#like i said this is partially in jest

[ike-mcswains-mortician]

ok guys i have a half joking, half serious question.

so i’m taking a class called rhetoric in popular culture this semester, and for my final i’m gonna be analyzing glenn’s trial and arguing that he is, in the rhetorical sense, a tragic hero. i will probably be expanding my analysis beyond JUST the trial, so…

should i bring up the sexy podcast character poll?

…cause some of the propaganda y’all wrote would make EXCELLENT evidence to support my argument (with proper credit of course).

but at the same time it might give my professor a heart attack having to read “glennfucker” that many times /lh

[ancient-day]

Heartbreaking! Goro Akechi doesn’t love or hate sweets, but a secret third thing (pleasantly neutral)

[glittergoats]

We're Two of a Kind!

[riddlesb1tch]

Being Mated to Cassian

Cassian x reader

summary: a bunch of scenarios of what its like to be mated to Cassian

warnings: none!

~●○°●○°●○~

I feel like Cassian’s the kind of guy you’d have a best-friend's relationship with. Let me explain. Starting in the morning:

You glanced at the clock then at your mate still snoring soundly in bed and sighed. You and Cassian were supposed to be at the Townhouse in thirty minutes yet this male was still asleep. Rolling your eyes, you marched up to the bed. Cassian looked so peaceful laying on his side, face partially buried in the pillow, and hair swept over his face. What you were feeling at the moment looking at him might even be mistaken for adoration. You picked up a pillow and slammed it on Cassian’s face.   “Ow!” Cassian screamed, sitting upright in bed. “What was that for?” he asked.  “Get up! It's 12. We need to be at the Townhouse by 12:30!” you said and walked towards the closet to get ready.  Cassian groaned loudly, plopping back into bed. “5 more minutes,” he mumbled. Just as he was about to slip back into that peaceful slumber, you grabbed his shoulder to turn him onto his back and captured his lips into a kiss. Now he’s definitely awake.  You pulled away for a second and said, “Good morning,” then kissed him again.  “What are you doing? I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet,” he said.  You smiled. “I don’t care,” and kissed him one last time before pulling him up and out of bed. 

When Cassian gets injured and you’re tending to his wounds: 

He’s sitting in a chair while you’re perched on his lap, inspecting the gash on his wing near his shoulder that he got during training with Azriel. Your concerned frown already tells him that you’re upset he wasn’t more careful.  “Y/n, I’m fine,” he says but he’s quieted by one look from you. You pick up the antiseptic-soaked cotton and gently dab it onto the wound. Cassian hisses from the burning, eliciting a mumbled apology from you. You hold his face gently with one hand, thumb stroking back and forth on his cheek in a comforting gesture. He looks up at you with utter adoration, completely enamoured by your gentle and loving yet strict nature.  Finally, when you’re done, you look into Cassian’s eyes and find some of the anger dissipating.  You smile, gently holding his face between and kissing his forehead. Cassian leans into you, closing his eyes in comfort. You loop your arms around his neck and hug him. Your cheek rests on his forehead, and you sway side to side slowly.  “You gotta be more careful, Cassie,” you mutter and kiss his head again.  He looks up at you, kissing your lips in reassurance. “I’m okay, really. It's not that big of a deal.”  “I know,” you mumble. “But I don’t wanna wait for the day it is a big deal.”  Cassian’s heart stutters for a second. Finally, he smiles and says, “I’ll be more careful next time. Promise.” 

Going shopping with Cassian 

“How's this?” he walks out of the fitting room wearing a tunic.  “No,” you shake your head immediately.  “Why? What's wrong with it?” he asked, looking down at himself to see if he was not wearing it right.  “It looks like an oven is wearing a tunic, Cassie,” you reply.  “Damn, baby,” he says and walks back into the fitting room to try something else on. 

But god forbid anyone says anything to Cassian while you’re there

The IC was sitting in the living of the House of Wind, laughing and chatting about different things all that once. Cassian said something in response to what Amren said in a conversation between her and Nesta.  Immediately, Amren and Mor started jesting Cassian, calling him an unintelligent brute.  You knew it was all fun and games and neither of them really meant it, but you saw the light leave Cassian’s eyes.  You glared daggers in their direction, demanding them they take it back right now or the consequences would not be pretty regardless of how powerful either of them was. When it comes to your mate, no amount of power will stop you from hurting whoever dares to hurt your mate.  They immediately stopped laughing at the look you gave them.  “We didn’t mean it, Cassian, I hope you know that. We’re sorry,” Mor immediately said and looked to you for approval.  You gave a slight nod in response but didn’t smile to let her know apologising did not make this behaviour okay.  Rhysand watched the entire interaction with cunning eyes, internally laughing at how adorable your protective instincts were.  “You found yourself a good one, brother,” he mind spoke to Cassian. 

We all know that Cassian is everyone’s rock in difficult situations. He’s the positive one who manages to make a joke out of every situation, makes a problem not seem like a problem and keeps everyone sane during difficult times. Sometimes, though, all of that gets to him and leads to very bad mental health days where he needs someone to be his rock and take care of him. 

Cassian lays in bed on his side, turned away from the door where you stood. You knew he hadn’t gotten out of bed since morning. That was already concerning given this male never skips a day of training but you just thought he was tired from last night the IC had spent at Rita’s where the two of you had danced and drank a lot.  Now, you weren’t so sure.  You approached the bed slowly, deliberately making your footsteps loud so he wouldn’t be startled. You stroked the bond lovingly, but he kept his side firmly closed.  You laid a gentle hand on his arm, thumb drawing soothing circles into his skin.  “Cassie,” you called softly. “What’s wrong, baby?”  Cassian didn’t reply but he opened his side of the bond, letting you feel what he felt at the moment. Immediately, negative thoughts and an overwhelming sadness engulfed your heart. Your breath stuttered for a second from the pain of what your mate was going through.  You moved to the other side of the bed and laid down so you were now facing Cassian. His dim eyes flicked to yours and you stroked his cheek lovingly.  “I’m here, love,” you said softly.  That was all Cassian needed to hear. He moved closer to you and you laid on your back, giving him room to rest his head on your chest. Your arms wound protectively around him, one hand scratching his scalp lightly. He sighed against you, melting into your embrace, and fell asleep feeling safe and loved and protected. 

tags: @berryzxx @thelov3lybookworm @sarawritestories @milswrites

[sparrowofthedawnsworld]

Sweet Talker - Sam Kiszka

A/N: Remember when I said it would be a crime not to write a voice kink Sam fic? Yeah. There’s not much of a plot here really, just filth. Only lightly edited! I love you all so, so much!

WARNINGS: 18+!! Fingering, teasing, lots of dirty talk, voice!kink, hair pulling, choking, unprotected sex (be smart, be safe!!)

MASTERLIST

••••

Sam’s voice.

No matter how many times you hear it, it tears its way through your ears and shakes its way through your body in the most knee-buckling ways imaginable.

The slightly raspy, yet soft and almost nonchalant drawl of his words, never fails to send sweet, debilitating chills up your spine. And god, did he fucking know it, too. He notices everything, but particularly loves to clock the little things that turn you on.

When it’s just the two of you, his voice is much softer and quieter than it is when he’s with his brothers, or socializing with others.

While you adore his boisterous laugh and louder tone when he’s excited, that quietness that he seems to save specifically for you, is your favorite. Your weakness.

“What did you do while I was gone today, gorgeous?” Sam asks you quietly, while his hand strokes up and down your bare back softly.

You snuggle further into his bare chest, fingers gliding over his collarbone as you lay on top of him in your shared bed. The two of you lay this way often, partially -or sometimes fully- bare and just talking - Informing the other about the days events. Some days offering much more dramatic of tales than others do.

“Mmm…” You trail off into thought, thinking very little about what you’ve even done throughout the day, but more so the tingle Sam’s voice has just sent through your body and straight to your core. “I didn’t do all that much today, really…”

“That’s a cop out,” his lazy, raspy voice shoots the teasing observation at you, as he glances down at you with that goofy grin of his.

You’re quick to defend yourself. “It is not! I would just ra-“

“-Rather listen to me talk?” You can hear the smile in his voice, the second he cuts you off to finish your sentence for you. “Uh huh, I bet you would.”

A crimson blush paints over your cheeks. You’re incredibly thankful that you can bury your face away into his neck.

“You do this almost every night, doll,” Sam points out, tone smug and knowing. “One of these days, you’re gonna get sick of hearing me talk so much. Now c’mon, tell me about your day and I will tell you all about mine after.”

A faint huff slips through your nose. Of course you want to talk to him about your day…after you take care of the ache making home between your legs that he has caused.

“I spent some time editing some photos… those boudoir ones that I took a couple days ago,” you explain casually, going into as little detail as possible.

“Yeah?” Sam’s hand continues drawing lines up and down your spine - effectively fueling the fire inside of you. The lilt in his tone playfully urges you to continue. “I bet they look beautiful… You should get some done soon…”

You tilt your head to look at him, “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I would love it,” he corrects with a light tap against your nose with his free hand. “The same way you would love a recording of me talking on a five hour loop.”

“That would depend on what you’re saying,” you shoot back, smiling. It doesn’t really matter what Sam was saying, his voice affects you, always. For the sake of guiding your little cuddle session in a different direction, though…

“Oh, really? So a professional recording of me talking about the weather, wouldn’t do anything for you?” Sam jests, bringing his opposite hand up to poke at your side.

“Sam,” you sigh, frustrated by his obvious stalling. He loves to make you wait and suffer and pine, just a little.

“What?” You feel him shrug against you, dropping his voice lower. “Would me telling you exactly how to touch yourself be better? Or me reciting all the praises I know you love so much?”

A shaky breath bursts out of you at that, a clear sign for Sam to continue. He isn’t exactly digging for any verbal answers just yet.

“Ohh, that struck a chord, didn’t it?”

And here he goes, right back to teasing you again.

Wrapping both arms around your body, he carefully flips the two of you over, so that you are laying beneath him.

“That’s exactly what you want, isn’t it? For me to call you pretty and coo in your ear while you cum all over my hand?” He starts to place kisses along your jawline, working his way to the sensitive skin just below your ear. Slipping his hand in between your bodies, he just barely grazes his fingers over your heat, “Just… like… this…?”

Another whimper floats out of you just as Sam moves back up to join his lips with yours.

It’s a slow and sweet kiss at first, tricking you into believing Sam is going to give you exactly what you want, right away. His tongue pushes against yours gently, deepening the kiss and stealing all the air from your lungs until they’re burning and warming you to pull away. But you can’t bring yourself to pull away first.

Sam senses this and every few kisses, he slowly starts to pull away, making you chase after his mouth, wearing a smirk that grows with each of your impatient whimpers as he keeps his lips just out of your reach every time.

“What is it?” He questions knowingly, bringing his hand up to your jaw to keep you in place.

“Sam,” you’re fully pouting now, pushing against his grip in attempts to kiss him more. “You’re always being a tease.”

“Quit pouting.” He nudges your bottom lip with his thumb playfully. “You love it when I tease you. Don’t even try to act like you don’t.”

Sam is right and you know it. He knows you know it, too. You can’t fool him.

He takes your silence as victory, “Uh huh. See?”

The teasing, slightly condescending cadence to his tone sends you reeling all over again. His knowing smirk making your stomach twist with desire and excitement. As it always does.

You reach up to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to meet your lips with all the strength you can muster.

Your lips meet not so gracefully at first, and you swallow down the low chuckle Sam emits before the kiss turns needy and quick in pace.

Sam’s hands start to feel around your body, gripping at your hips, your waist. A soft growl vibrates through his chest. The sound reminds you why you want to be in this position in the first place.

“Sammy…baby.” It comes out almost like a plea. You need to hear him.

“You’re such a needy thing,” Sam says, shaking his head.

“Not needy,” you protest. “Just wanna hear your voice.”

“I was gonna get there, if you would just be patient.” Sam chuckles, hand coming up to wrap around your throat. “Can you do that? Be my sweet, patient, girl?”

All you do is shake your head ‘yes,’ but that’s not good enough for your Sammy. Not in the slightest.

He leans in, lips grazing yours with the formation of each of his words, “That just won’t do. I think you already know that, too. Speak up, princess. Spit it out.”

It’s low and raspy, the demand. You’ll do absolutely anything that his gravely, lust-drawn voice asks of you.

“I’ll be patient for you.” You give in right away. “I’ll be your good girl.”

“Yeah? You’ll be my good girl?” Sam questions, trailing his hand down from your throat to your chest, teasing and toying with your nipple.

“Yes, s-sir.” Your breath catches in your throat, your body warming rapidly as Sam continues to feel around your chest.

“You always are,” Sam sighs, his right hand traveling down your stomach, stopping just shy of your core. “You always listen so well and cum so pretty for me.”

Your hips raise to press harder against his splayed hand, the warmth of it only adding to your body’s excess of heat and need.

Sam leans in even closer, nudging your head to the side with his nose. His lips graze your ear, sending chills up your spine. All while his hand continues it’s decent between your legs.

“What is it, princess?” He notices the way your breath catches in your throat, the soft squeak of a whimper giving you away. He places a few kisses to the pulse point below your ear. “Your heart is racing. Did I get you all worked, sweet girl?”

“Sammy…” It’s a desperate plea, almost embarrassingly whiny - the way his name falls off your tongue.

“I know, I’m gonna make you feel good,” Sam assures you, sliding his middle finger through your folds, sighing as your arousal completely coats his finger. “Is this what my needy girl wanted? For me to talk to her and play with her sweet little cunt?”

A few slow circles over your clit is all it takes to pull a moan from you, making Sam’s lips curve up into a cocky smirk.

“There we go,” Sam starts, voice low and smooth. “There’s those pretty noises.”

Sam’s thumb replaces his middle finger, keeping the light pressure against your clit, knowing that it will drive you straight to an orgasm and fast. His middle and ring fingers slip inside you slowly, curling up into that sweet spot that he can do perfectly reach.

“Fuck, Sammy,” you cry, reaching up to grip at his bicep. “Right there, please…”

“Right where, princess? Here?” He punctuates the question with a firm curl of his fingers, holding the pressure for a few seconds until you begin to squirm beneath him.

“Oh god- Fuck, yes! Sammy, please!” Your breathing becomes even more labored, eyes screwing shut as you fall into overwhelming pleasure.

“Such a pretty girl,” Sam coos, smiling down at you. “I love when you whimper my name like that.”

“Keep talking, Sammy, please,” you beg him, head lulling back against the pillows.

“Keep talking?” Sam teases lightly, dropping his voice even lower. “You just love my voice, huh? Bet I could make you cum just by talking to you. What do you think, gorgeous?”

“I-“ You attempt to form a coherent sentence, but another wave of pleasure and moan stops you short. “P-probably.”

“Mmm, might have to test that out one night,” Sam hums, as if just voicing a casual thought out loud.

You feel Sam’s forehead press against yours, only serving to make you melt further into the sheets.

“Listen to me, baby doll,” Sam practically growls, although he knows he already has every bit of your attention. You force your eyes open to meet his. “You’re gonna cum right on my fingers and say my name nice and pretty when you do. Okay?”

“Y-yes, sir,” you answer him breathlessly, feeling yourself squeeze around his fingers, pulling them in even deeper. Oh, how your body reacts to him. Every. Time.

“That’s my pretty girl,” he praises, kissing down your cheek to your neck. “Let me have it, gorgeous. Please.”

It burns low in your stomach, your body’s internal scream for release. A few more pumps of his fingers and swirls of his thumb, throw you over the edge and into the raging waves of your high.

You feel it throughout your whole body, tensing and relaxing all the muscles in your body rapidly.

Your head spins as you come down, but Sam clearly isn’t ready to stop.

Your hand shoots down to wrap around his wrist, tugging at it in attempts to stop the overstimulation. “S-Sammy-“

“-Ah,” he cuts you off, pulling your hand away and flattening his hand out over your inner thigh, pushing your legs apart. “Baby doll thought I was done?”

A constant stream of whimpers huff out of you with short bursts of breath. You can feel your clit throbbing against Sam’s thumb, the overstimulation twisting into pleasure with the littlest hint of pain.

“You wanted me to talk to you all low and soft and pretty…” Sam taunts, moving with your squirming body, following every jerk. “And make you cum all over my fingers, but now you can’t take it? My little sensitive girl.”

The shudder that shakes through your body at his words, draws a low, raspy chuckle from Sam’s chest.

“Oh? Someone liked that, didn’t she?” Sam continues his relentless taunting, pulling his soaked fingers out to circle your clit.

Opening your mouth with the intention to answer him, all that manages to come out is a breathy whine. A noise so high pitched and desperate sounding, you might be the slightest bit embarrassed about it, when you think back on it later.

Sam’s lips curve up into a shit eating smirk, far too pleased at the sounds and reactions he’s pulling from you. And it’s so easy.

He leans in, mocking the airy, high pitched noise you just made, directly into your ear.

“F-fuck yo- u-oh, fuck,” you stutter, moaning and stumbling over your own words as Sam quickens the circles over your bundle of nerves. “

“Oh, fuck.” It’s parroted right back to you, his voice mimicking yours; sweet and needy.

Why the way he mocks you turns you on so much more, you aren’t exactly sure. You haven’t the brain power to ponder on it, yet, either.

That sweet and most welcomed burn reforms in the pits of your belly, just waiting for the perfect pass of Sam’s fingers to unravel and take over your whole body once again.

“I’m so close, Sammy,” you warn, gripping at the blanket beneath you with one hand and the pillow behind your head with your other. “Please, don’t stop. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

“Don’t stop? Don’t stop what?” He knows exactly what you mean. “Don’t stop talking to you, or don’t stop pleasing this throbbing little clit?”

“Sammy…” It trots out of you through a whimper.

“Gonna make you cum one more time before I give it to you.” Sam says, as though it isn’t up for debate. And at this point, it isn’t. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Your back arches off the mattress, the pleasure finally taking over your body in a second orgasm.

“That’s right, gorgeous,” Sam practically groans. “Let it all go for me. My pretty, messy, princess. Absolutely fucking gorgeous when you cum for me like this.”

Sam’s lips are suddenly colliding with yours in a searing kiss, capturing all your little noises right in his mouth.

As soon as he feels your body start to jolt, he eases his skilled fingers from your clit, sliding them down through your wetness to bring up to his watering mouth.

“Jesus christ, you taste so fucking good.” Sam sinks your fingers in and out of his mouth, watching you watch him.

You’ve watched him do it before, but it never fails to completely wipe all coherent thoughts from your mind -no matter how many times you’ve seen him do it- to watch him be so filthy.

Dropping his hand from your mouth, he wraps it loosely around your neck, just barely squeezing as he leans down to reconnect your lips.

You can taste yourself all over his lips. It’s an addicting combination of your own release and the aftertastes of mint on his tongue. Creating a sweet, spicy, concoction out of the two of you. Fitting.

“Tell me, baby doll,” Sam calls gently for your attention. “You want me here again?” His fingers trace over your lips ever so lightly. “Or here?” His hand travels down your body, tracing over your folds with the same featherlight touch, before dipping down to gather more of your wetness and begin slowly stroking over your clit again.

Your body jolts and convulses on its own accord, making Sam laugh lowly at you and your bodies way of displaying its sensitivity.

“Awe, is it too much for you now, doll?” Sam teases, lips dragging over the center of your throat. “Has this poor little clit had enough?”

“Need you inside me.” You raise your hips, trying to press yourself against his cock, visibly straining against his sweatpants. “Fuck me, Sammy, please.”

“I’ll give you whatever you want, when you beg that pretty.” Sam removes both hands from your body, tucking them into the hem of his boxers, shoving them down his legs hastily.

Taking himself in his hand, a shaky exhale flutters out of Sam. His eyes close, hair falling around his face as he continues to lose himself with each stroke of his own hand.

At last, he pulls himself back together and guides himself through your folds, letting out a deep, breathy, groan at the feeling of how wet you are.

“F-fuck,” Sam mutters, shakily trying to line himself up with your entrance.

Your jaw falls slack, as he pushes himself into you with a smooth thrust of his hips.

“Oh, m-my god…” Your words barely stutter out loud enough for Sam to hear.

Sam brings himself down above you, using one of his forearms to hold his body just above yours. His other hand slips up to tangle into your hair, tilting your head back against the pillows.

“Move, Sammy, please move.” Your voice is pathetic, dripping in desperation and submissiveness.

“What if I make you wait?” He questions slyly, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. “What if we stayed just like this and I just talk to you some more? Tell you how amazing you feel wrapped around my cock, until you cum all over it just from my words?”

“Sam, I swear to god…” You try to fight back, wanting nothing more than for him to just move and fuck you completely senseless.

“You clearly love the idea,” Sam points out. “And you love when I talk to you like this. I know that’s why you squirm every time I hold you close and say little things in your ear. Why do you think I’ve started doing that more often? You think I don’t notice how your breath catches when I say even the most mundane things right in your ear?”

“You’re right, I love it,” you say through a fresh wave of whimpers that are tearing through your throat and filling up the room. You’ll always soak up his praises like a plant starving for water.

“I fucking…love it…”

Sam tugs at your earlobe with his teeth. “You’re clenched so tight around me…I could cum in you right now.”

Now that…

That strikes a new nerve, causing you to arch your body into Sam’s followed by a noise reminiscent of a sob.

“Oh, fuck me…” Sam curses, fist tightening in your hair as you flutter around his already throbbing cock.

Unable to wait any longer, Sam begins to rock his hips, slowly dragging himself in and out of you. The burn of him stretching you out rips another unholy sound from your lungs - one that he accidentally mimics, but in a much deeper tone.

“My sweet baby doll, making me feel so good.” Sam picks up the speed and depth of his thrusts. “You love on my cock so well, don't you? You're always just so, so sweet to it."

Sam’s head falls against your shoulder, short huffs of uneven breaths hitting your neck and adding yet another sensation to the pile.

Your hands reach around his body, one tangling in his soft tresses, while the other claws it’s way down to the center of his back - surely leaving flaming red marks in its wake.

“Pull it,” he groans, tilting his head back ever so slightly, to ensure you know exactly want he means.

You oblige without missing a beat, tightening the hand tangled in his hair and tugging it firmly.

“Fuck, goddamn,” Sam sputters, delivering a particularly deep thrust into you, making you gasp and choke on the words you’re trying to form.

“What's that? You feeling good?” Sam fires questions at you breathlessly. Later you’ll probably wonder how he manages to stay together enough to form full, coherent sentences.

“You want to tell me about it? About how my cock is filling you up so good? How you can feel me here?" He lays his hand over your stomach, splayed out and applying the littlest bit of pressure.

You open your mouth to speak, babble some barely understandable praises and call out his name over and over again. Yet, nothing comes out. Your mouth simply hangs open, not even a hint of a sound coming forth from your lungs; they simply hold captive any air left within them as Sammy relentlessly fucks you.

“Tell me, baby, tell me how good it feels,” Sam smirks cockily, knowing full well that you can’t. “You can't even talk, huh? Am I fucking you speechless, doll face?"

“S-so close,” you gasp, both hands gripping at Sam’s shoulders now in hopes that you will stay anchored to earth.

“Are you? Tell me you’re gonna cum so pretty for me,” Sam demands, snaking his hand between your two bodies to rub hasty circles over your bundle of nerves. “Say it for me.”

It takes every part of your body to form the words for him. “I-I’m gonna cum s-so pretty for you, Sammy.”

“You want me to talk you through it? Huh?” Sam’s voice is dripping with sex, low and smooth as silk. “Yeah, I'm gonna talk you through it, baby."

A few more deep thrusts of his hips and passes of his calloused fingertips over your hyper sensitive clit, is all it takes to unravel you.

“Come on, cum for me, sweet girl. Cum for me.” Sam coaxes.

The way you clench around him, suffocating his cock, dragging him to his own high right behind you, has him sucking a long breath through his teeth before he can even speak.

“That’s it, baby doll. Fuck, there it is.” He’s hardly keeping it together above you, determined to work you through most of your orgasm before he allows himself to fall into his own. “That’s my good girl, so fucking pretty making a mess all over me. My gorgeous, messy, baby doll.”

You can hear him, faintly, as you ride out your seemingly never ending climax. And God, do you love when he calls you ‘baby doll.’

Just as you start to come down, Sam’s thrust become sloppy and sporadic, signaling that he’s reached his own high.

“Where do-“

You cut him off before he even finishes his sentence. “-Inside me. Let me have it, please, pretty boy.”

“Oh, fuck…” he draws the word out, rough and airy. “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-“

His hips rock into lazily a few more times, the obscene sounds of both of your releases, bouncing off the four walls of your room.

“How the fuck does this manage to happen every night,” Sam huffs jokingly, slowly pulling out and collapsing beside you, still fighting to catch his breath.

“It might not if your voice wasn’t always dripping with sex appeal every time you open your mouth,” you jest right back.

“What?” Sam gasps, feigning shock, but fighting back a smile. “So you only fuck me for my voice? How low of you, doll.”

“You’re right,” you admit, grinning at him. “I don’t just fuck you for your voice… I also fuck you for your pretty face.”

Sam wraps his arms around your waist, tugging you into him with a pleased smile. “Mm. That’s fair enough, I do have a pretty face.”

@wildbluesorbit @jaketlove

@tripthelightfatality

@sunandthemoontwinflames

@shutupdevvie @jakesguitarsolo

@ageofbarbarians @streamsofstardust

@gvfpal @theweightofjake

@twistedmelodies @belovedsamuel

@watchingover-hypegirl

@watchingovergvff

@jakekiszkasbuttsweat @losfacedevil

@starcatcher-jake @gardensgatedaisy

@i-choose-the-road

@sammykiszkamyass @sammysprincess

@ascendingtostardust @gretasmokerising

@jake-kiszkas-smirk @gretavanfanfics

@doodle417

@greta-van-chaos @sarakay-gvf

@colorstreammind @ofburningskies

@groovyvanfleet

@highladyofasgard

@of-infinite-wonders

[pilot-boi]

How specifically do Ren and Nora react when Jaune finishes his story of being the Rusted Knight?

His brother looks tired.

It’s the only thing Ren can think as he listens to Jaune and team RWBY explain what happened. The words are just washing over him, he’s listening but he’s not hearing. He can’t stop staring at his brother.

It was back in Beacon when they first called each other that, and Ren said it partially out of jest. Partially to get Jaune to leave so he could put a gods damned shirt on.

It wasn’t until he was standing next to a screaming-crying Nora and he could see the petals of his own grief swirling in the air where there once was a portal that he really realized what it meant to have a brother.

His brother looks tired.

He’s tall, and he’s confident, and he’s sure of himself, and he looks like a strong wind might bowl him over. There are white streaks in his hair, and his eyes hold an age that Ren has only seen in Oscar’s too-old eyes.

Jaune’s hands won’t stop shaking. Ren can see it, even though his brother is clearly trying to hide it. He keeps clearing his throat when he speaks, looking faintly surprised every time his own voice exits his mouth.

“-and then we were in Vacuo, and you guys found us,” Jaune finishes. His smile is the same as Ren remembers, blinding and sheepish in equal measure.

Ruby is talking about something, but Ren can’t stop staring at Jaune.

He’s never known Nora to be so quiet.

His brother is staring at him.

“Can I…” Jaune interrupts Ruby. “Can I just have some time with my team?” Ruby doesn’t even blink, just nods. The rest of her team follow her out of the room.

Then it’s just the three of them. In a silence so tense he could cut it with his father’s blade.

Jaune is just standing there. He reaches up to brush something out of his eyes, finds nothing there, and drops his hand back to his side. He doesn’t invite them to sit, he doesn’t even sit himself.

It’s like he’s forgotten how to be a person.

“I…” Jaune’s voice creaks into the silence, he trails of. He clears his throat, frowning. Tries his voice on again, like an old coat that hasn’t been worn in years. “I’m sorry I didn’t…” Shakes his head again. “I really missed you guys.”

Ren nods absently. Nora is stiff at his side, her hand as cold as the Solitas tundra in his grasp.

“Were you safe?” Ren asks.

Jaune shrugs, grinning sheepishly. “Mostly,” he concedes, and that’s probably as good as they’re going to get. Bright smile or not, Jaune seems more fragile now than even his spiral in Mistral.

“Were you happy?” And Nora’s hand tightens in his grasp.

Jaune’s eyes widen, and his hand twitches at his side. Ren wonders why he doesn’t grab his sash.

When his brother hesitates further, a shuttered look crossing his face, Ren blinks into gray scale.

Conflict, grief, confusion, joy, rage, sorrow, pain, pain, pain

“I was the Rusted Knight,” Jaune says, stiff as the armor of his title. “It didn’t matter if I was happy.” If I die buying them time it’s worth it, they’re the ones that matter.

“But were you happy??” Nora asks. Her voice is steady, calm, but her whole arm is shaking in Ren’s grip. Scars from lightning cracking across her shoulders, echoing white streaks in his brother’s hair.

Oh the way a person is marked by thinking they’re only worth what they can do for others.

Was he happier? Did he wish he was still there? Did he not want to come back? He was the hero he always wanted to be, a literal beacon of valor and bravery. He was making a difference.

Ren always preferred the Cat, personally, (and how that stings now) but the Rusted Knight was adored. In the books scrounged from drop-offs, and the storytime sessions in libraries, every kid cheered and wept for the brave and cheerful knight. You couldn’t find a better storybook role model than him.

How cruel that his brother had to crumble to dust for the character to exist.

“I was alone,” Jaune creaks eventually, voice as rusty as his armor, as if that’s enough of an answer.

And from anyone else it wouldn’t be. But from his brother, who lives and dies for the people he cares about, no sentence could be more telling.

[yoisami]

˚₊‧୨୧ TELL YOU SOMEDAY

[૮₍ ˃ࡇ˂ ₎ა]: i’m unsettled that i wrote a birthday fic for kuroo but not for my bf osamu :/ was gonna drop an angsty bomb for him LOL but decided not to for hana (ily bae) ╮⁠(⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)⁠╭

tags. kuroo tetsurou x gn!reader, 1.5k wc, fluff, unestablished relationship, happy birthday kuroo yay, heavy narration sorry, if every time i use an em dash in my writing and i gain a dollar, i’d be a literal billionaire

“sit here and wait for me!”

brandishing your index finger at your couch, kuroo complies with your facetious command as he falls into the couch, sinking into the furniture. a familiar, frisky grin blossoms on your face before you turn your head to prepare “something” in the kitchen. you even declared that you wouldn’t hesitate to kick him out of your apartment if he enters the kitchen.

“better be quick then,” kuroo jests, watching you leave the living room and into the kitchen. peeping your head out, you scrunch your nose as he reciprocates your expression.

you look at him once more as your lips break into another grin. “don’t rush me. good things take time!”

right now, you’re completely persuaded that he’s an idiot and is fully unaware of the little birthday “surprise” you’ve prepared for him, and kuroo pats himself on the back for being able to continue this game of pretend play. while you’re busy bathing in a pool of triumph, you don’t realise that you’ve fallen for kuroo’s fake ignorance—he knows that you’ve arranged a birthday cake for him, with candles to blow out at exactly twelve o’clock.

it’s currently eleven fifty-one, and you’re adding some final touches to kuroo’s birthday cake in the kitchen—the ultimate reason why he’s prohibited from entering the kitchen for the next nine minutes.

the corner of his lips curves upwards when you’ve left the living room entirely, and he dips his head backwards, throwing a palm over his eyes. with his vision partially covered, his sole focus is on the warmth that blooms inside his cheeks and the tips of his ears, and it feels as if his heart is about to combust. it’s beating violently and incessantly, and kuroo admits that he’s a lovesick fool—for you.

he’s twenty—soon to be twenty-one—but acts nothing like the true adult that he’s supposed to be. unable to control his teeming bliss, kuroo buries his face into one of the available cushions on the couch, murmuring and screeching incoherently into the slip before he lifts his head up.

whether it’s his love that makes him immature or it’s his inborn fate to be an idiot, kuroo feels as if he’s reversed time and become a second-year high school student again—someone who is eager to love another, and hopeful about the works of romance. kuroo established the fact that he liked you when he was fourteen and naïve, only expecting his feelings would eventually dilute when he entered high school. he was convinced that you were just a “phase” that he was yet to grow out of, but quite the opposite happened—he didn’t fall for a single one of his classmates because you continued to reign over his heart. 

their jokes were inferior to yours, and none of them were as talented as you. your voice had a pretty tone, and it’s distinct from everyone else’s—even to this day, your voice continues to call out to his heart, whether it was signalling to him or not. his classmates weren’t as kind as you, or as caring as you, or as selfless as you—you’re special to him.

and even though he’s in university, where there are more attractive and talented people, no one else could win him over like you do. kuroo believes that you have some superpower over his heart—kenma’s face twisted in disgust when he said that the first time.

to his dismay, you didn’t appear to feel the same way as he did. your pair of eyes followed another boy, and your romantic gestures were never directed at kuroo. in high school, you baked pink butter cookies for some other boy every year on valentine’s day. they were packaged in clear pockets that were tied shut by lace ribbons you purposely visited the department store for, and you’d arrive at school in the early morning to secure a spot for your gift on his desk. your heart seemed to call out to someone else; your heart seemed to be in the hands of someone else.

but after high school, things have changed. you no longer spend time thinking about a boy you like before falling asleep, nor do you bashfully fix your hair when he walks by. for once, your heart seems to be vacant for kuroo.

and he’d be stupid if he didn’t take that to his advantage.

for the past month, kuroo has been scattering pieces of his feelings beside your feet that form a path to him. in your conversations, he responded to you in ways that potentially suggested romance in hopes of confusing you (he has to have a bit of fun, of course), was acting more chivalrously around you, and was a tad more affectionate with you (throwing his arm over your shoulders when you’re walking, fixing your hair when the wind messes it up)—all of them were shimmering hints that he’s been hoping you’d take notice of.

and you have, and kuroo’s more than pleased to see that you mirror his gestures too. when he drops a pathetic pick-up line, you do the same; when kuroo flippantly taps your knee under the table, you take his hand and momentarily fidget with his calloused hand.

you’re flustered when he leans in close to tease you; in his periphery, he notices your prolonged stares, and you’ve changed your hair accessories to his favourite colour.

finally, you like him back.

“tetsurou! shut your eyes.”

kuroo straightens his posture as he closes his eyes, his hands resting on his knees. despite having his eyes shut, he could see that the lights in the apartment had been turned off. now, he’s limited to only four of his senses.

the sound of your footsteps lightly pad in his direction, and he could hear your broken giggles as you made a half-hearted attempt to hold yourself back from laughing at him. the heater softly whirrs, but the noise dissipates from kuroo’s focus when you begin to sing.

“happy birthday to you... happy birthday to you...” 

it’s a sweet tune that he hears once every year, usually sung by a number of his friends and family. their voices would combine, sounding a little off-tune and unsynchronised, and kuroo would never be able to tell whose voice belongs to whom.

“happy birthday dear tetsurou...”

but this year, you’re the first person to sing him this song, and he appreciates it more than yaku’s frequent voice cracks when he sings.

“happy birthday to you!”

your voice gently falls to end the song, but soon returns when he feels your elbow nudging his arm. “hey—open your eyes.”

the living room is dimly lit by tiny flame that flutters atop the pink candle, standing humbly as the only candle on kuroo’s birthday cake. it offers enough light for him to see everything within his vicinity, but it especially accentuates your presence.

“i sang you ‘happy birthday’ and you didn’t even open your eyes for that,” you sigh, plastering a counterfeit frown on your lips. he knows your pout is a joke when it quickly vanishes, defeated by your animated grin that puts his thoughts on hold. “make a wish.”

“alright.”

his eyes are closed again. his hands are clasped together and pressed to his lips, and his heart, eager and hopeful, is singing out to you:

i want to be the one you love.

there’s a short moment of silence before your voice interferes with the silence in the room. “done?”

opening his eyes, kuroo nods. curiousity glints in your irises, and you lean in closer to him.

“what’d you wish for?”

“can’t tell you that,” kuroo says. “if i tell you, then it won’t come true.”

“what are you, five? you know that birthday wishes don’t come true anyway.”

well, kuroo hopes that your assumption is wrong—very wrong.

“so, what’d you wish for?”

between the two of you, kuroo can see miniscule, colourless particles that maunder in the air. he then focuses on you—your skin imbibes the flame’s yellow glow, and your eye smiles remind him of half-moons in summer. perfection exists within you, and kuroo is accustomed to the twinkle of love that he sees in your pupils when light ricochets off your cornea. 

two years ago, you’d look at him with so much love—however, it’s a different kind of love that he sees in your eyes now. you look at him as if he collects glitter from the moon for you, and you look at him as if he’s the prince charming in your fairytale. you love him, and he loves you—

—but that’s a secret he’ll keep to himself for a little while longer.

“are you gonna an—”

when kuroo flicks your forehead with his blistered fingers, you jerk away, yelping “ow!” as you bring your hand to soothe the area, scowling at his trademark smirk.

“i’ll tell you someday. but i want to eat the cake now.”

© yoisami 2023. plagiarism, translation and distribution of my works outside of tumblr is not permitted.

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

You suddenly sat partially up, leaning on your forearms and looking into Daryl's blue eyes. He was stretched out beside you, soaking in your body pressed against his.

"Hmm?" he hummed, seeing that you were on the edge of saying something.

"You love me, right?" you asked, running your fingers down a wavy strand of his hair.

A small smile curved his lips and a mischievous light sparked to life in his eyes. "Normally, I'd say yes without hesitation, but I feel like this is goin' somewhere and I dun like it," he replied.

You shot him a surprised look and laughed, hitting him playfully on the arm. "Daryl!"

He laughed, low and gruff, a sound you loved. "Well, am I wrong?"

"Not exactly," you said, now laughing too.

"Well, what is it?"

"I might have promised Aaron and Eric that we'd go over there for dinner tonight..."

He sighed and the corners of his mouth turned down in a frown. "Didn't we do that last week?" he drawled.

You laughed. "Daryl. They're our friends. They'd probably enjoy seeing us even more than once a week. Besides, we both know that you actually have a good time." You rested your head back on his chest.

"Fine," he drawled with another sigh. "But ya owe me."

You could hear the tone of jest in his voice and you smiled up at him. "Oh, how will I ever make it up to you?" you asked sarcastically.

His arms tightened around you. "I got a few ideas ya can start on right now." He pulled your lips gently to meet his.

[petals2fish]

This is part of a fic I’m working on for release this summer called “Lovely” hehe plz enjoy the micro version of the fic for @jilymicrofics DAY ONE!!! eeeee happy April!!

“I want my life to be perfect and easy and kind and good.” She placed her face in her hands, hiding the tears there. “But it’s all just messy and hard and mean and sad.”

James’ jaw clenched as he realized he’d walked into his fake girlfriend having a mental breakdown over something that was partially his fault. He slowly saw down cross legged beside her broken form. His hand rested gently on her back and he winced when she flinched away from it.

“Life is never perfect or easy,” he whispered, “kindness gets you as far as the person you’re talking with and good is such a relative term. What makes a life good?”

She sniffled, “money, friends, perfect OWLs.”

“No, Lily. Those are all just things that make life easier,” James argued. “What makes life good, Lily? What makes goosebumps rise up your arms? What makes you smile when no one else is talking? What makes you feel good? Music? Laughter? Sunshine? What makes you feel like everything is gonna be okay?”

Green eyes lifted. It felt like he was hit in the stomach by a stunner, the second those watery emeralds fell onto him. Her lower lip was pointed out, a little wobbly with emotion.

“You.” She said.

James blinked. Once. Twice. A third time just to be sure. Her face remained unmoved.

“Is this a prank?”

Her throat bobbed when she swallowed. “No, you do make me feel like everything will be okay, you’re doing it right now.”

James put his face in his hands now, feeling red creep into his cheeks. “Please don’t do this,” he said, “you don’t have to fake it when we’re alone.”

“I don’t fake it at all.” Her voice remained steady as his heart picked up the pace. “I have always fancied you.”

He peered over to find her wiping the tears still falling with the back of her hand. “What?”

She looked so put out, for someone who had just confessed feelings. “I just—you were so popular and I didn’t think you’d ever look my way for a second but then you came up with this stupid plan and I went along with it because I—I wanted to know what it would be like…for life to be perfect.”

James ruffled his hair, “you just said it was imperfect.”

God, her eyes could cut him like daggers. “It’s because I’m trying not to love you, James.”

“I have that effect on most witches.”

She ignored his jest and replied with heavy words yet again. She could talk for days, one of the most endearing parts about her was her rambling. He could listen to her forever.

“Do you know how hard and frustrating it has been to have everyone ask if I’ve been putting out because there’s no other way on earth James Potter would date me? Do you know how mean it is to sit down next to people and have them be nice to your face only to call you a nerdy slag behind your back? Not only that but I have a fake boyfriend who is absolutely perfect from his head to his toes and he’s just fake! You and I are fake! And it’s eating me alive to know in any other circumstance we would have never kissed or laughed or gone for those stupid dates! I just wanted to be you—“

James couldn’t take it, he shoved his mouth against hers just to shut her up. A startled sound was emitted from her throat but soon she was kissing him back, her tongue tasting his between angle switchbacks. James wound his hands into her hair, just like he’d done in the library, keeping her face plastered to his like she would change her mind.

“Sorry for cutting you off, but you’re just so fucking cute when you rant,” he said when she started planting kisses along his jawline.

Her fingernails dug into his shoulders, “s’fine.”

James pulled her into his lap as he warned her, “and by the way, nothing about how I feel for you is fake.”

Her lips paused right below his ear and she asked, “what do you mean?”

James’ hands curved around her arse. “I mean when I feel like the world is crashing down, you make me feel good too.”

👍🏼🤪💁🏽‍♀️🎷☺️📚💋💎

[2kmps]

wolfwood has wanted to kiss you for a while. his inexperience decides to come front and center when he tries.

notes; 1.2k, woowoo fluff and him being clumsy and sloppy, tristamp coded.

out of habit, wolfwood plucked a piece of gum from the blue package in your fingers. he had just expended his last cigarette; the bent tip still glowing hot amber in the sea of golden-beige underfoot. there were more scattered around, partially buried and snuffed, not an entirely unusual scene, but enough to lure you away from mingling around the campsite to where he stood, obscured by van while perched on a tire. distantly, through the erratic lick of bonfire and animated, drawled chatter from drunken others, you saw lighter spark and cigarettes extinguish in rapid succession.

"okay, spill," you tucked another flat stick of gum into his dusty blazer pocket, "you've been standing over here for an hour. what's wrong?"

"ain't your business. back up, would you?" wolfwood said, lightly sweeping your hand away as he stood to lean his shoulders into the van alongside you. he tucked the gum as far back in his teeth as he could, the particular taste astringent and burned his nares, and not in any way he enjoyed. "sounds like you guys were having a good time. should I be flattered that you came over here to be nosy?"

you puckered and tutted at him. "I'm always half expecting to find you face down in the sand from your lungs shriveling up."

"right now, I think you'd better worry more about spikey choking on his puke in his sleep--" he shifted his weight onto an arm he curled near his head, body towards you--"or, gramps breaking a hip trying to tell one of his shitty stories. surprised you didn't drink anything."

it was all in jest, all of it. there was a sense of familiarity in this situation; standing next to one another in the cold night, faraway warbles from your comrades in high-spirits an oddly lightening feeling. wolfwood didn't get enough moments like these with you, not without intrusive gazes and busybodies coming to foil the good mood he had built up.

"they'll be okay." you voiced a shared opinion while wearing a subdued smile, something a little more timid than he was used to seeing from you. "you've been out of sorts for a few days, though. I know we're not-- I don't know, super close, but you can still talk to me, nick."

oh, but he wanted to be closer to you. oh, he didn't know how to handle the patter behind his ribs, the heat swirling in his core and crawling up his face whenever you called him something other than nicholas. the longer he stared at your face, drawing closer to moment your eyes averted as though daunted by him, he wondered if you would accept him any other way than now-- the long-standing way things had always been between you both.

amicable. unserious. he would be leaving that behind in hopes of what he ventured towards would be reciprocated. half a thought he froze in place was to strand this entire thing he orchestrated; it was dumb and dangerous, there was no reason to fuck up the status quo, but yet he argued that there was-- and it simply was that he wanted more.

"maybe-- maybe you should take the edge off with a few drinks. it may do you some good." you were grasping for things to say now, but the fact that you kept trying, heels inhumed in sand whilst your weight relaxed into cold metal against you told him all he needed. you weren't in a rush, and neither was he.

coarse granules scuffed under his shoes as the divide separating the heat of your bodies narrowed, and he could see the moonlight catch a glimmer in your eyes. this was the closest you had let him get to you on purpose, in the past claiming that the smell of smoke stuck to him every bit the same as whiskey did to an alcoholic, or a weepy leg to infection.

"you really shouldn't be telling someone to trade one vice for another." he turned his head to spit out the gum, an ungraceful display that made him sputter when the taste of it landed fully on his tongue. it took him a moment to rebound, swallowing back another cough. "especially not when you're tempting with another vice."

you gave him an oblique glance. "hey, are you gonna make it? did you choke on your spit?"

this was not how he intending things to go. ordinarily, this was when he would've backed out, masked his embarrassment as some type of stunt that left you bewildered, while he would puff away on a new pack of smokes as he sulked.

tonight, however, he wasn't dwarfed by cowardice but rather that very same desire to have more from you. his arm bent against the metal near your head, dry fingertips a rough touch on your jaw as he tilted your face up to meet his lips. the wispy, dark tips of his hair feathered across your skin each time he leaned into you, imprints of warmth lasting until the next kiss and the one after that.

he tested the feeling, softly, at first, partially anticipating you to rip away from him with some exaggerated horror to downplay your uneasiness. the longer he went kissing you, leaning into the softness of your lips a little more each time, the more eager he became, spurred on by thrumming in his ears and heat and cold warring spots on the high planes of his face.

then, you swiveled your head out of his grip, letting his hand fall to your shoulder where he had stop himself from digging his nails into the roundness of them. he stayed close to your face, calming his shuddering breaths that were the closest thing he'd allow to verbalizing the ache of rejection on his chest. it was the sharpest knife he had every felt, every heartbeat was almost enough to make him sink his hand in there and rip it out.

"no?" it was a raspy whisper belonging to a parched, pathetic man who let his pride fall to the wayside for once. "that's all you gotta say."

"'no', what?" you said, plucking his sunglasses away by one of the arms before settling them into the same pocket with the slither of gum. "they were bothering me. it's nighttime, nick, you don't need them on--"

your back was flush to the van now, cool and hard, a jarring contrast to how hot his body felt slotting against yours. his lips were back on you, this time ravenous and feverish, sloppy and struggling to find a rhythm with you.

and, as your arms weaseled up to wind the back of his neck, he sank deeper into the warmth of your clothes and skin and smell, and felt it all so immensely it made him a little queasy. but, he didn't want it to stop anytime soon.

divider; @/anlian-aishang

reposted from my deleted blog, cardeneiv

[misericordia-writing]

Lightning Bugs

"𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙜𝙤 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚, 𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙩𝙤 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙜𝙤𝙙-𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙨𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙚.

𝙎𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮, 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙮, 𝘿𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙚𝙡 𝙅𝙤𝙝𝙣𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙’𝙫𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙩𝙪𝙢𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚, 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨."

Chapter 1 of Matchbook

Pairings: Danny Johnson/Gender-Neutral Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Angst, Fluff

Summary: A character exploration of Danny. I've noticed most fics make him super funny and sardonic, and while I love that, I imagine I'd have huge moral qualms about dating a serial killer. So I wrote this. Not particularly dark, but depressing? I don't know. I’m sorting things out. Probably super OOC. Enjoy.

TW for canon-typical violence, implications of mental illness, and unhealthy relationships/power imbalance (naturally)

Ao3: s://archiveofourown.org/works/45585013/chapters/114704077

    "I hate that you're right."

        The words come out quietly one night, while you're sitting on a muggy balcony that smells like cigarettes and acetone. The green-gray haze of Floridian night swamping you in swaths of gnats, only gently dissuaded by a mesh screen.

        A streetlamp flickers and dulls, the painted metal cart of a dollar store clinks against its siblings, and an old man sputters and coughs up into his shirt collar.

        "About what?"

        "About people. Humanity. Life. Society. That type of stuff." You say, balancing a bottle of black nail polish on your thigh while you try to paint your toes. "How it's just primal violence. You're pretty much right."

        He doesn't respond. Normally, you wouldn’t be allowed to talk about this stuff so openly, outside, where a neighbor could hear you. But everyone is busy tonight. You’re not too surprised that he’s memorized their schedules. Furtively scratching pens into notebooks almost every single second that he’s not busy playing out stories. Too enamored to eat or sleep or wash the dishes. ‘That’s one of the reasons I keep you around,’ he had said, in partial jest, as if you were his mid-century housewife.

        "Listen, I'm not just sucking up to you like some chick in a horror movie, trying to persuade the killer that she's on his side. As applicable as that may be. You're right. Genuinely."

        "I thought you were into all of that spirituality stuff. Being good. Reaching nirvana and donating to the thrift store." He mutters, methodically scraping the debris of last night out from under his nails. Jed has work tomorrow.

        Jed Olsen is who you signed up for, back when you were still a recent college graduate, finally having gotten to the 'good' part of your life. Feeling hopeful, cheery even. Watering your plants, picking up dandelions off the side of the road, smiling at strangers. Saving up to buy a nice house someday, with a garden and personal study. Somewhere you could bake in, read in, live in. Maybe even find someone to share it with.

        ‘You were just so sweet,’ He said one time, while you were in his car. He had locked the doors and told you that he just couldn’t trust you that much, yet. But soon.

        ‘Always so withdrawn, cautious. But sweet. Barely able to deal with playing nice to co-workers, but then turning your back and smiling at weeds in the cracks of a sidewalk. Surprising, considering the way you dress. All rock n’ roll, usually. Black looks good on you. That scraped-up Walkman attached to your hip. Diverse taste. I mean, the way you seamlessly went from Bauhaus to Blondie in the span of an hour was truly something.’ Sip.

        ‘All while performing an elaborate routine in your bedroom- complete with costume changes and a hairbrush microphone. You really could be a rockstar, sweetheart. Too bad though, I don’t think that’ll happen. Maybe in your next life.’

        He paused to look at his milkshake, then dipped a fry in it. ‘Different- odd and unusual, but not in the predicable early-twenty-year old way I see a lot. Talking to the spiders you would find in your room, politely asking them to leave. So observant and smart. But ultimately, I guess you just weren’t observant or smart enough, were you?’ He barked out a laugh, triumphantly.

        He was so charming, the way he would stop by your job before work. Monday through Friday. Pretending to think for a minute, before ordering the exact same coffee as he always did. Coincidentally loving the same books, talking with you about the new episode of a sitcom you had been watching the night before. Handsome, and only a few years older, with a degree from a similar program to yours under his belt. Good reputation, wonderful penmanship. Enthusiastic, kind- but with a quick wit.

        He made you feel special- which, apparently, you were. Just not in the way you’d think.

        "I am, still." You sigh, painting, the brush spreading smooth inky black across keratin. A drop of paint drips onto the skin of your foot.

        You scrape it away with the back of your fingernail and quickly dab it to a folded paper towel.

        "Danny." You say, looking at him. "Do you think I'm a bad person?"

        He tsks, as if the question offends him. "You really want me to be the judge on ethics? Are you forgetting who I am? What I do?" A gravelly punch dips the last syllable of each sentence, almost like a growl.

        "No," You say, "I'm just asking. Besides, I thought you thought you were right? Do you think that your actions are ethical? By your logic, that we are all inherently violent and terrible, then you wouldn't be evil for acting on that. My beliefs lie somewhere in the middle. Just curious."

        He pauses, dark eyes looking down into the parking lot. The man is gone, and the cart is pushed neatly back into its place.

        Sweltering heat. He smells like detergent, the good middle-of-the-road kind. Sticky notes. Cologne. Sweat. Iron.

        "No."

        You frown, looking down through the mesh as well. Lightning bugs light up the brush at the edge of the apartment complex. “Fireflies!” You say, with childish glee. You almost forget the crushing guilt for a minute, beaming down at the glowing shrubs.

        You’re eight again, bare feet padding through wet grass, trying to catch them in a jar. Somebody is having a barbeque, and you’re going to go to bed tired and happy tonight, with a dozen itchy mosquito bites down your legs.

        You wonder what eight-year-old you would think about this situation. You wish you could go back in time, tell yourself to never move to this god-forsaken red state.

        Surely, that way, Daniel Johnson would’ve never stumbled into your life, staining you with the blood on his hands.

        He still doesn’t say anything, other than a hum, so you sit back down. Finishing the last coat of paint on your smallest toe.

        The plastic weaving of the chair digs into the backs of your thighs, and you set the polish back down on the accent table. The thermometer reads 85 degrees Fahrenheit.

        “I hate myself.” You say, feeling every bitter moment and truth from your past bubble up at once. Every scrape, burn, and cut. “I don’t understand why you do what you do. It makes me feel guilty for you. Like I’m the one doing those things. Am I not just as bad? I don't try to stop you. I should.”

        You often feel that Danny’s twenty steps ahead of you. Just waiting for the right moment. Chess and checkers.

        A bead of sweat rolls down your back, the tank top you wear doing little to reduce the humidity. You stand up and walk to stand in front of him. “But yet here I am. I’m still surprised you haven’t killed me yet. You said you were going to. Why not?”

        “I probably will when the time is right." He looks up at you for a moment, pausing before looking back at the sky.

        "If it makes you feel any better, you don’t really have a choice in what I do, or a choice in being involved with me… I would find my way in, in any situation. This is probably just some type of Stockholm syndrome kicking in. So you survive. Fun, right? Your brain and body are doing the best they can to cope with the reality. Of your situation. Of how you feel about me. Really, you’re lucky. You think all of the others wouldn't have taken this opportunity? Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

        He swats a mosquito nonchalantly.

        “Yeah, I guess so.” You say, sitting down at the foot of his lawn chair. “Do you care about me?”

        “A little bit.” He says, gaze off to the side. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

        You laugh, though you aren’t sure if he was trying to be funny. Not that it was very funny in the first place.

        “For the record,” He says, “You’ve made it longer than anyone else has. Normally I lose interest. I’m not done watching you yet. I don’t know if I want to end your story. It’s my favorite.”

        “Well, if I’m nothing else, at least I’m a serial killer’s favorite 'story'.” You roll your eyes, but there isn’t too much sarcasm behind it.

        “You make me feel the way I feel when I kill, sometimes. I don’t know if I love you, because I don’t really believe in that stuff. But I like you more than most things.” He says, fingers reaching out to twirl a lock of your hair. 

        The same fingers that dig knives into people and then snap pictures of it after. That rip intestines out and turn them into party streamers. The same fingers that would’ve done the same thing to you, too. That still might.

        That fantasize about it, twitching sometimes when you turn your back. Itching to grab you by the throat and finally write a conclusion. Aching to make you a headline.

        Fingers that move down to your neck now, feeling the red pulse of your blood. Padding up to the side of your face and wiping a welling tear away from the corner of your eye.

        Fingers that have held your hair back when you puked, and gripped your hand firmly in public when you can’t find the clarity to process all the different sounds of a supermarket. Let you pick out your favorite candy at the video store, made popcorn with you on the stove.

        Pressed your favorite VHS into the player for the third time that week, not because he found it particularly groundbreaking, but because you couldn’t get out of bed to wash your hair or eat, and that stupid movie was- for whatever reason- the only thing capable of distracting you from the thought of pink-red water slotting down the drain of his porcelain white bathtub.

         “I feel that way too, sometimes.” You rasp. “Minus the whole killing people part. I don’t know if it exists. Love. At least, not as the thing people say it is. Really relates back to the animalistic nature thing, right? Do animals feel ‘love’? We are animals. I’ve felt things like love, but never what I’m supposed to. I wish I knew. Snakes like warm rocks. Do they love warm rocks?”

         “You’re probably never going to know.” He says, bluntly, nails scratching at your scalp. You wonder if he's only doing it to get the last flakes of dried blood out. You imagine little beams coming from his fingers, wiggling into your brain and picking out all of your synapses. Mapping your psyche.

       He probably would if he could, but then he might get bored and gut you for his collage.

        “Yeah,” You sigh, “I know. But… I love you. The closest to love I think I can.”

        “I know.” On anybody else, it would sound almost pitying.

        You know that even if he loved you, he would never say it. The words will not leave his mouth. But you feel loved. The way that he touches you, the way he presses against your back sometimes, in the middle of dark, foggy nights. Covers kicked off the bed, and a face pressed into your neck. Him keeping a box of special pictures under the bed, just of you, that you don’t think he knows you know about-  but maybe he knows that you know. Some of them from before you even met. Almost all of them when you weren’t looking.

        And later that night, when you’ve locked the screen door, and he’s meticulously arranged his piles of papers, looked through his hastily (passionately) scrawled designs one more time, and finished the laundry, you two lay down in the bed. As the moonlight streams down onto his face, dark hair reflecting its soft glow, you sigh. A hand reaches out to stroke his neck, and you wonder again why he does the things he does. He lets you. You can feel the heartbeat in his throat.

        Danny hates when he falls asleep before you, but you like it. So rarely do you get to see him off-guard- innocent and peaceful, brows finally unknitted. The little scar on his forehead that he keeps covered. The slow rise and fall of his stomach against you, occasionally an upper arm tensing over your shoulder. The way he rests his face in your hair, or the crook of your neck.

        Surprisingly cuddly, for a ruthless, taunting killer, who you know for a fact has slaughtered more than enough people to fill the  floor-plan of your shared apartment, probably, if you laid them down flat.

       ‘Thirty-two,’ he’d grinned, proud of himself. ‘Not many others can say the same, can they?’

        You grimaced. ‘No, I suppose not.'

        Your stomach churns again, before you drift off. You dream about fireflies and going to prison. People screaming and swimming in a pink-red bathtub. Sometimes you think it would be easier if he had just killed you the way he planned. Maybe you wouldn’t feel so guilty for being alive, then.

        If you could go back in time, you would fix him. You like to tell yourself that, sometimes. That you could change his outcome, and the fates of dozens of others as well. You would treat him right, never let the sickness twist his mind. Stop his father from planting a seed of despair and overwhelming hatred in his heart. Let him be ignorant and happy, watch the news. Not make the news.

        Maybe you would have a nice house together, if it were Jed, and you could make lemonade and watch fireworks together. Kiss him on the cheek and watch him smile. Have deep conversations that take all night, but never reach past the abstract and theoretical, into the realm of reality. Be normal. You were foolish to ever wish for anything other than normal. You would kill to have normal, now. To live without the churning in your stomach.

        You really should be more careful what you wish for.

[ryanmarshallryan]

Brian's Design Guy

In real life I once had a friend joke with me about how he'd have to eat me if our pizza didn't come soon, and I told him I'd be willing but joked "but you might get indigestion." It was a really fun conversation and he had no idea I was into vore. So here's a quick story based off of that experience.

The pizza delivery was pretty late, and we were all pretty hungry and tired from our work at the wood shop.

“If the pizza doesn’t get here soon, I might just have to eat you,” Brian said jokingly, looking at me.

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea; you might get indigestion,” I replied in jest. Brian was caught off guard by the response and laughed heartily.

“Good point, hopefully that pizza gets here soon so that doesn’t happen,” Brian continued. We continued working for a few more minutes until the pizza finally arrived and we all dug into it.

I glanced at Brian tilting his head back and shoveling pizza into his maw hungrily, watched him raise his other hand to his pot belly and rub it gently. He noticed me eyeing him from afar, and I quickly turned my focus back to my design.

While walking out of work shop to head home, Brian caught up with me and asked if wanted to meet up later to maybe catch up on some designs and get some food.

I was happily surprised and accepted. I went over to his apartment and he had ordered some burgers and fries from a local fast food place. As we ate more, he continued to notice that I was not just interested in working on some designs with him, since I kept nervously glancing over at him eating his burger.

“What’s so fascinating about me eating this burger?”

“I don’t know, you tell me…” I replied awkwardly.

“I’m still starving.”

“Maybe you’ll have to eat me after all,” I suggested, only partially in a joking manner.

“I might still be hungry even if I did,” Brian joked.

“You won’t know until after you do.”

“Hey if you’re willing a meal, get in my belly, man.”

I look over into his eyes and see a warm smile. He’s joking but I wonder if he actually could eat me.

“How much can you swallow at once? Try swallowing my burger,” I suggest.

“Whole? Well… if you’re offering.” He takes my unwrapped burger, opens his mouth wide, throws back his head like he’s taking a shot and swallows the burger whole. He then belches loudly. “That was great, but I’m still hungry.”

“Try eating me.”

“Hmm... I'd love to, but I can’t eat you, you’re my design guy,”

“But you think you could? Swallow me?”

Brian looks me up and down, “Maybe naked and covered in whipped cream. A nice and thick dessert,” he says with a grin and sensuous eye brow raise.

I go to take off my shirt, and then help him take off his own. I unbutton my pants and throw them off, as Brian rushes forward in a feat of passion and begins to kiss me deeply. He holds and caresses my back as I run my hands through his hair, then feel his belly and chest. I pause and go to his fridge and find some whipped cream and spray it all over my body, then flop onto his couch.

“Come eat, big boy,” I exclaim. Brian rubs the whipped cream all over my chest and licks some off, and I continue saying “I’m not kidding, try and actually swallow me. I’m all slicked up to go down your gullet.”

Brian shrugs again happily and takes a deep breath, expanding his broad shouldered chest with his big belly hanging low. He takes my legs up into his mouth and tastes my skin mixed with whipped cream. I feel him swallow hard and feel my legs steadily descend deeper into his throat, tightly clasped together by his esophagus.

Both Brian and I moan in delight. His face gets closer and closer to my hard on until my entire waist is in his mouth and I exclaim “Eat me, Brian! Swallow me whole, Brian!” As I climax.

My feet burst into his warm stomach and I feel the clammy walls with my toes that will soon be surrounding my entire body. Brian puts my arms close to my torso so they slide in easily with the rest of my body. I feel his broad tongue tasting my body and torso. His strong arms hold my sides and guide me deeper into him.

He does his signature throwing of his head back, and the rest of my chest and head are lifted into the air one last time as he swallows hard and pulls me deep into his body. I take a deep breath as his lips surround me and I feel my face slide against his salivating maw, down his throat and into his belly.

I curl up as the clammy stomach walls knead and churn me along with the burgers. I feel Brian fall back onto the couch and feel his hand gently rubbing my from the outside.

“How are you doing in there?” He asks me.

“It’s pretty hot and snug, but I am here for it.” I reply.

“I should’ve eaten you earlier when the pizza didn’t arrive, man, you really hit the spot.”

“You still might get indigestion,” I reply.

“But man it’s worth it!” Brian exclaims happily, “Is it worth it for you bud? I mean - going into my stomach might be a one way trip.”

“Oh, don’t worry big guy. It’s worth it. It’s worth it to me,” I say with a smile as I rub his belly from the inside.

[wen-kexing-apologist]

Looking at your username: what is it about the Wen Kexing character that grabbed you? And are there any more recent BL characters that you feel similarly about?

Ohhhhh Ginny, I love you for this question.

I just have a massive soft spot for monsters. I think the monsters we see in stories are often so complex, so interesting, so hurt. The reason my username is wen-kexing-apologist is because Kexing did nothing wrong (I say this partially in jest). I love when the wrongs a generation, a family, a society has done to someone is what fuels their rage, I love when characters decide to embrace the label they have been branded as and use it to destroy the very thing that created them.

And I love when people see past that rage, that pain, that loneliness and are able to reach out a hand to it, and to love the person who has been buried underneath the fate that others pushed upon them.

WKX was a child who lost his family violently, whose family had been betrayed, who was taken in by the ghosts, stripped of his memories, and abused. Then when he got old enough he set off to kill everyone that had done him wrong. To destroy the martial arts world because they had destroyed his life and happiness.

[And as an aside, I love when stories allow for personal slights to be compared to the ruining of nations. In this case, that justice for Wen Kexing can only be served when the whole martial arts world has burned for what they let happen to his family.]

There are many other characters that work like this for me, who are outside of BL: The creature in Frankenstein, Nimona in Nimona, James Flint in Black Sails

In BL, honestly, I haven't seen that many BLs with characters that have the same vibes, they don't tend to have the time to unpack those types of characters. That said, I have such a soft spot for Vegas in KinnPorsche and Charn in Laws of Attraction (although that is technically a lakorn).

Getting way too personal here for a minute, I know how much room within me I need to store my rage. The rage I carry with me every day scares the fuck out of me, it is something I never want to unleash, because there have been moments in my life where I've let just a fraction of it loose and I know how good it felt. There are reasons, beyond just the fact that I am a massive fucking nerd, that swordfighting is my sport of choice, and some of that has to do with the fact that violence is the point. You aren't tackling someone to get a football, you aren't accidentally connecting shins to steal a soccerball, you are learning in swordfighting very specifically how to duel, how to fight, how to draw blood (but you're doing is safely, with protective equipment, and weapons made as safely as possible). All of which to say that there is a part of me that worries I am capable of channeling the level of rage characters like Wen Kexing have, and it is extremely comforting to me to see those characters heal, and to see those characters be loved by people who have seen the worst parts of them.

Perhaps it is conceited of me to say that I watch media so I can see myself in others, but that is so much of it for me. Seeing my relationship to one of my parents played out in Jam and Li Ming's relationship the first time we see the two of them on screen in Moonlight Chicken, the relationship I have to my other parent in the complexity of Sawsimol and Wang's relationship in 180 Degrees Longitude Passes Through Us. It's why I have a soft spot for Sand in Only Friends taking care of people who have shit on him, because I am a compulsive caretaker, who has given care to people who have treated me like shit. There are just terrible parts of me that recognizes the terrible parts of characters like Wen Kexing and finds comfort in that.

Also, Wen Kexing just serves major cunt, which is the only excuse anyone needs really.

[vickyvicarious]

When I told him of our friendship and how you trust to me in the matter, he said: 'You must tell him all you think. Tell him what I think, if you can guess it, if you will. Nay, I am not jesting. This is no jest, but life and death, perhaps more.' I asked what he meant by that, for he was very serious. This was when we had come back to town, and he was having a cup of tea before starting on his return to Amsterdam. He would not give me any further clue. You must not be angry with me, Art, because his very reticence means that all his brains are working for her good. He will speak plainly enough when the time comes, be sure.

A lot going on in these few lines. First off, I love the idea that Jack is being nearly as effusive about his friendship with Arthur and the trust Art places in him to van Helsing, as he was in talking up van Helsing to Arthur. He's bragging left and right because he loves them and wants to emphasize their close relationships with him, as well as impress how wonderful they are upon each other. (Sure, it's important that there's trust in this situation but also he just wants his friends to get along!)

But van Helsing's reply there... well, it's day one and he's already considering that this might be "perhaps more" than life or death, so his open-mindedness is definitely no joke. But also, right from the very start he openly tells Jack to try and guess what he is thinking and to say it himself. Jack says his refusal to verbalize anything means that van Helsing is thinking really hard about it, but it's unclear how much that is his standard procedure (teacher quality/researcher wanting to be certain before he blurts out a theory) or how much Jack's own faith in him ties in when this is an unusual reaction. I personally feel like this might not be as common an occurrence with him outside of the classroom, and the silence right now reflects van Helsing's own uncertainty about the cause being a potentially supernatural one. At the same time, he generally is quiet before coming up with a good theory/proof... it's just that usually he comes up with one and acts on it fairly quickly. A middle ground, I guess? Where Jack's "I'm sure he'll tell me when he needs to" is partially meant to soothe himself, as well as being based in experience...

And van Helsing wants Jack to come to that conclusion on his own, even if it is just in the framework of 'this is what I think van Helsing might be thinking' partially because it's a much easier sell if he takes that step first. Along with teacher instincts and not even being certain yet if there is anything supernatural happening here.

And finally, Jack is also trying to play mediator between Arthur and van Helsing. Back to the first point I guess, but going beyond just friendship... He's gotten permission but he still wants to maintain good relations, and since Arthur is paying for everything there's an added reason to try and be like, "trust me van Helsing absolutely has a method to his madness, I promise he's not taking things lightly here when he isn't talking to me." Not to mention he wants to soothe Art's guilt about not being able to be there by reassuring him that the doctors will have this under control soon. And of course he really does have the genuine trust in van Helsing. Lots of reasons.

[bitterarcs]

I love you. A chain of words which littered, virtually plagued the lips of humans, yet the sentiment had never been said towards Reno, not even in jest. Not even by his parents. It did not matter; being graced in adoration by none other than Rufus ShinRa, the man who held the entire Planet in his palm, was everything and anything the Turk needed. When the blonde took the throne, he should have bet a hefty amount of gil that he, of all people, would be capable of wringing out the words from their President . . forced or not, it could have counted.

(  ❛  I love you, too. ❜  )

It was difficult to produce genuine tenderness in a face meant to display either cruelty or mischief, but Reno attempted his best as bare hand reached across the dining table to stroke the smooth flesh of Rufus' palm. The truth was within turquoise eyes, yet he was capable of demonstrating fondness through actions. Like a machine mimicking human behaviour, the Turk used the vile displays of affection he had seen in media and in public to produce a warmth of his own.

Thumb drew circles in his boss' hand, and he leaned his upper body forward as though desiring to steal a kiss despite the obstacle of a table and a meal before them. As tempting as it was to draw Rufus' hand to his mouth for a chaste kiss, his boss would surely murder him in privacy . . or worse, force him to shave his hair off. With a tender squeeze, Reno released his hand, feigning puppy-love reluctance, and looked down at the impressive spread of basted meats and charred vegetables.

(  ❛  I wanted to spoil you on our anniversary. You deserve it. ❜  )

Never mind the dinner was actually funded by the wealth of the ShinRa empire, but that was on a need to know basis. Reno offered a wink and a tiny laugh; a little bit of his true flair slathered in the dressings of devoted lover. Despite working an angle, some habits were simply too difficult to overcome — fingers threaded through partially slicked back onyx, not red, hairs. Upon remembering the copious amounts of hair product used to tame his spikes, he sheepishly dropped his hand, opting to pick up his fork instead.

Food was a good distraction. A distraction from the guise, however keen eyes continued to scan the crowd for any faces who appeared too curious for their own good. The sight of the steak, in truth, brought more of a smile than playing pretend with Rufus. He would definitely be rubbing this in Rude's face later. So tender, a knife was not necessary to butcher the medium-raw meat. Reno moaned low as it melted in his mouth, then caught himself and shot Rufus a knowing look.

"I love you." @sometimesrufus         (   is this a love confession, rufus ?  )

[nemo-of-house-hamartia]

WIP WEDNESDAY

Dear mutuals, how are you all doing????

After so long since my last WIP Wednesday, allow me to share with you a few words from all the chapters I have been working on while I was without WIFI!! <3 I truly hope you will like them!

(...) “I dare beg your pardon, mademoiselle,” Mathias murmured, his hands leaving the keys of the piano as if they had suddenly turned scalding hot. “It was not my intention to cause you torment,” With a quick gesture, he put on his soft gloves again, hiding away his scars, feeling the shame he always felt at the sight of them.

When Dorothea raised her face from her own hands to look at him, eyes were swollen from all the crying or her nose and cheeks splotched with white and purple stains, Mathias felt mortified for having been the cause of such heartbreak.

What caught him off guard and caused him to feel washed over with sympathy for her was the absolute emptiness inside those gray irises. That void, that absolute desolation, he had seen it and known it, times and times over, every single moment his dark eyes had the misfortune of landing in a mirror, after the great fire, when he thought there was no hope for a better day, no consolation in knowing that the dark of the night would soon end and the sun would kiss him again with his rays.

He stood there one moment longer, apprehension growing in his chest for he felt unfit in how to approach her, not knowledgeable in what to do or say to bring whatever comfort he could to that strange woman.

Had she been one of his sisters, he would have taken her in his arms and embraced her until all tears had left her; he would have jested, suggesting her that they could go for ride outside of Paris or pick up some flowers that he could braid in their hair.

But this woman was different, more akin to how his Lady Mother was in the way she carried herself. He tried to recall how his father would console his mother, but couldn’t.

He bowed his head, standing awkwardly next to the piano and considering if to take his leave so not to inconvenience her any further when she finally spoke.

She whispered something barely audible from the tightness of her throat.

“Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle, I…I am afraid I didn’t hear what you said,”

“It was my father’s favourite,” she repeated with broken voice, her eyes looking at the piano with desperate affection.

She stood up, the gown that Colette had given her almost creating a tray behind her for how much bigger it was, it almost made her look like a ghost.

“I was afraid I would forget it, afraid that whatever happened to me - whatever made me lose my mind - might also take away whatever memories I had of the people I loved the most. So, I wrote the song down,” she started to say, heavy tears started to roll down her cheeks again as she caressed the keys with gentle hand.

Mathias could understand only partially what she said, but the pain behind her words was unmistakable.

“Your father played the piano, mademoiselle?”

She nodded, as a tiny smile full of bitter regret touched her lips.

“He did. He does. Splendidly so,” she hiccuped, heart squeezing in her chest. “As a child, I could always hear him playing at night. I would sneak out of my bedroom and sit just outside his solar door, listening. My mother used to sit beside him, there, always there, always at his right, and they would sing and sing and sing to one another, laughing. Byron would find me asleep in the corridor, and tuck me away in bed, and then I would dream of songs and laughter and dances and happiness,”

She sat at the piano bench, pressing one or two keys, before lowering her head to give her tears way to fall in silence once more, staining the light fabric of the nightgown as they landed on her knees. Her chest heaved, the only sign that she was sobbing, holding within all of her pain.

Mathias’s eyes turned down in sadness in seeing all that suffering.

Gently kneeling at her side, he looked at her, offering his most comforting smile.

“I do not pretend to fully comprehend what happened, Mademoiselle, nor am I so presumptuous to say that I know what you must feel. But I promise, on my honour, we will discover what happened to you, and if there is a way to bring you back to your family, if there is a path, we will find it. You have my word. As an Assassin.” Dorothea raised her eyes, furrowing her brow for a moment. Assassin? (............)

(......) “Kill him.” Byron murmured. “But Lord Harrison-“ Byron walked up to his face. “If you think Lord Starrick would allow any piety toward our enemies, you have no wits to yourself whatsoever. Kill him, Master Barclay. I won’t ask it again.” Markus’ whole face transformed, body reacted almost against his will, and with hands trembling, he made the mistake of looking for one moment into the eyes of the Assassin sitting on the floor. The silent plea of mercy was there, all written in watery blue eyes. The gun went off with a deafening boom. Byron looked once more to the desolated rest of the two Assassins, his face not letting transpire a single emotion. If anyone were to look upon him, one would have thought him bored by the whole ordeal. But this would have been the furthest from the truth. He looked at Markus, whose face was pale and covered in sweat as if he was about to either retch or pass out. Byron narrowed his eyes as he walked just by him, his footsteps heavy as if to underline the solemnity of his pace He stood by the Master Templar without so much deigning him of a glance. When he spoke, he saw the man flinching. “I do not take insubordination kindly, Markus. Defy my order again and I will make sure that no one will ever find you ever again. You have taken an oath. You were given a second chance and I will make sure that you follow through with it. I will see you abide by it by any means necessary, or I swear on what I hold most dear in this life, I will make you regret the day you have set foot inside the Manor. Understood?” Markus turned to look toward the man that was towering over him, his voice a squawk that died in his chest before it could pass through his lips. A shaky nod was all that he could muster. Satisfied with the response, Byron walked past him, never turning to face either the Master Templar or the slaughter of the room. As he walked past the entrance door, he saw Victor reaching out to him, his dark eyes looking just past his shoulders with worries. “Mylord,” “Yes, Master Dorian?” “I received a message from Master Starrick the Youngest. You are needed in White Chapel as soon as you can,” Byron nodded, as he took the short telegram from his pupil’s hands. He skimmed through the message with careful attention: even if the words were written with great economy, the urgency of its tone couldn’t be denied. When he raised his eyes to meet Victor Dorian’s apprehensive gaze, his lips were thinned in a grimace of almost satisfaction. “Your Commands, My Lord?” “I shall answer the Young Master Starrick’s call. I will go alone. Keep Markus with you. And before you head back to London-“ Byron turned to look at the small house, hatred seeping into all his being like a poison spreading in his veins with every heartbeat.”- Burn everything and then spread salt upon the soil. I want to see this place erased from the face of the Earth,”

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