#even with a torch sometimes damn

[boyslit-moving]

my little Skyrim guy is a killer bc i haven't done the dark brotherhood quest line in a while and i missed playing a weird little murder hobo

zarathes is a drifter, always on the lookout for easy money, little to no sense of personal space. doesn't understand why people think he's after power, he just wants something to do and some pocket money while chillin. reads all of Cicero's journals without parsing that journals are personal and you don't read other people's, and then goes to tell him he really enjoyed the one where he posed as a fervent fan of the Grand Champion and merc'd the dude in the woods

loves snowberries so northern Skyrim is heaven. i think he'd be happier living in a converted cave or ruin than a fancy house you can buy in town.

[vampsol]

WORST BEHAVIOR | 양정원

⟢ PAIRING: yang jungwon & fem!reader ⟢ WORD COUNT: 2K ⟢ GENRE: smut ⟢ TAGS: established relationship, actor!jungwon, a bit pwp, pet names (pet, love, sweetheart, etc), dom & sub elements (dom!reader & sub!jungwon), sensory play, multiple positions (cowgirl, reverse cowgirl), ass play, unprotected sex ⟢ SYNOPSIS: Jungwon's perfect in front of the camera—a film darling in the eyes of the fans who love him and the team that calls him their "shining star." But sometimes it's too much; sometimes he needs you to be chaotic so he can handle his own chaos, especially in the bedroom. -ˋˏ✄┈┈ AUTHOR'S NOTE: Requested by anon and inspired by the song by kwn. This is also my first fic for Wonnie which I did not expect to write so quickly but I love him and this so much. Also bless up @ghstzzn for letting me carry the torch of this idea lol ilysm. It's not proofread this time, but I think it's good grammar-wise! Let me know if there's any mistakes, though!

He wants this. He wants it all, you tell yourself as you tug the knot of the silky red blindfold tighter until it's snug. You wipe the bead of sweat from his forehead, his body already taut in anticipation of what you plan to do.

"Do you remember your safe word, pet?" you ask. One of your fingers trails down his cheekbone, an acrylic nail dragging lightly across his soft skin, and he shudders from the contact. You unfurl your entire palm for him to rest his cheek inside of, and it melts you like warm honey, similar to the color of his newly dyed hair.

"Artemis," Jungwon whispers. He gasps when you move your hand lower, nestling the palm against his racing heart.

The first date you ever went on, Jungwon called you the goddess's name like it was the greatest title in the world to hold. "She's not a sufferer of fools, right? I know we've just met, but you give me that same impression." Maybe it was the bottle of wine you shared that night, but you couldn't forget how smoothly the compliment slid down into your soul. It's apt to use it now, you think.

He looks like pure sin laid out on your shared bed. His skin is well tanned, muscles toned, strands still slicked back from his earlier photo-shoot. The only thing out of place for him is how swollen and painfully hard his cock is, his tip red and leaking already. You've barely touched him, only a few writhes of your hips being enough to make him crumble before things have even started. But it's more than enough. It's everything, how well you take care of him.

He walked into the apartment with a dejected pout on his face and his fists balled tightly at his sides. You thought the muscles of his face had to be sore from the tight set of his jaw as well. You stopped cooking then to run to him, arms immediately circling his middle.

"Another press junket in Los Angeles." he grumbles into the crown of your head. "They just told me before I left. You'd think they'd give me a break after this damn premiere."

"Didn't they say no more engagements after March?" You furrow your brows in confusion, suddenly angry for your boyfriend, but definitely not to the same magnitude as him.

"Yeah. But that was before they got some famous starlet to interview me for Actors on Actors and landed an entire spread in GQ." He pinches the bridge of his nose to stop the impending bang across his temple, one of his anxiety-induced tension headaches on the horizon.

You squeeze him tighter to fight the negativity in his voice, hoping your touch will settle him and ease his irritation. His blazer rubs against your cheek, the fabric cool despite the wearer's blazing ire.

Film production is stressful; Jungwon's never discounted the level of effort you put into your own career. However, it's no match for the expectations placed upon him as a media starlet or the stress that accompanies the success he's garnered. He's not ungrateful, though; he knows the acclaim will not last forever, and he needs to work hard now to make up for when calls stop coming.

You want to shelter him from every piece that rattles him to alarming degrees, tuck him into your pocket so he can forget it all and coast instead of crash.

"It's not forever. You'll have the entire summer after this," you swear, although it's not up to you to determine completely. You hear the beat of his heart slow, its pace transitioning from frantic to steady, and you think things might just be right in the world again.

Then Jungwon says he needs you—"Please touch me" to be exact—and you know that for him, his stress is far from gone until he's given exactly what he wants.

Lucky for him, you know the solution to every problem he has—what will pull him back to normalcy—even if your methods to get there are unorthodox.

You grip his cock in your hand, lightly squeezing as you run your hand along the shaft. Jungwon can't fight the subtle raise of his hips to meet your touch, nor can he stop the "fucking finally" that slips from his mouth.

You remove your hand altogether, clicking your tongue. "What did I say before we started, pet?" you ask, the question entirely rhetorical. But you expect an answer, even as Jungwon whines. You stiffen. "Do I need to gag you too?"

"No! N-No, Mistress, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to misbehave." He shakes his head at you to articulate his point, and you swear you can see the tears forming behind the blindfold. Jungwon's cock twitches, his sex aching. It begs for your tender, lewd touch once again, even if Jungwon doesn't say the words out loud.

"Then answer my first question. What did I say before I put the blindfold on?"

Jungwon whimpers, the sound high-pitched and full of cracks. "Stay still until you tell me to."

You take his face in both of your palms, rubbing circles into the apples of his cheeks. "Yes, my love. Now do as I say and you'll be rewarded like the good boy I know you are, okay?"

"Yes, yes, please."

You go back to holding his cock between your fingers, running the pre-cum at his slit down the length of him. Its girth and length are in unbelievable harmony, the muscle snug every time he fits inside of you. You admire it as you twist your wrist, enjoying the sound of its slickness as it fucks your fist.

In so many ways, Jungwon is the puzzle piece you didn't recognize was missing until he came into your life with endless witty banter and his soul's infinite fire. It's what makes him so worthy of adoration, fame and love.

But where he burns, you're there to cool him into a calm state again, the pinnacle of fortitude and composure. The core answer of why you work so well together is in that balance. And you're reminded of why you love him every second he asks you to take over like this, make him succumb to all your whims before you repay him in kind.

It's salacious how easily you sit on his cock, no preparation needed on your end to become accustomed in record time. He fills you so completely; you don't mind how he once again bucks up into you, a throaty groan ripping from his lips from finally being inside of you. He keeps his arms at his sides, but you know he wants to touch. He loves everything about your body, especially the voluptuousness of your breasts and how freely they bounce when you ride him.

"You can touch me now, pet." Jungwon doesn't need to be told twice, immediately running his thumbs over your nipples until they pebble. He kneads them in his hands as you set the pace, slamming down now and then to make him cry out.

The blindfold is both constricting and necessary. Jungwon was initially terrified of it, but he couldn't get enough after you first wrapped it around his head. Now, his sensory perception goes into overdrive every time because of his loss of sight. He loves to see you on top of him and against him, without a doubt, and there have been days where he was already so sensitive he could do without the cloth. But, most of the time, he'd rather soak in the passion like this compared to any other way.

You guide one hand from your chest to down to your clit, and he immediately pinches and pulls like the expert he is. He's well attuned to what works to get you off and what doesn't. If he wants to orgasm, he knows he has to let you do so first.

A mewl crawls out of your throat at the rhythm of his thumb and forefinger against your slick, the digits almost running down to where you're both connected before going back to the hood of your cunt.

"You feel me, Mistress? Is it good? Do you love it?" Jungwon may be stationed in the submissive form often, but it doesn't keep his mouth from running. You adore every sinful word, all his statements and questions that hold a hint of wonder at how good he's making you feel, and vice versa.

"Yes, yes, it's so good—ah, fuck—you know you're such a good boy." You suddenly switch positions, you're riding Jungwon in reverse. Laying your hands across his thighs, you move faster, slam down in lewd slaps to each other's skin, clench around him with more force than before. You feel the traces of your orgasm with every movement, and you'd be a fool to not chase it.

"I can feel how close you are. Your cunt is squeezing me so tight," he moans. He grips an ass cheek in his hand, massaging it while his opposite palm continues touching your clit.

You know the thought on his mind, and even though he can't see, you look over your shoulder with a wolfish grin. "You can do what you want, my love."

Jungwon groans low in his throat, the timbre of it animalistic. He sucks his thumb for a long second before pressing it to your perineum. The digit slowly enters you, and the taste of ecstasy coats your tongue with each centimeter that goes in. It's too much all at once, his fingers in tandem working against your clit and ass while his dick fills you up.

"Come, Mistress, pretty please?" is what does you in. You wail as you shatter into a million discomposed pieces, saying his name the entire time as your body floats. You laugh, your chest heaving up and down, from how incredible all of your synapses firing off at once feel. But it's more than just your orgasm. It's in how much you love the man underneath you, how eager you feel to please him the second you come back to your senses, and how lucky you are to love him.

"Do you want to come now, too, pet?" you ask him, voice ragged but still acceptable to speak with.

Jungwon nods eagerly, his thumb still inside of you while he runs his other fingers along your lower half. "Please, Mistress. It hurts so bad."

"Don't worry," you coo, "you'll get to soon, I promise."

You move your hips once again, using the last drops of your shared strength and spirit to ride him to completion. His hands come up to your bare breasts once again, and you use them as leverage to continue, intertwining his fingers with your own.

"You're too good for me, my love, always so eager to please me. You're my beautiful boy, Wonnie." His pet name on your tongue unravels him. His face contorts as his hips stutter up into you. He covers your insides with his cum, painting your walls white with his seed like it's all he knows how to do. It warms you to the brim, and your body practically glowing in the aftermath.

You move from his lap as he tugs the blindfold free. He may be sweaty, as are you, but it doesn't stop you from burying your face in his sweat-soaked chest.

"I love you so much," he says into your damp hair. "Don't ever say you're not good enough. You're just right in every way." He tucks a finger under your chin to kiss you firm on the lips. You moan into his kiss, tongues intermingling. "You're perfect for me, you know that right?"

You blush, squeezing him tighter against you. "As you are for me."

You fall asleep like that, basking in a love that is so whole, so equal, you don't think anyone else will ever recognize it the same way you both do. It's yours, in all of its unique facets.

@gyubakeries @loserlvrss @frenchkisstheabyss @prkhaven @tinycatharsis @fangel @aaa-sia @yvnempire @addictedtohobi @innocygnet @filmnings @lovetaroandtaemin @xylatox @dawngyu

𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒 ── .✦ @kstrucknet @k-films @kvanity-main @lapydiaries @violetanet @whipped-kpop-creators @cosyhomenet @sweetvenomnet

𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫 𝑴𝒀 𝑶𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹 𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑲𝑺 𝒐𝒓 𝑱𝑶𝑰𝑵 𝑴𝒀 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻𝑺 © 𝖠𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖧𝖤𝖤𝖢𝖧𝖶𝖤; 𝖣𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍.

[angelicalchaoticabyss]

Hi hi…could I get some burning spice cookie x reader who constantly gets themselves in like, super dangerous situations 24/7

A Knack for Danger

You just wanted to see the stars tonight, and they were always gorgeous from this particular spot. However,…you didn’t realize how unstable the cliff was.

“Aaaaah!!!” You screamed, falling from one of the spice ridges cliffs.

Now this…this was an average day for you. You didn’t know why, but you just had a strange quirk of always getting into danger. It was…it was something. And you were certain you would’ve been long crumbled by now if it weren’t for a certain someone. Burning Spice Cookie. Who, had just leapt from the ground with a powerful force and caught you midair, landed harmlessly on the ground…not without leaving quite the crater of course.

His deep black hair was like flames as he looked at you, annoyed but concerned deep down. He didn’t say a word, he just started walking back to the temple. You didn’t want to say anything, you weren’t scared, just embarrassed.

To put it simply, Burning Spice Cookie was your lover, and a rather protective one at that. Once he saw you had a knack for getting into unimaginable danger, he became super overprotective. He made a rule that you couldn’t leave the temple without him, lest you get hurt if he’s not around. Burning Spice, other than his protectiveness, was a fine lover in your opinion. Always getting you things from his conquests, being able to find any gift you wanted no matter how specific. You remember once saying you wanted a specific flower made from a particularly rare material and he…crafted it himself for you. Something that made you smug since he lost interest in creation and abundance.

Once you got back to the temple, the wild spices also dare not utter a sound so as not to earn his wrath. He went to his throne room, demanded all inside leave the two of you alone…then he sat down with you on his lap and finally started to calm.

“…Witches damn it, what did I tell you about leaving the temple without me? Do you know what would’ve happened to your fragile cookie body had I not caught you?” He said, not aggressively but not calmly either.

You knew he was still annoyed, but mostly out of his concern for you. If there was one thing Burning Spice Cookie was well aware of, it was how fragile you were compared to him. He always knew how to be gentle with you, even if he would lose control sometimes, such as squeezing your hand too tightly or patting your back too hard.

“I’m sorry, I just really wanted to see the stars. I know how lovely they look from the spice ridge but…you were already asleep, and I didn’t want to wake you.” You explained.

His fiery eyes softened a bit when you gave your explanation.

“Oh, my little love, if you wanted to see the stars you could’ve woken me up. I wouldn’t have mind so long as it meant keeping you safe.” He said, tired.

You of course felt guilty about leaving without letting him know and then scaring him like that when he realized you weren’t there. Burning Spice took one look at your face before holding it in his warm palm. You were the only one who got to see this side of him, let alone receive it. He hugged you close, letting you share in the heat of his body.

“I’m not mad at you, you know I just worry because of that quirk of yours. I’ve never seen a cookie who’s capable of getting into so much danger so fast. It would be thrilling if it wasn’t terrifying.” Now that was something for him to admit.

You hugged him back, burying your face in the crook of his neck. You both enjoyed the silence next to the crackling of torches. Then you heard it, deep in your lover’s throat. He was purring.

He did this sometimes when he was particularly happy or calm with you, it was always so adorable to see someone so fearsome and mighty let out such a cute sound. You didn’t say anything about it though, because you knew how he would get about releasing such a “pathetic” sound. You simply nuzzled deeper against his body, you’ve always felt…scared, every day of your life before you met Burning Spice Cookie. But when you were with him…

“Thank you…”

“Thank you for what?”

“Thank you for making me feel so safe.”

[just-a-sleepy-idiot]

Multifandom Preference: Being petite and very short compared to them // PT. 2

This is dedicated to the people who commented on part one: @robin-the-enby @maria-moll @agentfandom @whoneedtheyantonchigussyate @humanfleshismeat and @kennedyisityou

Content/Warnings: Once again kinda size kink coming through, might read a bit like objectification in some instances, Definitely some Sadism in the Hannibal section, Gender neutral Reader

Anton Chigurh

He likes the practicality of it a lot, honestly Anton considers you travel sized at this point because he can hide you easily if there's trouble and then come back later to where he deposited you after he's done dealing with whoever was after you. He's not the Gentleman type at all but seeing how pathetic you carried your bags when he started to bodyguard you around was enough to decide that he would take those for the rest of time. Will look at you with a mixture of amusement and condenscation when you try anyway before taking the luggage away from you. If you protest he will carry you like luggage as well, I dare you. But sometimes he will just observe you, look at you while you get on your tiptoes, climb into bed ect that makes you very aware that he is fond of your height in some way.

Brahms Heelshire

Since he can't have anyone see him, he makes sure to put one of his sweaters or cardigans on you whenever he knows some delivery person or similar is coming by. It really is a mixture of possessiveness and loving to see your frame swallowed in clothing his size, while you just think he's worried if you get cold. Brahms is spoiled as hell but he also really enjoys doing things for you, and when he decides to make dinner for you both he likes lifting you up to sit on the counter and watch him. It's just so terribly easy, it excites him whenever he finds a reason to do it. Especially when it means getting to wrap his arms around you for a moment and taking in your scent- even while you go on capture a bug on the ceiling with a glass or something while he holds you up.

Dennis

It's hard to keep his distance at all times, even though he certainly tries his best to adhere to that self set rule. Dennis is strong, the strongest after the Beast itself out of the horde, so he is well aware of what his body is capable of doing if he were to let that cautiousness slip. But nonetheless, accidents happen. Like when you nearly fell unconscious and he had to catch you, or when you nearly did something dangerous and he had to reach out and grab your arm. In both occasions you halted insteadly, flinching when his hand firmly pressed onto your hip or caught onto your wrist. It made a pleasant shiver run through him, this ambiguity of wanting and not wanting to be close to you because of the implied vulnerability of your height drives him mad. But you will not hear a word from him about it, only see him press his lips together and huff or sigh in contained frustration.

Hannibal Lecter

He is outwardly very considerate and Gentlemanly toward you, pacing his steps when you walk together or taking over the umbrella in one case because you can't really hold it up his head as well without extending your arm like an athlete with an Olympic torch. But when you happen to get your leg hurt, just a little, it is exhilarating to him. Seeing your composure shift from a functional person to something alike an injured bunny is so damn amusing and befitting of that height difference. He will gently guide you to sit on his couch and touch your ankle to put it up while he goes to fetch his first aid kit in the other room. Hannibal will be so forthcoming, because seeing you whine and squirm a little while he puts on a bandage is satisfactory enough to return the favor and make sure you are well cared for and get comfortable. He makes you your favorite drink and will make sure permit you lean on him or grab onto him as to not put pressure on the injured leg while you put on your shoes or something while he patiently gazes down on you.

If you liked it please comment!

Tip Jar

[after-witch]

Damn Your Eyes Chapter 2 [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Title: Cream and Sugar [Damn Your Eyes Chapter 2] [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Synopsis: A fateful meeting at a bookstore between you and Ren Hana, years upon years after your escape from Strade, turns into a coffee shop date. You're not supposed to accept drinks from strangers, but Ren's not a stranger--so it's fine, right?

Word count: 5,322

notes: yandere, descriptions of violence/death/wounds, drugging

AO3 LINK

How did one get over something like Strade? Get over that house and that basement? How do you move on with your life when you’ve seen someone’s guts spill out of their body while they’re still alive, and you’ve been instructed to pick them up and play with them for the delight of sick fucks watching it all on a paid stream?

The pretty answer, the one everyone recites when asked, because that’s what you do: with therapy and time and forgiveness for yourself. You take it one day at a time. You treat yourself. 

The real answer: You didn’t. You don’t. You can’t. 

Not fully. Because “getting over” something like that means it will eventually no longer affect you, no longer being a part of you. 

And sure. You will, eventually, go about something that feels like an ordinary life. 

You will walk into a grocery store with a tidy little list, you will roll your eyes at the rising cost of laundry detergent, you will smile at a cashier who says they like your outfit. You will date and drink coffee and sway to your favorite song while making dinner. 

But inside, inside of you , you are still there--still hovering at the last step of the basement stairs, listening to someone’s guttural shrieks as their skin is blow-torch melted down. Still clinging to Ren in the middle of the night, flinching when his hands wander over a recent gouge, a hastily stitched cut--an accident, he whispers, and you’re never sure if you believe him.

And that is what happened to you. 

It took years, of course, to even get close to that semblance of normalcy. A few years were spent in feverish hiding, running from place to place with no paper trails that might lead some gorehound that subscribed to Strade’s torture porn sniffing at your door, hungry for more. 

But you settled down, in time. Slowly. Bit by bit, piece by piece, inch by inch. 

That took years, too--the settling. 

It started with staying in an apartment for more than three months at a time. It started with going to the grocery store wearing only sunglasses, instead of sunglasses, a wig, and the most nondescript clothing you could fish out of a bargain bin. It started with applying for real jobs, not just seedy work that paid cash, quick.

It ended here, in this quaint little home that you shared with your husband for the past five years, though you’d lived together for longer. It ended here, with a modest marketing career that you’d built up after going back to college. It ended here, with a life you built for yourself; frail and a bit unorthodox, but a life nonetheless. 

You wouldn’t have been able to survive, if you hadn’t adapted. There is only so much terror the human man can manage before breaking entirely, and so--adaptation. 

It was a gift that your husband didn’t mind your… differences. The heavy insistence on home security, the desire for privacy, the slow way you gave trust to strangers--if you gave it at all. 

Some things did bother him. He grumbled about your lack of social media presence, and you’d once had an awful fight when his sister put a photo of you on Facebook that you’d demanded, in furious tears, be taken down. 

But, deep down, it wasn’t like you could blame your husband for bucking against your near tantrum-like reaction. For the way he sometimes sighed as you locked the front door with triple locks, and an electric sensor. For the way his jaw sometimes set, when you did something that wasn’t normal to anyone who hadn’t been the extended torture victim of a serial killer that doubled as a snuff porn producer.

Because you knew--deeper down--that you were still haunted by the ghosts in that basement. Strade and the torture victims and Ren and yourself, shaking like a leaf, bleeding onto concrete. You knew, even if the man you slept beside in a bed every night had no inkling of it, that you could never step back across that threshold and be the way you were before.

But.

And there’s always a but, isn’t there?

But… that was okay. It was okay that you could never go back; it was okay that you were someone new; it was okay that you weren’t okay, and you’d never be okay in the fullest sense of the word.

Your life was a life you created out of shaking fingers, something clawed out with dirty fingernails. It wasn’t perfect, but it was yours.

What more could you ask for, after Strade?

What more could you ask for, after anything ?

--

Books are a vice. More than smoking, more than sex. You could give up sex, you could swear you’ll never buy another pack of smokes, but you could never give up books. 

Okay, okay. You’re being over dramatic and theatrical. But how can you think of books as anything other than a sinful pleasure when you’re surrounded by these shelves and stacks, imagining that one day you can afford an extension on your home and dedicate an entire room (or two--why not, in a daydream?) solely to books?

You’re not even supposed to be here today. It was your day off, and your calendar was packed to the brim with mundane errands. Today’s schedule certainly didn’t leave room for indulgently browsing at a bookstore, but sometimes you just have to live a little, don’t you? 

Although if you come home with yet another bag of books, your husband is bound to shove his face into the nearest couch cushion and scream. But c’mon. It wasn’t your fault that you’d long since run out of shelf space and were prone to stuffing the books into boxes that cluttered the closests. 

Your fingers wander over the spines of the books crammed onto the shelves, catching the uneven mismatched spaces between with every dip. The spines are often worn and weathered, some of them even peeling a little. 

This was why you preferred secondhand bookstores. No neat lines of fresh new books set up to catch the eye and make a sale here. No, instead there were countless books shoved together with no care for size or color or sometimes (depending on who was stocking that day) even genre. 

For instance, today you find a battered paperback copy of Carrie by Stephen King right next to a suspiciously pristine How to Keep Your House from Drowning that probably still has an uncracked spine. That poor soul, with a messy house. Maybe they should have read the book. 

You’re about to keep moving when, on second thought: Your partner might get a kick out of finding that book on his nightstand. Or he’ll chuck it at your head (lovingly) for bringing it into the house. It’s a 50/50 gamble that you’re willing to take.

And so you go to pull it out, a private little grin on your face, just as another hand reaches across for Carrie.

Fingers and elbows bump together and you feel that slight flush of awkward embarrassment rush to your cheeks as you sputter out, “Sorry!” Your voice even goes up an octave, an annoying habit that you’ve been trying to train out of yourself.

The stranger pulls away and mutters their own low apology. They sound just as awkward as you, which makes you feel a little better, at least, so you turn to look at them and offer an embarrassed smile and you think, briefly, maybe you’ll grab Carrie for them or cheekily ask if they were going for the cleaning book--

But when you turn to look at them, all thoughts and cheek are snuffed out.

Not because the man in front of you is wearing a nicely tailored business suit and matching fedora hat; a dark gray complimented by a muted burgundy tie. Like he’s off to a meeting or comes from a big city where such outfits are often found in shops and cafes during lunch hours.

Not because the man in front of you is attractive, with red hair with a bit of ever so slightly silver sticking out from underneath his hat; his cologne, soft but spicy, tickles your nose. 

But because the man in front of you is Ren. 

Older, yes. His hair and face peppered with signs of time, just like yours. There are scars on his face that you remember--some etched onto his flesh right in front of you, and some from that gray area of before, when Strade had yet to take you--and some you don’t. 

Your body is lead, your throat is closed up. Speech and movement are now foreign, unknowable things, because Ren is standing right in front of you.

It takes you a moment to shake it off; no, two moments. No, three. 

And then you can finally speak, although the word comes out hoarse and whispered, like every ounce of spit in your mouth vanished the instant you saw him. Perhaps it did. 

“ Ren ?” 

He blinks. His eyes narrow, eyebrows furrowing. For a terrible moment, you find yourself thrown back down the basement steps, when knowing the difference between Strade’s brows furrowing in annoyance or amusement could mean the difference between the degree of your upcoming burns.

And then his expression opens, widens, just enough for you to recognize that he knows who you are now and you’re here, in a bookshop, decades on; not there, not in the basement, where you left Strade’s corpse to rot.

Ren--for he is Ren, and you know it--lifts his hat, his lips turning up in a smile that makes your heart twist painfully, and shows just the bottom edges of his ears in greeting.

He says your name and your ears ring, high and tinny. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a cashier standing at the till rearranging trinkets while clearly spying on whatever bit of vaguely interesting gossip this might turn into during their lunch break. 

You had, in truth, imagined this moment before. Countless times. Usually at night, though you weren’t terribly picky; a long trip on a bus, head pressed against the window glass, was also a great time for such thoughts. 

You’d imagined finding Ren some day, in many different ways. 

In some fantasies, you look him up in the phonebook (a stupid idea fit only for a fantasy, because Ren would never put himself out there like that, just as you hadn’t) and give him a call and meet up at a park and you apologize until your lungs stop working. In another, you run into him somewhere else, a store or park; a coincidence just like this one. In still others, he finds you, offering to meet in a public space because he knows you’d be scared and he wants you to be comfortable and Ren would definitely think of things like that, considering your shared experiences. 

In your daydreams, you had a speech prepared. It was always moving, of course. It culminated in a soft, unbearably sweet hug where the two of you squeezed out the pain from the preceding decades and parted in mutual understanding. Maybe with each other’s phone numbers on slips of paper. 

But those were daydreams. This is real life.

In real life, your throat feels closed up; your eyes burn with hot tears that want to spill out, and everything from your chest to your cheeks feels hot and swollen. In real life, it is not the daydreams but your nightmares that worm their way into your brain: those nightmares you have (yes, have, still--even this far down the line) where he hates you, where he tells you that you left him there like he’s nothing, where he throws back all your whispered conversations in the dark back in your face.

In real life, you can only stammer out, expecting the nightmarish worst: “Ren. I’m s…sorry. I’m sorry . I shouldn’t--I shouldn’t have --”

Ren raises his hand; his brows furrow again. He says your name, once, twice. Softer. Gentler. 

“It’s okay,” he says, low. You don’t know if he means that it’s okay that you left him (it isn’t, is it?) or that it’s going to be okay or that he’s okay or--

Ren must sense your upcoming lack of steady breathing, because he places one steady hand on your shoulder. The way he used to do, when you started thinking about the fact that you were going to die in that house, and it would be an awful death, and the thought of it made you want to tear into your own skin. 

It brings you back down to the ground, which only makes you want to cry for a different reason.

Ren’s face has a touch of sticky pity on it when he smiles at you. 

“Why don’t we go somewhere we can sit down and talk?” 

--

You are sitting in a coffee shop across the way from a fox man who used to be tortured with you in the basement of a serial killer's home that doubled as a snuff film studio. There are people around you, but they might as well be invisible, be nothing at all. 

Because every nerve in your body is focused squarely on Ren, sitting in front of you with a muted awkward expression as the pair of you wait silently for the barista to call up your order. 

Neither of you have spoken since you sat down.

Sweat is beginning to stick to your neck, but you don’t want to move without warning--don’t want to startle Ren. If you do, maybe he’ll run off, and… no. He wouldn’t run off now. You can tell. He’s not like he used to be, and neither are you. 

There are decades between you, and yet--and yet that thread is still there, isn’t it? You could never fully cut it. Maybe it pulled, instead. Pulled and pulled and eventually lost all of its slack on this unassuming afternoon, when the two of you met again in a bookstore. Reaching for books with cracked and weathered spines, lines creasing over the paper like scars on the skin.

Your scars. His scars. 

How many times have you traced over the marks on your skin? How many times has he? Maybe he didn’t do it anymore. Maybe he was in a much better space than you, and that’s why he looks so awkward and you feel like your heart is about to pound right out of its chest. Because he’s moved on and you, stupid thing, just woke up in the basement in the middle of a sunny afternoon.

His shoulders straighten; you imagine, under his hat, that his ears have perked. For a moment,, a familiar sensation washes through you. Danger. He’s coming down the stairs and it’s going to hurt.

But Strade is dead. And you are alive, and Ren is alive, and his attention only raised because the barista set both of your coffees down on the counter. Nothing more than that.

Slowly, the world seems like it regains its normal gravity. The sweat clinging to your neck feels silly and not ominous. You can breathe, and the world of the coffee shop seems to settle around you like it would have on any other day.

“I’ll get them,” Ren says, quietly, eyeing you with wariness–like he’s the one worried about you bolting. Fuck. He’s probably right to think that; a moment ago, you might have been the one to run.

Ren pauses after he stands up, and there’s something soft and sad in his eyes when he looks at you. Part of you thinks he’s about to say that he’s going to leave, that this was a mistake. But instead, his lips curl and the softest of smiles, and he asks:

“You still like cream and sugar?”

Oh. 

“Yes,” you say, automatically. But you don’t. Not anymore. Tastebuds change and you drink it black with no cream, when you do bother to drink it. It’s not worth correcting, and you don’t. You just watch as he grabs both cups and heads over to the counter on the far side of the coffee shop, where there’s oodles of sugars (and sugar substitutes); creamers; and little tins of milk to add to your drink. 

Then your phone vibrates, and the “fuck!” that comes out of your mouth is involuntary. It was about the time that you should have been heading home, bookstore stop  notwithstanding. What were you going to say to him? That you’d run into someone from your past that used to get tortured with you? That you remember what Ren looks like when his flesh is sliced into and pulled apart? 

You heading home? Took ground beef out for dinner. Tacos?

Your thumb hovers over the phone screen. You’re going to lie. You already know that. Even if you were ready to tell him about your past, it would not be like this. Even you, not particularly attuned to mobile etiquette, knew it was better to confess something like this in person. Although the temptation to confess it all and  add silly emojis to punctuate the gritty details was very strong.

Ran into an old friend , you type, finally. They want to hang out a bit. Tacos are fine, don’t wait up! Xoxoxo.

It feels so normal. And that’s okay, isn’t it? That you’re being normal right now. It’s a sign that you’ve come so far, if anything. And you’ll take any of those signs that you can manage to get, so when the text comes in–

Can’t wait to hear about it!

I don’t guarantee there will be tacos left. 

Kidding.

… Maybe.

–you let that normalcy wash over you, and it helps you settle as Ren returns, coffee mugs in hand.

His expression is lighter, too. He probably notices the weight off your shoulders, the way you’re trying to look interested and perhaps even excited to see him, rather than looking like you’re about to throw up on a half-empty stomach.

He slides your mug across the table and you can tell at a glance that it’s going to be sweet. A hesitant sip, your tongue curling back from the warmth and inevitable sugar, confirms it. Milky and creamy, just like you used to take it.

“Do you live around here?” Ren asks, taking a sip from his own mug.

Such an average question. It’s almost enough to make you snort. Really, you should be asking him when he got out of that basement and whether or not he ever thought about cutting you open and if he still had dreams, like you did.

Instead, he’s asking something you might ask an old high school friend that you haven’t seen in twenty years. 

Fuck. What a world you live in. 

Maybe he senses your thoughts. Maybe the two of you really are in tune from what you went through together. Because he cracks a smile, the edge of a sharp tooth showing. And then the smile spreads and turns into a little chuckle. It’s not the giggling snort he would sometimes fall into at the house. It’s something older and more reserved, but that shouldn’t surprise you. You’re the same way.

You take another sip of the coffee. It really is too sweet. That’s how you took it at the house, though. It was better to drown your sorrows in creamer and packets of sugar–pilfered from diners that Strade went to, sometimes to scope for victims–than mope about them all the time.

“I really am curious,” he says, voice light. “If you’re okay with telling me.” Something different in his tone. Offense, maybe? God, it’s strange, being on the lookout for what someone’s tone really means again. 

But it’s just Ren. You shouldn’t be so worried about it.

“It’s fine,” you say, just as light. “Yeah, maybe about half an hour away? I have a little house…”

Ren’s eyebrows raise. Not in surprise, exactly. But in interest. It relieves you, just a little, that he didn’t let out some sarcastic remark about having your own place away from him.

“Do you have a garden?” He asks. “You always did talk about getting one.”

A twinge in your heart. Bittersweet and old. Sometimes at night, when the two of you were allowed to curl up together, you would talk about a fantasy world. A world where you never came here; where you’d be and what you’d do. Sometimes, you’d be in a pretty little cottage with a pretty little garden in a pretty little town.

Well. Your garden is pretty, even if your house isn’t an adorable cottage and you live at the edge of sprawling suburbs where you have to drive 20 minutes to get to anything useful. Close enough?

You tell him about it. The house and the garden. You even tell him about your partner, and maybe his smile does quirk down a little, then. But you could be imagining it. 

“Do you have kids?” Ren asks, next. If he were anyone else, it would be a mundane question--the kind you ask every couple who's been together a while. In Ren, it feels different. Serious. Sincere. He tilts his head a little, taking another sip of his coffee, which prompts you to do the same.

Kids. Hah. It wasn’t like the thought had never crossed your mind. But it didn’t happen. For a lot of reasons, it didn’t happen. Mind and body and the basement worked against you, and maybe there was a part of you that was afraid to bring anything into the world, because you knew it could be taken away. Taken to someone’s basement and hurt and hurt and hurt –

Ren says your name.

Ren’s hand is on yours. 

You glance down at his hand–see a familiar scar, see that your hand underneath his is curled up and tense–and then look  up at his face. 

Oh, the passing of time. 

“Me neither,” he says, softly. Like he knows why you didn’t and couldn’t, and maybe he was the same way. 

It hurts too much to think about. So you clear your throat and slowly pull your hand away, letting it rest on the now cooling mug of coffee. You take another swig, despite it not being to your taste anymore. Ren really did put in a lot of creamer.

“What about you?”

His head tilts, almost slow, almost curious.

“Me?”

He blinks.

You blink back. 

“Do you live around here?” 

A smile–an Ahhh sort of smile. 

“No,” he says, simply. He shakes his head. “I travel a lot.” He nods his head. “For business.”

“Oh,” you say. “What sort of business?”

A flicker in his gaze. Something sharp and familiar. It’s gone too soon to matter. 

“This and that,” is all he says.

And there’s a strange sort of realization in your head. A fuzziness that seems to spread right to your scalp. This is all too casual, too normal. It’s not at all what it was supposed to be, when you met. Asking about homes and gardens and kids and what you do for work; fuck, you two had been tortured together. Had watched people die. Had helped other people die. 

This should have been about more than banal pleasantries. This should have been about reconnecting. About that thread between the two of you that couldn’t be cut, even now.

Maybe it’s that fuzziness in your scalp and maybe it’s the lurching of your heart, but you reach out your hand again towards Ren; your hand and your heart reaching and aching –

“Why did you run that day?” Soft and to the point. All the years have led to this question. 

The question drops your hand straight to the table. The thud feels harder than it sounds. What ease your heart had mellowed to earlier melts away entirely, and you can feel adrenaline beginning to pump, your heart pounding and racing. Your ears hurt.

Why did you run? It’s the question you wanted him to ask, isn’t it? The question that would lead to your big sappy explanation and apology and the sentimental hug before you two parted ways, perhaps with phone numbers in your pockets? 

But now that Ren is real again; now that he’s here, lines around his eyes and a touch of silver in his hair, you don’t know how to answer.

You ran because you were scared. Scared of people from Strade’s fucked up streams finding you in that house. Scared of Strade’s corpse rotting in the basement. Scared, too, of Ren. Of being chained to him, or by him, and you could never be sure which was more likely. 

You ran because you weren’t strong enough to face whatever was left behind for you in that fucking house. 

Thickness lodges in your throat but you swallow against it. This is not a daydream. This is real life. And you have to own up to what you did now. 

“Ren, I–” 

The words don’t come, because the world suddenly spins. The fuzziness prickling on your scalp, your ears ringing, your heart going too fast–this has all been too much for you, you should have known that. There are brief thoughts–heart attack, stroke, fuck, fuck, FUCK–and then Ren’s hand is gripping your upper arm so you don’t fall out of the chair. 

“Are you okay?” Your vision is clear enough to see the concern in his face. His brows furrow together and he looks around, telling someone– ”Yes, I'm going to get her home” --and you’re about to tell him not to take you to the hospital because your insurance has a high deductible for the emergency room when another dizzy spell hits you, and you’d rather be in debt than dead.

“Should I call an ambulance?” He asks, voice low, calming. Your mind latches onto it. You’re not alone, it’s going to be okay. Someone is here to take care of you, and if you have to go to the emergency room, well, it couldn't have happened at a better time.

Ambulances cost too much money, though, and Ren 

“Could you drive me?” Even as you talk, you know something’s wrong. The words come out too slow, a little slurry. Almost like you’re drunk. 

Ren starts to shake his head and your dizzy self makes a pitiful sound. 

You swear you can see Ren’s ears twitching underneath his hat. You don’t have the presence of mind to think about why–where and when he’s heard that pitiful whimper before–so you just cling to him as he gently pulls you out of your chair.

He grabs your purse and carefully leads you out of the shop. Someone holds the door open, and he tells them that you’re going to the emergency room, thank you for the concern. Your head swims and you might mumble thank you to them, too, but you’re not entirely sure. Are you dying? Is it a stroke? Will the last thing you texted the love of your life be about dinner? It’s funny in that awful, delirious sort of way.

“Ren?” You ask, helpless. You’re holding onto him as tightly as you can, but your fingers feel fuzzy. Your whole body feels fuzzy, actually. Heavy and strange. Drunk and leaden.

“It’s all right,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you into my car, all right?”

You don’t have the presence of mind to wonder why his car is already out on the curb, running, with a driver in the front seat. You aren’t coherent enough to think about things like that; but then, even before you drank the coffee cup laced with a sedative, you didn’t notice the black car following the pair of you down the road to the coffee shop. 

You didn’t notice it follow you to the bookstore, either, nor did you give it a second glance when it pulled out of the lot after you stopped in at the grocery store to pick up a few miscellaneous items.

You really had lost your touch after all these years.

Ren grips you carefully while he opens the back door to the car. It’s roomy, expensive. Clean black leather seats that probably don’t show stains. Up front, a driver sits, wearing a hat and sunglasses and a uniform.

There’s a brief thought–Jesus, what does Ren do for a living to afford this?--before Ren is helping you crawl into the backseat.

The movement only makes you dizzier, and you’re telling the person in the front seat, whoever they are, that you need to get to the nearest hospital please.

They don’t even turn to look at you. It’s strange. But then Ren is there in the backseat with you, and you’re mumbling the same thing to him. Rattling off your symptoms–dizzy, fuzzy, confused, tingling hands. You try to remember the test for a stroke but can’t.

Ren smiles at you.

Why is he smiling? That thought comes through loud and clear, but it doesn’t stick for very long.

“Ren,” you say, slurring. “The hospital, the nearest one is… I think it’s… you have to…”

And those words, difficult as they are to get out, slowly drop away. Because while your mind is not capable of many things right now, it is capable of registering something unusual.

Ren. 

He doesn’t look worried anymore. No more concern furrowing his brow, no more softness. 

Instead, he looks pleased. There’s a smug smile on his face, and you’ve seen it before, but it’s older now. Wiser. Less impulsive and more assured. 

A cat–a fox–that caught the canary. And you, what little remains of your logical mind tells you, are one dumb bird. 

And he knows that you know. Because he jerks his chin at the driver in the front, who must press some kind of button; the doors lock. Loud. Hard. Your numb hands fumble for the door handle but no matter how much you try to shove the door open, it doesn’t budge.

 You're locked in.

“Back to the hotel for now,” Ren says. Not to you. To the driver. Who–to your horror–begins to pull away from the curb.

“Oh, no–” You try to scream. It’s not quite loud enough. Not quite sharp enough. but maybe someone can see you, even through the tinted windows. Or they’ll hear you and tell someone, who will maybe tell someone else, who might call the cops. If you’re lucky.

Ren’s hand cups your mouth firmly. 

“Don’t waste your energy, you’ll need it soon.” The hand moves from your lips to your cheek, resting there. The look in Ren’s eyes is blurry–whatever he drugged you with is making it hard to focus–but you recognize bits of it, because you felt the same damn thing.

The awful mixture of nostalgia, regret and ache.

Maybe if you explain everything. Tell him why you ran. Apologize like hell. You won’t be hugging after this, but you won't be drugged up (what did he give you?) in the back of his car, either. 

“Ren– the hous e–I ran–I–let me explain, it–”

Ren’s hand trails back to your mouth. The sharp edges of his nails graze against your nose.

“Hush. We’ll talk about all that later.” 

Later?

Oh, fuck –

There’s an awful, stabbing pain in your thigh–you look down and see Ren pulling away a syringe with a bright silver needle.

Ren–you try to say his name, but when you open your mouth, nothing comes out. Your lips gape and close and words no longer form.

Your head is swimming now, all highs and lows, dipping and rising over waves that never seem to end. It’s like you're falling asleep in the worst way, hard and rocky.

Like you’re falling backwards down the basement stairs. 

Ren’s voice is the last thing you hear before you black out.

“Sweet dreams.” 

[inhuman-obey-me]

🕶 with Barbatos please??👀 also yes on MC! (sorry for being specific, you can ignore it if you want but can it be directed at mc i'm not normal about Barb)

"I saw a little thing I didn't like you tried to hide." - Barbatos/MC

content warning: blood, reference to torture/gore

Barbatos has a reputation.

It is one that you remind yourself of at times, when you get lost in his sweet words and even sweeter treats. Those soft smiles, his ever-readiness to serve, his meticulous attention to detail so that things were always perfect for you – he would insist you had him wrapped around your finger, but sometimes you wonder if it truly isn’t the other way around.

After all, while you loved that side of him – one that few had the privilege to witness – you could not help but be intrigued by the part of him that reigned in the shadows. 

The part of him that delighted in the slow torture of a traitor. The part of him that could use a knife to cut up a bleeding-heart artichoke just as deftly as an actual bleeding heart. The part of him that could drive someone mad just by warping the space around him, damning them to experience eternity in a matter of seconds. 

Perhaps you were a bit too intrigued, your morbid curiosity having led you now to wander the dark halls of the Demon Lord’s Castle in search of him. He was supposed to meet you at the foyer earlier, but when the ever-punctual demon was nowhere to be found, you decided to take matters into your own hands. You wanted to see if you could catch the consistently composed butler off-guard, unprepared. 

A fool’s quest.

You pass an archway and stop in your tracks, swearing you heard a faint scream from down below. A metallic scent pervades, your stomach churning as you take a step, and then another, and yet another – slowly descending the stairs, unsure of what you’ll find at the bottom. 

It’s dimly lit, torches along the walls flickering with magic flames. Your eyes adjust, and your heart nearly skips a beat as you see Barbatos in the distance. You dive behind a wall, peering around the corner to observe. 

He seems to be talking to someone, though you can’t see who. A cell, you think, as you notice the iron bars gating certain areas. The light catches on an object in his hand, something silver, and you realize he’s cleaning it off with cloth. Your own hands fish out your D.D.D., opening the camera function to zoom in and get a clearer look.

Oh.

He’s splattered with blood, standing in a pool of it. It’s a sight to behold, and you’re unable to tear your gaze away from him. Slowly, your finger goes to the capture button, taking a photo of the scene. You duck back into the passage, checking to see how the shot turned out – and chills run down your spine as Barbatos seems to be looking straight into the lens. 

“Tsk, tsk.” Gloved fingers tightly wrap around your wrist, forcing you to turn around to meet a dark gaze that you knew all too well. “I saw a little thing I didn’t like you tried to hide.” 

“B-Barbatos!” His name leaves your lips in a squeak. You don’t know how he got to you so fast, but you do know it’s better not to question it. “I-I’m sorry, you didn’t show up earlier and I got curious and wanted to look for you so I ended up down here and then I found you but I didn’t want to disturb you and –” 

He puts a halt to your rapid explanation with a single finger against your lips, his gaze softening. “I’m sorry, my dear. It’s not like me to forget or lose track of the time. I must make this up to you immediately.” He lets go of your wrist, examining you once over before taking a step back. “But first, I need to freshen up. Shall we go upstairs?” 

With a nod, you follow him back up to the brighter hallways of the castle, though he pauses once you’re at the landing. “...And what are you going to do with that photo?”

“Oh.” You can feel the warmth rush to your cheeks. “I, uh … just kind of wanted it for myself.”

“Is that so?” You can hear the amusement in his voice, see the way his lips twist into a smirk.  “Well, if that’s the case, I suppose I can let your little reconnaissance slide. Next time, however,” he leans in close, breath ghosting your ear. “Just ask.”

[loggiepj]

To Love A Lannister

chapter 13 | chapter 14

"We'll arrive at Sunspear in a week's time," Oberyn announced, approaching you leaning against the railing on the quarterdeck, facing the vast ocean ahead.

Darkness had started to loom around the ship, waves almost as black as a squid's ink. The sun was almost a quarter visible as it was being consumed by the horizon, obliterating any light. The only thing shining across the distance was the red patch of sky encircling the edges of the sun. If it weren't for the torches surrounding the deck, you wouldn't be able to see the Dornishman standing beside you. "How do you feel about that? A lot has changed since we left home."

"Indeed," you said. "I thought I'd look forward to my warm bed and the fresh air of Dorne back home. Now, it seems like I'm terrified setting foot on some land I thought was my birthplace."

"You don't have to be," he assured you. "You're not alone, you know. And your sister is the Queen—"

"She doesn't even know who I am, does she?" You turned to look at him.

Oberyn shrugged. "She will. In time."

You sighed, avoiding his gaze. The sky had turned blood orange. "And I . . . I don't think I'm worthy to be a Targaryen as much as I'm a Martell."

"Don't be so hard on yourself-"

"I'm a bastard, if any, I'm just good at being a bastard. That's all I'll ever be. You know, I think I probably prefer being a bastard, with no one expecting me of anything—"

"The blood of Rhaella Targaryen runs through your veins," Oberyn interjected. "You don't know yet of its importance but you will in time."

"I—" You immediately stopped talking upon seeing Cersei walk around the deck, with a handmaiden following behind her, her eyes on the horizon beyond, witnessing what little of the sun left before it was devoured by the ocean.

"Because of her, right? You've grown fond of her," Oberyn said, sighing. "You're even wearing her damn necklace."

As if she knew you were looking, Cersei turned towards the quarterdeck, her eyes meeting yours in a tensed gaze. Your hand grabbed against the wooden railing a bit too hard. Oberyn was far from wrong. It was because of the Lannister woman.

This was all too easy and perfect if you were just you — a bastard from the Martell house. You would serve Cersei, even if your family would despise you. But sometimes, people fall in love with someone they can't have.

You missed the Queen Mother terribly, her striking green eyes piercing right through yours, observing what you two could possibly be talking about for making you frown that bad.

All you wanted to do at that moment was hold her, and tell her that you still wish to marry her if she also felt the same about you.

"I . . . I do," you confessed softly, avoiding Cersei's eyes. "She's . . . She's my weakness."

"It will pass, Y/n."

You then turned to glare at Oberyn. "What's that supposed to mean? When you fell in love with Ellaria, did it pass too?"

"That's different, Y/n. You think Cersei will feel the same about you if she only knew?" Oberyn scoffed. "The Lannisters were one of the houses that ended the line of Targaryens. They even paid mercenaries to assassinate Queen Daenaerys herself and she's in another continent. If Cersei knew you were Daenaerys' sister, bastard or not, she'd kill you herself. Did you forget what they did to Robert's bastards?"

Cersei had now walked towards the stern, staring into the darkness ahead. Her golden hair billowing against the wind was the only brightest thing in that ship.

"All I'm saying is," Oberyn went on. "You ought to be careful. End it while it's still early. Cersei is a woman of ruthless nature. She wouldn't see you through."

Oberyn then placed a hand on your shoulder before he left.

You sighed, right hand curling into a fist on your side, mind fighting between leaving and heading towards the woman down below. Yet, the heart wanted what it wants as you began to climb down the stairs leading to the stern.

"You said you'd always want to have your own ship one day," you started, approaching Cersei, her perfume infiltrating your nostrils. The wind gently blew the Queen's hair against all directions, and it was such a wonderful sight.

Cersei raised a hand towards the handmaiden, making the latter bow before leaving you both alone.

"You remember," she replied, her eyes still on the dark horizon.

"Of course." You smiled, walking closer. "How could I not? Did it meet your expectations then, Your Grace?"

"It's not my first time riding a ship, although a lot has changed. The waves are somewhat smaller than I remember years ago. And the sunset has never been that red before."

You were now standing side by side with the Lioness, your hand on the railing, at least an inch away from where Cersei's hand was.

"It hasn't for a long time. People in Dorne believe that red skies are often associated with warnings or change. That whenever a sky is as red as blood, any decision you put forth on that day should be carefully done, unless you don't regard any bad omen coming your way."

She chuckled softly. "And what do you say to these beliefs?"

Cersei turned her head to look at you, expecting your reply, a glint in her eye.

Your eyes never left hers, travelling from her mouth back to her eyes. "I . . . I just think that it's such a beautiful occurrence to see. And I don't care about the consequences."

Cersei stopped smiling, understanding you weren't talking about any Dornish myths or beliefs anymore. Both of your fingers were barely brushing, distance diminishing each second. It would seem apparent that you two were leaning forward to each other.

Until Ellaria coughed behind you, stopping you both. "Supper is ready."

~~~

Being a Martell, you thought travelling by water would have made you immune against seasickness, but maybe it was the remnants of The Mountain's strength that had weaken you.

The trip to Dorne would take almost a week, and it only took three days before you started feeling nauseated. Going back and forth to the head just to eradicate the upset churning in your stomach had drained your energy. Ellaria had took mercy, bringing you a bucket to use beside you.

Cersei's presence was the only thing that made it bearable. You would join her at the dining cabin at night time, talking for hours that even Oberyn had almost fallen asleep on the table.

On the fifth night, you had excused yourself from dinner and surrendered to the confines of your cabin. Maybe it was the way the ship was swaying against the huge tides from the forecasted storm or the stale food you ate during breakfast. Either way, you had secluded yourself to recover.

The Queen Mother was having none of it though, knocking against your door some time later that night and bringing you a steaming hot bowl of soup.

"It's Venison," Cersei said, as she sat on the side of your bed. "I had our cook made it. Hot liquids can help calm an upset stomach. Tommen would always have them when he's sick."

"Thank you, Your Grace," you replied, straightening yourself as you leaned your back against the headboard of your bed. "You shouldn't have troubled yourself."

But instead of giving you the bowl, she insisted to feed you with a spoonful, leaning closer to you. With cheeks flushed from the act of endearment, you let the woman coddle you.

"You never come to me as someone who gets sick travelling by sea," she teased, a smile on her face.

"Well, I normally don't," you argued, making the Queen laugh.

"Quit being cocky and let yourself be taken care of."

One of the Dornish servants suddenly barged through the door, eyes wide upon seeing you not alone. There was a crate of supplies for your wound on her arms.

"Leave it," Cersei ordered, making the servant drop the crate unto a table nearby.

After you have finished the bowl, Cersei brought her hands to the hem of your tunic, attempting to pull it off you. Heart skipping a beat when you felt her fingers brush against your skin, you immediately stopped her, wrapping your hand around her wrist. "What are you doing?"

The Lannister woman smirked as she stood and walked away instead, taking the crate of supplies from the doorway. "I'm changing the dressing of your wound."

After a few moments of hesitation, you finally let Cersei get rid of your tunic. Her eyes softened upon the sight of her necklace's golden lion pendant on your chest and the bruised skin, now had gone purple close to healing.

She then began delicately cleaning the wound on your chest, her thumb purposefully brushing your nipple, every touch bringing you shivers. You swallowed, cheeks red as you attempted to move away from her.

"Stop moving," Cersei said, giggling.

"Stop teasing me then," you countered back.

After she had managed to change your dressing, you noticed a tent growing under your breeches. Everything seemed to freeze at that moment as you quickly took one of your pillows to hide it when Cersei was looking away.

Yet, there was nothing the Queen could miss as her curious eyes began wondering why there was a pillow on your lap. She sat back on the side of your bed, leaning forward and closer to your body.

Her sultry voice near your face made you harder than you were before, your cock straining painfully from the weight of the pillow. "Do you also need help with something else, My Lady?"

"Your Grace, I don't think—"

"Stop thinking," she whispered into your ear, her hand slipping inside your breeches and stroking your hardening cock. "Just breathe, Y/n. Let yourself go. Take pleasure in my hand."

Letting out an embarrassingly loud groan, you threw your head back against the headboard, eyes rolling deep into the back, hands clutching against the sheets on both sides.

Cersei's eyes darted towards your cock when she managed to pull it out from your breeches, twitching against her touch. It had never looked this painfully hard before, you thought you wouldn't last a second longer.

"You have a pretty cock, you know," she cooed, her lips nipping the skin on your jaw and neck. Her hand moved expertly, squeezing you tight as if milking you, and she did manage, her thumb tracing over the small cum leaking from your head then spreading it on your entire length.

"Cersei. . ."

The sound of your whimpers made Cersei turn to stare at you, observing your every reaction, with your eyes shut close and mouth agape. "You looked so prettier under my control."

"Cersei, I'm close. . ."

"Good," she said.

You opened your eyes to see what she meant, but what you saw only made you lose it. The Queen took the entire length of your cock into her mouth, bobbing her head up and down in a fast pace. The sight itself, the wetness and warmth from her mouth and the moan she let out when she took you made you explode right into her.

And she took it all, swallowing everything there was to milk. You cursed profanities into the silent night, grunting your release, releasing a lot more when she took you deeper.

It seemed like eternity when you had finally come down from your high, watching Cersei clean your shaft before licking the side of her lips from any residue. She then tucked your cock back into your breeches and leaned forward back to you.

"I would have hated wasting a single drop," she finished with a smug smile on her face.

I truly appreciate your continued support in reading my stories. You can help me create more stories by supporting my writing thru this link. Thank you so much ❤🥰

[luboy7rt]

Kick (COD Ghosts): Random Headcanons 

(Note: We don't get enough Kick content, so here's food. I ramble my bad. Just trying to get re-motivated for more headcanon stuff!)

- Kick would randomly just plops down near his comrades. Everyone can just be doing their own tasks and he's just coming by to invade everyone's personal space, but never for too long before he agites himself and just leaves.  

(Here's how I think the other Ghosts would react to this)

This could happen to Keegan who would look like a deer in headlights, like he's silently looking around for help. Help this man, he cannot. Keegan ends up just silently pushing Kick off to leave, leaving Kick groaning and being grumbley until he finds his next target or he would silently just sit there, stiff and unmoving, he is now a statue. Won't even breathe. (0.5/10 on Kick Rates)

This could happen to Ajax, a quick ‘what's up’ or ‘hey’ Is exchanged before Kick just lets his body go limp, his shoulders digging into Ajax's lap who ‘unfortunately’ claims he got used to it. Ajax's is pretty chill about it though, he couldn't care less. But if he's watching a show and Kick tries to eat his snacks? Nope, Kick’s getting kicked out. (8/10 on Kick Rates) 

This could happen to Hesh who is more inclined to just let it happen, I feel like Hesh is somehow the most uncaring about it. He's dealt with Logan all his life, and he has a dog who couldn't give a damn about personal space. Hesh just lifts his phone so he could keep doing What he was doing but Kick could do whatever he wanted as long as he respectable Hesh's personal space. (11/10 on Kick Rates)

This can happen to Logan who is alarmed the first time this happens, stiff as a board. Uncomfortable, unfortunately takes time for Logan to relax (-0.2/10 on Kick Rates)

Elias. Kick tried to lay over the man once but Elias left too quickly to get a good rating (Sad/10 on Kick Rates) Come back. Kick bets he's a damn good at cuddling/comfort too, he's holding out on him like that?

This could happen to Neptune, who's surprisingly chill with it as long as Kick didn't interrupt him on purpose or talk/breathe too loudly. It's comfortable and warm (100/10 on Kick Rates) 

((Pardon these next two, we don't get a lot on Torch and Grim so OCC))

Torch is unique. Sits weird, cuddles weird, Kick likes weird so (10/10 on Kick Rates)

Grim is funky, cold but ends up being the second best at cuddling after Neptune (Might need more experimentation/10 on Kick Rates) 

Riley? Fucking amazing cuddle buddy when hes up to it. Not so amazing when the dog farts, stinks like hell. (100/10 on Kick Rates. -1000 for the time Riley definitely let one rip on purpose just to get Kick to leave him alone) 

- He's very intelligent and also he very much likes to mess with people. Likes tapping into Keegan’s devices just for shits and giggles. (No proof of this, but Keegan just knows. Kick just knows how to cover his tracks) Randomly gives ‘hints’ when he's in someone's devices when he's not supposed to be. This habit stops after Keegan did some cursed shit to simply get him to stop. Yet no one ever got Kick in trouble for this habit before, they just assume it's Kick’s way of trying to check up on them. Lol, No. He does it for his own curiosity but he’ll let them believe what they want. 

- Kick likes to vibe when driving, making it his teammates problem to either ignore him or join in. He doesn't care as he's dancing while driving, ignore his playlist title, he's too busy singing under his breath to care about the done looks on his comrades faces.

- Neptune and Kick team ups are a vibe Kick lives for, he lives for slowly trying to convince Neptune to do something unhinged. He knows it takes a lot of planning, so Kick slowly tries to encourage Neptune to pull an insane stunt that will end up helping the team but also Kick gets the amusement he wants.

- He says cursed shit often, usually the others turn a blind eye to it. But sometimes some of the guys can't, hearing their little sighs of defeat make Kick's get a larger ego, it's pure bliss for him.

-  Kick finds it utterly hilarious when he sees Keegan's blank stare, just looking into his soul. He finds it to be the most funniest shit, especially when they're meant to be doing something serious. He lives for when Keegan hears some stupid shit and slowly turns to face Kick, slowly blinking (frog blink even better in Kick's eyes). Kick has to always bite his tongue just to not full blown cackle when he's not supposed to.

- Makes shitty PowerPoints instead of actually decent debrief reports, like yes. We did this :). No, we failed that :(. With a shitty gif misplaced on the right side of the slide. Elias lets it pass and ends up rewriting the damn report for Kick because he just can't deal with this anymore. It's shitty on purpose but if he knows Elias has a bad day? He writes the best damn report he has ever done and hands it in like a proud dog who finally caught Its own tail.

- I feel like he builds/fixes up PCs, Computers or Other technology just for fun. Especially old shitty tech? He would love it, definitely has a collection of just old technology he has fixed over the years.

- Feel like he doesn't believe in spirits or ghosts, but makes it a point to announce to his dead comrades he's going to do something stupid or he would click his tongue and flip off an object if it just reminded him of one of his comrades. 

(Ex: After Torch's death. One of Kick's candles sway too much and catches something on fire? Kick would blame Torch. It's all his fault, it could never be Kick's fault for placing that item too close to the flame.) 

(Hah just got the idea of  Kick ghost hunting for his teammates and then definitely messing with him, ‘Did you just fucking call me Honey Booboo Bear?’ Cue Kick staring at the camera behind him with such a straight face like it was the most horrid thing he has ever heard.) 

Ajax would be the ghost calling him Honey Booboo Bear just to fuck with him because he knows (knew) Kick. Unfortunately.

Kick, Keegan and Neptune ghost hunter Au/freetime? Feel like that would be funny.)

(I got more ideas for this, I can go on about it but I'll keep it short, Neptune nonchalant camera man who just points out things bluntly, funny but mostly unheard guy behind the camera but when he speaks up you know it's good, Keegan skeptic who's just here to say he doesn't believe in it and to scare Kick. Kick firm believer who wants to get real evidence or flirt with a ghost.), (Even funnier if they bring Hesh, Logan and Riley along, because Logan is side eyeing while Hesh would slightly be panicking because why is Riley staring at a damn wall for 15 minutes? Even better if Elias comes along to ensure his boys are safe and just drags his kids out when Kick tries to encourage them to do stupid shit. Elias doesn't fuck with that shit.

(I find myself utterly hilarious. Felt like I should say that. Sorry if its a bit short, thank you. Dw if you don't agree with some of these headcanons, they are just for fun!)

[the-kr8tor]

Hi, could you do domestic fluff Hobie x reader where they stargaze on his boat and the artist reader shows off their sketchbook, maybe even draws him!🥹

Hi hun! I have a similar fic that I've been working on (the reader showing Hobie her sketchbook) so I added in your prompt (stargazing part) since we had the same idea (great minds think alike 😏), hope you don't mind! Thank you for requesting ❤️

Pairing: Hobie brown x gn! Reader/ Spider-Punk x gn! Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, lovestruck Hobie, FLUFF.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

There's a city-wide brownout, the usual lights in historic London are all off, the entire city enjoys a rare sight in the night sky. Without the light pollution that usually presides over the city, the stars in the sky shine brightly, blanketing the dark sky in twinkling star lights. There's no cloud in sight, therefore nothing could cover the magnificent view.

Hobie's houseboat is littered with candles, providing a romantic light on his 'porch'.

You sigh longingly for the fifth time that night, neck craning up, staring at Orion's belt. You lift your eyes off the constellation for a second to finish your sketch of Orion, pointing your little torch on the page. Your hand expertly shade in the drawing. The well loved sketchbook is filled to the brim with various drawings– some landscapes, food, dogs you encounter and an embarrassing amount of Hobie.

The pages are covered with him, whether he's sitting with a guitar in his lap, strumming away, or Hobie in his suit, sometimes with his mask on but mostly without it, and so many portraits of Hobie, you just love sketching him.

You'd die of embarrassment if he ever sees them, he might think you're obsessed with him (you are) or tease you into oblivion.

You can't help it though, accidentally making him your muse. There's just something about his perfect jawline, how his lips curve into a sly smile, or how his eyes light up whenever he's passionate about something, he gives you so much inspiration to make art.

You sigh, absolutely whipped for him. A breeze sends shivers through you, hugging your thin jacket closer to your torso.

Suddenly a heavy weight drops on your head, Hobie laughs loudly as you make a sound from the back of your throat.

"Hey!" You lift the heavy cloth away from your face, Looking closer at the heavy material, you see Hobie's familiar leather jacket, your heart swells.

" 'm sorry" he pecks the top of your head, his hands full, holding two steaming mugs, Hobie puts the mugs down on the table, the contents sloshing a bit to the sides. "Here let me"

Hobie reaches for the jacket, at first you thought he's gonna take it from you, but once he drapes the jacket behind you, your heart soars, thumping hard on your chest. You're sure he can feel it when he gets closer to you, so he could help you slot in your arms inside the jacket. You feel giddy, you smell like him now.

"There, warm enough?" Hobie rubs your arms, sneaking a look at you wearing his jacket, a smile creeping to the corner of his lips. Your cheeks heat up from his stare.

There's something in the air tonight, making the atmosphere romantic. Maybe because you're floating on the river in his houseboat currently stargazing in the dark?

"Mmhm" you nod with a shy smile, unable to form the correct words, eyes practically shaped like hearts, Hobie mirrors your expression.

Yeah, there's something in the air. It's definitely not because you're both absolutely lovestruck for each other.

He sits down, cringing when his knees creak. Damn his joints, he's trying to act cool in front of you.

You think it's endearing, adorable, even.

You give him a knowing (teasing) smile, putting your chin in your hand, while your elbow rests on the arm of the chair.

He rolls his eyes at you, but his smile betrays his true emotion. Hobie grabs his drink to hide his grin.

"Softie" you murmur.

"Drink your bloody tea, don't want you freezing to death while you're in my boat" he moves the mug closer to you.

You notice him sitting farther from you, you mentally shake your head, that won't do. So you place your opened sketchbook on your lap. Putting both hands on the back of his chair, you try to pull him towards you. But alas he's too heavy for you, your movement causes you to almost topple over.

Hobie's senses warn him before you could fall, with a strong grip on your chair, he stabilizes you. "What are you doing, love?" Words dripping in fondness.

"You're too far" you struggle as you continue to pull him towards you.

Instead of Hobie pulling your chair towards him, he slightly lifts himself off the chair, lessening the weight off it. You don't notice this, smiling triumphantly when you finally move his chair closer to you. The metal scraping against metal, makes your ears ring, but you mentally high five yourself for a job well done.

"Nice, you hitting the gym?" He places his arm on the arm rest of your chair, he's a lot closer now, breath mixing in with yours. Your cheeks heat up, you should've thought this through.

Knowing that you're too flustered to make a coherent sentence, you just nod "mmhm"

"Mmhm" he mimics you, teasing. "Right, just don't replace me with a gym bro, yeah?"

Your eyebrows knit together, taking his joke seriously "never"

He glimpses your opened sketchbook, that's miraculously still in your lap. Without thinking, he grabs it, whistling when he sees your drawing of mighty Orion.

"You drew this? Just now?"

Nodding, You try to reach for it back, please don't flip through it, you thought, embarrassment creeping up to you.

Hobie, being Hobie raises it higher away from your hands. He pretends to compare the constellation in the sky to your drawing. "Can't believe you drew this the whole ten minutes while I was making tea"

"Yeah, the stars inspired me, can I have it back, please?"

" 'm not done admiring it" he holds it with both hands, thankfully staying on the same page.

You grit your teeth, hoping, praying he doesn't move to another page.

Mother nature has a different idea though, a strong wind rushes past, rocking the boat slightly, the candles you meticulously lit up, blow out in the wind; the pages of your book flips widely, conveniently (unfortunately for you) stopping at a sketch of Hobie.

Oh, fuck. You internally curse. Nope that's it he's gonna get weirded out, and he's gonna break up with me. You keep catastrophizing.

"Is that me?" Hobie moves the book closer for inspection, his eyes roam to the perfect copy of him on the page, his heart skips a beat. "When was this?"

You put your face in your hands, you groan out, "I'm sorry, I should've asked for permission"

He's confused, Hobie closes the book, placing it carefully on the table. He grabs your hands carefully, you can feel the calluses on his fingertips.

"Nothing to be sorry about, look at me" he waits for you to remove your hands from your face. "I liked it, hey," he rubs the back of your hand with his thumb, "you don't need to apologize"

You sneak a peek through your fingers, "you must think I'm a weirdo"

Hobie ducks his head to meet your eyes "yeah, because you are, knew that before I dated you, but you're my weirdo, yeah?"

You close your fingers together, hiding your flustered state from him, he called me his? You completely forget the part where he called you a weirdo.

"Enough of this, yeah?" He shakes you slightly "you don't need to ask permission to sketch me," he shakes you again, trying to make you laugh,

"I like" shake "it" shake "and I" shake "fancy you" Hobie shakes you harder, you smile behind your hands.

You bravely remove your hands away from your face.

"There you are" Hobie grins, while you look at him through your lashes, bashfully.

"You mean it?"

"We're literally together" he says through his laughs, Hobie cups your jaw affectionately "we're stargazing, even though it's bloody freezing, you think I'll do something like this if I didn't fancy you?"

"And you made me tea," you point out.

"And I made you tea, which you haven't even taken a sip yet, you ungrateful shit" Hobie smiles through his swearing, even with him cursing at you, you smile widely at him, knowing that's how he shows his affection.

You gather all your courage "you wanna see the rest?"

He taps your cheek "you sure?"

"Mmhm" you nod.

Hobie searches your face for any doubt, but finds none. He grabs your sketchbook, opening it to the first page. His own face greets him.

He whistles "who's that handsome man? I like his piercings"

"You dork," you laugh, pushing your face closer to his bicep, feeling his warmth through his hoodie.

Hobie releases his bicep from your hold, you pout, but he places his arm behind you, bringing you closer, a flustered smile replaces your pout.

He flips a page, a sketch of the planet saturn.

"You can actually see saturn from here" you say softly, content in his arms.

"Yeah? Point it to me" Hobie whispers against your hair.

You both crane your neck up, Hobie follows your pointing finger.

"Right there"

"Yeah?" He buries his face closer to your hair, muffling his voice.

"You're not even paying attention," you say softly, noticing his relaxed state.

"Nah, continue, I'm listening" Hobie cuddles to your side closer.

You let him relax in your hold as you point out more planets and constellations.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

Thanks for reading! Consider reblogging if you enjoyed it ❤️

[beauregardlionett]

did i rant to my friends about dorian and orym just to be called a simp? yes i did. and i'll do it again.

these two characters? consume my waking thoughts. because just fucking think about this from a timeline/literary point of view for a second with me.

orym lost his husband and his father-in-law (who he always calls dad because he didn't have a dad growing up) in a violent attack on his leader a while ago and whatever magic was used to kill them kept them dead - no reviving magic worked to bring them back. in the space of a single attack, he lost two of the most important people in his life, and now he's a widow who still mourns and loves in equal measure even while far from home trying to save the world. he loves even though he's scared of losing again.

dorian is a runaway heir to a title he never really wanted, a musician for himself, a charlatan hiding behind an easy smile, who has really only ever wanted to see the world in his own time and make real friends for once in his life. and he did that! all on his own! he was with the group at the beginning of the campaign but then they ran into his older brother who was in trouble and needed to lay low and dorian went with him, falling back on old instincts that family by blood comes first. he ran from the group and from the foundations he was building with them. because dorian has only ever run from the things that scare him. but now he's back, re-traced his frightened footsteps toward the daunting promise of tomorrow - not yet with the group, we're getting his side of the story first. and he even said it himself, that he ran from the group and now he's not sure why he did it, why he left, when he stands here now and realizes everything he wanted was already in front of him.

they have sending stones, a once a day chance to say something to each other in 25 words or less. they've been using them, keeping each other updated on where they are, that they're still alive, and kindling this flame even without dorian at the table, without even seeing each other, and liam has been carrying this torch alone for 78 episodes but damn it the flame is still lit regardless!

and orym always updates on their progress and location first, and with whatever words he has left he drops in a sentiment to remind dorian that they still care - that orym still cares. and orym is practical through and through, he's a strategist so he always always always uses his words wisely because he's so fucking limited by this spell but the last message he sent? he repeated himself, he admitted a weakness, he faltered.

he told dorian where they were. he asked if dorian could come their way. he admitted to struggling while his voice broke. he asked again but in a different way if dorian could come their way. he ended the message with the most heartbreaking "fuck, i miss you," i have ever heard in my life.

orym, the man who messaged dorian 52 episodes ago and said "glad you're not here, wish you were anyway." because they're constantly in danger, and he wouldn't wish that on dorian, but he still aches to have him near. orym, the man who confessed 13 episodes ago during a trial with his friends that he's lonely, that he misses dorian and sometimes he thinks it's okay and sometimes he doesn't - because he was married and is still mourning and how dare he have feelings for someone else? how dare he move on even when his husband would WANT him to be happy again? he indicated dorian was missed by everyone in three of his previous messages before the trial, before finally shifting to 'I, orym, me - it's me who misses you'.

and dorian, the one who replied to a message orym sent him with "stay steadfast, sending you fairer winds" in the most longing tone i have EVER heard. dorian, who kissed orym's forehead when they parted ways but that is the closest they have come to acknowledging whatever is between them. dorian, who has been to orym's home between exu and c3 and met orym's mom and knows about orym's husband.

when orym died 58 episodes ago, he went limp and the sending stone slipped out of his hand because he was trying to message dorian before he died, before he ran out of words and breath. before he was revived, there was a moment he stood in the beyond and saw his husband and he told orym "you're not done," and orym said "i really wish i could stay," and then his husband said "i'll still be here," and orym said, heartbroken, "oh, i miss you so bad."

he told dorian, "i've really missed you," and "fuck, i miss you." i miss you is orym's way of saying i love you.

they're so close. they are so close. and orym fully died 19 episodes after dorian left, but he was revived and then never told dorian via sending that happened. part of me wants dorian to find out and the other part hopes he never has to feel like he failed orym by leaving. because nothing could have changed that from happening, not even dorian.

they are so close to reuniting, orym has needed dorian back for WEEKS and he's so close. i'm begging them to hold on so they can hold each other again.

and, again, from a literary point of view, you know the wildest part about all of this?

none of it is scripted.

[chickenkurage]

(TAWW!Week) DAY 6: SLEEP DEPRIVATION

Teen Alan AU

Summary: Second wakes up to find Alan is still awake, he worries.

Tags: Comfort no Hurt

It was rare for Second to wake up to any kind of noise. Not because he was a deep sleeper—far from it—but living with the Color Gang had effectively desensitized him to most sounds. They were loud, chaotic, and utterly unpredictable, but he’d learned to tune them out. Survival instincts, probably.

Still, as he cracked one eye open, the clock above his bed glowed 4:00 AM. And yet, there it was—that faint, incessant click-clack of a keyboard, piercing through the silence. He groaned, tempted to kick the wall dividing his room from Yellow’s. Why does he type so damn loud?

Yellow was either a nocturnal maniac or just suicidal. Second was honestly leaning toward the latter because, as far as he could tell, the guy never slept. Always hunched over his laptop, obsessively typing away. And now, at a most ungodly hour, that rhythmic tapping was starting to grate on Second’s nerves.

Not that Second didn’t love the gang. He really did. He didn’t even care when they raved at 3 AM or when Green decided to set things on fire for no reason. But sometimes… sometimes, he worried about their well-being. Did they sleep? Did they eat? Did they even breathe half the time?

With a sigh, Second sat up on his bed. His legs dangled awkwardly over the edge—curse these stupid Minecraft-sized beds—his knees pulled up to his chest every night just to fit. One of these days, he told himself, he’d build a bigger bed. But not today. Today, he had to deal with Yellow.

Getting to his feet, he stretched lazily, his joints popping faintly in the silence as he shuffled out of his room. The hallway was dark, the torches removed—Blue’s doing, no doubt. Second stifled a yawn and trudged toward Yellow’s room, the persistent keyboard clacking still ringing in his ears.

But as he approached Yellow’s door, he paused. The sound wasn’t coming from there. Still, for good measure, he cracked the door open.

Yellow was curled up in his bed, his laptop hugged tightly to his chest, blanket kicked halfway off the mattress. Even in sleep, the guy couldn’t let go of his precious laptop. Second sighed, stepping inside to pull the blanket over Yellow’s shoulders. The other stirred briefly but soon settled, his breathing steady and deep once more.

Second exhaled softly, relieved, and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door with care. But the tapping noise still lingered, echoing faintly in the quiet house.

If it’s not Yellow, then who?

He checked Green’s room next. Nothing. Green was snoring softly, sprawled across his bed like a starfish.

Blue’s room? Also a no. Blue didn’t even own a laptop, and Second doubted he’d ever touch one.

Finally, he peeked into Red’s room. Red was fast asleep, curled up with Reuben, the pig snoring loudly beside him.

Scratching his head, Second stood in the dark living room, baffled. His brain, still foggy with sleep, struggled to piece it together. 

His brain is still fogged with sleep, and all he wants is to crawl back into bed and drift off again. But that incessant tapping noise isn't helping, and lack of sleep has always made him easily irritable.

Who's making that noise? The thought nags at him as he drags himself toward the door, his steps sluggish. He cracks it open slightly, only to wince as a blinding flash of white light hits him right in the face. A Google tab is open, set to Light Mode, and the harsh glow stings his eyes. He quickly shuts the door, rubbing his face in confusion.

Everyone else should be asleep by now. It’s late—no, early. Too early. Which means there’s only one possible culprit.

Alan.

Alan must have forgotten to mute his mic again.

Second mutters under his breath, still groggy as he pulls the door open once more and steps out. The glow feels even brighter now, and he squints, focusing on the scene ahead. Sure enough, it’s Alan. The teen is hunched over his desk, tapping away at something.

What on earth is he doing at this hour?

Second crosses the desktop, his irritation giving way to curiosity. It’s 4 in the morning—no kid should be awake at this time, let alone working on something.

“Alan?” Second calls, his voice sharp enough to startle the teen. Alan jerks upright, his head snapping toward Second, his face pale in the light of the monitor.

“S-Second? Why are you still up?” Alan stammers, his eyes wide.

Second tilts his head, arms crossed like a disapproving parent. His foot taps rhythmically against the desk. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

Alan winces under Second’s gaze, his hand flying to the back of his neck as he rubs it awkwardly. Now that Second’s eyes have adjusted to the brightness, he notices the dark circles under Alan’s eyes. They’re heavy, like bruises, evidence of more than just one sleepless night.

When was the last time this kid even slept properly?

Second tilts his head. He doesn’t know much about school, not firsthand anyway. Between everyone in this computer, Red is the only one who’s experienced it—and even then, it was monster school, which Second doubts is remotely the same. But he does know this: school shouldn’t push someone to the point of exhaustion.

“What’s got you so stressed that you’re still awake at four in the morning?” Second asks, his tone softer now. He hops onto the google tab to peer over on what Alan is looking at. A few landscape images are open in separate tabs, scenic views of mountains, beaches, and forests.

Alan’s face darkens, his shoulders slumping under the weight of Second’s question. “A-Ah… how did you know?” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. He buries his face in his hands, his words muffled as he continues. “We have this project for school… We’re supposed to illustrate a place that holds our best memory.”

Second waits for him to talk again. He doesn’t interrupt, letting Alan explain.

“But…” Alan hesitates, his voice cracking slightly. “I don’t really have a place like that. I’ve never been anywhere that meant something to me. So I’ve been… searching for pictures. I thought maybe I could… I don’t know… fake it.” His cheeks flush with shame as he admits it, his fingers fidgeting nervously in his lap.

“Oh… Does it have to be somewhere outside?” Second asked, his gaze flicking between the images on the screen—pictures of forests, beaches, and other scenic outdoor locations. There was a distinct pattern.

Alan tilted his head, seeming to consider the question. “Ah, well… She didn’t explicitly say it had to be outdoors,” he admitted, his voice tinged with hesitation. “But I kind of assumed it would be.”

Second snorted, shaking his head. “If she didn’t explicitly say it, then why not draw something different? Like, I don’t know… the interior of your house?”

Alan fell silent at that, rubbing his forehead as if the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind. “That’s true… But what if I get it wrong?”

Second sighed. “You said yourself that she didn’t say anything about it having to be outside. So, let me ask you this: what’s a place you really like?”

Alan hummed thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “I guess… home? I mean, Mom is here, you guys are always around, and DJ drops by more often than not.”

Second chuckled, leaning forward and smirking. “Then there’s your answer. You don’t need all this,” he said, standing up and closing the images Alan had been browsing.

Alan blinked, then let out a small laugh, his shoulders visibly relaxing as if a weight had just been lifted. “Ah… You’re so right, Second,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck while adjusting the glasses on his face. His tone carried a mix of relief and embarrassment.

Second raised a hand, cutting him off before he could say more. “But first,” he said, voice firm, “you need to go to sleep.”

Alan froze, blinking in surprise before blushing. “I guess… I was overthinking it a little too much,” he admitted, his voice shaky as he scratched his cheek in embarrassment.

“You don’t say,” Second replied dryly, tilting his head.

Alan giggled softly, covering his smile with his fist. “Good night, Sec.”

“Good night, Al,” Second said with a fond sigh, waving him off. “And go to sleep right away—it’s already four in the morning.”

Alan gave him a sheepish thumbs-up as he stood from his chair. “Sleep well,” he added as he moved to his bed on the far side of the room. Second watched as Alan straightened his blankets and lay down, finally reaching for the lamp beside him and switching it off. The room dimmed, leaving the faint glow of the computer screen.

Second allowed himself a small smile. “Mission: Make Alan sleep—success,” he whispered, pumping his fist in triumph. He felt a flicker of pride in his chest.

But the moment didn’t last long.

“What are you doing?” a groggy voice asked behind him.

Second let out an undignified shriek, spinning around to see Red standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. Reuben, nestled in Red’s arms, let out a loud, snorting yawn.

Caught red-handed, Second froze, his face heating up. “…Nothing.”

Red stares at him, unimpressed.

[eerna]

Would you say tog is slightly better than acotar?

Yeah, because at least it has SOMETHING going for it. It's super clear that SJM started out inspired by epic fantasy and set out to write a heroine (actually multiple heroines, starting with HoF) who can match the scale of the story, and that was simply not something you would see much back in 2012, so I can forgive teen me for loving it so much. Aelin is a genuinely cool female power fantasy (for the first half of the story, I have yet to reread the other 4 books) - overpowered and unrealistic, but damn, sometimes a teen girl wants to read about a teen girl who can overpower and outwit anyone AND then go home and enjoy art and pretty clothes and chocolate. Meanwhile Feyre does nothing but marry rich and cry and all her empowerment is strictly within bounds of heteronormative sexism. And even outside the lead, Manon, Elide and Lysandra are genuinely interesting characters, and their writing in HoF and QoN could easily be placed in a different book and I would eat it up. The novella, The Assassin's Blade, was even I would dare say ok in its entirety, with the only proper male romantic interest SJM has ever written.

HOWEVER!!!!!!!!!!! It is still not GOOD. The first book is boring a death game/GoT combo, the second book is filler, the third book is when SJM started experimenting with fae and mates, the fourth book is where it takes a sharp turn into her ACOTAR style writing, and books 5 though 7 are so unreadably bad that I flat out gave up when I tried rereading the first time. The second book is when the infamous "only black character dies because she believes dying would build the white lead's character" incident happens, and we don't get to see other lead black characters because the entire country is torched later (as a message to the white lead). In book 5 Aelin straight up says violent conquest is bad if bad people do it, and good if good people do it. The pedophilic subtext of Elide and Lorcan is off the charts. Manon turns from a HC lesbian icon into a heteronormative sex doll for a boring dude 100 years her junior. Lysandra ends up arcless and with romance as her only goal. The books are bad the books are bad the books are BAD, but it is kind of wild how you can tell the exact moment ACOTAR was written and published, because ToG becomes 10 times worse than before.

All in all, SJM is a writer who only gets worse at her craft with time, but that doesn't mean issues plaguing her books haven't been present before.

[pinkroseblooms]

Options, Pt.2

Arajin/f!Reader/Marito

Summary: Marito and Arajin invite you to visit Siguma headquarters for a (not) date. wc: 1.9k A/N: warning for marito being a little shit and arajin being a simp. Enjoy!

“Welcome!” Marito extends his arms wide as if awaiting an embrace. “To Siguma headquarters!”

“How…colorful.” You glance at Arajin with wide eyes; he’s standing a little behind Marito, half heartedly imitating his pose. “Thank you for having me.”

You can’t tell what the building was originally meant to be at first. It’s not until you get a good look at the dilapidated stage on the opposite side of the room and the rusted, old basketball hoops on either end of the walls that you realize it’s a gymnasium. 

“Huh.” You glance at the jungle gym lodged into the hardwood floor. “Is that from a park?”

“A daycare center!” Marito says proudly, taking you by the wrist to pull you around, pointing at the panda bear spring rider. “I thought the boys would get more use out of them than those snot nosed brats.”

“Um, would you like something to drink?” Arajin interjects meekly, holding out two bottles, one of water, another of tea. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I grabbed a few different things. We have a place with snacks too if you’re hungry.”

“Thanks.” You chirp gratefully taking the chilled bottle of jasmine tea. “This is so cool Arajin, like a secret clubhouse. I always wanted to have a clubhouse as a kid; remember the time we tried to make a fortress with those old cardboard boxes?”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Hey, what’re ya talking about?” Marito leans down to get in Arajin’s face. “I’ve never heard about this. Were you trying to become a gang leader or something?”

“No! It was just an average clubhouse.” Arajin explains. “It was until the rain came anyhow. It didn’t dawn on us that leaving out cardboard in a storm would basically destroy our secret fortress.”

“I don’t know if it was secret, seeing as how we made it in the backyard.” You add good naturedly. “But it was fun to make, wasn’t it?”

“Totally.” 

Arajin smiles as you fill Marito in the details of some of your adventures; he doesn’t even mind too much when you mention Matakara, bringing up the idea of the three of you getting together sometime to hang out. There might be a way to get out of it, but the truth is, if you really wanted it, Arajin would make up an itinerary; with you there as a buffer, it could be bearable. 

“There’s no reason to be awkward Arajin: Matakara’s still the best guy I know, I think it would be nice for us to catch up at the restaurant or something.” You propose gently. “Think it over, okay? For me?”

“ANYTHING!”

You blink. “Huh?”

“I mean, yeah, I’ll cook you anything you want; I’ll make you something really good, all your favorites!” Arajin says excitedly. “I’ll even make you roast duck.”

Marito watches silently as Arajin fusses and fawns; it’s actually pretty damn cute when he gets all riled up and eager to please. He invited you to join them fully expecting this reaction; after all, whatever he says, it’s painfully obvious Arajin’s been carrying around a torch for you for who knows how long. Again, Marito expected that: in fact he was counting in it. He wants you and Arajin to get closer again before they make any moves. Besides, the two of you look like adorable puppies in a pen, so innocently affectionate and tiptoeing around each other tentatively, always mindful of the line between friends and more. 

“Ara-teen, we need to talk.” Marito interrupts the conversation with a sunny grin, now pulling Arajin away to the entrance door. “Be right back kitten! You just make yourself comfy, don’t miss us too much!”

Once they’re outside, Marito’s easy going smile switches to a cold glare; he looms over Arajin but doesn’t say anything.

“Are you mad?” Arajin glances at the slightly open doorway, even though it’s unlikely you’d overhear them. “I didn’t mean to leave you out of the conversation. We sort of got caught up reminiscing I guess.” There’s another beat of tense silence before Arajin slowly reaches for Marito’s hand at his side. “I’m sorry.”

“Why is she so dead set on getting together with you and Matakara?” Marito’s scowl dissolves into a pout but he squeezes Arajin’s hand, albeit a bit too hard, making the other boy wince. “It sounds like she thinks pretty highly of that Minato Kai scum.”

“Oh yeah that.” Arajin sighs heavily. “I don’t know. She’s been in touch with him this whole time I was away.” A look of panic crosses his face. “Wait, you don’t think they’re…dating?!”

“You’re the one who should know. Your ol’ buddy could have been working on her the past five years.” Marito muses crossly. “I sure as hell don’t want to lose out to anyone from Minato. Arajin, what’s the vibe you get from her?”

“Vibe?”

“Has she talked to you about me?”

“Not really.” Arajin tries to wrack his brain for all the instances since the first meeting between you and Marito where you might have mentioned his boyfriend. “She asks how you are, but that’s it.”

“How so?”

“I spilled the beans; she knows you’re the head of Siguma. She was worried about me getting involved with turf wars, but I told her I don’t fight anymore-”

“A shame, really.” Marito purrs, the tips of his fingers caress Arajin’s knuckles. “You throw a hell of a punch.”

“Marito, come on, not here.” Arajin glances again at the doorway, but you’re not peeking out to see what the hold up is. “Actually, she seemed scared when I told her about you.”

“I see.”

“Not like she's afraid of you!” Arajin adds hastily. “I meant she got kinda panicky when I told her about you getting into fights and stuff; I told her you’re crazy strong, but she always asks if you’re doing okay. I think she’s worried about you getting hurt.”

“She is? Worried about little ol’ me?” Marito’s razor sharp grin betrays the mock sympathetic tone of his voice. “Ara-teen, hit me.”

“Sure-what?!”

“Come on, just one good punch!” Marito undoes the rest of the buttons on his shirt until the fabric is pooled around his waist. “Give it to me.”

When Marito and Arajin finally return, they find you lying in a hammock, swinging slightly and humming to yourself. In Marito’s hammock.

“That’s my spot.”

You open your eyes; Marito’s face hovers above yours. He’s looking down at you, blocking the dim lights overhead and you can’t quite make out his expression. Carefully, you sit up, a hand to your mouth.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think…I didn’t realize.”

“Aw, no worries. It’s just…” Marito sighs, running a hand through his hair. “My stomach’s bothering me.”

“Please, lie down!” You practically leap down and rearrange the blankets over the wide net. “Arajin has stomach problems too, I bought something for indigestion-”

“Hey, don’t go around talking about that so loudly!” Arajin looks scandalized as you forage through your purse. “It doesn’t happen that often, you don’t need to carry around medicine.”

“Good idea.” Marito gives Arajin a sneaky grin over your shoulder. “Ain’t she a peach, Ara-teen? But actually, it’s not a stomach ache; ya see…”

Marito, looking almost shy, undoes his shirt to show you the newly forming bruise on his abs.

“Oh my gosh!” You stop going through your purse to examine the fairly minor injury; still you look as upset as if Marito has an open gash across his midsection. “What happened?”

“I got into a bit of an altercation this morning and it’s still a bit tender is all.” Marito lays back on the hammock with a thoughtful expression. “I have some ointment in the cabinet over there, but I don’t think I need it.”

“Jin-san, of course you should use it!” 

Arajin watches, incredulous and a bit impressed as you march over to the cabinet, rummaging around until you find a first aid kit and the small container of ointment. Marito grins over at him smugly. “Watch and learn.” he mouths silently before you turn around with the supplies and a determined expression on your face.

“I can do it for you if it’s too painful to move; I used to help patch up Arajin and Matakara all the time when we were kids.”

“It wasn’t that often. You say it like I was getting beat up left and right.” 

“Oh hush.”

Arajin mumbles a bit defensively but he looks transfixed as you dip your fingers into the small container and begin swiping the ointment over Marito’s bruise.

“Ah!”

“Sorry, did I press too hard?”

“You’re fine,” Marito hisses sharply as you slowly trace your fingers over his stomach. “The ointment was cold; I’m a bit sensitive there.”

“I’ll be gentle.” You still look a bit upset. “I’m sorry.”

“It was just a tickle.”

“No, cause you could be resting now.” You look up at Marito and Arajin with big, sad eyes. “Is it a bad time for me to be here? I can leave.”

Arajin grabs at his chest; he feels both horribly guilty and ready to keel over and die at how adorable you look. It doesn’t help that Marito is making faint, almost keening noises as you finish applying the ointment; he’s barely able to hold back a disappointed look when you retract your hand and put the cap back over the medicine. Arajin is half expecting his boyfriend to drag you into the hammock; he’s lost count of how many times Marito has done the same to him, effortlessly pulling him into his chest, locking his long legs around his own, effectively trapping Arajin on top of his body with a smile to charm the devil himself. 

“Kitten, c’mere? Could you take a look at something?”

You stand next to Arajin, bending your head a bit to glance over Marito’s body. “What else hurts?”

“This.” Marito grabs your hand, placing the palm over his chest. “It’s aching. I think it’ll break.”

“Wha-what?”

“Don’t go yet.” Marito’s beseeching gaze flickers to Arajin’s stunned face. “We were really looking forward to you coming over. Ya can’t go now.”

“Um,” You look back at Arajin. “If it’s really no trouble…”

“Yes!” Arajin nods enthusiastically. “We even picked out special snacks and everything! Please don’t feel like you have to go!”

“Well, alright then. Thank you for having me. Jin-san?”

“Marito is fine. A friend of Ara-teen’s is a friend of mine after all.”

“Marito,” You smile softly. “Please take care of yourself properly when you get hurt: I know you’re a big tough guy and all, but that doesn’t mean I won’t worry about you as much as Arajin.”

“Yeah…sure.” Marito nods, his tone considerably less playful. “Sorry to worry you.”

“Aw, what are friends for?” You grin and poke Arajin’s cheek. “That goes for you too.”

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Arajin’s eyes lock onto Marito’s; he recognizes the look in his eyes. He’s sure it’s not so different from the longing stare he has as you walk away to the old refrigerator Arajin had dumbly pointed out when you offered to grab them water. 

“Has she always been so…?” Marito exhales slowly. “Come on man, she has to know what she’s doing.”

“Nope. Believe me,” Arajin smiles wearily. “She doesn’t have a clue.”

“Either way, if she is actually going with your buddy, you won’t have to think about competition because he’ll be dead meat.” Marito uses his free hand to reach up and pinch Arajin’s flushed cheek. “I’m all comfy and don’t wanna move; get me a kabob.”

“Okay, okay.”

“And feed me.”

“...okay.”

“Yahoo!” Marito wriggles back and forth excitedly in the hammock, apparently forgetting he’s supposed to be in pain. “I got Ara-teen and a little kitten all to myself today.”

“Just put your shirt back on.” 

[lucaniseyebrowlicker]

OC Kiss Week ‘25

Day 5 — Worship — Daphne Ingellvar and Beata de Riva

The ties to the prompt continue to be somewhat tenuous today! I didn’t know how to end this one without it turning into 2k words of blasphemous smut between Daphne and @hightowerqueen ‘s Rook, Bea, so it just…sort of ends lol

It’s also a continuation of their piece from earlier this week, which you can read here.

It is…mildly NSFW? Nothing explicit, but it has some implications

The list of things Daphne would rather not admit to is, admittedly, fairly long. And more than one point on it involves Beata de Riva. She won’t admit to how many times she’s reread each letter of Professor Volkarin’s that mentions the other woman, or how closely she watches Bea whenever she and her crew arrive at the Necropolis.

Or how many nights she’s spent reliving that damned kiss – one hand fisted in her own sheets, the other between her thighs as she recalls the way Bea felt, pressed between Daphne and the bookshelf.

She knows the Veilguard will be arriving sometime today, and doesn’t trust herself not to find some excuse to assist them, just on the off chance that they’ll end up alone again.

So, when the Mourn Watch needs someone to tend to the wisps that have started congregating in a tiny chantry built by a lesser noble family centuries ago, Daphne volunteers. It’s so deep in the crypts that even she gets lost along the way, the halls twisting around her and the veilfire torches growing fewer and farther between.

Our Lady of Joyful Quietude, the smallest chantry in the Necropolis, is surprisingly cheerful, charmingly simple. It’s not much bigger than Daphne’s quarters, with only six long wooden pews arranged before the bare stone altar. The room is devoid of the usual carvings of skeletons embracing, the towering statues of Andraste. But the walls are lined with stained-glass windows, in simple geometric patterns, their colors much brighter than most Nevarran architects were fond of. Torches flicker behind them, casting cerulean, crimson, and citrine shadows about the room. The wisps she’s been sent to redirect at the sponsoring family’s request are many, but quiet, drifting in lazy loops around the vaulted ceiling.

“Andraste’s sagging tits,” a voice mutters from a few meters behind her, echoing from around a corner, where the path to the chantry divulges into several different branches.

Daphne knows the cant of that voice. Beata de Riva rounds the bend, casting glances in every direction, as if she’s not sure how she got here or where she is. Bea halts in kind, for a moment, when she sees Daphne standing in the entryway. A wide smile splits Bea’s face, and Daphne’s heart gives a little flutter in her chest at the sight.

They’re both silent, until the taller woman is standing behind her, craning her neck to watch the spirits dancing above them.

“What are they?” Bea asks.

Daphne traces the line of Bea’s neck with her gaze as she answers. “Faith, and Devotion.”

The other woman turns towards her, eyes darkening. It’s the only sign Daphne needs. She hooks a finger into a black leather belt loop, but does not tug on it.

“Hey,” Bea greets her, hand moving to cup the nape of Daphne’s neck, fingers circling the length of her ponytail.

Daphne rises onto her toes, surging upward until their mouths crash together, Bea’s lips plush and warm and pliant beneath her own. She gasps, and the other woman takes the opportunity to guide her mouth open, slip her tongue inside.

For a long while, there is nothing in Daphne’s mind but the wet heat of Bea’s mouth, the solid line of her body fitted close against Daphne’s own. The cool, unyielding wood of the pew beneath her back, the leg Bea slots between her thighs, pressing down to meet Daphne as she grinds her hips upwards. The echoing chorus of their sighs, the fluttering music of wisps in the rafters.

[echo-the-artist]

Due to the lingering side effects, Jesse and Petra have to stay in Beacon Town. For Jesse, the side effects prevent him from going on adventures, for Petra, her side effects, while not as prominent as Jesse's, can hinder her too, so she must stay in Beacon Town until at least some of the more hindering side effects can fade.

Though I'd imagine Petra's lingering side effects, at least the ones that would hinder her fighting skills do go away after a while, but part of the reason she still stays in Beacon Town is to help keep an eye on Jesse since she feels responsible for his condition

There are some days where the desire to be submerged in water is damn near insatiable, especially for Jesse. He usually tries to carry at least a few water breathing potions for these days

Some people thought it was hilarious, others were concerned and eventually Radar had to tell people to just let Jesse and Petra enjoy the water.

A lot of people are intimidated by Jesse's glowing eyes. He has started to wear sunglasses to combat this.

Because of his glowing eyes, Jesse, can at times look intimidating, especially if he is standing still in the dark, barely illuminated by torch light

Petra is more intimidating, imagine going out for a walk at night when a figure suddenly emerges from the water, and glowing red eyes is the first thing you see? Or Petra staring down at you from a rooftop at night. Seeing Petra with her eyes glowing is especially intimidating since her's only glow during surges of adrenaline or when she loses her temper. She lost count of how many people she and Jesse accidentally scared.

Assuming Jesse and Petra didn't get their hands amputated to remove their respective cursed gauntlets, Jesse no longer likes wearing most armor, nor does he like wearing gloves or gauntlets of any kind, as it reminds him of the feeling of being trapped in the Prismarine armor, while Petra can't look at her reflection when her eyes glow and she sometimes has a hard time meeting Jesse's eyes, even with his glasses on, she blames herself for Jesse even getting cursed in the first place. She sometimes ponders why her curse never got as bad.

If Petra and Jesse did lose their right hands, then Petra would definitely have to stay in Beacon Town

Sometimes, Romeo visits Beacon Town to directly report on how many gauntlets were found and safely locked away (in the case that they can't be destroyed), his visits are few and far in between

During these days, Jesse and Petra constantly get violent, intrusive thoughts about Romeo.

Jesse is able to hide it as well as he possibly can, but Petra's eyes can't stop glowing near Romeo as she gets thoughts about killing him right there, that doing so would cure their curse completely, but she knows better.

There's more gauntlets... And as long as there are, clueless adventures can still find them... Slim as it may be.

No one deserves a curse like that.

Well... Almost no one...

[aquillis-main]

This "do Sonic games have good writing" discourse has reminded me of something I've been thinking about on and off recently. Namely, what does it mean for a Sonic game to be good?

We can argue about the merits of writing, characterization, and gameplay all day, but specifically, I've been thinking about the yardstick people often seem to apply to the series. Based on the way they talk about Sonic, you'd think the series needs to have an intensive, watertight lore and a story written by Kojima.

I don't think a Sonic story needs to be deep or dark in order to be good. I don't even think the writing needs to be complex or dynamic, necessarily; sometimes a message is handled best when it's delivered simply.

Although it's true that the games do feature darker elements, those elements have always been handled with tact and sensitivity out of a genuine care for the subject matter. Which brings me to what I think is the real crux of the issue: emotional honesty. Is the work trying to be something it's not?

I came to this realization after contemplating why games like SA2 and Forces (put down your torches and pitchforks) made me mist up where other works might not.

There are a number of reasons, but overall, I think most of it has to do with those games being thematically cohesive, if not always narratively cohesive, and remaining genuine to the messages they try to impart. Both are games that stick the landing despite being uneven in places.

IDW and the movies are not emotionally honest, in the sense that they don't employ any narrative or characterization decisions in service of greater themes. They just make shit happen to get a reaction from the audience, logic and theme be damned. And the kicker is that people gas both IDW and the films up as superior to the games when they're actually inferior, just in terms of sheer technical construction.

SA2 may suffer the occasional bit of wonky writing, but it is thematically coherent enough for me to be able to overlook that. And I'd deign to argue that most things people call plot holes aren't really plot holes, if you just thought about the information the game gives you. The game doesn't spoonfeed it to you, is all.

Battle? Has excellent characterization, as well as employs a foil between Eggman's and Gerald's treatment of Emerl as a commentary on mankind's responsibility wrt WMDs. It can be a bit heavy-handed as far as anti-war tracts go, but "This is the final voice of the last war machine" is still Shadow's rawest line, and no one can take that away from me lol.

I'd argue that SatSR is the best-written Sonic game. Its characterization is nuanced, the execution of its themes was tastefully done - subtly, even - and it features symbolism in a way that doesn't quite shove it in your face the way SatBK does.

It's definitely not on par with something like Silent Hill 2, but it's worth remembering that a Sonic game doesn't need to be Silent Hill 2: Sonic Edition to be good. As long as it tells its story honestly, a lot of flaws can be forgiven.

What do the spinoffs have? Vibes. That's about it. You can't really enjoy them on their own merits because they don't maintain any internal consistency, which is ironic considering how much people claim the games are inconsistent.

IDW? Can anyone tell me what its core message is? "Sonic offers anyone freedom out of his staunch belief in freedom as a general idea, regardless of if it hurts people or if it backfires on him, because it gives him Depth(tm) and Texture(tm) as a character"? "Sonic vs. Eggman is a dumb and harmful cycle we must stop because reasons"?

That's... kind of cynical, don't you think?

SA2 had things to say on anti-authoritarianism, grief, revenge, hope, atonement, and keeping true to yourself even in the face of doubt and hardship (ex. Shadow asserting he's still him even if his memories were false; Sonic seeking to clear his image and asserting "what you see is what you get": the two are foils and mirror reflections).

What was Sonic 3 trying to say? "I knew Maria wouldn't want me to destroy the world, but screw it, I'm doing it anyway because my pain is what matters most"? Shut up and clap for Live and Learn, you nostalgia-blind pleb.

Like, you can tell the difference. One is trying to say something. The other plays at saying something while saying nothing.

Honestly, this is how I feel with the anon trying to take my well-earned 'Sonic the Hedgehog Fan' sticker, despite showcasing that unlike them, I have more proof of myself understanding the games and how they operate.

Not every story is agreeable to people, and they don't have to be. For Sonic, the games are cartoons that you can play.