#and the thing is they still stand alone so well as content creators

[vantabrooke]

It's so awesome to see Hermitcraft go from having an emphasis on the Hermit part to a constantly collaborative server full of people you can tell genuinely enjoy interacting with each other.

[freedomfireflies]

404*

Summary: The one where you and Harry are software engineers on a project for Juno Inc.

And you can’t fucking stand each other.

Word Count: 2.6k

*Contains Mature and Explicit content! Please only consume what you feel comfortable with!💞You are so much more important!*

(Note: This edit is not mine!! I believe the @ is on it, but full credit to the incredible creator! It's so perfect!!)

“What the hell are you still doing here?”

Your eyes never leave the computer screen as Harry’s familiarly snippy question echoes across the empty lab. “Working,” you answer simply.

He snorts as the door falls shut behind him. “It’s two in the fucking morning, I thought you left hours ago.”

“I did. And then I came back.”

You vaguely hear him walk further into the dark room, slipping around the different tables as he moseys his way closer. “Why?”

“S’this fucking sequence,” you mumble, now glaring at the different variants that litter the test. “Every time I run the simulation, the connection fails. And it shouldn’t.”

Your peripheral catches the way he uses his knuckle to push his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “Is there a missing link?”

“There shouldn’t be. I’ve run it before, and it’s worked fine. But now it’s not. It’s like something is broken.”

“Or missing,” he argues, coming to a stop behind your chair. He studies the project from over your shoulder, and you feel your muscles recoil when you get a whiff of his cologne. “There could be something wrong with the back end.”

“Okay, well, there’s not,” you retort, shooting him a quick glare. “I already checked.”

“Well maybe you missed it. You have a tendency to misplace things.”

“I didn’t misplace it, Harold, I studied every inch of that fucking code, and there was nothing broken or missing.”

He leans back, arms crossing as he regards both you and the program. “Maybe you should check it again.”

“And maybe you should bite me,” you huff, too overworked to deal with the snarky attitude. “I really don’t have time for this today, all right? Can you just leave me to it?”

“I’d like to, but clearly you don’t know what you’re doing,” he replies calmly, and even without looking at him, you can sense his smug smile. “Every time I leave you to it, I come back to find out you’ve wrecked our project.”

Your eyes roll. “First of all, it’s not our project. It’s my project. And second…why are you even here? I thought you had shit to do tonight.”

“I did, but I’m done now.”

“Oh, so, naturally you came back just to annoy me?”

“Naturally.” He places his hand on the desk beside you and leans down, hovering near your arm as he glances over the computer. “There could be something wrong with the framework. Try the sequence again, I wanna see how it behaves.”

“No thanks.”

Harry smirks, and you realize you don’t like how close his face is. “Relax, Tinkerbell, I just wanna help.”

“And I don’t want your help,” you remind him, using your elbow to shove him to the side. “I’ve spent months with this program, it’s my baby, and I will fix it alone.”

“We’re supposed to be working together,” he argues, but it’s much too coy. “So stop being such a bitch and just run the goddamn sequence.”

You snort under your breath as you spin around in your chair to look at him. “It was that bad, huh?”

He settles back against the table behind him, hands shoving into his pockets as he stares right back. “What was bad?”

“The sex.” You jut your chin toward him. “The thing you had to do tonight. It was bad enough that you had to come back here and start swinging your dick around just to feel better.”

He smirks, tongue running over his bottom lip. “It was fine.”

“Fine? Gee, how romantic.”

He exhales an amused laugh and glances around the lab. “She was still hung up on her ex. Think it lasted all of fifteen minutes, and I’m pretty sure she faked it.”

“Well, she was having sex with you. Of course she faked it.”

His smile gets a bit bigger. “Well, I faked it, too.”

“You?” you scoff. “No way. She could have sneezed on your cock, and you still would have cum.”

His head shakes, grinning wildly. “Normally, yeah. But we both just wanted to get out of there.”

“Poor girl.”

“Yeah? What about poor me?”

“Oh, I never feel sorry for you. You always find a way to get what you want eventually.”

His head tilts, green eyes sparkling behind the tortoiseshell frames of his glasses. “Do I?”

“Clearly.” You settle back into your chair, legs crossing. “I mean, have you ever heard the word no in your life?”

“Hear it all the time with you.”

“Exactly. I’m doing you a favor.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. I’m keeping you humble.”

“Is that right?”

“It is.”

That smug look of endearment returns as the lab falls silent. He watches you for quite some time, and you think that you’d pay anything to hear what he’s really thinking.

Then, he smirks. “Good,” he says, and with that, he’s pushing off the desk and striding to you.

He bridges the five-foot gap between you with ease, and you aren’t even afforded the chance to take a breath before he’s grabbing hold of your face and kissing you.

His large body bends in order to reach you in the chair, but you can feel him tugging on you. Encouraging you up and into his hold as you gasp against his mouth and allow him to help you stand.

It’s a seamless dance. Familiar. He grabs onto your hips and slams you onto the desk, knocking a few pens and some of the various equipment out of the way.

His hands are sliding up your shirt. Memorizing the expanse of your skin as his lips press into your neck. Nipping and sucking just below your ear in the way he knows you love.

Your fingers have disappeared into his curls. They’re soft and oddly comforting. Perfect to tug on as you whimper gently and arch your back. Pressing your tits against his chest as he groans.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he murmurs, now sliding his hand toward the zipper on your jeans.

You nod quickly, mewling as you practically buck into his touch.

He smiles, mouth trailing across your jaw, “I was thinking about someone else, too.”

Your lashes flutter shut.

“The whole time,” he carries on, rough fingertips dancing down the front of your underwear. “When I was with her. Couldn’t think about anybody else but you. Every time she’d whine or say my name, I thought about how you’d do it. How you’d sound, how you’d feel.”

Your nails scratch down his black t-shirt, needing more than anything to feel his skin. See it littered with your marks. Your claim.

“She could never do it right,” he tells you, and it makes your stomach wrench. “Never do it like you.”

“Yeah?” you manage to breathe, wiggling in an effort to help him yank your pants down. “S’that why you couldn’t get hard?”

He grins as he flicks his belt undone. “Who says I couldn’t get hard?”

With a rather determined tug, he shoves your panties to the side, large hands stroking through your folds.

“Because if I’m thinking about you,” he whispers, eyes trained on your cunt, “I’m always fucking hard.”

You whine when he thrusts inside, two fingers to start. He’s rarely gentle, but you love it. And so does he, obsessed with the image of your pussy stretching around him. Any part of him. His tongue, his hands, his cock.

He’s bigger than most, and he always makes sure to prep you before he gives you what you really want. Granted, he taunts you with the idea of ruining you and splitting your poor cunt in half each time. Driving himself to the hilt before your tight little hole is ready. He likes the idea of corrupting you for someone else. 

“Relax,” he instructs, soft but firm. “S’gonna hurt a lot more if you don’t.”

You drop your head back and balance yourself on your hands, legs pushed open by his hips. “I’m trying,” you whimper, just to see his jaw clench.

“Gonna have to try harder,” he says, working his fingers into your wet cunt while his glasses slowly begin to slip down his nose. Settling at a crooked angle, and it makes you smile. “Can’t give you my cock if you don’t.”

You push your lips into a pout. “Please, Har.”

He looks up, the veins in his neck prominent as he seems to swallow another groan. “You’re so tight, Tink. Gonna wreck this pretty pussy if I don’t get you stretched.”

“Good,” you moan, thighs shaking as he brings a third finger closer. “Want you to.”

He grins. “Yeah?”

You nod fervently. “Want you to do whatever you want. I’m always good for you. Always fit you.”

“You do,” he agrees quietly, the heel of his hand pressing into your clit as he works through your arousal at a quicker pace. “Always take me so well. Even when it makes you cry.”

You whine again at the thought as he finally yanks his fingers free and moves to retrieve his cock. 

You’re nearly salivating at the idea, scooting toward the edge of the table in preparation as he pulls himself out and steps up to you.

Your eyes widen when you see him. Hard and heavy in his hand, leaking the most delicious looking drops of pre-cum that you’re already thrilled he never offered this other girl.

He runs the tip through your folds a time or two, making you both squirm before he gently begins to push in.

You have to give him props for the amount of restraint he always demonstrates for you. The ability to go slow and be delicate despite the fact all he wants to do is ram himself inside you and settle into your warm cunt.

Like now. You can see the effects of such sluggish movements, the way he holds himself back until he’s sure you’ll be all right. Teeth gritting, muscles tensed, cock throbbing.

You reach out and gently slide his glasses back up, making sure they’re comfortable and that he can see all right before kissing him. “Okay…okay, go.”

He kisses you back quickly before studying you. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” you whimper, hooking your leg around his hip. “Need it, Har, please.”

And that’s all it takes for him to sheath himself inside your aching pussy, disappearing completely between your legs as you both moan.

The quiet lab isn’t so quiet anymore, and you throw your arms around his neck as he begins to pull out and push back in.

“There she is,” he grunts, large hand squeezing your thigh to keep you still. “Look at you, Tink, taking me so well.”

“Always,” you exhale, pressing your mouth to his cheek. 

“Better than she ever was,” he continues, setting a quicker rhythm now. “So much better.”

He’s pounding you into the desk, hitting spots that make you see stars, and you clench around him until he gasps.

“Funny how well you take me…when you claim to hate me so much,” he says now, unable to resist needling you, and you whimper.

“I do,” you insist, despite the way you scratch down his back. “Fucking hate you.”

“Yeah?” His hips snap to yours. “S’that why you always beg for my cock?”

You don’t like the insinuation that you beg him for anything, especially when you know that he’s right. But you’re too far gone right now to take care, equally as depraved of pleasure as he seems to be.

The two of you don’t do this often. Maybe once or twice a month, if that. Most of the time, it’s incredibly unfriendly. A quick fuck in the supply closet or in his car in the parking lot. In between quippy remarks about how fucking unhinged the other is. How idiotic, and uncouth, and how goddamn annoying.

Because he is. So endlessly annoying and every day you have to resist the urge to slap those fucking glasses off his face.

But he knows how to fuck. That much is certain, and despite your immeasurable hatred for him, you can’t help but fall victim to his prowess.

In fact, moments like this are about the only time you don’t mind him. That you can actually stand him, and even want to submit to him.

Of course, you’re filled with regret and embarrassment the second you’re both finished, but for these few minutes…you don’t mind.

“Every fucking day,” he continues, holding onto your waist as he buries his cock deeper. “Have to watch you parade around like you’re fucking God’s gift to technology.”

You’d snort if you had enough air in your lungs to do so. 

“In your fucking tight little tank tops and see through dresses,” he seethes, dragging you back to the edge of the desk to angle you the way he likes. “With your hair always up in that stupid ponytail. Just begging to be pulled. To be yanked onto your knees while you take me down your throat.”

Your eyes roll back as you keen into his body. Memories of swallowing around him flooding your mind as you shiver.

Despite his aggravating remarks, he’s always so proud of you when you take his cock down your throat. He knows it’s a lot and he knows he can’t force you to do anything your body isn’t equipped to handle.

But he’s enamored with the way you try. Pleased to see you lick him, suck him, take as much of him as you can. He might hate you, but he praises you more than anybody else ever has.

And it’s one of the main reasons you can’t quit him.

“Then maybe…you shouldn’t look,” you pant, whimpering when he thrusts particularly hard. “I don’t wear that shit for you.”

He snorts, now grabbing onto your wrist and forcing your hand against your clit. He moves your fingers for you, pressing them into the sensitive nerves until you cry out and clamp down on him again.

“No?” he taunts, cock twitching inside you as he nears his release. “Then who do you wear it for, hm? Fucking Sam?”

You make another noise as he pushes your body into more immense pleasure, touch still locked atop yours.

“No, not Sam,” he decides. “Cause Sam can’t do it the way I can. S’why you came to me, isn’t it?”

You don’t dignify this with a response. You don’t have to. He knows.

“Sam can’t make you cum, can he?” Harry continues, almost vengefully as he feels you get closer. “Never fucking could. That’s why you only cum for me.”

It’s blinding. So intense that it makes your entire body ache as you fall victim to the wave of pleasure pulling you under.

He’s right behind you, spilling into your cunt before spilling out of it. Dripping down your legs, down the table, down his thighs as you both ride each other through the bliss.

He doesn’t let you release your clit for at least a good two minutes after, ignoring your pleas for mercy as your body struggles against the sensation.

It’s overwhelming. Hot, sticky, sweaty. He pulls out to go grab a towel from the supply closet before bringing it back and helping you clean up. 

He leaves a few teasing licks to your cunt in the process, and you swat your hand across his head in warning.

He smirks.

Once he’s finished, he pulls your jeans back on and up before tucking himself into his pants to do the same. 

Then, after helping you hop down, he offers you a lopsided grin and pushes his glasses back up.

“Now,” he says coyly, “go be a good girl and run the fucking sequence.”

Next Part:

~ Off the Shelf* (pt. 2)

~ Full 404 Masterlist

~ Main Masterlist

~ Blurb Masterlist

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgf @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @vane28282

[sevencolorsatlast]

Archons Reacting To Their Creator Singing Pt. 2

Part 1 [Venti, Zhongli, Ei and Nahida] || Part 2 [Furina] (You're Here!)

Author's Note: 4.2 Update Spoilers! You've been warned! Song used: "Curses" by The Crane Wives. No beta, we die like my heart while playing this quest.

Update: I changed the verse weeee. Also corrected a couple of mistakes.

Content Warning(s): None.

Other Notes: Default SAGAU / GN!Reader / Drabble / 800+ Words / Ao3 Link

[ Furina ]

"There's still cobwebs in the corners

And the backyard's full of bones

Won't you stay with me, my darling

When this house don't feel like home?"

You came down from the heavens weeks ago, knowing Fontaine is in danger but kept your head low and disguised yourself as a Fontainian to seek solutions to their prophecy. No one suspected you aside from the Vision wielders and a few Guardes who eventually left you alone since you seem to be harmless. You also manage to avoid any unpleasant encounters with your followers while roaming around the city.

Visiting Focalors in the opera house when no one was around was... rather an eventful one; she hopes you do not intervene with her plans to save her beloved people. You tried to reason with her: you are her god — you can forgive her and her people but she says it is her duty as Hydro Archon as prophecies cannot be changed. To pursue "justice", so to speak, is via the death of her and her throne.

You no longer attempt to pursue the topic which Focalors tacitly appreciates. Instead, you promised to look after her "human" self... Furina.

She smiles ever so graciously, knowing that such a divine being like you would keep Furina safe and sound - even after she meets her fate. You ask if you can hug Focalors, she happily accepts as this will be your first and last meeting her. You give most of your strength to hug her and you pull away, saying your tearful goodbye.

Everything went down according to her plan; watching scenes unfolding right before your eyes. Furina's trial was heart wrenching to watch, you want to jump and defend her... but this was all part of her "divine" self's plan. You shouldn't interfere, you reminded yourself, you clench your fists as the last puzzle of the prophecy reveals itself in front of you and the rest of the audience.

After the flooding in Fontaine died down and you let weeks pass by to let the country recover, you sought out Neuvillette. He is surprised to see you, easily seeing through your disguise. He bows before you and airs his concerns about Furina who had moved away from Palais Mermonia. You gently grab his hand and hold it in-between yours, telling him to stand up. You reassure that you'll be discreetly visiting Furina and the Hydro Sovereign gives you the address on where she currently lives.

During sunset, you found Furina cooped up in her new home. You knock and it took her a while before peeking through the small gap of the door. To put it lightly, her place is in disarray even when the gap of her door is small — her things are littered on the floor and she... doesn't look too good. She is far from well-presented and she looks like a ghost.

You can tell her eyes are red from crying and lack of sleep is evident on her unusually pale face. Her once kept hair's a mess and her clothes aren't well-presented like they usually do. Her hat is also nowhere to be found, it must've been included in the pile of mess scattered about her floorboards.

She weakly asks who you are and tells you that she doesn't accept visitors. You look around, making sure no one is around to see your transformation. Once you know the coast is clear, you transform into your normal self; soft glow emanating from your skin.

Once you are done dusting off your robes, Furina suddenly pulls you into her home and slams the door behind her - stuttering "Your Grace" under her breath and muttering how she's embarrassed that she's in a mess.

You turn around to speak and, instead, you are met with a tight hug from Furina. She buries her head into your shoulder and clutching onto your robes.

She doesn't understand why you hadn't come down from the heavens sooner... and you tell her Focalors wanted to do her part while you witnessed everything. She remained silent for a while before letting out a few sobs. You finally let your arms wrap around her; like a parent hugging their long-lost child.

To calm her down, you sing a song you know from the depths of your heart; the one that is ingrained to the forefronts of your mind even as a child. You alternate between singing and humming while gently running your hand up and down on Furina's back.

Her sobs subside as the last lyric of the song leaves your lips. She wipes her tears away with her hands and regains her composure. She pulls her head away from your shoulder, her eyes yet to look at your direction.

"My apologies for seeing me in such a state, Your Grace." She says, her voice slightly above a whisper, "And ...That's a wonderful song you've sung. I... appreciate it..."

She sniffles; it reminded you when you were a kid. You smile at the fond memory.

"The song was sung to calm me down by my caretakers." You say, "I suppose it still holds its charm."

She lets out a weak chuckle and meets your eyes, "I... Thank you, Your Grace."

"For what?" You inquired despite knowing the answer. She pulls you into another hug, you could've sworn you had seen her genuinely smiling for the first time.

"For being here with me." She says, a small spark of joy coming from her voice, "For seeing the 'real' me."

As she hums your song, you hold each other close until the sun finally sets from the horizon.

[f1haaland]

Hey babes, can I ask for something fluffy with a little angst perhaps with fernando? I loved your Instagram au with him 😩

𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 / 𝑭𝑨𝟏𝟒

pairing: fernando alonso x verstappen!reader

summary: fighting for the drivers championship has been the most challenging thing to ever happen in your career, especially when your #1 enemy is your own brother. fortunately, fernando is there to lend you a helping hand.

author's note: this got longer than I expected.

word count: 2.9k

warnings: teammate!reader, friends to lovers, mentions of cars crashing, family issues, slight daddy issues (no mention to j*s), max being a dick, google translated dutch, suggestive description but no actual sexual stuff, significant age gap (reader is 28, fernando is 41), probably more warnings but I don't know what else to put here.

reblogs, feedbacks and likes are appreciated. support your content creators!! 🫶🏽

➜ 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐚 𝟏 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

· ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ༓  ༓ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ ·

Media used to say you and your brother got your passion for racing from your parents. The fans used to say you got the beauty from your mother, and Max got the anger issues from your father. That could be true, but you inherited the anger issues as well.

Even though you were older than him, Max always came first. He got into karting before you, he got into Formula before you, and he became world champion before you. Male privilege, perhaps? Yeah, but when you are born female and you were raised to be a racing driver, you need to be better than every male on the grid. Even if that means competing against your own family.

And Max never had a problem with that. He crushed you every chance he had. Every track you both raced on, from karting to Formula 1, you'd see him in your rearview mirror, and then in front of you, finishing first. Until he wasn't there anymore, and would leave the champion title for you to take.

Two years after he made it to Red Bull from Toro Rosso, you finally got to Formula 1. In your rookie year, at Renault, you made your first friend on the grid. You and Daniel had excellent chemistry, and he gave you such help that you never got from Max. That was until he signed to McLaren and left you all alone.

Not long after, you signed with Williams, and beside Alex, you made great results. You scored great points, but you still wanted the podium. You wanted to stand there and raise a trophy. You wanted a taste of the glory.

And two years later, you drove alongside Sebastian Vettel, when you signed to Aston Martin. After Mercedes' fall from grace, it was a really good year for your team. You finally got your first podium. And you tasted it, the glory. You stood there and raised the trophy. That's when you got greedy and wanted more.

Things only seemed to get better when Sebastian announced his retirement, and Fernando Alonso became your new teammate. The team got you a new car even better than last year's. Your trophy collection became bigger after every race. And you were finally, after so many years, racing against your brother for the drivers championship.

Fernando was the best teammate you could have asked for. He was not only a good friend but an emotional support as well. He helped you through your anger crisis and often would take you to ease your head away from the tracks.

Even though he was competing against you too, it never seemed like it. He often said he already had his wins, and he was there to help you have yours. Fernando was racing because he loved to do so, great results were just the consequences of being a fantastic driver.

You were two points behind Max, and knowing that a single little mistake could cost you the championship, it wasn't needed much to trigger your anger issues.

After staying out of Q3 because you crashed into your brother's car, you left your car and tossed your helmet on the floor. You groaned loudly, processing what had happened;

Max crashed into me.

In the middle of a corner, Max crashed into me.

On. Fucking. Purpose.

When you started walking away from your garage and going straight to Red Bull's, Fernando, who had dnfed after engine problems, came towards you.

"Y/n!" He tried to call your attention, as the cameras started to follow you, "Y/n don't do this!"

"Hey, klootzak!" You shouted out loud as you reached the Red Bull garage and your eyes met Max's. (Hey, asshole!)

As the cameras — and Fernando — came right behind you, every eye on the pits was on you. Your teammate held you by the waist, stopping your movements.

"Y/n, don't do this. You're going to get penalized. Please..." He muttered into your ear, making you shiver.

You stared at Fernando as he frowned, silently begging for you to stop. You wanted to listen to him so badly... but then you remembered why you were there.

The championship. The crash. Max.

Your gaze became darker as you turned to your brother, "He should be the one to get penalized!" you yelled.

Switching to dutch, you spat, giving more steps towards him, "Je deed het expres, nietwaar, Max? Verdomde klootzak!" (You did it on purpose, didn't you, Max? Fucking bastard!)

Max tilted his head to the side, smirking. You clenched your fist, ready to do something you would regret.

"Waarom geef je mij de schuld? Leer autorijden, idioot." Max teased, looking down at you being face-to-face with him. (Why are you blaming me? Learn to drive, idiot.)

You pushed him as hard as you could, neverminding the cameras shoved on your face. Max fell onto the ground.

Fernando held tight to your waist this time, as Christian and Daniel got in between you and your brother.

Hours after your meltdown, you received the news of your penalty; Tomorrow, you would be starting off from the pits, while Max would be starting at the back place of the grid.

"Starting off the pits is so much worse than P19. That's unfair." You mumbled, still pissed off with everything that happened.

Fernando snorted. Fortunately, he was there to help you ease your mind. You both were at your place in São Paulo, waiting for your Chinese takeout while pretending to watch a tv show.

You scrolled through your Twitter page, reading the fans reactions to your meltdown. Max had his moments before, but this was your first time getting caught on camera during one of your anger episodes.

And most of the things you read online didn't help with the situation. Weird men were calling you hysterical, some people were excited to see how good this would look on Drive to Survive, and some fans were... shipping you with Fernando?

You frowned, deciding to watch one of many videos where you attacked your brother. From different angles, you saw the way Fernando held onto your waist. Unintentionally, you remembered how he begged, so close to your ear, for you to stop. How it sent shivers down your spine.

And just now, you noticed how close you were to him in your personal life. It has been such a crazy year for you, you never realized you and Fernando were more than a just friendship. He was by your side at every single moment. He often took you out to dinner, you would invite each other to your houses in Monaco. Sometimes he would take you to his place in Spain.

And you listen to him. Most of the time at least, you thought. But the thing is, you usually don't listen to anyone but yourself. No one is right but you. You don't have anyone to trust but you. But that's not true, as he's there proving you wrong. You just never realized, until now.

"Nando, I–" You started, but the sound of your doorbell got in your way.

"It's our food. Let me get it." He patted your thigh, before standing up to answer the door.

After your realization, even his touch felt different. Your whole perspective of him changed. You liked it. It felt different, but also it felt normal, like it was simply meant to be. Like the things you did with each other, the things you shared, things that mostly only couples used to do, it fitted your relationship — if you could call it that way.

You both ate your noodles and watched the tv show, quietly. Your head lay comfortably in his lap as Fernando's fingertips danced around your scalp. You sighed, comfortable in the position you found yourself in. It felt too domestic. You could close your eyes and sleep right there, because you trusted him enough to do so. You trusted him more than anyone.

"What is this?" You asked.

"What is what, cariño?" Fernando murmured, still caressing your head but focused on the tv.

You lifted your upper body from his embrace and sat by his side.

"This." You gestured towards him and yourself, "Us. This is not normal, Fernando. It feels like we're a couple, without the whole things that make a couple... a couple."

"It... does, doesn't it? I came to that realization a while ago." he confessed, "Turns out I like what we have. I never said anything because I didn't want it to end. I thought it would bother you."

"It doesn't. I like what we have. Fuck, I love what we have! I love the way you come to my place, mostly unannounced, and eat all the stroopwafels my mum sends to me. I love the way you invite me to Spain every free week we're not racing. I love the way you listen to me and help me understand my anger, and work through it. I love that I know I wouldn't win half the races I did this season without your help." You blurted out so fast you didn't quite process your own words.

"Fuck, I love this. I love what we have. I love having you around. Fernando, I–"

"I love you." he said, finishing your sentence, "I truly do. I can't describe my feelings the way you did but just know I feel the very same for you."

You smiled, stunned. Your breath echoed to your ear, competing with your heartbeat to see which is the loudest.

You raised your hand to meet his face, where your digits laid gently on his skin. Fernando's eyes closed to your comforting touch. You got closer until his warm breath reached you. His soft lips brushed against yours.

"I love you." You whispered, before losing yourself in his arms and his touch.

The following morning, you woke up alone. You were used to that feeling, but that was you before Fernando. Now, there was you after him. You felt brand new.

So you didn't hide your disappointment when you reached for the side of the bed where he was supposed to be, and found it to be empty. Not only it was cold, but he made it before he left your room. To your surprise, when you got out of bed, you noticed his shirt was still on your floor from last night. You didn't hold back a large smile.

That it quickly disappeared the moment you remembered what day it was: Sunday.

You grabbed your phone to look at the time. You still had a few hours before heading to Interlagos.

You left your room, and as you were walking downstairs, you could hear soft humming and music echoing through the house. The scent of fresh coffee didn't go unnoticed by you.

When you reached the kitchen, you found a shirtless Fernando, scrambling eggs in a pan, and singing to a spanish song. A huge smile emerged in his features when he noticed your presence.

"Buenos días, corazón" He pecked your lips when you got closer.

"Goedemorgen, schat..." You grinned, hugging his waist from behind.

"Go sit. I'm making us something to eat before we hit the paddock." Fernando pecked you one more time before you went to sit by the kitchen island.

"Ah, yes, the race..." you rolled your eyes, "Can't wait to start from the pits."

"It's not so bad... I've won a race where I started from the back of the grid..." He shrugged.

"Really? Singapore 2008? If you want to go there, I have a lot of things to say about that race" You cocked a challenging eyebrow.

The spaniard snickered, "Yeah, I know. What I'm trying to say is that it's possible."

"You were the only person to do so, Fernando. It's not possible. And for you, it's easy to say that. You're on pole!" You chuckled.

"We have a great car, you're an awesome driver, and it looks like it's not going to rain today. Maybe the odds are on your side." He tried to cheer you up.

Scoffing, you rolled your eyes in disbelief, "Yeah, with Max having such an advantage, there's not much to believe in the odds." you smiled, and grabbed his hand across the island table, "But I appreciate your confidence in me. I know you're not a very optimistic person. It's really cute..."

"Eat your eggs, Y/n. You'll need extra energy for today." He dismissed the subject when you mentioned his softness.

The paddock wasn't a huge place. So when gossip flew around and the people talked, eventually it would reach to you one way or another. And you couldn't care less about it. It didn't stop you from driving Fernando to the track on your convertible Aston Martin, even if the photographers caught the moment you left the parking lot with him. It didn't stop Fernando from reaching out for your hand and hold it in front of everyone while you walked down the paddock together, even if the Netflix cameras were there. Different journalists from all around the world were talking about you in their language. No one was talking about yesterday's crash or your angry meltdown. Just you and Fernando.

Fortunately, no one had asked. Yet. You were preparing yourself for the race, and no one was allowed to take your focus away from it.

You were watching the pre-race program from the garage. Unsurprisingly, your father was at the race to prestige Max. Well, that's not true. He was there for the prestige of having a world-champion son, but not to prestige him.

He never came to your garage. Not once.

You and Fernando parted ways to prepare for the race. You didn't see him again until it was time for him to go to his car, and you stayed at the pits, where you'd be starting.

When the lights when out and the starting grid became a mess as the cars tried to overtake one another, Max overtook three cars in front of him, taking place at P16. Fernando started amazing on pole, leading the race, with only Checo and one of the Ferrari's close behind him.

As the laps went by, you overtook car by car, climbing your way to the points. At lap 34, you overtook both Mercedes in an incredible move.

Fernando was still leading the race, Max was P4, and you had just reached the sixth position. As if a miracle could've happened, the Ferrari in front of you started to slow down. One of its tires had exploded. You recognized the driver's helmet, and couldn't help to feel kinda bad for Charles.

The cars behind you were 20 seconds away, so you made use of that advantage and pitted for new tires.

Max's position was ahead of you, but he was still far away. He watched as Checo and Carlos, who were currently P2 and P3, fight for position. Unfortunately, in a tight corner, they crashed each other. It was nothing serious, so the physical safety car came in, and everyone went to the boxes to get new tires. Except for you, who had just got new ones.

Unintentionally, you became P1.

When the safety car left the track, Fernando and Max were behind you, respectively.

There were two more laps to go, and you could feel your sweaty hands squeezing tight on the steering wheel as the nervousness started to rise in your chest. You tried not to focus on what was happening behind you, and pay attention to the way ahead. Fernando tried his hardest to keep Max behind him until he couldn't hold it anymore. Max overtook him on the last lap, where he was only 1 second behind you.

You wouldn't let him take the win away from you. Not anymore.

And then it happened.

"Y/n Verstappen, you are the champion of the world!" Your engineer yelled.

And you couldn't believe your ears.

You. World champion.

You became a world champion.

You parked your car on the 1th place marked spot, but you didn't get out. You couldn't. You tried to process everything that happened, the climbing, the moves, the safety car, the checkered flag... it felt surreal.

Someone pulled you out of the car, bringing you back to reality. You didn't have to look at the green suit, same as yours, to realize who it was. Fernando's presence always reached out to you before the sight of him.

He hugged you, as tight as he could, lifting you from the ground and swaying. His voice was muffled by his helmet, but you didn't have to know what he was saying, you just felt it. You felt loved.

He placed you on the ground and you took off your helmet, as he did the same. You glanced at each other and you saw the pride in his brown orbits. You smiled, sobbing with the feeling of happiness. He took you in his arms once again, and kissed you, deeply and lovingly in front of everyone to see.

Your intimate moment was interrupted once the cameras and the journalists reached you.

"Y/n! Congratulations on winning the championship!" The reporter exclaimed, "How does it feel to be world champion?"

You chuckled, still being held on the waist by Fernando.

"It feels fucking fantastic! I couldn't have done this without our amazing team." You smiled, biting your lip to stare at Fernando, "And my boyfriend, who has been looking out for me ever since the start of this season. He has been not only my teammate, but also my therapist, my cook, and my best friend. He is everything I needed. Thank you, Fernando..." You kissed him one more time in front of the cameras.

[imagine-darksiders]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 23 - Evading Sunrise.

Summary: Who better to know what a human needs than one who used to be human themselves?

[I'm still alive! Woo! Just overwrought! I'm playing in a sold-out show from Jan 16th and rehearsals have been 1900 to 2300 every night, bar the weekend, so my writing time is greatly diminished. I've also recently come into the family business, which isn't what I thought I'd be doing with my life, but hey-ho, I haven't got any other option, so I'm also bogged down with learning that whole setup. These little moments where I can write and read all your kind, encouraging comments are becoming more and more precious to me. xxx]

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There is a kindness that the Universe could easily grant you, were it so inclined. Just a small thing, effortless even, hardly a difficult feat for the Powers that be, if They had so much as a shred of empathy.

The Universe has taken much from you, and were it a little kinder, it would take one last thing.

… It would take your ability to dream.

Death knows all too well that for as long as humans have been unwitting players on the cosmic chess board, they’ve been left to stand utterly alone, un-helped and unacknowledged by an indifferent Creator.

Why should you be the exception?

Why should you be granted a tiny mercy by the very Being who gave you a mind to dream with in the first place?

It just seems an unnecessary cruelty, the Horseman supposes, that your own biology should stand in the way of your respite.

It’s been several, long hours since you rolled over and eloped into the un-waking world, and Death has only moved as far as the door, leaning his weight back against the bone-dry wood with an air of resignation that his journey is to be paused until sunrise, at the very earliest. No matter… There’s little sense facing the Chancellor’s dreaded ‘Champion’ in the dark, after all.

You might have smirked and called him paranoid about the rigid stance he’s taken in front of the room’s only entrance, but the soft yet not-so-silent footfalls that keep approaching the door reaffirm his decision.

He doesn’t know if it’s the Blademaster sniffing about or some other undead who has come to gawk at the living, breathing human in their midst, but there’s something undoubtedly amusing about feeling wood push against his spine for a few seconds before the presence on the other side meets the resistance of a Horseman’s immoveable body weight.

What follows is the distinct sound of those same footsteps hurrying off down the corridor, making every attempt to be stealthy, but failing miserably.

It would be less amusing if any of their attempts were to wake you up. In fact, the only reason Death hasn’t ripped the door open and threatened to skewer the nosy stranger is currently sound asleep just a few feet away from whatever ruckus that would cause.

Or you were sound asleep. At least until a few minutes ago.

Death’s forefingers tap aimlessly against his bicep as he frowns down at your face. You’ve scrunched your features up into a tight grimace, nose wrinkling and the corners of your mouth twisted south towards your chin.

You’re still asleep. Just not soundly.

The pitiable whimpers you’ve been uttering for a while now indicate a troubled mind, though the Horseman can’t say he’s surprised. It’s disappointing, to be sure. He’d have thought you’d be far too exhausted to be plagued by dreams tonight, yet evidently, you’re not that fortunate. Which is a crying shame, because while Death doesn’t believe in luck per-se, he thinks that if such a thing were to exist, you’re more than overdue.

“Hmm, mnn,” you murmur through closed lips, tossing your head to the right.

Above you on the headboard, Dust retrieves his beak from under an ebony wing and cocks a gaze at you, crooning out a soft, inquiring noise from his throat.

“Shhh,” Death breathes, earning a sleepy glare from the crow, though he does at least fall silent, contenting himself to simply watch as you throw a hand out to one side and clench your fist around an invisible force.

“….Mmn, eye…,” you mutter through slightly parted lips.

‘Eye?’ Death’s brow knots under his mask, yet he isn’t left wondering for long.

“… Eideard?” you suddenly croak, “… C’m’back!”

Ah… So that’s where your head is at.

Lowering his eyes to the ratty blanket, Death releases a sigh that’s been building in his chest for a few minutes now.

Your legs have been steadily working to kick the covers off the bed, never settling, as if you’re trying to run from something.

The clack of a beak draws the Horseman’s gaze once again to Dust, who now has a rather expectant look aimed his way.

Death can’t help but be reminded of that night in Tri Stone, when he’d remained stolidly outside on the bench whilst you stifled your sobs in the Makers’ Forge.

He recalls that Dust had been rather scathing about his inaction. The Horseman hadn’t cared for the bird’s judgement then, and he’s even less appreciative now.

What is he supposed to do? Wake you? At least if you’re dreaming, you’re getting some rest.

Sleep, he’s learned, is something that’s essential to a human’s sustained survival.

Not for the first time, he considers the benefits of having an empty chest, hardened and calcified through centuries of existing in an indifferent universe.

It means he has nothing to steel when you suddenly fling yourself over onto your side with your mouth hanging open, releasing a short, hitching sob that catches in your throat, and an arm that stretches out towards something unseen by the Horseman, your fingers spreading rigidly until they quake with the strain.

… The gentling of Death’s expression goes unnoticed, even by him.

He’s nearly shocked when his boot slides forwards ever so slightly, scraping across the floorboards as if to carry him away from the door and towards you.

Pausing, he cocks a brow down at his own leg, half expecting it to explain itself.

What he doesn’t expect – but perhaps should have – is the loud and jarring gasp that suddenly floods into the little human on the bed with the frantic desperation of one who’s been underwater for far too long, and you’ve only just managed to reach the surface to take a breath before your lungs collapse.

Death’s eyes flick towards you just in time to witness your silhouette lurching up off the mattress, a garbled shout tumbling from your lips as you clutch feverishly at your chest.

“Karn!?” you blurt out, whipping your head back and forth to search through the darkness of Draven’s quarters for a maker who isn’t there.

It would be easy for Death to remain still and silent, to wait until whatever grasp your nightmare still has on you to finally slip loose on its own… He needn’t step in.

It would be easy…

“…Hhh…” Grousing silently to himself, the Horseman pushes away from the door and takes a decisive step towards you before he can begin to overthink his actions.

“Y/n,” he mutters, not loud enough to be startling, but just loud enough to catch your attention.

Even still, you flinch, whirling your torso in his direction and letting your hazy eyes land on the pale, ghostly mask looming above you in the dark.

For several seconds, you merely stare up at Death, the hand on your chest crumpling your shirt as you gather the flimsy fabric into a tight fist.

Death doesn’t elect to break the silence again. After another moment or two of watching you gulp down another lungful of stale air, his patience pays off, and you swallow thickly, croaking, “Death?”

The Horseman’s chin dips down. “Yes.”

“Is… Karn here?” Your voice sounds so fragile, poisoned by a grain of hope.

Going very still, Death allows a beat to pass, giving himself time to think of an answer.

Perhaps… you think you’re still in a dream.

Quietly, he offers a concise response, one that hopefully doesn’t cause you any more distress whilst bringing you further out of the idea that this isn’t real. “Karn…” he begins, “…remained in the Forge Lands.”

He watches you physically deflate. Not from relief though. Relief doesn’t douse the sleepy kindling of hope that had momentarily lit the contours of your face.

Solemn, a little more awake, you slowly ask, “Is… Eideard…. Is he…?”

“… Gone,” is Death’s only reply.

A breath shudders out of you as you let your gaze drift down to your fingers, twining over themselves in twists and knots. “Oh…” you breathe, “I… thought I…” But your sentence trails off before you can finish it.

So, Death says it for you. “You thought you saw him,” he ventures, “In a dream.”

And with that, whatever strings have been holding you taut are promptly cut, sending you flopping back onto Draven’s mattress with a sorrowful ‘whump,’ still very much awake and positively quaking hard enough to cause the wooden bed frame to shudder in tandem.

That’s the thing about dreams, Death supposes, after a point, they’re the perfect nesting ground for ghosts.

His brother, Strife, would confide in him, many eons ago, that he could still see the faces of their fallen brethren behind his eyelids whenever he tried to rest. Death had only told him that it would pass, if given the time to. He hadn’t the gall to tell Strife that he too could see those same, hateful eyes and blood-filled mouths just as clearly.  

Eideard isn’t the only person you’ve lost. He’s said it before, but it bears repeating; you’ve also lost your family, your friends and every other human on Earth.

Your dreams, much like Death’s, are full of ghosts.

Drawing your hands up towards your face, you press the heel of each palm to your eyelids and grind down hard until a kaleidoscope of colour sparks to life across your vision, not unlike fireworks blooming across a cold, November sky.

Shakily, you blow out a dry, unsteady whoosh of air and groan, “Fuck…”

Death purses his lips, privately concurring with your brief assessment of the situation.

Then, in a motion that’s steeped in tiredness, you drag your focus back over to the Horseman, rolling your head to the side and adding, “You’re still here…”

“Yes, I’m still here,” he utters, quiet as a breath, only to balk at the dulcet quality in his tone. Clearing his throat to rid it of the uninvited tenderness, he promptly tacks on, “I told you; someone has to keep an eye on Dust.”

Damp-cheeked, you crane your neck back to send an upside-down glance at the crow roosting on the headboard above you.

A single, glossy eyeball stares back.

You’re fairly confident that Dust hasn’t done a damn thing to warrant any of Death’s baseless assumptions.

With your gaze still locked on the bird, you sigh, “You two can go, if you want to…”

At that, the Horseman knows he’s going to refuse before he even gives you a verbal response.

This isn’t the first time you’ve offered him an ‘out,’ a convenient excuse for him to duck from the room and escape the burden of bearing witness to your downward spiral.

You’re asking, in as quiet a hint as you can manage, for the privacy to cry without an audience.

… If it weren’t for the mysterious footsteps padding about outside…

“It would be in your best interest for me to stay,” he offers, earning a weary sigh from your side of the room, as if you’ve by now figured it would never be that easy to get rid of him.

Already, his keen eyes have picked out the slightest gleam of tears gathering behind your lashes. The next breath you try to draw in sticks to the back of your throat, yet before your face can crumple completely, you roll yourself over onto your opposite side, facing the wall – deliberately angling your body away from the Horseman, who watches on in silence as you hike your shoulders up towards your ears.

Drawing his brows together underneath the mask, Death glides silently closer to your bed and peers down at the human-shaped lump quivering under the covers.

 All is quiet for a time, until at last…

“… I’m sorry.” Your words seep out of you in a thick, watery whisper. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

‘You didn’t sign up for me,’ goes unspoken, but somehow the idea still hangs between you both like cold, falling snow.

It seems an odd thing to say, Death muses, considering that in a sense, he did sign up for this. Hell, he all but stamped his signature on that contract when he carried you through the portal to the Crowfather’s realm.

“Well… Neither did you…” he returns truthfully as he turns around and sinks onto the mattress at the foot of the bed, draping each forearm over a knee. The old wood doesn’t even creak as he settles down, nor does the straw bend beneath his illogical weight, much like the desert sand hadn’t swallowed him up to his calves as it had yours.

He hears the blanket rustle behind him as you twist your neck around to spare him a glance over your shoulder. If you’re at all shocked to find him suddenly sitting so close to you, you’re either too tired or too polite to say a word about it.

So, you turn back to the wall without comment, and although you attempt to bring a hand up to press a sweat-slicked palm across your mouth, such a meagre covering of skin isn’t enough to contain the grief that starts to pour out of you.

But just as you’d offered Death the unquestioned freedom to seek vicinity to you, the Horseman doesn’t try to interrupt or diminish this sombre moment with talk or awkward attempts at comfort.

It stirs a memory in him, of a much younger Nephilim, trudging through a silent, windswept battlefield alongside the only other three who had escaped the Battle for Eden. Not a word was said between them as they left the dead behind, but Death had offered them proximity as well. They said nothing of it, they hadn’t even accused him of hovering. There was an unspoken understanding, in that instant, one that passed silently between all four of them; Death would be there if they needed him.

With a slow blink, the memory fades, and he’s left frowning gently at the dull, rotten wood of the wall adjacent to your bed.

You’re an intelligent human… He wonders if you’ll be able to infer what he’s doing by sitting at the edge of your bed. Death may be many things, but he is not cheerful by nature, and cannot thusly cause cheer in others. He can only sit. And wait. Listening, watching, offering freedom from interference, both from himself and others who would seek to disturb you now when you need to grieve.

Dust, predictably, affords your need for privacy about as much consideration as could be expected from a bird. That is, none whatsoever.

A sleepy caw is all the warning both you and Death receive before the crow hops down off the headboard and lands on your pillow with a soft rustle of feathers.

Of course, you flinch, but Dust – undeterred – simply invites himself into the space between you and the wall, strutting surefootedly over the rumpled blankets until he reaches your chest.

Exasperated, Death opens his mouth and is about to openly scold the crow when Dust turns himself about until the tip of his sharp, grey beak is pointed down at your sombre face.

If you’re at all worried about having it so close to your eyeballs, you don’t show it, though Death knows the corvid well enough to recognise that Dust would never hurt his new human friend who coddles and praises him like it’s going out of fashion.

Birds…

“H-hey,” you warble miserably, swiping at your eyes with the back of a wrist and trying to pluck up the willpower to give a tear-blurred Dust your most convincing smile, “Hey, boy. Sorry, did I wake you up?”

In response, the crow cocks his head at you, and follows up with a gentle croon that raises the small, downy feathers on his throat. Then, without bothering to give any sort of warning as to his intentions, Dust gives his beak a single clack and stretches out his neck, gathering up a few strands of hair around your forehead and dragging them through his beak as if to smooth them into place.

Death almost slaps a palm to his mask.

You can’t help yourself. A wet giggle blurts out of you, momentarily disrupting Dust’s ministrations. He croaks down at you flatly before returning to his task of taking your hair and grooming it with a gentle beak.

“Dust!” you blubber out another laugh, reaching up to try and dissuade the crow by pushing your hand into his feathered breast. For your trouble, he pulls away and administers a soft nip to your knuckle, barely strong enough for you to feel it.

Offering him a watery smile, you prop yourself up onto an elbow, and in one, smooth motion, you raise your free arm and scoop the bird against your chest, burying your nose into the ebony plumage right between his wings. He’s large, far larger than any crow you’ve ever seen on Earth, so it’s more akin to hugging a small dog than any kind of corvid….

Wow… You miss dogs…

As if he can sense your sudden spike of anguish for a species who was likely wiped out alongside your own, the crow nuzzles his head under your chin, tailfeathers flicking back and forth several times as he contents himself with his new position.

Death’s brows shoot up his forehead at the display, wondering how he could have missed the moment you and his crow forged this bond without him even noticing. Was it during the brief few hours when Absalom pulled him into the Tree of Life?

Or perhaps it was always there, and he just hasn’t been paying attention.

“Of all the crows I could have been saddled with,” he gripes under his breath, aiming a half-hearted scowl at the little he can see of Dust’s beak poking out over your shoulder, “It would be the one without a single ounce of pride.”

“Oh, leave him alone,” you sniff, your voice muffled by sleek, black feathers, “He’s trying to cheer me up.”

The Horseman grumbles something to himself, then raises his voice to huff, “He has to be good for something, I suppose.”

When you don’t reply beyond giving a click of your tongue, Death hesitates, his eyes roaming in every direction except for your face as he clears his throat and asks, “Is it… ah, working?”

There’s a speculative pause, interspersed with the odd sniffle as you take a moment to calm yourself down and recover from the embarrassment of once again crying in front of the sepulchral Death.

At last, you take in a deep, weary breath and pull your nose from Dust’s back, gazing warmly down at the crow. “Yeah,” you decide with a small nod as he pulls his beak from under your chin and peers back at you, “Yeah, it’s working.”

If only a little, but sometimes a little is just enough.

Dust’s head swings around to peer at Death over your shoulder, smugger than a bird has any business being.

The heartache of waking up to a world without Eideard in it is just as fresh as the heartache you feel when you open your eyes and remember your world is gone. That sort of grief, unquantifiable, is hard to shift by the efforts of one, friendly crow, no matter how noble his intentions.

But for Dust’s sake, you try to shoulder the sorrow a touch more easily, even going so far as to sit up properly, still holding the bird to your chest and giving him a gentle squeeze. It’s a word of thanks, silent but poignant. Slowly, you place the crow down on the mattress beside you.

This time it’s your turn to clear your throat. Scrubbing tiredly at your eyes, you untuck your legs from the scratchy blanket and roll them over the side of the bed, pulling yourself forwards until you’re sitting beside Death, hands clasped daintily in your lap.

Amber eyes flick sideways and find in the gloom that your cheeks are still damp and blotchy from shedding so many tears.

Behind you, Dust flutters back up onto the headboard, head held high and proud, pleased with himself for a job well-done, and feeling he’s absolutely deserved another nap.

You breathe a sigh, holding it in your lungs and then blowing it all out again, glad to hear that it’s devoid of further tremors. “So… I don’t suppose we can pretend you didn’t hear any of that?”

Death half turns his torso towards you and replies, “Any of what?”

Without thought, you smile appreciatively and lean across the bed, giving the Horseman’s thigh a companionable pat. “Good man.”

It seems as soon as you touch him, you’re pulling away again, the moment passing too quickly for you to feel the way his leg jumps underneath your palm.

Death’s eyes are wide beneath his mask and affixed to the spot on his thigh you’d just touched without ceremony, without a single remark, like it was an entirely normal thing to do.

Certainly, you’ve touched Death before, and he’s touched you out of necessity, mostly. But here, in this dingy room belonging to an undead, the Nephilim takes particular note of the casual gesture, and he’s once again reminded of who and what he is, and what an outlier you are to touch the Reaper without fear.

Is that all it takes? Pretending he hadn’t heard you pour your grief out onto a stranger’s pillow makes him a good man?

Is that… how you see him…?

No. It was just another throwaway comment, meant to lighten the solemn mood that had taken hold of the room.

For a distracted moment, Death wonders if he can really feel the warmth of your skin through the leather of his trousers, or if it’s just a figment of his imagination. Whatever it is, it robs him of any witty remarks that might slip out to disrupt this tender moment.

A good man…

“You should try going back to sleep,” he offers absently, tearing his eyes off his leg to look down at you. The imagined warmth in his thigh has travelled to his chest, which is odd, given that you didn’t lay your hand anywhere near it.

Heaving a sigh, you ask, “How long do you think until sunrise?”

“Mm, at least another several Earth hours,” he says, “Plenty of time still to rest.”

Your fingers clench into fists around the blanket beneath you. “Plenty of time to dream…”

The old Nephilim’s mask turns to face you properly, eyes of liquid gold and sunset orange illuminating the darkness of his sockets. “Dreams cannot hurt you,” he says with conviction, partly because he knows they can’t, and partly because nothing, not even a nightmare could hurt you with a Horseman keeping watch.

“But they can make you sad…” you point out.

Hesitating, he has to take a second to remember that sadness can be potent enough to hurt a human. “I suppose they can,” he concedes reluctantly.

“That hurts, sometimes,” you whisper, drawing your knees up onto the bed and folding your arms around them, clinging tightly, eyes downcast to the floor, “Waking up and realising the people in them aren’t here anymore.”

Shifting his weight to prop a hand on one knee, he leans forwards so that he can meet your faraway gaze. “That pain will fade, given time,” he offers, echoing a conversation eons past.

After a second, your eyes slide sideways and align with his, and he can’t deny the glimmer of triumph that raises his chin at the sight of your gentle smile.

“I hope you’re right, Death,” you reply, “I really do.”

“You’ll find I’m not often wrong twice in as many days.” He’s referring to his… miscalculation with the heart stones and the Guardian, of course.

Did that really only happen yesterday?

“Cocky,” you snort, swiping a finger under the still damp corner of your eye, “Nice to know great, big Horsemen can make mistakes too though.”

“Is it?” he scoffs. He’d have thought it’d be daunting that the Nephilim whose charge you find yourself under isn’t actually as infallible as he’d like to claim.

“Yeah,” you hum, giving him a thoughtful look, “I guess to err isn’t just human, after all.”

Death waits, bracing himself to balk, to feel a spike of offence run through his veins at being told he shares a – rather undesirable – quality with humans. He waits, and feels-

… Nothing. No contempt. No disdain or disappointment. Maybe just a touch of surprise.

“I’m gonna miss them,” you murmur, derailing the Horseman’s train of thought.

“The makers?”

“Everyone,” you stress, “The makers, Blackroot, Warden…”

Coughing lightly into a fist, Death has to peel his eyes away to avoid looking at you when he says, “I’m sure they’ll be…. of a similar mindset.” Honesty, vulnerability, words that have real significance don’t come so easily to the Horseman. If they did, he’d tell you that those makers are going to miss you more than you could possibly know.

Chewing on your lip, you idly kick an ankle against the side of the bed and ask, “Do you think I’ll ever see them again?”

In response, Death huffs out a short, soft laugh, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling. “Do I think you’ll see them again?” he echoes, “Y/n, I’m almost certain of it.”

“… Wait. Seriously?”

“Don’t I seem serious?” he blinks languidly.

“Yeah, it’s just… that sounded like optimism. And coming from you, that’s… I mean…” Squinting through the dark at him, you fold your hands in your lap and ask, “Are you feeling all right?”

The Horseman’s lips quirk up, though his voice retains a gruff and unimpressed melody as his shoulders jump with a brusque harrumph. “You must be feeling better if you’re already poking fun,” he grouses, assessing the miniscule glow of humour tucked around the corners of your mouth.

“I am, actually,” you shrug, flicking a glance over his mask and tipping your head with a knowing smile, “Maybe Dust isn’t the only one who’s good at cheering me-“

Three, gentle knocks on a nearby surface of wood break through your sentence like hammer blows ringing off an anvil.

From one blink to the next, the Horseman is inexplicably on his feet, flinging a strong, sinewy arm out in front of you, all at once alert and suspicious, whilst behind him, you scramble off the bed with far less grace, fighting to find stability for a moment before you square your feet and send a wary glance over his appendage at the room’s entrance.

“Hello?” you call, swiping furiously at your cheeks to rid them of what little trace of tears might still cling to your skin.

Death doesn’t turn to face you, but you’d be hard-pressed to miss the disgruntled sigh that slips out from under his mask at your tactical blunder.

You’ve all but announced that you – a human, need you be reminded – are in here.

A voice from outside calls out, muffled behind the thick layer of wood. “… Lady - Ah, I mean, Y/n?”

The tension doesn’t seem to drain out of Death nearly as fast as it drains out of you.

Draven.

Before the Horseman can stop you, you’ve already ducked underneath his arm, reaching up to distractedly smooth down your bedhead as you call out, “Oh, Draven, uh, coming!”

You hear your name uttered in a growl behind you, but you wave off the ornery Nephilim with a flap of your hand, twisting about to face him as you make for the door, hissing, “It’s his room, Death. If he wants to come in here, he has every right to.”

Realising your hand is reaching to pull the door open, Death surges forward, intent on getting to it before you – ‘just in case,’ a voice at the back of his head whispers – but he doesn’t make it halfway to you when you grab the brass handle and tug the rotting wood towards you, letting dull, green light spill into the quarters and creep up the opposite wall.

A familiar silhouette looms in the doorway, framing the space with broad shoulders and a tattered shroud that’s been pulled low to half cover a skeletal, ghoulish face. From your angle, standing at least a foot and a half shorter than the figure, you can see up underneath his hood.

You regret your haste to open the door, simply because you aren’t at all ready to witness the grim and ghastly visage of the Blademaster this early in the morning, but you stamp down on the temptation to reel back, and instead school your expression into a friendly smile. “Hi, uh, again.”

Draven’s luminous, blue eyes flare brightly as soon as they land on your face. There’s something held between each of his hands, though you hardly spare them a glance because, ever the gentleman, he’s already halfway into a low, sweeping bow when he suddenly stops short, bent so that he’s staring you directly in the eye.

It’s decidedly unnerving to have so much scrutiny on you, especially when the undead’s jaw suddenly locks up tight and his browbone snaps together as if you’ve offended him somehow without even saying a word.

“Uh-“ you start to say, only to find yourself interrupted when Draven rises to his full height again, unfolding at the waist and aiming a frigid glare over the top of your head. Coincidentally, an icy presence appears at your spine, pressing in close enough that you notice the hairs on the back of your neck start to prickle.

 A growl rolls out through the gaps in the undead’s hollow cheeks. “Y/n,” he addresses you, his voice hard as stone, “Has this devil done you a discourtesy?”

“W…What?” you blurt.

Ferocity bleeds from his lipless mouth as he glares at the Horseman who drapes you in shadow, pale blue eyes aiming to douse the liquid fire hanging ominously in the darkness behind you.

“Her eyes are scarlet with salt,” he accuses.

Raising a hand to your face, you prod tenderly at the raw skin beneath your eyes and realise with a sinking sense of shame that you must still look like even more of a mess than you did when the Blademaster first saw you. “Oh, no. No, Draven, it’s fine,” you sigh, dragging a hand down your face, “Just… Look, it’s just been a rough night.”

The undead’s glower lifts the moment he rips his eyes off Death and returns it to you, his forehead puckering with concern. “But, you’re-“

“- I’m all right,” you reiterate, crooking one corner of your lips into a tight smile that all but pleads for him to drop the matter. You’re mortified enough.

The look on your face must be adequately pitiable, for Draven’s stance relaxes by a fraction, and as his arms slump from their guarded poise, you hear something clunk woodenly by his waist, rousing your curiosity and tempting you to lower your gaze to his hands.

If you thought you weren’t ready to see the Blademaster at your door, you’re doubly unprepared to see what he’s carrying.

Clearing your throat, you bob your chin at his hands and ask, “What’ve you got there?”

“Hmm?” Begrudgingly peeling away from the Horseman, Draven follows your line of sight, blinking down at a little wooden bowl and cup he’s clutching in each hand. Suddenly very sheepish, the undead ducks further into his green hood, “Forgive me, I was going to leave these by the door, but… then I heard voices.”

“And what were you doing skulking about so close to the door that you could hear us talk?” Death asks, hardly bothering to hide his accusatory tone.

You turn to give him a quick, pointed glare over your shoulder, one that he ignores.

“Just as I said, Horseman,” Draven retorts, “I thought the lady might be hungry, so…” He offers out the cup and bowl for you to see, giving you an apologetic look. “I’d have left it outside for you to find when you emerged, I… didn’t want to disturb you while you slept.”

Before you can reply, a voice at your back pipes up.

“You were going to leave it outside?” Death scoffs, “Where anyone could have tampered with it?”

Ignoring the Horseman, you peer down into the proffered crockery, your stomach gurgling eagerly as a waft of steam drifts from the bowl and rises into your nostrils. Never before would you have thought you’d be so excited about something so beige.

A simple, brown stew is balanced on one of Draven’s large palms, lumps of what you presume is meat bob about near the surface, and a single slice of fluffy, white bread floats at the centre, drawing a rather embarrassing flood of saliva to the front of your mouth. In his other hand, the small wooden cup is clasped like a chalice of ambrosia, though the only thing that wets its interior is crisp, clear water.

In your eyes, he may as well be holding out a gourmet dish that only the wealthiest of men would deign to touch.

“Draven,” you breathe in awe, reluctantly dragging your gaze off the food and peering up into the undead’s hollow face, “What’s all this for?”

Puzzled, he tilts his head at you, as thought the answer should be entirely obvious.

“It’s… for you,” he says, pressing the bowl and cup closer to your wringing hands, “I assumed you’d want to eat when you awoke. It’s not much, just some pottage I scrounged up.”

You begin to reach out, unfurling your fingers to take the unexpected gift when all of a sudden, chilly fingers wrap around your wrist, and before you can utter a sound, Death tugs you tidily back into the room, taking your place in the doorway, and peering down at the undead. “Where did you get it?” he asks, ignoring the disgruntled huff you aim at the back of his head, “Is this safe for human consumption?”

Draven’s lipless mouth pulls into a sneer. “Do you think me a fool?” he accuses.

“I think you an undead who we’ve only just met,” the Horseman replies coolly.

The Blademaster leans back on a heel, appraising Death with an expression that borders on impressed. “A fair point,” he concedes. Seconds later, Draven yields a nod. “It’s safe, Death. Believe it or not, the King entertains more than just the dead in his court, some of whom still rely on sustenance to get them through the day. Supplies are not as scarce as they would seem at first glance, and I may be far-removed from humanity, but I still remember my way around a cooking pot.”

Then, wordlessly, he holds the bowl and cup out towards the Horseman, tipping his head to one side with an expectant gleam in his fearsome, blue eyes.

Death’s attention flits between Draven and his handful several times, squinting dubiously at the dull, brown slop. For a few uncomfortable seconds, the Horseman subjects your potential meal to a good, long glare, and then at last, to your relief, you watch him raise his hands and grasp the edge of the bowl between his thumb and forefinger, doing the same with the cup.

He doesn’t take them immediately, too busy giving the undead a threatening growl. “If she eats this and something happens-“

“-I’ll be meeting the business end of your scythe?” Draven guesses, quirking a brow bone as he relinquishes the crockery and drops his arms to his sides again.

Death’s eyes narrow to thin lines of fire, prompting the undead to let out a chuckle and raise his hands up in mock defeat. “I understand, Horseman, I understand. I’d be overprotective as well if I had a lady like her under my care.”

Half hidden behind the Nephilim, you suck a breath in through your teeth as your grim companion bristles like a cornered cat, almost doubling in size with the amount of indignation that swells his shoulders. You’ve only known him a week or so, but in that time, you’ve already learned that being accused of caring is pretty low on the list of Things Death likes to Hear.

And sure enough…

“I am not overprotective,” the Horseman seethes, but with such an air of petulance that whatever threat his tone might have been trying to imply is completely undermined. Not to mention there’s something curiously un-threatening about the sight of him clutching a bowl of stew that - not thirty seconds ago - he was giving the stink-eye.

Even Draven doesn’t seem all that worried as he casts a knowing look at you around Death’s shoulder, his ghoulish features scrunching into a wink.

“No?” he asks, cocking his head to one side and sliding his gaze back to the wall of Nephilim standing before him, “Well, in that case, when the sun rises, I’m sure you won’t mind if I treat the lady to that tour I offered her.”

He’s chancing his arm, and he damn well knows it. And because he knows it, he’s already watching for the precise moment when Death recognises that he’s just stepped right into a verbal trap.

Unseen by the human in their midst, Death’s narrow eyes are now almost indiscernible within the congealing darkness of his sockets, and it’s only thanks to their preternatural, fiery glow that Draven can tell they’re open at all. They float inside the pitch-black pits that have been carved out of an ivory mask, unnatural and eerie, like two strips of flame streaking through the night sky.

If someone were to strike a match in the air between he and Death, Draven is almost certain the spark would set off an explosion that could blow the Eternal Throne clear through the stratosphere.

Two options lay out before the ancient Nephilim: Allow yo u to go with Draven in the morning, proving the smug undead wrong in his judgement of Death’s character. Or refuse the offer on your behalf and prove him right.

Begrudgingly, Death concedes that the undead’s tactics have successfully tripped him up. Rare as it is, it’s somewhat refreshing to be kept on his toes. Not that he’s in any way pleased to be cornered like this… Not least because he has a reputation he’d like to keep intact.

“She’ll consider it,” he says shortly.

There. It’s neither a yes or a no, and vague enough that Draven’s expectant gaze darkens with disappointment. Death is tempted to smirk triumphantly. Just because he stepped into the trap doesn’t mean he won’t know how to get out of it. He’s almost offended that the undead thought it would be so easy.

But the acquiescing look on Draven’s face doesn’t linger for more than a blink before it’s gone.

“I hope she does,” he hums, leaning sideways once more so that he can send you another secretive smile around the Horseman’s bulk, a smile that you find yourself readily reflecting. It feels like there’s a connection there somehow, between you and Draven. Human and ex-human. It’s something that Death isn’t privy to because he isn’t and never was human.

You wonder… Hell, you dare to hope that Draven might just… get you. There’s common ground in your humanity. The soul that sits lonely in your heart reaches out for the tiniest promise of companionship, softening you to the undead in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Right now, as you share amusement at the Grim Reaper’s expense, you find Draven just that bit more bearable to look at. Even the swords and broken blades that jut from his person like morbid adornments don’t seem so gruesome.

“I will consider it,” you promise, prompting Death to heave a disgruntled sigh whilst you breeze over his complaint, “Thank you, Draven. Really. This…” This act of immense kindness, though it might have seemed so mundane if it happened on Earth, has done wonders to warm your heart after feeling your very soul freeze over after your nightmare. But how could you possibly put into words the comfort he’s brought you? Rather than overthink it, you merely give your head a tiny shake of disbelief and let out a soft laugh, “This means… so much to me.”

Laying a hand across his concave chest, the undead dips his torso into a shallow bow and replies, “For you, it was no trouble at all.”

To your own surprise, the chivalrous little display turns you shy, and you start to fiddle with the hem of your shirt absentmindedly, avoiding his searching eyes as you smile down at the floor near Death’s boots.

Clicking his tongue, the Horseman shifts to stand sideways in the entrance, sweeping an unimpressed glance between you and Draven.

You may have averted your gaze, but the undead certainly hasn’t.

From head to toe, you’re all but poured over like a scroll of parchment in an angel’s library. Shameless in his observation, Draven’s cadaverous eyes carve tracks across your face and roam down the length of your body, whilst Death goes mostly ignored.

The Horseman is no fool. Though the very notions of romance and attraction have forever eluded him, he’s old and worldly enough to have at least encountered both in some way, shape or form. Besides, even a dunce would have to be trying exceptionally hard to miss what’s right in front of his nose.

You’ve caught the Blademaster’s eye.

And there’s the rub. Demons, he can put his scythe to, corrupted constructs and bloodthirsty bugs can be slain to keep you out of their gullets. Even Karn and his, at times, glaring attachment to you were innocent enough, as if the youngling was more starved for meaningful friendship than companionship. But an amorous undead? Death doesn’t have any protocol for manoeuvring around that particular minefield.

Once again, if there is such a thing as luck, the Horseman would be cursing his own. Isn’t it just typical that in such a vast and limitless Universe, his path would somehow carry you right to the Blademaster – the only other sod in Creation who shares your origins? Musing on that, Death can’t help but wonder if there truly is some unseen, omniscient hand guiding you along your journey.

Whoever the puppet master is, they’ve got a sick sense of humour.

Draven was Human – famously unpredictable species, a stereotype you continue to substantiate – but more to the point, he’s an unknown, and Death doesn’t especially like dealing with unknowns.

“Well then,” he announces abruptly, causing you to jump and reminding him that he’s allowed the undead to linger for a few moments too long, “If there’s nothing else…”

The skin around Draven’s jaw stretches as he opens it until the holes in his cheeks are thin and long, but before he can utter a word, Death says, “Wonderful,” and with a deft swing of his elbow, he bumps the door closed, giving the bottom of the wood a kick on its way to make sure it slams firmly shut. The room is once more plunged into that grimy, too-green gloom.

“Oh, that’s real nice, Death,” you snap, “The poor guy gives me a meal and lets me sleep in his bed, and you slam his own door shut in his face.”

“… That’s it,” he grumbles, turning to face you and pressing the bowl and cup into your hands, careful not to spill its contents as you splutter out a weak protest and fumble awkwardly with the woodware, “Tomorrow, you’re coming with me to the Champion’s arena. Not-!” he quickly snaps when you open your mouth to speak, “- to fight. You’re to watch from the sidelines.”

Looking down at you through the dark, he can tell you’re torn between continuing to berate him and diving into your newly acquired meal. Your eyes flit back and forth between him, the bowl, and the door, through which you can already hear the fading footfalls of your gracious host.

You’ve bulled yourself up at Draven’s expense, lips twisting into an unhappy frown, but it isn’t to last. Not with how desperate you are to fill your belly with something warm and cooked. Venting out a huff, you begrudgingly expel all the hot air from your lungs and lower yourself down onto the edge of the bed, lifting the stew to your lips to blow at the steam that drifts from it. “How do you know I’m not considering Draven’s tour?” you challenge.

It’s a good thing you’re pointedly ignoring the Horseman in favour of tipping back the bowl, because the look he shoots you is venomous enough that it would have stung had you caught it head-on.

“Just... Just eat the damn stew,” is all he bites out.

Well… You’re only too happy to oblige to that request.

You try not to wolf down the whole thing in one go, but as soon as the thin, watery gravy touches your lips and washes onto your tongue, you’re almost bowled over by the sheer influx of taste. At this point, after surviving on little else but water and the strange jerky Thane gave you, you could have eaten a rice cracker and called it filet mignon. Several bursts of flavour warm the inside of your cheeks and seep over and under your tongue. A piece of meat slides between your teeth as you slurp it up and you bite down on it hard, finding the strip tough and chewy, but oh so mouth-watering.

You spare the briefest of thoughts to its creature of origin, though the moment soon passes when you swallow, letting out a groan that might have been embarrassing if you weren’t so sure you’re justified in making such a sound. Privately, you make a mental note to thank Draven profusely in the morning, though whether that’s before or after you apologise to him for Death’s behaviour, you haven’t yet decided.

“Holy-“ Pausing, you lower the bowl and sweep a finger over the corners of your mouth, delicately removing the gravy gathered there, “-Shit, this is good.”

He almost asks if it tastes strange or off in any way, but with the Blademaster's words still ringing in his ears, Death stuffs them down with the rest of his wounded ego and begins to grumble nonsensically to himself. In fact, he's so busy muttering under his breath and glowering at the door that he doesn’t even pause to throw a withering glare at Dust when the crow hops onto the bed again and struts up to you with the confidence of a bird who knows you’re a pushover.

Only too happy to reinforce that confidence, you deftly scoop a chunk of meat into your palm and offer it out for the bird to peck at.

“Overprotective…” Death scoffs heatedly, “The nerve of that…” His mask abruptly whips around towards you, giving you pause with your cheeks full of stew. “Do you feel I’ve been overprotective?”

Putting aside the fact that you’ve never seen Death get this riled about a jibe before…

Swallowing thickly, you draw out an unconvincing, “No?”

The strange glow of his irises flicker for a second – a twitch of an eyelid? “Well, if I seem that way, it’s only because you’re so damnably adept at getting yourself into trouble,” he complains, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall with a decisive thump, “And frankly, I’d rather avoid having an angry group of makers hunt me to the ends of the Universe if something were to happen to you under my watch.”

It’s not just a lie meant to preserve his pride. Not entirely…

“They wouldn’t do that,” you tut, bemused, tilting the bowl and taking another, long slurp of the stew, manners be damned. You never thought you’d eat a cooked meal again.

His chest rumbles moodily. “They would.”

A wordless peace lingers in the air between you then, disturbed only by the sound of you chewing through toughened meat and the gentle sloshing of stew as your fingers chase the pieces around their bowl. You pretend not to notice the quick, attentive glances being sent your way.

Dust throws his feathered head up towards the ceiling, his beak wide open around the hunk of meat you offered him. In a rather unappetising display, the crow gulps it down with a few bobs of his neck.

“Nice,” you grunt, pulling a face.

You don’t put your bowl down until every last piece of the stew is gone, and even then you have to fight back an urge to lick the interior clean, mindful that present company might find that habit a bit too uncivilised not to comment on. Even with the Earth and its civilisation far behind you, you can’t let go of table-manners. It would be laughable if the reminder of your lonely humanness didn’t carry so many undertones of despair.

Breathing a soft, satisfied sigh, you bend down and drop the bowl on the floor with a clunk, instantly exchanging it for the cup of water before you sit up again to watch Death glower at the doorway as though he hopes it’ll burst into flames.

There’s a rigidity to him that doesn’t suit the late hour and the warmth in your belly.

Casting your mind about for a way to free him from whatever monologue he must have rattling away in that enigmatic head of his, you take a swig of the water, regarding the Horseman ponderously over the rim of the cup.

“So,” you say, smacking your lips as the lukewarm liquid slides down your throat, “What do you think the chances are that Vulgrim’s delivered my message?”

Luminous eyes blink slowly, roving from the door to land on your face.

He visibly hesitates, then asks, “What would help you go back to sleep faster?”

Your deadpan stare is ruined by an unseemly snort and flutter of your lips. “Just humour me, wise guy.”

“Very well…” Death grunts, “Chances are slim.”

“… Don’t know why I bother.”

Despite your tone, you’re secretly pleased when his broad shoulders slacken as he chuckles, unfolding his arms and resting each hand casually on his hips instead. “Given how often you’ve surprised me so far,” he sighs with an air of begrudging acceptance, “I suppose it wouldn’t be so shocking to learn you’ve actually convinced the demon to go through with your favour.”

“I surprise you?” you smile.

 “At every turn.”

“Aw~”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“Oh.”

It is. It absolutely is. But he’ll be damned if he lets you know what a luxury surprises are for a being who was confident the Universe had nothing new to throw at him. He’s already far too soft on you as it is. Paying you compliments paves a slippery slope towards irrefutable fondness.

Dust would be insufferable.

“Now then,” he coughs gruffly, more to disrupt his own thoughts than to get your attention, “You should… try and get some more rest. I’ll wake you at sunrise.”

All at once, what little levity had been draped around your shoulders sloughs away. He’s right. You should try and sleep a little longer. Moments like these, moments where you can stop to catch your breath, could well be few and far between in the coming days.

“Death? Will you…?” Your voice catches and you don’t finish your sentence aloud, working your jaw up and down wordlessly as a sudden but subtle wave of shame washes over you like an ebbing tide. ‘Stay’ is on the tip of your tongue. But you realise it’s a silly question to ask, even if a very small, very vulnerable part of you desperately wants to seek reassurance from the dour Horseman sharing this space with you. Death has given no indication that he plans to stray far from your side.

Bottom line? You’re afraid to fall asleep again, much as your overwrought mind craves a few more hours of unconscious bliss, and your arms feel heavy as lead when you lower the cup to the floor, setting it down beside the bowl.

If you sleep, you might dream, after all.

And your dreams are full of ghosts.

Fingers twist searchingly into the blanket you’re sitting on, squeezing and clenching until they ache. It grounds you, at least a bit.

You don’t really notice that Death’s mask is tilted to one side, watching your hands closely until he shifts, easing himself through the gloom until he’s only a step away from the bed. It’s sometimes convenient to forget what he is, when your heart misses home so badly that it wants to find humanity in everything around you, including Death. It’s easy to forget that he’s older than you could probably comprehend, that he’s wise enough to hear a human’s unfinished plea and be able to predict how it ends.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he assures you.

Relief unwinds your hands from the fists you’ve curled them into, like roses blooming from the bud.

Soon, you’ll be awake, and the tragedies of yesterday will be saddled to your back alongside all the rest, but you’ll carry them with you as best you can. You don’t have a choice, after all. You followed Death to the Land of the Dead.

When the sun rises, you’ll rise with it and face the consequences of your choice.

[aquagirl1978]

Ikepri Gilbert fluff :0

Thank you, anon, for this request! Enjoy some fall fluff with Gilbert.

Hold Me Closer - Gilbert von Obsidian x Reader (Ikemen Prince)

A/N: Part of the Falling For You Content Creator Challenge hosted by @judejazza and @nightghoul381

Pairing: Gilbert von Obsidian x Reader

Prompt: "hold me closer" and "it's warm in your arms"

Word Count: 888 words

Tags: fluff

You were filled with nervous excitement as you opened the oven door. Warmth spread across your cheeks as you peered in, happy to find the muffins, studded with bits of dried fruit, were the perfect shade of golden brown.

Your surprise was going splendidly.

While it was still early, the sun’s rays only just greeting Obsidian Castle, you knew Gilbert would soon wake. And when he did wake, he would be looking for you.

Using a thick towel, you pulled the tray of muffins from the hot oven, filling the kitchen with the fragrant aroma of fall. Placing the tray down on the counter, you admired your handiwork – the muffins might not have been perfect, but they were made with love. You had woken up especially early that morning; unable to go back to bed, and not wanting to disturb Gilbert who was sleeping so peacefully next to you, you remembered you had bought some dried fruit at the market the other day and wanted to surprise your lover with a special breakfast.

Crawling from under the cocoon of covers, you were careful not to disturb the sleeping Gilbert. Taking one last glance at him before leaving, your heart ached at how soft he looked – with his eyes closed and his eyepatch off, his dark bangs falling across his forehead, he was the picture of innocence.

But that was not his reality. Or yours.

You quickly pushed those thoughts from your head, knowing you had to act fast if you wanted to succeed with your surprise. Throwing on a simple black dress, you carried your shoes in your hands until you were out the door so that your footsteps wouldn’t wake him up as you crept from his bedroom.

The muffins smelled delicious, the dried apples and cranberries adding just a hint of sweetness. Piling them high on a plate, your body pulsed with excitement, eager to wake Gilbert up and give him the treats. With the plate carefully balanced in your hands, you turned, and nearly dropped the plate when you saw who was standing in the doorway.

“Gil! What are you doing here?” you asked, quickly placing the plate down on the countertop, hoping disappointment wasn’t evident in your expression.

“I could ask you the same thing, little rabbit.” His lips were pressed firmly together as he approached you, his cane tapping on the tile floor. “Imagine my surprise when I woke up and found myself alone in bed.” 

It wasn’t until he was mere inches away from you that you noticed he was without his usual black cloaks. Dressed simply in slacks and a dark silk shirt, Gilbert looked less imposing as he leaned on his cane, head tilted as he stared into your eyes. 

“Instead, I found you here.” He let out a sigh, the sound soft and sad.

Oh, Gilbert.

Cupping his cheek with one hand, you caressed his cool skin as you reached towards the plate with your other hand, picking up a muffin. Holding the treat in the palm of your hand, you watched his eyes widen with surprise. 

“I made these for you.”

“You…” His words slipped away as soon as he took a bite of the muffin. His eye drifted closed as he savored the sweet treat.

He finished the muffin in a few quick bites and held his hand out, silently asking for another. Your heart filled with warmth, knowing your surprise was well received, happily placing another muffin in his gloveless hand.

And another muffin after that. And another, and another, and another until the plate was empty save for a few crumbs. 

You let out a small laugh when he continued to hold his palm out even after the plate was emptied. “There’s no more left.”

His usual smile morphed into a frown. “Next time, you’ll need to make more.” He brought his hand to your neck, his thumb tracing the outline of a mark left uncovered by your dress, his touch sending a thrill down your spine. Your eyes met his in a moment of silence, before pressing your body against his in an embrace.

“Closer.” His whisper was feather-soft in your ear. Burying your head against his chest, you could feel his heartbeat through his thin shirt. His arms tightened around your waist. “It’s so warm in your arms.”

You found yourself melting into his embrace. It was easy, really, to simply relax in his arms. Nothing else mattered, just you and Gilbert. Together.

With his thumb, he tilted your chin up to face him. “Don’t think I forgot about earlier.” Heat burned in your core as he stared at you with his blood-red eye. “You’ll be spending the day with me. In my room.”

He brushed a kiss upon your lips. Gentle. Soft. Unlike the bites he would later leave on you once you were alone in his room. 

But that was okay. You had grown to love his bites, much like how you had grown to love Gilbert. A day trapped in his room might sound like punishment to some, but for you, it was a pleasure.

“Okay,” you whispered back, pressing a kiss to his lips. He tugged on your hand, his grip firm as he led you from the kitchen to his bedroom, the fire in your belly burning bright.

Tagging: @redheadkittys @alixennial @rhodolitesroseforclavis @kissmetwicekissmedeadly @chaosangel767 @queengiuliettafirstlady @queen-dahlia @ikehoe @ikemen-writer @talfollowingstuff @kpop-and-otome @kisara-16 @altairring @lucyw260 @lordsisterxotome @umi-adxhira @yarnnerdally @crypticbibliophile @scorchieart @tele86 @nightfoxqueen @melodiousramblings @wendolrea @aceuuuu @randonauticrap @aria-chikage @nightghoul381 @judejazza @maries-gallery @xbalayage @xenokiryu @gilbertvonobsidian

[lookingfts]

Hi, I'll preface this by saying that I'm a fan of your writing and this is not a rant at you specifically. It's something that I'm growing more and more frustrated with when navigating content/creations in the fandom (and other fandoms on here too tbh). Your posts just happened to be the ones I came across today and they provide a convenient case study into the matter.

I politely appeal for you to insert gif credit and sources in posts like these: https://www.tumblr.com/lookingfts/752534640842211328?source=share and https://www.tumblr.com/lookingfts/752585046132752384/this-ridiculous-little-man-with-his-stupid-little?source=share

From what I can tell (unsure about the s3e1 bedroom one) but the other two come from: https://www.tumblr.com/chenfordsbee/752307297817165824/kanthony-hands?source=share and https://www.tumblr.com/bakerolivia/750875519674892289/anthony-bridgerton-and-benedict?source=share

I think we all know that the inbuilt tumblr feature to embed existing gifs in posts is very broken (where it automatically credits, and links you back to the full set when you click the text/username under it), and it can be very frustrating to find the exact one you want.

But reposting them yourselves without credit is seen as very bad etiquette amongst creators, and a lot of creators will block people for this reason (to avoid said person collecting and reposting their future content), and warn their fellow creator mutuals to do so too.

Also, it makes the user experience quite annoying for some users. i.e. You see a post with a really cool gif; you swore you've seen that exact one before, you may even recognise the very specific style/coloring, OR you've not seen that scene giffed before but you've wanted to, you now really want to like/reblog the full set if you could find it. Either way; you wish you could see the whole thing from the original post. But there's no link or even an indication as to the original creator/blog it came from, so... yeah this sucks.

From your other posts you seem like a reasonable and well intentioned person, so I don't think you're setting out to be deceptive in any way (some will actually fully repost a mish mash of different sets, and caption and tag it as if it's their own creation), you just want to scream about your faves, as you should. And I'm sorry this got so so long but I think I need to make it really clear, because I assume that some of these reasons/povs/repercussions must be unknown for it to keep happening. I could go into how it affects creators in fandoms in more detail but I'm sure you can imagine and I don't want to extend the lecture (just imagine someone copying and pasting excerpts from your fan fiction, and posting it, without any citation of said fan fiction or even mention of the author).

TLDR - Please link back to the original post if you're sharing stand alone gifs, made by someone else, in your own posts. Or better yet, reblog the original post that you're downloading the images from, with your added commentary (we would actually LOVE to see it, but I do also get if you just want to pluck out one specific moment from the set).

An example:

[THAT ONE GIF FROM THAT MOMENT YOU REALLY WANT TO POST ABOUT]

GIF by @tumblrusername

Blue font to illustrate that this is a hyperlink to the original set. I just based this on the way the aforementioned broken inbuilt one is formatted, but as long as you @ the user (this pops a mention into our activity just like the inbuilt feature does so we can come scream along with you) and link the applicable post in some clear way it's all dandy and helps everyone out.

I really hope that this doesn't come across as hostile, and that you answer so it can be shared to make others more aware too.

Thank you for asking this. You're totally right - I have not been thinking about crediting gif creators, and that's something I need to learn!

I'm still very new to Tumblr and learning the ropes. I didn't really intend to post S3 gifs at all - I was keeping Kanthony photos/gifs I liked on my phone to share with friends, and eventually I realized how many I had saved, so I decided to start making posts with them, and I was simply uploading them from my phone at that point.

You see so many gifs floating around here - I didn't think closely about the time and effort that people are going through to create these gifs, and I will do better in giving them the recognition and attention they deserve. (If one of the gifs I've used is yours, please let me know and I will tag you.)

Thank you to everyone in the fandom for contributing their art, and thank you for standing up for creators.

[dystopicjumpsuit]

DJ's Follower Celebration!!!

Hi friends! I recently hit a follower milestone that absolutely blew my mind; I never really expected anyone to be particularly interested in my work, let alone this many of you. I am constantly blown away by your talent, insight, and creativity. I'm so grateful for every single one of you, and I want to celebrate YOU!

With that in mind, I'm going to be opening requests to create Datafiles like the one I made for Cerra for your Star Wars OCs. I've created three different versions: a Grand Army of the Republic Personnel Datafile, a Jedi Archive Member Record Datafile, and an ISB Suspect Datafile. Here are some examples of what they look like:

Transcripts in alt text.

Here's what you need to do to participate:

Submit an Ask with your OC's name and the artwork you'd like me to use. The artwork should have either a plain or a transparent background, and the filesize needs to be smaller than 25MB.

Fill out this form to tell me what information you'd like included in your OC's datafile.

Reblog this post to spread the word so other folks can participate, too.

That's it! Detailed rules are below the cut:

Rules:

Since this is intended to celebrate my followers, this event is only open to folks who follow me. I will be checking.

Each blog can submit a maximum of two requests.

Once I've created the Datafile, I'll answer your Ask with the PNG and the transcript. Feel free to share and repost them elsewhere, but it would be lovely if you could give me credit; I worked hard on these!

Requests will be filled in the order in which they are received; please be patient as it takes time to create the Datafiles.

I will not begin working on a request until I receive BOTH the Tumblr Ask AND the info form response.

By submitting your OC info, you agree to allow me to edit the text if necessary to fit in the template without consulting you ahead of time.

If you use a Picrew or similar to create your OC artwork, please include the link in your ask to credit the creator. By submitting artwork, you affirm that you have a right to share and transform/edit the artwork, and that you are giving me permission to share/edit the artwork as well.

Don't submit inappropriate images, please. I'm a delicate kriffing flower.

Do not submit hateful content.

I reserve the right to ignore a request for any reason.

Tips for success:

Keep it succinct; it's fine to use truncated, abrupt sentences. Sometimes they make it sound more official, and remember, I have limited space in the templates. I'll do my best to accommodate what you submit, but I might need to edit the text to fit (see Rule 6).

Think about whether the organization creating the Datafile would know/care to include the information. Examples of things to include: injuries sustained in battle (particularly if they were severe/debilitating); special/unusual Force abilities; an explanation of why a Jedi padawan switched masters; outstanding warrants. Examples of things that might be less relevant: petty crimes that the ISB wouldn't necessarily investigate (keeping in mind that they're more like the FBI/CIA/NSA than the local PD); minor injuries sustained outside of combat (like a black eye from a barfight at 79's); favorite snack when they were a youngling in the Jedi temple creche (unless they're STILL a youngling in the Jedi temple creche).

Remember that the ISB stands for Imperial Security Bureau, so they wouldn't have a file during the Clone Wars. Similarly, the Jedi Archive and GAR records wouldn't reference the ISB Datafile (though ISB certainly could have access to Jedi and GAR records).

Think about the perspective of the person creating the record; if it's ISB, they might accuse your OC of a serious crime that they didn't commit (or exaggerate a minor crime to look more severe than it actually was) for the sake of propaganda.

Have fun with it! "Arson, Murder, and Jaywalking" is a fantastic trope for a reason!

Thank you all so very much for being such a lovely, welcoming group! I can't wait to celebrate with you!

I used these picrews to create the OC artwork for the examples: GAR; ISB; Jedi Archive.

Ragu list:

@secondaryrealm @sev-on-kamino spicy-clones @wings-and-beskar @523rdrebel @merkitty49 @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @arcsimper5 @starrylothcat @clio3kantarella @cloneloverrrrr @goblininawig @ladytano420 @arctrooper69 @wolffegirlsunite @sunshinesdaydream @mandos-mind-trick @littlemissmanga @stunkbiggu @starqueensthings @clonemedickix @marierg @idontgetanysleep @moonlightwarriorqueen @dudewhynotthis @sleepycreativewriter @tcwmatchmakingau @littlemissbshine @multi-fan-dom-madness @heavenseed76 @wizardofrozz @bobaprint @sweetcream-coldfoam @banksys-rat @skellymom @pickleprickle @trixie2023 @mythical-illustrator @dickarchivist @cw80831 @kimiheartblade @meredithroseg @flyiingsly

[pascaloverx]

DANGEROUS

CHAPTER FIVE

Summary: You are a retired spy trying to live a normal life. Some time ago, a hired assassin named Tangerine tried to kill you. In response, you sought the help of an old acquaintance who could fake any death, August Walker. However, now your false identity is in jeopardy, along with your life.

Warnings: For now, the fanfic will not contain explicit content, but it will be flagged if it does in the future. However, there will be the use of strong language and moderate violence. Readers are advised. The characters August Walker and Tangerine do not belong to me but to their respective creators. Some other characters that belong to both Mission: Impossible (2018) and Bullet Train (2022) may appear in this fanfic. Other characters who are not part of these movies will be of my own creation. I hope you enjoy the reading

chapter four chapter six

You wake up in Walker's arms, feeling the warmth of his body enveloping you. He seems to be in a deep sleep, so you decide to get up and make some coffee. Tangerine is in the kitchen already, making pancakes. He's shirtless but wearing one of your kitchen aprons. He's also wearing tight dress pants that don't seem very comfortable. When he sees you, he smiles as if he hadn't recently tried to kill you. But it reminds you of how your old relationship used to be.

"No point in smiling at me. I'm still mad about what you did. Trying to kill me and Walker wasn't enough; you had to reveal our past." You criticize him as you pour yourself some coffee and grab two pancakes already on the kitchen counter.

"I thought you'd thank me for that, considering your night ended quite nicely. But honestly, I couldn't care less about what you or the pseudo movie villain up there feel. I want my brother back, and I won't care about anyone else's life but his." Tangerine speaks harshly, but you know he's lying. He still cares about you.

"Jealousy looks so cute on you, but remember that I know when you're lying. But I agree that Lemon has to be the damn priority. Which doesn't give you the right to screw me over." You stare at Tangerine, who looks at you almost understandingly. He nods in agreement.

"Rich coming from you. The woman who abandons her husband because she can't get over her breakup with the great agent Walker. Aren't you ashamed?" Tangerine seems to be holding a lot of resentment towards you. You should have known this conversation would end like this.

"I didn't abandon you. I never did that. Let alone to be with Walker. You married me because you were desperate to prove that you weren't just a hitman. And when we became a normal couple, with normal jobs, you preferred to go back to work with Lemon. You betrayed my trust. Remember that?" You speak angrily to Tangerine. It's funny how you two seem both so familiar and unfamiliar to each other at the same time.

"What trust? You never trusted me. In fact, I always wondered why you married me. Revenge or curiosity to know what my name was?" Tangerine moves closer to you, staring deeply into your eyes. You laugh at him. But then he pulls you closer by the waist.

"Is this how you flirt now? By questioning me? Well, let me tell you, I married because I was bored. What's surprising is the fact that you're a failure even in marriage. I guess the only decent thing you did was sex." You speak, trying to hurt his ego, because in fact, he was a great husband. You just wouldn't let him know that.

"The reason we didn't work out with each other is exactly this. You lie very badly. Our marriage would be standing if I hadn't chosen my profession over you." Tangerine speaks so next thing that gives you goosebumps.

“You think you know me John but you don’t. But thank you for saying so frankly that you abandoned me." You say getting too close to your legally husband.

"I hate it when you use my name. I don't think it suits me to be honest. But we both ended our relationship because you weren't over Walker. And I chose to work with what I'm good at."  Tangerine speaks and you feel like this conversation is going nowhere. So you walk away, wanting to end the subject and go back to your breakfast but Tangerine pulls you by the arm. You look at him without understanding until he kisses you. You immediately push him away not really understanding what is happening. 

"You think it's that simple? You kiss me and it's all over?" You say questioning him, but still caught up in the feeling of his lips against yours. 

"I think instead of discussing the past, we can enjoy all this unresolved sexual tension. Because no matter how much we want to blame the other, we both still want each other." Tangerine comes closer to you, as if to tease you. You look at him, disgusted knowing he's right.  

"So let's focus on resolving your brother's situation. That way we can go back to avoiding each other and pretending we don't want each other. Because if you think you can kiss me without first apologizing for having you tried to kill me, you are wrong. You accepted the mission to kill the woman you promised in a church to love until death do you part." You say, still upset about everything you've been through involving Tangerine. 

"Let's do this. Focus on rescuing my brother. So whoever wants you and Walker sent me an invitation to a party. Let's go to a masquerade ball, baby." Tangerine says showing you the electronic invitation and you realize that it will be a decoy. And clearly any plan that Tangerine comes up with will be a risk to your life.

[corazondebeskar-reads]

well it's love, make it hurt - chapter thirteen

well it's love, make it hurt series

thirteen: there's one thing I can do nothing about

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

dom!Din Djarin x sub!f!reader

Words: 2k

Summary: you grapple with the aftermath.

Warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings, discussions of genocide, the purge of mandalore, descriptions of grief, survivor's guilt, suicidal ideations, vomit (no description, just mentioned), angst

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika

4 ABY - Spring

The hunter says something more, but you don’t hear it. You see his lips move under his greasy mustache, but you may as well be underwater.

You can breathe about as well, too.

Everything throbs. Your skin. The lights.

Your room is dark. You aren’t sure how you got there. You’re standing in the middle, datapad still clenched in both hands.

Something’s wrong.

You barely make it to the bin in time.

When you finally peel yourself off the floor, dried sweat like cement, it’s dark. Your vent is shut, and no moonlight creeps between the slats. You’re confused, for a moment, about why you’re there, until you vomit again and are grateful that your earlier self had the sense to stay put. You try to return the favor by lying back down.

You think you sleep. It’s a hazy thing, too close to waking to dream.

You’ll long for that soon. But for now, your brain seems content to shelter you while your body handles… whatever it’s handling.

Your head hurts more when you try to think about it, so you don’t, hopeful that the bug will pass and you’ll feel better soon.

When you wake, the room is bathed in the orange evening suns, sliding through the vent to cover you in bars, like a cell. You drag durasteel-heavy limbs until they’re somewhat where they should be and push to stand. Darkness swells, and you almost end up back on the ground.

Water, you think, desperate instincts clawing to the surface. You’ve survived twenty years on your own; your body isn’t about to let you die.

As you grab the canteen from your nightstand and drink, you backtrack that thought. It’s sitting wrong.

Oh, right. Twenty years alone, and another year with—with…

You don’t hear the glug of the water spilling from the canteen over the sound of your empty stomach trying valiantly to exit your body. You don't make it to the bin, that time.

It takes two more days for you to cry.

In one of the moments where you’re worn down, when the tears have eroded you and then shriveled away, you think I should have gone with him. Not to Taanab. You should have insisted on staying on the Crest.

It’s not delusions of heroism. It’s something much more alluring, something that threatens to eat you up and never let you go.

An idle thought that pulls you to shore. You wish it hadn’t, because you wouldn’t have had to suffer it. But somewhere in the back of your mind, something tells you that line of thought is disrespecting yourself, thereby disrespecting him.

To your fractured mind, weak with hunger and dehydration, reeling still from when you had broken it, it makes sense. The sincerity of it, beyond its original context, sits in your heart and urges it to keep beating.

It’s disrespectful, not because of who he was to you, but to his—to his memory.

The last bit takes you a while to swallow.

Food takes longer.

After a few more days, you run out of rations from your pack. Ones leftover from the Crest that you had stowed away for an emergency. There weren’t many, and you couldn’t get them down without water.

Eventually, you moved your camp to the fresher, where you could hit the cold faucet if you had the right angle and shove your canteen under the flow.

Made it easier when your scant meals came back up, too.

You knock on the wall until your neighbor Krista comes over, pissed. She actually physically recoils when she finds you in your blanket heap.

“Girl, what is wrong with you?”

“Sick,” you say. It’s not a lie. Not really. “Credits in the nightstand. Food please.”

She takes pity on you, and you can’t even be mad about it because you’re feeling pretty pathetic. She sticks her head back in after fetching the money.

“I’ll run out and grab you something, but, uh. It’s fucking disgusting out there.”

Kriff. You forgot you had gotten sick on the floor. But that’s as much energy as you can muster to care, so you rest your head on the cold metal wall and close your eyes.

Krista brings you a selection of bland foods and a tonic to help with the nausea. Then she says you’re on your own because there’s no way she’s coming back in here. “Don’t die, or whatever.”

It’s another week before you can leave the room. It’s not easier, exactly, each day. It’s more like your body gets its shit together so your brain can have a turn fucking up. You autopilot through showering, brushing your teeth, and cleaning the sick off every surface.

And you cry. A lot. Sometimes, it’s a catastrophic event where you can’t breathe, can’t stop the awful keening that rips your throat, can’t feel anything but agony. Sometimes, you’re the catastrophic event. You break things. You dig your nails into your skin and squeeze. You throw everything in the room against a wall.

Most of the time, though, it’s just a fact. You’re on Nevarro. You’re alive. There are tears in your eyes. It’s more of a state of being than a physical phenomenon.

In the weeks that come, you hate yourself for it. Falling apart because a man you had already left had died. It makes it easier to berate yourself into coldness. You like to lie to yourself and say you weren’t waiting for him, anyway. You were just saving credits to leave.

And you do.

The first time you leave the room is the last. You get it neat and clean and pack the few possessions that survived your wrath.

You go down to the cantina and are glad that no one you know is there. You approach the first hunter at the bar and ask if they have a ship.

When they say yes, you hand them a stack of credits and ask if it’s enough for passage.

When you leave, it’s been just over a month since you decided to stay.

4 ABY - Summer

“We’re running low on credits and supplies,” the Armorer says from the co-pilot seat. From your seat, Din thinks.

He nods. They had been hopping from port to port, just a few of them on the Crest. The others would lay low, ships parked in abandoned places, and wait while Din went into a town and bought only as much as he conspicuously could. Fuel was even harder to obtain.

“It would be more efficient and practical to find a permanent location,” she says. She pulled up the star map on his holoprojector. “Somewhere with a guild location. I assume you are prepared to return to work?”

“Yes,” he says, though he feels adrift among the stars. Mandalore and her people are gone, the remains scattered throughout the galaxy. As far as they know, they’re the largest group of survivors. Five on the Crest, including the Armorer and himself. And twelve ships, with ten Mandalorians each, trailing behind them. Half of them are younglings.

“Why do you have a hair pin?” Paz says. “Been bringing whores back?”

Din looks up sharply. He doesn’t answer right away, flipping through possible excuses. He seizes a distraction. “Open it.”

Paz flicks it open and recognizes the serrated edge, the sharpened tip.

“I worked with another hunter on a few bounties,” Din says, stomach churning but his voice steady. “Dropped her off at a port before I came home. Must have left it.”

He wants to snatch it from Paz’s hands so he can hide it away with the hints of you. He had pried open a panel in the bunk and stowed them away from the wandering eyes of his vod.

He would give them back to you when he got to Nevarro.

He had tried to leave a message, tried to let you know it would be longer, but he would still come back to you, but the protocol droid who took the comm said they wouldn’t hold a holo for anyone. He had some choice words in response, during which the line was cut.

Around his vod, he feels ill for thinking of you with the scale of all they had lost. But it didn’t extinguish your absence. It was just another piece of him missing. Maybe he’d feel less like a hollowed-out helmet piloting an empty suit of armor, as alive as a droid, if he had you to hold at night.

He’ll find it, whenever Paz gets bored and sets it down. It’s your last one, he’s sure it will be missed. He’s less sure he will be.

“Cantonica is too close,” the Armorer says, drawing his and Paz’s attention back. “Tatooine too risky.”

“What about Batuu?” Paz says.

“That could work,” the Armorer says. “The Empire isn’t likely to travel as far as wild space to find us.”

“It still has a fairly popular port,” Din says. He’s sweating, and his heart is ticking too fast. “I’ve never seen it myself.”

The Armorer hums and resumes studying the map.

“What about Nevarro?” she asks.

Din’s heart skips a beat. He swallows the bile before it climbs too far. “It’s mostly abandoned. Many hunters come and go from there, but beyond the main city, it’s mostly mountains and lava fields.”

“Caves surrounded by lava,” Paz says. “Could be defensible. Hard for the average trooper to reach.”

“Then we shall scout it out. Return to town to stock up for the others.”

“Yes, alor,” Din says, grateful for an excuse to depart immediately before their visors pick up his escalating vitals.

As soon as they land, he leaves the Armorer and Paz to scout under the guise of meeting with the guildmaster to see if there will be enough work.

When he slides into the booth across from Karga, he scans the cantina thrice over for a trace of you. He has to clench his fists to keep from seizing the man by his lapels and shaking him. But Karga doesn’t know who Din is, so he tries to do what he must for his people.

“I’m looking for work. Consistent work.”

“You’re in luck!” Karga grins. It’s off, like he’s hiding something. Or he’s just nervous, Din realizes, as Karga chuckles weakly.

The man leans in and says, in a low but not quiet voice, “I have to ask, are you a real Mandalorian?”

“Yes. How many bounties do you have?”

Karga leans back. Gestures to a droid for a drink. “Many. If you’re as good as they say, you’ll be swimming in credits.”

Din grinds his teeth. He doesn’t appreciate the way Karga seems to want to make a show of this.

“How many can I have right now?”

“Well, that depends. I’ll have to get you in the system and pull up your records.”

“I’m in your system. I’ve returned bounties here before.”

“Fantastic! Let me get one of my assistants to get you sorted.”

“No. You will do it.”

Karga raises an eyebrow. No one seems to notice the brief showdown, which he’s thankful for, as he caves to the Mandalorian quickly. He pulls out his datapad and pulls up the file.

Din is less of a patient man, now, but still, he waits. He waits until he has three bounty pucks in his hand and the promise of more if he’s quick about it.

“When I was here last, I was accompanied by another hunter. She stayed here to work with you. Where can I find her?”

“Who?” Karga asks.

Din gives him your name. Karga studies him carefully, sipping from his glass.

“There are a great many hunters who work with me. I can’t say I remember.” He hadn’t given the girl any thought since she took off, but he does remember being irritated that she disappeared without notice, leaving him with a vacant room to rent.

The Mandalorian rattles off your chain code. Karga raises an eyebrow. He had seen many hunter-hunter relationships turn violent, and besides, “It would be against the code for me to give you information about another member.”

When the Mandalorian snarls and stands, Karga’s two guards have their blasters aimed in a flash. For a moment, Greef thinks the hunter is about to cause a scene.

“I’ll tell you this, as a favor to a new friend. She wasn’t here long and didn’t say anything when she left.”

Din turns sharply and stomps out of the cantina.

Karga helps himself to a refill.

*title from "New American Classic" by Taking Back Sunday

[blametheeditor]

Day 28 | Distortion

Gt July Prompt List

First | Previous

When stranded on an uncharted underwater planet, alone and surrounded by hostile lifeforms, there are only two possible outcomes: adapt and survive, or die trying.

Spoilers: For the game Subnautica

Content Warnings: Cursing. Mentions of death and violence. Mentions of drowning and suffocation. Mentions of dehumanization, experimenting on people. Being held against someone's will. Mentions of diseases and infections. Darker themes.

________________________

Scott stares up at the towering structure as it blocks out the sun from where he stands. Shivers as a chill runs up his spine at the thought of what waits inside. 

Realizes Fritz and Jeremy still haven’t joined him on the beach. 

He turns to Vincent playing the delicate balance of keeping his head above water to talk while ensuring his gills stay submerged. “What happened to the others?”

“David’s refusing to let Fritz go,” the ghost replies, failing to hide just how nervous he is, unable to keep a frown off his face. “Jeremy’s asking Mike questions to make sure there’s no possible way he’ll accidentally become an experiment.” 

Scott sends a look toward the leviathan. “William isn’t here, is he?” 

“No, he was long gone before the tanks opened,” Vincent reassures. “There shouldn’t be any of his equipment left, just everything the original creators made. I get his hesitance, though.” 

And he doesn’t blame Jeremy for his terror either. The kid has been exceptionally brave and handled the revelation just what exactly Mike is incredibly well. So has Fritz even after they found out he’s the most infected out of all of them. But maybe that’s because everything hasn’t fully processed yet. Hasn’t for most of them. 

Scott’s not going to lie, he’s afraid of what he might find. Knows there could be something not only disturbing in principle but physical evidence of everything Vincent’s told him about as well. There’s also the possibility there might be security measures in place meant to protect what’s inside. Measures that were made to trap any intrudors somewhere impossible to escape from, or be killed. 

And here he is, more than willing to take two teenagers into such a dangerous situation. 

“I think I should go alone.” 

“No,” Vincent borderline growls, making Scott hesitate at the unexpected the hostility. He quickly meets the ghost’s gaze, surprised when instead of anger and distrust for letting him go without supervision, the massive form watches him protectively. ”William might not be there, but anything can still happen. You’ll keep them safe and they’ll drag you back to us if needed.” 

It’s a bit of a twisted sentiment. There’s no denying the fact the leviathan cares for them, though. 

“I don’t want any of this ‘claiming’ business that David pulls.” 

Vincent gives a smile. “No promises.” 

“Help!” announces Fritz trying to swim as fast as possible toward the beach. It doesn’t take too much thought to realize what exactly the kid’s needing help with. “Get me up before he grabs me again! Hurry!” 

A giant hand lifts Fritz up and out of the water, Scott quickly catching the teenager as he’s gently slid onto the sand beside him. Not even a second later, David appears, looking livid. “Fritz!” 

“You said, that I, could go!” the kid exclaims between breaths. 

“’I changed my mind!’” 

“You can’t ‘do that’, that’s not ‘fair’!” 

“David,” Scott cuts in, well aware this is going to go in circles. Which he doesn’t know if it’s a good or bad thing he knows the reaper well despite them never having a one to one conversation before. “I will keep him safe and won’t let him out of my sight.” 

Pure black eyes bore into him. He can perfectly imagine what fate waits for him if he so much as allows Fritz to earn so much as a bruise from tripping over his own two feet. “’Swear it.’” 

“He wants a promise,” Vincent translates. 

Scott nods. “I swear.” 

David doesn’t look any happier, but there’s no attempt to snatch Fritz away. Another hand does reach out for them only for Jeremy to be carefully deposited as Mike sends them a smirk. “I told Jer there’s nothing you can fuck up in there. We’ll even meet your asses inside.” 

“There’s a g-g-giant moonpool,” Jeremy explains as he brushes sand off of him. Takes a moment to bat away fingers doing more harm than good as they attempt to help. “He said once we take down the barrier, the underwater entrance will unlock too.” 

“Hear that, David?” 

The reaper’s already disappeared under the waves once everything connected. That tells Scott they have about five minutes to get it opened until they’re in trouble for being too slow. Meaning he slowly begins to walk toward the foreboding structure. 

Fritz and Jeremy quickly follow behind. He hears the sound of the other two leviathans diving down once they’re a fair distance away. 

That’s when Jeremy stops. “I-It’s unlocked.” 

Scott’s blood runs cold. “What do you mean?” 

“Th-the barrier,” the taller begins as he moves forward, gesturing to the open archway. “It’s gone. I remember there being one, and that’s why I never went inside. But it’s gone.” 

“Could it be timing?” Fritz asks. “Like it’s up during certain times in the day? Or maybe it comes down when there’s a leviathan nearby?” 

Scott takes a moment to calm his racing heart. Because Fritz is right, there are numerous ways for something to get unlocked. It doesn’t mean someone did it knowing they were coming. Vincent said William isn’t here. 

“Stay close to me,” the man instructs. Waits until they both nod before slowly walking to the entrance into the unknown structure. 

The sound of metal being walked over echos through the glowing hallways. No voice calls out to them, no robotic system declaring they’re trespassing and must leave immediately. It’s completely silent. 

Scott carefully makes his way under tall ceilings, constantly looking over his shoulder to make sure Fritz and Jeremy are right behind them. If he wasn’t so tense, he’d smile at the opposite reactions the two have for being able to investigate such a place. The awed curiosity and fearful watching are certainly mirror exactly what he’s feeling himself. 

“Scott,” Fritz whispers, pointing at something to their right. “Something’s glowing.” 

He turns. Stares at a cube of all things. Walks toward it before slowly reaching his hand toward it. 

Nothing happens. No discharge of energy, no sirens as a barrier rises up around it, no rock falling from the ceiling meant to crush  them. 

“May I have the scanner, Fritz?” 

It’s silently handed over. He quickly scans it, pulling up the information on his PDA. Nothing says it’s dangerous, and there’s no warnings about the structure they’re inside not being safe to explore. 

Taking a deep breath, he carefully collects the cube. Waits for a breathless moment. 

“Can I see it?” Fritz asks when nothing happens. 

Scott is happy to hand it over to the teenager, watching as green eyes almost identical to the cube’s color widen. Jeremy then gets closer to see once it becomes clear it won’t hurt them. “W-What is it?” 

“An ion cube. It’s a mineral, but there’s nothing in the database for it. Just guesses from the PDA.” 

Fritz straightens up. “Maybe we can use it for energy!” 

“We’ll try and fabricate with it if there’s a guarantee nothing bad will happen,” Scott smiles. Tries to hide his amusement at Fritz looking slightly disappointed at the same time Jeremy sighs in relief. “Let’s keep going.” 

With his confidence boosted at the fact there wasn’t a trap waiting for picking up the cube, his fear slowly subsides. Only hesitates for a moment before tapping his PDA against what looks like a futuristic terminal. Frowns when he’s given a message of the information needing to be translated. One step forward and two steps backward. 

They don’t linger in one spot for too long. Every time they pass a terminal he downloads the information without stopping to look at it. Hands every ion cube they find over to Fritz. 

Then they reach something that can only be described as a hole. Carefully moving forward, he sees there’s a platform at the very bottom. He feels what he can only describe to be air rushing up, the word ‘elevator’ coming to mind as he steps back to survey the entire thing. 

Scott glance behind him. Sees Fritz’s pale face and Jeremy’s shaking. 

The man raises his hands. “Here me out.” 

That earns a snort from Fritz. “I-I’m up for it.” 

“Do we know where it goes?” Jeremy asks. “W-Will we drop or is it s-s-safe?” 

“I have no reason to believe it isn’t safe,” Scott begins, trying his hardest to not let his voice betray his nervous. He does believe it’s safe, but he’s not infallible. “It can be argued those ion cubes are priceless, and nothing happened when he took them. And this entire place has yet to seem like it’s running out of power.” 

There’s no response, but Jeremy doesn’t run back the way they came. Instead he gives a single nod. 

Scott offers a hand to Fritz, the teenager immediately taking it and squeezing it tightly. “R-Ready when you are.” 

They step into open air as something keeps them there. Float for a frightening second above a stomach dropping height. And then Scott’s breath is stolen as something yanks them down, unable to even yell at the feeling of weightlessness. 

It’s over within seconds as they’re dropped unceremoniously onto the floor. Scott feels everything lurch as he tries to reorient himself. Has to hold his head against his knees for a moment to let the nausea pass. 

Curses when he hears stuttering breaths, forcing himself from his ball to comfort the trembling form beside him. 

“Breathe, Fritz, it’s okay,” he murmurs. Gently rubs the teenager’s back as he checks on Jeremy, glad at least one of them doesn’t seem to be badly effected by the sickening drop, the taller already on his feet. “You’re okay, it’s over.” 

“What’s w-w-wrong?” Jeremy whispers. “Is he okay? Did something h-happen?” 

“He has a thing for heights,” Scott responds. “And truth be told, that made my stomach flip. You feel nauseous at all?” 

Jeremy shakes his head. Watches Fritz hopefully as the tight ball painfully uncurls. “Sorry.” 

The man helps the poor kid sit up. “No, you did fantastic. That was one hell of a drop, I’m proud off you.” 

Fritz’s lips tremble until they manage to form a smile. “Thanks-s-s.” 

“You assholes okay?” 

Scott looks up to finally see where they are. Slumps in relief at the sight of Mike only an arm’s length away. Able to reach them where they are from the next room. 

“W-We’re okay,” Jeremy says. “There was an e-e-elevator.” 

The leviathan’s eyes widen. “Shit, I forgot to mention that.” 

“Had you even remembered until now?” Vincent’s voice echos. 

“’What’s an’ elvater?” David chimes in. 

At the sound of the reaper, Fritz weakly pushes himself up as Scott helps him onto his shaking legs. Continues to slowly breathe as they make their way to where the leviathans wait. He realizes much too late how it’ll look to David, everyone freezing as a threatening growl turns into some distorted horrific noise due to the way everything echos. 

Before Scott can try and explain himself, Vincent gives David a solid whack on the back of the reaper’s head. “He’s fine. He looks like you when you eat a bad fish.”  David sputters. Stares at the ghost for a few moments. Wordlessly opens and closes his mouth a few times. 

Suddenly, Vincent’s lunged at as the reaper roars. Water rises up in a wave before falling onto the floor as the two vanish from sight. Instead of seeing the scuffle, they feel it as massive beings wrestle, the floors and walls shaking until it finally calms. 

They all look at Mike, who only shrugs. “He deserved it.” 

“Wh-Which one?” Jeremy pries. 

“Both.” 

With Fritz no longer shaking and more amused than anything, Scott cautiously walks closer to the moonpool they had been told about. Looks across the water to see a fairly large pool. But with Mike taking up a good portion, it’s clearly not big enough for three full grown leviathans to be in at once. No wonder the entire place shook. He’s surprised they even lasted as long as they did without a fight breaking out sooner. 

“Why was I expecting anything else?” Scott asks no one in particular. 

“You should definitely lower your expectations,” Mike smirks. “Have you fuckers seen the portal yet?” 

“Portal?” Fritz inquires. 

“Portal?” Jeremy squeaks. 

“Through there,” the leviathan points toward the other side of the room. “It’s in the back, ignore the stairs and you can’t miss it.” 

Despite Fritz’s excitement and Jeremy’s dread, they obediently follow Scott. He eyes the apparent stairs Mike was referencing, though they’re more like ramps. One’s without any sort of handrail. They are more than happy to ignore them to approach the last room. 

Scott jerks to a halt when he sees an arch standing before them. A familiar arch. One that looks exactly like the one on the other island. His island. 

This one isn’t dark, though. It’s glowing with a large distorted green swirl in the center. It’s been activated. 

“Are you okay, Scott?” 

He doesn’t answer. Can only numbly walk forward until he’s standing before the portal. A phasegate to be exact. Not like the ones Alterra builds, but there’s no denying it. 

Who turned it on?

“Scott,” Jeremy pleads. Stops the man from stepping into the archway. “What are you d-d-doing?” 

“It’s a phasegate,” he explains. It takes a great effort to turn away and address the two watching him with worry. Plasters a smile on his face. “It’s safe to travel through. I think I know where it goes, actually.” 

They don’t connect the dots. Realize it shouldn’t be possible for it to be one. Not if they’re the only humans on this planet. And maybe it’s better they don’t know someone’s been here. Has walked through these halls. Could be waiting for them just on the other side. 

But right now, Scott doesn’t have any proof. There’s a possibility this is the only phasegate that stayed on over however many centuries it’s been. A slim one but it’s possible. He needs to go through it to know. 

“I’m going to see what’s on the other side.” 

Jeremy stares at him for a moment, unsure what to say. Fritz hesitates, looking like he wants to protest before he nods. “You promise to be safe?” 

“I swear,” Scott agrees. “Wait here. If I don’t return in five minutes, tell Mike to bring you to the other island.” 

They nod, and he steps through. Stumbles out the other side as he catches himself on the arch, catching his breath as his insides writhe. The feeling of vertigo slowly but surely passes until he’s able to look up. Sees the familiar pillers and rock stretching high above his head. 

His assumption was right, this went to the island he found after his lifepod landed. Something that feels like it was lifetime ago. 

The only problem is the phasegate on his island hadn’t been active when he was last here. It was off, with no way to power it. Meaning the side where Fritz and Jeremy wait was off as well. But now it’s on, before they ever had the chance of flipping the switch themselves. 

So who turned on the phasegate?

[three--rings]

You Should Watch Moonlight Chicken

Welcome to my formal rec of this show, which has stolen my heart so completely over the last few weeks.

What is it?

Thai BL series from GMMTV which has just finished airing (as of March 2, 2023). The characters all revolve around a chicken rice diner called Moonlight Chicken. It's got eight episodes a little over an hour each.

Couples:

Jim and Wen:

The main characters and couple are Jim (left above) and Wen (right). They meet when Wen passes out drunk at Jim's restaurant one night and they end up talking and flirting and then going home for a "no strings attached" one night stand.

Afterwards Wen is determined to attach strings but Jim holds firm to his "no complications" rule. Wen starts working part time at the diner in a not-at-all-sneaky plot to win him over.

Heart and Li Ming:

The adorable teen couple of Jim's nephew Li Ming, who he is raising, and Heart, a boy who has been extremely isolated since becoming deaf three years ago. They quickly develop a friendship and learn to communicate and it's heartwarming and adorable right up until it deal with very real issues of ableism.

Other characters:

Alan

He's Wen's not-quite-or-maybe ex. It's complicated. The show might be just as much about Wen and Alan as Wen and Jim, but theirs is a breakup story.

Gaipa:

He's a young friend of Jim, with a massive crush on him. Unrequited love and his relationship with his amazing mom is his focus. Standout performance from the actor.

Saleng:

The token straight. I felt bad leaving him out, okay? He's a good boy.

Okay but what's it ABOUT?

Life. Love. Relationships. Growing up, healing, building community and family even in the face of adversity.

Could you elaborate?

Okay look, the way the plot of this show was sold was "One Night Stand leads to complications when one of them already has a boyfriend?!? Drama!" Which is downright misleading. I showed up for messy gay drama and got a profound piece of queer cinematic art about the struggles of modern life and love and relationships.

This is honestly not your typical BL series at all. It really does feel a lot more like serious drama, queer film, etc than what we are used to. (I'm not saying it's ALONE...just rare.) It feels like a director/creator coming into their own and really stretching their abilities.

The cinematography is gorgeous, creating a quiet and pensive mood throughout. The acting is remarkable, excellent across the board with some real stand-out performances from the "side" characters.

The plot flirts with melodrama/soap opera turns but it always comes down on the side of grounded, realistic takes. I'll just say there are some moments that really hit me because they reflect experiences I've had in my life so well.

This show is very Adult to me. And by that, I don't mean steamy or sexy. It's really not, despite the first episode. It's a very chaste show, all things considered. I mean Adult in terms of These are Problems Adults Have. Dealing with the ending of relationships, getting over past relationship trauma, dealing with grief and loss, figuring out what you want in life, having to be there for your ex because they need you and you still care, etc. Just life, sometimes messy and painful, but ultimately beautiful.

If you can't tell I could go on for a while. But honestly, even if you're not a BL watcher normally, I recommend you give this a try. It's a feel-good show that will make you cry.

Okay where do I watch it?

Good news! The show is available for free on YouTube in its entirety! Just look for the GMMTV official channel.

Content Warnings under the cut to avoid potential spoilers but they will remain vague

Having sex while under the influence of alcohol but fairly lucid, cheating as a topic, breakups, ableism and parental neglect as a result, death of a partner, death of a parent, motor vehicle accident aftermath, age gap relationship(s)

[parkminijiminie]

https://www.tumblr.com/teenagegardengladiator/733072566651092992/jk-will-never-outgrow-his-crush-for-jimin-lol?source=share

Why can't they once be like normal frnds and talk about e/o without giggling and shit? why they always giggly mess when they're together?

You know what? Now i actually want that jkk live cause i wanna see exactly how they act especially jk cause i know jm is pretty good with his expression and things prepared it's jk who looks mess around jm.

No but listen like i honestly don't get how and why they're always like this when they're together on cam? I remember the 2021 jm's birthday live so even then jk did went to jm he was still like i have to go and workout but jm was like noooo and then came hobi and jk suddenly forgot he has workout to do? And I'm specifically talking about 2021 cause if i had mentioned something recent people would be like"well Maybe Because they don't spend time together so they're awkward" that's why I'm using this from 2021 where everything was going perfectly fine and THIS still happened so what I'm saying is WHY? Why is it hard for them to be infront of cam like normal frnds do, like they always do with other members?

Also as you mentioned in your post earlier that it's not jk's fault that people hates jm i agree with that cause belive me if it was jm going to jk's suchwita he would have been called names but since it's tae tkkrs would eat up the supposed "company content" had it been jm whom jk said "don't come we're in the middle of shooting" they would have made a big deal just like they did when jk jokingly said No to jm when he went to jm's practice.

Thing is tkkrs hates jm with passion so they will always always find something to shit on him. Jk just only described things how it went. Just like how he also mentioned that he went with tae and his frnds to skii and literally stayed behind alone no one was with him later cause everyone went home but he alone stayed cause he was enjoying it too much. Now had it been jkk they would have said "yes they went with frnds and jk was even alone at the end Omega mimi left with his frnds and didn't even stopped for his boyfriend" like believe me anon they will always find a way. But since it's tkk they ignored the whole last part of that thing where jk said he alone stayed behind.

Been here for 4+ yrs and i can give you the exact line/dialogue tkkrs would pull out of they asses for everything jkk does. It's just repetitive and nothing new.

And yes before getting mad at jk remember that he's the only one who has quite literally mentioned jm all the time, asking him for lives, watching his content like remove those moments and see what are the things you're left with.

Also stop seeing jm and jk as someone who's content provider. Take whatever they give you with love or leave that's the only option.

Preach, Anon, preach!!! 1000% this! Especially the part that JK and JM aren't content creators. After all, their job isn't shipping, it is just a side effect of their job. By now, all of them are simply living their life and all of us should just take what we are given.

Anyway, as a fan of BTS for 7+ years, I am so used to taekookers' antics that I don't even need to read their posts. When smth happens involving either JK, Tae, or JM, separately or as a pair, I immediately know what their narrative would be. They are deranged and completely predictable, but unfortunately, far from harmless..

Anyway, I have no idea why Jikook are the way they are. They are very confusing to me, especially nowadays. The chemistry they have with each other is so strong. Their interactions are always so charged and so different that with other ships, especially on Jungkook's part. Is it just how they are as friends? What type of friendship is even that? If they have partners, how are two people standing this shit? Why, just why why why why are they always so awkward when they have been friends for more than a decade now?

What I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall during an off-camera Jikook interaction..

[onwriting-hrarby]

thinking about the commodification of fandom

so given recent experiences i couldn't help but wonder how the creative expressions in fandoms—drawing, writing—have been commodified as of lately, and how this has impacted negatively my way of creating and reading my own creations.

first, there was the change between art and content.

or, how we have begun understanding that we are not artists, but content creators. that's how fans perceive our world and it has to do with the change in social media and neoliberalism, the capitalization of the self and productivism. while media gurus tell us that we need to work hard and harder on what we do—citing steve jobs' autobiography and jeff bezos or elon mush or whoever has become rich and succesful, as seen by a capitalist society—we have forgotten the joy of simply doing things for the sake of it. just like how it's not well seen that we might be in the sofa all day watching series if they are not series that will make our mind broaden, or reading books to make us feel more intelligent, manuals on how to stop procrastinating, it is not well seen that we should dedicate our own time to do something just because we like it if we don't have more ambition than that.

similarly, the people reading fanfiction or watching art don't feel part of a community in which they have to interact because we have been told that we should strive for our own individualistic needs. we should not take responsibility for the feels of others; not assume toxicity in partners (even though we are all toxic in our ways). we have not been told of the power to heal in community, rather, to heal alone. and while the line between staying and staying in toxic environments is very thin, the line still stands. i can have toxic traits and work to make myself better, but i can't hardly have the healing if i'm not interacting with people. so, if art is the thing that threads between this fine line in relationship/community, and in a fine line overall, and we are getting rid of all the nuances, how can someone experience art? if not as something that can be consumed, then tossed out, not even expressing how you feel, because you're supposed to experience all of this in a solitary, individualistic way?

then, the ambition became the commodification of the self.

while the discourse is that we should strive to be the best in what we do, and be successful in what we do, how can we stop not desiring for it? when we are in a community in which the only computable way of knowing what is good and what's not are the ratings, the kudos, the comments: how can we get more and more, and more of that? which brings us to commodify ourselves in social media: a writer that only writes on ao3 and doesn't promote their work can't see the same numbers as someone who's on social media. i am all for promoting your work and talking about your work, don't get me wrong. but there is something inherently capitalistic in doing so, which is, you're not leaving anything to chance. even if this thing doesn't bring you any money and it's just for the fun. it is capitalistic because you as a writer are being exposed in a way that you're interesting. we all crave for authenticity in fandom, but i wonder how much of it it's true, or it's a façade and a new identity that we form around ourselves to appeal to the public of our creations. we are selling our thoughts on fandom, our work, our effort—our graphics, which in my fandom everyone does, me included; our opinions, not because there's something about community but because we understand community as an amount of something. community translates to something else rather than just an exchange. —this, of course, doesn't apply all of the time with all our promotions and all our exchanges—

finally, the commodification of the self and the change to content became self censorship.

which is to say: how can we appeal to the community if we are not offering the content the community does? either we change communities, find other smaller communities that understand us, or we risk to perceive our work as not being meaningful or valuable anymore. because our work is not for us, because we should be successful in what we do, we may be writing what we want but with the changes that we think will appeal to the public. smut sells best: let's write smut, even if it wasn't on our mind; some dark themes can get us cancelled: let's keep it clean and understandable; even if we write smut and dark themes: let's tag the impossible so that there's no mistaking in reading our work and we don't get hate, because god forbid someone actually began reading and could guess how the work is going to go and just left and moved on. we are approaching art the same way a youtuber approaches tags. we are thinking of creating the same way a tiktoker plans their videos. and not all of fanfiction needs to be art—fanfiction should be, inherently, fun—but then we are approaching fun with a commodification and professionalization that doesn't mean fun anymore.

we can be successful in fandom: we can have our promotion tool and our favs and our rts and our ratings; we can get people talking about our work, get the deserved comments—that we wouldn't have gotten because it's only enough to click on the work and leave a kudo maybe—; but even after all our effort we don't get what we're looking for, doesn't translate to anything that we can commodify, we are going to feel empty and meaningless, and it's going to affect our art and how we view it, and we are going to think: next time, i'm going to write something everyone will like.

and that's the problem: nobody, not even you, can tell you what you're going to write next.

(or maybe, after all, i'm just projecting.)

[wafflebloggies]

the long con - part 1/7

a Don't Feed The Muse crossover story. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

*

The con was coming to an end.

DIGIVID, the largest annual convention for digital content creators in the Southern United States. Three days of booths, networking, merch, watchathons, speeches, special previews, presentations, weird food, crowded spaces, fun.

Fun in theory, anyway. For Mark Mayhew, it had been three days of a brand new kind of purgatory. Unavoidable, self-inflicted, endless.

“...honestly, we couldn’t choose, so like for our first video we just put all our favourite movies into a picker thing and it turns out Watchmen came out the exact same year as Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, and I know, they’re totally different movies, but then we were like, wait, there’s some parallels here...”

Mark was certain by now that the con had been a terrible idea. True, if he’d had the time all over again, there were several big, pressing reasons why he would still have made the same choice, but only a couple of them were fit to explain to anybody else. Even if he’d known how frankly- miserable- it was going to turn out to be, he probably still would have chosen to go, but knowing this didn’t make it feel like any less of a mistake, or change the fact that he would have given almost anything, right now, to not be stuck in the middle of it.

“...and the whole ship metaphor they cut from the movie, and like, Flint’s invention basically has the same thematic purpose as Veidt’s EDBE? We kept saying ‘eeby-deeby,’ it took us like, twenty takes…”

It was almost incredible to him, as he stood in silence, how alone it was possible to feel in such a big crowd. The main convention hall was hot, airless, busy. Even though some people were already packing up, here at the end of the third day, plenty of bodies still shuttled back and forth in clogged little streams whenever they found the space to move, elbow to elbow between the double rows of human backs shutting out the tables, the crowded booths. It was easy to feel overwhelmed by the sheer press of people, the talk and the noise. If Mark had only walked in alone, twenty minutes ago, and spent the time silently trying to make his way from one side of the massive space to the other, he would already have been more than a little agitated, ready to leave.

“...and he has all these shell companies, like all these theatres that play alien invasion movies all the time, to subconsciously prepare people? And when you look at Meatballs, you’re actually getting lowkey bombarded with fast-food imagery the whole time right up to when he turns on the machine...”

Mark had been in the hall for hours, and he was done. Currently, he was standing in a small pocket of space in a very nicely put-together booth belonging to a fairly well-known ASMR channel, watching a conversation happen right in front of him that he had about as much share in as an exiled Martian had in a conversation backstage at NASA. Yes, he’d started this conversation, he’d introduced himself, he’d started to steer the topic in a useful direction… and then Anthony had happened. Anthony Williams had turned up with his big, friendly grin and his busted paper carrier bag full of leaflets and merch which had been shedding everywhere since Friday and his completely distracting, distracted self, and now…

“...actually the biggest audio problem we have is my cat, Blaze, when we film at my house she’s got a real thing for the fluffy boom whatever on the mic, she wants to kill that thing on sight, right Mark?”

“Yeah,” said Mark, in the same way a corpse will twitch if you electrocute it. Anthony, who was too into the conversation to notice his friend’s thousand-yard-stare, carried right on going.

“Yeah, so we have to shut her in my parents’ room, but then I feel so bad, and she yells so loud in there it picks up on the video! So we usually record at Mark’s, but with our Parasite video...”

And so on. And on.

Not that the ASMR guys seemed to mind. People always seemed to open up and respond to Anthony quicker and with far more warmth than they did with Mark alone, which added another layer of frustration to the silent, invisible war he was fighting against himself. If Anthony could only have understood, and been focused, if Anthony could have been trying like he had been, these last three days, they might have found a sponsor already.

A sponsor, a partner, a collab, anything, anything to make the whole weekend feel worthwhile, instead of a painful waste of time.

Mark could tell that these guys had lost focus completely. One of them was still chatting quite happily with Anthony about God alone knew what, relaxed and disengaged, and the other was already moving away, eyes on a new bunch of visitors. There was no way Mark could steer this back the right way again now. Even though, at the bottom of his heart, he’d known it was a lost cause before Anthony had joined them, the tide of bitterness ebbed higher as he listened to the conversation wander so far wide of the point.

He must have looked distant enough for a party of people trying to use the booth as a short-cut to mistake him for an unconnected bystander, because as he stood there they pushed gently between him and Anthony, widening the gap as they passed through. On impulse, he went with it, let them nudge him and his whole parcel of garbage feelings to the side, let the general stream of the crowd push him out of the booth.

Without waiting to see if Anthony had noticed, he started shoving his way towards the main exit at a quicker pace. It was a relief to just move, without Anthony winding along just behind him, getting distracted at an average rate of once every four booths. Through the whole weekend, every time Mark was just trying to get from A to B, every time Anthony spotted something which made him want to stop and take a closer look, he would reach forwards and pat Mark on the back of his right shoulder. By this point, three days in, the feeling was starting to evoke a kind of Pavlovian response in Mark, knowing that every time he felt that light touch he would have to stop and stand and wait, getting hotter and more squashed and more impatient by the second, until Anthony was done, and by now just the feeling of Anthony’s hand on his shoulder had become a button that hiked his blood pressure, his heart, his temper.

By all appearances, Anthony had enjoyed the weekend a great deal. He got on with everyone he met, he was absolutely down for talking with new people on a vast range of subjects (with absolutely no practical application towards growing the channel whatsoever) and with his usual unbounded enthusiasm he seemed happy to keep going for as long as the con lasted.

Which wouldn’t be for that much longer. The hall was crowded now, sure, but already not as bad as it had been on the previous two days. Mark could see stalls and tables beginning to clear as their owners began to pack away. Pressing towards the main door, he had a sharp and ghastly vision of the convention hall as a vast interconnected series of nodes, bright and promising, each shutting down and turning black and dead as he touched them, came into contact, even approached them at all. Each booth, each prospect, each point of hope-

(nobody is going to want to work with you.)

He couldn’t feel normal, he couldn’t relax for a second, when on the one side the enormous thundercloud of dread loomed and on the other… something nobody here could understand, something he barely understood, something that lurked at the bottom of his stomach like a squishy leaden bowling-ball, the part of him that whispered that he really was just torturing himself for no reason, because what he had been granted out of the blue was, could be, his miracle. That it had been pointless coming here at all, that he was wasting time, wasting precious time not just ditching any other blighted and unreliable possibility and reaching for it with grateful hands-

“Mark!”

Unaware up until that moment that he’d stopped dead in the heaving crowd, Mark started and looked back as Anthony shouldered through the general stream of people, a small, willowy splotch of red flannel and concern. He felt Anthony’s hand on his shoulder again, guiding, steering him forwards and sharply left into a faster-moving stream of people that quickly swallowed them both and spat them out on the other side of the main doors. He wasn’t even aware of how much he’d just wanted the fresher air outside the hall until they were out in the gigantic hub of a lobby, the atmosphere so much lighter and cooler just from the fewer bodies and the bigger space, the vaulted metal-and-glass ceiling lined with great sheets of striped tarpaulins like a vast circus tent, shaded against the fading July sun.

He gulped several big breaths, realised his eyes were watering from the heat in them, the blur of colours and the crazy nimbus around each far-distant light, and angrily dragged his glasses from his face, looking down to clean them on his T-shirt as Anthony arrived by his side.

“Hey, you just dis- are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” said Mark, putting on his usual wry, flat, deadpan tone with difficulty, like a familiar sweater that suddenly felt too small. “You sure you’re done? You didn’t have any more hilarious cat stories to tell them? ‘Cause you all seemed to be getting on great.”

“Uh… yeah? They seemed like cool guys.” Anthony never usually minded Mark’s sarcasm, but finding the sharp end of it directed so pointedly towards himself clearly threw him. He shrugged, uncomfortably.

Good, thought Mark. Be uncomfortable. The thought wormed sharp and slimy through the back of his head, and it left him feeling ashamed. He didn’t want Anthony to be miserable just because he was, as if making Anthony feel awkward or hurt could make him feel any better about himself. He wasn’t that shitty a friend.

At least, he didn’t want to be.

Anthony looked down, shuffling through his bulging paper bag full of garbage, the thing he’d been stuffing every sheet, pamphlet, sticker and card he’d collected the whole weekend into as if it was as big as a lending library. He pulled out a couple of stickers from the top. “Here, they gave us a couple of these.”

Mark took the stickers. They were the window-clinger kind, for cars. He didn’t want to put any stickers on his car. They would be a pain in the ass to peel off, if-

(when)

-he had to sell it.

“Thanks, Anthony. Using my car to advertise someone else’s YouTube channel instead of our own, that’s a really proactive move there. Real four-D chess strats.”

“I, um… I just thought they’d look neat.”

“Yeah,” sighed Mark. “I know. Come on, let’s go find somewhere to sit.”

*

Even though it was getting towards evening, there weren’t too many people in the food court seating area, and half of the kiosks still had their metal hatches pulled down. At a long, near-empty table, sticky and spotted from a day of crumbs and wipe-downs, Mark dropped into a chair across from Anthony, always easy to spot in his bright red-check flannel, who was already halfway down a container of loaded chilli wedges.

He shrugged his backpack into the darkness under his feet and back-kicked it under his chair, and set his styrofoam carton on the table. Following the trend of the whole weekend, he hadn’t had as much luck with the food options as Anthony, whose potato wedges looked pretty good, apart from the whole ‘drenched in meat’ thing. His vegetarian lasagna looked like a slab of undercooked doormat in half an inch of thin red soup.

There were no real quiet places anywhere in the hall, but the food court was at least a little quieter, only a couple of other people at this table, eating alone. Mark tried to let himself relax, as much as he could, forcing himself to untense joint by joint as if his skeleton was an IKEA diagram strictly controlled by his mind, but only got about as far as his elbows before giving up.

Anthony grinned at him. Mark attempted to smile back, didn’t point out that he had a speck of chilli cheese on the tip of his nose, and ate a couple of bites of lasagna. The best that could be said about it was that it held no surprises- it tasted exactly how it looked. His phone buzzed, and he checked it hurriedly, trying to look preoccupied enough to dodge any conversation, to at least catch ten minutes worth of peace and silence while they ate.

He got maybe two minutes, because by then Anthony had wolfed down enough chilli to have taken the edge off his appetite, and wanted to talk.

“What happened back there, anyway? I just looked round and you were gone.”

Mark shrugged. “They weren’t going to give us anything,” he said. “Before you came over, I managed to give them our card, but really, I could just kind of tell they weren’t going to bite, so, like…”

With some trouble, he could make himself see that what had just happened wasn’t Anthony’s fault. He had known those guys weren’t interested, just like all the others. He’d known it in his gut before Anthony had even shown up, and with just a little distance he could see that clearly and admit it, and know that it wasn’t fair for him to put the blame on Anthony at all-

“Wait, that’s why you were talking to them?”

-for almost five seconds.

“Yes,” said Mark, trying to keep his voice, down, for all that it mattered. “Yes, Anthony, that is why I was trying to talk to them, before you-”

“But they’re nothing to do with our channel!” Anthony looked genuinely confused. “They do 3D print projects, they do that ASMR printing thing-”

“I know, what they do, Anthony,” said Mark, barbing every comma as if it was a physical thing, something pointy he could flick against Anthony’s forehead. “It doesn’t matter, they get two hundred K views per video, we could do something-”

“Come on, Mark,” Anthony drooped back in his chair, rubbing his face, obliterating the chilli cheese with his palm and pushing his curly mop of hair out of the way. His legs slid forwards on the tiles and his heels bumped into Mark’s toes. Mark pulled back and tucked his legs under his chair like a curling bug, hooking both feet tightly around its front legs. “You’ve been doing this the whole weekend, the mobile game people, the wallet people, the deodorant people, the freaking- weird pillow things people-”

“You think we can just wait for someone to come to us? That’s not how it works-”

“This isn’t how it works, Mark,” said Anthony. Now he leaned forwards, pushing his chilli to the side, all earnestness, his freckly face an open book urging Mark to hear him. “I’m just being realistic. We’re a really small channel, we don’t need sponsorships, it’s okay if none of these guys want to work with us yet. Maybe if we get bigger it’ll happen, fine, but you can’t force it, you’re just making-”

“When are we going to get bigger, Anthony? When? How long? When is our first sponsor going to come along and ask us? Another six months?”

“Maybe-”

“A year? Two years? I don’t have-”

“Maybe not at all!”

“-I don’t have that kind of time!”

Mark had almost yelled over his friend, but he’d heard him perfectly well. Although he knew exactly what Anthony meant, although it was only echoing his own thoughts, the words still stopped him dead.

“Maybe never,” said Anthony, quieter. “Look, you know I love our stuff, I love the channel, I’d love it if it got as big as those ASMR guys one day, are you kidding? But I’d be fine if we never got any more subscribers than we already have, I’d do it if we got like three views a video. It’s just supposed to be for fun, Mark! Remember the first time we uploaded and we got like, twenty views? We got pizza to celebrate!”

“That’s… that was different.” Mark did remember, and the memory made his throat tighten and his eyes prickle. It didn’t feel like a long time ago. The summer they started the channel, leapt into making videos as soon as term ended. That summer, back when his dad was only normal-crazy, back when Theo’s acceptance letter was stuck right on the front of the fridge all month, back when the thing that sucked the most in the world was the prospect of having to miss the second half of summer for some stupid family cruise.

That summer. Before everything went to shit.

Anthony pushed a finger against the smeary tabletop, drawing a big invisible circle, tapping a small dot next to it. “We have to think of it like, there’s hundreds and thousands of people here who have a channel, and you know it’s only a tiny, tiny percent of a percent that ever get big enough to get sponsorships and stuff. You know that. We were never doing this for sponsorships. I mean, I’m not, and- we’re on the same page, right? This is like when you wanted to do that video reading negative comments-”

“Okay, that? That stuff works. People love hate-comment videos. We’d easily get twice as many views as our last video, and we wouldn’t even have to write a script-”

“We don’t even get hate-comments- we’ve had like, one! Even if we did get a bunch for some reason, why would we even want to focus on that shit?” That’s just going to make it seem like we don’t care about the people leaving us good comments, and then we’d just look like assholes!”

“We don’t have to wait for real ones.I could make some fake accounts, or- or something. Who cares what we look like-”

“I do,” said Anthony. “And so do you, Mark.”

He sat back, as if he’d made a really good point, and gave Mark his best knowing look, which made him look about as sly and full of deep psychological understanding as a first-grader’s spelling primer.

“I know you, and I know the channel means way too much to you, for you to really want to screw it up like that just for a bunch of views.”

(It’s not about what I WANT!!)

In the real world, where screaming at the top of one’s lungs is unacceptable mealtime behaviour, Mark swallowed and looked down at his lasagna.

“It’s not like that’s why we’re here,” said Anthony. “This was just supposed to be fun. I mean… it was supposed to be.”

His tone of voice made Mark look up, quickly. Anthony was still watching him, and he looked worried. Not just worried, but uncertain, sympathetic. Mark felt his stomach lurch. He knew that look, because he’d found himself on the receiving end of it a lot lately, from a lot of different people, all for mostly the same reason. He hated it. He hated the pity, the pointlessness of it, the unwanted obligation of knowing someone felt bad for him when he never asked them to, wouldn’t ask them to, because they couldn’t do a single thing to help. Seeing it in Anthony’s guileless hazel eyes was worse than seeing it in the face of a stranger, because-

(he could help he just doesn’t want to)

-it cut deeper, somehow. Mark shut his eyes hard for a second. Hard white light, clean surfaces, the pervasive smell of disinfectants and sickness and waiting, and the voice, thin and drowsy and blurry with sleep and painkillers, but the same, the same well-loved voice-

(It sounds great, honey. You two go have a good time. You’ll have fun.)

“Sure,” said Mark, to his lasagna. “Fun.”

There was a short silence. Anthony clearly wanted to say more, probably to the same purpose, but he knew Mark well enough to recognize when he was being shut down. He shifted uncertainly in his seat, picking at a bit of cracked decal on the front of his t-shirt. Mark picked up his spork again.

“You know,” he said, casually, drawing small deliberate lines across the top layer of his gross lasagna, just like someone might do when they were absolutely unbothered and totally not trying to force the issue, absolutely not so wound up to the point that their usual sharp, smooth-running voice was fracturing into bits and pieces of sentences like grammatical shrapnel, “if you ever felt like- you were kind of done with this whole thing, with the- the channel, I’d completely understand. It’s been a... stressful weekend, right? It hasn’t really worked out like we wanted it to, and I can tell you’re not really into it, I... I wouldn’t be mad.”

He coughed, poking holes in the lasagna like he was trying to seed a miniature lawn. He hadn’t even eaten three bites, but it felt like it was stuck in a big ball in his throat.

“If- if you were feeling like, ‘You know what, I’m over this stupid YouTube thing, but I don’t want to disappoint Mark!’ I’d get it. Really, you wouldn’t be disappointing me, or- letting anybody down, I’d be- I’d be fine with just- running it on my own.”

He looked up, barely daring to hope. “If that’s how you were feeling... you could hundred-percent just tell me.”

Anthony leaned across the table, putting a hand on Mark’s arm, stopping the nervous movement of the spork mid-jab. His face was encouraging, wholly sincere.

“Mark,” he said, with serious emphasis, “I love our channel. I’m never going to be ‘done.’ I’ve got you, buddy. You don’t have to worry about me- I am never gonna just leave you to do it on your own. Okay?”

Mark looked at him, helplessly. Anthony smiled, his beautiful Anthony smile, nothing but sunshine and freckles, a smudge of chilli cheese and a total absence of doubt. He squeezed Mark’s arm, gently.

“We’ve had a long day,” he said. “I’m gonna go back to the room, get some packing done. Take your time, okay?”

And with that, and another quick, reassuring grin, he grabbed his raggedy paper bag and the rest of his chilli, and was gone.

Mark sat there for a little while as if he’d been hit with something heavy around the back of the head, looking at the place where Anthony had been. After a moment or two, he screwed his eyes very tightly shut, jabbed his spork into his lasagna so it stuck there like an upright little sail, put his face down in his hands and made a noise like a high, muffled nearly-silent scream.

[t-nd-rfoot]

rhett and 🌛 for your emoji requests my love!! <33

NIGHT OWL aka Nights with Rhett Headcanons

Rhett comes to life in the night.

Pairing Rhett Abbott x reader

Theme Fluff

Word Count 559

Note Ahhh this took everything everything everything in me to write without making it too similar to a certain WIP of mine!!! But I loved writing this, just very soft and sweet Rhett 😌💗 a little cliche and expected, if you will, but our cowboy loves the simple life! And also, I figured if I'm changing my aesthetics for next year, I might as well save time changing the one of this and just start now! I hope you enjoy this! ✨

If you enjoyed this, please reblog! Reblogs are the best way to support creators (writers, artists, gif makers, everyone!) on this platform. Share the content, share the love!

It’s not exactly a secret around Wabang that Rhett is a creature of the night

His midnight trysts and antics were a regular topic of the town gossip

(Though everyone also knows about his daytime flings as well)

But it’s not like those were the only things his nights were good for

He was just one of those people who just got his energy at night

Before you, yes, he sometimes (but always unintentionally) gave the townspeople something to talk about

Other nights when he wasn’t doing any of that, he would just clean up whatever he could at the stables or watch TV before passing out on the couch

And then he met you, and that (nearly) changed everything (since he was still staying up and all)

Aside from drinking at The Handsome Gambler, there wasn’t much to do after hours around Wabang, so Rhett spent many of his nights with you

It was the one time you guys could be together since you both worked during the day

On most nights, especially if he wasn’t riding, he’d rush to your place as soon as he finished his work at the ranch

And listen, as much as he loves his ma’s cooking—which is a lot—he loves getting to have dinner with you, just the two of you

Cecelia didn’t mind though, she was just happy that Rhett was making better use of his free time than before

You would teach him how to cook some of the things you made so that you guys could cook together

And those cold Wyoming nights will have the two of you cuddled in front of a fire

Other nights, he’ll go drinking with you—and sometimes, Perry—if he’s in the mood to go out

After his rodeos, he wouldn’t want to go home right away

If it was an out-of-town rodeo, you’d explore the town a little before going back to your motel room

If it was just in Wabang, he’d drive around without any destination

He’ll park somewhere you guys could be alone

You guys will cuddle together in the bed of his truck, under the thick blankets he kept for you under the passenger seat

(Don’t worry, he’s kept his truck clean ever since he picked you up for your first date)

He would listen to your stories of how your day was or whatever you wanted to talk about while stargazing

When the conversation gets serious and he feels you need some cheering up, he’ll ask you to stand up

“But I don’t want to go home yet, Rhett”

“It’s okay baby, just feel we should stretch our legs a little”

But then he’s opening his door, reaching for the console, and you hear the radio volume cranking up and the headlights switching on

He reaches his arm out and twirls you around to slow dance under the stars

It was only near dawn he’d drive you back to your place for a proper sleep

“Stay the night?”

“Darling, you need to rest, and Royal’s probably getting up soon”

“Rhett, you’re way too tired to drive back now”

He’s pulling back the sheets and getting into bed with you

“I know, I just like hearing you ask,” he replies with that low voice and smug grin

When he gets back to the ranch, he’s already counting down till sunset

Disclaimer  I do not own Outer Range or any of its characters. Please do not copy my work or translate without my permission.