#does anyone ever read the tags before the fics do i give too much away

[kneelingshadowsalome]

i love your writings so much! i need you to write about könig with maid!reader like i need air and water. könig who needs someone to take care of his house while he‘s gone, returning from his deployment only to find reader huddled up in a soft blanket on the couch, the house smelling of freshly baked cinnamon bread and lavender while she sleeps peacefully. he‘s so touch starved and the domesticity makes his heart and cock stir, he‘s never had any woman cook for him since his Oma passed away. poor reader is oblivious to her boss‘s infatuation until she‘s not, he‘s so awkward around her she thinks he just doesn‘t wanna be disturbed, but she doesn‘t know he uses her conditioner to stroke his cock every night, and now he can‘t help but get a raging boner everytime she passes by and he smells her hair :((((

Banner picture credit: @661ave

possession

noun

the state of having, owning, or controlling something.

Word count: 7 k Tags/warnings: 18+ only DARK FIC. Perv!König masturbating to thoughts of you + your stolen panties. Jealous & possessive behaviour. Dubious consent to having unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, cunnilingus, size kink, breeding kink, implied age difference. Some fluff if you squint.  A/N: First of all, I'm sorry if you expected something sweet & fluffy anon… This thing just came out of me. Also, @gremlingottoosilly wrote the best thing EVER for this trope so please if you haven’t read it yet go give it a read (dark content there too though so be warned!)

He’s good at repairing things. He prides himself in that.

And he keeps his house neat and clean: that’s not a problem. His papers are in order, his office is in order. His home is in order too, and so is his whole life – love life included because there is none. 

He always ensured he’s not dependent on anyone, he never seeked a mother from a partner. Just for self-reliance's sake, he knows how to do his own laundry and meal prep for weeks. He learned to fold his t-shirts with an orderliness fit for the military when he was ten years old, just so that no one would have the chance to say he needed a wife.

He always vacuums the entire house before deployment, does the dishes, takes out the trash. And he doesn’t hate house chores… but he doesn’t like them either. His house is a sad, lifeless, gloomy place to spend time in. It’s big enough for a family, it has everything he needs to host a night for friends, but he doesn’t have any. 

Family, or friends, that is.

When he hears that his co-worker – the one with a frigid wife and five unruly kids – hired a maid to do the cleaning in the house, he pauses to think. He doesn’t have a chaos in his home, but he’s got enough money to make life a tad easier. Besides, it’s only expected of a man of his position to hire an assistant of some sort, is it not?

It’s just that he didn’t expect housemaids to be this… cute. 

There are quite a few applications, and he’s a sick bastard for choosing the maid solely based on the picture attached to the CV. He told himself it was also because it looked like this lady needed the money the most. He's a generous man, so why not help a woman in need? 

Another thing he didn’t expect is how his house would start to smell so nice and look so cozy. It’s the small details, the tiny little things that make his chest burn. The way she uses softener on his shirts and folds not only his shirts but his boxers, too, or places a scented candle on the table when the weather turns cold. It’s clearly for his delight because it’s not one of those overly sweet apple or caramel things but something fresh, maybe spruce or fir. 

She even bakes for him on the days when he comes back. The fact that a beautiful young woman bakes for him stirs something unwanted and long-forgotten in his chest. The sweet scent of home baked buns makes his cock stir, too. His place has never seen a woman’s touch, no one has ever baked anything here…

And he certainly doesn’t expect to find his maid sleeping on his sofa when he arrives home one evening.

She stirs immediately, and apologizes profusely for making herself at home like this. She starts to stutter and explain how she’s had a busy week and difficulty with sleeping, how she simply dozed off while waiting for the rolls to bake in the oven. 

He stops her in the middle of her flustered excuses: she can take a nap here any time, it’s not like the furniture is going to wear and tear from use anytime soon. He’s barely even home, so it’s good that someone enjoys the sofa, right? She can use his bed too if she wants. More convenient that way, ja?

He realizes he went a little too far when she looks at him like he just offered to fuck her on the kitchen table. Which he has thought about, to be honest, for a good long while now. In fact, he’s thought about it ever since she started in this position a month ago. 

It's her fault for being so unsuspecting and lovely, and she's playing with fire when she takes more dangerous liberties by showering at his house. He finds a women’s conditioner bottle in the bathroom and once, he even catches her doing her laundry here too. There’s a pair of women’s underwear in the pile of clothes she politely informs he’d have to fold himself this time because she’s in a hurry to catch her bus. 

He’s far more intrigued by the innocent, blush pink strings greeting him from amidst his black and dark green clothes than by the fact that his maid is breaking the rules. Other employers would give her a warning or simply say she no longer has to come and work here ever again. Showering at his place, washing her clothes in his washing machine and taking a nap on his sofa border on violating the terms of their agreement, but he couldn’t care less. He would carve a hole in his chest if that would make her happy. 

When he finds out she’s busy because she has to work two jobs, he raises her pay, despite the fact that she’s sometimes late and at times, leaves a little too early. She does her job well enough, so there’s no reason to complain. He would simply like it if they saw each other more... Which is ridiculous, he knows, because the point of having a maid is that she cleans his house when he’s away. 

It just feels so nice to arrive home now that she's here. He’s never looked forward to getting back to his bleak modern mansion, but now he’s pining for his leaves like a young recruit who's got a girl waiting for him back home. 

Even if she’s not there when he gets back, he can savour her lingering scent. He sniffs the dark woolen spread she might’ve slept under just moments ago, he eats whatever freshly baked goodies she has made for him. He sleeps with her underwear tucked under his pillow, and reaches for them before sleep. Or then he grabs them in the morning when he wakes up, already hard. 

It’s nice to have an unhurried fap at home than to relieve his needs in some small grey room of a boring military base. It's far more enjoyable to stroke his cock with her tiny, cute underwear spread over his face. Sometimes he wraps it around his cock and jerks himself off to a quick, groan-filled release, adoring the way his cum stains her blushing strings.

His showers last for about 15 minutes nowadays.

It’s unheard of for a soldier, and he read somewhere that lonely and depressed people take longer showers because the warm water is supposed to make up for the lack of human touch and intimacy, and that may very well be true… But he also wants to take his sweet time stroking himself while using her conditioner as lube. 

Coconut or peach, vanilla or argan oil, he lathers it all over his cock and imagines her hot, wet pussy. His hand is too calloused to give him any illusions of softness, but the mind-numbingly sweet scent takes him immediately back to her. Her eyes, her soft smile. The dreamy sway of her hips, the elegance of her wrists as she moves some item out of the way to sweep or scrub or clean a surface.

He faps with slick urgency, wondering if her eyes would go wide if she saw his cock. He wonders if she’s noisy in bed – is she a screamer, or a moaner? Would she claw at his back or simply cling to him if he fucked her? 

And god, how he would fuck her… 

Slowly at first, draw moans out of that soft mouth until she begs him to fuck her hard. He would drag her shirt up and her bra down until her breasts are exposed, then watch how they bounce as he starts to fuck her with purpose. She begins to tighten around him, looking so fucking desperate as her cunt starts to throb and pull him in. The first moan of surrender is needy and tight when she cums around his shaft…

He never gets any further than that because his cock spills with a violent jerk. He cums, long and hard across the tiles. Loads and loads of hot seed go to waste as he groans loudly, not giving a shit about making so much noise. Feeling hollow and deprived for not being able to shoot his cum inside her and then stay there, snug and safe and warm inside her cunt, he allows himself just one single sob. 

He just wants to know how it would feel to cover her whole body with his as he slowly pumps the last drops into her. Sigh afterwards, breathe together, hold her close... Search for her eyes, check if she's in rapture too. Watch her come down from it while still squeezing him down there. Perhaps she’d give him a pleased giggle and a cute, weary smile.

"Scheisse–"

He leans on the wall, knowing that he's lonely, filthy, sick and obsessed. He lives in a dream world, and the thick conditioner takes ages to wash off. The withdrawal phase is worse every time he indulges in his dark fantasies and then has to live without her for weeks and weeks.  

She's just his maid, a hired employee. She’s just an innocent woman with her whole future ahead of her.

He's just a colonel at a notorious private military company… He's just an old, horny, depraved soldier. Calloused, fucked up, depressed. Girls like her don't want anything to do with a man like him.

…

She asks if he wants his house decorated for Christmas.

She asks it with bright eyes and such a lovely smile that he tells her he doesn't own such junk, but he can pay her if she goes to choose him some and then comes back to decorate his place. Their unusual agreement gets more unusual still as she nods with shining eyes, then goes to the city to choose his Christmas decorations for him. He even lets her use his car, which is unheard of. 

Soon, his windows are filled with lights and there are mistletoes hanging from the ceiling. She puts fancy little elves in the window, places Christmas flowers and candles everywhere she possibly can. He walks around the house with a coffee mug in his hand, suddenly awkward and shy when watching his maid put up the most sophisticated, elegant and adorable Christmas decorations he has ever had or seen.

Is this what a home should look like…? Warm, and light, and pretty, filled with cozy, useless things? 

But it's not the items she got him that make a home, no. Home now equals rich, home-cooked meals, or the mouthwatering scent of cinnamon rolls greeting him at the door. Home is a cute girl, returning his obsessive stare with a small smile and telling him to stay safe before he leaves to kill people. Home is a woman who's the perfect wife material, so fuckable and sweet, who's fussing over the fact that he doesn't even have a Christmas tree.

He gets it before her next visit – meaning, her next shift – and decorates it himself. It looks clumsy and uneven and a bit sparse, but she compliments him on it when she arrives. The looks she gives him are so warm and playful that he starts to have some hope – hell, a full surge of it – and he also starts to miss his hood. He's feeling awkward as it is around her, he doesn't need to be blushing in front of his suddenly flirtatious maid... Men don’t fucking blush when a woman flirts with them; they fuck them until their knees give in.

With no small amount of hidden guilt, he finally confronts her with her underwear, telling her she forgot something and that he found these in his laundry pile. Taking sick satisfaction from seeing how she's the one who's flustered now, he forgives her for washing laundry in his place. He's a merciful man, after all. 

There's still some cum on the lace as he returns her possession to her, and he hopes he's just imagining the shock in her eyes when she takes them back. It's his way of saying that he likes her a lot, but the flirting ends immediately, the playful smiles stop, and he knows he fucked up big time. The warm, lively woman is gone, she suddenly resembles an ice sculpture who's about to flee his apartment at any given moment, and he could hit himself in the head with a big metal bat.

What the fuck was he even thinking? That a woman would appreciate it if he returned her panties covered in old, dried cum?

He's a fucked up pervert, and he has lived in a dream world, and now reality awaits.

He shuts down and shuts up after that, keeps the connection pure, pristine and professional. She's just here to do her job. 

The holidays approach, and he's sulking, knowing that he won't see her again in at least six weeks. He'll have to make do without a maid, and he'll have to numb his whole soul to get through yet another lonely Christmas.

Well, not lonely: this time he spends it with the decorations she got him. They can keep him company during the lonely masturbation sessions. They can watch him live on takeout food and remind him what a horny, sad loser he is.

So his last attempt, his last minor sin is that he gets her a Christmas present. She's about to leave, hurrying to some place where she's loved and cherished, or then about to get fucked because she has her hair and make-up done. The jealousy creeps up his spine like a viper as he watches her get all dolled up. 

She's so very grateful to him for allowing her to get ready here and use his bathroom, and he plays the generous, kind gentleman while gritting his teeth, trying to ignore another demanding erection telling him to dick her down and make her stay down. Make her bake for him and sit on his knee as he squeezes her tits and watches her stare turn dumb. Tell her to douse the lights and light the candles, tell her to undress in front of that stupid Christmas tree, order her to lie down on the mat and spread her pretty legs for him…

She's standing at the door, a cute girl turned into a seductive goddess, while he's about to enter into another lonely brain fog. She grabs her coat and grants him one of those warmer smiles as he walks to her with an envelope in hand.

"I got you something... Merry Christmas."

"Aw… You shouldn't have…"

She accepts his gift delicately with both hands, clearly surprised and pleased. When she opens the gift, she laughs and then covers her mouth with her hand. It's a gift card to Victoria's Secret, and with a relatively large sum on it, too.

"Oh god... Ahah, okay. I like your humour," she laughs again, then gives him a wink and an exceptionally gorgeous smile. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." 

He's fully aware that he sounds like an ominous, threatening robot. His voice has an effect on women; most flee, some get curious. She's one of the few who don't know what's good for them at all.

He never had a gift with females, and even with his position, experience and age, he still feels like he’s trying to court a breathtaking alien species whose native language he can’t quite understand or speak. The silence stretches on, and her smile slowly fades, making him perfectly aware of the fact that he should say or do something assertive, something charming, instead of just standing here, looming over her. When the playful stare then turns into a helpless, pitying one, the kind his mother used to wear when she discovered he had been bullied again at school, his hands start to go numb. 

Jerk off and kill, those are the only things he ever was good for… 

"Mm... I'm afraid I have nothing for you," she says apologetically. 

Ach so… She’s ashamed for not getting him a present. 

Well, shit. Fuck.

"Don't worry about it."

"No, I mean… I thought about it. You're the kindest employer I've ever had. I really appreciate it... and I love working for you."

"That’s nice to hear." 

"I just didn't know what to get you. I don't know what you like."

He's trying to ignore the pull of his chest, the sick burning in his loins. His cock is stirring just from the way she's looking at him. Inviting, adoring, waiting.

"You already got me Christmas decorations."

"Yeah, but… You paid for them."

"Aber... You baked for me. No one's ever–"

He shuts his mouth before making a complete fool of himself.

"Well, I'm glad you liked my buns," she laughs, then bites her lip, realizing what she just said could be taken in many ways. 

"I truly did."

She guides her stare to the floor and smiles, and the electricity between them… it just can't be only a fabric of his imagination.

"Take care of yourself. Ok?" He says, then swallows a lump in his throat, but it never quite goes down. She’s still waiting for something; the tension between them is petrifying. 

"I will," she says, her voice a bit frail, and far too sweet. "You too. Take care."

She gives her last smile to him; it’s sad and somewhat disappointed as she turns around and reaches for the door.

"Wait," he calls, purely from the hard instinct that tells him to fucking do something about this heavy, sickening tension. She immediately turns with hope in her eyes.

"Yes?"

"I… Ah, glückliches neues Jahr."

"...What does that mean?" 

"It means 'Happy New Year'."

"Oh," she laughs, "I thought it was something naughty…"

Shit.

Shit.

Shit…

"Ich möchte deine Muschi lecken."

She freezes with her hand still on the doorknob. That fucking sentence was so dark it left little or nothing to the imagination... It was thick enough to make it clear that he’s not a kind, generous employer, nor is he a gentleman.

"What's that?" She asks, her pretty voice barely a whisper.

"Something naughty."

Her hand lets go, it falls to the side. She even tilts her head before her voice turns thick and suggestive too. 

"Really…?"

"Yes."

"Well don't be shy. Tell me what it means."

Playful, naughty, dirty. 

She wants to fuck. She wants to fuck.

Is this a filthy dream or is this really happening? 

"I want to lick your pussy."

There's an intake of air, just a soft gasp. Batting of long, dark lashes, just before the stars in her eyes start to shine in full.

"Oh," she breathes. "Is that so?"

"Ja."

It wouldn't be the first time someone offers him cunt just out of spontaneous pity. It wouldn’t be the first time he accepts it. A man like him takes whatever he can get.

Pity is apparently what's happening now, because his maid starts to undress. 

With a victorious shine in her eyes, she drops her coat to the floor, then unbuttons her jeans. Takes away her shirt and bra with shaky hands while maintaining that seductive, downright filthy eye contact. More and more of her skin is exposed as she quickly strips in front of him, finally slipping out of her black, see-through underwear while he's trying not to shake from dark urges and lust.

When she's naked, flush and bare, her fingers start to slide up her thigh. The other hand is pressed against her side as if shy. She’s either offering him a Christmas present in the most elegant way, or then she’s concerned about getting licked and fucked sore. It's like throwing a dog a meaty bone and then putting the hound in a loose chain, just an inch away from the mouthwatering sight and scent. She steals one look at his erection, currently trying to rip its way through his pants. The gross tent is pointed at her, and she knows it: she knows she has him on a leash, but only barely.

"Go ahead then," she whispers.

He falls straight to his knees, and presses his whole face against her softly trimmed hair. When he opens his mouth, she shudders, clearly not ready for someone this starved trying to devour her whole.

She doesn't know she's about to sleep with the devil… If she knew, she would be out the door by now.

It's too late now: he engulfs her, locks her in place by wrapping his arms around her hips. 

Mein.

Mein.

Mein…

He could rub his face in her sweet cunt forever, but that won't do: she said he could lick her, so that’s what he’s going to do. After a few bites and nibs, after inhaling the sweet scent of her and squeezing her long and hard in his embrace, he finally rises and carries her to his den. There’s only loneliness there in his bedroom, just stale sweat and old musk staining the sheets, but she softens on the linens when he goes down on her.

Her pussy is already throbbing and wet when he gives her the first, fat lick. Next up, soft little laps to make her thighs drift apart. Some long, teasing circles on her clit, and she starts to sigh - he’s not an expert, but he knows she won’t find a more enthusiastic cunt licker in this city. Or this whole country… Perhaps the entire world.

And she's not a screamer, she’s a moaner. She also whimpers a lot. He switches between giving fast attention to her clit, then slow tongue fucking to her hole. The scent of pussy fills his room: they only talk to each other through moans and whines and groans. He breathes into her like a panting dog: she whimpers under torture like she actually likes it, and likes him. Like she actually prefers his bed to any other place in this world.

He fucks her with his mouth, sloppy and hungry; he could french kiss her pussy forever like this. He could spend every evening licking her to ruin. 

"Just like that… Just like that… Don't stop…"

He's as hard as can be; he's about to lose his fucking mind. If she doesn't cum soon, he might just die from having to listen to those unhinged cries. 

To help her out – because he's a generous, generous man – he slips a finger inside, earning another spill of filthy moans.

"Oh god ohgod oh fuck–!"

She sounds dumb and helpless as he eats her out like she’s his last meal. His chin is drenched and his cock is hard as the poor girl leaks all over her ass and on his bedding. He adds another finger, starts to fuck her slow and steady. She's more than prepared for his cock, and when he starts to do the alphabet on her clit, she whimpers, whines, and finally, screams. 

The feel-good hormones flood his brain when she cums. He kisses her through it and slows down the torture gradually, gives her some space to pulse and throb and leak against his chin. 

Women need a lot of stimulation; that’s what he has learned. It’s a marathon, not a sprint, and he doesn’t want to ruin the explosion by overriding her senses. When he rises from a job well done, he sees how some of her makeup is ruined. 

Yeah. Fuck... A screamer, a moaner, and a crier.

And he's only about to fuck her…

"Das war gut. Good pussy," he mutters and licks his lips, high above his pretty little prize.

"Oh–oh god…"

Poor thing is so flushed, desperate and helpless; she jerks as he taps her clit with his cock, whines when he forces the fat, leaking tip into her folds. 

"Wait–"

"I will fuck you now."

"Sir… Please, could we use a condom? Please…"

She's still calling him sir like she's at work. Like he's her superior, or worse yet, an officer, a colonel she's not supposed to flirt with, let alone spread her weak little legs for. 

"Hm. I don't have any."

"I do," she's panting heavy on the bed, clearly reluctant to get away from his cock, too weak to get up after his thigh-shaking treatment. It would give him a year’s worth of confidence to witness her in this state, if she would only let him finish the job. Right here, right now. Dip it in raw and blow a load inside that sweet, aching cunt. She might just end up with his child... 

But the moment is ruined: he hates condoms, and he hates it that she has them with her. Jealousy starts to eat his mind like there's a can of worms poured inside his brain.

Who does she carry condoms for? Does she get fucked often...? 

How many does she have, one, two, three? A whole pack?

She rises to get the darned piece of plastic, and the thick thunder in his head is making him seriously consider locking her up and throwing away the key. Women shouldn't be running around like that, hungry and desperate for a dick. She should stay at home, his home, and go crazy when he returns from war. The rage is the only thing keeping his cock from growing soft. 

"It's too small," he laments when the condom is finally in place but barely reaches the base of his shaft. It's going to roll off if he fucks her like he intended to… Good, long, deep and hard.

She bites her lip as she stares at the sad little wrapping trying to render his cock harmless. Surely she can see how stupid and useless this is… Either he gets her a morning after pill tomorrow or then he pulls out, but the condom has to fucking go. 

"It's… okay," she swallows. "It's okay. Let's just… If you're clean?"

"I am."

He doesn't tell her he hasn't had a woman in months. Almost over a year.

And he’s clean; he keeps everything…in ordnung.

He rolls the cursed plastic off, and his cock immediately bounces back up: hard, demanding and ready. He throws the condom away, just somewhere, anywhere, as long as it's out of his sight. Wasting no time, he's back at her cunt, and bullies himself in.

"Ah ja… Das ist schön… Sehr schön."

Nothing compares to the feel of a real cunt, hugging him tight. And fuck… He can actually fit fully inside her. He fits like a glove. 

"Oh ja. Das ist... I'm not going to pull out. It's not an option. Ok?"

It's not a warning, it's a simple, honest statement. She looks at him with a fearful, desperate stare as his balls arrive to press against her flesh. Yes... nothing beats a wet pussy and a frightened stare.

"Ok…" 

"It's better this way," he promises, wondering if it would make him a bad person if he disposed of her condoms first thing in the morning. "Ja?"

"Yes," she sighs. "Feels so good…"

The tightness in his chest falls down, all the way to his stomach and forms a bittersweet knot there. Why does she keep looking at him like that…? He's not hurting her, she's not exactly afraid, it's something else that's making her give him those dumb doe eyes.

"You're pretty," he rasps while trying not to start a complete fuckfest in every meaning of the word.

"O‐oh…?"

"Ja… It's illegal to be that pretty. Someone might want to fuck you..."

"Please do," she almost chokes on the words while looking up at him. "Please…"

If this is a dream, it’s the best dream he’s ever had. She's so perfect, far more needy and helpless than he ever imagined. He moves before he drives them both to madness. 

"I'll fuck you, Liebling. As many times as you want. As hard as you want."

He can't remember when was the last time he sounded so soft. Or reassuring... He can't remember the last time a woman was so responsive to his cock. But he fucks her. He fucks his own sorrow into oblivion, too. He pauses only to take a good look at her and remind himself that he’s truly inside the sweetest pussy he’s ever had. 

He even whispers lies to her ear about how she doesn't have to worry: he'll get her a plan B after this. The girl turns a bit wild now that it's somewhat safe to be fucked by an animal. She lets him lick and bite her breasts, and thoroughly abuse her cunt. At some point she grabs his face with both hands and kisses him, hungry and sweet. Squeals into his mouth as his balls slap against her ass, hugs him like a drowning person when he picks up the pace and starts to lose himself in her pussy. The feel of a woman's hands around his middle is a sensation he's forgotten completely. 

"You like that?" He starts to talk nonsense between her sloppy kisses, pleased with his own soft voice, with her, with everything in his life right now. "You like my cock? Hm?"

"Yes… Oh fuck, I'm…"

Fuck, she's about to cum again... He's in heaven, no, he's somewhere near Eden. She suddenly goes still, and sinks her nails in his back, just before a cry cuts through the air. It reminds him of the aftermath of a grenade detonating; her moans pierce the air, and he can’t get enough of it. He wants to swim in those screams.

He was supposed to make love to her for hours, but it's crystal clear now that this won’t be a long session. He's a selfish asshole for chasing his own peak next by fucking her through her second orgasm like a rabid dog. 

"Oh das ist sehr schön, das ist gut… Ach für–scheisse—"

He sounds a bit too pathetic, and quickly buries his face into her neck to escape her lovely, adoring stare. He fucks himself into a big, fat, blinding explosion, he can barely hear the thundering roar that meets her sweaty neck. 

She's scared silent by his despair, poor little thing. And he just fapped this morning… But the orgasm compares to the first time he came, it's violent, abrupt and rough. Sadly, the descent is too heady, and too quick. Nuzzling deeper into her hair, he tries to listen to her heartbeat but only hears his own beastlike panting.

"Ok… Ok. I guess we both really needed that, huh?"

She's laughing and out of breath as she gathers their pieces and constructs some kind of a new reality out of them. He rumbles in agreement and refuses to pull out – now that he's inside her, he'll never fucking leave.

"Will you stay? For the night…?"

His question is met by complete silence. She just breathes, then buries her fingers in his hair. He feels like melting chocolate; for the first time in his life, he's somewhat relaxed and content. 

"I… I'd really like to but… I can't. I have a party to attend.”

She gives him a quick kiss on the head, then ruffles his hair. She fucking pets him while he’s plunging into some deep recess with the raw, post-nut clarity. 

She just needed a fuck… She just needed some cock. And a gift card, so she can buy nice things for the men she allows to lick her to ruin. Fuck… She's even worse than him.

“I'm sorry..."

"It's ok," he hears himself say. She’s too fucking gentle as she drags her fingertips across his scalp. Her other hand comes to trace his jawline, and her thighs hug his waist so good that he would have no trouble making love to her again. Just start another round with a slow roll of hips. Fuck her until they're both sweaty and crying, fuck her full of his cum and chain her to the bed, for safekeeping as he goes and gets himself a beer in between the sessions.

For some reason, he can't quite bring himself to act on this wish. Not when she just cried from how good he was, not when she's petting him like he's a good dog who's earned his rest.

He gives himself a minute before pulling out, and she leaves his bed in silence, tiptoeing into the bathroom in a hurry. Trust a maid to not want to stain the floor with cum when she just scrubbed everything clean…

She takes a quick shower and fixes her makeup, then picks her clothes from the floor. His heart is hammering in his chest, but his breaths remain even as he watches her get dressed. He even offers her a ride to the party, which she accepts with apologetic gratitude. It’s held at someone's home: a house party is a sight he has only ever seen from outside.

She gives him an uneasy, distant smile and a quick kiss before thanking him for the evening and the ride. Then she half walks, half runs across the pavement and up towards the door to be let in by her already drunken friends. Some man embraces her, and the white rage inside his skull is telling him to grab a gun, rise from the car and start a good old mass shooting. Instead, he guides his stare to the asphalt and drives off.

He goes home and has a beer, the rage and longing giving his insides a good stab every five or ten minutes. He watches some TV, then mulls over whether to sleep on the couch because her scent is still on the sheets.

It starts to rain outside, and reality kicks in. When it rains, it pours… He decides he actually hates Christmas, and he also can't stand the smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls. Too tired to dump them in the trash, his feet carry him to the bed, cold and soiled and wrinkled from past love that never was.

The clock is only half past ten, and the doorbell rings just before he takes his shirt off. For the umptieth time this day, his heart starts to race, reminding him that it's not wars that are cruel, but women. 

When he opens the door, she's standing there in the rain. Utterly soaked, dripping wet, sad like a stray cat, lower lip trembling from cold.

"Sir?" she declares, "I'm afraid to fall in love."

There’s a spread of wings inside his chest, catching wind like a soaring eagle. It’s a fell swoop and a heady high at the same time, a burning pain right there over his heart as he looks at her, lonely and sad and so adorably lost. Beautiful and wet, like a trampled little flower after a summer storm. She's perfect, just perfect.

And has she walked all the way back here…? There’s no sign of a taxi, no sounds of a car or a bus, and she looks like she's wetter than a wet dog.

"You’re afraid to fall in love…?"

She nods, then bursts into tears. Her tiny shoulders rise and fall with sobs, the rain makes long, wet strings of her hair. He takes a step and tries to pull her in, but she won't come. Stubborn, incredible little thing…

"Liebling... Me too."

"Really?” she raises her sad stare to meet him while trying to wipe her ruined mascara in the midst of falling rain. “You seem like the kind of man who fears nothing..."

"Oh I fear a lot of things."

"Like what?"

"Like… flying, for example."

"But you fly all the time?"

"Exactly."

She's sniffling and pouting and sobbing, like a princess who always got everything she wanted. He wonders if she's the kind of girl who would've laughed at him in high school, or looked him down her nose. If she would've joined the bullies and been the one to say she’d never sleep with a freak like him…

"Let's get you inside. Hmm? You must be cold."

She won’t come, no matter how hard he tries to coax her to come inside his dry, warm house. The rain falls in mats behind her as the city sleeps, vibrant and vigilant. He thought he already broke his heart to the point it couldn’t get more broken anymore, but the look she gives him as he tries to pull her inside is making it burst and shatter into pieces again.

If she's a princess, she must be a battered, broken one. 

"Come on. I'll give you a bath," he tries to entice her. "And then we’ll tuck you in. That sound gut?"

"Yes," her shoulders drop as she finally accepts his asylum. "Thank you, sir…"

"And don't call me sir unless you want to make me hard."

She breaks into a fragile, shy smile while looking down at the tips of her drenched ballerinas. Then she allows him to drag her in. 

He helps her out of her coat and hangs it to dry while his pretty little kitten gets out of her clothes for the second time this evening. A strong, powerful possessiveness settles in his chest as he guides her to the bathroom and draws her a bath. Then he pulls her shivering, naked body against him so that she wouldn’t feel cold while they wait for the tub to fill with water.

What happens next is soft and gentle, the kind of unhurried exploration he never had time to do because the few females he was with were always in a hurry to get away from him and his needs. 

This pretty thing just eases herself into the bath. A timid but trusting little creature, who allows him to study her body like it’s already a possession for him to play with. She lets him rub her tits and tease her clit, caress her neck and face and waist. She does so with patience, love and hope. He’s been extremely tender and extremely slow with her; perhaps that’s why she doesn’t run away from him. 

"You're too good for me," she whispers when his hand comes to rest on her stomach, just below her tits.

"...What?" 

He barely hears what she’s saying, he can hardly hear her speaking at all because he’s there in the water with her, submerged in the hot, soothing liquid, even if he’s crouching next to the tub in reality.

"Oh please... You're everything a woman could want," she complains softly.

"What do you mean.”

She sighs and looks up to the ceiling, as if begging for help. Then she starts to list things.

"You're… Rich? And powerful, and strong. Kind and considerate. Mysterious... With a great body and a big dick, and still wanting to go down on a woman... It's insane."

He tries to remember how to breathe, but she’s not done yet.

"I'm sorry but… No one's ever eaten me out like that. You must be so experienced."

Her praise eclipses everything, even the thoughts of wanting to kill everyone who's had a taste of her.

So, the boys she's been with don't know how to please her… Stupid arschlochs don't understand what true devotion means. Even a fucker like him knows it's better to make a woman cry out of pleasure than out of fear. Although he always had a talent to do the latter…

And he's not experienced, he's just fucking horny. He just likes to eat pussy. 

But that's not something she has to know. Better to have her keep the illusion that he's a dream catch, a rich cosmopolitan of some sort. What a joke…

"You’re literally perfect," she moans from the bath like the princess that she is. "How are you even single?"

"I'm not… right in the head, I guess."

"Well, neither am I."

He can’t look at her. Not when she’s open and trustful and sweet like this. But her hand comes to rest over his, under the water, under the safety of the surface.

"No one is."

"No. Wirklich, I’m a bit sick. Always was. I jerked off to your…" He leaves the rest of the sentence unsaid, risking a look into her eyes. 

"I know," she smiles. "I don't mind… Actually I think that's hot."

"Liebling…"

"I think I’ve had enough now. Can we go to bed…?"

"Of course."

She giggles when he lifts her from the water, smiles as he dries him with his towel like she's a wet little kitten he rescued from rain. And perhaps he did... She caresses his chin when he carries her to bed, and reaches for him as he accompanies her under the sad, steel-blue sheets. 

He doesn’t need to fuck her, not right now. It’s enough that she’s here: soft, trapped, and tame. His, just his. 

Not another lonely Christmas for him ever again…

And she latches herself onto him like he’s the saviour she’s been waiting for all her life. Poor thing doesn’t know that he may be rich and powerful and strong, but he’s not kind. He’s not considerate, and he’s not perfect. He’s her worst nightmare, he's everything a woman would despise. 

He’s single because no one ever stayed. No one stayed after they saw who he really was... Some even had to flee the country.

But he knows she’ll stay. He’ll make sure that this cute one never leaves. No, this one is not safe from him, even if she tried to escape him to space.

"Are you still afraid?"

He caresses her head, pressed against his chest. She’s unsuspecting and lovely, the perfect woman, hugs him so tight and sighs from simple, lamblike happiness. 

"No," she smiles softly. "Not at all... I know you'll treat me right."

[glorysbox]

Hi! Wanted to start off saying I love your writing so much! I had an idea that I’d love to see written by you, though I’m not sure if you do swf type stuff? (If not please totally ignore me!) And also not sure how detailed you prefer people to get, so this might be way too long for a fic lol. Either way, love your writing and hope you’re doing well!

So essentially Leon has a friend (afab) who has had a boyfriend for a while, and Leon begins to notice that she’s been staying home all the time, showing up less and less to hang out with their friend group, and giving excuses to not show up that’ve begun to repeat. Leon gets suspicious and confronts her when they’re alone for a minute, asking if her boyfriend is preventing her from hanging out with her friends and family. She confirms that’s the case, and explains that her boyfriend gets insanely suspicious about her interacting with anyone outside of him because, “Why would you ever need to talk to or be around anyone else? I should be enough for you. I should be your whole world.” And Leon, who has always had feelings for her but never acted on them is essentially like, “You know there are people who’d treat you better than that, right?”

leon x fem!reader

wc: 1.6k

tags: SFW YAYYYY! implied emotionally abusive relationship, hurt + comfort, leon is a cutie that cares about u a lot, dialogue heavy again

It's been a while since he's seen you.

So long, in fact, that Leon is starting to feel worried.

He never liked your boyfriend—couldn't stand the way the guy constantly talked down to you or the people around you. Leon never said anything, though. The guy made you "happy"—(in your own words)—and he would rather keep his tongue shut than threaten the friendship he has with you over this guy.

He thought he was making the right decision.

And yet, here he is, staring at the multitude of messages that he's been sending you over the past few weeks. Invitations to hang out get ignored. Questions about your well-being get ignored. Conversation starters get ignored. It's frustrating. But above being frustrating: it's nerve-wracking. Leon is worried. And he has been for weeks now... you're pulling away from him. And not just him; you're pulling away from everyone.

bestie: Hey. I'm worried about you, can we please talk? You've been distant for a while now. Did I do something wrong? [7:32]

bestie: Hello? Cmon. Dont ignore me [7:47]

You don't even read it.

It's at this point in time where Leon is starting to feel like he needs to do something. To say something. You were never like this before—and he's upset. Really upset. Which leads him to where he is now—fumbling with his phone as he stands outside of your apartment building. What does he even say? Does he call you—maybe text you? Will you even respond? Probably not. What if your boyfriend—the whole reason he wants to speak with you—is over your place?

Jesus, Leon. He thinks, stuffing his phone along with his hands into his jacket pockets. Come on. She needs you. Whatever happens happens.

Three knocks on your apartment break you out of your boyfriend-argument induced stupor. Your mind is foggy as you stumble from your bed—wiping your tears—to head to the door. This time, you don't even know what you've done wrong. You listen to your boyfriend faithfully. You've stopped talking to Leon, stopped hanging out with your friends, stopped messaging your family everyday—what else is there to do? You just want him to be happy.

boyfie: Do you even care about me? [7:26]

boyfie: i ask you to do the bare minimum shit and you never listen [7:26]

boyfie: Maybe we should just break up. i treat you like you're the only girl for me and all you do is whore yourself around [7:27]

He's told you so many times that he's the only one that'll ever love you the way he does. Explained that he is and should be your endgame—tells you that every good relationship needs it's compromise. He tells you that he's compromised so much to get nothing in return. And you believe it.

You'll have to figure out how to make this right—after you see who's at the door. With one final wipe of your tears with the back of your hand, you open your front door—maybe hoping to see your boyfriend, but...

"Hey, I... are you crying?" Leon's face is scrunched together, eyebrows drawn in and eyes squinting at the sight of your (admittedly pathetic, but adorable) display of sadness.

"No—I'm not. I was just..." You trail off, voice low and sad and whiny enough to make Leon's heart break into a million pieces. Guilt rushes over him in waves. He should've come sooner. You feel a firm hand squeezing the meat of your shoulder.

"Don't even lie... can I come in? We really, really need to talk. I—"

"No! No—you can't come in. Look, I'm sorry Leon, but..." You put your hands up defensively, creating distance between the both of you. Leon's heart breaks into a million more pieces. "That's not a good idea. You need to leave."

"Need to?" He sounds offended. "I'm not going anywhere. What I need to do is talk to you. About a bunch of things. It's just a talk!"

He pauses for a few moments.

"He won't get mad at us for just talking," Leon adds, in attempt to quell your obvious anxiety at just conversing with him. It's pretty much just as he thought; you never would avoid or ignore him on purpose. Your boyfriend told you to. You're just too sweet to realize that he's treating you like shit.

"Even if he doesn't... I don't want to risk it. I really don't want to upset him..." You avoid Leon's gaze. "Can you just... go away? I don't want to ruin my relationship anymore than I already have."

Leon's heart breaks into a trillion pieces.

"I'm... not going anywhere." Leon says slowly, taking a step closer to you. "Come on. He doesn't have to know. I'm worried about you. Everyone is."

"I don't want to lie about having you over. That would just be wrong." You pause. "And worried about what? I'm fine. Really."

Leon sighs. You watch as he pinches the bridge of his nose—watch as he looks around your apartment building. And then, you watch as he ducks under your arm to enter your apartment. He's already got the door shut behind himself before you can protest or say anything.

You open your mouth to speak, but—

"Just hear me out! Please. Come on. We've been best friends for years. Don't you care to hear about what I have to say?" He pauses, a pout forming on his face. You start to feel guilty for ghosting him. "Please. I'll be quick."

And you sigh in defeat, saying nothing. Which to him, is an invitation to speak.

"I... uh, okay, I know I said I wanted to speak. But I actually want you to talk to me instead. Talk to me about what's going on—" He reaches for you, putting a hand on your cheek. His thumb swipes away your tears. You don't pull away this time. "I need to know. I've been dying not knowing what's going on with you. At least give me the reason you ditched me."

"I... I'm sorry..." You mutter, eyes downcast as you avoid your best friend's intense gaze. "I should've talked to you about it, I'm sorry. It's just—he didn't want me talking to you, because..."

"Because?"

"Well—he said that you... uh, had a crush on me. And he didn't want me hanging out with you anymore because it's... cheating."

"What?! I don't—I..." He trails off, voice pitched a tad too high considering the fact that he's lying his ass off. Deflect, Leon. "Okay, whatever. What about our other friends? Your family? What's your reason for that?"

"H... he just said that you and—well, everyone doesn't understand our relationship. And that you guys just want to break us apart."

Damn right Leon doesn't understand your relationship with that douchebag. And damn right he wants you to break up with him. He doesn't verbalize any of this—not now, at least. He keeps a hand on your cheek, reveling in the feeling of your warm skin on his hand.

"And... why are you crying right now?" Leon's voice is soft as he speaks to you. He's trying his hardest to coax the truth out of you.

"Because..." You bite your lip, still looking away from Leon. The look on your face has his heart breaking into a quadrillion pieces. He could treat you so much better. "I made a mistake. And he won't tell me what I did... but I want to fix it. I really don't want to lose him..."

"You know... if he was a good boyfriend, he wouldn't not tell you what you did wrong." Leon's brows furrow together once more, replacing his softer expression. "He shouldn't want you to be upset. He should want you to be... happy. That's what couples should do."

Leon's doing a lot of talking for a guy who's never had a relationship before. He'd never admit that the reason is mostly because he only wants you.

"I know, but—"

"There's no buts. Come on. Don't you see? He's treating you like shit. I don't want to see you like..." He gestures to all of you. "This. Sad and lonely and desperate for this guy to treat you well. He's never going to treat you well."

He pauses.

"There's so many people out here. People that can treat you better. That care about you... like me, for example." Very subtle, Leon. He thinks, but thankfully... you don't seem to catch on. Or you don't comment on it if you do. He takes the opportunity, pulling you closer into him.

You don't pull away.

Making progress.

"We're best friends... I only want the best for you." You wrap your arms around his torso. Making more progress, he thinks. "I care about you more than you know. And I've been lonely without you."

You bury your face in his chest. It's comforting. It always has been. More progress.

"Everyone is worried about you. You need to... stop letting him string you along like this. He's taking advantage of you." You sniffle in his chest.

Maybe he's right, you think.

"Let's go back to the way things were before. Me. And you. And, uh... everyone else, yeah. And you being happy and smiling and having fun. I haven't seen you smile once since you started dating this guy." An exaggeration, but not all a lie. Now that you think about it, you aren't exactly happy. At all, really.

You're cracking.

"But..." You want to protest, to say anything, but the words die in your throat. You miss Leon. You miss your friends. You miss your family.

"No buts. Let's watch a movie. We can order pizza and stuff our faces. And you'll block that bastard and hang out with me every day again." You try to hold back the smile that threatens it's way on your face.

You hate to admit that this sounds like a good idea.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

hi Ange! If you are taking requests for drabbles regarding your Ettore series, could you write maybe write a subby Ettore? Reading that he finally kissed the girl got me thinking about him letting his guard down and allows her to be on top and pleasure him🫠

Sorry to have kept you waiting so long for this!

I don't envision Ettore as being submissive, so I've adapted this to fit the series as best as I can. I hope you enjoy it.

Warnings: Language, violence, choking, smut. Word count: ~1200

Main series masterlist

Author's note: No gods, no masters, no tag lists. Only scabs community label fics. If you find yourself tempted to slap a label on this, please block me instead.

“You spend more time in the fucking Box than you do anywhere else.” Ettore glowers at her.

“Don’t be stupid.” She rolls her eyes. “I don’t use it any more than anyone else onboard.”

“Why bother with it...” He says darkly, roughly grabbing her hand and placing it over the rapidly growing bulge in his scrubs. “...when you’ve got this?”

She sighs, pulling away from him. “We’ve spoken about this. Get it through your thick skull; we can’t get caught!”

Monte rounds the corner and she steps away from Ettore. He gives them both a curt nod as he passes.

“Fuckin’ cock block.” Ettore mutters under his breath, though it’s loud enough for her to hear and she is certain Monte must have too.

That bloody idiot was going to get them both found out.

She hurries away from him and spends the next few days doing all she can to avoid him. In her mind, the less they are seen together the better. The last thing she needs is for people to start growing suspicious and asking questions.

It feels almost painful to keep her distance, when she is drawn to him on instinct. The pull of their physical attraction to each other, coupled with their dysfunctional kinship leaves her feeling desperately lonely, and practically aching for his touch. Not that she’d ever admit that to him.

She refuses to meet his piercing gaze and finds any excuse to ensure she is never left alone with him. It’s just for a few days, she tells herself, let Monte forget what he heard and then things can go back to how they were.

The throbbing sensation between her legs is almost too much to bear as she lays in her bunk. This is ridiculous. They had gone longer than this without being together before. However, it’s usually circumstance that separates them, somehow it feels worse when it’s self imposed.

She groans in frustration, climbing from the mattress and stalking down the corridor. She has only one destination in mind; The Box. The quicker she finds relief the quicker she’ll be able to fall asleep, she reasons.

Her breath catches in her throat when it appears that Ettore has had the same idea. She stops in her tracks. He is just a few paces ahead of her, about to go inside, the muscled planes of his back illuminated in the low artificial lighting.

He turns when he sees her and her heart races. She doesn’t miss the tick of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils, or the way his eyes darken as he drinks in the sight of her. She knows that look, knows what he gets like when he stares at her like that.

“No.” She tells him simply, the wobble in her voice betraying the fear she’s attempting to mask.

She turns to flee from him, but he is too quick for her, closing the gap in a few long strides and tackling her to the floor. She presses the palm of her hand against his face, attempting to push him away, but he easily overpowers her. It’s impossible for her to get any purchase on the smooth linoleum floor in order to properly defend herself, and Ettore is much too strong for her anyway.

“Stop it.” She grits out in frustration, as he pins her wrists above her head, irritated at the way her body responds to him, practically arching into him.

He leans in to kiss her and she bites down on his lip, causing him to pull back with a hiss of pain, releasing her wrists as he does so.

Seizing her only opportunity to take back control of the situation, her hand flies out, gripping his throat with such force that he topples over. It’s only once she finds herself on top of him in their scuffle that she feels how painfully hard he is against her.

She stares at his face for a moment, his pupils are blown wide with lust as her fingers continue to squeeze around his neck. She softens, her resolve crumbling, desire for him winning out over the need to put some space between them.

Their hands work hurriedly to rid each other of their trousers and underwear, and she sinks down onto him. She has to bite her lip to stop herself crying out in relief as she stretches to accommodate him. Her hand finds its way back to Ettore’s throat once she begins to rock her hips back and forth, surprised when he doesn’t try to push her off. He stares up at her instead, jaw slightly slack and eyes hooded. 

She sets a hurried pace, aware they could be caught at any moment. She clenches around him at the thought, causing Ettore to grunt. He pulls himself up, planting his feet onto the floor and meets her thrust for thrust.

As her fingers slacken around his neck, his hand winds itself into the hair at the back of her head, pulling hard.

She whimpers, the tightening in her lower belly growing more intense as the lewd, wet sounds of him pushing up into her, in sync with her downwards movements, intermingle with his laboured breaths.

His pulse flutters wildly against her fingertips and, with another tug of her tresses, she finally topples over the edge, reapplying pressure to his jugular as she fights to stay silent in the wake of the pleasure that washes over her in white hot waves.

This triggers Ettore’s own release, as his movements become sloppy, finally stilling as he pulsates and spills himself inside of her, eyes screwed shut and lips parted.

They stay like this for a few moments, allowing each other to catch their breaths.

“You didn’t think I’d just let you end things, did you?” He says, once his heart rate has evened out.

“What are you talking about?” She asks, her eyebrows pinching together in confusion, still feeling light headed from her climax.

“You haven’t even bothered to look at me in days.” He tells her, sounding petulant.

“I’m not ending things, stupid.” She chides softly. “Monte heard you call him a cock block. I was putting some temporary distance between us, so people wouldn’t get suspicious.”

For the briefest of flashes she notices something akin to boyish happiness pass across Ettore’s face, it makes him appear soft, vulnerable, but it disappears so quickly she wonders if perhaps she imagined it as his cold, hardened stare returns.

“So you still wanna...keep doing this then?”

She nods. “I just need you to be more careful. Be more discreet.”

She climbs off of him on shaky legs and begins to redress.

“Let you use The Box in peace, you mean?” He asks, pulling his bottoms back on and standing up.

She sighs. This was clearly always going to be a bone of contention for him.

“You know you feel better than that, right?”

He lets out a dry chuckle. “Little prick tease.” He says with a wink, before walking away.

[deepperplexity]

Prompt: 10. Snow Prints

Pairing: Colonel Brandon x Fem!OC

POV: First, OC

Setting: Christmas Market in Town -> The Lake -> Dashwood Home (Not exactly following cannon, moving the time to winter and the manner Brandon visits the Dashwoods for the first time.)

A/N: I thought we’d take a little tiny break from the serial fics - I do feel I need a breath as it takes way more to write several serials at the same time than one shots (for me) 😂 Also, Brandon seems to be very loved this year, so thought I’d give him some more screen time so to say 🥰

I have perhaps spent too much time on this fic but it ended up flowing and turning into this 5k piece - anyway, I really hope you’ll have a splendid time reading this! We are nearing the middle of Rickmas2023 and I feel good about having been able to post at a decent time every day so far 😍👏 (Let’s hope I can keep it up all the way through 👀😂)

Tags/TW’s: Instant Infatuation, Forehead Kisses, Hand Holding, Accidental Meeting, Unintentional Invasion Of Emotional Privacy, Self Derogatory Thoughts, Classicism, Nicknames, Mutual Pining, Confessions Of Adoration/Love, Implied Future Marriage, Slighty Sassy OC, Chivalry, Poverty Hints,

Word Count: 5k+

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

Mrs Jennings laughed by a market stand down the busy street, Margaret squeezed my hand and I could not quite keep a smile from spreading across my lips as she giggled up at me. “She never stops, does she?” Margaret asked with that childlike twinkle in her eye. “I’m afraid not, Maggie,” I chuckled. “She means well, but I do think Miss Markle is quite over her matchmaking attempts, as most of us are.” “Well, you are free of it,” Margaret said with happiness, not knowing the knife it twisted within me. “Indeed, lucky me,” I said as happily as I could. Knowing full well she held little interest of pairing lowly me with anyone at all.

I was an orphan, a mere child-tender for the Dashwoods before Mr Dashwood passed and left the family in ruin - in every manner. Now I was a burden on the kind family, allowed to live with them and dine after them in exchange for not only taking care of Margaret but cleaning and tending to every manner of household chore whenever needed, teaching the child to read and write, to interpret texts as well. No pay given, but a roof over my head and food in my stomach. It was more than I could ask for given the circumstances.

“Mellie,” Mrs Dashwood called, “go buy us some mistletoes and meet us at home!” “Right away, ma’am!” I called back, squeezing Margaret’s hand before ushering her toward one of her older sisters. I trodded off, heading down the market street with vendors filling the space and air with shouts of prices and smells of Christmas. I weaved through the crowd, well-versed in not being in the way.

I found the right vendor and purchased the holly for the Dashwoods, laying them atop the bread and carrots in my basket before turning about. My eyes caught sight of a brilliantly red coat with black and golden details. It stood out in the throng of greys, browns, whites and beige clothes, none as brightly coloured — not even the greens and blues, all in muted saturation. A man of the military? My eyes slid upward only for my breath to catch. He was stunning in profile. Older, with slightly peculiar features — like his hooked nose and thin lips — but more handsome than any other man I had ever laid eyes upon. His grave features and remote manner of looking only made his features shine brighter in the afternoon sun which made the snow glisten on the rooftops.

I stood stock still in the middle of the street, a messenger boy ran right into me, knocking my basket out of my hand — breaking the spell I had been under by the man. I hurried to pick up the greenery, the cloth-wrapped bread, and frost-bit carrots, before scurrying away, throwing one final glance back before entering one of many narrow alleys. His eyes appeared to see me for a second before I turned and hurried away from the market. No matter how handsome the man was, or how my heart had stuttered at his appearance, he was no man for me. I was all too aware of it.

I held on tightly to the basket, the day was beautiful and with the bright sun and lack of wind I managed to keep warm. I sped up my steps as I cleared the town’s border, crossing over a field to take a shortcut through the woods beyond; then it would only be a matter of two more fields to cross, a small hill to hike up, and I would be home once more. I didn’t mind walking through the snow, the boots Mrs Jennings had given me upon winters arrival were far too big but allowed for three pairs of socks which kept me plenty warm as long as I moved about. I was thankful for her gift, even if it were only for them being too small for her but too big for anyone else to wear, and with their shafts reaching nearly to my knees no snow slunk within them even if I pulsed through it at the moment.

I reached the woods, feeling a need to look back toward the town where I had seen the handsome man I was sure to never see again. Even if no man ever finds me to his liking I can at the very least allow the oddity of daydreaming of it to keep me happy, should I not have at least that? I squinted against the direct sunlight as it sank, bathing the sky in orange and pink only making the glittering snow look further magical with the twinkling light of lanterns and candles coming from the town. “A military man, perhaps that would be a grand life.” Not that I shall ever know it for real.

I half giggled to myself, enjoying my little daydream where the man in red would smile sweetly at me and marvelled at the quietly spectacular view. It was interrupted when something came barrelling across the field, someone atop a horse riding at the utmost speed with snow spraying about them yet I could not see any details with the last bit of sun glaring me in the eye and turning them into nothing but a shadow.

I thought little of it, many cut across the field to return home, so I turned and kept walking while wondering what voice would belong to the man in red — a commanding one, an assured one, a powerful one. I could not imagine a man who looked like he had to speak in any meek or bright fashion. No, no a most strong voice ought to belong to such a gentleman.

“Miss!” I spun around in haste at the dark rumble of a call that was somehow heard so clearly. “Miss!” the man called again and I raised a hand to cover my eyes from the sun. My heart stuttered as the man in red came barrelling towards me, his giant black steed’s hooves made the snow spray in magical waves of sparkles all around him.

He halted the horse with great skill, going from a gallop to a near-complete halt in a mere two steps. “Miss,” he said again, his voice a rumble which seemed to shake my insides. “Y-yes?” I asked, bowing my head while curtsying deeply. The thud of feet hitting the snow-covered ground rang out and I looked up. He was a head taller than me, his shoulders stiffly held and his back utterly straight. He looked every bit a stoic gentleman as he inclined his head before reaching out his hand, holding a mistletoe.

“Sir, I— What is this?” I asked while looking between the man who made my heart run rampant and the greenery in his glove-clad hand. “You left this behind, miss.” “Oh… oh!” I rummaged around my basket and indeed, there were only seven when there ought to have been eight of them. “Thank you, sir. I apologize for the trouble you went through for such a small thing.” My cheeks nearly seemed to burn as he handed it over while I spoke and then secured the mistletoe under the towel covering the basket.

The man looked at me, his eyes sweet but his features stoic. “It was no bother, miss. I merely followed the snow prints.” But, I left none behind until I reached the field? “I’m grateful for your kindness and effort, sir.” “Colonel Brandon, miss. At your service,” he said and placed his closed fist atop his chest before bowing slightly. “Melinda Merryweather,” I replied, endeavouring to keep my cheeks from burning up under his stare. “Beautiful Honeybee,” he said in a quiet drone and my eyes widened. “Excuse me, sir?” “Oh, no, miss, your name. Melinda, of Latin origin, meaning sweet. Constructed of mel, meaning honeybee, and Linda, meaning beautiful.”

I was not proud of it, but I gawked at the man. He knew more about my name than me myself. I had been aware of the Latin origin but the meaning of it had never been told to me. “My mother did have a fondness for the buzzing creatures, they fill an important role after all.” “Indeed,” the man said, “there would be little in terms of flowers without them.” “Oh, I was referring to food, Colonel Brandon. Flowers are pretty though.” “Their honey?” “No, they pollinate far more than flowers,” I continued, the education I had been given as a child tender to the Dashwoods far beyond any I would have had in another situation. “You are a woman of education.” “Oh, no, sir. I have merely been most lucky as a tender of children for the lovely Dashwood family.”

I did my utmost to speak calmly, but my entire body seemed caught on fire, the flames growing stronger with each second in his company. Talking is not my issue, remaining silent is. I’m certain he sees me as a know-it-all by now. “Luck plays a grand part in life. I admit, it has not been so graceful to me until now.” “Oh? You appear a most lucky man, sir.” “I shall not ruin said image of me for you, Miss Melinda Merryweather.” What to say to such a statement?

I had no need to think of it though, the man bowed and mounted his steed once more. My heart skipped a beat as he turned the horse about. “Thank you again, Colonel Brandon,” I said and he smiled at me, my skin burned and my breath caught as the last sunlight left the world but it seemed all the brighter when he smiled. “I wish you the best, beautiful honeybee,” he said with a sudden softness to his features and put his horse into motion, setting off in a rushed gallop without looking back once while my heart seemed to race at the same pace as the black horse.

Never had I met a man such as him. He was different, in the most sweet and good manner. I ended up watching him gallop back to town, I simply couldn’t make myself leave before he was gone. Strange sensations filled my chest and the heavy basket in my hand suddenly felt light in comparison to the weight of the newness, or, perhaps it was the knowledge a man such as him were not meant for me. For someone like me. A colonel had little business with a child tender turned into some form of a maid and teacher of reading and writing out of the goodness of my employer of many years. As much as warmth for the man bloomed within me, a sense of hopeless longing grew as well.

***

“I’ll only be an hour!” I called toward the little sitting room where Marianne and Elinor sat, one embroidering and one playing on the forte, while I slipped my boots over the many layers of socks I had adorned. I loved Marianne’s music, and voice, not blessed with either skill myself. Books, poetry, and stories lay me far closer to the heart though.

Reading, writing, and weaving stories of my own were my pleasures. My loves. And the past week my poetry had turned longing and somewhat sappy, to be truthful. I needed a moment with nature, to take a breath and rid my heart and mind of the grand colonel who called me a beautiful honeybee before riding off in a swirl of snow.

I wrapped a second scarf over my shoulders and headed out, the weather was splendid but cold. The midday sun had the world in a sparkle, a winter wonderland to adore and enjoy. I took a deep breath of fresh air and set off down the hidden road few carriages traversed. I followed it down the hill and then began my trodding across the field to reach the ice-covered lake where I was sure the most wonderful view where to be seen.

I had no idea how right I was…

As I came over the little hill, a wonderful view indeed sprawled out before me. But nothing could compare to the man standing right by the edge of the snow-covered beach, holding the reins of his large steed in a loose grip. With the sun shining high I could see him most perfectly, even if he wore no red coat I would have known his posture anywhere. The air about him was that of a single kind. I had spent so many words on the man, writing poetry to expel the feelings I had endeavoured to suppress ever since I had managed to tear myself away from the edge of the forest where I had last seen him galloping away in haste.

I stood still, once more stuck looking at the man from a distance without him being aware, and I felt as if all the feelings I had sought to tamper down and rid myself of through poetry took over completely. Let loose by his appearance where I least expected him. Oh, this is not proper! This is lunacy of the acutest kind. The man is a colonel, for goodness sake. I was about to turn around, play the coward, and run away while my heart ran rampant. “Honeybee!” came the loud rumble of the colonel, stopping me in my tracks (not that I’d begun to actually move).

The sound of boots and hooves walking through snow filled the air as he neared. My mind blanked when his soft gaze landed on me and a small smile spread his lips most sweetly. “Colonel Brandon,” I said and curtsied while hiding my bare hands behind my back. A bit embarrassed I had no gloves to speak of when he wore such fine ones of leather. “What a wonderful surprise,” he said. “What brings you to the lake, miss?” “Oh, umh, well, I was merely out for a walk to— To clear my head a bit, colonel.” “Perhaps a coincidence, I am here for that exact reason. What troubles you, if I may enquire?” You . Not that I could ever admit to such a thing.

“My troubles could not possibly be of any importance to a colonel, sir Brandon.” “I would take great pride in absolving you of any trouble, honeybee.” His voice was honest, his gaze a bit harsher and his voice once more a line rather than a smile, and that nickname set my stomach into an absolute flutter. “Do not tease me, sir.” “Never,” he said while taking a step closer. “I am not a man who would trifle with a beautiful woman,” he continued, taking another step. He was almost too close, yet not close enough.

My fingers fidgeted behind my back, the ends of my scarf swaying lightly in the soft breeze. A gust of wind blew by and my scarf flew off, tumbling along the snow in soft waves. He was off after it before I had a chance to even react. “Colonel!” I called, feeling like a nuisance to the man. “Colonel! Stop! It’s my—” He bent and snagged the thin fabric, holding it up with the sweetest of triumphant smiles before he jogged back. My icy fingers covered my mouth to hide the giggle, or perhaps to cool the heat flushing my face.

“My lady,” he said with a slight bow while holding out my scarf for me. I suffocated the laughter bubbling within me at his theatrics and reached for it. He jolted and grabbed my hand before I could pull away. “No gloves? In this chill?” he asked, concern written all over his handsome face while mine contorted with shame and embarrassment. “Thank you,” I said and wrung my hand free. “For catching it, sir.” I draped it over my shoulders once more but he only tilted his head to study me closer.

“I ought to return,” I said after a moment of silence, a silence far too intense. “They are expecting me at home,” I continued and curtsied swiftly before turning on my heel. “Miss Melinda,” he called, “stay safe!” “I shall, Colonel. I’m quite capable!” I called over my shoulder before waving at him, picking up my pace while leaving deep prints behind which I knew he would not follow this time.

***

It was the tenth of December, another week had passed since I saw the colonel and my little notebook was by now full of poems all revolving around him, around what he made me feel and wished to expel. My silly little heart had no wits about her, my mind just as snagged on his handsomeness — his kindness a lingering torment when there was no world in which I could be anything to such a fine gentleman.

“Mellie,” Margaret whined, “you’ve been writing for hours!” “Huh? Oh, have I really?” “Yes!” she said with a certain oomph to her voice. I merely smiled at her, mustering up the courage to not show her anything at all. “Is there a reason I ought to stop for the moment?” I asked as she leaned on the desk where I had, indeed, been sitting for several hours as lunchtime had arrived. “Mama asked you to fetch a bird for dinner, it’ll be dark if you don’t go soon.” “Oh, oh right! Yes, of course,” I said while shutting my little notebook and standing. “I’ll head out right away.” “But it’s lunchtime, silly goose.” “Well, there will be no goose of any kind, or other bird, if I don’t get a move on, will there?” “I’ll make a sandwich for you,” she said and scurried off with the usual happy spring to her steps. “With cheese and peppers, how you like it!” she called over her shoulder and I smiled at her sweetness.

I was out of the house a few moments later, hurrying towards town once again to get a bird for the family for the evening. Given how cold it was, one could have bought several and just had them in a box outside - they’d keep for weeks if the weather remained. But, again, I was not one to complain about some walking. I was rather fond of being out like that, truth be told. Truth be told, huh? More like give me something to take my mind of the man in a red coat, with a sweet smile, and soft eyes, and— Stop. Just, do not think of him. Simple as that. It was not , however, simple as that.

All the way to town, then through it, and back home again, I thought of the man. When I went down the hill to the house he was really the only thing I thought of at all. The fact I managed to keep my wits about me enough to see snow prints of male shoes unlike any other prints was a miracle. As the Dashwoods had company, obviously of the male kind, I walked around back and took the small servant entrance almost straight into the kitchen.

“Cook, here, I found a fantastic goose for dinner. It’s missing half a wing but the butcher gave me a great price for it.” “My, my, my, that is a good bird,” Cook replied as I held the naked goose up. Plucked and ready for cooking. She grabbed it and my cold fingers flexed with an ache to them. The thing was heavy and with the evening chill I struggled to get my blood flowing again for a moment while undressing my outside clothes only to put on a new scarf over my shoulders and thicker slippers on my feet rather than the boots and tripple socks.

“Here,” Cook said and handed me a tray of tee with some biscuits on a plate. Four cups on it, but it was the pretty china so the fourth one certainly wasn’t for me and Margaret didn’t drink tea. “Who’s visiting?” I asked. “Oh, some upstanding man, the boring type if you ask me. Tense looking. Too old for any of the Dashwoods too, no idea why the lady entertains him for so long.” “Long?” “He’s been ‘ere since one, came right after lunchtime.” “Well, perhaps he fancies one of them, or one of them fancies him. Is he rich?” “Very much so, Mellie.” “Well, there you have it then, Mrs Dashwood couldn’t send a rich man away — no matter his looks or age when she has two daughters she needs to wed.” “Indeed, but we both know the lady cares too much about what her daughters want to ever force a marriage.” “True, maybe she can force a marriage with a rich man upon me?” I laughed, both cook and I perfectly aware I wished for no such thing and nor would it ever happen either. No, love would be my biggest reason for marriage — riches were good, but love far outweighed it in every way.

As I came closer to the parlour I heard Marianne speak, asking whoever was visiting to read another. I didn’t know what she referred to but I gently pushed open the door, not making a sound as I backed in to not wobble the tray. “Snow prints—” My heart stopped in my chest. “—were followed, a path—” My fingers trembled. “—he ought not have taken. She was below—” The tray clattered to the floor, the china breaking and shards scattering all over the floor as I heard Colonel Brandon read my poetry, about him !

“Mellie, goodness me, are you alright?” said Mrs Dashwood with a shriek. I slowly turned, seeing the man who I had written those words for staring at me with wide eyes and slightly parted lips, Marianne sat far too close to him. He was a captivating reader, I could not fault her for her investment, yet my heart ached at the sight of the two.

“I— That’s—” “I gave it to him,” Margaret said with a beaming smile. “You write so well, Mellie!” she kept going and Colonel Brandon looked between me and the notebook containing my most inner thoughts in his hands. His eyes turned wider, his face paled and I felt my insides twist as he stared at me again.

Tears stung my eyes, the shame and embarrassment, the hurt and fear, the ache in my chest at the betrayal of the child I thought so highly of. “Excuse me,” I blurted out before bolting out the door, not staying to clean up the mess. “Mellie!” called Mrs Dashwood. “Mellie, what—” called Marianne with confusion in her tone but I was out of earshot for her sweet, clear voice. Such a contrast to the Colonel’s, so perfectly matched.

I ran out through the kitchen entrance, past Cook who prepared the infernal bird, and out into the snow lit up by the climbing moon as early evening had arrived. “Honeybee!” came the voice I dreaded to hear. “Stop, please!” he called and I stopped, my hand on the gate at the end of the backyard and my slipper-clad feet deeply buried in the white coldness below.

His running steps reached me, and the crunching of snow and slightly panted breaths filled my ears. Warmth wrapped around my shoulders as he hung his coat over me and I spun around in shock at the action. He was stood in only his vest and shirt, the biting wind tossed about his beautiful hair but all I really saw were the sweet, kind eyes staring at me.

“I never knew,” he said quietly while taking a step back. “Knew what?” I asked, attempting to not inhale deeply as his scent wafted up my nose. The perfect scent, the warmest and most comforting of scents. “That is was your beautiful poetry I was reading, the child gave it to me, asked for me to read something out of it. I thought it belonged to one of the ladies present in the room — and they did not object,” he said while looking most forlorn, nearly distressed. “I was not even aware you resided with the Dashwood household.” “I have for many years,” I said. “Marianne will be a perfect match for you,” I continued while thinking of their voices, the way she sat right beside him on the sofa.

Colonel Brandon stepped closer. “I have already found my match,” he said. “I asked you not to tease me, sir. And you said not to be a gentlemen who trifled with women.” “And I have not,” he said, his eyes hardening while coming far too close, forcing me to look up at him. It was all in my head… Only in my heart, not his. Perhaps, perhaps he is merely a most kind man? I have little experience with those.

“Honeybee,” he said, snagging my attention anew. “I have not, and will not, trifle with you, tease you. I am too old for games and life far too dark as is for me to make it any worse.” “Sir!” “I speak true,” he declared. “A gentleman such as you ought to be more aware of your own handsomeness.” He blanched at that, blinking at me before a timid smile stretched his lips in a manner that looked as if he were unable to control it.

“You find me handsome?” “What woman in their right mind would not?” “Oh, I do believe you may be a woman of singular taste, honeybee.” I gasped, gaping at him. “I beg your pardon? Are you accusing me of something?” “I am not a favourable option for most beautiful women, such as yourself. I am well aware of it. My riches perhaps an aid in seeing past it, or my standing in society.” I gasped anew, a mixture of an exhale and a laugh of disbelief.

“You are terrible, sir. You may wish to know I had no idea who you were until you introduced yourself, even then, I am new to this part of the county and have had little to do with the upstanding citize n so I am not aware of your riches. I do recognize the bravery and skill you possess to climb up the ranks, but any silly nilly knows such things,” I said with both hurt and irritation at the man who twisted my insides with warmth and want. “I apologize, miss,” he said, his face held in some sort of shame at the assumption he’d held of me perhaps. “No need, I am but a servant of no importance or value.” “What a foul thing to say…” “Truth is sometimes.”

Time stretched on while we stood in silence, simply looking at each other. “Miss Melinda, your poetry,” he began while looking at me with something I could only describe as respect, perhaps even admiration, “it is most beautiful, passionate, deep .” The change of subject threw me for a loop, a man such as him ought to hold no admiration of any kind for a woman such as I. “Like your voice,” I whispered before I could stop myself. I had thought of hearing my words in his voice, there was no way not to when his voice was such perfection. He chuckled. “My voice is to your liking?” “Everything about you is to my liking, as far as I’m aware. Sir .” I couldn’t help the sass, or the way my face had hardened while my insides were in an uproar over the man. I had to protect myself from the rejection that was sure to come despite his sweet words. It was only a matter of time, surely.

Yet, it did not.

His hands cupped my face, the gesture most intimate and highly improper. “If you are ever made aware of a trait of mine that is not to your liking, I will be very much obliged to correct it, to your liking, honeybee.” “W-What do you mean?” I asked, my breath tumbling out in a shuttering way. “Would you object to me?” My eyes widened while his finger stroked my cheek. “Object to you? Sir?” “I am beyond happy I caught a glimpse of you, heard the vendor call for you about the holly, and found your prints at the edge of town. I rode around quite manically to find you, you know. Following those snow prints, it was the best decision I have ever made.” “Colonel… Stop, we cannot, it’s not proper.” “Propriety can take flight and be on its merry way, honeybee. I have my heart set on you, my beautiful honeybee who writes the most captivating of poetry and smiles with nothing but honesty in her eyes. I have my heart set on you, Melinda Merryweather.” “It was about you…” I whispered while my skin burned under his touch. “Me?” “Yes… For weeks now, I’ve tried all I can to rid myself of these feelings and thoughts…”

Brandon viewed me with a mixture of torment and joy, I chuckled nervously while he released my face and grasped my hands. His coat slid off my shoulders as he tugged me closer — gently — and the cold December air wrapped itself around me. “Would you allow said feelings to grow? Fester? Become an irrevocable part of you?” “Colonel…” “I am already lost to you, honeybee. Allow me the chance to make you happy,” he asked kindly, his hummingly dark voice nothing but an endless promise of said happiness. “Yes. Yes, please,” I whispered as tears of relief and joy wetted my cheeks. “Honeybee… Beautiful Melinda… My Melinda,” he said before he leaned in and kissed my forehead with force, his thin lips perfectly warm against my chilled skin. “You shall not regret this, I promise you my all.”

We leaned back, my heart was aflutter and my stomach a warm ball of knots, and I could not help but smile at the sweet gentleman who had captivated my heart so easily. “I fear any regret I may have will be only a reflection of your own, Colonel.” “Christopher,” he corrected. “My name, is Christopher, honeybee.” “Christopher.” “How sweet a sound you make it. I shall wish to hear it every day for the rest of my life.” I only nodded at that, too stunned to speak when he so brazenly declared I was to be his for all time to come. I held no objections to that as his hands squeezed mine with warmth, his kind eyes a balm to my soul and his smile a thing of beauty far beyond the sparkling snow all around us…

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

A/N: Oh how I hope you enjoyed this One Shot with our dear Brandon 🥰 I had so much fun writing this, and it did indeed turn out to be far longer than I had planned but I enjoyed each word I wrote of this 😍👏

IMPORTANT: Tomorrow I’ll be picking up a story from Rickmas2022! You do not have to read it before reading this years parts, but I do recommend it to get the full story. I will do a small recap before diving into the new parts too. The fics I will be continuing is 14. Icy Roads & 15. Frosty Glass (yes, it’s Hans and Anna-Louisa who are making a comback by super popular demand 😂👏). I've yet to start writing it but, well, guess it'll be a late night today 👀👍

Q: You can only choose one hot drink to consume during December: Coffee, Tea, or Hot chocolate? A: COFFEEEEEEEE all the way for me 😂☕

TAGLIST: @lizlil @snapefiction @darkthought15 @monstreviolet @flowerdementia @marvelschriss @once-upon-an-imagine @ravennight41 @caseydoodles98 @slytherinprincess03 @theconsultingdetectiveswife @grimmyhild @monster-energies @myobscureimaginarium @snowblossomreads @eternal-silvertongued-prince @cherryglossie @setsuna-meiou31 @helena211 @a-queen-and-her-throne @justsaturn0 @turvi @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky @sunnylikesfrogs @mamawolfsmith16 @dianilaws @sassanoe @snapesrn @bernadette-peters12 @sammy-13 @smartowl999 @castleofthorns @serenanight87 @sunset90 @mamawolfsmith87 @snowblossomreads @ladykardasi @a-queen-and-her-throne @eternal-silvertongued-prince @lyrixsnape @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky @daddythanatos

Want to be tagged? 💚 You can tag yourself HERE! Or tell me and I’ll gladly tag you! 😍

[Dec:2023]

[cfr749]

20 questions for fic writers

tagged by the wonderfully kind and lovely @coraclavia. If you haven't checked out her work, go do it right now!!

1. How many works do you have on Ao3? 19

2. What’s your total Ao3 word count? 354,235

3. What fandoms do you write for? The Rookie!

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Beneath Your Beautiful... queue Isn't it ironic by Alanis Morissette 😬

Want You to Stay

However Do You Want Me

One Time Thing

Lucy's Little Secret

5. Do you respond to comments?

I absolutely try to, but sometimes I get behind. Tbh I usually want to respond the minute I see one come in, but don't want to scare anyone lmao. But I read every single one, often multiple times. And you might just get a response from me two years later 😂

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Oh man... I think this has to be We Built Sandcastles, because I have yet to give it an ending and it hurts me too. I'm so sorry. 😭

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I'm gonna go with However Do You Want Me... what's happier than banging on an airplane to save the world?

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Not really... thankfully, 99.9% of the interaction I've had on my fics has been positive and that's a testament to how wonderfully supportive this fandom is of its creators 😭

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yup... the horny kind? Lol... queue Lovin on Me by Jack Harlow. I am pretty vanilla, and I do usually focus a lot on the emotional aspects over the physical. I also generally prefer writing the foreplay over the actual tactics of banging, but I try.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Lol... well... one time when I was 13 I may have written an AU where Justin Timberlake and Nick Carter were normal boys attending the same high school 😂...

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Thankfully, I don't think so!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? 

I don't think so, but any time someone does comment on one of my fics in another language, I am just honored and blown away that they found it entertaining enough to work through the language barrier.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes! Want You to Stay with the amazing @poppypickle. I will always be so thankful that the Chenford fandom brought us together, and so grateful for that creative experience. Truly one of the coolest things I've ever done. ❤️

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

I think Chenford still holds this crown.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

We Built Sandcastles, but I actually haven't written anything I've truly given up on. I still think about this universe and write down bits and pieces here and there. I'm also still working on Beneath Your Beautiful!

16. What are your writing strengths?

Weird reality TV AUs? Sexual tension? Feelings?

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Probably too much exposition / time in the character's heads spelling out their motivations vs. letting readers come to their own conclusions.

I'm not always consciously aware of it in my own writing, but sometimes I suspect I'm a little sappier than what I'd normally I prefer to read.

Also I'm slow and sometimes leave my readers hanging for extremely long periods of time (I'm so sorry).

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

Depends on the context, but, for me, I'd have a hard time without a native speaker to consult with. No strong feelings against it though.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

BSB + NSYNC

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

I'm going to go with one I haven't mentioned yet, which is Cruel Summer because that fic was utterly batshit, came out of literally nowhere, and was so much fun to write!

--

Thanks for the tag, Cora!

I am tagging @poppypickle @queseraone @goodgirlssayiloveyoutoo @rememberthismomentx @thisnightissparkling089 @makeitastrength and @summerongrand (apologies if y'all have already done this and I missed it)!

[dangans-ur-ronpas]

Chapter 12

UH OH

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

trying to move away from writing toko like chunsoft and adding more to her character (she's traumatized she wants to be loved but she's going about it in the worst way) but in the end none of her actions are condoned. she's fucked up still sorry but written in a more sympathetic light i hope?

syo WILL be in this fic but i do my best to make her hand-wavy explanation ambiguous (fuck whatever canon says about 'textbook split personality' btw)

@moonlighttogami and @tokiwigiwi :)

Content warning tags: implication of stalking/blackmail, Toko-expected creepiness, use of violence, character death

< previous - from start - next >

He’s not sure how much time passes when the door opens again.

“Finally,” He huffs, not bothering to turn. “Took you long enough. Honestly, how long does it take-”

He halts, as the intruder steps into the room, and quickly clicks his handbook shut. These weren’t Makoto’s footsteps. And - he surreptitiously covers his nose - that wasn’t Makoto’s smell. But he knows whose it was.

“...Toko. What do you want.” He turns and glares at the girl who has intruded on his space. She fidgets where she stands, a thin shadow of dark purple. The smell of her has grown stronger over the past few weeks, and hangs around her like a miasma.

“M-master Byakuya…”

He feels a full-bodied shiver of disgust run over his skin. “Don’t call me that.”

She ignores him, and carries on. “A-about last night…”

Right. To be completely honest, he was hoping that he had scared her enough the night before to make her leave him alone entirely. But he’s not surprised either; if she had the nerve to blatantly try and look at his secret, it wasn’t surprising that she had the boldness to try and confront him like this.

“What about last night.” He says stiffly, and she jumps as if shocked.

“I-I know about your eyes!” She blurts at last. “A-and, I know Ch-Chihiro knows it too…I, I heard you t-talking about it i-in the b-bathhouse last night…”

He feels his lip curling, revolted. Of course she had eavesdropped; she was quickly proving to be one of the more annoying stalkers he’d ever had the displeasure of dealing with. The number of people who were aware of his condition was also rapidly increasing against his will. At this point he might as well do the same as Fujisaki and announce it out loud.

Fukawa continues in her irritating stutter. “A-and…y-your envelope…” He freezes immediately, suddenly latching on to her every word.

“What did it say?” He demands, and she flinches - shivers? - arms crossing over her torso.

“I-if I t-tell you, y-you won’t w-want anything to d-do with m-me anymore…” She mutters, seemingly to herself, and he feels another wave of revulsion roll over him.

“Out with it. I already want nothing to do with you, but if you don’t speak up now-” 

What will he do? He tries to come up with a threat that can hold actual weight, but they all sound pathetic, even to himself. If only Makoto were here, he could at least get him to chase her away…how long does it take to talk to three people, anyways?

Ironically, it’s Fukawa who saves him from having to think of something. “I-I know you’re r-really mad at m-me for r-reading your secret last night,” She continues, and she’s swaying slightly, as if drunk. “U-um, I-I promise n-not to t-tell anyone! About your eyes, o-or your envelope…a-and, I’ll t-tell you mine, t-too.”

“I’m not interested.” He says flatly. “Tell me what was written in my envelope. Now.”

She shakes her head instead. “I-I know th-there’s no way for you t-to have r-read yours yet, right? S-so only I know!” The light catches on her spectacles, and it gives the illusion of two, illuminated orbs on her face. “W-which makes me m-more special than M-Makoto, or Chihiro, right?”

She sounds deranged. Her voice is pitched with desperation, and she’s breathing heavily. She takes a step closer. “I-I know all your s-secrets, and once y-you know mine…s-so you can r-rely on me, m-more than Makoto, o-or Chihiro?” Another step, and the floorboard creaks. “I-I’ll do better than th-them! And, and I can accept you f-for all your secrets, s-so, you don’t n-need them, I promise!”

“Stay back.” He snaps, shifting backwards. The revulsion was curdling, mixing with fear, and crawling down his back like something physical, like the vile, unwanted sensation of fingernails, tickling over his skin. He hates this irrational panic - she was just a girl, and a pathetic one at that - but here he was, shying away anyways, unable to discern her next move, her intentions. “I’m warning you-”

She lurches forward, and he takes an inadvertent step back. His back meets the bookshelf; he was trapped. “S-so don’t get scared,” She says, though these words really only have the opposite effect on him. “D-do you remember the news, a few y-years back? A-about Genocider S-Syo?”

Genocider Syo? The name sounds familiar, but it takes him a moment to place where he’s heard it before. It was a few years before he enrolled at Hope’s Peak, while in transit to some social gathering or another; Pennyworth had left the car radio tuned to the local news. 

“The serial killer?” He asks aloud, as he subtly searches the shelves behind him, trying to find something to use as a weapon. The tip of his index finger catches on the spine of a large, plastic-bound copy of some textbook or another, and he leverages it slowly out of the shelf, feeling sweat beginning to slicken its cover.

She nods eagerly, her braids bouncing. “I-I knew you’d kn-know about it,” She sounds relieved, somehow, voice breathless. “Y-you know, th-the first place Syo turned up was the town w-where I was b-born…i-it was my f-first crush that was the f-first victim, y’know?”

It clicks together quickly for him. The radio announcer had described bloody and ugly scenes of murder, the displayed corpses of young men and boys, all attributed to a mysterious killer with a penchant for stabbing their victims. And now standing before him was a clearly-deranged, unwell girl, well-known for her romance novels, and apparently obsessed with him.

“I-it’s okay!” She says hurriedly, as he presses himself closer to the shelf. “Sh-she only c-comes out when I-I’m really t-tired, o-or if I see b-blood…b-but, I c-can control her! I am controlling her, I promise!” She steps forward again, and this close, he can see the sickly flush on her face, the shine of sweat - tears? - down her cheeks. “I’ve b-been working s-so hard, s-so she won’t h-hurt anyone again…so it’s o-okay! I c-can be good! See?” She hiccups slightly, she must be crying. He can’t imagine why. “S-so now we can be equal, r-right?!”

She staggers towards him again, and he reacts before he can even think twice about it, yanking the book from its shelf and swinging blindly. The edge catches her across the face, whipping it sharply to the side with a sickly crack and a squeal - there’s a crest of blood, splattering up the length of the book, he can feel a few warm drops splash his hand, the skin crawling where it landed - and she crashes against the shelves with a shriek, stumbling.

“Why?!” She wails, hands shooting to her face. She sounds genuinely distraught, and she shakes as she scrubs at her nose with her palms. “I-I told you m-my biggest secret, a-and I kn-know yours…w-why won’t you tr-trust me?!”

“Trust you?!” He laughs, mirthless and a little frenzied, pitched wildly with his thudding heart. “You repulse me.” He steps forward now, book still clutched in his shaking hand. “Why would I ever trust a murderer in a killing game?”

She flinches as if his words were more physical blows, stumbling away from him and knocking against the shelf. A few books rain down, thudding open on the floor. “I-It’s not me,” She babbles, clutching at her head. “S-Syo - she’s j-just s-someone else, she’s in m-me, b-but I can c-control her, I p-promise - sh-she’s not me, she’s not me, she’s not!”

It sounds vaguely like some dramatized description of a split personality, though Byakuya had never heard of any such disorder that matched Fukawa’s apparently extreme case. Whatever the girl had going on would probably warrant its own DSM volume, but he wasn’t particularly interested in that. “I don’t care if she’s a ghost that’s possessing you or a secret twin taking your place. I want nothing to do with either of you.”

“B-but-”

“Get out.” He snarls, chest heaving. “If I hear anything - anything - on my condition, I will make you wish you were dead.” She doesn’t move, and he feels his teeth clench enough to creak. “I said, OUT.”

She darts, stumbling and stepping through one of the piles of boxes on the floor, completely breaking through the lid. Whatever was inside it stays looped around her ankle as she kicks the lid off, and clicks against the floor as she sprints away, her sobs fading as she goes.

___

For safety, he blocks off the door to the library with the chair, jamming it beneath the handles.

Then, he waits for Makoto, pacing, agitated. Really, how long could it take to accompany one person to talk to three people? His clock in his handbook stated that hardly an hour had passed since Makoto first left, and ten minutes since he sent Fukawa away. Surely, he had to be coming back eventually?

Not that there was anything keeping Byakuya in the library, other than his own uncertainty regarding his safety. Considering that he knew Fukawa’s alternate identity, and her apparent infatuation with him, it would be foolish to make the trek back to his room alone.

He stops pacing, frustration and restlessness boiling over. And returns to the files, shuffling through them, handbook held aloft to read the names printed on the edge of each folder, ignoring the ones that clatter to the ground after he shoves them haphazardly back. Finally, he comes across the one he's looking for, and slides it out of the shelf.

The front of it is stamped with the title in silver: ‘The Murder Cases of Genocider Syo: Top Secret’. He flips it open.

The text is interspersed with images of the victims before and after their unfortunate encounters with Fukawa. He can’t make much out about them, other than the fact that all the murder scenes seemed similar enough; photos of pale bodies, stretched out as if crucified, splattered with blood. Their faces, which must have been twisted with agony, are merely dark smudges.

“...As with the other cases, at the scene of the crime the word ‘BLOODLUST’ was written with the victim’s blood,” Alter Ego reads aloud. “The scissors used in the murder were apparently custom-made, with every pair left at each murder scene seeming to be of the same material and construction…”

How vile. He flips through the pages (one of which is annoyingly wrinkled, and furthermore, smudged with dirt), reading through the victim's descriptions. There was a sort of morbid curiosity that drew him to read further, even as his stomach turned with the knowledge that he could end up like one of these men; pinned like a butterfly for the killer to admire and laud over.

He snaps the file shut at last, feeling nauseous, and sinks down with his back against the shelf, suddenly exhausted - the adrenaline from Fukawa’s confrontation is gone, leaving behind a bone-deep fatigue. Sluggishly, he categorizes what he knows:

One: Fukawa was also Genocider Syo, a notorious serial killer who targeted young men.

Two: Fukawa both knew he was blind, and the contents of his envelope. He reaches into his pocket and feels for it, the paper now crinkled and warped. He still can’t bring himself to try and use Alter Ego to read its contents, but so long as Fukawa knew…there was little he could do about it.

That brought him to three: Fukawa was apparently obsessed with him. That was clear from the start, but he underestimated how dangerous her infatuation was. What she wanted from him was, apparently, some kind of romanticized relationship, if her mutterings about mutually sharing secrets and calling him ‘master’ was anything to go by, but nothing that could possibly be built on equal footing. Not if she was trying to leverage the envelope’s contents and his blindness against him.

He pauses at that. Did Fukawa know he was capable of using Alter Ego through his handbook to read? If she did, then there was no point in her trying to hold it over him. But then that meant she might try to manipulate him in other ways, the most simplest being blackmail. For that, he’d need to silence her…

And to do that, I would need to kill.

He drums his fingers against the hardwood floor. It’d be hard, but he could do it. She was already fixated on him, it should be easy enough to lure her somewhere and take care of her, either with a blunt-force weapon or strangulation - stabbing was too messy with the blood splatter - but the real difficulty then was how to conceal his tracks. 

He thinks for a moment of Maizono, and how she had swapped rooms with Makoto solely for this intention. He thought her foolish then, but in hindsight, it really was an impressive display of quick thinking…though, it wasn’t one that he could copy.

What if he did it in a shared space? In one of the empty classrooms? People hardly went into these rooms, and it’d be harder to pin down the culprit. But he’d have to be fast about it, and careful; anyone who sees him or Fukawa entering that space, or leaving it, could easily identify him as the suspect. It’d have to happen at night.

But, she’s also smarter than she looks… He rubs at his temples now, frowning. She might see the similarities between this and Maizono’s attempt, and realize it’s a trap. I can’t risk that. It’d be easier if I could easily pin it on someone, but the amount of people who might be stupid or willing enough to let themselves be used…

The list was very short. Makoto, who was already a non-option. Yamada, who was too closely allied with Celeste to be trusted. Hagakure, who was too paranoid to be easily led into anything anyways...

And Chihiro.

He’s suddenly struck with the realization that if he succeeds, the others die. It would not be just one person’s blood on his hands, it would be multiple, including those he chooses not to directly involve. He hesitates, for an instant - and then lowers his hands slowly, a sense of defeat settling over him.

He’s already failed before he even started. This game could only have one winner, and if he could not fully commit himself to that role and accept the consequences of it, then he was never a real competitor to begin with. Circles within circles. He was back to the start.

Frustration isn’t something he’s unfamiliar with, but it’s been a long time since he’s felt so overwhelmed with it, as he tilts his head back, knocking it against the shelf as he stares blankly at the brown fog of the ceiling. And then slams a fist against the floor, hissing venomous, ugly curses under his breath. If only he had his eyes, again - he wouldn’t need to be so concerned with such things, wouldn’t need to waver - and yet.

Where the hell is Makoto? He thinks numbly, exhausted with it all. He was sick of being left with nothing but his nerves, and how long did it take to talk to just three people anyways?

Thump, thump, thump.

A rhythmic banging snaps him out of his thoughts. For a moment, he thinks it’s coming from the door, and clumsily pushes himself up, while fumbling for something, anything, to use as a weapon - his hands find the hard, stiff cover of a case file, still on the floor - and stares down the door, waiting for someone to break through it-

But nothing. The chair that’s stuck under the doorknob hasn’t even budged, from what he can tell. The banging continues, and he realizes it sounds more like hammering than knocking. It wasn’t even against the library door.

Construction? Hagakure did mention hearing construction sounds earlier. Was Monokuma building something again?

The sound ends, replaced by footsteps approaching his door. He tenses, taking a step back, but a moment later, the footsteps patter down the hall and away, fading out of earshot. 

He stays where he is for a long moment, caught between terror and curiosity. Curiosity wins out, and he steps slowly to the door, hesitating once more with one hand on the chair.

But before he can even do anything, the air is pierced by a blood-curdling scream, and he throws the chair away, yanking the door open-

Only to be met with the sight of Chihiro Fujisaki’s corpse.

< previous - from start - next >

[bonesandthebees]

I care about Rose! In fact, we started watching house of dragon (only 2 episode so far though) and it constantly makes me think of Rose because you use it as inspiration. Like obviously there’s the coronation scene which reminds me of stars. And there’s the character Willum is sorta kinda inspired by. And it’s an entirely different world, but every time I’m drawn back to Rose wondering how things will play out. (Which is not pressure to finish writing it if you don’t want to. Writer’s block can be a bitch and I get that the motivation for this project has been sucked out, but I just want you to know that I still care, and I’m not the only one.)

Also, I’ve been meaning to start my Ready, Set, Detonate analysis but I keeps getting away from me. I’m not sure there will be much to analyse, but there’s definitely fun details I want to point out. Oh and I am Looking 👀 at the fit/pac tag and kicking my feet. I don’t actually know if they are already in a relationship (I’m sure we’ll find out, but I just loved Fit’s little “Pac’s here?” That man is gone. Oh and I’m so excited for this Tubbo and to read more Bagi and the lore. Just all of it.

Then the original writing is a mood. I keep getting like a few chapters into my story before deciding it’s not good enough or thinking of something else I could do and throwing it all out. It’s this constant loop that never seems to get anywhere even though the story gets more and more fleshed out in my head every time. I think it’s because the opportunities are endless. Like there’s no characters and personalities and dynamics to stick to like there is in fan fiction. It’s free game but that does mean you have to decide everything yourself.

Anyway, best original writing advice I can give is remember the drafting process. There’s going to be a shit ton of drafts, which feels different for you because you’ve been mostly writing stories and posting them as you go, which means some minor or major editing, but leaves you without a chance to do a once over. It’s a sort of pressure to get everything right the first time. Meanwhile, original writing is something you keep close to your chest. There’s different drafting stages ranging from the zero draft (aka excessive daydreaming about all the possibilities) to the final draft (where you just go through and kill all your darlings and pour over ever single word to find the right one).

I’m struggling a lot with the first draft, which is literally just getting words onto a page. It’s a somewhat coherent mess that just allows you to shape the story and its structure so you can work off of that and edit it later on. I don’t know if this actually helps, but yeah, the first draft sucks and then it mostly gets easier. Just write, is kinda shitty advice, but it’s mainly, just get words onto a page, you will get a million chances to fix it, you don’t need to be happy about what you wrote right now.

-🌲

ohhhh I'm so excited you've started watching hotd!! good timing since the second season is going to come out later this year :D I hope you enjoy!! and I'm so happy to hear you're still excited about rose. I definitely want to finish writing it, like I said it's just me worrying about if anyone will bother to read it but a lot of you have said you would so that helps assuage my worries a bit

feel free to send whatever random thoughts you have about ready set detonate you know idc if it's analysis or not I just love seeing peoples reactions!! fit and pac are not in a relationship (yet) in the fic but theres a lot of flirty pining going on lol

god yeah it's so much harder with original fiction because it feels like there's so much pressure. you have too much freedom to do whatever you want so you're constantly second guessing if it's good enough or not. and ofc I know rough drafts are supposed to be shitty but I've tried to hone my skills so that my first draft is always incredibly solid because I rarely have the patience to do heavy edits, but that's with fanfiction. it has to be different with original fiction I know but it's hard to make my brain okay with that. I keep feeling like it needs to be nearly perfect on the first run :( but yeah I'm mostly trying to get words on a page. but then I think back and realize I forgot to mention this or I need to mention more of that etc etc and it's just stressful arghhh

[longeyelashedtragedy]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

i was faux-tagged by @prosopopeya ! it was fun reading your answers!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

147...damn

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

434,625

3. What fandoms do you write for?

right now i only write "Men's Football RPF," but occasionally i have the desire to write in my previous fandom, and then never do.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

these are all a song of ice and fire/game of thrones fics from way back in the day

drabbles of ice and fire (does what it says on the tin)

captivated (arya/jaqen AU)

ends and beginnings (arya/jaqen university AU)

egg baby (arya/jaqen, au)

arya saves the day (arya/jaqen, the same university AU)

...as you might have guessed, i was THEE arya/jaqen BNF back then, lol. (if you have familiarity with the characters please note these are all AUs because arya is aged up in order to ship her)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

i try, i really do! comments just get my executive function so snarled up and i wind up forgetting.

6. What is a fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

that's most of them. how am i meant to choose? it's hard for me to get through the end of "i tore off the golden branch" without crying even to this day. "like a song on repeat, nothing has to end" has some nice sad transfer window angst, and as i've said, the ending to "visited upon the sons" really slaps. is it cheating to say mare liberum?--that ending only exists on my notes app, and it's more "tragic" than angsty i guess.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

oh, hmmm. i wanna say... "5.VII." poor dejan, always fearing he'll somehow be alone and unwanted, not good enough, and in that moment at the end of the fic those worries leave him.

“So...that means...these things...These things we do together...” Dejan waits impatiently.  No, he’ll be honest with himself.  He’s waiting nervously.  “We’re just going to have to keep doing them forever, right, brate?”  Dejan lets go of the breath he’s been holding and as he does, he feels those wings again, stretching out from his shoulder blades and shaking themselves out and giving him an incredible lightness. He could float away right now with Šime in his arms. They could float away together.   “Yes. I guess we will.”

8. Do you get hate on fics?

not really, i think they're so poorly written or strange that they just don't get much notice. i did see some "piquira" people back in the day talk about how my fic "soy loca con mi tigre," where shakira pegs piqué (RIP) with sergio watching them on video chat, was "weird." god, it must be painful to be that boring

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

unfortunately yes. i think it's usually pretty straightforward, but maybe not blunt enough to be grimy-hot. i don't like anything flowery. i wish i could write some m/f from time to time, but i have too many gender issues to feel comfortable writing about an AFAB body in a sexual sense most of the time. i am trying to channel this discomfort into writing a fic where jamie jamie jamie takes franko out clubbing to drown his sorrows and they pick up some Girls it is what it is!

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

i used to with my ex, we had an amazing AU where we crossed over a million different punk/metal/alternative musicians with some other rpf type people. oh, and not to forget--my first ever footyfics were crossovers, lol.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

i sure have! it was shameless as fuck. however, justice was served because my version got more kudos and comments, so i didn't even bother to start shit. as they say, she thought she ate!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

yes, into russian, chinese, and persian. i have enough fics translated into russian on ficbook to have my own Author Page on there--a point of pride, because i love ficbook :)

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

yes, many with said ex! i would love to do a collab again--anyone? hit me up

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

idk? rakidrić, šejan, movren, xhakarteta RIP, JAVEY from AFI, cersei/jaime, aged up!arya/jaqen. am i missing anything?

15. What's a wip you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

maybe my really long 'ivan rakitić coming of age' fic, where the running plot is "what is he doing to keep himself at barça even tho he's out of favor?" as you can see, it would be very outdated, plus it was never intended for a wide audience

16. What are your writing strengths?

not sure :/ characters' emotions, good use of repetition and parallelism (i like to think !) and good use of rhythm. i also think i write a good ending. my bff said "the way you describe love and loss is unlike anyone else" which i thought was nice!

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

plot, pacing. good porn, being unfiltered (like--my writing feels too repressed lol)

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

it has to make sense so it doesn't feel like tokenization or fetishization and can't be cheesy. the only time i think i was going to include actual multiple lines of dialogue in anther language (spanish), i then changed it so the fic didn't have it.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

the first like, true established fandom i wrote for was a song of ice and fire/game of thrones. before that i wrote a lot of bandfic, but mostly for bands and artists who didn't really have any fic or canons. like, 98% of it was private for just me and my ex, but a few of the pieces still exist online here and there.

20. Favorite fic you've written?

i cannot pick favorites. there's so many reasons why something would be a favorite. and i have 147 fics on ao3! plus many things that aren't. plus my unpublished bandfic was some of my best writing. i don't know!

i almost wonder if it's "his return: a story of ghosts" which...i initially wrote as a fic but then changed it up. it was a "magical realism" au based on my undergrad senior thesis, lol. (the most common remark about it in my advanced creative writing seminar was "uh, it sounds like you know what you're talking about.") it's so imperfect, but writing it was SO much fun, and i had a whole soundtrack i listened to as i wrote, and then a few years ago i did a massive edit of it which was even more fun and it's still very imperfect and can't figure out why. i also don't like daniel's name but i named him after 2 ppl i knew at the time and now i can't change it, lol.

OH AND ALSO: granit's first flashback chapter in dangerous AU!

if you write fic, you are tagged, but i definitely tag: @new-berry @protect-daniel-james @fanficburner @purefractals @colorsofmyseason @bsaka7 @arsenalgbt AND ANYONE ELSE I FORGOT please do it if you see it!!!

[heartstringsduet]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Thank you for the tag @theghostofashton @ladytessa74 @reyesstrand @orchidscript @alrightbuckaroo @liminalmemories21 @strandnreyes @welcometololaland @jesuisici33 @freneticfloetry 💗

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

42 (lol)

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

315,562. (But I have 230k+ unpublished with plans to post it)

3. What fandoms do you write for

911 Lone Star right now though I have a long Glee fic still almost finished and never uploaded.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

1. Danger Zone 2. In good hands 3. No Need To (Glee fic) 4. A Heart with New Skin 5. In order to keep you

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

It's my favorite thing (after reading the comments)!!! I simply love getting long rambley replies to my comments on other fics and I want to give the same thoughful reply to comments if I can. Comments mean so much, I want to give back. 💕

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Glances at my Glee fics...uhm. Yeah I don't shy away from ambigious endings but I feel like the Tarlos fandom would have my head lol. But hey there is In your corner that does have a pretty sad foreboding ending (but it's part of a series so it doesn't really count)

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Maybe The kind you can't get away from and you could say there is multiple happy endings in In the dark ;)))

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Only unkind 'criticism'

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Oh almost always sprinkle it in if it fits. I mean I have a whole D/s series I guess you can tell what kind I write.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I don't and don't really like them.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Nope.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nein. And I definitely don't want to translate my own.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not yet but planning to. I think collaborating can be so fun. <3 Anyone hit me up and we'll see if we can work something out.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

For now it's Tarlos. Still get giggly watching Klaine scene and reading Kurtbastian scenes and find other on-screen couples cute but never go crazy about them like I did for those.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

The WIP of how Carlos feels about Owen and then how TK feels about Gabriel.

16. What are your writing strengths?

................I write daily? Like I don't hate my writing at all, I'm proud of it, but not sure one thing sticks out above anything else. Decent smut? idk.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Sticking to a single theme. I have so many ideas I want to follow and then I do only to realize.....nope that doesn't work. I'm very intuitive as a writer which is a lot of fun but not necessarily lends itself to good story arcs or good storytelling.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I personally like it a lot. I even like googling to find out what it says if there's no translation.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Naruto. But in German.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

Weirdly enough the Kurtbastian fic I wrote for Nanowrimo last year and now is 100k gathering dust because Tarlos took over my life. But I think I romantice it because it was the first writing I had done in 6 years and I fell back in love with writing. I'm sure I have better fics. I'm also really proud of The kind you can't get away from and Take my hand take my whole life too

Sorry I competely lost track of who did it. So if you want to participate I tag you lovely soul

[notasapleasure]

Fic Writer 20 Questions

I've been tidying out my likes and remembered @elwenyere's open invitation tags on this, too, so here we go!

sshysmm's works on ao3 (user name is a ref to my old tumblr)

1) How many works do you have on ao3

128 (and I think I'm missing some of the band AU stuff I never moved over from the blog @theartistknownaslymond…)

2) What's your ao3 word count?

1,038,645 words. haha. what the fuck.

3) What fandoms do you write for?

Actively, right now: Star Wars (particularly Andor; previously Rogue One and a few spin-off novels), the Lymond Chronicles, and I do very much intend to return to my fics for And Then We Danced.

I have also written for Ripper Street, The Terror, The Musketeers (don't look! don't look! it's my 'now can i remember how to write fic after over a decade out of fandom fic) and Utopia (another one it would be cool to add to after I get a chance to rewatch).

4) What are your top five fics by kudos?

good god they're all Jyn/Cassian. it's the only big ship I've written for I suppose

Be alright tomorrow (Rogue One, Jyn/Cassian) Hope in the air (Rogue One, Jyn/Cassian) Singer, save our secular souls (Rogue One, Jyn/Cassian) To steal what she never could own (Rogue One, Jyn/Cassian) Delayed gratification (Rogue One, Jyn/Cassian)

5) Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try to!! Sometimes when I'm deep in the writing hole I just stay away from ao3 so as not to ?? idk?? make myself feel guilty? get distracted? so it can take me a while to respond.

When people are reading updates as I post them I try to respond quicker! I like to respond to acknowledge how grateful I am to people who took the time to read and cheerlead and say something nice. To show I appreciate it and the time they spent on it. If it possibly leads to discussion about what's going on in the fic then so much the better!

6) What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Probably just Hope in the Air, for sticking with the canon Rogue One ending and leaning into the sense that even if he got to a bacta tank, Cassian's in a pretty bad way. Also Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing (Ripper Street), again for…following canon, dealing with Deborah's decision to stop seeing Reid and Emily's descent into a place where Reid feels he has to have her sent to the asylum.

7) What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Jerott wish-fulfilment!! The ransoun made, the prisoneris redeemit (Lymond Chronicles, Francis/Jerott).

8) Do you get hate on fics?

I don't think I've had any hate on ao3, no. Some blunt comments when I hadn't done my research on aurebesh well enough/resued a plot device, but not hate.

9) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Yes? All kinds? Idk, I'm trying to get more creative, though traditionally I think I write emotionally knotty, not-always-satisfying sex that does heavily lifting on the characterisation. And is also hot.

10) Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

I haven't posted it on ao3 yet, but there's the Lymond Chronicles 1980s band AU crossover with And Then We Danced, which is just like. The nichest of nichey niches. Can't believe there are like three people who might read it, so it's still not as unpopular as a medieval Icelandic saga au of a niche Andor ship written in the first person. I didn't go out of my way to drive readers away, I swear!!! Please give The Saga of the Coal-biter and the Skraeling a chance, it's my precious baby.

11) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge, lol. I think more people would need to want to read my fics first.

12) Have you ever had a fic translated?

No, but I'm open to it if anyone wants! I have had two podfics made of my works, which has been lovely!

13) Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

No, though there was a fun Lymond Pawn in Frankincense AU which started as me and @erinaceina spit-balling about Philippa getting captured by GRM and Khaireddin surviving, and @stripedroseandsketchpads wrote some nice whumpy scenes about it!

14) What's your all time favorite ship?

Oh, usually whatever I'm writing at any given time. Faramir/Éowyn was formative influences, though.

15) What's a WIP you'd like to finish, but doubt you ever will?

I really don't like admitting that I don't think I'll finish something. I do have 17 subscribers(!!??) to a Lord Bateman (Child ballad 53) inspired Rogue One AU (What would you give?) so even though finishing that is very low down my priorities I'd hate to say outright that I wouldn't return to it.

16) What are your writing strengths?

Emotion, description, description of emotion… capturing micro-expressions and little tics that define a character. Because of this I think I'm pretty good at making people in-character even in weird settings. Writing people who aren't good or bad, just flawed and affected by their lived experiences. Creating an atmosphere. Also, when I pull it off, making you laugh one moment at something ridiculous and then sucker-punching you in the gut :')

17) What are your writing weaknesses?

That when I'm asked to think of my strengths I go blank. That I constantly, constantly overthink things when I've posted them in case I wrote something that will be horribly misunderstood or just actively bore established readers into giving up. The fear that what I enjoy writing is so inherently dull no one else will enjoy reading it, that I'm not setting out to 'write fic' but to write something pretentious and beautiful and that's not what anyone reads fic for. Also oh my god I need to learn brevity. Simple plots. Don't overthink the plot Jo. I what-if my plots to death and then find myself disgusted by all the ways they're inadequate. Actually what all this comes down to is a controlling urge in my writing: I want to control every detail of this scene, including where the information is lacking, and I worry that if I leave anything to chance I'll be misunderstood. But at the same time I love ambiguity and gaps and leaving things open to interpretation. Inside me there are two wolves and one adores unanswered questions while the other suffers from a neurodivergent urge to info-dump in order to make sure everything is clear.

18) Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I'd love to quote from Umberto Eco's author's note to The Name of the Rose, where he argued with his publisher about keeping Latin dialogue in! Ony my copy of the book is in storage. Also there's the whole…I'm a fan of the Lymond Chronicles. If there isn't untranslated dialogue in at least five different languages why are you bothering? And yeah I very much did learn a language because of a film and then spent a lot of time considering how communicating in this language as opposed to English would affect the dialogue and interactions I was writing. So yes, dialogue in another language when it's properly contextualised is good - not when it's random phrases of unnecessary Space Spanish because someone's exoticising Diego Luna.

19) First fandom you wrote for?

I'm of the generation where it was inevitably H*rry P*tter, if we're talking internet published fanfic. But as a kid I did keep diaries full of drawings and stories about Sandokan the tiger and Bucky O'Hare.

20) Favorite fic you've ever written?

I have like. Post-partum depression about the saga AU right now because seeing it interact with the world makes me doubt myself horribly, but realistically, it's my beloved child. It's just having to carry all my grad school trauma as well as all my past Star Wars fandom trauma and you know what?? It's good enough to do that. It is. It's the first of a trilogy, and I WILL finish the trilogy.

As previously said by elwenyere: Open tags for anyone who would like to play!!! This was very fun: @ me with your answers if you'd like to join. <3<3<3

[jenanigans1207]

any advice for imposter syndrome while writing fic? i know i’m writing for myself at the end of the day, and i do love the idea of posting on ao3 but i feel like nothing i write will ever be good enough to post 😭

So, I'll be honest here in saying that imposter syndrome is a bitch and also doesn't listen a lot to reason.

That being said, for me, I usually try to spend a lot of time reasoning with it and then I force myself to do it anyways. I know that people love reading multiple fics with the same trope, so I shouldn't feel bad about writing a common idea. I know that different writing styles are what bring life to a fic and set it apart from every other fic. I know that I love reading different writing styles, different takes on characters. So why wouldn't other people feel the same? I know that there's always room for improvement, and I can't beat myself up for realizing that I may write this fic differently if I were to sit with the idea and write it some time in the future.

It's a lot of knowing and that knowing comes from a lot of experience on being on the other side of the fic-- being the reader. Like I said, I love seeing different takes on the same characters, seeing people place different reasoning behind the same actions, or give different repercussions to something. It's interesting, it keeps me invested, i love to see it. I love certain tropes (mutual pining, anyone?) to the point that I will read damn near anything with those tropes/tags so I'm thrilled beyond belief when someone new provides me with another fic that I know I'll enjoy. I don't sit there and go "another one?" I get excited for more content that I love.

It's also a lot of knowing that comes from experience as the writer. I will die on the hill that is the fact that we will always be harsher on our own work than anyone else. And that we can't really appreciate how our work will come across to others because we're so close to it. It's hard to see it as something other than a compilation of sentences that you had to struggle through. It's hard to read a sentence that has a word you're not quite satisfied with and think of the impact of the sentence instead of what the fuck is the word I'm trying to remember? I've written enough in my life to know that those things don't ever go away, as much as I'd love to tell you they do. But it does mean that other people won't think of my writing as negatively as I do because they have fresh eyes and no previous association to what they're reading. We don't have that luxury, so it's hard for us to see.

But no matter how much I know these things, no matter how much i experience them from both sides of the fic-- I still have to hype myself up sometimes to post, too. And yeah, sometimes I go "what's the worst that could happen?" and that's enough to give me the guts. Sometimes I remind myself that people haven't liked my writing before and I've survived, so I'd survive if it happened again.

But I will tell you this-- there is nothing more rewarding that someone leaving you a comment about how much something you wrote touched them. While I am a firm believer that we write for ourselves, there is no denying the connection that is made between writer and reader, and there's no denying the impact on the author when a reader is touched by their work. It's this sort of breathtaking feeling, knowing that you poured some of your heart into something and someone found value in that.

I have read many fics that have pulled me out of dark places in my life and given me a reason to get up every new day. And the knowledge that something I wrote might be that for someone else is often enough for me. Even if one person finds joy in what I wrote, it's worth putting it out there. We write for ourselves, sure, but we share it for other people.

And I don't really know if this is helpful at all or just a lot of rambling. But I guess if I had to summarize, I'd say this: imposter syndrome sucks and doesn't listen to reason. Try to reason with it anyways. Remind it that people want this. Hell, talk to your friends about what you're writing so they can want it first! Having someone close to you, someone trusted share your enthusiasm goes a long way. I've only scraped to the end of projects because of my friends many times in the past. So reason with it. Remind it that people want this, that people will enjoy it. Let people in your life tell you that they want it and enjoy it. Remind yourself the benefit that fic has had in your life and then tell yourself that you'll be giving that same benefit to someone else's life. Think of the rewarding feeling of people loving what you write. Remind yourself that the internet is kinder to you than you are to yourself (hard to believe, I know).

And if all of that fails, say that it's perfectly fine to be scared and just choose to do it scared. In my experience, the first time is always the hardest. So close your eyes and press post and know that it gets easier from there, every single time you do it. And allow the world to help you fight that imposter syndrome.

Your work will improve your fandom. It will provide happiness. It will fulfill people, get people to talk about it, share it, reread it when they're having a bad day. This isn't speculation. I am absolutely certain of it. No fandom gets worse with more content made lovingly. So write it for yourself, and then post it for other people and know that it get easier and that it's worth it.

[catty-words]

For the getting to know the fic writer meme, #20, and whichever ines you want to do from #22-30

20. Have you noticed any patterns in your fics? Words/expressions that appear a lot, themes, common settings, etc?

i have this specific sentence structure i use to describe laughter way too often. something like they laughed, a huffing sort of thing. i am going to regret pointing it out, because what if you guys see it all over my writing now? 😳

additionally, i think 'codependency is sexy when it's fictional characters' probably shows up in my writing a lot.

22. Are there certain types of writing you won’t do? (style, pov, genre, tropes, etc)

kid fic does not interest me in the slightest.

23. Best writing advice for other writers?

read! reading is like secretly learning about writing because you don't even have to be cognizant of your tastes for them to go through stages of refinement.

24. Worst writing advice anyone ever gave you?

i was scared of adverbs there for a period. which didn't necessarily hurt my writing, but i like a well-placed adverb as much as the next gal!

25. What fic do you wish you got more of a response on?

you know what? there are some fics where you post, and you want so badly for people to notice particular things you did, no response feels like enough. you know what i mean? like, you're yearning for a particular commentary that only you can give yourself, it's not likely to come from a stranger because they didn't experience the whole creative process alongside you.

but when i look back at my ao3 profile, i'm always kinda shocked at how many nice comments or bookmark tags there are to revisit. i am blessed by an observant and consistent audience. no notes.

26. Which of your fics would you call your wildest ride?

it's hard for me to say. i feel like i don't take readers on wild rides. fun rides? sure. pleasant and cozy rides? totally. wild? not so much.

that said, i think the lie away epilogue was quite the ride for regular readers. 😈

27. What is your most and least favorite part of writing?

most favorite is when i'm in the middle of writing, and my urge to open social media is usurped entirely by my desire to be in the google doc.

least favorite is when my urge to be writing instead of mindlessly scrolling doesn't have a fic on which to attach itself.

28. On average, how much writing do you get done in a day?

approximately 200 word's worth.

29. What’s your revision or editing process like?

constant, but i like it that way.

30. Do you share rough drafts or do you wait until it’s all polished?

gotta be polished, for sure. exposing fics to the air outside my brain is like cutting an apple and leaving it to sit a while before you eat it. goes brown.

get to know your fic writer asks

[danpuff-ao3]

Uncensored

Fiction (noun)

1.) literature in the form of prose, especially novels, that describes imaginary events and people.

2.) something that is invented or untrue.

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Disclaimer: no real people were harmed in the creation of this fanwork (or any others.)

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Content Rating E: Explicit: only suitable for adults.

This post will discuss mature themes that requires rational thinking and an open-mind. Tread carefully.

Content Warnings: discussions of violence, death, and sex. Mentions of other "questionable" content. Acknowledgment that content you do not like probably exists.

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YKINMKATOK (or KINKTOMATO) (aka Your Kink Is Not My Kink (And That's OK): Kinks that you do not like exist. Their mere existence is not hurting you. Please feel free to click away from any subject matter that does not appeal to you.

SALS (aka Ship and Let Ship): ships that you do not like or outright hate exist. They are not hurting you by existing, no matter how "immoral" you believe them to be.

DL;DR (aka Don't Like, Don't Read): seriously, folks, there's a back button. Feel free to click it any time.

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Dead Dove; Do Not Read: I'm warning you, turn back now. This post is anti-censorship. If you cannot handle reading such content, now is the time to turn back. If you continue reading, do so at your own risk.

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Horror films have been part of my life for as long as I can remember. The really good stuff, too. Gore splattered on the screen. Genitalia hanging loose. Sex, and murder, hand-in-hand.

The primary reason for this was that my father wanted to watch horror films, and we as a family did what my father wanted. My mother never stopped it, because she didn't believe in censoring anything. The world is what it is; she was never going to hide us from any of it.

For years, my brother and I would cover our eyes with our hands when two characters so much as kissed onscreen. Not because our parents told us to; society had sunk its claws in early, regardless of my parents' will. We peeked between our fingers; we wanted to give the illusion of purity without actually partaking in it.

Our parents weren't always present when we watched horror films. As a child it would sometimes be just my brother and I watching Texas Chainsaw Massacre or Nightmare on Elm Street or the Chucky franchise.

I've never killed anyone. Not with a chainsaw, not with an axe, not with a gun, not with my hands. I've never killed anyone, ever. I've never wanted to. I don't even believe in the death penalty.

Being exposed to violent media never made me violent.

Did it alter me in any way, being exposed to such extreme media so young? Who knows. Maybe. I don't know who I would be without it. I've never known life without it. But I like to think I'm a decent person. I don't commit crimes. I try to be nice to people. I'm a hard worker. I'm pretty goofy.

It's also made me pretty anti-censorship and...well. Some people might see that as a crime; as a sin. And in that case, well, you might as well ban everything to prevent people like me from existing.

(You don't actually think that will work, do you?)

(I hope not; I did say this post was for adults only, didn't I?)

I read Flowers in the Attic...young. I was 9 or 10 maybe. It was before I discovered fanfiction. It never gave me unseemly feelings towards my brother or my parents; it never gave me the urge to lock up small children, or poison them.

At age 11, I discovered fanfiction. It was a happy accident from Googling "Harry Potter" and somehow stumbling on an explicit Drarry fic.

Should I have read that fic at age 11? No. But that's my fault for lying about my age. It's my parents' fault for not paying me any mind. It wasn't the fic's fault for existing.

The whole world isn't child-safe and it never will be. It's the responsibility of caretakers to mind their wards; not the world's responsibility to tiptoe around you and your rules.

The real world doesn't have content warnings. There is no tagging system for real life. And real life is much more dangerous than fanfiction.

Soon after reading that Drarry fic, I moved onto Snarry. I dove right into the deep end. I inhaled dead dove content at lightning speed. You couldn't pry me away from it.

11 year old Danni understood what an E rating meant. 11 year old Danni also understood what fiction meant.

I've never looked at a minor sideways. I've never wanted to. I've never touched anyone without clear and enthusiastic consent.

In fact, and this might be TMI, but I've only ever been with 2 people in my life. My first time was at age 18, with a guy I'd been with for a year and who I was engaged to.

All around, I was what one might call a "good kid"; I studied, I went to school, I didn't party, I didn't sneak out, I didn't do drugs. I skipped school once my senior year and other than that my worst crime was lying about my age to read questionable content.

Watching monsters onscreen and reading about them in books never made me a monster.

Or, well...I do spend my time writing underage stories, and non-con, and the occasional incest. I write infidelity and horrific angst. I write about morally questionable content, and that's as good as actually doing those things, right?

So if that's how you see it, maybe I am a monster. The monster putting words to page for others to read and enjoy.

If you're a wannabe monster hunter, and if fictional wrongdoing is as evil as real wrongdoing, then you might as well go after the easier target, right? You won't actually save the world that way, but you can pat yourself on the back for a job well done, I guess.

So while the torches and pitchforks are being prepped and the Tiktoks uploaded, I'm gonna go continue working on my very messed up porn. Just like I always have, and always will.

~Fin~

[nikolai-alexi]

Jegulus Mini Fic #4

WC: 5900 average read time 45 minutes

CW/Tags: MAIN CHARACTER DEATH, graphic descriptions of death, graphic descriptions of drowning, angst, all hurt kind of comfort?, HEA in death, minor descriptions/allusions of child abuse, period typical racism, barely proofread, yet again neither my goddamn HTML horizontal line or read more link formatting will not work so if anyone knows how to fix that please help I'm about to set this entire app on fire ngl, enjoy copious amounts of angst pals I made myself sad with this so you get to be sad too fuckers

Quote Credit: "The kindest people...so important in this world" - Bianca Sparacino "The Mind Journal" & "How is it so easy for you to be kind to people...because people have not been kind to me" - Rupi Kaur (quote is tweaked into multiple dialogues and extra detail)

They are perched together, not in the Astronomy Tower, but rather on top of it, the night Regulus asks James the question that tilts his entire world axis. They've not been together long, just a few blissful months filled to the brim with secret meetings above the roof of the Astronomy Tower and stolen kisses in broom cupboards and empty classrooms. They are still getting to know one another, really. Regulus knows James’ favourite colour is yellow and that he’s an absolute swot when it comes to Transfiguration, but struggles a lot with Potions. James knows that Regulus’ favourite colour is blue and that while Potions might be what he’s good at, he likes Charms more. Getting to know each other on a surface level like this has been fun, really; they laugh at each other for silly things, argue over what sweets are superior, share stories of things their friends have done, and they do so in the middle of heated snogging sessions and exploratory wanderings.

Tonight, however, the frigid November air between them is melancholy. There is a heavy silence and neither one of them seem to know how to break it. They aren’t touching, Regulus can barely stand their proximity as it is, his skin is crawling and his mind is racing, yet the thought of not being near James is much worse than the discomfort he’s currently facing. James’ eyes are dark and oh-so sad. Regulus sees all the emotions he desperately wants to let out reflected back to him in those warm, espresso-coloured eyes.

Walburga has informed him that he is to take the Mark this summer. He will be sacrificed to the Dark Lord and be a shackled slave for the rest of his life. He will be forced to torture and kill in the name of someone who he does not have the barest hint of respect for. He will be forced to kneel and simper before someone who he would otherwise look down upon and scoff. At barely sixteen years old, he will be forced to give himself over and enslave his magic. He cannot breathe right with this knowledge weighing down on his chest. He has no choice but to do as his Mother wishes; otherwise, she will hunt his brother down to the ends of the Earth and rip him away from the only home and real family he’s ever known. Regulus refuses to be so selfish. He will do anything to keep Sirius safe from her, even if it means condemning himself to die. Sirius saved him so much pain and suffering for the sixteen years he lived in that house; this is the least Regulus can do for him in return.

This whirlpool of thoughts circling ‘round and ‘round his head is what prompts the question to fall past his lips without his permission.

“How do you do it?” He asks, his voice is hoarse from all the crying he’s done today. He’s so drained that he doesn’t have it in him to be embarrassed about it.

James looks at him, a little startled from the sudden cease in their respective silences, but cocks his head curiously at him, “How do I do what, Reg?”

He fumbles for words for a moment, and he hates the inadequacy of the ones he chooses, but he doesn’t actually know how to ask this, “How are you so kind? How is it so easy for you to be so kind to people?”

James is quiet, but Regulus can tell he’s thinking, so naturally, he word vomits his nervousness at James' answer out, “It’s just— well, I don’t want to be bad, James. I don’t like being cold and cruel, but I don’t know how to be kind. I don’t know how to feel kindness or sincerity. I watch you with people you don’t even know and I wonder if there’s some fundamental part of me that’s missing or if they’ve just made me into a monster,”

James sighs heavily, and he looks up into the sky for a long time before he speaks. His lip trembles a little bit and it strikes Regulus as strange. James looks…scared? The words that tumble out of his mouth drip with milk and honey, the tone is quiet and sweet, gentle, in a way that James is so rarely allowed to be, but the words themselves are bitter, poisonous things. They cut Regulus to the core, despite them not being directed at him at all.

“It’s not easy at all,” James sighs. He’s terrified and ashamed of speaking those words aloud. A large part of him wants to lie and say he just is that kind, that his parents raised a good kid who does his best to care for others and be kind to everyone. But he refuses to lie to Regulus, “I’m kind to others because people haven’t been kind to me,”

There is a long silence, and Regulus feels like he’s trying to decipher a lost language. He understands the words James says, but he can’t grasp what he means with them.

“But, everyone loves you, James. I don’t understand?”

James chuckles a hollow laugh and turns his entire body towards Regulus. Regulus follows suit. James looks at him intently, “Look at me, Regulus,” and, oh, hearing his full name fall from James’ lips feels strange, James calls him all sorts of ridiculous pet names he pretends to hate, or Reg, or Reggie, he very rarely calls him Regulus, “Look at me and tell me the very first thing you see. Pretend you’ve never met me before. Like I’m someone you pass in the street. What do you see first and foremost?”

Regulus scrunches his nose. He feels as though this is a trick question. There are so many variables to what someone would notice about another person depending on the situation. How should he know what he would notice first about James if he’d passed him on the street? Probably that he was bloody fit, but that doesn’t seem like the answer James is looking for. If he passed James on the street, would James be wearing one of his worn, holey band tee shirts? Or his yellow trainers? Would he smile at Regulus as he walks by?

“Your glasses?” Regulus guesses, it seems like a fair assumption. But James just smiles a sad smile.

“Put your hand up,” he says softly, and Regulus does. James doesn’t touch him, but he raises his own hand to mirror Regulus’.

“What do you see, Regulus?”

Oh. He understands now.

Compared to Regulus’ pasty, pale complexion, James’ is almost startlingly dark against it. Where you can quite clearly see the blue of some of Regulus’ veins, the skin around his hands and wrists almost translucent-like, James' skin is full of warmth and colour. His face and arms still hold onto the remains of a deep tan from the summer hols. He knows James spent a lot of time gardening with his mum over the break, and the right side of his face is just slightly darker than the left. He has freckles that dot his face, neck, and hands that are barely visible from far away, but Regulus has played connect the dots with them all. He has scars that litter his body, leaving little silver streaks against his skin. James is beautiful. Everything about him is warm and full of life and colour and joy. Regulus cannot imagine that anyone could look at James and not fall in love with what they see.

“My entire life has been riddled with slurs and vitriol, love. When people pass me in the street, the first thing they see is the colour of my skin, and immediately I am less than human to them. The Wizarding World and the Muggle World are the same in that regard.”

“When I was seven, I met a boy in town at the park. We played together all day until his Dad came to pick him up. We’d agreed to meet again the next day to play. I went home and told my parents how excited I was, and all about the new friend I’d made. That next day, I went to the park to play with my new friend and he told me to go back to my own country and threw sand in my face,”

Regulus’ mouth dropped open, “Merlin,” he breathed. James cocked a sad smile.

“I have dual citizenship with Britain and India, but I was born here in the UK. But people see the colour of my skin, and nothing I do will ever change their perception of me. I will always be second because my skin is brown and theirs is white,”

James is quiet for a long moment, “There is a cruelty in me, Reg. One that festered with years of anger and bitterness because I hated being judged and scrutinised for every little thing. There are times I genuinely want to hurt people. There are times when I desperately want to turn that vitriol back at the people who yell it at me. There are times I want to just scream and let my magic last out and destroy everything around me,”

“Being kind doesn’t come easy to me, Reg. I have to consciously choose, each and every time, to do the right thing or be the bigger person. And I don’t always make that choice when I should, sometimes I let that cruel side of me out. In the moment, letting that viciousness out, letting the bitterness breathe, releasing everything that I’m constantly fighting against, it feels good. It makes me feel victorious and superior, like if I cut the people around me down until they’re small, it’ll make me feel bigger. In the moment, it’s a wonderful feeling, a dark one, but no less wonderful. In the end, though, I might hurt someone else and feel my own wounds close temporarily, I only end up bleeding more,” James falls quiet once more, tapping his fingers against his knees that he’s drawn into his chest.

Regulus knows exactly what James is talking about. He does exactly that to the people around him. Using words to gut another person, to inflict pain and anger and make them feel exactly how he always feels, is something of a talent of his. Or, it’s something of a Black Family talent, he supposes. For as good as Sirius is in comparison to the rest of them, he does the same thing. Andy, Bella, and Cissa are the same. They have never felt the hand of kindness; it’s like wielding a weapon they’ve never seen before. The Black children have only been taught how to slice, rip, and stab at others with fatal efficiency. He doubts they will ever truly understand how to caress, nurture, or love.

Regulus nearly misses James’ next words, lost in his own mind as he is, but thankfully he comes back to the present in time. James’ words are careful and gentle, but there is a brittle edge to his voice still.

“My mum says that the best things in life rarely come from easy choices. And I believe that, at least partly. Choosing to be kind or do the right thing isn’t easy, but lots of good things come from it. But hard choices aren’t the only things that bring good things. Sometimes, the easiest choice is the best thing that ever happens to you,”

Regulus cocks his head, curious. James sounds certain, like he’s thinking about something specific. He waits to see if James will elaborate, but when he doesn’t, Regulus glances over at him, “Like what?”

James smiles, it’s a sad thing; his eyes are misty with tears he won’t let fall, and Regulus feels like no wonders of the world will ever measure up to the beauty of James Potter and the endless, foreign feeling of security Regulus always feels when he looks into James’ eyes.

“Like loving you,” he says, as though it’s the most simple thing in the world for him to say.

Regulus feels as though he can’t breathe again, but oxygen feels irrelevant in the face of this revelation. His body, his brain, and his heart are screaming. He so desperately wants to love James. He so desperately wants to be loved by James. He wants, and wants, and wants. He's well aware that he's a selfish little creature, but here in this moment, all he can think about is how desperately he craves to understand what it is to be loved. What is it like to feel valued and cherished by another person? His namesake is at the very heart of the Leo constellation, but he cannot be satisfied by that any longer. The centre of a constellation lightyears away is no longer enough; he wants to be the centre of someone's entire universe. Will it feel like the silly muggle romance books he pretends he doesn't read describe? Does he know how to love in return? He doesn't know the answer to that, but he thinks he would work so very hard at trying to love James. He knows he shouldn't. He knows he should end this now and save them both the pain, but as he searches James' face and looks into those eyes, so full of warmth and life, he finds that he simply doesn't care what he should or shouldn't do. He peers into James' eyes, searching for any hint of deception, but all he finds is an endless feeling of foreign-feeling security and promise. And he knows then that he won't choose kindness as James does. He is an evil, selfish creature at his core, and he is not strong enough to pick the hard choice. He wants. He needs.

"You shouldn't," Regulus whispers, "love me. You shouldn't. You should run and save yourself from the Hell I'm going to put you through."

James says nothing. He watches Regulus, and he waits. Regulus runs his hands through his curls, musing them in a way he would never do in the company of anyone else. He knows he should make James leave, protect him somehow, but he doesn't.

"I don't even know what love is, James," His voice cracks, admitting that out loud, letting those words finally surface from the depths of his soul feels like it rips a hole in his heart, "I'm like a slow poison. I'll end up killing you in the end, you know that, don't you?"

James' lips quirk in a humourless grin. They will be on opposite sides of the War. Neither of them have a choice in that matter, and even if they did, Regulus doubts either of them would choose differently.

"I have a hard time believing that any poison could taste as sweet as you do," He says. The words are flirtatious, but they lack his customary playful smirk and spark. Regulus lets out a brittle laugh.

They are silent for long moments. The sounds of the Forest coming to life surround them. Regulus has half a mind to snatch James up and seek sanctuary in the Forest. Perhaps they can outrun the War together. They could disappear into the night's mist, and find a home within the woods and wilderness. Their biggest worry would be werewolves on the full moon, and in comparison to the Dark Lord, werewolves looked like overgrown puppies.

Regulus sighs; the cloud of air puffs in front of him, billowing like smoke in the empty space before him. He returns his gaze to James. They stare at each other, neither blinking, neither speaking, neither breathing.

"You understand what you're doing, right? You know how this will go?"

"Yeah, Regulus, I know,"

"What will we do when..." He can't push the rest of the words past his lips, already the thought of the inevitable threatens to drown him in the waves of his emotions. He may not need to worry about killing James after all. The weight and pain of this may kill him instead.

James says nothing for a long time, breaking their connection and gazing across the grounds. Regulus wants him to look back again, look, he wants to say, look at me, even if all you see is darkness, look at me because I cannot stand for you to look away and see someone better.

"We do what we can for as long as we can, and when we can't anymore, we try to handle the can't as best we can," James' voice is full of conviction and his eyes blaze with a kind of fire Regulus has never seen before. He's seen the fires of pain, of anger, and of sadistic glee, but he's never seen a fire in someone's eyes made of pure love. He finds himself wishing he could step into the dark orbs of James' eyes and let that fire consume him wholly and leave nothing of him behind.

Before he's able to respond, James speaks once more, "Who knows," he whispers, "Maybe we get lucky in this life and on the other side of the can't, there'll be a can,"

Regulus doesn't have the heart to tell James that he simply isn't a lucky person. Luck has abandoned him at every turn, and he's not deluded enough to hope it might change this time, so he just hums and drops his head against James' shoulder and lets his arm pull him into the warmth of his body, "Maybe," he whispers.

***

The kindest people are not born that way, Regulus thinks; they are made. They are the souls that have experienced so much at the hands of life. They are the ones who have dug themselves out of the dark, the ones who have fought to turn every loss into a lesson. The kindest people do not just exist — oh no, Regulus knows that the kindest people are the ones who choose to soften where circumstance has tried to harden them. They choose to believe in goodness because they have seen firsthand why compassion is so necessary. They have seen firsthand why tenderness is so important in this world.

Regulus now knows intimately what kind of strength it takes for someone to choose kindness over something like anger or fear. He is reminded of it as he watches James Potter dive to knock Evan Rosier out of the way of the bright green Killing Curse that Mad-Eye Moody sends his way, completely ignoring the yells from his comrades. Even as he stuns Evan and whips around to punch Barty in the face, knocking him out cold, Regulus is flooded with reminders of how strong James’ kindness is. He is floored by an emotion he can only describe as tenderness, maybe love? He doesn’t know, but when he meets James’ eyes across the battlefield, he sees that same feeling reflected back at him in those beautiful eyes and he thinks he finally understands what it feels like to love another person wholly and completely. The force and intensity of it threatens to bring him to his knees right there in the middle of the blood-soaked battlefield. He gets it now. He breathes in deeply. They are still locked onto each other’s gaze, spellfire is all around them and screams fill the air as people from both sides are hit with curses or watch their comrades take their last breaths. He breathes in the putrid smell of ash, flames, and blood that surrounds him. He squares his shoulders.

He knows what he must do now. This time, he will choose kindness.

James must see the resolve that comes over his face because suddenly he’s running towards him like a madman. Regulus smiles behind his mask, smiles the sweet, soft smile that makes his dimple appear. He smiles the smile that James adored several years ago when they sat up on the roof of the Astronomy Tower. He smiles the smile that only James has ever seen.

"I love you" he whispers, the words are thick and heavy against his tongue; he's not sure if he's ever said those words, "I want to be good this time. I want to choose kindness. Goodbye, Jamie, remember me, please,"

He twists to apparate away, but James is quick; his hand latches onto Regulus’ ankle with a vice grip, and he gets sucked into the apparition with him. They land on a sorry-looking beach in Devon, where a large cave sits at the end of the shore.

They bicker and squabble the entire time, just like they used to. It feels as though no time has passed since the last time they held each other. Everything with James feels so easy, so warm, so sweet. Like honey and hot chocolate and cardamom. He wants to breathe in James and let that comforting feeling envelop him for the rest of his life.

They enter the cave together and they obliterate the Horcrux beneath the basin. Regulus falls even more in love with the way James wields Dark magic that they both knew he shouldn't know. James rocks him through the delirium from the Dark Lord's potion, he stays aware of James' arms around him the whole time. The memories assault his consciousness, but he doesn't pay them real mind. All he can focus on, even with the scorching pain and spasms running through his body, is how much he missed the feeling of James' strong arms around him. Oh, how he missed the seeping warmth caressing his skin. How he missed the only feeling of safety he's ever known. When the potion has run its course, when the haze of pain leaves Regulus' eyes, they celebrate on that little island, tangled together; they still fit together perfectly. Like two pieces of a fucked up jigsaw puzzle, they are cut precisely to slot their edges together.

Regulus' ankle is grabbed for the second time this day, but this time it's by a hand that is completely devoid of warmth. It's a slimy, grey hand partially decayed. It yanks him towards the water and he tries to fight it off. But he is magically and mentally exhausted from the potion and destroying the Horcrux; his reactions are slow and his thoughts are muddled. James is fighting off several inferi, but he is slowing. He's just as exhausted as Regulus is. Fear claws at his chest, not for himself, no, he had known he would die here, and he's made his peace with that, but James cannot die here. He won't allow it. James is good and kind and brave. James cannot die in some cave in Devon where no one will ever find his body. He must live.

Before he is pulled into the murky water, Regulus pulls every scrap of magic he has left in his body and screams out a spell he's only used twice in his life.

"Fiendfyre!"

His flames form a magnificent stag and they cut through the inferi like they're nothing. He is still being dragged into the water and he feels more hands gripping and pulling his leg further into the dark depths below. James grabs onto his free hand and tries futility to pull him back to shore, but they both know it's no use.

"Go," Regulus whispers, "Leave me. Get out of here, my love,"

James smiles that crooked grin of his, adorable and charming even as the light in his eyes shines brightly with fear and tears.

"I told you once I would never let you feel alone again. I don't break my promises, Regulus Arcturus Black. I'm not about to start now."

Two men walked into that cave at the end of that pathetic-looking beach in Devon.

Neither of them walks out.

As the water fills his lungs and the lack of oxygen begins to make black spots speckle across his vision, Regulus stares into James' eyes. James stares back. With the last bit of air in his lungs he opens his mouth and says,

"Thank you for teaching me how to be kind. I love you, forever, James Potter,"

He has no way of knowing if James heard him or understands what he said, but as the water rushes into his lungs and he feels himself slip away, he can't help but feel happy that he isn't dying alone. He's always been a selfish little creature, hasn't he? He knows when James is leaving behind. He knows he should make him leave. But he won't. The frigid water should be chilling him to the bone, should be making his teeth chatter, should make him go numb, but holding James' hand as they're both being dragged under, all he feels is completely engulfed in that perfect, warm flame that he'd wanted to step into the first time he'd seen it. The last thing he registers feeling is the warmth and love coming from James' steel grip on his hand.

Maybe he's a little selfish for leaving the world without their human equivalent of the sun. He doesn't care. Despite the water's icy cold chill and the pressure in his lungs, he feels at peace.

He knows now what it means to love someone. He knows now what it means to choose kindness.

His eyes drift shut.

He is at peace.

***

The world moves on without them. The Dark Lord, unknowingly rendered mortal by Regulus and James, is killed in the least dramatic fashion. A misfired jelly-legs jinx wobbles him right in the way of a Killing Curse fired by none other than Bellatrix Lestrange.

Wizarding Britain starts to heal, slowly, but surely. The Ministry is rebuilt and legislation is passed in the hopes of preventing another Dark Lord. Funerals are held, eulogies are given, and mourning wear is worn by everyone.

Everyone except one.

Sirius becomes obsessed with finding his brother's and best friend's remains. He knows they're both dead. Going through their things has been a dreadful process. Finding out they had been dating for two years right under his nose was a nasty shock, but even he could see their adoration for each other plain as day in their letters, that each of them saved, and the few stolen pictures he found. It takes him several years to find Regulus' research on the Horcruxes. He finds the tattered remains of a diary, the gnarled remains of a ring, and a half-melted goblet that looks suspiciously like the one in the portrait of Helga Hufflepuff back at Hogwarts, stashed below the floorboards in Regulus’ room with countless scrolls and annotated pages of books torn out.

Regulus' research stops with a cave in Devon where he's located the next Horcrux, so Sirius grabs Remus and they apparate to a rather dismal beach with a cave at the end of the shore. Despite it being nearly seven years after Regulus and James apparated here, their magical signatures are still very evident. No wizard has been here since then.

A short walk and a smear of blood across a rock wall lead them to the cavern where a small island rests in the middle. Sirius and Remus ride the boat across the lake. They can feel there were once very heavy and dark wards laid across the basin, but they're no longer active. Remus siphons the grey potion out of the basin and Slytherin's locket appears in the bottom. It has a small magical signature, but nothing like the destroyed diary had. He opens it.

The note left addressed to Voldemort is signed by his brother, with his typical flare for dramatics. The real Horcrux is destroyed, probably discarded somewhere in the cave. He looks at Remus.

"The lake is full of inferi," Remus says, sniffing the air lightly and wrinkling his nose at the unpleasant smell.

Sirius grimaces. But he hasn't dedicated half a decade and change trying to find James and Regulus for nothing. This will be one of the hardest things he ever does, he knows, but it will destroy him if he doesn't find them and lay them both to rest.

"Whatcha say, then, Moons? Up for a bit of bar-be-que?"

Remus grins dangerously, amber eyes glinting golden. Always ready for a fight, that one, "You know it,"

Sirius can't help but grin in return. He slaps the water with his hand and jerks quickly away as inferi race to the surface. They work quickly together. Both powerful wizards and comfortable duelling with each other, they manage to cut through hundreds of inferi with little difficulty.

"Pads," Remus says quietly. Sirius knows that tone of voice. A trickle of fear runs down his spine. Remus couldn't be tiring, could he? They haven't been duelling for more than an hour, Sirius has barely broken a sweat.

"Yeah, Moony?"

"Trade spots with me. You need to see this,"

Oh.

He swallows against the rising lump in his throat. He has to do this. He can't back out now. He takes a gulp of unpleasant air, trying to prepare himself for what he's about to come face to face with.

"On my count, then, yeah?" Sirius asks, a little breathless. Remus just grunts in the affirmative as he blasts several inferi apart with a strong incendio.

"Right then," Sirius mumbles. He slices four inferi apart with quick whips of lacero that his mother would likely be proud of, Merlin only knew she'd used it on him and Regulus enough as children. Really, it only made sense that he would be a deft hand at it, "Ready...now!"

Remus and Sirius roll against each other's backs, balancing and propelling one another in the right direction. It's a practised move for them; they haven't used it since the War, but it's still smooth as ever. They have to work hard for a few minutes fighting back the inferi that closed in during the half-second it took them to change sides. So he doesn't see it at first.

Once he's gotten the charging undead pushed back to a manageable distance, he glances around. His knees nearly buckle when he sees it. Only instinctual self-preservation keeps him standing up, his body intrinsically knowing that if he crashed to the ground, he'd surely die.

"Fucking hell," he wheezes. His breath has been punched out of him. He's basically fighting blind because he can't tear his eyes away from it.

Standing away from the hoard of fighting water zombies, are two inferi with their hands and arms melded together. They're both partially decayed, but not as bad as one would expect for seven years underwater. They aren't attacking, or moving at all, just standing on the beach in the torn remains of a long black robe and one yellow trainer on the left foot, and one red trainer on the right. The James-inferi has its head cocked, almost curiously. Sirius wants to cry from how familiar that look is. Wants to laugh at James' mismatched trainers he completely forgot he'd worn the night he'd disappeared.

It doesn't take them much longer before he and Remus have destroyed the last of the inferi. They vanish the remains of the undead and turn their attention to the inferi still standing in the same place. Their hands and half their firearms are conjoined by mangled flesh; it's a gruesome image, certainly, but it's also romantic in a way. Even though they're both long gone, long dead, Sirius can't help but be grateful he gets to see tangible proof of their love for each other.

Sirius sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. He feels for Regulus' magical signature, trying to see if he can tell what he cast before they died. Luckily, he'd used a massive spell, and even seven years later, he can feel the ashen touch of Fiendfyre.

"Right then, lovebirds, you've been away from home long enough, don't you think? It's high time to rest now," Sirius says. He doesn't know why he's bothering to talk to inferi; they aren't sentient creatures, so it's rather pointless. But James and Regulus still look so human. It's hard to believe they aren't alive, even with the bits of flesh falling off their bones, and sagging with waterlogged skin. He wants to believe that he sees their shoulders drop in tandem, like relief, but he knows that's madness. It's still a nice thought, even if it hurts, to believe there's something of them left now; it makes it easier to do this. He knows without a doubt that neither James nor Regulus would want to be tied to the Earth like this after their deaths. He's happy to give them their freedom from this watery hellscape of a grave.

He readies himself. He summons every bit of bitter resentment and hatred he has in him and casts the spell. The inferi take a tandem step into the flames. He knows he's not imagining their relief when the James-inferi smiles and the Regulus-inferi turns its head to James, a look of peace across his features. The snarling canine flame consumes their water-logged bodies with a painful, echoing howl in seconds as if his very magic calls out for the two people he will never have again and leaves a small pile of ash behind it. Remus accio’s the pile and puts it gently into an urn they’d made.

"Okay," Sirius heaves a deep breath, trying to stave off his impending breakdown; there will be time for that later, "I think I'm ready."

"Ready for what?" Remus asks, his voice is just as hoarse as Sirius' own. He's just as affected and emotional as Sirius is, but trying to keep it together. They'll fall to pieces together, but later, only after they've finished this.

"To lay them to rest. They've been cremated, obviously, but Reggie put in his will that he wants a tombstone and a gravesite, so I want to make sure he gets it. And I don't want to separate them,"

"Best get crackin' on, then, shall we?"

Their headstones are delivered a week later. The caskets remain empty besides a destroyed locket and melted goblet in one, and a shredded diary and a ring in the other. Sirius and Remus clutch necklaces with small, clear vials filled with ash as the gravedigger lowers the caskets gently into their graves and seals the dirt in with magic.

The headstones are two different marble types. One of them is white marble, and the other is black marble. The stone is cut to fit together like a puzzle piece, two completely different types of the same material. Just as James and Regulus were to each other.

The stone reads the run-of-the-mill things, their names, birthdays, best approximate death dates, etc. but across the top, carving through the puzzle pieces reads a quote that Sirius still hasn't been able to work out the meaning from Regulus' many notes and written ramblings. It's a profound thing, that's for sure, and Sirius is glad he stumbled upon it, because it simply felt right to go on their headstone. It reads:

True kindness is only found in the person who has experienced the horrors of life, has the capacity for cruelty, and yet often still chooses to be compassionate. Anyone can be violent, but very few are truly kind.

[dothwrites]

hi! making my voice a letter of love for you (finally, i was a bit shy before): you are one of my favorite fandom writers, your fics always leave me feeling SO much, your cas is especially always perfect because he can be a dumbass at times but he's also SO COMPETENT at whatever he does in your fics (and such a bitch) and i just love love love all your aus. in each fic you write them both in a very unique way that really appeals to me so idk why you don't have thousands of kudos on all your fics

you are also the only writer that for me showed sub!cas in a very believable (and hot) way. i often reread bits and pieces of Control, i know the fandom mostly approves of sub!dean and i love him too but there's smth so interesting in sub!cas too ahh

also that one endverse fic with a gun? good god that was An Experience when i first read it

i haven't read all of your fics (and just now saw that you have new ones ahh!) and partly it's because i'm saving some for a rainy day because i know i won't be able to drag myself away from them. but all the fics i've read - perfect

also you sometimes rb my art and leave nice tags and i always go 'omg my fave rb'ed my art! i am perceived!'

anyway thank you for sharing all of your talent with us all ❤️️ your dean and cas have a special place in my heart

first let me apologize for taking so daggone long with this reply. and second, let me PIMP YOU OUT BECAUSE YOUR ART IS ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS. i'm in awe.

this is one of the nicest things anyone's ever told me. i always feel like i struggle writing cas' perspective, just because he's so alien and there are so many different versions of him to choose from. it's difficult to sometimes get a general 'cas' tone set down, so hearing that you enjoyed his characterization is absolutely wonderful.

while i can appreciate sub!dean as much as the next person, sub!cas holds a special place in my heart. i could wax poetical about all my feelings about sub!cas but safe to say that i really do think there's a part of cas that is happiest following orders. and dean would be happy to give cas that bit of freedom, to not have to worry about taking command. i'll be sub!cas truthing in my basement over here for as long as i can.

thank you for this gorgeous and wonderful ask! 💖

[wooahaes]

feeling that way about sex (or smut) isn't stupid. so don't feel like its weird. and its not not normal. just as there's a ton of people who might have sex on the first week of dating, there's people out there who would wait much longer. with the amount of people on this earth, i promise you that a great handful of people would be willing to wait for you until you feel completely reassured. and maybe this is me thinking hopefully, but you're not abnormal for feeling this way, the way you feel is completely valid. it's hard but try thinking on the bright side of things! you're telling me that there is about 7.8 billion people in this world and not a single one would be willing to wait? keep ur head up <3 and i totally understand the concept of doing intimate things without it turning into sex, the bathing together hc was really cute. so continue to post soft domestic things like that because u are not the only one who feels this way :) i hope this also doesn't sound too bossy 😭 i'm rereading it thinking i might sound a bit harsh but imagine someone with a soft and comforting voice saying this to you because tone conveyed through text is pretty hard sometimes (but anyways... enough of me rambling) i hope u feel better

gonna put all of my response under a readmore bc i can already tell i have thoughts lol sdfkhsdf

i think the way society talks about sex a lot now is like... basically tipping it hard into the other direction of things. it feels like it used to be a taboo topic that no one ever spoke about because it's a private thing, and now it feels like people have gone entirely in the idea of sex being something that should be 100% open and if you try to have a private life, you're a prude. if you wait, you're prudish and boring. i fully know it's not everyone (i have friends who are sexually active and don't give me shit for not being bc they recognize that being sex positive is the decision to choose whether you want to or not and getting support either way).

i think it's just discouraging to be someone who like... knows i can't just do that sort of thing without knowing i'm not going to get fucked over again by someone who just wants to get off and feels some need to pull someone else into it bc they know someone's vulnerable. that i'm not going to trust the wrong person again and walk away used again. it just feels like no one's going to hear that and want to stay because it's baggage, and that anyone who stays is going to eventually walk away because i took too long.

you're fine, anon, don't worry. it kinda helps until my mind starts spiraling a little (which i deleted out from this ask) and im just... a mess, i guess. i like writing domestic things, though. it's nice to just have non-sexual intimacy in my fics.

i literally have nothing against writers who write smut (as long as they're not hardcore glorifying shitty behaviors--it's one thing to explore those kinds of things in writing, it's another to promote it like it's something good and condoning people who actively want it because fucking trust me, i've seen that shit before), some of my mutuals do and i love them even if i have to hardcore avoid tht sort of thing sometimes (it rly depends on my mental state on whether i can like... cope with it lol). i just want more non-sexual intimacy in fics, y'know? i don't always want to read about getting dick when the prompt involved giving someone a massage or something. that's good for the people who do want that sort of thing, but not everyone does and that's okay.

although if someone does take an innocent/fluffy/domestic prompt and turn it into smut with zero warnings anywhere, i will bite them to death. tag your content correctly. thank u.

anyway thank u for taking the time to write this anon. i appreciate it a lot <3