked like in his eyes, as well as malice, but this expression in his steel blue hues... You couldn't identify it. Maybe that is what scared you the most: The fear of the unknown. Perhaps Levi shared this fear too, which is why he felt this tense uneasiness. How long had you been doing this? How could he have missed this? Was there more you were doing he did not know about? Why wouldn't you come to him? Was it something... he did to cause this? As Levi locked the horse in the stall in front of him, you felt as though you were shrinking behind his back.

"Those could get infected." Is all he said before you grabbed your jacket and followed him back to headquarters, beelining for the infirmary. Levi was relieved to see it was empty, as he had plenty of things to ask you about. "Sit." He directed, pointing at a chair.

"Please don't tell the others about this." You pleaded quietly. His eyes and their ice-cold glare finally met yours.

"I'm more concerned with why you didn't tell me." He stated flatly as you removed your jacket once more, offering your arms out to him. His eyes traced over the red lines. Most were old, having healed completely and left nothing but white lined scars. Some seemed fresher, the scars still red- almost purple- and rather thick. The ones he was most worried with, were the dark red, thick lines that seemed days old. At the very least, none were still bleeding...

"It's embarrassing. It's none of your business, anyways..." You responded meekly as Levi cleaned your arms with antiseptic. They were closed enough to where you felt very mild pain, at worst.

"If someone punched you, it'd be my business. If you went missing, it'd be my business. If you got sick? My business. What makes you think this is any different?" Levi spat, leaving you in silence. He sighed. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong. Do you know what these say to me?" He questioned earnestly, his eyes flickering up to yours. You raised your brows in subtle inquisition. "They tell me you don't trust me enough to tell me what's on your mind. That I won't or can't help you, so instead you take it out on yourself. Thing is, you won't know if I can help you or not unless you give me a shot."

"I'm sorry..." Your words shook, tears welling in your eyes.

"...Am I doing something wrong?" Levi's question earned your attention, and for the first time, you saw the man you loved with a truly broken countenance plastered on his face, his pain pooling in his eyes. You reached out to him.

"No, no, no... Levi." You quaked, pulling him against you as you came to your knees out of the chair. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. The guilt of doing this is half the reason why I do it. I feel so pathetic, like even if I spoke out, nobody would believe me. I didn't want anyone to think less of me, like I was crazy, or did this for attention, I-"

"You are crazy, brat." Levi muttered, raising an arm to run his fingers through your hair and keep you pressed against him as he supported himself with his other arm. You could hear in his voice he said that with a smirk. You chuckled under your breath.

"Crazy about you," you laughed. "but that's besides the point. I... wanted people to continue thinking I'm strong. Not some weirdo that succumbs to her problems like... this." You backed away from him, looking downcast at your own body. "There's so many things I wish were different about me." Levi listened intently.

"Doing this doesn't mean you aren't strong. Everyone has their own ways of coping, some are healthier than others. That doesn't mean I'm going to let you keep doing this." He watched you swallow, seemingly nervous beneath his intense gaze. "I don't know what's right or wrong when it comes to coping. I never have. But there's no way I'll stand by and watch the woman I love tear herself apart." You remained quiet, hanging to each of his words. He moved closer towards your face, sure he was making eye contact. "This is our problem now. If you feel like hurting yourself, we'll go spar. If that doesn't take your mind off it, I'll show you hurt. You need to focus when training anyways." You couldn't help but grin internally at Levi's tough-love methods of helping. "But you're done doing this. I can't believe I'm only noticing now."

"Well, there's a reason why I'll only sleep with you when the lights are out."

"...Erwin needs to see you. Remember this talk." Levi muttered as he picked himself off the floor, offering a hand out to you.

"Wouldn't forget it if I tried."

[seasonschange-butpeopledont]

A Few Life/Blog Updates 💚

Hello, friends! It might be obvious, but my blog has been mostly running off of a queue for these past few weeks. I have no plans of going anywhere, but life things have been really stressful lately, so I haven’t been able to give my writing or reading the time and energy that I would like to. I had hoped to get something written this weekend, but, honestly, it was so nice to just turn my brain off for a little while that I can’t even bring myself to feel guilty for not doing what I said I would do. A couple of ideas about what I have planned for this blog over the next couple of weeks: 

1. I’m still trying to figure something out for the 400 follower milestone. I was considering doing another fic rec list, 90% of this blog is fic recs, so that’s not very exciting. Do moodboard requests interest you? Let me know. 

2. I’m still working on requests from 300. Slowly but surely. Next on the request list is a Marcus Pike drabble for my dear @marshmallowtraver (who does, in fact, have the patience of a saint). Dying confessions of love with a happy ending. Was going to be a belated birthday present, is now a very belated birthday present (Or an early Christmas present? Take your pick). 

3. Series updates are coming... Someday... When I finish beating back the “this plot line is stupid, why did you even do this” demons with a stick and get myself un-stuck on some things. Oddly, an update for Poison & Wine is higher on the list than you might expect. Book Club is plotted and waiting to be written as soon as the inspiration strikes. The Last of Us is... less plotted. I’ve written myself into a corner that I haven’t figured my way out of just yet. I’m just throwing this into the void, but if anyone ever forms a fanfic writer’s workshop, sign me up immediately. 

4. Do I have more series than this? Like a Frankie x OFC thing that I started and.. Oh. Oh yeah. Never added to my Masterlist? Keep forgetting about every single time I log on to this website? Yes, it’s called Wish You Were Here, and I have an update almost finished for that too, if I would just sit down and type words. 

5. In my continued effort to combat the low-interaction issue, I’ve taken it upon myself to reblog and reblog and reblog. My TBR queue has almost run out, so I’m adding in entire masterlists worth of fics from some of my favorites, as well as anything I come across on my dashboard. I check the tags when I can, but I haven’t had a lot of time for it lately. Feel free to tag me in stuff or send it to me directly. I know I don’t make a huge impact, but I hope it helps sometimes. 

[hothian-snow]

Sparagmos: First Draft

To celebrate me reaching 32K with my WIP, here’s a bunch of drabbles which inspired the initial first draft. I might reuse one or two scenes, but not the stuff with Darth Zhorrid. Both Yen and her master has changed a lot through my second revision of the fic too, and so has my writing style. Enjoy!

Darth Kharopos knew damn well that he was intimidating. He must be, lest all the other Darths devour him whole. He was also acutely aware of the effect he had on Yennevyr. It was almost amusing, the sudden change in her posture, her back snapping straight the moment he stepped into the room. Her deference towards him, the soft words and lowered eyes. Was she eager to please, or eager to survive?

From her quick feet and mind, he thought it was the latter. Self-preservation was a necessary trait among the cutthroat Sith, but for his apprentices - his legacy - he wanted more. He thought with her keen eyes and her outsider’s perspective, she’d be able to see the Empire for what it was. To see beyond the rabble, beyond the rat’s race and see what truly mattered. Instead, her eyes were puffy and pink, the next morning they met during saber practice.

Pathetic.

And it wasn’t a one off occasion too. Every time she’d come back from a particularly grueling mission, her mind was elsewhere, her blows lacking the conviction he’d expect from an acolyte worthy of being called his apprentice.

Drawing his attention back to the current practice, he swung a saber at her, the saber deflected mid-swing by a well-placed parry. He stepped aside, and noted how her feet were firmly planted into the ground, readying the body to absorb the weight of a heavy thrust or jab. A defensive stance- again. Must he truly hurt her for her to finally switch to the offense?

The tip of her saber was shaking, her stamina running low.

With the ease of swatting a fly, Darth Kharopos knocked the saber out of her hands. Scowling, he walked away, not pausing to glance back..

*******

Something was different. Clearly, something had changed.

Yet, it was less of a change or a growth and more of a pot bubbling over, the pressure and the heat exploding, the fragile cage of a badly crafted glass teapot cracking, its jagged shards flying into the wall before smashing into sharp little pieces.

Something flared in her eyes and her single red blade came to life, slashing in his direction.

He stepped right and striked left. She jumped back, moving like a spooked jungle-cat, before bouncing back forward with an unexpected speed and thrusted her saber towards his form. He blocked her, catching her blade with the end of his own. Her stance buckled under his strength, and so she slid her saber away but not before suddenly twisting her grips - shifting form, right in the heat of combat, inches away from her enemy - and plunging the blade into where he stood. Darth Kharopos spun his double-bladed saber, creating a quick shield that deflected away Yennevyr’s weapon.

The weapon flew out of her hand.

He felt her clearly. Frustration. Loathing. Wrath.

Their force bond was never this strong, but now he could feel her closer than ever. The way her heart raced, the blood thumping in her ears, her ragged breath and barely held back sobs- it was a dam broken loose, her force presence like a whirlpool throwing the cold serenity of his mind into chaos. Decades of careful restraint and calculating control kept him from drowning in the waves of her emotions.

Yennevyr, with her lithe form and dancer physique, sent a butterfly kick towards his head. Darth Kharopos reeled back. He could’ve blocked her again, that he was more than capable of- but his senses were screaming, alarm bells ringing.

With that distraction - that uncharacteristic distraction, that daring, was so different from the cautious acrobat who used to dance in and out of his range - she summoned her saber back, the hilt smacking into her palm with a loud slap. Fluid like water, she leaped and swung the saber like a guillotine axe above his head. Eyes wide, Darth Kharopos raised his saber up to form a cover, digging his feet into the sand below as the impact hit him. Yennevyr was not relenting.

Her eyes were scarlet. Those amber orbs now glowed red, the color looking like freshly spilt blood against her snow-pale skin. It reminded him of the first time he saw a total lunar eclipse: the moon bled red, as if someone had stabbed its white soil and the wound began gushing glistening ruby.

He let her hit him.

*******

Despair was an emotion Darth Kharopos never experienced, not truly and certainly not personally. Whether that was an indication of mental strength or privilege, he didn’t know.

Lord Atala’s death hit them all hard; the empty space where his mother once stood still felt like a void. Darth Kratais second marriage with Darth Labrys could never fill that gnawing, missing hole, but the woman’s hands were tender and her gaze was warm and when she whispered words of comfort to him, it felt like he had a mother again. Her presence had gentled his father’s severe disposition, and when she brought about his half-sister - Tatyan - into the world, the younger Sith Pureblood felt like a tiny bird fluttering in his palms. She truly was worth protecting.

When his father passed, it felt like a bad dream had come again.

Except this time, mother was grieving and Tatyan was bawling and they all cried together.

“Never show weakness in front of outsiders”, Darth Labrys said. “But here, we’re family.”

Because of family, he’d never known despair.

He was used to inflicting it upon others, though.

Hearing prisoners beg for death, attempting to gouge their eyes out as if the act could wipe away the vision of seeing their loved ones writhing as lightning tore through them, was something he’d grown accustomed to. He saw it coming like a holofilm in slow-motion: the moment where a war veteran’s mind was about to break, their will and determination ready to be shattered into dust at just a single jab. He always made sure their descent into madness was quick- no need to prolong the suffering. Genuine torture was only reserved for the worst of his enemies. It was satisfying, forcing some arrogant Republic general to their knees and making them scream, or exposing some tough Jedi for the weakling they were, like ripping open a bandage to reveal the ugly pus beneath.

How then, had he become so numb to the agony of others, that he missed seeing the same signs in his apprentice?

She was in despair, so upset she wished she’d died.

The circular burns on her arms looked like the ones he was used to inflicting upon Republic foes. It was an easy interrogation technique: stamping a recently deactivated lightsaber onto bare skin, the still-hot metal like a sizzling brand. And when he gazed into her eyes (oh sweet Yennevyr, when was the last time he truly looked at her?), they were dead. Empty glass orbs that had given up on life, if only her heart would just stop beating and give up on her too.

“Do I disappoint you, my lord?”

There was no mockery, no snippy retort in her voice, only pain.

*******

“I’ve always wondered how the law would work out in the long run,” Darth Labrys said, her voice lilting through the holocall. She was referring to the law to bolster Imperial ranks with worthy slaves and aliens, the law which also applied to the Sith. “You can’t expect a slave or a foreigner with no background, no exposure to Sith culture or history to integrate smoothly into Sith society without intervention, much less demand top performances from them.”

Not to mention the consequence of overwhelming power suddenly awakening within someone never taught to wield it, Darth Kharopos thought. The dark side was intoxicating, and one could lose themselves to everything from bloodlust to misery.

“I’m not advising you to go easy on her… but do be understanding, Tyrkos.”

His mother warned that even with the best medicine or therapy available, it would take time, and heavens knew that the Sith journey was already difficult enough, requiring one to fall apart and be reborn from the ashes, to kill who you were for what you could become.

Trust between Sith, especially master and apprentices, was rare. Now, he doubted she’d ever place her faith in him beyond hoping to one day take his place.

*******

Is this how I die? Darth Kharopos thought.

Every breath felt like hot knives stabbing his lungs. The rebreather was dying on him, for he could taste soot in his mouth. Collapsed against the cool floor of his hideout, back leaning against a bloodied wall, his apprentice loomed over him. How embarrassing, for his apprentice to see him so helpless.

“What’s the meaning of this?” she cried out. “Master!”

He thought he’d take that secret to the grave, to ensure that the fallout was minimal. Sith Pureblood, heir to the Rosokor family, involved in a light-side conspiracy. Should he be exposed, the Dark Council would have his mother’s and sister’s heads.

He pleaded for her to understand.

And if she didn’t, he wouldn’t blame her.

Her left hand clutched his holocommunicator where the damning evidence of his treachery laid, and in her right hand was the scarlet lightsaber, poised for execution. In the months under his tutelage, she’d grown into a stunningly beautiful Sith assassin indeed.

He closed his eyes.

“Tell me how to help.”

In shock, his eyes snapped open.

Her eyebrows were scrunched up but whether in anxiety or concern, he could not tell. There was a flush in her cheeks, and wildness in her eyes. Against his every expectation, Yennevyr chose mercy. She chose a chance at the Light. She chose him.

Master, did you not choose me, on Korriban? You saw something in me. I see something in you, too.

*******

Yennevyr hated mopping up blood. She had watched her late father’s maids do it all the time, his underlings scrubbing a crime scene clean. She later played the role of the domestic servant, doing the same back when she was enslaved under the Hutts, whether it be with spilled drinks or bloodstains from a brawl. She wasn’t afraid of blood- the coppery stench just smelled revolting.

Her master bled liters, the liquid forming sticky pools beneath his broken body. Sealing the wound wasn’t too difficult once she found the medkit, although her clumsy handiwork would definitely leave a scar. What was even more concerning was her master’s breathing, the fact that it sounded agonizingly labored and worryingly irregular.

With effort, they managed to haul their way to the hideout’s medical wing before he slipped into unconsciousness.

When his armor was stripped away and it was only his form in plain robes on the simple bed, her master looked more exhausted than she’d ever seen him. Heavy fatigue was written all over his sleeping face. It reminded her of those times she woke up especially early to see the Kaasian sunrise, the soft orange peaking through grey, stormy clouds. Some days, she deduced how master had been running some secret errands the night before, and she’d spot him limping home, his feet dragging, with an uncharacteristic slouch burdening his usually proud posture. Logically, she knew her master was no more or less a person than her, but to glimpse him tired and worn out had shocked her.

She spent the night by his side, the implications of her actions becoming clearer with each passing moment.

To reform the Sith society from inside out, she thought. A lofty dream. When did I become such a cynic?

With curious eyes, she glanced at her master’s resting form, the sound of his still ragged breathing filling the room. She wouldn’t even need a lightsaber; all she had to do was wrap her hands around his neck, and squeeze. She wondered if suffocation felt like sleep.

Oh, will I ever see you this vulnerable again?

Instead, she gingerly placed a palm on top of his limp hand, entangling her fingers with his. His hand was warm.

*******

After the suspicious death of Darth Jadus, Darth Zhorrid - in her sick ways - sought to consolidate her position as a Dark Lord of the Sith.

As if the Council would stand her, Yen scoffed. After they’ve sucked her dry of whatever knowledge Jadus may have passed down to his daughter, she’s dead.

It was no secret that her master disagreed with many of the actions taken by Darth Jadus, but he’d always respected the chain of command, bowing whenever the Dark Councillor requested his presence, amicable before his superiors. This time, however, Darth Zhorrid asked for her master and would not expect anything less than absolute submission.

“Wait outside, Yennevyr. Do not interfere no matter what happens.”

Many may claim force cloaking to be an act of defense, like the Jedi Shadows who’d rather sneak past their foes than needlessly spill blood. Perhaps she truly was like that, in the past. Eager to run, to dart in and out unseen. Conflict-avoidant.

But a cloak was also a tool, like a viper’s green scales that blended into the grass, obscuring fangs and venom. To take it a step further: force cloaking was manipulation. It was to force upon someone a false visage, to bend the mind of onlookers to the point of them rejecting the evidence of their own eyes, denying the existence of a sword pointed at their head. On Korriban, Yen had figured out how to twist her force cloak, inverting it so that her opponents’ visions were plunged into darkness and the world became invisible to them.

It only took hearing her master scream for the first time for her cloak to become a dress.

The scent of ozone reeked through the semi-closed office door. By god, no matter how many times in the past she’d angrily fumed - fantasizing of sweet it would be to give her master a taste of his own medicine - actually hearing her master who had just barely recovered from his previous ordeal now screaming under the powers of some bratty Darth who probably did not even deserve that title...

Yen’s hands curled into a fist, and she was surprised by the anxious lump that formed in her throat. She took in a sharp inhale and when she breathed out, the Force coiled around her like serpentine tendrils, slick and cool. Shadows rested around her shoulder blades like a fashionista’s scarf.

Or for her enemies, a noose.

When her master stumbled out of Darth Zhorrid’s office, a hand clutching at his side, she took the opportunity to peer into the slit of the half-opened office door and caught the Dark Councillor’s sadistic gaze. Yen gave a smile.

*******

Yen had always been good at force cloaking. But this time, instead of projecting the lie of invisibility, she’d chosen an illusion- a glamour, a mirage. To project something false into the world required unwavering will and mastery over that image.

Her mask was fueled by hatred.

Never had she thought she’d one day hate anyone more that she hated the Hutts or herself, until she met Darth Zhorrid. That pathetic mix of insecurity and sadism was infuriating. She had read up on Darth Jadus’ treatment of his daughter. It took everything for her not to barge into that office and wring that sick woman by the neck and ask her if she thought she was the only one who had ever faced abuse. Everyone faced pain at some point in their life. Suffering was the story of all beings, especially so if you were Sith. Yet, when she hated herself, Yen only hurt herself. Unlike Zhorrid, she’d never tortured others as a way to lessen her own pain, to hide her weakness.

And for that, Yen wished Zhorrid was dead.

But not before providing use for her and her master, of course.

Wearing the Force - the fabric of the universe - as if it was a garment, was an act of complete domination. With a smile, she had sparked a flame of interest within Zhorrid. With a light touch of her fingers, she’d quicken or calm the Dark Lord’s pulse, the woman’s heartbeat hers to command at her pleasure. In a blink of an eye, Zhorrid would forgive her master for any misdeeds he’d supposedly done, and most importantly, Zhorrid would leave him alone.

Why pay attention to some grumpy old Sith when the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen was standing there in front of her eyes?

A drugged cupcake ready to be eaten.

Darth Kharopos felt his stomach sinking when he received the holocall requesting that Yennevyr go meet Darth Zhorrid in her chambers. His muscles tightened, as if readying for battle. He wasn’t scared of that snooty brat; anything she threw his way he could take. But Yen, his student, his ward, his protege, his apprentice-

She was smiling.

The Force swirled around her, draped all over her form like a dress blowing in the wind. It was as if she wore a robe of woven flesh, of slithering serpents and tendrils that wrap and cling and coil. There was a gleam in Yen’s eyes, her russet eyes mirthful, radiating confidence. The last time he remembered seeing his apprentice so self-assured was when he was bleeding on the cool tiled floors, her red lightsaber hanging over his head like a bloody guillotine.

“My lord, I am every bit your apprentice. Trust that you’ve taught me well.”

When Darth Kharopos was later summoned to Darth Zhorrid’s office, Yennevyr sat on Zhorrid’s lap like an overpriced poodle. What Zhorrid did not see was the undulating threads latching onto her, their ends sinking into Zhorrid’s skin like a snake’s fangs, or parasites whose teeth pierced her bloodstream, draining her dry.

“Ah, you’re here, Darth Kharopos,” Zhorrid said with a grin. “Very good, you look very nice indeed, perfect for the job.”

Darth Kharopos only nodded, his eyes glued to Zhorrid’s pale hand which stroked Yen’s hair as if she was some exotic pet.

“I need you to look into two places: Belsavis, and the Arcanum.”

Belsavis was a tightly guarded secret he was privy to knowing, but his heart skipped a beat when he heard the name ‘Arcanum’. The Emperor’s property. Jedis have died to get a glimpse of the space station, and there were words of a rogue Dread Master recently robbing the place. Was it even under Intelligence’s jurisdiction?

A squeal snapped him from his thoughts.

“So you do know about the Arcanum!”

Her voice went from a slimy purr to an abrupt shriek. He felt a hard shove and invisible cold fists pinning him to the wall. His legs hung in the air, and he glared at that wretched woman.

“My lord,” Yennevyr murmured, her doe-like eyes widening at Darth Zhorrid. “My master’s a Darth of Imperial Intelligence. Is it not his role to know all that is going on?”

The pressure released and soon he was free. Zhorrid made a noise of agreement, muttering ‘Yes, yes… you’re right, of course.”

Zhorrid began ranting, a semi-coherent monologue punctuated with giggles and sudden screeches on the unfairness of her fate and the need to prove her worth to the Dark Council. Before her anger boiled over, a force tendril planted soft kisses on Zhorrid’s lips, quieting the woman’s anxiety in one swift move.

When the Dark Councillor appeared distracted, Darth Kharopos broke eye contact and glanced at his apprentice. He suppressed a shudder, seeing the predatory glint in Yennevyr’s eyes. Everyday, they grew more scarlet.

You will drink my words, or I will pour them down your throat.

*******

Belsavis he took care of alone, but as per Darth Zhorrid’s orders, he allowed Yennevyr to accompany him on the mission to the Arcanum. It was perfect: with every eye glued to the young rising-star commander, a Sith not-yet-a-lord with the bewitching presence of a black hole, nobody noticed him slipping away, leaking whatever information he could find on the Emperor to Republic SIS. His heart thundered the whole way, but every time he looked at Yennevyr - black hair tied up in a bun, a saber and light armor ready for combat - he felt like he could breathe easy again.

The mission was a success. They tracked the thief, Lord Tagriss, down to Ilum. His dualsaber stabbed a hole in the Sith Lord’s chest, and he felt his apprentice’s pride flared through their bond the moment Lord Tagriss’ dead husk fell into the snow.

When they returned home, she was ready to be a Lord.

“From this day onwards, you are known as Lord Soteira,” he declared, his apprentice kneeling before him. “It means savior.”

His apprentice stood up. When she looked at him, something swirled in his chest.

You honed my blade and sharpened my edges until they are lethal. You scrubbed away the rust, and revealed the blood-soaked truth. Master, don’t feel guilty thinking you turned me into something I already wasn’t. I’ll try to reach for the Light as you want me to, my lord, but don’t pity me if I fail.

[insomnia-productions]

In The World Of Dreams - a mat/rand drabble

Summary: 

“This is a dream, isn’t it?”

“It is. And it isn’t.”

Mat rolls his eyes, tugging gently on the medallion around his neck. “Of course. That clears that up.” But he smiles slightly, crookedly, in that way only he can.

Note: this can be read as a standalone fic, but it is intended as a sequel to The Dragon And His General. 

Read on AO3

.

It isn’t hard to find Mat’s dream in Tel’aran’rhiod .

Maybe it’s to do with ta’veren. Most things are, it seems. He thinks maybe someone once told him, or told someone he used to be, that it’s easiest to find the dreams of people you love. That, oftentimes, their dreams find you. He doesn’t know what about that thought scares him.

Maybe Mat’s dream is easy to find because it is dark and opaque. Not hidden, in the way Aes Sedai dreams are hidden, not all locked up and murky, like his own dreams are. Just dark, like curtains drawn quickly over a window, like a door hastily shut just before some illicit activity takes place in a room. It might be surprising to anyone else, for such a brash person to have such private dreams. But he knows Mat better than most, understands the depths of his inner world better than anyone, and the quiet pride he feels at that fact only sours his mood.

He turns away from Mat’s dream. Unseen, it approaches from behind.

“Rand?”

Rand turns, stamping down surprise as he feels the dream wash over him. His fingers turn in his pocket, rolling cool metal between them.

Mat sits cross-legged on a large bed, deep pink curtains with heavy gold embroidery hanging from the tall wooden frame. His gaze flits between Rand’s face and the crown driving thin cuts into his forehead. Rand looks around, looks at the unfamiliar scenery outside the window, at Mat’s torn clothes, at the ribbons on the floor. He thinks of a hundred things to say. Where are you and I miss you and I shouldn’t stay with you and There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you for years and years.

In the end, he only says, “You’re alive.”

“More or less,” Mat shrugs. And then, slowly, “This is a dream, isn’t it?”

“It is. And it isn’t.”

Mat rolls his eyes, tugging gently on the medallion around his neck. “Of course. That clears that up.” But he smiles slightly, crookedly, in that way only he can.

Rand feels warmth flood through him, washing over his whole body, in a way he hasn’t felt in what must be months but feels like years. Altara was cold, Cairhien colder, and Min’s easy friendship alleviates the chill, but it was Mat who warmed him, made him feel like Illian, Cairhien, Rhuidean, every place was home. It feels good, and it feels familiar, and it feels somehow scary, like a Grey Man, like a threat that is unseen but not unfelt.

He struggles to shake the feeling, struggles to force out words to distract him. “Where is this?”

Suddenly Mat seems to notice his surroundings, eyes darting around the room, to the ribbons, to the door, cracked just slightly open. His clothes flicker and repair themselves; the ribbons disappear; heavy padlocks grow like thick vines over the door, forcing it shut.

“Ebou Dar,” he says shortly.

What happened here, Rand wants to ask. Mat shouldn’t have been in Ebou Dar at all, but somehow, looking at the expression on his face, why is not the question he cares about. Before he can ask, Mat starts to talk again. Perhaps he, too, is looking for words to distract himself from some uneasy feeling. Rand doesn’t interrupt him; he doesn’t have the right to. After all, he is the one who sent Mat away.

“You have a new crown.” Mat slips from the bed and comes to stand before him, one hand brushing lightly over the Crown Of Swords. Even that hurts, thin metal spines pricking his skin. Mat frowns. “I liked the old ones better.”

Rand looks at him. “Cairhien? Illian? You hated those, too.”

Mat shakes his head, stepping away. “Emond’s Field.”

The world ripples around them, tiled floor turning to dirt, sky stretched out above them, vast and cloudless, the air stirring gently and infused with the scent of mid-spring flowers.

Mat pulls a face, looking down at his brown farmer’s clothes with an odd sort of fondness. “I never imagined I would be happy to be back here, in these boring old clothes.” A thin shiver ripples through him and he turns away abruptly, rubbing absently at his wrists. Rand watches him stumble a few steps away, and then realizes with a jolt that his royal attire has vanished, too, replaced with the clothes he had worn on that summer evening so many years ago, when he and Mat had sat by the brook and talked about the future. He feels a smile touch his lips at the memory. They had talked about running away, traveling the world… and something else. His hand slips into his pocket, touching cool silver; he pulls it out again, as though burned.

A few paces ahead, Mat is running his fingers over the petals of tall flowers. They weave together as he does so, forming a ring of green, speckled with sunbursts—work completed in that effortless way only possible in dreams. And Rand remembers.

“Emond’s Field,” he echoes, and smiles. It feels unfamiliar on his face. “My first crown was in Emond’s Field.”

Mat looks over, and grins at him. For a moment, the Crown Of Swords flickers, vanishing from his head, leaving a soft ring of yellow flowers in its place. The crown returns too quickly, colder and sharper against his forehead than before. Rand curls his hand into a fist to keep himself from flinging it from his head.

Suddenly he feels the urge to run, to let the One Power rip through him so that it tears the World of Dreams apart before he can succumb completely to the urge to stay here and live this dream forever.

It’s so quiet here, in the meadow just beyond the village. He can hear the brook gurgling somewhere nearby, hidden by tall grasses. Ladybugs buzz softly, red ones flitting from one plant to another, little yellow ones perched on the stalks, blue ones climbing steadfastly past them. A faint breeze stirs the air; Rand watches it ruffle Mat’s hair. And, oh, Light, Mat, Mat is here, and safe, and grinning at him like they’re still boys playing in the meadow, with no knowledge of the outside world beyond the notion that fireworks came from there.

Already the memories of battle, of madness, are fading. Rand clings to them, forcing them to the forefront of his mind, feeling cold and sick flush away his warmth. He can’t afford to stay the night in this dream; if he must wake without it, he doesn’t think he will be able to wake at all.

Mat notices the change and comes closer.

“Rand? What’s wrong?” Rand backs away from him and Mat halts, irritation flashing across his face. “Don’t say what you’re about to say.”

“I have to go,” Rand forces out. “I- I can’t stay here. It’s not—safe.”

Mat throws up his hands. “Why not? It’s just a dream.”

“I can’t stay,” Rand says softly. “If I stay, I won’t be able to leave.”

The sigh he receives in response is infuriated and heavy. Once again, the scenery shifts, and Rand finds himself in a small, messy room with brown walls and a sturdy bed; Mat’s old bedroom in Emond’s Field. It smells like wood and earth; Rand breathes in the scent of home while Mat throws himself backwards onto the bed, pulling a face as it creaks loudly.

“It’s smaller than I remembered, but I reckon we’ll both still fit.” Sitting up, he squints at Rand. “You look like you’ve been to the Pit of Doom and back. Get some sleep, at least.”

Rand shakes his head, hand dipping into his pocket again. Moving slowly, he sits next to Mat on the bed. “I really can’t stay. But, before I go…” He takes his hand out, fist closed, and gestures for Mat to hold out his own hand. Mat watches with interest as Rand places the object onto his palm, closing his fist before Mat can see it.

“You don’t have to decide yet, but… keep this safe for me. Then, when you come back, you can give it back if you want… or you can keep it.”

Mat looks at him in confusion. “Rand—���

“It doesn’t matter—whether you want it or not. Just come back soon, so you can tell me—whatever the answer is.” Rand stands up from the bed, moving away. He feels himself pull away from the dream, sees his physical form start to flicker and fade.

Mat is on his feet in an instant, fist still clenched tightly around the object. He reaches the other hand out, expression caught between a scowl and a plea. “Rand, wait—”

“I love you,” Rand says, but the dream is distorting, and he isn’t sure if Mat hears.

The dream drifts idly away. Rand watches it go from within the Void, and returns to his wandering.

Mat wakes in the infirmary room to the sound of moans and sobs. Healers and Wise Women rush around in a flurry; no one here pays any notion to yet another man with tears in his eyes. He wipes them roughly away, colored dots dancing over his eyelids. Eyes shut, he runs his fingers over the cold metal.

“Where’d you get that?” the man in the next bed asks. Mat ignores him.

He slips the ring onto his finger, and when he opens his eyes, they are dry.

.

[def-initely-soul]

Jae from DAY6, prompts 8 and 15, where you are best friends and you enter a haunted house (maybe with the rest of Day6?). Make it a comedy and make me crack... Love ya!

One drabble with Jae coming right up!! Love you too <3

Bias: Jae from DAY6

Prompt(s): #8 “Anybody else notice the small child staring at us?” + #15 “HOLY MOTHERF- IT BIT ME!”

Genre: Humor/Horror-ish/Fluff/PG-15

Warnings: Mature Language/Scary Themes/Suggestive Themes

Words: 2.6k

“Wonpil, stop yanking my shirt, you’re gonna rip it!” you hear Brian whining at his friend as you pass by yet another barely-passable ghost on the corridor of the second floor.

Dowoon had the magnificent idea of visiting a haunted house tour on Halloween before you hit Bambam’s extravagant party and it’s pointless to say that the rest of your group was immediately sold to the idea.

Well, with the exception of you and Jae of course. Best friends and partners in crime extraordinaire that wanted to simply go to the party instead of being scared shitless in a haunted house.

Although you have to admit, the only one being scared shitless right now is Wonpil. This “haunted house” is a complete failure.

“I can’t help it okay? I get scared easily!” Wonpil murmurs next to Brian, as the later rolls his eyes and Sungjin conceals a chuckle from behind them.

“Then why on earth did you agree to this?” Jae asks from beside you as you punch him softly in the ribs.

“I wanted to be included okay?!” Wonpil gives Jae what you suppose is an ominous glare but he only manages to appear as a puppy trying to intimidate someone.

Jae chuckles dismissively at Wonpil’s stare, causing Wonpil to look even more like a pouty puppy then before and so you rush to his side to appease him.

“Don’t worry Wonpil, my precious angel in a sea full of dinguses! I, for one, am happy you’re here and I swear I’ll protect you from the terrors of this house” you announce proudly, wrapping your arm around Wonpil’s and a blush creeps over his cheeks.

“See, this is why you’re my favorite friend! Everyone else is just mean…” he whines and you chuckle. A cough comes from in front of you where Jae and Dowoon are talking but you choose to dismiss it.

.

.

As you walk through the house some more, nothing else seems to make an impression on you; cheap costumes and bored actors/ghouls doing nothing on scaring your group of six, inevitably leading to Sungjin and Dowoon having a very heated conversation over who chose this place; spoiler, it was Dowoon.

Wonpil and Brian are just trying to get them to calm down while you and Jae laugh over the whole debacle.

Until you feel a palm sliding against your own, almost innocently, that is.

And the keyword is almost.

You immediately retract your hand to wrap around your torso as you send a glare towards a very cheeky-looking Jae.

“What?” he whispers lowly so no one else hears him with a devilishly smirk on his face.

Your eyes grow at him warningly. “What do you mean ‘what’? The guys are here!” you whisper-yell at him, quickly taking a look to make sure the guys aren’t watching you two.

“So?”

“So?! I thought we agreed on keeping this a secret from them…” you look at him sternly, or you guess, trying to appear stern because that fucker knows your weak spots and he certainly knows how to use them.

“But, Y/N… I missed you…” he leans in to whisper in your ear and even though you know this position is very compromising you can’t help but feel weak in the knees.

It’s been barely a week since you started going out in secret and he already makes you feel like this.

It all started with a kiss. A kiss you drunkenly shared at his birthday party and then swore to never bring up again. But then, you didn’t. It kept coming up in the form of stolen glances, and accidental touches and one night after the rest of the gang had left from your weekly gathering to your house, one thing led to another and… 

And you woke up the next morning very tired, very sore but very much certain you liked your best friend.

So you decided to give it a try, but if you wanted this to work you had to make sure it was just the two of you. No distractions, no meddling and certainly not your messy group of friends trying to get involved.

You have to admit that up until now, everything is going smoothly. Well, more than smoothly. You can positively say you’re head over heels for Jae and if you had to guess you’d say Jae feels the same.

Hence why it’s so hard to keep his hands from you right now.

You sigh in defeat. “I missed you too. God, how can we miss each other when our last date was yesterday?” you mumble to yourself, not complaining when Jae slides closer.

“I can’t wait to get out of this house already and take us somewhere else. Somewhere with less people preferably…” he chuckles lowly, almost against the skin of your neck and a shiver runs down your spine.

“I’d like that…” you whisper back before stealing a look at him; there’s a sinful smirk on his lips, one that promises no good and his dark hair falls above his eyes. Those are dark, pupils blown out in lust as his mind runs with a million things the two of you could do once you get out of here. He licks his lips tentatively and opens them up when-.

“Hey, what are you guys talking about there?”

Sungjin’s voice breaks up the little private bubble the both of you were til now and you slide away from Jae immediately.

“Nothing in particular. Just how about your little conversation is gonna make us super late for Bambam’s party,” Jae saves your asses nonchalantly and throws a discreet wink your way.

You blush but look away immediately before directing your attention to Sungjin. “Anyways, are you done now so we can get out of this excuse of a haunted house?”

“Um, guys…” Wonpil tries to interrupt.

“Well, it would be a decent haunted house if I had chosen it!” Sungjin retorts as he stares at Dowoon with an eyebrow raised.

“Guuuys…”

“I didn’t see you trying to help find another one though, did I?” Dowoon frowns at Sungjin, crossing his hands on his chest.

“Guys, can you-”

“Yeah, because someone wouldn’t let anyone help him!”

“Because your ideas are shit that’s why!”

“You take that back right now, you ass!”

“Guys!”

“What is it Wonpil?!” all of you finally pay attention to the man who keeps on trying to interrupt but when you look at him his eyes are wide with fear.

“Anybody else notice the small child staring at us?” 

At once, all pairs of eyes move to the corner Wonpil points to, where indeed a small child stares at the lot of you.

Your eyes grow wide as Brian lets out a little gasp and hides behind Jae and Sungjin looks at the kid with frowned features. He wears black pants and a white shirt with suspenders, bringing out, even more, the paleness of his skin. So much, it makes him look transparent.

The small child does nothing though. Just stares at the six of you, eyes glassy and expressionless as his hands hang lifelessly at its sides.

“Is this part of the tour…?” Brian asks with a small voice and Jae rolls his eyes.

“Of course, it’s part of the tour, don’t tell me you got scared too,” he shoves lightly at Brian and he takes a step back.

“O-Of course not, ha! I knew that…” he mumbles, rubbing the spot Jae hit him.

But then the child talks.

“You’re a liar.”

All conversations cease when the kid speaks, his eyes focused on Jae exclusively. 

Confusion takes over your group as the child keeps on staring at Jae lifelessly.

“What did he just say?” Wonpil asks, worry written all over his face.

“That Jae is a liar…” Sungjin responds baffled before looking back at the kid.

“Me? About what? Do you know me, kid?” Jae stares accusingly at the small boy in front of you but the kid doesn’t seem fazed by this. 

Instead, its cold eyes remain on Jae with more intensity than before.

“I don’t know you, sir. But I know you’re a liar,” the kid’s voice sounds as if nails on a chalkboard and you feel the hair on your arms raising.

Dowoon shakes his head while stepping closer, “Hey kid, it’s not nice to tease people…” he crouches down to be on eye level.

The boy tilts his head. “But I’m not teasing. This man is a liar and he knows it,” the child responds, pointing to Jae with his finger.

Jae pierces his lips before taking a step forward. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Hiding something from others is the same as lying.”

A booming thunder echoes, making you jump in your spot as heavy rain starts pouring from the skies outside.

Does the kid… know about you two?

Jae swallows nervously as the guys turn to look at him this time, confused.

“What is the kid talking about Jae?” Sungjin is the first to speak.

Jae looks more anxious by the second. “Nothing, nothing, he doesn’t know anything!”

“He seems pretty certain you’re hiding something though…” Brian adds on as he grows more suspicious by the second.

“Guys, he’s just an actor! He’s being paid to say stuff like that, come on!” Jae retorts and you feel awful knowing he does this for you. 

You’re the one that said you should keep this a secret in the first place. Jae, on the other hand, wanted to share the news with your friends because he knew they would be happy for you.

Wonpil steps in between. “Guys, come on, Jae is right, the kid is just an actor. Besides, Jae wouldn’t purposefully hide anything from us, right?” Wonpil defends him with all the sweetness and innocence in the world and you and Jae share a look full of guilt.

Brian sighs. “I suppose you’re right. Now let’s find the exit before-”

Then all lights go out.

“What the fuck is happening?!” Sungjin’s terrified voice fills the void and you search blindly for Jae’s hand.

“Y/N, I’m here, it’s okay, everything is okay,” Jae responds quietly as soon as you find his palm and your fingers intertwine.

“Guys, do you see anything?” Wonpil asks from somewhere to your left and you try to look for him but to no avail.

“I can’t see shit! Where’s the kid?!” Brian shouts out.

Dowoon takes his turn to speak, “He was right next to me before the lights went out but I-HOLY MOTHERF- IT BIT ME!”

“What the fuck is going on?!” Brian’s voice comes out panicked and stuttering.

“Dowoon, are you okay?! Where are you?!” you call out for your friend helplessly.

But no reply comes from him. 

From no one.

The lights come back up.

And it’s just you and Jae in the room.

“W-where are the rest?” Jae’s stammering words do nothing to calm your nerves as your eyes fly around the room to try and locate your friends.

“Guys?! Where are you?”

“They’re gone.”

You both turn around immediately at the small voice, coming face to face with that kid from before.

His face has a curious expression on it and yet his eyes are cold.

“What do you mean?” you ask defiantly, but the truth is your bones are shaking.

“Where are they?” Jae says through clenched teeth, anger swimming in his eyes.

The boy ignores you to look at Jae once again.

“Your lies have cost your friends’ lives. Do you still insist you have nothing to hide?”

Another shudder takes over you at the boy’s words.

Jae’s jaw is tensed, eyes stubborn on the child as he refuses to answer.

The child takes a breath. And then a devilish smile takes over his features.

“Then I guess it’s her turn.”

And the lights are out once more.

“Come back here, you fucker!”, Jae yells right next to you, his grip on your hand tightening, “Y/N, I swear to God, I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, okay?”

“Jae, I’m scared. And the guys are gone, what are we gonna-” a loud shriek escapes your lips as something grips at your hand to drag you away from Jae.

“No! Y/N!” Jae’s frantic voice fills your ears as he tries to reach you, to grab anything to keep you close, but to no avail.

You slip right between his fingers with a scream of his name as an unseen entity drags you back.

“You want the truth, you little shit?! Fine! I’m seeing Y/N behind our friends’ back and I actually fell in love with her, so if you do anything to hurt her I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

At once the thing that drags you, stops. It releases you from its grip as a familiar voice comes from behind you.

“Wait, what?”

At once the lights are back on. Your gaze finds Jae immediately as you look at him with shock. 

He’s in love with you? He’s never said that before.

His eyes are on you, relief written on them once he sees your okay but then they move behind you and-.

“Brian?!”

Your eyebrows scrunch and confusion and you turn to look the “entity” that dragged you back, only to be met with Brian’s shocked face. And then, Sungjin and Wonpil appear from behind a wooden door as Dowoon and the kid emerge from behind a fake ghost.

You stand up, confusion etched on your features as you try to make sense of what’s going on.

“Wait, did you plan this whole thing?!” you ask accusingly, eyes wide in disbelief and Sungjin rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Well, yeah…”

“We knew you guys were messing around and we were hurt you kept this from us so we decided to prank you into telling us…” Wonpil admits with a set of puppy eyes, one trick that managed to get him out of numerous situations and, as long as it concerns you, it will get him out of this one as well.

“But we didn’t expect you guys to be in love!” Dowoon exclaims as he looks at you shocked beyond compare.

“I mean, Jae is. We haven’t heard from Y/N, yet…” Brian looks at you from the corner of his eyes and suddenly all eyes are on you.

Including Jae’s. They look hopeful and yet scared. Scared that he’s fallen into this thing way too fast and might have possibly scared you.

You take a breath as you smile at him shyly. “I am too.”

Jae’s smile grows wide and he steps closer and places a soft kiss on your lips.

“Ew, gross, you guys!”

“I mean we’re happy for you but come on! Not in front of the kid!”

“I think is romantic!” Wonpil retorts and you and Jae break apart to look at your friends with big smiles on your faces.

“Speaking of which… Who is this kid?” you ask curiously and Dowoon laughs out loud.

“He’s my cousin. I was supposed to take him out for trick ‘n’ treat tonight but we thought of a better way to spend the night…”

“He gave me thirty bucks and I’m not that into candy anyway,” the kid announces and Sungjin laughs out loud at Dowoon’s tired face.

“Now, I think that’s enough ‘haunted house’ for one night, let’s get back to Bambam’s party,” Sungjin moves forward and the rest of the group follows. You and Jae being last, hands intertwined as he kisses your knuckles. His eyes are gleaming and so must be yours too, as you walk out of the mansion.

“Can I come to the party too?”

“Dude, you’re 8!”

“Soooo… no?”

[misssophiachase]

NikMik: so i watched Leap Year...& there were some major klaroline vibes. i know you're not taking prompts but i just wanted to throw that out there for your "Crossroads" series, should you feel inspired :P is it sad that i see klaroline in everything? lol.

Hey luv! So sorry for the delay, this kind of fusion takes some time : ) And yes, Klaroline vibes all round for sure. Hope you like it! And no, it’s not sad that you see Klaroline in everything, I do too! Words in italics from the movie so too the song/drabble title.

Dream a Little Dream of Me

Dingle, Ireland - February 27, 2020

“Stars shining bright above you, night breezes seem to whisper I love…”

“You fried my iPhone!”  

Klaus Mikaelson was broken from his song mid lyric and given the look on her face, he was certain that it didn’t lend itself to the soundtrack of the current situation.

He stopped short of finishing the sentence registering her pursed lips, furrowed brow and the distracting fact her pyjama shorts were incredibly short showcasing a set of long, delectable creamy legs underneath that her jeans had annoyingly hid from him earlier in the day.  

“You fried the whole village, idiot!”

“Are you calling me the village idiot?” Her eyes narrowed in his direction. “Is that insult popular among the locals here?”

“Yes, because we are stuck in the Middle Ages and you are, in fact, the court jester in this scenario. Albeit without the silly hat, but I’m sure we can find you one or put you in the stocks and throw vegetables at you instead. Your choice, love.”

“I’m so glad I found myself stranded in this delightful town,” she mused. “But back to my broken cell and the fact you’re hanging out in this bar and singing to yourself at 2am.”

“It’s called closing up and this isn’t New York City, sweetheart, there’s only so much power available in Dingle.”

“Dingle?”

“Wow, even those legs aren’t enough to make me like you right now,” he growled, even if his eyes were betraying his attraction. “That’s the name of this delightful town you’ve come to love in the seven hours you’ve been here.”

“I knew that,” she lied. “But can we just get back to the fact I have no working phone and it’s kind of urgent given the reason for my impromptu visit.”

“Your impromptu visit? Something you’ve mentioned multiple times since we unfortunately crossed paths at the waterfront this afternoon.”

“I’m assuming with that charm you don’t have a girlfriend?”

“Pretty sure I could say the same about you, Forbes,” he noticed her expression fall briefly before sending him a determined gaze.

“Not that it’s any of your business but I came here to propose to my boyfriend on the Leap Year like Irish tradition,” she insisted.

“Now, isn’t that romantic,” he joked. “So, if that’s the case, where is the lucky guy? I’d really like to congratulate him on being able to stand your whinging.”

Klaus wasn’t expecting to suddenly feel so weird given he’d known her seven hours and she’d managed to cause him a headache and the whole village a power outage. He decided to blame it on those legs and hopefully move on but after taking a seat at the bar Klaus knew she wasn’t going anywhere yet.

“Just shut up and give me a vodka, neat,” she growled. “It’s the least you could do after completely failing me in the amenities department.”

“I think it’s void when you are responsible for killing the power, princess,” he shot back. “And it’s no surprise you drink vodka.”

“Well, if it’s good enough for the Russians,” she bit back. 

“Exactly,” he muttered, producing a shot glass and pouring in some whiskey. “But here in Ireland we drink this.” He half expected her to complain but she downed it in one go.

“Is that the best you’ve got?”

“You’re really challenging me?”

“Do I need to spell it out?” She shot back. Klaus loved a challenge and this was no exception. 

“Not at all, love, I just hope you’ve brought your A game.” She nodded and a flood of shots followed. Caroline to her credit was impressive but not enough to topple Klaus who’d been doing this a while.

He’d lifted her bridal style and laid her carefully in bed upstairs, not missing just how cute she looked mumbling the words to the Star Spangled Banner. They’d made a bet during rounds that they could sing all words to their national anthem. True to her inebriated form she obliged even close to passing out.

He turned off the lights and shut the door quietly. Klaus wasn’t expecting to learn much but a drunken Caroline had poured out her heart and he wasn’t quite sure what to do or say when he saw her next. 

7 hours later….  

She woke with one eye open unsure of her foreign surroundings, the fact her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls was enough to kill the usual shriek the situation would evoke.  

She sat up quickly, regretting it immediately as the room began to spin and also threatening never to stop. At least in the Wizard of Oz a house fell down and righted the situation but not here unfortunately. There weren’t even a few cows flying past to keep her entertained just the thought that there was no bucket to capture her stomach proceeds. 

Before she could spread them far and wide, a bucket appeared from nowhere. Caroline didn’t look up, just glad she had it and proceeded to make use of it. She barely noticed when he laid her back, wiping her mouth with a wet cloth and placing aspirin and water bedside before leaving again.

9 hours later…   

Waking up again, Caroline felt slightly less sick and more so embarrassed about her behaviour. She was just lucky he hadn’t seen her like this, why she cared was a mystery.

Caroline attempted to move from the bed, only noticing him seated in the corner of the room and with just enough time to grab the sheet and wrap it around her pyjama clad body.  

“I’ve seen it all before, if that’s any consolation,” he offered standing up, his indifference not lost on Caroline. “You felt the need to come downstairs and complain about the lack of electricity in that early this morning.”

Suddenly it all came back. The power outage, their argument, the incessant drinking and whatever came after that. Given she had some clothing on was a good sign she hadn’t cheated on her fiance-to-be with some village idiot. But why was he in her room?

“And why are here in my room?” She demanded. She half expected him to split but he held his ground.

“I like to keep the rooms tidy, wouldn’t want the guests to think that we take their amenities for granted.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” she muttered, desperate for some water until he held out a bottle. Was this weird guy psychic? Sure he was kind of handsome in those dark jeans and a navy henley that hugged his toned chest but she had a fiance. Well, almost. 

“Thank you,” she murmured, screwing the cap on the bottle. “I suppose I should be going then.”

“Yeah, can’t keep lover boy waiting,” he mumbled without much sound.

“Excuse me?” 

“Well, Dublin is over four hours away but I can drive you,” he offered. “If you’d like?”

“And why would you do that exactly? After…”

“The blackout, the whinging, the drinking and the aftermath you mean?”

“Yeah, I guess?”

“I’m a glutton for punishment I suppose,” he growled. “I’ll meet you outside in twenty minutes.”

“No breakfast in this establishment then?” She called after his retreating form down the stairs.

“I’d rather you don’t vomit in my car like you have everywhere else in my establishment, Forbes.”

“Charming,” she groaned. Partly annoyed that she threw up and partly annoyed she had to do it in front of him, of all frustrating people. She was surprised he hadn’t chanted ‘I told you so’ yet.  

But why was he so willing to take her to Dublin without question? Most guys would run in the opposite direction, especially one so rude and uptight. Maybe he was just making sure she left his precious village of Dingle? These types were protective of their hometowns so Caroline decided to put it down to that and pack her bags.

2 hours later….

“No car sickness?” He asked a few miles into their journey, passing a water bottle over the passenger seat. She’d been asleep for the most part but Klaus had noticed her rousing as they drove through a neighbouring village. 

“Wow, you really take this whole doctor thing seriously, are you sure you didn’t miss your calling?” She asked gruffly, rubbing her eyes from sleep and taking the bottle from his outstretched hand.

“No need to miss anything, I am a Doctor.” 

“But you own that inn with poor electricity?”

“Funnily enough we can multi-task over here, not sure what goes on in that warped country of yours, love. And that whole electricity debacle was your fault.”

“But yet you have time to drive me to Dublin?” She asked ignoring his last comment, no doubt on purpose.

“What can I say, I’m obviously extremely bored with my life and need something to poke my eyes out and tell me I’m not dreaming.”

“Wow, someone obviously screwed you over,” she insisted. “I can tell a jilted lover a mile off.”

“Says the person who promised me unlimited Bon Jovi and Nickelback on this road trip.” 

“Liar, stop trying to change the subject with bad music choices I never agreed upon.” 

“Says the girl about to propose to some guy in Dublin?” Klaus couldn’t help himself, it just came out. She didn’t hear him last time but this time he wasn’t so lucky.

“I tend to say way too much when I’m drunk obviously.”

“No kidding,” Klaus shot back. 

“You have this way of telling me my most insecure thoughts without much feeling. I’m a little concerned about your bedside matter to be honest.”

“My bedside manner is fine but I’m concerned about your taste in men,” he shot back. 

“Because you are perfect right?”

“Not at all,” he murmured. “My ex-girlfriend thought I was inept and it never really changed in her eyes. You called your boyfriend last night and a girl answered. You laughed it off but we both know that…”

“He’s an ass.”

“You can do so much better than him and if you don’t pick a letter I’m going to beat you at the Eye Spy Championships.”

“You’re such a competitive ass…”

“You already said that, and okay Eye Spy with my little eye beginning with…”

“X”

“Is that a kiss?”

“You wish Mikaelson,” she shot back. “It will take more than that…”

[elli-mk]

Hanahaki AU drabble

connected to this drawing

One petal... then another..

Pure lilac of color and only the faintest specks of red. Until the coughing grew worse. Each petal now more splattered than the previous. Father has told me about this strange sickness. I couldn't help but read more about it. It was fascinating!

If it wasn't threatening your own life.

A sickness of the heart. Unrequited love blooming in your chest, quite literally, clawing it's way through my lungs. Hopeless feelings, taken form, will kill you from within.

Not even magic is able to heal the heart, there is no way to cure it.

No, that's not true..

There is a way.

But.. Giving up my love for him? Risking the chance to never fall in love again?

I won't. I can't. I'll get over it, right? It's just a simple crush, that'll go by, right? I just have to pull through.

But no matter how hard I tried, how much I tried to convince myself that i didn't feel that way about him.. every time another coughing fit ragged through my body, when blood trickled from my chin and tainted petals slid through my fingers.. I knew it was real. And it was killing me, slowly but surely.

I held onto the feeling he gave me. When I went to deliver fathers papers or came to pick up other documents, I often stayed longer than i had to, getting caught up in little conversations at the gate. The guardsmen greet me ever so politely after years of being friends and words would flow out of the blue. And every time he smiled, my heart skipped a beat and this thing in my chest grew another inch. It was hard to keep myself from throwing up but I'd do anything just to see him smile some more.

I don't know what it was, that had him win my heart without even meaning to. Not that he wasn't good looking, because he was! So tall and strong. His hair, styled to dreads, albeit tamed in a low ponytail. His sideburns only added to his handsomeness. And his eyes.. a shade of lavender I've never seen before. So vibrant, I could get lost in them for hours.

Too much, far too much! I nearly choked, excusing myself to find the nearest restroom and hoping no one was there.

I was lucky, I was alone. I wouldn't have wanted anyone to wittness as i retched, body bent over in pain.

Minutes went by until I could even my breathing and my gaze fell down to the mess of red and lilac.

Whole rose blossoms drenched in blood, it's already come that far...

When i go back out, would they ask? What should I say without embarrassing myself, if they do?

I was on the way back as I heard someone running by right around the corner. The inofficial trouble makers of the town must have tried to sneak in the castle again. I laughed quietly. Young Lea sure was a spontanious hothead, not even his friend could keep him in check.

I took the chance to get out without being noticed until someone ran straight into me from behind. The papers flew about everywhere as I was knocked down. It was no one else but the young redhead on his escape, that I did realize, as he speeded past me, apologizing on the run. Thankfully he didn't step on any of the documents. Another figure ran after him and then another. The first was just as tall as the firecracker, but clad in soft blue, it was his friend Isa. The second however was much, much taller. It must have been Aeleus, since an all to familiar voice spoke to me as I felt a hand on my shoulder, startling me. Dilan was kneeling right next to me and I felt the lump in my throat but i kept it there, no matter how much it hurt. I couldn't let him know, so i simply nodded when he asked if i was allright. He didn't seem convinced but helped me to my feet and lent a hand to pick up the scattered papers. I thanked him breathlessly and hurried home.

I still feel bad about it.

I had barely closed the door as my body shook again and I threw up another three blossoms. After quickly cleaning the floor, I put the papers in "their place". In other words, wherever there was a bit of space. It was chaos but at least it was somewhat organized. Neither dear father nor me could keep things tidy for long.

Father... no, I couldn't have him worry about this mess of mine. I left a note, informing him I was out and about, before I took off.

This time to somewhere, far away from wittnesses, in any case.

The outer gardens in the back were often void of people. I often seek that place to think. If I had just known beforehand what would happen...

It was quiet, as I arrived. The rustling of flowers in the wind greeting me as I sat down. But soon the silence broke as the demons from my heart sprang free. Voices dripping with venom, I pushed them out of my head.

But they kept coming back until I agreed to listen to their offer.

As their vessel my survival was vital. But they already knew i wouldn't risk my love subsiding, rather I would die. So they offered me something i could barely refuse... Rid me of this beast in my chest and save the love it feasted on but leave my heart untouched, if I simply lived.

I risked it. And they swallowed me whole...

After all this time, on this journey I've been on, I've never once fell in love with someone again. I couldn't anymore. I had trusted my demons and I payed the price.

Until I met him again. Dilan. Not the empty monster he had become, but my Dilan, finally recompleted and home.. And my hearts skipped beats after beats and i felt like passing out as I couldn't have been happier, had my love not been lost but lain dormant all this time only to learn it was requited from the start.

Fate has it's way but I couldn't have cared less. What mattered whas the future, not the past. But i assure you, dear reader, whoever you may be, it took quite a while to convince my dear father.

[0nho]

onho; pg-13 “hero”

Jinki runs into some trouble at a club he doesn’t even want to be at.

jinki/minho / pg-13 / fluff? / long drabbe

n/a: dusting off an old drabble, trying to fill the void

--

The club is blaring base and strobe lights flicker colors across a mosh pit dance floor. The club is a hot topic if you know the right people. It's a place all inclusive. Men and women come looking to hook up, regardless of sexuality. As expected some people are trying to get it closed down. It's in the news, if you watch it.

In Lee Jinki's case, he's here for some drinks and a good time. Mostly, his friend wanted to get Jinki out of the apartment. Sure Jinki has been feeling down, studies taking up his time if he's not busy helping the family business, but it couldn't be that obvious, could it?

Choi Minho is Jinki's partner, boyfriend, significant other, more or less; Jinki has commitment issues. Minho observers Jinki more than than Jinki realizes. Minho is younger than Jinki, therefore the friendship has always been a little skewed. After being dumped by a self-proclaimed cougar, Jinki wanted to keep his options open and explore a sexuality that always has confused him. Minho is safe, very very safe. And gay. But that's supposed to be a secret. Jinki thinks it's probably not much of a secret.

Kicking back another drink, Jinki finds his way to the dance floor. He's lost sight of Minho after the younger excused himself to the bathroom. Jinki is capable of having a good time alone.

That good time comes to a quick end, as Jinki does a slight bop on the edge floor, enjoying the beat of the dj spinning another song. He can see the man sizing him up nearby, thumb to lips, being overly suggestive. It's unavoidable.

Jinki is approached, left to look up at a taller man, one thickly built and style lacking. He smells of alcohol and trouble. Then again, so does Jinki.

“Ya alone?” the man shouts over the music, his manner of speaking rude.

“What?” Jinki pretends he doesn't catch him.

The stranger repeats himself, dipping in closer. “Are ya alone?”

“No.”

That visibly ruffles the man’s feathers. More odd, two more men join, as if they know the man trying to score Jinki’s ass. For a free drink it might be worth entertaining them for a bit, but there are no good vibes coming off them. He's better off paying for his own drinks, or ask Minho.

“Who ya with?”

“Eh?” Jinki cups his ear, brows arched, selectively unable to hear again.

“Who brought ya here?”

“My boyfriend?”

“So ya are queer.”

Jinki rolls a dance to the music, tuning the trouble out.  He became a pro at it in high school. Jinki's shoulder is grabbed, jerking him to an ungrateful stop.

“He will kick your ass,” Jinki blurts out, growing annoyed and wanting a quick escape.

“Eh? This boyfriend?”

Jinki nods to the others. “You and them,” the loud beat and those drinks must be getting to Jinki's head. He's talking a big game. “He will screw you up,” Jinki shrugs with a snort. “You should see the last guy that tried..”

The fellows laugh. “Where is he, yeah? Why leave ya alone?”

Jinki glances to the hand still on his shoulder. He flicks it off, nose crinkled in annoyance. He should have blown Minho off and stayed at home.

“Where is this guy?”

“Lee Jinkiyaaa!”

Jinki turns to find Minho shouting over the heavy music, trying to weave through dancers, and quite frankly, he looks terrible. The young man is staggering, his expression blissed out in a grin.

Minho halts beside Jinki, not even acknowledging the other men or tense air. “I threw up in a urinal,” Minho laughs, a giggle fit bubbling into high pitched yodels.

“This the guy?” Minho is sized up by a man, brow arched at his height but not much else. “This twink?”

“Yeah…” Jinki is now humiliated.

“Twink?.. eh eh..” Minho's expression grows serious, or rather tries to. He just looks wasted off his socks, unable to even open his eyes all the way. “Twunk.. tell them..” he looks to Jinki, “I'm a twunk..”

Jinki shrugs, knowing no one actually cares, if there is a difference anyway, because they're in no place for such a discussion. And Jinki could tell you all the one-sided chats that have occurred over the words that don't mean anything to him in the end as long as his dick gets wet. For some reason it, obnoxiously, means something to Minho. There are times he tries to overcompensate, for some reason. Jinki doesn't have a brother, like Minho, so what does he know--or honestly care.

“Twunk,” Minho still argues.

Besides, while Minho can be a lightweight when it comes to alcohol, he's got better impulse control than Jinki when it comes to alcohol consumption. In fact, Jinki is sure Minho drank very little tonight, much less than Jinki at least. This reaction seems a bit extreme to say that least.

“But you made friends?” Minho points at the men he has just disagreed with. “Good for you.. your mom will be so happy..”

Jinki wobbles as Minho drapes his taller, but lean body all over the shorter man. “I'm so happy.”

Another man comments “Is he drugged?”

“He is roofied,” chuckles are drowned out by music. “Look at his eyes.”

“I love you so much..” Minho mutters into Jinki's shoulder.

“Eh.. thank you..”

“Yous welcome..” Minho's lispy speech slurs worse than usual.

“He took some bitch’s drink. She lucky tonight.”

Minho always is a hero, even indirectly. Jinki will laugh about it later, when the drug wears off.

“Did you.. softer? You feel so good,” Minho groans, tone dragged out in a type of voice often heard between the sheets. Jinki's ears burn, feeling

lips on his neck, and public displays of affection are all part of the Choi Minho experience, but not ones so bold that he would risk revealing a supposed secret he keeps, even in an environment such as this.

Jinki's breath hitches. “I'm the same..”

Minho is suddenly yanked off Jinki by one of the men, causing the younger to stagger and fall, which is actually unlike him. Rude snickers erupt between them all, looking down at Minho being very theatrical about standing back up on two long, thin wobbly legs.

Jinki takes that opportunity, with the cloud of confusion, to throw a fist, maybe a tiny spring of possession at pricks jerking Minho around. It barely taps a jaw, some piss poor aim in the loud, crowded club, and Jinki cups a fist, seething at himself it never hurt that much to throw punches at wall. But the damage has been done; a brawl is instigates.

----

It's later, at a nearby police station at well passed midnight, Jinki sits with a sore, bruised face, and Minho likewise. The younger man finally stirs from his slumber draped across several uncomfortable folding chairs, looking around disoriented.

“Wah where am I?” he suddenly cringes, a hiss escaping as he dabs his swollen face.

Jinki sighs. The two didn't really stand a change in that fight. He should have kept a cool. He's sobered up now, annoyed with his behavior. And beyond the window from the room the two are held in, Jinki can see the other men from the club lined up in chairs also kept under surveillance.

Jinki smiles, a grimace of a grin, looking at Minho. “Fists fights look so much easier in the movies…”

Jinki notices then, Minho shaking, like he has the worst chills, but the holding room is hot, not to mention it's become summer weather the last couple weeks. Police didn't seem too concerned when the tampered drink was mentioned, as if it happens that often. He has to take their word for it.

“I don't remember anything..”

“I told them you were drugged. They said you can sleep it off,” Jinki scoffs at the negligence. He scoots closer to Minho, touching his head.

“I was.. what?”

“You drank something not intended for you.”

“Eh..” Minho whines, forehead damp with sweat. “I can't remember..”

“That's.. the point..” Jinki frowns.

“But..” Minho's large eyes are fixed, his head always in Jinki's lap. “Your face.. who did that..” he reaches to touch Jinki, barely brushing a sore bruise before Jinki leans away with a laugh.

“Don't look in the mirror..”

The reaction is delayed, but Minho bubbles up in laughter, swollen face lighting up with a smile. It seems, despite the night, Minho will recover.

“But..” Jinki turns away, teasing, “..you were called a twink.”

“Did I start a fight over that?!” Minho is alarmed.

Maybe too soon for a joke such as that. Jinki pats Minho's cheek, a chuckle in his smile as he leans closer. He does something bold, leaning in to presses a quick kiss to Minho's parted lips.

Minho jolts, eyes wide as sits up with teetering vertigo, almost scooting away from Jinki. “You..” he touches his mouth, glancing around, but no one is looking in the window; everyone busy at their office desks or dealing with other drunks brought in.

Jinki's shoulders shrug, a cute lips-pressed smile on his face. He can blame the drinks later, but for now he wants Minho to know his gratitude. Jinki may have started the fight, but Minho hung in there with him, even if drugged and knocked to the floor again. But he put himself between Jinki and the flying fists. It's a shame he doesn't remember.

Minho blinks wide eyes, hand falling, leaning back with giggles. His eyes squeeze shut, laughter carrying louder, then whines in pain, face cupped.

Jinki lays his head back with a soft smile, relaxing.

“Wait..” Minho's lisp slurs, “I was drugged? I need to go to the hospital!”

Jinki falls to his side across the lineup chairs, laughed muffled into his sleeve.

Regardless what comes next, the two will be okay.

[regrettablewritings]

So . . . I need to say some stuff

As anyone who knows me or has held certain kinds of conversations with me could tell you that I am the absolute worst at confrontation. Even if it’s in regards to something more positive. However, as this post is about something rather negative, it will be harder for me to express exactly what I mean without feeling like I’m coming off as an ungrateful or bitchy. However, as this is an apparent concern for many content creators on this site, I don’t think it’s fair to assume I am.

Please allow me to word-vomit an explanation:

Communication aka I’m a Talking Human Being:

Before I started this blog, I had a tendency to send headcanons and AUs to other blogs through anon. In fact, I still do this quite often, and usually to great effect both on the blog-runner’s part and their followers. One day, I got brave enough to submit a soulmate AU drabble set to a Tumblr user who is no longer on this site and a few people asked for more so, after speaking with said Tumblr user, I was encouraged to start Regrettablewritings. Now in my bio, I refer to this place as a “dumping ground” for my pieces. That isn’t just there out of self-deprecation: This was literally just meant to be a place where I put my stuff. All the ideas I had, the headcanons, the one-shots, etc. I never once indicated that this was a place that took requests.

But I should’ve known it’d happen and for that I will take responsibility for not suggesting otherwise. I was never truly set on the idea of doing requests at all because I’ve seen the stuff that people send in by the droves and there was no way I would be able to keep up or provide what was desired and at top quality. However, I feared that completely avoiding or turning down the ones that inevitably came in would result in issues. Blame my paranoia.

I’m still not entirely sure as to what to do with the requests I get. Some, I will admit, I do fulfill. But for the most part, I don’t always feel up to it. Especially considering that I have, by no exaggeration, nearly 20 ideas already stockpiled. Of these pieces, some have been in the works since I started this blog and I’m always trying to figure out which ones to focus on the most so I go, “Hey, I got this, this, and that. Which ones do you wanna see?” And you know what I always get? Nothing. Nobody says what they want from the list. So I sigh, delete the post after having it up for a week, and do whatever I can when the motivation hits me.

Not long after, however, I start getting entirely different requests. Always. I know it’s not intended, but the idea I can’t help but get is that my original content isn’t exactly what anyone is looking for no matter how much work I’m determined to put into it.

I reblog ask memes because maybe if I prove that I’m human behind the screen or showcase that “witty personality” my real life friends keep talking about, maybe it’ll prove that I’m approachable. If I’m lucky one person will message me and I have to stop myself from begging them to please ask more, lest I look desperate.

So then I figured if I reached out to the nearly 400 followers I currently have and tried to connect with them, then maybe there’d be more luck in the realm of communication. But when I tried Sleepover Saturday, only two people “showed up.” And they weren’t even the people who liked the post where I asked if anyone would do it, or the people who told me to go on ahead and do it. So that was the end of that.

For months, I’ve debating bringing up this issue. I didn’t want to look like a snooty bitch, but I also wanted to express how I felt about the situation. I may write to express myself, but I also write and in the way I do to entertain. In real life, I am very cynical and bitter and a bit of a crybaby with a bottled up temper. But the truth of the matter is, I love making people laugh and feel better. The world is already so full of shit; I just want to put a little goodness into somebody else’s day, even if it’s a weirdass fic about everyone’s favorite Cuban lawyer having a past as an adult dancer or whatever. So when it feels like I’m only needed when you want something, and then shelved until then, it doesn’t make me feel good. It makes me feel like the ideas I want to give you aren’t good enough. I know the notes may suggest otherwise, but we’re gonna put a pin in that for a quick second.

The feeling of discouragement often effects my willingness to write. I’ll still do it because, in truth, writing is one of the only things I can do reasonably well. But what’s the point in doing something well if you feel like you’re being taken for granted for it?

I ask you guys for your opinions and feelings on things because I genuinely need to know. I function by playing around with options. Any friend of mine, in real life or online, will tell you that if I’m working on a project (be it painting, fanfiction, or essay), I will throw my ideas out there or ask you for your thoughts on the matter. For fuck’s sake, I’ve heckled @xemopeachx and @ohbelieveyoume about cologne suggestions for one sentence in a piece I’ve been working on! That is how thorough I tend to be about the weirdest shit. But I also do it because I feel you guys deserve that kind of effort. I need a lot of things explained to me in depth to know how they work, so I make it an effort to use that as a means to help others see exactly what I do. I’m already hard to comprehend in real life. Please don’t let me think this effort is for nothing.

Summary: I work hard to give content but never hear anything back in terms of what you would like to see next. But when this happens, it’s like I’m posting from the void and nobody can see it. However, suddenly people are willing to fall into the void if only to make a request. I try to reach out and be more friendly, but even those are disregarded. I don’t know what to do.

Notes: Regarding Likes, Reblogs, and Messaging:

This is something that a lot of content creators talk about. If you’ve seen a post about always reblogging art, chances are you’ve seen a comment saying something like, “Same goes for fanfic writers.” This isn’t riding on coattails or anything, this is some real mess. And, on top of that, there’s an extended difference between art feedback and writing feedback. Because with artists, exposure for them can lead to commissions. Writers? We do this for free. However, this doesn’t make feedback any less deserving.

I’m not trying to complain here, but nobody writes 7-21 pages worth of content to get 100+ notes where only about 12 of them are reblogs. Now I, as well as many others, will give leeway: There is a definite stigma against people who read fanfiction and they may not want it on their blog. I get that. A lot of writers do. But when the reblog to total note ratio is 12/115, 14/192, and 13/207, things get . . . disheartening.

Because guys? Writing is HARD. I know you may see this statement all the time, but that's only because it's true: You have to remember all these words so you don't sound repetitive, you have to paint a clear enough picture without sound prose-y, you have to somehow translate exactly what the image in your head is and pray you don't lose people along the way, you have to SOMEHOW get from Point A to Point C when Point B is either exceedingly blurry or even nonexistent. And, perhaps the hardest of all, YOU HAVE TO BE MOTIVATED! It takes so much energy and focus just to write one page, especially if you have a hectic life going on beyond the screen. And guess what? A lot of, if not, all writers do!

For example: For the first two and a half months of running this blog, I wrote on my phone for most of the time because I didn't have a laptop and the only times I could use the computer lab in my dorm was when others were done with their work. (To gain a better idea of how vexing this can be, please note that A Practice in Happy Memories was written on my phone and that bitch is 6 pages in Word. Try doing that and see how tired of it you get.) And I’m one of the lucky ones: You’ve got people going through some rough stuff in their lives, people raising families while holding down a job, coming on this hell site to write and share their thoughts and ideas. I’m just some 22 year-old black chick with seasonal depression and increasingly crippling social anxiety and an aggressively negative view of the world!

Forgive me for sounding cocky, but I would like to think I deserve better than, like, 8 reblogs on a 60-noted something I literally tapped to life in-between homework and depression naps. Really, though, every writer who’s had to do this deserves better. The amount of talented writers who bust out quality content in spite of broken technology or, you know, having a life outside of the computer yet don’t get treated with utmost appreciation is unreal.

I’m not trying to shame people here, but if you can’t reblog, then reply. Or send a message. Even if it’s on anonymous. Trust me: You message a writer saying you love their crap, you will make their day and they will treasure that thing and look back on it when they feel like crap. For those of you that do reblog, please tag it. It literally only takes a few seconds. As @locke-writes put it in his own post about similar issues, writers really want/need to know what you thought. A like is equivalent to a quick nod and distant pat on the back. A reblog without a tag is a bit better, but still doesn’t get across exactly how you felt, what we did right, etc. A reblog with comments, even in the tags? Makes our fucking day!

Likes? They’re literally just the person who walks by your free sample booth, takes the sample, and doesn’t even acknowledge your existence.

I know I should feel grateful that I have as many notes as I do at all. However, a ridiculous amount tend to come from people who 1) don’t even follow me, and 2) they’re just likes. I have nearly 400 followers already and the same small handful only ever add into the notes. And even fewer actually comment or anything.

This is a common issue for a lot of writers: We just want to be seen as more than just story-making machines. We desire validation for the time and acknowledgement for the effort we put into something we feel we’re skilled at. But a lot of people may feel uncomfortable talking about it in fear of seeming ungrateful or anything but this feeling just drives them closer to wanting to quit writing altogether.

I’m not quitting Tumblr. At least, not anytime soon. But I still need you guys to know this because it’s been boiling up inside me and it’s driving me nuts. Anyway, I’m sorry if I came off as bitchy here as that wasn’t my intention. My intention was to give you a look into some part of the mind that a lot of writers have. Thanks for letting me get this off my chest.

Summary: Reblogs > Likes. Reblogs with comments and tags ∞ > Likes. And if you can’t reblog, reply or send a message. Your content creator worked to make that piece come to fruition and they deserve to know how they did. They’re not being paid for it despite the amount of time and energy they gave for it, so payment in the form of feedback is the least that they could be given.

In short: Appreciate your fanfic writers. Let them know what you think because every little compliment sticks with them.

[impala-dreamer]

Famous Last Words

~Stomach flu got you down, Dean to the rescue~

Dean Flangst Drabble(?)

829 Words

A/N: This came out of a fever nap this morning, so... I’m not really sure what’s going on. Enjoy. 

It was impossibly cold. The air swirled around you, biting into your face and fingers, the only things you dared stick out from under the blanket.

You had tried a few times to get up and make your way to the bathroom, but shaking legs and the threat of more vomit pushed you back down into the pillows.

In and out of a dream less void you drifted, waking only to start crying again, the pains in your stomach bad enough to take down even the likes of you. Y/N Y/L/N, the badass chick that had once struck down an entire werewolf pack solo; the girl who at only 15 had walked away from a Wendigo slaying with nary a scratch. The woman who had so proven herself in the hunting world that her very name sent shivers through the icy veins of demons and monsters alike. Yes, the amazingly talented, tough as nails, intelligent, funny, beautiful woman that had stolen the hearts and gained undying affection from the famed Winchester Brothers now lay half dead in her cold room, wasting away from a stomach bug. Besides the pain, it was also embarrassing as fuck, and you kept your whimpers to as low a volume as you could.

A soft knock at the door called your attention and you lifted your head slightly, barely able to remove it from the pillow. A muffled groan was all the consent you could muster and thankfully the knocker seemed not to mind.

You watched with wet eyes as the eldest Winchester carried a tray to your nightstand. He sat on the edge of your bed and pressed his wrist to your forehead.

“Your hands are cold,” you whispered.

“No,” Dean replied with a purse of his lips. “You have a fever.”

You closed your eyes and listened as he cracked open a bottle of Gatorade and fished out two little white pills from the big bottle of acetaminophen. “Sit up Princess.”

You did, sluggishly, and held out your hand for the pain relievers. “This is pointless; I’ll just throw them up.” You shook the pills in your hand, making them rattle and crash into one another.

“Then I’ll just have to make you take more.” Dean smile softly and watched as you took the medicine. “Want some toast? I toasted it myself.”

“Oh fancy, but no, thanks. I’m not touching food ever again.”

“It’s been almost three days Y/N.”

“I’ll survive. Maybe. I don’t honestly care at this point…oooh….” You clamped your mouth shut as a ripple of pain hit your gut. You gripped your stomach and screwed your eyes shut tight.

“Y/N/N…”

Dean didn’t wait for your answer or even for your eyes to reopen. You heard the rustle of the sheets and felt the lift of the bed as he moved away only to reappear behind you. The mattress shifted as Dean lay beside you. He lifted your blanket and snuggled down with you, shoving one arm under his head and the other around your shoulders. Very gently he rolled you until you were on your side, your back pressed against his chest.

“What are you doing dude? You’re gonna get sick.”

Dean ran his hand softly down your arm and back up, tracing random patterns and giving you something to focus on other than the pain. “I’ll risk it. Besides, I never get sick.”

You sighed and let him distract you, breathing deeply and relaxing into his warm body. “Famous last words…”

When you opened your eyes again you felt whole, new, revived and healthy. Your stomach growled, this time from hunger, and you sought satisfaction in the old toast Dean had brought you the night before. Dean. You turned over and found his place empty, which sadly did not surprise you. He often came and went as he pleased; such was your relationship.

Bleary eyed but feeling a thousand times better, you shuffled to the bathroom, stopping when you heard a terrible retching noise filtering out into the hallway. Cringing, you knocked on the door, “Dean?”

He didn’t answer. You heard a slight gasp and the water rushing as the toilet was flushed. Moments later the door opened and a very pale faced Winchester stuck his head out.

“You never get sick, huh?”

Dean shook his head slowly and sneered, “Shut up.”

Pushing the door open, you touched your palm to his forehead. “Yup, never ever sick.” You sighed and took his arm, pulling him towards your bedroom. “You’re gonna get your butt in bed sir.”

“I’m fine,” he stuttered and swayed a bit on his feet.

“Sure, sure,” you took his hand and lead the way down the hall. “You think that now, but just wait. It gets a hell of a lot worse before it gets better.”

He moaned pathetically and you turned, running a cool hand down his fevered cheek. “Don’t worry Dean, I’ll make you some toast.”