#I'm tempted to keep posting just so it keeps getting ignored. I hope I become annoying as fuck.

[pizzaboat]

Kinda getting sick of every post I make being ignored on a certain discord server...

[noxemma]

Chapter two for my Hot Summer Art fic is up!

I might actually get to posting all of these before the end of the month if I can keep up this pace 😂

Tags, Rating, Word Count, AO3 link, etc. at the bottom

Beside Your Side

Fic Summary: Dean convinces Sam to look into a potential case where people are going missing from a New Jersey beach town. Of course, they have to bring Cas and Eileen along, just in case it's not a monster. Dean is excited to get the case over quickly and enjoy a well-earned vacation with the people he loves the most. Nothing ever seems to go the way Dean plans it though, and this case is no exception.

Chapter 2: Nothing Wrong with Floral

Dean

Dean starts to relax and enjoy himself as Baby cruises through the downtown area. The windows are down, his rock mix is blasting, and Cas in his old AC/DC shirt leaning toward the open window with the sun on his face looking gorgeous.

I guess I should have expected he wouldn’t have much in the way of casual clothes. It’s not like we’ve ever taken a vacation before, and his standard suit and trench coat usually suffice for any government position we impersonate.

Dean glances over at Cas again and tries to ignore the way his heart feels like it’s been replaced with warm goo. Cas is resplendent in the early evening glow, the light emphasizing his high cheekbones and contrasting against the scruff that’s grown over the last few days. Sunbeams and wind play through his hair and Dean can see the glint of grey that’s started to sprout ever since he’s become nearly human.

God, it only makes him more attractive though, Dean thinks, running a hand through his own hair self-consciously. Don’t know if I quite pull it off the way that he does.

“Dean?”

Dean suddenly finds blue eyes staring back at him quizzically. One brow arches and Dean gulps at the way his stomach tries to take up residence in his throat.

“Wha-what?”

“I believe a green light indicates that it is your turn to go, correct?” Cas snarks and Dean is so tempted to lean in and kiss the smile off his face.

Thankfully a car horn saves him from himself, prompting him to hit the gas and speed through the intersection. Cas goes back to enjoying the sun and Dean resolutely focuses on finding a parking space near the address Sam gave him. He ends up getting lucky with a spot in the shade and they don’t even have to walk that far to the pretty townhouse belonging to Bradley's sister. Cas stops Dean just before he knocks on the door.

“Dean, are you sure I shouldn’t just wait in the car? I was pretty useless at this the last time I tried to help, and I can’t imagine I’ve gotten much better. I don't have 'people skills' like you and Sam." Cas actually uses air quotes, but the insecurity in his voice sucks all the humor out of the idiosyncrasy.  

“You weren’t useless, you were just … awkward. You were trying to be too much like me and Sam; do it exactly how we do it. Just be yourself and I’m sure you’ll be alright.” Dean winks at him, immediately regrets the action when Cas’ brows pinch together, and spins around to knock on the door before he can stick his foot further into his mouth.

The door swings inward to reveal an attractive woman in her mid-twenties.

“Um, can I help you?” The woman crosses her arms and stares defiantly as if she can’t think of any greater inconvenience than two strangers showing up on her doorstep. “Hello, I'm Dean and this is Castiel,” Dean introduces them, completely unfazed by her attitude and laying on the charm thick. “We’re podcasters and we were hoping to interview you for an episode on-"

“You two, podcasters? Yeah, sure and I’m a mermaid on the full moon. Get off my porch before I call the cops,” she rolls her eyes and retreats into the house.

“Wait, please,” Cas calls out before she can fully slam the door. When she opens the door a few inches, he steps in front of Dean to address her. “I apologize for him. He doesn’t think people will talk to us if we tell them the truth. You see, we’re both actually really into true crime and missing people. It all started when his father went missing, and it’s become somewhat of a hobby and an obsession since then. Helping others find their loved ones gives him a bit of the closure he never got.”

Dean’s pretty sure his jaw is on the floor, and it stays there as the woman eyes them up and down before sighing and opening the door fully.

“Ugh, fine. Come in. You get three minutes.”

“Thank you,” Cas responds graciously, leaving Dean standing dumbstruck on the porch.

“God, I’m such a sucker for sad blue eyes,” the woman says to Cas’ retreating form. She turns a calculating gaze onto Dean, eyeing him up and down before carefully saying, “Your boyfriend gets you to do whatever he wants with those things, doesn’t he?”

What? He’s not actually-,” Dean stops himself because it feels like a trap. Plus, he doesn’t want this woman to know that Cas isn’t actually dating him. Not when she’s staring at his backside appreciatively. “Uh, yeah, but don’t tell him that. I don’t think he’s figured out what a sucker I am yet.”

Like what you read? You can find the rest of the chapter here on AO3

Rating: Explicit

Chapters: 2/? (hopefully 9 😂)

Chapter Word Count: ~8,400

Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Case Fic, Established Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Beach Case, Cannon when convenient, Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con (Dean and background characters), Non-Consensual Touching (Not between Dean and Cas), Hurt/Comfort, I promise it's not as dark as it sounds, Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, clueless Sam Winchester, Chick-Flick Moments, Cannon typical misunderstandings, Angst?, One day I'll learn how to tag, WIP, JackieDeeArt's Hot Summer Art 2024 (Supernatural), Hot Summer Art, Greek Mythology if you Squint, No Beta, Everyone is bad with words, Except Eileen who is the only emotionally stable person for miles, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Angel Grace Dysfunction

[sashi-ya]

Sashi-san! For your mini event can I request Zoro x F! Reader? can I ask for a fic with blood kink for him? I saw your post on him having it, and I'm a 100% sure that's true! Thank you! ❣❣❣

Well hello my dear Anon. Of course, there is nothing I like the most than Zoro being a kinky mf for blood so here it is!! Hope you enjoy! 💖

😈💜Sashi's Dark Corner💜😈

NSFW ~ Roronoa Zoro x F! Reader ~ A Blood Demon

tw: NSFW. Blood kink. Zoro licks blood off her. (from a cut). Rough. Unprotected. Squirting. Biting. Breaking Sanji's locker.

wc: 1.6K

Like this event? masterlist ~

Zoro is gone to take a shower. Yes, Zoro. Sometimes he actually bathes too. And that’s the perfect opportunity for you, the new nakama of the Mugiwara no Ichimi, to see if Enma is as demonic as he says.

And it’s not that you don’t believe him, but being a sword freaky like you are, you need to see, to touch, to feel such powerful Wazamono with your hands… because Zoro always brags about it, but never allows you to touch it.

The sound of the shower running tells you he is still inside, and as much as your mind would want to run wild while imagining his body under the warm water, you gotta act fast. You sneak into his room, well, the boys room. Fortunately everybody has left to explore the island and just as expected, Zoro wanted to stay. You were told to go with them, but you decided to “rest in your room”.

Next to his bed, the three katanas rest. Wado Ichimonji, white and pearly, Its handle has teeth marks, since of course Zoro usually uses it with his mouth. Sandai Kitetsu, the infamous sword that’s supposed to bring a painful death to whichever swordsman that dares to wield it, lays next to Wado. It has a strange aura, but you don’t really know if it’s Sandai or Enma… Enma, majestic, precious, legendary, right before your eyes

The purple sheath looks shiny and it doesn’t show any signs of scratches. Kozuki Oden, and now Zoro take care of this amazing bloodthirsty instrument. You graze the three golden rings that form the hand guard and realize how accurate it is for Zoro to have this katana since everything around him represents the number three.

You are tempted by an unnatural force to grab it, drawn to it… it feels heavy, heavier than others. You get lightheaded, as if something were trying to suck something out of you. But despite the many warnings in your state, you keep going until it is fully unsheathed.

“Enma…” you whisper, wielding it up, looking the blade closer, so close you could cut your face at any moment. You feel like your life is getting dragged from your body soon after. Powerful aura sucking your strength… you want to release it, but you can’t. your arm has become thin, your whole body is paralyzed. Purple aura around you, desperation, the blade keeps getting closer, pressing on your cheek little by little.

“WOMAN, WHAT THE FUCK!?!!”

Roronoa Zoro saving you, once again. How many times has it been already? Your life practically depended on him. He grabs your hand, squeezing on your wrist and taking the katana off your clenching fingers. “ENMA, BEHAVE” he grunts, powerfully.

You fall, weak over his chest. Zoro receives you in his embrace, hand on the back of your head. He feels warm, warm, and wet. Soon your dizziness goes away and you notice he is totally naked, dripping water, and the shower it is still open.

Your cheek grazes his huge hard pecs and the rough sensation of his crossing scar. Slowly you feel as his own strength surrounds you, making you stronger and aware of your surroundings. Zoro looks at you, sharp jaw, right eye crossed by a beautiful scar and intense steel iris fixing on yours.

“How many times do I have to tell you, you can’t touch Enma?” he asks, half annoyed, half scared for your integrity. “I’m sorry, I… thought… you wanted to gate keep it from me” you mumble, enjoying the caramel skin of his chest. And of course ignoring that even under his waist everything is uncovered.

He passes his calloused thumb over your cheek. “Look… you cut yourself” he mumbles, cleaning the little drops of blood formed under your eye. “F…fuck, I didn’t mean t-” you say, but cutting yourself short as you contemplate Zoro licking his finger clean from your blood.

Gapping your mouth like a fish and widening your eyes, you look at him enjoying the ferrous taste of your blood. “I don’t know what it is with you, but I knew your blood would taste as sweet as I imagined” he mumbles, smirking. You realize finally you are being held -you are hugging him too- to a completely naked Roronoa Zoro and over your belly you feel his hardness.

“W-what do you me-an?” you mumble, not scared really, more on the startled side. “I mean I’ve always wondered how good you would taste?” he says, pushing you slowly backwards. You take a few steps back, hitting yourself against the lockers of the boys’room.

Zoro places his hand over the metallic cold door of Sanji’s locker, making probably an indentation on it by the violent motion. But he doesn’t care. You can see the veins on his forearm as it’s right next to your face, how sexy... “Z-oro?” you ask, mumbling, hoping for this not to be a joke…

“Hm?” he hums, asking perhaps if you are afraid? “What’s going on…?” you purr, smirking sexily. “I might wanna taste a little more of your blood…” he utters, licking his lips.

“Heh, go ahead…”

He comes closer to your face, and with the tip of his tongue he licks the little drop of blood that falls from the fresh cut on your cheek. You dare to direct your gaze to his hips, amazed by the size and the rock hard sex that’s pressing against your lower belly.

Slowly your hands land on his perfect trained abs, tracing the little line that forms from his chest to his belly button. What a blessing, his body looks like those perfect Greek sculptures, the little drops of water falling into his groin. “Zoro…” you whine. “You are delicious, no wonder Enma wanted to take you completely.”

“Since you are Enma’s master, why don’t you take me?”

Bad choice -or extremely good one- of words, because Zoro has now full permission to go feral with you… and boy, he will.

Sexy smirk, that same smirk he does when he is about to slice the shit out of an enemy, that smirk that makes you weak….

Zoro rips your clothes with just one hand. Breasts exposed, core too. He examines you like a pray, while your hands rest on each side of his hip bones. But you feel your cut itching so you instantly wipe it away, cleaning the rest of blood on your hand over your chest.

Reason for Zoro to start licking and devouring your skin as if your crimson fluid was a delicatessen. He bites, he sucks, his teeth scrape your skin leaving marks all over it. And you had the wonderful idea of taking more blood and smearing it on your breasts.

“What a complacent woman you are, (Name)” he grunts, sucking the blood off from your nipples, making you moan and hit the back of your head against the locker.

Probably Zoro would take more time to prepare you for penetration, but you nor him are willing to wait for it. Both need it, both want it… The green haired samurai has become feral, like a beast, like a blood sucking demon… and you want him, so bad.

He turns you around, making your belly and cheek hit the cold metallic closet’s door. “Woman, you will be fucked for being so damn delicious. You know that?” he says, whispering with husky grunty voice in your ear. “Mhmh…” you nod, already curving your back for your ass to grope against his dick.

“Eager…” he mumbles, pumping his dick a few times up and down. “For your dick, yes” you moan, passing your hand on the back of his head so you pull him closer to your shoulder. He bites it, grunting at the way your thighs cockwarm him. “Fuck, woman…” he grumbles, and moves faster in between your closed legs.

But that didn’t last much, as your core began to drip over his shaft, mixing with the shiny surface of your inner thighs, sticky and warmed by his precum. Zoro uses his hand to spread your core and let himself slide inside you. You moan, not in pain, but feeling the wonderful sensation of his dick stretching your walls.

“You… feel warm…and tight” he moans, while his hip motion punishes you on and on and on. You carve your nails on the side of his hips, you moan and whine. He smirks and grunts, letting some manly grunts escape his mouth with every thrust.

You feel like your legs are starting to fail you, becoming weaker and unable to stand as the fucking intensifies even more. “I can’t… stand… still” you communicate him because you will fall at any time.

“I can tell, look at how much you have squirted already…” he smirks, sticking himself out and turning you around. Zoro does not wait a single second, and being the strong man he is, he lifts you up by the back of your thighs. Holding you up with his arms, he impales you once more. He fucks you mercilessly, hitting your back against the locker, and kissing your lips in a feral, beasty way.

Sometimes he licks the commissure of your lips, as the blood of your wound flows and accumulates there. Your blood must be the perfect fuel for him because every time his mouth gets filled by your taste he fucks you deeper, deeper, and harder.

“Don’t stop… I’m coming” you tell him, at this point with your eyes turned white and your mouth open. “Alright woman, let me see how much you will come for me” he mumbles, always with that beam, that sexy demonic beam accompanying his hellish stare.

Soon you let your body go, reaching climax, bathing Zoro’s lower abs with your squirt… Womb that feels as if a pressure has been released, but that soon feels full again by his spasming dick freeing its contents inside.

“Fuck, woman…” he mumbles, resting his sweaty forehead over your terribly bitten shoulder. “Again?” you joke… but Zoro never catches your jokes, either way.

“Again? Come’ere”

[vasiktomis]

Pomegranate, Chapter 17: Quiet Earth, Part I.

John Seed x Female Deputy

Rating: Explicit.

Read it on Ao3 here!

Notes: Thanks all who have been keeping up with this! I'm so consistently floored by the amount of content creators we have in this fandom corner and the sheer level of workmanship that exists here. This is the first chapter of Pom that I'll be posting to tumblr, and I'm hoping to draw up a little sketch with each update. If you have any suggestions, I'd love to hear them! Big thank you to @shallow-gravy and @consumedkings as always for dealing with my stupidity and being a pair of top-notch angels, and also just like, everybody who takes time out of their day to engage with this? Y'all really sticking with ultra slow burn and I swear after some wicked angst in the next couple of chapters I'll finally be able to throw some well-deserved smut at you. WARNINGS: Forced conversion, descriptions of dissociation and derealisation, explicit language, sexual content, depictions of violence, guns, blood and gore. Canon-typical debauchery.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Don’t touch him!”

Mary May lunged with enough force for John to feel the wake of air sweep through him, even with how quickly she was snatched up and yanked back to her place. The soles of her tennis shoes squeaked against the floor as she was dragged to the far side of the room, unable to be trusted with providing audience to Nick’s Atonement.

A shame, really. It was nicer as a shared experience.

The Baptist rolled his jaw, off-setting some of the tension arising from the shrieks that the blonde flung at the back of his head. He righted himself, taking the tattoo gun from one of his faithful with a gracious nod, and turned his attention down to the pilot currently pinned to the floor. Without a word, he sank to his knees, straddling the man, keeping silent as he could just to listen out for any change in his demeanour. Fear. Grief. Defeat. Acceptance. A sign to prove his readiness.

Nick didn't flinch, breathing hard through his nose and watching with hateful eyes. John hovered an indicating hand over the man’s bare chest, bruised from the fight he’d put up against his capture, mentally mapping out placement. Then, he came in with the needle, beginning with the stem of an ’E’, right in the centre of Nick's sternum.

The pilot snorted, masking discomfort with indifference, turning a wince into a scoff. “Figures you don’t use stencils. I ain’t got a hope in hell of this turning out good, do I.”

That casual old Nick attitude. He missed it.

If only he’d let him do this 5 years ago. He wouldn’t have had to miss it.

John feigned offense. “Oh I’m sorry, Nick. Did you want me to do the rest in cursive? Add a feather? Infinity symbol?”

“For fuck’s sake-”

“Talk about tonal dissonance. It’s not meant to be pretty.” He grumbled. “Might’ve gotten a little more practice if you’d-”

A yell from the rear entryway pulled John’s hand away from his canvas. More squeaking. More interruption. Jerome Jeffries getting hauled into the church, held under each arm by the pair of Chosen that John had sent looking for him.

The Baptist cast a look over his shoulder at them, content with the sight of Jerome adequately beaten and bloodied. “Ahh. Pastor. Try to run and hide? It’s no wonder your flock ran astray with a shepherd so quick to leave them to the wolves.”

Jerome ignored him. No reply. No eye contact. A crime John noted to make worthy of capital punishment in the New Eden. The Pastor was set down beside Mary May, who immediately began seeing to his injuries. Murmuring bubbled between them.

“Did you reach them?” The bartender asked. Must’ve been a negative, because the next thing she did was curse.

“The Deputy was calling when they caught me.”

And if she had half the spine to come and broker an agreement for her friends, she’d be inbound.

“Could you at least gag them? I’m trying to concentrate.” John ordered no one in particular, earning another scoff from Nick. “The faster we work, the less we’ll have to get through once she arrives. The quicker we can be out of this heinous town.”

“Stay away from her, shitbag.” The pilot ground out, this time unable to save face when John retaliated, pressing the gun just a little too hard, digging down through an extra few layers of skin.

“Nick Rye, you’re a married man.” John tutted playfully, resuming his work. “That sin of yours again. Take, take, take. Didn’t think the Deputy to be your type. Wouldn’t say you’re hers, either.”

Nick looked downright disgusted at the prospect. Less concerned for the state of his wife - which meant she'd been a likely getaway. “Always been so fuckin’ jealous.”

“Come again?”

“Think folks are stupid? Think I don’t know you?”

“You don't know me, period.” John bit back, skin on the back of his neck flushing between boiling and freezing.

“Anyone else givin’ you this much trouble’d be long dead by now. That shit on the radio? Reckon you’d be talkin’ like that if your family could hear you across the river?” Nick continued, averting his gaze when John shot him a particularly poisonous look. He didn’t, however, find it necessary to respond to such a veiled accusation.

At least until -

“Everybody knows you wanna stick it to her, John-”

As if he’d been awaiting the chance, John’s free hand shot to Nick’s jaw, aching in protest when he squeezed, not stopping until he could feel the man’s molars beneath his flesh. “That’s about enough from you.” He crooned.

John had his desires, yes. He’d accepted that much. Had he not been sworn to celibacy, he might have jumped at the opportunity to respond to Cora’s advances last night. That said, she was still an outsider, and while her Atonement made the prospect less dicey, he couldn’t consciously consider laying with the woman in real life.

No matter how torturous it had become to gear his thoughts toward anything else.

He could be content with just her company, without making any further advances on her. Last night had simply been a moment of weakness, and he’d prevailed by stepping away.

“If you’ll excuse me.” John switched off the little machine once he’d completed his piece and promptly stood to beckon for replacement parts. Mary May might have gotten away with an allergic reaction last time he’d attempted this, but considering he’d be slicing it out of her within the hour, he couldn’t see any reason for her to be complaining. The bartender had been a thorn in his side from the start. While Nick and his wife had once lent John their...whatever a sinner’s closest equivalent was to friendship, Mary May had always been trouble. Wore her heart on her sleeve and trusted no one she hadn’t grown up around. Bolshie. Almost fucking killed him, once.

John busied himself with needle transfers and a pleasant expression. He could feel the woman’s eyes on him.

Did she think what Nick proclaimed? That complete and utter lie?

How fucking crass. No, he did not want to ’stick it’ to Cora. At least, as far as anyone else was concerned. He was fond of her, and - while yes, he had encountered temptation - if one disregarded the cum-stained, stolen panties in his pocket, and the conjured fantasies, and the purely incidental erection he’d maintained after the Deputy stuck her tongue down his throat last night - there was simply no evidence to suggest to anyone else that he was even remotely tempted to break the rules.

Sex was the furthest thing from his mind. It was mere coincidence that today had just so happened to fall on a morning in which he’d needed to trim.

…

If, however, she were to decide that she wanted to continue what she’d attempted last night, then surely he couldn’t be to blame if he only failed to stop her. It wasn’t technically fornication if he didn’t initiate it. Nor was it considered intercourse if -

“Brother John.”

John jumped, heart stopping, whipping his head around to the Chosen standing at the door of the church.

“What?" He asked thickly.

“The Deputy’s arrived.”

Right on cue, the crackling of gunshots drifted in alongside the Chosen’s announcement.

“Tell everyone to hold their fire.” John ordered. “We have them outnumbered tenfold. The Deputy can’t be stupid enough to create a hostage situation. Direct her here, and peacefully.”

The Chosen’s throat bobbed, swallowing back outrage, and John squinted hard at him, trying to dispel the flicker of green light in the mist outside as it settled against the man’s temple.

“John, I don’t think-”

He never got a chance to act on that incoming insubordination.

Instead, he jerked, cut off by a sickening crack as a section of his skull blew out of his head. Red mist and liquified brain matter followed, splattering against the doorframe, and the Chosen slumped lifeless onto the front step.

John wasn’t so much shaken by the killing as he was irritated by everyone else’s apparent refusal to let today go according to plan. Maybe also the pile of brains and hair now sitting on his once-pristine red carpet. He’d made this easy for the woman: kill everyone he could round up, leave her with no one to claim duty to, and get this all over and done with. Have her home by mid-afternoon. Embark on a new chapter and achieve salvation. It was that simple.

Woe to him for trusting in her common sense.

“Fuck’s sake. Wrath begets more wrath.” He muttered, smoothing a hand over his chin. He didn’t have the patience for this any longer. “Fine. Sister -”

A woman stood from the pews as soon as John made eye contact, equally as unshaken by the scene mere feet away.

“Send out word: the Deputy wants to sacrifice her friends for the sake of a fight.” John punctuated the end of his sentence with a click as he returned his focus to jamming the needles into his tattoo gun. “Give her what she wants. Take her by force.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The smokescreen was beginning to clear, but despite the weight it was taking off her lungs, Cora would’ve preferred it remain just a little longer. At least until they’d cleared out the town. Had they been quicker, it might have lasted longer. Covered their approach to Fall’s End. Given them more cover to sneak about unseen.

The streets, while still hazy, were visible now. It wasn’t a difficult task watching Peggie silhouettes run from building to building in search of her team. Resistance members and civilians were either in the process of being rounded up, or littered the road and pavement, dead. The Ryes, Mary May, and Pastor Jerome were yet to be seen amongst either group.

Same went for Boomer.

Aside from the barking of orders from Chosen and faithful, there was little sound. Knowing how much of a fuss her dog had put up the last time he’d been caught by the Project struck Cora’s nerves. He was his own alarm, and he would not go peacefully.

Not hearing him was an indication of the worst.

Some part of her brain argued against the idea. Vouching that John wouldn’t have hurt the creature. That was her dog. He had to be an exception to the massacre, no matter how vicious he behaved.

She had to find him, and creeping through the rear entry of the Spread Eagle was the first point of call.

Luckily enough, the back door had yet to be boarded up. Peggies who rushed past covered windows hardly stopped to peek inside the place for fear of being tainted by the presence of alcohol. Sneaking in was simple enough, too, at least once Jess had picked the lock.

“I’m going to pretend that door was open.” The Deputy murmured her equivalent to praise, passing into the building.

Grace headed straight in after her, taking a left to search for any sign of Mary May while she took a right toward the stairs.

“You pretend the Cook’s head was already gone when we found him?” Jess whispered.

“Freak accident. You all saw it.”

“First floor’s clear.” Grace announced from the serving hatch in the kitchen, clearly unhappy about it.

“Right.” Cora acknowledged, “I’ll check up top.”

The second story was as dead-quiet as the first. Furniture had been knocked over in the hallway and bedrooms had been raided. None of it indicated anything good, but she still had to know.

Cora pushed open the door to her room, and while she held no expectation of what she’d find, her heart sank anyway.

It was empty.

Boomer was gone.

Only his makeshift collar and a tattered bandana remained atop the rug he’d been snoozing on that morning.

Her dog.

John had either taken him or killed him, just like the rest. He’d do the same to the rest of her team. She should’ve taken the Baptist’s offer before the latter had even become a possibility.

“No sign?” Grace affirmed once the Deputy slipped back down to the first floor. “My guess is either they’re in hiding, or John’s giving them special treatment. If they were dead he’d be parading them.”

Sharky and Hurk exchanged a frown when Cora offered only a nod, notably more meek than usual.

“Was he in there, darlin’?” Adelaide asked, a little too gently not to invite a sting to her eyes.

Cora felt her jaw clench. It was a different breed of nausea, trying to keep her composure under the scrutiny of the rest of the team. She managed to shake her head, and Adelaide’s hand found her shoulder.

“Could still be with the others, yet.” The woman offered.

“So how do we find them?” Jess asked.

Find John Seed, of course.

“Finding them’s one thing. Getting to them might be the harder part.” Cora began. “The smokescreen’s only getting thinner and there’s Peggies everywhere. It's grasslands from here to the hills. No way we can herd everyone across a field on-foot, safely. We’ve got to make sure they stay freed, first.”

“And?” Jess huffed. “We’re gonna kill some Peggies, right?”

The blonde considered that.

“We split up. Search the buildings for anyone who hasn’t been caught yet. Round them up and plant explosives as we go. With enough chaos, maybe we can have a shot at turning the tide in the short term.”

Sharky was practically trembling. “Explosives, like, everywhere?”

“Everywhere. The more damage, the better.” Cora replied. “Adelaide, Xander, pair up. Sharky and Hurk, same with you.”

“And us on range?” Jess grinned, trading a look with Grace who maintained absolute stoicism. “I’m so into that.”

“No.”

…

“Say what?”

“No more ranged attacks. I need you and Grace to head back to the van -”

Jess was advancing on her before she’d even finished her sentence.

“You’re pulling me outta the fight? The fuck gives?” The huntress loomed over the Deputy, incredulous. Cora made an effort to stay put, but Jess’s insistence managed to outweigh her stubbornness, forcing the blonde to compromise by leaning as far back as she could without falling.

“We can’t keep running on short-term wins.” Cora insisted. “We have to put our foot down. No more small assaults. No more hoping John gets demoralised enough that he hands himself over.”

Sharky frowned. “What’re you saying?”

She met his gaze, puffing out her chest, retaking her space. “I’m saying the Henbane Bridge is unmanned right now. If we get word to the County Jail, there’s no roadblock to stop them from helping us win this. John Seed’s throwing everything he can at us. I say we try for the same. I say we end it for good. We’re gonna take back Holland Valley. Today.”

“...You really like that dog, huh.”

“That too.”

Jess looked unconvinced. “So the two of us are running errands while the rest of you are holding the fort? Fucking bullshit.”

“I told you. No more range.” Cora bit back, jabbing a thumb toward Hurk and Sharky. “You’d rather send Boshaws and Drubmans to convince Tracey to send us her best people? No offence.”

“None taken, bitch.” Adelaide grumbled.

Grace exhaled, throwing away momentary hesitation. “We’ll be fast.”

Cora traded a nod with the sniper before looking to Jess once more.

Still unconvinced.

“They have cars with guns on them, remember?”

The corner of Jess’s mouth ticked. Temptation.

Mission accomplished.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The tacky fucking carpet was the first thing she noticed, creeping along Main Street. Bliss petals had been sprinkled all over the road leading up to the church.

The carpet ended at the door. An invitation if she ever saw one. Boastful. Arrogant.

A pang of dread ached through Cora's bones, holding her in place while she drew her revolver. It could be an ambush. It probably was an ambush, but there was nothing she could feasibly do to avoid it. If the others were in there, then she couldn't wait around any longer.

She had to do this. At least hold out until Jess and Grace returned, with or without help.

She'd been running for long enough. All other options had been exhausted. At least John offered the least awful defeat.

Drawing close to the entrance, the Deputy pointedly avoided examining a dead crow that had been impaled upon the wall. She inhaled, holding the breath in her lungs, steadying her heart rate.

It was only freedom.

She opened the door, immediately training the gun out before her, following its guide into the room.

About a dozen Peggies dotted the space, leaning against walls, lining the pews - all angled at the pulpit, observing Nick on the floor. He stifled a cry while John sliced through the final remaining layers of skin binding the tattoo to his chest, peeling the word 'GREED' out of his flesh. Blood pooled on the floor around them, and the moment John had stepped away, the pilot was descended on with antiseptic and bandages.

The Deputy waited for nausea at the sight to take its course. It never did. She was all but numbed to the sight.

"Deputy, run!"

Mary May's voice cut through the silence, and the bartender lurched from her own spot on the ground. Guns raised all around the room, swinging around to aim for Cora.

”Hold!” John barked immediately, unconcerned when the Deputy shifted her aim to him. Instead, he busied himself with washing his sullied hands. “Hold your fire.”

His followers obeyed.

Cora, meanwhile, cocked the revolver in her grip. One foot edged into the room, and she glanced around for the Project’s captives before returning her gaze to John. All on the other side of the room. Pinned. Fuck.

“Hope County Sheriff’s Department.” She announced, staring the Baptist down, ignoring the grin that crept onto his face - like he found it fucking funny. “Weapons on the ground. Step away from the hostages.”

“Hostages?” John snorted. He gestured Pastor Jerome, Mary May, and Nick. “These are guests! This is their Atonement. This is your Atonement.”

“Drop the fucking weapons.”

John’s patience thinned. Quickly. “I’m not doing this with you.” He replied simply. “Not today.”

With his own look around the room, John inclined his head. An unspoken order to which everyone carrying a gun turned them on her allies.

“We both know you don’t have enough bullets for everyone. Nor do you have the time. So why don’t you put down my gun and surrender.”

“Don’t-” Mary May was cut off with the tap of steel against her temple. Warning.

John was right. She was outnumbered. There was no chance of getting any of them out with force alone.

She inhaled. Exhaled. Watched the fondness slip back onto John’s face like it had never left, and set the gun on the floor.

“That’s my girl.” John murmured. Then, he motioned. “Get her ready.”

Cora’s stomach dropped as two sets of arms coiled around hers, each pulling and pushing, prickling at her skin with unfamiliar, sickening touch. Biology told her to resist. Escape the sensation. The downward pulling.

“No, stop it.” Escaped her while she squirmed. “Get off. Stop touching me-”

“Her friends can’t be far. Find them.” The Baptist ordered, turning away toward the pulpit.

Cora’s knees hit the floor. There was no holding the repetition of protests, but even as she consciously elevated the volume of her voice, it grew quieter in her ears. Calculated attempts to jerk away and make an escape became automatic twitches.

One of John’s followers - a female - crept into view, fingers tugging at the top button on her uniform collar. John readied a tattoo gun over the woman’s shoulder, and the Deputy’s mind screamed alarm bells. Get out. Escape. Fight back. Regain control.

“I won’t hurt you, sister.”

This time, she sank, curling forward, angling herself away from the woman. Another attempt, and she wrenched away again, snarling. Then, the Peggies around her must have gotten tired of all the fuss, because the tear of cotton clawed at her ears. Ringing through her brain.

Her back felt cold all of a sudden.

Green material slipped down her arms, and at the sight of her own uniform pooling in shreds in her own lap, Cora ceased her thrashing. The shredded shirt was yanked from her belt and tossed aside, and she watched with growing resignation while John turned back around.

His gaze found hers. Then flickered downward, first to the compression bra, then a margin to the right. “Here I thought you’d be unmarked.” He commented, inspecting what was visible of the old ink on her lower ribs while he approached.

Hands pressed against Cora’s shoulders, and she drifted back until her shoulder blades hit the floor.

John continued to loom until he stood directly over her. He sank to his knees, expression softening with his descent until he was on all fours on top of her. He looked almost adoring, and she hated how it comforted her, just slightly. She hated how the hands had disappeared from her limbs, and yet she still made no further attempt to escape. He had every ounce of power now.

She didn’t know she’d started trembling until his free hand swept over her collarbones, mapping out her chest, calming the gooseflesh beading on her from the chill, or the fright, or perhaps just that this whole thing felt so humiliatingly exposing.

A blush swelled over John’s throat, maybe indicating some straying line of thought. He snapped out of it and settled to sit on her hips. “This looks familiar, doesn’t it?” He teased, hovering the tattoo gun right over the centre of her sternum.

“Dont.” Was all she could manage. Weak. Pleading. “I don’t want you to.”

“You have no idea how good you’re going to feel after this.” John cooed.

One of his fingers drifted along her jaw. An attempt at comforting her, but to no avail. He looked equal parts gentle and feral with excitement.

The machine buzzed, lowering pitch when the needles finally pressed into her flesh.

This was it.

She’d lost. There was no going back, anymore. No more normal, no more ridding herself of this family. They’d taken everything, and now they were claiming ownership over her, too.

The others were being hunted. It was only a matter of time. John was working too quickly. They’d be gone before the Cougars even crossed the river.

Cora’s nerves muted. Sound closed to just the rumble of blood in her ears. She receded into herself. Found a backseat in her mind, away from the sensory overload and the humiliation and her own failure while her body quietly continued: ”Dont, don’t, stop.”

She’d lost, and John wouldn’t stop. Not while he was branding the evidence of his victory into her flesh.

Defeat tasted worse than anticipated.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Bullets whizzed overhead while Sharky and Hurk took cover beneath the window, watching helplessly as the aisle of potato chips and bar nuts was torn to shreds by the onslaught. Dorito dust filled the shop like mustard gas.

“Cuz, I think they found us!” Hurk barked, snapping an arm over his head in defence when a stray round ricocheted off the front counter.

“What gives you that impression?” Sharky hit back, hurriedly setting down his shotgun and shrugging his backpack to the floor.

“How many are there?”

“How about you check?”

“How about you check?”

A moment of quiet occurred while the cousins glared at each other, leaving their standoff to a battle of no blinking. Then the Peggies outside must’ve finished re-loading, because the back wall of the shop was suddenly being shot into swiss cheese.

They were okay. Everything was cool. Addie and Xander had taken their share of explosives and gone the quiet route. Grace and Jess were gone. Shorty had disappeared into the church, and while he couldn't count the best, Sharky was pretty confident that John had caught her.

Could they have kept on looking for survivors and breaking out captives? Sure - but why do that when they could kill, like 40 birds with one stone and beeline for the gas station? It was conveniently across the road from the church, empty of any and all life barring the dormant tanks underground. An explosion that big was sure to fuck up like a good portion of Main Street. Not even the Chosen would be able to resist checking it out.

Disconnecting the safety switches had been easy. He’d been arrested for doing it like 5 times already. Cops, Peggies; it didn’t matter - Sharky knew what he was doing, and without the giant swinging dick of the law hanging over him, the man was on a mission. Cultists shooting at him was fine. He was used to that.

Threat of death or no, he wasn’t giving up the chance to see this place blow sky high.

“We’ll be outta here any second, Hurky.” Sharky assured. “Just gotta sprinkle a little C-4 around the place and we’ll be gone before it even goes off.”

Hurk was sweating. A lot. He was accustomed to being shot at, but normally, he had more than just Sharky to get him out of a tight spot. “Alright, bro. Gimme some. Many hands and what have you.”

“Fuck yeah. First step, toss some at the tanker outside. We wanna get the place as fiery as possible up here to wake up the big boys underground, and-”

Sharky stopped in his tracks, eyeing the backpack he’d just been in the process of unzipping.

“-uhh.”

“Uhh?”

“Hurky, can I be real with you?”

“Is now the best time for a deep and meaningful?” Hurk hissed, crawling toward him nonetheless.

The arsonist stuck his hand down the pack, rifling through fluff and mesh. “I, uh, I think I brought the wrong bag. And by think I mean know without a shadow of a doubt.”

Hurk watched as his cousin tugged the green, furry headpiece of a dragon out into the open.

“You brought-...”

“I brought my fursuit.”

“Not the C-4?”

“Not the C-4.”

“Okay, bro. That's fine. I'm not mad. Human error. Not even a little bit?”

Sharky checked again, just for good measure. “Nope...so, uhm...you got a match?”

Hurk ran a hank through his hair. “Not to poo poo your ideas, but that probably ain’t the best move.”

So just like that, they were fucked.

Jess and Grace still hadn’t come back. The others were nowhere to be seen. Shorty was holed up in that church, and he and Hurk were about to be rounded up by born-again virgins.

Shit, if that were the case -

“Well, if this is gonna be the last opportunity.” Sharky grunted, tugging the suit out and unzipping the back. “May as well enjoy our last minutes of freedom, huh?”

Hurk took the cue, creeping across the destroyed shop floor and reaching for a popped bag of pretzels. He sat back against the wall, leaning against the rocket launcher he’d propped up against the corner.

“Man.” The brunette sighed, staring at the floor. “If only we had some other kind of ranged, explosive device.”

“No shit.” Sharky agreed. “Some high velocity shit would fix this.”

They exchanged a sympathetic look once the arsonist had zipped himself up and crept over and sit beside his cousin, both leaning on either side of the RPG.

Hurk held out the bag.

“Pretzel?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Was that so bad?” John asked, placing the tattoo gun aside and framing the Deputy’s marked chest. ’WRATH', in true black, beading with blood. The skin surrounding the text was mottled and inflamed. Excess ink covered the area in patches, gathering in the dip of her cleavage, disappearing beneath her sports bra.

All that sin, already leaking out through the exit he’d made for her.

Gorgeous.

Cora didn’t respond. That was fine. Shock was normal. She’d thank him once this was all over. For now, she just trembled, lock jawed, dissociated gaze searching what John had thought was him until he sat up. No, instead she was watching the ceiling.

John flashed a smile, blocking out a tiny streak of dread at the sight of the woman so vacant. Sweeping a lock of stained hair over her shoulder, he smoothed his fingers past her neck, attempting to gently angle her focus back to him. “Hey. You can come back now. We’re all done.”

You're finally on the other side. React to it. React to me. Look at me-

The boom came first, hollow and deep, and John felt the floor beneath him rumble. Chandeliers and decorations wobbled from the disturbance. Several of his followers shot from their seats, immediately abandoning the Resistance leaders they’d guarded in favour of pacing back and forth, trying to get a look at whatever was happening outside.

“Is this it?”

“Is it the Collapse?”

“It’s time?”

“John, is it the Collapse?”

The panic escalated quickly, forcing the Baptist to break his attention away from the empty woman below him and rein in the flock.

“Calm down.” He exclaimed, “It’s not the Collapse. It’s probably just-”

Another boom. Almost deafeningly loud.

This time, the whole church shook. Windows shattered in their creaking panes and smashed to the floor while pews squealed heavily in protest.

Contrary to his assertion, John dove down, covering the Deputy with his body. Holy shit, was it the Collapse?

The tremor must have been enough to snap Cora out of her trance, because a muffled “Get your tits out of my face.” buzzed against John’s chest.

Tragically, however, the Baptist never got the opportunity to reply to her. Had it not been for the fucking tennis shoe colliding with the side of his skull, he imagined he’d have something very clever to say. Alas, pain shot through his head and he jerked to the side, fighting against the blow to stay put. A snarl from Mary May, his apparent attacker, sounded in retaliation. She dove into him, knee driving into his ribs, throwing him off of the Deputy.

His thoughts left him for the briefest moment, overtaken by ensuing gunshots and shouts and the shrieks of the bartender as she was clawed away from him. Her hand shot forward right as she was yanked up, intended as a punch. It didn’t land, and John couldn’t help but shoot her a smirk for her failure.

“Deputy, gun!”

Nevermind. It wasn’t a punch after all. Mary May had been pointing over his shoulder at the revolver that had been surrendered on the floor. His revolver. The same one Cora was now scrambling toward.

No.

John lurched, heart leaping into his throat.

Not now. Not after he’d won. Not when they were so close.

His hand found the leg of Cora’s pants, wrenching, pulling her away from the weapon, and she kicked against him. Her finger tips slid against the barrel of the revolver, tugging it into her palm.

God wouldn’t fucking undo his victory.

John snarled, catching the Deputy’s wrist when she tried to aim - at him no less. Without her own recovery time achieved, he was able to wrestle the weapon from her easily enough, flattening her struggling body beneath his just long enough to hook an arm around her waist. He twisted around, holding the woman’s back against his belly. Her squirming ceased with the press of the muzzle against her head, and the moment her allies had taken notice of the change, everything went still.

Finally.

A little civility.

Several of John’s followers lay on the floor, either dead or close to it. Only a half-dozen remained, though the pair of Chosen had survived and placed themselves closest to their leader.

Pastor Jerome had procured a handgun from within his own bible - something that pulled a breathless laugh out of John as he surveyed the others. Nick hadn’t been able to arm himself, but he’d still tackled one of the faithful to the ground. His knuckles were bloodied. A familiar sight. Mary May had wrestled a gun of her own away from the woman who’d seized her. She aimed it shakily at John.

Armed but outnumbered, outgunned, and now, they were in check.

They never learned, did they?

“The way you people behave, you’d think salvation was a bad thing.” John tittered. “Right. Now, let’s try this again. Atonement, or damnation.” To punctuate his meaning, he tapped the muzzle against Cora’s head. She grunted in protest, and he ignored her. Of course it was a bluff. No one else knew that but him, though. It was too risky a move for the Resistance to let him do away with the one person that banded their factions.

She was their leader. They couldn’t lose her.

John looked around the room once more, locking eyes with Jerome first - then Mary May. “Are we going to behave?”

The answer was immediate and clear: a gunshot cracking through the Baptist’s ears and the flash of a blast spilling from Mary May’s weapon. Cora’s elbow driving into his stomach and the reaction time of his Chosen snapping to attention, covering him, already hauling John out of the church and onto the street.

Fuck no, he wasn't leaving without his prize.

"GRAB HER!" John howled, struggling against the attempts to get him to safety. "Leave the rest!"

It was a reluctant effort, but the Deputy was yanked along as well, shoved into Johns arms on his repeated orders, with me, with me.

“Mary May, what the fuck!” The Deputy roared over her shoulder.

“Sorry Deputy! I missed!”

Missed?

“You sure about that? Jesus fucking Christ!”

More shots sounded, but only the noise pursued them from the building. It wasn’t until John had shoved Cora into the back of the waiting truck that he realised how warm his hand had gotten. Wet, too.

“Get to the ranch!” One of the Chosen snarled up front, casting a look back at the Baptist while the vehicle took off, watching as he peeled away from the blonde to inspect himself.

Blood.

He was bleeding. But where from? Barring the sting of his scabs and that kick to the head, nothing hurt. There were no wounds hiding under his sleeves or -

A hiss sounded from the Deputy beside him, curling in on herself.

Shit.

She hadn’t elbowed him.

“Cora-” John scrambled for her. "Cora, let me see."

“Told you not to call me that.” The Deputy grit out, kicking at him until she’d well and truly jammed herself into the corner of the seat and the car door. Her left hand gripped her right forearm, just below the elbow and to no avail. Crimson coated the skin on her side, encasing her arm completely and seeping through her fingertips.

She was bleeding. Not heavily, but steadily.

”Deputy.” John bit back, advancing. “You’re hurt. Let me help-”

Just like that, the kicking resumed. “Don’t touch me-DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME-”

“For once in your fucking life, just relax!”

Only incomprehensible snarling came in response.

John rolled his jaw, brimming with as much irritation as he was adrenaline. The Resistance had made their choice. Regretful, but final. He’d gotten what he came for, and he wasn’t intending on losing her just because she was too stubborn to accept help.

He glanced at the revolver still in his grip. Then back at Cora, rotating the grip toward her. A threat. “Are you going to let me help, or am I going to have to calm you down?”

“Don’t you dare.” Her words came hoarse. She gave scowling a red hot go, but without the rationale to deny him, the Deputy lacked conviction. She exhaled. “Fuck it. We've done this enough already. You get ten minutes. Then you’re under arrest.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her cheek twitched. A weak chuckle. The slightest flash of acknowledgement as she let him press his weight over her forearm. Thankfully, the wound wasn’t pulsing; nor was there a puncture wound. A gouged strip had been carved into her flesh where the bullet had grazed, but nothing vital seemed to have been struck.

“That - you can keep saying.”

"You're a flirt when you're in shock, Deputy." Had John not been too busy regulating about a dozen other emotions, he might have flushed at her words. For a moment, he just sat there, basking in the borderline friendliness on her face. Then, it occurred to him that they were among watchful company, and he cleared his throat, returning to his task.

Minutes passed. No more words were exchanged. Not until they’d passed the Rye and Son’s sign.

The Chosen in the front passenger’s seat looked over his shoulder, dismissing another over the radio before regarding the Baptist. “The Resistance isn’t making ground. The faithful are still rounding up stragglers, and we’ve taken casualties, but numbers are looking strong. Medic will meet you at the ranch, John. We can deliver our newest sister to the Gate while you recover.”

John inclined his head. “Much obliged. We need this one to stay with us until she’s completed her vows. She can’t be trusted unsupervised, but I won’t put the responsibility of containing her back on our people again.” He looked to Cora, then. Her face had run pale and she’d gone clammy, but she remained upright. Just...woozy. Pacified, for now.

He’d got what he came for. Fuck the rest.

“I have something to say.” The blonde announced, swaying against John’s arm. “I know why Mary May shot me.”

“This another one of your jokes?” John deadpanned.

“This one’s funny, I swear.”

“...go on, then.”

“It’s because I never tip.”

For a moment, Cora looked very satisfied with herself. Then, she retched, slumping forward into the Baptist’s lap when he instinctually jolted out of the potential line of fire. He hurried to steady her, keeping tight hold over her wound, and grimaced while the noise escaped her a second time.

Thank God nothing came out; his shoes would’ve been the first to know about it.

The Deputy didn’t sit back up.

That was fine. So long as she wasn’t dead. So long as she wasn’t fighting back.

“It’s all the sin escaping you.” John explained, off-handed, when a complaining grunt sounded below. “Evil being expelled from your body. You’ll feel better soon.”

“Pretty sure it’s my blood pressure, actually. Soon as I’m good again, you’re history.”

When one disregarded the fact that she’d had a gun trained on him earlier - and the blood drying uncomfortably on his clothes - and the persistent pounding of a headache from Mary May’s heel, this was almost pleasant. The quiet roads. The Deputy, all but atoned with her head on his thigh. Not fighting back. Conceding defeat. Peaceful.

He got what he came for.

He’d won.

He was saved.

Passing his thumb over Cora’s ribs, John’s attention was pulled back to the old ink peeking out from beneath the band of her top. Text, blurred and flattened enough to be years old, and too obscured to decipher.

“Thought I’d be your first.” The brunette murmured.

“Jealous?”

Yes.

“Don’t be ridiculous. What’s it say?”

“‘The Mountains Are Calling’.”

A sickening wave of dread passed over the Baptist. The rock forming in his throat, icy and bitter and seizing him against any reply.

The mountains are calling.

Jacob. Joseph. The Trials. Atonement wasn’t the final step. Handing her over to his brothers was the final step.

He got what he came for, but the woman in his arms wasn’t the trophy intended for him.

He was saved. He’d redeemed himself. He’d completed his task and Joseph would permit him beyond the gates. That was all he was supposed to do. That was enough.

That had to be enough.

“‘And I Must Go’.” John completed quietly.

Cora tilted her head a little, not quite looking at him - almost like she was trying not to. “You know John Muir.”

“Not enough to warrant a photo on the bedside table.”

“Shut up.”

There was nothing convincing about the chuckle he offered. He was too busy observing her, studying the side of her face. Committing her to memory as if he hadn’t spent years acquainting himself with every spot and micro-expression.

“Maybe working for you will be bearable.” She murmured, and John’s heart only sank further. "If I don't manage to arrest you."

The mountains are calling.

She still had no idea that all the promises he’d made her had been fabricated. That she wouldn’t be staying. That he’d lied to her.

The mountains were calling. In a few days time, she’d know it. She’d despise him. She’d be taken off his hands and he’d assume his regular duties once again.

He’d saved both of them.

Cora’s thumb absently grazed back and forth on his knee. Ignorant. “Can I ask something?”

It took everything in him not to mirror the action against her skin.

“Of course.”

“Can I start next Monday?”

"What happened to you being such a workaholic?"

"To be honest with you, I'm really fucking tired."

She’d be incredible. Jacob would love her. Joseph would be proud. John had accomplished something near-impossible for his family, and even if the Deputy hated him - even if she forgot him entirely, he was content with the knowledge that he’d have brought her to salvation.

Even if they never saw each other again, he’d know that she’d passed through the gates. That she’d climb to the surface once the world had been scorched clean. She’d rebuild, and marry, and have children, and he’d do the same.

Hopeful anticipation and the agony of longing had never felt so similar before.

“Fine.” John smiled, giving in, sliding his fingers up her arm and coaxing a stray lock of hair out of her face. There were no promises he’d be able to do it again after this. “But on one condition.”

“What?”

“Spend those days with me.”

Cora stirred, angling to peer up at him out of the corner of her eye. She smiled crookedly.

“Deal.”

[brendan-block]

Here's some old notes I wrote about my backstory for Brendan, including his traumatic childhood as Simon, his years at university, the affair with his professor, etc; everything that led up to Simon becoming Brendan.

As with almost all of these old drafts I'm finally publishing, this needs a rewrite and is unfinished. For now I'm posting it as is.

Simon becoming Brendan is not the result of him getting beaten into a coma by his then-girlfriend's husband. He is not brain-damaged. It is the culmination of everything that happened to him up to the point of his affair with his university professor.

The violent death of his parents was extremely traumatising. He actually doesn't remember all that much of what their life was like before the fire, except for the occasional flash he gets. On that day he loses not only his parents but also his grandmother, because she's too mentally unstable to care for them properly. Things aren't looking good for them, but then, finally, they get a ray of hope. People from the church  - people they know with faces they recognise - come to take them away. These are the people that Brendan remembers as his prominent caretakers - not his loving parents. These children don't really know them like they think they do and what should have been a happy home and the rebuilding of their lives, becomes a horrific nightmare. Brendan literally has the whole "disobedience must be punished" beaten into him (and even now it's still something he repeats A LOT and it's one of his number one excuses for doing what he does) until it's fully ingrained in him and he comes to believe it fully that he deserves the pain these monsters have wrought upon him.

What he doesn't believe, however, is that his sister should be held to those same standards. Brendan completely blames himself for the fact that his sister nearly burned to death and is permanently scarred over half of her body, because the last thing his mother ever said to him was to save her and protect her, and he couldn't get to her in time. It was a firefighter that saved the both of them. In Brendan's eyes his sister is a goddamn saint for putting up with him at all after what he's done to her and he's determined to protect her. But he can't and he fails her, over and over and over again, every night the monsters come and snatch her out of her bed. He does catch one of the caretakers once in the act of raping her and it is because of that, that he never forces himself on anyone (despite admittedly being tempted at times).

When they eventually leave the village, Brendan goes off on his own. He doesn't want to be with his sister anymore and he can't bear to see their grandmother when he feels like she abandoned them. He needs to get away from them and the shadow of everything they went through and go where he can just breathe and be someone else for awhile. So he goes traveling to all these places he always wanted to go, but none of it is anything like he saw in the brochures or in the books he read as a kid. It's not fun or exciting. It's just lonely. He's lonely. He doesn't know how to interact with people anymore. For years it was always just him and his sister locked up tiny rooms until they were brought out for service or dinner or for appearances' sake with the other villagers (since, after all, they were the late Laird and Lady's children). Most of his attempts go south quickly. Women either laugh at him or flat-out ignore him, and most men attack him because he either talked to a woman they were with or simply because they don't like how weak and timid he is.

At university things aren't much better. He stops talking to people altogether and stops trying to make friends and just keeps to himself. Most people don't seem to want anything to do with him anyway, so he just doesn't bother anymore. Until he meets Jeanette. Jeanette is (was) one of his professors, a beautiful golden-hair goddess in his eyes, and the very first person in a very long time to be kind and patient with him. She gets him to open up again and because of that Brendan quickly falls in love with her. Jeanette in turn becomes horribly attracted to the broken soul she finds in him. Both are fully aware of the fact that Jeanette is the wife of a fellow teacher, but they have an affair anyway. It's through this affair that Brendan learns the sort of man his other professor really is. He's exactly like the caretakers from the church, except instead of hurting innocent children, this man directs his abuse at his wife; at the woman Brendan loves. He tries to come to her defense, but just like with the men he crossed paths with in his travels.. just like when he was a child.. he is weak and lacks the skill to fight. He fails Jeanette (much like he believes he failed his sister) and they are brutally beaten for it.

When he wakes up he is alone. Jeanette is not there. Neither is her husband. But then nurses and a doctor come in and they’re telling him he’s been in a coma for several months. He has messages waiting for him from Jeanette. Their relationship is over and she’s gone back to her husband. He can’t understand it. How could she go back to him? But then he starts thinking about it. He thinks about the men in his life, of the things he experienced with them, of the things they said to him, the things they did to him. He wasn’t like them at all. These [UNFINISHED]

[positivelypositive]

Hello, I have to get this off my chest and maybe get some direction. I have known this person online for a few years now and at first I thought they were nice and the type of person who was always being bullied for no reason. However as time went by I noticed that she had been behaving in ways that were just awful. Racist and homophobic behavior and just a total disregard for others all the while maintaining insistence that people were just being mean to her. She has a considerable following and I feel like I'm going crazy because others seem to just accept that she's being treated unfairly even though her treatment of others has been bad. How can this be? Despite how toxic she is, I find myself continually going back to see what auful thing she says or does next. I don't know why I am doing this, exposing myself to her poison but it's become an addiction almost and some weird way to try and see if she's become a better person yet. I know this isnt healthy but I keep looking, checking, checking, checking. What is this and please, how do I stop doing this stupid thing?

hey anon,

i think that this person has created a persona that people pay attention to, no matter what. also, i completely get what you mean about being almost addicted to the drama.

i think what really helps me is quitting cold turkey. i just stop following the drama. it may be tempting the first few days to check up and peek but i try to maintain my resolve the best i can.

these days i am also trying to stop checking on story updates from a friend who's not too good to me. i am trying to distance myself from them but i always end up checking their stories and posts and responding to them. they just don't value my friendship as much and have made it clear more than once. so, what i'm doing is ignoring them completely. i have no risk of hearing from them directly but even on socials i am just not giving them any attention.

this cut off method works well for me and i think it can work for you as well. if not, start limiting yourself in terms of time you spend catching up with their life updates. keep decreasing this time with each day until you get to the point where you know you've got to spend 0 minutes of your day on them.

i hope this helps you and you can get out of the loop soon. it'll be good for your mental peace. sending you love and positive vibes ✨

[artificialqueens]

I'm Not Into Sometimes, Chapter 2 (Rosnali) - SnowBun

A/N: Very proud of this chapter <3 finally feel myself getting back to the writing style I enjoy the most. I hope you like reading this is as much as I like writing it. much love everyone xx

Summary: When Denali goes viral for posting a dance video, she doesn’t expect it to lead her to becoming a choreographer for Rosé, an up and coming singer destined for fame. Denali thinks that this might be her first (and only) shot at achieving her dream. If only her dream wasn’t wrapped up in a flurry of pink hair, charm and a supposedly professional relationship.

—

Release comes in the sound of blades scraping against ice. It is the feeling of her core tightening as she pushes off the ground and becomes the world turning on its axis. She is this moment of weightlessness and control.

Then her head begins to fog with visions of spinning rose-colored tops across a dark wooden floor, so endlessly mesmerizing. Her mind fills with questions of intrigue and challenge, the first time she’s ever seen duality so up close. Oh, to be so breathlessly enamored by beauty and talent.

It’s the loss of focus that weighs her down, causing her to land shakily on her right foot. She extends her left leg for balance and slides not-so-gracefully on the ice. She hears Olivia cheer in the sidelines, all bright white smile and wonder. It brings her back to the rink and away from the studio.

She skates over, pressing her forehead to the fence. “It’s not so bad.” She thinks. The rest of the world is slowly but surely getting hooked on Rosé, and she lives up to every expectation and more. She thinks it’s perfectly normal to feel a little charmed by her.

Even if she was a bitch at first.

“What’s wrong?”

Then again, she can’t quite answer Olivia’s question. She isn’t a fan from half way across the world. She’s the damn choreographer. She’s in New York, seeing her old friends and grasping onto her dream.

Said dream just had to come in the form of pink hair and clear brown eyes.

She shakes her head and smiles. “Nothing’s wrong, Liv.”

—

At first, she thinks she’s just so tired that she’s seeing things. When she blinks, she realizes that her eyes aren’t lying and that Rosé really is right there, sitting on the dance studio floor at 6:30 in the morning. She’s staring at intently at her phone, with an expression that can only be described as upset fury. She becomes too absorbed in typing to even notice Denali come in.

“Hey.”

She looks up and her face softens into a small smile. There it goes again, that weird feeling of nakedness that comes with being looked at by those eyes. The combination of this and the lack of sleep is disconcerting, but she manages to smile back anyway.

“Hey.” Rosé procures a coffee cup from behind her and reaches up to pass it. “I got you coffee.”

It takes her a minute to process, way too taken aback by the gesture. She’s always prided herself on being difficult to phase, but when a woman who is basically her employer that she barely knows hands her coffee, it’s hard not to act surprised.

Nonetheless, she accepts it gratefully, muttering a ‘thanks’ as she sits down on the floor beside her.

For a while, she stills as Rosé continues to type with such force that Denali’s scared that she might end up cracking the screen somehow. She wonders in silence, but she’d be lying if she says she’s not tempted to cross the arbitrary line and ask if something is wrong.

“Sorry.” Rosé’s voice suddenly rings clear, but the world around them still feels quiet, tranquil almost. “Just a lot of stuff that needs to get done before the video shoot.”

“Mmm,” Denali says, as she sips her coffee. “It’s fine, I don’t mind.”

Even if the phone has been tucked into the pocket of her bag, Rosé opts for stretching out her legs in front of her and yawning instead of getting up. She turns her head to look at the choreographer whose gaze is directed at the cup in her hand.

“So,” She draws out the word lazily, cocking her head to the side. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“What do you think of Phenomenon?”

It’s a difficult question to answer. If she says something bad, she’s kicked off this project. If she says something good, she’s just kissing ass. She knows that the only right answer to this question is her own opinion, but when her mother told her that honesty is the best policy, she’s not sure this is the situation that she had in mind.

“Honestly?” Rosé nods. “I think it’s great. The lyrics are good, the production is amazing, your vocals are fantastic. Plus it’s your own brand of witty and self-assured. Not sure what’s not to like there.”

She isn’t sure if this was the answer Rosé expected from her. All she hears is a sigh and they sink once again into that comfortable silence while Denali finishes her coffee. She doesn’t really know much, or anything really, about the woman beside her, but in the stillness of the morning, she feels comfortable.

“Right,” Rosé’s voice is soft and she hates herself for the ache that starts to bloom in her chest. “What’s not to like?”

She tries to ignore it, that stupid idea that this true vulnerability and not just small talk between colleagues; but she sees those eyes staring into the empty space, watches the beams of sunlight give her a blush halo. The ache spreads through her body and she bites her tongue to stop from begging to know what she could possibly not like.

Denali stands up and throws away her cup in a bin in the corner of the room. “Anyway,” She reaches out a hand to help her up. “We should get to work.”

Rosé smirks up at her and she thinks that the ache is threatening to cause an implosion. “Oh, so she’s all work and no play, huh?” She says, grabbing at her hand.

Then they’re face to face and Denali can feel the tug, that back and forth that comes with the competition that is flirting. She laughs a little, tries her best to play it cool. “I have to work hard if I want to play hard, don’t I?”

She walks away with a pair of eyes on her back and an ache that won’t go away.

—

“Are you going to spill all the tea now or what?”

Her eyebrows raise behind the glass of vodka cranberry that she’s holding. Of course, Mik wants to get straight to the gossip. She’d be surprised with any other conversation starter to their Friday night, almost a week since she’d arrived in New York. The bar Mik chose is a little too crowded for her taste, filled with other women who have been eyeing her. She notices but she ignores it in favor of the woman in front of her.

“What happened to ‘how have you been, Denali?’ or ‘how’s New York, Denali?’”

“Okay whatever,” Mik rolls her eyes. “How are you?”

“Tired.” She answers in a heartbeat.

“And would that have anything to do with a certain singer whose name rhymes with… shit, I can’t think of anything.”

She purses her lips together. If she’s honest, working with Rosé is probably the least tiring thing on her agenda. The ice skating in the early evenings as a bid to tire herself to sleep hasn’t been working. All its led to is sleepless nights staring at the ceiling until she sees the first vestiges of day creep through the windows, signaling another turn on the earth’s axis.

In the studio with Rosé, she can at the very least find some peace. The understanding that they are both good at what they do and the comfort of knowing that each day with her is a chance to know her more drives her to get out of bed and into the studio.

“A part of it, yeah.” It’s the tiniest bit of truth and Mik doesn’t look one bit sated by it. “What else am I supposed to tell you?”

“Oh, come on,” It’s that signature Mik whine that finally gets a laugh out of her. “You have to tell me something, anything!”

“You’re an MUA that works with runway models. You know enough famous people as it is.”

“That doesn’t make me any less curious about them.”

She bites her tongue when she hears those words. It’s not like she’s any different. Every morning with Rosé is an established routine with coffee and curiosity on both ends. The existing respect for each other’s craft makes them both wonder about the person underneath.

So, they start to ask questions. How’s New York? Where’d you get the coffee? How’s your morning? What’s the name of that guy on TV who used to host Fear Factor and is a shithead now?

Like clockwork, the questions morph into flirting. It’s standard, innocent, verging on comfortable even. Rosé is always the first to break into a blush, true to her name. At times, Denali thinks that she may have gone too far, but then she sees those eyes again, all amusement and interest. Each interaction is a chance for the ache to spread somewhere new along with the growing assurance that there’s nothing to dislike.

“I don’t know, okay?” She finally lets out. “We work great together and we get along, but it’s not like, ‘ooo, you’re my new bestie’ or anything like that.”

“Hmm,” Mik lets out a him, popping the straw out of her mouth. “That’s interesting.”

“Why is that interesting?”

“Let’s just say my sources tell me she doesn’t get along with everyone.”

Her eyebrows scrunch together at that. Sure, she understands that Rosé isn’t exactly everyone’s glass of wine, especially with the cold seriousness that she handles her music, but she respects that about her.

What’s not to like?

“Well, I don’t think she’s a bitch, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Or maybe you want to be her bitch…”

“Oh, fuck you!” She throws a tissue at Mik’s face as the model cackles in delight. Her phone suddenly chimes, a message from an unknown number popping up on the screen.

?: hey, I got your number from Tamisha

“Who is it?”

Damn her and her expressive features. She keeps quiet, brain going at breakneck speed to think of all the reasons why she’s texting on a Friday night when she probably has at least a hundred different parties to go to and a thousand different women trying to catch her eye.

Denali: really hope this is rose and not the guy standing outside Tamisha’s office who keeps asking me out

“It’s just Rosé.” She watches Mik’s mouth turn into an O-shape and she throws another tissue. “No, no, not what you’re thinking, sweetie.”

At least she doesn’t think so. Harmless flirting is one thing, but getting her number from her manager? They keep stepping closer and closer to the line and she thinks she sees the chalk start to smudge.

?: sorry to disappoint, it’s just rosé

Denali: too bad. what’s up?

“She’s texting you on a fucking Friday night.” Mik sounds absolutely dumbfounded. “Sounds a lot more than professional to me.”

She knows that Mik is right. They don’t even have practice tomorrow, so she can’t justify it as a possible cancellation. She’s about to come out with some boldfaced lie when her phone vibrates on the table.

Rose: just thought you should have my number. ps: my name is not rose

Olivia arrives and she slams her phone right down on the table.

“I’m buying us a round of shots.

—

She hates this. She loves this. Saturday morning is now the distant tip-tap of heels against the floor, click in the brain, a switch to her soul. Wake up, wake up, wake up. This is not home, it’s not her hotel room. It’s just a cold floor where she has some peace.

Then she hears that voice, every note of the song a gentle wave rushing in to carry her away from her body. Her eyes are glued shut, but it doesn’t matter when she’s already left her body behind on the shore. The voice grows louder, closer, and the waves start to grow. Her body is too far away now and she’s not sure if her eyes will ever open again.

Wake the fuck up.

“Denali?”

A poke to the ribs sends her rushing back into her own body. An involuntary groan escapes her lips and she hears a laugh from above her. She scrunches her eyes shut, terrified that any form of light might cost her the ability to see.

“What the hell?”

Her voice sounds like a croak to her ears and she manages to roll over onto her back. With a moment of preparation, she cracks open an eye. She’s greeted by the sight of Rosé kneeling over her barely functioning body, clearly trying her best not to laugh. Again, she groans and Rosé can no longer help herself.

“Why are you here?”

Honestly, she’s not sure about the answer to that one. There are bits and pieces of memories from last night printed on the back of her eyelids, but it’s all too fuzzy for her to try to piece together immediately. She remembers the sound of Olivia’s laughter mingling with Mik’s voice as they watched her throw back a seventh shot. The memory causes pain to start creeping into her head and she makes a promise to herself to never drink again.

There’s the sound of shuffling and when she looks up, Rosé isn’t kneeling above her anymore. She assumes that she’s sick and tired of her hungover ass, a perfectly valid response in her opinion. Then she hears humming beside her and sighs, glad that validity has no place in this situation. She closes her eyes again, losing herself to the light behind her eyes to ease the throbbing at her temples.

“Isn’t it a Saturday?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you here?”

“I asked you first.”

Her hands fly up to her face. Rosé is laughing again and the pain starts to spread throughout every part of her head. If only it would subside, maybe she’d finally have the energy to actually be embarrassed about waking up on the floor of her workplace.

“Went drinking.”

“Ah, and how’s that going for you?” There’s a smile in her voice. Fuck it, she thinks as she jumps straight over the line of professionalism with a flip of her middle finger. Oh well, it’s not as if this whole situation has pretty much created a void where the line should be.

“Your turn.”

Rosé goes quiet. She focuses on the sound of their breathing. Inhale, exhale. The expansion of her sides with every controlled gulp of air. She hears a plane overhead, letting the escape of air follow it far away from city streets.

“Just wanted to get away for a while.”

She turns her head, sees pale pink rose petals sprawled out on the dark floor. In the gentle light of a Saturday morning, her eyes break her promise to herself, drinking in the sight of weary beauty. She thinks she’s just hungover, but she believes she’s never seen anyone quite so pretty before.

“Well,” She looks back up at the ceiling, stark white staring back at her. “Same here.”

—

By 10:00 PM, she’s burying herself in sheets. She’s never been much of a fan of stillness, but she thinks the last week might be changing her mind.

A few hours earlier, she’d replied to Mik and Olivia’s texts, asking her if she was okay. She cursed and reassured them in the same breath. When they’d asked her where she’d ended up, she had said, “passed out on the floor.”

Half a truth is good enough, right?

If she had told them everything, she’d have to tell them that she laid in the studio for half an hour with Rosé’s humming the only thing cutting through the pounding in her head. She would have to tell them that she’d stumbled as she got up, letting warm hands guide her as she learned to stand. She’d have to tell them of the exchange of tender smiles, so different from the tug of war of flirtation that she’s accustomed to.

Her phone lights up. She expects Mik or Olivia, even Kahmora. No, she only sees that name and she giggles to herself like a damn teenager, a quiet admission that she’s allowed something to change.

Rose: pls tell me you didn’t go drinking again

Denali: I actually like having more than one brain cell, thanks

Rose: great, don’t want to have to pick you up off the floor again

Denali: won’t you ever let me live it down rose?

Rose: only if you start spelling my name right

Denali: the accent’s too much of an effort

Rose: then use my real name

Denali: ???

Rose: call me rosie

A smile graces her lips and she shoots off one last message. She places her phone on the nightstand and buries herself in the blankets, drifting into her first good sleep in a long time.

Denali: alright, night rosie

—

Monday morning suddenly frees up when Rosé says she has to move their session to the evening to make room for interviews. She fills up the rest of her morning by replying to emails about skating gigs for when she eventually returns home. She has lunch with Mik and Olivia and when they inevitably begin to pry, she stays mum on what she can only now describe as her complicated friendship with Rosé. She returns to the hotel and lets herself sleep, turning the feeling of being well-rested into a brand-new addiction.

When she arrives at the studio at 7, there’s no one there. While it isn’t like Rosé to be late, she doesn’t text. She assumes that she’s coming from yet another one of many interviews that she kindly referred to as, “shitheads trying to get way too personal.”

She settles for freestyling to loosen up while she waits. When the music starts, she feels herself break. Every moment is grounded in her own brand of ferocity and well, sex. There’s comfort in her own body, in the knowing that it is a temple of worship to herself. A signal from her brain to move, a single fluid motion, all indulgent offerings to the pleasure only she will ever feel. She throws herself into the fire and the sensation of pleasure starts to build.

The door opens, but she doesn’t, can’t stop. She feels like she’s hovering over the floor, on the brink of climax. The song peaks and she almost gasps, dropping to her knees and letting her back hit the floor. She takes a deep breath, relishes the feeling of being alive.

“Sorry.” She’s apologizing, but she’s not sure for what.

“I…” For once, Rosé is at a loss for words. Her quick wit has been thrown out the window and is probably being dragged around under the wheels of a taxi. She laughs breathily as she gets to her feet.

When their eyes meet, the air turns heavy with unspoken words and desire. She tries to look away, but she can’t. Brown gazes meet and for the first time, she permits herself the thought of what it would be like to kiss her. Maybe, just maybe, that wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Uhm, okay! Let’s get started?” Rosé bursts out and she thinks that she might have won this round.

If the singer seems more distracted than usual, she doesn’t say anything about it.

—

The water in the shower is still cold when she receives a text that evening.

Rosie: no need to meet me for the rest of the week. We need four dancers for the video, auditions on wed

The water suddenly seems warm and for the first time in her life, she thinks she’s finally learning what it’s like to lose.

—

[odissey061]

Greediness

Fandom: ikemen vampire

Pairing: Charles-Henrie x reader

Advice: is pure smut, pwp. This peace was written for kinktober on ao3, but I post here to celebrate Charles' appreciation week.

Trigger warning: they do the do in a church, but is mentioned only once, so blink and you'll miss it ;)

Tag(s): @towa-no-yume @humi-and-co @crazyfreckledginger @r-f-a-journalists

The souffle was really good. The sweet taste he sent him into ecstasy as soon as the dessert entered in his mouth. The dough melted on the tongue, but even the heavenly flavour couldn't gain his attention. His mind was somewhere else: he was focused on the girl in front of him, although he tried to conceal it. For all the day she tried to get his attentions in the most particular way. Honestly once or twice the idea to give her the attention she craved so much crossed his mind, but seeing her struggle to find something was too amusing to give up and the feeling she needed him so much was addicting. When the girl finished to clean the room gazed once at her boyfriend with the corner eye: nope, the soufflé she made for him was still more captivating than her ass, right in front on him. Her plan to seduce him was merely failing: since the morning he treated her more cold then usual, he wasn't affectionate and clingy as usual.

Mayby she missed the right method: perhaps the right choice was something else, for exemple making him jealous. She knew to well how easily Charles got jealous and which bottoms she had to pull to obtain the wanted attention. Without gazing at him she went towards the door and when was going to open it, as he didn't exist, but he finally spoke:"Where are you going? Have you alredy finish to clean this room?". "Yeah, I just finished. Earlier Faust asked me to help him in one of his experiments and I said yes" she answered without turning towards him. He smiled satisfied when he saw the goosebumps and her stiffening. Who did he want deceive? He was the only one unable to bear a single moment without her. His passion for her was so much that was the engine that made his heart beat. Even when she was five meters away from him or without a physical contact, he couldn't breath: he missed her warm and the feeling of being loved. When she wasn't there, Charles was dead and the thought she preferred to stay with someone else than him was painful like hundreds bullet in the body. Knowing she was going to leave him to be with another male, made he wanted do everything in his power to please her.

Charles stood up from the chair and walked over her, leaving the dessert on the table, and caged lhis girlfriend between the door and his body. "Why don't you stay with me a bit more?" he asked starting to plant light kisses on her nape. "I don't see why I should. You keep ignoring and I have chores to do" her tone was cold as ice even if there was a note of pleasure in the voice. His arms went around the waist to restrain the movements as he started to kiss her neck up to the ear. "I'm sorry if I ignored you, but please stay with me: don't go to Faust. You know how I much I dislike you spending time with him" he wishpered in her hear and she shivered. He was like a puppy needy for the master's attention. Mayby he didn't know the effects of his actions stirred up in her, or mayby he knew too well because when he licked the ear's shell with the tongue, a little moan escaped from the lips and she pressed her body against his. 

His hands went under the shirt and ghosted over the warm skin of the tight. She tried to gain her composure as she spoke with a erratic breath:"If you want I stay with you, you should try harder".

He understood her plan was to make him jealus, it didn't matter if he fell in the trap.

As the tongue was still on the ear a hand went on her breasts. The long finger were on the most sensible part and he rubbed slowly the fingertips on the nipple. She groaned annoyied for the frustration: the stimulation was there, yet it wasn't enough to satisfy the need. "Try harder like this?" he asked, "More. Charles, I need more" she begged as she begun to move to get more pleasure. One hand of his pinched a nipple as the other tried to untie the bra. "What do you want me to do?" he asked. Charles took the bra in the hand and released it, just to tease her and as soon as it popped against the skin, she groaned for the frustration.

He slowly licked the neck and the fangs scratched the skin enough to leave a sign but not to bite her. "I ask you again: what do you want?" he hand on her thight touched slowly the panties' hem and she rubbed her ass on him.  "Charles, I need you. Satisfy m..." she begun to talk, but Charles interrupted her as two of his fingers entered in her core and begun to move inside her core. Both of they groaned for the arousing feeling while the other hand pinched harder her erect nipple. The fingers explored the more superficial zone of her womanhood with a slow and relentless pace, teasing her mercylessly. The girl lowered herself for more contact when he scissored the fingers in and out, stretching the walls. "Charles please, faster... harder" she begged on his lips a few second earlier to kiss him, mewling in his mouth as his fingers rubbed the clit with more pressure. Her whole body was trembling from the pleasure and the room was filled by her husky needy voice that called his name again and again.

He loved how needy she was for him and the aknowlege he was the only able to make her moan and cry for the pleasure exited him more. The feeling he gained from this, arused him more and make him abducted to it. She was the one trapped, but somehow he felt locked too: he was in a prison and she was the lock with her smiles, her moans. That was his sweet obsessed prison from which he wouldn't never escape and even if he wanted, he couldn't do that. And this cage was only his: he couldn't let anyone else step inside, he couldn't let anyone knows her so intimately. Her whimpers and the sticky juices on his hand brought him to the reality. She was close to cum, yet he stopped, pulling out the fingers: if she wanted came, she had to knew who was the one who was making her feel so good. "Scream my name. I want hear it from your beautiful lips" he said in her hear and she did as he commanded with a wimpering voice. But the voice was too low: he wanted her scream his name so loudly that everyone in the church would be able to listen, would be able to understand she was his.

When he started again to finger her, this time with the whole hand, she started to yell his name so loudly that the morning after she wouldn't have more voice. Charles knew she was enjoying this, but it wasn't enough: he wanted her abducted to him so much that she wouldn't love anyone else like him. "Tell me you love me. Tell me you need me as much as I need you" he ordered as the pace became faster in a sweet promise of release if she would have obeyied. His fingers abused mercilessy her defenseless nub until it was painful with a rougher and faster pace and she was so close to come. "I love you, Charles. I need you like the obsygen" she screamed his name again and again.

Please, become abducted to this. Tell me I'm the only one you could ever love in your mortal life. Was his silent pray.

She turned the head towards him  and embraced his lover as she declared fervently her love for him:"Charles, I love you". Completly satisfied, he curled the fingers one last time, letting her come.

After the release, both of they fell on the ground and she put her hand in the croock of the neck. "I love you so, so much" he wishpered on her face as he kissed the cheeck. The trail of kisses reached the waist as he leaned on her more and more until he laid on her body. He put her leg on the shoulder and her doubious look met his:"Charles?". Without answering, he hid the face in the tights and rubbed the tongue in the folds. "Charles, wait. I'm still sensible, stop" she begged, tempting a withdraw. "I know, that's why I'm doing this. I made you scream my name, but I'm so greedy that I want hear more" he smiles sadistically as the tongue licked her clit.

 

Somewhere else Vlad and Faust playied chess with a annoying music on the background. "For how long do you think the are going to fuck?" exclaimed the German extremely pissed of. They started a few hours ago, but it looked like they wouldn't stoopped so soon. "Let them enjoy themself" smiled Vlad rubbing the queen on the lips, still not sure where placed it. "You know what means my room is closed to his one, do you?" his tone was angry. He really hoped the night was more silent, but the God didn't fulfill the poor Faust's prayers: he wasn't able to sleep at all.

I love so much this baby. He's not even my typo, yet writing for him was so easy: I'll probably write more about him

[shipersanonymous]

One Hit West

By: ShipersAnonymous

Chapters: 1/?

Rating: Explicit

Synopsis:

Danger at every turn, a darkness threatening to consume her, a secret she's trying to keep, a life she's trying to protect.

Iris West is the best at what she does. She knows her way around the shadows and is unstoppable with a gun. But when her old flame, Barry Allen, suddenly makes his way into her family's hit list she's forced to go against her nature to save the man she once loved. The man she still loves.

When you kill for a living, death is bound to follow where you go but how do you fight against the one thing you've been trained to do?

How do you keep yourself from being tempted by the past?

How do you protect the ones you love when the greatest danger in their lives is you?

Author's Note:

OK I'm so sorry this is so late (my time atleast) but this took a little figuring out 😅.

IT'S FINALLY HERE! My first tumblr fan fic! I'm beyond excited! Hope you all like it! Feel free to let me know what you think and share your theories!

XOXO

************ Cliffhanger Warning *************

Chapter 1

[Iris]

Bang!

The loud and familiar sound of the gun going off echoes through the abandoned warehouse and the, now, dead man’s blood splatters onto her black leather coat. She stares down at him unmoved, her face set in an expression of cold indifference. A heavy silence ensues as she simply looks into her victims cold blue eyes, a piece of her own dwindling humanity slipping out of her with every passing second. The lifeless orbs stare back at her, frozen with that special brand of fear that she’s seen on many a hit. The fear that consumes each soul at the very last second, just before she pulls her trigger. The realisation that those are the last breaths they’ll ever take, that hers are the last eyes they’ll ever see.

Satisfied that her job has been done, Iris lifts her booted foot from the corpse’s neck. The lifeless head bobs to the side and blood trickles from the bullet wound in the center like a spot of dark red paint on a fleshy canvas. She replaces her gun in its holster as she walks away from the cooling body.

“Seriously?” Eddie asks as she steps outside the abandoned building into the brisk night air. She turns her head towards him and disdainfully regards his cool stance. With his back and a foot propped against the wall and his arms casually crossed over his chest he oozes a carelessness that has become a Hitfamily trademark. She doesn’t validate his remark with the expected ‘what?’, but instead stares him down and waits for the elaboration that, she has no doubt, will follow.

“You could have put a silencer on that thing.” He explains and she simply rolls her eyes and huffs out exasperated. With a turn of her heel she begins her walk back up to her car, her unwanted partner following closely behind her.

“So that’s it? You’re just gonna ignore me? You know just cause you’re the bosses daughter Iri-”

The click of the gun engaging shuts him up and before he can blink he’s staring down the barrel of her still warm weapon.

“Listen Thawne, this was a one woman hit that I could have done in my sleep and the only reason why you’re here is cause between dealing with you and dealing with my dad you’re easier to kill. That being said…”

She steps closer to him and pulls him to her by his collar. Her gun rests beneath his raised chin and she can practically smell the fright rolling off him in tiny beads of sweat.

“… If you ever try to tell me how to do my job again, I’ll make it a point to show you just how well I know what I’m doing and the last thing you’ll see on this earth is how good I am at pulling the trigger. Incase you haven’t heard, I never miss. You get the picture?”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows the fearful lump forming in his throat and he nods, too afraid of saying the wrong thing and ending up like the corpse that lies bleeding in the warehouse a few feet away.

“Good. And when we’re out on a hit, it’s West. Now get out of my sight before I have to call two bodies in. I don’t need the extra paper work.” She spits shoving him away as she let’s go.

“Yes, Ma’am.” He shakes out before, scrambling to his feet and making a hasty retreat. She disengages her gun and replaces it in her holster as she tries to push down her annoyance. You’d think that with a success rate as high as hers her father would stop trying to send her out with baby sitters. Alas she’s done this tango long enough to know that there’s no use fighting with Father West. All she can hope for is a co-hitman that doesn’t actually have a thirst for blood and let’s her do her own thing. A wind blows through her tensed body, swaying her coat and ponytail synchronically in the air. A dog barks in the distance, the only sign of life in the dark and deserted place. Iris takes a moment to breathe as she feels the adrenaline begin to leave her body.

It’s time to go.

She walks the rest of the steep way up to her black car, stopping briefly to relieve herself of her stained coat and dispensing it in the trunk before stepping into the drivers seat.

With a push of the start button, the machine roars to life. Iris buckles up and takes off, speeding away in the direction of the city. One hand holds the steering wheel and the other’s fingers dance over the keypad from the monitor in the dashboard with a ritualistic ease. She calls the main office and waits for the prerecorded prompt. Instead of a robotic voice, a chime cries through the speakers, announcing that she has an incoming call.

She glances at the screen for a moment, the number is unlisted. Suspiciously she reaches up to her Bluetooth ear piece and answers.

“Hello?”

“Iris it’s me,” her brothers voice responds on the other end and an annoyance creases her brow.

“Wallace what the hell?” she demands, her eyes never leaving the road, her voice never faltering despite the nervous hammering of her heart.

“Listen you can scold me later but there’s no time for that now. You need to get to the Golden Gate Casino pronto,” the urgency in his voice is unmistakable and Iris feels herself begin to worry.

“Why?”

“Dad got a request for a hit an hour ago and you need to stop him,” he whispers.

“Wait dad’s actually going on a hit himself. Boy must be some important client,” she observes, still confused as to why her brother would send her on a literal suicide mission.

“It’s not the client that’s important, it’s the target. He has a, uh, personal score to even out.”

“Now I know you’re joking. That’s against our oath, and dad would never do that. No matter how much a person pisse-”

“It’s Barry.” Wally blurts out and the shock is enough to make her skied to a stop.

“What?” she asks feeling her lungs begin to collapse.

“The target is Barry Allen.” He clarifies.

Her skin irrupts in goosebumps at the mention of his name. It’s been so long since she last heard it said out loud, six years to be exact. A thin layer of tears gloss over her wide eyes and the sound of angered hoots is drowned out by the roar of her heart beat as memories flood her mind.

“Why Iris? Just, just tell me why? Did I do something wrong?” he begged, his voice tremulous from the effort of holding in his sobs.

“No Barry, you were perfect in every way it’s just-”

“Then why are you doing this? Don’t…” he paused, trying to find the stomach to ask what he was about to ask.

“Don’t you love me anymore?” the question came out as a whisper but Barry couldn’t bare to wait for the answer. Instead, he pulled her into his arms and she allowed herself a moment of weakness, savoring the warmth of his arms one last time.

“Don’t do this to us. Don’t- don’t do this to me.” He pleaded. She pulled away enough to look up into his saddened gaze, trying her best to hold back her own tears.

She couldn’t cry. She didn’t deserve to cry. Not with all the heartache she was no doubt causing him.

“I can’t lose you,” he begged tightening his hold on her as if he could just trap her there and keep her in his embrace forever.

“It’s for the best Barry. You, have to let me go.” She said softly though it mostly seemed like she was trying to convince herself of that.

“Iris,” he whispered her name like a cry of agony, the longing hanging from each syllable. Hurt punctuating every letter. Without thinking she kissed him, long and hard, expressing in that moment her own pain. Her own love. Her goodbye.

They broke apart and she connected her forehead to his. She kept her eyes closed but she could feel his tears dripping onto her hand like rain on a pavement.

“I love you Barry. And… a part of me knows that I always will. But I can’t be with you any longer. This- this is goodbye.” She whispered and before she gave in to her wailing heart she pushed out of his embrace and ran. She ran and never looked back. Not when he screamed out her name like he was being torn apart limb for limb the further away she got from him. Not when his footsteps no longer echoed behind her. Not when she got home and finally let herself cry. Not ever. She would never stop running. She couldn’t ever stop.

“Iris!” her brother cuts through her thoughts and she comes to, her cheeks wet with tears she thought she’d never shed again. She dabs away at them quickly and closes her eyes, shifting her mindset back to the present.

“How close is he?” Her voice was firm like a concrete wall.

“I’m not sure I had to sneak out of the office to give you the heads up but judging by the time dad left he should be there in the next 45 minutes.” He informs. Mechanically, Iris starts up the car, both her hands gripping the wheel with such force that her knuckles pale.

“I’m closer, I can make it in twenty. Get rid of your burner and be careful when you sneak back in.” She warns her foot flattening against the gass as she passes her third red light.

“I’ll be fine don’t worry. Keep me posted.” He responds.

“Wally wait!” She calls out before he hangs up.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Could you call Nissa for me? Let her know what happened and check that everything’s OK? If you can’t reach her try Jen. She usually sleeps over on weekends,” Iris asks.

“Sure thing sis. Consider it done.” He says sternly and Iris breathes a momentary sigh of relief.

“Thanks Wally,” She says softly, shedding her murderous demeanour for just a second.

“Anytime. Oh and sis?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful.”

“Always.”

**********************************************

Iris comes to a violent stop in one of the parking slots towards the outskirts of the parking lot where no one ever parks. A brief glance at her watch tells her she has 25 minutes to get in, find him and get him out. With no time to lose she grabs her duffle bag from the trunk and squeezes into her back seat for a quick change of outfits. This will go a lot smoother if she can draw as little attention to herself as possible. Thanking her organised nature for keeping a classy yet flexible short jumpsuit in her car she slips on her heels, touches up her make up and walks towards the entrance with 15 minutes to spare. Her high ponytail sways with her hips as she clicks her way up the stairs, her senses on high alert.

To get to the gaming lounge she needs to pass through the metal detectors but the Golden Gate has been the setting for many a rendezvous with targets and clients so she barely breaks a sweat as she reaches the front of the line. Calmly, she removes the red emerald ring that rests on her ring finger, a symbol of who she is, and places it on a tray along with her clutch and her earrings. Upon seeing the ring the security guard nods his head in understanding and discreetly brushes his pass over the scanner embedded into the metal detector. It flashes green and she walks in with out a single beep. She nods back in appreciation and retrieves her belongings before stepping into a broad, red-carpeted hallway. Her pistol safely hidden in her clutch.

A clock on the wall tells her she lost five minutes in the line so she picks up her pace. As she nears the top of the stairs that will lead her down to the gambling area she forces all thoughts away from her mind and tries to prepare herself to see him again.

The only man she’s ever loved. The worst heartbreak she’s ever caused.

At the top of the stairway she scans the room, looking from any remote sign of familiarity and there, in the corner, seated at one of the roulette tables, she finds him.

For a second her heart stops and she forgets how to breathe. His back is to her but just the sight of his glistening brown-black hair, strands that once upon a lifetime she used to contently comb her fingers through, was enough to spike her nerve levels. Memories try to push their way back into her mind but she forces them down, fully aware that time is not on their side.

My side.

She scolds herself.

There is no “us”.

Taking a deep breath to compose herself she hurries down the stairs, without drawing any attention to herself, and worms her way to him. Just before she reaches him she takes a second to straighten out her outfit and plasters on her most seductive expression.

“Mind if I join you Mr. Allen?” She whispers into his ear and the chip that he had been nervously fiddling with slips from his finger, clattering on to the table.

[areluctantsblog]

Teacher!Tony wrong number au - Part 4

I'm super excited to post this chapter for two reasons. Firstly, because I'm introducing a few familiar characters and a sort of new one. Secondly, because this chapter got so long that I decided to break it into two. I hope it works for you all, let me know, I’m grateful for every feedback. 🙂

(part 1, part 2, part 3)

After that torturous lesson on Monday, Tony decides that he won’t text Peter Parker again. It’s no more than a bullet point in the list of reckless things Tony swore to avoid from Monday on, yet it still feels important to point out. Tony’s a teacher and Peter’s a student. Their relationship ought to be defined by their roles and even those three times they texted was enough to blur the lines and mess them up. That is, if Peter’s behaviour was anything to go by Monday afternoon. And even if the boy is all right, Tony won't forget anytime soon the disturbing reaction he had to the situation. What situation that was exactly, he doesn’t know, and he isn’t too keen on labelling it, either. Giving it a name would only make it real and that is the last thing Tony needs.

Tuesday morning Tony catches himself keeping an eye out for Peter Parker wherever he goes. It’s almost as if he’s afraid of meeting the boy. Or is it that he’s eager to? Well, Tony most certainly isn’t afraid of the boy. His own reaction, however, is an entirely different story. As for wanting to see Peter, yes, he might wish to, but only to make sure again that the boy is all right. It’s only reasonable, wanting reassurance. Helping him, if he needs to. His motivations are completely respectable, Tony thinks – then feels his stomach drop when he mistakes a sophomore for Peter.

By lunchtime he loses count of how many times he told himself to get a grip. He knows that he will meet Peter eventually and some part of him is confident that it will be all right. Things will go back to normal in no time. Peter will have gotten a confidence boost and Tony will have proved to be able to stay at the rational side of things all by himself. Everything is going to be fine. That is, if he finally comes to his senses and starts treating the situation as he should. Like it never happened. Like it should never have happened. Not with that twitch in his chest, that feels frighteningly like regret, every time he remembers his resolution.

He sees Peter again on Wednesday morning. They exchange the small smile and polite nod Tony expected the first time and it’s alarming how effortless it is. A part of him tells himself to be happy about it, but that part also does everything to ignore the rush of adrenaline and the fluttering of his stomach accompanying that smile. And the disquieting suspicion of what it all might mean.

By Thursday night, Tony feels more exhausted than ever before during his teaching carrier. He desperately needs to get it off his chest. He pours himself a whisky, sits on the sofa and looks Jarvis deep in the eyes.

“I’m in trouble,” he begins. The dog tilts his head with a soft whine.

“Yep, it’s not good,” he sighs. Then he realises what he just said and hurries to add, “but it’s not bad either. I’m just blowing it out of proportion.” His firm voice makes the dachshund put his head down on his feet timidly.

“I enjoyed texting him, yeah, but who wouldn’t?” Tony pleads, waving his glass dangerously in the air. “He’s one of those new generation kids who grew up online. Of course, he’s funny and easy-going. And me? Okay, let’s not start with that,” he allows when the dachshund covers his eyes with a paw. “The point is, that nothing wrong happened. And nothing will happen. I just need to calm the fuck down,” he finishes, burying his face into his hands. “Ugh. Why can’t I just… Shit!”

Prompted by Tony’s strangled voice, Jarvis hops onto the sofa and nudges his thigh with a small paw.

“It’s all right, buddy,” he says, sitting up. “Well, it’s not, not yet, but we’re here to figure it out, aren’t we?”

Tony finishes his drink and refills before he speaks again.

“And so, what if I find him interesting? He is an interesting boy,” Tony insists. The dog whines again. “Yes, okay. I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t I notice him before? Do I only find him interesting because we texted? Because we did something forbidden? God, I’m fucked up. But okay, let’s say I do. I feel this, this attraction – strictly in a physical sense. As in relating to physics, not, not the other thing. Yeah... But, but it doesn’t mean that I have to act on it. That’s what makes us human, isn’t it, J?”

“I wouldn’t know, boss, but my Talking to Himself protocol has just been activated” says another voice with a soft British accent.

“Hey there, mother hen. I wasn’t talking to myself. I was talking to your four-legged cover-up,” Tony quips back at the AI.

“You programmed this protocol to ignore entities that are unable to answer in any known human languages,” J.A.R.V.I.S. informs him.

“Oh, but look at him, he’s all ears. And he was being most supportive, didn’t you listen?” Tony chides, petting the dachshund's head gently.

“I did listen, and about what you sa…,” J.A.R.V.I.S. begins, but Tony interrupts him.

“I didn’t upload my painfully earned self-knowledge into your archives for you to just throw it back at me.”

“So how can I help?” J.A.R.V.I.S. asks, sounding more concerned, than offended.

“How about you make me a hot bath?”

“Right away, boss.”

“That went well, wouldn’t you say?” Tony whispers conspiratorially to Jarvis, as he scratches behind his ears. “I just hope it goes well with Peter tomorrow, too.”

Surprisingly, it does. The hot bath and the unusually peaceful sleep seem to have made a difference, because Friday morning Tony feels calmer than he had in days. He tries to whoosh away the idea that this newfound serenity might have more to do with finally seeing Peter again, than successful coping. But even if it is so, he can’t wish away his emotions. He just has to keep it together for a short time, a few weeks maybe, certainly not more than three and then his life would become safely uneventful once more. It already looks promising. During the lesson, Tony’s in a much more reasonable state of mind than last time and Peter looks at him again.

Tony he knows himself too well to relax, though, despite feeling relieved on his way home for the week-end. Believing that it’s all behind him just because one lesson went well is… tempting. And that’s exactly what makes him wary. Tony is aware, even if he doesn’t feel them at the moment, that some of the messy, irrational and absolutely inappropriate emotions he’s been dealing with all week linger on.

As a consequence, Tony has the most irregular weekend in a long time – well, none more so, than the last one when he texted a student, but he doesn’t count that one. Instead of staying in his workshop, he spends almost all of Saturday in Central Park with Jarvis. He watches skaters, talks to a nice paintress, feeds the ducks and walks more than he thinks advisable in the chilly weather. It works reasonably well. Even though Peter pops into his mind at least a hundred times during the day, Tony at least doesn’t spend his evening fighting off more thoughts of the boy. He barely finishes feeding Jarvis before he collapses onto the sofa, fast asleep.

When Tony wakes up a little before noon he’s both grateful for only having to come up with half a day’s worth of distractions and annoyed at himself for that thought. After walking Jarvis, he grades a few freshmen’s homework, but stops when he almost falls asleep. Later in the afternoon, after spending a miserable hour trying to concentrate on lesson plans, Tony turns his TV on and in a desperate attempt at distraction, selects the superhero movie with the most handsome men running around in tight suits. It doesn’t help. Getting slightly aroused by all the action and sexiness and at the same time wondering who Peter Parker’s favourite character is… Well it’s as far from making things better as it can be.

When turning in unusually early for the third night in a row, Tony resolves not to make any more resolutions. His attempts at dealing with the situation seem to have yielded mixed results. Results, he feels unable to untangle at the moment. So, Tony decides to just go about thing as usual – or at least as close to usual as he can manage – and see what happens.

What does happen the next day, however, is nothing he prepared for. Thankfully three nights of long, uninterrupted sleep gives him enough presence of mind to avoid making a scene, but at the end of the period Tony can barely wait until the last student leaves the classroom before he takes out his phone and texts Peter.

Aaand stay tuned for part 5 which is almost ready and coming soon 😉

Notes: Yes, Tony has J.A.R.V.I.S., the AI and his reasons for keeping it a secret – hence Jarvis, the dog, who looks like the one in the pic below. (And of course, you’ll find out what those reasons are, if you stick with me for a bit longer.)

Thanks for reading and special thanks if you share your thoughts on this chapter with me 🙂

Edit 10-02-2019: Part5

[charlesxavirs]

Ohohohoh! Please, if you want to I won't make you I'm sorry- Stenbrough? That's my actual shit and I love it but if you for any reason I will be okay I'm so sorry I'm a literal mess.

okay so i’ve had this written for ages and i’ve tried to expand on it and write more but it’s just never really happened so i might as well just post it. hope you enjoy! read on ao3 )

Stanley Uris considered himself a man of many talents. He could recite well detailed spiel about any bird at the drop of a hat, he had got washing his clothes down to a precise science so none of the colours would even dare to run, and he had to admit that he was quite flexible, although he wouldn’t ever admit that on a first date. Yet, despite his vehement efforts, despite his dedication and despite his might, he cannot get fucking glitter out of his hair. He’s tried washing it, brushing it, even vacuuming it once with Eddie’s careful guidance. He dreads the days when it is inexplicably part of his routine, and he prays and prays and prays that he’ll be able to get it out of his curly locks come bedtime.

He never fucking does, though.

And so, Stan was in a foul mood as he pulled up in the parking lot this morning at precisely five minutes to seven. As usual, he was the second car in the lot and he took the time to count the binders on his passenger seat again before he gathered them in his arms, to make sure he had replied to any emails he had to and ran over his lesson plans in his head before stepping out of the car and making his way towards the staff entrance of the small elementary school.

Just as he had expected, Ben was sat behind his desk at the main office, looking bleary eyed as he sipped at his coffee and flipped through papers that Stan would ask about if it wasn’t so early in the morning and if Ben didn’t look so tired. Stan threw him a smile and waved at him the best he could with his arms full, a wave of fondness washing over him as Ben offered him a bright smile in spite of his fatigue, and he started his trek along the red bricked corridor to his classroom.

Stan had started teaching just four years ago, starting off with Kindergarten kids at Derry Elementary before moving to the fifth grade the year after, and he’s stayed there ever since. His psychology degree was supposed to lead Stan into the world of therapy, yet instead, he got pulled into early years development, which ultimately led to him training to be a teacher. His father was more than displeased at sudden change in career choice, hoping his son would be a hotshot shrink in no time, but Donald Uris had to admit that it was nice to have Stan close to home. He also had to admit that Stan was good at his job.

The kids loved him. They giggled at his sarcastic remarks, groaned at him whenever he set homework and were unafraid to come to him with their 10-year-old problems, seeking his fair judgement and level headed advice. Yes, Stan Uris loved his kids dearly, he even admitted to shedding a tear here and there when his classes finally left for middle school, and he’d be damned if they weren’t going to grow up in a safe and loving place. The thought of packing it in and walking the career path his parents had hoped he would pave after college was a tempting one when he came home with stack after stack of homework sheets and essays and school books, but the way the kids eyes would light up when they saw his neatly written praise on their last homework assignment was more than enough to quash the idea. In short, Stan loved his class, and his class loved him.

Stan pushed open his classroom door with his shoulder and blindly searched the cold wall with nimble fingers until they settle on the light switch, and he flooded the room with the white, artificial glare of the ceiling lights. He walked the well known path to his desk at the front of the room, reaching down to pick up a stray pencil by his chair after he set his folders down on the clutter free table. He took pride in his classroom, keeping it clean and tidy at all times. An untidy working space means an untidy mind, his mother had always told him, and he very much believed it to be true.

Over the summer, he had spent a full day painting new displays on the walls, changing the colour scheme of the room from light yellow to sky blue, penning sparrows onto the walls with help from Richie. All of his pencils had been sharpened, papers organised, glue sticks neatly stacked and reading books tidily arranged on shelves.

“You’re like Mary Poppins when she does all that clicky shit.” Richie had astutely commented, trying to snap his fingers for added effect, but he somehow ended up punching himself in the face.

Stan wished Richie took the same pride in his own classroom instead of giving Stan shit for doing so himself. Richie was content to replace the framed picture of Bill Nye above his desk with an updated snap and buy a new board pen every year. He loved his friend dearly, but he often wonders how he even became qualified to teach, considering he was a health hazard on legs, always tripping over chair legs or barely skimming the children’s faces when he got too animated with his hand movements. Stan had been teaching for a year longer than Richie had but he had known Richie all of his life. In fact, Stan likes to credit himself as the guiding force for getting him off his ass and into the workforce.

It had been a Sunday, when they were both Juniors at UCLA, and Stan was putting the finishing touches to his project for his Primary Education class. He was sat cross legged on the floor of his cramped apartment, blasting Abba, the ground in front of him covered in newspaper as he dabbed his project delicately with his one dollar paintbrush and paint. Everything was peaceful in the world of Stan, that was, until Richie bounded through the door in a whirlwind of neon colours and unruly hair, already speaking at one hundred miles per hour.

“Stanley the Manley, you’ll never believe what the fuck just happened. So i’m sat there, enjoying my weekly Dorito date with that weird guy down the street and- what the flippity fuck is that?”

Stan looked up at him, carefully setting his brush down on the newspaper and moving curls out of his eyes, following Richie’s gaze down to his project, standing sturdily in front of Stan.

“It’s homework.” Stan said, stretching his stiff arms above his head. “It’s a fish.”

Before he knew it, Richie was kneeling on the floor next to Stan, eye to eye with his papier-mache creation, staring it out with trepidation in his gaze.

“So I’ve gotta do a shit ton of consumer research just to have the chance to grace the airwaves, but all you’ve gotta do is make a fish?” Richie whined, sitting back on his heels and pouting at Stan. He reached out his hand to touch, but Stan quickly swatted it away before leaning back down to apply another coat of purple paint to his aquatic masterpiece.

“If you’re that bothered, why don’t you train to become a teacher, Trashmouth.” Stan chastised, ignoring the ‘humph’ that escaped Richie’s as he watched him paint. Stan never actually expected him to do it. He had turned up at Stan’s door almost a year to the day later, holding a handmade dog, wearing a bowtie and donning a kippah on over its curly ears. Stan had answered the door with a hand on his hip, eyebrow raised. Richie had only grinned, his cheeks turning red with the force of him holding back a laugh at his own joke.

“It’s a Cocker Staniel.”

Stan slammed the door in his face.

And now here they were, almost five years later, Richie running late as usual and Stan dreading the looming presence of glitter on his Thursday morning.

Parent-Teacher conferences were the bane of Stan’s existence. He held two every year, one in October while the kids were relatively new in the class and one later on in the year, normally before they left. Usually, the parents didn’t care at all or seemingly cared too much, berating Stan for things as trivial as how he worded homework sheets to the way he dressed. The sheer stress of such things meant that Stan spent the short hour between school ended and his first appointment with Eddie, the school nurse, drinking juice boxes with an ice pack held securely to his head while they chatted aimlessly and watched reruns of Judge Judy on the room’s shitty TV set. This year, though, was going to be the first time he’d handle the parents smoothly and professionally, and he certainly wasn’t going to have a breakdown in his store cupboard afterwards. No way.

He heaved in a sigh, revelling in the slight burn of his lungs as he drank in the air. It was getting closer to half past now, and Stan finally started to get into gear, setting up for the day, refusing to look at the offending vials of metallic crap until he had to. It was 8:55 when Richie finally pulled up outside, fifteen minutes later than he usually was, and he didn’t even afford himself the luxury of mithering Stan as he sprinted down the corridor, hands full of boxes and slammed his classroom door behind him. Richard Tozier was well suited to be a second grade teacher, Stan thought, considering he was a second grader himself.

He opened his door at 8:59, only just making it back to his desk before the whiny ring of the school bell flooded his ears and children started to walk through the door, unbuttoning their coats as they bid him good morning, groaning as they saw what Stan had written on the whiteboard, and Stan couldn’t help but smirk. If they were going to destroy his classroom and his life with pipe cleaners and glitter glue, he was going to make their brains explode with maths.

--

Stan was sticky by the time 4:30 rolled by. In an effort to make his class a bit more cheerful, he had allowed them to make name tags for their books and work so their parents could easily identify them that evening. He hadn’t, however, thought it was such a good idea when Timothy Jones had walked into him with a full pot of PVA glue, subsequently spilling it down his neatly pressed chinos, covering them in a shiny, brown stain that was going to be a bitch to get out. He couldn’t possibly greet parents looking like there had been an oil spill on his trousers, so in a last resort to gain some semblance of put togetherness, he went knocking on Richie’s door.

“Woah there Stanley,” he grinned as he cut what looked like a melted dinosaur out of a piece of blue card, adding it to a pile of similarly drawn jurassic creatures. “Looks like someone didn’t make it to the can in time. Say, I didn’t know you were into watersports.”

Stan didn’t dignify him with a response, instead sighing and muttering a halfhearted ‘Beep Beep’. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any pants, have you?”

Stan should have known to fear the worse as Richie’s face lighted up with mirth and he spoke to Stan with his Southern Belle drawl.

“Well, Sir, I surely surely do.”

And that’s how Stan ended up sat behind his desk, listening to parents talk about their kids as if they were the only ones on the planet, wearing a pair of hot pink yoga pants that barely fitted him, never mind Richie.

(“Where the fuck did you get these?” “They’re Eddie Spaghetti’s. I-” “Never mind, I’d rather not know.”)

He nodded empathetically as they talked about their children, resisted the urge to roll his eyes as they told him how to do his job, but under no circumstances did he stand up from the table. Propriety be damned, he didn’t want to be fired for public indecency.  He was almost done at five minutes to six, his schedule closely adhered to, and if all went well, he’d be in bed by seven. He only had one appointment left, and he let himself relax in his chair, straightening his papers and ticking off names as he waited.

Five minutes passed. And then ten. And then fifteen. It was quarter past six, and he was still waiting for his last appointment to turn up. A pang of annoyance gnawed at Stan. He had been preparing for this for over a month and the parents didn’t even have the decency to listen to him talk about their own kids, for God’s sake. Huffing, he started to pack away, stuffing sheets back into their binders when a ball of emerald and auburn and brown came charging through the door with a small boy in tow.

“I’m so s-sorry, I thought Noah’s mother was coming instead.” the man groaned, panting as he ran a hand through his son’s hair.

He quickly caught his breath and made his way in front of Stan, offering him his hand to shake. If Stan wasn’t so annoyed, he would have noticed the way his blue eyes sparkled or the warmth of his touch or the way his mouth quirked as he spoke. But Stan was irritated, so instead he shook the man’s hand and refused to look at him as he pulled his sheets back out. Stan quickly realised, though, that Noah was stood next to his father, grinning up at Stan.

He quickly softened, smiling back at the boy. Noah was a boisterous member of his class, yes, but he was polite and was quiet when Stan needed him to be and often had an amusing anecdote about his Aunt Bev and Uncle Georgie. Noah Phillips-Denbrough was a good kid, and Stan liked him very much.

“Hey buddy.” he greeted as Noah waved back, his grin widening as he shot back an exuberant ‘hi!’, almost shaking as he gripped to his father’s arm.

Looking at the pair now, Stan could obviously see the family ties. He had had a few dealings with Audra Phillips, and from what Stan could gather, she was a reserved woman who only seemed to speak when she was spoken to, quite unlike her son, who was rowdy to say the least. While Noah had inherited his mother’s swarthy skin and tightly coiled locks, it was easy to see his father in him. Their eyes both lit up in the same carefree way when Stan looked at them and the smile on their faces seemed to be permanent. That, and the blue hue of their eyes were almost identical. While Stan knew divorce often made kids shrink into themselves, Noah had done anything but, and he thinks Mr. Denbrough had been part of the reason why.

“Sorry we’re so late, Mr Uris.” Noah beamed, no evidence of regret traceable on his face, and Stan’s grin involuntarily widened.

“Don’t worry about it Noah.” he said, throwing him a wink that made the young boy dissolve into giggles. “Hey, why don’t you go and finish your drawing from today while I chat to your dad?” he suggested, and Noah didn’t have to be asked twice before he was sitting at one of the rickety desks and scribbling away.

Stan turned his attention back to the man in front of him, cutting him off with a wave of his hand as he tried to speak again, probably to apologise again. “Why don’t we get started, Mr Denbrough.”

“Bill, please.” he insisted, and the smile on his face had Stan repressing a blush.

“Okay then, Bill,” Stan didn’t miss the man’s chuckle, “Let’s talk about Noah’s progress so far.”

In all fairness to Stan, he was completely professional from there on in, only making eye contact when appropriate, never letting himself stray from the topic of Bill’s son, and he certainly didn’t let himself get excited when Bill pushed the sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows. Stanley Uris was a paragon of a teacher, answering questions thoughtfully and easily. So what if Bill’s appointment lasted twenty minutes longer than it should have, it’s not like Stan was counting.

It went so well, however, that Stan had ignored one huge, almighty, dirty big fat flaw. He had completely forgotten that nothing good ever happens to him, and sooner or later, it was all going to go tits up. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long for it to happen.

“Thanks a lot for seeing us, Mr Uris.” Bill had a smile on his face and his voice was dripping with an appreciation that had Stan blushing.

Stan waved his hand in front of him, turning to smile at Noah, who was once again glued to Bill’s side. “Thank you guys for coming.” He shot him a small wink, making the boy beam up at him.

When he turned back to Bill, there was a look clouding his piercing eyes that Stan couldn’t quite decipher, yet it made the warmth on his cheeks deepen further, and before he knew it, Bill was standing out of his chair, arm out in front of him to shake, and Stan was following suit.

He only realised what a huge fuck up it was when Noah burst into fits of giggles.

“Mr. Uris why are your pants pink?” he squeaked out in between laughs, clutching onto Bill’s arm to hold himself up.

Stan’s cheeks burned now, and he was pretty sure you could see him in the dark with the intensity of his blush. He glanced at Bill out of the corner of his eye, surprised to find that his cheeks were the colour of his pants, and he didn’t miss the way his eyes ran over Stan’s somewhat scantily clad legs.

He cleared his throat, the deep bass of his chuckle reverberating in Stan’s chest as he pushed a stray strand of auburn hair from his eyes. “The pink suits you.”

All Stan could do was limply shake the man’s hand, squeak out a pathetic goodbye and usher the pair hastily from the room.

He let his head fall with a thunk against the pink painted door as he shut it closed behind them. Stan had prided himself on keeping himself composed for the past five years, no matter how hard it was. He had people complain about him when his shirt sleeves were too short or when the amount of time designated to reading was deemed ‘questionable’. The way Stan was feeling now had to stop. Yes, he’d had crushes before, but never on a parent. It was hard enough for him being gay in Derry, it was even harder to try to be so and teach at the same time. The last thing he needed was a silly schoolboy crush to come along and wreck the order he’d created.

So, Stan did what he usually did when he’s had, what he’d consider, a stressful day: go home, eat a shit ton of ice cream and watch Say Yes To The Dress until his eyes melt.

Thank God it’s Friday.

[daesungindistress]

I know you're probably super tired of getting asks about Seungri, but I just wanted to vent a bit because I'm truly heartbroken, especially since I'm a sexual assault survivor myself. I keep obsessively following the case even though it makes me feel sick because I can't stop thinking about it. I feel so bad for trusting him. I feel so paranoid now, especially since there were so many people involved. (I still support OT4 though. I don't think the rest of Big Bang had anything to do with this)

Not necessarily… I just regret that I can’t answer them all. Or, I want to answer them, and I like to do so publicly, but I’m reluctant to let this blog become awash with discussion about someone who I know many people are trying their best not to think about too much right now.

That said… I feel like I owe some of y’all an apology. I know I haven’t been the most sensitive about the matter of sexual assault thus far. Even in that loooong ask I answered the other day, in hindsight I see that I somehow glossed over it – ignoring how, above all, that is what’s driven so many fans away from Seungri. It’s so much more than just the scale of the scandal, it’s the nature of it. Tons of people dropped him when the molka chats came out, and for good reason.

This is a delicate subject that’s not easily swept under the rug and forgotten. As you’ve just reminded me, people feel heartbroken, betrayed. This isn’t some drug scandal where he hurt no one but himself. People who loved and supported him for years are grieving. They can’t stand to see his face or speak his name. The sight of him and sound of his voice calls back painful memories and reopens old wounds. A part of me, deep down, knew he was a goner, career-wise, when the first chat with molka vid was released on 3/11… and sure enough, we received his retirement announcement just hours later. Looking back on it, I don’t think the timing can be dismissed as coincidence. I think he knew it too.

I’ve accused people of overreacting, of being overemotional. I might have been right sometimes… but other times I was very much in the wrong. It’s not okay for me to tell people they shouldn’t feel the way they do about this. Just because I feel a certain detachment… just because I can’t relate… I need to get out of my own head for a change, lol. So what if it’s not my pain? It’s yours. And I can’t in good conscience point fingers at others for reacting differently anymore.

Because yeah, my attitude is slowly changing, my view of the situation shifting one news-filled week at a time. The most recent chat logs combined with the Lawyer Bang interview finally got a rise out of me – finally. What took so long? I don’t know. I guess something callous in me had to be ground down. Learning to be a little less bullheaded and a little more sympathetic.

Even if Seungri was only shown to be a bystander or only shared one photo (that we know of)… for many people, that’s more than enough, and I can accept that now. The foundation of trust has been broken. For those who’ve been hurt before, the extent of his involvement as it’s visible to us doesn’t matter; he still crossed a line. And I’m tired of defending the evidence available only to have to eat my words days or weeks later when more emerges (for example, insisting at first that he didn’t share any footage, only to learn later that he did). What’s the point? What do I know about what he gets up to in secret?

Nothing, that’s what.

At first, I didn’t care that he didn’t speak up. I didn’t care that he didn’t report. I could think of a hundred reasons why he didn’t say anything, reasons I could side with… but I can’t think of a single good reason why he didn’t just leave. I’ve cut people out of my life for lesser offenses because I decided they were dangerous, a threat to me and/or my admittedly very modest livelihood. Seungri though, he had everything to lose. It’s tempting to question just how much he knew, sure; but if the other members of BB got bad vibes from his friends and felt strongly enough about it to speak of it so openly? That says a lot. He played with fire. He got burned. End of story.

Most of my posts here have been focused on Seungri’s fate and the future of Big Bang because, as far as my fandom life is concerned, that’s what I care about most. It’s why I’m here, after all. It’s all that this blog is for. But as for holding onto hope for Seungri returning to the group, I really, truly am done now. The rest of me has finally caught up and caught on to the suffering of others, which surpasses my own interests.

Like you though, I’m still following the case obsessively… and I will until the end. Morbid curiosity or something.

Thanks for venting to me. And I’m sorry this mess has put you and countless others in a position of having to work through your trauma again.

[princess-pill-enjoyer]

Oh shoot mb for this long ass novel of a post... not only went into a complete tangent I was also preeeeetty high up until recently. Well. Not recent. I am still high buut I think it's been 4 hours since and usually around this time aint too fussy. But yeh uh I have a bad habit of oveeexplaining when high... as you can see 💀💀💀

But yeah this is about 3 hours of high explaining why I'm taking a break from my normal trip report format so shits a wall o text

Atp.. I'm temporarily abandoning my typical format as the shit gets worse/more emotionally driven I either forget to write it all out or just plain don't want to. And I mean. This shit is for me. What would be the point of stressing a specific way of documenting the shit you know? Can just. Switch. And keep it moving. Not like it bothers me fr fr

Uh but. Since my last entry I think I've had a combined mid 3k rangeish of dph. Not toooo bad given my track record but still I know it's only been a few days since my last proper entry not the best either

Currently off a 450 dose so my saltiness won't be too obvious + I'll be to high to get too too upset about whatever other bs comes alone tonight. I'd take more but I'm saving a 200 for the ride home and I end up taking entirely too much on the ride here so I gotta be kinda conservative with my doses now 🥲

Lots of stuff at once. Lots. I don't even know where to begin as far as what's been on my mind. Just so much.. recently I've been crying pretty much every night. Some of it cause of one specific thing I'm thinking on and others just out of pure overwhelment. I'm guessing within the last like.. monthish and a half the longest I've gone w/o has been 4 days

It's annoying to hide tbh as I've been doing it more I've also been more confident in my ability to hide it meaninggg more tears/reaction. Still not horrible horrible but I have a hard time stopping til I'm tired tired so it usually equals a loooooong ass time sobbing or wanting to escalate it further and shaking from how hard I have to stifle myself. I even cried on this trip actually. Me and my mom shared a bed cause a cousin spent a night in the hotel and not thinking of how light of a sleeper she is I accidentally woke her up a few times from how hard I was shaking. I felt so bad oml I hope to god she was still mostly in sleep mode 🙃

Uh anyway. This is really random but I made this post cause today I was so tempted to steal a cig. I don't even smoke em I just was so curious about the risk there. And it made me feel weird.

My whole family smokes. Seriously like, my dad smokes, my mom smokes on and off, my grandma, aunt AND uncle and my moms side of the family?? Pfft. So it's been easy for me to try if I ever really wanted to. Not that they encourage it or anything. I know they'd be pissed. But I'm sure if I timed it right I coulda beeen tried. But now like I genuinely wanted it fr fr. Only reason I changed my mind is cause they wear too close and I ain't wanna risk it and have them look deeper into that

Speaking of family reminded me of R. God. I wish I could back already. I called her a few diff times and she didn't pick up. That's fine ofc bit it's like.. I dunno how to describe it. It feels like she's distancing herself again and I feel like it was my fault for being too predictable. If I had kept phone calls to few and far between she woulda seen it as special and prolly would answer. Bit nah since my dumbass decided to be greedy my calls mean nothing mostly and she'll just ignore whenever

I miss her so much. I hate that I know she's probably sad and lonely and fucking herself up mixing and redosing on shit that shouldn't be. I hate that I let it become routine. It's too much pressure for her rn. I shoulda let her come to me when she was okay to. It would've helped a lot more. But my dumbass introduced the stress of routine and made her feel bad for sometimes not being in the mood. I know she's prolly feeling guilty too. It breaks my heart bruh

I miss knowing what all she took and helping where I could. I wish I could go back. She has enough to stress on as is. I hate that she's pushing me away again. Not knowing specifics makes me so nervous. She barely even answers texts at this point. She had some health shit going on and I ofc thought okay well it doesn't need to be some long ass convo to be otp ima just ask and check in or her. But I'm still in the dark. We don't call everyday anymore, she's hiding all her health shit going on cause of her pill concoctions, and I can tell something's on her mind. I'd assume something bigger from how hard she's tryna shield it

I tried everything atp I don't know how to get her back. Im so scared and I don't want her suffering in silence because I got too overbearing. She's probably so fucking annoyed by me

I hate her partner. Full heartedly atp. I get it. Sometimes you say stupid shit and I know my bsf has done the same. But ghosting her through all this. Letting her beg you to just talk to you. Fucking dragging out a fight knowing damn well how destructive R is. She demands so much from R and what has she changed in returm? What has she done for R??

Want more time with her? Done. Dropped me within the week

Want to move in together? R's working damn near 7 days a week and tryna either have two jobs or aome side shit just for more to save

Don't like lip piercings? R won't get em even though she seems interested

Want to see her irl more? Before yall pressed pressed about moving in she was planning on not only going for her birthday but her partners too AND possibly Thanksgiving and Christmas.

And what as she changed in exchange??? I HEAR THE SAME OLD SHIT WVEYTIME YALL FIGHT BRUH

Honestly. Fuck that. I don't even care about specifics. Even if she did change all that shit, I'd still hate her for ignoring her for this long and being nothing but cold knowing it hurts. So manipulative. Why would you go out your way to hurt your partner if you do really love them? She has and had sooo many opportunities to speak her mind and move through this but nah nah let's just let my fucking pride keep us apart.

R deserves so much better. I wish they never met. I can't believe she still gets the short end of the stick even when she's proven over and over again she would do literally whatever for you. Literally in so much pain just from not getting to fix things. I hate it so much. She doesnt realize how much her effort is worth. Its so sad like. She could find sooo many people that would reciprocate all that love and care and some off how loyal and selfless she is ALONE but she had ti get stuck with the one dumbass that can't see her worth

She is so fucking stupid. Utterly and completely. There is literally no situation where she'd be in the right for doing this atp. None.

That's not really all but.. ranting about their relationship shit is never completely satisfying. I'd go on forever not thinking nothing of it sigh

I wish I could call her tomorrow. I know she ain't doing too great but I could take her mind off shit for a little. Plus I know I can usually tell if somethings bothering her. I hate that I'm just. Here.

And I miss her background noise. I'm so used to talking shit with her brothers with R dying and tryna join. Or her twin yelling over THEEE most bland games ever. Or hearing all the outlandish but tbh sensical shit she be lecturing R on

I miss her in general. I love discovering new songs from listening to the music she got blaring from her computer, 9 times out of 10, Juice WRLD songs 😭

Btuh and all we'd be quiet doing our thing then she'll bust out with the Outlandish junk just cause

The rare but nonetheless 10/10 days where we talk for hours and hours til we either HAVE to go or one of us fall asleep mid way through whatever long ass story either of us end up telling. Its so cute cause like. Course I think everyone has a sleepy voice but she used to have the most random sleeping habits. And plus even once she did sleep, she'd mute usually. But it makes me feel good that she trusts me enough to like.. not think to hide it? I'm sure she'd probably be self conscious about it after the fact but I mean. At least for the time she was comfortable so I be cheesing cheesing

And her voice is constantly on my mind. I sometimes ask questions or annoy her just to hear her. Plus like I dunno. I've grown to associate her voice with comfort so just listening to her talking ahit about some random 12 y/o o when she play bloxfuits is enough for me to gave a good time. Plus she got about a billion diff voices for specific junk and those are always fun to learn.

Ah sorry I didn't realize how off track I got bruh rip. Point is I miss her and I'm so worried about her but I feel trapped as if I try tooooo often she'll be used to ignoring my calls. Plus if I only text there's a possibility she'll either be sleep or will just ignore

Sigh. I wish I could fix everything for her. She doesn't deserve all this nonsense

[talesfromthefade]

DWC: "I'm so cold, I can't stop shivering"

Eshalineva “Neva” Lavellan post “In Your Heart Shall You Burn” for @dadrunkwriting

Neva stirs, broken wood boards and various rubble shifting around her as she pulls herself upright with a hiss and agonizing slowness. A broken rib, perhaps two if she had to guess, she thinks with a wince, hand darting to clutch her side as she forces herself to draw slower, more shallow breaths, and pushes herself to her feet. She threw herself into the first hole she could find as the snow of the remaining nearby mountain buried Haven and any sign of the Inquisition, indeed perhaps even the Chantry of ever having been there. It was dark, late evening when Corypheus’ forces were first spotted. A glance upwards to the hole in the ceiling high above proves the same, but it’s impossible to be certain of how long she’s been unconscious.

She appears to be in some kind of cave beneath the village. The occasional unlit torch, carved stone steps and planks suggest it must lead out somewhere, although it doesn’t look as if it has been used for some time. Still, just because the Inquisition gave the signal of reaching a safe distance away, she cannot wait for any scouts to find her if they can even get to her. Time to do her part.

She is grateful for her boots when she breaches the surface again, but struggles against the new and unpacked snow, sinking a little more with every step. Her armor, however warm and well-crafted it might be, can only do so much against the biting winds that whip about her and seep into her bones as they become wet from snow and sweat. The remains of a broken cart atop the drift would be a far more encouraging sign were it not for the fact that the avalanche and still heavy snowfall making it impossible to see any farther than her outstretched hand, any possible landmarks lost to an endless sea of white.

Neva hopes, rather than actually believes she is headed in the right direction, not having shared Chancellor Roderick’s privilege of making a summer pilgrimage to Haven, or having him as a guide as the rest of their forces did. By the Dread Wolf, things must be dire if she finds herself even half-wishing for that infuriating Shem’s company. A shiver finds the mage drawing her coat in closer, ignoring the pain it sends through her ribs as she draws her arms across her chest and hugs herself tightly, in a vain effort to keep out the cold.

Why didn’t she bother applying herself more to learning fire-related spells? Why had she given Dorian and Solas the last of her Lyrium potions while they had been fighting off the Red Templars, she thinks cursing with another shiver.

There are trees now, getting gradually more sparse as she continues to trudge onward, or at least, so far as she can see, which is admittedly very little. Still, she thinks that she must be well shot of Haven by now to be seeing so many of them. The shadows are beginning to play tricks on her, or perhaps her mind is as she’s slowly begun to submit to the freezing cold, exhaustion and her injuries. Neva swears for a moment she saw something else out there, darting in between the trees, watching her, following her. She’s quite sure she heard something howling shortly after she had emerged from the tunnels beneath the village, but that had sounded many miles away. The elf allows her remaining magic to collect in her palm, ready to strike. If it is a meal this creature wants, she won’t go down without at least attempting to put up a good fight.

Her teeth begin chattering as the trees and air begin to thin when she spots it again, and the shadow finally reveals itself to her. A wolf, though far larger than any she has ever seen before, with fur as black as midnight and two many sets of eyes.

“Fen’Harel,” Neva whispers, lilac eyes widening a little in shock.

Neva knows she’s been getting progressively weaker, weary, the temptation to simply lay down in the nearest bank and slip away becoming increasingly more tempting with each passing minute, but she must be truly close to death now to be seeing fairy stories come to life before her. The wolf simply waits, staring back at her, as she takes a tentative step towards him, then another, one hand reaching out for him even as she holds the other back, gathering her mana to strike should it prove necessary. But fingers meet fur without incident, indeed, the wolf doesn’t even blink.

“You’re warm,” she whispers softly, chapped and frozen lips sticking a little around her words and now uncontrollably chattering teeth. Neva isn’t sure she will ever be warm again. How much farther must she hike before she reaches a scout, a camp? How much farther does she have left within her? How much fight that the Dread Wolf would come to her. And what might he want? What sort of promises has he come to make her? And at what cost?

Fingers reluctantly pull away, and Neva forces herself back up to her feet once more. “Follow me if you like, but I’ll not make any bargains with the likes of you, Dread Wolf. I will find them, or I will die having given everything I have to the effort,” the elf swears, shaking her head. The wolf does follow, at times, even close enough to her side as to prevent her falling as she stumbles through the drifts until she spots an old fire, embers still faintly flickering, sheltered by a large nearby rock. The wolf is gone when she looks up again, and Neva wonders as she feels her knees buckle under her, body finally too exhausted to go on, whether he was ever there in the first place. A dream, she thinks as the darkness takes her. He must have been a dream. Whoever heard of Fen’Harel helping anyone but himself?

[ixnova]

I'm honestly insecure about sending asks publicly but I can totally understand why anon is off. I just wanted to say that you're slowly becoming one of my favourite people on Tumblr and that your posts had a big influence on me when I was about to fall in the sjw mindset.

I’m glad to hear that, and I’m by no means the cringe side of the anti-sjw either i just use the label so it keeps the SJWs away from me and or brings out the ppl with balls so i can block and ignore em lmao.Yeah I get wayy to many death threats and nasty messages with anon on cause y’know people abuse the shit out of that and I’ve given up on trying to figure out how to track IPs just so i can block the blog directly. I do give credit to those who have the balls to continue to say nasty shit off anon, like you clearly have balls to expose yourself as a horrible person am I right lol?The sjw community on tumblr is really bad and boils down to racist, sexist, and bigots, except instead of towards the minority, they are towards the majority but it doesn’t make it right. To quickly state, saying you hate white people is just as racist as saying you hate poc, saying you hate women is just as sexist as saying you hate men, saying you hate straight/cis people is just as bad as saying you hate lgbt people.I don’t understand honestly why these boneheads on this website can’t understand that, but I’m more than willing to spit the truth at them and take the hits for those who want to but just can’t.I hope to someday actually make a huge difference, everyday I get tempted to write a book on the bigotry and other horrible stuff that happens online, which is slowly spilling over into real life and it concerns me. I personally think I’d have great material for a TED talk or something.I’m more of a centrist, or an equalitist. I want everyone to be treated fair and equal, so that includes calling the minority out on their bullshit when they are also being horrible. It’s not becuase they are the minority, but it’s because they are doing bad things. I will treat them equally, which means treating them the same way when they’re racist, sexist, and bigoted as I would any member of the majority.It’s only fair, and it’s equal.With that said, I hope you have a great day! Thanks for dropping this message! :D

[kzmfizz]

ME, NIHONGO AND TRANSLATE. 📖📝📰

こんにちわ!! 😘

How are u today?

Lately, I'm not in good shape and feeling bad. I don't know.. Sometime feel boring and don't want to do anything.😑 I know, it's not good. Ok, back to the main topic.

The story begin when I enter the fandom (active actually 😅). I be Jpop fan more than 10 years. 😊 Around that time, I just following music, watching anime and drama. I did think to learn Japanese language, but yes I always thought that it's really hard. So, I just ignore that.

When be The Rampage fan, I decided to enter the fandom. After only following them silently almost 2 years, I open new acc as fangirl and join the fandom.

It's a bitter experience to me..😢 When 1st join that, I'm clueless. How to start? How to be fan in fandom? How to interact with other? 😣

The biggest thing that hurt me so much is when I trying to ask a few old fans and fans who do translation about something (not remember what I looking for that time..😅), I was ignored. 😢 I know, I made them annoying. Honestly, some of fans in fandom (not all 😉) not really "friendly". They have their own mutuals/circle friends. From that "experience", I said to myself, why don't I learn Jpn language myself? Isn't it will help me to understand and searching more information about The Rampage?

From that moment, It take me a week doing some research "How to self-study Nihongo". After that, I start my Nihongo.📝📖📚📑📕📘 😊 I learning it for few months now, but still in lowest level.😅

About translation. Actually, I saw just a few fans doing translation and share it with fans. Maybe, they are too busy with their life..This "job" not get any payment, so I understand this situation. For my learning process and to improve my study, I decided to translate a little info about RMPG that from mobile tribe site, tweet and etc. I want to help fans especially international fans to get close with LDH especially RMPG.

From just translate a little information, I become more addicted and greedy. 😂

I picked one of Kazuma interview (online) to translate. At 1st, I just do that to myself. Then, I posted it on IG as my achieve and to keep it. I don't expect my followers were increase so much. I feel afraid and uneasy.😨 Must I block them? I decided to just let it. I public my IG then just hope that it will helping fans.

A few weeks ago, I saw someone tweet complain about sharing wrong information, translation and etc that make fans will misunderstood. And yes, because I new and still learning, I think one of that maybe from me. Plus, lately the fans who good in Jpn language begin sharing their translation. I feel inferior.😥 " I must stop now.. My translation is worse. I will make fans misunderstood". Yes, that thought were running through my head.

There are a few Kazuma interviews that make me really tempted to translate it. But, when I want to do that, suddenly I lost my motivation.😭

My 1st Kazuma interview translation. I'm crying while doing that. It's a long interview and hard to me.😢

Currently I doing some Kazuma & Hokuto interviews. I'm not sure..must I post and share it? 😥

Ja, mata ne~

See u next post! 😘

#KazumaFan #KZMHiroTo #KazumaKawamura