#and did edits- then compared it to the edited version. over. and over. and over........ and over.......................

[canon-gabriel-quotes]

Transcript:

I'd like to congratulate you on getting your CPR certification.

Now remember, when you’re going in for compressions, it should sound like somebody is standing behind you with the worlds largest Dorito and cracking it open!

Go in firm and hard and snap as many ribs as you can on the way down, that means you’re doing it right.

You save that life. Good luck.

Or... Or... Or kill them, I don’t fucking care.

Audio source

[sparrowsfallingfromthesky]

in this most recent production of Spring Awakening I went to they changed Michaelmas to something else and I couldn't quite make it out and I kind of wish I knew what it was they were saying and why they did that

[guiltyandashamed]

headcannons: insecure about yourself after seeing someone else (brothers + side characters)

(2.7k words) It happens on one of those rare, quiet afternoons when the two of you are out in the Devildom, The conversation is easy. Until it isn’t. She passes you like she owns the street, tall, poised, beautiful in a way that feels otherworldly. A succubus, maybe, or a siren, or some other kind of woman with an enchanting beauty, with the kind of confidence you’ve never had. Her smile lingers on them for a second too long, and though they barely glance her way, your stomach sinks. You know it's irrational, but suddenly you're hyper aware of everything you're not. You laugh a little too quickly at his next joke. You nod without really hearing. You hide it well, at least, you think you do.

Lucifer

He catches the shift in you almost immediately. The falter in your tone, the way your gaze drops to the ground, hands suddenly too still. He’s attuned to subtle changes, he’s had to be, as the eldest, the one who notices when things go unspoken. And when he sees you look at that passing woman with something quiet and sharp in your eyes, it clicks. He doesn’t comment right away. Instead, he adjusts his pace so that you’re closer to his side. The back of his hand brushes yours.

“You know,” he says softly, “I’ve spent centuries surrounded by beings who try to manipulate attention. But I’ve never once been distracted from what I choose to keep close.” He pauses, turning his head to look at you. “And that’s you.”

Lucifer isn’t always good at emotional tenderness. But when he sees you shrinking into yourself, it rattles him more than he shows. He doesn’t press for explanation. He simply gives you his steadiness, his presence, and a hand that lingers a little longer when he reaches for yours.

Mammon

At first, he doesn’t get it. You go quiet, your smile fades a bit, but you’re still walking next to him, still laughing at his dumb jokes, just a little less like yourself. Then it hits him. He remembers the look you gave that other woman, the way your eyes followed her, then dropped away like you didn’t want to be caught comparing. Mammon isn’t the best with emotional nuance, but when it comes to you? He notices everything.

He panics a little internally. Did he say something wrong? Did someone look at you weird? Why’re you suddenly not smiling the way you usually do when you’re with him?

So he stops walking, right in the middle of the street. “Oi. What’s with the face?” he asks, softer than usual. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.” You try to wave it off, but he shakes his head. “Look, I don’t care who walks by. You think anyone else even exists when you’re around?” His voice cracks a bit from the sincerity. “You’re it, alright? You’re my favorite damn view.”

Then he grabs your hand and keeps walking like nothing happened, but his grip stays firm the rest of the way.

Leviathan

Levi doesn’t catch on at first. He’s too in his head, muttering about a limited-edition figurine he spotted in a shop window. But when he looks over and you’re not reacting like you normally would, he stumbles. “Did I… say something weird?” he asks, immediately assuming it’s his fault. Then he remembers her, the siren who walked past with all the self-assured grace he thinks he’ll never have. And he sees how you looked after her, the quick withdrawal into yourself. His stomach turns. He knows that feeling. He lives that feeling. Being second-best. Invisible. Not enough.

So he sidesteps his usual awkwardness. “Hey, um… if you’re feeling... y’know, weird or off or like, not... good enough or whatever... can I just say—that’s a total crit fail on your perception roll.” You blink, caught off guard, and he rushes on, red in the face. “You’re like... S-tier. I mean that. You’re the only one I feel like I can be this version of me around.” He offers you his sleeve to hold instead of his hand, because he’s still Levi. But the sentiment couldn’t be more real.

Satan

It’s a fleeting moment, but he sees it. The stillness in your expression after the woman passes, the way your voice flattens ever so slightly. You think you’re hiding it well, but Satan knows you too intimately not to notice the cracks. And what really cuts is how you don’t say anything. You just swallow it down like it’s not worth bringing up. He walks in silence for a beat, processing. Then, softly: “She wasn’t even half as radiant as you are when you talk about something you love.”

You glance at him, surprised, and he meets your gaze without flinching. “I know you won’t tell me what you’re thinking. But I want you to know... I saw it. And I see you.” He reaches for your hand, not to pull you along, but just to hold it in his own. “You don’t have to be louder, or flashier, or anything other than who you are when you’re with me.”

He doesn’t push the topic, doesn’t ask you to explain. He just slows down his pace, like he’s willing to match your mood and walk with it for however long it takes.

Asmodeus

He absolutely notices the woman. It’s hard not to, she’s practically dripping with seduction magic. But Asmo’s glance is automatic, casual, already forgotten… until he sees the way you tense beside him. You mask it well, but not to him. You go quiet. You stop making eye contact. His heart sinks. “Oh, darling,” he says, suddenly stopping short and turning to face you. “You felt that, didn’t you?”

He can feel the shift in your energy, the way you’re pulling into yourself. His voice gentles, loses the usual lilt. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re not enough. Even I get insecure sometimes.” He offers a small, honest smile. “But when I look at you… there’s no one else I’d rather have beside me.”

Then he does something uncharacteristically quiet: he leans in, rests his forehead against yours, and whispers, “You’re beautiful. In ways she’ll never understand.”He doesn’t need you to say anything back. He just slips his arm around yours and holds on, tighter than before.

Beelzebub

He doesn’t notice the woman at all. He’s too focused on whether you’ve had enough to eat, if your shoes are comfortable, if you’re enjoying the walk. But he notices you, how your energy shifts, how your smile fades into something tight and practiced. You try to hide it, but Beel knows the rhythm of your emotions like he knows the beat of his own heart.

He slows his steps, gently bumping your shoulder. “You okay?” he asks, voice low and careful. You nod, of course. You always nod. He stares ahead for a while, chewing on the silence like it’s something hard to swallow.

“I don’t really care what anyone else looks like,” he says eventually. “I care about you. I care about how you laugh, and how you sit beside me even when I’m eating enough for five people. That means more than anything." Then, in that gentle, unwavering way of his, he takes your hand and carries the silence for you. No pressure. No expectations. Just warmth. Just Beel, anchoring you when you start to drift.

Belphegor

He sees her. He sees you seeing her. And he sees you instantly pull away from him in that quiet, invisible way: how your hand doesn’t quite brush his anymore, how your expression dulls like you’ve slipped into some private shadow you don’t want to name.

Belphie gets angry about it, not at you, but at the world that made you feel like you had to compare. That made you feel like less. His hand finds yours again, firmly. “You thinking dumb shit again?” he murmurs, voice heavy with sleep and something else… something protective.

You try to brush it off, but he doesn’t let go. “You’re not allowed to hate yourself around me,” he says simply. “That’s the rule.” He tugs you just a little closer, leaning his head on your shoulder as you walk. “If you’re gonna shut down, I’m still staying right here. Might even take a nap standing up just to prove a point.” It’s his way of saying: I see you. And I’m not going anywhere.

Diavolo

He notices the other woman, sure, but only because your hand suddenly feels smaller in his, your steps a little slower. You don't say anything, but Diavolo's joy dims as he watches you retreat into yourself. He’s not oblivious. His life has been full of people trying to catch his eye, but yours is the presence he’s grown to crave.

“Hey,” he says gently, stopping the both of you. “Look at me.” When you do, reluctantly, quietly, he leans down a bit to meet your gaze. “There is no spell, no charm, no allure that compares to you.” His tone is softer than usual, reverent even. “Do you think I fell for you because of some illusion? I’ve ruled a kingdom for centuries. I’ve seen beauty in a thousand forms. But no one has ever made me laugh the way you do. Or made me feel understood.”

He brushes a hand against your cheek with heartbreaking gentleness. “You don’t have to say what you’re thinking. Just… let me remind you of who you are to me.” He tucks your hand into his arm like it belongs there and walks on, making the whole Devildom feel like it orbits around you.

Barbatos

He senses the change in your mood before you even feel it fully. Your steps become measured, your energy tight. Barbatos is deeply attuned to the unspoken, and though he notices the woman too, he’s far more focused on how you subtly retreat into yourself. He doesn’t draw attention to it immediately. He simply shifts his body closer to yours, not pressing but present.

Then, after a quiet beat, he speaks. “It’s interesting, isn’t it?” he muses aloud. “How easily we mistake someone else’s flash for our own dimness.” You glance at him, startled, but he offers only a small, knowing smile.

“You shine differently. Not loudly. Not demanding. But with depth. Grace. Thoughtfulness. Anyone can catch the eye, but not everyone holds the heart.” Barbatos pauses, as though considering time itself. “And you hold mine.”

He doesn’t say much more, he rarely needs to. But when he offers you his arm again, you feel the strength of it, a quiet anchor reminding you: he chose you. And he always would.

Solomon

He notices everything, the woman, your reaction, the subtle shift in your posture. You’re trying so hard to hide it, but he knows the signs. He’s been around long enough to see that kind of pain wear grooves into people.

He doesn’t call it out directly. Instead, he tilts his head and says, “You know, I’ve met sirens who could stop armies with a single glance. But not one of them has ever made me want to stay.” He lets that hang in the air for a moment before adding, “You do.”

When you blink, unsure how to respond, he offers a rare, genuine smile, less teasing, more honest. “You’ve got a stubborn light in you. The kind that doesn’t need to scream to be felt. That’s what caught me.”

He’ll nudge your hand, light against his own, as if offering you the choice: speak or stay silent. Either way, he’s not going anywhere. “Come on,” he says, softer now. “Let’s go somewhere quieter. Just us.”

Simeon

He notices, not just the other woman, but the way you go quiet. How you withdraw without a word, folding into yourself like a page creased by habit. His heart aches, not just for your sadness but for the effort you make to hide it.

He slows his pace to match yours, letting the quiet settle before saying, “There’s a kind of beauty no glamour can touch.” You glance at him, unsure whether to brush it off. He offers you a gentle smile, the kind that makes it feel like the sun’s peeking through your clouds.

“I’ve lived among angels, watched starlight bloom in the Celestial Realm… but none of it has ever made me feel the way I do when I see you.” His words are soft, unflinching. “And I see you. Even when you try to disappear.”

Then, without asking, he loops his pinky with yours, quietly grounding, quietly sincere. “You don’t need to say anything. But I’m here. Always.”

Mephistopheles

He doesn’t notice right away, too busy monologuing about something minor and theatrical, until you suddenly stop contributing. It takes a few seconds for the silence to register, and then he glances at you. Your face is neutral. Too neutral. “Oi,” he mutters, nudging your side. “Where’d you go just now?”

You give him a practiced smile. It’s almost enough to fool him. He follows your gaze, sees the woman walking away, and instantly connects the dots. His jaw clenches, not out of jealousy, but fury at the self-doubt flickering in your eyes. “Pfft,” he scoffs, too loud on purpose. “Overdressed and underwhelming. Wouldn’t last a second in a real conversation. You? You could destroy me with one look, and that’s before you’ve had your morning tea.”

He says it like a joke, but his eyes betray the sincerity. “Next time your thoughts try to trick you like that… just tell them to shut up. Or let me do it for you.” Then he threads your arm through his dramatically. “Now come along, my love. You’ve got a face worth showing off.”

Thirteen

Thirteen clocks the siren in an instant, and rolls her eyes so hard it’s a wonder they stay in her skull. But when she looks back at you and sees the way you’ve suddenly gone quiet, the light dimmed in your expression, she stops dead in her tracks. “Hey. Don’t do that.”

You blink at her, startled. “Do what?” She squints at you, then squints harder. “That thing where you act like you're fine but you’re actually spiraling over some glittery bitch who couldn’t outsmart a single one of my traps.” You try to brush her off, but she doesn’t let you.

“Seriously,” she mutters, moving to stand in front of you. “I’ve seen you face down demons, chaos, me—and that’s what gets you? That?” She jerks her thumb back toward the siren. Then, more softly, “You don’t see it, but you level me. Every time you laugh. Every time you keep showing up.” She nudges you with her elbow. “You don’t gotta talk. Just… don’t disappear, okay?” Then she throws her arm around your shoulder and grins. “Let’s go cause trouble. Hot people like us can get away with anything.”

Raphael

He notices the subtle shift immediately, your quiet withdrawal, the way your gaze drops when the other woman passes by. He’s always been keen on observing the small details, and this one pulls at something deeper in him. Raphael rarely speaks out of turn, preferring to keep his thoughts measured and precise, but when he senses your mood darkening, he allows himself to be a little more direct. “Is something troubling you?” His voice is calm, steady—a gentle anchor in the swirling discomfort you feel.

You try to brush it off, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he stays close, matching his pace to yours as you walk. “You often doubt yourself,” he says quietly, “but I see strength in you that you don’t even realize you have.”

He pauses, looking at you with unshaken sincerity. “The world might throw illusions of beauty your way, but what matters most isn’t what you show on the surface. It’s the kindness you carry, the care you give, the healing you inspire. Those things don’t fade, no matter who passes by.”

Raphael offers you a small, rare smile, not the serene healer’s smile, but a warmer one meant only for you. “You are more than enough. And I am here, always ready to remind you of that.”

[sunrizef1]

Baby Blue

Pairing: Logan Sargeant x fem!reader

Warnings: Slight cursing, not edited

Word count: 3.8k (this was supposed to be short 😭)

Summary: Logan had just misspoke, shouldnt have been a huge problem, right? Wait, what do you mean he said he had a daughter? And is that his girlfriend?

Authors Note: Surpise, not a whiv chapter but instead, an uncharacteristically sweet fic.

Logan had fucked up. Royally. And he knew that, which is why, the second the words had left his mouth, he was grimacing, gaze quickly switching over to Oscar who was sat a few yards away with wide eyes.

It was the United States Grand Prix. Austin, Texas. Logan had been put on the media panel that day since he was the only American present and had the most connection to Austin, Daniel Ricciardo not included.

By pure luck or maybe by sheer will, Logan had been sat next to Oscar, both grateful to have a friend next to them. Fortunately, on Oscar’s other side was Max, a driver who’d always been respectful toward the American. Lewis completed the quartet, another driver that Logan wouldn’t have to worry about in terms of kindness.

When the panel started, almost none of the questions were for him. He’d expected that, he wasn’t exactly having an overwhelming season. Especially compared to the joys and successes of the Red Bull world champion or the unexpected high-placing finishes of the Aussie next to him. And his woes were nothing to write home about when placed next to the declining team performances from the 7-time world champion and future Ferrari driver.

So, as he had expected, most of the questions were asked to his left.

But he’d been put on the panel for a reason, and eventually an America-related question did arise, signaling that maybe he would be of use today.

“Good morning,” the reporter calls out toward Logan and he smiles with a nod toward the darkness where the reporters are all sat.

“Morning.”

“How’s it feel to be back racing in America? You have any family or special guests in the garage this weekend, giving you that extra boost?”

Oscar nudges his knee with his own, causing Logan to let out a small laugh as he glances over. He actually did have some special guests in the garage, not just his own family, who’d come from Miami for this, but also, you, his Fiancée. And his 4-year-old daughter, of course.

Your entire family lived in Texas. So whenever you werent following Logan around the world, you landed back home in Texas, the family home being the best place for your daughter to grow up. It helped that your parents loved her more than the world, constant presents being rained down on the little girl every time you’d bring her. He hadn’t seen you in about two months, not having had a time to come back to America since summer. So having you in his garage for the first time in a while was all that much more of a motivator for him.

He raises the microphone to his lips to say a paraphrased version of that, your relationship not being a very public one yet. Logan wanted to get the wedding done before he paraded you around, not wanting to add the stress of the public on your already existing stress from wedding planning and taking care of your daughter.

“It’s always great to get back home, you know? Uh, got to stay with some family out here for a few days, got some good southern food in me, which was great,” Logan laughs lightly, watching as the reporters grin widens, “And it always feels different when you’ve got important people in the garage, cheering you on. People who don’t usually get to make it, so that’s really nice.”

The reporter nods as Logan puts his mic down, but she raises hers to further the questioning, “Anyone specific? A lot of people were curious about a few different people in your garage.”

Logan nods, your family was pretty well known, especially in Texas. You weren’t famous or anything, but you’d grown up like Logan and when people have that type of money, their names get spoken pretty often.

“Yeah, some close family and friends. You’re probably asking about the l/n’s and I, um, knew them growing up so it’s really nice to see them out here supporting me,” Logan pauses slightly. The internet was pretty sure he had a girlfriend, not that he’d confirmed anything. It wasn’t hard to figure out though, as he almost never shut up about you. But it wouldn’t hurt if he mentioned having a girlfriend, right? Everyone already knew that anyway, it couldn’t do too much damage, “My girlfriend’s here, as well. Really happy to have her here, she hasn’t been to a race in a while.”

Oscar snorts, making Logan glare at the Aussie. Oscar knew you were more than his girlfriend, having been present at the engagement. He also knew Logan was leaving out a key family member in his list, a certain baby being completely unmentioned.

“Well it’s always nice to have your family, right?” The reporter nods with a kind smile, jotting something down on her notebook.

Logan nods with a matching smile, eyes shining as he thinks about you and your family in the garage, “Yeah, and I mean, my daughter-“

Logan pauses, stomach dropping as he takes in the slip-up. He glances over to Oscar whose eyes are wide with shock, mouth dropped open slightly. Max leans forward to lock eyes with the American from Oscars other side, eyebrows furrowed. Lewis looks his way as well, but his expression is soft as he takes in the younger man’s evident embarrassment.

Logan had fucked up.

His cheeks are bright red as all the eyes in the room stare at him, questioning looks on their faces. Logan laughs slightly, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks back out toward the reporter who’s now wearing an incredulous smile, “Shit.”

This breaks some of the shock in the room, laughs ringing out from in front of him. Logan shakes his head with another embarrassed laugh, “My girlfriends gonna be so mad at me.”

Logan drops the mic next to him, reaching his hands up to shield his face in order to avoid some of the embarrassment. Oscar, still laughing, reaches over to pat him on the back, his free hand stifling the laugh threatening to escape his throat.

Luckily for Logan, they run out of time before the questions can get back to him and the surprise child he just revealed he had. He’s quick to rush out of the room, only pausing to allow Oscar to catch up before he’s gone again, practically running to Williams.

He can hear Oscar struggling to keep up behind him, shocked laughs occasionally echoing out as he runs.

“Logan- Come on, slow down man!” Oscars calling out toward the blond, Logan continuing at his fast pace. He only slows when he makes it to hospitality, Oscar slamming on his brakes in order to avoid crashing into the taller mans back.

Logans eyes scan the room in search of you, Oscar reaching a tired arm up to rest agaisnt the distressed Americans shoulder.

Oscars groaning as Logan walks off, apparently having caught sight of your family.

“Hi, Mrs. L/N,” Logan says shyly as he walks up to your mom, a sheepish smile painted on his flushed face. Your mom turns toward him with a smile but after taking in his guilty demeanor, she looks at him suspiciously.

“You’ve known me for 18 years and you’ve never called me Mrs L/N,” your mom looks your fiancé up and down, eyes narrowing as she catches sight of an equally nervous Oscar, “What did you do, Logan? And why did you drag Oscar into it?”

Logan laughs nervously, glancing back at Oscar who ducks his head, looking away from the interaction, “Do you, maybe, know where y/n is? It’s important.”

Your mom pauses, suspicion still rolling of her in waves. But, sensing Logan’s urgency, she nods, “She’s in your room with Nat.”

Logan can’t help the smile that shows at the mention of your daughter’s name, sighing slightly with relief, “Thank you, I need to go talk to her.”

Your mom just nods, watching as Logan starts to walk quickly away, moving toward you in his room. Oscar moves to follow but your mom is calling him back before he can take a step, “Stay here, Oscar. Let him go, you’re going to tell me about the season. Either that or you’ll be the one to tell me what Logan did.”

Oscar, having had plenty of conversations with your mother while growing up, sighs, accepting his fate, “It’s been good.”

Logan, though, has made it to his room, opening the door quietly as he reaches it. He smiles once he looks inside, being met with you dancing around with your daughter, music playing from your phone on the table. As the door opens, your daughter looks over, a grin breaking out on her little face as she practically lights up, “Daddy!”

Logan grins as your daughter jumps up, sprinting over to jump into her dad’s embrace, giggling as he lifts her up into the air, clutching her gently to his chest, “Hi, baby. You having fun with mama?”

Your daughter nods, smiling brightly as she turns to look back at you, “Yeah! Me and mama went to see the cars and they let me sit in it! I wanna be a driver like you, dad.”

Logan grins, looking over to where you’re stood, a small smile on your face as you watch the interaction. When you catch Logan’s gaze on you, you speak up, “They let her sit in your car. They told her about how her daddy races every weekend and she decided that that’s what she wanted to do. She said you’re the coolest person she knows, now.”

Logan laughs, warmth filling his heart as you recap your daughter’s words, “Just don’t tell her Oscar races, too. Can’t have her thinking he’s cooler than me.”

You daughter looks up at the statement, confusion crossing her face, “Uncle Os drives fast too?”

Logan hums, nodding as he sways, your daughter resting her head on his chest, “Yeah, he does. He’s not as cool as me, though.”

You daughter hums, “I think he’s pretty cool.”

You laugh, moving toward the father-daughter pair, a serious look crossing your face, “He is, baby. Do you want to go see him so I can talk to daddy?”

Logan grimaces but lets go as your daughter nods, letting you set her down. She wraps her small hand around one of your fingers, swaying happily at the idea of seeing her Australian uncle.

You push the door open to go find Oscar but when you look up, you see Oscar’s already stood there. He looks exhausted and Logan knows that a conversation with your mom was no doubt the reason why.

“Uncle Ozzy!” Your daughter’s small voice calls from below you, causing a bright grin to burst onto Oscar’s face as he picks her up, the small girls hands immediately moving to push against his face. Oscar laughs, moving an arm to support the small girls weight as she pushes his face around.

You smile at the pair, laughing as your daughter grasps Oscars hair in her small fists and pulls gently, just watching as his head rolls around, “Can you watch her? I have to talk to Logan.”

Oscar smirks, glancing over your shoulder to see Logan standing sheepishly, “Someones in trouble.”

You hum, small smile on your lips, “Can you just hang with her for a minute?”

“Yeah, I can,” Oscar says, smiling down at your daughter in his arms, “Anything for my favourite American.”

You hear Logan mumble “rude” under his breath, warranting a snort from you as you watch Oscar walk away, no doubt about to parade your daughter around to anyone who'd listen.

You turn back around, coming face-to-face with Logans grimacing form, “Saw the panel.”

Logan winces, rubbing his hand along the back of his neck, “Yeah?”

You hum, stepping across the room to reach your fiance, “Mhm, I did.”

“Im sorry,” Logan sighs, looking anywhere but at you.

You can't help the small laugh that escapes you at his clear distress. Logans head snaps up, confusion crossing his face at your apparent glee, “What?”

“Im not mad, Lo,” you laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck. He stares at you, a puzzled look stuck on his previously fear-stricken face.

“You’re not?”

You smile up at him, shaking your head, “I mean, it's not how I would’ve wanted to announce it but I don’t mind too much.”

“Really?” You giggle when you catch the relief on his face, his shoulders dropping dramatically.

“Mhm,” you tangle one of your hands in the hair at the nape of his neck, his head tilting slightly back into your touch, “It was nice to be private for a while during the engagement. We didn’t have concrete wedding plans and Nat was so young. But the weddings basically planned and Nats old enough to handle herself in public, I think it’s a really good time, actually. Do you want to say something official?”

“I will, but until then I’d be happy to not have to hide you guys,” Logan grins, a hand reaching up to grasp the side of your face. You blush as he presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

“That sounds lovely,” you say, untangling yourself from his hold, “But, for now, I think you have interviews to attend to.”

“Yeah, yeah, I do,” Logan replies, but his gaze is still locked on you, love filling his eyes, “I’ll see you in a minute, I love you.”

“Love you too, Lo. Go do your interviews,” Your soft smile shines, lighting up your face.

Logan nods, moving to exit the small room, stopping to send you another grin. You laugh, pushing him out of the room, the door sliding closed behind him.

He moves on practical auto-pilot, feet carrying him to the media pen, thoughts of his family stuck on his mind. He reaches the pen quickly, spotting a group of about 8 drivers all huddled together in a chat. He thinks about walking the other direction but Max spots him first, gesturing for the younger driver to walk over. Logan agrees reluctantly, making his way to his fellow drivers.

“Logan!” Max calls, a smile on his face as he greets the Williams driver warmly.

Logan nods, smiling at Max politely, “Hey, Max.”

Max grins, throwing an arm around the blond driver, “How are you doing?”

Logan hums with a small smirk, knowing exactly what Max was eluding to, “I’m great, actually. Thanks for asking, Max.”

Max tilts his head with a wide smile, raising an eyebrow, “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I mean, you know how my morning went.”

Max seems to catch that Logan’s allowing him to publicly address the situation in front of the other drivers, turning his attention to the slightly confused drivers around them, “How’d the Mrs feel about it?”

“She was fine with it,” Logan smiles, “Honestly kinda happy to be open about it.”

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Lando says from across the small circle, a confused look occupying his face.

Logan shakes his head lightly, arms crossed across his chest, “Fiancée, actually. Been engaged for like a year now.”

This sends a wave of shock around the group, Daniel being the only one to pipe up, a huge smile on his face, “I know what this is about!”

George turns to the VCARB driver, a questioning look laying beneath his dramatic sunglasses, “What are you talking about?”

Before Daniel can explain, a high-pitched voice yells out from behind Logan.

“Daddy!”

Several drivers turn, being met with the sight of a small girl sprinting her way toward the group, a smiley Oscar trailing along behind her. The girl giggled as she approaches her father, skipping along happily as she gets near him. Logan leans down, opening his arms to let her walk into his grasp. She wraps her arms around his neck and Logan holds her tightly as Oscar stops behind him.

“Hey baby,” Logan says to his daughter as he looks down at her, “Have a good time with uncle Osc?”

The small girl nods excitedly, grinning as she looks back over to the man she’d spent the past 15 minutes with, “Ozzy took me to the orange garage, um, papaya I think actually, and I got to sit in another car!”

Logan hums, running a hand through the girls hair, trying his best to swipe it back into place, “Yeah?”

“Uh huh, it was really fun!”

Logan smiles, turning back to thank Oscar for looking after the girl. He turns back around, catching the gaze of about 8 different F1 drivers, all with varying levels of shock painted on their faces, “I don't know if you guys saw, but, um, I accidently revealed i had a daughter this morning and, um, this is her?”

Max is the first to laugh, having already been through his shock about the young girl currently attached to her father. Logans face heats as the drivers stare, Nat burrowing her head in her fathers neck as she tries to discreetly glance at the men around her without having to make any eye contact.

“Congrats, man,” Daniel grins, moving over to clap the younger driver on the back. Logan chuckles slightly as your daughter finally moves her head away from him, her curiosity at the Aussie overtaking her shyness.

The honey badger smiles at her, nodding his head. She smiles gently, reaching a small fist out toward the man. Daniels eyes widen at the gesture, eyes glancing between the girl and her outstretched arm before he reaches his own hand up to fist-bump hers. She nods with a satisfied smile, turning back toward Logans neck.

“He’s kinda cool, I think,” She mumbles and Logan smiles glancing over to see if Daniel has heard her words. Based on the increased grin on his face, Logan figures he had.

The rest of the drivers take their turns congratulating Logan on his fatherhood and introducing themselves to the small girl, her favourites being Daniel, Max, George and Alex, who she’d already met in the Williams garage over the past few months.

Eventually, all the socializing caused her to fall asleep against her father's chest, her tired eyes slowly drifting closed. Logan sways slightly, trying his best to soothe her in her slumber.

Once she's fallen asleep, he turns to Oscar, "Do you know where y/n is?"

Oscar nods, "I think she'd fallen asleep when I went to drop Nat back off. Didn't want to wake her so I just brought her over here."

Logan nods, glancing over to see the other drivers getting pulled into interviews. He didn't want to wake you, knowing how little sleep you'd been getting lately with all the wedding planning and your daughter. Anyone else in your family would be too hard to find on such short notice.

So, when his pr officer calls him over to do interviews, he holds Nat a little bit tighter, hoping the interviews don't wake her.

He smiles at the shocked interviewer as she hands him a microphone which he holds in his free hand, trying his best to support your daughter with one arm.

"Morning," Logan nods, voice low.

The interviewer nods slightly, shaking herself out of her shock so she can ask the American some questions.

"Good morning!" Logan thanks his lucky stars as the woman catches his drift and tries her hardest to stay cheerful while keeping her voice relatively quiet, "I had a couple questions about the panel from this morning but it seems you've answered them yourself before I could even ask."

Logan laughs, glancing down at his girl before bringing the microphone to his lips, "Yeah, my girlfriend was asleep and I didn't want to wake her so this girl is joining us today."

The interviewer smiles warmly, "Before this I saw she was hanging out with some of the other drivers?"

"Yeah, yeah, she was. She, uh, had a good time getting to meet some of the grid. But, you know, all the socializing tired her out."

The woman in front of him nods again, glancing over his shoulder at who Logan knew to be Max, getting asked questions across the pen, "How'd they react?"

"I think they were pretty surprised, you know? I don't think a lot of them saw the panel from this morning and even then, I didn't really give much of an explanation. Don't think Max even believed me until Oscar brought her over," Logan laughs, grinning lovingly at the girl starting to stir in his arms.

"Hi baby," Logan says gently, watching as the little girl rubs at her eyes, trying to pull the tiredness from them.

"Hi Dad, where'd Ozzy go?"

Logan glances over his shoulder, looking for the Australian in question. He eventually sees him, turning his body so Nat can see him as well,

"Uncle Osc is just over there, angel."

The girls nods, a frown still on her face from having to wake up, “What about Maxy?”

Logan grins, happy that his daughter was already comfortable with his fellow drivers, even going as far to seek Max out. Logan turns straight around, pointing behind them at the Red Bull driver, "He's there. And Danny's next to him."

The girl nods, a satisfied look on her face as she spots her new friends. Logan turns back to the interviewer, the grin not leaving his face.

Max, meanwhile, is in the middle of an interview when he notice the interviewer looking over his shoulder. Max looks at the man in front of him with a confused look, the man quick to explain.

"Think the newest addition to the paddock is looking for you, Max."

Max looks over his shoulder to see a small girl, chin resting on her dad's shoulder as she stares back at Max. When he turns to see her, she grins, moving a small hand to wave excitedly at the driver before moving to tug at her father's hair, looking for his attention.

Max grins, waving back as Logan looks over, indulging the girl. She laughs happily, getting even more excited as she spots Daniel beside him.

"Maxy! Danny!" Max looks beside him and sees that Daniel hasn't noticed your daughters yelling and he quickly leans to the side, poking the Aussie. Daniel turns to the side to see what Max wants but is instead met with Max pointing vaguely across the pen. Daniel glances over and grins when he sees Logan and his daughter, the smaller of the two waving hurriedly at the pair of drivers.

Daniel waves back, a grin practically splitting his face. The interviewer sends him a questioning glance and he laughs lightly, "Seems we've got a new cheerleader, then."

The interviewer laughs, quickly returning to the questions. Max, after waving bye to your daughter, turns back as well.

Your daughter, now properly noticed by her new favorite drivers, turns back around, letting Logan get back to his questions. She wraps her arms around his neck gently, smiling in satisfaction as she leans up to tell him something.

"I like your friends, dad."

Logan smiles warmly, happy to see her getting along with his coworkers, "I'm glad, baby."

———————————————

@casperlikej @evie-119

[definitelynotanalien]

You’re screwed.

Tw; swearing

inspired by a dream i had

Sae Itoshi has been your friend ever since you were twelve years old.

You first met at some silly tour of the football academy, your father was a major investor in Re Al’s club and he had insisted that the two of you get to meet the new talents.

Your father was busy chatting with one of his associates, while you zoned off. It was rather normal for a kid your age who would have rather been playing with your friends than listening to boring business talk.

Unfortunately you weren’t allowed to read a book, or use a phone, so you were stuck ignoring the conversation and making up weird scenarios in your head.

You did that for around five seconds before a certain pink haired boy caught your attention. A — not very awkward — teenage boy version of the future greatest midfielder in the world.

He had the prettiest lower eye lashes, and his actual eyes were gorgeous. They were a green tinted cyan that seemed to contain the mystery’s of the ocean, you would compare it to the Mariana Trench, but his eyes were slightly more intimidating.

So you stared at the boy, burning holes through his soul, using his casual attractiveness to provide some interest in your father’s business interaction.

Of course eventually the mysterious teenager looked at you with a deadpan expression, noticing your less-than-subtle look. You responded with a side glance to your father and his associate, and you could’ve sworn the boy chuckled at your predicament. You rolled your eyes in response, and the boy walked over to you casually.

The pair of you didn’t make proper conversation, perhaps a small introduction at most. Sae simply stood next to you to keep you company, letting you continue to gape at him.

You ended up exchanging numbers thought some stroke of luck, and have kept in contact ever since. Quite a few years have passed since then and now you’re screwed, you’re sure of it.

You see, you had developed a massive crush on him. Who could blame you? An attractive and fit guy who was that interested in you? The dream! And now it’s come back to bite you in the ass.

He’s straddling you against the couch of your much too expensive air BNB, your phone playing a rather familiar reel in hand.

The pair of you are on a vacation in the Alps, supposed to be having fun in the snow and relaxing, of course nothing can ever go as planned — especially if it’s on your fathers dime.

Sae has found your collection on Instagram with various edits and more of him saved, with the official title being ‘🤤🤤🤤’, and now he’s confronting you in his unusually Sae fashion by dangling your phone in front of you, as if it’s the steak to your dog.

“I didn’t know you were that interested in…” He pauses, and a pregnant silence fills the room.

Your heart skips a beat, and you regret not deleting that collection a while ago, but you didn’t think it’d come back to bite you in the butt this soon!

“Football.” Sae concludes with a mischievous grin, fluttering his fluffy eyelashes.

You groan underneath him, holy shit, you’re far more screwed than you think.

[flamingpudding]

Oh yes new crack au the Nightingales I think that's spelled right.

Are a big family with a lot of people in it we're all related by chance they all have a family reunion though in the infinite realms imagine Batman Surprise when you get the invitation in the mail to invite him in the Justice League to the Nightingale family reunion

Turns out that Klarion and Martha Night (what her name used to be before she married Thomas Wayne) share the same deadbeat mother the same one he slept with Klarion's Mom and the same one who had Martha Night with Martha's dad

Just a dumb crack idea of Morpher and Clarion being half siblings and Bruce having to deal with that and many other cookies are like half cousins removed are like aunties and uncles that don't visit a lot because of family drama

Just imagine a big old family reunion hosted by Danny but family games everyone bringing something to eat weirdly planning plans to murder their enemies sometimes but help from younger relatives that understand things more

Teaching your family how to use is technology that they had no idea existed cuz they were born no technology zone

Goofy thing Martha and Klarion Bleak literally being comparative half siblings who win every minigame during the family reunion over here styling out children and jump rope just because they can

Love this idea. I modified the Half siblings origin in for my bit a little to something that felt would make it a little funnier. Also Thanks so much. Your ask came at the right time with my vacation and rekindled my passion for writing. I got a lot of stuff to catch up this vacation!

I was playing with the thought of adding this to my ghost king is my uncle AU but decided against it. This family constellation created for this Family Reunion AU feels better suited for it and funnier in a way.

Either way, i think I drifted of a bit into the crackish space and maybe also went a little ooc at some points... but please enjoy.

[Also an edited and probably a bit more flashed out version might get uploaded to AO3 at some point...]

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

A Nightingale Family Reunion

Bruce blinked and stared at the glowing floating eyeball before him. That thing had appeared in the middle of a meeting with the Justice League, directly in front of him. A waspy green tail curled around a envelop, decorated with a small ghost and addressed to his a name. His actual name. Not "Batman" but "Bruce Wayne".

Now it was lucky that identity reveals had already happened with all the core members that were in this meeting. Yet it was still unnerving that someone sent him this creature, directly to him while he was with the Justice League as Batman.

It took him a moment to realize that he wasn't the only one that had a floating eyeball before him. It took only one glance to the side to see that Wonder Woman, aka Diana also had one floating before her. Though compared to him she appeared to have expected it. Thanking that creature for the delivery of an 'Invitation'.

Bruce's eyes flitted back to the eyeball before him. It stared back at him, unblinking, of course not something it could do without eyelids. Unlike Diana he had not yet reached out to grasp that envelope from the creatio. Rather contemplating what could happen if he took it and what all could result from that action.

Deep in his thoughts he did not notice how Diana approached head shaking with a smile. "I didn't realize you were part of the Family. You shouldn't keep it waiting, The messengers have jobs to do."

She didn't hesitate taking the envelope from the eyeball for him, thanking the creation before pressing the envelope into his hand. He reluctantly accepted it, determined to question her later more about this as she appeared to know more than he did about this… phenomenon.

And he wasn't disappointed.

'Later' as he found out Diana explained to him how 'the family' had a get-together every 100 years. A family Reunion of sorts of the entire family in a place called the 'Infinite Realms'. Bruce had wanted to question her more on this but she only patted his shoulder, explaining that not all 'mortal' family members got to take part of this event during their 'live-time'. That some would even either be too young to even remember ever taking part in one until they died.

An unsettling statement. Especially when she implied that one could still take part even after death. It was very unsettling but for now Bruce accepted that explanation. He would still try to press on more questions. His children, who all apparently also got invitations delivered by that eyeball creature (including, even Alfred), weren't much better. While some took it in stride, others went into full on investigation mode. (He stopped counting how many days Tim forwent sleep to deep dive into information about the Infinite Realms.)

And then the day of the 'Family Reunion' came.

Diana had decided to accompany them into the Infinite Realms. Helping by being their guide, his stomach sunk as a green vortex opened before them, an eyeball with a bow tie floating before it, moving like it bowed to them. He worriedly had glanced at his second oldest son, hoping this was not going to be some kind of PTSD trigger, but Jason had appeared surprisingly fine.

So despite not feeling alright with it but encouraged by Diana, that this was harmless, they stepped through the portal.

On the other side they came face to face with a giant foyer, even bigger than the one his children knew from Wayne Manor. Bruce blinked as he stared, schooling his expression into his usual stoic one as he surveyed his surroundings. Several blue skinned or greenish…. people mingled with each other. Some having two legs, others something Bruce could help but describe as a ghost tail.

Then his usual stoic expression dropped as his eyes visible widened and he saw the Ghost of his mother arguing with the Witch Boy Klarion in the middle of the foyer, surrounded by others cheering them on as they apparently were holding some sort of competition and not arguing as he first thought. His children weren't fairing much better considering they knew what Martha Wayne looked like from Portrays.

Alfred appeared to be the least one faced as the older man shock his head fondly as if that wasn't an unfamiliar sight to him.

"DIANA!" A cheery voice shouted that ripped Bruce, as well as his children out of their shock as they saw a blur of black and white approach. Bruce hand instantly went to the hidden batarang in his pockets. But they could only blink as they watched the Amazonian Woman get engulfed in a bear hug that would put Dick's octopus-like hugs to shame.

"My Little Niece! So happy you made it! Oh and I see you decided to help Martha's little one to get here safely!" The white haired man grinned brightly. "I hope you're ready Dan really wants a rematch with you, you know?"

"Uncle Danny. Of course I would come, I would never miss this." Diana smiled, and Bruce decided then that this man likely wasn't hostile and let go of the batarang. Though he only relaxed slightly. "Besides I definitely didn't want to miss this one considering this is their first time."

Danny, as Bruce had noted the name, nodded sagely as he let go of Diana. "I know but it is so hard to organise a get-together with everyone. Every 100 years is the easiest to do this."

Bruce took note of that information also. His eyes darting back to his children that were now curiously watching the crowd, more interested as they judged the situation as not dangerous for the moment. But before Bruce could decided what to do, the white haired man Danny hugged him.

"So glad you could join! I was so eager to finally get to meet my grandbaby! I remember when Martha first showed you off to me! You were such a sweet little thing!" To say Bruce was shocked was an understatement. Dick and the rest of his kids started snickering when they saw how Bruce's face morphed from stoic to something akin to shell shocked for the bat.

As if on que a voice he hadn't heard in years called out "BRUCIE!" And a moment later the man was in a group hug, sandwiched between the man with white hair, claiming to be his maternal grandfather and the ghost of his mother.

"MARTHA! I WASN'T DONE WITH YOU YET!" Another familiar voice shouted. Less considered family but still shocking as Klarion marched over arms crossed as he the witch boy glared at Martha. "We are not done yet sister!"

"SISTER?!" The batkids shouted in chorus. Bruce was pretty sure this was the moment his brain blue screened.

Alfred on the other hand seemed rather amused. Though before Bruce could even give a semblance of a reaction to… just everything another very familiar but also strict voice shouted across the entire foyer.

"BRUCE THOMAS WAYNE!" The reaction was instant, as if it hadn't been years Bruce stood straighter, eyes darting to who shouted his full name. Wide eyed he saw the ghost of his father Thomas Wayne approaching…. with a Sandale in hand.

And while his brain was currently too overwhelmed to recognise the shock of first seeing his parents (even as ghosts), and also the chaos of whatever kind of family reunion this was. A in -trained reaction was the first thing that got his body in motion, as memories of his childhood flashed across his mind. Not even his own training could have prevented this kind of reaction.

The Bat-kids on the other hand watched stunned as there was only a second of Bruce seeing the Ghost of Thomas Wayne with a stern expression and a sandal in hand before the man they knew as Batman. Stoic, unmoving and unphased, emotionally constipated Batman. Hightailed it and ran, the expression of a child getting caught with their hand in the cookie jar plastered across the running man's face.

Klarion bursted out laughing, Martha chuckled amused, the smile of a caring mother hidden behind her hand and Alfred he looked even fonder, openly chuckling. All the while the ghost of Thomas Wayne chased after his son shouting of "WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE ANCIENTS WERE YOU THINKING DROPPING OUT OF MEDICAL SCHOOL! WHAT KIND OF EXAMPLE ARE YOU FOR YOUR OWN CHILDREN! ONE OF THEM IS EVEN A HIGHSCHOOL DROPOUT! EVEN HARVEY AND HARLEY HAVE A DEGREE!"

The other guests of this reunion didn't seemed bothered at all and even Diana shook her head as she excused herself in search for her Uncle Dan that apparently wanted a rematch. It took a moment for the Batkids but once the shock settled their attention instantly got drawn to their grandmother starting arguing with Klarion about some game they had to finish.

"Uh…. how are you two siblings?" Jason, the brave soul asked, while his sibling seemed to still try to catch up with things. Maybe Jason was just better in these pack that thought for later moments, to recover the fastest.

"Oh this is your Great Uncle Klarion my dears. My halfbrother." Martha smiled at them as she warped her arms around Klarions shoulder, pinching the Witch Boys cheek. Which looked comical in a way as Martha appeared as a full grown adult while Klarion… was well Klarion.

"Stop that." Klarion hissed swatting at Martha and Danny laughed at his two children.

"Yea but… how?" Tim finally stammered out finding his voice once he logged a lot of his thoughts away for later. There was just too much to unpack at once.

"So well…" Martha starts before pausing. "This here is my mom. Danny. Yes Mom, the entire family calls him mom because of his tendency to mother hen over us all."

Danny had the gall to look offended and was about to interrupt his daughter before a hand clapped over his mouth a woman that looked a lot like him leaning over his shoulder grinning mischievously. "Oh, are we explaining family relations? I am Danielle by the way, your great grand aunt. You kids can call me Ellie."

Dick's mind was starting to spin but he nodded, sharing a look with his siblings.

"So Marha is the daughter of Danny's wife. The one he fell in love with and married when he chose to give a mortal life another chance. And Klarion? Is also Danny's son but well..." Ellie smiles mischievous like she knew a conspiracy they didn't. "...some things appear to be very much in the family."

"What does that imply…?" Damian ask eyes sharp as he noticed the glance towards him.

"Well Klarions birthmom is a deadbeat, somehow got Danny to sleep with her and then dropped Klarion off with him years later when he had just married again and had Martha." Ellie grind and suddenly the entire Batkids started with a strange feel of Deja vu, while Danielle grinned widely. Martha chuckled amused too and Klarion just shook his head.

Damian coughed awkwardly. The parallels to his own mother and Bruce were not lost on him. Then Jason suddenly broke out laughing, "You telling me Demon Brat isn't the only kid in the family that has a background like that!"

To their shock Martha broke out laughing now while Klarion glared at her. "Oh my! My grandchild and brother are even sharing a nickname!"

"Wait what?!" Tim spluttered, as he stared openly at Klarion. The witch boy. Someone he had fought several times by now. Who apparently was in his family also known as Demon Brat.

"Excuse me! My birth mother was at least an actual demoness! My grand nephew's mother doesn't compare to that at all!" Klarion protested, apparently offended for some reasons as Martha only laughed harder.

The bat kids could only watch in shock as Klarion and Martha started to argue like siblings while Danny ended up wrestling with Danielle to get the hand of his mouth. Meanwhile Bruce was still getting chased around by Thomas Wayne for dropping out of medical school and Alfred watched Klarion and Martha with a nostalgic fondness none of them could explain as of right now.

But one thing was clear, this family reunion, that apparently happens every 100 years would hold a whole lot more shocking reveals for them….

[fawnsuga]

Andrew Blaze's Reddit Account & Its Contents

The user u/PioneersProductions was active in the subreddit r/PioneersProductions between October 21 and October 29, 2013. At some point during this period, the subreddit was set to private, which restricts the visibility of comments to third-party tools. Consequently, we are unable to ascertain the specific context of many comments, though some can be reasonably inferred.

10/21/2013, 7:42:05 PM

Nothing can replace BlogTV... YouTube's the easiest fix, but they have it set where you have to stream from your computer now. My internet isn't fast enough to stream. =(

Andrew's initial comment expresses regret over the acquisition and subsequent shutdown of the live streaming service BlogTV, suggesting that she was an active user of the platform.

10/24/2013, 1:06:41 AM

Sweet, wow dude, I can't even remember the majority of these pics. That's insane. Especially the ones from before 2011.

This comment appears to be a response to someone sharing old photographs, possibly of Blaze herself, although this cannot be confirmed.

10/24/2013, 1:12:26 AM

Alligator/Horse Head was created using Paint.NET and Windows Movie Maker. Alligator/Horse Head 2 was made with Photoshop and iMovie. I had two different versions of it: one that was used in the trailer and the one used in the final cut. That Horse Head was difficult to crop out (even with Photoshop) due to the hair on its head. The Alligator was comparatively easy because it was solid wood. Additionally, I posted a video of myself sitting on the floor in my parents' bedroom against a wall, asking for script ideas, intending to feature those whose ideas I used. Ultimately, I did not utilize any of the suggestions. Given that I only had Movie Maker, my options were limited. I would love to recut that video, but it is impossible since the Horse Head has been reduced to ashes. I also lack a clean photograph of it. I wrote Alligator/Horse Head 2 during my senior year of high school in November and did not finalize the script until the following summer. I had numerous drafts for it. James was originally intended to appear physically in the video, but time constraints prevented this, as he had to relocate.

In this comment, Blaze elaborates on the process of creating the videos Mr. Horse Head Meets Mr. Wooden Alligator 1 and 2. These videos represent a crossover between Blaze's character and one created by YouTuber makemebad35.

10/24/2013, 1:16:24 AM

I also dislike how I edited the two videos. The first one was excessively brief, while the second one was constrained by Damian's preference for a shorter duration. Nowadays, I would likely have produced a 10- to 15-minute video; however, 8 minutes seemed adequate for him. He managed to complete his portions in just 5 hours. The only inconsistency in continuity is that he wears the same black shirt at the end, where he calls me to request the Alligator back, which was meant to occur days later. It is implausible that the Alligator could have shipped from Maryland to Pennsylvania and arrived at my doorstep within the same day. I have since become a more meticulous editor compared to two to three years ago. I prefer to extend shots, making them more "film-like" (slower-paced). However, we were concerned that viewers would not watch a 10-minute video in its entirety. I would recut the entire video, but my footage was never stored; I did not acquire a terabyte drive until last year, leaving only a few videos saved on a flash drive.

Four minutes after her previous comment, Andrew provides additional insights regarding the aforementioned videos. The individual named Damian referenced in the comment is makemebad35.

10/24/2013, 1:19:03 AM

I could discuss the Alligator/Horse Head videos indefinitely, which is why I have refrained from revisiting the second one. They were foundational to my YouTube career and led to Horse Head Lives, which will soon connect to my Halloween franchise. ;D

Three minutes later, Blaze concludes her comments on the subject by mentioning the video Mr. Horse Head Lives. I am uncertain what the Halloween franchise refers to, but my best guess is that it pertains to the Finale Series, the initial videos in which Ember appears.

10/29/2013, 9:16:14 PM

You... just... wow....

This remark represents Blaze's final comment on Reddit. The specific context of her expression of shock or surprise remains unclear.

for @strvy-bvllet

[loving-barnes]

LOGAN HOWLETT - VERSION OF YOU

A/N: Inspired by the Deadpool and Wolverine trailer. Inaccurate things when it comes to timelines and shit. Beware, it was not edited properly. Sorry.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x mutant female reader

Warning: angsty?, attempt at being funny?

My stories are written for mature audiences - 18+!

Words: 2500+

Important note: Hugh Jackman!Wolverine (which means he's tall as fuck!)

FULL MASTERLIST | LOGAN HOWLETT MASTERLIST

LOGAN HOWLETT - VERSION OF YOU

“Do you think this is gonna work?” 

“Agent Smith said it would.” 

“It’s fucking weird, you know?” 

“A lot of fucked up things happened before. This is nothing compared to what I have to deal with now. So, ladies first.”

Wade pointed at the weird-looking orange door. He didn’t want to walk through them first. That fucker shoved Y/N right into the portal before he took a step forward. Coward. 

They appeared in front of a dive bar, during a bright sunny day. Y/N looked at Wade, well, more like at his masked face. “Wasn’t this place supposed to be fucked up?” she asked. “It’s too nice outside.”

“It will become in a matter of hours. Now, here’s the plan,” he said. “We’ll go in. I’ll talk first. If I won’t move with that stubborn mountain of a man, it’s your turn. Do whatever it takes to bring him with us - smile at him, have sex with him, for all I care. And, who knows, maybe we will know whether Agent Smith was right.” 

“I call bullshit,” said Y/N, cracking her knuckles. “I don’t know him. I think it’s a fairy tale he made up so I would work with you,” she said, fixing her tactical suit. “Can’t believe I’m doing this shit with you, Wade.”

He chuckled. “Come on, you love spending time with me, kicking ass, making men suffer.” 

“I will make you suffer.”

Together, they approached the entrance door of the dive bar. Wade was the first one to walk in. During the day, there weren’t many people around. Some people gave them brief attention but quickly went back to their beers. Y/N glared at Wade. 

“Our guy is right there,” he said, pointing to the bar. 

And there he was - their target - the man they had to collect to save the universe. Was it the universe or the multiverse? Whatever it was, he was crucial for this mission. 

Y/N eyed his back - the dark jacket he wore and how bent he was over the bar. The sadness radiated from him. Something was happening inside her. As if she experienced a magnetic pull towards him.

Y/N showed Wade forward to start. She was curious to see the man’s reaction. She sat at a nearby table ready to watch the scene unfold. Of course, Wade used a beautiful opening line that would normally get his assed whipped. 

“Hi, peanut.”

Y/N bit her lower lip to stop herself from laughing. This was Wade, typical Wade Wilson. Fucking Deadpool and her best friend. How the fuck did they manage to become friends? She knew him for a long time, fought alongside him and tolerated that dipshit. 

“Look, lady, I’m not interested,” the man said gruffly. His voice was deep, husky and kind of sexy. It made Y/N tilt her head. Interesting. 

It was painful to watch the interaction. Wade tried to get him off the chair, away from the bar before he could explain anything. Such a rookie mistake. It was time to intervene before Wade overstepped and jeopardised this whole mission. 

She got off the chair and walked to the tall, well-built man. With a smile, she tapped on his shoulder. He instantly turned, his weird metal claws already out of his hands, ready to fight. When their eyes met, she showed him her bright smile and teeth. “Hi, peanut.” 

His face changed from pissed to shocked in less than a second. For a second it lost its colour. The man’s mouth opened wide. “Y/N?” he said her name gently, too gently for her liking. “Holy shit.” 

“Ha, Agent Smith was right,” Wade laughed, pointing a finger at her face. It got him three claws into his stomach. It made him grunt and fell to his knees. “Ouch. That fucking hurt.” 

“You know me?” Y/N asked, not believing the whole story she was told back in the TVA. 

That question took him aback. “What kind of dumb question is that, baby? Of course, I know ya,” and his hands reached for her face, holding her cheeks. To Y/N’s surprise, she let him. “How is this possible? How are you alive?” 

It was Y/N’s time for her eyes to widen in complete shock. “Woah,” she stepped back. 

“It’s me,” he said, frowning. “It’s Logan.” 

Wade decided to step in, waving a hand at them. “I don’t want to interrupt this romantic reunion, but we need to talk to you, big guy. It’s important.” 

“You came here with the weírd-looking sex toy?” Logan’s eyes were back on Y/N. “What the fuck is this? The the fuck is going on?”

That made her laugh. “Ha, Wade, even he thinks you look like a sex toy. With Cable, we are now three who think the same thing.” 

“Fuck you, Y/N,” he spat back. 

The man, Logan, pushed away from her, glaring. His claws were in the air, ready to strike if necessary. “Who the fuck are you?”

“My name is Deadpool and this is my annoying friend Y/N,” Wade introduced them. 

“You are an ass,” Y/N glared at Wade.

“Impossible,” Logan shook his head, bumping into a wooden stool. “You are dead,” he pointed a finger directly at Y/N’s face. “You cannot be here. You died in my fucking arms! Who the fuck are you?” he raised his voice at her. 

“I’m Y/N,” she said. 

“Don’t bullshit me!” 

There was a sound of a loading gun. All three lazily turned their gaze to the bartender who was pointing a shotgun at them. None of them was intimidated by that. “Get the fuck out of my bar! Now! Or I will shoot you all.” 

“I think this is our cue,” Wade whispered. 

Logan grabbed Wade by the red top of his suit, pushing him out of the bar like he was a ragdoll. Y/N immediately followed them out, ready to step in if necessary. She wasn’t worried about Wade. He was immortal. His body parts would grow back. She was more ready to step in intellectually. That was something Wade didn’t know how to do. 

“Everyone calm down,” she said. 

“No!” they both yelled at her, already fighting like children.

Y/N looked at herself, reading this story and made a sour face. “Men,” she sighed and turned her gaze to the two men who were about to tear each other apart. A purple-looking mist appeared in her hands and she pushed the men away from each other. 

“That’s enough, gentlemen,” she said. 

There was blood coming out of Wade’s abdomen - the marks from the claws. She had to shake her head. Wade had his gun out, pointing it directly at Logan. “Will you fucking listen, you oaf?” 

Logan’s eyes moved from him back to Y/N. She saw how his stance relaxed. It was painful to look at her, see someone he lost. His claws retraced back into his hands. His fists clenched tightly, knuckles becoming white. “How come you are alive?” he asked. 

Y/N sighed. “Because I’m not her… me… uh,” she shook her head. “It’s complicated.”

“Fucking talk, woman,” he raised his voice. 

She raised her hand to calm him. “I can explain. But I need you to come with us, Logan.”

His eyes closed. When Y/N said her name, more emotions ran across his face. “How can I trust you? I can’t seem to trust my own mind.” 

Wade was ready to say something stupid, but Y/N quickly shut him up by throwing him away with her power. “Believe me, it doesn’t make any sense to me, too. I can give you an explanation if you will help us.” 

“Help with what?” he raised a brow. 

Y/N made a face, changed it to a frown. ”To save the multiverse?” she said it like a question, hesitant whether he’d believe her. “Before you say anything, I know it sounds fucking crazy. Trust me, I still have a hard time wrapping my mind around it.” 

Wade came running back. “That was rude, you know?” 

“Shut up,” she glared at him. “We need his help, so let me handle it. Just for once, Wade, I need you to zip it, okay?” 

He leaned closer to Logan. “She’s hormonal,” he whispered to him. 

This time, Y/N decided to ignore his comment. “Please,” she turned her gaze to Logan. “Will you come with us? Help us save our world, all of the worlds?” 

He scoffed. “I’m no hero, kid.” 

Y/N turned her head to Wade, then back to Logan. “None of us are heroes here,” she said. “Maybe that’s why we are meant to save everyone’s asses,” she shrugged. 

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. “How come you are not a hero? You are the sweetest thing in this world. You are the definition of heroism and kindness,” he said. 

She made a face. “Come with us and we’ll talk about it all.” 

And he did. 

. . . 

Logan and Y/N sat behind an old-fashioned plastic table. He still wore his clothes while Y/N changed from her tactical suit to jeans and a simple shirt. The silence between them was awkward. The tension could be cut with a knife. His eyes scanned her from head to anywhere they were able to reach. 

There was a stack of documents and papers by her side. She grabbed them to show them to prove she was not lying. 

The door opened and Wade stepped in, out of his red suit. Logan gasped, horrified when he saw the man’s face. “What the fuck? Holy shit, that is fucking horrible. As if you were ran down by a Zamboni,” he yelled. 

“It’s disgusting, right?” Y/N nodded. But a second later a grin was on her face. 

“Ha, ha,” Wade pretended to laugh. “Can’t believe you two are laughing at a poor disabled man who happened to have his face fucked to safe his shitty life.” 

“That was your decision,” Y/N reminded him. 

Logan pretended to hurl. Y/N chuckled. “It’s hard to look at him.” 

Y/N smiled at her friend. “Could you leave us alone?” she asked. “I need to talk to him alone and, well, it takes time to get used to your face.” 

Wade pointed a finger at her. “One day, I will cut your tongue out,” he threatened. He was already on his way out. “Oh,” he threw her a little device. “If you want to show him something spicy,” he winked at her. 

Once the door shut behind him, Y/N exhaled the breath she was holding. “Now that he’s out of the picture,” she waved with a hand.

“Just start singing,” said Logan, annoyed. 

“My name is Y/N Y/L/N, but I am not your Y/N. I’m from a different timeline,” she started. 

“How are you, not my Y/N? You sound the same, you look the same. You have the same mutation,” he said. “And a different timeline? What kind of bullshit is that?” 

She shrugged. “Hey, I found out about all of this today, okay?” she then glared at him. “I, myself, have trouble taking it in. It’s crazy, it’s fucked up on so many levels. It’s not easy for me too, you know?” 

Logan huffed. “Continue.”

“This is going to sound crazy, so prepare yourself.” She took a deep breath. “I was told, and showed, that somehow, we are meant to be together in almost every timeline.”

“What?” 

Y/N made a face. “It sounds like a fucking fairytale.” Her hands grabbed the first folder, looking at its name. When she opened it, there was a photo of both of them. They looked the same. Y/N pushed her chair closer to him and showed Logan the details in the document. “In this timeline, we are both normal people. We live together in the Canadian mountains.” 

Logan took the folder and read the document. His eyes went over the photo. He shook his head. “Holy shit,” was the only thing he said. 

Y/N reached for another folder. When she opened it, she chuckled. “Here, you are a notorious mob boss,” she showed him. In the picture, he had an eyepatch over his left eye. “We live in Madripoor. People know you there as Patch.” 

“What about my version in your world?” he asked.

She sighed. “There is none. I said we are meant to be together in almost every universe. In mine, you don’t exist.” She turned to the documents and took out the one from her timeline.

Logan snatched it from her, reading through the words. “You are a mercenary?” he asked. 

“Uh, yeah,” she nodded. “Wade and I have a business together. He’s the only family I have. Well, Wade and his fianceé Vanessa. In the past, the Avengers approached with the offer to be in their team. I declined. That’s not who I am.” 

“Is there a world, uh, timeline where you don’t exist?” he asked.

“They told me there used to be one, but that timeline was destroyed a long time ago,” she explained. “Don’t ask me how that happened, because I don’t have an answer for that. You should ask Agent Smith that.” 

“Why do you keep calling him that?” 

“He looks like a character from a movie,” she explained. Her hand reached for another folder. When she opened it, she laughed. “In this world, you and are enemies that secretly love each other.” 

Logan’s brow raised. He read the details of their relationship. “You are on Magneto’s side?” he gasped. “I mean, she is… This is so confusing.” 

“Uh,” she hesitated for a moment. “When did you lose me? Or the version of me. You know what I mean.” 

“Haven’t you read that?” he asked. 

“Nope,” she shook he head. “I’ve got through a couple of those folders. I was only told that we were going to your timeline and that I was dead. Plus to get you out of there and convince you to help us.” 

Logan nodded. “You died…” It was hard to talk about it. “It happened a few years ago during a war that the mutants were in,” he said. “You died in my arms,” he cleared his throat. 

“I’m sorry,” Y/N whispered. 

“I live with that pain every day,” he continued. “And now, it is fucking harder than ever before, because here you are, sitting in front of me, but you are not… her.” 

At that point, she realised how difficult this experience was for him. Logan seemed like a tough guy. The pain that reflected in his eyes, how he avoided meeting her eyes more and more. 

“Everyone I knew is dead,” said Logan after a pause. “No one lives in my world that I care about.” 

Y/N bit her lower lip. “Logan,” she said his name softly. “We pulled you out of your timeline because it will be destroyed soon.” 

His eyes widened. “Wait, what? What’s going to happen to me?” 

“The TVA will present you with options. But if we save the multiverse, we will be rewarded. Or that’s what they told me,” she said. 

“It doesn’t matter. No one in my world is alive.” He stood up from the chair. “Let’s do this shit. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.” 

Y/N put a small smile on her face. She wanted to show him more, tell him what they told her, what she thought of it. “Yeah, let’s do this.” 

[cavernsandcod]

ESPRESSO | Cpt. John Price

─────dad's-best-friend!price x reader

· · ────── ঌ·✦·໒ ─── · ·AO3 VERSION | MY FIC GUIDE

Everyone has a complicated relationship with their father; the good, bad, and the ugly. Just like every complicated adult has their vices to cope with their issues. Drugs, sex, gambling, work, adrenaline— name it, it's been done.

Yours is a bit different: hooking up with your father's best friend.

WARNINGS: mild angst. reader has a shitty dad(—i.e. neglectful, militant), but no depicted abuse. alcohol. strong language. legal age gap (20s/40s). power dynamic. smut. porn with plot. authority kink, d/s. unsafe, risky sex. oral (f+m receiving). dirty talk. praise. petnames. fluff, kind of. fem!reader. not edited. WC: 7.9k

The carousel never stopped growing up.

Each time you got accustomed to a new home, school, or routine, you had to pack your bags and start over.

Your father had a new assignment; another part of the world to risk his life in while your mother did her best—well, her worst—to cope. The loneliness and sleepless nights of worry got to her once you reached double digits in age. Their conversations turned bipolar, either abrasive spats or days of tense silence. You were too young to understand, really, but you got the gist. Only saw her on weekends because she moved hours away to start a new family.

And your father, he never made an effort for much of anything except his career. He received a substantial pay raise for contracts in the UK in your teens and never looked back to ask you how you felt about it.

You, perpetually on the back burner of his mind, were only supplied the basics a child needs. A bed, three meals, and a decent schooling. Sometimes got to tag along with him to work events if you caught him in a good mood.

The uniformed men were always kind, many with children and families of their own. Made you feel safe from the hard conversations you weren’t old enough to understand. Bled some color into the sterile, militaristic surroundings you grew used to.

Even then, you knew your upbringing was atypical. Knew that you shouldn’t get attached to anything because the rug always gets ripped out from under your feet.

Once you reached your teens, school became your only out. If you had any shot of straying from your father's militant footsteps, it became apparent that a good college was the best way. Excessive studying tarnished every fake friendship and social invite you had—but there weren't many of those to begin with.

Dwelling aside, you made it.

All the hours of academics paid off with the reward of a prestigious university. Being away from home and your father was the best part of it all. A mellow roommate, a group of classmates similar to you—and the culture of uni. How startling it was compared to the environment you grew up in.

It's your last year, and summer breaks and holidays still aren’t any easier. Going back home still has that sour taste. Each time you expect welcoming arms and approval, you get a harsh reminder of why you left.

Dressed up. A camouflaged wallflower. Cowering in your father’s shadow, small like you once were.

Countless galas bustling with formal attire and gowns alike, decorated with fairy lights and the low hum of seasonal music. Men and women with chest candy to show their years of sacrifice. Their dry conversations all start to sound the same after twenty minutes.

Logistics, hardship, and embarrassing tales are a poor attempt at humoring the family members sitting at the table. You don’t laugh, don’t smile. Only think about how good the end of this holiday will be when you can return to junk food and mild rebellion.

The weather this time of year is perfect for beers and barbecue, all humid and sweltering. Perpetually smelling of bonfires and chlorine swimming pools.

At least this year you aren’t on display. No blinding lights, no raffle tickets, or overpriced, butter champagne.

It’s not a formal event whatsoever. Just a backyard party hosted by one of your dad’s esteemed colleagues. Already much preferable to the stuffy venue space that leaves you nauseous.

“John’s a good man,” your father told you as you climbed into the truck. If he’s taking a break from talking about himself, you usually listen. “Made himself a Captain. Some of the toughest maggots I’ve seen in years, that lot.” Maybe this John character will be a kinder man than your father. Maybe he’s seen the lengths of his temper. Maybe he’ll be kind to you like the other soldiers.

Is he kind to his own family?

The house is alive when you arrive. People standing in the front, side, and backyard. Children of varying ages roughhouse, running barefoot in the manicured grass, belting out squeals and babbles of excitement.

The smell of meat grilling makes the humidity tolerable. As you enter the backyard, your father makes a beeline for the patio, more eager than you’ve ever seen him.

A pair of broad shoulders overlooks the party, thick biceps bulging from a black tee. The cherry of his cigar shines like the sun beating down on you, a cloud of smoke evaporating each time he puffs. His aura is different to the other men around him; commanding and reserved, standing in a spot against the railing that you know is only his.

It’s only when your father gives him a harsh pat on the shoulder, that you realize this is John—John, the good man.

He cracks a smile in response and returns the gesture, his voice a soothing thunder. John turns and reaches into the open cooler resting beside him, fishes out a beer for your old man. Placating. Giving him a bottle to keep him mellow.

Your father settles into a lawn chair, posture stiff and manicured as ever. Didn’t bother to introduce you around—not while he’s twisting the cap off his only pleasure in life and gulping it down.

You flinch when his eyes move onto you, squinting. It’s only fair considering you’ve been staring. After a beat, he nods his head, mouth curling into a more genuine smile than you saw before. All you can muster is an awkward wave through wide eyes.

Not your best work.

“Oi—“ A voice belts. “Fancy a drink, hen?”

It’s coming in the direction of the plastic buffet tables. The first has bread and toppings, various platters, and the other is decorated with solo cups and pitchers.

The source, a younger man than John, is sitting beside the homemade concessions. He’s easy on the eyes, with charming features, holding a squirming toddler in his arms. She has his eyes and, no doubt, the same feral energy.

“Oh, sure,” he hands you a cup. “You have anything stronger?” You ask, gazing down at the punches and cans of fizz.

“Afraid not.” He dodged a headbutt by the skin of his teeth, shushing her. “Cap’n has all the good stuff.”

“I see,” you take a small sip, allowing the pure sugar to coat your tongue. ”Well, thanks anyways.” He turns his head to the side to mutter something to her, and you spot a smear of sprinkles and icing. You raise your index to point at his cheek, “you have a little something.“

He swipes it, giving his daughter a look of intense betrayal. “Wee menace—“ he bounces her, blowing a raspberry onto her stomach, “ah told ye not to get into the cake!” She squeals, little flip-flops kicking through the air.

You chuckle against the plastic rim of your solo cup and step away from the chaotic mess.

Working the grill is possibly the most formidable man you’ve ever seen, still wearing a hoodie despite the heat.

Standing beside him is a still muscular but leaner man who’s dressed appropriately. A tank top and shorts showing off healthy, bronze skin, his hands nursing a mixed drink. He clatters into the ear of the big one flipping sausages and patties, leaning in and throwing jabs.

(You decide to skip on a plate since the man you’d have to ask for one looks like he’ll devour you whole—)

The punch is gone and the red cup turns weightless in your grip. Watching your father talk the Captain’s ear off, all smirks and happy-go-lucky makes you want a taste of the good stuff he supposedly has.

You trudge the wooden steps of the porch and keep your head down. Embarrassing yourself in front of your father is one thing, and you’ve done it many times. But doing that in front of the smoking-hot SAS-Captain isn’t as easy to choke down.

“Ah, sweetheart, c‘mere!” Your dad’s voice greets you, foreign in its softness. Sweetheart? Since when? “Come say hello to John. He is your host after all, eh?”

You nod before stepping closer, standing before the two sitting men. As you shift your focus to the man of the hour, your stomach clenches. He’s hotter up close.

“Hello.” It’s simple. Perhaps too much. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

John only stares, a light expression on his face. His thighs, thick and muscular, are spread wide in the patio chair. The bottle he’s been nursing is in between them, resting at the crotch of his denim. Two of his thick fingers caress the bottle neck, toying with it until you can’t help but track it.

“Well, aren’t you sweet? It’s my pleasure.” He responds, showing a half-smirk. You can tell his gears are turning, but can’t figure what about. Suddenly, the silence feels too heavy, and he tosses back the last of his beer—gathering himself.

“Call me John, love. It’s not sir here.” His assertiveness comes naturally, but it is not unkind. The faux confidence in your posture shrivels even more.

“Right. Sorry.” You swallow.

He chuckles, sprinkling some warmth to the tension. “No need for sorry either. Didn’t know better.”

“I tell you what, Cap’n—“

Your father’s voice soils the moment, slurring and obnoxious. It seems to startle the both of you. The Captain’s blues shift to him, his jaw clenching.

“She’s never that polite with me—her own old man. I tell ya, respect is a dying breed with these brats—“

The longer he rambles, reeking of liquor and disdain, you tune him out. Try to calm yourself down before the spell you’re caught in shows in front of all these people. The porch feels small as if it’s groaning and sinking under the weight of your dysfunction. Your cheeks are burning, your chest is starting to heave, hands are shaking—

“I, uh, need to use the washroom.” The words are a blurt; crude, disrespectful, ungrateful. “Is it—?” You point an index toward the screen door beside them, already peering inside at your escape.

“Down the hall, take a left,” John answers, eyes full of knowing scrutiny; you can’t tell if it’s toward you or your kin.

You step inside his home, feeling at ease without all the outside noise. It’s remarkably clean—some of the furniture even appears handcrafted. Wood floors, freshly polished and with minimal scuffs. Sparse picture frames, mostly of the same men you saw out there, posing in formation and nearly unrecognizable. The rest of the home is antiquated and fully furnished, but still lacking any clues to the man’s true personality. He’s probably not here enough to let it show. This place is merely a bed and desk between foreign lines and blazing bullets.

You decide to skip the left.

You ascend the L-shaped staircase to your right, glancing over your shoulder to ensure you won’t be caught snooping. This isn’t your house, your place, nor your crowd—and somehow the distraction of an alluring stranger’s home is more lulling than your own. Things that don’t belong to you aren’t weighed down by baggage and bad memories. They serve as an escape.

The washroom door is ajar when you pass it, creeping further down the hall with your head on a swivel. It’s wrong and you know it, but your feet don’t stop. Floorboards creak and groan once you make it to the end of the hall. A bedroom, a linen closet, a storage room. Nothing spectacular.

The first door left closed catches your eye.

To your surprise, it isn’t locked. You push it open silently and shuffle inside, dabbing at your eyes with your shirt. The fireplace on the back wall is unlit, two bookshelves on either side, stacked full with thick hardcovers. Beams of sunlight shine across the desk in the middle, sleek and lacking clutter. Only pens and a few files that don’t make sense to you. All the drawers have a keyhole, preventing you from trudging any deeper.

Sunlight casts warmth on your arms and legs, finally giving you the boost to catch your breath. Instead of falling further, you lose yourself in all of John’s distractions. There are more photos up here, on the mantles. Still the same men, in pubs and restaurants alike worldwide, throughout the years of their relationship.

John is clean-shaven in the first one, a stern but youthful glow to his face. Tan camo gear, a background of sand and humvees. Your thumb skims over the thick Sharpie scribble in the corner: Lieutenant Jonathan Price, circa 2009.

Somehow, you like him better now; salt and pepper, bourbon-breathed, a toned tummy turned soft—

“Find something you like, love?”

Fuck. Your nervous system goes haywire, body rigid. Frozen in place like a rabbit sensing a predator to avoid becoming dead prey.

“I’m really sorry,” you squeak, setting the framed photo back in its spot. “I was just—” His footsteps are slow, but loud enough for you to hear. He’s heading for the honey-stained cellarate beside the door. He kicks it closed before you can run for the stairs and beg your dad to let you drive him home.

“No more apologies.” The cork pops when he removes it, pouring himself a healthy glass of what looks like an aged whiskey. A deep amber swirling in his grip, glinting in the beams of summer. “Doing a bit of snooping instead of joining the party? Now, that’s curious.”

Cuticles tear when you bite at them, unsure of where to go. The door is closed. You feel like you’re in trouble. John is settling into a chair, getting comfortable. His tone reeks of disdain and ambiguity, impossible to peace together.

“I wasn’t snooping, really, I only wanted a break. I didn’t even want to come to this party either.” You explain, rounding the desk without getting any closer. “No offense.”

He chuckles. “None taken. I’ve heard worse. ‘S not exactly your crowd, I’m sure.”

You hike a brow, “what do you mean by that?”

The ice clinks as he sips. “Don’t know, dove. Bar crawls? Street fights? Speed dating? You tell me.”

“I don’t—” You huff, fighting a smile. “I don’t do things like that. All I have time for is studying.” It sounds pathetic to say it out loud, but deep down, it doesn’t feel that way, and only you know why. Anything to keep from home.

He looks pleased, sprinkling a crumb onto that constant fear of being in trouble. “I know. He told me all about it. Though, I sense I’m more supportive of your studies than he is.” Another swig empties the glass and he stands to refill it.

For some reason, you feel the need to come to his defense. He’s a shitty dad. Your shitty dad—whom you’ve known longer than John, since birth. “He’s not… like that. It just takes awhile for him to come around, I guess. My father is—”

“—A prick?”

Can’t argue with that. “We’re complicated. And it’s hardly your business.”

“He made it mine, he’s at my home.”

Four steps closer. A wide body cloaking yours. You can’t move. “Especially when his daughter would rather be hiding in a stranger’s home than around him.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” you deflect, crossing your arms and tucking your chin. “I needed some air.”

“Been crying too, by the looks of it.” He pinches your jaw, forcing you to turn it back toward him. “Too sweet for all of it. And too smart. Not a bratty bone in your body.” It works because you know he’s right, and somehow standing before him, being steered by his hands feels right.

You close your eyes when his breath fans over your face. His voice is soft thunder, drowning out the rainfall of voices in the yard. “Here, have a sip.”

This should be wrong. No, it is wrong. Still, you nod your head and wait for the rim to reach your parted lips.

It’s pungent. A sharp punch to the nose. Your nose crinkles, mouth starting to frown as if you’ve never tasted liquor. Whatever he has is clearly a different league than the kegs at uni.

“Hm, I figured,” John leans back to finish the drink off, muscles growing looser by the second. “Suppose that means you were telling the truth, then.”

“I was.” Unconsciously, you open your eyes and find yourself leaning closer to breathe him in.

John reaches around you to set the empty glass down, fingers dancing close to your waist before closing in. He notices the hitch in your breathing, the clench of your jaw muscles, and most of all the fight inside yourself.

“It’s okay to like it, love. Just don’t want to see you sad, is all.” The tip of his nose burrows into your hair, the free hand holding the back of your head. “Gonna let me help you, doll?”

You nod again, head spinning. And that seems to be all it takes. Something once tucked neat below the surface unleashes so violently that you feel it.

The cracks widen. He grips your jaw, lips latching onto the apple of cheek and trailing until he reaches your mouth. The beginning is a tiptoe that abruptly turns messy and feverrant.

The levee breaks. Your tailbone hits the back edge of the large desk, digging into it. You wince against his maw, beckoning two large hands to lift you onto it. The part of your thighs widens, his pelvis nestled between the crux of them.

The waves pull you under. You moan into the kiss, muffled and pitiful. The pressure of his erection is just right against your clothed pussy.

His name spills—a desperate plea for more that he stifles.

“Shh.” John soothes, pulling the hem of his shirt until it’s left untucked. The kiss breaks with a wet pop. “We’ll need to be quiet, lovey. Our secret.”

Love; there it is again, sodden with need.

Your hips shift when he leans forward to suckle on your clavicle, teetering close to your breasts without giving in.

“I need,” you whisper, “need more. Please.”

He tuts. Something that says patience. Be a good girl. It’s the perfect high pitched frequency to rewire the clutter in your brain. When he starts to slither lower, working your tank top off, you have wholeheartedly forgotten why you were upset in the first place.

Your nipples pebble from the air conditioning, growing erect through the thin fabric of your bra. They beg for relief from the chaffing—and he begs to feast on them.

“You wanted me to see these today, didn’t you? Perfect fucking tits.” John probes, snapping the strap against your shoulder with his hand. His hot, whiskey breath fans across your cleavage as he unfastens it.

They drop without the support—essentially hanging fruit for a man starved. Sweet and full of life on his tongue.

He suckles until his tongue grows tired leaving a trail of saliva in its way, but the fire in his blues remains ablaze. You gasp when he pulls you off the oak, a hand on the nape of your neck to herd you.

You’re facing it now, slowly tilting down until your tits are smushed against his workspace. Your upper half shivers against it, teeth biting into your bottom lip in anticipation. His fingers dig into the waistband of your shorts, tugging them, and your panties, down to your ankles in one go.

When the breeze settles onto your bare ass, you wait for the feeling of hips against it. To feel the prod of a thick cock against your entrance. For him to slam inside you without preamble, splitting you open and pounding you sore.

Instead, you feel his weight shift. A hot mouth between your thighs, two big hands pulling your cheeks apart to get a view of your pussy. It quivers, already glistening without any touch.

You let out a sharp gasp when he dives in. No time wasted with kitten licks or long, wet stripes along your inner thighs. He shakes his head when his tongue is fucking you, oscillating until you fight a cry.

“Fuck—!” You yell, muted by your gritted teeth.

He hums, and it feels like a vibrator pressed against your clit. “Even sweeter down here, sweetheart.” John’s words are muffled, as if tearing himself away would cause him death.

The captain shifts from your hole to your swollen clit. He laps at the puffy bead, suckling each time you let out a whimper for something more—already knowing exactly what you need from him. Letting you take it from him.

“My sweet girl,” Price mumbles against your sex, gently spreading it open with his thumb. “You just need to cum. Just needed your pussy played with a bit, eh? ‘S that right?”

Your brain turns haywire. Yes, yes, yes. He’s right. That’s what you need—

You can’t answer, not with words. All you want is for that coil in your tummy to snap. It would only take a few more seconds.

He latches again, hallowing his cheeks until slick pools between his lips. The bundle of nerves in your abdomen gives way, off the edge of the cliff in an instant.

Everything stops. Your legs wobble, a drooling mouth agape against the back of your hand, eyes rolling to the back of your head. The only reason he rips himself away is the fear of you falling too deep, growing too loud for any of his to remain discreet.

He can’t toy with you today. Can't push the limits, no matter how tempting it is.

His zipper interrupts the ringing in your ears, forcing you to gather yourself. He isn’t done and you don’t want him to be. You want, no, need more of him, whether you faint afterward or not because he’s too much to handle. The logistics of it don’t matter right now.

“Do you feel it, love?” He peels down the waistband of his briefs, pressing his hard cock against your pussy, gathering the arousal. It feels big—but you knew that when you first saw him. Already had expectations for what it might be like, and though you can’t see it, you know you were right.

“Gonna fuck you now.” His voice grows hard, an arm snaking across your belly to raise you up again. The thought of being moved makes you whimper impatiently. You want him now, bent over his desk as you were.

Despite the haste in his actions, you can tell there is a purpose to him readjusting you.

Your gaze lands on a bare chest. He must’ve taken his shirt off at some point behind you. Slowly, your head dips down to take a gander. John pumps his cock, using the slick he collected for a smooth, repetitive glide.

It curves upward toward his stomach, girthier at its base. Dirty-blond curls conceal some of it, conjoined with his happy trail.

The reddened tip leaks pre-cum that you want to taste. But, selfishly, you only want him to give in and put his dick inside you for being good. His mouth was only a lick of what you know he can give.

He stays true to his word, scooting you closer so his stomach presses against yours. Your legs hug his waist, spread wide to let him take his spot.

“Need you facing me.” The tip notches against your entrance, barely pressing inside. You yelp, sucking in a breath. “See? ‘M too big for you to stay quiet, baby.”

Your hole remains snug, but still eases him in, making room for what your cunt wants. It's too much to choke down without noise. “I can’t- They’ll hear us—“

“That’s why you’re looking at me, pretty. So I can help you. Just need you to trust me, alright?” You nod your head, eyes shifting from his cock to meet his. To trust him.

He raises a hand, clamping it over your mouth with a vice grip. His hips start to move, pushing forward until his pelvis is flush with yours, balls deep.

You squeal against his palm, cunt filled to the brim, womb being butted. She aches, fighting the sheer size of it, welding the pleasure and pain of every shallow thrust.

You want him to take it slow, but you’d only beg for more if he did that.

“That’s it,” he groans, mouth against your ear. The other hand digs into the fat of your hip, leaving indents in its wake. “Just take it for me so you feel better, sweet girl.”

His pace quickens into calculated ruts, causing your muffled noises to grow in intensity. Every drag of his cockhead inside you lulls you closer to that addictive ecstasy. His tongue was surface-level, playful, and exhilarating, nothing compared to the deep den of primal need. Something you ached for the first time you saw him whether you knew it or not.

Someone enters the house downstairs, dishes clattering, and John looks at it as incentive. Both hands tighten as an anchor for deeper, sharper thrusts that send the penholder and paper weight cascading to the floor. “Can feel you getting tighter, love,” he groans, stubble and breath tickling your ear. “You want to cum all over my cock—all stuffed full?”

You nod while slobbering on his mitt.

The air punches from your lungs with each jolt inside your pussy. The coil tightens again, snared and full of tension. Instead of jabbing, he reduces his pace to slow grinds along the front wall of your cunt, massaging the spongy spot that makes your eyes roll into the back of your skull.

His head lifts from the crook of your neck to meet them.

“Just—fucking—need to cum, baby.” John stutters, a drunk expression that warrants the lazy movements in his pelvis. “Ah, shit—Do it for me. Be good.” He holds on for you; bites the inside of his cheek until he bleeds.

The muscles in your stomach throb, your spine goes weak. A warbled cry expels into his flesh when you gush around him, knees shaking against his sides. All the tension you carried downstairs seems to vanish for a moment. The consequences of being caught look meaningless. Giving in, inviting rebellion feels like something you can live with.

Your eyes flutter open, brows furrowed as he shifts his focus onto his own pleasure. All you need to do is keep still and take it. Be the good girl he knows you are.

He pulls out, leaving you empty and clenching around his absence. Subtle, slick sounds echo through the office as he grinds against your pussy, bumping into your clit.

His hand does the rest of the work, squeezing the base until he sputters, leaving fingerprint bruises on your hip.

You feel the ropes of cum paint the outside of your cunt, his mouth latching onto yours as he rides through it. “So messy.” He whispers, stubble harsh against your lips.

Your legs and posture drop as he pulls away, tucking his cock back into his briefs. You don’t feel regretful, only tired and in need of a cold shower.

“You go downstairs first.” He instructs, lifting you off the desk. After finding your shirt, he slips it over your head, leaving your bra somewhere tossed aside. After, he kneels, dangerously close to the mess he made, he helps you step into your panties and shorts again, hiding the evidence.

The fabric sticks to you, full of cum and sweat. Your legs throb and wobble without the support of the desk beneath you, the spend costing them causing them to stick. “Get yourself a plate, too. Can’t have you passing out, can we?”

“O-okay.” You, utterly stunned, aren’t sure what else to say.

His lips find your sweaty temple, hand splayed across your heaving tummy. “Be good.”

The descent downstairs is slow and just short of shameful. You aren’t sure of what you’ll say if anyone asks questions.

Hopefully there’s a snug corner you can tuck yourself into.

Months pass before you see John again.

The music pounds your eardrums. People are yelling over it. Bodies slam into you.

It’s the night of your grad party, surrounded by fake friends and alcohol. You lost track of the only decent one you came here with. A few minutes pass when you stare at her text, explaining why. She got bored and decided to bar hop in the city with her guy. Shit.

Your vision ebbs and blurs and you wonder if you should have joined her. This isn’t your element. This isn’t safe. This house is unfamiliar. How are you getting back to your dorm?

You never do this, never stop being the rational one in the group. Always the designated driver who holds a buzz while your friends get hammered. Yet, here you are, holding onto a bannister so you don’t faceplant. As you thumb through your contacts, you wager the options in your head about who to call.

A family member—you’d rather die.

One of your classmates—either here with you, or asleep.

The SAS Captain you fucked within earshot of all his collegues and your dad after he caught you hiding in his home office—now that’s promising. And somehow less humiliating.

You giggle against the wood grain when you click his name, feeling the sway of the alcohol on your decisions, remembering the euphoria of that day. He’s probably asleep, too. A text might be better. Otherwise, his name will continue to collect dust in your phone.

—heyyy

—are you awake captain?

He reads it after a few seconds.

I am, sweetheart. Why are you texting me?—

You pout, as if he’s here to see it.

—i missed you and i thought it was past ur bedtime

—hehe

Call me now.—

You don’t call him.

Why should you? He’s being a proper sourpuss about a little joke—

The screen flashes with his name and it takes a few moments before you can figure it out. Stumbling to your feet so you can walk outside, you cover one ear and raise the phone to your ear.

“Sweetheart.” It sounds more like a scold than a greeting.

Keys jingle on the other line, a car door opening. “Where are you?” John’s unmistakable voice flows through.

Your shoe scuffs against the pavement, balance off as you look for a street sign. Somehow, he’s able to make out the address you stutter through. Luckily, you aren’t too far out from his place because you won’t be upright much longer.

You lower yourself onto the curb and tuck in your knees, eyes drooping from intoxication. “Am I in trouble?”

Your voice is weak, half-genuine but his is neither. “No, love. I just need you to stay where you are until I come get you. Alright?”

“Mm-hm,” you hum, plucking out blades of grass. “I’ll stay.”

The call ends.

You sit there for longer than you can keep track of. The muffled bass keeps you awake even though you’re fighting it. Knowing you will see John again is motivating, too, but it’s unsure if he’s going to be warm. It’s an extremely unlikely way to reconnect with an old hookup.

An engine grows louder, tires crunching gravel through the ringing in your ears. The brakes squeal, a car door closes, boots enter your swaying sightline.

You lift your head from your lap and chew on your lip when you meet his gaze, feigning innocence. “Mr. Price?” You know who it is.

“C’mon. Get up.” His brows furrow, not giving you the time to follow his commands. Instead, he cups your upper arm and pulls you up, leading you toward his car. The other hand holds the back of your head, shoving it to the center of his chest in case you manage to fall. A few scrapes is better than a drunken head wound.

“‘M not supposed to get in the car with strange men.” Your feet drag, ankles bobbing, but his hold on you doesn’t budge.

“Cute.” John retorts, unamused as he opens the passenger door. “But I think we’re past strangers.”

With ease, he lifts your body into the seat, tucking in your feet and then forcing your hands into your lap. When he leans over you to buckle the seatbelt, you lick your lips and smirk at him, shamelessly breathing in his cologne.

“You think I’m,”—you hiccup—“cute?”

John draws back and pauses, skimming your features with a clenched jaw. Decides not to negotiate with you right now.

“We’ll talk in the morning.” Your door closes.

As you slump against the window, your eyes follow his speed-walk around the vehicle to climb inside, and how abruptly he puts it in drive and takes off. After that, most of it is a blur of neighborhoods and headlights that you’re too out of it to pay attention to.

The trudge inside his place is bits and pieces. There’s a constant hand on the small of your back, up the stairs until you reach the bedroom. His bedroom. You only saw a glimpse back at the party—masculine, simple, and neat. Two hands on your shoulders steer you toward the bed until you lower onto it.

John digs through his dresser, pulling out a clean t-shirt. “Arms up.”

You raise them, and he pulls off the sweaty one you’re wearing, and then your bralette. His shirt is more breathable by far, perpetually smelling of him. You toy with the hem as he reaches for your jeans, tugging them off each leg methodically. “Can’t sleep in these, can you?” The captain mumbles, more to himself. “Probably not the shoes, either.” Those are next, tossed onto the armchair with your clothes.

You chortle, cheeks hot. “I like your clothes.”

“Yeah? Then stay right there.” He turns away and enters the bathroom, returning with a small cup that he extends.

You stare at it, puzzled and hesitant. When you cock a brow, he sighs. “Mouthwash. You smell like a distillery, and I reckon you’ll fall over before we can brush your teeth.”

You toss it back, relying on muscle memory to swish it around your cheeks before spitting it back into the cup. The minty aftertaste is miles better than the remnants of your last syrupy, mixed drink.

“Nauseous?” He returns to the bedroom, peeling off his belt and jeans. “Tell me the truth.”

You shake your head and that seems to burn the energy you have left. The world tilts on its axis.

John huffs when you fall over, cheek squished against his navy bedspread. If he weren’t in such a sour mood, he might appreciate the sight a bit more. Instead, he grabs a throw blanket and drapes it over your crumpled frame before climbing in next to you. One arm snakes around your waist to keep you secure and the other supports your head in case you start to roll, or vomit in the middle of sleeping.

You don’t vomit in the morning.

You have a hellacious headache in place of an alarm, however. The body pressed against you throughout the night is gone and you’re shivering now. With a groan, you climb off the bed and follow the noise.

The bathroom door isn’t shut completely. You can see his shadow moving under it, the sound of him brushing his teeth and spitting out the excess.

“John?” You frown from the bright light when you push the door open. “How am I here?” That question reminds you of how you ended up here—actually, that you can’t remember the answer. All you can do is rely on hope that he was responsible enough to not have sex with you when he brought you home.

“A few texts.” He answers, placing his toothbrush back in its cup. “That’s how.”

“Did we… we didn’t—?”

“No,” he shakes his head, expression stern. “Believe it or not, love, I have a conscience.”

You can finally breathe. “Good.” Your shoulders drop, posture relaxing. “I mean, you were mindblowing, but— I’m glad we didn’t.”

The flattery gets you nowhere; John walks past you and you can feel the cloud that follows him. It makes the air thick.

Though all you want to do is sleep, you follow him with furrowed brows. “Are you mad at me for something? Whatever I said, I was drunk. A-and you didn’t have to come get me. I would’ve asked… I don’t know, someone, for a ride home.”

“I doubt that.” John argues, stopping at the foot of the bed. “You were seconds from passing out when I got there, too shitfaced to stand. You’re lucky nothing bad happened.”

Frankly, you’re offended. No, you don’t get out much, nor have you ever been that drunk without a ride. But this spat isn’t remotely fair.

“I know that. I’m not an idiot.” You roll your eyes, pulling his shirt over your head.

Like an asshole, he does that cocky, knowing half-smile. “That’s my point. You’re not stupid, sweetheart.” Despite the heat in his words, his eyes comb over the sight of your bare chest, then the swell of your ass when you bend to grab your jeans.

With your back turned, literally, you are fully intent on ignoring the domineering lecture you know is coming. It’s not his place. You just need to get home and forget about the whole thing.

“Don’t get dressed yet.” His feet shuffle closer. “We aren’t done.”

You scoff, refusing to turn around. “Or what? You’ll lecture me about safe drinking, Mr. Price?”

A dark cloud casts over your bare body in an instant. Two hands clamp onto your shoulders and spin you. Then, a rough palm shoves you onto the mattress. “I’m not doing this with—”

You let out a yelp, hands digging into the comforter. A flame of arousal flickers in your belly and it wages war with frustration. “This isn’t funny to me, John. My head hurts—”

“Shut your mouth. It won’t do you any favors.” The bed creaks when he sinks a knee into it, one before the other to hover on top of you. John’s eyes singe into every inch of your skin, hands beginning to roam. “Besides, I thought it was Mr. Price, sweetheart?”

You shake your head, sincerely regretting your choice to be snarky. “I-I wasn’t…”

“No?” His thumb toys with the waistband of your panties, stilling when your hips buck upward. “Hm, I suppose ‘sir’ is better, anyhow. Easier for you to remember.”

When your mouth opens, he tuts and brings the hand up to your chest. Too far from where you need him to touch you. It’s been too long since you felt it. Stale memories aren’t enough to get off to. None of your toys do the trick. And the blokes your age are clumsy and inconsiderate—nothing like John.

“Though your pretty head might not remember it,” he licks a nipple, teeth barely grazing it until you shutter. “I said we’d talk in the morning.”

You whine and reach for his belt, but he swats the back of your hand harsh enough for your knuckles to sting.

“Ah-ah— you want it? Want my cock inside you?” He asks, almost deceptively sweet. “Be polite.”

Your throat bobs when you swallow your pride, feeling every ounce of dignity drain from your bloodstream. “I want your in me cock. Please.”

He tilts his head like he’s truly thinking about it. Every second feels a lifetime. His index adjusts a strand of hair sticking to your cheek, sluggish enough to count as torture.

“Much better.” John leans down, pecking your lips a few times. “‘M gonna give it to you now.”

Relief washes over you with a shaky breath. You start to think this will go by quick, that a rough fuck will be all it takes for him to forgive you. One that you’ll enjoy probably too much, but God, all you want is for him to fill you—

“Up.” He fists the hair on top of your head, firm enough to make you raise it. “Follow my hand.”

You gape at him with wet eyes, lip all but quivering. You should be whining from the stretch of him, knees tucked as close to your chest as they’ll go—but instead, you’re sitting up and unsure of why.

It takes a slow blink for him to put a foot on the bed and feed his tip toward your lips. Circling them with it until they part enough for him to slip inside. Despite months of fantasizing about having his cock down your throat, you feel tricked.

“Easy. There we go. Hold onto me.” You grip his thighs tight, tilting your head forward. Halfway inside the warm, wet chasm of your mouth, his eyes flutter shut with a satisfied groan.

”Fuck— you’re bloody perfect.” It’s a new, soon-to-be addiction. He starts to pump his hips cautiously, narrowly avoiding your gag reflex.

Tears prick in your eyes as your throat fights to allow him space in it. You gag when he pushes deeper, giving his thigh a light squeeze, not a full-stop.

He pulls out, gripping the base of his glistening cock. “I-I thought—“ You stutter, voice hoarse. “You said you’d give me your cock, John.”

The hand in your hair tightens, enough for your scalp to start screaming. You whine from the mild pain and he reneges, stroking your temple to keep you dazed.

“Try again, sweetheart. Use your head.” After a beat of silence, you gather the pieces missing. Begin to anticipate what will warrant one of his firm corrections.

“I told you what I wanted, Sir.” It’s the correct answer—you can tell. Your neck is already sore, the agitated muscles putting a damper on your speech. “T-that I wanted your cock inside me. You promised you would—“

“Oh, baby.” His voice softens, less militant and more condescending. The hand on his cock starts to pump slowly, spit coating his fingers.

“I said I’d put my cock in you, but I didn’t say where, eh?” The tip prods at your mouth again and it opens on instinct.

You gulp, desperation breeding. Arguing is futile.

He goes deeper than before, easing through every gag and cough until your throat opens. “Your mouth is just as good isn’t it, baby? You can cum from this?” You won’t. And he damn well knows it.

The shift to rhetorical and demeaning feels like something you should hate. He’s been mean for the sake of it; playing with his slab of meat before devouring it.

With your eyes closed, it’s not as agonizing. You focus on the sounds he makes and keeping your teeth from getting in the way. Every grunt and groan makes your pussy clench around nothing. Makes you want to slither a hand between your legs for relief.

“‘M gonna cum, sweetheart. Keep still—“ he retracts with a wet pop, jerking himself off with only the tip being warmed. Your tongue rolls over the slit, nails digging into his hip bones to egg him on.

His fist balls on top of your head when he comes, costing the roof of your mouth and inner lips in hot, milky spurts. “Fuck, mmfph—“

John loosens the grip, finally allowing your head to rest. His mouth meets yours, tongue lapping at the inside of it despite the remnants of his climax still on your tastebuds. Before you lean back again, he works at your soaked panties, nearly ripping the cheap fabric when he rids them.

After all that, you’re practically buzzing with anticipation. Whining into every kiss. Gripping onto him like he’ll run away. Grinding your pussy through thin air.

“Gonna fuck you now, pretty. Like I promised.” He pecks your collarbone. “Turn over for me.”

With his hands steering you, you’re facing the bed in an instant, staring at the backs of your hands digging into the sheets. You arch your back, putting your head down, but he stills you with a gentle pat on the hip.

“All the way down, love. On your tummy.” It’s unusual, but definitely more comfortable than bending your spine. As you shift off onto forearms, he sets a pillow underneath the spot of your pelvis, elevating your ass.

You can tell it’s a calculated move to drive you mad. The soft arch of your back, how he’s going to drape his entire body on you and crane his hips toward that special spot.

Weight settles across your entire back, a cock head finding your hole. You wiggle your hips and he breathes through a laugh, easing inside you smooth as butter.

He doesn’t waste time, not like before. The stretch is seamless, an instant pleasure that flows to the plug of your womb.

“S-so deep. Mm— fuck.” You moan into the pillows, mouth agape.

His cock bullies for its spot in your guts, deeper than it was the last time. He leans closer, fingers slipping across your belly to massage your clit. The other drapes over your tits, his body forcing you into a bear hug from behind.

“I missed being inside you, sweet girl,” his hip bones bite into your ass, balls flush with it. Every drag of them makes your eyes roll, working the places inside you that have never been abused. “Taking my cock so well.”

The rough pads of his fingers swirl around your clit as he fucks you into the mattress, hearing sounds he couldn’t before. But now, every thrust earns a sharp, overstimulated moan from your lips that he’ll savor; to keep him warm when he’s away.

“‘m gonna cum, don’t stop.” Your voice raises an octave, a fire burning in your stomach. The headboard slams against the wall as he quickens the pace, abusing the aching spot that worked so well before.

You come with a shaky moan, coating his dick in a slick that drips down his inner thighs. Sweat poured from your skin, muscles taut and overworked.

You go limp beneath him, relying on his hold to keep your head from dropping. “Almost there, baby—“ Baby. There it is again, only desperate. “Just keep t-taking what I give you.”

Instead of thrusting, he slows and begins circling his cock inside you, grinding his pelvis into the fat of your ass. “Fuck, fuck. M’filling you up this time.” He mutters into the side of your head, unintelligible.

Your vision blurs, body jolting forward when he stills inside you. Spurts of cum coat the inner walls of your cunt as he slumps forward, bracing himself with both palms on the bed now.

You can breathe once he eases up, panting like a dog into your neck. “You’re perfect.” John’s lips feather against your ear before he shifts beside you.

Your pulse begins to slow, limbs jelly, and therefore useless in leaving anytime soon.

“I think I hate you.” You mutter into the sticky skin on your wrist, curling onto your side to face him.

His lips curve upward, slightly impressed. “I’ve heard that before.” He does the same, scooting close so you can lean against his heart. “How’s the headache?”

“Gone.” You reply, begrudgingly.

“Hm. Suppose you should get out of here, then.” John teases, while making no effort to move or let go of you. “Just a few steps and you’d be out of my hair. Easy peasy.”

You huff, fighting exhaustion. “Please stop talking.”

He chuckles hard enough for your head to jiggle against his chest. “Only because you asked me so nicely, lovie.”

[corseque]

I honestly just wanted one single plot step that I could not predict given the 10 year wait. More behind the cut, I talk about Emet too, and I'm comparing his writing favorably to Solas' writing and why it worked better for me personally, but I am just talking about the writing skill that went into the games and not the dudes themselves, I love them both dearly of course. idk this is a mess and I am not going to edit it for clarity

For me, the game was a series of me saying

"ok I knew that. cool."

"oh yeah, I knew that. I guess it's good that the larger fandom knows about that now."

"nice, but yeah I already knew that too"

"that was something we've been talking about a lot for years"

"this thing they are acting like is a huge enormous reveal that the characters could not possibly have deduced through simply thinking about it in depth over the 10 years... the fans easily figured out by thinking about it in depth 10 years ago. So you would think his girlfriend would be able to figure it out more easily than we did. Like, why couldn't the game have been like 'oh lavellan already figured that out a while ago' it would have cost them nothing"

"this is something I've been thinking about for years, and now that it's being revealed, the companions' reactions to it are very irritating and jarring and unnecessary and I really dislike the experience I'm having right now, in this, the hour of my greatest triumph"

"this thing that is happening on my screen right now is something that I wrote an essay about 2 years ago describing how it would be a letdown if it happened without the correct setup"

"this way that they're characterizing Solas makes him less likable and less interesting than I have been finding him for all these years, and I have had people tell me 'no, he's simpler than you think' for years but I guess I was wrong, he really is simpler than I thought, so that fucking sucks. I wish I could take that information out of my brain."

"this thing is a retcon of information I have been thinking about for 10 years, and so I don't know how to follow along with this new direction, and I'm not sure if I even want to because it's not particularly interesting anyway"

"aw that was sweet"

"why is it like, so very impossible to have an honest back-and-forth with my favorite character about the dilemma that was most interesting to me about the previous game"

and then, as soon as, like, the other fans had caught up to the Solas lore that was really obvious from the other games, the game was.... over without anything surprising happening, or introducing a new element or plot point or perspective, or a real true twist (or two, or three) for those of us who have thought about it too hard for too long. It was very simple and easy, much, much, much, much easier than I was imagining. It all felt sort of like that Nicholson quote:

The thing was, the whole story was so interesting to think about because in 10 years, I couldn't figure out a good solution to it!!!!! It's why I was never able to write post-game fanfic about it. So I was stoked to find out some reveal we never knew about, some new information, in maybe a SERIES of steps of new information, that made the situation more complicated but also something that could be navigated by everyone involved. I know it was asking for a lot, but they had TEN YEARS, and they seemingly had set up the things they did in DAI on purpose, so surely they had some idea of a complex and satisfying narrative that would reconcile everyone.

The reason why I was expecting this is because FFXIV did a very similar story arc, which was started AND concluded WITHIN those 10 years (so it took the FFXIV team far less time to deliver as well). And the conclusion to the story in FFXIV did what I was expecting Dragon Age to do. So I thought, "holy shit, if this is the FFXIV version of this plot, how much more complicated is DA4 going to be!?!?" The DA devs also PLAYED FFXIV so they were completely aware, several years ago, of a satisfying story ending that was pretty darn similar.

People are probably going to think "oh, well Chelsea was disappointed because she spent too much time building it up in her head" but that's exactly it - I actually speculated and thought about FFXIV's story IN DEPTH NONSTOP for a year+ before its ending came out, and the ending absolutely blew me away. FFXIV Endwalker managed to introduce information and new story elements that I was not able to figure out in the YEAR I spent speculating on the ending of FFXIV's story. It took a complicated situation and revealed several several more facets to it that I was not able to predict, but were very interesting and thematically compelling, and took us all to surprising and climactic places that we could not have predicted.

Endwalker ("end" is in the title on purpose) too, was written to be THE ULTIMATE SATISFYING ENDING for a very long-running story in the exactly way that Veilguard SHOULD HAVE for Dragon Age, so while this complexity is being explored, FFXIV also gave catharsis to many different plot threads that have been built up through the previous expansions, until finally it ends with a bang. The story is desperately good to me, I loved it, it gave me closure for Dragon Age long before Veilguard was even revealed, and going back and looking at its story has made this whole thing far less painful for me.

So, I actually did not have a picture in my mind for how things SHOULD go. I just had the thought "I hope it's complicated and there are points of view or facts that we haven't before been exposed to, and the situation is resolved respectfully for Solas, not making him look like a fucking idiot (lol, the only thing I asked for). I don't even care what happens to Solas and Lavellan, I just need the story to be complicated and interesting to think about. Please, god, don't let it be "solas is wrong and he just needs to be convinced" because that's like the simplest story you could tell with this setup"

(btw they managed to tell Emet-Selch's story without making him seem like he's being an idiot on purpose or can never get anything right, and in fact the more the story goes on, the more you think of him as smart and capable and cool, so it is possible to write.... I wasn't asking for the entire moon)

And I played it and... yeah. Most of the story beats were more simple than I wanted them to be, a lot of them didn't make sense in my heart given the writing from Inquisition. (This is another essay, but if Solas' thematic story arc was always about him needing to let go of regrets, why was his personal quest the way it was? After that quest, doesn't he end up regretting not doing more....? Why did he never really talk about regret during Inquisition? If he was so trapped by regret, why was he able to do so many actions? It doesn't mesh well to me. The whole regret thing was very quarter-baked to me, I don't even like thinking about it.) His story never seemed like one that was as simple as being about one man's regrets, but then, I guess, it was always just about one man's regrets.

Emet-Selch's personal storyline (and the way it interacts with and affects the larger story) is very similar but much more cohesive and satisfying to me. It would be difficult to explain why without the aforementioned 5-hour essay. Emet-Selch's story IS about grief and anguish on a world-shaping scale in a similar way that Solas' was apparently always about letting go of regret, but Emet's story was also very pointedly and beautifully about that one theme for the entirety of his story from every tiny detail, from beginning to end - meanwhile, it seemed to me that they tried to introduce 'regret' as the main thrust of Solas' story only in the short story with the Regret demon onward.

From Inquisition just by itself, the closest I personally could get to a story theme for Solas was his inability to trust others hurting him and the world, but his trusting others in DA4 wasn't really addressed to my satisfaction. He is never required to trust anyone before the ending, he never opens up or makes himself vulnerable at all. People find out information about him, he never really dynamically opens himself. So the personal story I thought he had was never addressed at all, while a new one about regret was introduced that never made a ton of sense to me. And I don't think this is just because of my expectations - my reaction to FFXIV proves that I am able to meet good writing where it goes in surprising directions, as long as it's interesting and thoughtful and clear.

And I think this might be part of what people felt was off about the ending - Solas is sort of uninvolved in the revelations that are about him, and doesn't do much to be part of his own ending. Part of what I loved about Solas in Inquisition is that he is not controlled by you in any way, and so he feels like his own person with a very strong sense of character.

Anyway, Emet-Selch, in a very comparable and arguably more extreme plot position, is very involved in the revelations about himself, he always feels like a very strong character who cannot be affected by the player, and the whole situation is handled with deft emotion and care and delicacy. The story is comparatively very uninterested in litigating Emet-Selch or putting him on trial - the story allows you to simply feel the way that you feel in an organic way, and Emet's story spends that energy instead actually exploring his thematic material about grief and legacy, and the larger story theme of existentialism instead, in a way that is very refreshing and interesting. I've seen a lot of western stories tie themselves in knots over "redemption" and frankly it's almost never been interesting at all. Who cares about any of that. lol

(Now, I guess this is a matter of preference, because some people really like being able to shape a character's story, but idk I rewatched the ending of FFXIV and even though there wasn't a choice with Emet, because it isn't a branching story, his story felt more satisfying to me, maybe because there isn't a patronizing choice to be made for him. He is who he is, and he fulfills a very beautiful narrative role and purpose that no other character could in the story.)

I don't know how this could have been improved to me and still allowed players to choose Solas' ending for him, but I can actually think of a few different methods, none of which involve Rook condescendingly and patronizingly lecturing Solas as if Solas had never thought about a single aspect of this horrible situation he's in before that very moment that Rook lectures him lmfao.

All this to say... idk I'm writing this and I am not going back to edit it so it's stream-of-consciousness. But yeah

I just wanted the story to be complicated on a few more levels than I could have predicted. I genuinely don't care what happened, but I thought of a few twists like the Veil coming down and yeah, I was expecting A Single Twist or reveal to happen. In a Dragon Age game.

I wanted Solas to seem cool and capable and noble and smart, and actually feel like he was as old and experienced as he is.

I wanted a clear theme I could sink my teeth into

Like notice I didn't even say anything about Solavellan. Like I never in 100 years thought they were getting a happy ending where they were both alive in bodies, and I like that we got that, but I would honestly trade it for a more complicated story. To me, if a story is sad you can always write fanfic, but if a story isn't COMPLICATED, that's a much more urgent issue.

These 3 things DA4 didn't give me in a way that satisfied me but FFXIV did. anyway idk the way my hyperfixations work, I completely switch to a new subject so talking about Dragon Age is actually hard for me right now.

[namelessgakusei]

Noi! The Clara Dolls!

All Hail The Nutcracker Witch!

Mark Grayson x reader

Warnings: Death, Violence, mentions of suicide, Blood, Invincible War, Gaku's attempt at writing PTSD and Body Horror, Reader crashing out, another one of Gaku's looong posts

Mada Dame Yo (prev)

Sis Puella Magica! (cont.)

Notes: Just came home from school and Gaku's really, really tired. Nearly fell asleep before even writing this. Might proofread and edit when I wake up tomorrow. Angst first, fluff later. (Gaku, in fact, gave up and went to sleep)

Add. Note: Gaku of the next day here, still tired from uni, but I got home earlier than expected lmao. Accidentally posted this while incomplete OTL. I initially wanted this as an interlude but crammed the witching out by the end. Gaku's too tired.

@weaponxgames @sweet77kellia @starlightchildsworld

"Goodbye, hill of punishment."

Mainstream!Mark is kind. He's a bit shy but it's evident that he genuinely loves you. You bit your lower lip and forced a smile whenever he looks at your way. It was hard, at first, as you always remember him.

At first it was peaceful. Debbie's safe, which you noted that was quite rare, given the amount of times you saw her decayed corpse in the previous realities. Oliver's here too, a surprise that nearly broke you down. You only met him less than a handful of times, with him not even existing in the others. He's still the same kid that you grew to love and was your constant ally in every timeline that he's in.

William, Amber, Rex, Eve- Oh, god. Eve. You missed her. There were only a few realities that you were able to be friends with her. Mark kills her too soon, or she dies protecting Earth with you. You remember her being the first person you confided about your experiences, and when you thought to have hope when she expressed her understanding and desire to help, a version of Mark beheads her in front of you.

The memory makes you sick. You didn't dare to tell anyone about it after that, opting to work alone and involve little to no people with your business. You agreed to work with multiple Cecils just for a chance to wipe of the existence of Mark Grayson off the planet. But, alas, you end up dying or resetting time in the end.

Mark gets fidgety whenever you get too quiet, hanging into your every word like an overly eager child, desperate for acknowledgment. You let yourself wonder if he'll even kill himself if you asked to. At least then, maybe you'll be able to escape this nightmare.

But you're too in love with him to even live a second without him.

Maybe you had gone crazy too.

A sigh and a chuckle escapes your lips, confusing Mark, who was reading the newly released Seance Dog volume. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It's just, everything is peaceful. I like it."

This world isn't entirely without its own fair share of troubles and aliens and villains, but compared to the shit you've been through? This is fucking nothing.

You managed to help the Guardians in the nick of time when Omni-Man turned on Earth, revealing your abilities in this world for the first time. While the heroes were saved, you were not-so-subtly recruited by Cecil to join the Teen Team. You know how the man operates, having met at least a hundred different versions of him. You suppressed a laugh when he looks like he got his head running with contingency plans about you. Never change, Mr. Stedman.

Mark was amazed and invested in knowing more about your abilities. Trying to study you and "help" you understand your powers more. Why didn't you tell him? How long did you have it? How were you able to control time like that? You were so cool back there!

You want to tell him that you got experimented in Viltrum on the one time you told him about these strange abilities of yours. But you settled for saying that it's a long story and that you recently acquired them, not wanting to scare him off.

You think that he was simply ignoring what just happened with his father, opting to choose you over him in his mind. Coward.

It makes you sick.

You lay on his bed, rolling to the side while Mark went to get snacks. He seems a bit clingy in this world, or maybe it's because you look like you're on the verge of slipping away with how exhausted you always look. You sigh.

Your soul gem always look murky whenever you check on it.

It's an artifact that came with the ring on your middle finger, and appears at the back of your hand whenever you use your powers, with your clothes changing alongside the shield appearing on your arm. You don't know how or why, but even if you were beaten to a pulp, you don't feel anything. You're not even injured at the slightest. You know this, because you tried to take your own life once. Your body still functions even when your neck was bent, making you think that you were also immortal.

You weren't and you thanked your cursed fate that you weren't. That small gem you have in you was were your soul is at. You get hurt when it's touched the wrong way, and while you don't bleed, you feel excruciating pain. Your body is merely a meat sack now.

Does it matter?

No. But it sure came in handy when you were fighting against Mark after you figured it out, at least then, you don't have to worry about broken limbs.

You kept racking your brain about the cause of your situation, your powers and the looping timelines. You barely remember. Mark came back, pouting about the crease on your brows, before slipping in bed burying his head on your neck.

"What are you thinking about?"

"...Do you know an animal who can talk?"

Mark snorted and said a parrot but you shook your head, saying that it looked more like a white cat with red markings. He hugged you closer and mentioned that it might've been an alien.

Huh. Perhaps it was an alien. You remember it asking if you want to make a contract with it. Did you? Is that why you're trapped in this hell?

...Is it really one now?

For all it's worth, everything has been going smoothly in this run. Sure, Nolan's gone off the rails, but you saved the Guardians of the Globe! Oliver exists! Debbie's safe! Eve's alive! William and Amber are living normally! The Teen Team, sure still has problems, is still functioning! Cecil might still be a pain in the ass but with how many variants of him you spent time with, you consider him an old friend and even appreciate how he checks in on you.

Earth is not destroyed.

Isn't this the ideal world? Did you finally arrived at the best possible version? Will this finally end?

You look down and see the familiar tuff of black hair. The urge to run your hands through it is always within you, no matter if he's killing people or you, you really can't seem to loathe him enough to remove your feelings for him.

Will you finally be able to be happy?

You hugged Mark, burying your nose to his hair and inhaling his scent, earning a surprised sound from him. He doesn't protest nor ask, only reciprocating with a mumble of "Finally.", before humming in content.

This world, this Mark, they may not be the one you started with, where you originated and first loved, but it's slowly stared to grow on you.

Mark doesn't question it when you started interacting with everyone on your own accord. Initially, you only talk to others when it's necessary, making them hunt you down if they so want just a small conversation with you. But now, you're discussing something with Robot that made them back away from your smirking face. You're teasing them??

He thinks it's cute when you barely mask your excitement when you tell him that you'll be out with Eve and Amber for the weekend. You're even laughing with Oliver over some shows you two watch whenever you're babysitting him. He caught you and his mom gossiping about something that he apparently wasn't allowed to hear??? The hell?? He's the boyfriend here! He's happy you're finally getting out of your shell and not shutting the world out but he has his needs, mom! Boyfriend needs! Hugs and kisses!

He barely got you to agree to go out with him in the first place! You looked so disinterested and detached when he asked you out that he was so sure you didn't even want to be with him, it was only when you kept fussing and saving his ass that he figured out that you're really just the quiet type. But this?? He's hearing you laugh everyday! That's usually once every three months! (He is exaggerating.)

Though, he isn't complaining, smiling to himself even, as he watches you from across the room, fighting the urge to come over and cling to you. Your eyes met and you're... smiling at him. Not the forced ones that look too soulless to be convincing, you're genuinely smiling at him.

Mark buries his head on his arms and giggles, ears going red as his leg bounces excitedly.

The sight made you laugh at the other side of the room. It was... something. He's adorable. You don't know why you were so distant back then. He is nothing like them.

Nothing's like back then. Not anymore.

Not anymore. The thought still makes you nauseous, too reluctant to start hoping for the best. Who would blame you? Every time you start to have faith that everything will be better, that you'll finally have peace, you see his face—

No, this one isn't like that. Mark isn't like that. This is the one who quietly waited for you to open up. This is the one who never pried too much and lets you let him in at your own pace. He's the one who sat beside you when you wake up in cold sweat, riddled with nightmares. He's the one who let you use his shoulder to rest your head when you can't seem to sleep at night, who tucked the both of you to bed when you fell asleep.

He's kind. You give him that. Everytime you look at him, you slowly start to forget the bad memories associated with that face.

You don't see him anymore.

You see Mark Grayson.

...That is until Cecil called you.

Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson.

Everywhere you look, it's that damned face.

One with a yellow cape, one with a mohawk, one without goggles, one who wears the white Viltrumite uniform, one who looks like Omni Man, one who was a prisoner, one who hide his face with a hood, one who—

It's him.

Him again! Why? Why is he here? Why did he have to appear now?! Why? Why?! You... you just accepted your life here! You moved on! You have a life here! You...

Cecil orders you to subdue the Variants.

Subdue them. Subdue him. Can you do that? Can you even fight him? After all those times— Can you—?

They're everywhere. All over the world, bringing destruction with them. Showing you the same scenario that you lived through in all those realities.

Earth's destruction.

Mark tries to snap you out of it, telling you to go hide with Debbie and Oliver, that he'll handle it. He gave you a kiss before flying off to the Penitentiary. You saw a similar situation before. One where Mark told you that he'll fight off the Viltrumite Empire but ended up as a mangled corpse not a minute later.

Everything's going wrong again.

Cecil bark orders at you from your earpiece, but you can't hear it. Debbie's calling you from your phone, but you don't move to answer it. You move past the fleeing civilians, past the rubble and fire, and towards the veiled Mark in the middle of the street.

He's fighting off the heroes that surrounded him. He's all bloody but from how it looks like, with the heroes falling down the ground, it's not his.

"Mark."

Sheisty!Mark brightens up at the sound of your voice, despite the lack of visual on his face. Before he can zoom in front of you, you activated your ability and stared at his frozen form. His form looks like he's about to punch someone, taut muscles that peeks through his skin tight suit and the veil flew just the right way for you to have a glimpse of how flushed his face is. A lovesick expression is evident on his face.

Will you not be able to escape this fate?

You're tired.

When will the destruction and screams stop?

When will this end?

Your power runs out, continuing the flow of time. Sheisty!Mark pulls you to his bloodied chest, muttering words too fast for you to hear, all while running his hands around your body, like you aren't real.

You hoped you weren't.

Your use of power must've alerted the rest of the Variants, with them immediately flying to where you are, hovering just above to drink in the sight.

You were the sole reason as to why the eighteen Marks made a deal with Angstrom, after all.

And now, they can finally have you back.

Damned bastards.

You hear your named being yelled, but you don't know who it came from. You don't care anymore. Why should you? It all ends the same.

You're tired.

You're tired. You're tired. You're tired. When will this end? Stop this. Someone, anyone—

Save me, Mark.

The you in Sheisty!Mark's arms dissolved into a puddle, momentarily stunning the Variants around. Said puddle now expands throughout the asphalt road, coating everything in black until it reaches the sky. No more are the sounds of buildings crashing down from being destroyed nor are the sounds people who cry for help. One might say that the world became akin to the Shadow-verse. Until colorful shapes start to appear in the darkened world.

Buildings started emerging from the ground, destroying the roads and initial constructions. Laughter ran around the streets as paper doll-like creatures frolicked the desolate area, pointing and taunting the Variants.

Multiple arms reach out from the murky darkness, each out for a Mark. They can't fight it, no, they're incapable of doing so. They're in your world now.

With gentle hands, you cup his face and smiled. Wearing an expression so soft and speaking in a tone that he hadn't heard in a long time, Mark can't help but lean in, expecting something even in the middle of uncertainty.

How pathetic.

Your lips but ghost his', leaving him confused.

"I realized something during our time together." You started, still holding his face, eyes right into his own.

"You were always there for me, for better and for worse. You loved me throughout it all. It was always me and you."

"Oh, how I loathed that."

"How I hated you with every fiber of my being."

Your gem breaks, and your smiling face exploded on their faces, coating it with red.

Reality seemed to wrap around, changing the surroundings like how a theatre changes the set. Some of the Marks screamed in terror upon your "death" while some wiped the blood off and prepared for battle.

He once said that you were always full of surprises.

And now, you give them your final one. The blood from earlier suddenly shot out of them, forming something midair while a march is heard in the distant direction, heading to their direction. When your body was reformed, the small humanoid soldiers took aim and hit at you.

Your body convulsed from the barrage of bullets and promptly fell to the ground. Even as the Variants pummeled the soldiers down, their numbers doesn't dwindle, and soon what was left of your body is mutilated beyond recognition. FullMask!Mark and NoMask!Mark rushed to your side, and with trembling fingers, reached out on your remains.

Your head snapped to their direction, riddled with bullet holes, before your jaw snaps open and another you climbs out of it. With only half of your body out, you suddenly faced the sky and forced your jaw open, enabling another you to be able come out. The process repeats until a tower of your own body stands tall in the middle of the dark city.

The remaining soldiers ignored the Variants that still fought them, opting to march towards the grotesque tower, surrounding it.

"(Y/N)!"

You know only one who would call out to you like that.

"Ah... Mark..." You looked down at Mainstream!Mark and smiled longingly.

The last body to come out of your mouth screamed bloody murder, before being torn in half. Like a curtain being opened, a giant creature emerged from the bloodbath.

Bearing a likeness to you, with half of their head filled with red spider lilies and their wrists bound together like a prisoner, the Nutcracker Witch finally appeared.

[infiniteglitterfall]

friggin faux-Palestinian history, istg

I'm in the middle of writing a post about the difficulties of pinning down details and dates in Palestinian history. This one is just me stopping to vent for a sec.

I came across the Wikipedia page for GUPS, the General Union of Palestinian Students. This is an organization with groups at colleges all over the world. Ish. It's shrunk over the decades.

The page made a bold claim: that GUPS was officially founded in Cairo in 1959, but had really started in the 1920s.

I called bullshit. The only source cited was a dead link to the 2010 version of the SFSU GUPS page, which said the same thing -- no context, no source, and especially, no explanation of how Palestinian student organizing could have started before there were colleges or universities in Palestine.

There were two. They were tiny. And they both taught in Hebrew.

Certainly, there could have been Arab Palestinian students there, who learned Hebrew there, or already knew it.

But were there so many that they started a student group that apparently lasted 35+ years before getting a name??

I could not find one other source for this.

So I deleted it and called bullshit.

Within a day, someone who wasn't even logged in reverted my edit. They told me that I hadn't proven that it was wrong, I'd just said it was illogical.

I started looking up sources and putting together a more detailed edit. In the meantime, I started a topic on the totally empty talk page, politely calling bullshit.

I said that I hadn't been able to find any sources in English OR Arabic that confirmed this claim, and that I thought it was an error made on a dead page.

The same person, now logged in, replied:

"you still haven't refuted the claim. the claim is still on their web page."

BRUH.

IT'S AN ARCHIVE OF A DEAD PAGE. BY DEFINITION, IT DOESN'T CHANGE.

This is exactly how it feels to research any of this stuff.

Every single time, it turns out that people's unsourced online bullshit is absolutely wrong.

Every single time, people just respond by insisting on believing whatever claim some rando made on the internet.

The problem is not that Palestinian history doesn't exist, hasn't been written down, or hasn't been researched. Of fucking course it has!!

(I have literally seen people claiming the contrary in the most wild-ass fucking ways. Supposedly-pro-Palestinian people, acting like Palestinians are wooby powerless fuzzy babbies whose books were all stolen by the cruel Jews 80 years ago, who had no way to replace that historic knowledge, and who have just been standing around ever since. It is the most Western Paternalism shit ever, and it absolutely drives me up the wall.)

The problem is that this is a topic that a lot of people are passionate about. And unfortunately, a whole lot of people are unwilling to back down on literally anything that "feels" pro-Palestinian to them, whether it's true or not.

It's purely going on Vibes, but the Vibes themselves are based on how something compares to the Vibes they get from social media and stuff.

And those vibes are so extreme and vehement that any kind of pushback sounds like You Love Genocide And Kill Babies For Fun.

It's just a fucking vicious spiral.

It's like playing tennis against the tennis-ball-throwing machine. It's not a real game. Nobody is engaging with you. It's just the same shit over and over.

(I was trying to type "shot." But apparently I swear so much that instead of autocorrecting me to "ducking hell," my phone now INSISTS I meant to cuss.)

I ended up getting Google to give me the Arabic for GUPS, and then digging for sources about its actual origin.

It turns out Yasser Arafat formed the Palestinian Students League in Cairo in 1949, and that became GUPS in 1956. This is entirely fucking unsurprising in any way if you know anything at all about actual Palestinian history. Of fucking course he did. This also explains why the first search result I found about GUPS was from the PLO. Of fucking course it was.

[jennamoran]

Nobilis 3rd Edition PoD release

Hi all!

This has nothing to do with Nobilis 4th edition, which I am still editing.

Instead,

after about ten days of work over the course of the past six months---the remaining time was about one month of sorrowful despair and five months of waiting on proofs---I finally have a PoD version of 3rd edition ready!

To be clear:

This is the 2011 edition. It was written fast on the assumption that my publishing situation would let me release a stream of small, chipper supplements on at worst a seasonal basis, and that did not turn out to be the case. I've relicensed two pieces of art and replaced the rest with my own pieces, and I am not a visual artist. If you compare it to my polished recent works like Glitch and the Far Roofs, and then compare it to PDFs I exported from Word and released for free twenty years ago, you will find its presentation is ... in between.

Thanks to Xavid ( https://xavid.itch.io/ ) for the updated layout! I pulled that out of the previous paragraph to avoid including it in my self-aimed snark above.

[just-another-author-i-guess]

NEW!!!!! Masterlist Nov. 2024

A/N: I'm not really sure if this counts as a return lol, but I've grown a lot as a person and I think my writing-style and interest are v different now,,, so here's a new and updated (I'm not 14 anymore and I don't really like the same things I did when I started) masterlist (:

Important info (read pls before requesting): Since I'm over 18 y/o (I just turned 20, yay) I no longer accept any requests for minor characters or aged up versions of minors or anything like that. I'd feel really uncomfortable writing for them now, compared to when I started this blog at 14 lol. I also don't write mlm smut, not bc I want to be mean or less inclusive or anything, but bc I'm literally a bisexual woman and I feel like it's not really my place to write that kind of stuff (bro idk how to, I also fear I wouldn't portray it well at all bc obviously I haven't been in any situations like that),,, tho that does not mean I won't write mlm sfw!!! I'd be more than happy to (:

When I write I can only really do so with my own experiences in mind, so my nsfw stuff will mainly be fem!POV or gn, bc that's what I'm comfortable with... tho with that said, feel free to msg me or ask a question in the 'requests' if any of this seems confusing or unclear!

REQUEST HERE! <3

Judd Birch (big mouth) - judd birch x gn!reader - reader’s first time w/ judd - judd birch relationshp hc’s - judd birch x alt! reader - the one where Judd gives dating advice - four (4) reason’s judd has ‘keep out’ signs on his door (mr. birch is a menace) - just judd things (headcannons pt.2) - judd smut drabble - a heart to heart about Jessi’s sister’s boyfriend - going to school with Judd - judd smut in Y/n’s car - high judd headcannons

✰ ✰ ✰⛱⛈

- vincenzo ‘vinny’ santorini (atlantis)

vinny relationship headcannons

... more coming soon!

╰ ----------- ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

NEW ADDS! Spooky Diaz (on my block) a/n: I just finished watching it pls I'm so in love w Oscar.

(RE) Karl Heisenberg

Heisenberg x gn!reader hcs :D

Heisenberg x fem!reader, posted on ao3 but I need to edit a few things 'fore posting it here,,,

(RDR2, the gang, Flaco?) Flaco x pregnant!fem!reader... bc I'm down bad ): Flaco x pregnant!reader HERE

Teaching reader poker x the guys: Arthur, John, Javier, Charles... (coming soon)

MORE COMING AT SOME POINT! But I have a looottt of requests to finish, I've been afk for like almost 3 years or something but I really appreciate the nice msgs I got (:

((I have a lot of Les mis stuff on my ao3 and I’ll definitely post it over here if ppl are interested but it’s kinda a lot different from what I usually write bc I’m more pretentious on ao3 lmfao. Anyway lemme know))

*here's a link to my ao3, since I've posted some les mis stuff and other things on there that I'm not sure you ppl on here would like... but lemme know if u want me to crosspost it on here <3 justanotherauthorig

[seraphinitegames]

Hey, Mishka!!!

I've been replaying TWC over the last couple of months, and must say, it's been an entirely rejuvenating experience for me. Like, I was reading it the first time, although I've replayed the series quite too many (worrying number) of times already. And it still manages to amaze me, EVERY SINGLE TIME.

I've repeated this in the past, and I'll repeat it again. The Wayhaven Chronicles is a blessing for me and I'm sincerely thankful to have come across it when I did. And I'm grateful to you for making this lovely world a reality (and of course, the four beautiful vamps)! Really eager for Book 4 and have already player the demo; can say it's gonna be worth the wait. It every time is.

Replaying the series in the last few months, I had a certain uncontrollable urge to drop and ask a few questions to you. Apologize in advance for the long ask and message, but it had been bottling up inside of me for SOOOOOO LONG.

1. In Book 1, when we're to lead the investigation in one of the three directions, is there any way to get success in any direction without Bobby making a big joke out of our investigation in the newspaper?

2. In Book 2, when Nicole and Max Salinas come to report their incident, can Tina actually find out anything unusual? If so, what is actually needed to explain that?

3. In Book 3, I noticed if we choose to go the final mission alone, depending on the route chosen, Boddy/Doug will end up tagging along as well, jeopardizing everything. Is there still a way to complete the mission successfully and rescuing everyone like it happens when we go along with Rebecca?

4. Less of a question, but more of a plea. Please tell me we can get a pet anytime in the series. I was just curious if we can get one.

5. How powerful is the big baddie in Book 4 compared to Unit Bravo? You don't need to answer if this verges on spoiler-y territory.

Really sorry to overwhelm you with this, but it's just months and months of joy, happiness, and sheer ecstasy making me blabber on about this world like this. Thanks once again, for making this truly beautiful story, world, and the vampires a reality.

Have a good day!!!! Lots of love from India!!

You can never play a game you love too many times (I keep telling myself that as I gradually burn a hole into my poor old console playing Dragon Age over and over, lol!)! If it brings you happiness, then that's what is important! :D

Ok, let's see about the questions...it's been a whole since I've gone through the older games without being in editing mode, hehe!

I don't think so...Bobby is, well, Bobby. And that scene was there very much to establish their character and show the player what type of person they are.

I don't think so, again. If there's anything unusual or odd, then I usually like to let the MC find that instead of it happening 'off-screen' so it's more impactful for the player—unless it's Verda discovering stuff, because that needs to happen for…reasons.

Iirc, in the Bobby/Doug routes, you get the auction scene, so a lot of that branch involves focusing on saving yourself! But the other team that joins Unit Bravo will help in saving a lot of the captives in that version.

I would love that being a massive animal companion fan myself, hehe! But likely not, just because the MC is away a lot from home, and that's unfair on the pet, even a fictional one, lol. I was tempted to give the MC a supernatural pet that hung around at the facility—that was definitely a strong idea at one point just so I could write a pet in the series for those that wanted it (me, I was the one who wanted it, hehe!) :D

**BOOK FOUR DEMO SPOILERS AHEAD** It's not just that Book Four's villain is terrifyingly powerful (or will be. They are, thankfully for the MC and UB, in a weakened state for a while due to what's happened to them and what happened in Chapter Two) but it's a lot to do with the fact that their power specifically counteracts and weakens Unit Bravo's. So that's a double whammy!

Thank you SO incredibly much for the amazing message! It means more than you can know <3

[ann-writes-universes]

Archangel (Azriel x Reader) REMASTER Pt. 1

A/N: Hey all <3 I will be re-releasing this series in a total of five parts varying in length. She is almost completely done! Thank you for the continued love and support for this series over the years. I hope you continue to love it just as I have <3

WARNINGS: Gore, Implied SA, mentions of suicidal ideation, GORE, Death. Under the mountain.

W/C: 6.5k (WOOF- guys the smaller parts ARE still on my master list BUT the much more detail oriented and edited version is here :( forgive me )

Everyday proceeded as such; You awoke at seven promptly each morning, met with your nursemaid who dressed you in frilly dresses with frilly gloves and frilly hats, proceeded to breakfast with your siblings and parents (whom you adored), and then spent the rest of the day being fussed over by maids and tutors. Every day was precisely the same. There was, however, some variation when ball season neared. In that whimsical time of year you would be fussed over just a little extra, as the balls your family hosted were a means for your father to show you (as well as your sister) off to potential suitors,  like some sort of lace-wearing cattle at auction. Men and women would come from far and wide to socialize and catch a glimpse at the wide and fanciful halls of your  Father’s country estate. You hated those types of events, always felt out of place despite being right where you were bred to be. You were only 18- a babe compared to the women who attended these events on the arms of their husbands. Their socialization with you was always clipped- shallow somehow despite your attempts to have meaningful conversation. Since your seventeenth birthday you had been up for bid- hushed conversations about your future had been held behind closed doors since before you could even walk. Much of the time you felt like a child still, yet the world your family belonged to was beckoning you forward with greedy hands.

Really, you supposed that getting married before 20 was what you ought to do. Its what your mother had done, and her mother before her, and her mother before her. “Tradition” is what it was called, but the age-old domestication of the Beddor women just seemed like some sort of hell to you. In your own 18 years of living, you had accepted the outrageous dresses, the tutors who taught you how to be “feminine” and smart (without being too smart of course), the maids who raised you up instead of your mother, and the inability to pick your own interests for the sake of your mother’s nagging– but what you had not accepted was the possibility that you would enter into a life void of true love. The women in books made it seem so easy. They lived in houses like yours and wore the clothes you wore but they got to be smart, and they got to stand up for themselves, and in the end, they still got the man they had always pined over and a destiny they had forged. This was not the life you were destined to live. You were meant to live the life your mother had lived, and her mother had lived before her and so on and so forth until the beginning of your family line.

These were the things you pondered, the great “atrocities” of being well to do and a woman in Prythian.

You had never, however, put much thought into the little things in life - such as how the sun felt on your skin, the way morning dew left wet patches on your dresses after sitting, or the tinkling of bells when maids were called to and from in your hill-side manor. These were the ways of your quaint little life below the wall and you never pushed them beyond what they were. There was never an inkling of question as to why the bells chimed louder after dark, or why the sun felt colder in some months, or why the dew never really seemed to fall upon your yard after father planted more trees. You never questioned anything simple in your life, you never had a reason too if it did not involve your immediate future. You had been conditioned to accept your life as it was and to never wonder what it could be otherwise.

As you now sat bound and gagged on your entryway floor, you wished you questioned everything in your life, even the things you thought so trivial. You wished you had questioned your father on the security of your home that the creatures before you had ripped through so easily. You wished you had asked the salesman more questions about the “fae-proof” iron the high-fae male had ripped from your wrist without a care. You wished… Except there was no more time for wishes. Your younger brother’s head had just been removed from his shoulders with the most sickening pop of bone and muscle, and distantly you heard your mother shriek and shriek until- … silence. Her head joined Adam’s on the floor before you. Your father beside you pleaded with the only high-fae in the room, a tall male with tanned skin and dark hair. If you were not so wildly afraid you could have sworn the fae’s violet eyes held some sort of emotion, pity or regret you were not sure. He simply tilted his head at your father and what you perceived as a grimace crossed his features as a leathery hand reached around and aided your father in reaching the same fate as your brother and mother before him. Your eyes traveled slowly to the floor. The swirling marble below you was painted crimson, and the blood of your family painted the tattered remains of your nightgown a sickly purple as it mixed with what was once your favorite pale blue. Silent tears dripped in fast succession down your face as you looked across the entryway to your sister.

         Clare was similarly bound and gagged, the bottom of her nightgown ridden up to where her knees were sticky and coated in blood. Her hair was mused wild and her cheeks were red and stained with tears. You had always favored her in looks, and if her face was any sign, you looked just as horrified. Behind her, a creature stood, the same one who had done your family the favor of removing their heads. It was an awful, bat-like thing with wrinkled skin and yellowed teeth. It spoke in whispers to the high-fae male who stood next to you now (he had been careful to step over the bleeding corpse of your father).

“Which one of you is Clare Beddor?”

The fae male spoke. His voice was stern yet reminded you of a tutor you once had. It was smooth and calming in a way. The gags you both sported were ripped away so that you could speak. Your eyes darted wildly to your sister, she was breathing quickly, and her eyes were trained on the dirtied floor beneath her. Just as you were about to speak out and lie a sharp pain took over your body. It felt as though your head was being ripped to shreds by a butcher’s knife. The pain was so intense that your muscles lost control and sent your body limply to the blood coated floor beneath you. 

‘Do not lie to me Beddor. Let your sister save you.’ The Fae-Male’s voice purred inside of your skull. You glanced sideways at him from the ground. He merely peered down at you before returning his gaze to your sister. Paralyzed you began to sob as you watched Clare’s demeanor change from frightened to defeated.  She now stared hollowly at you as blood began to coat your hair and stick to the skin of your cheeks. The emptiness in her eyes as she accepted her fate only made you cry harder.

“M-me. I am Clare.” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper at this point, hoarse from the sobs that had ravished her lungs only moments before. The fae male nodded in approval and motioned towards the creature of nightmare who accompanied him. The bat grabbed your elder sister with its horrible talons and drug her screaming form into the night beyond. You let out a hoarse scream of protest that was quickly broken by a sob as you realized that your fate would more than likely be the same as your father’s, brother, and mother.

         “You will not suffer the same, though you will wish you had.” The remaining fae spoke, as though he had read your mind. You could not even formulate a response. You were in so much shock. Instead of elaborating, the male picked your bound body up off of the sticky floor and cradled you bridal style in his arms. You were exhausted. Too exhausted to fight. They had ripped you all from your beds, massacred one of the greatest families in Prythian without a second thought- and in minutes no less. From the way he picked you up as though you were nothing you knew any attempt to fight back would be futile. But maybe if you-

         “If you try and harm me I will have no choice but to kill you. Please do not make me hurt anyone else tonight.” The last part of his words were pleading, enough so that you stopped struggling all together and simply stared into his amethyst eyes.

         That gnawing pain returned, and your body lost control.

~

You had no idea how long ago that night in your home had been. It was hard to judge time in a place such as this. It was always dark here, always cold, always wet. There was no variation. Every day was precisely the same. You would be drug from your cell by creatures that resembled

your family’s murderer, meet with whatever high-fae requested your services for the hour, and you would be beaten for sport in a throne room made entirely of creatures from nightmare. Every day was precisely the same. There was, however, some variation in your days when she would get angry. On these days you would be taken directly to the throne room and thrown at her feet. Her. The red-headed queen who spoke of nothing but ruin and demise. Amarantha. On the days where she would be particularly angry (or even particularly chipper) she would have the tanned fae-male use magic to bind your attention to the mangled body of your sister as they tortured her. You would watch them beat and brutalize her for hours upon end until not even the magic could keep her head up-right.

These were the fae from legend. Cruel, uncaring, and evil. Amarantha had no particular use for you it seemed; other than to keep her courtiers happy. When she first offered your services to her minions you fought back. You screamed, and yelled, and raged until you were beaten beyond recognition. You had been out of commission for a week after that. Your brief intermission from being Amarantha’s plaything pissed her off enough that she had allowed you a healer, and shortly after you were back to being everyone’s favorite toy.

Today seemed to be a day where Amarantha was particularly pissed off. You knew the drill by now, when two of those bat-like demons (who you now knew were called Attor thanks to some loud audience members) came to retrieve you instead of one it meant Clare was being brutalized not too far away.

Today, however, was different. When you were thrown at the feet of Amarantha your eyes met (as they always did) with the tanned fae male…. Rhysand. (Yes you thought you had heard Amarantha call him that) And those eyes - they looked back at you in terror. Suddenly you couldn’t breathe. Your eyes ripped away to the spot you knew she would be. Clare was gurgling before you, her naked body covered in gore and burns so extensive that you could hardly recognize her once delicate and pretty features. Instead of the usual procession of fae willing to torture your sister, only one stood before her.

This too was a high-fae male. He was taller than Rhysand, with darker skin and long black hair. His golden eyes stared at Amarantha with defiance and his shoulders were squared.

“Now that the girl’s sister is present, do proceed Helion.” Amarantha purred from her perch behind you. You snapped your head around to look at her. She was smiling like a cat and her left hand was wrapped firmly around the knee of the blonde high-fae beside her. You had noticed him before. He never spoke nor looked at you- though the wolf-like golden mask he wore would have prevented you from noticing if he had or not anyhow. Upon noticing your stare, Amarantha jutted a heeled foot at your head, effectively knocking it back so hard your ears rang.

“Stare not at me little one, watch the show I have put on for you.” She growled as she leaned back into her seat, that vile smile returning to her ruby lips.

With your vision blurred, you turned back to face your mangled sister. Blood was dripping, from where you weren’t sure but you tasted the metallic crimson in the back of your throat.

         Helion, as he was called, looked towards Amarantha once more and shifted his weight. It was then that you noticed it. In his left hand was a scythe inlaid with gold. He tossed it around nervously and tapped his clothed knee with the blade.

“Perhaps this is not something her younger sis-“

“I said proceed Helion.” Amarantha bit back before the nervous male could finish.

Helion offered you a pained look before turning to your sister. Her eyes were swollen shut from an earlier beating but she knew he was there. Her head lifted (at least it tried) and you saw tears stream down her swollen cheeks. Her fate dawned on you then and you began to crawl forward. Your knees were being torn back open from old wounds, your cracked fingers were drawing blood and without realizing it you were screaming for him to stop.

“Rhysand, pacify the young one, she’s ruining this.”

At his queen’s command the fae entered your mind and effectively paralyzed you. You laid on the floor and watched as Helion approached your sister.

‘When I say so, close your eyes and do not open them. I will make sure you do not hear it.’

His voice startled you, but your gut told you not to visibly react. With what little freedom his magic gave you, you reached a hand across the stone floor towards Clare. You hoped she knew that you had tried, you hoped she knew that you were there. As Helion raised his left hand over his shoulder and the metal blade glinted in the throne room light Rhysand’s voice entered your mind once more,

‘now.’

You closed your eyes.

~

After they strung your sister up for everyone to see you clocked out more so than before. Each high-fae was the same and the brutalities they subjected you too made you numb. Without Clare there to torture you became Amarantha’s new toy for a while, and without Clare there you no longer really cared. Your entire family- gone. Wiped out entirely by creatures you weren't even sure were real until they entered your home so forcefully all those nights ago. Days - perhaps weeks, passed until she arrived and you were thankfully no longer of importance.

Feyre Archeron had been a friend of Clare’s. She was a year older than you and when her father had lost his fortune you stopped seeing her around so much. You had always liked her and tried to keep up with her despite your father’s protests. She had gone missing last year, something to do with a dying aunt. Now, as she stood before Amarantha’s rage- defiant and strong you figured there was never a dying aunt after all. With the arrival of Feyre, Amarantha offered you out to the highest bidder. Much to your dismay it was your sister’s murderer. Upon finding out that you were to stay by his side you vomited on the floor. Rhysand had offered you some sort of mental comfort but seemed more focused on the only other human girl in the room. She was angrier than you had ever seen her, and she stared Amarantha down with an ice-cold rage. Her pale eyes caught yours briefly and the sight of you knocked her backwards. She reached a hand out to where you stood at the edge of the gathered crowd. You let out a quiet sob and reached towards her, a token of gratitude that did not go unnoticed. Amarantha’s eyes darted wildly between you and Feyre as she realized you two knew one another and as though she had won the lottery her body began to wrack with throws of laughter.

The sound ricocheted off the stone walls and sent chills down your spine. Feyre dropped her hand and whipped her gaze back towards the dark queen. Your eyes fell to the floor. At some point Helion had sidled up next to you. His hands were clasped behind him, but you were hyper aware of this chest pressing into your shoulder.

“Well sweet Feyre” Amarantha spoke between bouts of laughter “Now that I know your true name, why don’t you tell your human friend why she’s here.”

Your eyes shot up and your brows furrowed. You saw Rhysand shift nervously in his place near the throne and Feyre looked utterly distraught. Amarantha’s fingers curled around the arms of her seat and she leaned forward in anticipation as Feyre turned to face you fully.

“She’s here because I lied about who I was in order to escape.” Feyre’s voice cracked and she looked away from you. Her eyes collided undoubtedly with your sister’s mangled corpse and she shuddered before looking at you once more. “I didn’t think she would do this to you… to Clare.” Feyre looked to the floor then, tears glinting on her skin.

Your resolve broke. A series of jumbled sounds left your throat and your gaze collided with Clare’s corpse. Feyre had been her friend at one point. She had been your friend at one point. The weeks of torture, starvation, and brutality… all because she lied and said her name was Clare Beddor?

“What do you have to say to her little Beddor?” Amarantha purred, that cat-like grin plastered on her too pretty face. You looked at her, and then settled your gaze on Feyre. She was crying, and you had been too but the sight of her tears steeled your nerves.

“I hope that the sight of my sister's corpse haunts you until the day you die.” Your voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper, but your words did the trick. Feyre let out a mangled cry and the throne room erupted into a cacophony of screams and cheers.

~

Before you could hear Feyre’s sentencing, Helion had ushered you out of the throne room.

         He was stone quiet the entirety of the trek back to his quarters. Entirely closed off as the guards let you two be, and entirely quiet as he moved to sit on his bed while you stood like a caged animal in the corner of his room. It was only when he saw your tears that he spoke.

“My name is He-“

“I know who you are , murderer.” You spat. And your voice felt foreign. You had not used it for more than screams the entirety of your stay here. You remembered an older girl in your village who told you how powerful any information could be to the fae. At the time you had chalked it up to legends and silly tales but now you weren’t sure what the truth was anymore and decided it best to keep quiet altogether.

         Helion sighed at your response and nodded.

“Yes. I am also that.” His voice was taught, and foolish of you to think as much but it sounded pained.

“She was 19 years old, you bastard.” Your voice was quieter this time, filled with pain and grief so thick that it threatened to swallow you whole. You had been so scared to mourn here, so scared to show any emotion other than complacency.

“Be careful how you speak to me here girl. I may know I deserve it but they will not see it as such.” He spat, motioning to the stone walls around you as though they were alive.

With horrible realization you concluded that they very well could be.

“What is your name Beddor? You have given it to no one save for Rhysand who I am guessing has turned your shit into a smoothie by now.” He caught you off guard. So much so that you let out a laugh. Not a laugh of amusement but one of a woman gone mad.

You sank to the floor beneath you and leaned your massacred back against the door. Helion quirked a brow and stood from his position.

“You gut my sister in front of me, watch that woman beat me, and place a bid on me like a prize heifer and you want to know my name?” You replied, dumbfounded at the audacity of the male in front of you.

“Give me your name and I will make sure of it that everything that has happened to you here will be righted. I bet on you so that Amarantha’s sadistic little followers wouldn’t have the chance. I do not care what it is you spend your time doing but now you won’t be subjected to the hell you have been. I’ll give you tasks in here to keep you busy and out of the way, but I need to know your name.” He spoke with such conviction and such pain that you quit laughing. Your mouth snapped shut and your eyes widened.

Perhaps it was the fact that you hoped he was lying and would kill you, or the fact that you were too exhausted to question him, but you nodded and swallowed deeply.

“(Y/N) Beddor. My name is (y/n).”

Part Two

         Helion kept you alive, and as much as you hated to admit it you were growing to hate him less. You attended Feyre’s trials and against the rage still residing in your heart, you silently prayed to whatever Gods were out there that she would survive. You no longer had to warm the bed of random courtiers, and Helion did not expect (nor ask) for you to warm his. You were still on occasion used as entertainment for the fucked-up parties Amarantha threw, and it was there that you watched Feyre begin to crumble under the weight of the mountain. She had been doing well in the trials, but you could see that her mentality was being crushed. Over the past few weeks, you had learned what brought her to lie, what brought her to leave home, and what brought her to come here. As much as you despised her for being the reason Clare was now rotting on a wall for the pleasure of Amarantha, you rooted for her success. Love had made her do what she did, and some buried part of you envied her for getting to love someone the way she loved Tamlin.

         “Do you still hate Feyre?” Helion whispered one night as he lay in his bed. You were curled up on a pallet near the door, more awake than ever. You cleared your throat and stared at the dark stone above your head.

“What do you mean?” You whispered back, unsure if his question was a trick. He had yet to harm you since his agreement with Amarantha, but your guard was still up.

“For giving your family name to them all those months ago. Do you hate her?” He countered. You could hear him shifting in his sheets, presumably to face the direction he knew you were in.

“Yes and no. If she hadn’t given her name to Amarantha, Clare… my family would still be alive. But I also think that if she hadn’t our family wouldn’t have had a chance beneath the wall anyhow.” You weren’t lying. All the small bits of information you had picked up on clued you into what was going on in the more mysterious part of Prythian. You felt as though Feyre had the ability to stop it, and if she had been killed before she got the chance your family would have died anyway. Yet, you still wished that your family could have had the chance to die standing up, fighting back.

         “Feyre is going to save our people (y/n).” Before you could ask what the fuck, he meant by that he had rolled over in his bed and was beginning to snore softly.

~

Helion had been right. Feyre had fought to the fucking death for her people and theirs. You had watched as that wicked bitch forced Feyre to drive a dagger through the heart of her lover and watched as her spine snapped and the life drained from her pretty blue eyes. Rhysand’s bellowing cry and Tamlin’s rage echoed throughout the chamber and when they silenced so did the whole room.

It was Berron who had offered his gift first, or maybe it was Tarquin… their names still dumbfounded you even after all these months of warming half of their beds. When it came time for Helion to offer his gift he shifted from behind you and walked forward, breathing that sweet gift of life back into her body.

And when Feyre came back, she came back as something entirely different.

~

You sat on the balcony, taking note of the way the sun warmed your skin, and the way the mountain rock was slick with dew from the early morning. Tears, warm and salty, coated your cheeks and spilled down your neck. Spring had faded into winter in the outer world. In your home, ball season had come and gone, and you wondered if a funeral had been held for you, for your family.

“Will you return to your home?”

Helion’s voice startled you out of your daze and you turned your tired eyes towards him. The bitterness you had felt for not only him, but the entirety of his kind had waned slightly, though a deep fear settled in its place. Why? You were unsure. Rage had been replaced with an exhaustion that reached the deepest parts of your bones and consumed any emotion you had felt.

You returned your gaze to the mountain range and shrugged. You were bonier now, your fingers had become frail, your knees knobby, and your cheeks had lost their plumpness. You supposed you were beautiful once, but now you were unsure.

“Truth be told, there is no home for me to return to, Helion. Though I’m not quite sure what the hell I would do with myself if there was anyway.” You looked to him; a deep feeling of loneliness had settled.  

“My world looks so much different now.” And truth be told it did. You felt hardened compared to the girl you were six months ago, Changed.

Even if you regained the weight and left this world of fae, the scars would remain. No number of pink frills and lace would cover up the atrocities you underwent here.

         “Come to my home.” He countered. His hands were in the pockets of his linen pants, and he leaned against the archway that led inside. His face held a mask of cool composure, a rival to your utter shock.

“While I am sure you see that offer as a great kindness, I do not.” You replied, Helion’s shoulders slouched momentarily before squaring once more. “In your own way you tried to right what has happened to me here, but I still see you as my sister’s Murderer.” Your voice was cool, though your posture was slouched and unnerved.

“You know I neve-“

“It is not a matter of honor, Helion. I have far too much on my mind and soul now to see anything but the life draining from her eyes when I look at you. I need time.” You were crying. Trying desperately to be thankful for his offer but those golden eyes that stared at you were still the same as they were the day that Clare stopped breathing. When her lungs quit filling it felt like yours had lost the ability to ever hold air again.

“Then where will you go, (y/n)? You said it yourself. You have no home. Come with me, you’ll never have to see me or do anything you don’t want to, but I owe you this.” Helion pleaded, he reached out a hand and recoiled when you pushed into the balcony’s edge.

“I appreciate your kindness Helion, I do, but nothing will ever repay the debt I am now owed. Nothing.” And you were being honest. Though you were glad Feyre got to be with her lover you were envious. Why had she been blessed with a second chance when your family was offered nothing?

After a moment’s silence he spoke, “I understand… My people and I will leave the mountain tomorrow. Please take that time to reconsider your choice.” And with that he had disappeared inside once more. How he could go back in there confused you. The thought of leaving this balcony, leaving the world, terrified you.

Once more you looked to the sun which was now finding its home in the western sky. Above you, millions of stars began to kiss the night and the winter wind made the tips of your fingers chilly on the stone they clutched.

“You were never meant to survive.”

The rattling voice turned your spine into steel. Despite the now freezing temperature, you began to sweat and your grip on the balcony rail tightened so much your nails cracked and bled. Your gaze traveled over your bony shoulder and landed upon its leathery wings first. Talons tapped angrily upon rock and the creature stared at you with a hatred so fierce that your blood ran cold.

“Neither were you.” Your voice was hardly a whisper as you turned to face the attor. It looked like hell, as though it had escaped a brutal beating only moments before. If it was ugly before, the creature before you was horrendous now.

“He has plans for you…” It hissed as it moved towards you. There was no room to run, your back was pressed firmly to the balcony’s edge and your feet were too damaged to run even after being treated by a healer.

“Who?” You countered, tilting your head up. If you were to die here, you would at least die standing.

“The king.” Before you could even begin to scream the attor surged forward and wrapped its leathery hands around your frame. With no hesitation at all it shot into the night sky, taking your flailing form with it. The wails you let out were futile, anyone that would have cared to save you was dead or so far below the mountain that they wouldn’t be able to hear you anyhow.

You kicked out at your captor and clawed at its bodice desperately. Blood was drawing and the attor was growling slowly in its chest, but its grip did not loosen, and its flight did not slow.

“Stupid, stupid, human.” It snarled before dipping towards the ground below. The drop came so suddenly that your head began to swim, and your ears began to ring and then the world went darker than the night sky surrounding you.

~

Pain.

White hot pain coursed through your body where blood once flowed. Your skin felt as though it was being flayed by millions of needles finer than a strand of hair. Every muscle that was left burned and pleaded, your joints groaned and popped as you walked.

This place.

This place was worse than the mountain. Here you could see the sun rise and fall, and here you could hear everything. You listened when you first arrived as the attor and its brethren scurried up and down the hall beyond your prison cell. You watched out of a pinprick sized window as the waves below your prison crashed into its walls and the sun dipped and rose on the horizon for days.

They fed you here. A mixture of mold and rot so foul that not even the starvation you felt would allow you to ingest the vile things they gave you.

They clothed you here. A pretty wardrobe of lashings and scars that no amount of time would wipe clean from your skin.

You laid on the floor of your cell now, tracing a particularly disgusting one that ran down the extent of your right arm. It began at your shoulder and twisted to your fingertips like a vine. It was pink and irritated, not quite healed yet. This one had been from your refusal to get up and just eat something. The lesser faerie in charge of you that day had come in and sank his nails so far into your skin that your screams were sure to have been heard in all reaches of Prythian.

You had wanted to die under the mountain to escape Amarantha but at least there you were fighting for Clare, fighting for the possibility that everything you had endured was just some sick nightmare.

Here there was nothing. There was no revelry you were tormented at, no chores to do, no games to play into. Here it was just you, and this cell that stunk of sea water and rot. You had not been able to see what you looked like, but from what you had felt you assumed it was not at all pretty.

Your hand that traced the puckered scar on your arm fell to the floor beneath you. It was cold stone, colder somehow than the mountain, and slick with perspiration from air that never seemed to thin. Right as you began to contemplate how long the human body could withstand this type of torment you heard it.

Piercing as an alarm a scream rang through the hallway beyond.

A woman cursed and bellowed so loudly that the stone around you shook. The pain in her cry was so loud that you shot upright with more energy than you had felt in months. Your head swam from the sudden movement and your vision blurred momentarily before you were able to move towards your cell door.

“FUCK YOU. AND FUCK THIS FUCKING PLACE.” The woman bellowed. You heard a grunt and an echoing slap that chilled your bones. The door to your cell swung open and before you stood a high fae male.

In any other life he would have been pretty, a tall blonde with tanned skin and lightly colored eyes. In this life, he horrified you. His eyes were steel, and his marred hands reached for you with such anger that you reeled in reply.

“Its your turn now, little human.” He sneered as he grasped your bony elbow and pulled you from the darkness of your most recent home.

 The throne room was a massacre.

You had not met the king during your internment here, but he was not at all what you expected. The fae sitting upon the throne was tall and lithe, not at all the imposing stature you had envisioned during the days you had spent lying in wait.

When you were pulled into the throws of whatever mess had been occurring, the king’s dark eyes zeroed in on you. The room was littered with fae. Feyre was sobbing on the floor, a puddle of what you assumed was her vomit not far from her. Rhysand stood nearby, restrained by two very terrifying guards who were armed to the teeth. You cocked a brow at the sight of them together, Tamlin was standing across the room looking absolutely furious.

From her position on the floor Feyre was clutching the bloodied body of a tanned fae-male with leathery wings that had been horrifically shredded. The male groaned and sputtered on the floor, failing to sit up no matter how hard he tried.

Your heart flipped upside down and your brows knitted in confusion. Who the fuck were these people? Why the fuck was Feyre here with them and not the man she loved?

And then you saw them.

In a puddle on the floor laid Elain and Nesta Archeron. They were naked and trembling. Something about them had changed, they seemed… it hit you like a ton of bricks. Just as Feyre had been changed, so had her sisters.

“How?” You whispered, utterly dumbfounded.

The others took notice of you then, Feyre looked to you and there was no hiding the utter terror in her pretty eyes. From his seat the king let out a choked laugh and clapped his hands.

“Oh, little Beddor, you have missed all of the revelry. Adler, please bring her to me.” The King spoke and his voice sent chills through you. All the air in the room seemed to have dissipated and the fae male that held you jerked you forward.

A pained yelp escaped your throat at the sudden white-hot burn that shot down your shredded arm. A deep growl sounded from somewhere amongst the strangers and your eyes met with the deep brown hues of a male near Rhysand.

He had been wrestled to his knees and stared at you briefly before turning his gaze to the King.

“Strip her.”

The words broke you from your daze and you looked to the King frantically. Before you could begin to protest Adler had released your arm and reached for the hem of your shirt.

“N- no…” You were choking on your words, violently thrashing against Adler’s hands. Without a moment of hesitation, he reared back and slapped you. Your ears rang from the impact and you stumbled backwards. Feyre gasped behind you and the guards that restrained Rhysand and his friend struggled as the males reeled.

Successfully stripping you bare, Adler shoved you onto your knees before the King. Warm tears slid down your cheeks and you raised your arms to cover your chest. Your nose was bleeding, and you focused on the crimson drops that fell to the floor, unable to bring your eyes to the fae before you.

“Why are you crying, girl? You should feel lucky to have received an opportunity such as this one.”

“Enough Hybern. She has no part in this, let her go.” Rhysand ground out. His words were met with the sound of bone cracking and the muted scream of his friend slowly bleeding out on the floor. Whoever it was held some weight in Rhysand’s life, enough so that his attempt to help you was not followed by any others.

Your blood was making constellations on the stone below you. It seeped into the cracks of the floor and began to pool. How hard had he hit you? In your bones you could feel the shock beginning to take hold. Your body had been tormented for months and sitting here, naked before the King of Hybern seemed to be its final straw.

Your gaze finally found the King’s and in it you found nothing but evil so intense it made your stomach hurt.

“Just fucking kill me already.” You ground out, anger was taking hold, or was this feeling acceptance? You had survived the mountain and had one? Two hours of freedom? Only to end up here, naked and shaking so violently you felt as though your head was going to fall off of your shoulders. How poetic would that be? To suffer the same fate as Adam had. The same fate your parents had.

The thought made you laugh.

Hybern raised a brow as he stared at you, bleeding and laughing, naked before him.

“Kill you?” He questioned. His gaze now held some sort of fucked up amusement, of course he enjoyed watching your descent into madness.

You dared to turn your head and gaze at those behind you. A red headed male who you had seen under the mountain was crouched beside Nesta and Elain, the former of the two had gained consciousness and was staring directly at you. There was a murderous rage building on her features, and it startled you so much that you returned your gaze to Hybern.

“I’m sick of these stupid fucking Faerie games. Kill. Me.” You had nothing left to say then. You gathered the blood that had pooled in your mouth and spit it directly onto Hybern’s feet. From his position beside the crowned male, Tamlin grimaced.

Hybern merely frowned and nodded his head. You were pulled to your feet by your hair and drug towards Nesta and Elain. The red-headed male beside them was drug backwards by a masked guard, as if he would intervene in whatever the fuck they were about to do to you.

And sitting there, dark and impending was a cauldron.

It was the size of a bathtub and hummed loudly as you approached. As you neared its edge the glint of swirling liquid caught your eye and you reeled.

You planted your heels into the ground and pushed backwards against Adler with every bit of remaining strength you had.

“You wanted death Beddor, here is your chance. From the looks of the wild cat on the floor you might beg the Gods that it does kill you.” Hybern called from his dias.

Another high fae came forward then and helped Adler lift your struggling form. You began to scream then. Your eyes found Feyre’s and she was sobbing. Rhysand looked as if he was being gutted alive as he watched her, and the kneeling male was staring at you with his mouth hanging open. He struggled against the fae holding him.

“Im so sorry.” Feyre repeated those words over and over as the fae holding you shoved you under, and then the whole world went dark.

-

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