#excerpt from something I made longer

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

for whom good omens is being written

Hey maggots and the rest of the fandom, it's the Good Omens Mascot here. Today I read a post about this tweet:

The accompanying video genuinely made me cry. And I've been thinking about this for a long while, as far back as February, when I saw a lot of conflicting opinions on what people wanted from the third season. It really is true that no matter what you do, some people will be dissatisfied. But what matters is that Neil is writing this for Terry.

And I was reminded of some paragraphs from the Good Omens TV Companion, which I'd read in Amazon's sample excerpt of the book. I know this is a long post, but I really truly do think you all need to read these, I've done my best to select only the most important parts. Here you go:

'His Alzheimer's started progressing harder and faster than either of us had expected,' says Neil, referring to a period in which Terry recognized that despite everything he could no longer write. 'We had been friends for over thirty years, and during that time he had never asked me for anything. Then, out of the blue, I received an email from him with a special request. It read: “Listen, I know how busy you are. I know you don't have time to do this, but I want you to write the script for Good Omens. You are the only human being on this planet who has the passion, love and understanding for the old girl that I do. You have to do this for me so that I can see it." And I thought, “OK, if you put it like that then I'll do it."

'I had adapted my own work in the past, writing scripts for Death: The High Cost of Living and Sandman, but not a lot else was seen. I'd also written two episodes of Doctor Who, and so I felt like I knew what I was doing. Usually, having written something once I'd rather start something new, but having a very sick co-author saying I had to do this?' Neil spreads his hands as if the answer is clear to see. 'I had to step up to the plate.' A pause, then: 'All this took place in autumn 2014, around the time that the BBC radio adaptation of Good Omens was happening,' he continues, referring to the production scripted and co-directed by Dirk Maggs and starring Peter Serafinowicz and Mark Heap. ‘Terry had talked me into writing the TV adaptation, and I thought OK, I have a few years. Only I didn't have a few years,' he says. 'Terry was unconscious by December and dead by March.'

He pauses again. 'His passing took all of us by surprise,' Neil remembers. 'About a week later, I started writing, and it was very sad. The moments Terry felt closest to me were the moments I would get stuck during the writing process. In the old days, when we wrote the novel, I would send him what I'd done or phone him up. And he would say, "Aahh, the problem, Grasshopper, is in the way you phrase the question," and I would reply, "Just tell me what to do!" which somehow always started a conversation. 'In writing the script, there were times I'd really want to talk to Terry, and also places where I'd figure something out and do something really clever, and I would want to share it with him. So, instead, I would text Terry's former personal assistant, Rob Wilkins, now his representative on Earth. It was the nearest thing I had.'

(...) As Neil himself recognizes, this is an adaptation built upon the confidence that comes from three decades of writing for page and screen. But for all the wisdom of experience, he found that above all one factor guided him throughout the process. 'Terry isn't here, which leaves me as the guardian of the soul of the story,' he explains. 'It's funny because sometimes I found myself defending Terry's bits harder or more passionately than I would defend my own bits. Take Agnes Nutter,' he says, referring to what has become a key scene in the adaptation in which the seventeenth-century author of the book of prophecies foretelling the coming of the Antichrist is burned at the stake. ‘It was a huge, complicated and incredibly expensive shoot, with bonfires built and primed to explode as well as huge crowds in costume. It had to feel just like an English village in the 1640s, and of course everyone asked if there was a cheap way of doing it. 'One suggestion was that we could tell the story using old-fashioned woodcuts and have the narrator take us through what happened, but I just thought, “No”. Because I had brought aspects of the story like Crowley and the baby swap along to the mix, and Terry created Agnes Nutter. So, if I had cut out Agnes then I wouldn't be doing right by the person who gave me this job. Terry would've rolled over in his grave.'

And, finally, this paragraph:

"Once again, Neil cites the absence of his co-writer as his drive to ensure that Good Omens translated to the screen and remained true to the original vision. 'Terry's last request to me was to make this something he would be proud of. And so that has been my job.'"

I think that's so heartwrenchingly beautiful, and so I wanted you all to read this, too, just in case you (like me) don't have the Good Omens TV Companion. It adds another layer of depth and emotion to this already complex and amazing story that we all know and love.

Share this post, if you can, please, so that more people can read these excerpts :")

Tagging @neil-gaiman, @fuckyeahgoodomens and @orpiknight, even if you've definitely read these before :)

[whimsyvixen]

So I may have written a little something 😗👉👈....

ℝ𝕒𝕞𝕡𝕒𝕟𝕥 (short drabble)

Fic: Predator Killer of Killers

Rating: 18+

Pairing: Warlord Predator x Human Female Reader, Grendel King x Human Female Reader

Synopsis/Excerpt: You were not aware of the physiological changes in your body, so you were oblivious to their sudden interest.

WARNINGS/TAGS: NSFW, explicit content, dark themes, alien/human, teratophilia, size difference, ovulating, pheromones, choking.

A/N: I did very little to no research regarding the culture/mannerisms of yautja so I kinda just winged this one, you guys. I needed to get this idea out of my head, even if it was done poorly. It was haunting me for days! 😭 Enjoy! ✌️

As a human, you lacked the ability to smell any change in pheromones. This made it hard to distinguish moods and social cues amongst the yautja, a race of alien warriors that kidnapped you from earth and forced you into servitude weeks ago.

This developed sense of smell they possessed would soon be your damnation.

You were going about your duties when you spotted him. Flanked by his entourage of warriors, The Warlord Predator was a marvel to behold, his massive and scarred frame depicting a being with monstrous strength and power. You've seen him battle at the arena and witnessed his physical prowess amongst his clan. He was truly a force to be reckoned with. You moved out of the way, providing them a wide berth, sticking as close to the wall of the cave as you waited for them to pass. You swore you felt the ground tremble with each of the yautja's languid steps, the audible scrape of his jagged cape trailing behind him.

Unbeknownst to you, you had started ovulating that morning, your female pheromones running rampant in the air and causing the nearest males of the group to glance your way. You were not aware of the physiological changes in your body, so you were oblivious to their sudden interest.

Then the Warlord Predator caught a whiff of your scent and nearly snapped his neck to look back at you. His intense stare unnerved you, your body on edge as his eyes trailed over your feminine curves in a seemingly hungry manner. Thinking you must have done something wrong, you quickly lowered your head and tried to make yourself appear as small as possible.

Your heart kicked into overdrive the second he stepped towards you. Trying to calm your breathing was difficult, your eyes widening with terror when his sharpened feet came into view and you felt the heat emitting from his body. He was like a burning furnace, your body sweating from the close proximity of the menacing male. You could hear inquisitive clicks and low rumbles from him, his curiosity evident as he tilted his head to observe you carefully.

A sudden, musky scent attacked your senses. It was a scent unlike any other, earthy and... intoxicating. Before you could question it, you felt your mind turn heady as your senses grew lax with the powerful smell. It was like a drug, your mind losing any rational thought as the scent nearly suffocated you. No longer were you tense, waiting with baited breath if he would kill you. Instead, you lay back against the jagged wall and mewled when the male pressed himself eagerly against your smaller frame. Everything felt sensitive, from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. You nearly choked on your saliva when you felt the hardened bulge on his loincloth dig below your chest. Inhaling deeply, you let out a weak gasp at the deliciousness of his scent and felt your body react strongly in turn. The small nub between your legs pulsated so fiercely you had to clench your thighs together to alleviate the unbearable sensation.

"W-what are... you...doing to m-me..?" You breathed out the words. You shook your head to clear your mind, only to let out a groan when he forced a knee between your legs and had you straddle his thigh. It placed your naked vulva in direct contact with his reptilian-skin, your feminine juices soaking him in your scent and making him purr with satisfaction.

The yautja glances down at your half lidded eyes and panting mouth, eyeing the strings of saliva with rapt attention before grabbing you by the neck and lifting you close to his face. He was not gentle, nearly choking you to death and causing you to squirm in discomfort. You let out a pained whine, hoping to receive some mercy as he dangled you feet above the ground. His mandibles clicked with the movements of his growling mouth, his language undecipherable to your ears. In a chilling tone, the translator around your neck lit up with his response.

"What am I not going to do with you?"

[erosiism]

𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐘 | yan!priest x male!reader | nsfw

WARNINGS: extremely dubious consent, graphic and explicit smut. please do not read if you are not comfortable, or if you are triggered. In no way is this disgusting yandere behavior meant to be romanticised. This excerpt is taken from my fic on wattpad, twisted faith.

PAIRING: yandere!priest x male reader

SCENARIO: after one too many attempts of rebelling against him, the priest (anton) decides to punish you.

WORD COUNT: 4.2k

You knew. You knew the minute you were brought to Anton's home — you knew the minute you were washed and fed by several maids, and was brought right before the priest.

A sickening part of you knew.

You had always wondered when. When Anton's obvious desire for you would finally break, when the final straw would be until Anton would take you

And now you stood right before him, washed—your hair still a little damp—robed, trembling.

Shit. It was about to happen. It was about to happen. It was—

You didn't know what to do. You were utterly terrified, utterly helpless.

"To first cleanse your sins," Father Anton said quietly—his hands resting on your back, tracing circles, "you must purify the body." The motion was smooth, gentle, supposed to be comforting, but instead all you felt was an unwanted heat traveling up your spine, along with deep seated dread. Thick, sludgy dread.

This was part of the plan, you thought, swallowing. This is part of my plan.

Someone had already warned you, had they not? That with the priest, he was looking for something else with you. Something deeper. Something akin to lust, akin to desire.

"Yes, Father Anton..." you whispered. You wanted to close your eyes, but you feared the consequences that came with it. Instead, your own trembling (e/c) eyes were forced to stare at pools of liquid diamond—the color that belonged to the priest's eyes.

"You want this, don't you?" Anton purred, "you want this. You admitted it yourself. You needed purifying. And now I shall give it to you. Everything. I will purify your heart, your soul, your body..."

First, your shoulder. You found breaths shallow and quiet when Anton used one finger to slowly undo your clothes, starting from a simple slip of the shoulder, until your collar bone was exposed.

Exposed, for the priest to see.

You no longer felt like it was you. Your mind was growing hazy, your body was responding to Anton's touch in such a way that you were horrified by it. You could feel his own unwanted arousal slowly burning your insides, and before you knew it, you were pressed down onto the cool sheets of the bed, stripped of your clothes—Adam and Eve once roamed the Garden of Eden in their naked form freely, you recalled, before the serpent made them sin.

Was this what Anton meant? To return to the roots of mankind, before sin had existed? 

It wasn't long before the priest started to undress himself, and you nearly wanted to kill yourself there and then when you saw just how—just how huge Anton was—because fuck, how the hell were you supposed to fit him inside?

You watched as Anton dipped his fingers in sweetly scented oil—perhaps even the liquid from a while back, in the confessions room—and coated it liberally on his own cock. The oil was costly, but perhaps, to Anton, there was no better purpose than to anoint one of heaven's own.

Fuck, you started to breathe heavily, feeling Anton's hands slowly grasping at your hips, his touch bruising, and lining his arousal up—you could feel it. Every inch of him.

Deep breaths. In and out...

"Ugh—" you let out a soft sound that was quickly muffled when you pressed your face down onto the pillow, ears burning with shame.

There was no greater pain and pleasure than this.

Anton pushed forward ruthlessly into your body. Anton did not stretch you out or give you advance warning. If the initial intrusion was painful, it was meant to be, as part of your penance. 

"Cleansing," Anton purred, his voice sending shudders running down your spine, "punishment. This, my dear Y/n, is divine punishment."

Fuck, you teared up as you gripped the sheets, yes. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps this was an atonement of your sins, your crimes towards your own humanity. Perhaps you deserved this for spitting such cruel, careless words at your sister, for showing his weaknesses so blindly to your friend...

"Anton," you gasped out,  the delicate flesh of your insides was battered and pried open by Anton's enormous girth, "I—I..."

Anton pressed into the hilt and then stopped, giving you time to adjust, and enjoying the trembling shudders of the bruised and violated muscles clenching around him.

"Give it all to me, turn everything over to the Lord and let me purge the sin from your flesh. Let me morph you; Y/n; let me purify you.”

"Slower," you begged him, tears starting to roll down your cheeks. You felt so utterly helpless—so pained, yet there was that deceitful pleasure crawling up in your insides, telling you this was what you wanted. This was what you asked for.

In a way, it was. In a viscerally twisted and distorted way...yes. You had planned this, did you not? You had orchestrated this plan to seduce the priest for your own survival, and you would fall down into the abyss with it.

There was no foreplay. Nothing. Nothing that could have told or prepared you of the pain that had shot up in your stomach—nothing that could have told you that you would be throbbing with pleasure, aching with sin. Your body felt filthy instead of pure, and the tears staining your face felt like they were burning. Anton kissed it all away—but that did nothing but to send feverish heat and silent hatred worming into your insides.

"Oh, Y/n," Anton cooed, his fingers trailing every inch of your skin, exploring every curve, every flat, "you were made for me. Made to be a vessel for me. You saved me, Y/n...you saved me."

Anton felt God would forgive the sin of his omission—after all, he was the closest being to godhood, and you were so beautiful and precious and pure. God's creation and the wonders of nature—from your mesmerising eyes, from how the arch of your back highlighted the delicate curve of your spine.

You made a strangled sound, biting back your moan that was about to slip past your lips. The pace remained brutal; relentless, and when you tried to grip on the sheets for some sort of stability to the madness, it failed. 

"Confessing," Anton whispered, "is something you were never good at. But perhaps this gives you clarity. Perhaps this will help." 

With suddenness, Anton stopped— instead, he pulled out, leaving your walls empty and clenching around for something. Just anything. Anton pressed one finger to the opening, almost like he was teasing you. Teasing you with inviting warmth, but not giving it to you. The priest was the one who reduced you to such a state, so how dare he? After stripping you of your innocence, claiming he would purify you…

You had never hated someone so much before. You hated him.

"C-Confess?" You managed to choke out, voice hoarse, "y-you want me to..."

Anton pressed the finger in deeper. More. You wanted more. It was not enough. 

"Confess, yes." Anton tilted his head, his other hand pressed against your shoulder, the touch firm and gentle. It was strange how he seemed to treat you like you were so precious, like you were made of glass, but then his actions would contradict and you would feel the lower part of your body searing with deep, hot pain.

Blood. You could feel it trickle down your leg.

Anton waited until your breathless pants slowed and then spoke, "You may begin."

Your voice was thick with tears as you spoke, "Bless me father, for I have sinned."

The priest's hips began a slow and steady pace, pressing in deeply and then pulling out until the head of his cock caught on the thinly stretched rim. It kissed it slowly, slowly pushing until half way inside. You let out a strangled gasp, sobbing. 

"Continue."

Oh, but how? You found it hard to find words scattered here and there, when your brain was a mush and you didn't even feel like you were you anymore. You weren’t yourself anymore—you weren’t innocent. Anton had ripped away any last remnants of sanity and purity that you had, claiming it for his own, marking you as a sinner. 

Y/n...Y/n...who were you even, now? The feeling of derealization pierced your chest. 

Anton's cock looked impossibly large as he pressed it against your gaping hole. It looked like it could split you open. You trembled from the stretch — you wanted more, in a horrible sense, and the only way you could get that was to atone. To confess all your sins to the greatest sinner in the world.

Your stunning (e/c) eyes went wet with tears, but it only made your submission sweeter and it only made the priest's cock throb harder as your body worked to accommodate him; flesh clinging and gripping deliciously as he pushed deeper with each second, but never quite hitting the end. 

It was a tease, a long drawn punishment.

Anton's hot gaze dropped so he could watch your belly bulge each time he entered you fully. The evidence of his physical penetration into you— his innocent, innocent savior—only made the dark feelings in his stomach swirl, twist, knot. 

"I'm sorry," you found yourself begging, "I'm sorry, Father Anton—I shouldn't have—I shouldn't have—"

I shouldn't have existed.

"I shouldn't have went outside the church walls," You sobbed, "I shouldn't have met anyone else, I shouldn't have—"

"Don't even say that." Anton's voice was serene yet so damned. "What else?"

"I shouldn't have murdered the man." You babbled on like your mind was shattered; broken beyond repair.

"I shouldn't have talked to her—"

You felt another sharp pain crawl up your spine when Anton rammed inside you. The priest's hands went to cover your mouth, stifling your moans that threatened to slip out.

"Ah, no," Anton whispered, his voice sultry and deep, "we can't have you making such noises, can we?"

"Just—just..." You felt the tears roll down your cheek, felt the way your chest heaved and your hips ached — all this felt too much; too overstimulated.

You released; arching your back and feeling your fingers grip on the sheets with reckless abandon. Your thoughts were pounding in your head and so was the slow, subsiding heat: what have I done? You thought with misery, with fuzziness and dazed eyes, what have I done?

Anton smiled and leaned forward.

"You have been purified."

The second time, it was because you had disobeyed him. You ran away — at least, you attempted to. But it had been foolish, and now you had to face the consequences of your actions. You willed your trembling form to straighten, choking down a sob.

“I’m sorry.”

"That's what I thought." Anton smiled in amusement. "Here I was praising you, darling," Anton tipped your chin up and you swallowed, fear started to flood within you. "But it seems that once again my trust in you has been misplaced."

"I'm sorry," you started to say—to beg—"don't put me back there. Don't!"

Fear rotted between your teeth and gave you that toothache feeling: the slow thudding of realization,  the slow ache of cavities worming into your insides, staining your mouth. The sweetness had been too much. Too painful. 

"I won't."

"...Then..."

What will you do? 

"It's been long since you were purified."

Inwardly you shattered once again. 

"Slow down," you gasped, feeling Anton's cock enter in, unrelenting, brutal, merciless—you dug your fingers into the expanse of his back, taking it down, causing a soft sigh to elicit from Anton. "Please," your voice took on a begging note. "Please."

Anton paused for a while. His fingers cupped your cheek, and his eyes were almost dazed with pleasure.. But they still held a certain maddening clarity that you were afraid of. 

"You wanted this, didn't you?" Anton tilted his head. You felt the cock inside you press further still, your walls squeezing it, your body welcoming it, with pleasure spilling in your gut. Unwanted pleasure. "You wanted this, darling. And so I give it to you."

How long had it been? The tears were running down your face but your body betrayed yourself. For there was your own answering arousal between your legs, the way your hips lifted and responded to Anton's fast, full thrusts, the way moans slipped off your mouth like nothing. You wiggled your body a little, squirming, trying to find a better position—but another ram into you, another buckle of your hips and a sharp cry—stopped you from being able to do so.

"Slower," you repeated once again— begging him, before Anton shoved his fingers down your throat, causing the yoo choke on your words. Saliva coated the priests's fingers but he did not seem to care. Kisses were planted on your bare form—the shoulders, the nose, the lips—Anton seemed satisfied, actually. More than that. Darkness was twisting in his eyes. Anton loved it—loved ravaging your, loved having sex with you. He pulled those fingers out and your mouth felt empty.

"You're doing such a good job," his voice was so gentle, so sweet—you could have cried. Yes, there was the constant pleasure in your body that Anton managed to induce—the kind of pleasure that made you yearn for more, the kind of pleasure that made you moan into the kisses that Anton provided, obscene and all, but oh, it betrayed your mind. "Continue on. You have barely managed to take me yet."

I'm disgusting, you wept, oh, someone save me. I'm so disgusted with myself. 

"I can't," you panted, your fists gripping the sheets. "Anton...I really can't."

The only answer was a push that pressed you flush against the bed. Anton's fingers wrapped around your jaw slowly and turned your face to the side, peppering kisses on it. It was a soothing gesture—Anton was marvelous at what he did. He would torture you mentally, sexually, but treat you like porcelain physically, treating you with such tenderness and gentleness at times that you werebdazed by it. And it worked now. 

"Good job, darling." Anton cooed, almost relishing in the soft moans that you were desperately trying to keep down your throat. You felt tears roll down your cheeks slowly, you felt the pain down there, swollen and overstimulated. You knew the sheets were stained with your earlier releases, and now would be what, the third? Fourth? Fifth? Anton was brutal in his pace.

How far had you fallen, already?

Behind Anton you could make out through your teary vision, a small cross. And now that cross taunted you. Watched you ws your purity was slipping away from you.

Tears rolled down your cheek, and you felt yourself slipping into darkness.

To feel anything would make you deranged.

After Anton had…purified you — you had scrubbed endlessly at your skin, hoping to remove any memory of him. But with that purification, also came a change of treatment. Anton grew gentler, kinder, and you grew more tired, more willing to be deceived.

Simply put, you didn’t know how to place your rage anymore: there was the rage  that was simply rotten, incurable love—there was the rage which were all the tainted truths and desires—and then there was the rage that was like a unanswered prayer, rattling in your mind, ricocheting off the walls. 

You had learnt a long time ago that your body betrayed your mind. That your mind betrayed your heart. You feared that you had grown to love Anton, in some sickening, undeniable way: but was that not inevitable? A human will crave fire, though deadly, in the light of cold. And in this case Anton had stripped you of everything you ever had, and now you were craving warmth.

And Anton. He was that very warmth. You wanted his embrace — you wanted it so desperately, the feeling of being loved, cared for, tender and sweet. After all, Anton had never hurt you before, did he? Everything earlier had been some sick farce, some disgusting aversion to all things good. But it was alright. You had learned your lesson.

You needed only Anton, and yet Anton seemed to withhold from sex,  like he was dragging it on. You wanted it carnally, biblically. You could feel the sins and evil swarming under the layer of your skin. You wanted it. You wanted to be made pure again, you wanted that sin purged from your flesh. You wanted it eviscerated. You wanted it to be painful, almost.

But as luck had it, Your  purification this time was not one of pain. Anton was always tender with you —but the purifications were always painful, rightfully so, as penance.

The sheets were soft and silky, as luxurious as you remembered. It was the same bed that you had laid in during your first time. Oh, how rebellious you had been. How unwilling. But now you are older, wiser. You knew to behave—you knew this was for your greater good. 

You have made life miserable for yourself. Why did you bother trying to resist? It had taken coaxing—and you had been so delightfully and wonderfully patient with you. Anton had already been so sweet even when you had been feisty and sharp-tongued, but the priest treated you with honeyed, saccharine sweetness. See, Anton seemed to tell him. See, you should have obeyed me earlier. This way, no one would have died. You could have carved out your own ending. 

And now Anton bit at your lip until you could only groan. Supple, strong hands removed whatever clothes you had on— you were kissed until you were lightheaded and breathless, until the only thought that remained was the priest. Anton, Anton, Anton—until those thoughts flooded your mind, strong and vicious.

The priest’s hands were warm as they trailed down your bare skin. You wanted to lean into the warmth: you wanted to tattoo it on your flesh, you wanted it imprinted, made permanent. You could have said that these desires were ignominious, even, humiliating, hideous. But you were no longer blind by the evil that had blinded you. This was good. This was good for you. You had utter faith in Anton.

Your feelings once had been raw and ambivalent. And now they carried on within you, strong, unwavering, comforting.

Anton pressed onto your chest, tapping at where your heart was. “This, Y/n,” Anton’s voice was heavy and commanding. “This belongs to me.”

You took a hitching breath, swallowing.

Anton moved to kiss your neck. “Only I can purge your sinful urges. And only I, my darling, can consecrate you. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” you whispered, “yes, I do.”

Anton smiled. His gaze was heavy, like his words: shadowed, dark, dangerous. It was clouded with haziness, and his arousal was pressed against your thighs, his arms spreading your legs apart. You whimpered, but offered no protest. Your muscles shook from the stretch, but you remained obedient. Sweet, darling lamb. Yes. You would be a sweet, darling, obedient, loving lamb. 

“You have been so good lately,” Anton purred, “and there are no more lies. You have changed—I was right, wasn’t I? Around you there was only a plethora of distractions. And now it’s just…” He pressed his forehead against yours.  “You and I. You have morphed, Y/n, you have become perfect.”

Hell was a man’s own creation, so was heaven. And you were a piece of heaven that had been carved out for himself. You were his, fully his — you were no longer anyone else’s. His, his, his.

Anton pressed his fingers against the wetness of your hole, slowly slipping into it. You gave a startled pant: where was it? Where was the pain you were expecting? This was no penance, this was—

“See,” Anton said softly, pressing further until you gave another strangled sound, breathier this time, when his fingers brushed against your prostate. “See, Y/n? Your sins have been absolved. By submitting yourself to me, there is no pain. No penance.”

“Please,” you panted—the fingers were not enough. Where were you? You were still so impure, so dirtied— you wanted it.The pained ecstasy. The purification. The Anointment. “Why won’t…why won’t you give it to me?”

Anton tilted his head, smiling. “I thought you wanted this. I remember you begging me last time: to be gentler, to be tender. What’s wrong, Y/n?”

You could not even place it in words. Breathless moans left as your throat when Anton pressed deeper still: you swallowed, before you shook his head. “I…don’t…know,” was all you managed to choke out, “I don’t know.”

“Hm,” Anton murmured. “Very well,” he brushed a loose strand of hair from your face. “you are loose, Y/n—you are so loose. Were you thinking about me? Were you waiting anxiously for this? Did you want this?”

“Yes, Anton,” you managed out in between your breaths, quick and dirty. “Yes.”

Anton pulled his fingers out abruptly, and you were left trembling. Your eyes were watery, almost: your back arched, your fingers fisted around the sheets. You almost caught your breath before you felt the same feeling again: the feeling you wanted, of origination and sin and purification—You could feel the delicate flesh battered and pried open again. You gave a soft moan—Anton pressed to the hilt, and thrusted. You started to scream—but it was of pained ecstasy.

It was nowhere as painful as the first time. This time was more mellow. Anton’s touch was bruising against your hips, leaving behind imprints of blue and black. The thrust pinched everything from you, all your breaths and your thoughts and all that horrifying, twisted doubt—all those reservations.

Anton continued. That same feeling plunged all the way up to your gut—it crushed your prostate entirely. You felt yourself start to release guttural, muffled sounds: you tried to swallow back your sobs, unable to discern between the wretched desire and pleasure that kept pulling, yanking at you—and the pain. Anton was still certainly gentler than last time. And this time round, Anton had prepared you. 

You screamed, your hands flying out to claw at Anton’s back. You could feel yourself nearing your first orgasm; so painful, so soon, and tears flowed freely down your fever red cheeks. Your hole stretched painfully around the girth of Anton’s cock—Anton continued this pace, but oh—he was so gentle with you.. It was almost like the priest was praising you. 

Good job, Anton seemed to be telling you, with the kisses peppered on your face, with the gentle, supple tugs of your hair whenever you started to wobble—good job. 

“You are doing so beautifully,” Anton cooed, “so, so well.”

You could barely think through the hazy pleasure. Anton set up a rhythm like this, Anton sliding out just right to see you clinging almost whorishly to his cock—then pressing, pushing, spreading you open with a force that made your throat raw from the obscene sounds you made. Anton’s voice was calm and soothing, low, almost menacing, a juxtaposition to the violence below. But it wasn’t his fault. Anton had wanted to be gentle, you had refused. You wanted the pain, it was your punishment. You would claw Anton’s back, Anton’s lips would capture your own with each cry you wanted to release. His kiss was always breathtaking—literally, in a sense that all coherent thoughts and all your breaths were ripped away from you; and then Anton would chew on your bottom lip, biting it, allowing a stream of crimson to bleed out.

“Anton,” you moaned out feverishly, “Anton.”

The priest continued to fuck you with a blind frenzy, eyes dark and hooded and the grip on your hips so tight—so that you wouldn’t dare to even crawl away. So that you wouldn’t even dream of it. So that you would remain pilant and soft and warm and obedient. 

“I’m sorry,” you started to say, your words punctuated by sobs, “I’m sorry I was so…”

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Punish me all you like. I deserved all of it. I deserved every single bit of it. Every inch. Everything. Everything Anton did—was it not what you were practically begging for? Anton had given you so many chances, but you had failed him each and every time. 

“There is nothing to apologize for,” His voice was calm and soothing, not matching the violence below. “You have repented. And that, Y/n, is the most important.”

Anton pushed again—and this time the sound you made was almost inhuman: when you finally, finally—felt the warmth flooding into you, when you finally felt your insides being filled, your sin being washed away. And you were filled so completely, so much of it that some spilled from your hole, that you felt like you were choking on it. You released at the same time—the electrifying heat spread all the way to the tips of your fingers, enveloping you whole, leaving you dazed and weightless from the ecstasy of it.

Anton kissed your tears away, and his face was one of pride when he touched your forehead gently.

“Good job,” Anton whispered, his voice lilting and insidious. “Good job, Y/n.”

like and reblog if you enjoyed it. comment too!

[skyguytoast]

HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN X COSPLAYER!READER - PART TW0

SYNOPSIS: After much hesitation, you finally gather the courage to send Hayden a message. What starts as a simple conversation soon blossoms into something deeper…

WORD COUNT: 1.4k

WARNINGS: none, just fluffy

A/N: Hello sweeties, thank you to everyone who commented and motivated me to try to find any space in my chaotic routine to write... it's short, but I hope you like it🥰 As always, comments, likes and reblogs mean everything to me and motivate me to keep improving! 💖Kisses and good reading! Dividers by @cafekitsune

You stared at the autographed photo for what felt like an eternity, your fingers tracing over the inked letters as if they would somehow make this moment more real. It felt impossible—like a daydream you’d wake up from at any second. Hayden Christensen, your childhood crush, the man who had unknowingly altered your brain chemistry the first time you watched Revenge of the Sith, had not only noticed you but had given you his number.

You still remembered that afternoon vividl y: stumbling into the living room to find your dad watching Star Wars, only to be utterly captivated by him—by the way Anakin Skywalker sat up after that nightmare, shirtless, his golden curls damp with sweat, his tanned skin glowing under the dim light. That was the moment something in your heart shifted, a quiet but unmistakable pull toward him that never quite went away. Over the years, that initial admiration had grown into something deeper—a love for the saga, the characters, the world that felt like home.

It took you nearly two days to save Hayden’s number, hovering over the contact screen like it was a detonator. Another two passed before you finally mustered the courage to type out a simple, Hi.

The second you pressed send, you let out a strangled noise and tossed your phone onto the couch like it had personally wronged you. A wave of nerves crashed over you—what if he had only given you his number out of politeness? What if he regretted it? Were you being too forward by actually messaging him? Your thoughts spiraled, wrapping around you like a thick fog of self-doubt.

You scrambled for a distraction, settling on your ultimate comfort episode of The Clone Wars—the one where Anakin, Obi-Wan, and Count Dooku are captured by Hondo and have to work together to escape. It was ridiculous and lighthearted, exactly what you needed to keep yourself from obsessing over that one tiny text message.

And then, your phone buzzed.

You practically launched yourself across the couch, grabbing it with shaky hands, your heart hammering in your chest. The notification from him made your breath hitch, and you hesitated for a second before swiping the screen open.

"You took long enough, I thought I scared you or something."

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. He wasn’t just being polite—he had been waiting. The idea that Hayden Christensen, the Hayden Christensen, had been wondering if you’d text him back, sent a warmth blooming in your chest. The simple, teasing words held a quiet kind of vulnerability, a hesitant curiosity that mirrored your own.

Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t a dream after all.

**

The conversations that followed were effortless, light and easy, as if you had known each other far longer than just a few weeks. You talked about Star Wars—your love for the saga woven into every word, recounting how it had been a guiding light through the darker moments of your life. Sometimes, you playfully diagnosed the characters, slipping references to your college work into casual discussions.

Hayden was fascinated—genuinely engaged—especially when you brought up the idea of Anakin having BPD. He asked thoughtful questions, encouraging you to explain your perspective. You eagerly backed up your argument with excerpts from the novels, pivotal scenes from the films, and moments from The Clone Wars, illustrating Anakin’s struggles in a way that made him pause in appreciation. It was a surreal feeling, discussing the psychology of a character with the very man who brought him to life.

At one point, you mentioned using Kurt from Numb, at the Edge of the End in a paper about PTSD, and Hayden’s response was immediate—his quiet pride evident in the way he marveled at your insight. The idea that his portrayal of such a complex character had resonated deeply enough to be studied made him almost bashful.

Of course, you couldn’t resist slipping in Virgin Territory just to mess with him. He groaned, laughing, before admitting, "When you’re young, things seem different. It was a fun script, okay?" His amused exasperation only fueled your teasing, and the playful back-and-forth left your cheeks aching from smiling so much.

But it wasn’t just movies and college that filled your conversations. You talked about everything—mundane life moments, grocery lists, books you were reading, and even wine recommendations. Hayden had an uncanny ability to suggest the perfect bottle for whatever you were cooking, guiding you to pick out a wine that would perfectly complement your carbonara, for example.

Even though you were separated by thousands of miles, there were these small, stolen moments that felt intimate. One night, he walked you through making pizza from scratch, his voice warm and patient as he explained each step. You followed along, flour dusting your kitchen counter, laughing as your dough looked far less appetizing than his on your phone screen.

“It’s about practice,” he reassured you, his voice holding that familiar, easy charm. “By the time I see you in person, you’ll be a pro.”

The way he said it—when I see you—made something flutter in your chest.

It was easy with him. As if some invisible thread had drawn you together, weaving its way through the distance, pulling you closer with each conversation.

Finally, the wait was over.

Hayden was in your city for the May 4th event, and for days leading up to it, you had been orbiting this moment—anticipation thrumming beneath your skin. The long hours spent talking had only deepened the bond between you, stretching across late nights where he stayed on the phone even after you had drifted to sleep. More than once, you woke up to find a screenshot he had taken of your face, soft with slumber, your features relaxed in the dim glow of your bedroom.

"Too cute to delete," he had teased when you protested, the warmth in his voice making you roll your eyes even as your heart melted.

Now, seated by the window of a small, secluded café—one carefully chosen to keep prying eyes away—you could feel the weight of each second pressing down on you. The golden afternoon sunlight filtered through the glass, casting warm patterns against your skin, but despite the cozy ambiance, anxiety curled in your stomach. The ticking of the clock seemed agonizingly slow, stretching minutes into what felt like hours.

You had just begun absently drumming your fingers against the wooden table, lost in thought, when a gentle hand landed on your shoulder. The touch was warm, grounding, and when you turned, confusion melted into relief at the sight of him—Hayden, standing before you with that familiar, boyish smile.

"You took long enough," you quipped, the words carrying a quiet thrill as they echoed his very first message to you.

His grin widened, his hand lingering where it rested. "Is it weird if I ask for a hug, or does watching you snore on video calls mean we've already crossed that line?" he teased, his voice low and playful, a wink accompanying his words.

"Hey! I don’t snore," you protested with a laugh, shaking your head as you rose to your feet. But before you could say anything more, he opened his arms.

And just like that, you stepped into them.

Hayden pulled you in without hesitation, his embrace firm, warm—safe. He smelled faintly of cedar and something crisp, like fresh air after the rain, and as his arms wrapped around you, a quiet sigh escaped your lips. Your body fit against his as if this moment had been written long before either of you had even realized it.

He held you like he meant it, like the weeks of late-night talks and quiet confessions had woven something unbreakable between you. His palm smoothed gently up and down your back, slow and deliberate, as if grounding himself in the reality of having you there, solid and real in his arms.

You hadn’t realized how much you needed this—not just the meeting, not just the touch, but the quiet understanding that passed between you, unspoken yet deeply felt. His hands skimmed gently up and down your back, steady and unrushed, as if memorizing the shape of you, as if savoring the moment in a way that made it feel infinite.

"It doesn’t feel real," you whispered, pressing your cheek against the curve of his shoulder.

Hayden hummed softly, his breath a warm ghost against your temple. "Then let’s stay here a little longer… just to be sure."

And neither of you moved, caught in the golden stillness of a moment that felt like it had been waiting for you both all along.

TAG LIST: @ihearthayden @anakinstwinklebunny @sometimescharlolette @awhhayden @dessxoxsworld

[meisaboo]

I want to quickly talk about Sky and Viktor's final words to each other, as it gives us some insight into Viktor's motivations in Act 3, as well as implications of his feelings for Jayce:

Christian Linke (Co-writer) confirmed Sky isn't alive; she's a manifestation of Viktor's guilt, created by the Hexcore to manipulate him.

Here's the audio excerpt if you're curious:

https://x.com/Spideraxe30/status/1861424676578435381?t=p5X3TbHjC-LTd4rTUGdRIw&s=19

It's also confirmed Amanda Overton (Writer) that Viktor was hopelessly projecting his relationship with Jayce onto Sky/the Hexcore as a way to cope with his loneliness.

Viktor's defeat and Jayce's rejection is what ultimately pushes him to give himself over to the Hexcore, shedding his humanity. This was the Hexcore's plan all along (CL's words). Once it had what it needed, Sky was no longer required to push Viktor toward the Glorious Evolution.

Before learning Sky wasn't real, I interpreted "No, you won't" as her knowing Viktor would lose his humanity, forget her, and lose himself after ascending. But now knowing she's a projection of his guilt, that interpretation doesn’t hold up.

"You won't," coming from an omnipotent being focused on evolution and higher understanding, should probably be taken at face value. It's a matter-of-fact retort, like it sees right through him.

It doesn’t make much sense as a premonition. The Hexcore, while powerful, doesn’t seem capable of seeing the future. You could argue, "You won't," translates to, "I’ll take over your mind and body, and you won’t really be you anymore." But this doesn’t fully align, as even after Viktor’s transformation, he is still present. The Hexcore uses him as a vessel, steering him with guilt, not erasing his identity. This interpretation feels unnecessarily cruel for something above human emotion.

The line is nothing more than an observation, stated plainly after the ruse was up. It acknowledges that there was never truly any of Sky to miss—Viktor barely knew her before her death, and that is one of his biggest regrets contributing to his guilt. 

Here’s what I think:

The Hexcore conjures Sky to ease Viktor into his villain arc. As a manifestation of his guilt, she subtly manipulates him into pursuing the Glorious Evolution by giving him a false sense of righting his wrongs. But Viktor’s connection to her is a facade, and the Hexcore knows it. Viktor is hopelessly seeking in Sky what he desperately missed with Jayce—and the Hexcore knows this too. Remember when Viktor talks to Singed about Vander/Warwick? Viktor intuits Singed’s true motivation—saving his daughter.

This means the Hexcore is undoubtedly aware of Viktor's pain.

“I will miss our talks," Viktor says, speaking to someone he’s using as a stand-in for Jayce.

It's easy for Viktor to say he will miss their talks. Sky was filling a hole for him. That's all this version of herself existed to do. Talking with her was the closest approximation he had to what he really wanted. 

The tragedy of this line doesn’t solely come from him mourning a relationship that was never real. Remember viktor made the decision to transform immediately following jayces rejection of him. He's not mourning Sky- he's mourning the loss of what he had with Jayce.

"No, you won't," simply meant, "I'm not the one you will be missing.”

As the kids say, food for thought.🍞

[100gayicons]

Actor Richard Chamberlain died this week. He had a long and successful career, mostly on TV. Articles about his death provide a summary of his acting roles. Here instead, I will include some excerpts from a 2007 interview where he discussed his sexuality.

(Early life)

“I was born in 1934. Back then, in the 40s and 50s, being gay in America was much worse than being a crook or an assassin. I was scared… being gay was the deepest, darkest secret you could possibly have, and I made a pact with myself never to tell anyone."

(Father)

“Things were not easy in my family. My father drank and was psychologically very abusive: he used to tell my brother and me that we weren't good for anything. It is not a coincidence that I grew up being very shy."

(Straight relationships)

"I had my first quasi-sexual experience with the sweetest Japanese waitress. At college, I had two great girlfriends. I did all what other young people used to do back then: hold hands, kiss on the back seat of the car.... I love women but not up to the point of wanting to marry one."

(Meeting his long term partner Martin Rabbett)

"We met (in 1977). We were acting in a Tennessee Williams play… Martin is much younger; he never hid his homosexuality. For his generation, homosexuality was not something one would hide. It is true that things were not easy for him. Our life was like the life of a dog who has an injured leg and continues running on three legs: this is what it means to hide oneself…

I was not ready (to come out), and he understood. I was scared to draw attention to me. Of course, our friends knew.

My heterosexual friends, who are almost all separated or divorced, always ask me what our secret is. We have grown together, learned from one another.”

(Coming Out in his 2003 autobiography)

"Only at 68 was I able to say the truth, when I no longer could be a romantic hero on the screen…When I wrote the word "gay" in the book, I felt as if an angel had touched my head, freeing me from fear. Finally, I felt free."

(Martin announcing Richard’s death)

“Our beloved Richard is with the angels now. He is free and soaring to those loved ones before us. How blessed were we to have known such an amazing and loving soul… Love never dies. And our love is under his wings lifting him to his next great adventure.” 

[yzzart]

we need more tom and y/n interviews! and if you can and want, can you write an interview where they're answering fan questions? ❤️

"According to fan questions..."

pairing: tom blyth x actress!reader.

summary: invited for another interview, you and Tom answer some questions that fans asked you.

word count: 1.095!

"Are we really cliché?" — Tom questioned, looking down, probably getting distracted by a fixed point, and then raised his eyes to you. "Hm, let me see…" — You crossed your legs, holding your elbow with one hand and the other rested on your chin, pretending to think of a promising answer and your boyfriend's laugh exclaimed in your ears. "Oh, yes, we are!" — Your voices rose together at the same time and more laughter settled in the decorated and comfortable room.

"Hi, i'm Tom Blyth." — Tom introduced himself, raising his eyebrows, in an inviting and dynamic way; quickly, turning his head with a shy smile in your direction for your introduction.

"And i'm Y/N!" — The brit's smile widened when your eyes met his.

"And we're here to answer some questions asked by you, the fans." — He explained, looking at the camera and, again, at you; it was, technically, impossible not to be excited about what was to come and even more so because of the suspense of the questions that would be presented.

The questions were about random topics, of course and obviously, you could expect anything. — From behind the scenes to your personal tastes, but, without going beyond the limit. — In fact, it would be fun.

During the editing of the video, frames and excerpts of the questions would probably be shown; making it more explained and organized. — For you and Tom, the people who were working behind the cameras said and repeated the questions.

The first was… — "What was the best thing about this movie?" — Referring to "The ballad of songbirds and snakes."

"The best thing about film was working with Y/N." — He responded quickly, making his british accent even stronger and moving his fingers; you laughed, feeling your cheeks burn a little.

"Ah, the best thing about this film was working with…" — You made sure to form a suspense, having fun with your boyfriend who tilted his head towards you, waiting for your enthusiastic answer. — "…Tom Blyth!"

Tom could no longer contain his bold and bright smile, even biting his lips, and poking your leg with his hand; passing your through the delicate and fascinating fabric of the clothes chosen for the interview. — You tried to pay attention and look for words to extend your answer.

"I guess i can also include how fantastic it was to work with Francis Lawrence…" — You continued. — "…and it's impossible, really, impossible to find words to describe how magnificent it was and acting in a Hunger Games movie was like a dream." — Tom listened with attention and passion, focusing on every word that came out of his mouth. — "The connection we had with the cast was something so precious, they are the best people in the world." — And it was the purest truth. — "Not to mention how intense it was to live in my character."

It was a dream, strongly, fulfilled and conquered for you; and a sentimental wave, of the purest emotion, weakens when seeing what, in fact, you has achieved and won around you. — How many incredible, sweet and important people have come into your life and will remain in it; and you had no words to explain how grateful you were.

Including having met Tom in your life. — God, you could say how grateful you were to have him for hours and hours, reaching the long duration of the video.

"Oh, yes." — Tom leaned on the back of the chair, settling in a little. — "I think playing Coriolanus was, like, really deep and steady because we're talking about a guy who has two faces and acting him being really good knowing that later he will turn into something evil." — He thought about his words. — "But, it was good working with him, on him and with the blonde wig...." — You laughed, together with the people behind the cameras.

The second question was… — "Were there many recording errors?"

"Oh yeah!" — Laughing and shaking your head in affirmation, you responded, ready to recall various behind-the-scenes moments and factors. — "There were so many that i can't name just one or two." — You said. — "But, one of my favorites, and i think they already posted it, was during the harvest scene and Tom was laughing nonstop at Peter."

"Please, everyone was laughing!" — He stuttered. - "Including you!" — You supported your hand on his arm. — "He was funny, the way his character spoke was funny, so i couldn't concentrate properly." — Tom reported looking at the camera, remembering the aforementioned moment and laughing; joining with you. — "One of my favorites was all the times you called me by my name." — He directed his head towards you, who placed a hand on his face.

Not many times, at most, just three times; garnering laughs and recordings from the cast and film crew. — Rachel had already posted two videos where you end up getting confused, a little nervous, and calling your boyfriend by his name. — A normal thing, it didn't need exaggeration or a big alert.

"Come on, it was only three times." — The softness, almost embarrassed, of your voice ran through Tom's ears; he removed your hand from your face and picked her up, giving your a brief caress and admiring the rings that were present. — "And i remember Josh and Hunter called me a loverbird."

"I ended up forgetting this fantastic little detail." — Tom commented.

The third question, — "Is it true that Y/N is going to act in 'Billy, the kid'?"

"In my dreams, yes!" — You crossed your arms, dramatically, and faked a frown for the camera. — "I've already asked a lot, and at least to be part of the supporting actors or just to appear for at least nine seconds!" — Tom laughed and you moved your shoulders, wanting to keep your face serious. — "Do you think i'm joking? I'm not!"

"You really aren't, sweetie." — The oldest confirmed. — "Please, Michael." — He mentioned the director. — "Even i'm begging for it."

And the fourth question... — "What word would you describe each other?"

"I think defining you in just one word is one of the most complicated jobs for me." — Tom's hand removed some kind of stubborn thread, which was stuck in his clothes. — "Is it really just a word?" — He turned, towards the people who worked behind the cameras, who confirmed his question. — "The word enchanting fits you easily."

Blyth leaned back on the back of the chair again, but now leaning his body towards your; facing you completely. — His deep, exuberant blue eyes meet, for the countless time, with yours in that interview. — And your lips formed into such a beautiful smile, shyly showing your teeth against his answer.

You fell in love once again with Tom Blyth, in a full interview.

"Thank you, my love." — The attempt to hide your face and an embarrassed voice failed completely. — "The first thing, word that comes to my mind that can define you is fascinating." — Tom pursed his chin, listening carefully. — "Because everything about you is fascinating and manages to leave me speechless, most of the time, and captivate me too." — Now your boyfriend's arm was holding the back of your chair. — "Everything, everything about you fascinates me and even the discreet gray strands that must be growing in your hair."

"Excuse me?" — Tom questioned, with his mouth open and not expecting your last words, and looked at the camera with a surprised look; already you were laughing at his euphoric reaction, clapping your hands on your knees and almost slouching in your chair.

[felassan]

Article: 'Former Dragon Age lead writer says being at BioWare was "glorious," but under EA it "surrendered more and more of its independence until we got to where we got to"'

Excerpts under cut due to length:

""It's really hard to talk about the years that led to my departure," he told us. "At its height, it was a glory to work there." He begins by reminiscing about what the studio was like in the late '90s, when it was pushing out Baldur's Gate 2. "It was D&D, I was fresh. They would they refer to me as the machine, because I wrote so quickly. I think I wrote half of BG 2 myself, honestly." While he described the studio's best years as "glorious," he's also aware that things weren't entirely perfect when BioWare was still independent. Crunch was prevalent at the company, but Gaider remembers it felt like "that was just part of the job, like, I didn't think it was feasible to question it. You worked until it was done and that was just the way it was. Still, despite the gruelling hours, Gaider says "it just felt like we made RPGs [because] that's what we were interested in making and we wanted to make them as good as they possibly could be." And in a rare turn for the industry, "BioWare's writing, our narrative team, was seen as foundational to BioWare success." As he says, the studio felt like a place where he could write stories with meaning and intent, for the love of the game. Things slowly began changing after EA acquired the company, though. Gaider's impression was that studio co-founders Greg Zeschuk and Ray Muzyka planned to change the publisher from the inside out - "It was the snake eating the elephant." At the time, BioWare wanted to make "prestige games" and focus on high Metacritic scores "that will lead to profits, not the other way around." And, for a while, EA leadership supported that goal. However, changes in EA leadership meant that "suddenly, suddenly, suddenly things were different." Zeschuk and Muzyka left not long after. Gaider's "impression" was that the duo had realized their goal of changing EA from within was no longer doable. "And then things started to change more rapidly." "Bioware had a certain amount of independence under EA," he recalls. "My impression was always that every time BioWare needed to ask EA for something, like an extension on a schedule... they had to give something." He even recounts one email that came down where BioWare cheerily announced the team would no longer get two free weeks off at Christmas to more closely align with EA policy. "But I suspect they did that [because] they'd asked for something like an extension." "I suspect that's the way it went," Gaider adds. "And, so, slowly, by inches, yeah, BioWare sort of surrendered more and more of its independence until we got to where we got to. I mean, I can't really speak to what happened after 2016, but I think it's kind of obvious. I mean, Jason Schreier wrote a good article of what happened with Anthem, and that's pretty damning. And then you sort of can see what has come out of the company since, honestly, which is too bad because it's like... while I was there, at its height, it was, it felt glorious." "I felt like I was at work. I was having fun... even though it was often hard, I would get out of bed and I'd be eager to go into work. There's always something really cool going on. I had a really cool job, and I was working on projects that I felt were, if not you know Shakespeare, I knew they were going to be fun and they were fun to write.""

[source]

[hanafubukki]

Excerpt: “Can we…play a little longer?”

He’s about to leap off the ledge when he felt a sudden tug. He turned around surprised.

Malleus looks startled as if he’s surprised by his own hand’s reaction.

“Malleus?”

The young prince flinched.

Lilia was stunned. He hasn’t seen Malleus like this in awhile.

The prince always showed a calm demeanor when he visited, listening with a smile as Lilia regaled him about his travels and flaunted the new prizes he bought him.

But now…Malleus wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Lilia turns around, letting his legs dangle inward of the window now.

“Is there something you wanted?”

The young prince clutched at his clothes, he opened and closed his mouth repeatedly.

Lilia felt his heart ache. What could it be? That he yearned so much for? What made him hesitate?

Malleus could have anything his heart yearned for.

Lilia went to him, kneeling. His calloused hands grasped tiny trembling ones.l

“What is it?”

Malleus looked at him then, his eyes defeated.

“Will you stay? Can we…play a little longer.”

His heart shattered looking at downtrodden shoulders. How often had he wanted to ask those very words but left them unspoken?

How many times had his expectations been broken?

“It’s okay. I know you have to go. I shouldn’t have stopped you.”

Lilia didn’t know a shattered heart could be trampled on.

“Let’s play.”

The princeling face shot up in wonder before he shuffled back.

Constantly moving his feet in uncertainty, Malleus looked like a child. No, he was a child.

One who was locked away. Really, who thought it was a good idea to lock a dragon away?

“No, it-”

Lilia couldn’t take it then, he pulled Malleus into his arms; smiling faintly at his squeak.

“Now, Malleus, didn’t I say to always listen to your elders!l? Hm~”

The little one nodded furiously.

“Well, I decided we should play. So, let’s play! I know the exact place.”

And he did, of a meadow miles from here surrounded by flowers and trees. He remembered getting lost there once with dearest friends.

It was time to make new memories with the princeling in his arms.

“I’ll cuddle you and play with you all you want so come out Malleus!”

What a fool he had been.

What a liar.

It did not matter anymore.

He’ll keep his promise.

And just maybe, he can mend both their hearts.

…you can tell I never moved on from “I just wanted to play a little longer.” line can you?? 😭😭💔💔

So I wrote this quick as a way to mend my heart a bit. Oh, and also, @rooksamoris you can blame Amora for the little bit of angst (jkjk, lighthearted). I have something worse in the works too 😈💞💞

This kept changing from my initial idea, but I was struggling a bit with imagery so I kept more simple and to the point 💞💞

[kelloggsenthusiast]

if you're reading this - luigi mangione x reader

just want to let you all know that all the accusations made against this and are just that- accusations

innocent until proven guilty beyond reasonable doubt

(not beta read)

he had been caught.

that's all you had been seeing all day. his pictures all over social media and the news, some demonising him and calling him a terrorist, others calling him a hero. you were just confused. three weeks ago, he just up and left your shared apartment without so much as an explanation. you wished you knew better but you couldn't explain it. you loved him and you thought he lived you right back. he was so sweet and doting and attentive to you, even if he hadn't been the same since the accident.

the accident... it had dimmed his light significantly. he couldn't hike or climb or do the things he once loved, being too financially and physically incapacitated to do it, and that's when you noticed his shift. you'd been seeing each other for some years, even talking about the idea of marriage before the accident happened. after it, though, it's like a switch flipped. he came to stay with you while he was covering his medical bills and you could see up close how it changed him. he became distant from you and obsessed with a lot of socialist literature, reading while he wasn't working. his parents and family called you several times because he had effectively stopped speaking to anyone since then. he was different and it was difficult for you to watch what had become of him now that...

you were on your way home from a long day at work, only made longer by seeing your boyfriends face everywhere. you had to turn off the radio because of all the news reports every few seconds. you couldn't believe it, but at the same time, you could. he had an implicitly calloused way of handling things that you'd always said would land him in prison. little did you know, it was literally landing him in prison. the health care system, after all, killed your childhood best friend and left him disabled and in debt. he was the one who just went to go and make his grievances known.

upon your arrival at your apartment, you headed straight for his desk and flipped through all the papers and manuscripts, reading through his detailed notes and excerpts from books and studies. then you saw it. a letter, starting with the words: if you're reading this, they got me. and I'm sorry.

your heart lurched when you saw those words and you didn't even realise that tears were running down your face. you continued reading thr note in his familiar messy handwriting, sharp and thin lettering you recognised as his.

I'm so sorry. I know I've been abandoning you and our relationship. I've been abandoning everyone. but I can't just deal with this pain any longer, and I can't bear to see you suffer because of something neither of us could have predicted. I've cleared the medical debts and paid for the apartment for the next three months. you're free now. and I want you to use that freedom to find happiness beyond me. I love you. but I know I won't be there for you much from jail. you've always been headstrong and intelligent, so I hope you'll understand why I chose to do what I did. I'm truly, truly sorry. I hope you can forgive me. and more importantly, I hope you can find happiness beyond me. I love you.

a short something for all of you. prayers for all of you in the states, I never knew it was this bad. if ceo's were popped as often as kids in school, gun control would be a thing. once again, free luigi. he didn't do anything wrong. - saïe

[drak3n]

THE LOST LOVE

ꨄ. SYNOPSIS: two lovers who went seperate ways years ago… one of the cases we love most!

ꨄ. CONTENT WARNINGS: exes to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, age gap (reader was in college & toji in his thirties when they met), dad!toji, breakup, implied divorce, insecurities, smut, unprotected sex

bold italic quotes = letter excerpts

PROLOGUE. | SERIES MASTERLIST.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

“i like to think that meeting each other was like a breath of fresh air. for both of us. wouldn’t you agree?”

wake up. go to work. get home. eat. sleep. repeat.

toji’s life was a vicious cycle, one of a middle age man with no goals in life. it was funny to him how people would actually call that a life.

the only times he truly felt like he was alive was when he was seated on the bleachers watching a good old horse race. or a boat race. or whatever it was that he had bet money on.

no one understood him.

toji knew that life rarely gifted him anything. he was no lucky man. in the many years of betting and gambling, he seldomly won. and the money he had won those few times was enough to cover the ticket and perhaps a nice dinner.

and although knowing he was probably going to leave empty-handed, he did it for the thrill. it made him feel youthful again. like he hadn’t wasted his years on useless things that aged him faster than he had hoped to. like he was still the same old teenager he had been years ago.

it wasn’t until one fated day that he found out that there were other things that could bring him back to his youth, other than doing useless crap that only burned a hole in his pocket.

said thing being you.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

“the way we met wasn’t really romantic. it wasn’t like a scene out of a movie or a novel. looking back, it was quite comedic, even. i’m sure you felt the same way.”

there were a lot of terrible things that came with being a busy person, one of which you were facing right now. standing in front of a ridiculously long line at the grocery store.

you ran out of basic ingredients for cooking, it was a saturday evening, and you really did not want to order takeout again for a third time this week.

standing in front of you was a group of drunken kids — by kids you meant they were around your age, maybe in college like you — but they were different. they seemed carefree. they used their time to have fun and laugh instead of constantly grumping and punishing you with more work than you had.

you wished you could be like them, too. at least sometimes.

what made you get out of your train of thoughts was the sound of an item being placed on the conveyor belt, the rattling sounding too familiar for your liking. another person who hated cooking, so it seemed. and another person who barely had enough change to get a cup of instant noodles.

it was a man — you heard from the occasional sighs and grunts leaving his lips, and the way his cologne wafted over to invade your senses.

why did you suddenly have the urge to turn around and bond with this random stranger? perhaps hit him up with something like ‘heck, youngsters these days, right?’

absolutely not. that would be goofy as hell. and judging by how slowly the like progressed, you were likely going to stand here for at least ten more minutes. you would rather die than make a fool of yourself and then proceed to stand here for even longer afterwards.

oddly enough, the huffing stranger beat you to it. your breath hitched in your throat at the gruff voice sounding.

“s’cuse me, little lady.”

a bulky arm shot forward from behind you, making you step aside to grant him access to the side of the conveyor. you cleared your throat, turning around with an apologetic smile— and damn was he hot.

he looked quite a bit older than you, and he looked quite… distraught. sleepless, deep green eyes, unruly jet black hair that looked like he hadn’t gotten cut in a while, and a stubble gracing his jaw and chin.

you hated romanticizing people who weren’t feeling their best. so, you quickly snapped out of it.

“sorry for hogging the conveyor.” you chuckled, trying to lighten up the tense atmosphere as everyone else in the line was quite angry. the man gave you a halfhearted smile, scar on the right side of his mouth stretching. you wondered how he’d gotten that scar.

“don’t worry ‘bout it,” he waved your apology off, slightly motioning at the impatient woman huffing and puffing behind him. “someone’s just very fuckin’ annoying.”

you couldn’t help but chuckle at his words. then, your eyes wandered to the conveyor, staring up to meet his again. “you can get in front of me, sir.” you offered kindly, already moving to make some space in front of you, “don’t have to wait even longer for a single item.”

the surprise in his eyes was a dead giveaway that no one had been polite or nice to him in a long time. before he could make it obvious, he shook his head, uttering, “s’fine. thanks.”

but you insisted, for some reason. it wasn’t until he was standing in front of you, cup of ramen placed in front of your groceries, and the seething woman now standing right behind you, that you were happily smiling.

the man walked off after paying for his noodles when the line finally progressed what felt like years later, not even sparing you a glance. you were barely able to contain your disappointment as you bagged your groceries and shuffled outside of the store, ready to take the train back home with full hands.

just to see the man from the line in the grocery store thumbing at the instant noodle cup’s lid, lit cigarette dangling from his lips.

his hands wordlessly approached yours to take your bags of groceries, not even frowning at the heaviness of them, as he let out a puff of cigarette smoke.

“i’ll drop ya off, little lady.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

“our love was fierce. characterized by sleepless nights, stolen breaths and undying passion.”

ragged breaths filled the air of your small bedroom. it was dark, perhaps around nighttime, and the air was thick with sweat, arousals and the sinful smell of sex.

a lazy kiss was exchanged between you two with swollen, trembling lips as you settled down in each other’s arms. your eyes were shut as toji moved a little to light a cigarette.

your fingertips traced over his bare, built chest, post-orgasmic glow making his handsome face look even prettier. you were convinced he was the prettiest man you’d ever seen in your life.

“are you staying for dinner?” you asked, voice hoarse and quiet from how he had formerly railed you into your mattress. toji wasn’t a gentle lover. the word soft was very foreign to him. but you didn’t mind that. you didn’t mind him squeezing your hand too tightly whenever he held it. he didn’t know any better.

he exhaled the cigarette smoke away from you, large palm settling on the tender, bruised flesh on your hips. his thick, rough fingers traced over the softness of your skin that he had grabbed and kneaded mere minutes ago while manhandling you.

“sorry, baby,” he mumbled into your hair as you already knew what was coming, “gotta go. i’ll stay over next time, promise.”

you wanted him to stay, you really did, but with a sigh, you watched as he got dressed and left — not without pulling you into another kiss. missing the way his eyes twisted with a hint of guilt as he shut the door to your apartment behind himself.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

“you weren’t a man of many words. you didn’t like talking too much about yourself. but you’d always listen to whatever i’d say. and whenever i wasn’t up to talk, we’d relish in each other’s silence. it was calming.”

“how many girlfriends have you had before me?”

the silence surrounding the air on your balcony after your question made you reconsider if it was a smart thing to ask.

it wasn’t. since when was it okay to talk about exes? you remembered it as one of the most off-putting conversation topics to ever come up with.

toji’s bare arms were propped up against the metal railing, gaze wandering from the unspectacular sight below him that consisted of old, run down buildings and sketchy streets, to you.

he knew it was too late to tell you the truth. he pressed his scarred lips together in regret, before opening his mouth to respond to your question.

“many.”

he saw the way your nose scrunched up at the ugly word — he wished it had been the truth. much better than hurting you with a fucking lie. made him wonder how you’d react to the truth.

“c’mere.” when you didn’t make a move to approach toji, he pulled you into him, dwarfing your body in his form. “you’re not mad, are you?”

“how could i ever be mad at you?”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

“there was just one thing i wish you had just told me from the beginning. you know, i actually knew the entire time. i was just waiting for you to tell me.”

“dad, the show’s about to start.”

toji was now a couple of years older, about to celebrate his fourth decade of living in a few weeks. he wouldn’t admit that he was getting older. he had just plucked another gray hair from his scalp this morning, but no one had to know that.

sock-clad feet padded from the kitchen to the living room, bowl of salted popcorn in his hand as he placed it in front of his college-aged kid. toji was in awe at how the brat was becoming more of a carbon copy of himself the more years passed.

the only difference being his spiky, wild hair and blue eyes he had gotten from his mother.

“we’re not watching a match today?” toji sounded rather bored as he leaned back on the couch with a can of soda in his hand, legs finding the surface of the living room table as the younger man munched on sweets.

megumi shook his head, eyes focused on the screen that was still playing some shampoo commercial. “have you ever heard of TATMYLB?” the green-eyed man beside him narrowed his eyes at the obnoxiously long abbreviation, .

“kid. i don’t understand your language,” he grunted, “i’m headin’ out if it’s another high school rom com.” said boy only snorted as he pointed at the tv that happened to be playing a trailer of what was going to be playing next.

“reading today… TO ALL THE MEN YOU’VE LOVED BEFORE’s 26th letter!” toji kissed his teeth. of course it was going to be some sappy ass show. why was it so popular anyway?

he raised from the couch, scratching his belly lazily under his sweater as he pointed to the door with his thumb. “gonna check the mail,” he uttered, “we haven’t emptied our mailbox in days.”

megumi hummed, too immersed in what today’s live episode was going to be about. just as toji approached the door, curiosity got the best of him, and he found himself listening.

“unfortunately, she won’t be joining us today, but we have received a beautifully written letter by her! what a lucky man to have been loved like this.” the host spoke gleefully as the audience erupted into cheers and applause.

“our writer is a 29 year old lady from tokyo, a journalist for a very popular newspaper, which explains her splendid writing,” the co-host added, “she has met a man she refers to as her LOST LOVE nine whole years ago.”

toji set his keys down on the shoerack and walked back to the living room. megumi took notice of his dad walking back and smirked. “caught your attention, old man?” he only scowled at his son and placed his hands on the back of the couch.

the stage was beautifully built, and one could tell how much budged was spent on it all. it was a hell lot of pink, too much for toji’s liking — then again, any amount of pink was too much for his liking. the hosts were dolled up to the max, host dressed in a baby pink, frilly dress with her hair done up while the co-host was dressed in a pink suit.

“adding on to that… we have not received an answer or a reaction from the recipient.” a glum round of oh’s echoed across the studio, which made toji snort. “which doesn’t have to mean anything, of course! perhaps he’s just terrible at checking his mail.”

megumi stopped mid-chew as he side-eyed his father, who shot him a look. “old man, you don’t think—” megumi might have been young, but he had a very good memory of his father’s past lovers. especially that one woman who had changed him forever. you.

although he had never met you, he could tell it was you who had a huge impact on his father. and he figured that toji never opened up about having had a son.

“don’t be silly, bud,” toji laughed, reaching over to steal a handful of popcorn from the bowl in his son’s lap. he didn’t even like popcorn, why the hell was he eating it? it had to be the most annoying snack in the world with how the shell of the kernels always got stuck in one’s gums or throat.

you must have moved on years ago. it’s been almost a decade, for fuck’s sake. perhaps you were married already. had kids. he hated how the thought made his jaw clench. it was none of his business anymore, after all.

“mistakes. we all make them. so far, we have had a lot of letters speaking about wrongdoings,” the host clapped her hands together, “but how about keeping secrets? crucial ones?”

of course they were going to drag it on. what a bunch of clowns the audience was for eating it up. he totally wasn’t, not with the way he was clutching the couch cushions in anticipation.

he just wanted to know it wasn’t you, so he could move on in peace. because if you have moved on, then he shall do the same.

the audience was then asked to talk about their experiences with secrets in a relationship, before they started guessing what the person might have done.

eventually, an elderly woman received the mic and laughed. “it wasn’t another woman, so,” she paused, “i’d say hiding a child.”

the two hosts opened their mouths before knowingly looking at the audience, and toji cleared his throat. by now, megumi was fully facing his father, a look of disbelief on his face. before he could speak, toji raised a palm.

“i said don’t be silly,” he warned megumi, “it’s not me. jesus.” megumi shook his head before raising his palm to invite his father to a handshake, challenging him to a bet, “fifty bucks if it’s you, then.”

toji could never say no to bets. maybe he should have checked his mailbox first, though.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

the show was halfway through, currently on a commercial break as you found yourself in the kitchen to prepare yourself a cup of instant noodles. the sight of the cup still brought you back to day you had met toji.

before you could open the lid of the cup, you were halted by the sound of your doorbell ringing. leaving behind the sounds of your kettle whistling, you approached tye door to look through the—

your hand immediately flew to the handle to fling the door open. to stare right at the man you hadn’t seen in over seven years.

there was a lot both of you wanted to say. he wanted to apologize for having disappeared out of nowhere, for having abandoned you when things had been going so well between both of you; while you wanted to slap him, cuss him out and scream at him.

alas, all that came out was a choked sob on your behalf. a sound forced out of your throat, displaying the despair you had felt out of the lack of closure.

toji watched with wide eyes as you broke down in front of him. he wanted to make you happy. or get yelled at. anything but you crying. fuck, he was terrible at this.

toji was only ever good at leaving. that’s what he had done back then when his family no longer served him; that’s what megumi’s mother had spat at him before she left.

screw the past. screw all of his fears. he had waited far too long to come clean. you didn’t deserve this at all.

“i’m sorry.” he breathed, taking a step closer, now partially surrounded by the warmth of your place that hadn’t changed in the slightest. “i hid him from you because—”

you shook your head, trembling hands raising to wipe at your reddened eyes, “i don’t give a damn, toji.” he shut his mouth, because respectfully, you had all the right to be angry.

what he didn’t expect was for you to chuckle through tears. “stop looking at me like that,” you pointed at his lips, “that stupid pout of yours…” he had a habit of pursing his lips whenever he was distressed. you hadn’t forgotten about it.

when you stepped aside to welcome toji inside, he was baffled. “‘course you didn’t read the letter,” you sneered, which made him look down grimly, “if you had, you’d know that i could never be mad at you.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

you didn’t ask toji to, but he told you everything. how he had just gotten divorced when he met you, and who had fought for split custody the entire time. who couldn’t have you over at his place because of the child’s room he had.

it wasn’t like he was ashamed to have had megumi. he considered him one of the very few good things in his life. but, he couldn’t risk scaring you off. not when he had found someone as perfect for him as you.

and when things got serious, he did what he knew best. which was to bolt.

it wasn’t a surprise to him that you already knew. he had the wrong idea of you by thinking you’d push him away just because he had a son. now he knew that you could have been the best stepmother megumi could have asked for.

if he hadn’t blown it all.

“so he’s in college now?” you were smiling as you were both situated on your couch. toji feld oddly calm looking at you. you hadn’t changed much.

“this was us at his high school graduation,” he couldn’t help but smile too as he showed you his phone wallpaper. the thought that you could have been on that picture too made your smile fade for a second before you found yourself melting at how proudly he glanced down at his son in his crinkled button-down shirt, one arm lazily slung over the boy who looked at the camera with an irritated, forced smile.

you wondered if megumi would have liked you and already accepted you as his stepmother if toji hadn’t left. wondered if you two would have been married by now—

thoughts like those were useless now.

it happened so fast. like the force of two magnets attracting each other, it felt like you were pulled towards each other. a mumbled ‘i missed you’ left your lips before they planted themselves on his, both of you getting lost in the sensation of the other’s lips.

toji’s lips tasted like salt and popcorn, whereas yours tasted of the peace of candy you had popped into your mouth while waiting for the water to boil.

ah… right. the water. the kettle had stopped whistling a while ago. but both of you were busy sucking each other’s faces to notice that.

you were sat prettily on toji’s lap, hands running across his muscles hidden by his clothes. the only sign of him having aged were the tiny wrinkles on the corners of his eyes. other than that, he still looked like the 31 year-old toji you had met in the line of the grocery store.

he was the same man you had given your heart to. and you were eager to do it all again.

your clothing was shedded in a matter of minutes, hastily and in a rush. it felt like you were being intimate with each other for the first time all over again with wide eyes and shaky hands.

toji pressed you into his chest as he slid inside of you, and it seemed like the world stopped for a while. toji didn’t do soft, he wasn’t gentle. but you could swear you saw nothing but softness and adoration in his eyes in this very moment.

once he started thrusting up into you, your hands straddled his face, fingers digging into his skin as if afraid to let go. toji saw and felt the fear in your eyes, and he took both of your hands to place soft kisses on them.

“‘m not leaving again,” he grunted, relishing in the tightness and warmth he was buried inside of, “promise.”

you whimpered, nodding as you pulled him into yet another sensual, messy kiss while you worked each other through your releases. out of all the times you and toji had sex, this had to be the rawest, most intimate time.

it wasn’t fucking. it was love-making. the kind you’d never expect from a man like toji.

he stayed inside of you after both of you came, buff arms trapping you as you listened to his slowing heartbeat as both of you trembled. neither of you wanted to move, if you could, you’d stay like this forever.

toji’s lips against your temple pulled you back from your daze, and you reached for your underwear to avoid a mess, sighing softly when he pulled out of you. “shower?” he asked, to which you nodded lazily.

before he could lift and throw you over his shoulder, you placed a kiss on his collarbone.

“let’s eat instant noodles and rewatch the episode after that. since you haven’t read the letter—”

oh, toji was never going to hear the end of this.

but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

[the-karma-cafe]

My Kingdom for a Dance | Arthur Morgan

a/n: excerpt from a way longer work in progress i was working on many months ago, and haven't had the time to work on more. better to get something out now than nothing out ever, right ? - also will probmaybe post this on ao3 under same user

Arthur hummed, either not believing me or just not caring, and his eyes skipped down my form to the bottle clutched in my hand. His eyes widened a fraction, and he laughed, “You’re not messin’ around, little lady!”

I took another sip, trying to act nonchalant (never before had I fought a cringe so hard). “This is nothin’.” I shrugged.

Something sparkled in his eyes at that. “Oh yeah?” he laughed, and cocked his head over towards the other table. “You wanna put yer money where yer mouth is, sweetheart?” His hands rested heavy on his belt as he looked down at me.

I balked (and attempted to ignore the small flutter my heart made) at that. My eyes dragged over to the other table where Micah was pouring shots with Bill and John. I hadn’t meant for it to sound like a challenge.

Well. I couldn’t very well back down now, could I? Not when he was looking at me like that, calling me that.

I swallowed back my nerves and strolled over to the table like it didn’t matter. He snickered behind me, following.

“Thirsty, sugar pie?” Micah sneered up at me as I plopped down next to John.

“Parched,” I retorted, grabbing one of the shots from his spot across the table. Arthur settled down next to him, across from John, Bill, and I, and grabbed one of his own.

“One… two…” Bill began to count, but Micah threw his back before the other man finished. Irritated at not being followed, Bill scoffed and awkwardly cut himself off, throwing his back as well. John, Arthur, and I followed suit.

Or, well, John and Arthur did. Half the moonshine made it down my throat before I gagged and spit the rest back in the cup. Micah barked a laugh at me. “Bet you’d do better with somethin’ else in yer mouth, huh, girlie?” John laughed along with him.

My cheeks burned, if not for the drink, then especially for that. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” I bit back, stuffing down my embarrassment.

“Well,” he curled up his lip, “if the lady is offering…” He leaned back to gesture towards his lap.

I opened my mouth before I knew what I wanted to say, but thankfully was cut off. “You’re a real charmer, ain’tcha?” Arthur drawled. I glanced over at him, seeing that his cheerful expression from earlier had soured.

Micah shrugged and pushed up and away from the table. “Just the merry dance of the sexes,” he raised his hands in mock-defense. Bill pushed up to follow after him. Micah waved at me, his eyes narrowed and his grin wide. I looked back to Arthur.

“Creep.” Arthur muttered, his eyes not leaving the table.

My heart warmed a little. Arthur often defended the other women of camp from Micah’s comments, but I’d never had that kindness extended to me before now. It was sweet, his protectiveness. His gaze shifted across the table to my drink. He cracked a smile, “You gonna finish that?”

I snorted, pulling the cup towards me. “This is probably half-spit, you don’t want it.” I brought it back up to my nose, trying not to cringe at the smell. I held it away from me again. “How the hell d’you guys do this?”

John chuckled beside me. “Just don’t think about it, I guess.”

I nodded and took his advice, trying to throw the alcohol over my tongue to choke it back. I wasn’t sure what the percentage was on moonshine, but I was sure it didn’t matter at this point, my head now well-fuzzed. Arthur’s eyes were trained on me, a small smile on his lips. “You really are all talk.”

I rolled my eyes, biting back a smile of my own. “Whatever.”

Arthur and John took a couple more shots, getting sloppier by the minute. John was friendly next to me, slinging his arm around my shoulder and talking too loudly in my ear. It was nice, though, hanging out with the two of them. Strange, but nice.

ARTHUR POV

He watched John say something else to her, but he wasn’t sure what, nor did he really care. His gaze was shadowed under his hat, staring across the table at them. John laughed, pulling (Y/N) closer as he rocked to the side. She smiled back at him, her cheeks ruddy. Arthur forced a laugh of his own, though he wasn’t sure why he bothered.

She looked nice.

He didn’t want to think about it, but with her right in front of him like this, it made things hard. He had tried all day not to think about that morning: waking up to the rest of the camp asleep, going to get coffee, getting distracted by the way the pale sun shone down on her hair, the sweet way she had her blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

He had found himself sketching it later, while waiting for Trelawney with Javier and Charles. He remembered closing his journal a little too quickly when he realized Trelawney had walked up and stood behind him to announce himself.

And she had washed his jacket. It was the slightest bit damp, but he kept it on anyway, even after he rode off. She pulled it out from under that blanket, bunched up by her side, and handed it to him. He wondered briefly how it would look on her一if she’d look as sweet in his jacket as she had with her blanket; if she’d grow to prefer it more.

He threw back another drink, seeking to quiet his thoughts. It didn’t matter, anyway.

John scowled at something (Y/N) said, and got up, stumbling off somewhere else. She turned those eyes of hers on Arthur. He fought the urge to look away, holding her gaze. “What’s his problem?” he asked.

“Told him to go see the missus,” she smiled, taking a sip of her beer. He forced himself to look away from the unfair way her lips looked pressed against it.

“Ah,” he hummed in understanding, raising his cup in acknowledgement. “Smart idea, gettin’ him to do it while he’s drunk.”

She laughed and shook her head. “I’m not so sure about that.”

Dutch’s gramophone clicked to life, playing some fun, but calm, instrumental. Arthur glanced over, watching Dutch turn away from the machine and hold his hands out to Miss O’Shea, who happily stepped into his embrace. They swayed together to the music, her high laughter floating over the noise.

“That’s sweet,” (Y/N) whispered from across the table, just loud enough for him to hear. He looked back to her, watching her watch them, a soft expression on her face.

The sun was almost completely hidden behind the mountains now, the last valiant orange fading from the sky. Light from the nearby oil lamps and campfire took its place, most of her face shadowed despite their efforts. It played on the apple of her cheek, the bridge of her nose, the reflection in her eyes. His fingers itched for his journal again.

“D’you wanna dance?”

She blinked in surprise, and looked over at him. That was strange, though, because he hadn’t said anything. He wondered who asked her, although he hoped she would say no to them, and stay with him instead. Her cheeks appeared to flush the slightest bit一or maybe he was just seeing things一and she shyly smiled.

“Sure, Arthur, I’d love to.”

Oh. He asked.

He felt a heat of his own creep up the back of his neck and ears, and hoped it didn’t show. He stood up abruptly from the table, and swayed a bit on his feet. She mirrored his movement, getting up and steadying herself.

He held out his hand, forcing the other behind his back awkwardly. “M’lady,” he joked.

She giggled and placed her hand in his. It was a bit roughened compared to the night before, but still soft. It likely wouldn’t stay this way for long, running with them.

He tugged gently (or he tried to, at least), pulling her closer. She made a small noise of surprise and stumbled over to him, placing her other hand between them before they collided. It rested heavy on his chest, more an indicator of her drunken state than anything else. Warmth spread from her to him, and he wondered if he was giving any back.

Arthur brought up his hand to rest clumsily at her hip, unsure where exactly to place it. Why had he asked her to do this, again? He was clearly just going to embarrass himself.

Wherever he had settled it, though, she seemed content with, and she smoothed her hand up from his chest to rest on his shoulder. The line of contact seared like fire over him, and he made some noise in his throat. He hoped she hadn’t heard.

With their other hands clasped together, they swayed gracelessly, but he didn’t mind, and she didn’t seem to neither, a broad smile stretching her face. Her rings felt cool pressed against the heat of his palm. She kept laughing every now and then, stepping on his toes or knocking their knees together. He couldn’t find it in him to care.

He attempted a twirl at some point, but halfway through she fell backwards, losing her balance. He reached out and caught her, selfishly letting her head and back fall against his chest. “Y’alrigh’?” he slurred.

She tilted her head back, her face upside down, looking up at him with a sly grin. The campfire light caught her chest and jaw. “Better now in these big arms o’ yours, cowboy.” She winked, a stupid grin on her face.

He almost dropped her out of surprise. He stiffened, forcing out an awkward laugh that he hoped sounded casual.

This was ridiculous, he wasn’t some blushing schoolgirl. She was just teasing. He willed his taut muscles to relax.

“‘S that right?” he brought his arms around her to cage her in, linking his hands together by the front of her hips一two can play at this game, Miss (L/N). He leaned his head down by her face. “How ‘bout now?” he cooed.

The grin dropped from her face, her eyes wide as she looked up at him, an embarrassed flush painting her cheeks. Damn, he hadn’t meant to come off like Micah.

His grip loosened, nervous now. (Y/N) wasn’t nearly as close with him as the other girls were, and he inwardly cursed himself for getting familiar with her like this. If only Mary-Beth or someone else had been nearby when he’d asked to dance一he could’ve pretended like he’d been asking them. Shit, he would’ve danced with John if he had to.

“I’m probably about perfect, now,” she recovered, her laugh ringing up towards him like a bell. She moved her head back to face forward, snuggling back against his chest.

He exhaled, a stupid grin overtaking his face. He began to rock them side-to-side, listening to the campfire song that had sprung up between Bill and Karen, the latter perched on a certain Irishman’s lap. Arthur hummed along under his breath, resting his chin on her head. Her hair was soft, still, just like the first time. This was nice. She was nice.

He wasn’t sure when his eyes had drifted closed, but (Y/N) made no attempt to leave his bear hug, and he found himself thankful for it. He felt his throat still rumbling with song, but wasn’t sure if he was humming anymore or actually singing.

“You don’t mind if I take over from here, do you, Arthur?” an amused voice whispered beside him. He cracked his eyes open, dragging his chin across her head to look at Hosea. The man was staring at him with a sort of fond pity, and he didn’t like it. He wasn’t a child. (Y/N) moved out from his embrace and he stepped back, keeping his hands up to steady her if he needed to.

She swayed, but Hosea caught her arm, throwing it over his shoulder and stepping in front of her. “Oh, hello, Hosea,” she greeted politely, but glanced around in confusion. Hosea jutted his chin over to where Arthur stood behind her, and she craned her neck to look at him.

He felt awkward and big and out-of-place, now, all by himself. He flexed his hands by his side and gave her a tight smile.

“Thank you for dancing with me, Arthur,” she said sweetly, her gaze fixed on him. The red bloom of drink had held steadfastly to her cheeks, her eyes glinting in the light of the oil lamps.

He felt himself nod and grunt some sort of response before he turned on his heel and trudged off towards his tent. That was enough drinking for him.

~Journal updated.

On one side, a detailed sketch of a plant, the words “Indian Tobacco” scrawled next to it. On the other side, a sketch of (Y/N) in the morning, her blanket tightly wrapped around her shoulders. There are the beginnings of a focus on her hair, with a random sharp line dragged to the side, as if the artist was startled.

[morialoe17]

aloe Yap Corner: 괴담출근 Part 1 Ch.208

Finally have my thoughts processed and here's what I think about chapter 208 (SPOILERS)

While DER is an apocalyptic world, it hasn't reached its conclusion yet, right? Contributors are still continuing to add onto the world's lore and all

Then what if... because of Soleum possessing whatever amalgamation Daydream/Cheerful Research Institute made, the apocalypse arc finally kickstarts? Like, he ends up becoming the key to the start of it.

And if he didn't possess the current body he has now, maybe it would've taken longer to or would never happen in the first place?

What if "Ireum/Name" is actually only just a place holder, and Daydream, who knew nothing and only based their experiments from surface knowledge of the Luminous Church's beliefs, ended up tapping on dangerous territory and accidentally created a supposed 'Ireum-nim' through irregular/incorrect means--resulting to an anomaly and start the apocalypse. If this is the case, maybe this arc will start with the formal introduction to the cult and significant figure from it.

Who knows, maybe this would result in a conflict between the Luminous Church and Daydream, and the Bureau would end up doing the damage control. If the Bureau does interfere, I'd assume Hyunmu Team 1 would be leading it.

As for the end scene of the chapter, someone pointed out on twt to reread chapter 50.

Here's an excerpt from the two chapters:

Chapter 208:

The body bulges out.

The tattoo is falling off.

I disappear. The human body disintegrates.

The self that has realized the truth rejects the form of the human body. The body tries to return to its original form.

A strange. bizarre, composite image of something unknown burst out from within me.

Scales and horns, hooves, thorns, piercing ribs.

Chapter 50:

The staff member looked at me briefly, then reached over to the desk and picked up something.

A post-it note.

Have a good evening.

'So they're surprisingly sociable, huh?'

Soleum mentions in this chapter the similarity of him using a post-it-note to converse when he first met Jaekwan.

"Thank you."

I bowed politely. The entirely black-clad desk worker gave me a slight nod in retum and stepped back to sit down at their desk.

The shattered fragments of what appeared to be the medium of the Darkness, likely some kind of glass, sparkled on the broken floor.

In the reflection of the shards, I briefly noticed the shadow of the staff member's leg twist unnaturally. making their foot appear like a cloven hoof...

...and then retum to a normal human form.

With the way the worker was described, and how Soleum found it to be similar to him, it's as if this was intended to be significant--a foreshadowing.

Then, did Soleum meet his version of self from ch208 in ch50? That's the confusing part.

The thing is, some readers interpretation of what happened with Soleum's wish is that it transported him through time and space, while others think he just got teleported. Personally, I think it's the former.

Chapter 206:

"Anyway, even if I went further underground... the same office hallway kept repeating Itself...." "Was it the exact same hallway?" "Yes. Same office. The structure, even the scratches were the same, so it's the same place, but... just a bit...the time zone seemed different.

This was Soleum's conversation with J3 about his investigation about the Cheerful Research Institute.

I'm led to think that the time within that space is warped, and since that place was considered a darkness from how Brown could talk to Soleum, it was possible that a force allowed him to see and interact with this version of himself, albeit without him knowing it's actually him.

But with how confusing it is, it's hard to determine if that really is the case or something else entirely. We can only rely on the release of the next part to know...

[000yul]

Operator Gracebearer Archive File 4 - unofficial TL

Every operator in the office knew that Sister Nuaida had a good friend by the name of Aureola. Sister Nuaida always had something to say about Aureola, and in her words, Aureola was a model of a Sankta knight-errant: gallant and strong, refined and elegant, amiable and approachable. But none of us had ever met this Aureola in person.

It was not until a youth who knew Sister Nuaida's past came to the office to look for her that we discovered Aureola was not quite how Sister Nuaida described her. Aureola had a vile personality, and often terrified the children of the convent. She treated any soldiers and bandits who broke into the convent violently and cruelly, and she took delight in that. But Sister Nuaida would turn a blind eye to Aureola's savagery. She treated her not only as a close friend, but also as someone reliable enough to entrust the entire convent to.

After bringing all this up, this youth sighed. "I think Sister Nuaida deserves better friends."

"That’s not it, kid. Sister Nuaida doesn't need better friends; she needs friends that suit her. Without the support of someone so ruthless by her side, how could she protect you?" Having said this, a certain logistics operator patted the boy on the shoulder and left the room.

Half a month ago, that operator had been lucky enough to escape the battlefield with their life.

[Private letter]

Aureola, I often dream of the days before I met you. Back then, I had to play the kind and gentle nun in front of the children, yet at the same time, I had to face the invading soldiers with everything I could think of… Living a life so sundered nearly tore me into pieces. How lucky I am to have met you when I did, Aureola; you’ve lifted the burden of ruthlessness from my hands. Being able to entrust the dark, violent part of my heart to you has made me so happy.

Stay, Aureola. When you’re with me, you no longer have to hide your true nature. Who else is there to accept the real you? Your teacher? Your husband?

No. Only I can do such a thing. Because the more cruel and brutal you are, the more relieved I feel. Please rest assured that if you stand by my side, I will never burden you by expecting some pleasant facade from you. I need only you—the real you.

——Excerpt from a letter written by Sister Nuaida to Aureola several years ago, in which she urged Aureola to stay in her convent

[Confidential Document]

Aureola, originally an Apostolic Gun-Knight, Fell upon shooting and killing a colleague, and was subsequently exiled from the Holy City. As a mercenary in the Bolivar region, she planned and executed many assassinations and raids… She is not completely unaffiliated with Laterano, and retains numerous connections with them under the table. As a matter of fact, she was assigned to the local area by Laterano… She has a close personal relationship with Operator Gracebearer. As her true motives are unknown, and there is a possibility she may make formal contact with us in the future, we should continue to monitor her closely…

——Excerpts from the background investigation report of Operator Gracebearer

[sunsetmaidenwrites]

Thanks to @questinwitchface @bastianfruit and @ineffable-snowman for tagging me. Thanks to @jemgirl86 for doing fun things to help cleanse and reclaim the tag!

Rules: Share your top 5 favorite SamBucky fics that you've written, and then tag 5 people.

Destination Wedding M, 31,155 words

Opposites reluctantly attract when Sam and Bucky keep running into one other at Steve's destination wedding. (Lots of bickering and bantering in this one, which was super fun to write.)

Excerpt:

The man was dressed all in black, like he was going to a freaking funeral. Kinda fitting actually. Sam could relate. As if sensing Sam’s perusal, he glanced up, giving a brief nod and a tight smile, Sam hit with the most gorgeous pair of eyes he’d ever seen. Blue shimmered with gray, lending the stranger an ethereal quality that more than made up for his decidedly grungy appearance. Hair shaggy and unkempt, escaping the man bun he’d thrown it in, scruff lining a jaw that was probably too chiseled for Sam’s peace of mind…

He stiffened at the thought, wondering where it had even come from. He was not the sort to go checking out rando’s at airports, especially one that looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, opting out of the shower to save time because he was running late.

Sam was never late. This dude looked like he’d never made it on time for anything.

2. That Picture T, 8,168 words

Captain America and the Winter Soldier on the outs? Working on opposite teams? No longer in each other's lives? What's going on?! Can this relationship be saved?! (This fic was written after the first Bucky Thunderbolts* pic came out and sent us all into a tailspin. It's actually one of my less popular SamBucky fics, so I'm a little protective of it. I don't think I did a good job promoting it or selling what it was really about, but if you make it to the third chapter, it's worth it. I love Sarah in this one, too.)

Excerpt:

Not only was Bucky Barnes out of work, he was also out of options, out of friends, and out of chances. His pardon hanging by threads he was damn near ready to sever himself just to be done with the whole fucking thing. Let them lock him in the raft, never to see the light of day again.

Without Sam Wilson there was no sunshine anyway.

3. The Wilson Home for Reformed Assassins T, 2195 words

Bucky Barnes has some explaining to do after Sam Wilson finds a feisty blonde former assassin in the kitchen, eating all the food and looking for a place to stay. (This was my first attempt at writing Yelena. It was fun giving her and Bucky a sibling vibe and writing her meeting all the Wilsons.)

Excerpt:

"Sam! What's going on in my kitchen right now?" Sarah watched as Yelena speared a cinnamon roll with a wicked looking knife and proceeded to eat it. 

"Cool knife," Cass said, his eyes widening with a mixture of adoration and fascination.

"I can show you how to throw the-"

"Sam," Sarah interrupted Yelena, a dangerous edge to her voice.

"Sarah, I can explain," Sam said, keeping his voice level, alarmed by how much his sister reminded him of his mother in that moment. Darlene Wilson had been the sweetest woman on the planet, until you got her riled. Sarah was definitely edging riled.  "It's Bucky's fault!"

4. The Only Thing I'd Change T, 13,772 words

Sam overhears Bucky say something curious and obsesses over it. Bucky notices Sam acting differently and spirals about it. And Sarah just wants them both to use their words. (An established relationship fic where both Sam and Bucky do too much overthinking and not enough communicating, but they love each other so damn much you know it's gonna work out in the end. I think this is probably one of my better written works and definitely one of the fics I spent the most time working on, tweaking, and obsessing over. At times, I felt like this fic was gonna break me, but it ended up being quite healing instead.)

Excerpt:

"Can you move your seat up?" He’d asked another lifetime ago, sullen and lost, broken beyond repair without even a smidgeon of hope. And through the mess of pain and disillusionment came one brisk, certain reply.

"No."

Bucky had fallen a little in love that very moment. The only person who could love an obstinate asshole was another obstinate asshole. And on some vague level, Bucky had recognized even then that he’d found his obstinate asshole.

5. An Affair to Remember M, 40,365 words

Sam is a college running back destined for NFL stardom. Bucky is a depressed mess just trying to make it through the day. A wrong number leads to an unexpected connection and a secret relationship that can only be temporary...right? (This one will always be special to me. It was my first real chaptered work on AO3, and the first fic I wrote that garnered passionate responses. It's angsty and heart-breaking at times, but also has a lot of humor and heart and an array of guest character interactions I'm really proud of. Reader response and engagement really meant so much to me with this one.)

Excerpt:

Sam’s eyes shone with joy. “You showed up for me, Buck. Maybe that’s what changed everything. Like flipping a switch and now nothing will ever be the same since I’ve seen you in this light.”

“I never wanna be the man who doesn’t show up for you, Sam Wilson.”

“Now you’re just trying to charm me. Steve warned me about that, ya know? His rascal of a friend Bucky. The charmer with the million-dollar smile and a shitload of pretty words. Then I met you and there was zero smile and about 10 words and a grunt or two. I thought he was full of shit, but here we are.”

“Here we are. Maybe I’m an acquired taste.”

“Maybe. Had a shot of you last night, now here I am back for more.”

Honorable Mention:

I have had so much fun with the Friends Don't series! It would be hard to pick a favorite there because it runs the gamut of being fun, fluffy, serious, and angsty. But Friends Don't Get Lipsy When They Get Tipsy gets a special shoutout because it both makes my heart ache and cracks me up every time I do a reread.

No Pressure Tagging: I'm late to the party, so I think everyone is probably already covered. But I'll add @abarbaricyalp @thatmexisaurusrex @firstelevens since I haven't seen anything in the tag from them yet. If anyone wants to do it, consider yourself tagged--or send me an ask and I'll sneak your name in. 🥰

[nero-revenge]

Small excerpt from my original story MARKED can be found in Wattpad

Amora, in her shimmering emerald dress and moonlight-white hair, looked ethereal. Otherworldly. A blade forged in grief but worn like elegance.

Damon, in his dark, fitted suit, with eyes full of something unspoken and a smirk sharp enough to draw blood, looked like temptation dressed in charm. A predator who knew exactly how close he could get before you realized he was smiling with fangs.

Together—

They looked like an angel and a demon caught in a waltz.

Grace and danger.

Beauty and chaos.

People didn’t just watch them.

They couldn’t stop watching.

Calliope, still dancing with Ace, nearly tripped over her own feet.

Lyla stopped mid-twirl. “Who the hell is that?”

Daniel squinted from across the room. “Is that a grown man? Should I fight him or take notes?”

Ace’s jaw clenched slightly.

And Leo, across the dance floor, turned his head just in time to see them—Amora, dancing with a stranger whose hand rested just a little too comfortably on her waist.

His entire body went still.

But in the middle of it all—

Amora and Damon moved like the world didn’t exist outside their shared rhythm.

And maybe, for a moment…

It didn’t.

Their bodies moved as if choreographed—Amora’s steps light and precise, Damon’s presence grounding her with every motion. The music pulsed low, like a heartbeat buried beneath velvet.

They danced in a space that felt cut off from everything else.

And Damon smiled the kind of smile that made people lock their doors at night.

“You’re a hard woman to reach,” he said, voice smooth as black velvet.

“I don’t like being reached,” Amora replied, guarded but calm.

He dipped her slightly—not enough to draw attention, just enough to make her feel the shift in control.

And then he brought her close again.

“I figured,” he murmured. “But that just makes the chase more… rewarding.”

She met his gaze evenly. “And what makes you think I’m running?”

His grin deepened. “I didn’t say you were.”

For a moment, their steps slowed, their bodies nearly still as they turned in rhythm with the room.

“You’re not from around here,” she said.

“No.”

“You with one of the other schools?”

“No.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Then how did you get in?”

He chuckled low. “You’d be amazed how far a tailored suit, false name, and a confident stride will get you in this world.”

Amora’s brows furrowed, just slightly. “So you’re not a student.”

“I didn’t say that either.”

“You’re being vague on purpose.”

Damon’s voice dropped, more intimate now, almost conspiratorial. “I’m being careful.”

“Why?”

He leaned in, just close enough that his breath brushed her ear. “Because you don’t strike me as the type who appreciates directness. At least not until you’ve had time to measure someone. Read their edges.”

Amora stayed still.

But something in her chest tightened—just enough to register.

He was good.

Too good.

She’d spent her life dissecting men like this.

And yet, she couldn’t quite pin him.

“Who are you?” she asked softly.

Damon didn’t answer right away.

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes again, his hand never once faltering in its hold.

“Someone who’s been watching for a while. Someone who’s been… curious.”

“About me.”

“About the girl with war behind her eyes,” he said, voice a quiet drawl. “The one who moves like she’s already survived too many endings.”

Amora’s pulse jumped.

But her face didn’t flinch.

He smirked. “That was poetic, wasn’t it?”

“Tryhard,” she said, flat.

Damon chuckled. “Fair. But still true.”

The music dipped.

He slowed their steps, letting the rhythm carry them just a few seconds longer.

Then: “Let me guess… you’re trying not to enjoy this.”

“I don’t dance with strangers.”

“Then let me fix that,” he said smoothly. “You already know my name.”

“Still a stranger.”

“For now.”

And with that—he spun her gently, just once, and caught her hand as she turned back toward him, steady and sure.

He said nothing else.

But everything about his presence spoke louder than words.

The music shifted into something darker—slower, smokier, with a pulse like thunder wrapped in silk.

Damon moved differently now.

No longer polite.

No longer tentative.

His hand pressed firmer against the small of Amora’s back, guiding her every step—not demanding, but assured, practiced. His other hand never let hers go, not even as he shifted behind her during a slow turn, pulling her closer so her spine aligned with his chest in one seamless motion.

He moved her like he owned her rhythm.

Like her body had always been part of his choreography.

Amora felt it. Every motion was calculated, magnetic, inescapable.

And for a second—

She hated how easy it was to follow.

Their bodies barely touched, but the tension between them could have cracked the floor.

From across the gym, the group watched.

Calliope had stopped dancing, her arm resting on Ace’s chest, expression twisted with sharp unease.

“She’s not leading that dance,” she muttered.

Ace nodded once, jaw tight. “I don’t like him.”

Leo had already stopped moving, his partner trying to pull him back into rhythm, but he wasn’t listening.

His eyes were locked on Amora and Damon—the way Damon’s hands shifted her just slightly with every beat, the way Amora didn’t pull away.

Not yet.

Jealousy, dread, and confusion warred on his face.

Meanwhile, just behind the drink table—

A figure moved through the crowd like smoke wrapped in elegance.

Odette.

Black dress. Velvet gloves. A beauty so effortless it bordered on cruel.

She didn’t look at Amora.

Not directly.

She didn’t need to.

Her gloved hand hovered over the table, where Amora’s untouched drink sat beside a bouquet centerpiece.

With the skill of someone trained to be invisible, she slipped a small vial from her clutch, tipped it with her thumb, and poured a clear liquid into the cup.

She swirled it gently.

And walked away.

No one saw her.

Not Calliope.

Not Leo.

Not even Damon.

The dance went on.

But the air had changed.

And Amora was caught in a moment where her feet followed a stranger’s lead—

Unaware that the real danger wasn’t in his arms…

It was waiting in her glass.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.