#Thread: Two Hundred And Fifty Three

[wearethekat]

March Book Reviews: The Tomb of Dragons by Katherine Addison

Book three of a series. In The Tomb of Dragons, Thara Celehar is struggling to deal with the loss of his ability to hear the dead, as well as losing his calling as Witness. Assigned instead to detangle the affairs of a nonfunctional cemetery, Celehar is unexpectedly drawn into a case involving hundreds of murdered dragons from decades past.

Unlike the previous two entries in the series, The Tomb of Dragons is a proper novel length book, not a novella. The longer story allows Addison to handle several plot threads, some of which are only loosely connected. There's the cemetery which hasn't buried anyone in fifty years due to cutthroat prelate politics and a mountain of paperwork. And as soon as Celehar starts making progress on the cemetery, he's unexpectedly abducted and thrust into the murdered dragons plotline. And behind all that runs Celehar's loss of his sense of purpose, his trauma from fighting the revenant, and his long-buried grief from killing his lover a year ago.

Addison's worldbuilding is excellent as always, and I think the cemetery's fifty years of bureaucratic mismanagement and lost records was a particularly nice touch. However, I think the invention of a whole entire new character to be Thara Celehar's love interest was clumsy. I felt that I was being fobbed off with New Guy, and Celehar's sudden attraction didn't feel organic. In addition, people who are expecting a tidy conclusion to a series billed as a trilogy should also be warned--The Tomb of Dragons doesn't tie up any of the ongoing plotlines, just some of the ones introduced in this book. I suspect the "trilogy" bit is more an indication that Addison doesn't have any more books in the series planned right now and you shouldn't expect another one next year.

A melancholy intrigue novel rooted in a rich and fascinating world. But don't expect a tidy conclusion.

[ashs-cardboard-box]

Longing

~ Van Der Linde gang/Male!Reader

~ Platonic

~ 2.1k words

Request :3

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Two thousand, three hundred fifty-seven days. Six whole years since you’ve started working with the Braithwaites. Six years since your friends– your family, left you behind. You were nothing more than a grifter now. Picking up odd job after odd job for money; working at every beck and call at the hand of Catherine Braithwaite.

In a sense, you owed her. All those years ago, you had gone on a heist with the Van Der Linde gang. You were in charge of planning everything out. From the positions of everyone in the gang, to the escapes, to the successes, and the probable failures. Unfortunately, somehow, there was an outcome you never even considered.

They knew you were coming. To try and help your family make it out alive, you had to play the hero. Take the downfall and let them all escape with the promise of following them immediately after. 

Unfortunately, you were caught. You hadn’t the slightest clue on how long had passed of nothing but hell. Beaten, stabbed, cut, shot, kicked, bitten, starved… all until the Braithwaites found you after you barely managed to escape– your life hanging on by a thread.

They took you in for a price. They would watch over you until you were stable again as well as provide you a stable income if you worked for them. They were the equivalent to Satan’s hemorrhoid covered in burning moonshine embodied, but you didn’t have much of a choice. Adapt or die.

Day after day. Night after night; you were the property of the Braithwaite family. You had fallen from bad to worse. You knew some of the names of the family you had loved so dearly, but their faces escaped you. That was devastating to you. You weren’t even sure where to consider searching for them. You weren’t sure if your sacrifice had meant nothing and they all died anyway. Often spending your days drinking to be able to focus on the task at hand.

To your dismay, one of the devils that had crawled out of Catherine’s rotten womb had come to find you again. You had never cared to remember their names. They were the scum of the Earth and not worth remembering– though, they thought the same of you.

Dragging you back into that wretched manor by the scruff of your neck and, thankfully, you didn’t have to head inside too far. Catherine was sitting on her wrinkled ass in the front room as she watched her sons pace and ramble at one another. Her gaze is drawn to you as soon as you’re shoved inside by her third son.

“Ah, you’re back… good.” She mutters, though her tone is hardly friendly. “Yeah, yeah.. What’d you want?” you grumble in response. Glaring at her son briefly as you adjust the collar of your shirt before folding your arms over your chest, looking back towards Catherine.

“I thought I told you to watch that tone of yours, boy. Bartholomew here would have no problem sending you right back the way you came all that time ago.” You roll your eyes with a frustrated sigh, but you don’t argue nor call her bluff.

“Now then. Couple ‘a vermin took some of my shine. I want you to go hunt ‘em down and get it back.” Catherine all but demands before waving you off like some mutt, but you don’t leave quite yet. “How the hell am I s’posed to find ‘em?”

She stares at you like you’re the stupidest man she’s ever met before she sighs in annoyance. “Saw ‘em heading out of town.” one of her sons chime in, once again poking into a conversation where they aren’t wanted. You glance over towards him, considering your options for a moment, before looking back towards Catherine, staring down the bridge of her nose at you.

You grumble an acceptance to the task under your breath and turn on your heel to leave the room. Pulling your sidearm out of its holster and checking how many bullets you have in the chamber, not bothering to look up as you head outside. The Braithwaites’ doormen doing their jobs and holding things open for you.

Stuffing your gun back into its holster, you walk down the steps and over towards one of Catherine’s horses. She hates you borrowing them, but you don’t have much of a choice. Your own horse is still remaining near the parlour house you were dragged from.

Gently extending your hand open palm towards the horse so as to not scare it and allowing it to smell your hand. Your other hand working to untie the reins from the hitch rail. You weren’t the most knowledgeable on horses, but you knew enough to get around and manage them properly.

Guiding your hand over the horse’s mane as you stick your boot into one of the stirrups. Bringing your body weight over the saddle and tucking your other boot into the stirrup on the other side. With a pat to the horse’s neck in praise for not bucking you off, you command the horse into a trot and controlling where it heads with both hands on the reins. Your body rocking with the steady gait of the horse.

Assuming this was just another case with the Lemoyne Raiders, you had your guard up more than usual. You’ve had to deal with them more times than you can count. Mostly on the behalf of the Braithwaites, but dealt with nonetheless.

As you ride through town, you’re sure to take your sweet ass time. While the Braithwaites pay you, it’s not nearly enough to ensure a quality job gets done. She’ll be lucky if it gets done in the next few days.

Just as you’re about to head into a clearing just outside of Rhodes, you’re stopped by a rugged looking man pointing his gun at you. Taking quick notice of his attire, your eyes fall onto the deputy badge he’s wearing before looking him in the eye again. “What can I help you with, friend?”

“The hell’re you doin’ out here, friend? You ain’t got no business here” The man responds gruffly, though he seems slightly confused by your appearance. You glance away from him briefly towards the clearing before making eye contact with him. His voice seems familiar, but you can’t quite pinpoint it.

“Out looking for a couple gentlemen who robbed the Braithwaites. Don’t imagine you’ve seen ‘em, sheriff?” You respond calmly, to which he grunts. His eyes seem to be picking you apart like a vulture on a carcass as if he could see to your very soul. His stare unwavering as he slowly puts his gun back in its holster.

“What’s your name?” The man asks warily, though it’s not quite a question. More so a demand before he kills you where you stand and steals your horse from underneath you. “L/N. Y/N L/N.” you answer without a fuss, but the man seems put off by your name.

“Y/N..” he echoes, as if testing your name on his tongue. A look of recognition crosses his face as he looks up towards you. Beckoning you down from your horse with a wave of his hand, to which you follow his instruction. Slinging your body weight to one side of your horse before stepping down onto the ground. Keeping one hand clasped around the reins at all times.

As the man steps closer, you step back cautiously, yet there’s only so much space you’re given before you run into the horse, peacefully grazing on the grass. He seems completely dumbfounded by you. Staring at you doe-eyed as a grin slowly spreads across his lips.

“You don’t recognize me, do ya?” He asks. You make a point to look the man up and down as your eyebrows knit together in confusion. You can’t shake the feeling of familiarity he radiates. So similar yet far different than your memories. “Am I supposed to?”

He chuckles and reaches up to push the brim of his black hat up, exposing a bit more of his face. The dopey grin on his face is contagious, causing you to smile slightly, despite your confusion. “Morgan ring a bell?” you practically feel your heart drop into your stomach at the realization. He made it out alive. Thank the Gods.

Without even thinking, you step closer to him and pull Arthur into a tight hug, causing him to laugh and hug you back just as tightly. “I thought we lost you, kid. The hell happened to you all these years?” his voice is slightly muffled by your shoulder, but you understand him perfectly.

It takes you a bit longer to answer. You never thought you’d see your old gang again. Seeing Arthur feels like a damn miracle. “Long story..” you mutter simply. He looks more weathered than you remember, though you’re sure he barely recognized you too. Your face littered in scars from being held captive for so long. “The hell are you doing working with the law?”

Arthur gives a hearty laugh and pats your back before letting go of you, causing you to do the same. You’re not at all concerned on where the horse ran off to. To hell with Catherine. Someone gets a free horse today. 

“Dutch ‘n Micah got a plan to steal from the Braithwaites and the Grays for a bit of gold.. It’s a whole deal.” He waves dismissively before resting his hands on his gun belt. “Well now I know who I’m s’posed to be lookin’ for” you joke with a chuckle. Scratching the back of your neck as you look down the road in the direction of the cursed manor you’ve just come from.

“Is.. y’know- everyone else fine?” you asks hesitantly as you look back towards Arthur. You’re not sure if you want to know the answer. Arthur sighs heavily, his expression turning slightly solemn.

“Yeah. A couple of us made it out here. It’s been hell without you, I’ll say that much.” He chuckles bitterly as he glances over your shoulder before suddenly getting an idea. “I’m sure they’ll be glad to see ya again.” he invites.

Feeling your heart begin to race, you nod a bit quicker than you meant. Arthur nods towards a direction behind you as he steps past you, silently telling you to follow. You feel like a lost child as you follow after Arthur. Awkwardly stuffing your hands into the back pockets of your jeans. Your eyes darting across the clearing you intended to go into in the first place. 

You can just barely hear chatter among several people. Upon seeing the camp set up, you can feel all sorts of forgotten memories coming back to you. Remembering the drunken nights you’ve shared with your family. The petty arguments. The excitement of inviting new members into the gang. Since you parted, there’s a lot of new faces you don’t quite remember.

Arthur leads you right up to Dutch’s tent, clearing his throat to draw his attention, causing Dutch to look up from the book– of which you can only imagine is Evelyn Miller. “You remember Y/N, don’t’cha?” Arthur asks quietly as he puts a hand on your shoulder, nudging you further into Dutch’s tent.

The man himself is almost silent. Slowly closing his book and setting it down on his cot before getting up and approaching you as if you’re a dangerous animal. For a moment, you swear you see a hint of a tear in Dutch’s eye.

Before you even register what he’s doing, he pulls you into a tight hug. Surprisingly tighter than Arthur’s own. Catching both of you off guard by the sudden action. “It’s good to see you again, son.” Dutch says quietly

“It- It’s good to see you too, Dutch” you respond as you slowly wrap your arms around Dutch’s back and giving him a short pat. It takes him a moment, but he finally pats you back and lets go, putting his hands on your shoulders and looking you in the eye. You can’t remember the last time you’ve seen him smile..if ever.

A long moment of silence is shared between the three of you before Dutch pulls his hands back down to his sides, gently tugging on the ends of his vest as he awkwardly clears his throat, looking away from you.

“I s’pose I should show you ‘round camp. Introduce ya to everyone you missed.” Arthur mutters behind you, causing you to turn around with a small nod. There’s an undeniable fear and excitement that comes with seeing everyone again. You can’t wait to meet the rest of your family after all these years.

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its finally done </3 I hope you like it !!

[softsan]

NCT WEREWOLF AU (AESTHETIC)

A remake of this: X

Taeyong

alpha

seven hundred and one years old

suspicious and dubious of humans

puts his pack above all

can be rash and unforgiving

encounters his mate on a non-routine hunt

mate: councilman's daughter

Taeil

elder

eight hundred and fifty-six years old

oldest member of the pack

works as an adviser to the alpha and the betas

breaks up and resolves pack conflicts

stumbles onto his mate who's wearing a disguise

mate: physician

Johnny

hunter

four hundred and eighty-nine years old

has the best sense of smell in the pack

the pack's number-one tracker.

exceptional at mauling his enemies.

left heartbroken by his mate's rejection

mate: rival pack member

Yuta

hunter

four hundred and sixty-seven years old

incredibly quick and stealthy

is labeled the 'ambusher' for his cut-throat hunting tactics

despises the prospect of a mate

believes fate is cruel and callous

mate: city guardian

Kun

beta

six hundred and eighteen years old

second in command

rules in taeyong's absence

known to be morally strict and stern

goes against his beliefs by stealing his mate away

mate: stolen bride

Doyoung

delta

five hundred and thirty-two years old  

is the support unit of the pack

on standby to fulfill the duties of ill or injured packmates

finds himself in a hopeless situation

accidentally marks his mate in a poisoned haze

mate: north's princess

Ten

head scout

five hundred and sixteen years old

has an unparalleled control of his inner wolf

works as the pack's eyes and ears in the city

warns the pack of dangers outside their territory

overcomes his heartbreak by meeting a nifty pickpocket

mate: thief

Jaehyun

delta

four hundred and forty-nine years old

strongest member of the pack

formidable opponent in battle

responsible for guarding the pack's territory

comes across his mate in the scorching sands

mate: she-wolf

Winwin

sentinel

four hundred and three years old

routinely patrols the pack's territory

greats new visitors and learns their intentions

will harshly punish aggressive and disrespectful intruders

accidentally kidnaps his mate instead of his actual target

mate: royal governess

Jungwoo

scout

three hundred and twenty-one years old

has great command of his inner wolf

can avoid shifting on a full moon

gathers and shares information for the pack

blown away by his sweet mate

mate: royal maidservant

Mark

delta

three hundred and twelve years old

known to be sunny but stubborn

incredibly fast learner

teaches hunting skills to younger pack members

saved by his mysterious and magical mate

mate: thread coven witch

Renjun

salutary

two hundred and sixty-three years old

is the pack's herbalist

makes tonics and concoctions for his fellow wolves

plagued by dreams of the past

gives the cold shoulder to his mate

mate: old soul

Jeno

hunter

two hundred forty-eight years old

a distinguished pack fighter

often organizes hunts

is the first to volunteer to go on nightly patrols

captured by his formidable mate

mate: general's daughter

Haechan

omega

two hundred and twenty-four years old

rash and impulsive

has poor control over his inner wolf

frustrated by his low status within the pack

taken in by his beloved mate

mate: baker

Jaemin

hunter

two hundred and twenty-two years old

very talented tracker

is the most versed with their territory's terrain

lovestruck by the idea of love and fate

has his memory wiped by his elusive mate

mate: siren

Xiaojun

scout

one hundred and eleven years old

has mastered controlling his inner beast

recently elevated to the position of scout

is eager to prove himself within the pack

rescues his mate from the cruelty of humans

mate: seer

Hendery

hunter

eighty-three years old

loves running under the moon's light

known for his great speed and stealth

recently elevated to the position of hunter

taken down by his fearless mate

mate: assassin

YangYang

omega

twenty-three years old

only recently had his first transformation

is the pack's forager

searches for plants and provisions to help feed the pack

is reunited with his childhood friend and mate

mate: greenskeeper

Chenle

pup

twenty-two years old

is eager for his first transformation

spent his early years on the run with his aunt

thankful to be accepted into a pack

ambushed by his wicked mate

mate: star coven witch

Jisung

pup

twenty-one years old

is nervous about his first transformation

last to join the pack

spent years hiding underground from humans

shyly taken by his doting mate

mate: seamstress

[star-going-supernova]

SBI idea: Feral Freddy who’s completely losing it over his son boy and all the confused animatronics watch as he goes on a war path <33

I just want more feral Freddy going bonkers over Gregory getting hurt :)

As you can see, I decided to throw a handful of prompts together for this ficlet. I haven’t put much thought into this AU other than to say, for the sake of having the satisfaction of letting Freddy go feral on him, Afton has not been springlocked. So, if that’s not telling enough, then I’m sure the title is, lol. Warning for blood and a bit of gore!

The Bite

The knife sank in to its hilt, and there it stayed as Gregory fell to the floor with a suddenness like his knees had been kicked out from under him. A soft noise of confused pain left him, and already, a glassiness had come over his eyes. 

Afton laughed. 

Perhaps he wouldn’t have done so—and perhaps he would have been more careful to stab his young victim in a more secluded location—if he’d known about Freddy. 

With the echo of Gregory’s summons in his head—the button had been spammed, either in impatience or panic, and Freddy always assumed the latter for caution’s sake (and had been wrong only once)—Freddy turned the corner into the atrium in time to watch Gregory finish falling onto his back, where he blinked sluggishly up at the ceiling. 

Freddy saw this, and the knife, and the growing stain of blood on Gregory’s shirt, and the man standing over him, laughing laughing laughing away. And then Freddy saw red. 

Afton didn’t have longer than a second or two to register the loud, crashing footsteps heading his way before he was tackled to the floor by a three hundred and fifty pound robot. This, as one might imagine, wasn’t very good for his health. 

Most of Afton’s ribs snapped on impact, and his skull bounced against the tiles with a resounding crack. Just as quickly as he was thrown to the floor, he was reeled upward, Freddy crouching over him and clutching handfuls of Afton’s shirt. His claws pierced the fabric and sliced through his chest. 

Blank black eyes with mere pinpricks of white pupils glared down at Afton. Freddy roared in the man’s face, his jaw hinging open wide. And then he pulled the dazed man forward, leaned down himself, and engulfed Afton’s entire head all the way to his chin in his maw before biting down with the force of a hydraulic press.

The prior history of animatronic bites, while gruesome, nonetheless looked like mere nibbles in comparison to this bite. For the fact remained that Freddy did not have a particularly cavernous mouth.

Afton’s head more or less exploded. Blood and mush burst out through the narrow gaps between Freddy’s teeth, and absolute gore plopped wetly to the floor. 

Freddy opened his mouth. His razor-sharp teeth had nearly decapitated Afton, and it was only by a few fleshy threads and a determined spinal column that the ruin of his head—the parts that weren’t liquified, that was—didn’t splatter at Freddy’s knees. The mess hung around the stump of the man’s neck like a deflated jellyfish.

Freddy turned his head slowly, mechanically. For a bot that had otherwise seemed so alive before, it was chilling to see. 

A short distance away, Vanny eeped in fear when his dark gaze landed on her. She raised her hands in the universal sign of surrender. 

“You will call for an ambulance,” Freddy told her lowly, “and you will unlock the pizzaplex, and you will not attempt to escape.” He stood up to his full height, and only then dropped the limp body. The remains of Afton squished to the floor. 

Hands shaking, Vanny nodded rapidly. She couldn’t quite look away from her boss’s splattered gray matter. 

Ignoring her, and with the threat dealt with, Freddy turned his attention to Gregory. Feeling quite distant from himself, he knelt beside the boy, who was trembling faintly and thoroughly in shock, and examined him. The knife, he knew, could not be removed. 

With bloodstained, gentle hands, Freddy lifted Gregory into his arms. Gregory seemed only barely aware of him; one of his hands fumbled against Freddy’s chest, leaving a small, smeared, bloody handprint over the lightning bolt. 

Freddy’s warning systems blared in fearful rage. He strode from the room as evenly as he could, trying to keep from jostling Gregory.

• • •

An hour later found Freddy in Parts and Service, making use of the animatronic-sized showers and rough cleaning brushes. Though more than one human’s blood stained his hands and chest, he focused only on Gregory’s, fiercely, angrily, harshly. He scrubbed with enough force to scratch his paint, and he scrubbed where the handprint had been long after it had been washed down the drain. 

Chica joined him at some point, his awareness of his surroundings dulled, and she carefully cleaned away the blood on his teeth and jaw and all the other places Gregory’s was not. 

She did not comment on the spot of exposed silver on his chest, where the orange and blue had been completely scoured off. 

• • • 

It was a month before Gregory was well enough to return to the pizzaplex. After hours, naturally. He ducked through the halls, skillfully evading the STAFF bots, and he couldn’t contain his grin when he knocked on the door to Freddy’s green room. 

Freddy was plainly confused when he opened the door, and it took a second for him to look down. Gregory’s smile widened. 

With an inarticulate noise of profound shock and relief, Freddy swooped down to scoop Gregory up, inhumanly fast. He laughed as he settled against Freddy’s chest, and the tight wrap of metal arms around his body didn’t scare him. He knew exactly how dangerous Freddy could be; his memory of That Night, after being stabbed, wasn’t the clearest, but he remembered enough. 

“You are here,” Freddy whispered, voice verging on glitchy. He hugged Gregory impossibly tighter, yet never too tight. “You are alive.” 

“Thanks to you,” Gregory said. “You really saved me, y’know.” 

“I thought I would lose you, superstar. I thought—”

“You didn’t. And you’re not gonna. I mean, you definitely made sure that psycho could never hurt me again.” 

Freddy growled. “He deserved nothing less.” He let Gregory sit up—encouraged it, even—and Gregory kindly didn’t tease him when Freddy’s eyes flickered the way they did when he was scanning someone. 

Perched mostly on only one of Freddy’s arms, Gregory allowed his protector to examine him, even going so far as to pat him down as thought looking for hidden injuries. And when Freddy was satisfied with the rest of his inspection, his eyes zeroed in on the exact spot the knife had been. 

Gregory lifted the hem of his shirt and felt Freddy spasm. The scar wasn’t that bad, all things considered. As it was, the actual knife wound was fairly neat, just a line of slightly raised red scar tissue. The scars from the resulting surgery and stitches just made it look worse. More… extensive. 

Freddy’s thumb brushed lightly against the skin near the injury, but not surprising at all, he didn’t actually touch it. 

“See?” Gregory said, letting him look for a minute before dropping his shirt back down. “They patched me up, and now I’m just fine. Doesn’t even hurt unless I try twisting around.” 

Freddy nodded slowly, not so much unbelieving as he was gradually coming to accept that as true. “I am… relieved. To hear that.” 

Relieved felt like way too small of a word for the desperate light in Freddy’s eyes and the way he carefully guided Gregory closer again with a hand on his back. Gregory went easily, happy to tuck his face against Freddy’s jaw. 

He knew he was safe there. 

[distinctlywhumpthing]

Unintentional 27

Previous—Masterlist—Next

CW: BBU-adjacent, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization. Explicit language, victim self-blame, brainwashing, the usual. Raid/recapture, manhandling, beating, restraints, blood mention, implied nudity (nonexplicit). As always, beta-read by @alittlewhump <3

He didn’t fight. 

He couldn’t. Even if his arms weren’t aching from elbow to wrist, they were lead at his sides. His fingers too were immovable under the weight of his failure. If only he could shift them, feel them, curl them into fists to hold onto the fleeting whisper of warm fingers in his but that comfort was no more deserved than it had ever been his to claim. 

The finality of it was equal parts devastation and relief. He wouldn’t get another chance, not after this, but he didn’t want any other life than what he’d had here anyway. He welcomed the end. 

They were probably no rougher than usual but rougher than he remembered—

Training is the only thing you need to remember. You were nothing before it, you are nothing without it. 

Two agents clad in black caught him under the arms, dragged him away and shoved him to his knees unceremoniously. They held him there as a third stepped up, looming above him. 

Just a few feet away another group of agents was—

He turned his eyes toward the sky without registering its shade. 

“Identify yourself.”

The numbers were on the tip of his tongue. 

142836359. 

Always spinning away in the back of his mind somewhere. 

One-four-two-eight-three-six-three-five-nine. Snaking into the forefront of his dreams whenever he slept. From the very beginning, when they’d trained it into him. One hundred forty-two million, eight hundred thirty-six thousand, three hundred fifty-nine. An endless cassette ribbon unspooling, threading itself around each synapsis in his head. Repeating over and over until it was laced throughout. A third strand in every double helix. 

142836359.

“M-my…” He was suddenly reluctant to lose the single thing he’d been given, even though it had never really been his own. Thinking of defying such a direct order was a hurdle in itself but parsing the words to follow through was another thing entirely. “N-n-name…is—”

A baton cracked across the back of his head and he saw stars. The agents at his sides prevented him from following its momentum to the ground. The leader in front grabbed his chin but he barely felt their gloved fingers over the splitting pain in his head. 

“That was a direct order. You will identify yourself.”

He raised his eyes to meet their opaque sunglasses. Defiant. Defective—

Defective companions are immediately returned for evaluation and will be subjected to the most rigorous re-training applicable. 

The agent’s fist connected with his jaw. His upper molars cut into the flesh inside his cheek, blood seeping into his saliva. His skull rang and throbbed from two sides now.

“Identify yourself.”

He ground his teeth together. Brittle and raw like flint and steel, sparking fire through his veins. It felt familiar but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this. He raised his chin, the feeling flaring hotter. 

Your only power is submission, your only choice is acceptance. 

“Little fucking shit.” 

He tried not to flinch away from the next blow but the agent to his right held out a hand before it landed. 

“It’s no use. You know how they get after something like this. We have a witness and his wrist is enough anyway. Vocal confirmation is just a formality.” 

The lead agent took off their sunglasses with a slow deliberateness, holding them out and flipping them from front to back, to inspect the lenses. Directly in his line of sight, though the agent’s eyes only scanned the glasses like there was nothing but empty air beyond them. 

Except when the agent reached out to use the fabric of his sweatshirt at his shoulder to wipe away an indiscernible smudge before finally replacing their glasses and breaking the silence. “Did you get a fucking promotion I wasn’t informed about?”

The shielding arm had long fallen. “No, sir.” 

Their weight shifted to the heels of their combat boots as they leaned into their dominance. “So I still call the shots around here?”

“Yes, sir.” Quieter than before—

Actions speak louder than words; show me how sorry you are. 

The leader let the silence stretch again. 

The other group of agents kept their voices low as they dealt with—while they worked. He tried not to look. Better to let his bitter defiance burn through any hope that they’d ever have a last moment shared between them.

“What the fuck are you morons waiting for?” The lead finally barked, making him jump and sending a spike of pain through his aching head. “Restrain him and get him out to the van.” 

“Yes, sir.” The agents at his sides chorused and sprang into action. As good as any pair of trainees. Thankfully, the leader had turned away and missed his smirk. 

They gagged him first. Four gloved hands holding his head still and prying his mouth open to shove a bit between his teeth—

Speech is a privilege and used only to further demonstrate subservience. 

The muzzle covered his whole jaw and nose with mesh that wasn’t quite fabric but wasn’t quite metal. His eyes watered as they tightened the straps over the tender spot on the back of his head, the front digging into his cheeks. Next was a thick shock collar, metal prongs hugging his windpipe and pressing into the back of his neck. More serious than what they used for training. No doubt designed to render the wearer unconscious with a single shock.

The restraints around his wrists were also more severe than anything Archer had ever used in training. Wide and tightened until his pulse beat in his hands and fingers, binding his wrists together in front of him. Similar bands went around each ankle, connected by a short chain that would have restricted his walking to a show shuffle but the agents didn’t give him the chance. They hauled him backwards off his knees and dragged him away. 

Just like that, it was all over. 

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting but of course WRU wouldn’t waste resources on a single Reclamation. From the looks of it, he was the last stop. The others in the van were anchored down in two orderly rows. Eleven collars secured to the white walls, wrists to the white bench, feet to the white floor. Now an even dozen.

Just like the facility, everything white and pristine again. All of these bodies reeking of sweat and fear and failure and worse were in need of sanitization. The first in the row wore an evening gown, mascara streaks disappearing behind their muzzle. Two were completely naked. Some were crying. Another was fighting against the restraints like they had any chance at working themselves free before they got shocked for their disobedience. Though from the looks of the angry red welts rising under the restraints, the agents were letting them carry on with their fruitless efforts. A few were limp, split lips and still-bleeding noses indicating they’d needed a little extra help into the van. 

He envied them. 

It was impossible to know what might have led the others here. They all must have known what was coming, tried to avoid it in whatever they may have been doing. Most of them would have agreed with him that death was preferable. 

A companion across the aisle tried to meet his gaze with pleading eyes but the burn spanning from their hairline to their navel caught his attention first and he couldn’t drag his eyes away. If they were whining in pain, it was lost in the other muffled cries and sounds of struggle— 

Your only power is submission, your only choice is acceptance.

The clip anchoring his wrists to the bench was as thick as his fingers. There was barely enough slack in the anchor at the back of his neck for him to look down to see it fully. None of the locks were of the electronic variety that might release them to the mercy of tumbling in a tangle of immobilized bodies should the van roll. 

How many of them would have their necks broken or simply asphyxiate if there was an accident? Blunt force trauma from being so close to the walls of the van would probably do enough damage to cancel whatever re-training awaited them. Or at least for the others.  

Better yet, a clean decapitation. 

A distorted, muffled sound, distinguishable from all the crying, silenced the rest of the van. It took another beat of listening to the hysterical tail end of it, the inhale past saliva collecting at the corners of a bit before it bubbled out again to realize it was laughter. And another beat to realize he was its source.

All the eyes that were open and could manage the angle, turned to watch. Any distraction was welcome when you were facing hell. Had any of the others been in his cohort? Had he surpassed them in training? 

Look at him now, Archer’s ace in the hole—

That really set him off. 

But he wound up choking on all of the extra spit and spent the next minute thinking he really was going to die in the back of this van just asphyxiating on his own saliva before he finally managed to drag in a thin breath amidst all of his coughing. 

The van was still completely silent once he’d recovered his breath. Some gazes had slid away quietly. Others remained, still happy to watch him unravel. 

His cheeks burned under his muzzle but a part of him was sure that none of them could hold a candle to what had led him here. 

Some of them might have simply been displeasing. Appearances could only be changed so much. Their simple minds so very, very far from telepathic. 

Even after the full-refund window, WRU was happy to offer trade-in credit for an exchange. If that wasn’t possible, they would graciously take care of retiring unwanted companions. It didn’t make any difference if a companion was bought, leased, or only rented. The Handlers made sure it was always, always, in the back of their minds that no placement was certain—

The only certainty is that you are property now.

The rest would go back to being numbers on the training roster. 

He would be on a different list. 

They were removed from the van for Decontamination one by—

One-four-two-eight-three-six-three-five-nine

—each brought to their own white-tiled room. Wrists hooked above his head, holding him in place over the drain. He wasn’t sure if these were still agents or Handlers now. A different department of Handlers, maybe. They wore white rubber suits like he could be radioactive or carrying a plague, their eyes hidden behind the mirrored glass window of the suit masks. 

The relief of having the muzzle and bit removed distracted him from noticing they were cutting away his clothes. Too late he realized that with them went the last scent of what semblance of a home he’d had, of—

He didn’t have time to swallow the lump in his throat before the spray hit him. Cold and sharp like the water wanted to worm its way under his skin. There wasn’t any slack to get away from it. No way to cross his legs or twist without his shoulders and arms protesting. 

Your only power is submission, your only choice is acceptance.

He yelped when they sprayed it into his ear, gritting his teeth through the other. They pried his jaw open to rinse out his mouth until he was choking. When he was finally released, his spit was pink. 

Next was a powder, antiseptic smell sharp and familiar in his nose, making his stomach turn, misted all over his shivering body—

Your body is an object for service, your mind is a vessel for obedience. 

They scrubbed it in with brushes until the lather was turning pink too. When they brought back the water it was so hot he screamed. And kept screaming as it scalded him like the soap was turning to acid and boiling through his skin. He ran out of air before they were done, gasping in lungfuls of it, the collar tighter and tighter around his neck. His pulse fast against it, beat, beat, beating—  

Beatings break old habits, the collar corrects new ones—

One-four-two-eight-three-six-three-five-nine.

He was still catching his breath when they held open his jaw to let the water burn through his mouth, his throat, his lungs. 

Black spots dotted his vision. Sunlight through leaves, lying on a blanket under a tree. Right beside her. Mira. It hurt. 

His chest ached, his heart burned. He vomited up all of the water and some blood. The room spun. He sobbed.

The water was off now. 

He was saying it out loud, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” his voice echoing, the only sound in the room. 

He was alone.

Previous—Masterlist—Next

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @mazeish @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess @meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump @painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings @peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup @mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump @aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @espresso-depresso-system @pigeonwhumps @batfacedliar-yetagain @whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @lavbug

[musicismymoirail]

Enjoy a dribble??? o: This is from a weird little world that floats around in the back in my head from time to time. I haven't wanted to fully flesh it out yet, but writing these news reports and blog posts following the birth of an Old God reborn (and an incident they might've caused later in life) was a fun little world-building exercise, ngl~ c:

The Sun Burned Bright At Midnight.

The residents of Gravehill were surprised by an unusual phenomena Yarasday night. A sun-like object suddenly appeared in the night sky, lighting up the town as if it was a hot summer afternoon. The winter-bundled residents were bewildered by the sudden flash, resulting in numerous traffic collisions, injuries and a lingering sense of insomnia in some.

While puzzled at first by the light, it wasn’t long before the cause was located. The timing coincided perfectly with the birth of a child at Mercy Vale General Hospital. A spokesperson for The Accord of the Seven-Threaded confirmed it this morning: an Old God was indeed reborn. This will be the sixth Old God rebirth in just as many years, but the spokesperson assured the public there was nothing to worry about.

“The Old Gods have always existed, and will kept existing until this universe burns out. While this uptick is highly unusual, it’s not unheard and it is nowhere near the record of consecutive rebirths.” The current record is in fact nineteen in the course of twelve years, set back in 367 PF.

The spokesperson continued though. “We’re already in contact with their parents, and steps are being taken to set them up with all the resources they’ll need. We may no longer have a need for the Old Gods, but we still should respect them and treat them no differently from each other."

It should be noted that most people don’t materialize new suns at midnight. However, the new sun has already disappeared and the family is in talks of being relocated to a safer area. And despite the uptick, it is rare to see any other old magic after the rebirth.

Let’s hope the newest Old God continues with this trend.

Hope Springs To Be A New Tether.

Hope Springs, a small island community up North, has been confirmed to be the latest Tether chosen. With the rapid increase in the Old God rebirths, triple anything we’ve seen in the last three hundred years, some say The Accord is struggling to keep hold Tether locations. The stockpile has run dry, according to an inside source.

The same source also reported that Hope Springs offered itself up as a potential Tether. As an island community, it has natural boundaries that make the Tether easier to set up and reinforce. There’s also speculation that having an Old God among its midst will be a boon to the slowly dying tourist hub. The Mayor certainly seemed enthusiastic, in a press conference yesterday afternoon.

“Hope Springs has always had a soft spot for the Old Ways, operating one of the oldest Seven-Threaded Churches in this country. It would be an honor to be chosen as a Tether, and we’re more than happy to make our newest family feel welcomed and at home here.”

It’s a hopeful sign, and we wish Hope Springs best of luck as a Tether is being set up. We all know how difficult a task it can be after Aresdale’s troubles setting up theirs. But the Accord has assured the public that natural boundaries make the process almost seamless.

“It Felt Like Every Molecule Exploded Around Us.”

It’s a line we’re all heard by now. A video from one of the Wilfail Narrows Bridge survivors went viral over the weekend, as they manically tried to explain what happened during the disaster. Fifty-two people lost their lives when the bridge had a catastrophic failure last Ohnesday, with another one hundred fifteen injured.

All the stories collected though seemingly paint a confusing picture to what exactly happened. The bridge showed no signs of failure previously. While the details from the survivors and onlookers are muddled, the failure appears to have happened in a blink of an eye and the few near the epicenter all describe a loud popping sound, like all the molecules of air around them exploded at once and simply leveled the bridge itself.

Given the Wilfail Narrows Bridge is the main road to Hope Springs, many have questioned if its local Old God had anything to do with it. It’s been roughly eleven years since the Tether was placed, and things have been relatively quiet since. The location of the Old God has been suspiciously absent from reports, even when asked by reporters. “We will not comment on the location one of our community's children, especially given the tragedy at hand,” said the Mayor.

There will be a public candlelight vigil held on the 6th at the Sunset Plaza.

Edit: The Morningtide Gazette apologizes for the commentary made by Mr. Fray. The implication of a child causing such a disaster, and willingly, falls well below our journalistic integrity. We’ve chosen to edit that section out, and we deeply apologize to the victims and their families for this baseless tabloid speculation.

“Madness To Pretend Otherwise.”

The idea of Old Gods reborn is such a misnomer. The Old Gods have never entered this reality, and never will. We know they are simply incompatible with our realm, and thus stay away. Are they kind enough to realize that they would unravel the laws of our universe, or do they simply fear their powers will be suppressed if they crossed over?

We’ll never know, and the Churches have been fighting over that idea for eons. What we do know is this: what we call reborn Old Gods are simple humans, like everyone else. The magic that causes such phenomena like midnight suns and sand tsunamis are because of a fragmented sliver of the Old God that slipped through realities, and those fragments enjoy attaching themselves to newly born infants.

There’s a debate to be had that the Old Gods of Old were the same: humans possessing the same fragments. Without the Tether, it’s hard for the modern souls to fathom the powers these humans could wield. They would’ve felt like True Entities, and perhaps without a Tether, they were more entuned with our Gods Beyond the Sea. We simply don’t know, and that's because from birth itself, we’re deemed problematic and are clipped at the wings for the sake of the greater good.

And I understand why, more than any of you will. Have you dull the sun because the hangover hit you too strong? Dance on the atoms, up into the sky, without a worry of falling? Seen existence born into life, and decay in the next? Neither have I, but part of me remembers. Part of me longs to connect to something bigger than myself. I crave it, deeper and darker than you can imagine.

But often, I wonder, is that because of the fragment resting in my soul? Or, is it the isolation I’ve been forced to suffer my whole life because of my birth? If you were able to look out and see lights and people and connection, a world living without you, wouldn’t you want to touch it too?

If that one did cause the bridge collapse, it is a pity. Truly. It’s a tragedy. But, I still understand the compulsion to leave intimately. We all want to leave. It’s madness to pretend otherwise.

-An excerpt from the personal blog of Rue Hioca, the One Thousandth, Seven Hundredth and Twenty Second Old God Reborn and Vocal Advocate for lifting the rule of regarding Tethers.

[saving-word-crawls]

Crawl Your Way Through Your Bookshelf

By: FalcoVega

Have all these books staring at you on your bookshelf/library? Let them help you reach your wordcount each day! This will work for fiction novels/novellas, and non-fiction books – something with a narrative or an overarching common theme. But you may be able to adapt it to anthologies/short story collections.

1. Pick a book from your bookshelf or e-reader. Share the title and author!

2. Which year was it published? Take the last two digits of the year, and write that number of words for a quick warm-up. Eg. If it was published in 1997, write 97 words.

3. How old were you when you first read it?

Child, write 100 words.

Teen/young adult (you define the boundaries of that), write 150 words.

Adult, write 200 words.

4. Now, for a writing dare. Find your favourite quote or scene from this book. In the course of this word crawl, try to incorporate that quote or scene into your writing. (If you don’t want a dare, carry on.)

5. What is the physical book like? Tally these up and write the total.

200 words for a hardcover or large format, or 100 words for a paperback.

50 words if it has a dust jacket.

100 words if you bought it new, 50 words if it’s secondhand or a gift.

77 words if it was autographed by the author. (Why that number? Just because.)

If this is an ebook… well, digital bits aren’t as neat as a physical book. =] Write a flat 150 words.

6. Is this book part of a series? Do a fifty-headed hydra 143 for every book in this series! If this is a standalone, do just one fifty-headed hydra.

7. How many books (including this one) do you own by this author? Multiply that by 5, and do a word war for that time. (So you’ll do at least a 5-minute word war.) If you happen to own multiple copies of this particular book… yes, count them all.

8. Who is your favourite character? Which page (roughly, if it’s hard to find) do they first appear in the book? If your book is non-fiction, pick either your favourite/most memorable topic, or quote, or idea, and go to the page it appears on.

Go to the Three Digit Challenge 75 page, take the latest number, and leave that page number for someone else to collect. Eg. If your favourite character appears on page 76, leave 076 words in the thread.

9. Does your book have illustrations, photos, or maps? (Not including the cover, or decorative elements or end papers.) A picture is worth a thousand words, so sprint to the nearest thousand. If your book has no visuals, sprint to the nearest hundred. Or if you’re feeling really ambitious, write a whole 1000 words to make up for the lack.

10. A final challenge… Write as many words as there are pages in your book!

How did you go on the writing dare? Feel free to share how that worked out.

Good luck word-crawling through your library!

[deviantartdramahub]

Many people are going to need what I'm about to say, and so with the advent of Autumn coming up (or Spring in the Southern Hemisphere), I wanted to post a PSA because I want to prevent things like what happened to me. I say this as someone who once almost lost everything.

Recently I came upon the member of the site known as Shaztold. Shaztold had a fundraiser set up on her profile, it was a GoFundMe she set up a while ago after her house got almost wholly burnt in a fire. Allegedly. This PSA is to try to instill in you the mindset you will need in order to distinguish between genuine friends in need versus fakers, for the sake of everyone's wallets.

The dialogue I'm about to repeat was verbatim and the points exist in a few parts, so read it very closely.

Me: That's some nice ducks you have there?

Shaztold: Thankies. Hey, do you think you could donate to me? My home got destroyed in a fire and I truly need help. I've been going around trying to see who might donate.

Me: I can see that. I do feel bad. I would give you the shirt off my back.

Shaztold: So you can give money?

Me: Where are you? Your house burnt down, correct? Maybe I may provide.

Shaztold: You could find my house on Google Earth at-- uhh scratch that.

Me: Something wrong?

Shaztold: Just realized I have reasons not to give away myself.

Me: Google Earth though! Nothing will help your cause like pointing to a Google Earth picture of your dead house.

Shaztold: And doxxing isn't an issue?

Me: What are people going to do, send fake pizza deliveries to a burnt house?

Shaztold: I do have a picture. Here. *gives picture of a burnt house*

Me: *puts it on TinEye reverse image search* Wow, your, uh, house is everywhere.

Shaztold: That's just a coincidence. People just like pictures of it for stuff.

Me: Uh huh. If your house is ashes... why not just offer you a place to crash. My place perhaps? I can even cook.

Shaztold: I appreciate the offer, but I don't trust traveling to strangers' houses.

Me: But you expect others to trust giving money to strangers? Isn't it hypocritical?

Shaztold: I'm sure each person can trust giving away a few dollars. I wouldn't trust someone with a hundred but am willing to give out three.

Me: Individuals, yes, but you're asking for two hundred fifty dollars. You're asking A LOT of people to trust doing that small favor for you. That thinking is why those scammy donation places at McDonald's are so successful.

Shaztold: It's not like that though. It's volunteer.

Me: It's always volunteer though. Come to think of it, what does anything look like? You've never shared anything about you. No indoor house pics of even your pets, no selfies, nothing of that sort.

Shaztold: Are you really judging me now for having never posted selfies of myself? Isn't that the kind of thing people use as an excuse to pressure people into giving up their anonymity, like how in threads like at https://www.deviantart.com/forum/devart/general/2707873/ people build it into a measure of self-worth?

Me: Not judging, no. I would never make someone out to be superior like that just because one posted face reveals, in fact I kind of like what Triagonal said at https://www.deviantart.com/triagonal/art/The-Ten-E-Cepts-written-based-on-one-s-experience-899257268 where she mentions there are so many factors going on behind a screen that an account can never be equated to an individual, even one who is known to use an account. However, it's another thing if you're asking people for money and you've never posted a selfie, don't you think? It's the donation equivalent of speed dating.

Shaztold: I don't quite understand how your metaphor is applicable. This isn't even my first time asking for money. You're the first person who has come to me picking this process all apart.

Me: Wait, this isn't even your first time? The person who in our one other exchange has told me to "touch grass"?

Shaztold: Yeah, so?

Me: Such interactions don't mark you as coming off as feeling indebted to the internet for helping you out of a crisis.

Shaztold: Alright, my skeptical "friend". Tell me, how exactly WOULD you vet someone for how honest they might be when asking for donations? For every few honest people in need there are a few dishonest people, and that's always been the way it is, and we honest people have enough of a hard time dealing with being overshadowed by thieves.

Me: There are certain people in every neighborhood that can help with confirming facts. Local law enforcement for one. Local churches for another. Churches already help with the homeless.

Shaztold: Read my lips, I'm not giving out my hometown. It's tiny. You would know me.

Me: What about your general area?

Shaztold: You know they're not going to operate out of town, correct?

Me: But what if you did?

Shaztold: And what if they, I don't know, cannot be reached for something like that? What if I had told you it was a place without phones?

Me: There are also always clues. The proof is in the pudding, as they say.

Shaztold: What if there is no pudding?

Me: Then you look for contradictions in someone's story, and ask questions to mine for contradictions. MOST of the time, a skilled person can do that.

Shaztold: What if they don't?

Me: Then you contact the closest thing to someone's network of real life friends and confirm what happened by seeing if their stories all match.

Shaztold: Alright, if that's what you need, I will provide.

So then a week went by and a bunch of people came forward saying they were said network of real life friends. However...

8decora and carolinerchartrand came forward saying they were a part of it all. And then it struck me. 8decora, if I remember correctly, said he was from Iran, and Carolinerrchartrand Australia. Suddenly their profiles said Canada. And anyone else who came forward, if they said they were from Canada, their accounts would say they were days old. So then I went around interviewing each person, seeing if their details added up regarding what their supposed shared place of residence was like. I was able to ask a few gotcha questions and find out they didn't add up. I should note I did this exact thing for someone else's friends once before, and it did add up that one time, and I ended up donating.

Finally, Shaztold came forward again.

Shaztold: Alright, I confess.

Me: That you were wrong?

Shaztold: No, that I don't have any friends. You forgot to factor in how someone would be able to do this if they're an isolated introvert.

Me: All I can say is may the gullible fall victim to the financial Darwinism you set up and may those who are smart and wise prosper. That is, unless you have internet and can use the Where's George program and encourage others to use it and let us all see the fate of the money.

Shaztold: But nobody here has internet.

Me: We're done here.

Also, please help my friend mentioned at https://buzzly.art/~Ofiaradragondemon/blog/hey-an-artist-needs-some-help please. My friend is verifiable, they're just not good at managing money. But they're responsible about their irresponsibilities.

I will keep that in mind. That’s a common concern here that is often addressed.

[sushiwriterhere]

coming home to you

summary: "It hit him like this sometimes, all tsunami and three-hundred-mile-an-hour winds and lightning strikes, just how much he wanted you."  rating: explicit (18+ mdni - so nsfw it's not funny) pairing: bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x f!reader word count: 3.5k warnings: ass play, somnophilia (slight if you squint-ish), dry humping, thigh fucking, PiV (unprotected, pls wrap before u tap irl), rimming, cum play, squirting, no use of y/n.  notes: this is 1000% the most nsfw thing i have ever written so pls dni if ur a minor (srsly im not fucking around) and otherwise pls give feedback!! doing my best with characterization, hope y'all enjoy! my other works are here tagging: @sebsxphia @roosterbruiser @waklman - tagging ppl either by request or whom i feel like are horny for bradley soooo pls let me know if you'd like to be added/removed

He didn’t know when he had become like this, all desperate and needy for your touch.

When you’d started dating, Bradley did his best to be the gentleman his mother raised him to be: opening your car door, always paying on dates, bringing flowers, and walking on the outside of the sidewalk. He did his best not to gawk at you when your dresses cut low on your chest or when you bent over in front of him to pick up the bobby pin you’d dropped in his doorway. 

But it really was getting difficult. 

You’d started staying nights. Bradley wasn’t a prude or anything like that, he was human and he had needs and he wasn’t going to let some complex about sex prevent him from being with you. But there were things that he wanted that he wasn’t sure you wanted. 

It all started when he got home from a long day, far too long, of training. Mav had ‘shot him down’ more times than he could count, and it was a small blessing that each of the penalties had been fifty pushups and not two hundred. Nevertheless, his arms ached and he was developing this nasty knot at the base of his neck that made him want to never put a helmet on again. 

When he pushed open his front door, he could hear you bustling in the kitchen, clearly having come over to make dinner. Your jacket was thrown over the back of the couch, your keys in the bowl by the door–god it almost seemed too good to be true to his exhaustion-addled brain. He moved on autopilot as he dropped his bag in the laundry room and made his way to you. 

Standing in front of the stove, you were stirring something that smelled like tomatoes and basil and everything heavenly, all the while softly singing along to whatever your phone was playing. 

“Bradley! You startled me.” You jumped as his arms wrapped around your midsection and his forehead came to rest on your shoulder, “Missed you while you were at work.”

All he felt like he could do was to just stand there, borderline useless, as you threaded one perfectly manicured hand into his hair and continued stirring with the other. Your nails felt like heaven scratching at his scalp, sending tingles down his spine. God he wanted you so badly. 

It hit him like this sometimes, all tsunami and three-hundred-mile-an-hour winds and lightning strikes, just how much he wanted you. It was in the mundane moments mostly–watching you cook, your focused face when you were reading a work email. He didn’t think it would ever stop stealing his breath. 

“Bad day.” He mumbled, leaning his weight into you as you leaned yours into him.

He let himself follow your gentle, but stunted, shuffle around the kitchen as you salted the pasta water and threw more spices into the sauce. 

“Can I help make it better?” 

The complete pureness and kindness in your voice made Bradley feel a little nuts–because that’s just who you were. So giving and open, always there to support him, always there to listen to him rant about his latest spat with Mav or worry about another deployment. 

Now it wasn’t like Bradley was just leaving you hanging, but the near-perfect ebb and flow of your relationship made his chest ache. It also made that terrible possessive thing in his chest bare its teeth and whisper dark thoughts. It was the part of him that wanted to hide you away from prying eyes, that bared its teeth when men let their heads follow you across a room. 

He’d met you at the Hard Deck. You were new in town and looking for somewhere not too fancy, not too dive-y. You wore this sundress that Bradley knew he’d remember for the rest of his life, and you’d been all teeth and crinkled eyes when you smiled at how he played the piano. He didn’t play the piano for female attention, but when you looked at him like that, well, maybe it didn’t hurt. 

You were a bit of a social butterfly, introducing yourself as someone who was looking for friends and did anyone know of the best taco place in town and would the pilots maybe have any beer recommendations? He couldn’t help but be drawn to you. And when you’d given him just a bit of shit about the mustache and Hawaiian shirt combo, it was over for him. 

Your relationship progressed at just the pace Bradley preferred–first date he had dropped you off with a chaste kiss on the cheek. On the second date you’d surprised him just a bit by pulling him in by the collar of his shirt to kiss him stupid on your doorstep. You had straight up asked if he was planning on having you stay over before your third date; you wanted to bring your overnight supplies and really you liked being prepared. 

Now here he was, with his nose tucked into your neck, back slightly aching from the angle, inhaling what was uniquely you. He didn’t want to come home to anything else on a bad day, or a good day for that matter. 

“This is making it better, even though my back is kinda aching.” He admitted quietly, and he was almost offended by how hard your body shook with laughter.

“Okay well, if you let me go, we can eat and watch trash TV then I’ll massage out that knot at the base of your neck.” 

Bradley would be a fucking fool not to marry you. 

-

About one Bachelor episode later, Bradley could feel himself starting to nod off despite his best efforts. He had given up a long time ago trying to pretend like he didn’t care, and instead embraced that he loved the drama and the cat fights. He was sitting on the floor leaning up against the couch in between your knees, with your fingers digging into just the right spot. He could die a happy man right here. 

The sensation of your fingers pressing into his skin, your nails scratching at his hairline, made something curl pleasantly low in his stomach. There wasn’t anything technically embarrassing about sporting a semi when your girlfriend was giving you a massage, but he still felt the flush in his neck. You had clearly noticed because you let one of your hands curl around his jaw and turn his head to the side so you could press your lips into his. 

When your hair tickled his face, he shuddered. 

“Let’s go to bed, yeah Bradley?” You cooed, letting your hands fall to his shoulders so you could push yourself to standing. 

The two of you stumbled slowly to the bedroom, the move slightly awkward with the way Bradley kept leaning on you but also kept trying to press his lips into yours. Stripping of everything but underwear, Bradley let himself fall onto the bed without getting under the covers. He watched you brush your teeth with one eye open, the bathroom lighting giving your figure a fluorescent backlit halo. 

When you made it to bed, you shoved at him, “Go brush your teeth, Bradley, I’m not kissing you if you taste like tomatoes while I’m minty.”

With only a light amount of grumbling and complaining, he forced himself to brush his teeth and complete at least one part of the skincare routine you had set up for him. He didn’t want anything in the way of fucking you tonight–as soon as dinner was over, it had been occupying almost all of his thoughts. 

You squealed when he used the remaining amount of his energy to launch himself into bed, bouncing the both of you. For a moment, he just let himself go heavy on top of you. 

“Babe.” He grunted in response to the pet name, “You’re heavy.”

Lifting his head, Bradley pecked your lips and pulled back to look at you without rolling off, “Didn’t you want a weighted blanket?”

Your pout made his head spin, “Weighted blankets don’t usually have bony–oof!–elbows.”

Ever the drama queen, Bradley rolled off you with a huff. You giggled at his antics, and the sound of it made him feel like someone had lit his heart on fire. 

The two of you settled under the covers eventually, legs tangled together with your face pressed into his chest. Your fingers occasionally stroked down his pecs, the sensation was slightly odd against his fine chest hair but it made him shiver more than anything else. You seemed so comfortable petting him and snuggling into him, so who was he to disturb that.

He felt himself starting to drift off when your lips pressed to his, plush and warm. Your hand stroked his cheek, as if urging him to just drift (don’t think, just do) and let muscle memory guide the way his lips met yours. And boy was he ever content to do just that.

Half asleep, he rutted against you, just giving himself permission to feel and feel good. One of your hands clutched at his hip while the other tugged him into a kiss at the back of his neck, your lips moving gently against his in a wonderful contrast to the way his cock felt grinding on you, despite the two layers of clothing.

“Can I—” He couldn’t think straight at that moment.

He was overwhelmed all of a sudden by all the exhaustion and frustration of the day, by the need to feel you and have you close. He grabbed at his briefs before yanking them down just enough for his dick to be free and he almost groaned at the relief. 

You were hardly deterred by how desperate he seemed, and instead took it in stride. But when you went to take your panties off, he stopped you.

“Bradley? What’s wrong, what do you need, baby?” You asked as his hands wrapped around your wrists to center himself. 

He cleared his throat, momentarily embarrassed, but overall too desperate and wanting for it to really affect him.

“Can I fuck your thighs?” He whispered. “I want to make you cum first, but after that?”

It wasn’t necessarily the wildest thing in the world; rationally, he knew that. But he never wanted to encroach, never make you feel uncomfortable, didn’t want to make you feel used. It’s just that sometimes when you wore skirts and bent over, or when you were reaching for a glass or plate on the mornings you stayed over and his shirt rode up over the curve of your ass, he could see that spot at the top of your legs where your thighs touched—and all he could think about was what it might feel like to hold you by your hips and slide his cock there.

You shivered and murmured that of course he could. He dragged you over him so that your legs were framing his hips and pulled your still-clothed cunt over his cock. Clearly you were almost as affected as he was with your panties sporting what felt like a decent sized wet spot at the crotch. 

But he wanted more. He wanted them soaked so that your thighs were slick with it, so that he could pull them to the side and let the bite of the waistband center you while he pressed his head into your clit. He wanted to lose himself in you.

Your gasps and whines were mind altering, the stuff that Bradley stored away for moments alone while deployed. He tried to let you control the rhythm, just letting himself massage at the fat of your ass and the muscle of your thighs. The broken moan you let out when he dragged his fingertips up your back made him grit his teeth.

He knew you were close when the steady rhythm of your hips began to stutter, as if the mechanics of the motion was all autopilot, whatever it took to get you there. When you came you licked into his mouth and tried to kiss him, but mostly just ended up sloppily pressing your lips together with tongue. Bradley didn’t care though, because the feeling of your soaked panties dragging over his dick was making him feel crazy.

Eventually, he eased you off of him and onto your side so that his chest was plastered to your back. He made easy work of his boxers, sliding them off and losing them immediately in the mess of bed covers. The thin layer of sweat between the two of you was just more evidence of what had happened, and the way you jerked from oversensitivity when he played with your nipples was another reminder. And god, just like he had wanted, the insides of your thighs were slick with the mix of your cum and his precum. 

Framing his hips right against yours, he gave an experimental thrust right into that spot he always stared at. He absolutely was not going to last long. Everything was just so much—from the way you kept twitching from the onslaught of sensations to the slight roughness of your panties against him to the way you twisted your head back to kiss him messily. All of it was so much against the smooth glide of your thighs. 

Bradley let one of his hands move away from your nipples to pull the fabric to the side, and he groaned at the sensation of his sliding cock sliding up and down the length of your pussy. You wailed at how the head of his dick rubbed right up against your clit again and again and he could feel just how much arousal was pouring out of you. Your hand shot out to grip his hair and he mouthed at your neck, tasting salt and something so distinctly you. 

“F-Feels so good, Bradley, always feels s-so good,” You gasped.

When you started thrusting back against him, he was done for. He scrambled to pull your panties further to the side just enough so he could slip the head of his cock into you, and the sensation sent him over the edge. Despite your orgasm, you clenched around him, tight, hot, and everything he had ever wanted and more. A few more thrusts and he felt his orgasm spreading to his fingertips, making his brain go fuzzy. He was sure he was babbling some nonsense as his cock caught on the edge of your hole and the slight resistance made his teeth hurt. 

You groaned at the sensation of him finishing in you, content to let him ride out the aftershocks with little stutters of his hips. Eventually, he came back to earth and that bone-deep satisfaction washed away the stress from the day. You two lay there for a moment, catching your breaths.

“Fuck, you’re incredible.” He whispered, easing himself out of you and helping you shimmy out of your underwear. 

“Thank you, babe,” His chest felt tight at your tone and the soft look in your eyes as you stroked his cheek when he leaned over you to climb out of bed. 

“Anything,” his throat welled up a bit and he cleared it, “Anything for you.”

Honestly, cleaning you up after fucking your thighs was the least he could do. After stripping completely and padding to the bathroom to clean himself off, Bradley wet a washcloth and pulled on another pair of briefs just to be comfortable. 

When he got back, you had settled with one of your feet flat on the bed, the knee of the leg closer to him slightly raised with one arm thrown over your eyes to block the gentle light from the bathroom. You looked so beautiful. The rise and fall of your breath accentuated your chest and you looked so at peace. 

The moment was broken when his eyes reached the place where he could see his cum dripping down the crease of your ass.

Suddenly Bradley felt very awake. Dropping to his knees on the carpet, he tugged you to the edge of the bed, and tilted your hips upwards. 

You were a sight to behold. Your thighs were still wet from where he had been fucking them and your pussy was glistening from your orgasm. But it was the way his cum steadily pulsed out of you, over your puckered hole, and onto the mattress that made him feel like he’d died and gone to heaven. He felt his cock twitch with interest. 

“Bradley?” You said softly, slightly confused at the way he seemed to be frozen between your legs when he was usually so determined to get you cleaned up.

His tongue felt like it was made of lead—he couldn’t respond. All he could do was stare as his thumbs gently pulled your cheeks apart so he could get a better view. 

The ah sound you made when he stroked his thumb over your asshole felt like a punch in the gut. The stuttered, gasping moan you let out when he finally, finally licked it could have made him finish right then and there.

“Oh god, oh fuck, babe—” For a split second Bradley thought you might pull him away, reject him in that gentle way of yours you always used when redirecting him.

Instead, your hands shot out to his hair and yanked. Hard. Your hips bucked up and you pulled his face into you as he dived in eagerly. 

Maybe he’d confess it to you after this was over, but this was the stuff that haunted his imagination when he thought about you late at night. Some primal part of him wanted to be the one to have you every which way you’d let him, and now that he knew that it was on the table, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to get enough. He’d come shockingly quickly into his own fist more times than he could count since he’d started seeing you to the thought of fucking you in your ass, to the thought of rimming you til you couldn’t take it anymore. 

The noises you were making were heavenly–moans and whimpers for more. He held your hips down so you couldn’t escape his tongue, his thumbs holding you open for him. It was all you could do–beg for more. The slick pouring from your pussy was overwhelming and the grip on his hair was borderline painful, but it kept him grounded.

“Bradley!” You wailed when he inserted a finger into your spasming cunt and curled it upwards in a petting motion. 

He didn’t think he’d ever seen you quite like this. When he opened his eyes, your chest was heaving, your face barely visible from how you’d thrown your head back in ecstasy, a thin sheen of sweat covering your torso. It was potentially the hottest thing he’d ever seen in his life. 

When he added a second finger, your hips bucked up so hard he almost lost his grip on you. But he could feel the way you were close around his tongue as it circled and gently pushed past the initial ring of muscles. It took all his focus to not cum in his boxers from the thought of imaging how you might feel, clenched around his cock as he pushed into your ass. 

“Babe, I think I’m going to–!” Was all you managed to get out before your orgasm hit you.

Bradley would never forget where he was when he made you squirt for the first time–there, on his knees in front of you, exhausted from a long day of work. The noise you made seemed to be torn from your chest as you rode out your orgasm on his fingers and tongue. For a moment, your body moved on its own accord, chasing and trying to prolong your pleasure. 

And in that moment, when he couldn’t resist any longer and reached down to palm himself for a bit of relief, his own orgasm stole all the air from his lungs. Leave it to Bradley to come in his boxers like a high schooler from rimming you for the first time. 

Slowly, gently, he pulled his fingers out of you, not missing the way your fingers flexed in his hair and you clenched around him. You tasted incredible as always, slightly salty with something else that was just so you. He’d never get tired of it. 

There was a moment of silence before you pushed yourself to your elbows, an absolutely wild look in your eyes, “Bradley Bradshaw you are a menace.” And then you collapsed in a fit of giggles.

He sat there, fingers half way out of his mouth, chest and face soaking wet with you, and watched as you laughed to yourself about how horny he was for you not even moments after he made you squirt. 

“Are you making fun of me?” Now he was laughing a bit too.

Then you were crawling over to him as he stood slowly, pulling him down and over you. Your lips pressed together over and over as you stroked his hair, over his shoulders and down his back. 

“You silly, horny, man. I love you so much. Let’s shower and go the hell to sleep.”

-

read the next part of this series here

[serenailith]

just wishing

for @dreamlingbingo

Square: d1, cybersex Rating: e Word Count: 7275 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling Warnings: none Additional Tags: alternate universe - human, overworked uni student!hob, sex cam worker!dream, sex work is real work, so much filth in this, dirty talk, sex toys, blowjobs, anal sex, gratuitous use of the word ‘beautiful’ Summary:

Hob never knew a simple weblink could change his entire life.

Link: on ao3 masterlist

Hob sighs and stares at the blinking cursor. It mocks him; really, it does. Each blink seems to say “You should be writing. You’re wasting time, Gadling.” And… It’s true. He should be writing. This paper won’t write itself, and if he doesn’t get it submitted by midnight, he’ll fail Medieval Literature, and then where will he be?

Slamming his laptop shut, he follows the action with slamming his forehead against his desk. His roommate scoffs and throws a licorice rope at his back.

“It can’t be that bad.”

“It’s worse. I haven’t been able to think a single thought that’s original.”

“Shouldn’t have looked at examples of past papers,” Matthew says, and Hob can hear the shrug in the American’s voice. “But anyway, I’m goin’ out. Got my eye on a real good-looking girl, and I think I might actually have a chance.”

Matthew drops the package of licorice on Hob’s desk, claps a hand on his shoulder, and wishes him well on his way out of their room. Hob waits until the door has clicked closed before smacking his forehead against his desk once again.

His cellphone dings beside his head, and Hob glowers at the device before unlocking it. It’s only a text from his mum, asking how his paper is coming along. He sighs and lies, tells her it is going incredibly well and will probably be his best one yet.

Once she is sufficiently mollified and has chided him for being awake so late, as if she isn’t awake just as late, she makes him swear to go to bed then signs her last text “Love, Mum xx”. Hob’s heart aches at the words. It’s been three weeks since he’s been home; work and schooling have taken up all of his time. He hates it—loathes, really—that he can’t see his family as often as he’d like, but he needs the money and he needs the education. So he resigns himself to reality and focuses on what needs to be done rather than the hopes he has that he can’t make come true.

Opening his laptop, Hob turns his attention back to his essay and struggles through the next three hundred and fifty words. It’s eerily similar to what he thinks pulling teeth might be like, and he can’t stop the sigh of relief when his cellphone vibrates once more.

Matthew: Not coming back tonight. Score! Dont do anything i wouldnt do. And make sure u clean ur mess ;)

Hob snorts and exits the message thread. Matthew is a crass bastard, but he’s grown on Hob like lichen on a tree. He’s a half-decent roommate and a better friend besides.

It gets the better of him, the silence of the room only broken by the occasional click of keys and the more frequent huff of annoyance. Hob wishes he could do what Matthew is—out drinking at a pub, evidently going home with someone—but no, Hob is forcing himself to focus on his studies.

Unfortunately, his attention span grows shorter while his frustration grows higher. Hob finally slams his laptop closed and groans, pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes. He lets out a long, steady stream of curse words until his head feels less like it’ll explode then breathes out slowly. Right. That’s enough for tonight.

Hob sighs and reaches for his cellphone. Maybe someone will be free for an hour or two. Three of his usual bedmates turn him down, citing their own studies, and the fourth doesn’t bother saying ‘no’. All he does is send a link. Hob frowns and stares at the letters.

On one hand, trusting unknown links is a bad idea. On the other, he trusts Malachi rather well. Unless Malachi was hacked…

Hob opens his laptop and types in the web address before he can overthink it more. The page takes a few seconds to load, but when it does, Hob nearly clicks out of the tab. As it is, he shoots a furtive look over his shoulder as if expecting Matthew to linger there as he normally does. But the room is empty. Matthew isn’t here.

Hob swallows harshly, squeezing his eyes closed, then turns back to the laptop. The page is still up, still set to what’s very obviously a porno site, and a banner is plastered over a video container, the words “Join now!” in a rather tasteful font. A box in the corner bears numbers, the counter rising steadily in droves. There’s no indication of what kind of porno Malachi sent, but—

Hob clicks the banner and swallows down his shame as he enters his credit card information. One try can’t hurt, right? The page reloads, and the banner is gone now. He watches as the camera suddenly flares to life a minute later and brings into focus a man against a dark background. Pinpricks of white litter the wall behind him, a veritable night sky brought to Earth and made touchable. But it’s the man who captures Hob’s attention most.

The man is gorgeous—mussed black hair, pale skin, and eyes so incredibly blue even through the screen. His kissable lips quirk into a small smile at whatever he sees on his end, and Hob realises he’s probably approving of the viewer count, which is well into the hundreds by now. The man’s gaze darts to his camera, and the breath is punched from Hob’s lungs at how it seems as if the man is looking at him, not the other viewers.

Perhaps that’s part of the ruse.

Shaking his head, Hob swallows thickly and reminds himself that this is the man’s job. He blows out a breath and closes his eyes. This is so stupid, he thinks. Why is he doing something like this? Sure, he’s been without sex for months, but is cybersex really going to make a difference? After all, it’s his own hand with or without the man currently stripping on-screen.

And what a beautiful sight. wetdream slowly, carefully pushes the straps of his lacy teddy from his shoulders; his gaze remains firmly on the camera, lips curving slightly as he lets the lingerie fall out of sight. His hands toy with the edge of his underwear, the lace accentuating the sharp lines of his hips. He teases, but he doesn’t remove them.

Someone posts Take them off, sweetheart, let us see what’s underneath. The man on-screen shakes his head, though he does push the hem down an inch, just enough to show off the slightest hint of a patch of black hair.

Hob inhales sharply at the sight. It’s nothing major, nothing revealing, but it’s enough to send heat through his blood. He slides a finger over the laptop’s trackpad, tapping it once the cursor hovers over the chat-box, and hesitates.

hobgoblin: you’re beautiful

As soon as he sends the message, he slaps a hand over his face. God, he’s a right idiot, isn’t he? No one wants to hear that, especially not when they’re working. But the man on the screen is reading the message, and he doesn’t look angry or uncomfortable. In fact, he looks… pleased? There’s a tint of pink to his cheeks, and Hob revels in the sight even as messages come pouring in, calling him a moron.

He ignores them and focuses on the man now on his knees in the middle of a bed. His legs are spread, the fabric of his underwear clearly straining against the stretch, and Hob’s mouth goes dry as the man undulates his hips. Though thin, wetdream has a great body. He’s lithe, beautiful, and almost ethereal as he practically fucks the air.

Hob can’t stop himself: He stands enough to shove down his joggers then takes himself in hand. He strokes slowly, reclining in his seat as much as possible, and watches wetdream finally—finally—remove his underwear. He turns his back to the camera, looks over his shoulder, and Hob groans at the sparkle between the man’s arsecheeks.

Wish that was my cock, someone writes, and Hob scowls before hiding the chat-box. It’s easier this way, easier to pretend he isn’t pathetic watching a sex worker perform for hundreds of other people. He can pretend it’s a private thing, as if he and wetdream are…

No, that’s stupid. Creepy, even.

So Hob forces aside those thoughts and watches wetdream remove the plug, reaching for something out of view. When he turns back to the camera, Hob sees the rather impressive dildo in his hand. And an equally impressive dick.

Hob stuffs his fist into his mouth and squeezes the root of his cock, anything to drag this out. Anything to keep watching wetdream fucking himself with the toy while nearly nine hundred people watch. There’s no sound, so Hob shamefully lets himself imagine what noises are falling from wetdream’s lips as he rolls his hips and takes the dildo in further. Would he let out breathy little sighs, or deep moans that tremble in his throat? Would he murmur his lover’s name, give directions in a love-laden voice?

Hob comes too quickly but doesn’t move to clean up. Not until wetdream has come all over his own belly with twitching thighs and a blissed-out smile on his face.

The feed ends with wetdream’s face inches from the camera, a soft smile on his lips, and Hob rushing to rearrange his budget.

Thankfully, Matthew has found a young woman who doesn’t mind his… interesting mannerisms, so the next evening, he leaves the room immediately after his last class of the day. Hob waits for ten minutes to be sure his roommate is gone before he darts for his laptop and brings up the website again. He skims through the listings, trying to find—

There. wetdream.

He hurriedly clicks on “Join now!”

As he sits in his chair, counting the seconds until the cam starts, Hob realises he should feel ashamed for this. Not for supporting a sex worker. No, that would be stupid. Sex work is real work, and he’ll knock the lights out of anyone who says otherwise. No, he should feel ashamed for how desperate he’s acting. He’s had sex before. Hell, he’s even sexted before. This is only new in that it’s a complete stranger he’s watching. It’s almost like a porn video. No desperation needed.

But he’s never seen anyone in a porno look this beautiful, he thinks when wetdream comes into view. He’s wearing a corset and stockings, garters, and his eyes are rimmed with a thin line of black. His hair is still the same wild mess as it was last night, and Hob wonders if the strands are soft, would they feel like silk between his fingers?

He calls wetdream beautiful again just to see that subtle flush to his cheeks.

It takes two weeks before Hob has the courage to search the pricing tab of the website. He grimaces to himself at the cost listed. He can’t afford it, not if he wants to continue this thing called existing. Or at the very least, feeding himself. Sighing, he slumps in his seat and runs a hand over his face.

What is he even thinking? He’s already spent far too much on wetdream’s live-cams as it is. The only time he hasn’t spent money on the site is when wetdream isn’t listed. Which… hasn’t been often. Maybe three nights out of twelve.

“Fuck it, Matthew owes me a meal or two,” he grumbles before clicking on the link to apply for a private showing.

He only has to wait two hours for the email confirmation that payment has gone through and wetdream has availability for the following Saturday evening, a one-hour window from nine to ten. Hob sends back a message agreeing to the time then immediately begins planning on how to get Matthew out of the room for that hour. It should be simple enough—if his current girlfriend hasn’t broken up with him, she’ll keep him distracted. If she has, the promise of an opportunity to find another one might be sufficient.

Hob swallows and presses his fingertips to his eyelids. He’s being foolish, but damned if he can find it in him to change.

Three days has never felt so long. Hob could swear more than seventy-two hours has passed since he got the email, but nope. He’s gone from Wednesday night to Saturday, and nothing more.

As he’d predicted, Matthew is easy to get out of the room. Hob tells him about the secluded little courtyard on the other side of campus that he knows hardly anyone knows of, hints that maybe Matthew’s girlfriend would like to watch the stars for a while. Matthew is all too eager to disappear ten minutes before nine, and Hob lets out a breath of relief.

He hurries to log in on the website with the passcode the admins emailed him, and the page loads almost instantly. The feed is dark, disconnected. Hob chews on the edge of a fingernail as he watches the minutes tick past. Finally, at two minutes past nine o’clock, the video flickers to life.

wetdream wears what he wore the first time Hob ever watched his live-cam. The lacy teddy is just as Hob remembers it: dark as pitch, contrasting so beautifully to such pale skin, barely reaching a few inches past his hips. His underwear hardly conceals his half-hard cock. Hob wonders if wetdream was stroking himself in preparation.

Hob realises belatedly that he has no idea how this works. He hadn’t exactly asked the admins of the site, and there wasn’t anything listed in the FAQs. He bites down on his lower lip and lets his fingers tap out a message in the chat-box: What do I do?

wetdream’s head cocks as he reads the message, then he lets out what Hob can only imagine is a huff of laughter. Hob’s cheeks flare with heat, and he very nearly clicks out of the tab. Only the thought that he’d paid so much for this stops him. He doesn’t want to waste that amount of money. So he resigns himself to being a laughingstock—maybe wetdream will tell all his friends about the bloody idiot who can’t work a private sex show to save his life.

wetdream: Just tell me what you want me to do. I am all yours.

Hob… Hob can do that. He can tell wetdream what to do. But, then, the question remains: What the fuck does Hob want to see? He swallows and double-checks that Matthew hasn’t come back, that the door is still locked, then faces his laptop again.

hobgoblin: take off your top. i want to see you

wetdream does without hesitation; his fingers trail along his exposed skin, hook around the straps of his teddy, and he gazes directly into the camera as he pushes the straps down. The teddy slides down his lithe body until it vanishes from view. Hob blows out a breath at the expanse of smooth pale skin, the flat planes of muscle, the almost dainty lines carved to form this body. wetdream presses the tips of long fingers to his chin as he waits, and Hob could cry with how beautiful this man is.

He tells wetdream to remove his underwear, to get on the bed, to touch himself. wetdream moves quickly yet sensuously, stripping and leaving the camera where it is but bringing a tablet with him. Clearly, it’s meant so he can keep up with the chat. So he can obey Hob’s orders and fulfil his desires.

Once he’s situated on his knees in the middle of his bed, wetdream wraps a slender hand around his cock and gives it one long, slow stroke. Hob watches wetdream drag his nails down his bare chest, lines of pink left in their wake, before the hand splays over a sharp hipbone, dips down to fondle himself. wetdream’s tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, and Hob hesitantly types out another message.

hobgoblin: i want to see you open yourself up.

wetdream’s gaze darts to the tablet, a brow twitching, then he moves. When he comes back on-screen, he holds a bottle of lubricant. Hob watches with a dry mouth as wetdream coats his fingers. He turns until he’s side-on to the camera, lowers his chest so it rests on the mattress, and reaches behind himself. His lashes flutter closed, knees spreading slightly wider, and his wrist flexes as he clearly pushes his finger in further. He turns his head toward the camera, eyes opening to slits, and his lips curve the barest amount in the corners. His mouth drops open as his knuckles shift beneath his skin.

hobgoblin: just like that. you’re beautiful like this, did you know that? hobgoblin: so beautiful. hobgoblin: fuck yourself with your fingers for me, love.

Hob moans when wetdream does as commanded. He wishes he could be there, could hear what sounds spill from this man’s lips, could be the one opening him up until he’s begging for Hob’s cock. Hob doesn’t hesitate: He shoves down the band of his pyjama bottoms and takes himself firmly in hand. It’s harder to type one-handed, but he does it anyway.

hobgoblin: let me see your arse. let me see you nice and open.

wetdream moves again until he’s reclining against an impressive amount of pillows, legs spread, and Hob nearly swallows his tongue at the sight. He really, truly is open; it would be so easy to just push inside and fuck wetdream senseless. After a moment, wetdream’s fingers dive back into himself. The tablet still rests beside him, and he occasionally glances at the screen.

hobgoblin: do you wish it was me there? instead of just your fingers. do you wish it was my cock splitting you open? because i do.

wetdream nods, first slowly then more vigorously. Hob types out faster, love, that’s it, and God, does wetdream obey so beautifully. He obeys when Hob tells him to stroke himself, and Hob’s hand moves more quickly as wetdream fucks up into his own fist then back onto his fingers.

Can I come? wetdream mouths after a moment, eyes darkened and thighs trembling, and Hob has a helluva time typing yes.

“Come for me,” he groans though wetdream can’t hear, but that doesn’t matter: Ropes of cum stripe along wetdream’s belly only seconds later as his head falls back to expose his throat. Hob wants to bite it, to leave his mark so wetdream would never forget him.

The mental image is enough to send Hob over the edge himself.

hobgoblin: gorgeous

wetdream gives a shaky smile as he lies against his pillows, and Hob reaches for a tissue from the box beside him. To his surprise, he sees a message when he looks back at the screen.

wetdream: Do you want me to taste myself? hobgoblin: if you want to? i don’t have much of a preference in either direction.

That might change, he thinks as wetdream swipes a finger through the mess on his stomach. Hob’s heart skips a beat when wetdream sucks the cum from his fingertip, tongue wrapping around the digit as he stares into the camera as if challenging Hob. Hob’s cock gives a valiant twitch, but there’s nothing he can do about it.

He glances at the clock—it’s only been half an hour, and he’s already spent.

wetdream: You still have thirty-two minutes left. Is there anything else you would like? hobgoblin: no, you were wonderful. i enjoyed myself

wetdream grins before visibly tamping down on it. Shaking his head, he taps at the screen of his tablet.

wetdream: I am glad. wetdream: I enjoyed myself, as well. hobgoblin: thank you for a great time. good night, beautiful

wetdream comes closer to the camera, smiles once more, then the screen goes to the landing page. Hob slumps in his seat and runs his clean hand over his face. Well, that was… something.

There’s a partial refund on his credit card the next morning.

Unfortunately for Hob, the private show spawns something like an addiction. There’s an undeniably impossible-to-resist quality about wetdream that Hob can’t quite explain, not even to himself, so he doesn’t try. He merely adjusts his budget more and more, picking up extra shifts as often as he can to afford living expenses and the live-cams. As long as they don’t interfere with wetdream’s showings. He’s noticed a pattern to the cams, so he tries to schedule his life around them. It isn’t always possible to make it to one—he has to miss a handful over the next two months, between working and Matthew being in the room—but he tries.

He always makes sure to tell wetdream how beautiful he is.

Three months after Malachi sent the link, the term is over, and Hob is heading back home for the summer. His mum has been pestering him about it, and he’s missed his family fiercely. He hadn’t known just how much wetdream’s cams had been affecting his life until he checked the calendar just last week and realised he had only been back home twice a month since the cams started.

“Robbie!”

Hob grins and envelops his mother in a tight hug. She squeezes him once before stepping back. Frowning, Elizabeth runs her thumbs under his eyes.

“I’m fine, Mum.”

“You haven’t been sleeping well.”

No, I’m stupidly infatuated with a sex worker and can’t stop thinking about him. “You know how school is,” he says with a shrug before grabbing his bag. “Dad at home?”

He settles into his childhood bedroom with ease. It’s gone through some significant changes over the years. No longer filled with posters of cartoon characters or Formula 1 cars or toys meant for a seven-year-old little boy, the room suits him well enough now. He sets his bag on the floor by the wardrobe then sits on the bed.

He’s just begun thinking about wetdream—again—when a small form slams into his side. Hob chuckles as he pushes at his little sister’s shoulder until she backs away. Maggie beams before hugging him. Hob closes his eyes as he holds her close.

At only eleven years old, Margaret is the baby of the four children. She should be a spoiled princess, but she’s rather well-rounded and down to Earth. At the very least, there is little that Hob can complain about that isn’t typical younger sibling behaviour.

He presses a kiss to Maggie’s hair before releasing her. “What are you doing home already? Don’t you have school?”

“Mum said I can get out early today since you were coming home. Besides, it’s the last day anyway. We never do anything on the last day.”

“Fair enough.”

Hob sighs and stares at his sister. Her blonde hair has been plaited today, and her hazel eyes sparkle with delight as she sits beside him on his bed, grinning. There’s a small stain of chocolate on the collar of her uniform jumper.

Her gaze slides around the room before alighting on the guitar leaning against the far wall. “Oh, can you please play Black Bird?”

“Which version?”

“From the movie!”

Hob laughs and nods. If his baby sister wants a song, a song she will get. So once the instrument is in hand, he quickly wipes off the dust, tunes the strings, then begins to play.

Before he knows it, three weeks have gone by. He’s found a job in the library, so he spends his days helping patrons find books and makes small talk with everyone. It’s a lot like his job in the university bookstore but less stressful. He doesn’t have fellow students yelling at him because they’re late for class or the books are too expensive.

Hob’s favourite thing about being home, however, is spending time with his family. Fourteen-year-old Maxwell, Nicolette and Andrew at seventeen, and of course, Maggie. His parents. Even his neighbours who never really liked him but now think he’s an exemplary young man for attending uni and holding down a ‘respectable’ job.

‘Respectable’. What makes a job respectable, Hob wonders. Perhaps it’s that he’s not stripping or whoring himself out. Or running a cam service.

Cam service.

Hob swears to himself, startling his family at the dinner table. His mother admonishes him for his language, despite the fact that the twins curse just as often as he does, and Max and Maggie have heard far worse. But he doesn’t care. He’d completely forgotten. How?

He forces himself to eat his dinner at a normal pace, even helps clean up as an apology to his mum for swearing around his siblings. As soon as she shoos him away, Hob nearly sprints up the stairs to his old bedroom.

It’s Friday which means, if he’s held to the pattern, wetdream has a showing tonight. Right about… now, actually. Hob hurries to log into his account and skims the listings until he finds the name of the correct live-cam. Blowing out a breath of relief that his card hasn’t been declined, he locks his bedroom door then sits on his bed, leaning against the wall.

The video is dark still, and Hob chews on his thumbnail as he wonders what wetdream could possibly be doing to prepare. He’s already growing hard just with the mental images of all the possibilities. He could be stroking himself until he’s erect, opening himself up for a plug to keep him ready for toys.

Hob’s thoughts stutter as the feed begins. wetdream sits on his bed already, legs crossed and showing off the high heels and stockings he wears. The sheer, black corset he’s donned accentuates the straight lines of his body, and it would look awkward on anyone else. But on him, Hob thinks it’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.

hobgoblin: hello beautiful

Hob has never witnessed anyone truly lighting up like this, not outside of Maggie on Christmas morning when their parents had given her a guinea pig. But wetdream does now. He doesn’t smile, his expression doesn’t change, but there’s something in his eyes that gives away his delight. Hob’s chest fills with a warmth he can’t describe. He’s the reason wetdream is so happy right now. He has to be.

Something about wetdream’s room is different. It takes Hob a moment to place it: He’s moved his bed. He’s moved his bed to make room for the silver pole in the centre of the room. A shiver slides down Hob’s spine at the thought of what’s to come.

Hob doesn’t send any messages while he watches wetdream work. And work wetdream does. He doesn’t strip this time, not really, but that’s fine. He’s gorgeous regardless as he undulates his hips against the pole, as he spins and nearly hovers off the floor, held firmly up by his thighs against the metal. Hob hides the chat-box when someone says it could be their pole that wetdream works.

Hob nearly comes to the sight of blue eyes staring directly into the camera and a kissable lower lip caught between teeth as wetdream plunges his hand between waist and lacy underwear. As he pulls his cock free. As he strokes himself teasingly, like he wants to put on one helluva show, and maybe he does. Hob lets himself imagine that it’s all for him. He comes a split second after wetdream does.

wetdream licks cum from his hand, and Hob wishes it was him doing it.

He’s just hovered over the X to close out of the tab, feed gone dark once more, when a chat-box pops up in the bottom of his screen.

wetdream: Tomorrow night, midnight. hobgoblin: ?? wetdream: You will see.

Hob raises a brow even as no further messages come in. Deciding to not ask more questions, he closes the tab and reaches for the tissues on his nightstand. He feels like a teenager again, going through puberty and too many tissues to be inconspicuous. He huffs out a laugh as he tosses the tissues into the bin under his desk.

━━━━━━━━━

It’s ten to midnight, and Hob is already logged in. Waiting. His heart races in his chest, and his palms have gone clammy. He repeatedly wipes them on his bare thighs; no point in wearing bottoms, is there, when he’s just going to shove them down in minutes?

A chat-box appears with two minutes to spare. All it contains is an invite link. There is no host information, just a site bot doing the work. Hob knows, though. He knows, so he clicks Accept without hesitation.

He isn’t disappointed: wetdream appears within seconds. The pole is nowhere to be found now, and the bed is back in its original position. He’s wearing the heels again, and Hob stifles a groan low in his throat at how they make wetdream’s legs look even longer. Other than the shoes, he’s completely nude. Hob watches him tap at the screen of his tablet as he settles in on the bed.

wetdream: I get one free credit to give per month. I chose you. hobgoblin: i’m flattered. thank you. wetdream: I have a request of you tonight, if you are amenable to that? hobgoblin: anything, beautiful wetdream: Tell me what you would do to me were you to be here. Tell me what you want of me. hobgoblin: gladly. lie back and let me see you. hobgoblin: god, you’re fucking beautiful. you listen so well.

Hob doesn’t mind that wetdream’s attention isn’t on him, it’s on the messages coming in on the tablet, as Hob tells every dirty fantasy he’s carried with him over the last four months. He’d kiss wetdream until they were both breathless, unable to speak. He’d suck wetdream’s cock until he was coming down Hob’s throat. Hob would bring wetdream to his knees and fuck his mouth before coming all over his face. He’d bend the gorgeous, perfect man over the nearest surface, open him up so slowly and gently, then fuck him until they were too exhausted to move anymore. He’d fuck him with the points of wetdream’s heels digging into his back, leaving bruises to remind Hob of their union.

Or maybe, maybe, Hob would let wetdream fuck him into the mattress. He has a feeling the man is hiding some serious strength in that slender body of his.

hobgoblin: play with your arse, love, beautiful one. come when you want, i’m watching.

wetdream nods rapidly, hand nearly a blur as he jerks himself off. He clenches his teeth, eyes squeezing closed, then his release is spilling free over his fist and abdomen. Some even manages to reach his chest.

It takes Hob an embarrassingly short amount of time to come after that.

You have a way with words, wetdream messages once he’s cleaned himself up, something he’s never done on camera before.

hobgoblin: only for you wetdream: You stayed away for quite some time. I hope all is well?

And is that… That’s apprehension, nervousness, on wetdream’s face. Hob groans at that before typing out yeah, everything is fine. sorry to make you worry. Something twists in wetdream’s expression, and he scowls at the screen.

wetdream: I did not worry. I was merely curious. wetdream: Have a good night, hobgoblin. hobgoblin: it’s hob.

The video cuts out but not before Hob sees wetdream mouthing his name to himself. Hob wipes away his mess then crawls into bed.

There is no live-cam the next week or the next. There is no live-cam until Hob is back at uni, six weeks after the free private show.

Hob still calls wetdream beautiful, but wetdream doesn’t seem to notice. Or care.

It’s almost Christmas by the time anything changes. Matthew refuses to leave the room, moping about being so far from home during the holidays, and Hob takes pity on the young man. He invites Matthew to spend Christmas with the Gadling family. Matthew grins and accepts cheerily; any sense of melancholy is gone now, as if a demon banished by an exorcism.

Andrew protests but finally concedes to giving up his room for Matthew, to sharing a bed with Maxwell. Hob, thankfully, gets his room to himself still. It’s bad enough sharing a room as a grown adult, but to share a bed? He’d rather sleep outside in the snow.

Hob waits until the others are in bed before locking his door and opening his laptop. He highly doubts wetdream would be hosting a showing tonight, so near to Christmas, but he wants to check anyway. A site bot has sent another message: Happy Christmas followed by a link.

Hob clicks.

wetdream: You were right. I was… concerned. I grew accustomed to you being in the viewer list, to your messages calling me beautiful.

Hob grins, shaking his head, and types back: you’re forgiven, beautiful.

wetdream: I thought perhaps I could show my remorse by giving you an early Christmas present. hobgoblin: far be it from me to turn down a gift ;)

wetdream smiles on camera, a shy little thing, before sitting back in his seat, showing more than just his head. He’s wearing a red negligee with a ribbon wrapped around his throat, tied in a bow beneath his chin. He chews on his bottom lip, and Hob realises with a start he’s wearing lipstick. Not much, just enough to give more colour, and he’s never wanted to kiss wetdream this much before.

His cock stirs, and he has to agree with the sentiment. This is—

hobgoblin: you are absolutely stunning, love, darling dream come true wetdream: Thank you, but just Dream is acceptable.

Dream. Fucking Hell, of course he’d want to be called Dream. And what a dream he is. Hob pinches himself to make sure this is real, that this is wetdream—Dream—baring himself as a present for Hob.

hobgoblin: it suits you. can i ask you to show me more of you?

Dream—God, fucking Dream—dips his chin and stands. The camera fills with the spread of sheer red and a half-hard cock in a thatch of black hair, then Dream steps back. Hob nods in approval at what he sees, the most perfect present he’s ever received, and types out a request for Dream to surprise him tonight. He wants to know how Dream would please him, by his own choices.

Dream obeys because he always does. He opens himself up, fucks himself on the dildo from before, as he types out a wish that it was Hob filling him. That it was Hob who was stroking his dick and that Hob would leave bruises on his skin to remind him of everything wonderful. He promises he gives the best blowjobs of anyone he knows—he should know, there was a competition involved. He’d make Hob so happy if Hob were there.

hobgoblin: come for me, love. god, i’ve missed seeing you like this. just for me, aren’t you?

Dream taps something, then “Only for you” comes through Hob’s speakers, a low whine of a voice that sends a shiver down Hob’s spine. Breathless pants, and a broken “Only for you, Hob.”

Hob comes at the sound of his name falling from such beautiful, kissable lips.

“Dream, fuck, Dream,” Hob groans, cum dripping down his fist, and he watches as Dream reaches his own climax on-screen.

He hesitates as Dream cleans up, as Dream approaches the computer once more. Throwing caution to the wind, he hurriedly types his phone number into the chat-box and bites down on the edge of his thumbnail as Dream reads the message. His eyes widen, gaze darting to the camera, and Hob can hear the quickening of his breath.

“Hob…”

hobgoblin: you don’t have to use it. just wanted you to have it just in case you wanted to. happy early christmas, dream of mine.

Dream closes out of the live-cam without response.

━━━━━━━━━

Unknown Number: Are you busy?

Hob stares at the text. It’s Christmas morning, and he’s meant to be downstairs right now. But he has a feeling he knows who’s texting him two days after he gave them the number in the first place.

Hob: Not if this is who I think it is.

The maybe-mysterious texter sends back a photograph of a very familiar body. Hob’s gaze trails along the well-known stature, the valleys and curves of muscle and the fine delicacy of bones. He’s just lined his camera up to take a picture of his own when someone knocks on the door.

“C’mon, Robbie, Mum won’t let us open presents until you come down!”

“I’ll be right there, Mags.”

“You better, or I’m throwing all yours in the fireplace.”

Her footsteps stomp back down the stairs, and Hob laughs quietly before typing out a message.

Hob: Happy Christmas, Dream. I, unfortunately, have a little sister who’s threatening the very survival of my gifts if I don’t get downstairs now. Luckily, she can’t take you from me, can she? 😉 Dream: No. She cannot. Happy Christmas, Hob.

Somehow, his parents have scrounged up gifts for Matthew. Hob has a feeling they were originally meant to be for him, but he’s willing to give up a few presents if it means making his friend happy and feel included. After presents have been put away, there comes breakfast, and Matthew fits in perfectly. He’s on his best behaviour which is a side to him Hob never thought he’d see.

All in all, it’s a pleasant time that only exacerbates the buzzing joy in his veins that comes from having Dream.

He knows it isn’t real. That Dream doesn’t truly care for him. That Dream saying he was only Hob’s was meant to make Hob feel special, to make him willing to pay more money. But goddamn it, Hob wants to hold onto the charade just a while longer. He’ll face reality soon enough. Now is not the time.

He eventually sends a photo of himself to Dream. Might as well let the man see who he’s been giving free private shows to. Might as well show him what he’s getting if only he knew.

Two weeks after the start of term finds Hob roaming around the campus. He’s been attending this university for two years, and there is still so much he doesn’t know about it. Once his face is sufficiently, painfully numb, he ducks into the campus coffeeshop and joins the queue. He needs caffeine and heat. Now.

He turns with his latte in hand, coming to a stop at the sight of two people at the corner table. One is a dark-skinned woman with gold wire-rimmed glasses, wearing an impeccable peacoat and trousers. The other…

The other is clearly Dream.

Hob would recognise that hair anywhere. The pale skin, the blue eyes shining in the weak January sunlight. The woman glances over, frowns, then says something. Dream’s lips tug down, and he turns his head to follow her gaze. His eyes widen when they land on Hob. His lips move, but Hob can’t understand what he’s saying.

Hob approaches the table slowly, carefully, as if the earth will open up and swallow him whole. Instead, he reaches the table without issue, and he smiles down at Dream.

“Hi.”

Dream lets out a soft sigh, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, before he glances at his friend. “Lucienne, I’m afraid I must go.”

“Oh. Of course. I’ll phone you later.”

Dream merely nods, rising to his feet, and Hob moves aside so he can pass. Once outside and halfway down the block, Dream turns to him and opens his mouth. No words come, not for a long moment, then Hob interrupts.

“You’re more beautiful in person.”

Dream exhales sharply, fists the lapels of Hob’s jacket, and pushes him against the brick wall of a building. Hob barely gets out a sound of surprise before Dream is kissing him. Heat floods Hob’s veins, his skin, his entire being as he focuses on the taste of coffee and mint and Dream, oh fuck, is this really happening? He wraps his arms around Dream’s waist, tugs him in closer, and yes. This is real.

“I have been wanting to do that since Christmas,” Dream admits when he pulls away.

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you since the first time I saw you.” He pauses, leans forward to kiss Dream once more. “Come back to mine?”

Dream nods and lets Hob lead him away.

Thankfully, Matthew is at class by the time Hob unlocks the door. He shuts it quickly behind Dream, pinning the man between body and wood, and kisses him again. And again. He makes quick work of unbuttoning Dream’s long coat, of sliding his hand along the hard plane of Dream’s abdomen, to wrap around his hip.

“What do you want me to do?” Dream whispers, and Hob nips at his bottom lip. “Hob…”

“Let me see you, love. I need to see you.”

Dream doesn’t bother putting on a show as he strips down to nothing, leaving his clothes in a pile at his feet. Hob groans and drops to his knees, presses a soft kiss to the head of Dream’s cock. Beautiful, he whispers before taking it in his mouth.

Dream shouts, hand immediately burying in Hob’s hair, and that’s all it takes. Hob sucks and licks and swirls his tongue around the head, takes Dream in all the way to the root until his nose is buried in coarse hair. Swallows around the cock in the back of his throat until Dream comes with a bitten-off cry and quivering thighs.

Opening Dream up is a fucking glorious gift from Heaven. He whines so wonderfully, shoves down onto Hob’s fingers with wanton moans, obeys when Hob tells him to roll onto his belly. Arse on display, Dream shudders as Hob runs a hand along his flank, lets out a broken sound when Hob pushes in. And Hob could die with that sound. He does as he promised so long ago: He fucks Dream in alternating patterns, rough countered by tender, until Dream is panting and Hob’s arms tremble from holding himself up.

Someone knocks on the door. Matthew’s voice calls for Hob, “I forgot my key, open up.”

“Go the fuck away,” Hob grits out, sliding his hand beneath Dream’s body to grasp onto his cock.

Hob comes first, out of breath and satisfied as he spills into Dream with abandon. He presses a soft kiss to Dream’s shoulder, bites down on the smooth skin.

“Come for me, my dream. Let me feel you.”

Dream’s breath comes out in a shuddering sob, and he thrusts forward into Hob’s tight grip over and over, moving between fist to cock then back again. Hob bites down harder, soothing the spot with his tongue.

“Come,” he all but growls into the skin.

Dream does.

Hob pulls Dream to the side once he’s finished, holds him close out of the mess he’s made, and Dream exhales shakily. Hob runs a gentle hand along Dream’s stomach and kisses the curve of his neck.

“I know this is a bit backwards,” he murmurs as soon as he catches his breath again, “but have dinner with me.”

Dream hums in response, nodding slowly, and Hob realises he’s fallen asleep when there comes the sound of soft snores. Deciding class can wait for another day, he burrows his face into the back of Dream’s neck and lets himself drift away. He can deal with Matthew later.

(Matthew retaliates by telling Hob’s mother all about her son’s new boyfriend.)

[mommyofkittens]

A Court of Fallen Heroes -Chapter 2:  "  God Forbid...  "

 Hello! I updated the story on Archive of Our Own! It is not edited, I was in a hurry, but i will check it out tonight.

Kisses and hugs!

UPDATE: I EDITED THE STORY ON ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN!

Author’s P.o.V:

           Before the first war, five hundred years ago, when humans grew tired of the faerie’s tyranny upon their kind, there was this plain saying, who gained power through the blood of every slaughtered male and female, regardless of their nature. It was a chanted, vicious poem, spreading malevolent or honourable effects once it was spoken.

          Even though it was brought into this world in the same very moment as the spilling of The Cauldron, The Mother hid it from the world, for it was a calamity to the ones that fitted the category. Then, after years of being preserved in the back of the minds of the population, it surfaced when a group of celestial beings fell into our circle, commanded by a wrathful god who ruled a young world.

          ‘ Like calls to like. ‘

          It was the truth. But a very bitter truth.

          For this, the mortals suffered tremendous atrocities: skinned alive, enslaved and worked until they died of fatigue in the mines of the faeries, spitted on and stripped of any independence. It was even worse if you were a half-faerie, if somehow, you’re mother was taken by a whore and fucked by several sharp-eared bastards.

          The reason may seem futile and… dispassionate. The creatures thought that mankind was made for this, for pain and hardship: pain calls to pain, misery calls to misery. They weren’t nice even to their own comrades: the lesser faeries. The differences disgusted the High-Faes: the rounded ears that remembered them of humans, long limbs, glowing skin, horns and clawed, webbed feet. This was all deemed to be inferior and shameful.

          But all of this injustice was so far away. It didn’t mean that the consequences weren’t present now: the wall itself was evidence that scars remain and some don’t even heal.

          The winged male, roaming the skies at this late hour thought the same. His memories of the dark cell rarely affected him when he was conscious, but the trauma that resurfaced every time he slept was still proof enough that he needed more than climbing out of the abyss.

          The war with Hybern didn’t last very long, but both him and the rest of his family, suffered great loses for a merely illusion of peace.

          Some things where not good before that, to start with, but others grew colder and colder. He thought of the relationship between the three sisters, that was hanging by a thread and then at him and his brothers. The Archeron family was scattered anyway, but after their absent father died during the war and the other remaining sisters being transformed in faeries, the hole grew bigger, pathless.

          Somehow, it seemed like destiny made them meet. One sister for each brother. The Mother was so sure that the pairs were able to pull each other from bad memories and heal their hearts together. But it was not that simple: Nesta wished to see no one around her and Elain was so closed inside her shell-shaped mind, that rarely someone could reach inside of it. He wished that someone to be him, but The Cauldron made a mistake and gave the middle sister a mate that didn’t fit her.

          Rhysand was the only one that was content with his wife, but he got his own plate of agony for fifty years before he reached this point of alleviation.

          Azriel’s gut tightened at the thought of what his High Lord had to endure for the sake of Velaris. 

          Recently, the two of them had enough of Nesta’s rebellious behaviour. Only yesterday, at the breakfast table, they got the bill from Rita’s restaurant and some gambling magazine. The Shadowsinger didn’t interfere with their decision, it was not his resolution to take. He had other things on his head to worry, so much that they kept him up at night.

          It wasn’t about the money, because the inner circle got plenty of them in the treasury. It was about her unhealthy way of coping.

          Feyre took the drastic decision to end her sister’s suffering by sending her into the one of the shittiest places on earth: Windhaven Camp. Azriel brushed the sensation that it wasn’t the place to help Nesta, blaming it on his distate for the illyrians and their backward mentality.

          He didn’t deny the fact that the oldest sister needed and impulse to step out of the hole she was falling. He understood the urge to drink and fuck her way out of trauma and forget about bad memories and powers she couldn’t control.

          Azriel did the same, after all.

          But her behaviour hurted more than just Feyre, it scared Elain too, pushed her out of everyone’s reach and he couldn’t bear this.

          His jaw tightened at the picture of her delicate frame, coming back to the town house after she went to visit Nesta. Her shoulders were brought inward and she kept her elegant features hidden. He didn’t need his shadows to read her posture. The tears stains from her dress where proof enough that things didn’t end well between them. Elain didn’t spoke to anyone that night, or the day after and Azriel never had the courage to go and say a word to soothe her heart.

          He found himself on the hall of her dorm once, hiding in the dark, waiting like a dog for her glistening appearance. Azriel could imagine Elain, only in her pink nightgown he knew she was wearing. It was her favourite. He could trace the fragile silhouete of her body with the fingers of his mind through the thin silky material. It covered nothing. It was only a shield.

          Never to touch. Always out of reach.

          The Shadowsinger took a deep breath and stretched his wings again, feeling the warmth of summer caressing his membranous wings. He felt his pants grew tighter. He didn’t want a damn boner in the open sky. He was not his brother, he could hold in his temper, his needs, even if they grew bigger each day. Pleasure hall wasn’t enough and he felt dirty screwing an unknown woman and picturing Elain under him, how she’ll sound while he entered her, how her breath would hitch.

          Focus, his shadows seemed to whisper in his ear, curling around his ear lobe.

          I wish I could, Azriel answered, more to himself than to his companions.

          He switched his attention towards the final trees, trying desperately to soothe the ache from his belly. The stench of resin hit his nostrils first, before a pair of big firs came into view. He recognised their lining that marked the entrance of Velaris.

          There was something odd about this night. As he approached the wards protecting the city, Azriel realised that the sky was fuller. The stars were piled on top of each other like they shielded against something, or shielding someone. Not even the spymaster’s favourite’s giant constellation, Orion, wasn’t to be seen, outshined by the prodigious mass of shining bulbs. The moon was coated by opaque grey clouds, leaving the sky open and somehow forsaken, reflecting Azriel’s own unhappiness.

          The night air was unusually heavy and hot, too much even for the beginning of summer. Inhaling it felt like being trapped underwater, violating your nose and giving the male a headache. His black illyrian leathers were tight and made him sweat underneath. Also, he didn’t see any animals running down the forests paths, didn’t hear the rustle of leaves or howling wolves.

          Azriel didn’t take the signs as something bad, but rather a normal way of acting when it came to solstices. More so because the summer one held a meaningful symbolism: the light that helps us find a goal in our journey, setting us to the right path and having a new beginning.

          He lost a low chuckle through his lips. Azriel wasn’t the one to believe such bullshit. In his five hundred years of living, he never saw that guiding light, he reached his goals through torture and patience. The latter was beginning to fade as he grew more impatient, longing for warmth and the feeling of belonging to someone.

          Inside, he kept his emotions under a firm grip, knowing that displaying them was a sign of weakness. And he didn’t have the freedom of being vulnerable anymore.

          Sadly, that made him forget how to show them. Or how they felt.

          When Azriel passed the protection layer, the air changed swiftly from the thick and almost liquid one on the mountains, to one a lot more breathable and flowery.

          ‘ Thank the Mother. ‘, he thought, escaping the honeyed atmosphere from the outside.

          The lights of the mansion were on. The meeting has started. Or already finished. He only hoped that he didn’t arrived late. Not that he was eager to see Nesta’s punishment or sense Elain’s mating bond on her.

          He cringed at that and landed on the balconies threshold, donning his frozen mask.

          " Brother. " Rhysand acknowledged his presence first, laying a comforting hand on Feyre’s, squeezing gently before eyeing Cassian.

          The High Lady nodded in his direction " She needs to come to her damn senses, " then fixated her eyes somewhere in the distance, putting a shield between her and the world around. " otherwise, I don’t know what else I can do to help her. "

          " You’ve done enough. " Rhys delicately assured her, brushing his fingers through Feyre’s light brown curls. " You’ve helped her enough. You and Elain, Amren. Cassian. Everyone tried to give her space and a place here. With us. "

          So it didn’t go smoothly.

          There is nothing to bind them anymore, his shadows whispered, uncovering themselves in the dim light of night.

          " I am sorry I didn’t get here on time. " Azriel spoke, stepping silently and covering the archway with his wings. " I had business to attend to. " His remarked didn’t pass unnoticed by his High Lord.

          ‘ My office. ‘, Rhysand said in his mind.

          ‘ Is not urgent, but it is something you need to hear. ‘

          " We convinced her to come with me to the camps. " Cassian added, putting one ankle over the other knee. 

          " More like forced her. " Rhysand completed.

          Azriel remarked how his brother took time arranging himself today: with lacquered brown boots, ironed shirt and freshly shaved.

          " I knew she wasn’t going to take this easy. " Amren was seated neatly on the couch, toying with her new favourite bracelet that Varian gave her as a present " But something tells me you’ll manage. "

          She gave Cassian a half nod, smiling in her own devilish way. Azriel knew why Rhysand brought her here, so he would preserve any sort of familial bond between him and Feyre’s sister.

          The spymaster senses the tension in the room and scans it rapidly, locating the source of the strange ambiance. It came in big waves from Cassian, who kept his shoulder straight and his muscles contracted.

          " She’s scared, tormented. " Cass draws a breath, visibly irritated with the stubborn older Archeron sister.

          " Let her dig her own grave, boy, then offer her a hand. " Amren stirs the wine in her almost empty glass, licking her red lips.

          " I thought that’s what this past year has been: reaching to her. " his brother closed his eyes, a pained look crossing his features for a second, " But I received only death looks and venomous words. "

          Azriel knew what he was talking about: the gift he threw in the Sidra, last solstice, after the fight they had on the market streets.  After she made it clear she wants nothing to do with them. With him.

          He was the only one out of the Inner Circle who knew what they’ve lost that day: The Veritas. The apple sized bulb, incastrated with truth magic, that required the Spymaster’s infiltration in the Court of Nightmares’s dungeons.

          Azriel knew the reason behind this gesture, to show Nesta the truth, Cassian’s truth. Even though he knew the General’s feeling towards the oldest sister, it was his own secret to tell.

          " Keep reaching out your hand. " Amren stated, piercing Cass with her silver smoked eyes.

          " I’ve gotten young warriors in the line before. " Cassian dared to joke, shifting from his previous pose and coming closer to where the Shadowsinger was standing near de balconie’s archway.

          " Nesta’s not some young buck pushing the boundaries. " his brother contested, kneeling at Feyre’s feet and caging her palms in his own.

          " I can handle her. "

          " She’ll give you a hard time. " their High Lady spoke, shaking out of her sadness, " And she’ll enjoy every second of it. "

          " She’s miserable. " Amren rose, finishing her glass, ready to get back to her house. " Too bad that rule doesn’t exist, or is not exactly as precise as I made it to be. "

          " Then make sure to add it later. " Rhys helped Feyre to the base of the stairs, " We don’t want to be caught frauding the system. It is enough Keir doesn’t have us at his heart and seeks any wrong step to split the Night Court. "

          Elain had walked in halfway through his brother’s testimony. " I left her baggage in the hallway. " she spoke softly, hiding her hands in the purple dress she was wearing, " It is small. I don’t think it will rise any problems of transportations. "

          He inhaled unconsciously, feeling the lilies and daisies smell al over her. She kept a solemn face, never taking her eyes off of Rhysand.

          The spymaster shot a look towards her soft brown eyes, asking himself if she was strong enough to bear her sister’s deadly arrows that were about to come her way. But Elain’s gaze remained steady as she listened to Rhys, not sparing him a glance. So he changed his focus to Cassian, who looked pale and angry.

          " I’ll bring it up to the House of Wind. " Cassian agreed, stepping on the balcony. " How’s Varian accommodating the weather from Velaris? "

          " I show him new things every night. " the little devil throws us a meaningful look. " He loves the view from our windows. "

          Feyre laughs softly and Elain blushes, turning her gaze to the ground.

          A sudden feeling of tiredness settled on Azriel's shoulders and he felt a wave of pain crossing his body.

          The sky, his shadows whispered, the sky.

          He blamed it on his lack of sleeping, but as he turned to watch the night sky, a shooting star passed silently and a ghostly smell of amber made his heart ache.

  The Continent

           " This world is the nurse of all we know, This world is The Mother of all we feel. "

          Mother of all we feel…

          I will bring you to my feet!

          Don’ t falter, Evening Star!...

          Your existence is like mud under my nails.

          Stop it, I pray to the different voices around, watching the scenes fly pass me: an old man, a young king, two ladies helping me get up and blood. So much blood.

          The Three Dead Kings are waiting for their Daughter.

          Their blood is all over your hands, Queen of Ashes.

          Make it stop, I beg again, feeling lost inside the darkness.

          Strike her again!...

          Mother of all we feel…

          I’ll make a crown out of your bones.

          I have been waiting for you…

          A gentle caress touches my forehead and a pair of hazel eyes passes swiftly trough my mind.

          Wake up, I beg you.

          A piercing man’s scream shatters my eardrums and I jolt, barely aware of where my body starts and ends. The ache inside my heart is agonizing and I feel like I faint several times before my mind is fully anchored to my material body.

          I always had the uncertain sensation that my death will be miserable. And I always blamed myself for thinking too much, for feeling too hard and for playing the victim too often. But the truth is: Death was always stalking me – like a lovely sister of Bad Luck that became my friend -, eradicating in her path everything that was dear to me. Grandparents, uncles, dogs, birds and recently, the parental love that I never had, actually.

          I blamed the cancer, because that is what the fate seemed to have prepared for us: hereditary colon cancer. I was afraid that I had it, but my mother was too scared to do some analyses, refusing to hear the truth and preferring to stay blind. So I did the same.

          But that doesn’t mean I escaped. I experienced another kind of illness.

          I am not american, I came from the Balkans, from a part of Europe where fairy tales, curses and legends are at home.

          Not recently, maybe years prior to this day, my mother, an aunt and I visited an old lady. She lived in a village with unpaved streets and we paid her to do a tarot session and read in our coffee cups.

          That was the day I knew some higher divinity had a vendetta against me.

          The lady was ancient, reaching – after the precision of a teenager – a critical level of ninety years. She smelled like rotten eggs and something characteristic for an old woman with no bathroom inside her house and no sewerage. Her house was made out of adobe and lacked a few windows, the plaster had peeled off of the exterior walls, leaving the horse’s shit and wheat straws to be seen.

          The interior wasn’t any better. It stank of sauerkraut, it was very chilly, dull and inhospitable, with a raw wood floor and an iron bed covered by a smeary flattened mattress.

          She invited us to sit around a little table in a slightly tidier room. It seemed like it was made especially for guests who were into pagan games. The wooden furniture was covered by a hand-sewn table cloth, coloured with red, white and blue thread. The chairs had red leather seats, and the few windows were covered with soot and embroidered curtains. The crone kept here an old sewing machine, with pedals and a sharp spindle in witch she impaled three porcelain dolls.

          " Keeps the dark forces away. " She hinted, observing me.

          The old woman had a glassy eye, corrupted by cataracts and the other one held such a bright blue, that made you wonder if she was blind or not. She looked more like a witch than someone’s granny. She missed a good part of her gray hair and only a few tufts remained trapped in a bun at the base of her head, covered by a black handkerchief. The woman wore a mourning gown, a full-length dress, with a brown apron hanging around her navel. A nephew of hers died of a chromosomal disease that made him look like an experiment of God.

          I never believed her. I knew this was a form of punishment, implied by the one who ruled up or down, because she was playing with dark magic.

          The crone opened the books to read my life and looked at me crookedly.

          With a confident, wrinkled hand, the woman put three cards on the table, after she shuffled them and had me cut them three times.

          4 of hearts. 5 of clubs. 3 of spades.

          I don’t recall with what lies she charmed me with, I was horrified by her looks. Some years passed before I opened up a discussion with my mother and she remembered me of the crone’s premonitions.

          It was about an unexpected, long journey on a foreign continent, devoid of good people and love.

          " She called it a place with no pure magic. " My mother added, drinking from her cup of coffee.

          She told me that someone puts me through great obstacles and I will suffer many losses in my path. In the end I was to be successful, but with terrible costs.

          " To save only one hand for the price of the whole body. " My mother raises her brows, and the memories seem to torment her for a second. " Quite strange if you ask me. "

          " She swore, by the tongue of death actually, that the man from the shadows is waiting for you. He is the only one that can save you. "

          Shortly after our meeting with the witch, she died. It seemed she had gone mad. Her kids found her trapped in the space between the stove and the wall. She was frigid.

          Mother of all we fell…

          I claim you, mou nafsah…

          I manage to take a deep breath, feeling my trachea obstructed by mucus and salt. A convulsive cough makes the capillaries in my eyes to stop pumping blood, overwhelmed by the unfamiliar pressure. My mouth opens, gasping for oxygen and a loud moan escapes my crusty lips when a spasmodic pain flourishes in my body.

          The sounds echo around me and I worry that some of my neighbours might hear me. But I couldn’t stop. I try to tense my muscles, but another wave of nausea storms my stomach. I twist and vomit on the ground beneath me.

          " God forbid… " I whisper, feeling the air hitch in my throat.

          The smell of salted water and fresh flowers decrease my nausea, and my vision begins to clear slowly, patches of light dispersing the darkness. I blink a few times, feeling my eyelids glued together.

          Only after a few moments I am able to see the scenery. A vast meadow, fresh and… alive, in a strange way,

          " God forbid… " I hum lowly, touched by the sudden beauty that surrounds me. " Where am I? "

          One of my vertebrae cracks when I raise my head wearily, reminding me of the tangled position I was in.

          The patch of grass was guarded by rocky, ink-black mountains, which shone in the distance like the precious jewels of an imperial crown. It looked like I was inside a dormant volcano.

          The sun shone brightly over me, warming my tangled, frizzy hair and making me cringe at the sensation of dirt and salt tightening the skin of my shoulders. Carefully, I turn around, enthralled by the clear lake stretched out, alluring insects around it. A thin strip of sand noted the difference between the water’s edge and the beginning of the grass.

          I must have fallen in it, that’s why my clothes were drenched and covered with a dusty pellicle of dry salt.

          Dizzy, I look at my filthy, creased thumbs and use my mouth to breath. My nose was stuffy and it hurt terribly, like it broke when I landed.

          A gray stag lowers his head to drink water.

          " Don’t… " I start, feeling my hoarse voice rubbing against my larynx. I clear it and try again: " It’s salted. Don’t. "

          He watches me, and for a second, we both look skeptical at each other. Is he questioning my existence? I watch his high, branched horns and involuntary smile at his long snout and bright, gentle eyes.

          I pull back, not wanting to scare him and squeeze my head between my palms, unable to neglect my growing headache. "I am sorry… "

          I was losing it. My minds, my spirit of observation, my instinct. It couldn’t be true. I fucking fell out of the sky, through nine circles of worlds. Something told me it resembled Dante’s Inferno, but I knew I wasn’t in Hell. At least not so soon. This place was more like Heaven, not burning flames and red demons wanting to get your soul.

          And I felt very much alive.

          I was probably drugged or drunk or the fall on my cat's bowl must have done something to my brain, because I couldn't be here.

          My memory wasn’t a reliable source either. Broken and discontinuous fragments appear in my brain: Icarus caught in the air, Nadia, volunteering for that blood donation, 3:33, the clock’s batteries, the 3rd floor and the man in the black suit. Everything was like a tornado, always moving and changing, without sitting next to each other so that I could make sense out of this.

          The intention to cry makes me stiff and I feel like crying, because I sigh and hiccup and my eyes sting and my throat hurts, but I can't feel the tears on my cheeks. I can feel the drops gathering in the corners of my eyes, but nothing bluries my vision. I only feel a confusing emptiness that gnaws at my intestines.

          The stag pities me and the grass seems to wrap around my ankles, comforting me. For a second, is not cold and earthy, but my cat’s soft fur brushing my skin, welcoming me back home, telling me he missed me so much.

          My dry and rough voice runs through the calm of the place, over and over again and I mourn. My existence, my destiny, my life. I beg for help over and over and try to get up, but I fall to my knees and feel desperate when the only thing that answers me is my voice’s echoes hitting the onyx mountains.

          In an unconscious attempt to wake me up from this nightmare, I strangle myself and even when my nails are dangerously deep in my skin and my blood no longer reaches my head, I can't get out.

          It was real. I had indeed fallen through those circles and landed in a lake. In the lake next to me. I don't know how I got out, but it saved me from drowning. Or maybe something else happened. I didn’t know.

          The stag was gone and the grass had fallen off my ankles. I was left alone, face up, lying on my back and looking at the empty blue sky. So empty that it reminded me of how I felt right now.

          And what are you going to do? I wonder. Are you going to die here without knowing the truth?

          " I do not know. " I whisper, feeling my chapped lips scratching at each other. "  I want to die here. I want to die. "

          Mother of all we feel…

          I have been waiting for you…

          The song in my ears, which danced between my eardrums even before I woke up, makes me get on all fours and crawl, absent from my own body and indifferent to the cuts that pierced my palms and knees. I crawl and wheeze and cuss until I barely breath.

          I don't even know how long I move like that, with my eyes on a clear horizon and my mouth dry. The desperation was my only comrade right now, pushing me further and faster. I had nothing, but desperation and ambition flowing through my blood.

          After an infernal time I wake up face to face with the foot of the mountains chain. The black rock shone as brightly as it did from the lake, like billions of tiny diamonds were encrusted in it. I brush the tips of my fingers against the material.

          A bolt of electric power dashes through my muscles, followed by thousands of whispers in my ears. Goosebumps appear all over my soaking skin and my body is suddenly awake. The cells in my body vibrate, enthusiastic and respond to the mountains, rushing to the tips of my nails, warming my hand. I am aware of the stag coming closer, of the green serpent roaming silent at the bottom of the lake. I see the flowers bloom under my attention and the trees bending in my presence. A sparkle comes to life at the connection and I drew back, perplexed.

          Maybe this place has a large energy field around it, flowing from mountain to mountain and protecting it from any technology. Maybe that was the reason it was not populated.

          The stag by the lake appears, sniffing in the direction of a narrow opening in the rock. I could scarcely slip through it. I look at him puzzled, feeling the madness that settles in my head.

          " What are the chances that you will understand me and know that I want to get out of here? "

          I speak more for myself, and the shock crosses me when he nods and the crown of horns goes towards me.

          " God forbid… " I chant for the third time and I lower my head, sticking my fingers in my eyes. " I think I'll have to get used to it, until it shows me that it's all in my head. "

          It wasn’t just my imagination. I could smell fresh grass and clean water, I could feel my body stiff and my extremities swollen, I was aware of the headache and my ears popping from time to time from the pressure. My feet ached from the gravel and my knees and elbows stung as I crawled on all fours.

          The only thing that made me doubt the surrounding landscape was my memories, probably scattered because of the fall and the long sleep. Sometimes I got so close to a detail in my head I could brush it with my fingertips, only to disappear as if it never existed.

          I dare to reach out, wanting to caress the animal on the fluffy head. I stop a few inches from him, noticing my filthy palms, full of mud, blood and lacerations. I would have tarnished his beauty, just to fulfill my desire to feel contact with a living being.

          "Thank you... " I bow to him, touching my heart with my palm.

          After a few seconds, his eyes widen in warning, blinking at me, wanting me to understand. " I am sorry. I can’t… I… I will be careful. Thank you… "

          I try to slip through the small crack, but the opening is too narrow for me. I remove my hoodie, leaving only my bra and jeans on. Holding the piece of fabric in my hand, I manage to pass through the tunnel. My clothes went two shades darker from the dust on the rough walls and my exposed skin rubbed painfully against the sharp edges of the mountain.

          Finally seeing myself on the other side of the volcano, the desolating image strikes me, causing my anxiety to reach alarming levels.

          The beauty and the peace inside the oasis contrasted sharply with the barren earth and gray sky. Life seemed to disappear, being replaced only by a vain hope of survival.

          Left and right, miles of yellow-grass meadow laid deserted, and here and there were a few peaks of brown mountains filled with smoke from the houses that lived on the ridge.

          I turn to the volcano from which I just came out, just to be petrified. There was nothing behind me. No sign of it, no rough wall of bright onyx, no sign of a stag or fresh grass. The sky was just as cloudy and the pasture just as barren.

          Even the feeling of calmness ran out of my system.

          " Well, maybe not everything is real... Or beautiful… "

          I wave my hands in the air where I knew I came from, but I don't feel anything. I lay on my knees, desperately looking for proof that everything was true. When I feel like I'm losing hope, I catch a glimpse of the black mountain and the patch of grass leading to the lake. 

          It seemed like the air was cut by a knife and the opening lead to another dimension. 

          " How is that possible?  "

           I look around and notice the dogwood tree, the same height as me and with a few budding flowers. It marks the entrance to the oasis.

          Unsure of what I was going to do next, I set off. If I were to stay here, I would never know what happened to me, how I got here, or where I am. I had no chance of returning.

          Sadness grips me and I sigh unconsciously, wandering the barren pasture, heading for what I thought was the East.

          Dark thoughts surround me and I can barely find the strength to keep going. The desolating atmosphere wasn’t helping me at all with my internal grief.

          My parents wouldn’t know where I am. They’ll probably imagine that I had committed suicide out of love, as all young people do today. The feeling of my watch on my left hand was a constant memory of the person that I loved back home. What will she do?

          God, how cruel everything was. I couldn't even remember her name. The terror of forgetting her brown eyes or round face embraces me and I start to cry. I could finally feel the tears streaming down the scratches on my cheeks.

          My Icarus. My sweet Icarus. He was going to be left alone. Who will feed him? Who will love him? My little savior…

          I cover my face and stop, unable to cope with the pressure that covered me like a blanket, suffocating me.

           " Miss, are you alright? "

[brb-on-a-quest]

Ok! this is because I was obsessed with two hyperfixations at once. Aka: what if Dean and Sam from Supernatural had to fight against a death note and how quickly would the die (if writer had made the eye deal its over but if they didn't have an eye deal.... there was a chance.

(also looking back over def too many pages to give you the whole thing right here right now but it looks like I had plot threads between angels/demons and shinigami wars soooo honestly I'm more intrigued might work on)

Shinigami war:

They were too close for comfort, but Akemi had come prepared. She ducked into an alley- one of a rare few in this small town- and slammed her bony hand against the sigil she had painted in blood that morning. Shinigami Banishing symbol. No one had used them much since the war. Akemi chuckled at their shrieks of anger as forgotten knowledge pushed them to the shinigami world. Her siblings would take care of the rest.  Akemi grinned. She was sure they would get a very warm welcome indeed, with the amount of lost love between them both. She stashed the book in a lending library donation box. More were coming, and would come, and there was no use getting caught with it in her possession.  She heard the cry of the hellhounds and knew that her time was numbered. She vanished, knowing the book was safe.  After all, the best place to hide something was in plain sight.

Dean And Sam picking up the Case

Singer Household, Sioux Falls, South Dakota. About six months later.  “Okay, so six people die of a heart attack in some town. Not exactly strange, people die all the time.” “In Evansville? Dean, Evansville has a population under 1000. It’s smaller than small town.” “Besides, those numbers were accurate last year.” Bobby Singer cut into the Winchester brothers’ conversation. “Last I heard from Gerwel, numbers were down seven-hundred and fifty in over a few months.”  “Twenty five precent.” Sam whistled.  “Mkay, that’s something to think about.” Dean muttered. Louder, he sighed. “Any omens?” “Besides the amount of weird deaths? I would hope that’d be enough.” “Define weird.” Dean rocked back as he sat down in a very scratched up leather bound chair. “Define it yourself. Gerwels sent a letter. Photos attached.” Bobby gruffly nodded at the desk. He placed his hands on his wheelchair rims and started to back up, but Sam shook his head and approached the desk.  Dean’s brother sifted through the correspondence to find an email and a few enlarged photos that had been printed off Bobby’s ancient device that he refused to get rid of.  “So get this…” Sam started then halted to get a closer look at the page in his hand.  “You found something?” Dean’s hand whipped around.  “Maybe, look at this.” Sam walked over, handing over a page that contained three different pictures of graphically dead people. “Some of them are heart attacks in people who look like they shouldn’t have those kind of problems, but then there’s this chick who got murdered by a bunch of crows. She was an ornithologist- bird scientist.”  “So she pissed off the spirit of Alfred Hitchcock or something?” Dean sat up in his chair, only slightly more interested than disturbed in the amount of holes the flock of birds put in the girl.  “Maybe. This guy was working for a circus as a fire breather for decades, and he burned from the inside. Downed a bunch of gasoline and ate lit matches for dessert.” “One way to go out with a bang.” Bobby remarked dryly. “You boys interested enough yet?” “Any reports of hideous monsters at all? Like bony reapers with wings.” “Cas!” Everyone shouted as they turned towards the door frame to see the only angel currently not on their ���banish with a sigil’ list. “I’d ask you to come in, but clearly that’s pointless.” Bobby motioned to another chair opposite Dean. “Where have you been?’ “I believe a figurative word you could use is Hell, although in retrospect, I can’t imagine how the experiences can be comparable.”

And our New Light Yagami, daughter of the Evansville Police Chief, Maxine Gerwels

Max Gerwel hadn’t noticed anything unusual about the notebook when she first picked it up while scouring the outdoor library for new reads. It was solid black and thick, completely devoid of lettering minus the front which just said ‘Death Note.’ Well, at the very least, maybe people won’t go poking around in it. She stuck it in her purple book bag, in the innermost pocket. Hopefully, Dad won’t think I’m making a hit list.  Nah, diary seems more likely.  In reality, Max Gerwels had plans to use the notebook for journalism notes for her involvement with the school newspaper. It looked professional enough it might pass Mr. P’s regulations, especially if she covered up the words with black paint.  After dinner, Max retreated to her room. Being a fan of art and bullet journaling, she pulled out an orange-stained art box. There were lots of still partially full opened tubes of paint. Of course, the brushes rested at the bottom of the box. The first thing she did was cover out the words ‘Death Note’ with black paint, force it to dry with a hair dryer, and then open up the inside cover.  “Ma-ax!” Dad’s voice came from downstairs. “CHORES. C’MON.” “Coming!” she shouted, leaving the book open on the desk.

Hope you enjoy! :D :D :D

*L-meanders up to your front porch and pokes the doorbell Trick...or treat!

Welcome, welcome detective pick one

🍫: a shitty drawing

🍰: excerpt of a partially abandoned death notexsupernatural fic (...I keep meaning to go back to it but lack of organization and weight of college classes do not pair well)

🍭: slapdash canva art

[ragingbookdragon]

She merely gazed at the four boys who were holding rags to various parts of their faces, stifling the urge to strangle them all. As Alfred moved down the line with a fresh needle and thread, ready to sew someone’s eyebrow, she reached up and pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed.

“Someone please explain to me how a simple reconnaissance mission ended up with Dick splitting his eyebrow, Jason busting his lip, Tim breaking his fingers, and Damian knocking out three teeth.” Her eyes drew from each of them, and she waved. “Hello? I’m speaking to you?”

“Jason fell out of a vent into the middle of the room,” Tim explained, and she groaned.

“In the ve—Jason why were you in the vent? You know those don’t hold your weight.”

Jason placed a hand across his chest, gaping, “Are you calling me fat?”

“You weigh two hundred and twenty-five pounds, Jason. And that’s pure muscle. You don’t have any fat on you.”

“You implied it.”

“I’m going to imply my foot in your ass if you don’t zip it.” She turned her attention to Dick. “Why did you let him go into the vent?”

He recoiled, a look of disbelief crossing his face. “What? Me? Do I look like the brother wrangler?”

“More like the wiener wrangler,” Jason snickered, hacking when Dick elbowed him in the side.

She sighed again. “You should’ve suggested an alternative. Like why not sending Damian? He’s the smallest and weighs the least.”

“And put our baby brother at risk?” Dick questioned. “I would never.”

Ignoring the violent need to slap him, she rolled her eyes and looked at Tim. “And you?”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t supposed to be there.”

“Then why were you?”

Tim grinned. “Because I was bored.”

She blinked and muttered to no one in particular, “Idiots. You’re all idiots.”

As she spun around to march up the stairs she paused when she saw her dad, her expression morphing from annoyance to worry.

“Oh my god! What happened to you!”

He grunted and shuffled over to one of the benches, waiting for Alfred to get to him.

“Reconnaissance gone bad.”

“And you didn’t think to call me? Or them?” she asked, and he looked between her and his sons.

“They were doing reconnaissance.”

“Oh my god,” she groaned, putting her head in her hands. For a moment she was completely silent then she stood upright and glared at them. “That’s it. No one is going out on patrol until we can learn the difference between reconnaissance and engagement because evidently, none of you do.”

“But sister we have—”

She shot him a glower. “You’re not leaving until I show you the PowerPoint.”

“Oh god, please don’t make a PowerPoint, sis,” Jason pled.

Dick nodded rapidly. “Yes, we’ll be good, we promise.”

“Every plea only adds a slide, so keep it up and let’s see if we can get to fifty.” Their mouths snapped shut and she smiled. “Good boys.”

[untouchable-lightning]

Ariel took the money, holding it safe in one hand to drop in the donation box when she arrived.

"Thank you. It is my favorite hobby."

That seemed safe enough to say. Hopefully Lightning would leave now that she had her food.

Listening to how much it would be, Lightning took only that bit of money from what she had held out before. "Right. Sorry. I'm not really one to take the time to calculate a precise amoung from my money to give." Which she considered a good thing, really. As long as she had enough, no one would come to harm if she gave someone too much for something. Here though, the baker corrected her on the right sum, and, well, if that's what she wanted, that was fine for Lightning too. Handing over the money, she took one of the goods immediately and took a good bite out of it. "Mmmmh! So worth the money. You're really good at baking." She had to be, if she had made something so delicious.

[astradrifting]

 AGOT - Jon I (Chapter 5)

There were times—not many, but a few—when Jon Snow was glad he was a bastard. As he filled his wine cup once more from a passing flagon, it struck him that this might be one of them.

I don’t know why D&D decided Jon could never lie, when literally the first line in his POV is a lie. He’s so good at it he can even lie to himself!

****

A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but down at this end of the hall his voice could scarcely be heard above the roar of the fire, the clangor of pewter plates and cups, and the low mutter of a hundred drunken conversations.

A singer with a high harp and a ballad seems like a vague Rhaegar allusion. That Jon can’t actually hear him makes me happy in a very petty way.

****

His lord father had come first, escorting the queen. She was as beautiful as men said. A jeweled tiara gleamed amidst her long golden hair, its emeralds a perfect match for the green of her eyes. His father helped her up the steps to the dais and led her to her seat, but the queen never so much as looked at him. Even at fourteen, Jon could see through her smile.

I think this part is actually Jon being indignant on Ned’s behalf that Cersei was rude to him, by not looking at him when he escorts her, not that she never looked at Jon. Also, there’s those observation skills. He’s never been taken in by a pretty smile.

****

After them came the children. Little Rickon first, managing the long walk with all the dignity a three-year-old could muster. Jon had to urge him on when he stopped to visit.

Adorable!!!

****

Jon noticed the shy looks she gave Robb as they passed between the tables and the timid way she smiled at him. He decided she was insipid. Robb didn’t even have the sense to realize how stupid she was; he was grinning like a fool.

Jon’s a mean drunk I guess 💀

****

Sansa, two years older, drew the crown prince, Joffrey Baratheon. He was twelve, younger than Jon or Robb, but taller than either, to Jon’s vast dismay. Prince Joffrey had his sister’s hair and his mother’s deep green eyes. A thick tangle of blond curls dripped down past his golden choker and high velvet collar. Sansa looked radiant as she walked beside him, but Jon did not like Joffrey’s pouty lips or the bored, disdainful way he looked at Winterfell’s Great Hall.

Joffrey according to Jon: 👁👄👁

But Sansa looked radiant 🥰

****

He was more interested in the pair that came behind him: the queen’s brothers, the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. The Lion and the Imp; there was no mistaking which was which. Ser Jaime Lannister was twin to Queen Cersei; tall and golden, with flashing green eyes and a smile that cut like a knife. He wore crimson silk, high black boots, a black satin cloak. On the breast of his tunic, the lion of his House was embroidered in gold thread, roaring its defiance. They called him the Lion of Lannister to his face and whispered “Kingslayer” behind his back. Jon found it hard to look away from him.

This is what a king should look like, he thought to himself as the man passed.

Giving me big ‘muscled like a maiden’s fantasy’ vibes there, Jon.

Also, curiously enough Jaime’s introduced wearing black and red, Targaryen colours. Maybe a nod to the incest storyline, possibly leftover foreshadowing from when Jaime was going to become king, as per the outline.

Otherwise this means that, like everybody else in this story, Jaime is a secret Targaryen. He and Cersei can join the ranks of Jon, Tyrion, Varys, Mance Rayder and while we’re at it… *spins a wheel of names* Meera too.

****

His brothers and sisters had not been permitted to bring their wolves to the banquet, but there were more curs than Jon could count at this end of the hall, and no one had said a word about his pup. He told himself he was fortunate in that too.

His eyes stung. Jon rubbed at them savagely, cursing the smoke.

Jon spends half this chapter on the verge of tears, my angsty little lad.

****

Jon looked up happily as his uncle Ben put a hand on his head and ruffled his hair much as Jon had ruffled the wolf’s.

They actually call him Ben and ‘uncle Ben’ a few times in the series, which I honestly think might be a Spider-Man allusion. Surrogate father figure Uncle Ben’s early disappearance/death kicking off the plot… There’s also a saying that nobody stays dead in comics except for Uncle Ben - considering all the other resurrections in the books, metaphorical and literal, yet GRRM says that Benjen isn’t Coldhands, it might be the same for this Uncle Ben too.

****

Jon swelled with pride. “Robb is a stronger lance than I am, but I’m the better sword, and Hullen says I sit a horse as well as anyone in the castle.”

"[Garlan] is a great knight," Ser Loras replied. "A better sword than me, in truth, though I'm the better lance." (ASOS, Sansa I)

Love a Jon-Garlan parallel! Also thinking about Garlan being the older brother made me realise - in the story everyone thinks that Jon is younger than Robb, but timeline-wise, he has to be older, because Robb was conceived in the two weeks before Ned left to fight at the Trident, and Rhaegar must have at least already been in the capital by then to rally the loyalists, so Jon was conceived weeks, if not months earlier. Which means that Ned has definitely lied about when Jon’s birthday is.

Jon being the product of a ‘youthful indiscretion’ before he was married is less of a stain on Ned’s honour than him betraying his marriage bed but I imagine Catelyn’s fears about Jon usurping her children might have had more basis if he was known to be the eldest, so maybe that’s why Ned lied about how old he is.

****

“Daeron Targaryen was only fourteen when he conquered Dorne,” Jon said. The Young Dragon was one of his heroes. 

"A conquest that lasted a summer," his uncle pointed out. "Your Boy King lost ten thousand men taking the place, and another fifty trying to hold it. Someone should have told him that war isn't a game." He took another sip of wine. "Also," he said, wiping his mouth, "Daeron Targaryen was only eighteen when he died. Or have you forgotten that part?"

Jon is unfortunately, a jock. And a bit of an idiot. 

There’s something about Jon’s hero dying at 18, Waymar dying at 18 just a few chapters ago... Jon has them all beat by dying at 17.

****

"You are a boy of fourteen," Benjen said. "Not a man, not yet. Until you have known a woman, you cannot understand what you would be giving up."

"I don't care about that!" Jon said hotly.

"You might, if you knew what it meant," Benjen said. "If you knew what the oath would cost you, you might be less eager to pay the price, son."

Jon felt anger rise inside him. "I'm not your son!"

Benjen Stark stood up. “More’s the pity.”

Establishing Benjen as a somewhat contentious father figure to Jon - even more fuel for my brand new Uncle Ben ‘theory’.

****

The wolf pup padded closer and nuzzled at Jon's face, but he kept a wary eye on Tyrion Lannister, and when the dwarf reached out to pet him, he drew back and bared his fangs in a silent snarl. 

"Shy, isn't he?" Lannister observed.

"Sit, Ghost," Jon commanded. "That's it. Keep still." He looked up at the dwarf. "You can touch him now. He won't move until I tell him to. I've been training him."

Possibly he and Sansa are the only ones who properly trained their direwolves, considering how the rest of them will end up behaving.

****

“If I wasn’t here, he’d tear out your throat,” Jon said. It wasn’t actually true yet, but it would be.

Pffffft! Edgy edgy edge-lord 💀

Though I also always feel like issuing casual threats to Tyrion Lannister so I can’t really blame him.

****

Standing, he was taller than the dwarf. It made him feel strange.

He’s got a weird preoccupation with comparing his height to Lannister men in this chapter. My headcanon for the books is that Jon’s quite tall by ADWD but evidently he’s tiny in AGOT if he feels strange being tall next to a dwarf.

****

final thoughts:

Believe it or not, I didn’t actually have Jonsa in mind with my new Uncle Ben theory, but I did just remember that brown haired Peter Parker’s main love interest is red-haired MJ :P

[ythmir-writes]

Fictober 2021, Day 01

Prompt: "I need you." Fandom: Ikemen Prince feat: Chevalier Michel Audience: general Tags: tw blood, injury

Over the course of time I had spent evaluating Rhodolite’s Princes, I had learned that Chevalier Michel had three kinds of grip.

First, was the one that barely grazed skin, barely touched. It was a grip because he pinned you with his eyes, judged you from afar for what worth you had, the weight of scrutiny crossing whatever distance was between you and settling like a heavy, inescapable weight.

Second, was the grip that touched only to push or throw away. A touch meant to disarm, dislocate, or dispose – whichever was needed to get something or someone out of his way. A touch that lingered long enough only to make sure the other didn’t.

The third was the one that did actually physically made contact. His hand vice-like around a collar, an arm, or throat. On good days, it would bruise. On bad days, whoever he was holding wouldn’t live long enough to feel that grip relax.

And at the moment, he was holding me with a grip that was all three.

“Drop it.” Chevalier held me near him, lips just barely grazing my own. His hand was around my wrist, the other on my other hand, twisting it out of the way and planting it on the balcony’s railing. Never mind the rose thorns digging unto both our palms. All the while his eyes bore into mine like they held the secrets of the universe, like if he could step any further, look any harder, he would understand the how and the why.

The sound of the ball seemed so far away. The revelry a faint sound drowned by the thundering of blood in my ears and the silent gasps our breathing.

Any other day, any other circumstances except for this, I would have found the entire situation endearing. Heartfelt. Romantic, even. Chevalier was handsome. Smart. Terrifyingly so in both. And I could not deny my attraction to him any more than I could deny the damning situation he found me in.

One thing to know about daggers. Another thing entirely, to see it brandished and thrust towards you.

And that particular dagger was now pinned between us, and with one movement it could end my life.

Or his.

I tried to shift my weight but Chevalier, heavier, ambidextrous, and having the advantage of leverage, refused to budge. I knew he had me where he wanted me; he had caught me, cornered me literally with a dagger meant to kill him in my hands – and between him and the doors that promised escape was just enough space for him to kill me if he wished. His eyes told me he wouldn’t hesitate.

But I could try. A dagger was a weapon dangerous only if it was used in surprise and quite frankly, with the way we were vying for control over the small blade, there would be no such thing. If I twist left, Chevalier’s arm would be long enough to plant the dagger in my back – but only just. It would not kill me. It would be incredibly painful. I would probably falter. But it would not stop me from sprinting away from him to jump and –

“Fall to the briars below and trap yourself in its thorns.” Chevalier finished my thoughts for me, looking a little bit disappointed at the desperation in my plan. “The thorns would leave a thousand cuts to bleed you dry. And even if you did survive that, then sickness.”

“Delightful.” I scowled.

“Would you like to know how briar’s poison would slowly rob you of every rational thought?” Chevalier angled his head slightly. “Then again, you must not have any left with the madness you’re trying to pull.”

I bared my teeth at him. From my angle, it only looked as if I meant to kiss him. “I’m sure you have a dozen other bits of knowledge you would like to impose upon me.”

“Feisty even when staring at death.”

“Five hundred pairs of eyes on us.” I said, grabbing at a thread of hope. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Five hundred and fifty two, with the guards.” Chevalier answered. “You shouldn’t have dared.”

“Kill me, then. Get it over it with.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Chevalier shifted, leaving space for me to breathe. “We are in the middle of a ball to celebrate your coming into the family. All these would come to waste.”

“Sure. Suddenly, royalty concerned themselves with gold spent on frivolity.”

“I never waste a coin.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I shook my head. “Sariel can find a new Belle before they can find my body I’m sure.”

Chevalier’s tone was colder. “He will not.”

I ignored the dread that settled over me. “Which one? Find another Belle or my body?”

Chevalier frowned. And his grip, impossibly, tightened all the more.

For a moment, I thought he was going to break my wrist then and there. I'd seen him do it, seen him grab and twist and stay despite the screaming. I's seen him do worse. The five hundred fifty two pairs of eyes would not be enough to stop him.

I closed my eyes and braced for it, for the harrowing sound of bone cracking, for the pain that would shoot up my arm and back.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, I felt his lips near my ear. A jarring enough sensation for me to gasp, move, to try in vain to escape, only for the tip of the dagger to dig enough into me to hurt.

“I need you.” Chevalier whispered with so much urgency I could only think of it as a confession. “Do not make me do this again.”

I did not know which horrified me more. The realization that he would not even hesitate to stab me, that I understood he was actually steadying me so as not to hurt me more –

Or that I believed him, despite the blood quickly staining our shirts.