#currently digging out a passage

[o-lanterns]

the third section of my backrooms, a more residential kind of rooms. gray carpet, landlord off-white walls, popcorn ceilings, and furnishings. even a kitchen.

[dcxdpdabbles]

I love you and all your works 🛐🛐🛐

Currently I'm fangirling over Danny Fenton's ex cuz I love stories where Bruce is a disaster lololol. Speaking of, do you think we can have more parts of it? Please?

Danny is tending to the cosmos creation and shaping when his summons digs again. He closes his eyes, reaching out to the one making the ritual and huffs at the feeling of a familiar soul.

Ugh, Bruce has been attempting to summon him none stop. It's so annoying to have a new sacerfices again and again. He mentally presses the ignore button on the runes, feeling Bruce's sadness as his calls go unanswered once more.

He reopens his eyes, trying to focus on his work. His mood is off now, though, and the soothing sensation of light bursting in darkness is sour.

Cosmos' creation was a lot like gardening to him when he was human, and the fact that Bruce is somehow ruining it makes it worse.

Why was he bothering Danny now? It's been fifteen years! Okay, maybe it had gone in the blink of an eye for a being like Danny, but it was still a long time for Bruce, wasn't it?

He was pretty sure it was longer than Bruce's oldest child.

Which wasn't that something? Bruce Wayne, the man who claimed he couldn't offer commitment but needed to "find himself", had run off only to find some bimbo and create mini versions of himself, not once, not twice, but six times.

Didn't that just sting?

Danny could do much with his power, but he was determined to give it all up to be more human for Bruce. He had been human for three years and had been Bruce's support during his youthful days.

He should have left that human flouting in the Infinite Realms. But Danny had always had trouble looking away when someone needed him. Maybe it was left over from his hero days.

Still, Bruce had only been eighteen, just ten years away from his parent's murder, and still struggling with his need for vengeance. At first Danny had only trained him, wanting to give him the edge he would need in a fight, but somewhere along the way his heart had been stolen.

When Bruce turned twenty- two years under Danny's mentorship- he had return home, but not before begging Danny to come with him. Like a fool he had followed.

It has been a struggle to remember how much pain humans endure in everyday life. He stub his toe three steps into Bruce's caves underneath his manor- the location of the natural portal that had sucked in Bruce.

The portal would close and not reopen for another fifty years, and as a human, he would not be able to return to the Realms until his death. Danny had been fine with that, even when Jazz, Sam and Tucker begged him to think things through.

You aren't human anymore. Jazz had said from the perch of her throne. This will only end in disaster.

He hadn't cared. Danny was in love, and for the first time since their home dimension vaporized with the passage of time, he finally felt alive again.

Even before his powers forced his heart to beat once more, his lungs to expand with air, and the blood to flow through his veins, Danny felt alive, and that was because of Bruce.

Bruce, whose gentle smile, could hide his pain for only so far.

He had thought offering everything he is and everything he could be- Jazz had nearly become the Queen of the Realms since Danny was busy breathing, bleeding and suffering as a human again- but maybe it was only his body Bruce liked.

Maybe it was the fact that for all of Danny's creations, he could not give Bruce a child. What were stars in the sky to humans on Earth that could not withstand their glow? What was the point of promising him enteral happiness when humans were destined to die before they could notice the passage of time?

Danny grimaces as the familiar burning sensation starts in his eyes. He angrily wipes the tears away, bitter that even now, as a full spirit of space, protection, and death, he can still linger in humanity.

He can feel pain.

Pain that no medicine from Jazz's soft hands treat, no ointment from Sam's plants can soothe, and no peace of mind that Tucker's dreams can bring.

Just pain that raddles his otherwise still heart.

The summons flairs up again. Danny can sense Bruce placing a small notepad in the circle, ovbiosuly writting on it as the runes attempt to send Danny a mental image. He grimnces as the words flash before behind his eyelides.

Please Danny, I just want to talk.

It's too late—fifteen years too late. He sends the message in green flames, hoping they burn Bruce as much as they burn Danny. He shuts the summons down before Bruce can think of replying. Just as the wards that keep Danny out from controlling the summons shatters he can sense Bruce slumping to the ground.

It reminds him of himself, slumped over the notepad in horrified confusion. Danny had awoken from the most tender lovemaking of his life only to find his lover long gone. The message had been short and apologetic, but it did nothing to hide Danny's engagement ring, which he had Alfred help him buy in secret, which had been dug out of his suitcase and flung to the other side of the room.

It did nothing to hide that Danny had no money, documentation, or life outside of Bruce Wayne. He had not been human in many years and had thought he could trust Bruce to not worry about such things.

He had paid the hotel with a few bills on his person, and the staff gave him pity glances. The hotel had not even been in Gotham or the United States. Bruce had taken them to the Middle East for a vacation- and a possible new trainer for him, something Ghul- and left with everything before Danny awoke.

He had even been able to use his powers because part of the deal to become human was to let Phantom go. Danny had been left abandoned in a foreign country with nothing but the clothes on his back, a suitcase and a broken heart.

Had it not been for Tucker worrying about him and checking on him through his dreams, Danny would have died there, and unlike before when he turned into Phantom, his soul would have faded away.

Bruce Wayne broke something in him that day. He would not have a second chance to do it again.

Never again.

[pretzel-box]

I love you writing! Could you do something with jealous Sebastian?

A joke too much

words: 1,3k

status: non-proof read

tags: established relationship, sebastian is jealous, random nameless guy to fill in for the plot, comfort & bad diving suit jokes

sebastian might be a bit ooc but that's nothing new lol

Despite all the horrible things that had happened so far in the drastic depths of the Hadal Blackside, you were more certain than ever that hardships are easier to overcome with a group of co-workers—or, in this case, familiar victims of the expendable project that Urbanshade had set up to retrieve a simple crystal.

One of those people was a fellow inmate who shared a punishment similar to yours, which made it easier to bond over the shared misery. Their sarcastic way of lightening up every dark situation was a refreshing change of pace amid all the horrors and violence that usually surrounded your group.

"I would have worked harder on my bikini body if I knew I’d end up here," the fellow prisoner joked, gesturing to the basic diving suit Urbanshade had issued as minimal equipment. The ill-fitting suit clung awkwardly to his frame, adding a touch of absurdity to an otherwise grim situation.

"Ah yes, these diving suits definitely highlight all the right curves," you hummed back in amusement, trying to suppress a grin.

The lighthearted banter continued as you both navigated the dim, foreboding corridors. The small, wholesome moments of connection were a welcome reprieve from the relentless tension. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep the growing dread at bay, if only for a little while.

Eventually, you found yourselves standing before Sebastian's signature vent—a crude entrance that had become all too familiar. With a quick push, the piece of metal flew across the dark floor, clattering noisily. From the other side, Sebastian's disinterested voice echoed in the narrow passage.

"Welcome back, you... and you," he muttered, his tone flat as his ear fins twitched slightly, betraying his annoyance. His gaze flicked to the person next to you, clearly sizing them up. "Another day, another poor selection of team members, huh? Shame I don’t sell good ones either."

His joke, dripping with sarcasm, didn’t go unnoticed, but it didn’t have the desired effect either. You could see the faint lines of irritation on his face when he noticed your unimpressed expression. His usual wit seemed to fall flat in the current circumstances, and even he seemed to sense it.

"Really, Sebastian?" you asked, raising an eyebrow at him. Your new companion stifled a chuckle, but you could tell they were a bit wary of the sea-serpent’s mood.

Sebastian sighed, leaning back slightly as if trying to shake off the tension. "What can I say? The company down here isn’t exactly what I’d call inspiring," he retorted, though there was a hint of resignation in his voice. He glanced between you and your new friend, his irritation giving way to something softer, almost like concern and you didn't missed the way his tail moved, showing how bothered he actually is without speaking it out loud.

“Seriously, who thought it was a good idea to send us down here with nothing but these glorified wetsuits?” Your team mate joked trying to get the comfortable atmosphere from earlier back by continuing his joke, shaking his head in disbelief. “If I knew I’d be stuck in a metal box at the bottom of the ocean, I might’ve packed something a little more comfortable.”

You chuckled, trying to ease the palpable tension. “At least you’re making it work,” you said, playfully nudging him with your foot.

Sebastian’s ear fins twitched at the sound of your laughter, and own claw-like fingers digged themself uncomfortably into his own palm. Without a care, he spoke, his voice carrying a sharp edge. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of laughing at this situation.”

Your friend raised an eyebrow, clearly picking up on Sebastian’s mood. He pushed off the wall and took a step closer to you, a lighthearted smile still on his face. “Hey, we’re all just trying to make the best of it, right? No harm in keeping things a little less... bleak.”

Sebastian finally faced him directly, his eyes locking onto your friend with an intensity that made the room feel even smaller. “If you’re so focused on keeping things light, maybe you should find somewhere else to do it.”

The words were laced with a possessiveness that took both you and your friend by surprise. The room fell into a heavy silence as Sebastian’s gaze shifted to you, his expression unreadable. “Or is this how you’d rather spend your time?”

You swallowed hard, sensing the unspoken conflict. “Sebastian, we’re all stuck in this together. We don’t have to turn on each other.”

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Stuck together, sure. But don’t pretend like this is just another day at the office. We’re not exactly a team, are we?”

Your friend cleared his throat awkwardly, realizing he was caught in the middle of something much deeper than he’d anticipated. “Look, maybe I should just... give you two some space,” he suggested, glancing between you and Sebastian.

Before you could respond, Sebastian stood up and slithered across the room, positioning himself between you and your friend, his tall frame blocking the view. “Yeah, maybe you should,” he said, his tone final, leaving no room for argument.

The air in the room was thick with tension as your friend hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Right. I’ll, uh, catch up with you later,” he mumbled before slipping out of the room by crawling back throug the vent behind him.

Once the two of you were alone, Sebastian didn’t move, standing with his back to you, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. You could feel the cold emanating from his body, but there was also something else—a vulnerability he rarely showed.

“Sebastian,” you started softly, reaching out to touch his arm. “What’s going on? Why are you acting like this?”

He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t turn around either. His voice was low when he finally spoke. “Because I’m tired of watching someone else take care of you when I’ve been the one keeping you alive all this time.”

His words hit you like a wave, and you suddenly understood the depth of his jealousy. It wasn’t just about the other guy—it was about everything you’d been through together, everything he’d done to protect you. He was scared of losing you, of not being enough and being replaced with someone you just met.

You stood up and stepped closer, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, resting your head against his back. “I know, Sebastian. I know you’ve always been there for me. And I’m grateful for that. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

He sighed, his shoulders slumping as some of the tension drained from his body. Slowly, he turned in your arms, his cool hands resting on your shoulders as he looked down at you, his expression softening. “I just... I can’t lose you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

You reached up, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “You’re not going to lose me. I’m right here.”

Sebastian’s gaze searched yours, and after a moment, he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms and tail around you in a protective embrace. The coldness of his body was no longer unsettling; instead, it was a familiar comfort.

For a while, you just stood there, holding each other in the quiet of the room, the earlier tension dissolving into a peaceful silence. Finally, Sebastian pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his breath cool against your skin. “I didn’t mean to get so... possessive.”

You smiled gently, your hands resting on his chest. “It’s okay. Just... remember that we’re in this together. Both of us.“

Sebastian nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Thank you, Sweetheart."

[minarisplaything]

Blackpink in Your Area (p1) ft. Jennie Kim

Pairing: Jennie Kim x Male!Reader Rating: Explicit / Mature Wordcount: 1.6k Summary: After her latest performance you find yourself sneaking backstage with your girlfriend.

AN: some context, this was made...god around the time of their first world tour? so writing wise it might not follow the same rhythm of my current stuff. but it's a personal fave i've had privately that i figure fuck it i might as well post it now. if you want to read a TWICE converted version of this chapter with Nayeon you can find it on my AFF profile but this is the OG never published version. Enjoy!

"Where are we going?"

"Ssh. Just come on!"

The accented voice leaves little room for argument as the owner's hand pulls you down another corridor. It seems with every turn you get further and further lost — which is likely the point. However, Jennie seems to know exactly where she is going, a small comfort at least. She pulls you down another tight passage then stops, pressing you against the cold wall. Instinctively you hold your breath before realizing you have no reason to — or at least you hope you don't.

"Jennie, you're acting like we're running from the cops," you speak, your voice a hushed whisper despite your previous reasoning.

"They might as well be the police," she responds, glancing back the way you came.

After another moment, she must be pleased that there is no one following you and turns to face you, a mischievous grin on her features. Without a word, she cups your face with her hands, bringing your lips down to meet hers in a slow, greedy kiss. Whatever concerns or confusion you had previously begin to fade away as your hands find their way around her. It has been so long since you had a moment together that you had forgotten how easy it was to melt into her embrace.

She pulls back, her nose brushing against yours. "If anyone saw us," even with your eyes closed, you can hear the relief and satisfaction in her voice. The kiss had the same effect on you. "This would be over and my career would be on the line," she places a kiss to your jaw as she speaks.

It is a bittersweet truth. What you have is masked in darkness and secrecy; not even the other members of her group know about you. If it were ever revealed to the public, not only would the fans and paparazzi eat you alive, dating is strictly against her company's rules. You always said that you would end things with her before you ever let that happen to her.

You feel her palm running over your cheek, your distressed thoughts likely showing on your face as your brow furrows. "Don't think about that now," she presses another kiss to your lips, then another and another; giving you plenty of time to notice just how soft and irresistible her lips are. By the fourth kiss, you are eagerly kissing her back, your hands sliding from her waist up her back, pulling her closer than you already were.

This time around your embrace is needier, hungrier; as if every second you were living on borrowed time. You feel her hands move from your cheek up into your hair, fingers running through and gripping at the short strands. Her teeth dig into your bottom lip, tugging on it while she peers up at you with those killer eyes of hers. The sight alone is enough to make your heart skip a beat.

"I need you," she says when she lets go, "Right here. Now."

As she speaks, one hand slides down from your hair, running over your chest and rubbing over your slacks. Her palm encourages the bulge that is growing there and you cannot deny that your arousal doesn't just come from her but the fact that at any moment you could be discovered. It is exhilarating in its own way. Adrenaline and lust are a dangerous concoction on any night but here with Jennie, it seems especially so.

You agree without a word, only giving a small nod of your head before you are spinning her around so her ass is jutting out to you while her hands splay against the opposite wall. She is still dressed in her stage outfit from the earlier performance, which doesn't help to subdue your eager hands in the least. She is stunning in every way, yet when she is on stage she still somehow seems to magnify that. Seeing the outfit just brings back memories of watching her earlier that night.

"Need some help there?" A teasing voice breaks you from your momentary recollection. Jennie is glancing over her shoulder at you, brunette hair partially masking her features. She has a vixen side to her and truth be told, you are used to her taking control and being in charge, but you also know that you cannot let this opportunity she is giving you go to waste.

In return, you offer her a smirk of your own, "Merely admiring the view." Though given your time and place, this is hardly the moment for appreciation.

You push her plaid skirt up, your hand dipping between her thighs. "You've soaked right through your training shorts, baby," you try to keep the arousal out of your voice, but the husky facade cracks just a bit. Jennie moans in response; the notion turns you on just as much as it does her clearly. "Just how long were you thinking about this?"

At first, it is a rhetorical question, but as your wrist snaps back and forth, fingers getting her off over her clothing, you find yourself eagerly waiting for an answer. Jennie does not give any; her breath comes out in quick hiccups. She leans further into the wall, her hips pressing out closer to you in obvious need. "Were you thinking about it during your performance?"

"Y-Yes..." she manages, her own hand reaching back to grip your wrist, refusing to let you stop. "When I saw you in the crowd — oh god."

You can tell she is going further and further down the rabbit hole. Her New Zealand accent becomes more pronounced the more aroused she gets. An astute observation you have made over your time together. It is not the only sign either; she is biting down on her plump bottom lip and her thighs are clenching deliciously around your hand.

Satisfied with her answer, you lean over her, your breath hot against the shell of her ear. "Baby, we don't have much time."

The idol takes a moment before she nods in response, her grip loosening on your hand. Your fingers deftly move from between her thighs to her waistband, pulling down her spanks to expose her to the night air. You make quick work of your pants buckle, or at least you try to. Your own eagerness causes your hands to fumble with it for a second before finally getting it undone and unzipped.

"Oh fuck..." Jennie moans loudly as you slide your length into her, and it is the most heavenly sound in existence. In any other time, you might've clasped one hand on her mouth to muffle the moans lest you be discovered, but in this moment, caution is thrown to the wind.

You can feel your cock swelling even further once you are inside her; the walls of her pussy clamping down on you. It takes you one thrust, then another before you are in to the hilt, a deep groan rumbling from your chest past your lips as you take a moment to revel in the sensation. That moment is all you allow yourself, however. Comparing it to the earlier kiss that had been the slow and eager first embrace; what comes next is pure hunger and lust.

Your hands grip her waist tighter as you pull out of her, hips snapping forward to meet hers. Another delicious moan reaches your ears as she lets her head fall back. Each thrust is harder and faster than the last, desperate to be with her and to have her coming undone in pleasure. Of course, to do that, you have to hold yourself together as well, and that is no easy task. "God, you feel so good."

The sound of skin slapping together begins to fill the space you have tucked into, mixing with the heavy breaths and moans that fill the air. You lean over her, one hand moving to turn her face towards you as your lips meet in a sloppy embrace. "I love seeing you like this. I want to make you feel this good all the time."

Jennie only moans in response, her mouth hanging open as she takes every inch of you. Your free hand moves from her waist to her chest; fondling her breast through her top. You have enough sense not to be so aggressive that you pop a button, but it is a tall task. The last thing you need is questions from the costume department.

"Fuck, right there," her hand reaches back, grabbing at your ass to force your cock back to hitting the same spot. Jennie is so used to being in control that you are almost tempted to deny her request. And maybe in a different time and place, you would have teased her for a bit before giving in. Now, however, you do not even have control over yourself, let alone strength to tease her. All you can do is what she asks of you. Hips move frantically to fulfill her desire, driving her closer and closer to the edge.

Her nails dig into your skin, and you can feel your own release coming as well. "I — I'm close!" you grunt in warning.

"Hold on, baby. Hold on, I'm almost there... almost...!" she goes quiet; her body tightening as her mouth falls open in a silent cry, her eyes shut tight as her orgasm runs through her. Fingers dig into the back of your neck as she comes, and it is just might've been the most beautiful thing you have witnessed since her last one. Jennie has never been the loudest when she comes undone, yet it is still enough for you to reach your breaking point.

"JENNIE?!"

Suddenly, a voice cries out, causing you to physically jump back, your cock springing free of Jennie's pussy, cum shooting in the air. When you look in the direction of the out crying voice, you are both aroused and horrified.

There stands Jennie's group-mate and best friend, Jisoo, her face coated in your cum.

"...Oh fuck..."

[dearmantis]

Back from the dead

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova/The Darkling x Reader

Summary: As a new servant hired to help out in the Little Palace you have a bit of trouble finding your place in the new, unfamiliar environment. It doesn't help that some of the people there seem to know you.

Warnings: mentions of death/dying alone, bleeding out

Word Count: 4k

Authors' Note: I have written something. Congrats to me. I'm not sure if I like it. This isn't edited and I'm not a native English speaker.

"Who is this for? There's no name." You ask with a frown, holding up the dark brown wooden hanger. Usually, the clothes you're supposed to deliver to the Grisha have their name and order on the hanger, but this one is empty.

The other servant in the room with you, Mira, who is currently busy hanging the Kefta of a Tidemaker onto a dark blue hanger, looks up, eyes scanning the wood before her face contorts into a grimace.

"That's for Baghra. She prefers to wash her clothes herself, but once a month, the General asks us to steal her clothes and wash and repair them. Small warning: she's probably going to yell at you when you give them back."

You pull your eyebrows together, a deep wrinkle forming between them. "Wouldn't it make sense to just put them in front of her house in a basket or something instead of giving them to her personally? Or waiting until she's out again to bring them back inside?"

Mira shakes her head quickly. The movement makes her hair look like the most expensive black satin available.

"She has definitely noticed that someone took her clothes while she was out training the kids. She's waiting for someone to return them to let out some of her anger. There's no way Baghra is leaving her house until her clothes are back and she got to verbally abuse someone. I'm sorry."

Her attention goes back to the Tidemakers kefta, her long fingered hands carefully smoothing any wrinkles out of the material while her gaze checks the clothing item for any loose threads before hanging it up on the clothing rack next to her and moving onto the next item, a cream coloured cotton blouse with some beautifully carved wooden buttons.

Your hands dig slightly into the dark fabric of the dress you're holding, trying to determine if Mira is just trying to mess with you for fun or if she's seriously trying to warn you. You've only started working in the Little Palace a week ago and rumours about Baghra quickly found your ears as well, but you foolishly assumed that you would never have to interact with her after finding out that she usually only terrorizes the kitchen staff who bring her her meals.

Carefully looking through the other clothing racks for other dark brown, unnamed hangers, you end up with eight items before you finally leave the room, Miras "good luck!" following you through the halls like a death sentence as you move to leave the Little Palace.

You want to get this done quickly, trying your hardest to talk some bravery into yourself. Getting insulted by the old woman is basically a rite of passage according to some of the things you've heard over the past few days, like getting scared to death by the General or one of his Oprichniki randomly appearing behind you, getting into a fight with a servant from the Grand Palace after they said something mean about the Little Palace, and slipping on the stairs that lead to the kitchens.

You will survive this. Many have survived this before you, and many will continue to survive this after you.

The sun is slowly disappearing behind the palace, dipping the sky into a lovely shade of bright orange, pink, purple and grey-ish blue, reminding you that you will probably be done with work soon after this delivery. You will eat dinner with the other servants, who will probably want to gossip about Baghra with you, and then you will go to sleep for the night. It'll be a nice day, maybe, after you're back.

And then a new day will begin, and hopefully, someone else will be tasked with bringing her clothes back next month.

Of course, there's still the risk of being asked to steal her clothes, but you'll simply try to avoid joining the group scheduled to collect dirty laundry, at least when it's time to sneak into her house.

You've never been a fast runner, and you can't run for long either. She would catch you and beat you to death with that stick you've heard so much about before you even realise that she noticed someone breaking in.

When the house finally becomes visible, you can feel your muscles stiffen, but you force yourself to keep going. This is your job, after all. It's already a big miracle that you got this position in the first place, considering you have no training or experience as a servant. You really can't afford to run back into the palace and cry that you're too scared of the old woman to bring her her clothes.

And saints, what if she finds out you're that scared of her? Your mother always said that people only bully you to get a reaction out of you. They find the fear in your eyes amusing.

And that's what the old woman is, right? A big, old bully who kicks the children she's supposed to train around like pebbles and verbally abuses everyone who gets a bit too close to her.

You can't be weak in front of her. You won't be weak in front of her.

You can't see the woman, but you know she's waiting. You can feel her, somehow. She's lingering in that house, waiting for you to step closer, for your shadow to come just a bit too close to her door, and then she'll rip it open before you get a chance to knock to scare you as much as possible.

It's predictable, simple, and childish, and for some reason, it feels exactly like something Baghra would do. Which is weird because you don't actually know her. You've only heard what the servants and Grisha have gossiped about in the halls of the Little Palace.

But you feel like you've known her. Back when... when you were a child, maybe? No. You grew up in a village so small that the testers don't even bother to go there anymore. You would remember a woman like Baghra, just like you remember everyone else who has ever lived in the village.

Readjusting your hold on the old woman's clothes, you finally get close to the house and take a deep breath, waiting for her to rip the door open. Your steps become heavier and slower a few metres away from the door, hopefully catching her attention before she slams it right into your face.

The plan works. When the door gets thrown open, it misses you by two whole steps. You only feel a bit of air move against your face when an older woman steps out of her home, her dark eyes focused on the clothes bundled up in your arms.

Her thin lips open, ready to begin her verbal attack and insult and ridicule everything about you, when her eyes finally move up to your face.

The words get stuck in her throat and she simply stares at you for a few seconds, eyebrows pulling together as she looks you over.

"I have your fresh laundry, Miss." You announce, trying to make your voice sound as even and calm as possible.

She. doesn't. scare. you.

You might be scaring her a bit though.

A deep frown appears on her face, quickly turning into a scowl when you hold the clothes out to her.

"Did he hide you from me for all this time? Or did you hide yourself from both of us and decided to come back because he has more power now?"

Now it's your turn to frown, confusion written all over your face.

Baghra rolls her eyes, clearly already tired of you and whatever game she thinks you're playing. You try to prepare yourself for some other speech, some explanation of whatever she believes is your plan, but then she says your name, the name you've never given her, and any form of control you had over your body seeps out of it like water through a cheese cloth.

"You supid child. Faces reappear through history, and so do voices. But both? Together? And exactly the same as the first time? Impossible. I'm not gonna fall for your schemes. Take what you need and leave before he sees you. I don't need to hear his pathetic sobbing again. I had enough of that when you first died."

Her thin arms reach out to rip the clothes out of your graps before she moves to return into her house.

"Or, well, didn't die." the old woman murmurs, her gaze finding yours once more. "You really should just stay dead."

Slamming the door shut behind her, she leaves you to stand in front of her house, completely speechless.

What just happened? What was that?

You slowly turn around and walk back to the Little Palace, unable to tell if you can actually feel Baghras eyes following you, her gaze burning itself into your back, or if its a wave of paranoia making you think that that's what's happening.

Of course you're scared. Someone who's not supposed to know your name knows your name. Nobody knows a servants name – except other servants, of course – because no one ever bothers to learn their names. That's just how it is. You're background characters who clean up and take care of the main characters. Nobody learns the name of a background character because they don't matter.

You don't matter.

But why does Baghra know? The only explanation you can come up with is that she harassed some other servant to find out everything about the new servants in hopes of scaring the absolute shit out of them. But why bother with that? For fun? Is she that bored?

Huffing quietly, you slip back into the Little Palace and go back into the basement, simply letting out a deep sigh when Mira asks you how it went. She smiles encouragingly and promises you to give you half of her desert at dinner tonight in hopes of cheering you up a bit.

You have trouble sleeping that night, and it doesn't get better the next night, or the one after that. Instead, you dream more vividly than ever before, waking up completely exhausted rather than well rested like you should be after six to eight hours of sleep.

You never remember what you dreamed about.

"You didn't have to..." You say quietly, carefully cradeling the fresh herbs.

"Well, if you don't want them-" The man playfully reaches out to take the bundles back, but you move them out of his grasp quickly, accompanied by a bright laugh. "Come on, I can give them to someone else. I bet my mother would appreciate them."

"You are not going to re-gift these, Sasha! They're mine now." You giggle. "I have some flowers you could bring your mother though! I doubt she's going to openly appreciate them, but she might like them. You know, in her own way."

He smiles and takes a slow step forward, his face hovering directly over yours.

"I will bring them to her later. Right now, I just want to focus on you."

A soft smile paints itself onto your lips and you wait for him to lean down and press a kiss against them.

Your laugh echoes loudly through the house when he finally catches up to you, his arms wrapping tightly around you.

"Caught you," He huffs, his head bending down to lean against yours. Your hands move to his, holding onto them tightly as you let yourself sink down onto the soft carpet in your living room, pulling the man down with you. He sits down before you get the chance to, pulling you onto his lap, his lips pressing small kisses onto your shoulder and neck.

You lean back against his chest and soak up the warmth his body gives off. "It's not fair. Your legs are longer than mine. Of course you're faster than me."

"You were the one who suddenly ran off and yelled you'll have to catch me first! when I asked you for a simple goodbye kiss." The man laughs, and you can feel how the amusement and joy you felt before disappear slowly.

"I don't want you to go, Sasha."

You don't like admitting it. It makes you feel weak. A voice in the back of your mind whispers that he would never miss you the way you miss him. It sounds a bit too much like his mother, and you wonder when your inner voice of self-doubt started copying her voice. Since when do you even care what she thinks?

"I know, lapushka... But I'll be back soon, I promise. It'll be fine. You won't even notice I'm gone. Everything will be alright. I would never let anything happen to you, I swear it."

You can't hear anything.

You can't tell if it's actually that quiet or if your body is starting to give up and you lost your hearing. Hopefully, it's just silent. It would be a shame if you could never hear Aleksanders voice again.

But silence isn't good either, you think. There are supposed to be screams around you. If they stopped screaming, that means they're dead. That means you're next.

But you can't be next. Aleksander isn't here yet, and he promised he would be back. He promised, and he never breaks his promises.

He has to come back. He swore he would make sure you would be safe, and while you told him that that's a stupid and impossible thing to promise someone, you did believe him when he said it.

But where is he?

How are you supposed to keep your own promise if he's not here to save you?

You said you wouldn't leave him behind, but you can't keep that if they burn you. You're not strong enough to withstand flames and endless torture. No one is.

It's shocking how bad he is at cooking. He's completely devoid of any talent.

Sure, simple broths and soups are no issue, but as soon as the recipe requires a bit more thought, he is suddenly helpless.

Of course you would never tell him that. Not when he always tries so hard to help you, eyes wide and pleading as he begs you to let him take over some of the work.

"Please. I promise I won't mess up."

He always does, but you love him anyway.

He is a fantastic baker though. Every loaf of bread he works on, every cookie and every cake, turns into something perfect. As soon as sugar is involved, he suddenly becomes the most gifted man in all of Ravka.

Probably because he doesn't want to waste precious sugar, no matter what shape it comes in. Honey, fruit, berries, it doesn't matter. If it's sweet he loves it. That's just how he is.

He has a big smile on his lips when he shows you the freshly baked loaf of bread he worked on that day, already talking about what he's going to pair it with later when it's finally cooled down.

You know you should tell him not to eat so much sugar, to instead pair the bread with some of the cheese you still have in the house, but his smile is such a rare sight nowadays. You can't bring yourself to ruin his good mood.

Your head is resting on his chest, ear pressed against his skin to listen to his resting heartbeat. His face is relaxed.

He looks younger like this. Every time he is awake he looks and acts like the fate of the whole world rests on his shoulders, but when he's stuck in the world of dreams he is completely calm.

He looks like the boy he was never really allowed to be.

You're glad that he managed to find rest relatively quickly considering how outraged he was after his fight with his mother just an hour before, his loud voice booming through the small abandoned house you're hiding in.

"Who does she think she is to keep trying to force her opinions down my throat? I don't care about what she thinks. I get to choose who I want to spend my life with. She has no say in this. She doesn't even know you! You would never leave me, right?"

A quiet mumble leaves his lips, his arms moving to wrap around you, pressing you closer to him before he rolls to his side and presses his face against the space between your neck and shoulder, his warm breath brushing over your skin and pulling you out of your thoughts.

You try your hardest not to flinch at the sensation, no matter how much it tickles you. Instead you start to brush your hands through his hair, carefully massaging his scalp with your fingernails. His body tenses slightly, just for a few seconds, before he fully relaxes again, letting out a content sigh that sounds suspiciously like your name.

Smiling weakly you press a kiss onto his neck before closing your eyes as well.

"I promise that I won't leave you behind. I'll stay with you until the end of time if you let me. I swear it, Sasha."

Baghra is oddly possessive of her son considering she clearly doesn't like him.

That's the only thing you can think about as you watch her fuss over the boy she has tried so hard to keep hidden from the rest of the small Grisha village.

You want to talk to him. Everyone your age wants to talk to him. There aren't many teens in the village and while you all like each other, you're getting a bit sick of each other as well. Having someone new here to talk and play with could help soften the rising tension.

But that woman... she just shoos you all away as soon as you get too close to her precious son. You can't help but notice that he doesn't seem particularly happy about her behavior either.

He always looks so sad when he watches you and the other play and train, desperate to join you and have some fun instead of helping his mother wash dishes and fix clothes.

Most people would've fought back at some point, would've tried to defend themselves against their mother, but he just sits there and takes it as she scolds him over something stupid again. It's always something stupid, and he just listens to her words with that sad look in his eyes before his gaze begins to wander in hopes of finding something else to focus on, his face flushing from embarrassment.

This time his gaze find you, and even from several metres away you can see how his ears turn red. You try to give him an encouraging smile, but his attention snaps back to his mother before he can see it.

You really need to get him away from her, at least for one night. Maybe you could convince him that you could hunt together or something. He deserves some normal interactions without his mother hovering around him like a bird of prey.

There are screams again, and you're almost glad. Almost.

It's cold now, and it keeps getting colder with all of the blood seeping out of your body, stealing all of the warmth from your limbs and spreading it on the dusty stone floor you're laying on.

You're not sure if its just the exhaustion making you hallucinate or if the shadows are truly moving in your little cell. It would make sense. Aleksander always draws pictures and scenes onto the walls or floor when you can't sleep. Nothing relaxes you more nowadays, except maybe his voice and touch. If your body wants you to stay relaxed as you slowly die, it would probably show you that, right?

You can feel how your powers try to put your body back together. The familiar, almost tingling sensation spreads all over your body, but the blood is still seeping out of you like a small river.

You will die here, you realise. Aleksander hasn't come back and you will die, leaving him behind. He will be on his own again.

You both broke your promise.

Your mind feels like a glass bottle, ready to burst at any moment. You feel fragile and weak, disoriented and somehow... misplaced. You're not where you're supposed to be and you don't know how to get back to your original position.

Where do you belong?

Your physical health deteriorates further as well, alongside your mental health. You're often confused and lost, and your body never stops shaking, forcing you to wear the long, three coloured scarf you used to wear back when you still lived on your families little farm. It's against the uniform guidelines, but no one ever says anything because of how pitiful you look.

Mira compares you to her little siblings a lot, which is always followed by a sad sigh. Both of them are sick, which is why she works at the Little Palace, so far away from home. She sends the money she makes home to make sure they get the medicine they need, and now she takes care of you, giving you easy tasks like repairing small tears in clothes, sowing buttons back on and, of course, bringing the clothes back to their original owners.

You're never asked to go to Baghras hut again though.

"It would just exhaust you more, and you already look like you can barely stand. I don't want you to collapse."

That is Miras' official explanation when you asked why she didn't want you to go, but you're starting to question that reasoning now. If she really wanted to protect you from fainting, why did she send you to bring the General his clothes?

That seems a lot more exciting than being yelled at by the old woman again.

The basket filled with his clothes is also quite heavy and hard to hold with your sweaty palms, a lot harder than the eight hangers that you could simply hug against your body, letting the clothes drape over your crossed arms.

But you really don't want to tell Mira that you don't want to bring him his clothes. It's already embarrassing enough that you are officially no longer allowed to bring clothes to Baghra because of your illness. If you now say you can't bring the General of the Second Army his stupid socks, you might as well resign from your position and go back to your families farm in the middle of nowhere.

He's probably not even in his office. He's a busy man, after all. You will just swoop in, place his laundry basket on the floor next to the door, and take the basket with his dirty laundry back to be cleaned.

A simple job. You're scared for no reason. And even if he is there, he never interacts with the servants. You haven't seen him once since you started working in the Little Palace, and you know several other servants who have been here for longer and have never seen him either.

It'll be fine.

You repeat those words to yourself over and over until you finally see the dark, beautifully carved wooden doors that lead to the Darklings quarters.

The oprichniki standing in front of them eye you suspiciously, but they knock and open the door for you anyways, stepping aside to let you in.

They close the door behind you as soon as you're inside, and your gaze automatically swoops up to the man sitting at the desk at the other end of the room. You planned to just drop the basket off and get the dirty one, but now that you're actually here and in front of the General, you can't bring yourself to move.

There's a tingling sensation at the back of your neck, like your brain is trying to dig up a memory that isn't there anymore. Like you've seen this man before, but you don't remember where.

He's bent over his desk, his dark eyes reading through a thick, several pages long letter, paying you no attention while you shamelessly stare and try to remember where you could've possibly seen him.

He has definitely never been to your village. He is the Darkling.

A sigh leaves his lips after a few agonizing seconds, but he does not look up.

You're starting to get a headache now. The bottle feels like it's going to burst.

"Drop the basket off at the door. The dirty laundry is in my bedroom. Simply go through the door on the right and you'll find it."

You take a step backwards, your back hitting the door as you try your hardest not to drop the basket. There is a name right on the tip of your tongue, demanding you speak it into the silence lingering in the room.

The headache is now a sharp pain, right at the base of your skull. It feels almost like a warning. Like your body is begging you not to say it. To simply get the laundry and leave and never come back. To not let the botte burst.

"Aleksander?"

He looks up, eyes widening when his gaze finds your face. He whispers your name so quietly you almost miss it.

The bottle bursts.

[applejuicebegood]

Hi gorgeous!! I haven’t gotten a chance to respond to your message about jason x booknerd!reader, but I wanted to quickly message and tell you that I’ve read it and I’m absolutely in love! You literally always come up with such good ideas, idk how you do it!! You’re awesome and ily!!

-(@midnightorchids)

Jason with a Bookworm!S/O

A/N: I know school has started back up for you again babe, so I don't blame you :((( I was originally planning to expand this for you, hopefully you can read this during a study break or some down time (i might repeat some stuff - just look away). It's IB exam season where I am so I share in your pain. Hang in there dude!! Summer is almost here!!

Masterlist

He's a vintage paperback and leather-bound kinda guy. Crime, Sci-Fi, historical-fiction/romance, magical-realism, and non-fiction are his go-to genres. Favourite authors include; Margret Atwood, Kurt Vonnegut, Haruki Murakami, Frank Herbert, and probably M.T Anderson. He's only a little pretentious about it.

He can spend hours in used book stores digging through the big plastic bins and stuffed cardboard boxes. You help him find specific authors or titles, your basket heavy with your combined finds. He'll carry the bags back to your apartment, his other hand tucked into yours as you gush about excited you are to sort and organise your new additions to your shared library.

He still has some books that Bruce and Alfred gave hm before his murder. Leather bond additions of the Liliad and rare printings of Dracula and Frankenstein. They have these little notes left in the front pages from Bruce that he couldn't bring himself to tear out or throw away entirely. And if you thought his home library was huge- wait until you see the book shelves in his old room.

Since he doesn't spend that much money on himself, he now has every chance to spoil you with your own special additions of your favourite stand-alone's, expensive book-marks, and lavish coffee dates where both of you enjoy your books over the smoothest of richest of espresso.

In the early months of your relationship, most of your dates were spent at bookstores, thrift-shops, and libraries. Your love quite literally grew from the yellowed, torn pages your would both get lost in.

Once his home library combined with yours, most of your bedroom and living room wall space became covered with his floor to ceiling bookshelves. Your bedside tables would each have a small stack of books that you were currently reading.

He absolutely loves how you look with your reading glasses. He thinks it's too cute when you push them up with the back of your hand, entirely focused on an intense passage. Your eyes going wide or your breath stopping at a beautiful line. Your adorable focused stare and sweet round cheeks are accentuated fully. He should be reading the book in his own lap but he's entirely distracted by you. You shut the book with a thump and immediately turn to him to gush about the chapter you just finished only to have his hands catch your jaw and bring your smiling lips against his. And suddenly, you forgot what you were going to say to him.

Jason finds lines and prose in his books that remind him of you and highlight them. He would keep them in a note stack on his phone, just to read them back to remind himself of your beauty. It's something that he could never put into words himself, hence one of the reasons why he adores reading so much. He can find the right order of words that properly express his infinite adoration and care for you.

I've explored this before but you guys have a set date once a month where you'll sit in each-others arms and just read all day. You'll curl up in one of his sweaters with one of your thick Sanderson novels and he'll tuck a blanket around his lap with his special addition of 'Little Women' open in his lap. He'll refill your tea mug because it's always hard to pull you out of your book during your reading days.

You'll order in some warm comfort food for supper and talk about your books respectively. He'll gush about how Jo March is such a revolutionary character and how Amy is actually a metaphor for the loss of innocence girls experience when attempting to emulate patriarchal standards of womanhood.

All while you gaze lovingly back into his eyes, your chin resting on your palm - wondering if a marriage proposal would be too sudden for your evening conversation.

[taeminsung]

♡ ˚⁎⁺˳ ── home to you..

pairing || seungmin x reader

summary || late night spend with you is home.

genre/s || fluff. comfort.

prompt || ahh Seungmin is so underrated. soft sleepy cuddles with him late at night 😭😭😭 he has my whole heart

mina’s notes || literally SAME babes, cute puppy has stolen my heart. please enjoy ♡ 

The thought of the day ending caused a small smile to tug at Seungmin’s lips, because that meant two things. First, not having to interact with anyone for several hours on end. Second the comfort of his baggiest sweatshirt and the softness of his blankets. Time felt like it was ticking by so slowly since the announcement of them getting to leave. He knew better than to get excited about it because of this cursed result, but your name popped up on his screen letting him know you finished with your friends earlier than you thought, so you wanted to know if you could spend the night at his place. He would happily trade out the first reason for going home if it meant spending time with you. Usually, he was happiest sitting in silence with you by his side, pulling his attention every once in a while to show him something on your phone, or read a cute passage in the book you were currently obsessed with. Personally, some of his favorite moments are watching you while you’re in your own little world near him.

Giddiness filled his chest before he walked through the front door of the dorm, tailing the other members. Only once he crossed the threshold did the bone deep tiredness hit, making the calling of his bed sound more alluring. It called out his name almost louder than the soft knocks that echoed through the dorm signaling that you had arrived. Seungmin watched as Minho turned back for the door, letting you slip in with a hushed greeting as you changed into the slippers Seungmin had gifted you after the first time you came over.

The adorable memory of you half stomping around in his slippers entered his mind, chuckling at how you pouted for the night after you tripped over your own feet when getting more snacks for everyone. It was endearing to watch the way his brothers teased you for it as you simply tried to disappear behind in or under the blanket. Getting dragged back to the present by the soft sound of your giggle, a blush crept up his neck with the teasing look both you and his hyung were wearing.

Grabbing your wrist, he quickly pulled you down the hall, murmur how he was too tired to deal with whatever either of you had said or were plotting. Seungmin could deal with it in the morning when he didn’t feel like he would fall over at any given moment. Right now, all he wanted was to exist in his bed with you by his side. Gently he pushed you into his room before rushing to wash up. It didn’t take long before he returned to his room noting the way you were perched on the chair engrossed in your phone. Stealing a quick glance, he watched you scroll through the photos he assumed were taking while you were busy all day. Without saying anything, he began digging through his sweatshirts looking for one, only the sound of your slippers against his floor snagging his attention and eyes landing on you wearing exactly what he was looking for. Well so much for wanting that on, he whispered before turning to look for another one.

His eye lids started to weigh heavy as he slowly climbed into bed, burying himself in the warmth of the plush blankets. It felt like sleep would consume him at any moment. However, he continued to fight letting his eyes close because he knew he shouldn’t fall asleep without you back in his room. Truth was that he didn’t want fall sleep if the last thing he saw wasn’t you. He scoffed a little knowing that he would never admit that to anyone, not even you. Not because he didn’t want you to know but because he knew that when you got in one of your teasing moments, it would slip out to the members, and he would have to deal with them too. When you finally slipped back into the room, he watched you with hooded eyes as you drifted around his room, doing this and that, before decisively joining him in bed. A lazy hum escaped his lips while you adjust, once, twice, thrice. After the third time he stopped counting but something bothered him as he pulled you against his chest, trapping you in his arms. Stay still, his voice barely heard but eyes still watched you.

The sudden silence that filled the room allowed his eyes to drift shut even though you wiggled around in his arms for a few moments, stilling with your head resting on his chest. He felt like he could fall sleep immediately having you curled up next to him. Only when your quiet voice drifted to his ears did he desire to stay up longer. Do you ever wonder what Chan would do if I just took you on a weekend trip, you asked as your fingers danced across the expanse of his chest, settling for playing with the strings of his hood. Seungmin’s eyes stayed closed as he thought about what his leader would do. Would he be upset? Would be approve of it? Would he warn him against it before of the possibility of exposing this?

Chan probably would approve it if you snuck the rest of them with us, he replied, adjusting how he was laying from his back to his side so he could tuck you in even closer to him. What Seungmin thought was going to be a whole conversation seemed to have ended just as hastily as it was brought up. Quiet engulfed the two of you, Softly, he tucked your head into his chest, burying his nose in your hair. It was these hushed instances where he really appreciated you. It didn’t matter that sleep weighted heavy in his bones because with you lying next to him, he felt so alive. He felt the fire in his veins as he heart continued to beat slightly faster than it usually did. Carefully, he smoothed your hair as your arm wrapped around his waist.

Was it always going to be like this? This sense of security and belonging?

Part of him really hoped so because this was everything he had been hoping for in this life. Finding someone who just existed with him, didn’t expect more than he could give sometimes. Someone who loved him for him. Burying his nose into your hair, he smelled the still lingering scent of your shampoo, a scent that sometimes found its way into a few of his things. It was intoxicating really. He made him wonder if you moved in with him, would all his things start to smell the way yours did? Not once did he want these types of nights to end. How was your day? His voice barely getting out. Intently he listened to you explain what you did, sleepily burying your head even further into his chest as you recalled several things that made you think of him. It made him fall further in love with you. Slowly he felt the pull of sleep drag him little by little to the place where he could continue to imagine a built world of your future together. Pressing a long kiss into your hair, he couldn’t help the smile that forced the kiss short as you stopped talking to nozzle into his chest.

As his breaths started to even out and he drifted off, he felt the love that swelled in his chest and you stroked his back, the telltale sign that you wanted him to fall asleep peacefully.

from mina with love ♡ ˚⁎⁺˳ ── thank you for reading! ♡

[aemysbabyofficial]

Sweet Favor; Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen!OC

O, young Lucerys. So young and naive ventured down journeys and halls that never called his name.

Warnings: descriptions of sex; targcest; p in v sex; implied rough sex; description of nude bodies; dirty talk; swearing; description of sex

MDNI

Lucerys Velaryon had a favor for someone. It was something special yet difficult. It required the utmost levels of precision. Not everyone was fit for the challenge. Not his brothers, no. They would mess up before he even asked them. Lucerys kicked the dirt off his boots before commencing his search inside the castle.

No, this favor required the skills of one special kind of person. Someone he knew he could trust. Someone that always had his back, even in the darkest of nights. This person knew all the ins and outs and was secretive with it. This person was also everyone's favorite, so there was chance his favor could take time. The right wink was needed for the right flush of the cheeks.

"Saela?"

Lucerys noticed the odd shift in Daemon's shoulders when he spoke his cousin’s name. His head of brown curls poked into the quiet room and his voice echoed against the high walls. Out of everyone, Daemon would know where his favorite daughter was.

"Haven't seen her since the morning. Is she not riding with her sisters?"

Lucerys shook his head. Hope had crested off the cliff's edge into the frigid blue depths.

After breaking their fast, Baela and Rhaena took off on their dragons with Jacaerys and hadn't returned. Saela told them she wasn't feeling well and excused herself from the table to rest in the library, leaving she, Lucerys, and King Viserys' children inside. Currently, from the other rooms and halls he poked his head into, Helaena was outside digging through the gardens. She muttered prophecies that scared Lucerys away from even asking her a question. Aegon hadn't shown his face since dinner two nights ago--there was no question where he was nor what he was doing. Aemond was squaring off with Ser Criston Cole a while ago and where he was now didn't pinch the boy's mind.

"You need her for something?" Daemon craned his neck. Lucerys shook his head and bid the prince farewell before he could spill his favor.

Where the Heart of the House had disappeared flew over the prince’s head. This is her home. Lucerys was forced to remember after he turned every corner that he was only a guest at his cousin’s home. Saela knew the Keep better than anyone. The layout was stamped to her mind hotter and fresher than anyone. It was because of that Lucerys bore jealousy for her impeccable memory. With all the years they spent apart and she was forced to roam these cold walls, it came to no surprise that Saela knew the best places to hide.

Midday at the Red Keep saw few to no people in the halls. As it was a bright day outside and peace had touched the land, rather than waste the odd day, all the nobles either roamed the town or returned to their homelands. No one knew how long symphony would sing its strings in King’s Landing. Such quiet gave Lucerys to roam hallways, secret paths, and passages he would never once do. It was a shame Saela wasn’t with him to be his guide and Jace was missing the greatest action, but adventures by himself built up his small strength for greater feats.

A hall he had never seen before, or maybe, hadn’t remembered from his time away stood to his right. Lucerys looked to his left and right. He stood far from anyone’s bedchambers or busy hallways. It was empty, this hall. No guard stood posted outside a door nor did a handmaid walk. A heavy ball dropped in the young prince’s gut when he stepped foot into the hall. It felt like he entered a new world. Candles lighting the paths were blown off and an rogue breeze brushed his hair sideways. An open door? The sounds of children laughing and light voices trailed from an open door out of Lucerys reached. To not startle anyone or expose his position, the boy craned his eyes just far enough to see the awkward skirt of a handmaid and wooden toys for children.

“A nursery…” Lucerys whispered. Jaehaera, Maelor, and Jaehaerys must be playing inside.

An open window allowed for the ocean breeze to pave its way. A young child--Lucerys' could not figure the age for the life of him--ran to the far corners of the room to an older woman. A wetnurse rocked on a chair while the other handmaids spoke better High Valyrian he expected. Across the floor were various clothing items and hoods detailed with colored ribbon. The lure of young ones laughing and running with glee reminded the boy of his youngest siblings. A mixture of High Valyrian and Common Tongue fell from the children’s tongues. He wished to join them in the large room, jealous they could speak his mother’s tongue better than him, but doing so would distract him from his mission.

He needed to find his favorite cousin now.

Lucerys ran past the nursery with light steps. The prince pushed past the door at the end of the hallway and came face to face with a storage. Another dead end. Magic must have stolen Saela away because she was nowhere to be found. Lucerys kicked a hanging rug behind him, basking him into a cloud dust.

"Gods..."

A breathy voice trailed its way to Lucerys' ears. As the last syllable burned his flesh, the skin of his ears blushed a flaming pink. His head checked all directions in the storage. He was alone, was he not? Who could be making such a devilish sound? A mix of muffled and hushed voices spoke to the boy’s confused mind behind a door hidden behind the fallen rug. With careful steps, he crept closer and closer to a spare room.

“N-no worries. ‘tis quiet now, right?” the airy voice spoke again, warring on a thin line between pain and pleased. Was the voice talking about him?

Lucerys furrowed his brows.  

What his cousin was doing in such an abandoned place made no sense, but the surprise he would give her would ultimately reveal the truth. Out of the three, Saela was the easiest to give up. Baela would resist with arms of steel and Rhaena would somehow evade his unique questioning, but Saela? If he needed anyone to cover his messes, wanted to know a little secret, or needed a little favour, Saela was the perfect girl to give into little Lucerys.

The smile on his face tugged his lips upwards when he rested a hand on the door. Whoever closed the door was confident no one would pass the hall because it was unlocked. Nothing stopped Lucerys from barging in. Nothing stopped him from lightly pushing the door with his fingers. Nothing stopped him from bribing Saela.

"Oh gods, right there! Don't stop, please!"

A loud voice froze the boy's smile. Lucerys' body stilled so much he could hear his heart pounding in his ears. But past the deep thumping of his heart and blood rushing through his veins were the moans from his dear cousin. The giggles he loved to hear after making her laugh were interlaced with breathy moans and pleads for whatever to go faster. The quiet of the hallway made everything behind the door much louder.

What he saw made his stomach turn.

Atop a simple bed were two bodies tangled together in a mess of clothes and limbs. The skirt of Saela's skirt was bunched at her waist while one of her legs were strung over Aemond's shoulder. Her breasts spilled from the neckline of her dress and both their hands, in the mix of haggard hair, groped each other’s soft skin. Aemond’s hands trailed up from her waist to her neck while Saela interlaced her right hand with his and braced herself onto his other wrist. The vicious slap Aemond’s hips made every time he thrusted into her made Lucerys sick.

But what shocked him most were the words spilling from Saela’s mouth.

Her full, round lips would once sing him imaginary songs to sleep and whisper him funny stories she thought up in the Godswood. Yet in the cramped space she opened her legs to Aemond, filth dripped from her tongue every passing second.

“Aem-ugh, right there!” Saela screamed as her back arched. Her eyes shut closed. Lucerys watched pain and pleasure wash over her face. The head of silver waterfalls basked her chest when Aemond sucked her breasts. Her moans sharpened when he bit her nipples. His hips never stopped smacking into Saela but quickened its pace when her moans and screams grew louder.

Aemond had rid himself of his trousers and boots, leaving him a heaving statue dressed in a cotton shirt. Contorts of his muscled back flexed with every move he made. Sweat glistened off the sun’s rays, resembling his appearance to an imaginary spirit rather than a statue or man.

“Gods be good, Saela.” Mutters of Lucerys’ cousin fell from Aemond’s lips. It was like he worshipped her in the cramped space. Her moans and pleads were a chorals song to Aemond’s prayers that were fulfilled every second.

No. No! Lucerys covered his ears and stepped back from the door. What we doing here? He shouldn’t be here? The prince froze in place, unable to move nor block out the lewd sounds he heard. His mother always said she would teach him about manhood—what it meant to love a woman, fight for her honor, and eventually take her maiden head. But here in this cramped space, Rhaenyra was already beaten. I can’t look away, the boy’s brain honed his eyes to the sweaty fucking before him.

Lucerys couldn’t look away from Saela’s bouncing breast, her nipples shinning with Aemond’s spit.

Lucery couldn’t look away from Aemond’s dick vanishing into her hole, already coated in juices.

Lucerys couldn’t look away from Aemond nuzzling his face into Saela’s neck, whispering sweet whispers and pressing kisses to her skin.

No, I can’t look away. Lucerys’ body was hot. I am a grown boy bound to learn love sooner or later. Something in him throbbed, he didn’t know what, but it made his body blush.

"Give me a babe, Aemond. I want to be full of your seed."

Babes? Lucerys couldn’t believe his burned ears.

“You want to be full of me, again?” Aemond breathed against Saela’s neck. The whisper was loud enough for Lucerys to hear over the loud sex. “You want to parade yourself around as my little whore again?”

“Fuck what the lot think. All I want is my cunt to be filled with you.” the hooded stare Saela gave Aemond would have any man melting at the knees, but the prince hovered over her like a god unfazed. No, he wasn’t unfazed, his desire peaked to higher levels. Whatever throbbed in Lucerys moved to his heart and mind. Who was this woman that his cousin’s face?

“No one satisfies me the way you do,” the prince’s voice became airy. “No one fucks the way you do, sweet talks them into anything. No one loves the way you do.”

Aemond showed the fury of a swordsman in that small room. His voice growled against her cheek. His balls ached with release each time they slapped into Saela’s wet entrance. Juices leaked from them both, coating their thighs in slick layers Lucerys couldn’t imagine. “I will give you whatever you wish for in this cursed place. As long as you stay with me.”

“Forever and ever, love.” Saela’s voice was soft even if her face contorted in pain. In just saying those four words, the couple lost themselves to each other.

A mixture of a laugh and moan fell from Saela’s mouth when the hand fisting her hair tightened its hold. Aemond’s other hand sunk into the softness of her thigh and kneaded the skin without mercy. What Lucerys half-understood as Valyrian curses erupted from Aemond when he dug himself deep into Saela. One. Two. Three. Four. One at a time, Lucerys watched Aemond “shoot his load,” as Aegon whispered into his ear in passing. His ears burned with the hot hiss from his uncle, and they bled every time Aemond cursed steps away from him.

A drunk smile spread on Saela's lips as her back arched. Her eyes clenched close as a searing pain shot up her thigh. The grip Aemond hand on her forced her body closer to his. Their bodies stuck to each other from the sweat and desires they oozed. She trembled with ecstasy while Aemond's hot breath fanned her equally hot skin. His kisses on her neck were wet and his thrusts slowed to a gentle beat. Lucerys could see flames of desire ignite everything around them.

When the moans stopped and the couple peeled themselves away from each other, the boy finally snapped back into reality. His body stumbled against the cold floor and his chest rose faster the more he listened to the shuffling of their clothes.

Lucerys' breath hitched when the door opened. How did she get up so fast? Saela gasped when she saw her cousin's wide eyes. After the pounding she received, Lucerys wished to ask her “are you not in pain?” but speaking in this quiet space warranted him a death sentence. Her hands flew to cover her chest, but what was there the boy hadn't seen she needed to cover? The red of his face and panicked rise of his chest gave it away. He saw. And what could Saela do?

"Are you alright, love?"

Saela whipped her head back into the room. Her curls fell over her shoulders, hiding the trail of bites from her chest to her ear. She closed the door just slightly, hiding Lucerys from both she and Aemond's eyes. Whatever Aemond was doing kept him from the door, saving Lucerys the rest of his life.

"Yes, I'm fine. Thought I saw a rat." A deep chuckle from the One-Eyed Prince echoed in the room before more shuffling. “A nasty thing, that would be.” She whispered something to him, craning her body closer to him, hopefully keeping Aemond from the door while Lucerys shuffled himself back to his feet. When he looked back up, another pair of eyes stared down at him.

That wasn't Saela. Whoever he was looking at wasn't his dear cousin who laughed at anyone's jokes. The woman half-dressed with red eyes wasn't the sweet lady that cheered him up when Jace won others affection. The woman who looked like she could kill wasn't his favourite cousin that would sneak down with him and steal lemon cakes and fruit at the hour of the owl. No, no, the lady in front of him had her legs open to the prince that taunted his family. She accepted the seed of a man who mocked his parentage, called him a bastard, and nearly killed him after claiming another’s dragon. This woman called the prince every loving name in the world. She was the lady that wished to have his babes.

"Luke."

The nickname was curt and hard. It was whispered like a needle, pricking his skin without warning. The boy shook his head, unsure if he nodded.

Saela stepped out of the room, her shoulders rolled back and head held up high. Whatever she did, she was used to. She must always hide and fuck Aemond whenever she wished. Whoever stumbled upon them were victim to the madness in the girl’s veins. She was comfortable with the power she wielded in this situation. The air around the Velaryon and Targaryen grew thick and heavy, challenging Lucerys to breathe. The stare as sharp as a sword sliced him up and down, silently checking if he was a threat. Of course he wasn't. This woman wasn't scared of a boy like him.

"I always do favors for you." Saela batted her eyes. In a second she was the girl he ran in the halls with when everyone was asleep. The girl that helped him learn most of the High Valyrian he remembered. Her lips crested into the sweet smile he missed after so long.

"You can do this one for me. Right?”

The magic Lucerys looked for was used on him. It was only Saela Targaryen, amongst anyone in their family, that could use magic that would make any man bend the knee without thought.

[offshore-brinicle]

Little personal Limbus theory that I've been working on for some time is that the Limbus Sinners' inciting indicents that led them down the path of joining the company, being the moment when their wish was born, all happened at the same time 3 years before the current story.

Thanks to some old leaks where people managed to dig up three of the Sinners' unobstructed profiles, we know Yi Sang and Sinclair's official ages are 29 and 20 respectively. Remove 3 years from that:

Yi Sang would have been 26, which is the age the narrator of The Wings claims to be, after leaving his wife behind once and for all and pressumably commiting suicide by jumping off the rooftop of a department store. 26 is the real Yi Sang's age at the time of his death as well, after his tuberculosis worsened imprisioned by the Japanese forces, so this means most likely he's left N Corp behind 3 years prior, avoiding such a fate, be it either death by his own hands in despair or torment at the hands of Hermann since she seems to threaten him with torture.

Sinclair on the other hand would have been 17 which aligns with him still being in high school when the incident with Kromer happened and also mentions in his observation log for Kromer that she has grown slightly taller since the last time they met, however what was of him and how he had survived for so long taking in count he woke up in the Backstreets after his family's murder is still a mystery.

Now recently, not only the Pequod crew speculate that they have been trapped inside The Whale for 3 years, but we get direct confirmation that Limbus!Heathcliff is from the Wuthering Heights timeskip thanks to his Queequeg ID.

The first one is pretty self-explenatory, they say it themselves, though it's dubious how true this is since they have no way of tell the passage of time inside the whale and even the woman who says this sounds somewhat unsure, and Pip who was a young child in Ishmael's memory still looks the same when we see him again in the present and it's difficult to say if this is a side effect of the Pallidfication. (on the other hand I am impressed at the growth rate of Ishmael's hair for being only 3 years)

On the other hand, Heathcliff's Queequeg ID mentions the event that led him to run away from Wuthering Heights in the original novel; he overhears Catherine saying to Nelly that marrying him would be "a disgrace to her", so driven by his anger and heartbreak he ran away, making his own fortune elsewhere so that he would return to the state seeking vengeance and to become someone who Catherine would be willing to marry. This had been implied before through his general behavior and his mugshot showing him still shabby and bruised as well as his N Corp story, but this leaves no room for questioning.

All of this means that if we go by the book, at least 3 years have passed since he left Wuthering Heights and Canto VI which is next and dedicated to him would correspond with Heathcliff's return to Wuthering Heights both in Limbus' story and in the book, meaning Catherine is most likely still alive, yet Heathcliff as a Sinner in Limbus Company is a far cry from the newly powerful version of Heatchliff that returns to the state in the book, so it's likely things will play out not quite the same.

Faust's line in the Walpurgisnacht cutscene says that the standard extraction timeline range is limited to 3 years between the past and future.

In this cutscene she also says that the extractions are powered by possibility itself, and the IDs that become available are also influenced by the Sinners' experiences at the company and how they come to reconsider themselves and each other, that's how for example we get N Corp. Sinclair and Spicebush Yi Sang after being faced with Kromer digging at Sinclair and telling him about the world where they work together, and then Yi Sang being so strongly affected internally by Dongbaek's death and ultimate fate, which would be the most intense story-focused examples so far, and if we eventually get a Captain Ahab ID for Ishmael, they had already established she was down the path of becoming another Ahab, and she herself did not realize this until they met again.

If all of the Sinners' great choices that led them down the path they are currently all happened 3 years ago and the initial extraction range is 3 years, it would make sense, since these would be the moments that weight on their mind most strongly, though there's also the case of Outis who has been on her own journey for at least 10 years going by the original Odyssey and how long ago The Smoke War was, same case for Gregor who's specific motives for joining are still unknown.

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

☠️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter Twenty-Four

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: Angst.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~2.5k

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The sight of the long table on the main deck, laden with food, brings a sense of warmth to your chest. The crew is already seated, some pouring drinks, others sharing stories from their day. Monster is currently juggling peaches, taking bites out of the ones he catches. Benn looks up and grins when he sees you.

“Ah, there they are! Just in time!” He raises his mug in a toast. "Couldn't start without the lady of the ship."

A twinge of pain flickers through your chest at the name, but you smile through it. You take a seat beside Shanks, who grabs a plate and starts piling it high with food for both of you. He hands you the plate with a wink, and you flash a smile.

“Dig in,” he says, his tone light. “You’ve earned it after dealing with those little terrors all day.”

You laugh softly, taking a bite of the savory stew. It’s delicious, as always. The crew’s cook has outdone himself again. You take another bite of the stew, savoring the flavors before glancing at Shanks. “They aren’t all terrors, you know,” you say, smiling. “Some of them are actually quite sweet.”

Shanks raises an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Is that so? You must have a soft spot for troublemakers then.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile doesn’t leave your face. “Maybe I do. Or maybe I just see the good in people. Or well, I try to.”

Benn chuckles from across the table, lighting another cigarette. “Well, you certainly have your work cut out for you with this lot.” He gestures around at the crew, who are currently engaged in various antics. Monster is now balancing on one leg while juggling the remaining peaches, much to the amusement of the others.

Shanks nudges you with his elbow, drawing your attention back to him in effort to lighten the dullness within your eyes. “So, what did those little terrors teach you today?” he asks, genuinely curious.

You lean back in your chair, thinking for a moment. “They taught me how to be patient and how to appreciate the small things. Like a perfectly executed cartwheel or a drawing that looks more like a blob but is supposed to be a cat. Also how to avoid flying paint…”

The pirates' laughter fills the deck, a rolling wave of amusement that makes your heart feel lighter. But only just. You take a deep breath, your lips curling into a genuine smile as you prepare to dive into the story.

“Flying paint? You have to explain that one!” Benn grins, leaning forward.

"Alright," you say, leaning forward, "so it all started when Taro found this big bucket of red paint. He decided that trees should be red because it’s his favorite color. He even managed to convince a few other kids to help him out."

Shanks watches you intently, his eyes twinkling with interest. His attention is unwavering, making you feel like you're the only person in the world.

"And Yumi?" Benn prompts, still chuckling.

"Yumi was having none of it," you continue. "She grabbed the green paint and started painting over Taro's red trees. But then Taro got upset and started painting over Yumi's green. Before we knew it, the other kids joined in and it turned into an all-out paint war."

"Paint war?" Monster says between bites of his peach. "That must have been quite a sight!"

You nod vigorously, your hands animated as you describe the chaos. "Oh, it was! Paint was flying everywhere! The kids were covered head to toe in red and green by the end of it. They even got some on me," you add with a laugh. "Luckily, it washes out."

Benn smirks, shaking his head in disbelief. "Sounds like you had your hands full."

"You have no idea," you say, your grin slowly fading. "I had to mediate a truce and then we all ended up cleaning each other off with buckets of water from the well. By the end of it, they were laughing and playing together again."

Shanks chuckles softly, his gaze never leaving your face. “You really have a way with people,” he says quietly.

Your cheeks flush at his words, but you shrug it off playfully. “Or maybe I’m just good at avoiding flying paint?”

The crew laughs again, and for a moment, everything feels perfect. The warmth of their jovial grins wraps around you like a comforting blanket, making you forget about all your worries.

“Next time,” Benn says with a grin, “we’ll have to get you some protective gear.”

Dinner winds down, the plates emptied and the laughter still echoing around the deck. You lean back in your chair, feeling slivers of contentment trying to break past the wall of numbness. Shanks quietly pours you another glass of wine, his fingers brushing yours briefly as he hands it over.

"Alright, lads!" Gab announces, clapping his hands together. "Time to liven things up!"

Limejuice grins, pulling a knife from his belt. "How about a little contest?"

You watch with curiosity as the men start clearing a space on the deck. Benn raises an eyebrow but doesn't intervene. Shanks leans back in his chair, a bemused expression on his face.

"Are they about to do something arguably stupid?" you ask, eyebrow raised and wine poised at your lips.

"Most likely," Shanks replies, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

Gab and Limejuice exchange a mischievous glance. Without another word, they both stand up and start rummaging through their belts and pockets, pulling out various knives.

You watch, entirely unimpressed, as Gab and Limejuice square off, each holding a knife in their non-dominant hand. The other pirates clear the table from the deck to make room for the spectacle.

"If you nick each other I am not stitching you up," You call out in a dry tone. Hongo leaning against the door to the cabin, pipes up in agreement.

"I second that, you cut yourself you take care of it yourself. "

Gab and Limejuice exchange a series of challenging glances, their smirks widening as they each grab an apple from the fruit bowl. They hold the apples up, examining them with exaggerated seriousness, before plopping them onto their heads.

“Alright, Limejuice,” Gab declares, his voice full of bravado. “Let's see if you can hit the mark.”

Limejuice chuckles and steps back, positioning himself a few feet away from Gab. He adjusts his stance, squinting one eye as if he’s sizing up a target.

You watch them with a raised eyebrow, sipping your wine and feeling utterly unimpressed by their antics. The rich taste of the wine does little to lift your mood as you observe their reckless display.

“You know,” Benn comments from beside you, taking a long drag from his cigarette, “this could end very badly.”

“Or hilariously,” Shanks adds with a chuckle, leaning back in his chair.

You roll your eyes and take another sip of your wine. "Either way," you mutter under your breath.

Limejuice raises his knife, aiming it with exaggerated precision. He shifts his weight to his back foot, the knife poised in his non-dominant hand. The crew falls silent, watching intently.

With a flick of his wrist, Limejuice sends the knife sailing through the air. It spins end over end before embedding itself in the wooden deck a good foot away from Gab's feet. The crew erupts in laughter.

“Not even close!” Monster howls, slapping his knee.

Gab grins smugly, adjusting the apple on his head. “My turn.”

He steps back to switch places with Limejuice. Gab picks up a knife, testing its weight in his left hand before raising it to eye level. He takes a deep breath and then lets the knife fly.

This time, the knife lands much closer—just inches away from Limejuice’s foot. Limejuice looks down at the knife and then back up at Gab with mock surprise.

“Not bad for an old man,” he teases.

Gab shrugs nonchalantly. “Just warming up.”

You sip your wine again, feeling increasingly detached from their games. The banter and laughter that usually make you feel included now seem like distant echoes. As Gab lines up another throw, you can’t help but wonder if this is what your life will be—watching pirates play dangerous games while you sip wine and try to forget about your worries.

You stand by the washbasin, your hands submerged in soapy water, scrubbing at the remnants of dinner. The chatter and laughter from earlier still linger in the air, but it feels like a distant memory. The repetitive motion of cleaning the dishes provides a small sense of calm, a temporary distraction from the whirlwind of thoughts racing through your mind.

Lucky Roux approaches with his usual jovial smile, a rack of meat still clutched in one hand. He’s always eating, always grinning, a constant source of amusement among the crew. A bottomless pit. He leans against the counter next to you, taking a bite of his meat and chewing thoughtfully before speaking.

“You alright there, Aria?” he asks casually, but there’s a note of genuine concern in his voice. “You’ve been awfully quiet tonight.”

You force a smile, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on a plate. “I’m fine, Lucky. Just tired, I guess.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “You know, I’ve been around long enough to recognize when someone’s got something on their mind.” He takes another bite, chewing slowly as if giving you time to respond. "You've been tired for a couple a months now."

You rinse off the plate and set it aside to dry. “Really, Lucky. I’m okay.”

Lucky Roux doesn’t press further immediately. Instead, he leans back against the counter and looks at the door to the galley.

“Life on a pirate ship isn’t easy,” he says after a moment. “Especially not for someone who wasn’t born into it.” His eyes flicker back to you. “But you’ve done pretty well for yourself.”

You nod slightly, focusing on cleaning another dish. The soap bubbles swirl around your fingers as you scrub at another plate with perhaps more force than necessary.

Lucky takes another bite and watches you for a moment longer before continuing. “Sometimes talking about what’s bothering you can help,” he suggests gently.

You sigh softly and rinse off the last dish in the basin before placing it on the drying rack. “Thanks for the concern, Lucky,” you say finally. “But really, I’m just more tired than usual. I’ve been busy.”

Lucky Roux doesn’t push further; instead, he gives you one of his warm smiles and pats your shoulder gently with his free hand. “Alright then,” he says cheerfully. “Just remember we’re here if you need anything.”

You nod again, offering him a small smile in return as he saunters away to join the others on deck. The weight on your shoulders still feels like you are Atlas trying to hold the universe up. You finish drying your hands and take one last look at the clean dishes before heading towards Shanks quarters for some much-needed rest.

You step into Shanks' quarters, the door closing softly behind you. The familiar scent of lavender soap greets you, mixed with the faint trace of Shanks’ cologne. The room is dimly lit by a small lantern on the desk, casting a warm glow across the space. You make your way to the wardrobe and pull out your nightgown, the soft fabric a comfort against your skin.

As you slip out of your clothes and into the nightgown, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the small mirror on the wall. Your hair has grown several inches past your shoulders, the lavender strands falling in loose waves. You pick up the brush from the bedside table and begin to work through the tangles, each stroke smoothing out the knots and tension of the day.

The repetitive motion is soothing, a ritual that allows your mind to wander. You gaze at your reflection, turning your head slightly to see how much length you’ve gained. A small frown creases your forehead as you consider cutting it again. Short hair was always easier to manage, especially on a ship where practicality often trumps vanity.

You pause mid-stroke, letting the brush rest in your lap. The idea of cutting your hair feels symbolic somehow—another way to shed the remnants of your old life. But then again, you've come to like the way it frames your face now, how it moves with you in the wind as you stand on deck.

Sighing softly, you continue brushing until every strand is smooth and free of tangles. You set the brush down and run your fingers through your hair one last time, feeling its softness against your skin. The decision can wait for another day.

With a final glance in the mirror, you blow out the lantern and make your way to bed. As you slide under the covers, you can’t help but think about Shanks' words from earlier. His concern for you is evident, but so is his reluctance to hold you back from exploring the world beyond his ship.

So you lie in bed, staring up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, your mind a whirlpool of thoughts that refuse to settle. The gentle rocking of the ship, usually so soothing, feels more like a reminder of the uncertainties that lay ahead. Every creak and groan of the vessel seems amplified in the silence of the night.

You shift onto your side, clutching the blanket closer to your chest. The fabric is soft and warm, but it does little to ease the restlessness inside you. You close your eyes, trying to will yourself into sleep, but every time you do, your thoughts race back to Shanks—his touch, his words, his unwavering gaze that always seems to see right through you.

The door to the cabin opens quietly, and you hear Shanks' footsteps as he enters. You don't need to roll over; you can feel his presence filling the room. He moves with a practiced grace despite his missing arm, and you can hear the soft rustle of fabric as he changes out of his clothes.

You hear Shanks approach the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. He slides in beside you, his warmth immediately comforting. Without a word, he wraps his arm around you and pulls you close against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back is soothing, and you find yourself relaxing into him despite the whirlwind of thoughts still racing through your mind.

He presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head, and the simple act makes your heart quicken. For a moment, everything feels alright—his arm around you, the warmth of his body against yours, the gentle sway of the ship beneath you. Yet tears still prickle your eyelashes as you struggle with your emotions and unknown future.

Date Published: 7/5/24

Last Edit: 7/29/24

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[doomspaniels]

Why are you two so interested in the fence behind this patch of marsh grass? Did you find a new hole under the fence, with lots of scent leading to it?

OH. My. You're a gargantuan gopher tortoise. I think you're in the upper end of the "up to 15 inches" size, aren't you? Aren't we all glad that you're on the far side of the fence!

Gopher tortoises (aren't you a large and lovely thing, yes you are, yes we are leaving right away) are often a source of strife for livestock facilities in Florida. They are endangered, so we are required to make sure our domesticated creatures don't pester them. This can be tough, as they dig multiple holes and move around between them--these holes are also a habitat for other ground animals, including burrowing owls and other endangered species. So we don't want our horses or cows to injure themselves stepping into a hole, we don't want our dogs or cats to follow them into the holes, but we can't fill or block off the holes from the tortoises. I don't currently have any inside my fences, so I haven't had to use any of the gopher-tortoise-safe fencing methods around a hole. But I am sure they assist in keeping the passages under the fences cleared, and enjoy my grasses when they think it's safe. We leave some of these passages available so creatures can get in and out without endangering the dogs, with fallen branches stacked over the holes to keep the Spaniels from accidentally following a scent trail right on out (and not knowing how to get back in).

We left the big ol' Morla to continue foraging in peace.

[http-paprika]

Bite the Hand / Phillip Graves

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⋆★⋆ part five - sun, moon, sky ⋆★⋆ masterlist ⋆★⋆ previous ⋆★⋆ next ⋆★⋆

summary with her mind all over the place, frost goes for a run to free herself, only to come across the source of her problems.

werewolf!au / pairing phillip graves x female!reader / callsign frost / wc 1995 / warning swearing

notes so, my family has covid again which means i have no work and can focus on writing. hopefully I'll be able to write the next chapters before i go back to work. and i was losing my ever-loving mind writing this, listening to the same song on repeat to capture this chapter.

It began in her mouth, the constant uncomfortable dryness and a thirst that no amount of water could quench. She was unwilling to admit that her scent was laced with something sweet, a glow in her face, and the ache in her bones whenever she passed Graves. Like she was losing her mind, she sat hunched over her desk, face buried in her calloused hands. 

“Frost?” Lurch stood in front of her desk, staring down at her like she was some bizarre alien creature who’d fallen out of the sky. Her teammates had begun to pick up on her erratic behavior, once or twice she’d heard Dipaolo telling Vance he was glad to be born a man. Not that being a man would’ve saved her from her distress. It was a trouble that plagued many, she was just the unfortunate soul to be struck down then.

“Maybe you should get out, go for a run, go hunt. You’re acting like a caged animal. Your reports have been looking like shit.” To prove his point, he dropped the stack of papers in front of her, Frost was embarrassed by the highlighted passages. It was sloppy and humiliating to read, below her standard. “I’d hate to bring this up to the Commander but if this is going to continue to be a problem, I will.” 

“No. No. It won’t be a problem.” She quickly argued, standing out of her seat and yanking up her jacket. The early cold of winter had surprised her that morning, a welcomed relief from the unbearable Texan heat. “I’ll be back in the morning.” 

Hurried out of the office, she returned to her room and changed into running clothes, something that Frost wouldn’t mind if it got soiled or stained. She could only pray her run would be long and tiresome enough, there was a hope that it would stop the endless loop of thinking about him. As her hands slid over her body, pulling off her uniform, she couldn’t help but imagine the callouses of his hands replacing hers, a warm breath against her ears. 

Her eyes snapped open, and her own breath caught in her lungs. He’d be the death of her, and Graves would never know. 

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The smell of juniper and pine trees filled her nostrils as she finally stopped running, having gone to the northern border of the Shadow Company’s hunting grounds. Her chest rose and fell as she stared at the rapid river that divided her land from uncertainty. Frost often wondered who hunted in the lands beyond, and how far she could run without being shot at or entering enemy wolf territory. 

Below her skin, her muscles tightened and ached as she dropped to the edge of the river, rocks digging into her knees as she stuck her hands into the cold current. The water tumbled over rocks, and the crickets sang in her ears as the sun dipped further below the pines. Frost would need to plan for the evening, she’d need to eat before tempting to run the miles back to the base. But hunting alone had little appeal, and the exhaustion in her bones dissuaded her from shifting. 

She wondered what it would be like to let the rapids take her, if it would drag her south to the sea. If she could disappear like a fossil in the rock beds below the currents. Ancient fossils didn’t have to deal with the pain she felt, the tug in her heart. He was the wrong person, and more importantly, Frost was the wrong girl. It was already luck that had allowed her to cross his path, to speak to him and listen. Then there was the unspoken, fear and experience that had pushed her back into a cage. Venomous words that made her hate herself more than her father ever had. 

Frost wouldn’t offer that to Graves, he was already gracious enough as it was. But it didn’t stop her from closing her eyes, fantasizing about showing him every version of herself. Letting Graves take her in his arms, telling her the past didn’t matter.

But she knew better. 

“Frost?” She wondered if she had willed him into existence as he stepped towards the river, the hunting rifle slung over his shoulders again. The wind turned in her direction, allowing her to breathe in his smell and let out a contented sigh. “You’re out far, y’know that?” 

“Lost track of where I was running, sorry.” She said, quickly standing and trying to dust the dirt off her skin. Ever so slightly embarrassed by her appearance in front of him. Graves had a concerned look on his face as he set the rifle down, an expression she’d never seen that made her breathing hitched. 

“Lerch told me you’ve been acting strange. I’m worried about you, is everything alright?” He asked, closing the gap between them until he was standing right in front of her. One of his gloved hands comes up to her face, brushing a few hairs and sweat away with a slow motion. “We’ve moved past keep secrets, you can trust me with anything.” 

“There’s a reason they’re secrets, Graves. They’re meant to be hidden.” She said, frowning and wondering if he could feel how hot her skin was or hear the way her heart pounded against her thick ribs. Frost blinks rapidly, trying to keep unforeseen tears from falling. He wasn’t supposed to see her like that, no one was. Staying hidden with her feelings and past meant staying safe. 

“Frost, you could tell me you murdered a man and I’d help you dispose of the body. I’m not one to judge.” How familiar his words were to her, like the past was repeating itself just with a different man. A different face, a different heart, a different ending. His hand stayed on her face, brushing the hot tears from her cheeks as he waited, ever so patient.

“I can’t.” She told him, Frost hated to cry in front of anyone. A lesson engrained in her mind from a young age, a lesson she couldn’t easily forget. And crying in front of Graves felt pathetic, it didn’t matter if he was understanding. Didn’t matter how many promises he made to her and her brothers that they were safe in his company. Frost couldn’t. 

“Yes, you can.” 

“I–” She turned her gaze up to the sky which was a watercolor of violet, orange, and blue as it attempted to hold onto the sun. The knife in her heart twisted further, splitting her in two. All that flooded her mind were broken promises, gnashing teeth, and apologizing over and over again for feelings and things she couldn’t control. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to tell you the truth.” 

Graves’ hand dropped from her face, down her shoulders, and arms, and picked up her hands. The leather rubbed against her skin, his thumb brushed over a set of knuckles. It was so caring and gentle that it made Frost want to scream. 

“Come on, let’s not stay out. ‘Bout to be a new moon, let’s go into the light.” Graves suggested, still holding onto a hand, another picking back up the rifle before he turned and led her along the riverbank. Soon, they reached a swallow crossing, and she followed him up a rocky path. In the distance through the trees, lights blinked at her in a warm greeting. The trees split apart into a small clearing where an a-frame house stood, and a truck with a Shadow Company bump sticker was parked in front on a gravel drive that stretched back into the trees. 

He’d taken her to his home. “Most the boys don’t even know this is where I live. Like to keep it that way, quiet, private.” Graves said to her as he unlocked the house, letting her into the warm interior. 

“So I’m special?” Frost asked, a bit of humor in her question as Graves put the rifle up in a cabinet before shedding his gloves and boots. 

“Very.” Her heart almost combusted as he flashed a wink at her before walking through the home, moving to the kitchen. “Make yourself at home, if you break something, I will make you buy it.”

Frost shakes her head, taking off her stained and ragged sneakers and trying to force herself to loosen up. The house wasn’t what she expected, he kept a large collection of vinyls, and his shelves her lined with books, pictures, and awards from his long life. But somehow, it made sense to her, reminding her of his cluttered office. 

“Why me?” She asked suddenly, turning to look at him in the kitchen as he poured himself a glass of bourbon. “What makes me so special? I’m not a soldier who got the medals for being outstanding, was never the top of my class, and I’m nothing to write home about here either. I just don’t understand what someone who recruits some of the most ruthless and talented soldiers and mercenaries there are sees in me.” 

“Well, it’s clear we don’t see each other the same way at all. Because you put me up on a podium I shouldn’t be on Frost.” Graves responded hesitantly, looking up at her from the crystal glass. The light danced in his eyes, his brows knit together as he looked at her. A look of a man who was giving her his full attention. “And affairs of the heart have never been logical.” 

She could’ve fallen apart right there, hearing the words leave his mouth felt wrong, unnatural. It shouldn’t be happening. Frost’s feelings weren’t supposed to be returned, they were supposed to fizzle away, staying hidden from sight. His admittance was dangerous, how easily it could destroy her, destroy the new life she’d built at the Shadow Company. Graves called out her name, her real name, which yanked her attention back to him.

“You can’t mean that,” Frost stated, backing away as Graves stepped around the counter to her. She wondered if she could find her way back to the Shadow Company base from his home. Maybe it would be better if she got lost in the woods instead, wandering like a forsaken beast. It would be more bearable than letting herself completely fall. 

“What are you so scared of, Frost?” He kept his distance, waiting until she was ready to let him in. There was a patience in his tone, something so gentle about the way he spoke that made her knees want to buckle. 

“Everything that I’ve lost and can lose again.” She admitted, gripping the wooden countertops. Her breathing had become uneven again, the weight in the air was crushing. Frost could only hope he’d throw her out in the cold, she thought she’d die if he continued to look at her like she was sun shining after a long winter. 

“I can’t change your past, but I can shape the future, and I don’t want to hurt you. You deserve everything you want, everything you crave, and I want to give it to you.” Graves was so close to her, but she was the one to reach out now. Resting a hand against his chest, she felt the rhythmic thrum of his heart. The smell of his skin was intoxicating, causing her to swallow hard. He placed his hand on top of hers, the other settling on her waist. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” 

Before she can think or speak, his mouth is on hers. Capturing her in an embrace as her teeth catch on his lower lip. He surrounded her, consuming her senses as she continued to hold onto him desperately and kiss him. The lingering taste of bourbon on his tongue, the sweet smell of pine needles radiating from his skin, and the warmth of his hands keeping her body flush against his.

Frost could’ve died happily there.

taglist (open) @iamcautiouslyoptimistic @delusionally-loveless-by-choice @bacon-sandwich-of-dionysus @anna-banana27 @unicorngirly1

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #11 – The Maya (10th Edition) by Michael D. Coe and Stephen Houston

My second proper history book of the year, and significantly better than the first! This existed on the happy intersection of ‘the r/AskHistorian’s big list of recommenced works on Goodreads’ and ‘stuff my public library inexplicably has a copy of’. It’s dense and more than a bit dry reading, enough that I read it over the course of a week as a side-dish to more digestible fiction. Still, fascinating read, and a book that left more far better informed about the subject than when I started it.

The book is more or less what it says on the tin – a survey of the history of the Maya (or at least the current state of what’s known about it). The book opens with an explanation of the Maya language family, the relevant geography, the characteristics of the high- and lowlands, and the division into northern, central and southern area the field seems to use generally. The better part of it is then arranged chronologically, beginning with the Archaic Period, through the Pre-Classic and Classic, then then Collapse and the Post-Classic. The Spanish Conquest and history since gets a very abbreviated epilogue, ending with a few micro-anthropologies of different contemporary villages and then a five-page travellers’ guide to the most important sites and how to access them.

It’s all, as I said, quite dense – the sort of book where every paragraph adds at least one new important fact and very little time is spent on repetition or review. Combined with the usually very dry, expository tone, it feels much more like a textbook to be read with a lecturer or group to break down and dig into each section than something that was really written to be read alone and for pleasure. Which you know, makes sense, given that this is the tenth edition of a book originally written several decades before I was born.

Now, I say this is a history book, but that’s honestly a bit of a kludge – better to say it’s an archaeology book or, failing that, about anthropology and historiography. There is very little narativizing, and it is very much told from the point of view of the present. That is, the sections are organized chronologically, but within them the unit of analysis is the archaeological site, with every supposition explained as emerging from the analysis of some ruin or artifact or fragment of text. Far more time is spent on the architecture and layout of Mayan cities than the people who actually lived within them, simply because the author’s have so much more to say about them.

It’s only really in the chapters on the Classic (and, to a much lesser extent, post-classic) periods that the book goes from theorizing about building and pottery styles to speaking more confidently about royal courts and high politics and dynastic grandeur, and above all the attempts to give specific particular people a sense of personality and personal biographies that you generally expect out of a pop history book. Which does make sense, given that those are the only periods where we really have enough textual evidence to confidently name and ascribe significance to any particular people – overwhelmingly dynasts and war-leaders, because of course those are the (almost invariably) men who constructed stelae and covered the walls of temples with testaments of their own greatness.

This means that you do get more of a look into nuts and bolts of knowledge production that you do in most histories – a passage about the development of chocolate drinks as elite consumption is framed with the discovery of cocoa residue on preclassic ceramic vessels, one about human sacrifice by the discovery of skeletal remains in cenotes near major architectural sites, that sort of thing. Similarly, just about every single discovery or theory is credited to one or a few specific academics who initially made it. Which will be either incredibly interesting or the dullest thing in the world, depending on one’s tastes.

The text is mostly incredibly dry and expository in tone, which makes the points where a real sense of personality and subjective opinion leaks through interesting. And endearing, at least to me, but I just find there to be something instantly likeable about the sort of academic myopia which considers human sacrifice and mass famine from the point of view of the universe but is roused to passionate rage by suburban sprawl building over unexamined archaeological sites.

I knew little enough about the specifics of Maya civilization going into this that just relaying everything that struck me reading this would turn this review into a novella. But the way that lowland urbanization and agriculture were based around, not rivers like just about every other culture I’ve read on, but cenotes (and artificially constructed simulacra thereof) in the limestone to capture enough rainwater to last through the dry season was just fascinating. The fact that, the region’s reputation for inexhaustible lushness notwithstanding, the soil the Maya relied upon was very thin and in most cases totally degraded after just a few years of agriculture as well. (Speaking of, the theorizing about how diet changed over the ages and how this related to population movements and density was just fascinating).

The book really wasn’t that interested in the specifics of mythology or divine pantheons beyond how they showed up on engravings and ornamentation – there’s no bestiary of gods or anything – but there’s enough of that ornamentation for it to be a recurring topic anyway. I admit I still find the fact that there’s this great primordial pre-classic god-monster which in the modern era is just called ‘Principle Bird Deity’ deeply amusing.

The book is deeply interested in the Maya calendar and time-keeping. Along with the monumental architecture it’s pretty clearly the thing that the authors find most impressive and awe-inspiring about Classical Mayan culture. There’s enough time dedicated to explaining it that I even pretty much understood how the different counts and levels of timekeeping interacted by the end of the book.

One beat the book kept coming back to (which I admit suits my biases quite well) is that there’s just no sense in the Maya were ever isolated or pristine. Cultural influence coming down from the Valley of Mexico waxed and waned, but on some level it was constant – Mesoamerica was a coherent cultural unit, and the similarities in philosophy and culture (not to mention material goods) between cultures within it are too blatant to ignore. The book theorizes that the population levels reached in the Yucatan before the Spanish Conquest really couldn’t have been supported by local maize agriculture, and instead cities were probably sustained by harvesting and exporting from the salt flats (among the best in the Americas) they controlled access to.

Even beyond trade, there’s several points where ruling dynasties were toppled or installed by armies ranging down from Mexico. The Olmecs and Toltecs make repeated appearances. Even the conquistadors conquest of the Highlands was really only possible because the few hundred Spaniards who got all the credit were marching alongside several thousand indigenous allies.

Speaking of – it’s really only an aside to an epilogue, but given I mostly know the Anglo-American history here, it did kind of strike me how...traditionally imperialist the Spanish were, compared to the more-or-less explicitly genocidal rhetoric I’m used to. If you were an indigenous potentate or ruler enthusiastically selling out to the Spanish Crown was significantly more likely to actually work out for you than trusting a treaty with the US of A, anyway (well, for a while. Smallpox comes for everyone),

Then again, the book does mention that the newly independent Mexican and Central American states in the 19th century were actually significantly worse for the Maya than the Bourbons had been (with things reaching their nadir with the genocidal violence of the 1980s in Guatemala), so maybe that’s it.

Anyway, the book is illustrated, and absolutely chock full of truly beautiful photography and prints on just about every other page. Even if you never actually read it, it would be a great coffee table book.

[mercerislandbooks]

Book Notes: Fantasy Roundup

Or, some ideas for what to read when you have a book hangover from Iron Flame:

Curious Tides by Pascale Lacelle

When Emory is the sole survivor of a secret ritual in the caves below Aldryn College, her healer powers, given to those born during the new moon on a rising tide, begin to shift into something strange and uncontrollable. Will her estranged friend Baz, brother to one of the students who died, help Emory figure out her new powers and what really happened that night? This debut fantasy has it all — dark academia, an upper YA that crosses over beautifully into adult, a murder mystery, secret societies, forbidden magic, a pining romance and the most gorgeous book design I’ve seen in a while. The magic system is built around the moon phases and the tides. Curious Tides is book one of a planned duology.

The Hurricane Wars by Thea Guanzon

What happens when Talasyn and Alaric, two soldiers from opposite sides of an entrenched war meet on the battlefield and discover their opposing powers combine to create something entirely new and unexpected? They continue to absolutely hate each other while having to work together to save their people from an even worse fate. Of course. And we all know what happens when two attractive people hate each other. Drawing inspiration from Southeast Asia, debut Filipino author Thea Guanzon has penned a fun, fresh fantasy that balances an authentic depiction of the toll of conflict on a population with a strong cast of characters and all the political machinations of Machiavelli. The Hurricane Wars is book one of a planned trilogy.

Godkiller by Hannah Kane

In a world where gods, fed by the attention, prayers, and offerings of humans, can also be destroyed by them, three disparate people come together to travel to the ruined city that was the last stand in the wars between gods and people. Kissen, a godkiller for hire. Elo, a former knight turned baker. And Inara, a young girl whose life has become intertwined with a god of white lies, Skedi. The four travel together to Blenraden, hopeful that they will find a way to untangle Skedi from Inara. All the feels of quest fantasy with characters that are delightfully flawed and human. The world building was immersive and queer normative with a host of diverse characters. The religious and magic system was at once familiar but with enough twists to make it unexpected. Godkiller is book one of a planned trilogy.

The Fragile Threads of Power by V.E. Schwab

From page one of The Fragile Threads of Power, I was invested all over again in the world of the four Londons, seven years after the events from The Shades of Magic trilogy (also excellent, if you want to start there). The plot works together like interchanging gears, or a chess game, the movement of each character affecting the others, often unknowingly. There are characters from the original trilogy, new additions, and Tes, the one who, unconsciously, holds the key to everything. Schwab investigates power in this novel -- who has it and who controls it, and by whose standards its morality is judged. Schwab puts a lot of things in motion in this book, and only a few are resolved by the end. The Fragile Threads of Power is book one of planned trilogy. You can always go back and read The Shades of Magic series in the meantime!

What the River Knows by Isabel Ibañez

I can’t think of a more fun combination than 1880’s Egyptian archeological digs, a feisty heroine determined to find out what happened to her explorer parents, and a current of magic running through it all. When Inez Olivera hears that her parents, on a dig in Egypt, are presumed dead, she takes matters into her own hands. Inez books passage from Bolivia to Egypt, intent on discovering the truth. What she finds in Egypt is an infuriatingly handsome young man, assisting her guardian in carrying on her parents discoveries, and men thwarting her inquiries at every turn. Add to this a mysterious ring that connects Inez to the magic of the past and the questions continue to pile up. It will take a trip up the Nile and many near escapes just to get Inez closer to any answers. Packed with action, a slow burn romance, and a huge twist kept me enthralled to the very last page. What the River Knows is book one of a planned YA duology.

Hopefully you find one, or many, of these titles to be a satisfying read!

— Lori

[atlas-likes-writing]

Febuwhump Day Two: Solitary confinement.

Characters: John Price, Simon "Ghost" Riley

Summary: He's been stuck in there for days. Weeks. Months. He doesn't know. All he knows is that he is not making it out alive.

Word Count: 2,088

Tags: Whump, torture, imprisonment, graphic depictions of violence and injury, death, hallucinations (sort of? if you squint), guns/gun violence, slight gore, mentions of rape (literally one word, nothing graphic or blatant).

Authors note: Day two! Finished this at 11:20 at night lol. Hope you enjoy :)

@febuwhump

Day One | Masterlist

In his eighteen years of life in the military, John Price has seen some serious shit. He has successfully ripped a hole in hundreds of plots against the best interest of the people he strives to take care of. That said, he has also ripped a hole in the lives of the people who happened to stumble across his path; be it a terrorist in the East; a high-ranking officer in the West; or even the people he’s closest to. He’s torn children from parents, brothers from sisters, husbands from wives; and has hardly batted an eye at it. He has remained the stoic, strong, unshakable man he is for nearly two decades. 

Or so people think. 

Little do they know about the dreams (or rather, the nightmares) that this man runs from. The ghosts of his past constantly haunt him, deepening his eyebags and creating an impenetrable wall between himself and those he loves. Sometimes, they follow him from his subconscious into the living world; a sight that makes the stoic, strong, unshakable man quiver in fear.  

The 141 know. Of course they do. The worried glances he gets from the Sergeants and the annoyingly observant gaze of his Lieutenant make that very apparent. They don’t say anything, though; they wouldn’t dare. If they did, they would be hypocrites. All three other members of the 141 have their own nightmares that haunt them. Nonetheless, that does not stop the strange looks Price receives as he walks past them with ever-deepening purple under his eyes. 

Price is old. Or, at least, old in military terms. He’s 42, and with his age comes experience and with experience comes maturity and wisdom. He’s dealt with dozens of plots against the people he cares about and has done so quickly, efficiently, and with the power of a man seasoned in his craft. 

So, if you take away a man’s power, where does he stand? 

Not on his feet, if that’s what you’re considering. 

He’s currently crumpled on an uncomfortable cement floor next to claustrophobic cement walls under a suffocating cement ceiling. His wrists are pulled upwards by wrought iron handcuffs that are attached to the wall behind him that dig into his skin and turn his arms into a mixture of blue and purple. His legs are twisted strangely under his body, but Price doesn’t dare shift them to be more comfortable in fear of reopening recent wounds. 

John is sure he looks like a mess. He can feel the grease in his hair sticking to his scalp and the swelling on his face that forces his eye to close after so many beatings. He’s been here for, what, days? Weeks? Months? There are no windows in the cramped room, so the passage of time is practically non-existent to the captain. He can only sort-of know when it’s daytime due to his (consistent?) kidnappers entering his prison and forcing bread and water down his throat, only for John to throw it up again after they decide to “interrogate” him again. 

Despite the circumstances, John is as stubborn as always. Whenever the grizzled fighting-age men come into the room to try and pull answers out of him, he never speaks. He would rather they kill him than reveal information that could put his section at risk. He only glares and spits until a gnarled hand is clamped over his mouth and he’s punched and kicked in the stomach until the only thing he can spit is blood and broken teeth. 

It becomes repetitive. John is left alone for hours, sometimes days at a time, with only the mold on the walls and fleeting amounts of haunted sleep to keep him occupied; the monsters from the shadows slowly creeping closer to him whenever he closes his eyes. Then the kidnappers - which he assumes are Russian due to their thick accents – come in, shove food down his throat then beat him before leaving him crumpled and in more pain than he was before. 

He’s been through worse. The thought of such is what keeps his wits in order. He’s been shot, stabbed, beaten, raped, waterboarded, thrown off buildings, and every other horrific thing under the sun. That’s what comes with eighteen years of service in Special Forces; a metric shit-ton of mental and physical scars. Despite it all, the thought of his boys – Simon and John and Gaz – safe and looking for him keeps the monsters in the corners of the room and makes them stay in the corners of the room. 

He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but if he were to guess by the number of times he’s been fed, he’d say it’s been a month – maybe two, because they haven’t exactly been giving him food consistently. A starving prisoner is better than a dead prisoner, after all.  

He’s taken up the habit of tracing the edges of the rickety iron door with his eyes. Round and round his pupils' flick as he attempts to keep his mind occupied. It’s on the sixty-seventh round where the door opens and John’s eyes snap to the ground, not wanting to willingly give his captors the privilege of looking into his eyes. He expects his head will be yanked forcefully backwards by his hair and borderline waterboarded when given his daily (?) glass of water. That doesn’t happen. Instead, the sound of struggling and the thud of something human falling on the cement ground reaches his ears. John doesn’t look up despite his curiosity. He just hopes and prays that it isn’t anyone he knows. 

Well, I suppose God is on vacation, as his prayers are clearly not answered. 

“Do you know this man?” one of the captors asks. John doesn’t look up. Angry, the same man stomps over to him and grips him by the hair and yanks his head upwards. Price attempts to turn his head, but his jaw is grabbed roughly and turned so he’s forced to get a good look at the newcomer. 

The man has been stripped of any combat gear he may have worn previously. He’s left in his cargos and a ripped black shirt that clings to him as if he had just been thrown into water. A concerning splotch of something spreads into the shirt around his lower torso, which Price quickly deduces is blood. He’s held down by three other kidnappers, spitting and swearing at the men above him as he tries to escape from them practically sitting on him to keep him still. Limbs are pinned to the ground and knees are shoved into his back as the man’s eyes flick between the men in the room to Price’s own; back and forth as realisation hits him like a truck. 

The kidnapper who spoke previously now leans closer into Price’s ears, his voice spitting venom as he talks. “I will ask you a second time. Do you know this man?” 

Of course he does. He’s one of his most trusted confidants. One of the three men that has been with him through thick and thin and probably knows Price better than he does. 

They can’t know that, though. John would rather cut his own tongue off than reveal that information. He stares at the man, blue eyes meeting brown as the newcomer fails to grapple with the men above him. The feeling of his hair being pulled out snaps Price out of his train of thought and he shakes his head. No, he doesn’t know him. 

“I can’t hear you,” the abductor states gruffly, his Slavic accent stabbing Price’s skin like daggers. He’s punched in the stomach and pulled back against the wall when he doubles over in pain. 

“No. I don’t know who that is.” His voice is hoarse - broken after months of disuse. A look of betrayal, followed by a look of understanding flashes over the face of the man opposite him. If we are to live, we need to pretend we don’t know each other.  

“He speaks!” The man that holds Price laughs and releases him, letting his head drop for a moment. “Is that so? How interesting. Let’s jog your memory, hm?” he steps over to Price’s singular ally in the room and gestures at one of the men that holds him. Something is passed between them, then that same something is thrown at him. It lands on his chest then falls onto the floor. John knows what it is, but he forces his face to remain neutral as he stares at it. He stays like that for a while before he glares into the eyes of the man standing above him. 

He nods his head in the direction of Simon’s mask. He winces as he does so, the movement causing his muscles to scream out in pain. “I don’t know what that is, nor do I know who that man is. Let him go, you bastard,” he spits. The kidnapper laughs. 

“Do you really believe you’re in the right position to give orders?” he asks, snickering. “Maybe you need some more persuasion.” He waves his hand and Simon is pulled up to his knees, facing Price. One captor holds his left arm, the other his right, and the final grips his shoulders tightly. 

“Get a good look at him. Maybe all this time has made you forget things, old man. Are you sure you don’t recognise him?” Simon is pushed forwards and to the ground, his head smacking against the ground only a few feet away from Price’s knees. John shakes his head. 

“What a shame. I suppose he has no use to me then,” the man continues dismissively, reaching a hand into his holster and pulling out a pistol, shoving it roughly against Simon’s temple. 

“NO!” 

The captor grins a wolfish smile. “No? Why not? If you don’t know him, there is no need to keep him alive,” he replies calmly, cocking his pistol back. Price looks at Simon desperately and the man simply shakes his head. He has always been difficult to read, both with the mask on and off. Now is one of the times where he can just open his brain and see what he’s thinking. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the pistol-wielding man slowly start to squeeze the trigger. His eyes continue to lock with Simon’s, but then the main kidnapper speaks again. 

“Hmm, how about this?” It’s then when the same pistol that was pushed against Simon’s head seconds ago is shoved against Price’s own. “What about you? Do you know who he is? He’s getting boring. Tell me or I’ll shoot his brains out.” Simon’s eyes widen fractionally as he’s thrust into the exact position Price was in moments ago. They continue to lock their eyes, and this time it’s John’s turn to shake his head slightly.  

“I don’t know who he-” the pistol is struck against Simon’s jaw, causing his head to whip back and the men holding him to struggle to keep him up. 

“Пиздец (Damn it). Why does everyone keep saying that? I know you know each other, but you’re making me consider shooting you both to be done with your bullshit. Pull him closer.” He gestures to the three men holding Simon to bring him closer to Price’s face. “Now, what you’re going to do is look at each for a long time. Think about your friendship; the amount of time you’ve known each other. Acknowledge that, then acknowledge that if you do not tell me what I want to know, I will kill one of you.”  

If Price was in any other situation, he would have laughed. He did so happen to be a victim of the circumstance, so he didn’t laugh. He simply looked at the man in front of him. His eyes met Simon’s unsteady and slightly dazed eyes and the two seemed to come to an agreement. An agreement that they would not tell the men around him anything about their, work, their comrades, or anything about their work.  

“Very well.” 

The last thing that Price hears is the sound of a trigger being pulled, followed by the scream of Simon. The last thing that Price feels is regret and fear for his Lieutenant, as well as the hope that he may survive and live on after this. He simply hopes that the men who took them have the compassion to throw his body away and not leave him in there, festering, in the same room as Ghost. 

[eldritch-spouse]

CRACK

" I don't hear you counting, boy. "

The paddle crashed so hard onto his left asscheek that it dented. Hm... You'll have to get something sturdier. Damn breeders and their tough hide, they're way too dense. At least he's getting blue, that means he must be feeling it to some degree. And that's good enough for you.

" Don't tell me you've forgotten how to... " Your spare hand smooths over the overheated flesh, smirking at Breg's quiet whimpers of pain.

He's a total mess and you're not even halfway done. Legs already clenched together, tongue out so he can drool on the support pillows you were kind enough to get for his punishment. Yeah right, some "punishment" this is. You assumed, erroneously, that Breg wouldn't be into pain play given how he's always so scared of hurting you. Yet, a couple of spanks in, and he's already arching his ass like the bitch in heat you've always known him to be. Frankly, you're giving up on taking this seriously, you're basically just doing it for kicks.

" ... T-Ten? "

" Twelve actually. " You slam the paddle down on his ass as hard as you can again.

" AH! G-God... Ungh- " He's trembling, ocean blue bruises already blooming beautifully on that rump.

" That's for getting it wrong. " The clarification is accompanied by an expectant glance. Your eyes are ice cold as you judge the panting monster sprawled over your legs. You know he's digging his claws into the side of the couch and it only makes you want to break the paddle on his tender ass in retribution.

It takes Breg a couple of hazy, huffing seconds. " Thirteen! "

" Good boy. " The fact that he wags his tail in spite of his current situation is hilarious enough to make you muffle laughter.

Delivering a couple of merciful slaps on that abused tissue proves itself to make for very amusing reactions, as the monster tenses and whines. " Why am I spanking you, Breg? "

" Buh- Because I've been bad. "

Your eyes roll, you let yourself grope the breeder's fine ass, and he bites his lip through the pain, trying to grind a sopping wet slit against the pillows beneath it, and your thigh. " And what did you do, captain obvious? "

The fact that Breg seemingly struggles to detect the answer you're seeking tells you all you need to know. He didn't listen to a single word of your chiding as you drove back home, and he legitimately doesn't understand what he did wrong. You know that screams of glaring issues that need to be addressed, but right now, you'll unload your frustration.

CRACK CRACK CRACK

" HNGH- Fff- Ohhh ffuck yeah, please ahn... " Your crazed monster of a boyfriend buries his face on the pillows and weeps from tantalizing agony, feeling the fury you experience when handling his immature and impulsive nature.

" You're irredeemable. "

" Six- Sixteen. "

" Why are you being spanked, Breg? "

This time, he really scrambles hard for words, humming fearfully whenever your hand moves.

" Because... Because I chased your friend out of the mall?' "

He says the word "friend" like it's poisonous, bitter, repulsive. Like he wanted to say "scum" instead. You'll let it slide, since he did guess correctly. That's progress for someone such as Breg, as far as you're concerned.

" Correct. "

He didn't just chase your poor acquaintance out, he snarled and swiped at them all the way through like a feral animal. The only thing that saved them was the narrow passages where Breg couldn't follow as easily. Otherwise, his magnificent sprint and four-legged racing would have lead to a public evisceration. You're going to have to play Devil's advocate and try to even things out, hopefully avoid any charges. All this mess because mister "I have no idea how to behave myself" couldn't keep his jealousy in check and saw red when your old friend shared a smoothie with you. The nerve. You feel a vein popping in your forehead just remembering the embarrassment.

His audacity, to then scoop you up and carry you back into the store like a living sack of potatoes. Ugh, he didn't even look sorry. In fact, he doesn't look sorry now. The bastard.

CRACK

" Do you know how badly you embarrassed me? " Mentioning your friend's health is pointless, you know he won't care unless your chastising revolves around either you or him. He grits out a quiet "seventeen" before keening high. " You can't do that in malls. "

" Uh-? "

" You can't chase people. "

THWACK

" You can't snarl at others. "

SMACK

" And you can't pick me up like an animal! "

He's got a good chunk of the pillow lodged in his mouth by now, salivating and biting at it in reflex, muffling his admittedly satisfying noises. That tail remains perfectly arched above, even as it trembles with his pain. You eye that darkening purple-blue skin with fevered delight, being merciful enough to stroke his clothed thighs instead.

" I'm talking to you, Breg. "

He spits the fabric out faster than you can raise the paddle again. " SUH- SORRY! I'm sorry, h-hit me more. "

Great, he's now even more shamelessly into it.

" You never learn. " There's just no winning.

Giving up on getting anything through his thick skull for now, you let your fingers hover over the underside of his tail, tickling there, the sensitive skin between the appendage and his ass. The breeder pants, lifting his rump up and up, chasing the touch- Until you grasp the base firmly and yank. The ensuing, raw shudder that courses Breg's body is glorious, he all but rattles, grip on the couch faltering altogether. This time, it's your bare hand slapping onto the meat of his cheek.

" I hann- I lost count... " He confesses, to which you just shrug.

" I know. " Is he lying just to get smacked harder or did he genuinely lose count? Either one sounds plausible.

A digit traces from the root of that strong tail to the tight ring of muscle between his legs. You don't really intend to finger him, but the hint is there as you circle it, surprised by how he stiffens yet carefully inches those long legs apart. Huh. Now isn't that new? You recall Breg doesn't really like the idea of ass play. Things about him are changing, but never where it matters apparently. Tsk.

Your touch lowers, feathering over the expanse of skin between hole and slit. The monster's excitement is palpable, legs spreading wider, pleading chirps escaping through exposed teeth when you make contact with the soaked entrance, grieving for the poor pillow he's been grinding on. It only takes a little bit of tickling until both cocks poke out, this lurid, wet noise accompanying them. Nonetheless, you wedge a single finger into that stuffed slit, maneuvering your current position enough to grab the paddle steadily again.

" Now, we're starting over. "

The way his cocks twitch puts a grin on your face.