#Cryptic Scrawls

[timecryptid]

I still don't know if I will ever write the fic these pieces are made off of but I don't usually draw backgrounds. So one of the few times I've drawn one I still really like these drawings. One day I'll write this.

[consequently-cryptic]

I don't think I've got any revolutionary hcs but I do like to think Elliott skinny dips in the ocean sometimes in the summer late at night. As a treat.

Oh I absolutely agree.

It's not an everyday thing, obviously, it depends on the weather for him as well. But there are summer nights when it just gets so hot...cooler at night but the earth and winds are still hot.

Sometimes it's a bother, it keeps him up at night because I'm sure that cabin of his doesn't have great heating. He'll slip out from his cabin, making sure the coast is clear and yes. As a treat, he'll skinny dip!

[salsasvault]

The Supermarket

supermarket!simon x reader

cw: this is a dark fic, themes of stalking and implied violence.

Part three

1 │2 │3

You go out to distract yourself and things go surprisingly well.

You never thought you would pick up the special interest of anyone, especially not enough for someone to consciously stalk you.

Several things have been going through your head since you were so “graciously” gifted four hundred dollars; contacted by said man who gifted the money, and then were unable to contact him again, because he somehow fell off the face of the earth leaving nothing but a “See you soon.”

The threat of a future encounter almost haunting you, and with no information it was like you were dealing with a ghost.

You tried, really, going over every detail sitting on the couch, note in hand, to figure out a way to track him down.

Replaying the scene over and over again, but it was getting harder to recall what exactly the texts said.

And so after gaining a slight headache, you come up with a plan of action; you think about going to the police, but with no evidence, besides a few words scrawled onto a page, it was less than ideal.

You knew who it was, had met him. But yet again you hadn’t seen his face, he hadn’t paid with his card, leaving any thought of tracking him, his name, or payment info down, out the window.

You call the police anyway, issue a report.

Heart still pounding but the anxiety starting to ease itself out of your bones. Knowing at least someone out there knows and if you wind up dead then they might know where to start.

So you sit on your couch for the rest of the night, after you stormed every room to ensure he was gone.

You hope he realizes you’re nothing special, just some girl who lives in a mediocre apartment, with less than impressive hobbies of online shopping.

Unable to sleep, you resumed just that, going back to scrolling hoping to ease the rest of your anxiety out of you.

Sleep overtook you on the couch, with whatever cheesy sitcom that was on in the background. You’d worry about your mystery man tomorrow.

-

The following morning was thankfully a Saturday, giving you time to not only process the event but to try and forget what seems like impending doom.

You don’t know much about your ghost, except he has a knack for being all mysterious, the mask, the deletion of all the messages, his cryptic note.

You’d only worry yourself further by thinking about the logistics. So you live in denial. Deciding to forget.

With a late start to the day, you make your way to the washroom, washing your face, brushing your teeth, the works.

Your phone buzzes next to you.

Heart momentarily stopping, your mind immediately going to him.

You flip the phone over and let out a breath of relief when it's just a friend from work. You wash your face before grabbing your phone to read the message.

A week prior, when you were feeling particularly lonely, you'd sleepily ranted to your friend about how much you just wanted to fall in love.

Of course in your sleepy stupor, words simply spewed out with no filter, but your friend had taken that as the greenlight in finally setting you up on the dates you'd been so quick to decline.

You barely even remember having that conversation, let alone agreeing. You left the dating scene a year ago, after too many dates gone wrong you'd decided to accept that maybe you just weren't cut out for it, and if you were meant to be in a relationship it'd somehow stumble into your life. So you swore off dates and hadn't been on one since.

Based on the texts filled with details about the upcoming date you'd "agreed" to, your half-asleep mind disagreed with your conscious one.

You read through it, she apparently set you up with a guy her cousin works with, who happens to be a mechanic. You'll meet each other at eight, at that fancy restaurant you like a couple blocks away. And maybe it was the post-shock from the dramatic night you had prior, but you send her a text saying you'd be there.

You could use any sort of distracting, and if that meant another failed date so be it. At least you'd get good food out of it.

-

The city lights illuminate the street, the night air chill with the promise of only plummeting to more frigid temperatures.

You head to the restaurant, coat wrapped around you firmly, lightly shivering. You're dressed in between fancy and casual, meaning the pair of tights you'd put on left your legs freezing and your skirt did little to stop that.

The restaurant was far enough to feel tiring but close enough that it'd be a waste to get a cab. You use the time to wrack your brain for the tips you'd learned the hard way during your dating days. Mentally preparing yourself for what could be another potential douchebag.

When you make it inside, you sigh in the warmth that engulfs you, greeting the waiter you let her know you're meeting someone. It's then you realize that you have no idea who you're meeting or what he looks like, scanning the restaurant you don't see anyone who'd fit the description of a single mechanic here on a date. You ask for a table wait.

After about 20 minutes you've consumed more breadsticks than you'd like to admit. Glancing at the time on your phone once more, you start to text your friend about the no-show.

Just as you're about to hit send someone clears their throat above you.

"Sorry hope I didn't keep' y waiting sweetheart" The man who's supposedly your date shrugs his jacket off, setting it behind his chair as he takes a seat.

You look him over, blond hair, brown eyes, a scar running along his brow, he's muscular too, expected for a mechanic. But you're still slightly thrown off kilter.

After you realize you've been staring too long you immediately jump into action, mentally scolding yourself.

"Oh no! Wasn't waiting at all." You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, a nervous tick.

The waiter comes by at that moment, asking if you'd need another refill of the bread. You politely decline, face heating up.

"Well, maybe I was waiting a little." An embarrassed smile follows, and he laughs, something you think you'd like to hear more often.

"M'sorry got caught in traffic but I'll make it up to 'ya, promise." He looks sincere, with a little dark sparkle in his eye but you don't read too much into it.

You both dissolve into conversation, surprisingly easy conversation. Maybe it was the fact it had been a while since you’d been on a date, but for once things were going well.

He was attentive, almost too attentive, listening to you wholeheartedly and when it came around to talking about himself it was modest, never cocky. And no fratboyish stories you were so used to hearing.

He spoke with consideration, and when he listened he made you feel like he cared.

With one date he had you craving more.

Blinded by his charm you don’t notice his lack of information on fixing cars, or how he found your table so quickly while supposedly not knowing you and you certainly don’t notice the fresh bruises on his knuckles. Or the fact he didn’t bring a car with him.

As you both leave, the promise of dessert still on the agenda, you walk almost drunkenly in conversation. Laughter filling the frigid night air.

And so, you make plans to meet again.

Over the next couple of weeks, you continue to see Simon, and over the next couple of weeks, you receive no word from your ghost.

Almost having forgotten he even existed, and with the man who had filled your life so quickly, it felt like an eternity that said chapter of your life occurred.

He’s presumably lost interest like you suspected and you're thankful for it, you would’ve appreciated some closure, but his absence has only helped you feel more confident he won’t return.

Things were going well for you, your friend at work was beyond happy you’d hit it off with Simon, and you were finally relaxed.

Your little good fortune however was soon to be interrupted.

i know it’s a cliffhanger BUT it’ll make part four more delicious i swear LMAO

tags: @neoarchipelago

[ghcstao3]

Even without his art, Soap is a people-watcher—but that being said, finding muses for his art is a job made easy when the biggest window of his flat overlooks a busy street.

For as long as he’s lived at that address, he’s had plenty of luck picking out whoever catches his eye and filling out sketchbooks worth of passersby. Every drawing a stranger, every subject unique.

Until the empty business space across the street is finally leased out to some new bistro, and suddenly Soap only has eyes for one person.

A man too well-built to be a server, surely, with arms Soap could watch flex all day as he brings out orders to customers on the patio. Soap never knows what expression he wears not because of distance, but rather the black face mask that obscures the lower half of the man’s face.

When, weeks later, Soap notices that he’s suddenly almost filled an entire journal with sketches of the server, he decides to finally pay a visit to the bistro.

It isn’t at all luck that gets Soap seated in his—the server’s section, just the pathetic fact that he’s long since memorized the man’s oddly reliable schedule.

If Soap were a stronger man he’d never admit to the feeling of his knees going weak when the man comes to take his order. The name tag tacked to the white dress shirt that stretches over broad shoulders reads Simon, and god, does Simon have a nice voice.

As soon as he’s gone with Soap’s request, Soap’s sketchbook is open. He’s quick to scribbling out every line and curve he couldn’t possibly have seen from afar, and ends up so enraptured in this new angle that he doesn’t notice Simon has returned until he’s looming over his shoulder, gaze fixed on Soap’s journal.

“So that’s what you’ve been drawing.”

Soap startles, slams his journal shut. All he can manage is a weak what? as he looks up at Simon.

The server jerks his chin in the direction of Soap’s building. Soap notes, with some distant observation, that he’s still balancing several plates on his forearms with ease.

“I’ve seen you in the window a few times,” Simon tells him.

Soap wants to melt into the floor. He desperately needs the earth to crack open and swallow him whole.

“I’m sorry, it’s not—it wasnae—“ Soap stammers, his fingers drumming an anxious pattern on the faux leather cover of his book, “I’ll stop.”

“I don’t mind,” Simon hums, leaving it cryptically at that. He finally sets Soap’s food on the table, bidding a good meal before disappearing off to go do his job.

Soap doesn’t think the buzzing warmth on his face ever fades for the entirety of his time spent at the bistro. Simon never checks in with Soap like he does other patrons, either, so Soap just gets to wallow.

Things are hardly made better when Simon says hope to see you around after Soap has paid, or when Soap gets home and notices the phone number scrawled on his receipt just as he’s about to ball it up and toss it out.

Going to the bistro was a mistake. Simon is surely going to be the death of him.

Or Soap is going to be the death of himself—especially doing something dumb as accidentally leaving his sketchbook behind in his haste to get out.

Soap’s cheeks burn.

And when he looks out his window to the table he’d been sat, he already sees the journal is gone.

Idiot. What a complete and utter idiot.

[elryuse]

Hey, can you write a story about yandere Chaeryeong punishes y/n for escaping

PUNISHMENTS

YANDERE CHAERYEONG X MALE READER

The metallic tang of blood hung heavy in the air, a sickening counterpoint to the chirping crickets outside. Y/n, his body trembling like a frightened rabbit, huddled in the corner of the basement, his eyes glued to the crimson trail leading to the lifeless form of his mother.

Chaeryeong, his once-beloved childhood friend, stood over her, a chilling smile playing on her lips. Her once playful eyes, now glinting with a terrifying madness, met his.

"See, Y/n," she chirped, her voice like a warped nursery rhyme, "they just didn't understand our love, did they?"

The memory, a year old now, still sent shivers down Y/n's spine. It had all started innocently enough. Chaeryeong, the girl he used to chase butterflies with, had developed a… fixation on him. It began with small pranks, dead mice left on his doorstep, whispers in the dead of night. Then came the escalating threats, the cryptic messages scrawled on his window, each signed with a single red rose.

His parents, oblivious to the growing darkness in Chaeryeong's eyes, dismissed it as teenage angst. But Y/n knew better. The fear gnawed at him, a constant companion.

The first kill was his father. A "tragic accident" the police called it, a gas leak in the garage. Y/n knew better. He'd seen the glint of a metal pipe in Chaeryeong's hand the night before. Then came his mother, a single, brutal stab wound silencing her screams.

Now, alone in the blood-soaked basement, Y/n felt a primal terror unlike anything he'd ever known.

"Don't worry, Y/n," Chaeryeong knelt before him, her touch sending chills down his spine. "We'll be together forever now. Just you and me."

Forever. The word hung heavy in the air, a chilling promise. Chaeryeong's basement became his prison, the flickering light bulb his only sun. Days bled into nights, punctuated by Chaeryeong's visits. Sometimes she'd be playful, braiding his hair and humming childhood songs in a voice that now sent shivers down his spine. Other times, she'd be a monster, her eyes burning with a terrifying intensity as she recounted the details of his family's demise.

He tried to escape, once. The desperate scramble for the basement door, the sickening thud as Chaeryeong tackled him. The punishment was swift and brutal – a broken leg, set with rusty tools, the agony a constant reminder of his limitations.

Somehow, amidst the horror, a twisted form of normalcy emerged. Chaeryeong meticulously cared for him, cooking him meals, reading him stories, her voice a chilling comfort in the suffocating darkness. She'd decorate the basement with fairy lights and stolen flowers, a pathetic attempt to create a semblance of life.

Y/n, a broken shell of his former self, clung to this twisted affection. It was all he had left. He learned to anticipate her moods, to offer a placating smile when she needed it, to endure the chilling tales of her "art" – other families, chosen at random, their lives snuffed out in Chaeryeong's twisted game of love.

One night, as Chaeryeong recounted the details of her latest victim, a horrifying realization dawned on Y/n. He wasn't just a prisoner; he was an accomplice. His silence, his forced acceptance, was a tacit approval of her monstrous acts.

He looked at Chaeryeong, her face illuminated by the flickering light, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. In that moment, beneath the mask of madness, he saw a flicker of something else – a desperate yearning for love, a love so twisted that it thrived on death and fear.

A choked sob escaped his lips. He was trapped in a nightmare, bound by a love so warped it defied definition. Chaeryeong, his childhood friend, his tormentor, his twisted savior, had become his entire world. Escape seemed like a distant dream, lost in the suffocating darkness of their macabre love story.

The basement, once a place of horror, now felt like a twisted sanctuary. As long as he remained within its confines, Chaeryeong's twisted affection, a chilling mix of love and possession, would keep him safe. Outside, the world continued to spin, oblivious to the monster lurking in its midst and the broken boy forever bound to her.

[saidencii]

back to december; remus lupin

in which you and remus parted after sirius’ arrest and never spoke to each other again. until now.

remus lupin x reader

wc: 786

warnings: none

a/n: short and sad, my first oneshot :’) take this as me being in my feels after btd tv.

It had been twelve years since that fateful night.

Eleven Christmases without a word from Remus Lupin.

You sat in your lowly, run-down cottage, drinking cold tea from a stained cup that used to be ornate. The sun rose, almost reluctantly behind the gray clouds outside. You didn’t know how many more of these lonely December nights you could bear, when they used to be full of laughter and love.

A tap sounded at your window as your old, graying owl appeared. He held a letter in his beak. You opened it, revealing a familiar, scrawling script that made your heart drop.

“Dear Y/N,

I know you are already aware of who I am. It’s been twelve years since I saw you or even attempted to reach you. We didn’t even get to say goodbye.

I’d like to visit you again, you know, but I don’t know where you live now. If you do want to meet me, find me at Hogsmeade this Saturday at three in the afternoon. But if the chain is on your door, I understand.

Send me an owl back. Yours already knows where I live.

xx Remus”

You realized he wanted to meet you on Christmas eve. You wrote a hurried response, pondering whether to send the letter. This could be a trap, a trick by the newly escaped Sirius. Ultimately, you decide to send it back.

•••

It was Saturday, one in the afternoon. You walked along the snow-covered cobblestone paths of Hogsmeade, the bitter cold biting into your skin even through thick gloves. As you ascended the gentle hill, you stopped in your tracks as you saw the familiar face standing in front of you.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Y/N.” Remus said, his tone unreadable. You walked closer to him, analyzing his face. It had changed. There were a few new gashes, a new lengthy scar. But the hazel eyes remained the same. “Should we get inside? It’s cold.”

You nodded, wrapping your scarf tighter around your neck as you enter the Three Broomsticks. The amount of people celebrating Christmas was… a relief, really.

“I… I understand it’s been long. But I wanted to see if you were well,” he said, fidgeting with the buttons on the bottom of his tattered brown coat. “Have you been working?”

“Yes,” you admitted, a slight shame entering your voice. “But I’ve never been able to keep a job. You?”

“I used to work Muggle jobs for a long while but I couldn’t keep them because of… you know. But Dumbledore offered me a teaching position at Hogwarts.”

You felt a pang of happiness for him, but the ache was there as well. Nothing would make up for the time you lost. And he was far away, like always. It would be hard to reach him.

“What job?”

“Defense Against The Dark Arts professor.”

You nodded slowly, understanding. Remus had always been better at that. He’d been better at you than everything, and you were willing to accept that.

“You deserve it, Professor Lupin,” you said, smiling.

A cryptic silence filled the air as you wait for his response. The tranquility broke as soon as he spoke. “Thank you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for ever doubting you.”

“It’s alright. I trusted Sirius… and you didn’t. It was my fault for trusting the wrong person. I’m sorry, too.”

But you didn’t feel like it was over.

“I hope you and I can stay friends,” he said, a slight smile crossing his face. “It’s something that’s weighed on my conscience for a long time.”

“Friends. We’re friends.”

He hesitated before he spoke his next words. “Did I mention I’m teaching James and Lily’s son?”

Your lips parted in shock. You didn’t realize that much time had passed. He was already in his third year, if your memory didn’t fail you. “Harry? How is he?”

“He’s a bright child. Stubborn, but that’s expected from someone that has James Potter’s genes.” You two smiled as you recounted the best memories of your old friend. You missed him dearly.

“Remus, send me owls. Tell me when you’re hurting because someone should at least know.”

“I must admit, I miss having a small horde of unusual animals accompany me through those nights.”

The afternoon dragged on as you made small talk about your lives in the twelve lost years. Nothing could reignite the spark. Nothing he said made your heart skip a beat like it used to. Maybe that was just it. Gone.

As you stepped out of the place, you knew it was goodbye. It was a farewell to your forgotten feelings. You waved at him, forcing a smile.

Eventually, you found yourself hoping to go back to that December, wanting to change his mind.

[prismaticpichu]

Zack, instead of going with traditional Christmas cards this year, decides to go with something a little bit more personal. A little bit more from the heart. What does he do…? Well, he makes it a form of art!

~~~~~~~~~~

Angeal finds his card just as he’s about to make some dinner. He opens the cabinet, preparing to reach for some ingredients, ready to cook up something good. However, he is instead taken aback as a small blue envelope drifts down from the pantry. A small blue envelope, that is, with his name scrawled on it. And with very familiar penmanship.

Intrigued, the man peers inside.

Roses are red

SOLDIERs have dreams and honor

And while I can be pretty awesome at times

Without you I’d be a goner

Lots of hugs,

The Puppy

~~~~~~~~~~

Genesis’s surprise comes in the form of a little switcheroo. Almost instantly the man notices that his special scented bookmark has been replaced by some… some red envelope? What was this tomfoolery? He narrows his eyes, extracting the culprit from his book. Opening it up to see what cryptic prank awaited him.

And his expression softens.

Roses are red

The wandering soul knows no rest

I know sometimes you may feel a little small

But you’re still one of the best of the best

Your wannabe friend,

The Whelp

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For Sephiroth, well, it’s hard to miss the glaring silver envelope taped over his computer screen as he walks into work that morning. He lets out a sigh. Bah. Probably more fanmail.

Jaded, yet curious, Sephiroth peels off the envelope and opens it.

Roses are red

Some scientists use pipettes

ShinRa may not see you for who you are

But you’re still human; don’t ever forget

Always cheering you on,

Zackary

[of-teeth-and-tenderness]

Recipe

M Forest Guardian x AFAB Reader (NSFW)

Warnings: Discussions of food, very minor creepy elements, deep-throating (I guess), p in v sex, creampie.

(Tagging @when-the-sun-goes-dark )

~~

3/4 cup sugar, two sticks—wait two? Yes, two sticks of butter. Cream together—where’s the hand mixer…?

You dig through the cupboard and locate the mixer behind a stack of pie tins. They clang and grate together as you shove them aside to yank the machine free. You need to reorganize, apparently.

Huffing, you stand, move to the bowl, and connect the appropriate attachments to the mixer. As you cream together butter and sugar, your head bobs along to the song crooning through your headphones.

Switching off the mixer, you glance over at the little post-it note stuck in your recipe book, cookie ingredients shakily scrawled along the top half. Next is an egg. Perfect, your lovely chickens gave you several fresh this morning.

You turn to retrieve the egg, but movement in your peripheral makes you jolt. Sudden alarm turns to relief in a heartbeat; you recognize the creature looming in your kitchen. His white, lidless eyes are trained on you, observing.

A tremulous sigh rushes from your lungs. “You scared the shit out of me,” you chide, palm coming to rest against your chest to calm your fluttering heart.

Silence. The creature’s head—a massive bull elk skull—tilts slightly. When he speaks, the exposed jaw bones don’t move. Instead, his deep, rolling voice emanates from within, conjured from whatever resides inside bone.

“I…certainly hope not.” You snort and tug your headphones from your ears, hastily shaking your head.

“No, no, not literally. It’s a figure of speech.”

You receive a long, “Ah,” of understanding in response, the sound reverberating around the room. You feel the buzz of it in your own chest. Grinning and nodding, you finally retrieve the egg for your recipe.

The creature, currently crouched on four legs, pushes up to two. He’s hulking at his full height, antlers brushing the ceiling. Too big to fit in the kitchen at his current size, he simply shrinks to fit the space. You watch in amazement, no less astonished by his magic than you were the first time.

“What do you craft, child?” he asks. His curved, black toe claws click on linoleum as he approaches and curiously peers over your shoulder into the bowl. The coarse, dark fur of his torso tickles the backs of your arms when you crack the egg.

“Cookies,” you reply simply, glancing over at the recipe once again. You loose a quiet, “Oh,” of surprise when a long, black tongue scoops the eggshell from your fingers. It disappears into the mouth of the skull, but no crunching sound follows. You briefly wonder what became of it, thinking the creature must absorb it somehow.

“For the holiday,” he states—asks? It’s difficult to tell with the way his words seem to roll on forever at the ends. He lifts a spindly arm, a long, black claw pointing toward the decorated tree standing in the next room.

You chuckle, “Yes, exactly.” Carefully following the directions, you work together the rest of the ingredients, now under the watchful eye of the Creature of the Forest. As you work, you rest your back against the warm fur of his chest, his body heat relaxing the tense muscles of your shoulders, his petrichor scent filling your lungs.

You’re still not sure what he is or how he came to be. Any answers he gives about his origin are cryptic at best, nonsensical at worst. Even his name is a mystery. You’ve taken to calling him “Shepherd” for his apparent role as guardian of the great forest stretching just behind your home.

“It’s my grandmother’s recipe,” you tell him as you arrange the dough on a baking tray. “She wrote it down on half a sticky note—

You pause when you finally notice Shepherd pawing at your hips. His talons catch on the fabric of your pants and you glance at him over your shoulder.

“Are you liking this?” you tease, a grin tugging at the corners of your lips.

“Your…domesticity allures, little one,” comes the measured reply. The tugging at your jeans grows more insistent.

“Wait, h-hold on,” you urge, hastily setting down your baking tools and ripping off your apron. “Don’t shred these, please. I’m running out of pants.” A long, annoyed exhale sounds in your ear, but the claws relent, poised in the air and twitching impatiently. Very little of Shepherd’s mannerisms could be described as ‘human,’ but his impatience is certainly familiar.

Biting your lip to stifle your giggle, you fumble with the button of your pants. You only manage to shove them down to your knees before you’re gripped around the waist. Shepherd’s thick length pushes between your thighs. The honey-colored fluid leaking from the tip smears between your folds.

Your eyelids flutter. Reaching up and back, you tangle your fingers in his scruff. Languidly, you roll your hips, grinding against the ridges along his shaft. Shepherd’s appreciative growl is felt more than heard, a pulsing vibration that ripples under your skin and pulls a little mewl from your lips.

A clawed hand wraps around your throat, the other resting on your belly. Claws set against your skin with a touch so gentle it merely tickles, never slicing. Light pressure against your neck makes you arch and tip your head back.

Shepherd’s tongue returns, this time sneaking past your teeth to brush against your own. It burrows deeper, snaking into your throat until your moans become choked and garbled. Simultaneously, the drooling head of his cock eases into your heat, his girth carefully stretching slick muscles until his hips meet your rear.

A rumbling groan buzzes against your back. You hollow out your cheeks and suck on the tongue buried in your throat, earning you a sharp thrust. Your wanton cry is muffled, more following soon after with Shepherd’s rhythmic bucking.

The drag of his cock makes your knees tremble, each pass off those delicious ridges sending waves of pleasure rolling through you. Unable to swallow, saliva pools in your cheeks and spills past your lips to drip off your chin. Shepherd presses his palm against your lower belly, holding you in place so he can thrust into you more forcefully.

“My beautiful mate,” he purrs, his voice cascading from the skull to wash you in toe-curling vibration. “I feel your soul like this.” Eyes hazy, face hot, every nerve humming with bliss, you nod in understanding. If you could speak, you would beg him to never stop, to keep you both forever entwined.

With the tongue stuffed in your throat, you can’t warn him you’re close so you dig your nails into his fur. You’re certain he knows with the way your cunt clenches and flutters. He’s nearly there himself if the frantic driving of his hips is anything to go by.

Ecstasy claims you together. Warmth floods your insides as you stumble over the precipice, every muscle in your body seized in rapture. A rushing breath like wind through the trees ruffles your hair, Shepherd’s arms possessively wrapping around your quivering form.

With a squelch, the tongue withdraws back into the bony maw. You suck in a deep inhale and pitch forward, catching yourself on the counter. Shepherd moves with you, curling over your back to rest his bony jaw on top of your head. You leak from where you’re still joined, sticky essence trickling down your thighs.

You utter a shaky laugh, fingers clumsily patting his jaw in appreciation. You’ll form words when they return to you. Shepherd trills, claws tenderly stroking through your hair.

His hips twitch. You blink, shoulders shaking with your incredulous laugh. He’s still hard, his flesh still heated and wanting within you.

It seems the cookies will have to wait.

[jadegretz]

Cammy's Unbreakable Spirit by Jade Gretz

Cammy White, a freelance operative with a penchant for trouble, found herself amidst a dusty labyrinth of an antique market in Bangkok. The air hung thick with the scent of incense and spices, a symphony of haggling voices the soundtrack to her treasure hunt. Her objective: a rare artifact rumored to grant its owner unparalleled combat prowess.

Following a cryptic map scrawled on a napkin (courtesy of a shady informant), Cammy navigated the maze of stalls overflowing with trinkets and forgotten relics. Just as doubt began to gnaw at her, she stumbled upon a hidden alcove, shrouded in cobwebs and shrouded in an unsettling chill.

In the center of the alcove, nestled amongst tarnished silver and chipped porcelain, lay a rolled-up parchment. Its edges were singed, the script etched in a language that defied recognition. An almost palpable aura of power emanated from it, sending a shiver down Cammy's spine. This was it. The artifact.

Ignoring the prickling unease, Cammy unfurled the scroll. The symbols writhed and pulsed before settling into a language she inexplicably understood. It spoke of an ancient martial art, a discipline honed by forgotten warriors, its techniques imbued with otherworldly power.

Driven by her insatiable curiosity and a healthy dose of recklessness, Cammy devoured the contents of the scroll. Words burned themselves into her memory: ethereal strikes that defied physics, a preternatural awareness of her surroundings, and an almost superhuman level of strength.

The knowledge flooded her mind, an exhilarating yet terrifying torrent. It felt like an alien language taking root, pushing against the very fabric of her being. But before she could dwell on the strangeness of it all, a voice slithered into her mind, a sibilant whisper that sent a jolt of ice through her veins.

"You have awakened the Tiger's Fury," the voice hissed, slithering around her mind like a serpent. "Now it awakens me."

Cammy whipped around, searching for the source of the voice, her heart hammering against her ribs. But the only answer was the echoing silence of the market, the ha …(see the rest of the story at deviantart.com/jadegretzAI). For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)

[romione-trope-fest]

Ocean Eyes

Fic Title: Ocean Eyes

Author Name: flaming-brown-witch

Selected Trope: OOTP Missing Moment, Cockblocker Harry

Brief Summary: Hermione demands that Ron explain the meaning behind his Christmas gift. 

Word Count: 976

Rating: T for mild language and subtle UST

Any Trigger Warnings: None

Note: Excerpts from OOTP are bolded. 

***

"I'm scared

I've never fallen from quite this high

Fallin' into your ocean eyes"

- Ocean Eyes, Billie Eilish

Happy Christmas. You stink. Ron.

As Hermione sat at the edge of her borrowed bed at Grimmauld Place, she stared many stares at Ron's untidy scrawl. Principally confused stares. But also annoyed stares and hopeful stares and stares that were accompanied by a curious fluttering in her chest.

She switched her stare to the small perfume bottle in her other hand. After several beats, she finally opened the bottle and tentatively lifted it to her nose. Goodness, it smelled heavenly. Like chocolate and butterbeer. Like Ron.

She grew hot. Surely Ron understood the message that he was sending Hermione: I want you to smell like things that I like. Surely Ron knew what such a message meant. Surely he was not that obtuse. 

Hermione sighed. Of course, he was that obtuse. Ever since Hermione suspected Ron's feelings for her, she had given him every sign under the sun to get him to act. But each attempt was more futile than the last. Her last breadcrumb was the kiss on the cheek before his first Quidditch match. When that yielded nothing, Hermione gave up. It seemed improbable that after nearly two months of inertia, Ron would suddenly express his feelings in such a cryptically infuriating manner. 

Hermione paused. What was she thinking? It was, in fact, very much like Ron to express his feelings in such a cryptically infuriating manner. After all, Hermione had long been his favourite target for taking the mickey. Making her think he was giving her a joke gift in an attempt to throw her off his scent (no pun intended) seemed exactly like the type of rubbish Ron would put her through. 

Hermione released a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a growl. She tossed the note and bottle aside and fell backwards onto her bed. She lay there for a while and continued to go through all possible interpretations of the gift, including one where she convinced herself that Ron didn't fancy her and was just having a cruel laugh at her expense. Eventually, she decided to end her torture and muster the courage to confront Ron about it. 

"That perfume is really unusual, Ron,” she told him moments later as she crossed him and Harry on the stairs. 

"No problem," he responded without expression. Then he nodded towards the present under her arm and asked, “Who’s that for anyway?”

Hermione plastered a bright smile on her face and told him that it was for Kreacher. If Ron was going to pretend like gifting perfume to a female friend was something normal, then so was she. 

That resolution barely lasted until lunch. 

"What?" Ron asked when he noticed Hermione's glare. They were in the dining room, setting the table, while Molly finished up the last of her cooking in the basement.   

"What did you mean by giving me perfume for Christmas?" The words tumbled out of Hermione's mouth with the force of a landslide. 

Ron paused for a moment before setting down the items in his hand. Hermione swore that the corner of his lip twitched. "Oh, Hermione," Ron said sympathetically, his eyebrows knitting together in a show of concern. "Was the note not clear enough?" 

He grimaced and looked apologetic as he made a small wave in front of his nose. 

Hermione crossed her arms. "I'm being serious, Ron."

"I'm being serious, too, Hermione," he replied, shrugging "sheepishly," his "apologetic grimace" deepening. 

Hermione threw her cutlery on the table and turned to leave, furious with herself for playing into his hands. Then her heart caught in her throat when Ron grabbed her wrist. They remained frozen in that position for a few seconds before Hermione turned back to him slowly. 

Ron broke contact when she was facing him, leaving a ring of cold air on her skin. His face, aimed at the floor, was a beacon of red. "I gave you the perfume because…"

Ron suddenly looked up, and all signs of mischief had disappeared. His face was more serious than the snake attack that nearly killed his father. "Because," he said, rolling his shoulders back decisively, defiantly, and standing straighter, "I wanted you to know that I have an emotional range that's more than a teaspoon." 

There was no mistaking the twitch in the corner of his mouth then. "A tablespoon perhaps," he added before the mischief went away just as quickly as it had returned. 

Hermione drowned in Ron's eyes as she absorbed his words. He gave her exactly what she wanted: indisputable evidence that the perfume was given in earnest. And while his words weren't exactly an indisputable confession of love, they sounded pretty damn close to one. And yet, she was at a loss for how to proceed. Ron's eyes continued to bore into hers, anxious and expectant, making her feel as though she was hurtling down a deep, blue abyss…

"Oi, Ron," said a voice from the entryway of the dining room, making the pair—but Hermione especially—jump. It was Harry, clearly unaware of having interrupted anything out of the ordinary. "Your mum's looking for you, mate."

Ron glanced at Hermione once more before following Harry down to the kitchen. 

"You feeling okay?" Hermione heard Harry ask Ron. "You look flushed."

"Oh, yeah," Ron replied, his voice trailing away as they descended the basement stairs. "I'm just boiling in this jumper…"

Hermione let out a shuddering breath and started fixing her last place setting, desperate for something to do with her hands. She felt discombobulated and out of control as if she were still falling into Ron's ocean eyes. The only thing she was certain of was that Ron's emotional range was far greater than a tablespoon, beyond what she could have ever imagined or prepared for. Perhaps, she thought wildly, his inaction up until that point had been the right move all along…

[thefireintheshadow]

don't ask questions

[sequel to come downstairs]

“I’m worried about Grian,” Gem said thoughtfully, swishing her legs back and forth in the water. She liked to hang her bare feet in when she wasn’t fishing, still be connected to the river.

“I don’t think you need to worry about him,” Pearl replied, and her voice sounded a little lower, like she might be getting sick. She’d been off today, but Gem hadn’t been able to really put her finger on why.

Things were weird. Grian had torn apart his secret room and hadn’t come out of his base for days. She’d thought he would feel better getting the mending book but it was almost like he was hungover from it.

Or, he was sick, and now Pearl was getting sick too. Illnesses tended to travel quick around Hermitcraft considering everyone was so close.

“He’s just been so reclusive, which isn’t like him,” Gem continued. “He hasn’t even checked his mail. I tried to bring him some soup but he didn’t even seem to be listening to me.”

“He’ll be fine,” Pearl said, and Gem turned to study her, really look at her.

Her forehead was a bit shiny, was she sweating? “Are you okay? You sound like you might be coming down with something.”

Pearl sighed. “Gem, you should really stop asking so many questions,” she said, and smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Just, go about your business, mate.”

Off. Wrong. What the hell was going on? “What is that supposed to mean?” This was Pearl. Her Pearl. She’d never been so, cryptic so…ominous.

“Well, gotta get back to work,” Pearl said, slapping her knees before getting to her feet. “Later, Gem.” She didn’t come in for a hug, or wave or wink or even look back, and Gem shivered despite not being cold.

Over the next few days, Gem watched Pearl. She tried to be casual about it, just dropping by the post office, sending her funny messages, trying to see if her friend was getting sick or how she was acting.

Pearl just got colder and colder. Gem tried to visit with Grian but he wouldn’t even open his door anymore.

She finally lost her patience, deciding to talk to someone about it. Hermitcraft had been so quiet lately, it was eerie. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Mumbo around, and usually he was zinging about doing some kind of weird task.

“Etho,” she called, hoping she still sounded casual and friendly as she landed outside of his house. It was gorgeous, of course, because he had to be a redstone genius and an artistic builder. Was there anything this man wasn’t good at?

She blushed. No, there really isn’t, she thought, thinking back to their last sparring-turned-sex match.

Usually he responded to her call pretty quickly, with a teasing “Geeemmm,” but there was nothing. She’d thought for sure he was home, he’d said earlier in the chat he was working on his storage system.

“Knock knock,” she called, letting herself into the house. Just beyond the threshold, her heart stopped and her legs turned to lead at the sight of red splashed on the floor.

Not redstone. Not redstone not redstone not-

She sank to her knees. Why was there blood on Etho’s floor?

A folded piece of paper lay next to the splatter, corner of it soaking up a blotch of crimson. She reached for it with shaking hands, unfolding it, and her pulse roared in her ears at the words scrawled across it.

stop asking questions, gemstone

Gem didn’t bother knocking – she kicked Grian’s door in.

“What the hell?!” Grian mumbled, squinting as light from outside bathed the dank space. He clutched a blanket to him – had he been sleeping on the floor?

No time for that. “I need to know what the hell is going on right now,” she demanded, and tossed the bloodied note onto the floor in front of him.

He blinked at it, cringing away as if it might bite him. “I told you-”

“I know what you told me, and I want to hear the truth now,” she snapped. “Pearl’s been acting super weird, you’ve been acting super weird, and now Etho is…” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “Etho is gone and it’s because of me. And I think you know why. So spill.”

Grian stared at the paper, still not touching it. Gem huffed and knelt on the floor, unfolding and flattening it on the floor. 

“Gemstone,” she said. “Skizz calls me Gemstone. I can’t find him anywhere, and his chests have cobwebs like he hasn’t been back to his base in awhile. The last time I saw him, he was hanging around here, before you started locking yourself inside like an agoraphobic.” She glared at his quivering form. “Tell me. What. Happened.”

Grian rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, groaning softly. “I…” he ground out. “Beef has gone fucking crazy. He thinks he works for some fish mafia and he had Skizz torture and murder Mumbo in front of me.”

Gem’s blood ran cold, and she sat back hard on her ass, bringing a hand to her mouth. Out of all of the things…she hadn’t expected him to say that. She didn’t know what she’d thought, but…not that. “Beef?” she asked dumbly, unable to fully form sentences.

Beef was one of the sweetest guys around. Skizz too, for that matter. And Pearl. Her Pearl. Who had warned her not to ask questions. What had happened to them?

“He told me to rip down my cod sculptures because…void, I don’t know, Big Salmon, it’s all so insane. And Skizz looked…” Grian gnawed at his fingernails, gaze darting around everywhere but at her. “He looked like a fucking fish, Gem, his eyes…” he trailed off with a shudder.

Her heart thumped hard against her ribs. Pearl’s forehead, she’d thought it was shining with sweat but…had it been scales? Was she infected with whatever thing was happening to Skizz?

“Grian, they have Etho,” she choked out, and her voice sounded so weak she hated it. But she couldn’t say the words without tears pooling in her eyes, without her heart threatening to shatter into a million pieces. What were they doing to him? There had been blood left behind, his blood, they could be-

She gritted her teeth, taking in a deep, ragged breath. Panicking wouldn’t help anything. “Do you know where they are?”

“No, no,” Grian said, voice barely above a whisper as he drew his knees to his chest, clutching the blanket back around him. “I did what they said and I just…I did what they said.”

She wanted to shake him. Scream at him to get his shit together. But she didn’t think that would help. Mumbo had been his everything. To have that happen, in front of him…and given his state they’d clearly terrified and traumatized him with more threats.

No, Grian wouldn’t be any help to her. She’d only endanger him if she tried to bring him in on this…this what? Rescue mission? She didn’t even know where to start looking.

If it were Beef, Skizz, and Pearl, she was outnumbered, and that was if they hadn’t recruited any more people. She was pretty sure if she needed to she could hold her own against Beef and Skizz in a 2v1, but not Pearl. Her bestie was skilled as hell, and…god, it was Pearl. Could she fight her? Potentially kill her?

Her heart clenched, and she dug her fingers into her hair, tugging at the scalp. How had this happened? Images popped into her head, unbidden, of Etho, hurt. Bleeding. Worse.

A strangled cry tore out of her throat. Etho. She’d burn the entirety of Hermitcraft to the ground to save him. Yes, she would kill Pearl if she had to. If she had to.

But she’d need backup.

“Gem, sheesh, you scared the crap outta me,” Bdubs gasped as he game around the corner of his shop with an armload of scaffolding. “Wanna come play-” Whatever he’d been about to ask her to do died on his tongue as his expressive brow furrowed with concern. “Are you okay?”

She must have looked wild, her hair mussed from tugging at it and her eyes still red from the little bit of crying she’d allowed herself before leaving Grian’s.

She didn’t answer him right away. She studied his face. His skin. His eyes.

He didn’t feel off. Her gut told her he was himself.

“Gem,” he repeated, dropping th scaffolding on the ground haphazardly. “What happened?”

“Have you seen Beef lately?” she asked, voice coming out hoarse.

His brows furrowed further. “Beef? Not in a few days. He was wearing a snazzy pink suit.”

She shivered, imagining a sick suit made out of fish scales. “Something’s happened to him,” she said. “And Skizz and Pearl. They killed Mumbo and traumatized Grian.”

“What?” he gasped. “What? No. Beef?”

She’d known this would be the reaction because it had been hers, too, but she was impatient. Every second that ticked by was a second they could be hurting Etho, or worse.

“They have Etho,” she said, urgency in her usually carefree voice. She didn’t even recognize herself anymore.

“No.” Bdubs’ arms fell slack to his sides, and he shook his head slowly in shock. It was a lot to process, she knew. “No.”

“They do. I need to find them and save him and I need you to help me.”

He made a strangled noise and looked at her helplessly, desperately. “Are you sure? Gem, I – Beef? Skizz?”

“There was blood on his fucking floor, Bdubs.” She drew the soiled note from her pocket and shoved it flat against his chest. He fumbled for it and stopped breathing as he read the words.

“Jeezus,” he breathed, and lowered the paper, looking lost. “What do we do?”

Her gaze hardened. “We find him. And do whatever it takes to get him back.”

They landed at the top of Joel’s massive staircase almost in unison.

“Joel!” Gem called, impatient to get past the storytelling part so they could get on with the finding Etho part.

“Sup, Gem?” Joel asked from up on one of his ledges, reaching up to smear glow ink on one of his decorative signs. “Hey, Bdubs.”

Before Gem could open her mouth, Bdubs cried, “Etho’s in trouble!”

Joel dropped down to the cobbled street, not even wincing at the fall damage. He straightened and drew his sword. “Where?”

Gem filled Joel in as they traveled, and he stayed silent, eyes hard. She’d never seen him so serious, jaw gritted, without a hint of that playfulness he always wore. It might have concerned her but he didn’t feel off either. This was Etho.

If anyone would go to the ends of the earth with her for Etho, it was Bdubs and Joel.

“So we should go to Grian’s and kick his door in,” Joel finally spoke, and Gem shook her head.

“I already did that, he’s been as helpful as he’s able,” she said.

“So where are we blumming going?” he demanded.

“Doc’s,” she said, veering her wings slightly to the right. “Bdubs said he heard something about him trying to blow Beef and Skizz to hell.”

“They made him build some salmon monument,” Bdubs added.

Gem might have snorted at that before all this, the thought of anyone trying to make Doc do anything. But now all she could hope for was some kind of clue.

They landed in the swamp, next to a giant machine that Gem couldn’t fathom the purpose for. But she didn’t spare it another glance when she saw the crater.

And Pearl, standing at the edge of it. She clutched her stomach as if she were going to vomit, and when she turned her head Gem recoiled – she looked almost alien, her eyes too far apart, bulging, flesh shiny and sparkling in the sun.

Joel stormed forward, sword firmly in hand. “Where’s Etho?”

“Joel, wait!” Gem cried, grabbing his arm. Pearl looked like she was in pain.

“Let him do it,” she rasped, and her voice sounded deep, like her throat was too thick. “Before it takes over again.”

“What’s happening to you?” Gem breathed.

“Big Salmon,” Pearl moaned, clawing at her stomach. “It made me…it made me…” She doubled over, groaning, and Gem couldn’t help it, even though she knew it was stupid to get too close, it was Pearl. Her Pearl.

“Gem!” Bdubs cried as she lunged forward to catch her best friend.

They crumpled to the grass, Pearl half-limp in her arms. Up close, she smelled putrid, like rotting ocean, her eyes glassy and mouth looking painfully stretched.

“Pearl,” Gem whispered, running a hand over her slimy, matted hair. “Where have they taken Etho?”

“Coords,” Pearl gasped, “pocket.”

Gem rifled in Pearl’s slacks pocket, the fabric damp and sickeningly slick. Somewhere behind her, Bdubs retched, and Joel moaned, but Gem focused on finding the tiny piece of paper in her pocket, pulling it free.

“You have to kill me, Gem,” Pearl pleaded, “I can’t – I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t-” She cut off on a moan, curling in on herself, and Gem’s heart broke.

“She killed Doc,” Joel called, voice with an edge of hysteria. “He’s-”

Bdubs retched again, and she realized they had been looking over the edge of the crater.

“I didn’t want-” Pearl shrieked then, fingers clawing at Gem’s shirt, and she reacted instinctively, shoving her sword through flesh and bone, spearing her best friend on her diamond blade, and a sob racked her body as Pearl’s limbs went limp.

She fell back, and Gem went with her, burying her face in her postmaster clothes, uncaring that they reeked of rot and bile, mingling with the coppery scent of blood now because she was dead-

Gem screamed, she couldn’t keep it in, she screamed til her throat was raw and it hurt-

Arms pulled her back and she thrashed, flailing, sloppy, her sword hit the grass, but it wasn’t an attack, it was an embrace, and Bdubs and Joel were there, and they held her as she cried for the fucking wasteland the world had become.

“Where do we look now?” Bdubs asked, wiping furiously at his eyes once Gem had calmed down enough to disentangle herself from them.

She uncurled her fingers from their death grip on the paper in Pearl’s pocket. She blinked back the last of her tears as the scribbled numbers came into focus.

“She said they’re here,” she said hoarsely.

“So what’s the plan?” Bdubs asked.

Joel stood up, swinging his sword in a sharp arc. “Fly in and fuck shit up.”

“Tempting, but Bdubs is right,” she said. “If they’re possessed by this salmon thing too...”

“We can take Beef and Skizz,” Joel scoffed. 

“But it’s not Beef and Skizz,” Gem argued. “It’s this thing that’s possessing them. Pearl went feral.”

“And they could be going feral on Etho right now!” Joel cried, voice crazed.

Bdubs clenched his fists. “Stop it.”

Gem got to her feet, facing Joel. “I get it, okay? I can’t stop picturing…” She shuddered. “But we’re no help to him if we fuck this up. We might have the element of surprise here, and we should take advantage.”

“Or it’s a trap,” Bdubs pointed out. “As if they’d think nobody would come after Etho.”

“So I fly in and fuck shit up, and you two use the distraction,” Joel said, tapping his sword against his thigh impatiently.

Gem shook her head. “No, it should be me. If it is a trap, it was for me. They won’t be expecting you guys.”

“So I’m supposed to just sit back and blummin’ watch?” Joel cried.

“No, you’re supposed to save Etho,” she said, staring him down.

“Gem, no-” Bdubs said, but she whirled on him, eyes blazing.

“You want a plan or not?” she snapped. “That’s the plan, take it or leave it. His best chance is if they think I’m alone.”

Silence. They knew she was right. Gem knew the risks, knew they cared about her. They also knew that she was willing to die to save Etho. Because they were, too.

Joel curled a hand around the back of her neck and pressed his forehead to hers. “Fuck them up.”

Bdubs grasped her hand and squeezed. “GeminiSlay,” he said hoarsely.

“Get him out,” she whispered, struggling to keep her voice steady.

Joel stepped back and nodded. “We will.”

Gem soared closer to the coordinates and her heart sank. They’d been expecting her. Beef and Skizz stood on what on any other day would have been a beautiful grassy island in the middle of the ocean, a crumpled form between them, white hair splattered with blood.

No. No, no no no… Her gut roiled, vision going red with rage, and she drew her sword while still in the air.

“Careful, Gem,” Beef called, and Skizz grabbed a fistful of Etho’s hair, exposing his slender throat, flashing a glittering blade too close, too close to her love’s perfect skin.

She skidded her landing, holding out a hand, voice strangled. “Don’t!”

“Drop the sword, Gemstone,” Skizz said, and what was wrong with his voice, and his face looked horrifying, he was farther gone than Pearl, so distorted he looked more fish than man.

“Didn’t I tell you she’d come?” Beef asked, his hands clasped together behind his back as if this were a casual business meeting.

Etho looked dazed, bruised, one of his cheekbones purple, his mask gone, eyes glassy. He hissed as Skizz wrenched him closer, writhing a little, arms bound cruelly behind his back. His coat was gone too, leaving his arms bare, his black shirt ripped in places, fuck, what had they been doing to him?

“Drop the sword,” Skizz snapped, pressing the blade under the slope of Etho’s beautiful jaw.

She dropped her weapon, diamond thumping uselessly in the grass, and prayed that Joel and Bdubs would stay away for the time being. This was too precarious of a situation, one slip and all was lost.

“Gem,” Etho rasped, “get out of here.”

Not a chance, she thought, and silently begged him to just stay quiet.

“No, she wants to party with us, huh?” Skizz drawled.

“I want you to let him go,” she said firmly, hoping it was firm, hoping she didn’t sound as fucking terrified as she felt inside.

“I didn’t have high hopes for Pearl convincing you,” Beef mused, and at the mention of her name Gem’s gaze flicked to him. “She didn’t take as well as Skizz here.”

“Loyal to the cause, boss,” Skizz chirped.

“Pearl’s dead,” Gem choked on the words.

“Yes, I assume she is if you’re here,” Beef replied, still calm as ever. “I’ll cut straight to the point, Gem, Big Salmon wants you on our side.”

He was delusional. She could have almost laughed at the absurdity of it all, if Etho wasn’t bleeding on the ground. If her friends were still alive.

“This is a hell of a way to proposition me,” she said, flicking a wrist in Etho’s direction.

“We thought you’d need some motivation,” Beef said.

“All you’ve done is severely pissed me off,” she replied. She tried to sound strong, in control, stall for fucking time because she didn’t know what to do.

“You asked too many questions, and pissed off the big boss,” Beef said with an almost apologetic shrug. “I had to take steps. The best way to motivate someone is to threaten something precious to them.”

As if for effect, Skizz kicked Etho in the stomach, and Gem screamed as he doubled over. “Stop!” she cried, and took a step towards them, but Skizz quickly resumed his original grip, jerking Etho’s head back as he grunted in pain.

“Ah ah ah,” Skizz sang.

“What do I need to do?” she asked, head swimming. Even if she pledged her allegiance to Beef right now, how could they trust her? They weren’t going to let Etho go just because she declared she was on their side.

“Just a little procedure,” Beef said, holding up two fingers close to each other. “But you have to be a willing participant. Hence the motivation.”

The word procedure swirled in her brain. Of course it wasn’t just pledging her loyalty. They were going to turn her into whatever Skizz was, whatever Pearl had been.

“Gem, no-” Etho gasped, and there was a sickening crunch as Skizz slammed his boot down on one of his legs.

“Stop hurting him!” Gem cried, and tears threatened because this was all so hopeless, what the hell was she supposed to do? The longer this went on the more he suffered. “Just tell me what I need to do!”

Beef grinned, stepping aside and motioning to the ocean behind him. “All you have to do is walk in there. Big Salmon will determine your loyalty.”

Gem’s head swam as she gazed at the sparkling water. “How do I know you’ll let him go? I know what happened with Mumbo.”

“You don’t,” Beef said with a shrug. “But Skizz can just kill him now in front of you, if you prefer.”

“No,” she held out her hands. “No. Please. I’m going to do what you want.”

She took a step towards the water, despite not wanting to leave him. Guilt gnawed at her guts. Etho was here because of her. Because she hadn’t listened to Pearl. Pearl was dead now, also because of her.

“Probably best to leave your gear,” Beef added, and it didn’t sound like a suggestion, but a requirement.

Gem stared at Etho as she unclipped her elytra and let it fall to the grass.

No, he mouthed, his voice either gone or staying silent to avoid more broken bones. His eyes were desperate, pained, and it broke whatever shreds of her heart were left.

She dropped all her armor, emptied her inventory, none of it mattered anymore. “I love you,” she whispered, because she knew he’d hear it, and it was just for him, and she didn’t know if she’d ever get to say it again.

She turned towards the water and it bulged – bulged? – and she froze in shock as something emerged. It was a monstrosity, like a giant fish had been through the nuclear apocalypse, with sickly pink-green scales and lopsided gigantic eyes. Its mouth puckered at the edges, like ruched fabric at the bottom of a dress, and its mouth was mottled and black and smelled like death and decay.

She knew she had to go in there. She didn’t know how she did. The thing didn’t quite talk, but she felt its essence sliding around the surface of her brain, leaving a slick feeling in its wake. She shivered.

She knew it wanted her to walk into its mouth. It wanted her to become a part of it. She also knew if she didn’t, Etho was dead.

At least if she did, he had a chance, however slight.

“Gem!” he screamed as she stepped up onto its pulsing, spongy tongue. She didn’t look back. She knew she wouldn’t be able to keep going if she did.

The rancid lips closed around her.

“-it’s not gonna work, Bdubs!”

“-they’re too close together-”

“-plan was if Etho wasn’t RIGHT THERE-”

“-she’s not gonna want us to-”

“-fuckin’ just go they can’t take all of us-”

“They’ll kill him!” Bdubs roared, and Joel’s mouth snapped shut. He’d never seen his friend so angry. Playfully annoyed but not proper angry. “I want to rush in there too, but we have to be smart.”

Joel let out a frustrated yell, scrubbing a hand down his face. They were perched on a tree a safe distance away, Bdubs having convinced him to stop and look through his spyglass to get a lay of the land.

The lay of the land didn’t look good. From what they could see, Skizz had Etho and Gem stood before Beef, her sword nowhere to be seen.

With only ocean between them and the island, there was no way to get closer, no cover, no way to have any element of surprise.

Joel knew Bdubs was right. But he hated not knowing what to do. He hated all of this. He was used to just running headfirst into danger and hoping everything worked out. It had gone fine for him so far but this time…this time other people’s lives hung in the balance. People he cared about deeply.

“I know what to do,” someone said, and both men startled, and it sounded like Grian but not Grian at the same time.

How could it be Grian?

Joel looked down at the water, and it was Grian, only he looked…wrong. His eyes were pure black, too large, glassy as if staring into space. He was standing in the water as if having just emerged, hair plastered to his forehead, dripping everywhere.

“Grian, what the hell, man?” Joel asked, and it came out far less forceful than he’d meant it to be. He hadn’t thought anything else could shock him today. He’d been wrong.

“Fly high above the island where they can’t see you,” Grian continued in a monotone voice as if he hadn’t heard anything. “Divebomb them as accurately as you can. Focus on Skizz, you will have to be fast if you want Etho to live. I will take care of the Salmon.”

The hairs on the back of Joel’s neck stood on end, suddenly struck with the feeling that this wasn’t Grian. That something else was using his mouth.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Follow my instructions or not,” Not-Grian said, then began to retreat into the water. He didn’t swim, didn’t turn, just began to move back, deeper, deeper.

“Wait!” Bdubs cried, but there was no response, and Grian’s head went under the surface, disappearing into the dark. “What the hell was that?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Joel said, brandishing his sword. “It’s a plan, and it’s the only plan.”

“What about Gem?” Bdubs asked, voice strained.

“Gem knows what she’s doing,” Joel replied, and though guilt twisted his guts at the dismissal of his friend’s safety, he wasn’t wrong. When she’d parted, they’d both known that she was willingly going into a situation that would likely kill her. Their priority was getting Etho out. And he wasn’t going to shatter her last wishes, make her risk be in vain.

“Got rockets?” Bdubs asked, sounding defeated.

Joel nodded sharply, pulling out his stash. 

Etho felt like he was dying. As the fish monster’s lips closed around Gem, he screamed, fuck whatever Skizz would do to him. His body was already so broken, but nothing hurt worse than losing her. 

His mind tortured him, replaying the look on her face before she turned away from him, the cold fear in her eyes as she’d whispered I love you. He knew Gem. Knew when they’d taken him that she’d come. Knew that she’d do anything to save him, even sacrifice herself.

Knew that Gem loved fiercely, her stupid, beautiful, selfless heart. She had to know he was dead anyway. Beef wasn’t going to actually let him go. But she’d taken the chance, just in case, and even though he hated it, he understood. He would have done the same in her shoes.

Fuck if it didn’t destroy him, though. He hoped that they would end him fast. Hoped that she wouldn’t emerge as some brainwashed fish monster that they’d make kill him. He didn’t want that to be the last thing he saw. He didn’t want her fear to have been the last thing he’d seen, either, but at least she was still her.

He closed his eyes, imagining a better time, being wrapped around her, the feel of her kisses, her soft mewls when she’d bury her face into his neck.

Somebody shouted, and it was as if time blipped. One second, Etho was on his knees, scalp burning beneath Skizz’ grip, diamond blade kissing his throat, and the next he was on his side in the grass and Joel was there, looking feral, covered in blood, holding Skizz’ disembodied deformed fish monster head in his hand.

Etho opened his mouth but couldn’t make words. He met Joel’s eyes, and what the fuck was Joel doing here, and how did he just appear and-

Beef screamed, angry-sounding, and it was jarring after hearing him so calm and collected in the face of all of this insanity for so long. Etho arched his back, ignoring the screaming pain in his body so he could see what was happening.

Beef was on his knees, one of his shoulders spurting blood, his arm in the grass, still twitching despite being removed from his body.

“You – you fucking bastards deserve-” Bdubs grunted as he swung his sword, “-so much worse than this!” The diamond blade connected with Beef’s collarbone, and he wrenched it through and down, slicing him in two.

Etho’s brain short-circuited. Joel and Bdubs were here? How? Where had they come from?

“Eefo,” Joel said, working at the ropes bringing his wrists behind him, and it sounded so strained, so fucking defeated.

Bdubs limped over, collapsing to his knees next to Etho’s face, muttering obscenities under his breath. “-fuckin’ landing sucked,” he huffed, and then his hands were on Etho’s face, brushing his hair from his forehead.

“Gem,” Etho rasped.

“Where is she?” Joel asked as he gave up on trying to untie the ropes and sawed through them instead.

The relief in Etho’s wrists and shoulders was palpable but his heart rate tripled as he gripped Bdubs’ forearm. “She’s inside the Big Salmon,” he said, and the wide-eyed stare of his friend held utter confusion. “Behind us. In the water.”

“Etho there’s nothing there,” Joel said, uncharacteristically gentle, as if speaking to a frightened child.

Bdubs opened his mouth, but before he could say anything an inhuman screech pierced the air, making them all wince. Bdubs’ jaw dropped open and he gripped Etho’s shoulders, dragging him into his arms as if to stand up and run. But his legs had been hurt from his fall, and Etho knew he’d be useless with one of his calves broken let alone all of his other injuries.

But it turned him around, at least, and he could see what they were gaping at. The Salmon was back, or whatever it was, the giant fish monster that had eaten Gem, and it wasn’t alone.

Blood pooled in the water as another monster breached the surface, this one shades of beige and – was that Grian on its head?!

“Grian!” Joel yelled, but Grian didn’t react, didn’t move, he was like a statue on top of the thing as it lunged for the Salmon monster with razor-sharp teeth.

“Is that a fucking cod?” Bdubs breathed, and of course it was, anything was possible at this point Etho couldn’t question any of it.

His concern was that Gem was still inside the Salmon. Was she still alive in there, if they could…get in there?

“Gem is in that?” Joel asked, pointing to the Salmon with his sword, apparently on the same wavelength.

Etho could only nod. He wanted to go, too, and he hated that he couldn’t. As if reading his mind, Bdubs tightened his embrace, as if to hold Etho back, as if he was fucking going anywhere.

Joel took off running for the water, but at the last second the Cod-thing lashed out with a giant fin, slapping him back, sending him sailing back into the grass.

The Salmon took advantage of this and lunged, burying its own rotting teeth into the Cod’s side, and Grian screamed, or something screamed and it came out of Grian’s mouth. Etho didn’t thing Grian was Grian anymore. He didn’t think anything was fucking anything anymore.

The Salmon held fast even as the Cid thrashed, but then it flinched and began to shudder. It disengaged from the Cod, slithering and quivering, and then its eye began to bulge and it looked like it was going to explode and then a bodyemerged, covered in blood and viscera and wielding something and it was Gem, oh god, Etho wondered if he were hallucinating because how was she here-

“Gem!” Joel cried, and he saw her too and Etho’s heart soared with hope. 

She leapt from the twitching Salmon onto the Cod, grabbing Grian around the middle. “Let him go!” she shrieked. “Leave us alone!”

The Cod tried to shake her off, but she held fast to Grian who seemed attached to it somehow.

“Let him GO!” Gem roared, and finally Grian tumbled, and she curled around him as they hit the water.

Etho’s ears rang, panic shrieking in his blood, and he did struggle against Bdubs this time, his busted body be damned.

“No, you can’t,” Bdubs grunted as he held him tight against his chest, and Joel was running again, and Etho thought the Cod monster would just smack him again, devour Gem and Grian and he’d have to lose her again-

But the giant fish retreated, disappearing into the bloodied water and leaving the dead Salmon beached, gills still fluttering but growing weaker and weaker.

Joel splashed into the waves, dropping his sword and reaching down into the water, dragging up first an arm, then a torso, then another body came up under the other arm, and it was Gem holding a very dazed-looking Grian, his eyes finally the normal size, face fear-stricken as he coughed and sputtered.

Joel hefted Grian into his arms, waving Gem off. “I’ve got him,” he said, “don’t I, buddy? You look like shit.”

“Fuck you, Joel,” Grian rasped, and received a laugh in return, and that fucking laugh made Etho’s heart clench because if Joel was laughing everything was okay now.

And Gem was running towards him, soaking wet, still holding whatever the hell that weird weapon was, and she dropped it when she fell to her knees in front of him, sobbing as she threw her arms around both him and Bdubs, crushing them both in a desperate hug.

“Careful, careful,” Bdubs chastised as Etho groaned, even though he didn’t want to, he didn’t care how much pain he was in, she was here, she was alive.

She pressed her hands to Etho’s cheeks, staring down at him, as if she couldn’t believe it either.

“What the hell is that?” Bdubs asked, toeing the slick thing she’d dropped.

“One of its ribs,” she replied, without taking her eyes off of Etho.

And he laughed, even though it hurt. She’d been swallowed by a fish monster and ripped out one of it’s fucking ribs before using it to bust out its eyeball from the inside. Void, he loved this woman.

“You’re a lunatic,” he rasped, even though he’d meant to say I love you.

She seemed to get it, anyway, because she kissed him.

His heart slowly stitched itself back together. Because if Gem was kissing him, everything was okay now.

[read on ao3]

[timecryptid]

I'm generally pretty quick at drawing but this one took me around 24 hours over the span of quite a few days. It was based on a Stick of Truth au I was in the middle of writing but I haven't written much on it and will probably never actually fully write it. But when I was writing it I wanted to do a painting that could actually exist in the universe so it's more painterly than I actually do. I had fun and kind of wanted to do another but then I remembered that digital painting is kind of a pain in the ass.

[consequently-cryptic]

i have an image that makes me blush,, i literally thought abt that while playing sdv n im suddenly feeling things...

Okay so, imagine cuddling with Elliott next to the fireplace. Caress his cheeks and look at him with so much love, he's going to melt in your touch. Kiss him once, twice, and then keep kissing him on his face in various places — your husband's face turns red in no time, drunk with your love he would start kissing your neck softly and hands on your back caressing it softly, playing with the end of your shirt... 😇

YES YESSSS GRGHHH

A while back I had posted a small list of hcs and one of them is how easily you can distract this man by giving him even the most simplest of touches (walking by and brushing aside his hair or squeezing his arm or shoulder.)

If he can get distracted by touches like that he is in heaven when you share more intimate moments. Kisses make his knees weak, he never fails to feel flushed when you lean or lay against him and wrap your arms around him, he's a hopeless romantic at heart so all of these things never fail to get this man drunk off of your love.

If you couldn't blatantly tell I very much think one of his most prominent love languages is physical touch lmao

[corvidgames]

#8 SIGNALIS

Signalis was as heartbreaking as it was horrifying.

A retrotech cyber horror with emphasis on what it means to be human in a world where humanity is a burden in the face of rising technological power, Signalis' world and environmental storytelling was incredible. Even with a low-poly style and oftentimes pixelated visuals, the use of thematic music and sound effects made it feel just as chilling as any high-end AAA horror game.

With it's story being highly cryptic and the game rarely opting to hold your hand with its puzzles and mystery, it feels incredibly satisfying to piece together the scraps the game provides you with in between it's major plot reveals.

I'm trying not to talk too blatantly of the plot and its events because this game is really best if you go into it blind. It's one of the few games I've played where it's important to the immersion to be confused and disoriented.

Because of the lack of explicitly revealed details about it's story, you spend a lot of your time reading through items that you find scattered around the world. Oftentimes in RPGs and similar games, it can become tedious to read through files and reports, but Signalis' constant withholding of information from the player lead to me getting excited every time I found a scrap of hastily scrawled handwriting around the facility.

Getting to know the characters of this world, even without much dialogue nor direct interaction through the majority of the game, was emotionally harrowing and gripping. I found myself often on the brink of tears over relationships between characters I hadn't even met in the storyline yet, reading through their journal pages and picking up what they had left behind throughout the story.

Its combat system, whilst simple, feels just the right balance between clunky and smooth to sell the immersion of playing as a machine. With an emphasis on ammo and inventory conservation, encounters are often harsh and lead to making the choice between safety and progress, rewarding a variety of strategies at differing points in the story. A few times I found myself entirely defenseless, having wasted ammo in early encounters and had to shove and run past enemies on increasingly lower health, a feeling that had me on the edge of my seat during almost all of my play sessions.

This is a game that I can definitely see myself being obsessed with for a long time to come. It was really an honour to get to experience it in its entirety.

Date of completion: 31/03/2024

Genre: Survival Horror

Time to beat: 17hrs 13m

Level of completion: Main story + All extras

Trophies/Gamerscore: Platinum 12/12

1-100 rating: 100

Platform: PlayStation 5

[karl-raccoon-in-a-teacup]

mango + 7, atsulucy + 9, lemon futon + 4 and 14, ada kunichuu + 6, bramcraft + 2, fukumori + 15

Bestie if I knew you were gonna send me so many I would have sent you more in return. Damn.

Anyways

Mushiango: 7. Which one is the worse driver

It's Mushitaro. I'm not saying he can't drive, but I would like to point out that between him and Ango, one of them has the ability to erase their traffic violations, and the other we have canonically see driving with no problems, therefor I'll let you do the math on this one.

Atsulucy: 9. Which one swears more

See you think I'd say Lucy no questions asked, but honestly I think it's a tie. Lucy tries to avoid cussing in her work environment, meanwhile Atsushi's probably encouraged in his work environment, so in the end I think it balances out.

Lemon Futon: 4.What they do on date night

Hm... I think they either switch it up so each person gets a turn deciding for each date night (Kajii usually drags Katai out places like dinner or the opera, Katai usually decides on movies they can watch or food to order in) and/or date night becomes cuddle nights.

14. What nicknames they call each other

Bean Bag immediately came to mind as something Kajii calls Katai so I'm absorbing that into my personal canon. Kajii probably has sooo many nicknames for Katai, honestly, the most I get from Katai is a sweet petname or two. Darling, love, etc etc. Kajii swoons over-dramatically every time and Katai regrets it every time (but, well, not really).

Kunichuu: 6. How they decorated their bedroom

Kunikida was insistent their room be practical and efficient and neutral, they could always change things up later in life when they were more certain of what they wanted and not just two 19 year olds getting their first space. And while the organization and well-keptness of the room remains...

Well. Chuuya found a cheap pack of those glow-in-the-dark star stickers, and while they started as a joke to see how long it'd take Kunikida to find each one (not just on the ceiling, hidden in corners or just behind furniture) they've both grown fond of them, now.

Bramcraft: 2. What their love letters look like

Not sue about canon/post-canon (especially with. Y'know) but pre-canon? Bram writes The most dramatic, flower, purple prose cursive you've seen in your Life. His letters are essentially poetry, endless and going on and on and calling Lovecraft all sorts of wonderful and beautiful things, never less than two or three pages.

Lovecraft's are cryptic, short, and written in ink. They are always mildly damp, smell like either saltwater or fish, and to most sound more like indecipherable scrawlings than notes of love. But Bram understands them, and treasures each and every one.

Fukumori: 15. What they would change about each other

Oh boy. Okay, so

The thing about Fukumori is they both love this city, both believe in a greater good for this city, and both know this about the other. They just wish the other would agree with their way of going about it.

Fukuzawa thinks Mori's actions are too cruel, too bloody, and in the end that the Port Mafia is not what this city needs. Mori believes the Armed Detective Agency is too ineffective to save the city from true threats, in the end, believes them too soft and that, in the end, Fukuzawa will go with his heart and not his mind.

It's a shame, really, both of them think. Their mutual love for this city, their recognition of one another's dark pasts and bloody hands, are part of what draw them to each other. Yet their different way of handling these are what will inevitably drive them apart.

[multimilfs]

Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader: For Better or Worse

Summary: Agatha Harkness + 47 -- "I have no idea what you're talking about."

AO3

Prompts found here!

A/N: I love Agatha to the moon and back. Who else is excited for coven of chaos?!

Full Ficmas List

Tag List: @ghostsunderstoodmysoul @escapetodreamworld @multifandomfix @white--lillies @imtrashinflames @call-me-no-one

Warning(s): None

You think it’s the 2010s, but you can’t be sure. Maybe you’re still stuck in the 90s. 

Time is an illusion inside the Hex. Some days pass quicker than others; if Wanda gets bored, she can speed up the clock, and usher all of her little ‘side characters’ to bed. It can take a week between decades or sometimes Wanda flips between them. One day you wake up to jeans and a sweater, the next an obnoxious pair of yellow leg-warmers. The show she’s made you part of captures only minutes of the months you live. 

You’d give anything for time to be linear again. Unfortunately, that seems to be a luxury, and you’re not very high on the totem pole. 

The saving grace is you’re not alone. Agatha bears the weight with you, staring right down the barrel of the gun Wanda’s unknowingly loaded just to get an understanding. You thank the cosmos everyday for how powerful she is. Were she a lesser witch, your hair would be falling out from the anxiety. 

What Wanda lacks in time, she makes up for in characterization. You’re a background character, but a sweet, organized one; your adherence to a schedule is impressive. So she allows you a hell of a lot of freedom and some sense of normalcy. You could almost grow to like her for it. 

First thing in the morning, you make a pot of coffee for you and your Hex-husband—you can barely recall his name anymore—and check the mailbox. Among the typical bills there is always a folded sheet of paper, typically blank, but sometimes bearing the elegant scrawl you know and love. 

Unfolding the paper today, you smile down at the ink. 

Eleven. 

It’s cryptic and succinct and it warms you from your head to your toes. Finally, a bright spot. Agatha’s been too busy being followed by cameras to see you. Everytime you watch her pass, just barely making eye contact, you nearly lose it at the distance between you. 

You go through your routine normally all day until night rolls around. Making sure your Hex-husband is suitably knocked out, you wait by the door. 

Tap Tap, Knock Knock. 

In your eagerness, you practically rip the door from the hinges. Agatha pushes inside. 

“Miss me?” She teases. 

“More than anything,” You say genuinely, pulling her into a kiss, “I’m going crazy in this place.” 

Fingers scratch at your scalp and comb through your hair. She looks so damn kissable in her purple sweater, hair pulled up into a messy updo. 

“It’s not that bad, dear.” 

Your temper flares at her dismissal, energy crackling at your fingertips. She absorbs it. 

“Agatha, sweetheart,” You drawl, voice dripping with venomous sweetness, “If I have to take another pilates class, I’m going to kill the instructor.” 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” 

You push away from her, “I’m your wife, you’re supposed to love me. Instead, you’re letting me go mad here, because of some other witch. Should I be jealous?” 

“Against my better judgment, I do love you. We’re almost through here.” 

When you pushed away from her, you’d taken up pacing. It’s an awful habit that you didn’t develop until coming here. You’ve likely worn out the tread on your shoes from all the hours you spend walking back and forth, like a tiger trying to escape its cage. 

You pause. 

Turning and staring hard at your wife, you can see the moment she realizes her mistake. It’s only a twitch of her eye, but you’ve been with her for almost seventy years. She’s hiding something. Agatha has only told you she loved you three times; when she asked you to stay with her, when you married her, and that one time in Brazil that you almost died. 

“You’re stalling.” You accuse. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“What is it that you’re waiting for, Agatha? Maybe if you told me I’d be a little less inclined to blow the place up. If I know what I’m working for, I’ll play along.” 

Agatha takes your face in her hands, voice calm, “We’re almost done.” 

You hate her. 

You love her. 

Gods, she pisses you off. But she’s all you want. 

“Speed up the timeline, Agatha.” You say, “Or I will.” 

You’ve never been one to bluff. Back in the day, that’s what drew her to you; you always made good on your threats. It intrigued and worried her. So much power in the hands of a seemingly-unstable wielder almost got you killed, drained of all power in New Hampshire of all places. Instead, you ended up with a wife; you’re still not sure what changed her mind. 

Now, though, it’s a point of contention. Agatha is secretive and you’ve never pushed, but the Hex is driving you mad. You weren’t prepared for this. So either she moves up the timeline and ends this twisted daydream or you will, and she’ll be in the doghouse for the next decade. 

She sighs. 

“Fine.” 

You kiss her and she kisses back, reluctantly. Her body is taut with frustration. 

It isn’t your fault she’s hiding the truth from you. You’ve been together too long for it to bother you at this point, but things would be more straightforward if she didn’t insist on keeping everything locked in her mind. Sometimes you wonder if she does it to drive you up the wall. 

You forgive her many things; that’s what a wife does. Agatha, though… she has a different definition of what being a wife entails. Grudges are held frequently and for longer than necessary. But you love her and forgive her for it anyway. 

But loving and forgiving doesn’t mean you enjoy the separation. You hate the absence of her. Since your marriage—a quaint, quick thing in a courthouse in Massachusetts, made possible by an old contact of her’s—you’ve spent little time apart simply because you dislike the space. 

You feel the distance now and hate it. 

“I’m sorry, my love,” You say, though you’re not, really, you just want things to be okay again, “What do you need from me?”

“More time.” She says immediately, tone clipped. 

Trust your wife to ask for the one thing you can’t stand giving. 

“I don’t know how much longer I can handle this. I’ll go mad.” 

Agatha smirks, “You’re not already?” 

The fondness has returned to her eyes. You hate her for wanting more time—for needing it—but you love her, so you forgive her.

“How much time?” You ask softly. You can bear the weight of madness a little longer. 

“A few weeks.” 

You wince, but nod. Glee floods her eyes and you wonder how you could deny her in the first place. You hate how she holds your heart. You love her for making you feel. 

Agatha kisses you and there’s no reluctance. She’s all teeth, tongue, and desire. She’s darkness and anger and corruption. 

She’s yours—for better or worse.