#I’ve never seen so much human skin on this website ever

[hazelfoureyes]

The Radio Demon fucks a Human Sacrifice (part 3)

I deadass wrote part one as a one shot. Is this what peer pressure is? I love it.

It would have been easy to forget you, your soul was his anyways so the real fun had already finished. But that pesky video hit most streamed in 24 hours, he couldn’t even walk to the butcher without hearing you scream his name from errant phones. Surely there was a way, even from hell, to finish what he started and get you out of his system.

⟢ part1♡̶sidestory♡̶part2♡̶part3♡̶part4 ⟣

tags/warnings/promises: Alastor x reader, smut, soft Alastor, unprotected sex (duh?), creampie, edging a little, feelings, Valentino exists, Vox also exists, literally wrote this split screen with part 2 on the right side so I could line it up right like he does hehe, Alastor has a bad time

tag requested: @astraechos , @thekanrojimitsuri2 , @hoeforalbedo , @crazylazybabyk , @oddball08 , @lovingyeet , @just-trash-yeah-thats-it , @random-3455 , @alicehasdrowned , @des-deswain5621 , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @doctorswife221b

When Val released, ‘The Radio Demon fucks a Human Sacrifice’, it immediately went viral. The website crashed, downloads surpassed his wildest, horniest dreams.

It’s scary but also hot? ☆☆☆☆☆

Eat me Mr. Radio Demon!

I’ve never wanted to be a pussy so much in my life.

The reviews were all favorable, the comments rolling in, it was perfect.

Until Vox said it wasn’t. He had seen the video, but figured no one would care about seeing Alastor fuck anything. It wasn’t the success that got under his skin, it was the wave of positive attention it brought Alastor. Suddenly everyone was tuning in to his broadcasts, little miss princess’s hotel was busier than ever.

And it was ubiquitous. Every screen seemed to feature Alastor’s breakout role.

“I said pull it, Val!” Vox slammed his hands on Valentino’s coffee table.

“Vox, baby, you’re being really sensitive about this. I’m literally fucking piles of money right now. Actual piles of money, like, person sized piles.” Val took a drag of his cigarette, “Its good for business.”

“Would you rather fuck money, or me?” Vox’s screen glitched.

Val leaned his elbows on his knees, “That’s a really difficult question for me and I think you know that.”

“Augh! Val! Think of the big picture! That obsolete dickhead gaining attention means gaining power. And that’s bad for business.”

Val’s eyes fluttered, “What if we like, say it wasn’t him?”

Flashes of Alastor’s face fazed in and out of focus across Vox’s screen, your body flipping over, a mess of tentacles writhing.

Val took off his glasses, “Oh yeah, that’s pretty obviously him.”

“What is?” Vox’s face splintered back to the screen.

“Do you—- do you not know you’ve been like,” Val used his cigarette to gesture at Vox’s face, “just straight up playing his porno?”

Vox’s hands flew to his screen, “No! Fucking shit! What the fuck!!” He picked up a vase and threw it across the room, “Wipe it clean off the server! Delete it! Ban it’s fucking streaming! End of discussion!”

Val shrugged, he owned every bootleg distributor in the pride ring. He’d pull it and up the price threefold for illegal downloads. “Whatever you want, amorcito.”

Alastor was quite happy the video went ‘underground’ of sorts. The first month after you left, he was plagued by the sound of your voice. Everywhere he went it seemed you were screaming his name, every phone and television a conduit for you.

What really bothered him though, was the reaction others had to him. Where once sinners leapt from his path and set theirselves on fire to avoid him, now people winked and waved. It made his skin crawl. When alive, at the peak of his radio show fame, it wasn’t uncommon to have fans approach him in jazz clubs. But the decorum of 1930's jazz fans was a far cry from the brazen displays of desire from the citizens of hell.

“Perhaps I should have thought it through?” He mused.

“Ya think?” Rosie put her tea down, “Was it worth it, at least?”

He mulled the question over. Worth it? Well, he had your soul. Which is grand. But you weren’t even in hell to be called upon. What did he really get from the deal? Alastor brought his palm to his face, already feeling the blush spreading. Rosie's chuckle didn't help. He did get something. You'd been gone a month, and each day he woke up having forgot you existed. And every night he lied down to rest and imagined your eyes staring back at him. Did he want to fight you, or surrender, when he saw that look? When the silk tie had fallen from your face, slipping down your nose to reveal your intense stare...He thought his heart had stopped. For every ounce of resilience in your voice he found a pound of fury in your gaze. What poor luck Valentino had been given to receive you as an offering.

"Too soon to tell." He leaned back, finally dropping his hand.

“Well it seemed you had a good time… not that I could see much through the green glow and all that static noise. Really spoiled the climax with that move, Alastor dear."

Alastor’s eyes were saucers, “Rosie. Are you implying-,”

“What?” She drew out the word, “I thought you weren’t into those things so of course I was curious!”

He sighed, “I’m not.”

Rosie pushed the teaspoon around her cup with one finger, “Sure looked like you were.”

He crossed his arms, indignant, “You don’t have to have an appetite to enjoy a meal.”

“Message received loud and clear dear! I won’t bring up the subject again.” She cackled and changed the topic to the latest gossip around the colony.

Another night staring at the ceiling, mind ghosting over the idea of you. He felt like he his sanity was unraveling Leaving his bed, he stepped barefoot onto the grass of the swampy forest he materialized into his room when he moved in to the hotel.

With an outstretched hand, Alastor felt for your connection. He couldn’t see it, but the weight of the chain connecting your soul to him sunk into his palm. Curious, he wrapped his fingers around the invisible links and pulled.

With a soft green glow, you rose from the grass.

His breath hitched, he hadn’t expected that. “It seems our deal really did stick, didn't it?" walking towards you, Alastor dropped to his knees at your feet. You were on your side, unmoving.

His head cocked to the left, ears turned in. Alastor crawled toward you, rolling you onto your back and opening your legs. He slotted himself there, “Hellooo,” He took your face in his both of his hands, elbows resting beside your ears, “Are you… sleeping, dear?”

This is ridiculous.

Alastor inspected your face; peaceful. It was a new sight for him, he'd really only ever seen you in some kind of rage or lost in pleasure. His hand slid down your body, realizing you were in the robe still. He laughed, but realized it was for no one. "Are you really going to sleep, hmm?" He hooked his hands under your knee and brought it up around his hip.

Nothing.

"I'm starting to get offended, dear." He leaned down and whispered into the crook of your neck. "If you don't wake up-" He slid down, the robe open enough to let his breathe ghost over your stomach. He stopped. He couldn't do anything to you while you slept. It was void of any enjoyment for him. Without your reactions, it was just....pointless. While he did enjoy your performance in the studio, he was taught to show respect for those of fairer means. A sleeping partner fell into that category.

He reached beneath you and straightened your robe that had bunched there under your body. Placing your leg back down by your ankle, he began pulling the collar up and closed it snuggly.

He stood there for a second, looking over you. It worked. You're here again. His mother had taught him that the human soul was most vulnerable at night. When asleep, the soul could wander from the body and travel earth and beyond. She even said people could train themselves, and with practice, remember their journeys even after waking.

Kneeling down, Alastor pushed your hair from your face, "Don't forget. What fun is there in that?" The shadow beneath your body shimmered neon green before you were swallowed by inky darkness and Alastor was once again, alone.

After his mother died, Alastor was often alone. Most of his time, really. Well, there were people always around. But they were staff, or hangers-on, or women looking for a comfortable life. They were dancers and bootleggers and musicians. Which was fine and grand. But, they never saw him. He never let them, they never tried. He was the radio host. The great dancer. The southern gentleman. The killer. The cannibal. The deer in the woods. Not a single person ever looked at him on earth and saw him. Which was precisely what he wanted, and manufactured with his wide smile and good manners.

So when your eyes bore into him from that tacky studio set, and he felt suddenly naked in front of you, he knew you were looking at the him. You saw him.

It was worth it. Alastor was willing to admit that to himself.

Over the next couple days, he would randomly try to pull you to him. Through out the day, in different places, he would summon your soul and wait. Nothing. It confirmed his theory, your soul was only able to leave your living body while you were asleep.

In the privacy of his room, Alastor paced the space between grass and carpet. What was this feeling? Nerves? He hadn't felt nervous since he was a child.

But, what was causing him a pause, was if he summoned you and you didn't appear. Maybe it had been a fluke? Maybe for the 7th time in 3 days he would pull on that connection and be left standing there, alone.

Still.

He ran his hands through his hair, trying to regain composure. Finally, he reached out for your ties to him, and pulled you into hell.

He held his breath, unconsciously.

With a glow, you appeared again before him. He was quick this time to approach you, setting beside you and leaning close to your face. Asleep.

"Is this my foreseeable future?" He asked, "Staring at you while you sleep, my doe."

Suddenly, you opened your eyes and met his. Reaching up, you grabbed him with both hands and pulled his face into yours. Your hands ran through his hair as you took him in a frenzied kiss. Alastor froze for a beat, but when your tongue licked at his bottom lip, he was brought back to the moment. He pushed his tongue into your mouth, rolling over yours and reaching as deep as he could. He felt like he could unhinge his jaw and swallow you whole. He really could, if he wanted to.

Alastor swung his leg over your body and straddled your hips. "Mon cher, you've finally joined me." His chest was rising and falling with excited breath.

"Alastor?" You tried to feel your body, but it was nowhere near you.

"Don't worry your pretty little head. You're still alive and well. I've merely borrowed your soul for the evening." He looked down at you, and finally, for the first time in what felt like months, your eyes fell to his face.

But today, they were soft and out of focus.

"Can you see me, my dear?" He leaned down slightly, trying to read the look on your face.

"Am I dreaming?"

He chuckled, "Perhaps we both are." With an exhale he wondered if he had been holding his breath this entire time. "No, this isn't a dream."

"I don't understand...but--," You lifted your arms towards him, "Should I say thank you? It was fucked, what happened." Your voice was slow, words a little slurred, "But, I'm home safe and sound now. You did what you promised me. I don't know if I'll ever see you again so...should I thank you now?"

Your tongue felt fat in your mouth, heavy and delayed.

Alastor leaned down over you, "You don't have to say anything." He used his knees to open your legs, and settled there. "Unfortunately, you've become a little worm in my mind." His hands slid under the silk robe you hadn't stopped wearing yet, "I'm hoping if I finally have you, I can...whet my appetite, and return to my normal self." He felt along your hips, hands stopping when he realized you were naked under the thin piece of fabric.

"I keep remembering," you covered your eyes with your hands, "that big hand of yours. And I realize, you never touched me past that."

He smiled, genuinely, truly, "Exactly! You understand the problem precisely. Shall we both have our fill and be done with it?"

You moved your hands to touch his ears, waiting for him to disappear at any moment, "Please. I'm so tired of missing someone I don't even know." He removed your hands, and you held them to your chest.

"My thoughts exactly, mon cher." He adjusted his hips, letting his crotch rub against your core. This was the closest he had been to you since you'd met. It was dizzying, and it felt like his skin was vibrating everywhere it met yours.

A soft moan left your throat, causing his cock to twitch in his pants. Yes, it was you. This wasn’t his standard response to such sounds. Alastor sat up, his legs bent and knees at either side of your hips. Taking one of your hands from your chest, he placed a kiss on a digit. Then another. He kissed his way down your arm.

“So gentle. Weird.” You tried to focus on him, but your mind was still cloudy. The sensations were here but also so far away, too far away, in another lifetime all together.

“Was I not gentle before, all things considered?,” he continued his way down your arm.

You let your eyes drift to the sky, stars watching you from above, “More than him.”

His mouth went dry at the mention of Val, "I am many things more than him, darling." As his lips found your neck, he took a deep breath. "I can actually take my time now. No audience." He sucked a bruise, and released you with a pop. He presented two fingers to your lips, and without thinking about it you began to suck them. While you were slipping your tongue over and between his fingers, he moved to continue a trail of kisses and nips down your right arm.

"Get them nice and wet." He watched through half lidded eyes as you licked his long fingers. He knew he needed to remove his hips from yours, but the idea pained him. Finally, he took his fingers from you and swiped them over your entrance. Your chest jumped, so he did it again. He tried to push the fingers into you, but the resistance was more than he expected. You were wet, but tight. He let his middle finger slip inside you. So soft. So warm. His shadow tendrils allowed him some feeling but not this, this was something they kept to themselves.

"When was your last time, mon cher?"

Your mind searched for memories still left behind in your body somewhere, "In hell."

"You're in hell now."

"This doesn't feel like hell." You ground your hips onto his palm, trying to get that single digit slowly moving in you to come deeper, to become more. He replied by pushing in his pointer finger, erection becoming painful already as you let out a little moan. Bending them up, he began to make long thrusts past your g-spot. His mouth long stilled on your arm, staring at your face as you whimpered into the sky.

"Look at me."

Your eyes darted to him, half open and wet. Alastor felt his patience snap. Undoing his belt and zipper, he finally freed his cock. He ran his head between your entrance to your clit , gathering your fluids on him to ease his entry. Taking both of your legs, he held them at the ankles and set them on his left shoulder. With your hips slightly raised, he pressed into you.

With a hiss you dug your fingers into the dirt, body tensing instinctively. One of his arms hugged your legs to his chest, the other was now bruising your hips as he continued to push into you. With just his head in, he began fast and shallow thrusts. Every time making more progress into your warmth. The stretch burned, but the feeling of him forcing space into you for himself just made you wetter.

Finally, he bottomed out. He had no sense to still himself, shallow thrusts gave way to long, deep plunges. Alastor's breathing was filling the space around you, mixing with your own. Leaning back, he looked down at where you two were connected.

He withdrew slowly, nearly entirely, and pushed back in. Again. And again. It was intoxicating, how he felt himself melt into you. He'd had lovers in life, but never had he been with someone without a barrier of some sorts. Be that his well placed smile or latex. He'd never fucked anyone raw before. He almost regretted not trying earlier, as the sensation of your walls and arousal sticking to his cock and thighs was breaking him. Watching himself entirely disappear inside you, he closed his eyes. Everything was so hot, so tight, would he disappear entirely? Would he lost in the pleasure your body was so effortlessly giving? Was he the unlucky one?

Alastor pushed your knees up to your chest, using his body weight to hold them down as his paced picked up. You brought your dirtied nails to your own legs, holding on tightly. Desperately you needed something to tether you to the ground, keep you still against the twitches shaking your stomach and chest. You felt with any jolt to your nerves you'd fall off the world and drift into the night.

He felt the build up, his balls tightening and drawing in, he wanted to slow down-- he wanted to bring you there first but he couldn't stop the rutting of his hips. With a whine, Alastor's forehead came to rest on yours, hips smacking into you with a wet slap. "Look at me," He commanded again, and you obeyed. One of his hands came to your chin to hold your head still, "Don't you dare look away."

Struggling to keep your eyes open, he pushed into you with one final, deep thrust. His hands came down now to the ground around you as he pushed you into the grass. Hips stuttering, cock twitching in you. You'd never let anyone cum inside you before, the sensation of heat quickly filling your cunt made you tighten around him. "Good girl", He purred, jaw tight.

He pulled back slowly before bringing his hips down, sweat sticking to his forehead where it met yours. His pace was quickly becoming brutal, a hand finding its way to that little bud of nerves of yours. With rough pressure and hurried speed his thumb drew out your orgasm. When you came, you gasped out his name, craning your neck up to ghost your lips over his open mouth. As the pleasure surged from your center, you could feel your body again. He tried to keep his eyes on your eyes, but the overstimulation of your cunt trying to wring him dry forced him to shut them.

A light shone through his eyelids, startling them open again.

"Wait-!" He watched you get pulled away from beneath him. Before he could react, Alastor was on all fours in the forest, alone. Eyes wide, he pounded his fist against the grass. He tried to summon you back to him, to drag you to him but nothing happened.

He thought he'd gone crazy. Hands came to his head, smile pained as he tried to process what he was feeling.

No.

Not enough.

Too soon.

A growl ripped through his chest. This hadn't satiated him at all. No, he was worse off now. He was starved, he had nourishment ripped from his mouth and he as angry for it. Angry to hell, to Valentino, to the conditions of owning a living soul.

He did not even attempt to rest that night. Taking his time, he had to find composure again. Alastor managed to pull himself together after several hours of self isolation. After his heart stopped racing, after his hands stopped feeling phantom skin beneath them, he calmed his smile and went about his day.

When night returned, he couldn't help but stare into the forest domain. He wanted so badly to bring you to himself, but that want was terrifying. It was overpowering him, and he couldn't accept that.

Another night left, another day passed. Husk found Alastor's cruelty to be growing, his patience giving out at the smallest perceived slight. Angel stopped engaging entirely. Charlie found herself wanting to approach him, find out why it seemed his hair was always standing on end, his eyes sharp. But, she didn't. She couldn't. Alastor would pass through the halls like a raging specter. He wouldn't slow or acknowledge anyone.

He managed a week. Satisfied with his resolve, he waited for when night fell and he was sure you'd be deep asleep, yanked your soul from your body and into him. He felt rabid, like he his brain was catching fire. Finally when you materialized before him, he grabbed your face with his hand.

"My doe?"

Just like before, you stirred, and your hands immediately went for his hair. He pulled back, "Are you awake?"

"Am I dreaming? Alastor?" You looked drunk, mind struggling to process the change in scenery. Your arms wrapped around his neck as he hovered above you, and you pulled him into a kiss. He happily returned it, hands quick to untie the robe you had taken as your own. He wasted now time in getting himself unsheathed and lined up with you, before he could enter you reached out to him, "I wanted to say--- thank you. I don't know if I'll ever really see you again."

The realization made his blood run cold. His mother's stories flooded back to him. It takes training, and time, to remember the travels of the wandering soul.

"You don't have to say anything." Alastor thrust into you, your body tense but not as resistant as before. When he was finally enveloped in you, he could feel himself calm. He didn't feel any need to be gentle this time around. He immediately set a bruising pace, digging his nails into the soft flesh of your ass as he forced your hips to meet his with every thrust. You gasped beneath him, eyes wandering up to the sky just past his head. He'd bring you to climax, wanting to drink in your expression, and to his horror as you choked out his name you were spirited away from him again.

Everyone on the floor heard Alastor's rampage. When Angel ran to get Charlie and Vaggie, they were scared to knock. With a steadying breath Charlie rapped the door, "Al? You okay in there?"

Suddenly, silence.

The door whipped open, Alastor smiling with half lidded eyes, "Why of course. What ever made you think otherwise?"

"The fuckin' sounds of carnage, maybe?" Angel looked past Alastor. The sofa shredded, coffee table in pieces. The wallpaper had been ripped down and torn to shreds. Charlie noticed the dirt under his nails, but Alastor coolly pulled his hands behind his back.

"Can I do something for you?" His tone was cold.

"I guess not, Al...," Charlie took in the damage, "Did something happen?"

Alastor smiled wider, "No," and closed the door. No one saw him the following day, which wasn't entirely unusual but it was weighing on Charlie. When Alastor finally appeared and announced he was going to Cannibal Town, she was elated. A chat with Rosie would surely bring him back to himself.

"I don't see the problem. You've got her soul, you can summon her to you, and you get a little," She searched for the word, "relief. Why do you look so pained, old friend?"

"You know better than most I have no interest in chasing women, Rosie."

"Yet..." She cocked her brow.

"It isn't about the release. I don't particularly need that. I never have." He huffed, the conversation already exhausting him, "When I would kill someone, I was God. Their life was in my hands. I took that power from them."

Rosie clicked her tongue, "And when she's in your hands?" Alastor hunched over his black coffee before remembering himself and straightening his back. "I've never seen you like this before, hun. You've got it bad, huh?"

"Personal connections like this, Rosie, are dangerous. I lost my self restraint entirely. It's a weakness." He fought to regain his smile, never knowing who could be passing by.

She tutted him, "Oh no, that's where you're wrong. The difference between a strong man and an unstoppable man is having something to care about." Rosie leaned over and set her hand on top of his, "Imagine you walked into Val's studio right now and found her like you did a couple months ago. How would you react?"

His stomach wretched forward, if he saw you today, hanging from the ceiling? The stench of Valentino's cigarette smoke clinging to your hair, the marks where his hands had made contact with you? His hand under her's tightened, claws leaving marks into the wooden tabletop. "Do you feel weak right now, Alastor?" The hair on his ears was standing straight up, his now black eyes met hers, "You sure don't look it."

He’d remembered hearing something similar before from Vaggie. Could it be true? It was a precarious ladder. If he let himself be close to someone, then the person is in turn close to him, then that person knows him intimately, and then— they are a walking soft spot. Someone could take them and torture them for information. Or, hurt them to hurt him.

But, who would dare? A fire rose in chest at the thought. What was the point of power if he couldn’t have what he wanted? If he had to answer to others about his desires? To pursue strength and status was what he wanted but if that strength didn’t afford him freedom than what good was it, really?

"I say, not that you asked," Rosie smiled and withdrew her hand, "Could be nice to have a little company now and then. Plus, better than waiting 60 years or something for her to just die." She shrugged, "Now, eat. You look like a shit."

Rosie had a point, while your existence was fragile, it was still available to him.

For awhile, he would call you nightly. Alastor would fuck you into the grass, beneath the trees, under the stars. He learned your orgasm would wake you, and he would draw it out as long as he could. He'd edge you for hours, watching you sob for your release. Slowly, your consciousness became more and more solid during your meetings.

To his relief, his hunger for your presence calmed over time. He could handle a week or even two without sharing your company, and he noticed each time you seemed to recognize him more. You'd participate more, moan louder, scream his name and squirm from the pleasure. He relished trapping you underneath his wide shoulders, pulling you onto his lap as he fucked up into you.

He wasn't fond of the few times he summoned you and you were already wet, or smelling of cologne. He'd tease, "Lonely?" and when he'd fuck his back cum into you before helping you chase your own orgasm, he'd remind you, "You're mine, little doe. No one can replace me." And he'd feel his chest swell. Others had your body for the night, but your soul was his forever. With every meeting, he felt more like himself. And the nights you were screaming his name in the forest, and his horns were looming over you as he marked you over and over as his, he felt powerful.

Some nights, he'd call you to him to just let you rest. He'd enjoy a book, or some jazz over a meal, while you lied quietly in his bed.

The days he pulled you into hell and your hair smelled of the trees, of sweat and dirt, he would be gentler. He could feel the ache in your muscles, the tan on your cheeks, and sent you back.

One such night came, where he of course took your chains in his hand and tugged. But this time, when you arrived, your face was painted with anger. You were asleep still, and even when he whispered to you, you didn't wake. You were having a nightmare, from what he could tell. He took you to his bed, and let you settle.

You stayed there until waking up again in your bed.

And every night that week, he'd bring you to his bed and go about his tasks while you fought some demons in your head. He'd never seen you have a nightmare, and began to wonder if something was happening in the overworld.

Alastor was enjoying a deer carcass in his room, humming softly to himself, when a green light erupted on the floor.

He was well aware it wasn't night anymore, and that he hadn't brought you here. With a soft smile, he left his meal and approached the light. Slowly, your body rose from the darkness there. Not just your soul.

When you looked up at him, a smile on your lips and two small doe ears on your head, he grinned, "Did you miss me terribly, my little doe?" He offered you a hand up, "Welcome home.”

༻Masterlist༺

[keithkog]

Has the media ever given you much flak, for being half-Galra? If so, approximately how many media orgs mysteriously had their sites DDoS'd by a hacker who totally, definitely doesn't resemble a certain short and intelligent Paladin? Or was there a kinder, gentler route to tell people to be nice?

Yes, I have gotten flak for being half-galra. So when it comes to the media, a lot can be positive. However most of what I saw was debate on if I was safe to be around humans, like I wasn’t one of them. They used me as a talking point, my past actions and behaviors, to say that the galra species is inherently violent.

On the even harsher side, I’ve seen a lot of protest to me being able to interact with anyone. I have been painted as a threat to public safety. Due to this I usually wear hoodies or change up my hair a little when I go out. My skin isn’t purple, my eyes aren’t yellow unless I’m in extreme emotional distress, so people don’t even take notice of me sometimes.

Due to a certain policy I’m actually on the no fly list for commercial aircrafts, as people other than humans are prohibited from using them. It raises the question of why when, before everything, no one knew and I never caused problems on planes. Well, now we just use garrison vehicles to get through large distances.

That was a bit of a ramble there sorry, so how to get people to be nice? Well, I’ve done a few interviews that seemed to give people a better or more sympathetic impression of me. Some people are super harsh on me though, to the point of falsifying narratives. Some websites have been taken down or hijacked, to the point of a few businesses shutting down or them ceasing talk of us ex-paladins, changing the subjects of their articles and stories.

I have no say in who are responsible for hackings such as those, you are free to speculate.

-Keith

[findingjoynweirdstuff]

Dream SMP Recap (June 21/2021) - Prison Podcast: Ep. 1

Techno and Dream start a podcast together. Divine intervention occurs.

---

VOD LINKS:

Ponk

Foolish

Technoblade

---

- Ponk commits arson

- Foolish works on Las Nevadas in a Batman skin and gets Slime a slime

- Techno and Dream are together in prison. Techno asks if they ever get fed and Dream tosses him some potatoes that he’s been saving. Sam hasn’t been there in two weeks

- Dream tells Techno they torture him

Techno: “You’re getting tortured?”

Dream: “Yes!”

Techno: “Bro I cannot relate at all. That is a you problem. Maybe I’m just like their favorite prisoner so they don’t do that.”

Dream: “They haven’t even been here since you got in here!”

Techno: “That --that could -- also po-- maybe it’s ‘cause they just know that I’m their favorite prisoner. They don’t even have to check up on me ‘cause I’m just so obedient.”

- Dream walks over to the lava

Dream: “I have been in here! For months!”

Techno: “Oh yeah!”

- Dream tosses a potato in the lava

Dream: “Does this hurt you?”

Techno: “...I mean a little.”

- Dream throws another

Techno: “How many of those do you have to be throwin’ them away, man?”

Dream: (mumbling as he walks back) “O-okay well I don’t have that much [unintelligible].”

- Techno comments on how wasteful the Netherite block floor is. He wonders how long it takes to punch through it

- He asks what Dream does for fun. Dream says nothing now. He tells Techno about how he used to have a clock that he’d throw in the lava to get Sam to visit. Techno thinks it sounds like Dream was vandalizing his own property

Dream: “It was something to do, but now there’s nothing.”

Techno: “Well, at least we can hang out and be friends.”

- He starts going up to Dream and bumping them

Techno: “Friendsss.”

Dream: (walking away) “Personal space!”

Techno: “Frie -- bro what personal space! We’re locked in this tiny room!”

- Techno goes over to the lava wall instead

- Dream spends most of his free time writing his diary. Techno asks if he’s published anything to Wattpad

Dream: “...No...”

Techno: “You hesitated.”

- Techno asks for Dream’s pen name. Dream insists he’s never written on Wattpad

Techno: “So it’s a different website, is what you’re saying.”

- Dream instead wants to focus on getting out of prison. Techno asks for his ideas, but Dream says it should be Techno with the ideas

Techno: “Eh, yeah, I’ll get to it later man.”

- Techno encourages Dream to have a more optimistic outlook. Dream says that at least he’s not been tortured since Techno’s been here

Techno: “You gotta go with the flow!”

- Dream walks over to the lava

Techno: “Not that flow -- not -- not that flow. No -- no, don’t go -- don’t go into that flow!”

- Dream steps into the lava and sets himself on fire, then goes over to the water to extinguish it

Techno: “That’s the better flow right there.”

Dream: “See? It’s -- it’s exhilarating.”

Techno: “That’s just -- I would not recommend that. That is not healthy behavior, alright. I think you should see a psychologist.”

Dream: “WHERE?!”

Techno: “I dunno, what kinda prison is this? They don’t have psychologists?”

Dream: “They don’t have anything! They have torture --”

Techno: “I’m startin’ to think they don’t care about our human rights all that much. You were sayin’ you were getting tortured? Who’s been torturing you?”

Dream: “Quackity!”

Techno: “Yeah, that adds up.”

Dream: “Every day!”

- Dream says that Quackity’s torturing him for the revive book, and Techno asks more about how the revival process works. Dream explains that to revive people, he gets a book and then burns it

- Techno asks if it’s an incantation. After learning what ‘incantation’ means, Dream says it’s something like that. He isn’t sure how Schlatt got it in the first place, but he memorized the book and can recreate it

- Techno suggests Dream give the knowledge to him as insurance, but Dream refuses, as they might go after Techno. Techno asks to see the book, but Dream still doesn’t

Dream: “This is like the house situation all over again.”

Techno: “Oh yeah...well on the bright side, you’re not homeless anymore!”

Dream: “True...this is -- to be fair, I did say I had a giant house. This is pretty giant.”

Techno: “It is filled with redstone! I didn’t think you were telling the truth, but here you are. Here you are...how much is rent to live in this boiling cell every day?”

Dream: “It’s...free.”

Techno: “God, that’s incredible.”

Dream: “Except for I get tortured every day!”

Techno: “Well I mean, California rent prices are basically torture so, you know, you take what you can get man, come on.”

- The subject returns to how they haven’t been visited in two weeks. Dream asks what they’re going to do when they get out, but Techno hasn’t thought that far ahead

- Dream writes in his diary that Techno admitted he has a house

- Dream asks Techno about life. When Techno isn’t in a cell, he usually trains to find new forms of combat to get ahead in the arms race for the fight against government

- He also plays golf

- Techno hasn’t spoken to Tommy, hasn’t seen him. He thinks Tommy stole some things from his house a while ago

- Dream then asks how his horse is doing. Techno tells him about his pet foxes and Steve (who is going to break him out of there any second)

- Dream writes these down in his book because it’s hard for him to remember things

- Dream asks who’s feeding his pets. Techno says that Steve can feed himself and it’ll probably be fine for Carl to find grass

- Techno pronounces it as “gif”

- He asks if Dream would like to start a podcast. The Prison Podcast

- Dream wonders what would happen if he tried to revive someone who wasn’t dead

Dream: “What if I try and revive you? What if it goes wrong?”

Techno: “Maybe there’ll be two of me. And then we can be double friends. Wouldn’t that be nice? Two Technoblades?”

Dream: “Well, doubles the likelihood of me getting out of here, but...”

Techno: “Exactly, exactly. The next time they come to visit us in prison, there’s just gonna like be thirty-five Technoblades. And when they try to torture you, I can be like a human meat shield and just wave after wave of Technoblades swarms them and just beats them up.”

- Techno’s okay with trying it, so Dream writes a book and burns it. When they turn around, though, it’s DreamXD who appears

- Techno remembers XD as the person who broke his table, some sort of god

Techno: “You cloned the wrong person! Dream, you fool! Look at him! ...You know that’s actually something I’ve been meaning to ask you -- how come God looks exactly like you? That feels like a question that should’ve occurred to me earlier.”

- Dream doesn’t answer, confused, but asks what they should do. Techno tries talking to him

DreamXD: what are you doing

Techno: chilling

DreamXD: what do you want summoning me

Techno: yo can you grant a wish

DreamXD: one

Techno: i want a bell

- DreamXD gives them a bell and leaves just in time for the sellout timer to go off. Dream is outraged that Techno would spend their wish on a bell and goes over to stare into the lava while Techno enthusiastically rings it

- Dream wonders what Sam and Quackity will say when they see the bell. They try standing next to each other in front of the bell to block the view

- They can’t summon DreamXD a second time

- They talk a bit more about the books. Dream gives Techno some potatoes (in Techno’s inventory he also has four books by Dream, one of which is titled “information”)

- Dream asks about why Techno rings the bell. Techno says it’s about the rituals, and Dream comments that he put a bell in Church Prime (“which is not to be spoken of here”)

- Techno asks if Dream can even get Twitch Primes and claims that Dream is a heretic due to not being under contract. Dream isn’t profiting off of anyone

- Dream has 51 potatoes remaining

Techno: “So uh...got any friends? Hang out with anybody? You know, before the whole thrown in prison thing?”

Dream: “Not really...I did, and then they...turned against me.”

Techno: “Ah. I know that feeling man, I know that feeling.”

Dream: “Just being betrayed by your closest friends...”

Techno: “Ah yeah, happens all the time. Every Tuesday, really.”

Dream: “I’ve been visited by a few people.”

Techno: “Pog, pog. Did any of them like, not try to torture or kill you?”

Dream: “...Yeah?”

Techno: “He hesitated.”

Dream: “Well...Sapnap didn’t torture and kill me, but then he said if I get out of here, he would.”

Techno: “You GOTTA raise your standards, man. You gotta raise your stand-- you’re just getting treated like dirt out here, man. That is just sad. That is just sad! You gotta meet some new people, man.”

Dream: “I think BadBoyHalo treated me the best, probably.”

Techno: “BadBoyHalo, you say?”

Dream: “He treated me the best, probably, when he visited me before.”

Techno: “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s like a cult leader or something, actually, I hate to break it to you.”

Dream: “Wait, what?!”

Techno: “Yeah, there was like this Egg thing...I wasn’t quite clear on what was going on.”

Dream: “That was months ago! He visited me like four months ago, five months ago.”

- Techno talks a bit about how he attacked the Egg cult, “big crossover episode.” Dream asks when was the last time the two of them -- Dream and Techno -- spoke. It was Doomsday, a while ago

- Dream asks about current events, but Techno isn’t the best person to ask about that. Tubbo has a new commune called Snowchester that Techno’s still a bit suspicious of

- Dream asks how Ranboo is. Techno offhandedly mentions that Tubbo might have nukes, maybe as a hobby. Maybe the crater was just Tubbo trying to scare him

- Dream doesn’t know a lot about the outside world. Ranboo used to visit a lot -- the most of everyone until Quackity -- a while ago, but then he stopped. Sapnap, Ranboo, Tommy, Bad and Quackity all visited 

- He then comments that Techno seems to like potatoes. Techno asks how Dream knows Ranboo, which Dream says is “a long story.” Then Dream says he doesn’t know Ranboo that well, he just visited a couple times

- Dream asks about the plan to get out again. Techno says that even with the mining fatigue, they can still break blocks. But most of the blocks would set off the alarms, so he suggests the block beneath the toilet

- Even if they break the blocks, there’s an Elder Guardian beneath the cell

Techno: “I can take him...hey, how ‘bout I jump in there, I start beatin’ it up, and if I somehow die despite my elite martial arts prowess, you can just bring me back and I can jump in again and keep beatin’ it up, and then if I die you can just bring me back and I’ll jump in and I’ll keep beatin’ it up.”

- If people come to check on them, one of them can be the lookout

- Techno directs Dream to start punching the block for 24 hours, promising to feed potatoes to him while he punches if he gets hungry

- Dream starts punching

Techno: “What are they gonna do if they catch us, put us in double jail, man?”

- They continue chatting as Dream punches, wondering why the icon for the mining fatigue effect is a spoon. Dream talks about the cat they used to have in there. Eventually the sellout timer goes off again.

Techno starts ringing.

---

Upcoming events remain the same.

[drabsyo]

Drabs, I know that you usually draw Fleur with slightly darker blonde hair than Narcissa. Was it a choice so that it’s easier to distinguish them from each other or was your Fleur maybe slightly influenced by the actress from the movie who had darker hair?

In the books Fleur didn’t seem to have much description other than having long silvery hair (waist length?) and having this glow around her. So like with Narcissa, what works have influenced your design of Fleur?

It’s fascinating sometimes to read the artist’s perspective and your previous reply to the anon about Narcissa has been very interesting.

Thank you!!! 🥺

I was actually pretty embarrassed over how enthusiastic I got over the whole hair thing, but I'm glad it made some sense at least 😂 And now that I've been given even more reason to talk about it... (Let's face it, I shouldn't even be allowed on this website to begin with, ya'll have been way too nice to me.)

Only click on keep reading if you want to read Some Nonsense.

I did consider Fleur's actress when I thought about her hair color. Though I pictured it to be something of a mix between movie Fleur and Elsa’s (from Frozen) hair. But the way I drew Fleur's hair, the way it falls across her shoulders, that was more of... well, I imagined Fleur to have effortlessly perfect hair, like she doesn't seem to need to style it so much because it's already whimsical as it is, what with her being part-Veela. There were a lot of fanfictions that helped me to sort of see a better image of Fleur in my head so really, I owe it to all the talented writers out there!

It's also the same with Narcissa's case. Though I decided to give her paler hair, compared to Fleur's, because I wanted to emphasize that air of vulnerability Narcissa has—this image she conjures, like she's this fragile thing made of glass, which typically in fanfiction is what Narcissa uses so that Voldemort would overlook her a lot, hence why she wasn't given any "missions" or "tasks" while Voldemort was in Malfoy Manor. Slytherin preservation. This "fragile" image was something Narcissa capitalized on and maintained perfectly, but in post-war Cissamione fanfictions, she no longer has to put on that façade—she starts living for herself, but the quiet sadness about her never really goes away.

I really did struggle at first, I had to find a way where I could draw them without confusing people and myself.

So, again, I sifted through a lot of canon and non canon material about these two characters which funnily enough made me see some kind of parallel going on between them. I know. Fleur Delacour and Narcissa Black. Parallels?! It's nuts. But again, this is only within Fleurmione and Cissamione fanfiction, and it really helped me to draw them better. (At least in a way that made them distinguishable from one other at first glance, I’d like to think.)

These 'hair scenes' are mostly the bits where Hermione "first" sees Fleur. Hermione is entranced, a little curious, sometimes she feels indifferent, but the general theme is Hermione immediately finds Fleur beautiful—which probably explains why Hermione in fanfiction sometimes thinks Narcissa could be part-Veela like Fleur. And as you can imagine, that's where my struggle began.

You'll see what I mean in a minute. And just like last time, remember that this part comes with spoilers.

🔹 In Fighting is our form of Flirting by InsomniacAndBi in Chapter 2 Hermione sees Fleur for the first time. This is the first Fleurmione fanfiction I've ever read, and also the first time I've encountered Fleur's character. Tall, bright blonde hair, won the genetic lottery, aristocratic features, face held in a scowl, floats into the room with effortless poise, immediately starts demanding things out of people... Sounds vaguely familiar, doesn't it. Like some other blonde we know.

"Non!" A voice from the doorway said. "This is not what was agreed."

For a moment, Hermione thought about ignoring it but turned to glance over there if only to quell her curiosity. A girl stepped into the room and Hermione's phone call was forgotten in a moment. She knew that it wasn't nice to stare but Hermione couldn't help but do it because, in all honesty, this was the prettiest girl she had ever seen. She was definitely taller than Hermione was, with bright blonde hair and...clearly she had won the genetic lottery.

Her skin practically glowed and it looked so smooth and soft. It made Hermione wonder if she used those fancy beautification charms or had a very lengthy skincare routine. Or maybe, just maybe, this is what being rich did to people's faces. There was no doubt in Hermione's mind that this girl was rich - like extremely rich, like even rich people thought she was rich. That kind of rich. That was the type of rich that this girl was.

Also, only super rich people curled up their lip like this girl was doing.

She breezed into the room like she was floating and Hermione hastily ended her phone call and promised to call back later.

"This is not what was agreed," The girl said again and Hermione felt incredibly small sitting in front of her. Not to mention, the girl's clothes screamed 'I'm rich and I know it' and Hermione's screamed 'I'm so out of place that I might as well be a bull in a China shop'.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Hermione managed to get out when it became apparent that the girl was waiting for her response.

"You are English." The girl looked shock for a moment at Hermione's accent before shaking her head angrily. "This is not what was agreed."

🔹 In Oath of Silver by i_shall_wear_midnight immediately in the first chapter, when Witcher Hermione first meets Fleur, it's something Hermione quickly notices. Vivid sapphire eyes. Silvery blonde hair that shimmered in the torchlight. And once again, right off the bat, Fleur is pushy. She wants things done her way. It’s just so cute how she doesn’t even let the fact that Hermione is a Witcher, an extremely dangerous outcast in society, get in the way of that.

(I'm sorry for this but I just have to gush about Oath of Silver. Hermione as a witcher is just so fitting for her character; she possesses that natural eye for detail that remarkable witchers have, witchers like Geralt and Vesimir (a skill that gets even more honed through the Witcher Trials). Hermione even has Geralt's dry sense of humor, a bit rough around the edges, brilliant, snippy without really meaning to (because she asks a lot of questions and would rather get to the point), but has a good heart.)

The witcher figured that would be the end of her human interactions for the evening, but only a few minutes later, the stunning newcomer from before appeared before her. Upon closer inspection, Hermione couldn’t imagine she wouldn’t be conspicuous in any group of people she happened to find herself immersed in. The woman was looking back at her with vivid sapphire eyes, and silvery blonde hair that shimmered even in torchlight. Her attire was travel-ready, but elegant.

“Bonsoir. You are a witcher, oui? Or perhaps a ‘witcheress’ is more accurate? I am not familiar with all the terms…” She watched the beautiful stranger patiently while she fumbled through Hermione���s professional title. As if the distinctive, amber colored cat-eyes hadn’t given her away, the brunette mused wryly. Eventually, the blonde gave up and sat herself down at Hermione’s table, her medallion twitching faintly as the stranger got settled. Hermione filed that away for later. Her new dinner buddy seemed to be oblivious to the curious and concerned looks now being thrown her way at boldly taking a seat at a mutant’s table.

“I came from Ellander,” she began in a non sequitur. “The temple, and spoke to the priestess Nenneke, who told me about you.” Hermione continued eating her second serving of stew and waited for her to get to the point. “I would like to hire you as an escort as I travel back to Toussaint.” The witcher finally put her spoon down.

“Sounds like you ought to be asking some mercenaries to be your bodyguards,” she responded, eyeing the bow the woman was carrying on her pack meaningfully.

“A pair seems doable, and I’d prefer you.”

“I’m not a bodyguard.”

“Yes, technically, I am aware,” she replied, beginning to show signs of impatience.

“Then why are you soliciting a monster-slayer?”

🔹 Witnessed here in Time and Blood by whistle.the.silver is probably the most interesting one because it uses the concept of Veela hair as a wand core brilliantly. Again, this comes with huge 🛑spoilers🛑. Read the italicized words at your own risk. I can't add the entire clip here, as the topic of Fleur's hair is littered throughout several other chapters. But this story shows us a Fleur who is willing to do anything in order to protect Hermione during the course of the war.

My memory is a bit foggy, I haven't read this story in months, but here's what I remember:

This takes place during the time of Shell Cottage, where Fleur is married to Bill and takes care of Hermione. Fleur didn't expect to fall in love with the young brunette and, as the Golden Trio's time in Shell Cottage comes to an end, she worries over Hermione's safety. Fleur, using magic only known to the Veela tribes, does her best to offer Hermione protection in any way that she can--even going as far as to study what Lily Potter did so Harry could live. At one point, Fleur cuts her own hair with a length now roughly above her shoulders to give Hermione a new wand. But this isn't the only bridge Fleur is willing to cross to make sure Hermione survives the incoming battle. Fleur's grandmother, Ron, and even Bill himself, is a little sceptic over the propriety of Fleur's actions, but Fleur is determined to do whatever it takes to make sure Hermione makes it out of the war safe and alive.

So that was a lot to wade through, I know.

But if you've skipped all those parts for the sake of missing spoilers then let me go ahead and explain why the parallel between Fleur and Narcissa are there. Sure, it's plain to see that they have similar physical characteristics, but they're also similar in other ways.

In Witnessed here in Time and Blood, Fleur is willing to do whatever it takes to protect Hermione during the war: sacrifice the secrets of the Veela, make Hermione a wand, make her marriage and friendship with Bill suffer, be scrutinized by her Veela tribe, etc. And didn't Narcissa do the exact same thing during the war to make sure Draco made it out alive? They both chose to 'betray' everyone else for the sake of this one person. Not to mention, in Extinction by rubikanon Narcissa even makes Hermione a wand. (I’m telling you, there are so many parallels between these two ships and I can probably list more but I'd rather not make this post longer.)

Here, I’m just going to go ahead and say it—it’s almost like Fleur and Narcissa in fanfiction have the same love language.

A glaringly obvious difference between them is their upbringing, and we could argue that this why Fleur tends to be more open with her emotions while Narcissa tends to be more carefully guarded with hers. And I don't know if writers realize these parallels but as someone who's a huge fan of both characters and as someone who makes the occasional fanart of them, it's a pretty difficult detail to ignore. This crazy conspiracy all started because I had to find a way to make both characters look distinct from one another... It's just so interesting that writers from two different ships unknowingly make these parallels with two completely separate characters who are often at the opposite ends of the seesaw.

But again, let's take a look at Extinction by rubikanon. (I know. Extinction?! AGAIN?! Always.)

Spoiler warning!

🔹 Extinction by rubikanon has a marvelous take on this, as it turns out Fleur and Narcissa are actually good friends, and if I remember correctly, occasionally exchange letters (I’m unsure about this bit, I might have read it in a different story). They just get along remarkably well; I imagine they both share a kind of mutual respect for each other, a quiet understanding for the way the other woman carries herself: poised, meticulous, they pride themselves in their work, they both know how to handle an Ocean Of Secrets™, they're both accustomed to being under the spotlight of the public eye, and they’re both dedicated to their loved ones. Needless to say, Fleur and Narcissa are both giddy over the prospect of being with someone they love and adore, and end up meticulously planning numerous (I think it was hinted) double dates (Fleur with Bill, and Narcissa with Hermione) with the same kind of endearing enthusiasm that leave Hermione and Bill with no choice but to agree to the whims of their respective lovers.

(Scene seen in Chapter 23: Build Up Your Defense 2 of 2)

Narcissa and (Hermione) I were sitting together on one of the couches when Bill and Fleur arrived later. They showered Teddy with kisses on his little cheeks. He'd gotten past his clingy phase and adored us all, struggling to walk around the room by bracing himself on everyone's knees.

Suddenly Narcissa reached up and grabbed onto someone's wrist behind her head. "Don't even think about it," she said.

"That's just scary. How did you know I was there?" George stood up from behind the couch, a toy spider dangling from his hand. Teddy shrieked with laughter.

"She has eyes in the back of her head," Draco said.

"Mothers," George grumbled, sitting down close to Angelina. "Dump her, Hermione. I need you to date someone more prankable."

Fleur looked in surprise at the two of us on the couch. "Oh, la vache! How did I not know zees? You are lovers?"

"We're dating," I said mildly, though we really were lovers. In every sense. I glanced at Narcissa and bit my lip as heat spread through me. My imagination started planning a middle-of-the-night rendezvous.

"No wonder she (Narcissa) was so adamant about healing that curse," Bill said thoughtfully.

"Adorable! Simply adorable!" Fleur exclaimed, sitting down on Narcissa's other side. "We must go out for a double date next week, all four of us. We'll dine at L'Escargot!"

Narcissa's eyes lit up.

"Oh, no," I said.

"You won't have to eat snails," Narcissa said. "Please, mon amour?"

"French doesn't work on me."

"Please?" She kissed my cheek again and again. "Please? Please?"

Laughing now, I pulled her in for a kiss on the lips and said, "Yes, alright. But only because I have fond memories of trying new foods with you."

"As do I," she agreed.

Then we realized everyone was staring. Narcissa cleared her throat and straightened up, blushing. Draco made a face. Ginny looked a little more favorable. Harry held in laughter, and Andromeda hid her camera.

"Adorable!" Fleur declared again.

🔹 Also, I just have to add Sugar and Spice by waltzlikeits1698 because Chapter 4: Happy Birthday, Harry is absolutely hysterical. During Harry's birthday party, Hermione sulks in a corner because Fleur has apparently been avoiding her. Ginny decides to do something barking mad, something Hermione typically falls for.

“Ooh, someone’s grouchy,” Ginny teased, retracting her arm and facing Hermione fully. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Hermione insisted, although even she could hear the pout in her voice.

“Sure seems like it,” she snarked, summoning two shots and offering one to Hermione with a waggle of her eyebrows. Hermione pulled a face and Ginny shrugged before downing both, one after the other. (...) “You know, I spotted a tall, blonde drink of water hanging around the stairs.”

“What!?” Hermione exclaimed, whirling around and leaning out of the room to look at the staircase. Sure enough, standing at the bottom and resting a slender hand on the bannister was a tall, blonde witch who made Hermione’s heart stop with her mere presence. She had started forward before she knew it, her heart taking up an even quicker beat as she crossed the few steps and reached out a hand to clasp her elbow. The woman turned, that beautiful blonde hair catching the candlelight as it moved in one long sheet.

Hermione retracted her hand in horror, her eyes widening. “Mrs Malfoy!?”

Narcissa Malfoy raised an eyebrow at the witch who had practically accosted her. “Miss Granger. Can I help?”

What was she even doing here?

“Uh,” Hermione said dumbly, “sorry, I just… need the loo. Can I-?”

She gestured lamely to the staircase. Both women stared at the perfectly reasonable gap that Hermione could easily pass through. The moment stretched on.

Slowly, Narcissa returned her inscrutable gaze to Hermione, who squirmed uncomfortably in response. She then took a small step to the side and gestured for Hermione to pass. She did so and, as she turned the corner of the staircase, sent a deadly glare at Ginny, who was practically pissing herself with laughter.

(...)

Fleur had arrived. Hermione couldn’t explain exactly how she could tell, considering she had been in the duplicated bathroom for the last ten minutes after humiliating herself in front of Narcissa, but she knew it like she knew that it was levi-O-sa.

(...) (Hermione) She tried to avoid eye contact with Narcissa on the way back down and was thoroughly unsuccessful: the witch had physically reached out and laid her own hand over Hermione’s on the bannister, forcing her to stop and look up. Then, with an intention behind her eyes that Hermione had neither the brain capacity nor the energy to delve into, she said “It’s Ms Black now.”

Then she had released Hermione’s hand and turned back to her conversation with Andromeda and two wizards Hermione didn’t recognise.

Come to think of it, there were a lot of people Hermione didn’t recognise.

Anyway, long story short, this is the result of reading both Fleurmione and Cissamione—

But RIGHT. At the end of the day, again, these are just some crazy little things I picked up on and I may or may not be right, no one has to agree with me, everyone can disagree with me. Actually, yes feel free to disagree with me. I need to get out of this damn site and you know, touch grass.

Okay. Well. I'm gonna stop here now. So. Bye. But thank you anon for this lovely ask!! I’m really touched that you wanted to know what inspired the way I drew Fleur 🥺💕💖 But still. So sorry for this massive word vomit!! 😂

[freckledoriya]

“no flash photography” (midoriya x reader)

WARNINGS: none, just fluff!

WORD COUNT: 1.7k

SUMMARY: You’re a pro-hero photojournalist assigned to capture the number one hero, Deku. But what happens when you start catching feelings through your camera lens?

LINKS: ao3 | masterlist | requests are OPEN!

TAGLIST: at the end of the post, message me to be added/removed!

AUTHOR’S NOTE: this my fourth fic for @bnhabookclub‘s bingo event (see my bingo masterlist here). and a big thanks to @sunflower-kami-boi and @gallickingun​ for beta reading and supporting me!! 

You love Izuku Midoriya: the way his freckles speckle his cheekbones, his ability to smile even through his toughest battles, the mess of green curls that are just begging to have your hands run through them. And then there are his hands: soft, yet calloused from fighting. When you interlock your hands with his, you swear you can feel electricity from his quirk pass from him to you. At least, that’s what you imagine holding hands with him would be like. 

No, you don’t love Izuku Midoriya. You love taking pictures of Izuku Midoriya. 

That’s the correction that you keep telling yourself. Your job as a hero photojournalist has been a journey, one that started out as a fangirl’s hobby and morphed into a profession as a photographer for the magazine Hero Weekly. More specifically, a photographer who was recently assigned to capture exclusively the world’s number one hero, Deku. 

The day that Midoriya was given the title of number one was the day that everything changed for you. You went from a respected photographer to what often felt like part of the paparazzi, following Izuku around the city as he fought villains, but also secretly taking pictures as he went out to dinner with his fellow heroes. That part of your job kept you up at night. You knew it was an invasion of his privacy, but you needed the approval from your boss. The guilt and fear crawled all over your skin, amplified only when you started catching feelings for the hero. But your dream of becoming a renowned hero photographer depended on it. So you pushed aside all the anxiety and did exactly what your manager asked of you: 

“I want to know who he’s dating, what he likes, dislikes, details of his quirk, extra bonus if you happen to get shot of him shirtless” your boss rattled off. 

Ever since All Might’s retirement, the magazine had been hurting for another star to focus on. It resulted in budget cuts and threatened lay-offs, leaving everyone, including you, on thin ice. And after years of waiting, young upstart Midoriya fit that bill perfectly. His curls seemed to frame his round yet somehow chiseled face. And those freckles. If his beautifully sculpted body wasn’t enough to get the fangirls on board, the freckles always got them. After all, he didn’t become number one solely from his nearly flawless track record with villains; it definitely didn’t hurt that he had a shy and modest smile that any woman would be enchanted by. 

You sure were.

But being assigned to Deku was an exhausting task. Following him around from battle to battle was hard enough, and you soon found yourself in a battle of your own-- one with your deep admiration towards the green-haired hero. You began to feel linked somehow with Izuku through your photos. It was as one-sided as you could get, with Midoriya never knowing your existence (a fact that caused an unbelievable amount of pain). Despite this, you felt like you knew Izuku personally, as if he goes on dinner dates with you at his favorite restaurant on the corner. Or that it’s he, not the press, that reveals his ticks and habits. You would sit a considerable distance away, watching through a cafe window, imagining yourself on the other side of the table from him. You’d laugh at his jokes, flirt and cause him to get all adorably flustered, and gaze longingly into his emerald eyes. You hope and wish that one day it won’t just be through a camera lens. 

You couldn’t help but feel some kind of intimate connection with the hero. After all, you experienced just about everything he did. His fights, his wins, his loses… every scar, every bruise, you were there for it all. So how could you not feel this way? 

It was all inevitable, and you gave right into it: reading everything you could find on him, even going to his regularly visited coffee shop on your day off of work. You knew the chances of running into him were slim, and yet you did it anyway. You were desperately chasing a feeling of closeness with him, and somehow sitting in a place that he visited gave you a piece of what you craved. 

You ponder this as you sit in the aforementioned cafe, sipping your coffee and going through the photos on your camera, jotting down notes. It’s crowded, the morning rush, so you pay no mind to the “ding” of the door opening and the tall hero walking in. It’s his voice when he orders that catches your attention, a voice unmistakably belonging to the one and only, Izuku Midoriya.

You quickly turn away and throw your hand over your mouth, wary of any sounds that might come out. This was different from when you would see him behind a camera lens. You weren’t doing work, surrounded by others clamoring to get a money shot. You were here as you, not just a nothing face behind flashing lights. 

When you turn back around, you half expect him to be gone, for you to have totally gone crazy imagining him. But, he’s still there. He’s in what must be his work out clothes: basketball shorts and a worn All Might shirt, looking as effortlessly perfect as every other time you’ve seen him. And that’s when it hits you. This is it. This is the chance you have to talk to him. 

But what would you say? What could you say? What if he recognizes you as one of the no-life photographers who follow him around? Should you keep that a secret? Will he hate you? A thousand questions fly through your head as you ponder the possibilities. Should you call out to him? Would it be weird that you know his name? Do you call him by his hero name or his real name? 

He begins to walk past you after grabbing his coffee order. Your heart drops at the sight of him leaving.

Do something.

“Deku!” you call out, careful to keep your volume as low as possible as to not alert the other patrons around you. 

He quickly turns and looks at you expectantly. “Yes?”

“Um…”

Say something.

“I…”

Anything. 

“I’m a really big fan!”

Anything but that.

But it’s too late. The words were spoken and reached Midoriya’s ears.

“T-Thank you,” he looks away, smiling as a slight blush appears on his freckled cheeks. 

“So do you take pictures?” he asks, nodding down to your camera on the table.

“Yeah,” you reply shakily, still deciding on how much information about yourself you should reveal. 

Izuku smiles at you. “What do you like to take pictures of?”

Shit.

You swallow and nervously pick at your cuticles. You don’t want to lie to him, but you don’t exactly want to start off the relationship with him knowing you take secret pictures of him so that a magazine can sell. You tread carefully as you speak. 

“Heroes,” you reply simply. “I take pictures of heroes.”

Letting out an awkward laugh, you gesture to the seat across from you, inviting him to join you. 

“Can you show me some of your work?” He tilts his head in curiosity as he accepts your invitation to sit down. 

No no no no no. 

You embarrassingly know that the camera you’re currently holding contains pictures you took of the hero last night as he left his high-rise apartment. Thinking quickly, you pull out your phone and go to the Hero Weekly website, remembering that they ran a picture you snapped of Red Riot in battle last week. It wasn’t anything spectacular, just a photo you captured for fun when you happened to stumble upon the fight. Still, it was better than showing what was on your camera memory card currently. 

“Whoa, that’s a great picture of Kirishima!” he says ecstatically. “Is that from Hero Weekly? That’s impressive!”

His praise causes your stomach to do flips. “Thank you. I really appreciate that coming from you.”

“What got you into taking pictures of heroes?”

You sigh and look into your coffee cup, hoping the beverage will spell out the right words to say. 

“I’ve always really looked up to heroes. Ever since I was little. But I never bought into the “larger than life” hero personas that the rest of the media seemed to portray. They miss the most amazing thing about heroes: they’re human, just like everyone else.”

You look at Izuku shyly, unsure if you should be opening up to him like this after just meeting him. “When I photograph heroes, I like to ground them, see past the exterior. Capture their magnificent strength and power, but show that they have feelings, wants, and needs. They all have passions and flaws. And that’s what I love so much about heroes. They’re relatively ordinary humans that do extraordinary things.”

There’s a beat of silence that passes as Midoriya looks at you in amazement. He smiles and slightly bites his lip, obviously debating about the next thing he wants to say.

“Is that why you photograph me in private places?”

You feel your heart plummet. “H-How did you know?” 

Izuku blushes and rubs the back of his neck embarrassingly. “I kinda of… may have… noticed you a few times.”

You’re stuck in shock, your mind short-circuiting, leaving your mouth slightly ajar with no words coming out. 

Deku sees your frozen look and starts frantically waving his hands, speaking at a million words per second. “Not in a weird or creepy way of course just that you’re really pretty and sometimes when I’m out places I notice you trying to get my picture so sometimes I make sure to give you a clear shot, I really hope that’s okay, It’s not because I don’t think you’re capable of getting your own picture, I just-”

A fit of giggles escapes from your lips. “How are you even more adorable than I imagined?” 

He blushes as you try to stop laughing. 

But you can’t help it. All your worries and fears melt away and you’re left with all you ever wanted: sitting across from the blushing hero Deku in a cafe, pure happiness running through your veins. 

You don’t even notice the paparazzi capturing the moment from the bushes outside. 

TAGLIST: 

@gallickingun @prismaroyal @wesparklebitch @bnha-violetnote @sunflower-kami-boi @shoutosteakettle @strwbrry-lia @ee-blue @shoutodoki @sadistiks @knifeewifee @viceofaladriel @saltie @khemz1312 @frenchspeakingfilipina @tessaisalbright @katsumi-kaminari @pixxiesdust @izukuwus​

[solynaceawrites]

Subhuman

Fandom: Devil May Cry Characters: Dante, fem!Reader Tags: Smut, PWP, Porn No Plot, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Masturbation, Monster Sex Rating: Explicit Summary: The first time you have sex with Dante after he returns from the underworld, you learn just what it means to be his mate. Note: This came about after an interesting conversation in a server about Dante’s dick when he’s using SDT. Specifically, how it’s shaped. It’s also my first true foray into what I would call monster-fucking fics, so, uh . . . I hope you enjoy?

»»————-　⚜　————-««

The first time you’d seen Dante’s Sin Devil Trigger, you’d been trying to haul Nero’s dumb ass out of Urizen’s throne room. Your first thought had been, what the fuck, followed quite quickly by, that’s a nice ass, and you’d done your best to shove both of those to the side, as being stuck in the middle of a demonic tree was not the best time to be ogling your lover. The second had been a glimpse from the distance as he dove into the underworld, just a streak of burning orange across the sky and into the ground. You’d been more than pissed that he’d left, especially without so much as a good-bye, and you’d made that known to Morrison when he gave you the deed to the Devil May Cry. “He better not come back,” you’d said irritably, “unless he wants me to shoot him.”

But Dante’s disappearance, particularly after seeing that new form of his, left you with a rather particular problem. You’d told him once that you loved all of him; that love had extended into your sex life, and it’d been becoming more frequent for the dick he fucked you with to be scaled instead of flesh, for the hands that dug into your hips to be tipped with claws fit to tear through steel. You didn’t have much of an interest in finding someone else to date—Dante had truly been one of a kind—and there were times when the nice, normal dildo you kept tucked away in your bedside table just didn’t cut the trick. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t like them. They’d always worked fine whenever Dante had to take an overnight job. It was the fact that thinking about Dante led to you remembering his easy grin and the way he felt curled around you at night, making the pain of his being gone much more apparent. The easiest option was to think about his other form; that one hadn’t made you coffee, or kissed the top of your head in passing, or told you how much it loved you. The problem with that was it was a bit disorienting thinking about a demonic dick while using a human one. So, you’d found a website that hosted an . . . unusual assortment, and selected one you thought was probably the closest match to a cock you’d never gotten to see.

You’d gotten one you could actually use, since some of the sizes they offered were a bit much.

The day it arrived, you’d closed the shop and gone to the room you used to share with Dante. The dildo, a model with a name you forgot almost as soon as you read it, was mouthwatering. Thick and ribbed and the size of your forearm, with a girth you couldn’t fully fit your fingers around, and you’d been careful as you used it for the first time. A lot of lubrication and plenty of time to let your body adjust around each inch, and you’d been so full that you’d come as soon as the base brushed your mound.

It was a particular favorite after that. You had a rather extensive collection of toys, from vibrators to dildos to other assorted odds and ends, and any time you’d been missing Dante’s demon cock, you’d pulled it out. Sometimes, if you were particularly riled up, you’d use a vibrator against your clit, and those were the times when you were so shaky-legged afterwards that you needed a day to recover fully.

That’s not to say you didn’t just miss Dante, because you did. The best you slept was with one of his shirts clutched to your chest, and you’d always leave a few slices of pizza untouched whenever you ordered in case he showed up and was hungry. Of course, leave it to him to pick the worst timing to come back home: you, taking a well-deserved shower that you weren’t expecting to be interrupted by the devil hunter, and if he’d gotten smacked between the eyes with a shampoo bottle, he more than deserved it. 

Two weeks short of a year since he’d left, Dante had been back. You’d yelled at him, cried more than you ever had before, and he absorbed it all, his grin turning to a sheepish smile and then outright guilt the longer you laid into him. Part of you felt bad for it. He’d probably been expecting something out of the movies, where you ran into his arms and kissed him senseless, like you had when you’d been reunited in the tree. But he hadn’t chosen to leave you behind then, and the hurt you felt not only at his leaving but at his sauntering back in had quashed that little protest. And when he’d tried to make it up to you the way he always did, you told him he could either keep his hands to himself or sleep on the couch.

Life hadn’t exactly gone back to normal in the following month—there was a lot to talk about, and you did, and he listened—but just having him back was a good enough start as far as you were concerned.

“Dante,” you call. When he doesn’t answer, you pull your head from the fridge, frowning at the empty seat behind his desk. You need his help deciding what to do for dinner and, unless he wants an anchovy-pickle-mayonnaise sandwich, the two of you are going to have to get something delivered. “Dante!”

“Bedroom!” he shouts back.

You take the climb the stairs and head into the bedroom, intending to ask him if he wants lo mein or pizza, only to freeze when you see him sitting on the bed, cradling that damned dildo in his palms. “Uh . . .?”

Dante grins at you, and you try not to flush under his heavy gaze. Sex has been off the table while the two of you work through the hurt his leaving caused, and, with him around, you’d taken to carrying the dildo into the bathroom with you whenever you needed some relief. You must have tossed it onto the bed after your afternoon shower, probably intending to put it up after you got dressed only to forget, and while you don’t think he’s angry, he certainly seems bemused. “Nice toy,” is all he says.

“Uh.”

“Color’s especially interesting. In fact, I’d say it looks pretty damn similar to mine.” He taps the rubber before dragging his finger along a prominent ridge. “Even this. I’d known you missed me this badly, I’d have bent you over the desk as soon as I walked in the door.”

“What do you mean, if you’d known?” Your voice is harsher than you intend from your mortification, and Dante blinks as you stalk forward to yank it from his hands. “Did you think I was having parties while you were in the underworld?” It’s not fair to say, and you know it’s not, but there’s a vicious satisfaction when he frowns. You toss the dildo onto the bed and fold your arms. “I missed you like hell. I’ve told you how hard those months without you were. So, if I wanted to buy a dildo that reminded me of your dick to help with that, it’s none of your business, and you can forget bending me over anything while you’re at it!”

He doesn’t argue, which helps your irritation a little. “Sorry, doll. It just caught me off guard. Though . . .” The way he tilts his head reminds you so much of a big dog that it’s ridiculous, especially with his shaggy hair. “You know you can have the real thing, right?”

“Maybe I like it better,” you retort.

You know the challenge you’re laying at his feet, and a thrill goes up your spine when his smile takes on a predatory edge as he stands. “Is that right? Maybe we should test it, just to be sure.” Dante peels his shirt over his head and your mouth goes dry at the sight of his chest, broad and covered with fine silver hairs. This was why you’d wanted to wait on sex for a while. The moment he lays on the charm, your anger goes right out of the window, which isn’t always the best thing when there’s an issue to solve. For now, though, you decide that it’s fine, and you lean against the wall and cock a brow. Come and get me.

There’s a flash of heat that has you wincing. When you open your eyes, it’s to see the horns and claws and fangs you’ve dreamed of since the first sighting in the tree, and you hold your breath as Dante prowls towards you, his claws ticking against the hardwood floor. He crowds you against the wall and peers down at you. Dante’s already a good head taller than you when he’s human; now, you have to crane your head back to look at his chin, and he kneels to be eye-level with you, his maw parting so his tongue can slide over your cheek. The rough surface of it has goosebumps breaking out along your arms as you think of what it’s going to feel like rubbing over your clit, and when it slides over your lips you part them to suck it into your mouth. 

Dante growls, his breath fire-hot where it fans along your cheek. You almost don’t notice him cutting through your clothing until cold air caresses your skin; with a gasp, you draw back, and his hand grips your waist to pull you up so his face is level with your chest. “Pretty,” he rumbles, the sound thick and foreign and full of gravel, and you grasp at his horns when he curls that ridged tongue around your breast. The tip flicks your nipple, making you squirm from the prickles of pleasure it causes, and, with a laugh that’s ash and smoke, he rubs over it firmly.

And, gods above, you’re probably going to finish from that alone.

It’s heaven: rough and slick and warm, his saliva thick as it coats your flesh, making the friction so much silkier. You tug at his horns a futile attempt for more, though what more is, you don’t know. Not like he can do much else with his teeth the size of daggers, but his touch has awoken something greedy within you that clamors urgently for attention. When he shifts to give the same attention to your other breast, you nearly sob, and your nipples are peaked and stiff and tender by the time he’s through. 

His  hands cup your rear and lift you, yelping, so that your sex is in front of his mouth. The claws on his wings hook your wrists to pull your arms above your head as he braces your knees over his shoulders, and you can’t stop the whimper you let out when those teeth graze your mound. There’s a low rumbling from his chest as he breathes you in, and then you watch as his fangs part as his tongue slides between your folds. 

“Oh, fuck,” you whine. “Dante . . .”

He licks you exactly how you like—his tongue thick and flat and rubbing firmly from your ass to your clit—but the texture is something else entirely, and you’d be rocking desperately against him if he weren’t holding you still. He slips it within your weeping sex, and you nearly scream when it folds on itself so he can lash the tip against your quivering pearl; it hadn’t seem so long at first, but now you understand why he’s got difficulty talking in this form. Not that you care if he speaks or not. As long as he keeps fucking you like he is, he can stay quiet. Every time his tongue flexes within you, you keen, and his answering pants send heated air along your labia and thighs, only heightening the pleasure that you’re already drowning in. You come in no time at all, but he doesn’t stop. Dante keeps right on working your body until a second orgasm follows hard and fast on the heels of the first, leaving your back bowing as you cry out his name.

Your legs are too weak by the time it fades for you to stand. Dante carries you easily over to the bed, lowering you back down so your head doesn’t smack into the fan, nuzzling your stomach and crooning sweetly against your skin. You don’t know what he’s doing, but something about the sound relaxes you so you’re limp when he deposits you on the mattress. Then you catch sight of his cock, and you lift yourself into a sitting position, your eyes wide.

The damn thing is huge. Dante already is, but this form of his adds length and girth, and it glows the same fiery orange as his eyes and the cracks in his armor. The top of it is covered with darker plates that taper off as they wrap around the vibrant underside, and those plates are covered with tiny, ridged bumps; the shaft of it flares twice, thickening in the middle, and the flared tip that you remember has some sort of swirl that narrows it at the slit and has it widening into protrusions where it meets the shaft. At the base you can see what you assume are his balls, held tight to the shaft, and there’s a small part where it meets his pelvis that looks perfect for stimulating your clit. You think, is that even going to fit? Then, I’ll make it fit.

There’s fluid dripping from the tip that you have the most insane urge to taste. It’s thick, a bit darker than normal, and you lean forward to drag your tongue over the slit. Dante hisses a warped version of your name as you lap at the head, gathering as much of the precum as you can before swallowing. It tastes sharp and rich, with a faintly spiced undertone, and it leaves a tingling trail from your lips down to your stomach. You’re not entirely sure, but you’re pretty certain that it’s an aphrodisiac of some kind, maybe meant to either get his partner in the mood or make it easier for him to get that monster between his legs inside of them. Or both. 

Either way, you’re going to combust if he doesn’t fuck you soon.

But how to make it work? Humming, you shift onto your hands and knees, but it still doesn’t quite line up right. “Dante, I think—hey!”

The bed creaks warningly as he settles between your legs. His thighs press you nearly wider than is comfortable, and the heat of his body blasts against your back when he leans over you, one of his clawed hands bracing next to your own. You study the armor plating at his wrist for a moment, but the feeling of his head nudging insistently at your opening has you digging your fingers into the quilt, a breathless, “Please,” falling from your lips.

 Slowly, he pushes it within your opening. Your mouth hangs open in a groan as it stretches you; there’s no pain, just the same tingling you’d felt when you swallowed his precum, and you realize that your assumption was right. Still, as he carefully thrusts deeper, you’re not sure how much of it you’re going to be able to take, a thought that’s reinforced when the head of him is fully inside and your walls squeeze around it. He’s barely gotten started and you feel fuller than you ever had in your life, and when he presses forward so your lips open around the first flare of his shaft, you cry out, your legs trembling. The second flare sliding leisurely into your sex has you coming for the third time, all of this little ridges you’d noticed and the ribbing along the sides more than enough to have your head spinning. By the time his hips are flush to your rear and his sac is nestled snugly against your clit, you’re boneless in his grasp, and you understand, through the haze, one very clear fact.

Dante is going to ruin you.

He moves slowly, carefully, letting you adjust to his size as he pants hotly against your shoulder, and you mewl every time he rocks his hips. You’re honestly not certain how much more you can handle; each tentative thrust has those flares and ridges stretching your cunt, presses the head of him against something within you that adds a faint dash of pain to the overwhelming pleasure. His teeth prick your skin and you gasp, scrabbling for purchase against the sheets as his hips pick up the pace until you’re rocking over the mattress, rocked forward by every powerful roll of his hips. The sound of his body driving into yours fills the room along with your desperate cries, and all of it only seems to spur him on. The heat radiating from him ramps up as his claws tear through the quilt, and his fangs become better acquainted with your shoulders and the back of your neck, each mark he leaves drawing a moan from your throat.

Dante reaches beneath you to cup your stomach, keeping you lifted as he fucks you senseless. He growls something that sounds like, “Mine,” when he presses you up, and you nearly scream at the new angle, the new depth. Forget tomorrow or the next day, you’re going to need at least a week before you can go out in the field again. 

“Dante,” you whimper, “Dante, baby, please—”

He grunts and draws out, leaving you breathless. Then he takes hold of your hips and flips you onto your back before sheathing himself within you again, and this time you do scream as that protrusion you’d noticed earlier bears down on your clit as he fills you. Every time he moves, it presses and grinds against your pearl, lending a desperate edge to the coil tightening in your stomach. Dimly you’re aware of his face drawing closer, and you don’t hesitate to open your mouth when his tongue nudges at your lips, sucking on his flesh eagerly. You’re close, so close, and when he thrusts roughly enough to nearly knock you into the headboard as his tongue grazes the back of your throat, you fall apart, consumed by him. 

Wave upon wave of bliss wracks your body, which bows under and squeezes around his. And he doesn’t let up, rutting into you with growls and rasping groans that have your blood on fire until you’re dizzy and light-headed and your ears ring from the force of it all. You don’t know how much longer he works his body within yours, teetering on the brink of blackness, but you feel his tongue leave your mouth so he can sink his teeth into the flesh where your shoulder meets your neck, and the pain of that is blurred and diluted by the pleasure that comes when the first scorching wave of his seed fills you. On and on he comes, so that it smears along your thighs and pools on the sheets beneath you, so that you wonder if it’s ever going to end.

But end it does. With a lick over the wound he’s left, he draws out, and there’s a faint noise as he does so. More of his seed flows out, still hot enough to nearly be scalding, and you whine at the sensation of being so full and yet so empty at the same time. The sound of his footfalls shifts as he crosses the room from talons to bare feet; when he returns, he’s human again, and he kisses you gently as he lifts you from the bed. “Sorry, darlin’,” he murmurs. “It’s been so long, and I . . . Well. Guess I made a mess, huh?”

“A good one,” you mumble.

Dante chuckles and sets you down in the bathroom, and you watch sleepily as he fills a tub with warm water and your favorite bath foam. “You relax. I’m gonna go change the sheets.”

You nod, and he helps you into the bath, where you sink into the warmth with a groan. There’s a dull ache already forming between your thighs, and your shoulder is going to hurt like hell tomorrow if you don’t do something about it, but you’re far too tired right now to work even the simplest of healing spells. Besides, you think, he’d left that there as a reminder of his love for you, so you’re not exactly complaining. Dante comes back right as the water is getting cool enough that you want to get out, and he dries you off with a fluffy towel before once more picking you up and carrying you back into the bedroom.

You’re half-asleep by the time your head hits the pillows, though you manage to hold on long enough for him to turn off the lights and join you, his weight warm and familiar at your back. “Dante?” 

“Hm?”

“Welcome home.”

He pauses, his arm tightening around your waist as he buries his face in your hair. “I’m back, sweetheart. And I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

[realityhelixcreates]

Dance of the Spheres Chapter 4: Venusian Vogue

Chapters: 4/?

Fandom:  Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: PG 13

Warnings: drugging, kidnapping, forced marriage

Characters: Loki(Marvel),

Additional Tags:  Loki Goes Overboard, But When Doesn’t Loki go Overboard, Mature Reader, Disabled Reader, Political Intrigue

Summary:  

Images of broken light Which dance before me like a million eyes They call me on and on across the universe.                   Across the Universe-The Beatles

“I am Loki.”

“I asked for a bride.”

The declarations smashed into you like fists and took your breath with them.

There was a ring on your finger. Silvery, plain, simple. Why hadn't you noticed it before?

This was clearly Loki. Sunken eyes, and onyx hair, and refined bones. Exactly like the pictures. Why hadn't you noticed?

Too many things all at once. Too much. A fearful whine escaped your teeth, as you tugged on the ring. It didn't budge.

“You're supposed to be dead.” You whispered.

His face fell the instant you spoke.

“You know. I sometimes think that myself. Yet somehow I remain. Take it as a reassurance: you will not lose me to battle, or accident. I will never leave you. I suppose that is something that new brides must worry about, especially human ones. You may put that fear to rest.”

“That's not what I'm-” You clamped your mouth shut. You were in a bad position, worse than you'd ever been, maybe. You were completely alone here; you could contact no one for help. You weren't even sure where exactly 'here' was-no one knew where Asgard was located.

You were trapped in a room with a madman. A prince among his own people, who had proven himself capable of the mass murder of humans like you. Yet claiming you were his bride.

No one would come to your aid.

Did anyone even know you were missing?

You glanced at the ring once more. Its twin rested proudly on his own left hand. What choice did you have?

You had to play along. At least until you found some way out of this. Stay on the madman's good side, as much as that was possible.

“Why me?” You asked, fighting down your panic. Just gather information for now. “I'm literally nobody.”

“I don't understand either.” He sat down on the bed, just a little closer to you than arms length. “This was supposed to be a chance at reconciliation. I willingly gave myself up in a symbolic act of unity. Sacrificed my own freedom.”

You side-eyed him hard. Gave up his freedom? In what capacity? He wasn't the one kidnapped and married without any knowledge or choice!

“This isn't an uncommon arrangement.” He continued. “Your species has done this since time immemorial. From kings all the way down to commoners, uniting families, uniting fortunes, uniting entire lands. Surely your...leader...understood what was to be gained. Yes, I did a terrible thing to your people, but this should have forged a new alliance. A promise that not only would I not do such a thing again, but that my formidable prowess would be for your people, rather than against them. Was this not enough? This should have opened the way for trade, for treaties...And you! Why do such a thing to you? One of his own people?”

“Oh, I'm not his.” You said. “I voted against him. I march in protests against his shitty policies. I oppose him in any way I can. I'd say 'maybe that's why', but it really can't be. I'm nowhere near important or influential enough for the government to pay any attention to me. They're too busy trying to kill me through austerity. Or through the cops.”

Loki's face darkened. “I should find that officer and flay him. Make you a bodice of his skin.”

He'd been reaching for your shoulder, but you flinched away.

“Okay see? That right there? That's why people might not want to ally with you.” You pointed out.

“He shouldn't have hurt you.”

“That's true. That doesn't mean you can use my pain as an excuse to rampage on Earth!”

“I shan't!” He protested. “Never again, I promise you that.”

But how good was the promise of government? Politician or hereditary ruler, it was all the same. How good was the word of a murderer? How many promises had he already broken?

“How do you feel?” He asked. “You seem...lively. Whatever you were drugged with, is it having a lasting effect?”

“I'm a little disoriented, but I'm awake.” You said. “The food and water helped.”

“Yes. About that. Ah. Would you like to see your rooms? I've been anticipating your arrival-well, someone's arrival-for some months now, and I've had chambers created that befit your new station.”

The big unknown outside. Beyond this room was nothing but uncertainty. But you would be the first human being to see this new Asgard. You told yourself it was a perk.

“Um...” You mumbled. “My clothes...” You weren't going out there in a flimsy hospital gown, that was for sure.

“Being cleaned and mended.” Loki informed you. “I have a simple gown that I believe should fit you. Here.” Wit a sweeping gesture, he produced a voluminous, forest green garment out of seemingly nowhere.

You scooted away. “How did you do that?” You demanded.

“Magic, of course.” He said. “You...don't know about the magic...?”

You shook your head and took the robe from him. It felt real enough, smooth and soft, with fur trim and pin tucks. This was simple?

“What do you know about me, my dear?” He asked.

“Not much. Just what...turn around!” Sheepishly, he turned his back so you could change. “Just what was on the news. And the approximately three million conspiracy websites that popped up afterwards. You might be shocked by how many people think you were an inside job.”

“A what?”

“That's not even counting all the cults. You and Thor really got the radicalization machine cranking them out. White supremacists, nationalists, doomsday cults...thanks a lot. Not as if we didn't have enough problems cleaning up the mess you left behind.”

“That...was not my intention. Were you...?”

“I was not part of any cults. I was also not part of the celebration of your death, either.”

The news broadcast had interrupted every television, lit up every phone. A tired and battle-worn Thor, looking not one inch the hero the world knew him to be, as he towered over the reporter. He gave only a short statement: His brother Loki was dead, perished in honorable battle, in an effort to protect the galaxy from an ancient enemy.

People had trusted him. They'd seen the destruction that enemy had caused, in their quest to destroy everything. The odd teleportation anomalies in England that had dominated youtube for a long time. The leaves in your bathroom, the foreign plants in the park. Exotic, even alien creatures being spotted.

People threw parties at the news of Loki's demise. You'd gone out, gotten yourself exactly one drink, and then stayed home for the weekend. It didn't seem right, not after seeing Thor so hollowed out. You didn't really get on with celebrating the death of your enemies anyway, only the success of your causes.

“Oh. Well. Thank you.”

“But yeah, all I really know is that you attacked us out of the blue, and brought an army with you. You caused billions in damages and cost hundreds of lives. Thousands more lost everything. The economic blow is still with us, and led to some of the problems I've been marching against. And then you died. Except not, obviously. Was Thor lying to us?”

“No. He truly believed me dead. I did too, until I woke up. So you know nothing of me. I feared that might be the case. I am no warlord, not truly. I am the foremost sorcerer of Asgard. My magic has many applications, one of which is that I am rarely found without what I need.”

“So magic is real?” Why not? Aliens were real. Gods were apparently real.

“Yes, very. When times were...better, I used to tutor younger students. I might go back to doing that, once we are more established. Once we are safe.”

Safe? From what? Was whatever it was that had destroyed Asgard still out there? Thor had said otherwise, before the radio silence, but he had also thought that Loki was dead, and he was wrong about that, so...

“May I look now, dear?”

“Oh...yeah. I'm dressed.” The gown did fit, though mostly because it was a shapeless, oversized thing that was closed around you with ties. Still, it was luxurious, and made you feel like you were actually pretty-as long as no one looked at you too closely. Was this what a princess wore? You shouldn't allow yourself to get too used to it. As soon as you found a way out, you were out.

“Delightful. Even such a simple gown enhances your beauty. Will you come with me, dear? Let me show you our grand achievements.”

You didn't really want to be exposed to the people of Asgard, but this room was no safer than anywhere else right now. Loki hovered, and you stood, and managed a few wobbly steps before you overbalanced. He caught you instantly.

“Don't worry.” He murmured. “I'm here.”

As if that wasn't the problem in the first place.

“So, while you were carrying me off...I mean, when you, uh, received me, did you notice a cane lying around?” You asked. “I had one. Did the guys who brought me give it to you?”

“I'm afraid not.” He said apologetically. “They seemed strangely eager to quit the area.”

“Yeah, well. They had just committed a felony.” You griped. “They probably had orders to disappear. And they probably didn't want to hang around and witness what a warlord was gonna do to me.”

He winced. “I promise you, that's not what I really am.”

“Sorry.”

He held out his arm for you. “I don't have your cane, but I can support you. We will have another cane made for you. There should have been an Artificer and an apprentice Healer in here at some point, to measure you for a new prosthetic.”

“Uh, there were. I, uh, kinda told them to piss off.”

“Ah. I suppose I cannot blame you, now that I know of your situation. But they are here at your service, as is all of Asgard.”

He helped you limp along, somehow maintaining his dignified stride, even as you wobbled along like a penguin. The hallways were as bland and labyrinthine as a human hospital, if somewhat more softly lit. Again the light source was obscured behind thin panes of cloudy crystal, which diffused the light, giving everything a comforting, if slightly mysterious atmosphere, which the general emptiness of the area only enhanced.

There were few people here, but for some reason, you had been placed in a room far within the hospital complex. Maybe they wanted to hide you away, so that no one knew you were here until they were ready to introduce you to Asgard. Or until they were certain you were going to survive. It might cause a scandal if the prince's bride just up and died upon arrival.

Or perhaps it was to protect you. There were plenty of reasons why a human bride might not be accepted by the Asgardian populace; everything from nationalism, to someone wanting to make a bid for that crown themselves.

There were still no windows to be seen, and everything was made of stone, just like in the hospital room. Out here, in the halls and waiting rooms, the desks, chairs, and tables all seemed to be joined to the walls and floor, as if the whole place had been carved from a single, solid piece, like the rock-cut architecture of the fabled city of Petra. Here again were the creamy grays and oranges lining the walls, though a smooth black also made an appearance.

Eventually, you came to what must have been a foyer, with a high ceiling, complex stone mosaics, and huge, gorgeously carved double doors, but still no windows.

“We will be going outside now.” Loki said. “This facility is within the palace complex, and is not far from your special chambers, but we will have to cross a few halls and courtyards. There are plenty of places to sit, so if you need a rest, simply say so.”

He opened the doors for you, and you stepped out into a world of stone.

Everything was stone, stone or metal. Before you was a wide open courtyard, clearly unfinished, but spacious. At regular intervals were stone towers supporting open pillared hallways in a multiple storied, vaguely Roman courtyard style. The towers shot up, and up, and up...you climbed them with your gaze, following them to the heights to which they had to buttress each other with thin struts of stone, higher still, where they joined with an impossibly high ceiling.

There was a roof over the courtyard, so tall that your couldn't fathom how it had been built. Beyond the courtyards stacked walkways-six full stories-you could see the tips of other towers, lined with lights, merging with this high rise ceiling. Was the entire palace built under this massive shelter?

Clearly the sun did not reach into the palace. To offset this, the crystal-paned, inset lights were everywhere, creating complex patterns that mimicked the intricate knotted carvings that chased up the towers and pillars. The corbels glared down at you, fierce masks of bearded men, wolves, dragons and birds, lights in their eyes.

Combined, it was not as bright as sunlight, but not dim either. The softness of the glow made shadows diffuse, made the stone look soft and fake, and even shimmery in places, like the set pieces in eighties fantasy movies. If not for the pain in your bruises, you'd have thought the dreamy atmosphere was just that, and that you were about to wake up from this absurd dream any moment now.

But the pain was there, and denied that simple, hopeful wish. And Loki was there, gently urging you forward like he was a real gentleman, instead of a heinous war criminal. There were a few other people out here as well; walking the courtyards pillared halls, resting on stone benches, carving hollows into the ground.

There was no soil here. All stone. As you crossed the courtyard, you noticed black, and gray, and cloudy crystal inlaid into the ground in a shape reminiscent of a compass rose, decorated with silvery wire knotwork in bird and serpent shapes.

There were troughs and niches being carved into the ground that looked to you like they were meant to be flower beds...eventually. You had seen no dirt here yet, no grass or growing things at all. Maybe once you finally got outside. But for now, it felt as if you had left a building, only to exit into another building, that was in turn, within another building.

It was a bit suffocating.

Loki led you across several courtyards, each with a different pattern inlaid into their bare floor, and through vaulted hallways that still contained no windows. Many of these hallways intersected in large, circular domes, and few of them had any distinctive markings. Soon you were completely lost. With any luck, you would be able to get your hands on some paper, and create a map-otherwise, any escape attempts would be doomed from the word go.

But maybe that was the point.

Your staggering steps echoed down a particularly tall and wide hallway, almost completely devoid of people. You were almost at the end of your physical capabilities, and while there were places to sit, you felt like you must be close to your destination. You really wanted to be in a room whose dimensions you could be certain of. A space you could comprehend.

Loki brought you to a stop in front of a pair of carved wooden doors. As the first piece of architecture you had seen here that was something other than stone, you found them more beautiful than anything you'd seen all day. They were something almost normal, almost like something you would have at home. If you were insanely rich, or your dad was a carpenter or something. They were a warm terra-cotta color, carved with a dizzying array of knotwork, framed with blackened, riveted iron. The handles were iron serpents.

“We imported some things from your homeland. This redwood lumber is one such thing. From what I hear, these trees are emblematic of your country.”

“Er...” How to politely say, 'not really, even though most people who live there do know what a redwood is'. They weren't very important to anyone who didn't live near where they grew. They weren't what you would call 'quintessentially American'. There wasn't anything you could really call that. The place was just too damn big.

“We couldn't bring too much, not yet anyway.” He continued. “It is expensive, unfortunately, and we only have one ship. It can only carry so much, and it takes about three days to transport. Things are moving slowly, but our construction projects are moving along speedily. There's little else to do right now, save build.”

He opened the doors for you, and led you into a fairy tale.

[tintentrinkerin]

Harness & Spears Chapter 6/10

Warning: oral sex

Read below the cut or on AO3

It was a drive of around 6 hours and Sam and Jack needed to take two short breaks to refuel the car and Jack needed some fresh air one hour before they reached their destination. He got travel sick for the first time ever. But they took another car, neither the Impala nor the car Jack drove when he sneaked to Gilead. Jack still felt weird when they arrived at the motel.

Checking in was quick. Jack was surprised which motel Sam chose and Sam just gave him a smirk.

“This is luxurious!”, Jack calls out when they enter their room on the fourth floor.

“Yes, it is luxurious compared to what Dean and I are used to, we lived in really shabby stinky rooms more than once.”

Sam is wise enough to not just start telling tales of the ‘good old times’ with Dean, because that is not what Jack wants to hear right now. Dean is a topic they will avoid for as long as they’re here.

“I would say, I unpack our stuff, prepare some tea and you get better with your sickness, hm?”

Jack turns around. He isn’t that sick anymore, but Sam just offered him some pampering, how could Jack say no to that?

“Are you sure? I can help you with unpacking.”

Sam already opened his suitcase and now starts packing folded shirts and shorts in the cupboard. He turns around to Jack with a grin.

“It’s no bother, just unwind a little, take a nap while I unpack. Won’t take long.”

Jack fills the electric cattle with water and chooses a tea from the tea table. He hasn’t seen any of these so far, it seems very european, at least that’s what Sam told him, when he once was in Ireland. But he is also super curious what Sam packed. While the kettle starts working and Jack chooses fennel tea he looks over to Sam. It looks like he packed a lot for a week trip. Sam is the neater of the two brothers and carries extra underwear, even a hair dryer, three pairs of shoes. They haven’t decided on which disguise yet, but since it was a ghost hunt that had zero body count yet, they would maybe go with the ‘paranormal activity journalist’ thing, even though Jack loved also being FBI. After Cas told him after the teddy bear case he probably wasn’t the best actor in the field, he would let Sam talk anyway. Sam was big and earnest and super convincing.

Jack hears a rustling and how Sam hurries to hide what he was about to unpack back in his rucksack.

“What was that?”, Jack asks with a raised eyebrow.

On their drive here Sam chose to do the whole ride and while riding shotgun Jack played on his smartphone and he did what he always does since he and Sam are together. He educates himself about sex. He knows Sam will show him everything one day and also answer a lot of questions, but some things he just doesn’t spill. Jack is dying for answers, all the time, every waking minute with Sam. And that looked like a foil package of condoms.

Sam blushes and zips his bag, avoiding eye contact.

“Nothing, nothing that’s important.”

The kettle is done and Jack fills a mug with hot water and adds to bags of tea. He likes his tea strong and intense.

“Sam, that looked like condoms.”

Sam looks like caught in the act. And then he lets his shoulders hang.

“Yes, but it’s an old bag, I- I didn’t unpack it completely. They might have expired anyway.”

Jack is a little disappointed. Of course he had his hopes high for a second.

“Hey, baby, please don’t be disappointed.”

Sam shuffles the bag aside and invites Jack on the big king size bed. Damn it would be the perfect occasion. They’re alone and what did Sam just say yesterday? That he wants to be with Jack. And yes, yes, they are together almost all the time and they do the most exciting and thrilling things, Jack is regularly blown away and unable to form coherent statements when Sam is done with him, but… deep inside Jack he is aching for what people call ‘the first time’ and make a big fuss about. Jack reads a lot. He doesn’t like adult movies or porn, though, it’s tacky and he feels like this kind of intercourse in porn doesn’t resemble in the slightest what Sam and him would have. But how could he know if Sam didn’t show him?

Jack follows the invitation after a little hesitation, gets out of his shoes and opens his jeans, his belly hurts and Sam told him reducing pressure would, thus unbuttoning his pants or take them off completely. Sam also is barefoot now, out of his pants and Jack dives in his arms.

“I’m sorry, Jack, I know you want it. And I didn’t want to raise your hopes.”

“Is this all because I’m a virgin and you would be my first? And you have to stay pure and a virgin for as long as possible”, Jack asks quietly.

“Did you browse weird purity websites, Jack? Virginity is just a concept. The human body is made for having sex at one point in their life. That’s why you go through puberty, start having sexual feelings, breasts and penis grow, wet dreams, periods… all of this. Shaming someone for having sex is like shaming monkeys to climb trees. It’s bullshit. It’s sexist. I love being your first, but not because I think you’d be ‘unclean’ if someone else before me had sex with you, I just like the intimacy, being able to get to know you well enough to know what’s the best pleasurable way for you. And I’m very damn glad Hunter didn’t lay a finger on you.”

“But why don’t we have sex then?”, Jack asks with a trembling ache in his chest.

“You might be a virgin, but why I’m going slow is because I like going slow per se. I had sexual encounters that happened on the day the person and I met, and it was passionate and great and all, but… you remember the tacky jokes from Cas and Dean, that my cock is deadly?”

Jack chuckles, then nods. “Yeah.”

“That really happened a lot. I thought I liked someone, and then they were possessed by a demon, were a werewolf, I even had a sexual relationship with someone from whom I knew was a demon and that was even the whole point. I did it when I was mourning Dean. Later Dean stabbed her after-”

Sam swallows deeply.

“She, Ruby, was responsible for Lucifer to be freed from the Cage the first time. She tricked us into opening all the portals.”

“Oh. I don’t know what to say, Sam. I’m sorry.”

“None of this is your fault.” Sam says with a bitter undertone. “Back to the actual topic. I’ve been through a lot of experiences that seemed pleasant maybe, sexually, but in the end they got hurt, or I got hurt. I had a lot of people violate my body.”

Jack stiffens and attempts to get up, protesting.

“I would never-”, he calls out.

“Yes, you wouldn’t . I know that.”

But your maker did , Sam thinks bitterly. But when he looks at Jack, he sees Cas. Never Lucifer. And still he has issues to fully give in.

“But, Sam… I wished we could go further. I know you think I’m just a horny teenager but I feel-”, Jack clears his throat and winds out of the embrace to take a sip of his tea. It’s hot and he burns his tongue.

“I really like you, Sam, I want to be as close to you as possible. It’s a consuming feeling, it’s eating me up. I would say it’s wildly romantic to be so horny for each other, but I’m aching inside for you. Sam… I-”

Jack can’t make himself say it. “I want you so bad. ”

Sam takes the cup out of Jack’s hand and puts it on the nightstand. Slowly pulling Jack in his hug again, this time in his lap. Jack melts everytime when Sam does that and Jack can see in Sam’s face that he knows.

“Jack, believe me, I want you too. I want you a lot. It’s hard to resist you, oh, sometimes I feel like it’s impossible.”

It’s wonderful to hear that, it’s healing the aching, but only for a little and Jack knows it will come back at him even worse. He sighs and enjoys the shivers down his spine when Sam’s hand circles on his back, between his shoulder blades; a familiar motion. Never failing to make Jack either even hotter or calm him down. Sometimes it’s hard for him to differ which feeling is which. With Sam everything is right and upside down at the same time. Secretly Jack envies all of Sam’s lovers. And to hell with it, he is jealous that Dean had to have Sam so close for all these years, see him in puberty, see him maybe feeling lust for the first time-

It takes Jack a second to realize he’s just thinking about brothers, just that with the Winchesters nothing really surprises him anymore. Not even his own fantasy of teenage Sam, in full hormonal rage, humping pillows, like Jack once did when he didn’t know what the feeling he experienced really meant and how to prolong or end it.

“You’re still very victorious of resisting my qualities.”

“You sound like a dandy”, Sam chuckles, “Believe me it’s a daily struggle to not just…”

Jack’s stomach sinks and his groin is painfully hard and hot in a matter of milliseconds.

“Not just what, Sam?”, he whispers.

Sam turns both of them around and Jack lands on his back, squealing a little. It’s such an innocent, young sound that Jack has to recognise himself he sounds young and inexperienced. Sam shoves Jack’s shirt up to his armpits.

“Sam?”

Jack’s voice is shaky.

“I will show you how much I want you, okay?”

“I’m certainly not stopping you, please show me.”

He pushes up on his arms, looking down at Sam, who pulls down Jack’s shorts.

“How’s your stomach?”, he asks, kissing Jack’s abs.

Oh, fuck. Jack has to let his head fall back and he stares on the ceiling, thin blue waves dancing in his eyesight.

“My stomach? Miracle cure” he says with a raw groan.

As soon as Sam touches him in a certain way, Jack just elevates, his senses focus on what they’re doing and probably the motel could just go down in a blast of flames and Jack wouldn’t even notice he’s burning alive.

Sam’s long hair tickles Jack’s skin and he chuckles and winds a little, Sam holds him steady, there will always be one strong arm along Jack’s spine, supporting him, showing him that Sam won’t let go. And that he’s Sam’s. Jack would never ever let anyone else touch him like that. One hand digs deep in Sam’s hair, strong brown streaks, slightly curling. Unsure if to push him further down or pull him back up Jack just holds on, feels for Sam’s lips, his slick and talented tongue, waiting for the next sensation, waiting for his own wishes to form words, then sentences.

“Sam, I want you, I don’t wanna wait any longer…”

The kisses upwards stop and Sam looks up, lips wet and glistening, tongue flicking over his lower lip. It’s obscene as it is beautiful.

“I will make it worth the wait, Jack. Believe me, there are so many unbelievably good things we can do…”

“I want you… really, I want you… inside me.” Jack’s words splatter out of his mouth and he’s aroused yet a little ashamed.

Sam hikes up completely and lays Jack down. Kisses the ‘but’s and ‘when’s and ‘want’s away. Jack struggles, frustrated and horny, mood shifting between whiny and angry.

“You will, Jack. You will get everything you want and more. Please give it a little more time. It won’t be long, I promise. I know how you feel.”

A single mad tear rolls down Jack’s face.

“Sam, I want to be so much closer, I need to feel part of you in me…”

Sam kisses away the tear, tastes the salt. Jack is a shaking, needy mess, legs spread, shirt shoved up under his chin. Nipples hard, goosebumps all over and a raging hard cock between them.

“Are my fingers okay, too?”

Jack nods frantically. He remembers the orgasm that was so mind blowing and got ruined by Dean and Cas running into them.

“Yes, again, please.”

And Sam is a keeper of his promises.

Jack is shaken to the core before Sam even penetrates him. It’s a delight to see, only the sight of Jack’s golden eyes, the slight quakes, he’s so responsive in a unique way and it’s only for Sam. If Jack only knew how hard it really is for him to not just take the boy here and now, thrust in this perfect pale mannequin body, Sam has never seen anything so breathtaking. Of course he wants to feel Jack’s insides, he wants to drain the last drop of cum out of him while Jack rides him, GOD , Sam would do a lot to experience that in a complete guilt free and perfect way, like Jack deserves. Part of him wants to mark the naphil as his, show everyone that Sam is the luckiest man alive, because Jack chose him. Damn, fucking him until he’s loose and barely able to utter anything else than faint moans or sobs, yes, Sam wants to make Jack never forget the sex they’ll have. But he can’t. Not yet.

If Jack only knew that corrupting something so beautiful, so rare, so graceful strikes Sam with such terror -- to do it wrong. To disappoint.

If Jack only knew that Sam isn’t the strong indestructible man he might appear like. That things inside him are just broken and cannot be fixed. And it could destroy what they have. And Sam can’t have Jack shatter on the truth. He wants Jack to shatter on his body, shaking and in extacy. And in perfect bliss.

“Sam, please”, Jack coos.

Sam will not just give Jack his fingers, he’ll give him his tongue and mouth. Jack’s cock is full, red, tip glossy with precum Sam spread across already. He doesn’t hesitate to press the tip of his tongue on the bundle of nerves right underneath the glans while wrapping his lips around the tip. Jack sounds broken, his hips jerk and he simultaneously tries to pull away, his hands in Sam’s hair.

“Sam, so much! It’s so much!”

“Is it good much or bad much, baby?”

“Good”, Jack admits, “it was in a movie and when I saw it…”

Jack covers his mouth with his shivering hand, biting his finger.

“It was good?”

Jack nods.

“I won’t go on if you think it’s too much.”

“Oh, I… I don’t know Sam, it’s really hot, but what if I spill…”

Sam chuckles.

“Don’t worry about it.”

While talking he gently keeps jerking and Jack relaxes a little.

“I don’t want you to stop Sam, I want all of it.”

“Sure?”

“Yes, please keep going. Can I watch you?”

Jack looks down and Sam sees nothing but longing in his eyes. Good.

Sam laughs. “Of course, feel free.”

Jack already tastes a little salty from precum and Sam goes slow, it’s a new sensation and it’s just a matter of time until Jack won’t be able to hold his orgasm anymore. Sam risked it to take two fingers for Jack this time, circling his sweet spot steadily and sucking him in the same slow torturing rhythm. Jack’s hand in his hair clenches and relaxes before also his other hand grasps for some loose strands. His noises are so sweet, Sam’s cock jumps and aches with every new little ‘oh’ or whispered name it’s harder to stay patient and noble. Sam’s primitive part wants to go on without any mercy, suck Jack off, fuck this tight sweet ass with until he’s sore and force orgasm after orgasm out of this beautiful boy.

Jack’s breath hitches and his hips thrust up in Sam’s mouth, not enough to make him gag but enough to make his mouth water even more, make the blowjob sloppy and full of wet noises. Immediate reactions. Moaning. Fingernails scratching his scalp.

“Sam! I’m….”

Jack doesn’t need to finish that sentence, Sam can feel it coming. Jack’s cock grows even harder, a little bigger - or is that wishful thinking? - and Sam can’t resist to swallow as deep as possible, his fingers ramming into that tight hole -- fuck, Sam is about to cum himself untouched just by how Jack feels, tastes and these sounds. Fuck, these sounds should be forbidden.

“Close”, Jack cries, “Sam, so close!”

Sam would love to answer, give Jack some encouraging answers but he can’t stop now. He wants to feel Jack filling his mouth, he wants everything Jack can give right now. It should be painful, how Jack clings onto his hair, pulling and ripping. It isn’t.

With some firm and frantic rubs of Jack’s prostate and Sam moaning with his mouth full of cock the boy arches his back and cries so sweetly, his legs crossed behind Sam’s back start pressing them even closer together, his hands push and pull.

“I’m coming”, Jack’s voice is clear as a bell, no trembling.

And then he shoots his cum, thick hot spurts in Sam’s mouth and while Jack gasps and moans so loud the neighbors might hear, Sam swallows and keeps stroking, keeps sucking.

If Sam only looked up, he could see the molten glowing honey shade of Jack’s angel eyes, wide open, his shaking body and a faint blue light illuminating the face perfectly shaped like marble, Grace surrounding him like a halo.

Light bulbs pop and TV starts crackling -- just seconds later everything turns quiet.

Sam looks up, catching the rest of cum with his thumb from his lips and licks it up. Jack looks down at him, his eyes teary and still shining a little.

“Sam…”, he croaks.

Sam crawls up and Jack immediately snuggles up into an embrace.

“Did you just cause a blackout?”, Sam asks with a grin.

Jack sobs. “I think so... It was…”

“Yes, I felt it. Overwhelming?”

“I still feel like I’m shaking…”

Sam hugs him tighter. “You are still shaking a little. I will hold you.”

It takes a little for them to calm down. Actually, Sam can’t calm down, he is tenting his boxer briefs. There’s no way to hide it. Jack shifts, a hand runs under the fabric. Sam forgets to breathe for a moment.

“You don’t have to”, he whispers.

Jack doesn’t stop.

“But I want to.”

[worldwidemochiguy]

Birthday Treat (Soft! Yandere Hoseok)

203 - Are you teasing me, love? You know how I get when you tease me.

207 - It’s not fair - stop that, stop doing that! You’re mine!

209 - The way you say my name feels so fucking good... keep saying it. 

Masterlist

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, DO NOT READ IF BELOW 18, (subtle) Yandere behaviour, possessive themes, penetrative sex 

Word Count: 1.8K

a/n: thank you to @love-and-other-possibilities​ for requesting 203, 207 and 209 with hoseok, hope you like it!! the ending is bad bc i can't do endings but ah well :/ and also a very happy birthday to our hope, literally the only man to ever exist, Jung Hoseok <3

Birthday Treat 

Upon reentering the bedroom, you were greeted with the amusing sight of Hoseok sprawled across the bed. His eyebrows were furrowed slightly, as they had been ever since you discreetly slipped out of his arms a few minutes ago. He was not awake enough to stop you, but it seemed he had thrown a little unconscious tantrum in your absence, judging by the way the sheets had tangled around his ankles.

You bit down a smile, setting the plate you were carrying on the bedside table, before bracing your hands on either side of him and leaning in. His eyelashes fluttered as your breath fanned across his face and you idly wondered what he was dreaming about. You, probably. 

Your theory was proved correct when you ducked down to blow on the shell of his ear. Your name slipped out of his mouth in a whine and, before you even got to start running your tongue along his skin, his arms wrapped around you and twisted your torso until you were pinned underneath him. 

“Sunshine,” He breathed, his voice low and gravelly from just having woken up. Your core clenched pleasantly at his tone, something he probably guessed at, hence the sleepy smirk fixed to his face. 

“Why did you run away before I woke up? You’ve never done that before.” The words were muttered into your neck as he ran his nose along the column of it, and you tilted your head absently to give him better access, prompting a low rumble of approval from him. 

“Well, today’s a special day, Hobi.” You replied evenly, as if you couldn’t feel his hands caressing along your side, moving gradually lower and lower. 

“Oh, really? Why is today special?” He asked, the corners of his mouth pulling upwards as his hands tugged your waistband. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” At his smirk, you continued. “It’s special because it’s a Tuesday.” 

He pulled away, an expression of confusion lingering on his face for a moment before melting into a knowing smile as he sat back on his heels.

“Oh, really, sunshine? Why are Tuesday’s so special?” 

“Well,” You began, lifting up your fingers to tick things off, “I got my first job on a Tuesday, I saw my first snow on a Tuesday, I met you on a Tuesday…” That caused Hoseok’s smirk to melt into a genuine smile, and his eyes shone fondly as he tugged you onto his lap. 

“Wow, Tuesday’s do sound kinda special, huh? But, you know the other reason why today’s special?” He prompted, and you rolled your eyes with a giggle before giving in. 

“Of course I do. It’s your birthday.” 

He smiled triumphantly. “Correct, sunshine. It’s my birthday, and that means I should get a gift, right?” His head tilted suggestively, and you bit your lip, eyes flicking down to his mouth. 

“Yeah, I actually had something in mind… it’s what I was preparing earlier…” Your made your tone deliberately sultry, and his eyes widened slightly as his arms tightened around you. 

“That- that’s good. Great. Okay. Show me.” He commanded, licking his lips as you pulled back. 

You shifted off the bed and, much to Hoseok’s confusion, you twisted round and grabbed the plate on the bedside table, presenting it to him with a flourish. 

“Kimchi egg skillet!” You announced, relishing his bewildered expression. “Your favourite! I’ve been practising all week.” 

You refused to acknowledge the eyebrow Hoseok raised at you expectantly as you set the plate down on his lap, still warm from where you had vacated it mere seconds ago. 

“Go on, see if you like how it tastes.” You encouraged gleefully. 

“You know, I think there are other things I’d like to taste…” He remarked, staring at the apex of your thighs pointedly. You tutted at him disapprovingly.

“No way, I did not waste twelve eggs trying to make that only for it to go to waste.” 

Hoseok huffed out an amused breath. “Are you teasing me, love? You know how I get when you tease me.” 

“No, how could you suggest such a thing?” You asked, scandalised, making Hoseok almost choke on his breakfast as he laughed. 

.......

“I actually have a few birthday presents for you today.” You called out to Hoseok. Your voice was raised since he was in the sitting room, leafing through that day’s newspaper. You were still in the bedroom, fixing the finishing touches to your outfit. 

“Oh really?” He asked sarcastically, “Are you going to bake cookies for me as well?” 

“It isn’t cookies, but I’d like to think it’ll taste as sweet.” You purred, leaving the bedroom door ajar and leaning against the frame seductively. 

As soon as you had seen the red babydoll set on the website, you knew it would drive Hoseok insane. And it seemed you were right, judging by the way his fists clenched so hard he ripped his paper. He didn’t seem to notice, letting it fall to the floor as he stood abruptly, eyes fixed on your lace-wrapped body. 

“Fuck.” He ground out, and his voice… you had to remind yourself to stay focused. 

“Do you like it?” You asked innocently, twirling around. You heard a sharp inhale as he saw the back — a completely sheer panel of lace, making no attempt to conceal your thong. 

When you faced him again, Hoseok’s eyes were dark and intense, like he was one step away from devouring you. 

“So, what were you thinking for lunch, maybe pizza?” He groaned as you strode into the kitchen, stalking after you purposely.

“Sunshine, don’t do this to me.” He whined, eyes raking up and down your body almost desperately.

“What ever do you mean, Hoseok?” You asked, darting behind the kitchen counter.

“Stop teasing, c’mon, it’s my birthday.” 

“Teasing?” You repeated cluelessly, leaning over across the counter as if you wanted to hear him better. His eyes immediately were drawn to your chest, before snapping back up exasperatedly. 

“It’s not fair- stop that, stop doing that!” He burst out suddenly as you bit your lip in faux-sympathy. You allowed the lip to slip out from between your teeth, to Hoseok’s relief. 

You began running your tongue slowly over your lips to soothe the swollen skin, and Hoseok’s tether snapped. He crossed around the end of the counter and cornered you, bringing his hands up either side of your head to cage you against the cabinet.

“You’re mine.” He growled. Your breath caught in your throat as he started sucking on your throat fiercely, marking you. “If I tell you to stop doing something, you stop. Your body is mine. You obey me. That’s what good girls do.” 

“Maybe I don’t - ah, fuck, Hoseok - maybe I don’t want to be a - mmh - a good girl.” You panted as his teeth grazed the sensitive underside of your jaw. 

“Yes, I can see that.” Hoseok muttered derisively, pulling on the fabric of the lace teddy insistently, “Only bad girls wear things like these, right? You want me to treat you like a bad girl?” Your reply was lost in a wanton moan and he snorted, “You know what? It doesn’t matter what you want. Your body is mine, I can do what I want with it.”

He ripped off the lingerie, flinging it over his shoulder without a second glance, leaving you to shiver as your skin was exposed to the cool air. He pulled back as if he was simply viewing you like you were a masterpiece at a gallery, prohibited from human contact. 

“Hoseok,” you whined, trying to entice him back to finish what he had started, but it seemed your roles were now reversed. Hoseok was the tease, simply watching as you writhed in desperation, not daring to move towards him because he told you to stay, and you knew that your body was his, and not your own. 

You whispered his name again pleadingly and he finally relented, pressing you against the wall again and dipping his hand into your panties. His rough fingers were a relief, filling the emptiness inside you as they ruthlessly rubbed over that spot that made the coiling heat in your stomach start to unravel deliciously. 

You chanted his name in a litany of prayers as he pumped two, no, three fingers into you, stretching you out impatiently. 

“I’m ready, please, I’m ready, just- fuck, Hoseok - just fuck me. Please.” You begged. Hoseok swore against your lips, hands withdrawing and you sobbed in relief when you heard his belt buckle clatter as it hit the floor. 

“The way you say my name feels so fucking good… keep saying it.” He told you as he pushed in slowly. Even when you were so immersed in the feeling of him stretching you out and filling you up so deeply, you knew to obey him. 

“So good, Hoseok. Feels so good - ah!” He positioned his hips in a way that each thrust pressed on a bundle of nerves within you. He was relentless, pounding into you as you bounced against the wall, having no choice but to just take it. 

“You’re mine.” Hoseok hissed against your throat, before continuing the pattern of purpling kisses he had left. 

“Yours, only yours, always, Hoseok.” You babbled, climbing higher and higher to your peak. When his other hand came down to fiddle with your clit, you shattered around him. He didn’t pause in his thrusts, even when the oversensitivity made you scream. He just kept pounding and, soon enough, you were nearing your climax again. 

“So fucking tight, baby, fuck. You were made for this, made for me. You’re mine.” He kept repeating mindlessly as he shoved himself into you over and over, uncaring of whether you enjoyed it or not, and why should he, your body was made for his enjoyment, not the other way around. 

Regardless, when you tightened and spasmed around him a second time, your cry of his name echoing in his ears, he finally came, pumping his seed into you as you panted and writhed on his cock. After a moment, he slipped out of you and the two of you fell into each other in a mess of sweat and come and exhaustion. 

“Did you… like your birthday present?” You panted, and Hoseok somehow mustered the energy to give you one of his brilliant smiles that had brightened up your day more times than you could count.

“Of course I did, sunshine. I can’t wait to spend every birthday like this with you. I love you.” 

[alternativewinxcontinuity]

April has begun, a new month, a new start.

To celebrate the First of April, I've decided to embark on a new project. Some might say it's a little Foolish when I have so much else to do, but it must be done:

Fate: the Re-Winxed Saga!

We'll be starting off with a fixing of the reason Bloom ran away from home. I don't know about anyone else, but I always found it jarring how Bloom essentially had two sets of parents played by the same actors.

One pair were abusive a$$hats, on of whom thought their daughter was a freak, the other was basically a doormat with no opinions of their own, meanwhile the other couple were loving and “always knew she was meant for bigger things”.

So I've changed the reason behind Bloom's house burned down, and restored her artistic talents to her. There's nothing wrong with liking repairing old lamps, but we saw it once to point out how much of a “weirdo” she was, and then it was gone.

I've also added in a bit to explain how Farah found her, while maintaining Stella's OG presence in the scene.

I know there's a prequel book out (soon?) now that's supposed to fill in that blank, but I've just gone ahead with it.

Warnings for minor implications of sexual assault that never actually happened.

Here we go:

Fire\Starter

Bloom's sleep was fitful. 

She felt hot in her dreams, flushed with embarrassment and rage as Mitzy's obnoxious laugh played on infinite repeat. The condemning looks from her peers, from strangers on the street, plagued her like a thousand daggers.

In the waking world Bloom's body kicked back her sheets and writhed like she was fighting off an attacker.

In her dreams Bloom saw the sweetly deceitful face of Mitzy's cousin.

Bloom was an artist, she'd been drawing since she'd been young. Her art had won some competitions, small and local, but so important to her.

Important enough that her parents had bought her a graphics tablet for her birthday when all the other kids her age were getting bikes. It was the most expensive gift they'd ever gotten her.

She'd used it frequently, making digital art now alongside the more traditional paintings and sketches. She'd gotten good enough to be asked and paid for commissions.

And that's how Mitzy had managed to sneak her cousin in, to set a trap.

Moira had commissioned Bloom to make a 'tasteful nude' in 'that old European style, you know the one?' and Bloom hadn't thought anything of it. She'd let Moira into her home, into the converted solar-turned-art studio she'd been using for almost a full year now and...

Bloom had spent every day since cursing herself for not noticing the similarities. Moira and Mitzy looked so alike when you saw them together, Bloom didn't know how she'd missed it.

Maybe it was because Moira had smiled kindly, hidden her smirk and contempt better than Mitzy ever had.

Bloom had only touched Moira once, a gentle arm on the elbow to steady her while Moira was in her under garments, but the way she'd spun that into lies of assault...

Bloom could see it perfectly in her head, Moira laying casually on the couch of Bloom's studio, skin mostly bare and a sweet smile on her face.

In her dreams it warped into a smirk, lips cracking apart until Mitzy's laugh rolled out of the gaping maw. In her dreams, Bloom set Moira on fire.

Her rage, pure and true becomes an unstoppable flame, so hot it melts the walls, melts her tormentors skin. In the dream Bloom screams her rage and the world is consumed and-

-Bloom wakes, choking. She rolls to the side and tumbles from the sweat soaked mattress to the warm wooden floors of her room. Her gasping breaths drag the scent of smoke and paint into her lungs, but she ignores the remnants of her dream and tries to calm herself.

The scent doesn't fade.

It gets stronger.

Somewhere below her on the ground floor, glasses shatter and Bloom hears a familiar whoof. She'd heard it in her father’s educational videos on fire.

Her studio is on fire.

Her house is on fire!

“MUM! DAD!” Bloom screams as loud as she can, trying to remember what she's supposed to do. She tears her pillow case off her pillow, scrambles to put her laptop, graphics tablets and her three recharge cords into it before pulling her sheet free and wrapping it around herself.

She grabs her phone on the way out.

“MUM! DAD!”

Bloom makes her way to their room down the hall, the smoke in the air thickening.

“FIRE!!”

Her parents meet her at the door, their own sheet wrapped around them both to help filter the smoke, they have a few things as well.

Together they crouch down low and make their way down stairs, Bloom's father, Mike, already on his cell phone calling for the Fire Brigade.

They're almost free and clear when her mother, Vanessa, tries to head for the family office.

Bloom calls “mum, no!” at the same time her dad says “'Nessa stop!”  

But Vanessa darts away, just past the office door to grab a single box and out again, away from the spread of the fire.

Bloom feels a flicker of relief for half a second before something in the house explodes, letting out a torrent of flame in her mother's direction.

Bloom screams and flings out her hand as if she could do anything to stop what's about to happen.

For a heartbeat Bloom feels something well up inside her, something dark and powerful, and the wave of fire splits around her mother.

The trio stand, stunned, until Mike comes to his senses, “'Nessa, move!”

And they bolt to the door together, out onto the small lawn in time to see the lights of the fire trucks round the corner.  

-

In the days to come, they will recover the items which remain, few as they are. Bloom's childhood book of fairy stories was somehow untouched by the flames.

Mitzy will spread a new rumour about Bloom as part of her campaign to ruin Bloom's life, saying Bloom started the fire.

The investigation will rule it an accident, suspected faulty wiring in the art studio.

But Bloom knows, with an awful certainty: Mitzy was right for once, Bloom had started the fire somehow. She knows her parents suspect it too, but they won't say anything, not even about how Bloom had made the wave of fire part.

There's an elephant in the room now, it hovers awkwardly about their family, makes every conversation feel like trying to walk through broken glass in the dark without stepping on any.

Bloom tries not to go to sleep. She only makes it a few days before she finds herself constantly drifting off. Her parents watch her with fear, telling her to sleep.

But she can't, don't they understand that? What if she starts another fire?

She leaves their motel room, takes her phone and uses some of the money she earned from her art to by a sleeping bag and some snacks. Searches the internet for a place to stay with no people and as little flammable material as possible.

She finds an old warehouse that will do the trick. She buys a small fire extinguisher on her way there.

-

Her phone tells her she's slept for two days when she wakes up with a horrific dehydration headache.

She feels a little better for the sleep, she hasn't burned down the world while unconscious. There's a public showering area in a pool several blocks away, she manages to sneak in and get clean.

Begins to feel almost human again.

-

Bloom falls into a routine, sleeping in the warehouse, showering in the public washrooms, reading everything she can find on what the internet calls 'pyrokinesis'. The scientific side, or the fringe-science side of things feels wrong somehow.

She can't explain it, but something in her knows that's not the path she's looking for.

She tries folklore and myths instead. Feels pulled towards the stories of fae and dragons.

There's an abandoned quarry not far from town, and Bloom manages to make her way there with some candles, matches and her thankfully unused fire extinguisher.

She can't conjure fire, can't put it out, can't even provoke it. She's missing something, she knows, she can feel it.

Bloom comes across some 'majick' on one of the websites she finds looking for answers. A way to call a fae and force them to answer any questions you have. Bloom scoffs but takes a screenshot before backing out to another page.

Several days later she makes the mistake of looking at social media.

She's officially a runaway at this point, and Mitzy has used her absence to establish Bloom's guilt.

“Bloom burned her house down to fake her death to avoid facing charges of assault,” is the going theory.

It makes Bloom mad enough to set her sleeping bag on fire.

The following morning she buys a new one, and some things from the list of 'spell' ingredients. She's making no progress on her own, she's desperate.

Bloom returns to the quarry, she doesn't want the smell of incense in the warehouse, just in case. She fills a small bowl with water and a piece of quartz, waits for the moon to rise over head and does her best to match the google-translate’s reading of the 'some magical European language' the spell requires.

For a moment she sits, feeling like a fool, her eyes closed. Then she feels like she's falling.

Or flying?

There's a wind but it's intangible, a forest but it's colours are vibrant in a way Bloom's never seen, like they're leaking energy.

And then there's a tug, like someone has pulled her up short, and a woman with soft, pale brown hair and kind but curious eyes.

The woman opens her mouth but Bloom jerks back in shock, and startles so hard her leg flies out to knock over the bowl, spilling the water everywhere.

Bloom stays there for several long minutes, panting like she'd run a marathon, but then a real wind blows and her damp jeans go cold against her skin. She packs everything up and runs back to the almost safety of her warehouse.

-

Bloom is awoken by the sound of the warehouse door opening and closing. She's confused for a moment before the sound of two sets of footsteps has her scrambling upright, and out of her sleeping bag.

It's the woman from Bloom's... spell? Vision?

She smiles at Bloom, and Bloom feels herself relax.

“Hello, I'm Farah Dowling,” she gestures to herself. Behind Farah, a young woman, blonde and roughly to same age and nervousness level as Bloom, clears her throat slightly, so Farah Dowling adds: “And this is Stella,” Stella waves, “we're here to help you, if you'll let us?”

Bloom knows better than to trust strangers, but this woman had been in her vision.

“You can help me?” Bloom asks, her voice sounding far smaller and unused than she was expecting.

“I'd certainly like to try,” Farah says kindly, her hand reaching out to Bloom, letting Bloom make the choice.

Bloom gathers her things and takes Farah Dowling's hand, Farah squeezes it gently, it's comforting. Bloom sobs as she realises this is the first real human contact she's had in... weeks now.

“Come on,” Farah and Stella return to the warehouse door, “Stella, if you could?”

“Yes Miss Dowling,” Stella gives Bloom a quick eyebrow wiggle, like she's about to show off, and places her hand on the door.

'She has nice hands,' Bloom thinks distantly as the large sunburst ring on Stella's finger glows golden, the light spreading out to coat the door and it's frame.

When Stella opens it, the door no longer leads outside the warehouse, but out into a verdant forest. Bloom can smell the leaf litter, there's the smell of moisture, like there's rain about to fall.

Stella steps through into the forest, holding the door open for Farah and Bloom to follow.

“Welcome to Avalon,” Stella says as she sweeps out an arm to indicate the trees around her, “home of Alfea school for Heroics and Fairies.”

“Fairies?” Bloom can feel herself smiling, excitement building. Her parents had always affectionately despaired at her life long obsession with the mythological creatures.

...her parents...

Bloom wavered.

“Can, can I just have a moment to text my parents?” Bloom looks between the two... women? Fairies? She's afraid that any second this will turn out to be a dream, or worse, real and she'll somehow throw away her chance.

“Of course,” Farah says, her voice full of understanding, “take all the time you need.”

“As long as you only need ten minutes,” Stella cuts in, “because that's how much longer I can hold this doorway open.”

Farah gives Stella a fond but exasperated look.

Bloom shakes her head, “I only need two minutes, tops.” She pulls out her phone, spends thirty seconds undoing the call blocker and sends her text before reinstalling the blocker, too scared to hear her parents reply.

What if it was “stay gone”?

“I'm ready,” Bloom says, and Farah ushers her through into Avalon.

-

[I'm OK. Sorting some things out. I Love You Both.]

Mike and Vanessa almost collapse in relief, their baby girl is alright. They tell the police to stop actively looking for Bloom, but to keep an eye out, and to tell her they miss her if she's seen.

The pray she'll come home on her own.

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - I Was Given Four Rules to Follow ... I Broke Every One: Chapter 3/3 (Rated PG13)

Summary: When Warlock Dowling is summoned to the old South Downs cottage of Aziraphale and Crowley to help clean out their attic, presumably after their deaths, he is given four rules to follow.

... He breaks every single one.

Read on AO3.

January 15th –

He opened his eyes!

He opened his eyes and looked at me!

After hours of waiting in the dark and in the cold, despairing every second and wishing I was dead myself, he opened his eyes.

But it came close to being all for naught because I almost died myself right then and there.

It was good to see him with his eyes wide open, but the golden eyes I loved so much are gone. 

These new eyes are white on white, the pupils infinitely dark, the irises torn. They stare without blinking. They look into me, into my soul, it seems. They connect to the love that runs deep within me, to every touch he has ever left on my skin, to every promise we both made. 

But they do not recognize me. 

Am I, at all, familiar to him?

I don’t want to reject him, whether he knows me or not. But those eyes unnerve me.

There’s so much about them that’s innocent and frightened.

So much about them that’s desolate and dead.

We literally spent the morning just looking at one another.

I would give anything to know what’s going on in his mind. 

What does he see when he looks at me? 

I want to reach out and touch him, but I’m afraid. I know it won’t be the same. He won’t be warm, won't be comforting. What could be worse than a dead copy of a once alive and loving creature? I don’t know. 

But whatever this is, it might be. 

He won’t smell like Crowley. He won’t have his cheek, won't have his soothing voice. It’s almost as if I adopted some wild animal and decided to make it my husband.

What have I done?

***

January 16th –

All day long, he tried to move, grunting with the effort of struggling to stand up and get out of bed. He didn’t speak words; he just groaned. I wanted to help him. I wanted to pretend that he was simply convalescing after a horrible illness. I wanted to bathe him and dress him. I wanted to sit him down in front of the television, prop up his feet, and feed him brandy and ice-cream. I wanted to put this chapter behind us and get on with our lives.

I wanted to make believe him dying had never happened.

But I’m not that good an actor.

He behaves exactly the way the old woman warned me he would. He reminds me of a child.

I never wanted children.

This is the ‘in sickness and in health’ part of the marriage package, which I agreed to without hesitation.

Never mind the ‘till death do us part’ portion.

This comes with my vows, and I will honor them.

My love will help him. I know it will.

…

Can I really do this, or am I fooling myself?

***

January 17th –

I’m trying my best to take the bad with the good.

I managed to get him to the living room sofa. His legs were stiff, and he couldn’t seem to bend his knees.

He had been declared dead-on-arrival because of the injury to his neck. But I wonder if anything else is broken. I wasn’t really paying attention to the doctor when he went over the extent of Crowley’s injuries. After I heard the word dead, I tuned out.

I should get a copy of Crowley’s hospital records.

But if his legs are broken, how will I deal with that? Will the potion magically fix everything? It brought him back to life. Could fixing broken legs be more difficult than reanimating a corpse? What is the extent of the potion's effects? Do I need a secondary potion of some kind to repair internal injuries?

Maybe I should call the shopkeeper back and ask.

We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

He stumbled numerous times and fell on me. I did my best not to cringe at his touch or accidentally drop him. But those eyes, so close to mine, were like looking into a nightmare. I could see through them to the veins and arteries behind, the blood inside them black and unhealthy.

The fourth time he stumbled, though, I got the feeling that maybe he was falling on purpose so that I would be forced to catch him.

I even thought I saw the shadow of a smile cross his lips.

I watched him as he sat in front of the TV and renewed his passion for The Golden Girls. That show had been one of his favorites since he was a small boy.

He sat so still. 

He didn’t swallow. 

He didn’t appear to breathe.

The only time he moved was when he looked over to where I sat, I think, to make sure I was still there.

He sat for hours and watched TV. 

There was nothing else for him to do.

I fed him salad for dinner, let him stay in front of the television instead of making him go to the dining room table. I didn’t see any reason to move him. He leaned down and sniffed the cold lettuce leaves, but he did not eat.

Neither did I.

***

January 19th –

After a full day of limping him around the house, Crowley is surprisingly steady on his feet. He can make it from the bedroom to the living room sofa by himself. It takes him a while, but he can do it.

His body is still in rigor, but he seems to be getting more comfortable with it.

I should be jumping for joy at his progress. The more mobile he becomes, the less dependent he will be on me. Every day that he improves, even a little, he is closer to becoming the man he was.

But I don’t know how comfortable I am with that anymore.

***

January 21st -

He doesn’t sleep. And now that he doesn’t rely on me to get around the house, neither do I. I know he sees me as a parent-figure, so he won’t hurt me. But he’s such an alien creature. Not like the old Crowley at all.

It’s strange having this version of him around the house.

When Crowley was

Before the accident, Crowley was so independent. He didn’t need me, didn’t need my help with anything.

But now, he needs to be near me all the time.

I understood there would be a change in our dynamic, but it’s such a striking change that it’s difficult to get used to.

I took a shower for the first time in days. I left him in the living room watching TV, but when I finished and opened the curtain, there he was, standing there … staring.

I fell asleep for about an hour afterward, and when I woke up, he was kneeling beside me, again staring at me.

He’s always staring.

What does he think about doing when he stares at me?

***

January 22nd –

I finally broke down and gave Crowley a shower. He didn’t stink, but there was something about him, something that smelled … well, I can't seem to find the words to describe it. 

I just wanted it gone.

I’ve seen the injuries to his chest numerous times, but I haven't paid much attention to his back.

When I saw them, I almost threw up.

And he noticed. 

He heard me gag. 

I gasped, held in my urge to be sick.

He turned to face me, and for the first time, he had an expression on his face different from his blank one … but also different from that smile I thought I saw when I was helping him walk around the house.

He looked hurt.

***

January 27th -

Each day that he improves, I debate telling our friends that he's here. I know they miss us terribly. But in the end, it would be too cruel. He’s not himself anymore. He never will be. Most days, I curse myself for doing this to him. My motives were selfish. I wasn’t thinking of anyone but myself when I made the decision to bring him back. 

I wasn’t even thinking of him.

Our lives are unrecognizable. We’ll never travel the world like we'd planned. Who knows if I’ll make it back to my bookshop? Should probably shut it down and have my books transported here. The way things look, the rest of our days will be spent in this cottage. 

I have to be okay with that.

But what about Crowley?

If you asked rational me if I think he wants to live this half-life, with no potential to be anything other than a human puppet, who only barely resembles the man that was Anthony J Crowley, I would have to say no. Absolutely not.

But I can’t turn back now.

What am I expected to do? Poison his tea? Smother him in his sleep?

Would attempting to kill him even work?

And what about his soul? 

If there is a Heaven, I surely pulled him out of it with my cock-eyed plan. What if there is no going back for him? 

I can only hope that my love for him is enough to keep him from hating me when he’s able to comprehend what I’ve done to him.

***

February 1st –

I’ve finally gotten him to eat – bits and pieces mostly, bites of vegetables and corners of bread. It doesn’t seem like he likes it, but he eats it, and that’s good. He eats because I tell him to. It shows that he trusts me.

He’s more self-sufficient now. 

He showers and brushes his teeth on his own. He picks out his pajamas and dresses himself. Sometimes he tries his hand at making the bed. He is attempting to be more vocal, but he has yet to say a single thing that isn’t a grunt or a moan.

I’ve been looking up the subject of speech delay on the Internet, trying to find ways to help him learn. I came across one website in particular with fun, creative ideas. I started making flashcards of consonant blends and one-syllable words. I felt so accomplished, so hopeful, like I was actually doing something positive toward the goal of moving us forward. I felt confident that after a little work with them, everything would be all right. I was so excited to show them to him, but then I realized …

… I have no idea if he can read.

***

February 3rd –

I tried calling the old woman at the antique shop in Soho to ask about the effects of the potion, but the phone has been disconnected.

I guess they went out of business after all.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing appears to be broken. Or maybe it’s that he doesn’t feel pain.

I was teaching him how to cook, hoping it would bring a bit of the old Crowley back. We used to cook together all the time. Honestly, we weren't all that good at it, but that didn't stop us from trying. We had just gotten the hang of a decent souffle before ...

Anyway ...

I started him small. 

I had him grating cheese. 

Seemed simple enough. The grater stands on its own, so not much to juggle. But he pressed too hard, ran the grater over the backs of his fingers, scraped off skin. He didn’t so much as flinch. I think it bothered me more than it bothered him. I bandaged it up and, without thinking, I kissed the wound. I looked at him in utter shock …

… and he smiled.

My heart leapt.

It’s so nice to see him smile again. 

I never thought I would.

***

February 4th –

I took off Crowley’s bandage, and his wound from the cheese grater is gone! There’s not a trace of it left!

I guess that answers that question.

I should be relieved, but it bothers me, and I don’t know why.

***

February 21st –

Today was the most unexpectedly intense, depressing, and wonderful day all at once.

It started when Crowley woke this morning. He got up before me and tried to make me crepes. I had no idea why. He hadn't tried to cook by himself before, didn't even show an interest in cooking without me. He burned them, himself, and the stove all in one go. The fire alarm woke me, blaring in my ears. I managed to get to the extinguisher in time, but poor Crowley looked heartbroken over his ruined pan of blackened food.

Then, before lunch, he wanted to go outside. I think he was trying to sneak out, but I caught him jiggling the front doorknob (he has yet to master the bolt - thank God). When I caught him, he slammed his hand on the door in frustration and sprinted for the back one. I followed him, knowing it was locked and that he wouldn’t be able to open it. When I reached him, he was trying to wedge his way out of the old cat flap. (Note to self - board up the cat flaps! I don’t know why we kept them. We’ve never owned a cat.) 

I patted him gently on the shoulder and asked him what he needed. He stood up and groaned, moving his mouth and wiggling his tongue, making nonsensical sounds. When he couldn’t say what he needed to, he pointed out the window to the garden. I assumed he wanted to check on his dahlias. I’m a disaster with flowers, and, unfortunately, I haven’t been able to keep them up the way he could. 

Of course, it's one degree outside. The poor things are frozen solid. They're not even flowers any longer, I don't think, but the frigid remains of what they once were.

But he’d had yet to show any interest in them, either, before today. 

I shrugged, repeated that I didn’t understand. He pointed more forcefully, jabbing at the window with his index finger.

“I don’t know what you're trying to tell me, my dear,” I said. “Do you want to go for a walk?” 

I've taken him walking around Soho a few times. I've been trying to tie up loose ends, decide if selling the bookshop is the road to take. I wrapped him up in a full-length coat and scarf with just his eyes peeking out. I guess he enjoyed it, but he’d never asked to go outside. He shook his head and pointed again, this time at the dying rose bushes that I hadn’t had time to deadhead. I didn’t get it. I shook my head, and he stormed off to the bedroom.

I followed him there, but he blocked the door.

I could hear him inside, moaning. It was horrible. It sounded like pain and embarrassment and frustration, all rolled together. And I couldn’t help him.

He wouldn’t let me.

I tried to lure him out several times, but he didn’t come out till dinner time.

And when he did, he was dressed in a black Bergdorf suit.

Crowley has dozens of expensive black suits, and he looks stunning in all of them.

But this suit.

This suit in particular.

This suit had been hanging front and center in his closet.

Because it was the suit I had planned on burying him in.

It threw me for a loop, dragging me kicking and screaming back to that day I found out he had died, before I’d decided to try bringing him back, before I knew that I could. I took out the suit to air it. I guess I hadn’t put it back with the others because there it was, standing before me with the living corpse of my husband inside.

The sight took all the air out of my lungs.

“Take it off,” I said quietly, trying not to alarm him, but how was I supposed to explain to my somewhat dead husband that I didn’t want to see him dressed in the suit I had planned on putting him in the ground in?

He looked confused and shook his head, opening his mouth and groaning.

“Please, Crowley,” I begged, hoping he would hear my anguish and understand, “take it off.”

He stomped his foot and shook his head, the way a petulant child would. It should have been cute, but I couldn’t handle it. I've had issues getting used to his looks lo these many weeks, but for the first time since he came back to me, he looked dead.

“Take it off!” I screamed. I ran at him, grabbed the lapels, trying to tear it off his body. He held me, pinned my arms, and I could feel his renewed strength. I hadn’t really let him touch me before, but now I knew that if he wanted to, he could probably hurt me.

I stared up at him, realizing that he was hovering above me, and I was lying on my back on the floor. My heart stopped. He had never looked menacing before. Even in death, he seemed so innocent. But now, he looked like a monster. He had a piece of paper balled in his grasp, and he tried to make me look at it, but I couldn’t take my eyes away from his face – pale and cold and lifeless, regardless of the fact that he was my Crowley.

He stared at me, trying to speak.

It hit me like a pile of bricks.

Speak.

That’s exactly what he was doing. 

His lips were moving in exaggerated, grotesque ways that shouldn’t be able to turn sound into words, but they were.

“A … Az … Azi …”

Crowley blinked and shook his head.

“Azir …”

“Aziraphale?” I asked in awe that he was trying to say my name.

Crowley laughed. It was a glorious, hollow, frankly frightening sound, but I couldn’t help smiling when I heard it. He put his fingers to my lips. 

I guess he didn’t want me to steal his thunder.

“Azzzir-uh-phale,” he said, smacking his lips. “I … lo … I lov …” Crowley swallowed again, closing his eyes, trying to make the words in his head match the movement of his lips. “I … love … you … Azzzir-uh-phale.”

Crowley tapped again at the paper on the floor. This time I did what he wanted and looked. He had torn off the current page from the calendar and was poking at a box circled shakily in red. I peered down at it.

I could have cried.

“Our ... our anniversary?” I asked, looking into his broken eyes. He sighed, nodding.

It was our anniversary.

He’d wanted to make me breakfast in bed … for our anniversary.

He’d wanted to get me roses … for our anniversary.

My husband had wanted to do something nice for me … for our anniversary.

My husband had spent all day teaching himself how to say, “I love you, Aziraphale,” because there was nothing else he could do for me.

My husband remembered our anniversary ...

... even when I had not.

***

June 4th -

Five months-ish later…

I can’t believe it! 

I cannot believe it!

Five months later and we’ve made it! Despite the odds. Despite the difficulties and the heartaches. Despite every time I thought about giving up, here we are.

Happy.

Together.

We spend our days wrapped in each other’s arms. We watch TV. I read books out loud - he sits and listens. Crowley is re-learning how to drive, and I’m on the hunt for a new Bentley. Our lives might not be what they were before, but they’re perfect for us.

We’ve managed to go to the city more, spent a few glorious nights at our flat in Mayfair. We've even interacted with one or two of our old friends. It's a wonder what some foundation and blusher can accomplish! I told them it was a medical miracle, and they believed me.

Because that's what Crowley is.

A miracle!

Okay, maybe I am tempting fate. But maybe fate needs to be tempted from time to time! 

His vocabulary has expanded immensely, and a hint of his old suave confidence has come back, along with the muddy accent I so often teased him about.

I am finally at a point where I am optimistic about the future.

Because I’m beginning to think that there might actually be one for us.

***

August 13th –

I woke this morning to a strange squealing noise. At first, I thought it might be the smoke alarm again - odd since we got the cooking situation sorted, I thought. The longer I listened to it, the more I realized it wasn’t the smoke alarm. It didn’t sound familiar at all, so I didn’t worry too much about it. As long as an errant sheep didn’t get hit by a car, there was really no reason to jump out of bed and investigate. After a few minutes of listening to the goings-on outside, I determined that wasn’t the case, so I considered going back to sleep.

But then I noticed that Crowley wasn’t laying beside me in bed.

That isn’t too unusual. He’s normally the first one up on any given day. I just curl back into a ball holding his pillow to my chest until he returns.

He always returns.

The squealing wasn’t really that weird. I’ve thought for the last few months that we might have rats. Or squirrels. Or possums. I’ve heard that same squealing a few times before. But seeing as I can’t find any evidence of rodent-caused destruction anywhere in the house, I haven’t been too aggressive about hunting it down.

My stomach began to growl. I guessed I had been asleep for longer than I thought. Instead of returning to bed, I decided to make some waffles for breakfast. So I got up and went out into the kitchen.

That’s where I found Crowley.

He was crouching on the floor …

… covered in blood …

… biting into the spine of what used to be a raggedy old Maine coon …

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

He grinned his old, sly grin, licked his bloody lips, and said, "Hello, Aziraphale. Can I get you a cuppa tea? I know just how you like it."

He winked at me, and my heart stuttered.

…

I may have a problem.

***

Those are the last words on the page.

A page where the ink is smeared from tears, and the edges crusted in blood.

I haven’t seen Aziraphale or Crowley in decades. They used to send the occasional letter, but those stopped a while ago, and they never call. But something tells me neither of them ever left this house alive.

I’m afraid my time, too, has run out. I came to this house alone. But huddled in the darkest corner of the attic, I hear footsteps coming closer, a sour voice on the wind calling my name …

Ka-thunk …

“Warlock …”

…

Ka-thunk …

“Warlock …”

…

Ka-thunk …

“Warlock …”

…

KA-THUNK!!

***

“Warlock Dowling!” Crowley calls, barging into the attic, footsteps heavy on the worn floorboards. “Are you recording another one of those Clip-Clop thingies again?”

“It’s TikTok, Nanny,” Warlock replies, rolling his eyes, “and no. I’m reading a story for my YouTube channel.”

“Well … you done getting a costume together or wot?” Crowley asks, changing the subject, saving face that he actually understands anything Warlock just said. “Adam and his hooligans are gonna be here in a minute. Aziraphale is gonna have kittens if you’re not ready to go Tricks or Treats!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Warlock says, gathering up his camera. He loves Halloween with a passion, but he’d been eyeing this one journal in Aziraphale’s bookshop for some time now. This video he’s been putting together promises to be epic - the crowning achievement of his burgeoning story channel. Most horror story channels get their material from the Creepypasta Reddit, but he has a unique source of original material … when he can get out to Soho, that is. “I’m coming.” He pulls the lapels of the leather jacket he’s borrowing for the evening together in front to tighten it up. 

It’s slim fit as it used to be Crowley’s from back in the day, but thirteen-year-old Warlock still swims in it. 

Warlock marches to the door under Crowley’s watchful eye. Before he can make his way through, Crowley stops him, slipping a hand underneath the jacket and rescuing an extraneous prop - an antique journal.

“Have you been snoopin’ through Angel’s old manuscripts again?” Crowley asks, wiping the cover clean. “You know how he feels bout that.”

“I know,” Warlock admits sheepishly, “but my audience loves them! I get thousands of hits off his stories! Besides, I put my own twist on them, freshen them up a bit.”

“Do you now?” Crowley asks with an unamused eyebrow notched.

“Why didn't he get them published?” Warlock shifts gears before the lecturing can start. “He’s an amazing writer!”

“He had his reasons,” Crowley mumbles, flipping through the pages. After skimming a passage or two, he puts it down on a pile of similar journals, a shiver sliding down his snakey spine. “Oof! Those things’ll give you nightmares.”

“They should terrify you. He’s murdered you in every single one!”

“Ah, but he does it with love.” Crowley grins wide enough to swallow his whole face. “It’s an honor.” 

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #457

“blue are the words i say and what i think  /  blue are the feelings that live inside of me”

Do you buy your lingerie at Victoria’s Secret? No. That shit is so overpriced and not for my size group. Would you ever use an online dating service? I never would again. Are you good at multitasking? ABSOLUTELY NOT. Have you ever eaten Frosted Mini Wheats? Ugh, those are so gross. What does your bikini look like? You think THIS bitch wears a bikini??????????????????????? Does age really matter in a relationship? To an extent, yes. How much does the last person you kissed mean to you? I honestly don't even know if I'd be here without her. Almost like magic, Sara popped back into my life right after I returned home from the hospital following my suicide attempt. She helped make recovery possible as a solid source of support. Do you use lotion? Not NEARLY enough. My skin is so dry; I need to. Do you believe in teenage love? I experienced it deeply and thoroughly, so yes. Have you ever sat on the roof of your house? No. Do you like Sublime? I like that one popular one of theirs. "Santaria" or whatever it's called? What’s your favorite movie genre? Paranormal horror, especially the "found footage" type. It's creepy to imagine it being actually real. Is there a celebrity that you’d be willing to have a one night stand with? If he was single? I know in my gut I would lmaooooo Do you want to live in your current town the rest of your life? OH MY GOD PLEASE NO If you found out today your best friend was gay what would you do? She's demisexual, so. She can like anybody. If you could get a pet for free today-what kind/what name? A tegu, because it wouldn't need an enclosure that I don't have. I'd let it free roam. God, I can only imagine Roman's reaction. How many people have you slept with? If you mean what I think you do by "slept," one. Do you ever wish you had a family business to become a part of? Not really. What’s the most gruesome way you could come up with to kill someone? Hunny, have you seen my dark RP????? The world best be glad I'm a pacifist lmfao Do you think anyone deserves to die that way? I don't believe in torture, so no. If you had to fight for survival, what would your weapon of choice be? A gun, I guess? I'd want something with range and that's quick. I wanted to say a bow and arrow, but preparing another arrow after shooting once could really cost you your life. Where did you buy your favorite pair of jeans? I don't wear jeans anymore. Do you have a large dog? We don't have a dog, period. If not, are you afraid of them? No, I love big 'ole puppos!!!!! I just don't wanna own a dog myself. Are you good at playing darts? Holy fuck no, I have NO hand-eye coordination. I once stabbed the guy at a balloon popping booth thing with a dart in the arm, if that tells you anything, ooooooooooof. Do you like breaded chicken sandwiches? YESSSSSSSSS omg Do your parents know that/if you smoke? They know that I don’t. Have you ever been under a blacklight? Omg so in elementary school, we did this thing once where we all washed our hands as best we could and then put them under some sort of light (maybe a blacklight, idk???) to see JUST how resilient germs are. You gotta scrub the fuck out ya hands, people. How many pounds do you want to lose? I'd rather not share a number, but a lot. What’s your favorite natural phenomenon? The Northern Lights. Do you snore? Very surprisingly for someone with sleep apnea like mine, I actually don't. How many people do you know with the same first name as you? Off the very top of my head, one, but it's spelled differently. I KNOW I know of a shitload more Brittanys, though. Is it possible you could be pregnant? Well, I haven't been intimate with a man in years and just finished my period, so like- Could you go a day without texting? I go most days without texting. Do you have a step-parent? My dad is remarried, so yes. If so, do you get along with them? She's EXTREMELY Christian, so her beliefs wildly disagree with mine, but I keep my mouth shut a lot just to keep the peace. She IS a very sweet woman, nevertheless, and am glad she and my dad are so happy together. Does your current/last job require that you wear a uniform? My last job (which lasted not even two hours lol) did. When will your driver’s license expire? My permit has been expired for like... two years. Do you live in an apartment? No. If the last person you kissed proposed to you what would you say? That's too wild a concept to even imagine. I'd probably ask if she was okay lmao. Would you ever get back with one of your exes? Weeeelp, I want to get back together with Girt. Pretty badly. Write a foreign word, and what it means: "Schadenfreude" is a German term that essentially means secondhand embarrassment, but it doesn't have a perfect translation. Is there an ex you think about everyday? Inevitably. That's PTSD, my friends. Who is the last person that you said I love you to, besides family members? Sara. What's the worst thing you have ever said to anyone? Something along the lines of "no one could ever love you like I do." It boils my blood just typing that; I considered even deleting this question. That quote right there is fucking manipulation, even IF I thoroughly believed it. Who was the last person to comment one of your pictures? I don't feel like looking. Do you tend to go for older or younger when looking for someone to date? It's weird, I'm into slightly older-than-me guys, but probably girls who are barely a bit younger than me. Have you ever been used? I don't think so. Have you ever not been able to get someone out of your head? Like I've said in plenty of surveys: Jason is probably a permanent fixture. But also as of the past two days, Girt's been living up there. I went from "hmmm I just don't know how I feel" to "FUCK I want to talk to him about how stupidly into him I am right this fucking INSTANT" pretty goddamn fast. It kinda scares me just because of how extreme my feelings are. Again. That's only ever gotten me hurt. Buuuut let's not get into that. Have you ever got caught cheating on a test? No, because I've never tried to. Will your next kiss be a mistake? I hope it won't be. But it's not like I know the future. Have you ever worn an oxygen mask? Actually yes, when I was young and thought I was having an asthma attack or something. Mom had one for her own asthma. Then I obviously wore one for surgery. What song do you want to be played at your funeral? "Paradise" by Coldplay is absolutely #1. How many swear words are in the song you’re listening to? I'm not listening to music; I'm back to watching Gab play Sekiro. What color was the last swimsuit you wore? Black. Have you ever kissed anyone of the same sex, and if so, who? Yeah, just Sara. Who did you last tell to ‘shut up’? Ha, I think my WoW friend Lyndsey, but only playfully, of course. We pick fun at each other all the time. Would you ever get a tattoo of a boyfriend/girlfriend's name? NOOOOOOOOO. Are you one of those girls who already have baby names picked out? I know what I'd name my kids IF I actually wanted any, yeah, but I don't. Do you think guys with long hair are attractive? Yessss, I love long hair on guys. Are any of your siblings taller than you? I think Ashley is a liiiiil bit taller? I know my brother is, for sure. Have you ever scared someone so badly that they cried? Yikes, no. When was the last time you wore high heels? Boy oh boy, no idea. Is there someone that you want to hurt right now? Jeez, no thanks. What was the most interesting or colorful birthday cake you’ve had? I don't remember, but I'm sure something from childhood. What was the last thing someone bought you? Was it expensive? Mom bought me food from McD's, which obviously isn't expensive. Do you have any interesting moles anywhere you don’t want people to know of? No. Have you ever gotten high or drunk in a really formal place? Strong "no" there. Do you ever write poetry and post it on any certain websites? On the very rare occasion I write poetry and actually like it, I'll sometimes post it on dA. What do you miss most about your childhood? Actually, genuinely having fun and not dealing with fucking anhedonia. Would you like to know the precise date of your future death? Hell no. Do you photograph well? I'd like to hope so. Are there any animals you flat out refuse to touch? Maggots and similar bug larvae. What super power would you refuse, if it was offered to you, and why? Mind reading. It just sounds... awful and overwhelming. What’s your favorite discontinued product that you wish would come back? Oh, I KNOW I have answers to this, just none are coming to me immediately and I don't feel like sitting here for five minutes thinking about it. If adults had show and tell, what would you bring into work? My snek! :') If you had a reset button for the last 10 years, would you press it? Tempting, but... I don't think I would. I cannot go through how deep my depression was again. Who is someone you would never swear in front of? My nieces and nephew. Yes, I don't believe in profanity being a "thing" and is just a stupid human fabrication, but nevertheless I acknowledge societal standards and expectations, and they're way too young to get when you shouldn't say something like that and why. Have you ever won a contest or competition? A few. Who is your favorite TV character? I don't think I really have one? Do you coo over other people’s babies? Not really, no. Sometimes I'll think they're super cute and be like "awww," but I don't like... squeal and spaz like some people do. What is something that makes you very squeamish? VOMIT. Has there been a celebrity death that really affected you? Steve Irwin got me deeper than anyone else. Chester Bennington hit real hard, too. If you’re out of high school, have you stayed in touch with your high school friends? If you’re still in school, do you think you will? Most of my closest ones, yes, at least via Facebook. What’s a movie that you want to see? Old movie, but Jacob's Ladder. It was a massive influence on Silent Hill, so naturally, I'll probably love it. It's a classic, anyway. Do you use the same username everywhere online or do you have a lot? I use "Ozzkat" in most places, but I do have some other ones for different sites. Who was the last person you know who became pregnant? My friend Ana recently revealed she's expecting her second child, a boy. What fad were you actually into? I have zero clue. Have you ever tailgated? Would you want to? Fuck no. That's how so many wrecks happen. My sister legit got in a wreck with an 18-wheeler mostly because she was tailgating (which she does BADLY); she was trying to pass, and he moved over at the same time because he couldn't see her coming around. It's a borderline miracle she got out with only some cuts, bruises, and a seatbelt burn. Have patience, people. Get off cars' asses. Why did you fall for the last person romantically? Look, don't get me started on this. There are a shitload of reasons and I have been way too emotional over this the past few days laksdfja;lwke What’s the last thing you had to eat? A bagel w/ cream cheese for breakfast. Do you ever pick up your house phone? We don't have a landline phone. Truth be told, are you more into looks or personalities the most? Personalities, for sure. I cannot be into you if your personality isn't attractive.

[softisdangerous]

Excerpt from Chap 17 of Call of the Blood

Eric’s POV - Thursday July 16th & Friday, July 17th, 2009

I closed the bar for the night. Interrogating the drainers had been useless, and their screams were both irritating and loud, but at least Chow enjoyed his work. Pam had been telling me for months that it was time to adjust our styling again, to keep up with the times and that my long hair was getting to the point of ridiculous. I did not like to change my hair, but I was inclined to let her pamper me a bit. I had been short tempered with her, nearly biting her head off at every question she asked me. My ill-temper was only exacerbated by the fact that I was ridiculously thirsty, and the only thing that sounded remotely appetizing to me was Jane’s fresh blood.

But I wasn’t about to put her at risk again. No, I lacked the control to drink from her right now. It was nearly unthinkable that after a thousand years I still couldn’t master all of my bloodlust, but I wasn’t too proud to admit it, if only to myself. It did have me questioning what made Jane so unique. I was beginning to wonder if she was all human, or if she had some latent ancestry that made her blood addictive, and made the drinker…what? What effect did she have on me? Insanity? Obsession?

Love?

I squashed that thought quickly. No, she was just unique and Godric was missing.

Pam was putting foul chemicals on my head and idly explaining what she was doing, but I wasn’t focusing on her words. I was still attempting to think. Godric missing? He would have told me where he was. He had always informed me when he was leaving, even if he knew that I wouldn’t be pleased by his departure. How could he be missing? The drainers had no methods that Godric wouldn’t have been able to overcome. He was too old, too powerful for drainers to have taken him. And based on the conversation of prisoners downstairs, I doubted there was nothing these racists could do that Godric wouldn’t simply be able to bat away. That wouldn’t stop me from questioning him, most vigorously.

I despised the newest addition to the prison in the basement. Royce Allen Williams. It constantly talked, finally admitting shame for past actions, only now, when confronted with imminent demise. I knew these weak types. If released, he would return exactly to his old ways, claim it was an act of God and continue on with dishonorable acts. My teeth were already on edge and then when it discussed escaping… I couldn’t control my rage.

Pam sighed loudly when she heard its plans to escape.

“Don’t fuck up your hair,” she demanded as I stood to go collect it.

“I won’t Pam, I’ll bring it up, let Chow do the dirty work, and then he can put the rat back in it’s cage.”

She huffed, but didn’t stop me.

I strolled down to the basement silently.

“I got a plan. I'm busting us out,” the racist claimed.

“Don't be an idiot,” the V dealer advised wisely.

“I'll come back for you. Promise,” the man claimed. I made some noise so they would know I was coming. I heard their heart rates jump and it was almost enough to make me smile. I hummed softly to myself.

“Shh, Shut up.”

“Shushing won't do you any good, Sweetheart. We hear everything. Since you made me come all the way down here, I'm gonna take out some of the garbage,” I told them as I removed the cape that Pam had placed on me to prevent the chemicals in my hair from staining my clothes. I knelt down in front of the pathetic piece of trash that had burned Malcom, Liam, and Diane’s nest to the ground. “Royce Allen Williams, we have a few questions for you, with regard to a fire which killed three of our kind.” I stared him down.

“No fucking way, man. I don't know anything,” he said, pretending to not be afraid, but I could hear his heart pounding.

“Crimes against vampires are on the rise. We even lost a Sheriff just days ago. We seek answers.” I unchained him and pushed him forward and then, most surprisingly, he turned and struck me across the face.

He screamed at me, “Die, you dead fucker!”

I was furious when I felt the burn of silver against my face, how had I not noticed? The stench of human filth was disgusting and overwhelming. One more reason to not chain prisoners this way; it was impossible to scent silver through the odor.

That silver burn against my skin… it amplified all the emotions I had been trying to resist. My fear, my rage, my bloodlust. It all came pouring forth.

I eviscerated him where he stood, drinking his filthy blood and pulling off several of his limbs. It was, in no way, satisfying. I felt worse than before, still thirsty, and more on edge than ever. I tossed an arm away, and it accidentally splattered against the final prisoner, the V dealer, Lafayette Reynolds.

“If you have any silver on you, now would be the time to reveal it,” I told him.

From his hiding spot behind a post he called out, “No way. I ain't that stupid.”

“Yes, you are,” I replied. And then I noticed how much blood I had on my hands. I went to wipe my mouth and realized I had splattered it all over. “Is there blood in my hair?” I asked the man.

“What?” he responded. Was he an idiot or just hard of hearing?

“Is there blood in my hair?” I asked him again, louder.

“I..I don't know, I can't see in this light,” he stuttered out.

I zoomed over to him.

“How about now?” I asked, looking into his deep eyes.

“Yeah, there's a little bit of blood there,” he stammered, his heart pounded deliciously. At least he was honest. I wished I could scent him more, but all I could smell was the blood of the racist and the foul scent of human waste.

“Well this is bad. Pam is gonna kill me,” I realized out to loud to him.

“Who the fuck is Pam?” he asked and I found it amusing that he had so quickly forgotten his place.

“Why, do you wanna meet her?” I asked, toying with him.

“No. No. I'm good,” he replied, and I found his mock confidence charming.

“Well, you're going to,” I told him as I unchained him.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked as I held him by the back of the neck and pushed him forward.

“To find out what you know,” I explained, kicking the remaining bits of the racist out of the way. “I wouldn't try anything rash if I were you. I'm still hungry.”

I brought him up to the office where Pam and Chow were waiting, I pushed him into the chair opposite the desk as Pam started berating me.

“What the fuck, Eric!” she snapped. “You’ve ruined your hair!”

She had already been upset with me, and now this?

“I’m sorry Pam, it was not my intention,” I told her with a sigh, I didn’t often apologize to her, but it was called for.

I sat on the stool, she put a fresh cape on me, and then she began to assess the damage.

“This is a disaster. We'll have to go much shorter than I planned.”

“Yeah, well, I said I was sorry, Pam. But he took silver to me,” I explained. I looked at the V dealer, Lafayette Reynolds. “You were there. You saw it. Defend me,” I urged him.

“I don't know what it is you wanna know, but point me in the direction, and I give to you,” he told me earnestly and fearfully.

“I've seen your website,” I started, Chow had shown me it earlier. It was an impressive bit of tawdriness, and I was certain it was lucrative. “It's quite, uh, low rent. But your clients miss you, Lafayette. They're wondering if you're ever coming back.”

“Am I?” he asked, and I let the silence linger. “Look, I'm here because of the V, right? How 'bout I give you the names of everybody I ever sold to?” Already so cooperative? Lovely.

“And all this time I thought prostitutes were good at keeping secrets,” Pam snarked, knowing the prevarication of that statement more than anyone. Prostitutes would only keep a secret for a price, and for her the price had always been quite high.

“Don't get it twisted, honeycomb, I'm a survivor first, a capitalist second, and a whole bunch of other shit after that. But a hooker, dead last. So if I got even a Jew at an al Qaeda pep rally shot at getting my black ass up out this motherfucker, I'm taking it. Now, what you wanna know?”

Pam smiled, absolutely delighted, and I could see why. This Lafayette Reynolds was a cut from the exact same cloth as her.

A survivor first, a businesswoman second, and a hooker dead last.

“The vampire you had your little arrangement with. Eddie Fournier. What happened to him?” I asked.

“I don't know. I swear to God I don't. Last time I saw him he was doing real good. But I think he may have been taken by somebody,” Lafayette had hesitated to tell me this information, he must have an inkling of the perpetrator.

“By whom?” I prompted.

“I don't know,” he started. “I mean I ain't sure.”

“Hm, that's not very forthcoming of you,” I told him. I looked over at my enforcer, who had been waiting so very patiently. “Chow, you're up.”

“No! No, chill out. Shit,” Lafayette held up his hand to Chow, motioning for him to stop, and then Lafayette caved. “I think it... I think it was... Jason Stackhouse.”

“Jason Stackhouse?” I asked, nonplussed.

“Sookie's brother,” Pam reminded me in Swedish. “Could be fun,” she added and then I remember him. Handsome, AB negative, and he had come to the bar looking for vampire blood.

“Fun, but also stupid. Sookie is too important for us now,” I reminded Pam. She was an asset, one that I wanted working for me.

“That's true,” Pam agreed, reluctantly.

“Sadly, this information is of no use to me. Not now, anyway,” I told the confused looking Lafayette. Then I moved on to the line of questioning that I had been most anxious to discuss. “I understand dealers of vampire blood sometimes trade product with one another across state lines. Any buyers in the Dallas area?” I asked, revealing some of what I had learned from the drainers before I had killed them. Their blood was all bagged up and sitting in the freezer now, and the irony of draining drainers was not lost on me.

“One,” Lafayette said right away, cooperating fully. “He never gave me his name though. I have an e-mail address. Pussylover9@shemail.com.”

Pam smirked at the email address, and I wondered briefly if she was going to change her online handle.

“A friend of mine in the Dallas area, his name is Godric, has gone missing. Now, while the circumstances of his disappearance are unclear, it stands to reason his blood would be very valuable, as he's over twice my age and ten times the vampire I will ever be,” I said and realized that I had said more than I wanted. That my worries about him were sliding smoothly from my tongue and that I needed to feed again if I was ever going to get myself under control.

“Oh Eric, you don't do humble well,” Pam said teasingly, trying to lighten my mood. She knew with Godric missing, I was more on edge than ever.

“I was not being humble. This happens to be true,” I nearly snapped at her again, and I saw her hurt at my behavior toward her. I focused back on my line of questioning.“Your associate, this ‘pussylover’, has he or she mentioned any new product coming on the market?”

“No, no. And I would tell you. You know that,” he told me and I knew that he was honest, but it frustrated me to no end that he had nothing that could help.

I turned to Chow and asked him, “Take our guest and lock him back out, will you?”

Lafayette jumped to his feet. “Fuck that, I ain't going back down there. I gave you…”

“You gave me nothing!” I shouted, furious that this man had no information that would lead to Godric.

“I'm not going back.” Lafayette tried to push Chow away, and I gave the order again.

“Chow, now.”

Lafayette fought against Chow and I found it curious. I couldn’t help but be impressed by his vigor, his fight, his passion.

“I gave you every... I gave you everything! I ain't going back down!” he continued to shout as Chow manhandled him back down to the basement.

It was then that I heard the sound of an additional human heart beat and the soft scent of roses. I reached out to my blood in Jane and, of course, she was standing in the hall outside the office. What in Hel was she doing here?

The door creaked open and there was sweet little Jane. Her eyes widened as she took in my appearance. Perhaps this would scare her off for good.

“Jane,” I greeted her.

“I guess I should have called,” she said meekly.

“Yes,” I replied. She certainly had the power understatement. I turned to Pam, “Leave us. I need to glamour her.” Pam looked over at Jane and shook her head, leaving the office and shutting the door behind her. Why had Jane even come here? I didn’t want to have to do this, but she left me with no choice! I looked over at little Jane, she looked especially young and doll-like. “I have to glamour you now. You realize that?”

“Why?” she asked, clearly confused.

I prayed for the patience of Baldr, and I rested my hands on my desk. She drove me absolutely insane.

“You saw one of the prisoners, and he recognized you, even. What is to prevent you from telling the human authorities what you saw?” I asked her, and she stared me down.

“I won’t,” she promised. “It’s none of their business. You’re the Sheriff. He was the V dealer, I assume?” she asked, crossing her arms, and pushing her perfect bosom higher.

“Yes,” I acknowledged.

“I won’t tell anyone I saw him. Please… don’t glamour me,” she begged me and I saw her lip tremble in fear. I believed she wouldn’t give up this information knowingly, but her mind was open to any vampire, and now the telepath as well. I had to glamour her, for her own safety.

“It’s too dangerous for you as well. Especially now that you’re friends with a telepath, your silence could incriminate you,” I explained to her. Those dark blue green eyes of hers steeled and I could help but feel proud of her. She could be quite brave, facing something that she feared so greatly.

“What will you do? Make me forget?” she asked.

“That path leads to many problems, as you saw with Ginger. You will retain the memory, but you won’t be able to think of it. You will know, but you won’t be able to say anything about it.” I didn’t want to have to glamour her, and I worried about this.I knew too much glamouring would damage her mind. And her mind was a unique one.

She nodded at me, drawing her courage around her.

I hated this. I remember what she had told me, that it felt like mind rape. I never wanted to make her feel violated, especially in light of the other trauma she had experienced.

“Fine,” she told me and I began the glamour.

“Jane.”

Her eyes glazed over and I imposed my will on her.

“You will not be able to think of the man that you saw Chow take to the basement. You will not speak of what you witnessed to anyone.”

“Of course,” she agreed.

I released her and she lurched to the trash bin, vomiting. Humans and their fluids. I’d had enough of them today. She sat on the couch, and I felt her through the blood. I felt her upset. Why did she do this? It made me hate myself.

“Why did you come?” I asked her.

“I wanted to talk to you. I can see that you’re... busy. I’ll go. I’ll text or call next time,” she told me vaguely, standing to leave. I grabbed her arm, my intention had been to ask her to elaborate, to explain what her purpose was but I felt her warmth beneath my hand and all my urges to devour and claim her came hurtling to the surface. The look she gave me, the feeling from her in the blood...lust. She wanted me. She wanted me even when I was covered in blood.

My fangs dropped hard and I was seconds away from biting her throat and fucking her on my desk.

What the fuck was wrong with me? I released her quickly and forced my fangs up painfully.

“Jane. Things are...tense. With my Maker missing,” I tried to explain, but I really couldn’t. I couldn’t explain my loss of control around her.

“Let me know if I can help,” she offered sweetly.

She had no idea of the danger I posed to her, I shook my head at her. “I will not hurt you again,” I promised her.

She smiled her strange sad smile, the one that made the area where my heart used to pulse ache.

“Goodnight, Eric,” she said softly, and then she left.

What the fucking Hel!? I slammed my hand against the wall, creating a crack in the plaster and I didn’t give a flying fuck.

What was wrong with me?

****

The next evening I took Pam to the mall and allowed her to shop and style me as she pleased. It seemed the very least I could do and having my childe close brought me comfort. I wore Godric’s platinum coated fang around my throat, as if wearing it would allow me to find him.

As we were strolling through the mall, who should we see but Bill fucking Compton.

Then, in a stroke of genius, I had an idea. Bill’s telepathic human could search for Godric. Sookie could investigate the humans at the Fellowship of the Sun and see if Stan’s assertion that they were behind Godric’s disappearance was correct.

“Go to the bar Pam, I’ll meet you there after I negotiate with Billy boy,” I told her. She brushed invisible lint from the navy tracksuit she had dressed me in and then departed with a smile. While it wasn’t what I would choose for myself, I was fine with indulging my child in her game of dressup.

I strolled through the store, and meandered over to Bill.

“Good evening, old sport,” I greeted him, hoping to make him feel at ease. He would be easier to bargain with if he was in a giving mood.

“Eric?” he said, astounded, by either my presence or my new attire, it was hard to say.

“It's the new me. You like?” I asked, smirking. How many times do we have to reinvent ourselves?

“I do. Very much,” Bill agreed, the Mainstreamer he was, he would likely follow all the latest human trends. I almost scoffed at the idea of him wearing one of those hats that truckers wear. The sales associate that had been attempting to hit on him, backed away sheepishly.

“Oh, okay,” she looked between us and I realized that she thought we were a couple. Hilarious, as if Bland Bill could stir my passions.

“We need to talk,” I told him.

He glared and I led him away from the humans and began to explain.

“The Sheriff of Area 9 in Texas has gone missing. Have you heard about that?”

“I hadn't, but I know the vampire of whom we speak. His name is Godric, correct?”

I wondered how Bill knew of Godric. But Godric’s reputation did precede him.

“Indeed. Now it goes without saying he needs to be found. Which is where Sookie comes in. As she's yours, I'm asking your permission to take her with me to Dallas,” I explained my plan to him.

“Eric, you can do whatever you want with me, but I am not putting her in this position anymore. I cannot and I will not allow you to bring her into these matters,” he said, not even attempting to barter with me.

“We made a deal, your human and I. That if I didn't kill, she would work for me as often as I like. Now, you remember this, don't you? You were there,” I reminded him.

“Taking her across state lines is a far cry from taking her to Fangtasia for the evening,” Bill said sternly, clearly not willing to discuss this further. What a fool.

“I'm only asking your permission out of respect. If I want her, I can simply take her. Is "no" your final answer?” I asked him.

“It is,” he said firmly.

I shook my head, and replied, “Poorly played, Bill.”

He wasn’t even willing to try to bargain with me, and I wondered again about his purpose with the telepathic waitress. I checked my phone on the way out of the mall, surprised to see that I missed several calls from Pam. I called her as I strolled out.

“You rang?” I asked.

“Mmm, yeah, the lovely Lafayette Reynolds tried to escape and Ginger shot him,” Pam said in her usual tone.

“Is he dead?” I asked her in Swedish.

“Not yet, our meretricious little Macgyver dug the metal hip out of his dead compadre with his teeth, used it to break his chains, and then attempted to seduce Ginger into letting him go,” Pam explained gleefully. “I like him, can we keep him?”

“Creative,” I commented as I exited the mall. “I’ll be there soon.”

I went behind the mall and took off in flight. I had to stop and pick up the accounting work from Bruce, and then I was able to return to Fangtasia. I strolled into the back, checking over the numbers for the bar. It was scented with rich thick blood, flavorful and powerful...full of untapped potential.

“Sorry to keep you waiting for so long,” I said as I entered the office. “How's the leg?” I asked Lafayette.

“Shitty. Thanks for asking,” he replied with sarcasm at his pain and Pam grinned again.

“After all your proclamations about what a model prisoner you were going to be, you had to try to escape,” I said, curious about his reasoning, but he did say he was a survivor first. I couldn’t really begrudge him that.

“You were going to kill me anyway, right?” he asked next and Pam smirked. We’d certainly have to kill him now, he wasn’t going to make it without medical care.

“Now you'll never know. So, what's it gonna be, Lafayette? Would you like the leg to kill you, or would you prefer us to do it?”

“I'm gonna go with plan C,” he said and he surprised me, such a rare thing for a breather.

“There's a plan C?” I asked.

“Make me a vampire,” he offered.

“I beg your pardon?”

Then he began to make his case, “And you can put me to work in the bar. I'm a good dancer. You seen it on my site. Shit, I get up there and move Earth and heaven, go-go style.”

I came and stood over him, not sure what he knew about vampires and turning. “You are aware there's a gaping hole in your leg? You're damaged goods,” I tested him.

“Not if you turn me. I'll be good as ever.” So he did know at least that much. “Look, I... I'm already a person of poor moral character, so I'll hit the ground running. And I damn near glamour people already. Give me what y'all got, and it's on me, cracker. Not only will I be a badass vampire, but I'll be your badass vampire.”

For a moment, time was frozen. I was sucked into the memory of Pamela asking me to turn her, and me refusing, and her making her case to me. And then her killing herself anyway and I decided… I chose to have her by side, my companion.

My badass vampire.

I liked this Lafayette Reynolds. He lived with a sort of honesty that was rare, and he had shown himself to have the survival instincts and spirit that would take him through the ages. He interested me, and so very few men did. He also reminded me much of Pam and I could see that they would be excellent blood siblings, thick as thieves. It would be good to have youngling around, so fresh and eager...

I scented his rich blood, his untapped potential and….it all intrigued me.

Was I actually considering this, now, with my control all over and Godric missing? Was this just another way in which I was losing touch? No, best not to make any major decisions now. We could start to drink from him now, I could reconsider later, after I’d fed, and had a clearer head. He had a few good nights left in him still.

“Interesting. I'll take it under advisement,” I told him. “Pam, Chow, chowtime,” I offered and Chow grinned at my play on words, puns really were the height of humor.

Then, I leaned over and bit Lafayette.

He was absolutely delicious.

[thestraggletag]

Creature Comforts, a Dragon!Rumbelle Sequel

Summary: The morning after the storm. Sequel to Creature Instincts.

Rating: PG-13

He woke up some time during the night, disoriented from having fallen asleep somewhere other than his bed. He noticed idly that there was light coming from the kitchen, which meant the power was back. But the heating would take time warming up the house, big and old as it was, so he tried to disentangle himself from Belle to tend to the fire. 

“Let me, I’m closer.”

Belle rose, unselfconscious of her nudity, and pecked him on the cheek before reaching out to the neat stack of firewood and tossing a couple of logs into the dying embers of the fire. He watched in fascination as she reared back, taking a deep breath before blowing a steady blue plume of fire, setting the wood aflame. He noticed her eyes shone greater as she breathed fire. He had noticed his do the same. He marvelled at how small she was, how dainty and fragile-looking, and yet how it was all a ruse, well-crafted lie. She was a creature of power, with more strength and stamina that a human could ever hope to have.

‘A perfect match for us.’ The creature inside him was curled up, still seemingly satisfied by their recent rough coupling. It had never felt so before after sex, quite the contrary. It disliked being constrained and limited, being told to hold back, to be softer, or gentler or altogether less. He hadn’t had to hold back with Belle, with her thick skin and brute force. His muscles ached in a way they never had before. She had given him as good as she got and it felt wonderful, to be so tired, so spent.

“You look at me like I’m unreal, it’s very flattering, but strange. Haven’t you met any of our kind before?”

Belle shifted till she was draped over him, arms folded on his chest and chin propped up over them, peering at him curiously with sleepy eyes. She felt soft and loose above him, not an ounce of tension in her body. 

‘We tucked her out. How lovely.’ The creature purred, pressing against the edges of his consciousness. ‘Let’s do it again.’

It was possibly giddy, like a child, and it made him giddy too. He shook his head, telling her his only encounters with those of his kind were from far away and long ago, people in passing that had smelt a bit like him from a distance. 

“I’ve heard tales, and tracked down stories. I have come across antiques that were obviously once part of another dragon’s hoard, by the smell and feel of them. But that’s about as close as I’ve gotten.” He stroked her back, loving the sleek texture of her scales, and how warm she was. A furnace, just like him. “What about you?”

“Mom died when I was little, but her family kept in touch, helped me growing up. Introduced me to a small community of dragons in Australia. Mostly male dragons, I think everyone was hoping for a bit of matchmaking since females are rare, or so I’m told. Didn’t quite work out. I wanted… love. Settling for ‘someone of my own species’ felt like short-changing myself. Gave in to my urge to see the world partly to get away from a persistent jerk who didn’t know the meaning of the word no.” She wrinkled her nose, which he found adorable. Vaguely he tried to make himself adopt a less dopey expression, but his face would not budge.  

Suddenly she frowned, as if a new, puzzling thought had crossed her mind.

“Did you even know I was like you?”

He shook his head, seeing no point in lying, as much as it embarrassed him that he had not put the clues together before. Her eyes softened even more, a dreamy expression in them.

“I thought for sure you knew. That it was why you first paid attention to me, why you enjoyed sparring with me. It’s a very traditional courting practice amongst our kind, and it was the first time I found myself wanting to participate. I found our fights… stimulating.” The heated look in her eyes, coupled with her words, sent a jolt of sudden, scorching pleasure down his spine.

“Oh, it is safe to say I enjoyed them as well. I just didn’t know how much. My son and my daughter-in-law, I’m afraid to say, cottoned on to my interest in you before I did. The creature in me always knew, though, tried to tell me. I wasn’t listening. We… we don’t always get along.”

It was an understatement. Growing up inhuman had been difficult. He had been alone in a world full of people. He had had to figure everything out on his own, about what he was, and what it meant. How to survive. How to live around people without hurting them, and without them hurting him in return. He had never quite figured that part out, truthfully. It had been hard, and painful, and… lonely. So, so lonely.

“I’ve seen it looking at me.” Belle smiled, reaching out to pet his hair. “I would be fighting with you over extra funds to expand the selection of Latin American authors at the library and it would flash across your eyes. It always thrilled me.”

The creature preened, clearly not immune to flattery. It was strange but pleasant to feel in sync with it, it happened so rarely. Her look darkened, her own pupils becoming slits as her eyes shone unnaturally blue. He had but a moment to brace himself before she pounced on him, her inhuman strength still taking him by surprise in spite of it all, thrilling him as if it was a new discovery. They were rougher with each other, more comfortable now that they knew without a shadow of a doubt that they could not hurt each other easily. It was the sort of uninhibited, passionate coupling he had always restrained himself from and it felt wonderful. She had certainly ruined him for other women. And he hoped that her loud moans and her many orgasms meant he had had a similar impact on her.

When they woke up again it was close to eleven o’clock, a shockingly late hour to be waking up. Reluctantly they left the comfort of their improvised nest and donned their clothes, if only to keep themselves in check long enough to eat something. It was Saturday, as rent-day always fell on a Friday, and though he usually opened his shop for a half workday he always took off Saturdays after rent-day, usually to recover enough to don his human facade again. It was a day he usually enjoyed, with a hearty breakfast and, if the weather permitted, some time outside lazing in the sun, or if not taking care of his treasures, and browsing antique websites to see what caught his fancy.

It was strange not to feel a frisson of excitement at the prospect of growing his hoard, but he reasoned that greater biological impulses were at play. Instincts he had never had a chance to explore. 

‘And given how she’s looking at us we’re not the only ones with a one-track mind.’

The creature thrilled happily, its unbridled joy mixing with his own as they both stared at Belle, who was idly whisking a few egg-whites into a merengue and shooting covert looks their way. In the light of the morning her silver skin took a soft pink undertone, barely perceptible. He was fascinated by it, by the sleek feel of her scales and their warmth. She was so tiny, and so kind, and so gentle. He had seen her interact with children, soothe irritated elderly library patrons who could not find the book they were looking for, and evade the advances of slimy men like Keith Nott a couple of times at Granny’s. And yet there was this whole other part of her, a part she didn’t show others, could never show. He alone would know her, all of her, and the possessiveness he felt at the prospect was heady.

‘Ours. Mate.’

The creature rumbled, clearly pleased, and nudged Rowan forward, telling him that surely food could wait for later. He was about to reach out and snag the librarian about the waist, her smell letting him know she would not shoo him away, when he caught the sound of his Facetime ringer. Bae sometimes called on Saturday mornings to check on him, if rent-day had seemed like it had worn him out a bit much, and there was a chance he might have heard about the blackout from Emma’s foster sister, who lived in Storybrooke. He whispered against her lips that he would be quick and moved the tablet to face away from where Belle was, swiping to take the call with the practiced ease of someone used to manipulating touch technology with claws.

“Hey, Bae. How’s everyone?”

“Hi, pops! Emma is still asleep, she came home only a few hours ago. Little Henry is watching The Dragon Prince on her tablet. Keeps him quiet.”

It seemed to amuse Bae a little bit too much that Henry’s favourite TV shows usually were about dragons, as before he had been obsessed with Jake Long and Dragon Booster before that. Rowan had learned to pretend he didn’t notice, though he had to admit that it did please him a bit. He was hoping to let Emma in on his secret so it would be easier to tell Henry, when the time came.

“I heard about the blackout from Emma, and wanted to check in. The storm yesterday was pretty bad, and that old Queen Anne gets cold really fast without electricity.”

He couldn’t help but be warmed by Bae’s worry, even and he cursed his timing. He assured him that he was alright, having spent the night by the fire in the living-room, and that the power was back on and the house was properly heated once more.

“I’m glad, pop. Hope your favourite librarian is okay too. Perhaps you could go over to her house with a bottle of wine and check up on her.”

He waggled his eyebrows, which Rowan was glad Belle could not see. She could, however, hear everything, made all the more evident by the amused smile on her face, and her raised eyebrows. Fucking Baden.

“Let’s not start this again, I-”

“No, pops, come on. You’re gaga over that woman. You talk about her so much I sometimes feel like I know her more than I know my own wife. Emma agrees. Hell, even little Henry could name at least three of her favourite outfits. Including her heels, which I gotta tell you gives me a glimpse into you that I would rather not have.”

He was too busy turning an almost orangey shade of gold out of embarrassment to register at first that Belle had broken into peals of laughter, which she tried in vain to suppress. Bae, however, heard right away, his eyes turning round and panicky on the screen.

“Oh my God, pops, is someone there?! Is Belle there?! Do you know that you’re-I mean, that you look-”

Bae had gone through a terrified phase in adolescence after he had become acutely aware of the danger his father faced if his nature was exposed. It had broken his heart to see it, but he had thankfully grown out of it once it had become clear that it was unlikely to happen. Clearly, though, he wasn’t as unbothered by the notion as he seemed. He was trying to figure out how to reassure him when Belle took a few steps towards him, pausing to give him a significant look. At his surprised nod she crossed the remaining distance until she was snuggling against his side, smiling shyly and looking distinctly non-human.

“Hi, I’m Belle. Rowan has told me so much about you. Can I call you Bae?”

From inside the tablet his son let out a surprised “eep” that his sensitive ears objected to loudly. He looked at Belle, clearly taking in her silver skin and glowing eyes, and then at his papa, going back and forth with an air of shock and surprise that was almost insulting. Then, slowly, a lopsided smile formed across his unshaven face.

“Pop, you lucky dog!” He started slow-clapping, which made him wish the earth would open up and swallow him whole. “I mean, what are to odds! And the implications. I wanna know everything. Well, not everything. Definitely not everything. Like, please, no. But still, I have questions. So many questions.”

Rowan eyed the end call button, trying to imagine just how mad Bae would be if he pressed it.

“Buuuuuut I can see I interrupted something so I’m just gonna get Henry dressed and go with him to the park. You know, give you two crazy kids some time.” Okay, perhaps Bae was not the worst son ever. “But I will be expecting a call later. And for you to send Emma a message confirming the relationship so she’s forced to fork over the fifty bucks she lost. Don’t forget about that, pops, love you, talk to you soon!”

He was gone a second later, leaving him feeling Belle trembling with laughter against him. He marvelled at how at ease she felt, even though he knew exposing one’s true nature to someone was a huge thing. A sign of trust, of intimacy, of-

Commitment. 

‘Yes. Ours. Always.’

The creature said it matter of factly, as if he was stating the obvious to a particularly thick-headed individual. He shushed it, though half-heartedly, and pressed a kiss against Belle’s hair, whispering a quick “thank you” before going over to where his French press was, determined to make a mockery out of Granny’s lattes. The sooner Belle saw the benefits of breakfasting at his house the better.

[hazard-and-friends]

i watched the first episode of canine intervention tonight, here’s some uncensored liveblogging featuring my spicey dog training takes:

“my dog training system is known all over the world" mhmm. lemme google this guy.

by clicking through his in person training site to his online remote training course, i found a whole lot of big red flags: "Establish pack leadership" dogs don't have pack leaders. anyone who wants to make you a leader is not using a good understanding of dog behavior "Time your praise and corrections" the times when i use corrections are when i'm the least on my game. my goal is NEVER to use corrections/positive punishment. why should i? it's concerning that he uses it as a core part of his method. "Exercise and reinforce your leadership as a way of life" more leadership bullshit.

fancy letters are not the end-all-be-all, and there are trainers i seriously respect who have none of them. but they don't talk about leadership and corrections. it's concerning that he talks about his sports team as a kid, where he went to high school, and his celebrity clients, but not his mentors and education in training.

back to the show

why does his facility have enough dogs to keep them in kennels? how does that teach aggressive dogs how to be safe in a home environment?

not all of the dogs in the first shot of a class (~1:38) have two collars on but a lot do. that's not a red flag (i worked sydney in two collars [her flat collar and a martingale, because syd was very gear smart and it was nice to tell her that we were doing heeling now]) but with what i saw on his website? it's quite likely that one of those is the dog's normal flat collar with tags, and the other is a prong, choke chain, or electric collar

also: "I help the dogs that no one else will" is a flat out lie

if you're willing to take on any human aggression cases, generally you’re willing to take on all of them. now, some of these cases may generally lead to a recommendation of euthanasia. but that's in the best interests of the dog and owner

oop class shot where it's clear that they're wearing prongs

here's two points not about this guy specifically: 1) it is hard (impossible?) to do humane, ethical dog training in a 45 minute episode slot. it's not good tv. it's slow as hell. there's no drama. the aggression trainers i know? have never been bitten. many have never been CLOSE to being bitten. no tv value. 2) the positive dog training community is OVERWHELMINGLY white and middle class.

it's also full of racists.

"Nearly a million dogs are euthanized yearly and over 40% of them are pit bulls" i've calculated that first statistic myself, but it's important to put it in context: this is USA specific, and that's down from 3-4 million 20 years ago. the second one, i would love to see his source.

he's right that it's important to understand where aggression comes from

anyway back to those two points, at the same time that it's really, really hard to do compelling TV with ethical dog trainers, it's also really REALLY important that the positive dog training community be working on being anti-racist. and it's really, really important that low income dog owners and people of color are getting good dog training.

alright first case! he's had her 3 months, 3 bites in that time. 10 attempted attacks. she's a young adult bully breed mix who had one front leg amputated after being shot. owner walks her in a muzzle which is a) too small and b) not bite proof.

"I see what we're working with" he says, after approaching a dog in her crate. hazard responds similarly to someone coming in, but he's not a bite risk. that's not a good evaluation.

he is correct about lady macbeth's motivations: this is a dog who's scared as hell and making herself really big and scary so that everyone leaves her alone.

okay he's also right that playing with her around strangers is really, really good for fear aggression

"frenzied just chaotic state" yeah no

reality check for y'all: i am not an aggression specialist and i have seen more freaked out dogs

she was on edge! she was unhappy! but holy shit was she not even remotely close to what dogs are capable of

"she just bit me!" she nipped your cheek, not breaking skin. that's a level 1 or 2 (of 6). that's not NOTHING but it's well within normal for a dog who's being restrained when she wants to be somewhere else.

[note that at no point in the episode was the owner ever given any sort of indication that lady macbeth is not this horribly aggressive Pit Bull TM. nor was there any discussion of a bite scale.]

"The only option we're gonna have is to [board and train] for 3 weeks" "I have no choice but to take her back to my facility back in San Jose and work daily with her" no!!!!!

[15 minute break]

lmao sorry i had to go yell at gf about how much this board and train is not necessary and in the process penny decided to cause Drama again

ANYWAY, the b&t is not necessary because all of those aggressive incidents bar the first could have been avoided if the owner was on the ball. this is not JUST a lady macbeth issue, this is ALSO an owner issue. both of them need to relearn how to handle new people.

as a bonus, lady macbeth needs to learn to trust her owner, which she categorically cannot do in a b&t

"The box is an important training tool to teaching new behaviors. It's also a first step in establishing pack leadership" ok this is new to me

and new is not a good thing here

text: Obedience depends on a dog's trust and respect for their pack leader calculus depends on your trust and respect for your math teacher! if you respect them a lot you will magically be able to do calc!

I WAS HOPING. I WAS TRYING.

i was HOPING that his training for her fear aggression would be based in toy play.

instead he's got a fake arm and he keeps reaching out to poke her, and the owner says "no!" and does a leash pop (leash wrapped around her neck) every time she tries to bite.

"She doesn't know it's not his hand" it smells like plastic what would she THINK it is

also funky that we're 19 minutes into the episode about an aggressive bully breed mix and the trainer's childhood bully breed mix who killed a dog, and like. not a single mention of what these dogs were bred for.

let's go back to "how are you teaching aggressive dogs to live nicely in a home, if they are spending most of the day in a wire kennel"

for shits take, high school doesn't teach you how to handle your emotions! why should obedience class teach your dog the same?

and then like, every time she breaks the down he yells NOPE and leans over her??????

dude you're scaring her into being obedient. while you're talking about how it's important to treat her fear.

text: Fear based aggression can be reduced by desensitizing the dog to strangers you're right! it sure can! THAT'S NOT WHAT YOU'RE DOING HERE

you've got a dog on her side with one hand over her, the other on a skinny check chain on her neck. every time she does anything but lay flat, the leash is popped and you say no. you are flooding this dog and creating learned helplessness.

jo summed it up well with this: he's good at seeing the behavior, he knows what he's looking at, he just can't change it. he only knows one method.

jo and i are now trying to figure out if "dog training but marie kondo not cesar milan" is a viable tv show

jas correctly stops the friend and changes how he approaches the dog, that's a good response

i'm laughing bc after a 3 week board and train which is not going to be less than $4k, he's giving the exact same "how to meet new people" directions that i would give to a similar client--at the start of our time! not at the end!

"I can't imagine imagine a dog having it too much worse than she did, the fact that she took a gunshot, the fact that she had no security for years of her life" alright dude a) think worse, this PALES to abuse cases b) let's not? shittalk? the care that people without reliable housing give to their dogs (and occasional cat!)?? because what they do for their pets is incredible, and it isn't necessarily connected to her opinions on strangers

so yeah still laughing bc like. that "happy ending" would be my first session with a client. that's how you START handling stranger danger. and for this the owner paid thousands.

[theyearsiturnedintoaghost]

Hello, Is This Thing On?

Hi! (as mentioned above). Do people still use this thing? I have no idea. Years ago, and I do mean YEARS ago, I had one of these. I didn’t use it for much, just reposting things, following humans I’d met in online communities, a ‘celebrity’ here or there, sometimes screaming about shit I couldn’t control into the void that is the endless scrolling interweb, and being pointless in wasting my time between classes, work, and twenty-something. Regardless, my previous tumblr had minimal followers, made minimal impact, and that was okay. It was honestly just a nice place to sort of hide in plain sight. Still be part of a social world without actually having to do much. This was also pre a billion other apps and social media outlets to express yourself or scroll mindlessly at a million other pointless things that people were posting to make you giggle or even just stop for a second and think.  

Clearly, the point of this, back then, felt like something I would use to help propel my writing career. Turns out, it did not. I did not write much, if at all. And most of the time I think it was because I was scared nothing was as good as any of the other stuff I was reading from people I liked, and thought were so much cooler and smarter than me; I still feel this way all of the time, but I do realize this was me being nervous, small minded about myself, and completely unconfident.  

Unfortunately, I am still most of these things a lot of the time, but recently, after getting fired from a job, having my heart broken by pretty much everyone on the planet, especially a few specific people, cancelled by all of my friends (?) - this is a thing btw. (It’s not as awful as being cancelled publicly, but it does still ruin your life, mindset, confidence, and overall physical and mental wellbeing) Getting a new job, hating it and feeling like I was going no where, and missing out on living a life I felt proud of and that I was actively participating in, I decided maybe I should just try to write it all out and see what happens. 

To be frank, I expect nothing of this. I can’t fathom a world where anything I have to say truly matters to people because lets be real - everyone has this own shit and everyone is going through so much all of the time.  And we all think we have something new, quirky, interesting, and important to say.  And in a world that constantly shoves perfection down our throats and works so hard to make each of us feel completely inadequate to every Kardashian, Beyonce, Grande, etc., it’s hard to really think that anything I have to say will matter to anyone; at all. 

(I also hate that all of my ‘perfectionist’ people were female, but maybe it’s harder to compare to Golden Boys when you are a female. Either way, there are many boys/men/theys/thems that are put on a pedestal and made out to be perfect out there, as well, and they deserve that notation as well. I just have no points of reference off the top of my head, so please forgive me; I am trying to do this in a stream of consciousness type thing.)

I mean, the truth is, I’m a fucking mess. I’m 33, single, living at home, afraid of my own shadow most of the time, and spend about 98% of my time alone. I pay for a phone plan that I literally only use to send memes to my two sisters, and that’s about it. I rarely receive texts, invites out, or even calls to make plans for something.  And while a lot of this is my own doing - again, I did cut off most of the world after I realized I was sort of the joke to a lot of people - it’s still kind of pathetic, and entirely uncool.  I am not a socialite, or someone cool and trendy, and to be honest, I kind of never want to be.  

Which is a semi-false statement, because years ago, when I had one of these previously, I sort of hoped it would work out and that I could write and be ‘cool.’ Whatever the fuck that means.  But now, years later, I’m honestly beyond glad I am not cool; not in the slightest. Maybe that’s making it to your 30s? Maybe the trade for having to create a daily routine of lathering up my body with like 9 different versions of FDA-Approved-Vampire-Juice on my skin to prevent me from looking any older than I already do, you in turn get to have a brain that finally realizes... having a ‘normal’ life is honestly pretty cool? Normal is clearly subjective here as everyone is normal, famous, notoriety, or not; They’re all still humans and people with feelings, thoughts, and emotions. This is a hard thing to realize when you see stadiums full of people screaming at Harry Styles (Boom! found a male perfect in this scatterbrain) or hundreds of paparazzi lined up to take photos of every person on a red carpet wearing clothing that costs as much as my student loan debt (Which sidenote, is VERYYYYYY much). It’s hard to fully realize that maybe some of those people who became ‘icons’ never really knew what they were getting into when they signed that deal with the Devil to make them seemingly immortal; especially in a world with the internet where everything can exist forever (or until the world explodes, clearly).  But maybe getting into my 30s and removing myself from most social media outlets, even listening to the news, or caring about whatever fucking popular haircut was in this season (it’s always bangs, and I’ve already made that mistake. No thanks), that I learned to realize - the truly most important people in your life are the ones that stick with you when it’s tough. When getting out of bed is so hard your limbs ache and you cry every morning on your way to work, at your desk behind your computer screen hidden in a corner, or in a bathroom stall during your lunch break. The normalcy that comes with realizing your prayers to ‘just make it to five o’clock,’ are heard and that you are just so thankful for that that you don’t even desire the innate feeling in most of our egos to stand out, be seen, ‘Make it’ in a way that lets people notice we ‘succeeded.’ Maybe this only comes with the realization of how nice it is to go to a grocery store braless and unnoticed. 

Maybe this is also something I, and so many of us in this point and shoot viral world, are trying to still learn. 

Sure, a lot of days I still crave being able to make a perfect Pintrest project, practice my Late Night interview with Letterman where I sound funny, charming, and likeable to all walks of life, or recreate a recipe from the New York Times website so great that The Barefoot Contessa finds out through word of mouth, and comes to my basement hide out, and offers to give me, a fellow barefoot loving bitch, her title and crown along with a glass of wine and a kiss from her husband, Jeffery. We’ll both laugh at how lovely it feels to be Barefoot ladies who understand that wanting ‘fame’ or ‘recognition’ in your twenties is only really a pathway to destruction by your 30s. 

And this is not exactly something that I learned easy.  In fact, I spent most of my twenties destroying my body with drugs - plenty of hard ones - and alcohol - various kinds of the same things - in order to numb my brain from the sadness that is just... being young, lonely, scared, unsure of yourself, and nervous that all of your hopes and expectations for yourself in your ‘dream life’ are too much for what you and your actual self will ever be capable of ever becoming. That I would never become the comedian I dreamed of being, or sing the perfect song in front of a crowd of admirers, or write that best selling book to tell everyone who thought I was nothing they could go fuck themselves. It’s something I still have to remind myself, and my brain and ego, that are most likely things I will never do because those are lottery dreams.  And people you know don’t actually win the lottery. And at the end of the day, I am people you know. And sometimes it breaks my own heart to realize I may never feel that rush of making a crowd laugh, or creating a piece of art that makes someone feel seen, but as Pam, from The Office said, and I am paraphrasing, ‘there is beauty in ordinary things.’ And I think reminding myself of that as I sat on the beach this summer and watched a dad teach his son to surf, and how happy they both were when he got up, gave me that brief feeling of... being okay. I won’t lie, I did cry a little at this realization at that moment, and I am slightly teary now as I write it, but I think I’m not ashamed of that because being normal means I get to feel things as I do, in that moment, and that is something I think I lacked in my desiring-bigger-flashier- twenties; actually being present in the world and your place in it. Even if that is just as small as being kind to a random person on the street.

I think that is why everything I felt I wanted to write never came out correct.  It never came out ‘Perfect.’ And that was my problem for most of my life, even up until today, I’m afraid that I am a perfectionist in the ways that are preventing me from becoming... me. I’m still fearful that I am too late in ever ‘accomplishing’ anything I ever dreamed. I doubt I will ever actually write a book. I’m unsure I’ll ever make a decent living. I am beyond doubtful I am ever going to be loveable to someone whom I also want to love back. And maybe I’m a little scared that I’ll never have a kid, or that if I do have a kid, I’ll never be a decent parent. And I’m still working on breaking the cycle of thinking something has to ‘sound’ or ‘be seen as important’ to be meaningful. There is beauty in the ordinary. I’ve started to make it my mantra. Spoken in my head every time I see a teenage couple holding hands walking in town, a father holding their baby close to his chest, a woman dressed in a power suit striding through an office building or city on their way to make their own careers or push equality further. I’ve started to dream of how actual normalcy makes the real changes. How every 4th grade teacher has a chance to change some kids life.

Clearly, a lot of these personal fears I have about myself not being ‘enough,’ or doing something good enough to become successful at it and build a life out of it, are monotonous fears and privileged middle-class complaints. I’m aware they may not resonate with anyone, anything, or mean much more than just being an online public diary entry to my own meandering thoughts, but, still - I finally felt like I had to try.  

So here it is, the whole truth on how I let myself become a ghost for years. 

I hope someone will stick around while I just... try to explain it all, figure it all out, and hopefully make sense out of even being whatever a human who is hoping to grow even means. Hopefully, something here will resonate with someone else and we can create our own little weirdo corner of the world where we’re not seeking more than just trying to be honest with ourselves and what it means to be human.  Even if that means just posting a recipe for banana bread (thank you Gwen Steffani for keeping me able to spell Banana), reposting random memes about how we all want to scream for 30 seconds and feel better, or sad-girl diary entry posts about how I ruined my own life a million times over.  Oh, and maybe I’ll give you tips on how to stain your wood deck, because I spent my day doing that yesterday and basically, Home Depot is calling me to be in their ADs. 

But at the core of it all, lets be very real, it’s hard to be human in so many ways. And I’m just hoping this connects with anyone. Especially any of us who wished we were different - in any way.

xoxo

-K