#Those would’ve been less jarring

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

the girl next door 20

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, manipulation, chronic illness, noncon/dubcon, coercion, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: A new neighbour moves in and upends your already disarrayed life.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

This lewk but silverfox

Not long after you close yourself in your room you hear the front door close. The house is silent but not calm. While you want everything to just go back the way it was, being alone with your mom doesn’t promise you peace. She never takes it well when she doesn’t get her way. 

You have your table pulled up the bed, doodling random petals and stems, some connected and some not. The sunlight beams through the curtains and shines onto the paper as you scratch the graphite over it. You cup your chin as you bide your time, dreading the inevitable. You’ll have to face her again and you have a lot to atone for. 

The rustle of leaves is underlined by the darting whistle of some distant bird. Along the edge of your vision, you sense movement and peer over at the window, expecting a flutter of wings. Instead, you see a shadow looming in Steve’s window, just across the gap between your houses. You don’t recognise that man; it must be the friend he mentioned. 

You slide the table out and stand slowly, cautious as you try not to draw attention. The man has grey hair like Steve, he’s a little shorter by your measure, and built a bit broader. He turns to lean just beside the window and you carefully tug closed your curtain. You keep forgetting to do that although you can’t even remember opening it most times. 

The noise of your movement draws your name from the front room. You huff and face the door. It’s time. You emerge and go to find your mother on her recliner. She stares despondently at the ceiling. 

“Whatever you said to Steve...” she mutters. 

“I didn’t...” you can’t even finish the lie. You didn’t say anything but you also don’t know everything you did around Steve. 

“I don’t want to hear it. You reel it in,” she sits the chair up straight and winces at the jarring motion. “Whatever you’re up to, it stops now.” 

You look at the floor, “sorry, mom.” 

“Ugh, you’re useless, you know that? If you hadn’t been hanging around like some troll, he would’ve stayed,” she snarls. "If you weren't here, everything would be so much better."

“Mm, but I saw... his friend--” 

“Oh, shut up and go away,” she snaps and reclines again. “Tomorrow, he’s taking me out. Away from you. You can stay and clean up your mess.” 

You back away without another word. She’s only looking to argue. It will be good for her to get out. Somewhere that isn’t a hospital. And she’s right, this place could use another clean, and you could use the distraction. 

🏡

As promised, your mother leaves with Steve. That she’s ready to leave the house before noon is a feat on its own, not to mention how she woke up before you. Still, you made her coffee for her and reminded her about her medicine. Those parts went as usual. 

Alone, you feel lighter but not free. You sweep and mop and make sure all the dishes are done and away. You even make sure to use the old vacuum to clean up your mom’s recliners and the carpet in the front room. A spritz of freshener makes the air a little less stale. 

You finish around one and go back to your room. You take out your pencils and set to work on a new picture. No more amaryllis; you’ve moved on to morning glories. It’s so beautiful how they open with the sun.

You use your colour pencils, some of them so short you can’t even sharpen them, to give dimension the broad petals. You lose yourself in the task, fingertips a medley of hues as you switch between shades and blending stick. You have your forehead in your hand, your shoulders hunched, and your eyes laser focused.

It’s only your name that breaks your reverie. You blink and sit up, the ache setting into your knuckles as they have a moment to rest. You door is open. 

“Hey, sweetie,” Steve says, “we’re back.” 

“Oh,” is all you can utter. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” he has a hand on his hip. You wonder if he’s been there a while. “Not to intrude but... could I get a peek?” 

You stare at him for a moment, confused. Then look down at the page. It’s mostly done, you guess. Doesn’t matter, really. There’s worse things to judge you about. 

You set down the pencil and lift the book. He breaks the threshold of your room and crosses to look closer. He carefully puts his hand next to yours, silently asking permission to take it. You hand it over and he raises it closer to squint at the lines. 

“This is beautiful,” he remarks, “you should think about my offer. We could go out and find some good scenery,” He suggests as he continues to examine your work, “and you shouldn’t be all bent over like that. You can always use my studio if you need--” 

“I’m fine,” you shrug. 

“For now, but one day that’s catch up to you. Trust me,” she offers the book back to you. “So... do you only draw flowers?” 

You close the book and pack away the pencils. 

“Mostly,” you answer. 

“Wow, to be honest, I always found them challenging. No two flowers are alike, right? Every rose has different petals, every tulip a different number of stamens,” he says. “So how was your day?” 

“Is my mom here?” You asks, ignoring his question. 

“Yeah, she’s all tired out. She’s relaxing. Still early though,” he checks his watch, “you wanna come over for a swim?” 

You’re flumoxed by the pace of his conversation. The constant pivoting has you off-balance. You’re wholly unready for any of it. Those hours alone have left you in an odd daze. 

“Thanks, but uh, I don’t have a suit,” you say. 

“You don’t?” He clucks, “well that’s too bad. You could just wear some shorts and tank or whatever. No one around to see.” 

“It’s okay,” you rebuff again. “I’m still pretty tired.” 

“Oh, of course, sweetie, maybe another time. Did you take another pill? I know they really get to you.” 

“Erm, no.” 

“You’re going to, right? You need to be consistent, you know? To see if it works.” 

“Right, I know,” you murmur guiltily. You’d forgotten all about the boxes in the cupboard. 

“Now, I’m only looking out for you. I mean, you take care of your mother, make sure she takes her meds, but what about you? Who’s looking after you, sweetheart?” 

You hug yourself and stand. You untangle your arms from around you and push the table back to the corner. He might mean well but you’re just embarrassed. No one does care about you and you’re okay with that. You have to be, you can’t change it. 

“It was rhetorical,” he says, “sweetie, I’m going to look after you. I promise.” He’s pauses as if waiting for an answer, “haven’t I?” 

“Hmm,” you turn to him and push out your lower lip. 

“Haven’t I taken care of you?” He asks. 

You nod, “yes. Thank you...” 

“You and your mom, right? That’s how it’s gonna be. The three of us.” 

What he’s saying, the way he’s saying it, it’s making you uneasy. You tuck your lip under your teeth and let it pop back out. He tilts his head as his eye flicker eerily. 

“Well, I’m going to stay the night to keep an eye on mom. She’s having a bad day. She did a lot so... I’ll get started on dinner and you take your medicine, okay?” 

Your heart pounds in your ribcage. There’s something about his tone. He’s not asking, he’s telling. You look at him in your doorway, noting how he fills the whole thing. Thinking of how you couldn’t get past him or move him, even if you had the courage to try. You reach over to steady yourself with the table. 

“Sure,” you agree softly. 

“You’re not busy tomorrow?” He wonders. 

You blink and shake your head, “n... no?” 

“Good, we have a surprise for you,” he grins. “Big one.” 

“Al--alright,” you resist as shiver. 

“You should dress up nice, too. Maybe that cute little dress you got,” he taps on the doorframe and takes a step back, “I like that one.” 

He winks and spins on his heel, leaving you in a queasy silence. A surprise? What could he possibly mean? 

[just-a-creep-babe]

Graveyard Shift - Part 4

Eyeless Jack x Reader

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Commissioned once more by anonymous!! Tysm & I hope you enjoy!!! 🫶💗💝💓✨

Requests are closed but commissions are open!

Masterlist: x

Things between (y/n) and the masked man change after that incident at work

When he returns to the hospital almost a full week later, asking for more supplies, the girl’s less hesitant to get him what he needs

It’s the least she can do after he saved her

She tries not to ask too many questions, despite her burning curiosity, because she knows he won’t give a straight answer anyway

He’s going to keep being all mysterious, keep toying with her, and it’s just going to frustrate her even further

So instead, she tries to get through the interaction as quickly and painlessly as possible

There’s almost this sort of formal professionalism between the two as they interact

And when he leaves her unscathed yet again, she starts wondering what his real intentions truly are

Over the next few weeks, it becomes a sort of semi-regular occurrence for him to show up

She brings him what he asks for, no questions asked, and the two inevitably begin growing more comfortable with one another

Ultimately, she realizes it’s probably better for her peace of mind to not know what he’s doing with all of those supplies, anyways

The more she sees him, the more she interacts with him, the more it becomes glaringly obvious that he’s definitely not human

And while part of her refused to believe it at first, it becomes so undeniable that she’s left with no other choice but to accept it

There’s simply no way a mere human would’ve been able to catch her from that fall, no way a human would be able to dedicate so much time to watching her like he does, and absolutely no way a human could have such uncanny grace and balance despite an obvious lack of eyes

But even as it dawns on her that she’s, for whatever reason, acquired an inhuman stalker, there’s just something almost… calming about his presence

It’s like he wanted to scare her at first, like he was testing her with those gifts and letters, and now that she’s passed his tests, he’s become more accepting of her

Like he’s come to view her as an equal instead of just some toy for his amusement

Or, at least, that’s about the best guess she can currently hazard

Either way, her fear and uncertainty gradually morph into something different

Even when she feels him peering at her from his hiding spots, she no longer feels afraid

If anything, his unspoken presence almost becomes a strangely welcomed familiarity

Eventually, she becomes practically desperate to learn more about him

She figures that the more information she has on him, the better, which leads her to a trip down to the local library

She checks out a decently sized stack of books dealing with the supernatural, stops by a cafe to grab herself a coffee and some fresh pastries, and then heads back home

It’s a dreary day, with heavy black clouds rolling in, and she’s thankful she isn’t working tonight; commuting in a rainstorm is never a fun time

As soon as she gets home, she splays out the books alongside her scientific texts, and although seeing them side-by-side creates a jarring contradiction, it seems there’s more to the world than modern science can explain, after all

While her coffee is still warm, she begins pouring through the well-aged papers

Skimming through most of them, she tries to find anything on masked stalkers, black tar oozing from eyes, and any known causes of superhuman strength and reflexes

But even after a few hours of research, her findings are, unfortunately, mostly inconclusive

The closest she gets is something about cult sacrifices and rituals, but the books seem to primarily dismiss those kinds of notions

With a sigh, she figures it might just be hopeless

When she finally looks up from the papers, she realizes it’s dark outside, and rain is pelting loudly against the windows

Her thoughts escape briefly to her stalker; she wonders where he is and what he’s doing right now

When suddenly, thinking of the devil, a flash of lightning strikes, illuminating the streets for a brief millisecond, but it’s more than enough time for her to see him

His silhouette is all too familiar—tall and dark, with that distinct azure blue mask staring directly at her

He’s standing beneath a tree, like he’s trying to avoid the storm, but there’s no way he’s not getting soaked out there

(Y/n) bites her lip, chewing it between teeth

It’s objectively ridiculous to be worried about your stalker, and she knows that

But she just can’t help feeling bad for him

And really, this could be the perfect opportunity to find out more about him

Why sift through musty old books when she could just ask him directly?

And surely, the chances of him answering honestly must be higher if she does him a favor by letting him in like this

Or, at least, that’s what she tells herself

But, truth be told, she’s always been too soft, too considerate of other people

No matter who someone was or what they might’ve done, she’s always been the type to help them out

It’s the main reason why she pushed herself through all those grueling years in med school, why she ended up with her career in the first place

She’s always wanted to help people—it’s who she fundamentally is as a person; she couldn’t help it in the past, and she sure as hell can’t help it now

Which is why, even now, even if anyone in their right state of mind would absolutely not consider doing what she’s about to do, she still stands, makes her way to the door, and opens it

Rain immediately infiltrates the entrance, pattering against the first few inches of the wooden floor, and (y/n) has to step back to avoid getting wet

She hugs her arms around herself, squinting into the darkness in search of the familiar figure

She doesn’t see him through the storm, but there’s absolutely no doubt in her mind that he’s still out there

She waits a few minutes for lightning to strike again, but when it never comes, she turns around

She’s about to close the door behind her, but she decides against it as an idea comes to mind

Facing away from the door, she waits patiently, mentally counting back from 100

And before she even reaches 50, just like she thought, she suddenly feels him behind her

She should be scared

She most certainly shouldn’t have that small smile of victory on her face

When she hears the distinct click of her front door closing, and when the sound of the storm is muffled through the door once more, only then does she finally turn around

She’d think he wouldn’t be nearly as intimidating when he’s soaked, but she’d be wrong

The way his clothes cling to him only serves to further define his muscular build

She knew he was strong, she didn’t realize he was that strong

Water beads at the dark strands of his hair, framing his deep blue mask while his hoodie, darkened by the water, sticks to his toned body

A flash of lightning suddenly illuminates him from behind, and it somehow makes him look even taller and more intimidating than ever

She’s speechless

He’s attractive

The thought slips up before she can stop it

She clears her throat, trying to push the thought down, and in return, the man tilts his head to the side quizzically

Her face flushes, and she mentally curses herself out for getting so flustered so easily

A brief beat of silence fills the room as the implications of her actions dawn on her

But then, realizing she’s essentially gone past the point of no return, she speaks

“I… Do you want some tea?”

The offer comes out naturally, like second nature, as if she’s hosting an acquaintance and not some inhuman stranger

“…”

He doesn’t answer immediately, and (y/n) wonders if he’s also surprised by her behavior

But then he nods, and without hesitation, the girl turns and leaves to make her way to the kitchen

Standing there, alone in her entrance, dripping wet, Jack isn’t entirely sure what to do with himself

It’s not like he hasn’t been here before, but it’s definitely the first time he’s been here with her knowing and consenting

He feels awkward and out of place, but at the same time, he’s extremely curious as to what she might be planning

He knew there was something different about her—few people would’ve gone and done something like this

He hears her shuffling in the kitchen, opening the pantry and moving things around, and he wonders how she could be so trusting of him after everything he’s done

While she’s preparing the tea, he takes the opportunity to glance at the books she’d been buried in for most of the evening

Flipping the cover over to read the title brings a sharp smile to his face, and he chuckles to himself

Cute, she’s been trying to research him

He flips it back, returning to the page she was on, and reads through one of the paragraphs

It mentions something about demons, but the author was so glaringly making things up that it has Jack huffing

Who would even publish pseudo-garbage like this?

(Y/n) returns a few minutes later, holding a freshly brewed cup of tea and a plate of pastries he assumes were part of the ones she bought earlier today

“You know, it’ll probably be much more comfortable on the couch,” she suggests, nodding her head in the direction of the living room

He doesn’t say anything in response, too busy absorbing as many details of her face as he possibly can in a short amount of time

Because as much as he spends a lot of time watching her, seeing her up close remains a rarity

He usually only gets to see her like this when she’s sleeping, or for a brief few minutes at a time when he’s asking for supplies

As if sensing his eyeless gaze peering into her, she stiffens slightly, and then she shakes her head, as if to brush away a thought, and moves to the living room

He follows behind, sitting next to her on the couch, trying to leave a normal amount of space between the two despite his urge to get closer

And then he can’t help but wince as he’s suddenly acutely aware of how wet the cushions are getting beneath him

She offers him the tea, and he takes it between his hands, letting it warm him up from the storm

Being part demon comes with its perks, and having a resistance to temperatures is one of them, but it still doesn’t mean he’s entirely immune to discomfort

“…Thank you,” he eventually says

A brief look of surprise flashes over her face as he thanks her, but then she smiles

God, her smile’s really pretty, he thinks

“Listen…” she hesitates, and the sound of her voice snaps him out of a trance he didn’t even realize he’d fallen into

How long has he been staring at her lips?

“I… I really don’t know what your deal is,” she admits, “but I know… as crazy as it sounds, I know you’re not… completely human”

Again, he finds himself grinning beneath his mask

She’s been thinking about it—she’s been thinking about him

“And I… I guess I just figured that, you know… if you’re going to keep asking things from me, I, at the very least, want to know more about you. So that things are a bit more even, right?”

Jack takes a second to consider her words

Truth be told—sure, the extra supplies are nice to have as backups—but he doesn’t really need them

He’s only been using them as an excuse to see her more often, and now it seems like he’s finally getting somewhere with her

“What do you wanna know?”

It almost surprises (y/n) how quickly he agrees to opening up

She almost doesn’t know what to start with; she’d been so focused on the different reasons he should agree that she neglected to think of her first question

She decides on just going with the most obvious one

“What’s your name?”

“…Jack,” he answers evenly

Jack?

It, admittedly, somehow isn’t what she was expecting

Jack sounds so unassuming, so… normal

She mumbles his name, repeating it to herself, when she’s suddenly distracted as he pulls up his mask to take a sip of the tea

His jawline is straight-up perfection

An angular bone structure gives way to pretty lips, which carry a sharp-fanged smirk as he brings the rim to his mouth and drinks down the bitter liquid

His Adam’s apple bobs as he does so, and there’s something so effortlessly powerful about him that she’s once again rendered speechless

Jack replaces his mask over his mouth once he’s done

He likes the way his name sounds on her tongue, he decides, he should get her to say it more often

“If we’re asking questions,” he says, “it’s only fair I get a turn as well”

She snorts, the sound is involuntary

“…And what could you possibly have to ask that you wouldn’t already know?”

He snickers at the comment

She’s ballsy—he likes it

“I don’t know everything about you, (y/n),” he rumbles, and he savors the way she shifts in place at the sound of her name coming from his lips, “and your curiosity is mutual”

She pauses again, but then with a nod, she seems to agree

“Alright then, go ahead. Ask away”

For the remainder of the evening, they take turns asking their respective questions

(Y/n) generally answers openly and honestly, only hesitating when she thinks the answer might jeopardize her loved ones’ safety

Jack, on the other hand, is coy and sly about most of his answers, but the bare minimum information he provides seems enough to slake some of her curiosities

Talking to one another comes naturally

It’s easy, simple, and the flow of conversation is pleasantly interesting

Under any other circumstance, Jack knows they would’ve been good friends

He knows she’s still wary of him, rightfully so, and as much as he enjoys her fear, he can’t deny enjoying her friendship, either

He’s going to play nice from now on, he mentally promises himself

When she offers him a pastry, he doesn’t have it in him to refuse

Human food is, by far, his favorite—the texture feels like ash between his teeth, and the taste is bland at best—but he forces himself to swallow it down in a show of good faith

He stays longer than he’d expected, and by the time he realizes he should leave to let her sleep, the storm has died down, turning to a fine mist hanging in the night air

There’s a broad grin on his lips as he leaves for a hunt

Something tells him that won’t be the only time she lets him in

[quinloki]

Pussy Cat

fem!reader x Lucci

Summary: You're the most sought after piece of ass in the Grand Line Metro, and you're going to retire soon to open a BDSM club. One of your clients offers his services, but he's not really what you're looking for.

You give him a chance to change your mind.

CW: knotting, vaginal sex, oral sex, rough sex, lights on, pressed against glass, forced orgasms, mdni

Written on a whim, thanks to @anon-germany for causing the inspiration randomly. It's not exactly what I had kicked around in discord chat, but I like how it went.

It was a nice room.

They were always nice rooms. Nice rooms, nice food, nice clothes, nice, nice, nice.

You sigh, but it’s barely a shift of your shoulders, hardly a release of soft air between your lips. You’re with a good client, or had been. The business of the evening was handled, and thin silks hung from the finely shaped lines of your freshly cleaned body. The jarring marks of the night’s festivities dappled your skin, but the salve tonight and the application in the morning would be enough to fade them entirely.

You might take tomorrow night off, unless it was to keep your current client company again. Taking a sip of sweet liquor you smile despite it. That was hardly likely.

Of all your clients, Lucci called for you the least.

You were certain it had nothing to do with your skills. There was no one else he was bringing into his room. Between his own busy work, and his low - but no less satisfying - libido, he simply had no more need for additional companionship. He paid for the privilege to mark you, and he never overstepped the boundaries of what marks he could leave.

Unsurprising. You were the starling of the city. The most sought woman in the entire metropolis. Only six people in the city could call you directly, and of those, only five were clients.

But soon you would be retiring. The club was taking off, and while you had nothing against warming the beds of those you deemed worthy, it wasn’t something you could dedicate time enough to as a job anymore.

“I’m surprised,” Lucci says, walking into the room with naught on but the clear drops of water slipping from his thick hair and down his chiseled body.

“That I’m still here?” You muse. You weren’t kicked from someone’s room, you left when you were ready. Lucci knew that, so your words were a hallow jape.

“My current project is ending soon, and you haven’t offered me a position in your club.” He says it flatly, the air of one who would’ve turned it down anyway.

“Lucci, my dear, not in a million years.” You reply just as flatly.

“Oh?” The interest is curling in his tone, but you don’t pay it any mind. He’s an objective one - pragmatic.

“You’re good at what you do, and you’re good in bed, I won’t deny that, but my sweet winter cat, you’re not skilled enough for my club.” The sweet liquor against your tongue is perhaps, maybe a little too sweet.

“Skilled enough for some other club then?”

“Perhaps.” You drape yourself over the arm of the couch, watching his naked form shift under your scrutiny. “Why would you even be concerned with such a thing? I couldn’t imagine you accepting me as your boss.”

“Considering a change of pace.” He admits, stepping behind the marble-floored wet bar. “Maybe I’ve given enough to this government.”

“Well, I would recommend some other change of pace. Besides, you are not filled with an excess of passion, Lucci. I wouldn’t feel right expecting you to fake it more than not.” You take a drink, catching the sardonic smile on his lips. “Not that you aren’t faking enough already. See? You said yourself you wanted a change of pace.”

“What skills then, would I need, in order to not be faking it?”

“Ah… don’t make me answer something like that pussy cat,” you tease, the amber liquid warming your blood and sinking you into the brushed leather of the couch. “I’m far too comfortable around you to be kind.”

“Don’t waste your energy treating me kindly. If I’m going to make an informed decision about my next move, I need to know.”

“Hmph.” You take another gulp and regard him for a moment. He seems neutral enough, irritated maybe in some deep recess, bothered that you hadn’t simply accepted his offer as a matter of course. Well, he asked.

“In order to be useful in a kink club, one needs to be flexible. In mind, body, and skillset. Certainly, people will have things that they specialize in, but even the world’s best rigger does me little good if he can’t also fill several different kinds of dominant roles.

“Case in point, my dear. Rough, demanding, and prone to leaving marks. None of these things are bad, but you rarely deviate. You’re predictable in your desires, and your desires are for your own pleasure. You’d make a fine client to my club, but less so an addition to it.

“Your rigging skills are lacking. You don’t have the patience for proper shibari, and you don’t have the elegance for a lot of the knots. You are, admittedly elegant yourself, but I need people who can make my clients feel like they’re being enhanced by the experience, not just used.

“All of your love is for yourself as well. I don’t mind it, I’m not mewling beneath you in blissful haze because I’m seeking love in your sheets, but you are coldness without warmth. You’re all hard edges and sharp teeth and while you could find money enough in doing case by case client work - as there is certainly a market for your type - the lack of flexibility does me little good.”

Pausing you finish off the last of the sweet liquid in your cup, sighing and laying your head on the soft arm of the couch.

“You may well be skilled enough to know what your clients want, but I doubt you could put passion into your praise - assuming you could even be spurred toward actually saying the words themselves.” You wave your hand dismissively, turning enough to look over and realize that Lucci is standing in front of you and the couch.

The first thing you notice is the twitching, throbbing cock between his thighs, and as your eyes shift upward you see the hard gold eyes on you. His pupils are slits and you’re certain he’s willing himself to keep his human form.

“… You asked.” You assert. Despite the ease in your limbs and words you could feel the tension in the room.

“And the other side of that evaluation?” He questions. Despite the edge in the air and the obvious tension in his body, his voice is deadly calm.

You glance down at the impressive member he has, and realize the base is swelling. You’d explicitly forbade him from transforming while having sex with you, but only because you’d been worried his zoan form would be too cat-like to be pleasurable. Something about the idea of a knot in your guts was putting a knot in your guts already.

“I… doubt,” you tear your eyes back up to his face. “That anyone would be your equal in,” you lick your lips involuntarily. The look in his eyes practically has you pinned to the couch. “Primal play.”

“Could you,” you swallow again, eyes shifting back down. The knot at the base of his cock is almost twice as thick as his shaft. “Control-!”

Lucci leans in suddenly, a growl in his chest, and you jump back, sinking deep into the couch. He’s almost nose to nose with you, and there’s no where else for you to go. His hands are on either side of you, and you’re effectively imprisoned. It would be impossible to slip by him, unless he allowed you to.

“Do you think this is a lack of control?”

Your eyes shift between his. You can’t keep yourself calm, and you can feel your pulse start to race. It’s not fear - you haven’t feared a client in a long time. But there is something. Some sensation that has you feeling concern, at the least.

You barely shake your head. “…No.”

He leans down more, hot breath crashing against your skin as his lips trail so close to your jaw, you can almost feel the small hairs on your skin move from the pressure.

“Don’t you want to know?” He questions, hips moving enough to lay his heavy cock on your thigh. “What this knot will do to your precious, hundred thousand beri a night delicious pussy?” His teeth nip at the curve of your ear. “What wholly undignified sounds would you make despite yourself? Would your sweet, practiced mewling purrs survive the orgasms I force from you?” He licks up the side of your neck and you drop the glass. Lucci catches it with ease, pressing his head against yours and full on pinning you.

“Say yes.”

You shift against the couch. “To what?”

“Let me fuck you.” He growls the demanding words, breathing you in deep for a moment. “You always play at giving yourself to me. This time, this last time, actually surrender to me.” His hands grip the leather of the couch, making it groan.

“… yes.”

Lucci throws the glass, unbothered as it crashes against the wall, and lifts you from the couch. You gasp at the sudden motion, but you’re over his shoulder so quickly it’s disorienting. By the time you can sort out where you are he’s draped you over the bar he was standing at when he first posed his question.

Pushing you back, Lucci holds you by your thighs, spreading your legs wide and keeping you from falling off the bar by his hold alone. Your ass against one side of the bar, your shoulders were off the other side of it. Your hands were holding onto the edge while your head was pointed toward the floor, leaving you arched over the narrow bar, unable to see what Lucci was doing.

He kisses the insides of your thigh before licking heavily against your slit. His tongue pushes past your labia easily and he sucks your clit harshly. You moan as he continues, letting the rush of blood to your head carry the pleasure to newer heights.

He licks and sucks you to the edge quickly, and you don’t try to fight it. Lucci will have to do more than eat you out like a man starved to make you fall apart, but just as you begin to indulge in your orgasm he stops, and slaps your swollen clit harshly. The jolt of pain mingles with the orgasm you had nearly reached and you cry out.

The swear ripped from your lips isn’t the sound Lucci was looking for, and before you can yell at him, he’s back between your thighs. This time with and ice cube in his mouth.

“LUCCI!” You cry, the cold soothing the sting of the strike and his tongue making your body jolt. He holds you firmly, despite the way your body bucks, and you stay stuck in your precarious position. Once the ice melts he changes gears, grabbing one of your ankles and holding it out. The leverage keeps you in place, but it feels like you’re going to fall.

Two fingers push into your cold cunt and they feel so warm comparatively it almost burns. The sharp sting is blessedly brief, but your sense of imbalance has you off balance entirely. Lucci’s fingers curl inside you and you nearly cum, once his thumb presses against your clit there’s no saving you.

“No! I - hnnnngh!!” You choke on your words, the powerful rush of pleasure splattering dots across your vision. Your head spins as blood rushes to your thighs and pounds back into your head. Lucci doesn’t relent until you’re gasping to catch your breath, your body twitching randomly as you come down from the violent high.

A swear slips from your lips as Lucci reaches over the bar and lifts you up. You cling to him, too hazy and dizzy to keep yourself upright easily on your own.

“Bastard,” you mutter into his shoulder, not even protesting as he picks you up entirely.

He presses your bare back against glass and before you can ask what he thinks he’s doing he kisses you. The rough action denies you much say in the matter, and his tongue is in your mouth as his cock pushes into your swollen pussy.

You can’t help the satisfied moan that swirls around your tongue as he slowly pushes in deeper and deeper. The swell of the knot has made him thicker, you’re almost certain, and the girthy bulb at the base nestles against your labia warmly. Considering everything else, it’s gentle, despite the concern that paws at the edges of your mind about how it could possibly fit.

Leaning into him, you drape your arms around his shoulders, scratching your nails against his back. You can feel the grin pull at the corners of his lips, even as he continues to kiss you, his hips beginning a steady pace. With your legs hooked over his arms, your body held where he wants it by the glass against your skin, he picks up speed.

The gentle smack of the knot against your lips becomes more of a slap, but Lucci never thrusts in hard enough to bruise you. The light sting of the wet slap isn’t enough to lessen the pleasure coiling up inside you again, your fingers flexing against his back as the pace and your heavy breaths have broken the kiss.

“Wuh-where,” you murmur foggily, looking around enough to realize he’s pressed you against the thick sliding doors that lead out to the balcony. No one from the street would see you, but with the lights on in the hotel suite, anyone from the nearby hotel towers would know what was going on.

You start to say his name and his teeth are at your neck. He doesn’t bite, instead he licks and nips at the tender skin as he thrusts faster, pushing your legs back further. Your fingers dig into his back more as you can do little else than take what he gives you.

“Fuck,” you huff, unable to even adjust as he brings you closer again. You can feel the sweat prickle along your skin, the stickiness of your skin against the glass threatening to give way as pleasure and friction make your skin slick. All you can do is hold onto Lucci more, trusting him to keep his iron grip on you even if the glass doesn’t.

“N-no, please, Lucci!” The pleasure was building so fast, and you wanted to prolong it, to escape it, to have a moment to adjust to it, but he wouldn’t give you that. This wasn’t him following your mewling desires.

“Too-too much!” You nearly growl the words, a dull ache twisting your muscles from the second orgasm so close on the heels of the first. Not only does he deny you a moment, but he speeds up, thrusting into you hard enough that it’s pushing the breath from your lungs.

The knot bullies against your labia and the wet mess of sweat and slick sets off a concern in your brain, making you tense. Lucci growls against your neck, as you fruitlessly try to push him back. The knot, the knot - it’s going to go in, and you can’t form the words to beg him to slow down!

“Cum!” Lucci snarls, the heavy thrust behind the word forcing the thick knot into your sopping cunt.

The growl, the command, the terrifying stretch as the thick mass buries into you, and there’s no way for you to deny him. Your body locks up as the orgasm slams into you. The sound ripped from your throat is guttural, full of fear and pleasure and maybe even anger. You claw at his back, arms desperate to pull your body up from what felt like a drowning.

When you manage to breathe in, the rush of oxygen flooding your muscles as they finally released, you were sobbing. Lucci grins, licking your tears from your cheeks as he rolls his hips, fucking the knot deep and sending jolts of pleasure through your already shivering body.

“Ah, good.” He muses, slowly bullying the knot inside you. “You’re really enjoying it. Sometimes it’s too over-stimulating, and causes pain, but you’re lucky.”

Lucci pushes his hips up into you, leaning down and licking your breast sweetly, sending a thrill through you and pulling a whine from your lips.

Moving you away from the glass he holds you close, walking away from the balcony doors. Each step makes you moan as he shifts inside you. Your toes curl and your arms shiver from every small movement sending jolts of sharp pleasure through you.

“We’re going to be like this for a couple hours at least.” He explains calmly, laying you out on the messy bed from the rounds before your conversation. The implication sinks into you and you shake your head. “I said I was going to fuck you.” Lucci reminds you, pressing heavily into your hips.

“You didn’t think I’d be done after a couple small orgasms, did you… pussy cat?”

[dawn-moths]

Hi I love your blog i was wodering if you could do number 15 with Undertaker,thank you in advance💓🥰

hi! i recognize your url haha, i’d love to do number 15 with undertaker for you 💕

prompt: watching their oblivious s/o lovingly

character: undertaker (kuroshitsuji)

words: 1900+

content warning: reader’s family was killed in an accident and has some survivors guilt, i put a little more “plot” in this than i originally intended so i hope you don’t mind lol, sorry if this is sad.

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The funeral home is bathed in shimmering, golden light as wisps of sunset stream in through the latticed windows, sun dust dancing in the beams that cast a buttery veil over the surface of shiny caskets strewn about the floor and catching in the bright glint of the glass bottles and jars lined up along the shelves.

A few of the candles are already lit, tiny flames flickering as they hover on the end of charred wicks, rivulets of thick wax making their slow descent towards the silver basins they’re perched in below.

You’ve come to love this place— a place that, at one point in time, had filled you with dread, reminded you of your own fragile mortality— as it now brought you peace.

Maybe it was because you’d become so acquainted with death yourself, had felt its lips ghost over yours with a near-fatal kiss when you’d been on the verge of leaving the living world.

You’d been the lucky one, they’d all told you, because you’d survived.

However, the rest of your family— both your parents and your two other siblings— hadn’t been as fortunate when the carriage had crashed over the cliff side, tumbling down the steep hill into the sea of pine below.

You still wondered why you’d survived while they’d all been claimed by whatever was waiting on the other side of life, but at least there had been one saving grace through all that hell.

Because, if you hadn’t had reason to seek out mortuary services all on your own, you would’ve never met him.

“Undertaker” was the only name he’d given you, still refused to tell you anything other than that title whenever you tried to press him, so, even though his insisted mystery at something as simple as a name sometimes irked you, you’d more or less accepted it.

In the beginning, you’d been wary of him, unable to look him in the face and carful to keep your distance.

But as time went on, as you grieved, as you recovered, and, at last, once your family was put to rest six feet under the ground, you’d found you’d warmed up to him.

Because it hadn’t just been the singular occasion of seeking out his business’s services that had pulled you into his orbit, or the inevitable return after the funeral to pay him what was due and thank him for all his hard work and consideration.

Undertaker had seen your pain plain as day from the very second you stepped through those doors and into his grim domain. He’d seen the fear and the loneliness and the mourning. The guilt and regret one often wears when they can’t help but think, if only I hadn’t made this one decision on that particular day, everything would’ve turned out differently.

So he’d comforted you. He’d helped you feel not so alone and, unlike the other more familiar faces that seemed to pop up to surround you at every turn, offering rehearsed condolences that were so sickly sweet they bordered on condescending, bringing an endless array of casseroles and roasts and all kinds of other deep-dished dinners that most nights had just ended up in the trash because you could barely bring yourself to eat in those first few months after your loss…

Unlike all the others who said what they thought you wanted to hear, did what they thought would help you instead of asking what it was you actually needed, Undertaker had treated you like he understood perfectly right from the start.

You figured he knew the intricate, silent language of death and mourning better than anyone, given that his day to day for who knew how many decades had revolved around it. But you’d expected him to be emotionally uninvested and purely professional when you’d first prepared to speak with a funeral director. So it very much caught you off guard when he’d been the complete opposite.

He’d treated you with compassion, patience, and, above all else, respect. He didn’t pity you, and gave no coddling words about how your deceased family was “in a better place now” or calculated coos making promises that you could ask him for “anything you might need, at any time” like the others who’d learned of your loss when you knew they had their own busy lives to jump right back into once they’d filed out of the funeral and the babbling brook of black clothes and tear-streaked cheeks had dispersed.

It made you wonder who he’d lost in his life, though you were never brave enough to ask.

So you’d found yourself returning to him, drawn back into his somber chamber of half-constructed coffins and gleaming silver instruments strewn about. You’d accepted his invitation to stay for tea and biscuits and felt grateful when he just let you talk about what had happened and how you felt, not feeling the need to interject or give you advice on the proper way to grieve.

Undertaker had sat across from you, secretly studying the distinct features of your face and your innate little mannerisms from behind his curtain of silver fringe, the scar cutting across his face just barely peeking through, and listened.

It was less than any of your other friends or family would’ve considered they’d done for you, but that simple gesture meant more than anything back then.

So when he’d offered you a position as his assistant, promising fair wages and adequate training, though you felt some apprehension at such a serious and, as you could imagine, having been on the other side of it, sorrowful task, you’d ultimately agreed without much hesitation.

Because there was something about being around him that had helped— was still helping— to heal you.

It certainly helped that, the more you two had gotten to know each other, the more comfortable he’d gotten about cracking jokes or making humorous little comments here or there.

Undertaker had a strange sense of humor, a dark one for sure, but as time went on you found that so did you.

You’d since lost count of how many times you’d both ended up laughing so hard you were practically wheezing, arms wrapped around your middle as you clutched the stitch in your side, entire body shaking with the kind of carefree joy that only comes from a good, hearty, unexpected laugh.

“Laughter is the best medicine,” he’d once told you, after you’d suddenly burst into tears after enjoying such a jovial moment, reminded how you’d never get to laugh like that with your family ever again. “Even in the darkest of times, just allowing yourself to experience small joys can help cure what ails you, even if only for a moment.”

You remembered his words often, whenever you were missing your lost loved ones. Undertaker had taught you to laugh more often even if for the sole purpose that they couldn’t anymore, and sometimes that fact alone was enough for you to at least smile.

“Because life is for the living,” he’d also taught you. “You must experience the things that they won’t get to and know that they would’ve wanted you to have a full life.”

So now, as you finished cleaning up and organizing everything in the shop for the day, humming a melancholy little tune quietly to yourself as you moved about, Undertaker leaned in the doorway and silently watched you, his silhouette a tall, billowy shadow as his dark robes draped over his svelte form.

His brilliant chartreuse eyes broke through the cracks in that curtain of silver meant to hide them, and he couldn’t help but grin to himself as he thought how lucky he was— after so many years of solitude— to finally have someone who brought real joy to his life.

Even sweeping the concrete floors, the dusty skirts of your dress swaying about your feet in rhythmic, graceful motions, Undertaker found you beautiful, his delicate, earnest little human.

You were careful around the one coffin he’d strictly told you never to open or disturb, doing a half-turned dance to maneuver the currently cramped space with all that littered the floor, but to Undertaker, you appeared as elegant as if you were the belle of a ball, slowly waltzing about the macabre dancehall.

He’d found new purpose in the life-after-his-afterlife in having you learn from him, in teaching you his trade, witnessing you succeed and fail and succeed again.

You were going to make one hell of an undertaker yourself one day, if and when his jig was finally up and he had to flee this place tucked into the darkest, dingiest corner of London.

Sometimes he thought you didn’t belong here only for the fact that, as he’d half flirted, half joked to you on your very first encounter, “Someone so pretty doesn’t belong somewhere so grim.”

Still though, he was glad you’d chosen to stay on your own accord. Glad that you had a reason to return to him every day, allowing him to bask in your presence, the only ray of light amidst his world of shadows and decay.

When you finally turned and looked over, you jolted a bit as Undertaker’s unexpected appearance startled you, and after letting out a gentle yelp and clutching your heart you found yourself smiling at him.

“What are you still doing here?” you asked, abandoning your broom as you migrated closer to where he leaned in the doorway. “I thought you went home already. I told you I’d close up.”

Humming out a lilting, fleeting note, Undertaker carefully reached a pale, slender hand over to brush some stray, flyaway strands of hair that had come loose from your braid throughout the day back behind your ear, delighting in the fact that you still blushed a little at the gesture even after he’d done it so many times by now.

“I got caught up with something in the back,” he informed you, his voice low and tender, nearly a murmur in the stillness of the room. “I thought I’d stay and walk you home. Make sure you got back safely.”

Undertaker was usually at the shop until long after sundown, sometimes so late you swore he must sleep here sometimes, only resting for a couple of hours before morning peeked above the horizon and tolled the bell on a new day, more work always to be done. (The phrase “you can rest when you’re dead” had taken on a slightly different, more morbid meaning now). In fact, you knew he’d often pull all-nighters, though if he had any bags under his eyes to tell of it you didn’t know. That part of him was still mostly a mystery to you, other than the few times you’d caught accidental glances of such iridescent emerald while you two were working in close proximity.

He’d offered to walk you home a few times before, but you’d usually refused, assuring him it wasn’t far and you could always call for a carriage along the way if you wished. He never pressed you or insisted too much, but tonight, perhaps it was because you were catching a glimpse of those unearthly eyes of his again, reading what you could swear was complete devotion in them, you accepted his invitation to escort you back.

The walk was mostly silent, though you took it more for the fact that the two of you had been working tirelessly these past few days than anything else. However, Undertaker used the window of comfortable quiet as yet another opportunity to gaze upon you.

Oh, how he’d miss you terribly when he finally had to go, and it hurt him even more so to know there was a possibility it would be without warning if he was found out before he could catch onto it.

But he’d spent too much time running from the past and trying to predict the future. All he really needed right now was to allow himself to enjoy the present he shared with you.

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from this prompt list. requests are now closed, thank you to everyone who participated 💕

[mirrored-movements]

Injury HC

(Miguel O'hara x reader)

Synopsis: You get injured on a mission, how does Miguel react?

Warnings: None

A quick in and out, that’s how it was supposed to go. But as luck would have it you happened to walk right into the villains trap landing you on a mousetrap-like contraption.

Try as you might you were only able to dodge a few of the larger traps, some of the blades cutting through your suit and into your skin (Man did you wish your body was as self-mending as your suit was)

What a pain in the ass that villain was

Finally able to web them up and alert the local authorities you’d left the scene (a slight limp to each step but there was no need for regular folk to worry- you’d take care of it)

Arriving at HQ you did your best to hide the tremendous pain you were in, each step was like walking on pins and needles (There might even be some pins stuck in your skin- you weren’t sure)

It was when you were heading towards one of the spare rooms that a particular open doorway halted your steps

Usually, Miguel’s office door was closed 

You took in a breath, back straightening out and head being held up high as if the skin beneath your suit wasn’t becoming saturated with who knows what. You began walking past the doorway, hoping to make a speedy getaway

“Hold it.”

And your plan failed in a near instant.

Plastering on a smile you rotated towards the doorway, choosing to linger in the hallway as opposed to stepping in (Not that you hadn’t already been caught)

Miguels form regarded you from the desk, back leaned against it and arms folded across the expanse of his chest, his expression was clearly unamused however there were hints of concern that flickered across his gaze

“You’re wounded.” It was a statement

“What makes you say that?” You tried to deflect the statement still loitering away from the man

He sighed, hand pinching the bridge of his nose before snapping his fingers and pointing down towards where his chair was.

“Sit.”

Like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar you shuffled over, dropping yourself into the plush chair with a huff

“It’s nothing honestly, I can just take care of-” You stopped talking as a hand was held up telling you to stop, Miguel’s quick glare alone was enough for you to just shut up

Disappearing for a second he’d come back with some medical supplies, a sort of unspoken command coming through as you’d reluctantly deactivated the parts of your suit around the wounds

“They’re not that bad.” You insisted.

He rolled his eyes at that.

“If they weren’t that bad then you would’ve stopped bleeding ages before entering HQ.”

Ok maybe he had a point there

Remaining silent in response you watched as he kneeled before you, disinfectant wipe in hand as he began dabbing at the wounds

The smaller ones just a stung a little, however, the largest one had you flinching- nearly flinging yourself out of the chair had he not predicted this beforehand setting a hand across the chair in order to hold onto the other armrest

A sort of makeshift seatbelt

“Just a little more.” His reassurance was nice however it didn’t make the cut hurt any less

You felt like a cat getting their nails clipped for the first time with how much you were fighting against the arm currently keeping you in place

It felt like ages till he finally wrapped up the large cut, this stage being much more gentle compared to the cleaning of the cuts

“Are we done now?” Feeling as though you’d run a marathon Miguel merely let out an airy laugh in response, head shaking from side to side

“Done cleaning and wrapping those wounds of course.”

“Great, so I can leave now?”

The look he gave you told you otherwise, arms once again folding over one another as though he could practically read your thoughts

“I’ll be suspending your watch for a bit.”

“What why-”

“Because I know you won’t take the time to properly heal.” His hand reached out to flick your forehead, head shaking from side to side before the edge of his lips quirked up.

“Which also means I’ll have to watch over you for the time being.”

--------------------

<Unedited>

[weavewithshadow]

she, the mender; he, the break. (2)

solas/lavellan, rated T.

previous entries: (1)

synopsis: The Dalish elf that closed the Breach has woken. Immediately faced with a world that no longer looks at her the way she expects, Ithalia must piece together what transpired.

How did she survive at all? And who, if anyone, has an interest in her life?

content warnings: canon-typical violence mention, canon-typical depiction of racism, canon-typical profanity, canon-typical religious references, canon-typical depictions of depression.

read on ao3!

Two Ithalia

Something is wrong, deep in her bones, when Ithalia wakes.

Some things, plural. A gap in her memory where, apparently, a trip to the Fade should be. A mark in her palm whose cold burn she cannot pinpoint as coming from… anywhere.

A hole in the sky that she can feel, somehow, from her place on a too-warm bed in a too-comfortable room, is… gone. The quiet left behind is jarring.

Before—there’s no way to know if it’s been days, weeks, a decade—the quiet would’ve been a boon. She’d wanted it, before, a Dalish spy in the Conclave, a watcher sent from home. She’d been meant to watch. That was it. The quieter, the less imposing, the better.

She’s an explosion or two past less imposing, probably.

But what could take a Dalish elf from a prison cell to the plush of a clean bed?

One thing at a time. She cracks her eyes open—those still see the same, even after the last flash of blinding green she remembers. To her right stands a wall, simple wood planks. To her left, everything else: a bedside table, a desk, a flaming sconce, several pelts hung around a small window, a bookshelf—

A tray that clatters on the floor, dropped by an elf standing frozen in her wake. 

“O—oh,” they stammer, sweat beading on their brow. Young, no valasslin—probably not Dalish. At the sight of her, their head starts shaking. They backpedal, one step and then another. “I—I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!”

An elf, of all people, ready to run as soon as she props herself up on an elbow.

“Don’t…” Mythal’enaste, her temple throbs. Her hand, moreso. “... Don’t worry about it. I only—”

The elf falls, and Ithalia jolts upright.

They collapse to the floor—not to faint, but to kneel.

“I beg your forgiveness and your blessing,” they plead, palms to the floor, even their brow touching the stone. “I am but a humble servant.”

A servant. A city elf, bending to kneel before one of the Dalish, as if Ithalia is something… more. Something else.

Some things wrong, indeed.

“I…” Ithalia lets her voice fade to nothing. She what, exactly? What does this elf, or anyone, think of her? Why is she here? And where is—

“You are in Haven, my lady,” the younger elf says, lifting their head to meet her eyes. They swallow when they spot Ithalia still watching them. “They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand.”

She turns her attention there, to the mark, if only to… spare… the younger elf from it. It lights with the twitch of a finger, the same way a person might look up at the sound of their name. It thrums, warm yet impossibly cold, in an arc from the heel of her palm to the curve between her thumb and forefinger.

It looks like an open wound, the color of the Veil.

What she thinks is the Veil.

Probably.

“It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days.”

Three days. The Breach, gone. Three days.

“So you’re saying…” She tries another look at the elf, who winces. She doesn’t hide her own stammer, as she’d learned to do under Keeper Ishmaetoriel’s guidance. Let this elf hear her disbelief. “They’re… happy with me?”

“I’m only saying what I heard. I didn’t mean anything by it!” The elf rises, standing on shaking knees. Again, they step backward, hands raised like at any moment, Ithalia might lunge. “I—I’m certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you’ve wakened. She… she said, ‘At once.’”

Lady Cassandra. Ithalia grits her teeth before she remembers the younger elf would flee for less. She pauses, finds a smile, rubs a temple. Lady Cassandra…

Seeker Cassandra.

She fights to rise, stifling a groan. “And… where is she…?”

“In the Chantry,” the younger elf answers, their full-body tremor in their voice, now, too. “With the lord chancellor. ‘At once,’ she said!”

They all but fall into the door as they push through it, and then they are gone.

Quiet blankets the room again—but just outside, a wave of murmurs rises, rippling out from this lodge. This Haven lodge, now that the Breach has been closed for three days.

Haven. Breach closed. Three days. She can cling to those, even when…

She will have to face the outside. Soon, probably.

In the meantime, maybe someone has left something behind more informative than the elf who somehow dropped down before her in worship. With precious little time and through the haze of a headache, though, little stands out save for a pile of loose papers left on the room’s only desk.

She chews a lip, looks down at her fingertips. Hands this clean—washed? By whom?—won’t leave any obvious prints that she’d need to make excuses for. If she did, would she have to make them? Or would anyone besides that lone elf drop down and do…. That?

No time to ponder long either way. She tests her steps, finding her own knees shaking, and ambles over to the desk. Elbow on the wood, she bends down and lifts the paper close to her eyes, cursing her headache for at least the third time in as many minutes.

Day One: Clammy. Shallow breathing. Pulse over-fast. Not responsive. Pupils dilated. Mage says her scarring "mark" is thrumming with unknown magic. Wish we could station a templar in here, just in case.

Ithalia sucks in a breath, releasing it only at the end of the passage. Mark must mean her—and unknown magic, while it ties her stomach in knots, matches her assumption.

Mage—she does remember, tangled insides tightening. A flash of green: once, twice, again, then for good before all went dark. A hand clamped over her wrist—no. Loosely. It’d been the Seeker’s grasp that was rough. Cassandra’s, not—

Solas’.

Where is he, now? Where are any of the others, aside from Cassandra and…

Lord chancellor. Haven. Breach closed. Three days.

She sighs, closing her eyes to keep the words from blurring on the page. It takes a moment for the room to return to stillness, for her stomach to stop threatening a heave.

Under the page of notes, there’s nothing discernible. Only a collection of pages with a series of numbers in two columns, marked with what looks like the time over the course of several days and nights. The measurements have no labels. The notes in the margins are packed too tightly, in too intricate of a shorthand to attempt deciphering.

Even one in elvish, which is all she really gleans from the pages. Multiple pages, packed with writing on both sides.

He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’

The dwarf’s voice—one of precious few things Ithalia remembers. Varric Tethras: rogue, author… something. He didn’t look ready to cut her down, for either her heritage or mark. He didn’t look ready to collapse in reverence, either.

“My lady?” a voice—soft, high—asks outside the door, scarcely audible over the rest.

Something brushes against the opposite side of the wood, then stops.

“Shhh! Are you mad? Leave the Herald be!” another hisses.

The Herald. Haven. The lord chancellor, with Lady Cassandra. 

Scarring “mark” thrumming with unknown magic.

The Breach, closed, three days.

She’ll have to face them all, now, with nothing else to go on. No blade to ready herself for anything that might not be instantaneous adolation.

How many, in Haven? To what end?

She can’t know, until…

Ithalia opens the door with a tremoring hand and finds a parted sea. Rows of onlookers, standing politely to each side of a cobbled path, some with heads bowed, some with eyes shining. None of them notice the icy wind that shudders down her spine. None of them care for anything but what is in front of them.

A Dalish elf, Dirthhamen’s valasslin upon her brow, down the bridge of her nose, across her cheekbones, under her lip. Unmistakable from every angle as not them, a probably-Veil-green gash pulsing visibly on her palm. Washed by hands that were not hers, dressed in clothes she’s never laid eyes upon, emerging from a lodge she never chose.

Stepping out under a sky scarred the same as she: a waving line of green to split the blue, like a scar over pale skin.

I am not this, she fights not to say, for they should already know.

Have they forgotten?

She has learned, all her life, to run from human worship. To see the sight of red and learn from the bull’s mistake, fleeing opposite, never giving in to anger when survival is never not at stake.

Her Keeper has told her stories, since she was old enough to catch their meaning, of forests made of graves, canopies thick enough to blot out the sun.

Yet this tableau—this human tableau, scarcely an elf and not one Dalish in sight—stays perfectly still. They bow, not for the red of their Chantry, but for the green of her palm.

A magic that is not hers, a name—Herald—that is not hers, a mended sky that is not hers.

For if it were hers alone, she would be dead.

It is because of one that she is not.

[ponds-of-ink]

Very Quick Springtrap & Y/N One-Shot: “A Dumbfounding Comparison”

Is it still considered a Y/N thing if it’s not written in second person? ..Regardless..

I got inspired by a post by @alexthesillybilly talking about Springtrap being compared to a childhood teddy bear, so here this is. The prompt sort of changed mid-writing, but I hope this is still good.

–

Springtrap hid behind the open door. If it weren’t for the fact that the newest guard was chattering on the phone, he would’ve given ‘em a proper scare.

…Not because he was scared of being seen or anything. Such a feeling couldn’t register even if it wanted to.

Rather, it was this looming sense of being ignored that was the issue. On and on this guard rambled, even as he peeked his head into the office. Topics like “You’ve got to see this place!” or “The computers are so slow here..” was all the newbie could talk about. Nothing about him nor the fact that he was right next to the office. Just… standard conversations one could have on a first night at some new job. Like it was a mere nine-to-five desk affair.

Honestly, all this chatter left him feeling hollow. Bereft, even.. Though what exactly prompted the feeling was unknown.

Yet, not being one to leave a “job” unfinished, he continued to linger. All he could do was silently beg for the sweet sound of those three rapid beeps. At least the guard was quieter now. That seemed promising.

“Hey, before I go,” the newbie piped up, “I gotta tell you about something I found tonight.”

Springtrap’s ear raised. Oh?

“it was the prettiest! So velvety and soft, it made my heart race.”

His ear lowered right back down. Ah. Never mind. It must have been some fluffy pillow at some nearby store. Thirty years had not been kind to his animatronic body— Let alone being considerate enough to not mess with the quality of the fabric.

“…Well, I mean, it was pretty to me,” the newbie corrected sheepishly, snapping him out of self-introspection. “Kinda like how your old teddy bear gets all grody with age. The memories are still there if you look past the muck and stuff.”

A staticky counterpoint pierced through the air. Springtrap finally peered into the room again. There was the guard, all bundled up in Autumn attire. That modern phone still buzzed with some unseen voice explained how “something that tall” couldn’t be compared to a teddy bear. Whatever that something was didn’t matter. This was his chance.

He trudged up to the desk. His posture slowly readied itself for an attack. The countdown in his head staggered just in case the mere pain in moving spiked. 

Three… Two… One—

“Oh, there you are!” the guard cried out, finally making eye contact with him. “We were just talking about you!”

Springtrap faltered mid-pounce.

All that “soft and velvety” nonsense was about him?

“I forgot to tell him that you were able to move too,” the newbie added, cupping the one side of their scarf-covered cheek. “Thanks for reminding me!”

The voice on the phone bounded back to life. Many questions were raised, but Springtrap was too stunned to pay attention. It took him even longer to realize that the phone had now morphed into a miniature camera of some sort. His own gruesome features were, thankfully, jarring enough to bring him back to reality.

Except now that long-lost fear came along with him.

All he could do was just go through the motions of a typical introduction: Wave “Hello”, attempt to look hospitable, then don’t panic if you catch yourself being filmed. Easy said, a-little-less easily done.

Fortunately for him, this only lasted a minute or two.. Merely because the person on the other side was desperate to not hurl on “camera”. The guard, strangely enough, was not in the least bit repulsed by this towering mess of a rabbit. “Thanks for stopping by, Springs,” the newbie said cheerfully, returning to work as if nothing happened. “I really appreciate the company.”

Springtrap loomed beside the poor soul. He watched for a look of dread, but nothing came. Battling the pain, he turned the chair to face him.

“What’s the matter, Springs?” the newbie asked, finally sounding concerned. “Am I doing this job all wrong?”

Springtrap leaned towards the guard. He stared them down to the best of his ability. Why… did this one think… he was “pretty”?? He was supposed to terrifying! Absolutely nauseating, given the “friend’s” reaction! Oh, yes, he heard the excuse all right. Loud and clear. But was it a lie to tell oneself or was it a genuine delusion? Even if it was the honest truth, then what could possibly—?

“I know this is a bad time to ask,” the guard said, interrupting the furious tension, “but where’d you get such haunting eyes? I don’t think any of the old Freddy’s animatronics had that kind of glow to them.”

Springtrap blinked. Well… That.. was better. An absolute shame he had no idea how to answer that.

[nixthelapin]

So I heard that the “Intro the Re-Verse” Miraculous Special Will take place after Destruction, and… *deep inhale* Are you kidding me??

Destruction was episode THREE of season 5. That literally came out a whole year ago (Oct. 2022). And they’re releasing this special right after another one that also was set during season 5 (Action), even though the finale has well sense passed. I think that most of us are ready to move on with the plot instead of just going back to the status quo, especially since that means Gabe will still be a villain at this point (though I guess technically not active since he’ll be making the Alliances at this point?), but at the very least will still be having that controlling and oppressive influence on Adrien. I know I’m going to be super frustrated watching any interaction they have in this simply because (1) we saw Gabe die already, why should we care? and (2) Adrien is free from his father at the end of the season. We may argue about how well both of those things were done, or how satisfying the story was, but it doesn’t change how that story did end, and bringing back the old dynamic again is honestly a little jarring to me. I personally didn’t like the finale, but because what happened happened, I’m just ready to move on from it.

Then there’s the whole thing where they’ll be interacting with their reverses. I wasn’t necessarily expecting an identity reveal (would’ve been a good way to bring it out, especially to cause some drama, but there’s no way they’d leave that to a special instead of in the show proper), but I was expecting something around Gabriel’s identity. He’s a good guy in the Re-Verse, and has the butterfly like our Gabe. LB and CN would be against Toxinelle and Claw Noir sharing their identities, but why wouldn’t they want to know the butterfly? Anything to lead them to Monarch (since this is still during season 5)! Why wouldn’t they ask him? Not really too much of a reason to say no, since once they go back to their universe, LB and CN knowing his secret identity won’t impact him at all. What would stop them, really? Especially when they are so desperate and vulnerable after such a huge loss against Monarch.

(If it was set after the season 5 finale, we could have them learning reverse-Gabriel’s identity, and see Adrien deal with those emotions. “Does this mean my father had the Butterfly?” “If this version is a hero… then what does that mean for mine?” etc. But no.)

TLDR: was hyped for the Re-Verse Special, found out it was set after season 5 episode 3, am now significantly less hyped.

[herejusttosufferalong]

Follow up cause it wouldn’t fit in comments:

Why is everyone so sure Luke thinks her team/she called the paps? He doesn’t have a lot of exposure to pap situations himself, so he wouldn’t have a good baseline on if it was weird/out of the ordinary or not. He’s the lead in Netflix’s biggest show. It wouldn’t be strange to be papped premiere day. What is weird is that it was only him. Paps (especially if it was just one photog) wouldn’t have followed him after they got their gf pics. They would've stayed for pics of the rest of the cast. The most lucrative pics would’ve been Nicola with someone. Her love life has gotten way more attention for a lot longer because she is so private. She is also the bigger celeb whose pics would appeal to a wider audience ($). Luke might not have known right away it was just them getting papped. Things blew up while he was in Milan. He could’ve found out then. She could’ve denied it. He could believe that DM set the whole thing up. It’s all speculation. If she did it without his consent, then I really hope that’s the end for them because that is a betrayal of trust of astronomical proportions. Another thing to consider about how Luke looks in the pics is how fucking jarring it is to get those pics taken out of nowhere. They’re in your face with crazy bright flashes, the paps try to talk to you and throw out questions, follow you and generally harass. It’s unsettling and a little freaky. I’m less surprised by Luke’s face/reaction than his gf. She seems like she loved the attention, which good for her if she’s into that kind of thing. I think they both would’ve looked the same no matter who they were with at the time. Well, maybe not the awkward hand holding lol

no notes

[mysaldate]

Why Leona and Vil get treated differently – and why not everything is always about race

Yeah yeah, it’s been a long time since this discourse happened... not. Because apparently we’re beating this horse even after it’s deader than Cater’s clones. Somehow this stupid conversation keeps getting rekindled over and over and over and over again, and I’m just so tired so I’m just gonna put my thoughts down so that the next time I get caught up in it, I’ll have this post at the ready. Read at your own risk, this may trigger some people, especially those who claim the only reason anyone would ever dislike Leona is his skin color and not, you know, everything he does.

Leona’s murder attempt was pre-meditated. Unlike Vil, Leona spent quite a long time planning out everything he did in episode 2. He made sure the injuries happened in a way that couldn’t be linked back to him and that nobody could see Ruggie while he was using his unique magic. When it came to the actual murder, he even made a deal with Azul to ensure the event venue was set up in a certain way and that Ruggie got a potion to boost his magic before the whole thing started. Vil, on the other hand, snapped under momentary pressure, and didn’t spend weeks planning how to murder a rival over a competition.

Leona was ready to go through with it. I see a lot of people conveniently ignoring this but someone actually did die during Leona’s murder attempt – Cater’s clones did. Now, whether or not clone lives count as actual lives is irrelevant at the moment because all that matters is that Leona didn’t stop until there were bodies on the ground. Remember he watched the whole thing. He knew what was going on and when to stop. On the other hand, Vil immediately stopped the second a new element was introduced that snapped him out of whatever he was going on. Which brings me to my next point.

Leona acted with full clarity. Unlike Vil, Leona was fully in control the whole time. Vil was in a haze of reliving his past trauma, a haze that he snapped out of the second someone other than his target spoke to him. Leona, while motivated by past trauma, was fully in control of his actions.

Leona never showed any growth. This may be a controversial point for some people. And I understand that Leona is older than most of the other characters, however that does not make him stubbornly refusing to admit he did anything wrong any less jarring. Everyone showed tangible visible growth after their overblot, except Leona.

We are clear on what Leona wanted. With Vil, we never got a clear-cut confirmation that he was out for blood. We know something unsavory would’ve happened to Neige if he drank the apple juice, but truth is, it was never explicitly stated that he would die (if it was in EN, then just chuck that on the pile of things EN ruined). People just jumped to assuming murder because that’s what we’ve seen before and because Vil is associated with poinsons.

And when it comes to how their attempts were handled in-universe, let’s take a look at that.

Leona got called out by Lilia. It was vicious and rude, yes. Was it racist of Lilia to tear into Leona? No. No part of Lilia’s insults had to do with Leona’s race. He compared Leona with Malleus and evaluated which one of them has a personality more suited for a leader – the answer should be clear if you consider which one of them committed murder over a sports contest. This was also after Leona attempted to murder Lilia’s son, his son’s best friend, and a person he’s been taking care of for decades, or possibly even longer. Leona is lucky Lilia is no longer in his general days otherwise he’d likely be made into a throwrug, how handsome is up to your personal tastes. However, Leona’s call-out ended there with no further consequences other than being disqualified from the contest.

Vil got called out by nearly the entirety of the VDC group. Granted, it wasn’t that vicious or rude, but that’s because it didn’t get personal with anyone. Had he killed Neige, it wouldn’t personally affect any of the VDC group members. While Rook is a huge fan of Neige’s, that’s as far as it goes. However, Vil had lasting consequences from this lapse of judgement. You can find my full analysis of that mess here. That alone makes fans less eager to harp on him, since it at least feels like he got what he deserved – or possibly even more – while Leona gets to walk free with one verbal scolding.

Lastly, if you’re here to tell me to kms or harass me, do us both a favor and just click block and hide. I’ve got enough of that to the point where I just roll my eyes and block you back without it really affecting me. You’re just wasting your time as well as mine. You can think Lilia calling out Leona for murder was racist but at that point, you’re just willing to use skin color as a free get out of consequences card, and I have no desire to talk to people like that.

If you agree, feel free to share, if you’d like to respectfully debate, I’m 100% down for that too, just know that I tend to be pretty stubborn😅

Edit: If you are here to talk about wider fandom treatment of dark-skinned characters, that isn't what this post is about so please just make your own. This post is about a specific situation. Of course, there will always be bad people who judge people and characters based on skin color, but let's not act like everyone who dislikes Leona does so for those reasons. There's plenty of differences between his and Vil's situation that can make people like one and dislike the other without being racially charged. THAT is the point of this post.

[jpeg-dot-jpeg]

The lights of the city twinkled below them in a patchwork quilt of streetlamps, glowing windows, and neon signs. In the distance, Clark could hear the shrill wails of ambulances and police cars, but the damage was minimal and the casualties few. The three of them were just waiting for Barry to return from his third sweep for emergencies before they could debrief, write their reports, and go home.

If he searched for it, Clark could make out the high pitched whizzing noise characteristic of the Flash in motion, blanketed by a million ambient sounds; the buzz of electricity, the hum of a million breaths, pagers beeping, cars rumbling, food cooking, bits and pieces of people’s lives snapshotted in the imperceptible ripple of waves through the air.

Next to him, Diana’s was a low, steady wave, feeding Batman the few scraps of intel he didn’t already have. The words slipping out of her mouth in their smooth alto occupied his attention until-

bee-boop bee-boop bee-boop-bee-boop-bee

The ring of a mechanical melody jarred Clark out of his reverie. Clark blinked. The strange 8-bit chorus continued to play, soft enough to escape the notice of his colleagues.

The sound of video game jingles was becoming more and more familiar to him these days, filling shops and living rooms, often accompanied by the delighted cheers or defeated groans of children. But as far as Clark could tell, there weren’t any children at the top of the insurance building they were currently loitering on.

In fact, if Clark didn’t know any better, he’d say the noise seemed to be emanating from Batman. With his cape wrapped all the way around him, a huge swath of black fabric concealing his body and the numerous weapons no doubt stored on it, the source of that noise was hidden from him. And while it was common to hear an alert or signal beeping a warning from somewhere on his body, those alerts didn’t come in the form of music. 

“Do- do you guys hear that?” Clark interrupted, possessed by the need to understand where that noise was coming from.

His two companions went silent, listening intently for anything unusual in the night around them.

After a moment, Diana replied, “Are you talking about that music?”

“Yeah,” Clark answered. “What is that?”

“Oh,” Batman said in that rasp of his. 

Then he peeled back his cape, parting the black curtain of it to reveal a child curled up at his feet.

“Say hi, Robin,” Batman instructed the boy.

“Hi,” The boy obliged, glancing briefly up at the superheroes above him before immediately returning his attention to the Gameboy clutched in his gloved hands.

Clark and Diana stared for a moment in stunned silence.

At first, Clark wondered if he might be hallucinating. Then, his mind rationalized that perhaps this was just a victim being cared for under the watchful eye of Batman before he could be taken back to his family, or wherever else he belonged.

But then he processed the colorful costume the boy wore, the domino mask covering his eyes, the way he was sat crisscross-applesauce between Batman’s boots, leaning comfortably back against armored shins. 

The cape was lowered back down, hiding the boy from view and returning Batman to a shapeless blob.

Diana was the first the gather her wits back up.

“How long has he been there?”

Batman’s face betrayed nothing. “The whole time.”

“The whole time we’ve been on this roof?” Diana clarified, incredulous.

“The whole time we’ve been in Metropolis.”

Clark’s jaw dropped. Surely, if Batman had been carting an elementary schooler around all night, he would’ve noticed.

Right?

Barry chose that moment to flurry up the side of the building, appearing next to them less than the blink of an eye. “Hey guys. We should be good to go for tonight. Someone should check back in in a day or so to make sure everything is resettling, but there isn’t anything else for us to do tonight.” Then he took in Clark and Diana’s flabbergasted expressions and Batman’s unwavering impassivity. “What’d I miss?”

Clark pointed at the bottom of Batman’s cape and said, “Show him.”

When the fabric parted a second time, he half expected to see an empty space where the boy had been. But sure enough, there he was, tapping away at the gaming console. He peered up at Batman from the ground and asked, “Is it time to go home?”

“Not yet,” Batman replied.

“Okay.” Then the cape dropped back down again.

Barry cocked his head to the side, staring curiously at Batman. “Where did you find that kid?”

“The circus.”

“What?” Clark exclaimed, thoroughly bewildered.

“It’s not relevant,” Batman told him, as though that answered any of the questions that had been raised in the past 5 minutes.

“Is he... you son?” Diana asked cautiously. 

“Hm,” Bruce replied, and Clark had no idea whether that was a confirmation or a negation. He nodded anyway.

For a moment, all four - five - of them stood in silence. Then Barry broke it.

“So... we’ll reconvene at the watchtower?”

A chorus of affirmations followed, but for an awkward moment, no one moved, everyone waiting for Batman to be the first. When it became clear he had no intentions of being the first to leave, Barry said, “...right,” and zipped off.

With no clue what else to do, Clark lifted off, rising into the air, closely followed by Diana. When they were far enough away to be sure Batman was no longer watching them, he asked her, “So was that a yes-hm or a no-hm?” 

“I have no clue,” Diana replied. “We can find out during the debriefing, though.”

Clark nodded. The rest of the flight was spent in silence, broken only by Diana’s soft, melodious humming.

It took until they finally reached the watchtower for Clark to realize that it was the same tune from the video game.

[dilfdoctordoom]

It’s really frustrating how Gamora wasn’t given proper nuance in the first two movies because then vol 3 might’ve been less frustrating. If her issues had been explored in depth (in vol 2 especially) her being feral for 90% of the film would’ve been interesting enough on its own, but because the first two films focus so heavily on Quill and the third on Rocket we don’t get enough time with either version of Gamora to see what makes her tick.

Ooooh boy I've got a lot to say on this.

The personality that Gamora has in Vol 3 is one that we have seen before... in the deleted scenes of Vol 1. Since those never made it to the final cut, the majority haven't seen them, don't know they exist, and I wouldn't count them as canon.

It makes her Vol 3 personality jarring, to say the least, which is an in issue. Vol 3 Gamora is the first time MCU Gamora has been anything really like her comic counterpart. Gamora's... very sharp, very volatile and doesn't tend to be the nicest person in the room. Gamora in Vol 1 & 2 was put into the "team mom" role which really isn't a place she should ever hold. At best, it should be like Infinity Watch, where she just thinks she holds it because she's decided she's the most responsible when in reality. she's fucking crazy.

Vol 3 also doesn't fit the established beat of the past two films; Peter is our clear protagonist, Rocket is the secret protagonist, and Gamora is the female protagonist. She gets things moving. It's her thoughts, her wants, that ultimately drive the films forward. She wants to save Xandar, she wants to escape Thanos, and it's those two things that push the first film forward. It's her want for familial connection (that she finds with Nebula eventually) that leads her to encourage Peter to go with Ego; if she hadn't been looking for that herself, I doubt she would've ever told him to go.

It also drops the sister dynamic between Gamora and Nebula, literally the one thread that links the Guardians appearances consistently through Vol 1 right over to Endgame. It's the beating heart of it all and shown time and time again to be important and then.... nothing. Vol 3 doesn't dare address that they've both lost the only sister they've known and what stands before them is essentially a stranger. It doesn't address that both of them know there's a version of them that is dead and has lost their future (and they both know that the future that version of them lost was a GOOD one). There's so much to work with, and it never gets picked up on at all.

Gamora's the moral center of the team, it's beating heart. She's always been the driving force of the plot, even in Infinity War, and she's central to most of the Guardians appearances in Endgame.

In Vol 3, she's there, I guess.

And even back then, even when she's so important to the films... like all women in the GOTG franchise, she's not nearly as delved into as the men. Don't get me wrong, she's a hell of a step up from Mantis, but... it's not as much as it should be.

It's an issue that feels especially because, as much as I adore Rocket & how well done his side of things was, Volume 3 needed to be Gamora's movie.

How Infinity War left her was bad. How Endgame left her was also bad. How Volume 3 chose to present her was worse.

This movie needed to have at least some focus on fixing what went wrong but we somehow ended up with Cosmo & Kraglin getting more development & Yondu getting better treatment than dead Gamora.

I get that Rocket is Gunn's favorite and Gamora is not, but honestly? Not a good enough excuse.

A woman of color got violently fridged to make her abuser more sympathetic. Something needed to be done to fix that and that was sacrificed to... further a raccoon's story & downplay the abuse of two major women (Gamora&Nebula) in this franchise. I don't care how much Gunn loves Rocket, he should've done every damn woman in the franchise better.

[hekates-corner]

Apothecary Diaries | WN Translation | Arc 9 - Chapter 12

Hey, whichever way you found this: Welcome!

For a couple of reasons I ended up here - I relay all that happens in the chapters, playing wine-aunt, as I translate to the best of my abilities.

So, be warned, all the spoilers are waiting down below. Want spoilers - but less? My dm's/asks are open!

New here? Here's the Masterlist.

Enjoy!

Chapter 12 | Farming

For the next two days, Maomao and the others helped Nenshin with his work.

Which was pretty close to the answer Maomao was looking for.

Narrator-Mao leads us through the explanation that, after putting the hoe in the ground and turning over the damp soil, they found worms, ants and small beetles - as well as long masses/clumps, where a closer look revealed that they were eggs/egg masses.

The chicken that had been pecking at the worms then pecked at the egg mass. In her head she wonders “Locust eggs?”

As narrator she lets us know that she would’ve liked to calculate how many there were per tan, but that she didn’t have the time to do that. Once she found an egg the chicken had missed, she picked it up and put it in a jar.

In her mind she notes how many there must be.

Narrator-Mao goes on talking about how people who hate insects would go crazy about this, even if the contents of her jar are still few. Despite being used to dissecting locusts, it’s not something she wants to see or likes either.

Meanwhile she lets us in on the fact that Lahan-nii, the expert farmer, had a special way of holding the hoe - while Basen had his incredible strength and how different the amount of soil is they have to dig up.

In her head she’s just glad that Basen is doing things right.

Narrator-Mao tells us that she’d been worried he’d refuse, because it’s not the job of a soldier, but apparently she was lucky that Jinshi cared about locusts quite a bit. So, Basen quietly helped her.

Thanks to that, she fills us in, the guards and farmers they’d brought along were also helping her. It looks like they’ll be done with the digging by the end of the day.

In addition, Chue - who had joined before they knew it - was moving around near the two of them, collecting locust eggs. Two children were behind her. They’re the siblings that ate the roasted sweet potato - and they seem to think that if they help they’ll get more of them.

“Maomao-san, there are a lot of them, would you like to see them?”

“Chue-san, I don’t want to see them. If it’s mantis eggs, I’ll take it.”

Mantis eggs, she tells us, are used as a medicine called Sohyosho. Since it can’t be acquired in large quantities, it’s quite valuable. (that’s real btw)

“The eggs here are about to hatch. A small one’s coming out.”

“It’s already spring, isn’t it?”

One generation of flying locusts is as long as 3 months, starting march. It's said that they lay about 100 eggs each at a time. This is what was written in the encyclopedia that was in the Shi clan’s fortress. Those born in spring lay new eggs in summer.

They don’t breed all year round, and at this time of year, the eggs laid in the fall are hatching. The eggs are laid hidden in the ground, exposed by akiko/autumn plowing - and once exposed, they become food for birds and small animals.

Maomao wonders, in her mind, if Lahan (the actual one) hadn’t said that before.

Narrator-Mao notes something about him having mentioned rat/mousecalculation.

One pair of mice births 12 children - making the total 14. Of those 12 children, 6 females and the mother bring 7 more pairs into the world - from which, each of them births another twelve.

Of course, this formula is just a theoretical calculation. Not everything grows without dying.

If the number of locusts were to increase in the same way as this rat-calculation, it will be important to reduce the number at an earlier stage.

She calculates in her head that a mass of locust eggs is about 100, 100 times ten is 1000, 100 times 100 is 10.000.

Narrator-Mao goes on that, if they were to get rid of them now, they could lower the amount of locusts appearing later by many times - and that it seems locusts lay their eggs in areas that are moist to some degree.

She thinks that, since there’s a river nearby and plenty of grass to feed on, this area is the perfect spawning ground.

Then notes as narrator that the reason why they (villagers) didn’t dare to cultivate a field is probably to attract locusts.

At that point Nenshin approaches her, a glass of locust eggs in hand.

“Now all that’s left to do is burn them.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Ah. Last year I missed a lot of locusts because I was late with this.”

Narrator-Mao recalls that a farmer of this village had also said that they had a lot of damage from locusts the year before.

“Was the yield quite small?” She asks and Nenshin nods.

“We don’t have any savings, just what we eat. If we pay taxes, we’ll starve. We would no longer be able to afford to buy daily necessities from peddlers, so we would have so sell our cattle.”

“But you said that the feudal lord not only exempted you from taxes but also gave you support.”

“That’s right, he’s a really nice lord.” Once again, Nenshin made a face as if he was going to throw up.

Maomao then asks him directly something along the lines of “What is it that you don’t like about that? It seems like you have a thorn in your side/like it's a thorn in your eye.”

Nenshin explains that, he’s not saying this as former bandit, but they(village people) are just trying to take what they can get. To him, they’re like locusts. If you don’t want to starve, you should take proper care of your field - so that you don’t starve.

Maomao asks if "that’s why" - the reason why the fields in this village aren’t well taken care of is that.

Nenshin responds: “That’s right. It was the same with last years bugs.” and goes on to explain that while they were disgusted, looking at their fields being eaten with dismay - the village chief was always thinking about how he could get the sympathy of the lord, always thinking about how he could make him cry. Nenshin felt like a fool, pulling off the locusts that were biting the leaves and killing them one by one.

Narrator-Mao wonders if the fear of past locust plagues has changed Nenshin - because this doesn’t seem like the behavior of a former bandit who has done all kinds of evil deeds.

She then corrects herself in her mind: No, that’s wrong.

As narrator adding that, from the start, Nenshin probably had an earnest/serious personality. He was born and raised as a bandit, so he learned how to use a bow and started killing people as he was told.

Ethics isn’t something you are born with.

“And judging from the current atmosphere in the village, it seems like they received a lot of money.”

“Right. This hasn’t changed in the last ten years. Even if the harvest fails, the lord will help us. He’s a good lord to everyone.”

In her mind she wonders “Good lord..”

Narrator-Mao wonders where the money for this support comes from. It could be extracted from trade. If Saito was that prosperous, it’s fine to send the money to rural areas.

“If you’re making the money, I think it would be better to build at least one of those waterways/canals.”

She goes on, as narrator, that the less labor is involved in transporting water, the more different work can be done. They could even cultivate new fields.

Nenshin admits that that’s what “that man Rikuson” had said too - Maomao replies with a simple “Is that so.”

Narrator-Mao then tells us again that, once she’s back in Saito, she has to find out how Rikuson found out about the former serf’s existence.

(And then, after all this, days worth of work they did for him, mind you……..)

“By the way, I’m sorry to ask you to help me with my work, but don’t you have other business in this village?”

“Business…….” - Maomao rests her chin on the handle of her hoe and closes her eyes.

“Ah!” - Maomao looks around. She approaches Lahan-nii, who isn’t only digging up the soil but also starting to make ridges.

Maomao: We won’t plant anything here.

Lahan-nii: ?!

She thinks “Shit, he’s making his usual face.”

He(?) denies it, but the farmers are completely on board.

“By the way, aren’t you going to spread the popularity of potatoes? I think that’s why you brought the seed potatoes.”

“..... that’s about it.”

It seems like Lahan-nii has something on his mind.

“The people here have no willingness/motivation to work in the fields, right? If they were to produce more potatoes, do you think they would cultivate them properly? They probably won’t use the old fields for new crops, and I don’t think they have the willpower to cultivate new land.”

“Certainly/Indeed.” Maomao is convinved.

Lahan-nii says that that’s why he wanted to meet the only person who cultivated a decent farm.

Maomao catches on, goes “So that’s what it’s about.” but Lahan-nii already knows better as well: “But I don’t think that old man can do it.”

Maomao agrees, with a simple “It’s impossible, I guess.”

The last former serf of this village. In addition to working on his own field, he also has to perform the fall plowing ceremony, which is called a ritual. Work that was supposed to be completed in fall, continuing into the spring, so no matter how you look at it, there’s not enough manpower.

“Can’t we just leave one person here to help?” They look at the other farmers.

Lahan-nii argues that the people he brought with him are here because he is *in case she’s wondering*. It’s not good to be left behind in an unfamiliar place/You can’t just leave them in an unfamiliar land, in the middle of nowhere.

They seem to have been brought all the way from Hisashi-Shuu.

“Right.” - Narrator-Mao notes that Lahan-nii acts like an older brother in the strangest ways - and that, if he had been born into a normal family, he would’ve been a good eldest son. (damn girl)

Lahan-nii adds that he’s glad his father isn’t there - and something about how he said he’d show them the potential of potatoes yet he didn’t actually know what to do. (the second part’s not wanting to be read, clearly.)

Maomao then says something along the lines of “Let’s at least make the sweet potatoes tasty….. Potatoes……” (it’s a fragmented sentence I can’t make full sense of)

Maomao looks at the two children clinging to Chue’s back. She sets down the hoe and approaches them.

“Hey, you want to eat the sweet potato again sometime”

“Want to eat!”

“I want to eat it! I want to eat!”

The sibling's eyes sparkled.

“It’s my first time eating something so sweet. It was sweet like a raisin.”

“Raisins?”

“Sweets are precious around here. There’s no honey and sugar is a luxury item.”

Chue spins around with a large jar on her head.

“... I wonder, can we use that/Could that work?”

Maomao grinned/chuckled and returned to Lahan-nii.

| Notes & Chapter 13

At long last, a chapter that didn't completely hate being translated.

There's not much to say this time. There is the expression thing where it's not quite clear for me if Maomao is pulling an expression or if it's Lahan-nii, but we'll survive that. The same goes with where Nenshin has the thorn.

I honestly just love it for Nenshin that he waited days, until they were about to wrap up all the work, before asking if it's fine for them to spend all their time with his task. Just, gold.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this one. I'll see you soon with the next. Stay safe!

[pastriibunz]

Quatervois - Emma’s Perspective

Paring: Emma Perkins + Kai Drew (platonic)

Warnings: major spoilers for TKWDLM

Summary: (n.) a crossroads; a critical decision or turning point in one’s life | Emma’s perspective of Kai and the events of the apocalypse.

Jane often talked about Tim.

And having a kid, overall.

She loved being a mother.

I never understood.

Kids just seemed like a nuisance.

You raise them for 18 years, and you just have to hope you did enough so that they come out okay and don’t become a total screw up/douchebag/creep/etc.

It seemed like a lot.

And it just seemed like an overall annoyance.

So, I decided a long time ago that I was never having kids.

I was fine with that.

I’d just be the cool aunt or whatever.

I never wanted to be a mom.

But things change.

Especially when a dorky 12 17 year old girl with the world’s brightest teal hair heads up to your counter.

Her order was simple.

Anything with caramel, and make it extra.

I could do that.

And then she tipped me.

I hated that tip jar and the stupid ‘tip for a song’ policy.

I didn’t want to sing just so I could make, what, less than 25 cents after the split?

That’s less than a fucking jukebox!

But, I had to do the singing thing. I needed this job to work my way through college.

Jane would want that, right?

So I did the stupid fucking singing thing.

I half assed it. Nora didn’t say I had to sound good. There was my loophole. I had hoped this kid wouldn’t get too pissed and ask for the manager or something. I did not have the patience for that.

But the kid didn’t.

She clapped like it was the best thing she had ever heard.

I was confused. Especially when she said I did great.

She seemed so happy. She even said she had tips for me. Ones that she said she’d keep to herself.

Usually I’d just laugh it off awkwardly, thank her for the compliment, give her the coffee she ordered and send her on her way.

But something inside me said not to let her go.

I don’t know what it was. 

But I listened

So I let her share her singing tips with me.

And she was so passionate about it.

It was adorable.

And I dunno, something just…

…unlocked in me.

The only thought in my head was:

“That’s yours.”

“That’s your kid.”

And who was I to fight it?

She was mine the moment she walked into the coffee shop.

I got her name before she left.

Kai Drew.

Cute name for a cute kid.

She said she should leave, so she wouldn’t hold up the line.

It was sweet how considerate she was.

I didn’t care about the line.

This kid was way more important than whatever those guys needed.

But it was fine.

She could’ve leave if she wanted.

Would I like it?

No.

But I wouldn’t ever like it, so I just had to learn to work with it.

So she left.

I just had to hope she’d be back.

…

And she was.

The very next day.

My favorite little customer walked in through that door.

I understand why Jane would always talk about Tim now.

I wouldn’t be able to shut up about Kai, either.

My only regret is not knowing her earlier.

I sang for her. I was technically required to, so I could keep my job, but I’d like to think I made it special for her.

She loved it.

Of course she did.

She said it was “real grand.”

The best compliment I’ve ever gotten.

She didn’t even need to ask for her drink.

I knew what she wanted.

Same thing as yesterday.

She seemed like the type to have a specific order.

And she was!

She sat happily in the corner, waiting for her coffee.

It would’ve been a great day.

If not for Paul.

Well, it wasn’t his fault.

He just brought to light that our lives were in danger.

I didn’t believe him until I saw it firsthand.

He wanted to run.

I stayed.

Something that the thing that used to be Zoey had said sang.

“We got a triple for you!”

It had caught me off guard.

There was only me and Paul, wouldn’t that be double?

Then her little voice spoke.

“Oh! Coffee’s cool!”

She was safe.

“Welp, Bottoms up!”

But clearly not for long.

My brain went blank, and the one thought in my head was:

“Protect your daughter.”

And so I did.

And I continued to.

Sure, she was technically old enough to take care of herself.

But that didn’t stop me from keeping her safe.

In my eyes, she was a baby.

My baby.

And I didn’t want her hurt.

And I sure as hell didn’t want her dead.

I felt like I needed to protect her.

To hold her in my arms, shielding her from the world. 

I wanted to hold her close and never let go.

I’d protect her with my life.

And if I couldn’t, I made sure someone else would.

And if she went out alone?

I’d panic.

I wasn’t a mess, but I was close. 

I just reminded myself she could hold her own. 

That she was almost an adult, she could take care of herself.

But still.

She was my baby.

I don’t think I’d ever not be scared for her.

I love her, after all.

I finally understand why Jane loved being a mom so much.

I finally understand why people want to be parents.

I love Kai so, so much.

She’s like if you packed all the happiness in the world into one adorable little human being.

She’s my universe.

I love her more than anything.

I just want her to be safe.

…

But of course she couldn’t.

I knew something was up.

I knew it.

I was right to panic.

I had to sprint over.

I didn’t care if I had a pole straight through my leg.

My baby was in danger.

If she was hurting, so was I.

I wouldn’t be okay if she wasn’t okay.

I wouldn’t get better if she wasn’t safe.

It was like a sixth sense, knowing if she was safe or not.

Maybe that was the maternal instincts that Jane had always talked about.

That was besides the point.

I just want my baby to be okay.

She was singing.

She was being forced to sing by that fucking blue shit.

No, no, no.

Not my baby.

She’ll only sing when she wants to, not because some stupid fucking alien infection forces her to.

She’s strong.

Stronger than anyone I know.

She can fight it.

I know she can.

I love her so much.

She can’t die on me.

I refuse to let that happen.

Parents aren’t supposed to see their children die first.

It’s not supposed to happen.

There’s a reason there’s a word for a child who lost their parents, and not a word for a parent who’s lost their child.

It’s not supposed to happen.

And it’s sure as hell not gonna happen to me.

Not to my baby.

Please.

I just want her to be safe.

…

She destroyed the meteor.

Good on her.

But I don’t care.

Fuck the goddamn meteor, is my kid okay?!

Nothing is worth it if she isn’t safe.

Life isn’t worth living if my baby isn’t okay.

…

Oh- oh yes!

There’s my girl!

There’s my beautiful baby girl!

She did it!

We did it!

We won!

We won!

She’s okay, she’s safe, she’s-

…

That’s not her.

That’s not my baby.

What happened to my baby?

WHAT THE FUCK DID THEY DO TO MY BABY?!

No, no, no, no.

She’s fine.

This is all some sick joke.

She’s fine.

Why is Paul trying to leave?!

I’m not leaving!

I’m not leaving without my baby!

She’s-

…

She’s infected.

But-

But she’s still in there.

She just needs to snap out of it.

Give her back.

Please, God.

Don’t take her away from me.

Not when I just started to like being a mom.

…

…What’s she doing?

Wait.

WAIT.

NO.

NO NO NO NO NO.

NO!

KAI, DONT YOU DARE-

…

…My baby.

Oh, god, no.

Not my baby.

No.

Please.

Please, God.

Please let her wake up.

Give me my baby back.

Please.

I just want my baby back.

I just want her to wake up.

…

…That’s not her.

What the fuck- 

What the fuck did they do to her?!

She needs help.

We need help.

Why won’t anyone help us?!

SOMEONE HELP US!

…

…Nobody’s coming to help us.

Nobody’s coming to save us.

My baby is dead.

My daughter is dead.

Kai is dead.

Oh, god.

We lost.

[controlaltdelete-my-existence]

king piccolo arc is weird because it’s obviously the blueprint for many of the arcs to follow as well as one of my favorites, but narratively this is also the arc where some of db’s writing decisions start getting a little questionable. It starts off pretty strong: Goku’s impulsivity gets the better of him and he pays for it with Tambourine. This is soon followed by a truly memorable (and lowkey satisfying?) beat down by king piccolo (that rock to the back and elbow to the stomach look genuinely painful). Goku’s reduced to quite literally biting piccolo to try and stay in the fight. All of his arrogance that’s been building up since red ribbon is immediately knocked out of him and he’s left unable to move, forced to rely on someone else for the first time in a long time (the beginnings of an idea his character struggles with throughout Z).

Meanwhile king piccolo’s minions force a team split in Kame house, giving us three teams to follow as the dragon balls are collected. King Piccolo has a (what should be) iconic moment of literally kill Shenron. So now he’s young, he’s back, and he’s more overwhelming than any other opponent in the series to date. I don’t think Tao’s attempted murder of Goku hits quite the same highs as King Piccolo’s first assault; imo it hits differently because it’s not just that goku failed to beat him, it’s that all the characters we know and care about are genuinely at risk and even dropping like flies.

I guess in terms of story structure that would now put us at like, the second act low point? And ofc the question is ‘how is goku gonna come back from this?’ Which is how we get to what is imo a somewhat poor plot device: the ultra divine water. I definitely feel like this was something that could have been handled much better, though I don’t necessarily blame the author due to the pressure of having to write a serialized story. Still, at least a little foreshadowing with Korin in red ribbon might have helped the ultra divine water feel like less of a shortcut and more like unlocking a secret goal. The entire philosophy of DB is ‘work hard to improve yourself’. imo the way it should’ve been handled was goku realizing he already has the skills he needs, he just needs to continue honing them, maybe unlock a new technique or two through training, until he stands a chance. Goku’s whole fighting style is letting himself take a beating for awhile to figure out his opponents move set and then coming up with a creative counter-strategy. He’d already fought piccolo once, so it would’ve been a good way to keep the story thematically consistent.

Another way it could have felt less jarring is for him to at least have to overcome himself. Korin remarks in the actual story that Goku is too emotional (after losing Krillen and Roshi), which hurts him as a fighter. Needing to quell his rage when facing piccolo again could have been The Thing for him to overcome. Visiting Korin should have reminded him of his training there and instead of Korin saying he has nothing left to teach Goku he could have said, ‘hey, you know the skills, but you’re not using them properly. your anger and your arrogance is getting in your own way’. Essentially, learning meditation and tranquility, etc. (I know that idea is addressed in his later training with Kami, but it might have been valuable to have Goku meet Kami here instead and start the groundwork of those skills, perhaps set it up as him getting back in tune with himself after his losses until he’s ready to help Tien. Just spitballing here).

If the ultra divine water had maybe been some way of measuring goku’s overall progress since he initially started his journey rather than a mini adventure arc, it might have felt less jarring in a story all about self-improvement. I like the ultra divine water in terms of what it does for the oozaru, with the oozaru as being representative of goku’s inner strength, but personally that’s not enough to completely justify it to me. Imo the same symbolism could have been achieved a better way. As it is I don’t hate the UDW but I do think its general existence and relatively simple method of attainment weakens what is overall a very strong arc.

[buckthegrump]

IBTHNTTTY - 18

Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: They no longer hate each other, perhaps they never did in the first place.

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: swearing, angst, fluff maybe

a/n: look - i’m sorry ok

The week before they left for the class reunion was odd. Y/n felt silly, freaking out over a simple kiss on the cheek but she couldn’t help it. A part of her, a really big part - ok fine every fiber of her being - wanted to know what those lips felt like on every inch of her skin.

How she dealt with these feelings at work was to be civilized toward him. She could tell he was enjoying her awkwardness because there were times she caught him smirking at her. The bastard.

She was purposefully keeping her distance because she knew that he would tease her if she didn’t.

That became impossible on Friday when they had to drive to her hometown.

* * *

“I still find it odd that you want to use your car when mine works perfectly fine,” Y/n grumbled. She started to get into the passenger side when Bucky stopped her.

“Nuh-uh, you’re driving. You need to practice otherwise you’ll forget,” he said, taking the seat before she could oppose him.

She rolled her eyes and got in the driver’s seat. He watched her as she began driving, it seemed easy enough for her. Like she had been doing it for years.

All week she’d been half ignoring him, he knew why and was elated that a mere kiss on the cheek had her so flustered. He couldn’t help but wonder what her reaction would be if he put his lips elsewhere, for longer.

As she drove she quietly sang along to the music she was playing, unless a song that she really liked came on, then she would full-on jam out. For the most part she was calm, but every once in a while, a driver would do something that she didn’t like and she would scream at them. Once she’d gotten it out of her system she went right back to the music. 

The first time she did it, it surprised the hell out of him and was only slightly less jarring when it happened again.

Y/n tapped her fingers against the gear shift as she drove. Bucky was shamelessly staring at her hand. He had half a mind to grab it, just so he could hold it again. He hadn’t gotten another chance since that night after the diner, and god did he want to.

Funny, how something as simple as hand holding could be so significant. The longer he stared at her hand, the more pull he felt to take it in his. 

He shook the thought from his head and stared out his window. They weren’t actually dating and holding her hand wasn’t something he could just do. But he’d kissed her cheek and she hadn’t seemed to be completely opposed to that.

Shit, he thought to himself, You didn’t even make sure she was ok with that you fucking idiot.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted before he could stop himself.

“About what?” She asked carefully.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you without consent.”

“It was only a kiss on the cheek,” she shrugged.

“Doesn’t matter,” he looked at her face. She was watching the road intently. “I should’ve been more considerate of your feelings.”

She shrugged again, she pursed her lips. “You would’ve known if I hadn’t liked it. But now, next time you’ll ask.”

Y/n turned up the music making it clear she was done with the conversation.

‘Next time’? Did that mean that she wanted there to be a next time? Because he sure did. He looked at her hand again, she was still drumming her fingers on the gear shift.

“Is there something wrong with my hand?” She asked.

“No.”

“Then why do you keep staring at it?”

“I’m not,” he tried.

“Yes you are,” she insisted. She then lifted her hand to his face. “Would you like a closer look? Do you need me to hold still so you can take a picture of it?” 

Seizing the opportunity, he grabbed her hand and without letting go, rested it one his left leg. He now saw the major flaw of having her drive. She was on his left side and he wanted to be holding her hand with his flesh hand, he wanted that skin to skin contact desperately.

“Are you going to give me my hand back?” She asked, making no move to reclaim it.

“No, you stuck it in my face so it’s mine now.”

“But what if I need to shift?”

He laughed. “We’re going down the freeway at a consistent speed and you’re already in sixth gear.”

“Ya never know,” she whispered but left it at that.

Bucky took his right hand and traced mindless shapes and patterns on the back of her hand. He was very aware of her reaction as he did this. Soon he realized that he wanted more, he was happy with what she would give him, but she was like a drug to him. It was verging on dangerous how much more he wanted.

Like right then, he wanted to lift her hand to place a kiss on it. 

As if she could read his mind, she pulled her hand away. He let her slip through his fingers, already missing the contact. But she simply turned on the wiper fluid for a moment and then went back to holding his hand.

He smiled to himself. 

It was at the moment he knew there was no longer any point in denying it. He was in love with her. Probably had been for a while but he never claimed to be smart.

But just because he couldn’t deny it any more didn’t mean he had to sit there and think about it.

“Pull in at the next rest stop, I have to pee and we can switch,” he said.

Y/n groaned loudly. “You can’t hold it for like another 2 hours?”

“Nope.”

“If I was doing this by myself I wouldn’t have to stop nor would I have to switch drivers. This is fucking ridiculous,” she muttered to herself.

* * *

The instant Y/n got into the passenger seat, she fell asleep. Which would make a total of three times that she had been asleep with him behind the wheel. She had never trusted anyone like that before. Most of the time she stayed away if someone other than her parents had driven her somewhere.

She woke up to someone squeezing her hand. She looked down only to find Bucky’s fingers once again intertwined with hers, and she vaguely remembered grabbing his hand at one point. But that didn’t answer the question as to why he wanted to hold her hand so much.

“Hey, do your parents think we’re dating? Or have you told them the truth?” He asked as she sat up right.

“I haven’t mentioned that you were coming down with me because we’re staying with Wanda and when I go visit my parents you are not going to come with me,” she said.

“Mmm, cool, cool, cool,” he nodded. “Little problem. While you were asleep your mother called and I accidentally answered. So we’re actually staying with your parents -”

“Please tell me she doesn’t think we’re dating,” Y/n whispered.

“Oh no,” Bucky half chuckled.

“Thank god.”

“She thinks we’re engaged.”

Y/n started choking on her own spit. It took her a minute to recover and Bucky had patted her back while she choked.

“She what?” Y/n asked once she was able to speak again.

“I didn’t tell her that we were but when I answered the phone she asked me a million questions and didn’t let me get a word in and then she was like ‘oh Y/n probably wanted to take you to Wanda’s so I couldn’t meet you’. Then she started guilt tripping me and it worked so we are staying at your parents house.”

Y/n sighed. That did sound an awful lot like her mother. And if she knew her mother, that woman had already called everyone she knew and told them the news and then if Y/n corrected her it would just lead to people asking questions at the reunion.

“So what’s the plan? Are we going to correct her? Or is your ring getting cleaned?” Bucky asked.

“You wouldn’t mind?” Y/n asked.

Bucky looked at her with a smile. “Not at all.”

Y/n was having a hard time remembering why she had ever outwardly hated him. “We don’t have to be engaged. That would make things much more complicated.”