#i've just had other ideas floating around my mind for weeks now

[justruse]

the way i have three more ideas for interactive fics in addition to ONCE BITTEN. the pain of not having enough time in the day to work on all of them.

[frannyzooey]

Short Days, Long Nights: 13

Joel Miller x f!reader

Series Masterlist

Rating: E (pregnancy sex, lactation, grief)

A/N: Thank you endlessly for being so patient with me while I've been on hiatus ❤ I'm gonna stay off for another couple weeks, but I didn't want to leave you hanging for too long. I appreciate every single person that has stuck with me on this! Thank you to @the-ginger-hedge-witch and @the-scandalorian for helping me with this one - you both are the biggest brains and the most wonderful writers and I am insanely lucky to have you on my team. Enjoy! ❤

--

Jackson. 

The image of the map is burned into Joel’s mind, always present. 

More concerned with your safety than anything, he knows you should leave, but as the weeks slip by, what picks at him more is that he didn’t have an answer to your question that day. 

“Where are we gonna go?”

He should be one step ahead. He should be on top of the potential outcomes. He should have a plan, since that’s always been his role. Stepped up with one when he had Sarah, took care of Tommy before the Outbreak, and after, led their way in the QZ. After Tommy left, he still did it, even if he was going through the motions more than anything. Doing it has always been second nature, a means to survive. 

You’d let his lack of answer drop because he knew you didn’t want to leave, and of course, he knew you shouldn’t. Not right now. But still - still - he should have had a plan for something he knew was bound to happen sometime. Blinded by the light of your fierce optimism and wanting so badly to believe in it, he simply…didn’t think about it. The first time that’s happened in decades. 

You’re depending on him, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t have an answer ready.

“Where are we gonna go?”

He doesn’t fucking know.  

Wood dust floats to settle on the floorboards around his boots, and he runs a piece of sandpaper over the beam of rough lumber that rests across his lap. The rhythmic sweeps soothe his nerves, and he tries to focus on how good it feels to do something useful with wood again. Something familiar, the dry grain sliding against his palms. A task done because he wants to, instead of as a means to get by like so much else in his life. 

This…this was for him, and for you. 

The late afternoon sun streams through the window in the shed, not quite enough to dissipate the chill. Crisp air breezes in through the open door, the sweet smell of damp leaves blending with the wood and the tips of his fingers are cold enough to stop, but he doesn’t. He has to make the most of your nap times if he wants to get this done before next week. 

Before Christmas - or the closest approximation to the date anyway, using your rudimentary calendar. Celebrating the holiday had been your idea, and like every other time when it came to something you asked for, he couldn’t say no. He said yes when you asked him to cut you a tree, nodded when you pointed to the one you wanted after a trek through the woods, helped you rip strips of red, moth bitten flannel that was worthless for clothing just to watch you tie bows to the end of the branches, as a means to decorate it. 

He was impressed by your constant resourcefulness and ingenuity when it came to the things you’d been given, and at night, when the lantern shone on it and bathed the living room in a cozy glow, it almost did feel like Christmas time. The closest thing to it that he’s felt in years, anyway. 

Placing the sandpaper on the floor and picking up a knife, his mind follows the trail marked on the map. Winding through woods and across open swathes of land, it passes right through your area and he knows it’s only a matter of time before someone else follows the first. He knows that man can’t have been the only one with a map. 

He frowns, gouging the wood a little more forcibly as he works through a knot, and he pictures the curve of your cheek, the delicate line of your neck, the bright happiness in your eyes here. That Christmas tree, in the front room. Torn between the idea of the unknown being just as unsafe as being a sitting duck at the cabin, he is restless with the need to move. The urge to keep you tucked away and protected from the world spreads beneath his skin and grows stronger every day, along with your stomach. 

It’s large enough that it strains against the shirts you’ve borrowed from him, and though you’ve started choosing large sweatshirts instead, it’s begun to push against those too. You’ve begun to sway when you stand in place, an unconscious rock as a means to relieve pressure on your lower back, and he pictures you doing the same with a baby in your arms as you stand next to the cradle that he’s been building.

When he thinks about leaving it behind only to gather dust as he drags you somewhere else, the image eats at him, reminding him too much of another room, left behind to rot. 

Another life, upended by abrupt violence. 

Guilt has always gnawed at him for so many things, and following the mental image of you holding a baby, he adds to the growing list: the idea of another child replacing the one he had. 

He fixates on all the things he couldn’t do for her on that last day but also the things time has robbed from him: the image of her face, the sound of her laugh. The books she liked, the order in which she lost her teeth, the weight of her infant body in his arms. How much of that time he spent without her while trying to provide for her, and how here, he’s got all the time in the world for this new child. His new child. 

More feelings; the knife gouging deeper. Looking forward to a holiday that can’t include her, nervously anticipating holding a baby that belongs to him, looking at you and what you’ve built together and being so fucking happy he missed his mark on that bleak day ten years ago. 

Is it betrayal to feel joy?

He’s not replacing her. He knows that. He knows, and yet the guilt never stops and so neither do his hands nor his mind, both working on fixing other problems that can be fixed. 

Jackson. 

A bed for the baby.

–

“I know it would be cold, but I think I’d rather have snow.”

You look out at the sodden garden, the neat, large borders that surround it blending in with the damp landscape. The fence that Joel built the only visual marker of where it’s at, it’s prepped for winter, buried in a dense layer of leaves and compost. You absentmindedly finger the leaf of a plant you brought inside with you, sheets of rain sliding down the window. 

“Not me,” he says. ���Might look pretty, but it would be a whole lot more dangerous.”

The blurred, muted mash of colors outside all blend together, the world a canvas of dingy brown and bleak gray. Everything soggy and limp, everything saturated with wetness: at this very moment, you’d take danger over another day of this. 

Turning away from the depressing sight, you watch him sort through a pile of loose screws and nails on the coffee table. His head bent in his task, his shirt pulls tight across his shoulders as he hunches over and nudges each piece of metal with the tip of his finger, sorting them. Listening to the pleasant clink of them being dropped into glass jars, you go back to watering the plants. 

After a process that had you pouring over the gardening book for days, you left what you could in the garden in order to have a good base for the spring, but took the rest inside, to see if you could keep growing anything through the winter. 

Mismatched buckets and pots, an amalgamation of anything that would hold enough soil to plant a seed in, it was an experiment for sure. Enough was stored in the pantry to get you through the winter if you stayed lean enough about rations, and Joel had been pushing his portions upon you like there was no tomorrow, constantly assuring you that he had plenty. 

“What is this?”

Stopping to stretch his back with a groan, he’s picked up a loose, shapeless scrap of fabric off the couch. 

“Wait –” you protest, setting the watering can down. 

He frowns at it, turning it in his hands, and when you make a hasty grab for it, he keeps it out of your reach with a chuckle.

“This my present, honey?” His facial expression still puzzled, he tries to work out what it is. 

“It’s for the baby,” you explain. Coming to stand next to him, you turn it upright. “See? This is the neckhole, and the arms go here.”

“.......And the legs?”

“I’m not that good at sewing, okay?” you defend yourself with a laugh. “I thought maybe their legs could just hang out in this little…sack area.”

You make a self deprecating face, looking to him for a reaction, and he fingers the bottom of it. 

“That ain’t bad. You should see if you can tie up the bottom, you know, for a draft or somethin’.”

“I used all the spare laces on the pants. I tried to make some, but of course I don’t have elastic and I don’t know how big to make them around the waist for a button, so I thought I could just cut two holes and make like, a little belt so that it would grow with the baby and...”

Your words taper off when you realize he’s staring up at you with an amused expression and you let your shoulders drop in defeat. “This kid is gonna look like they’re from the eighteen hundreds, aren’t they.” 

“I guess you would know, with the books you’re always readin’,” he says with a grin, and the stack of historical fiction next to your side of the bed comes to mind. 

“Oh God,” you moan quietly to yourself. 

Standing with a soft grunt, he bends to press a kiss to the crown of your hair. 

“Don’t worry about it,  honey,” he murmurs. “You about ready for bed? I’m gonna go do a final lap.”

Checking the perimeter of the cabin while you bank the wood stove for the night, he eventually joins you in the bedroom, bringing in the smell of cool night air with him. Already in bed, you’re propped against the headboard with your book in hand, and you admire him as he gets ready for bed himself: the edges of his curling locks catching the light in a glowing chestnut, the warmth held in his tanned skin as he peels off his shirt, the soft give of his still trim stomach as he pads over to bed. He climbs in, adjusting the covers around the two of you. 

“What about Mae?” you ask absentmindedly, skimming the book in front of you. 

He shrugs. “Not bad.”

You make a face at the reception. “What about….Lauren?”

Stretching out on his side to face you, he rests his hand on your bump, smoothing the fabric of your sleep shirt down. A small movement nudges underneath his palm, and the corner of his mouth lifts. An intimate, quiet moment, you keep reading while he chases the constant movements with his touch, his fingers splayed wide, searching. 

“Always so squirrely at night,” he says, the words rounded with softness. 

“Tell me about it,” you sigh. 

You set your book to the side and slide down next to him as he reaches to turn off the lantern, and the two of you lay facing each other, your belly between the length of your bodies. His hand finds your stomach again, and you let yours rest over it, guiding his touch lower. Lower, until the tips of his fingers brush against the band of your underwear and also right where a set of feet (or hands) slide underneath your skin. The taut skin shifts with rapid movement, a sensation that never fails to mesmerize you, but it’s something else when he’s the one who gets to see it. Watching him experiencing it is your favorite. 

“What about Margaret? I’ve always liked that name.”

He makes a face, telling you all you need to know. “What makes you so sure it’s gonna be a girl?” 

You shrug, lifting the hem of your shirt so you can feel his skin on yours, and his hand slides right back into place. 

“Have you thought of any names?” you ask quietly.

“I, uh…I was sorta thinkin’ about June.” His dark eyes flit up to yours. “After June Carter Cash. Or Pearl, after –”

“You wanna name my baby after Pearl Jam?” your eyebrows raise. You’ve heard him humming “Future Days” while working outside, you know the band is a favorite of his. 

He grins at your reaction. “That a no?”

“I should have guessed it would be music related,” you tease with a smile, scooting closer. “I like June. It’s pretty.”

The gentle exploration of his touch soothes you, and you close your eyes to savor it. 

“What about boy names?” you ask. “I can’t really think of any. It’s actually what makes me think it’s a girl, like she’s trying to tell me something.”

“I haven’t thought of too many either. Thomas, for my brother, maybe?”

“That’s a good one.” You yawn, and sleep softly rounds the edges of your words. “Are you ready for next week?”

The preparation of his gift has your hands aching and grasping one with the other, you rub the tender knuckles, working some of the soreness out. Wordlessly, he reaches for your hand and takes it into his own, kneading the joints. 

“I think so. S’kinda nice, havin’ a Christmas.” His touch lingers on the tips of your fingers, warming them. “Too cold in here? I can put another log on if you want.”

“No, it’s just…they ache. They're so swollen they get stiff sometimes. I don’t think the damp is helping.”

You hear it now, peppering the window in the dark. The steady drum of rain on the window, the sound makes the room all the more inviting: warm and safe, his body heat radiating underneath the quilt. He keeps rubbing your fingers, his own larger hands cradling your smaller one, and akin to someone rubbing your back to sleep, the touch lulls you, your eyes fluttering shut. 

“This good?” His mouth brushes lightly against your knuckles, his lips pressing against your fingers before he breathes warm air on them. 

“Mmmm, yea.” Silent for a moment, you speak. “Joel?”

He hums in acknowledgement of his name, and you voice the nightly request you started asking him weeks ago. 

“Tell me what you know.”

A prompt he’s seemingly ready for, he shifts to get comfortable, letting out a sigh. The motion similar to someone getting ready to tell a bedtime story, your reaction to curl tight next to him is the same. 

The first time you asked him this, he barely remembered anything. Other memories taking their place, the finer details of pregnancy and birth were buried deep, most of them forgotten. He remembered the doctor's visits but not the frequency. The general concept of birth but not the stages. The pain, but as someone who didn’t go through it, he couldn’t tell you what labor actually felt like. 

All guesses and long ago recollections, you took them because they were better than nothing. Tonight, he tells you about the night feedings. 

“Babies, they uh…” he begins in his gravely, lowered voice, trying to speak softly in the darkness. “You know they eat every couple of hours or so for a while after they’re born. Weeks of it.”

You nod against his shoulder, listening to his deep drawl. 

“I don’t remember much because when you don’t get a lot of sleep it all tends to blur together, y’know? But I do remember some of them. Peaceful, sometimes. Everything is so quiet and still, and there ain’t nothin’ but you and them, sittin’ together.”

He stops, and you reach up to brush your fingers along the edge of his jaw, just enough to let him know you’re listening. He sighs, a heavy, contemplative thing. 

“They are so small in your hands. So small it’s scary. I remember bein’ so careful, always feelin’ like I was gonna accidentally hurt her, or –” his breath hitches, and he swallows hard. He’s silent for a moment, and your breath slows and evens out. “Anyway, they don’t let you get any sleep, not for a few months, but sometimes….sometimes, you don’t mind.”

Your body loose and relaxed next to his, you’re on the edge of sleep when the words tumble softly out of your mouth. 

“Joel?”

“Yea?” 

“I’m scared.” The confession is whispered into his bare skin, and you breathe in his comforting, familiar smell, the steady drum of his heart beating underneath your cheek. His hand is a weighty drag down the line of your spine, the feeling of it steadying you. 

The wind blows outside, rain pelting the glass. 

“I know, honey,” he answers. “Me too.”

–

Long after you’ve fallen asleep, he stays awake, his mind lost in a memory. 

Her tiny body rigid with deceiving strength, he struggles to force her arm into a small sleeve. His hand is huge compared to her fragile arm, her skin downy soft under his palm, and moonlight shines through the window in her bedroom just enough to light the features of her scrunched, upset face. A small wail pierces the darkness, and succeeding in dressing her, he lifts her up. 

One hand cupping her entire bottom with the other covering her back, he makes low shushing sounds with his mouth to soothe her, inhaling the milky sweet smell that clings to her skin. 

“Hey baby girl, shhh. I got you. I got you.”

Her tiny face burrows into his chest, her body squirming until she gets comfortable, and he keeps soothing with low hums, his hand rubbing a slow circle over her purple pajamas as she settles. 

Moving slowly so as not to disturb her, he sits down in the rocking chair and continues to hold her; the carpet plush under his bare foot that gently pushes off the floor. His sleep blurred eyes focus on the small turn of a glass butterfly that hangs from her window, the rounded curves catching the moonlight as she sleeps on his chest. 

He lets the unearthed, vivid memory wash over him as his chest constricts, the pain suffocating. Finding himself in this position more and more since you started asking him about what he remembers, he closes his eyes and succumbs to the pain: worth it, to see her face again. To remember things he’d thought he’d forgotten. 

The edges of the memory blur and crumble, his mind losing its focus on that purple room and on the cusp of sleep, he tries to grasp and hold on tight to the details until they fade away. 

–

“Keep your eyes closed, okay? Wasn’t much to wrap with.” 

Anticipation thrums through you, your features lax with fondness as you wait patiently on the living room floor with your eyes closed. A fire crackles in the wood stove next to you, shadows pooled in the corners of the living room where the light doesn’t reach, and you scoot a little closer to absorb more heat. 

Never one to linger in bed, he’s been up since dawn, and when you awoke alone, there was a  weighted, peaceful stillness in the air—a significance to the day that was at best, a guess. Still, you felt it all the same: through drinking tea with him on the back porch this morning, through reading on the couch this afternoon, through helping him prep the small feast you allowed yourselves for dinner. 

You hear and feel a shift in the air when he comes to sit in front of you, setting your present at your feet. 

“Okay, you can open ‘em.”

Laughter bubbles bright and loud when you see what it is.

“Joel Miller, you shouldn’t have.” Picking up the bottle of vinegar, you tilt it in the light to see how much is left: about half, which is a find indeed. “How long have you been hiding this?”

He shrugs, looking pleased with your reaction. “Not too long. I found it when I went to check out that last cabin. I know it’s not a lot, but I thought it would be useful.”

Vinegar means pickling, means cleaning, means acid for the soil of your plants that you moved inside for the winter, and even though the label is half peeled off and the contents might not be as potent as they once were, you have never been so happy to see a bottle of the stuff in your life. 

“Thank you,” you say softly, leaning forward as much as you can, presenting your lips for a kiss. He gives you one, and you pull back, your mouth twisted in an apologetic pout. “This is a way better gift than what I got you.”

“That’s not true,” he argues. “You fixed my favorite jacket. Feels brand new.”

After snagging it on a tree branch while hunting, he had been so disappointed when he inspected the size of the rip when he came home. Handing it to you, he had declared it no good anymore and told you to use it for something else, but knowing it was his favorite, you’d been mending it in secret while he went out for the day. Textiles being a scarcity aside, that jacket was also your favorite: it’s the one he’s been wearing since you first started out; the sight of it comforting to you. 

“I actually got you somethin’ else, but you’ll have to close your eyes again.”

You automatically squeeze your eyes shut, your hands playfully grabbing the air as you squirm on the floor, and the sound of his low chuckle makes you smile wider. Hearing the front door open and then close, you frown when the object he places at your feet sounds heavy.

“Okay, open em’ up.”

It’s immediate, the way your expression drops from delight into something more reverential. Your breath frozen in your lungs, you reach out and touch the smooth edges of the cradle. Tracing the perfectly fit together corners, you take in how small it is – so small - but perfect. 

Your eyes lift to meet his, tears blurring your vision. “Did you make this?”

“Yea,” he replies softly. “I kept in the shed, workin’ on it when you were napping. I knew we needed somewhere to put her, so I thought –”

“Her?” Your fingers brushing along the neat edges, you look up at him with a small, watery smile, and he matches it with a soft one of his own. 

“Sure, why not. You’ve convinced me.” Affection is open and obvious on his face, the lines that normally crease his forehead softened as he watches you look it over. 

“This is…so much, Joel. It’s beautiful. I don’t even know how…I was thinking we’d have to put her in a dresser drawer or something, and I –” Overwhelmed with his thoughtfulness, you’re at a loss for words. “Thank you,” you eventually settle on, hoping the sincereness in your words expresses everything you feel. 

“You look so surprised,” he says, teasing laced in his tone. “Did you really think I would get you just a half bottle of vinegar for Christmas?” 

“I don’t know!” you laugh, a hitch in your breathing as you settle your emotions. “We can’t exactly go Christmas shopping, so I figured you did the best you could.”

He reaches to swipe a tear from the round of your cheek, and you chase the heat of his palm, leaning into it. “It’s been so long since I gave anyone a Christmas present. Glad I’m not totally out of practice.”

Gently sliding the cradle out of the way, you rise to your knees to give him a kiss. 

“I love it.”

You kiss him again, his lips tinted red from the wine at dinner, and the bitterness sweeps through your mouth when he gifts you a slow slide of his tongue. The tentative heat held in his response passes to you, and swallowing his hunger, it spreads through your limbs to pool between your legs. Pressing forward, your hand reaches out for his shirt, and you deepen the kiss.

You hope it conveys everything you want to put into words but can’t: appreciation, love, gratitude. Keeping your mouth on his, you slip your hand around the back of his neck and threading your fingers up through his locks, you hold him in place, his hand grasping your elbow to steady you as a soft sound rumbles from his throat. 

“I guess you really liked it.”

You just nod, pulling him in for another kiss, his familiar taste and scent filling your senses as he presses himself closer, and when you let out the catch of a moan in your throat, he pulls back just far enough for you to see hooded want in his eyes.

“We done with the gift exchange?” He presses a kiss to your your throat, his lips warm and delicate over the skin he finds and you nod, letting him taste.

“Here,” he asks, his mouth moving just below your ear, “or in the bedroom?”

“Here,” you breathe, cupping his whiskered cheeks to pull his mouth back to yours. Your hand slips between his thighs, finding him half hard under his jeans, and groaning into your mouth, he shifts on the floor to kneel in front of you. Your fingers work the buttons of his flannel open, pushing it from his shoulders at the same time he grabs the hem of your shirt to work it over your head and off. Undoing your bra, you fling it onto the floor as his hand reaches back to tug his t-shirt off in a smooth, overhand motion, and your hands drop to his belt buckle, tugging it open.  

The back of your knuckles swipe through the line of coarse hair that leads under the waistband of his jeans, a slight shakiness to your movements betraying the need you feel, and it’s something he sees and rewards with another consuming kiss.

The rest of your clothes tugged off in a rush, he rests his back against the couch and guides you onto his lap, the soft inside of your thighs straddling the outside of his firmer ones. One of the only comfortable positions you’ve got left, it’s been your favorite because it gives him unfettered access to your breasts and when he palms them in appreciation, anticipation sends a warm thrill up your spine. 

Using both his hands, he cups the sides of your jaw to draw you in, holding you in place while he opens your mouth with his, his tongue sliding smoothly against yours. His fingertips dig into the nape of your neck, one hand dropping to palm the plush weight of your breast, and you kiss him back even harder while he delicately teases your nipple with his thumb. 

The calloused pad skims over the top of it, the contrast between the tender touch and the fierceness of his kisses making your head swim with arousal, and pulling back, he takes in your kiss-swollen mouth only for a moment before bending his attention to your breast. 

Using the cradle of his hold, he pushes it up to draw the peak of it into his mouth, and your head tips back, a broken cry coming from your throat. 

“Please. Please.”

He would give you anything – anything – you ask for, and this is no different. He laves his tongue over the peaked bud, dragging firm pressure over it as he draws it into his mouth, and when you dig your fingers into his hair and pull with a moan of pleasure, his hand cups the underside of your breast to push more in. Frenzied, rough, desperate for more, a deep groan slides out of his throat at the same moment you feel a strange, tingling sensation on your nipple. 

Surprise shows in his brown eyes when they flick up to yours, and pulling back, you both stop. 

“Was that –” you ask, and he looks down at your breast, his thumb dragging delicately along the peak. 

“Yea, I think it was,” he answers, slightly mesmerized. 

A drop of milky liquid hangs from the tip of your breast, and he wipes it away, smearing it on your soft skin. Another one takes its place, and his eyes flicker with interest. 

“Holy shit.” 

The words slip out faster than you can stop them, and the corresponding lift of his eyebrows makes you laugh, his own deeper chuckle joining your lighter one. He pulls you in for a kiss right as you’re leaning down for one, and you find there was no hunger lost while the moment was broken; instead it comes back even stronger as you wrap your arms around his shoulders and he holds onto your back with a splayed grip so fierce it makes you squirm. 

Unsure of when you started grinding your hips against his, you work them slightly faster. Spread and wet on his lap, you’re so achingly empty right over where you can feel the heft of him pressing between your bodies, and fire lights under your skin with how much you want him to just take. 

He’s been so careful with you, so considerate in his handling of your body these last few weeks. Always taking care of every need that you have, he’s done so with no less attentiveness, but you can tell that he’s been holding back—a telling rigidness to his muscles when he moves above you, a tightness to his strokes every time he fucks you as if he’s keeping his body  in check to make sure he doesn’t lose himself. Missing the sharp edges to his love, you kiss him harder, and he groans as if in pain, his tongue sliding deep into your mouth. His beard rubs your chin raw, the pressure of his response forcing your body to tip back slightly in his hold.

“Fuck me,” you whine, the words breathless against his lips, and he groans again, breaking your kiss. 

“Christ, honey, turn around.”

Desperate to follow anything he tells you to do, you grip his shoulder to steady yourself as you turn yourself around, your back to his front. His mouth is an immediate brush against the nape of your neck, a heady sensation that has you melting back into him, and his hands travel up your sides to cup your breasts, pulling at the peaks. 

Your ass grinds in his lap, the thick, stiff line of his cock trapped between your bodies, and when you arch your back and lean forward in a silent invitation, he reaches down to line himself up. Easing yourself back down, the stretch is delicious but so tight it’s almost unbearable. 

“Goddamn,” he groans over your breathless whine. 

Wrapping your smaller hands around his thick wrists for purchase, you pull at your bottom lip with your teeth as you sink all the way down to the base, and when he’s fully seated inside you, he bands his arms just under your breasts in a tight hold, keeping you in place. You can feel how hard he’s breathing between your shoulder blades, his beard rubbing against your skin, and squirming in his lap with a soft sound, you start to roll your hips. 

He’s so deep this way, so much deeper than he’s been in weeks, and taking a moment to get used to it with a couple of slick strokes down, you chase the thick, filling stretch of his cock. Leaning forward, you brace your hands on his knees, and the deep groan you hear from behind you makes you wetter; your body physically reacting to his wordless praise. 

“You feel so fucking good, honey. So good.”

His hands traverse your back—one splayed wide to drag heavily down your spine, the other curled around your hip to guide your movements–and when you bend forward as much as your stomach allows, his hand drops to your ass, spreading you from behind. 

“I wish you could see how wet my cock is. I want you to see how you’re soakin’ it.”

“I can feel it,” you moan, your hips working faster. 

You can: every down stroke is smooth and audible, the tight walls of your cunt stretching around him to take him perfect and fluid every single time, and when you start to pull him deeper, he sits forward with a cinch, pulling you back towards his body. The solid, warm wall of his chest cages you in, his arm looping around your hip so his hand can reach your clit, and when he finds it, everything spreads warm and thick from your center outwards, your head tipping back to rest against his shoulder. 

“There’s my girl,” he smiles when your body drapes pliant and loose against his, your hips chasing the pressure of his fingers. Forward into his touch and backwards onto his cock, you can hear him breathing heavy and low into your ear and your hands find his forearms to hold on tight, your nails digging into the thick muscles as you work yourself faster. 

He rubs your clit in quicker, more precise circles, just right with the firm slip of two calloused fingers, and your thighs tighten in their tremble, your release a bright, shining edge that beckons. 

When it happens, it breaks you – clamping tight around him as you’re suspended in a state of strained rapture, his hand comes up to cradle the base of your throat in a possessive hold while his other hand keeps working, and a second wave takes you by surprise, washing over your skin as you cry out. You can feel the wetness that soaks his fingers when he reaches down to feel where you’re stretched around him, letting out a groan against your skin. 

His hand smears damply across your hip as he lifts you from his lap, slipping out as he guides you on to your hands and knees, and loose and pliant, you let him position you anyway he wants. 

“Just a little more, honey. Just a little longer,” he coaxes. 

Resting your cheek on the floor, you arch your back to put yourself on display for him as you catch your breath, but it’s stolen just as quickly when he gives you a rough, open mouthed kiss to your cunt. He eats you like a man starved, the wet muscle of his tongue flattening against you as he keeps you open with his hands splayed on your ass, and a deep rumbled groan is felt against the inside of your thighs when you reach back to tug on his hair. 

His tongue dips deep inside you for a taste, and just when he pulls back, he goes in for more, like he’s changed his mind because he can’t get enough. Harder this time, more forceful, the action pushing your hips forward, and when you cry out, he’s dragging himself back, pulling away to position himself. 

The heat of his body radiates along the back of your thighs, the thick tip of his cock notched against the slick dip of your entrance only for the barest of moments before he pushes himself in with a stroke of his hips, and you hear a hiss behind you, one you almost don’t catch over the low moan that spills out of your mouth.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groans, his hips fitting neatly along your ass. He slides out and then back in, giving you time to adjust to his size. “I want – Christ – I want…can you take it harder for me?”

“Yes. God yes. Please.”

He answers with a rougher slide in, an audible muted pound of his hips against your skin. “You tell me if it’s too much, honey, okay?”

After turning your head and nodding so he can see you, he gives you another rough, smooth stroke in and then another one, each one filling you until the air feels like it’s being pushed from your lungs, and then he picks up his pace, letting out a low, heavy breath for every thrust. It sounds obscene: his rumbled, low groans and grunts, but you can barely focus on it for how sensitive you are to his thickness. Everything tighter, the fit is a snug, slick slide in every time, and you squeeze around him, earning you another hiss of appreciation. 

“This pussy is gonna kill me,” he groans and then holds nothing back: his hips snapping against you with his hand resting flat on your tailbone, every jolt rocking your body forward. 

Exactly what you asked for and what you’ve been missing, you let him know. 

“It feels…it feels so good. God I’ve missed this.”

“Yea?” The word is a breathless growl, and you clench down on him again. “What about this? Did you miss this too?”

His hands wrapping around the inside of your elbows, he tugs you back and up until your back is arched with your ass in his lap and then he’s pounding into you. 

“Joel!” 

Faster and harder, his hips work ceaselessly behind you for a dozen strokes and when he comes, his fingers dig tight into your skin, your arms aching as he holds you in place to take every last drop. Panting behind you, his strokes slow into a rhythmic grind and sliding out, he eases you gently down onto the floor where you slump, your cheek resting on the fold of your arms.

Dazed and loose, with a content smile on your lips, you lay down on your side and he joins you, dropping to the floor. His arm slung over his eyes, you watch his pulse pound in his neck as he tries to catch his breath. 

“So…was that also a Christmas present, or….?” you tease, the question coming out slow and saturated with contentment, and he laughs, a breathless thing that’s carefree and deep. 

“Sure,” he answers, rolling onto his side. “Merry Christmas.”

The light of the flames dancing across your bare body, shadows slide over his tanned skin and the bluntness of his reply makes you laugh. 

The two of you look at each other for a moment, his hand coming up to brush away an errant lock of hair from your temple. His hand glides down the length of your torso, coming to rest on the swell of your stomach and leaning in, his mouth meets yours.  

Still smiling, you cup his cheek and with a slick slide leaking between your thighs, pull him closer to deepen the kiss.

[rosaspicypaper]

I wasn't even ten when my mother taught me to shave. It was exciting. I felt grown up. She explained to me, gently, that I would have a lot to get rid of for the rest of my life. We just had a lot of body hair, more than average. So, there I remember being a little girl, taking a blade to my skin every time I had to shower. A family hardly able to afford food for the week, but we still prioritized a razor for a child in the fifth grade. It grew everywhere, even thick and dark on my thighs. I took it all away, sometimes spending 15 minutes double checking myself to make sure I got every last one. And then, if I found I didn't once had I dried off, I'd get back in and finish the job, or do it dry to ensure I got it all, razor burn preferable to hair. It didn't stop there. I wasn't stupid. I knew the legs weren't the only place you didn't want to have body hair. Once I felt I had the hang of it, I started to shave my armpits. My belly. My chest. My pubic area. My arms. And, as a courtesy of the bones in my wrist, I eventually took out a chunk of flesh so deep and wide you can still see the scar over a decade later. My mom understood. She bandaged me up, and I maintained my routine. Middle school was harder. I kept it up, but kids saw through it. They called me a dog. I had to get rid of even more, I determined. Shaving my chest and my belly turned into waxing. I became self conscious of the dark hair on my cheeks and my jaw, my upper lip and what lay outside of an ideal brow shape. I ripped it all away, checking twice daily for hair I missed, and if I found any I had a pair of tweezers to help finish the job. I was, of course, introduced to the idea floating around online that women didn't have to remove their body hair. I agreed, I thought, that women could do whatever they wanted with their body hair! And if that was the case, I'd choose to keep getting rid of mine. We've all heard the same excuse parrotted around: "I just like the way it feels." And I did. Of course I did. I was used to the smooth skin and that baby soft feel, the validation and admiration that came with having a perfect, hairless...everything. I was okay with other women making the choice to have it because their choice wasn't going to make me feel otherly. I never genuinely understood how miserable it was to maintain the routine until my sophomore year of high school. It had become as second nature to me as brushing my teeth or washing my hair. But, I chose to stop shaving. Over the years, I would cave to the misery and get rid of it all over again, but eventually I'd let it grow out, and it was uncomfortable. It was scary. The prickling hair drove me crazy, the sandy feel of my legs making me squirm once it had grown out. I loathed putting lotion on. It felt like I had to use half the bottle just to get to my legs. Jeans in the summer until I couldn't stand it anymore, friends that flushed with embarrassment when we'd go to the pool. A mother pleading me to do it again, "for me". Struggling to find products that would work for me because women's hygiene isn't formulated with women's natural selves in mind... by now, I don't think I've shaved in over 4 years, and I certainly don't feel so otherly anymore. Was it the easy choice? Was it the comfortable one? Not at all, but I feel as though it was the necessary one.

[yan-lorkai]

"Hello Lorkai! I've got an idea for a headcanon and would like to request it!

Yan!Idia (maybe with platonic Yan!Ortho too if you like) with an extroverted male reader who somehow gets placed in Ignihyde Dorm by the dark mirror (students from other dorms like to joking about the dark mirror putting him in the wrong dorm or something). The reader kinda becomes the mom friend of the dorm, always helping and taking care of everyone, assisting Idia with his Housewarden's work, you know, like the friend who orders food for their shy friends. Thank you very much <3

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ A/N: Uh... I've might misread the fact that you wanted headcanons. And so I did hcs and a few little drabble 🥺.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ You are Ignyhide's mom figure, fixing everyone's hair and shirt. Everyone know that whoever is sorted into this dorm is somewhat of an introvert or ambivert. You, though, is an extrovert. You can talk freely, you know how to make friends and enjoy helping others around the campus. Yet, the others don't have this same capacity. And they need someone to take care of them, whence the title of mom, which was just a joke but slowly spread thought Ignyhide completely.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Idia was the most difficult person for you to get closer. He just seems to push away anyone that tried without even realizing but you persisted till you make friends with his brother and him. Taking care of Idia though... Sure, it's difficult sometimes.

"Let's go, Idiiiiiiia!” You tried to pull the antisocial Ignyhide dorm leader out of his bed, wanting to take him outside to sunbathe and eat in the canteen. You've been trying for a while now. Sometimes Idia was a lot like a younger brother to you. Stubborn, obstinate. His hair burning bright in a frightful color as you pulled him and he pushed you.

"Do you hate me, Yuu-shi? I didn't do anything wrong." Idia threw himself to the ground, a scream of pure terror escaping his throat as he struggled against you.

"Listen, either you walk out that door of your own free will or I'm going to throw you over my shoulders and we're going to leave the same way." You threatened him. You had tried every tactic you had on your sleeve today and still none of them were working. Regardless, he felt light enough for you to carry around.

"Yuu-shi wouldn't dare." Idia murmured back, he tried to sound confident and sure of what he is saying.

Yet he didn't stop you from pulling him to his feet this time, even though his legs were visibly tense and he had an annoying expression on his face. Idia knew that you meant what you said. And he wouldn't survive a day if someone saw you carrying him around. His shame would be too big to bear. He would be dead by the end of the night if that was to happen.

He gave you the best puppy dog eyes he could muster, but it was of little use. You opened the door for him and offered him a soft smile, trying to ease all the fear and anxiety he felt. Still, you had good intentions when trying to bring him out of his shell. There was tons of people you want him to meet, tons of things you wanted to do with him, outside from his room where you usually spent your free time. Without talking with him through a floating tablet.

You were working to make him realize that it was not healthy to stay cupped inside of his room all day. It was a slow process but in a few months, you know he'll be fine making phone calls and sending emails.

"C'mon, dude. We don't have all day." You teased him a little, watching him fumbling. He squeaked, hands founding yours to hold, to ground him, cold finger lacing with yours.

Idia didn't like this idea at all. There was so much that he could do at his room. Gaming, bing watching something, reading, studying. So why he have to abandon the comfort of his room?

He wanted to ask your intentions. But you are a mischievous guy, always so secretive, only the sevens may know what passed through your mind this week. Either way, Idia doubt that you would tell him where you're going or why. Sighed, he followed you outside.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ No matter how difficult he was, Idia was still your best friend. Your brother, if you will. Nobody could see one without the other nearby, even if most of the time it was just you and his floating tablet. It was a sweet friendship, most thought. And Idia deserved it. As did Ortho, the young robot was so funny to have around and he was as curious as a child, always asking you questions, even if he could have his answers with a snap of his fingers.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ While you make friends with Idia because you noticed how lonely he was, Ortho just latched onto you when he realized what you were trying to do, helping you in your mission to be Idia's friend. He was like a younger sibling, following you around, sometimes messing with your homework or phone for fun. He was mischievous. And you could never get angry at him because of his very cute puppy eyes. Often times, though, he includes you on his pranks.

"How things going, Yuu-shi?" Idia asked, voice tired and dark circles under his eyes as he stared at his computer. He knew it was you just by the sounds of your footsteps on the carpet.

Ortho programs are special, designed by Idia himself. They are not supposed to malfunction but sometimes errors happen and this is one of those times. Idia told you he would pull an all nighter so he could fix his brother and you, like the good friend you are, scold him for losing sleep. Yet, you brought with you some snacks and soft drinks, and you got to work with him.

The panel located on Ortho's chest glowed red, emitting a high-pitched sound that broke any and all silence that might exist, in addition to Idia's heavy breathing. You knew how to fix Ortho, you'd seen him do it a thousand times.

"I don't think that it's a systemic error, pass me the screwdriver so I can see something, Idia." Idia mumbled something, drinking one of your drinks as he lent you a screwdriver so you could taste your theory before turning back to his computer and start typing something again, running another bunch of tests.

"Be careful!" He advised. You huffed, of course, you were going to be careful.

You slowly began to unscrew the nails holding the panel in place, carefully placing it on the bed next to you. You observed all those wires and pieces, the fire on his chest burning even brighter now, you tried to remember for what which wire was for. Ignyhide was after all known to raise students to be the best in mechanics.

"Actually everything's normal," You murmured to Idia, there was nothing wrong with Ortho that you could see. Red light still emanating from somewhere below his artificial heart. "C'mere and help me, Idiaaa."

The older Shroud laughed at your tone but he complied, crouching down by your side. "Let's see..." Just as Idia reached out to inspect Ortho’s chest panel, the younger Shroud's eyes suddenly lit up, glowing a vivid yellow.

His previously limp body jerked upright and his voice, eerily robotic, boomed through the room: "Error 375, host unable to respond, initiating reboot sequence."

Idia yelped and practically jumped out of his skin, scrambling backward in a flurry of blue flames, his ears hurting from loud Ortho's announcement was. "W-what, error 375, what even is that? Ortho? What did you do?" He stammered, looking between you and Ortho in sheer disbelief, lost.

Then, just as suddenly, Ortho broke into his usual chipper grin. "Just kidding, Nii-san!" The younger Shroud chirped, a playful glint in his eyes. "Got you!"

Idia’s expression was a mix of shock and exasperation, his face and hair bright red from embarrassment. "You little—!"

Ortho giggled innocently, while you couldn’t help but burst into laughter. The prank had been a success.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Aside from moments like that, you also help them with simple things, helping Idia with his dorm leader's duties in general, and playing with Ortho, helping them with laundry and making breakfast. And when you three go out to buy things or something, you always team up with Ortho to tease Idia. It's funny.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ You and Ortho incentives Idia to be more sociable, though that's still not possible so often you three just spend time on the gardens or somewhere more secluded. At least, Idia can leave his room if you and his brother are by his side the entire time. He still have a long way to go to overcome his shyness but you're proud of him and you let him know at every opportunity.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ It's common for you for you to order for you and Idia but if you're tired or unwell, Idia will crawl from his shell and stutter out your favorite order. It's the only time he'll try for real to overcome his fear of talking to other people.

[scrubbinn]

Slime HRT: 13 Months “Such a fickle thing”

“Recording now, starting dialog in 3, 2… Alright! Another month, another recording for the good doctor to listen to. You better be listening to this Theodore. Ugh, your name sucks, bad mouthfeel. I'm just gonna stick with doc. So then, where to start. It's a bit hard to focus on any one topic. A lot can happen in 30 days. Not to mention this isn't my first recording this month. I’ve been having trouble creating memories lately, so it’s nice to have a way to note things down. It's certainly been an interesting time to say the least.

Ok, I'll be honest, things have been rather difficult lately. I've been experiencing severe sharp pains in my whole body nearly everyday. Moving around without assistance is impossible some days. The theory goes that it stems from internal organs changing into slime, but most of my organs should already be made out of goo. At least according to Mayday's journals. But the pain is still there, and I can't understand why it won't disappear… At least I'm getting used to it. I'd rather not have the staff here constantly worried about me. Val, the head witch, offered some potions to help alleviate the pain. I sort of declined out of habit, but then I collapsed in the hallway. She insisted after that. They ended up helping a little bit with clearing my head. Wait, should I be starting at the beginning of the month? The pains really only started a week ago. How do you want me to present these? My memory is worse than I thought.”

“Ok just to be safe, let's go back to the start of the month, when you got back to me on that chunk of skin I sent in, and we found out it's made of fat, lye, and a few other particulates. Lye is the biggest component I'm made of, which makes sense. It's what a lot of soaps are made of, and it's what allows this body to jellify any meat I consume and break it down. It's kinda gross but it's a little cool at the same time. The other bits found though, well, I know you said it was nothing to worry about, but something about finding traces of dentin and enamel, something about it doesn't sit right. You mentioned it's just my dissolved teeth, still stuck inside, but they turned to rubber around 10 months ago, and eventually turned to goo. Shouldn't that mean a different material would be floating around if the hard tissues had already transformed? But the alternative ideas are, distressing, to say the least. And to say the most, if I start growing teeth from my skin, I will see how many lawsuits it takes to bankrupt you doc.”

“Moving back to the discussion of skin. My face and neck are now fully covered, besides the lips and eyeballs. Thanks to the numbing potions, it only tickles a bit. You don't want to know what it feels like when they wear off. I’m probably not going to be awake for most of the next month due to my face dissolving in on itself. I've heard horror stories from other slimes about getting your eyes and organs dissolved. Can’t say I’m looking forward to that. I’ll just have to ask the staff to be ready when they end up hearing screaming coming from my room. Though, come to think of it, my organs are already made out of goo right? It feels like they’re still holding their shape and even normal functions. Maybe it just, won’t, hurt when they’re integrated and dissolved? I'm already dealing with a lot of pain now, what happens when it really starts getting bad. Abigail was right about how dangerous this medication could be…"

“No, can't go thinking about that stuff now. Let's just try talking about something else. Oh! We can talk about eating! Ever since we found out what I’m made of, I’ve had a bit of a change in diet. Lots of fatty meats. Turns out I no longer digest plants anymore. I’m a pure carnivore. Abigail and I are planning a trip outside of Hyper city to visit this great little sushi place we used to go to. I hope they don’t mind if I just order a few whole fish. Er, yeah, I can’t deny I'm eating a lot of food. You’d imagine with no greens, grocery bills wouldn’t hurt the wallet so much. Well turns out meat is expensive, and when you buy a lot of it… Well I’m just glad T.H.E.M.S gives me a place to sleep."

Besides a diet change, I’ve been conducting my own experiments. It’s nothing too dangerous, I’ve just been ingesting different types of poison. Wait, no, hold on, before you speed dial my number! Ok, so I’m not doing something crazy like eating nightshade or anything, just the stuff I can find growing around here like ivy and those berries birds eat. But Lye is a type of poison. I think. So it makes sense that similar chemicals could be incorporated. After all, I don’t seem to have any acid inside me, it’s just poisons and venoms that break down cells, so I should be able to make different kinds. Figuring out how is still a process of trial and error, but don’t worry. I am being careful about it. So please, don’t get mad at me… Besides, imagine if I did learn how to control that sort of thing, I could create a bunch of different chemical compounds! I could be a walking chemistry lab!… Actually that sounds like it’d involve even more city paperwork. Let’s just keep that idea to ourselves, ok doc? And before you say anything! No, the poison is not causing my spikes of pain! That’s not how they work!”

“What else, what else to talk about… Have I talked about the memory troubles yet? It's been a bit of a disaster when it comes to scheduling anything. I need at least five reminders on my phone for any kind of appointment, and even then, you know I've missed a few checkups. I think my brain is getting replaced with slime instincts. I've been enveloping a lot of things without noticing. Arms and legs have been absorbing things without so much as a thought going into them. I spent a solid three hours searching for my phone only to feel it vibrate inside later and most of that time was spent trying to remember what I was searching for. I don't even know how it got there, I left it on my bedside table. I've heard a lot about what other therians have referred to this sort of mental change as a crossroads. Is that approaching? Did Mayday already agree to go through with it, and that's why I'm here? I feel like I'm losing my mind. End recording.”

“Ok, new tape… I think. Recording supplemental now. I have a theory about all the odd changes that have been going on. I looked back on Mayday's first journal. She somehow never made much thought about the doc mentioning the addition of chromatophores, a type of cell found in color changing animals. Though it seems they still haven't formed since I can't change colors at all. Combine that with my limbs moving on their own… There's a good chance that quack doctor combined some type of animal into the slime medication. Like an octopus, or a cuttlefish. It doesn't explain the bits of teeth floating around inside me, but the more I talk about it outloud, the more I realize I need to confront him about what exactly I'm taking. This doesn't feel like it's just a slime HRT, not anymore at least. I just have to remember to confront him. Memories are getting worse, concentration is completely shot from the pains. I just have to remember. I just need to remember… I just need to… I… I'm… hungry………………………

“hm? A recorder? Oh right! I was recording for the doc today, I'll send him this later. I feel so famished right now, when I get too hungry I start forgetting things and all that. Well… bye!”

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Mention list: @a-shramp, @calliecwrites, @be702, @respectfulevil, @hyacinthdoll1315

[lieslab]

Somewhere only we know

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Seungmin X gn reader

Summary: You find yourself in an overwhelming pit of depression when your boyfriend interrupts with a plan to cheer you up.

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 2.7K

Trigger warning: Depression and self-hatred.

A/N: I finally got around to this request!! This idea has lived rent free in my head for a while, so I'm glad I've finally gotten the chance to put it to good use. This might be one of the only pieces I've written that has me giggling and blushing. Enjoy <3

_ _ _

The lights were off again and the ghosts were roaming. Whispers of hatred and the acidic self-insecurity had taken control of the reigns. You couldn’t remember the last time you smiled. It had been so long since you spoke, you couldn’t remember what your voice sounded like. 

What was new? Trapped in another bottomless pit. Choking and screaming, you used to fight to stay floating, but something had just changed recently. Why was it so hard to be happy? 

When did waking up feel like a chore? The walk to the bathroom felt like climbing Everest. Picking up your toothbrush was like picking up a boulder. Why did it all have to be so hard? 

There was a permanent curve in your spine now. You couldn’t remember when your eyes were bright. Everything was easy when you were a naive child. Unfortunately, time changed and life went on. You didn’t have the safety of adults surrounding you. 

That was the one thing that truly sucked about getting older. Sure, you could have friends and you had your boyfriend, but you had to face your battles alone. Your friends couldn’t make life choices for you. It’s not their responsibility to make sure you’re taking care of yourself. 

It’s something you struggled with. Part of you wanted someone to reach out. You wanted a helping hand and yet you didn’t. You wanted to be entirely alone and at peace. Let your eyes glaze over and the muted TV screen colors melt together. You weren’t even paying attention anymore. 

The episodes of ‘The Great British Bake-Off’ blurred together. There were Italian cakes and pies. There were French pastries that you had no idea how to pronounce. The blend of sweet treats meddled in your mind. 

You used to watch this show with such passion. Happily rooting for your favorites and becoming distraught when your favorites went home. Rolling your eyes at silly technical flaws and gasping when desserts fell apart. 

With a scoff and a “I could do that better and I’m not even a baker,” you used to amuse Seungmin. You were the one that introduced him to the show. The two of you used to taunt each other over who could bake what dessert better. They were empty taunts and free fun, nothing less and nothing more. 

You missed him. You missed him more than words described. It had been a while since the two of you had been around each other. Comeback seasons were always hard and there wasn’t enough time to juggle a relationship and his career. 

You didn’t mind it, but he did. He was always feeling awful about not being around. Interview questions kept him preoccupied. Photoshoot poses had to be shot without his cell phone. Music videos had tight deadlines with all hands on deck. 

It wasn’t really a surprise that the last text you sent him this morning went unanswered, but you still missed him. You missed those teasing and the taunts and the- 

What are you doing?

A soft sigh escaped your lips and you shut your eyes. Even the memory of him was starting to physically make your heart ache. The two of you had been dating for a while and yet, you still weren’t used to these few weeks where life seemed a bit emptier. 

Struggling with your mental health only made it harder. Were these dark shadows eternal? Were you cursed to drown in this wave of sadness? Maybe you weren’t meant for all of this. The never-ending wheel of misery that life seemed to be. 

You were spiraling and you couldn’t help it. You squeezed your eyes shut and reached for the remote. Screw it, you were heading towards bed. That exhaustion always seemed to seep into your soul lately. Sleep was the best temporary cure for it. It was starting to get late anyway. 

You pushed yourself up, picked up the remote, and then your body froze. Your ears perked up and you shifted towards your front door. Surely, nobody would be here at this hour? It was almost ten in the evening. 

You swallowed your nerves and stood up. Wooden floorboards creaked beneath your weight. The doorbell rang once more. Closer and closer you inched to the door. Closer and closer until… 

“I know you’re in there! Don’t leave me out here, it’s hot! I can hear you watching that stupid baking show. Let me in! This shit is heavy!” 

You blinked in shock at the sound of Seungmin’s voice. Your hand outstretched and it didn’t take long for you to yank the door open. There your boyfriend stood with two hands full of plastic bags. 

“Thank god, you’re still awake, I thought you’d be asleep. Now move your ass and let me in.” 

“What are you-” 

“Don’t ask until I have it all put together. Go sit on the couch and I’ll tell you when you’re done. You’re not allowed in the kitchen, so if you need me, just holler.” 

“But why? You have work tomorrow and yo-” 

“Nuh-uh. We finished everything early and the company gave us the next two days off. I’ve missed my significant other. Let’s go, haul your ass!” 

He was used to your apartment. This was his home away from home. This safety net of love and compassion. He knew where you stored everything. He knew where your secrets hid and he had seen your inner demons roam. 

You sighed at his insistence, but went back to the living room anyway. Sinking back into the couch, you glanced out of the corner of your eye. The kitchen was partly hidden by the bar counter that shot out of a distant wall. You didn’t know what he was doing with all the bags. 

“If you’re making dinner,” you finally mustered up the courage, “we could have ordered takeout.” 

“We’re not making dinner, but speaking of that, have you eaten?” 

You frowned and your eyes went to the coffee table. The remote and a near full plastic bottle of water were sitting there. You thought it’d be easier to drink water from a water bottle, but it wasn’t. 

“Not yet,” you admitted. “I’ve kind of been too soaked up in the show, I’ve been binging it.” 

Seungmin knew that response was bullshit, but he wasn’t going to press you about it. He knew something was up with you when you stopped responding to his texts. He’d have to wait hours before he’d get a single response. He tried to answer as soon as he could, but then you wouldn’t respond. 

He knew how much you liked to curl inward on yourself when you mentally struggled. You were good at shutting yourself away from the world. You thought it was fine, but he knew that if you kept it up, you’d collapse beneath it. 

“Okay, so you can order us some dinner. I haven’t eaten dinner either.” It was a lie, but he didn’t want to make you feel guilty for being the only one getting food. “What are we thinking?” 

“It’s getting late.” 

“So fast food, it is.” 

You chuckled and shook your head, but it didn’t sway you away. While bags ruffled and Seungmin grumbled and struggled in your kitchen, you ordered the two of yourselves food. 

“Holy shit,” you got out. 

“What? What is it? Are you okay?” He stopped what he was doing and rushed towards the living room. 

“They’re totally backed up on orders! It looks like there’s a few places closed, so if we want food, it’s going to take two hours. I mean we could go get it, but I-” 

“Do you think you can wait two hours?” 

“Can you?” You jerked your head up to glance at him. 

He grinned, “this is perfect. Go ahead and order and I’ll finish setting up.” 

“I don’t like not knowing what you’re doing.” 

“You’ll know soon enough.” 

“What do you want?” 

“The usual.” 

As you ordered, he continued to set up until he finally finished. “Okay, I’m ready! Come out here now!” 

You pushed yourself off the couch and headed towards your kitchen. Before you could make it there, he stopped you and shoved something over your head. You raised an eyebrow as you glanced down at the black apron. “What are you doing?” 

“Every baker needs an apron.” 

“Huh?” 

He grabbed something from behind you and shoved it on your head. You stared at him in shock as he adjusted the puffy white hat. “Ta-dah!” 

“Did you just put a chef hat on my head?” 

“Maybe you should be thanking me because I didn’t put a rat up there first.” 

You rolled your eyes and glanced over. A wide variety of ingredients were placed along the counter tops. Two large mixing bowls were situated on the counter behind you. You glanced at all of it in confusion. 

“What is this?” 

“Welcome to your very own version of your favorite baking show. The contestants are us and the winner gets bragging rights. The other will never be able to forget that they suck at baking.” 

“You gave me a chef hat…for baking?” 

“Cooking and baking are basically the exact same thing.” 

Your jaw dropped in shock. “I can’t believe you just said that. You watch my show with me and you still don’t know the difference? Baking is usually measured ingredients and it’s baked whereas cooking is flexible and you can add and subtract things into your di-” 

“Spoken like a true nerd. Anyway, let’s get on with the show. Chop, chop!” He clapped his hands and spun around. “Since I clothed you, I expect you to do the same. The stuff is behind you.” 

You tried not to laugh as you put the apron over his head and tied the strings. When you were finished, you placed the chef hat on his fluffy hair and tugged too hard. He yelled the moment he couldn’t see. 

“You’re cheating! Cheater! We’ve gotta cheater and the competition hasn’t even started yet!” He huffed and jerked the hat back up while you laughed. 

There it was. That melodic sound that he thought about every night before bed. It was so rich and so glorious. He wished he could experience it until the end of time. 

“You’re so dramatic!” 

“Well, someone has to call you out on cheating and I’m the only one here to do it!” 

“What are we making?” 

“What if I said I haven’t figured it out yet?” 

Your eyes glanced over in confusion. All the ingredients were sprawled out, but he didn’t know? “So what is all of th-” 

“I just picked out a bunch of random stuff,” he shrugged. “There’s some different fruits. Flour, sugar, baking powder, and baking soda. I got some different spices and some vanilla. I just figured that we’d try our best to make something out of it.” 

“We’re going into this blind?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I hope you know that this is going to be a disaster.” 

“For you, it is. For me, I’m basically a pro.” He rubbed his hands together and then clapped. “Alright, let’s get this party started!” 

You walked over to your bowl, grabbed it, and glanced at all the ingredients. “So what are you making?” 

“I’m not telling.” 

“How are we going to bake something without measuring cups?” 

He froze and his eyes widened. “Wait, I thought you had those! Please don’t tell me that you…” You shook your head. “Oh no.” 

You waved him off and shook your head a final time. “It’s fine, we can adjust. We’ll just use spoons or our hands. Speaking of that, I need to clean mine.” 

“Ha! I’m already one step ahead of you. I’d never poison the judges with germs.” 

“What judges?” 

“You.” 

“Oh.”

While you washed your hands, Seungmin headed over to the opposite counter and grabbed the flour. He started to tug, but the bag wouldn’t open fully. With a sigh of annoyance, he gripped the sides tighter and tugged. 

When you heard sputtering, you whipped around with the dish towel still in your hand. You were utterly speechless as a puff of flour blew out of Seungmin’s mouth. The two of you stared at each other in silence. 

It covered his entire face. Both of his darkened eyebrows and eyelashes were coated in it. Sun-kissed golden skin had turned moonlight pale. The chef’s hat tipped back off his head and laid on the floor behind him. A strangled giggle erupted in the back of your throat. 

“Stop it! It’s not funny!” With every word spat, flour slipped off his head. It blew off his nose and freed itself from his lips. When he brushed pale handprints on his black apron, you lost it entirely. 

Collapsing onto your knees, giggles streamed from your mouth. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stop them. Every time Seungmin huffed or grumbled, you laughed harder. He looked like the abominable snowman. 

“You think this is funny, huh?” He grabbed a handful of flour from the table and chucked it your way. The snowy smoke stained the front of your own apron. 

“Hey!” You cried out as you brushed it off. “That’s not fair! You did this to yourself, don’t take it out on me!” He laughed and grabbed another handful. You screeched and ran to the other side of the kitchen. Your hat managed to fall off in the process. “Stop it!” 

“Get back here!” 

He couldn’t help it. Your smiles and laughter were so infectious. He knew it had been harder for you without him around all the time. The two day vacation from the company was a small slice of heaven. 

When you dodged one way, so did he. You slipped onto the floor as he shoved the handful of flour in your hair. You grabbed another one and shoved it to his chest. He yelped as the powdery substance slipped down his shirt. 

“Hey!” 

“You started it!” 

“You brat!” 

You didn’t know how long the two of you ran around throwing handfuls of flour at each other. Unfortunately for you, the bag of flour he had gotten was bigger than usual. Flour was all over your pants, your cheeks, and your apron. You were even sure it had entered your armpit. 

You finally collapsed onto the ground in the leftover piles. A powdered haze settled over the area. Both of you were breathless and full of delight. 

“Okay,” Seungmin managed to get out, “we call it a tie for now.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“Next time, we’ll prepare better.” 

“With an actual recipe,” you added. 

“With an actual recipe,” he agreed. 

The two of you stayed silent for a while. Your eyes shut and you panted. It had been so long since you had a little fun. You forgot how small things like this tended to fossilize in our hearts. This tiny memory was one that you’d remember with such joy and delight, you’d never forget it. 

“I think I choked on too much flour. Everything tastes like bland ass and-” 

“You’ve eaten ass?” 

“You’re about to eat this fist.” 

You laughed and sprawled out your limbs. Your eyes shut and before you knew it, your limbs began to move. Up and down, up and down, up and down. 

“What the hell are you doing?” 

“Snow angel.” 

“This isn’t snow.” 

“A flour angel is the same concept.” 

Seungmin pushed himself up and stared over at you. A small smile was on your face as your body moved up and down. Sure enough, it looked like an angel was forming behind you. The blank pits of the floor created the illusion of wings where your arms were shifting. 

His own smile appeared on his face. Your flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. God, he wished he could keep you happy like this forever. He knew he couldn’t, but he’d sure try. 

“Okay, come on, angel.” He stood up and reached out a hand towards you. “We’ve gotta go shower and clean this mess up before the food arrives.” 

“Or we could just stay here for a little longer.” 

“Or we could just go get cleaned up, so we don’t smell like grain.” 

“You always have to ruin the fun,” you huffed. 

“Who said the fun had to stop at the shower? You never know what might-” 

You were up within seconds and rushing towards the shower. All he could do was playfully roll his eyes and chuckle. You left white footprints the entire way there. He wanted to lecture you, but for now, he was just glad you were smiling again. 

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Taglist: @lina-linny @straykidsstanforeverandever @seungnishi

Masterlist

Taglist, and inbox rules

[casual-praxis]

Okay, so I know I said I wasn't going to do much with this AU since I was focused on a different one at the time (and I still am), but I've been thinking about the post-canon for this AU a bunch and I couldn't get it out of my head.

The designs are fairly simple (most changes occur post-canon), but there's still a few details in there that I'd like to talk about! Peep below the cut for more yappin' if you'd like.

(I just figured out how to add line breaks yeehaw)

I started with Green since I had the clearest picture of her in mind. I like to think they all got a mishmash of traits from the original Link here, so Green has the og Link's ponytail, but its length was divided between her and Red. All in all, she resembles Link the closest but isn't an exact match. I also made the executive decision that she simps for Zelda. She's just really worried about her future girlfriend, okay?

Blue didn't quite turn out how I'd hoped, but if I ever do something more with this stage of the AU, I can always make adjustments. Her hair is supposed to be the fluffiest, matching the og Link's texture. She's a little insecure about it making her look "too girly" or cute since that's not at all the image she wants to have, but she learns over time that being cute and badass can still go hand in hand.

Red is the one I was looking forward to drawing most, but she's still fairly simple as well. She wears her hair in a side ponytail to "not step on Green's toes", but also because she thinks it's cute (she and Blue don't see eye to eye on this early on, as you can imagine). She has a bomb-shaped hairbow that she made herself (tying into her post-canon shenanigans), but I haven't yet figured out when she acquires it.

Vio was supposed to be holding her bow here but I couldn't quite figure out how to draw it at that specific angle, so it's in hammerspace for now. Outside that, Vio's design has the most variety. She's meant to learn emotions over time within this au, and this progression is marked by the flowers in her hair. She starts out with none, but as they journey, Red starts to teach her the basics, and with it weaves Zelda's favorite flower into her braid. Once she joins up with Shadow, she's gifted a violet (because Shadow thinks it's punny, and for subtext reasons) that she starts using to pin her bangs out of her face. The flowers begin to wilt as time goes on, first the wildflowers, then the violet, until none remain and the final act is approaching. Shadow gives her one last violet before dying, though Vio doesn't actually start wearing it until the Four Sword is put back and they remain behind. Lots of lore for this one.

Finally is Shadow, who I'm actually surprised turned out so well. I went back and forth on whether I wanted her to wear the hat or not, but I ended up deciding against it since none of the others wear their hats either. Her hair pretty much acts like Shadow's hat in canon, it moves independently of her and the tips of it are smokey and wisp around. Along with Red, I have decided she is short. It just felt right. She does have claws and fangs, but she keeps them a little more on the down low until a suitably dramatic moment occurs to reveal them.

And that's all that comes to mind for now. I've had this idea floating around in my brain since I got back into the fandom, but never had the motivation to poke it too much and see what it do.

The post-canon is what I've mainly been focused on, so maybe I'll try and doodle a few things for it sometime. I took inspiration from one of the bonus comics in the manga where they all stay split after the sword goes back, so that's the canon ending for this au.

It goes fairly far into the future, with all of them settling into their own lives somewhat independent of each other (they all see each other multiple times a week with the exception of Vio, who travels a lot with Shadow ((who may or may not have been brought back through dubious dark magic rituals))).

The brainrot is real, but hopefully entertaining for anyone who made it this far.

[schlatt-love-bot]

Chuckle Diner (Prologue)

so, i've been a little influenced by my current obsession with bistro huddy on tiktok as well as a few ideas i've seen floating around here on tumblr of executive chef!schlatt x hostess!reader, and thus chuckle diner was born. this is simply the prologue—the first chapter i'm hoping to post some time this weekend!! enjoy, and let me know your thoughts below~

Moving to a new city was never easy, especially when you just up and left your old life behind. Fresh starts were exciting to you—you enjoy the thrill of meeting new people, making new connections, and the idea of starting over again—but no one warned you before you left your small town two states over how hard it would be to adjust to life when you had little to no money left in your savings. 

“I don’t know, man. I just thought things would click for me when I left home. I thought the puzzle pieces would start fitting into place, that life would get easier.” You sighed, sipping the last few drops of your drink before putting the empty glass back on the bar and turning to the patron beside you. 

“Well, I think you’re just not putting in the effort to make things better. Have you even considered starting to look for any jobs around here, (Y/N)? I can’t keep supplying you with free drinks forever.” Charlie let out a chuckle before signaling to the bar tender to serve you both one more drink and then to give him his tab. Charlie was one of the first people you met in this small town, at this exact bar where you two sat now. He was one of the only people in the place to go out of his way to talk to you—and not just outright flirt with you like the other fine specimens in the joint had done. Needless to say the two of you hit it off, and you’ve made a pact with him to meet at the bar at least once a week to check in and see how one another is doing. 

“Well…I haven’t exactly started…it’s just hard! I’m not really qualified for much, I just barely graduated high school, and I never went off to college…” Your voice trailed off, while Charlie shook his head. 

“You know, this diner down the way is actually looking to hire, I’m a regular there since a couple of my other friends work there. Maybe you can apply there!” He says, a glimmer of hope in his eyes as you take a moment to consider his proposal. 

“A diner Charlie? Really? I’m not fit to be in the kitchen, and I’m not the most coordinated person in the world so being a server is definitely out.” You said, looking at him with disappointment. 

“Good thing for you the position they're looking to fill is for a hostess, and they’re in desperate need. Swing by tomorrow morning and I can guarantee you’ll be getting yourself a job.” He says, finding a pen and a scrap piece of paper on the edge of the bar to write down the location of this diner before sliding it over to you, finishing his drink, and leaving you to ponder. 

Chuckle Diner, you read in your mind. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to give it a chance in the morning. 

__________________________________________________________

prologue complete! let me know what y'all think!! i'm really excited about the potential this series has!

[malfiora]

Good Enough

Bruce probably wasn't meant to hear it, but his heart squeezes all the same. His fingers clutch at his chest and his throat works around the lump suddenly lodged in it.

"I'll have to ask my dad," Dick had said. The words belong to another child, one Bruce has never met. But that voice – its tone, its warmth, its certainty – is Dick. Undeniably, unmistakably Dick. He's talking to one of his teachers (Mr. Mather, he recalls only because he had to deal with Dick's insistence that his biology teacher be called Ms. Sciencer for weeks) and he grins when he spots Bruce stalled by the door. "Oh, speak of the devil."

Bruce stumbles his way through a conversation about Dick's exceptional grades and aptitude for abstract concepts and how he has real potential as a mathlete, but his brain is humming with wordless excitement at the word "dad" and eager to hear it tickle the air again. He floats on that feeling all the way home, even elongating their return to tell Alfred to pull over at that fast food joint Dick likes, the one with the milkshakes.

And then he crashes. Dick disappears into his room to allegedly do homework (Bruce is eighty-five percent sure he's actually hopping onto his computer to IM Barbara Gordon), and with him vanishes the warmth of being considered a father. Left in its wake is a coldness injecting nausea into his gut.

He can't be a – he doesn't know how to – when did Dick even – and why him? The past three years flash by in reverse: Dick dancing through a spray of bullets, tears streaming from Dick's mask as he watched Batman fall from a snapped line just like they did, Dick standing proudly before a mirror in his brand new costume, a gleam of murderous intent staring up at him, a broken boy swallowed up in an EMT's blanket while his world lay shattered at his feet. What has he done? How could he think that drawing this bright kid into his dark roost was a good idea? And now Dick thinks of him as a father figure – it's too late to go back, isn't it?

He isn't John Grayson, will never be, doesn't want to try. He hears the whispers among polite society speculating why he won't adopt Dick, but none of them come close to the truth. It's rooted in fear (inaction always is). Fear that he'll be seen as the fraud he is, and then Dick will leave and regret ever calling him "dad."

He's not even Thomas Wayne, not for lack of trying. His memories of the man are faded around the edges but he knows he devoted himself completely to any and all that he loved: his career, his wife, his son. Thomas Wayne didn't do anything by halves. But Bruce Wayne is constantly torn – one foot planted in civilian domesticity fumbling his way through raising a child, the other firm in Gotham's underbelly hellbent on redeeming the damned while keeping his kid partner safe from the danger that he throws him into in the first place.

"Sir," Alfred calls, his voice soft. "If you're done drilling a hole through the carpet with your eyes, I've put tea on."

Bruce blinks and looks up at Alfred. "Tea sounds great, Alfred."

He plods after Alfred and into the tearoom. Alfred deftly sets out cups, saucers, and bowls of cream and sugar before pouring the fresh brew. Bruce murmurs a "thanks" before sipping his. Alfred lowers himself into the seat opposite his at the small table.

"Master Dick seems to be doing well at the Academy," Alfred says. "I can't imagine that that caused your dour mood."

Those who call Batman the world's greatest detective just haven't met Alfred. "Dick called me 'dad' today," he explains calmly. "Not to my face. I overheard him say it to his teacher."

Alfred hums. "Could mean nothing."

That's...true. Dick may have used the term as shorthand. "Dad" is easier to say than "legal guardian" and more specific and personal than "Bruce." It could have been a Freudian slip, Dick's mind supplying him with a cognitive shortcut subconsciously. Bruce sets his tea down and stares into the liquid.

"Or," Alfred presses on (Bruce hates the way his heart lifts a little), "he is starting to see you – us – as his family." Alfred sips and watches him.

"That's what I'm afraid of," he admits after a while. "Alfred, I'm not – Dick deserves so much better than –"

When it's clear that Bruce won't finish the sentence, Alfred clears his throat gently. "If I may, I'd like to share a secret with you." Bruce nods. "There was a time that I considered leaving you."

Bruce's eyes widen. "What?"

Alfred nods. "I thought that after your parents, I was the last person who should raise a child, especially one who needed his world put back together. Surely the Kanes would have made better surrogates. Perhaps a foster if a suitable one could be found." He smirked. "I almost considered the Queens before that awful accident."

The blood is rushing in Bruce's ears. Alfred, his most loyal and longest friend, had wanted to leave him? "What changed?"

Alfred takes another sip, contemplates. "I don't think anything has. Everyday I wonder if I made the right choice. If I am being selfish staying in your life simply because I love you too much to let you go."

Again, Bruce's chest squeezes. Alfred, his Alfred, has the exact same fear. That somehow he'll fail his charge, will lose him. And all this time, Bruce has never considered going anywhere, can't imagine his life without Alfred in it. Maybe – is that how Dick feels? That Bruce is his? God, if that's true then...then Bruce as he is just has to be good enough. Because he's not going to let Dick go.

"My son," he says, testing the word. It tastes sweeter than the tea on his tongue.

[genericpuff]

Hey quick question.

How do you know if you should make a webcomic? I have this story idea that’s been floating around in the back of my head that I think could work well for a comic series. But the problem is I’m mainly used to writing screenplays and more traditional writing.

What I’m saying is, how can I tell if making a webcomic is worth it or if I should stick in my comfort zone?

I mean, there's no definitive right answer when it comes to "knowing" if you should make a webcomic. It really just comes down to you. Do you really like the medium? Do you feel your story has to be told within that medium to achieve its goals?

Same thing goes for whether or not it's "worth it", it really comes down to how you define that. For some people, simply posting their comics online to a few readers each week is worth it. For others, if it doesn't get into print or publishing or whatever have you, it might not be quite so justifiable to keep up with. Neither is better or worse than the other, both reasons are valid because it ultimately comes down to what we as individuals are trying to accomplish and what we define as "worth it" on a personal level.

I actually live on both sides of the spectrum right now because with Rekindled, posting it on Tumblr and getting all the great feedback and company through the audience it's gained makes it worth it. But that worth was defined by my expectations going in - I wasn't making Rekindled for money (legally I can't), I wasn't making it to get an Originals deal or anything of the sort, I was just making it because I found myself deadset on going through with it after months of it living in my head rent free, and so what I've gotten out of it as a result is very much worth it, all I was really looking for was maybe some other readers who would enjoy reading a transformative 'foe fiction' from a former LO fan and I've found those readers in spades simply due to the demand.

Time Gate, on the other hand, was something that I wanted for years to be a 'successful' project, defined more by actual tangible growth and gain. Because I came up with it as a kid, for a long time it was my "magnum opus" project, the thing that I wanted to see get turned into books and an anime and a video game and all those sorts of things as 'proof' of how good it was. Of course, I know now years later that those expectations were WAY too high and it resulted in me feeling incredibly depressed over it for ages. It made it hard to work on and even though I did have some readers, I didn't see it as "worth it" because my expectations were a lot higher than that of Rekindled's going in. But that was simply a matter of experience at that point, because I had been making original comics for so long, when I went into Rekindled I knew a lot more what I was capable of, what I wasn't capable of, and what boundaries I was willing to put down for myself. Even still, I do still want to return to Time Gate some day and when I do, I want to still treat it like a series I want to get off the ground as an actual published piece of work - it's just that this time around, I actually know how to make those steps and be proactive in my approach (and I know where to keep my expectations) which is certainly a perspective and skillset I didn't have when I was 15 LMAO

I will say, realistically speaking, it is a lot harder to pursue webcomics as a writer, because the reality of this medium is that most people who go into it are artists who learn how to write to make a webcomic, not the other way around. Unless you're willing to learn how to draw - which is a whole other skillset that requires years of work and patience - you're likely going to have to seek someone to collaborate with and - I cannot stress this enough - it's not going to be someone you simply find on reddit who's willing to work for free. Again, many of us as artists went into webcomics with a project already in mind, so most artists are already working on their own passion projects, trying to convince someone else to work on yours is just not realistic or fair. I'm fortunate enough to have @banshriek along for the production of Rekindled and even then I still pay for their contributions out of pocket, they're as invested in an LO rewrite project as I am (and thus they're given a lot of room to make suggestions in both the set designs and the writing), and I still had to carry the first 20ish episodes on my own before they joined along, i.e. I would still be making Rekindled if they weren't onboard, but having them is a massive help that's taken the comic to a whole other level in its artistic production.

But that doesn't mean it's hopeless! There's a lot of interest right now in webnovels and writing comic scripts is still a completely viable way to get into the comics industry if you're really interested in doing so (fun fact: before I was making comics, I wrote fanfiction! This is probably not shocking to hear all things considered LMAO) There's a reason Webtoons owns Wattpad now, webnovels are a no-brainer when it comes to adaptations to visual mediums, and webcomics have become part of that environment by extension. So at the very least, if you want to get your story out there, there are loads of ways to do it that don't require you to make a comic - but if you really want to make one, there are ways to get into that industry through writing in other ways such as pitching scripts to comic publishers and/or going indie with webnovels. Ultimately, if many of us webcomic creators stopped drawing our works, we'd still be coming up with stories to write, because that's what's really at the heart of these sorts of projects. So even if you can't get into comics right away due to lack of visual artistry, that doesn't mean it's off the table forever ( ´ ∀ `)ノ～ ♡

Sorry, that was a lot of rambling but I hope it helps ! Remember to keep your goals and expectations manageable, and most of all, write lots! You'll be doing it anyways regardless of whether or not you get into comics, so whatever value you see in getting into comics is up to you to determine! You don't have to know right away, it might be something you'll find along the way or have to adjust as you get more experience, but don't stop yourself from getting creative and messing around until you find out what works! You won't know if it was worth leaving your comfort zone until you try it <3

Good luck! (•̀ᴗ•́)و

[football-and-fanfics]

Hidden feeling - Mason Mount

Who: Mason Mount Prompt: "How long did you think you could hide that?" Notes with request: I’d love for it to be at the beach during sunset, on holiday with friends and mason asks y/n how long did she thought she could hide her feelings from him. Requested by: anonymous Warnings: none

This holiday was the most amazing one you'd ever been on. With a group of friends you had chartered a yacht for a week and sailed around the Caribbean. You were actually mostly a friend of Declan's, and that was how you found your way into this group, although you knew all the others as well from previous parties and gatherings. Through Declan you knew Mason, too. You had always fancied him somewhat, but this holiday, where you spent entire days close to him, made you realize that you were in fact head over heels for him. You couldn't keep your eyes off his smile, and the sound of his laugh was music to your ears. Whenever he accidentally brushed a hand against your skin, it sent butterflies to your stomach and made you feel like you could float off of the ground.

But you didn't say anything to him about it. You were just a normal girl, and he was a famous professional footballer. Why the hell would he be into you? So, out of fear of getting turned down or laughed at, you kept your feelings to yourself. ---- Today, after a wonderful dinner at a quiet beach, Mason approached you. As you sat at the waterline by yourself, watching the beautiful sunset, he sat himself down next to you. "How long did you think you could hide that?" He spoke out of the blue. "Wh-- what?" You were taken aback by his question. Your mind immediately wandered to the one big secret you had at the moment, and that was your crush on Mason. "I've seen the way you look at me," Mason smirked. The confidence dripping from every pore was actually enviable. "I..." You hesitated. If ever there was a perfect moment to come clean about this, it was now. And, frankly, Mason did not seem to shy away from the idea of you being in love with him. "I might have a bit of a crush on you." You finally blurted out. "It's stupid..." "No, it's not," Mason interrupted you, "because... so do I." You blinked slightly stupidly at him. "You have a crush on you, too?" Mason laughed out loud. "No, silly! I love you!" Now it was Mason's turn to fall silent. He hadn't exactly meant to express his feelings so explicitly, but he had to admit that it felt good anyway. "I've seen you at Dec's before," he started, "and you've always caught my attention. This holiday, this week together, it made me realise my true feelings for you." You blushed fiery red. "For me, too." "That settles it, then," he smirked. The confidence was immediately visible again in Mason's entire posture. "So... you want to give it a try?" You asked shyly. Mason smiled, already leaning into you. "Absolutely." And under the beautiful Caribbean sunset, he kissed you. A first kiss of many more to come.

Tags: @evie-pr, @auawdo, @meteora-fc, @de-geas, @stonesyyyy, @drizzyreese, @hbstre, @liverpoolfanfiction, @sternennebel2001, @scuderiavettcl Mason tags: @livstilinski, @juliabrghs, @footballffbarbiex, @youkantebeserious, @laurasstufff1 PL tags: @ella33 Add me to the tags list, too! For more of my Mason imagines, click here General masterlist

[citrus-moonlight]

Claire, all of those WIP titles are sooo good and intriguing and I can't wait for all of them, but I have to know more about "Lotus." It's so sexy in its simplicity and meaning, and I am 🔎🔬🧐👀 eyeballing it so hard. 💕

Tara thank you, you're so sweet! 🥰 This was the perfect one for you to pick because it's my yoga instructor!Alfred Pennyworth x Reader AU idea that was inspired by your PT Kino AU! It came about while I was in a yoga class and thinking about which Andy blorbo would work in that scenario, and Alfred came to mind immediately.

The idea is that Alfred started exploring it to help with his injury (and to placate Bruce who kept suggesting it) and he ended up enjoying and appreciating it so much that he started teaching so he could help others. 

Since your ask I actually managed to get about 2k written (hence why this took a couple of days to answer), and I think I've been able to capture the vibe that's been floating around my mind for so long! (and oh dear, I feel like this one is going to get away from me 😂). So here's a little bit I have so far:

WIP Ask Game

Divider by the lovely @saradika-graphics

The studio provides small wooden discs similar to a drink coaster to indicate if you're ok with physical adjustments, or would prefer not to be touched. The “not” side is the dark outline of a lotus flower laser etched into the wood, the “yes” side is the same flower but coloured in a pretty shade of peachy-pink. 

For weeks you've left it with the outlined side up, but as classes go by you begin to look at it with a little more consideration each time as you stretch out your hips before class starts.

You'd never been concerned with being touched by an instructor in the past, whether male or female, and at first it was simply because you wanted to allow yourself to find your bearings again on your own, but now..

Maybe today, you think, class after class, but then you'd glance up at Alfred with his kind blue eyes and broad shoulders and strong looking thighs and-

You lose your nerve every time.

There's something about him that feels different, that feels like allowing him to touch you would be...intimate maybe wasn’t the right word, but you can't shake the thought, as irrational as it is, that he would be able to sense what you were feeling if he did. 

Because your feelings had been growing.

Warm thoughts finding you late at night when you can't sleep as a seemingly infinite parade of sirens pass your window. Wondering if his hands are as warm and solid as they look as your own fingers dip lower, quickly chasing thoughts of what his would feel like wrapped around your wrists.

Eventually the temptation reaches a tipping point on the first properly warm day of spring. 

Everyone’s step seems a bit lighter after the long and dreary winter, sunlight lingering in the evenings as pockets of green finally begin to fill out the rough and somber edges of the city.

Alfred is dressed in his usual uniform of dark sweatpants and a half-zip sweater, but as you’re stretching and waiting to begin he suddenly pulls the sweater over his head to reveal a deep navy fitted tshirt underneath. 

The sleeves are pulled snug around his biceps, and the outline of his strong chest and shoulders that are always tantalizingly present beneath the heavier fabric are now much more prominent.

You can’t pull your eyes away, taking in the muscles of his forearms and the brush of hair that covers them, and when he turns to greet another student who'd just walked in you admire the arch of his lower back and the soft but firm swell of his stomach, unable to help wondering if there’s hair there as well, and does it trail lower to perhaps meet the hair beneath his waistband..?

You’re lost in your reverie when Alfred turns back around to queue everyone to begin, and when he meets your eyes your mouth that you didn’t realize was hanging open snaps shut.

You think you catch a ghost of a smile before his focus returns to the class.

As everyone settles into place you pause, then before you can change your mind you quickly flip your disc to the coloured side and lie back, taking a deep breath that does little to slow your beating heart or calm the swell of heat between your legs.

[danpuff-ao3]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💙

Oooh, thanks for passing this to me, Lizzy! 😄 Let's see....100 fics, how to choose 5? 🤔 Well all know #1 already, don't we? 😂 So I'll take a leaf out of Lizzy's book and do a countdown to 1!

5.) A Matter of Time

Harry/Severus. Rated: E. Words: 3,686. Written for Snarry Adopt-a-Prompt 2022. Features reverse chronology and alternating POVs! Also: ambiguous/open ending (my love!) It feels like the Snarry of my youth, that angsty and spicy student/teacher, and some good old fashioned tragedy! I really feel like I pulled the thing off with this one! (What is said "thing"? Who knows.) Also, not to pat myself on the back but...that final line? Ouch.

4.) Cruel Summer

Harry/Sirius. Rated: E. Words: 5,445. Minor Harry/Severus. Written for HP Chan Fest 2022-2023. Features gorgeous art by @mrviran. It's a fic I've had floating around my noggin' for a few years but finally felt the call to write for Chan Fest! Our two beloved, troubled boys (Harry and Sirius) live together post PoA, and sees them through plenty of dysfunction, manipulation, and other problematic content 🤭 They have a very complicated (and angsty!) connection and I am so so pleased with how it came out! It's very bit as spicy, sad, and twisted as I'd hoped!

3.) The Curse of Anteros

Harry/Severus. Rated: E. Words: 52,566. Written for Snarry Bang 2023. Inspired by an episode of Charmed called "Magic Hour" (which itself was inspired by a movie called Ladyhawke). This is another idea I've long wanted to write, but never knew how to write it until now. Curses, fairytales, magical animals, true love!! Begins with student/teacher and carries on through time to old men Snarry!!!! This fic really grew way out of control and I'm so glad it did. It feels like...a "proper" story, if that makes sense? Actual plot! Novel length! Who am I even???? Anyway I'm stupidly proud of this one. Also: ART BY MRVILLAIN AGAIN, MY BELOVED TEAMMATE, I'M OBSESSED. Like...idk I'm blown away. Which sounds bad cuz this is my story, but I don't care. This is genuinely a story that not only was I so pumped to create, but one that I'd have LOVED to read as a reader! Had someone else written this I'd have lost my mind reading it. I hate saying that, it sounds so arrogant, but I don't care, I'm losing my mind over this one. I wrote it in like 2 weeks!!!! This fic POURED out of me! And I love it!

2.) Collateral Damage

Draco/Ron. Rated: E. Words: 16,071. Written for Ron-Draco Fest 2021. The first draft of this got to like 10k before I had to scrap it and start totally over. Somehow the original opening kept winding down the wrong path. So finally after fighting with it for way too long (and only 2 weeks to go until it was due), I gave it up and tried again. Decided: "hey, let's open with porn and see what happens." Well...That worked. That did it. All I needed was to open with a BJ for magic to happen, who knew? I ended up with a story I was super jazzed about, and to my great surprise (and pleasure!) others loved it, too!!

1.) Contempt | Devotion

Harry/Severus. Rated: E. Words: 20,400 | 25,843. Written for Snarry-a-Thon 2022 and 2023. This one's cheating a bit since it's technically 2 fics, but it's also the same story in different POVs so...it kinda counts, right? Also I know people have told me they liked Devotion more but I can't help but admit that Contempt itself still holds the top spot in my heart! And while I think say The Curse of Anteros is a better overall story, I don't think any fic ever will top Contempt. I mean, never say never, but Contempt is the story of dreams. It's my heart and soul. It's the Snarry I've always wanted to write. The story, the dynamic, the characterizations, everything. It's everything I've wanted in a Snarry since I first began reading Snarry 20 years ago. Like...I have no words to express just how meaningful this work is to me. This is literally the culmination of all of my Snarry feels. I dragged this story out of my gut. I pulled it out of my skin and wrote it in my blood. That's how connected I am to this work. (Wow that sounds really dramatic but also...true.)

Genuinely I was so cared people would hate it, but I wrote it anyway because I needed it and I loved it. I'm very glad to say that plenty of others love it with me! And this is another one @mrviran offered love to in the form of a podfic! (Plus cover art!) I'm fully obsessed with the podfic (AND ART!) and I get all teary eyed when I think about it, that my dear friend worked so hard to bring more life to my baby. 🥹

Kinda funny how my favorite works (and what i consider some of my best works) were all for fests. Fests really do inspire me, even if they make me want to pull my hair out. 😂

Also is it cheating to give honorary mentions to Lover Boy at Play, In My Veins (In My Blood), Orange Blossoms, Teardrop in Your Palm, and Black Skies? 👀

[jasminelee324]

GEGE WHEN I CATCH YOU!!!!!!

jjk rant

biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-

ALERT POSSSIBLE JJK SPOILERS/SPECULATIONS AHEAD!!!!!!!!!

i am nooooot okay. Gege is an actual villain. I have been listening to nothing but deathbed by powfu, some song by Laufey with froyo edits on tiktok (song is Promise, aka "it hurts to be something, it's worse to be nothing with youuuuu), and Mr. Loverman ON REPEAT for THE WHOLLLLLLLLLE MORNING. i HAVENT EVEN HAD MY HEARTBROKEN (recently). FELL ASLEEP AT LIKe 4 am to fluff after the chp spoilers found on tumblr and even awoke to try to write some comforting fluff myself. like fr I don't even fw Gojo that heavy -nananim stans- but this stuff that mangakas are pulling is getting out of freaking hand. the day Yuuji dies I don't want anyone to talk to me bc if I'm not okay right now I have no idea what state I will be in. i have literally been snuggling with my teddies for 1/2 the morning trying not to cry. like seriously eyes were almost getting blurry as I type this and Loverman plays in the background. this is NOT okay. they are fictitious characters so why the actual fudge am I so sad.

and to make matters worse I saw a glimpse of a rumor on tumblr that satorou is dead but there going to put yuuta, who is also apparently dead, in his body to use him as a weapon to fight sukuna who has POSSESSED MEGUMI!!!!!!! And then someone had THE SHEER AUDACITY to create a post with Gojo, Yuuji, and Yuuta smiling on top, and Poor little Megumi curled up in a ball in some domain all by himself. And it read top: "and tell your 'babies' bottom: that I'm your 'baby' too" and after that I had to go to bed bc this is not alright. idk what type of pain Gege is getting off to but this has got to be sick twisted and ILLLEEEEEEEEEGAL. AND MIND YOU I'M NOT EVEN WATCHING THE ANIMEEEEEEEEEEE! Virtually everything Ik ik ik against my will thx to edits and genreal content floating around online and yes ik "the algorithm yada yada" but RIGHT NOW I DO NOT CARE bc this level of international cruelty should not exist. yes ik there are really issues going on and I cry myself to sleep about those other days of the week but rn the wave of grief I'm feeling over all of this screams to be attended to.

literally got a call today and will have to call them back bc if I picked up the phone my voice was gonna sound sore as if I were crying and how THE HEY HEY HEY am I supposed to explain to him that I've been in bed rotting for hours and watching edits of heartbroken lovers that met tragic ends, on the brink of bawling my eyes out over people THAT AREN'T REALLLLL!!! Yeah, I'm in no mood for a psychiatric visit, so yeah no<3

Gege when I Catch you. No bc AOT was one thing. That beach was sad af. but this is a whole other story. in the aot verse there were so. many. characters. There were nations at war, factions, squadrons. they were AT WAR. there were hundreds, thousands, millions, but this is just sick and twisted bc I feel like the jjk storyline is slightly less character dense and so you truly have an opportunity to find a sense of intimacy in the relationships that you have the opportunity of viewing and getting to know and EVERY TIME GEGE BEARS THE DEPTHS OF A CHARACTER'S HEART, WILL, AND SOUL TO THE AUDIENDICE THEY WIND UP DEAD !!!!!! this is no longer ok. call help. SOMEBODY PLS GET HELP. Gege has to be held accountable bc this is getting out of handddddd😭😭😭😭(yes I am aware that I am griping and moaning and that realistically speaking artist reserve every single right to do whatever the heck they want with their art and don't owe anyone ship. A girl is simply in her feelings and will continue to do so until further notice.)

[narftasticficrequests]

A Little Introduction For You/DA RULES!!

Have you ever had an Animaniacs/Pinky and The Brain fic you've always wanted to read? Do you have that one nagging idea that just sticks in your mind and invades your every waking thought? Hi guys!!!! I'm Pinky and you probably know me from my blog @theonethatyaks93. You've probably seen my random Pinky and The Brain and Animaniacs posts floating around here for some time (January of 2023 was when I joined but I've been in the Animaniacs fandom since 2020). But I also write fanfiction for funsies and since the Animaniacs/Pinky and The Brain fandom has slowly been waning, I decided to make a sideblog to accept requests for fanfics!!! This is so the fandom can stay alive and other people can find it too!! I'm a tad bit late to the party, but I hope that you guys enjoy what I have in store! Now below: I've listed some of the rules, restrictions, and information about how-to submit a request here!!

To make a request, all you have to do is drop it into the ask box here on this blog! I do not want fic requests on my main blog!! Thank you!! :) <3

I tried not to set too many rules but here are the main ones(Most of this is taken from my announcement post on my main blog):

There will be absolutely NO 18+ content allowed. There are a ton of fics out there with mature labels that you can find; you don't have to look hard. I do not feel comfortable writing that stuff yet. Don't ask for smut of any kind because you will not get it, I guarantee that. The farthest I want to go is deep kissing (i.e. tongue) but I'm only willing to do that for Pinky and Brain exclusively, since it doesn't seem to bother the fandom that much. I WILL NOT do that stuff for Yakko and Max because it doesn't sit well with me since they are so young. If deeper, more aggressive kissing is involved in Brinky fics, the tag: mildly spicy mice, will be used to indicate this. It won't be in every fic, I promise. :)

NO WARNERCEST REQESTS!!! That will get you promptly banned off of both my blogs for the foreseeable future. I HATE THIS SHIP SO MUCH AND IT'S DISGUSTING!!!! This also ties into the no 18+ content label mentioned earlier. Do not ask for this.

Fic requests may take up to a week or more to complete. It will depend on the ask itself and the story ideas I compile together. I'm very busy with other life things and stresses that it will be difficult to find the time to work on these. I will optimize weekends for fic writing to my best ability, but I will let you guys know if I'm taking a break. When I'm taking a short break, the ask box will be closed temporarily, but it will be re-opened.

Other ships such as Billie x Julia, Wakko x Louie Duck, and Dark Pinky x Future Brain will be accepted if you request them. If these take longer to make, it's going to be because I haven't written for these ideas before and I will need time to make sure everything is done decently. I'm also accepting AU ideas such as gender-swaps (I have a really good idea if y'all want to see a gender-swapped Pinky and Brain) . However, parody ideas will be extremely risky to request since if I haven't seen the material, I can't make the parody and if I have seen it, I might make a whole fic based on it rather than just a simple one-shot. I am also not accepting Wakko's Wish requests until further notice; I have a few pending and I will get to those eventually, thanks for being patient.

If your request takes longer to complete and it's not a parody or a ship I haven't worked with before, it's likely because I am working on a fic for AO3, most likely my one-shots, or a tedious multi-chapter. Don't think I've abandoned your request; I will get to you ASAP after I'm done with whatever project I'm on.

Certain things that are banned from the askbox: mean comments, smut requests, Warnercest, non-Animaniacs/PaTB requests, harassment of other individuals. Certain ships, such as Warnercest and Brain x Julia will not be allowed either due to personal or emotionally scarring reasons.

Last thing: Enjoy it!!! Make requests that are angsty, silly, fluffy, sad, or happy! Think about what you've always wanted to see in a fanfic, or an idea that you would enjoy seeing my take on. Just make sure to follow my rules and boundaries so we can all enjoy this as a fandom.

I'm really excited to see what I can do!!! And I'm also really excited to see all the fun ideas you guys can come up with!!! I'm hoping I can make this fandom proud and maybe inspire others to dive into the realm of writing!! Gather your requests and let's all have some fun!! Narf!!!

-Pinky (theonethatyaks93)

[owlsandwich]

Alphabet Superset - Week 2

B - Betrayal

Again, I am having to post this via my phone as Tumblr's browser version won't let me make posts. No idea why! The "Post" button is just always greyed out.

Anyway, It's week two, and this short story is set a good few hundreds of years before The Mechanics of Magic starts, with characters never seen or heard of in the narrative so far. It's one I've had in my mind for a while, and this event will have some small knock-on effects in book 2 and also if I ever write my epistolary of Ewen's life.

I really love the scene, and I hope you do too!

@teacupsandstarlight :)

***

The coach juddered as it sped along the dark road. Aelricus pressed his fingers into his temples. Every hoofbeat seemed to throb through his head, and he dimmed the magelight floating above him until its light barely showed his thin, pale hands. Even this simple magic proved a strain. It had been a day and a night since he’d last slept. Deep bags hung under his eyes, and his brown hair tumbled loose around his ears.

Those who had been struck by the new illness fell suddenly, and he’d been called from Ademeer’s Palace to various country manors and back again with barely a pause to eat. If he hadn’t used enough magic healing, the rest had been spent fighting his own exhaustion. Only a champion could have done it, and even he was reaching his limit.

“It makes no sense.” Turbert’s words floated through Aelricus’ mind. “Yes, there are diseases that display these symptoms, yet there have been no signs in the general population. Those taken were not in close proximity. In fact, the cases could not be a further distance for us to travel.”

The voice was more an impression of idea than a sound, though the tone held the same staccato as his mentor had demonstrated in life. Emotion flowed from Turbert’s presence; an anxiety that sparked through Aelricus’ own heart.

“There is no proof of malicious intent.”

Aelricus sent the thought back, but he knew Turbert would sense that he didn’t believe it himself. Generations of experience had taught him what to look for, and had it been just one... But what motive was there for these specific victims? What foolish poisoner could think he wouldn’t see the signs? Not after Emeline.

“It won’t be a matter that concerns us much longer.” Aelricus thought bitterly.

Another bump rattled the window shutter despite the passive spells he sensed woven into the wood for strength and soundproofing. He gripped the cushioned bench he sat on as a wave of nausea overtook him.

Not much longer. Then he could rest.

From his cousin’s home, it would be a small matter to acquire a fresh horse. By dawn, he would be among allies. As for the King... By the time King Silvester and the others knew he had gone, it would be too late.

His eyelids drooped. The floating magelight flickered as the onset of sleep stole his concentration, and his dulled senses only picked up the foreign burst of magic a second before it struck.

A bolt of energy slammed into the side of the carriage. Strong enough to blast through any defence, it exploded through the wood. A splinter sliced across his cheek before he could think to generate a shield. Then he was tipping, falling, weightless as the coach swayed to the side. The door hit the dirt, and Aelricus crashed against it. His head cracked against the panel, and he was plunged into darkness.

Panic dripped through the fog of unconsciousness.

“Aelricus! Aelric! You must get up!”

Aelricus groaned. He blinked, but no vision of the carriage swam into view. His limbs screamed in pain as he forced himself up, and he rubbed at his eyes before realising his magelight had died with his loss of focus. He was shaking. Cold. Damp? He plucked at a billowing sleeve that now clung, wet and heavy, to his skin, and sucked in a breath. Not blood. A stagnant smell permeated the confined space. River water. Seeping in through the buckled door beneath him.

As he noticed it, the coach lurched, and he lost his footing once more. Broken wood tore across the palm of his hand as he braced himself. He cried out and instinctively reached for his magic to heal it. The effort made his head spin, but Turbert’s presence flowed in close beside him.

“Leave it,” Turbert ordered. “The water- We need to get out.”

“I can’t!” Aelricus exclaimed out loud. The door was jammed. He barely had the strength to move.

“The other door. Climb! Hurry!”

Aelricus crawled across the carriage. With no light, he had to grope for the handle. Finally, his fingers touched smooth brass. He forced the door up, feet slipping in the slick damp, until finally it swung open. It was only with Turbert’s encouragement that he managed to drag himself free.

They had crashed where the forest met the river. Long grass tangled his clothes as Aelricus pulled himself towards the path. Night insects chirped through the gloom, like screams of warning, deafening in the calm night. He was filthy with sludge. From here, he could see a sharp bend in the road ahead. The sight made him shudder. Had they gone over there, he doubted he’d have had time to escape.

The mud was soft and inviting. Aelricus felt his arms give way, and then he was lying down, gazing towards the upturned, sinking carriage. Broken wheels, like the bones of some long dead creature, jutted out against the gap of sky. The horses were gone. Their harness lay loose on the ground where it had fallen. It seemed a minor curiosity at first; his addled mind unable to comprehend the sight. Then he saw his driver, crumbled and unmoving, against a tree.

No living body could have bent into that shape. Acid burned his throat, and he rolled over to vomit onto the wet grass.

As he did, light illuminated the surrounding space, followed by a familiar voice, deep and smooth.

“I’d have thought you to have a stronger stomach, Aelric.”

“Randall?” Aelricus croaked. It turned into a fit of coughing as he spoke. He gasped for breath, blinking through the bright glow of the magelight to find its source. “I can’t... Help. Please.”

Randall emerged from the trees. A tall man, though surprisingly slight for his voice. He moved silently over the leaf littered road until he was standing close enough that Aelricus had to crane to look at him. His green doublet seemed bleached white by the night, and the ruff of lace at his throat danced in the faint breeze.

This close, Aelricus could feel the weight of magic radiating from him. As strong as his own at full strength, his fellow Champion appeared unconcerned by the circumstances around him.

“So you do live.” Randall spoke as though talking to himself. “Good.”

“We were attacked, Randall. It is only by luck that the carriage didn’t plunge fully into the river. My driver-“

“Yes, my timing could use improvement.” Randall tilted his head, and his eyes seemed like deep pools of darkness as they met Aelricus’ own.

Dread settled into his empty stomach. In his mind, he felt Turbert’s own exclamation.

“No!”

“Where were you going, Aelric?” Randall said.

“I...” Aelricus’ thoughts moved slowly. The story... He couldn’t remember.

“Your cousin!” Turbert spoke urgently in his mind. “She’s expecting us.”

“Do not keep me waiting,” Randall prompted sharply.

“My cousin...” Aelricus replied. “I left a note with Jacob to expect me back in a few days.”

“At least do me the courtesy of honesty,” Randall replied. “Do you truly think I don’t know?”

Another coughing fit stole Aelricus’ voice, but Randall made no offer of assistance. Of course he knew. Of the four Royal Champions, it was Randall who presided over intelligence. A spy. One who tracked his own people. As the coughing subsided, so did his fear. He was too weak. There was nowhere to run.

“I go to seek justice,” Aelricus spat.

Randall narrowed his eyes. “You’re a traitor, Aelric. Of all people, you are his Friend!” He said the word as the title it was.

“And he was supposed to be mine!”

The burst of anger left him dizzy, and Aelricus tried to slow his rapid breaths. “How could he? Emeline-“

“Should have been of no concern to a Champion.”

“She was innocent!”

“As innocent as her conspiring family?” Randall replied. “Your naivety makes you an easy target, my friend, but your affection would have doomed her either way.”

Aelricus paled. The cut on his hand carved a line of burning pain across his palm, but the guilt stung harder. “I would have done nothing,” he whispered. “It was harmless. Sylvester had no need to order her death. He is no king, but a tyrant, and I will have no part in it!”

Randall gave a thin smile. “Perhaps it will comfort you to know the King did not know.”

Aelricus’ mouth fell open.

“We all do our duty,” Randall continued. “Such things are messy and unpleasant. It is my line who spare his heart.”

“You!” Aelricus growled. He tried to force himself to his feet, but his legs slipped out from beneath him. Tears stung at his eyes until his vision blurred. Tubert was speaking to him, but his presence was far away, pushed back by the turbulent emotions that overwhelmed him.

“You are messy, Aelric,” Randall spoke from somewhere above. “A Champion turned traitor. Betraying your own King.”

“I never wanted this...” Aelricus croaked.

“Can you not see that losing you that way would have broken his heart?” Randall crouched down, and Aelricus could hear the steady flow of his breathing. “It is lucky that he never needs to find out.”

Aelricus’ head shot up. “You would let me return?”

“Oh no, you misunderstand. It’s far too late for that.”

Magic flared from Randall as he called his power to the surface.

“You can’t!” Aelricus scrambled back, as though distance would protect him. “I will inform the next in line when they awaken. You cannot hide this.”

Randall paused in his movement. “Ah yes, the potential. We all know it’s most likely to be Jacob. It will grieve you to learn that he has been taken ill. Without you in the palace to tend to him, it is likely he will not survive the night.”

A chill wind sucked any remaining heat from Aelricus’ body. He spoke through the shiver that wracked his frame. “Please, Randall! Were we not children together? If I have destroyed any love you once had for me, then for Silvester’s sake, do not harm Jacob. I swear I will say no word of tonight. I told him nothing of my plans.”

“Be grateful you did not, or you would have further blood on your hands.”

Any emotion faded from Randall’s face. His magic flared once more, choking the cry from Aelricus’ throat as it gripped him.

The last thing he heard was Turbert calling his name.