#like in the vein of nature overtaking the man-made

[silhouettecrow]

365 Days of Writing Prompts: Day 255

Adjective: Burgeoning

Noun: Wisteria

Definitions for those who need/want them:

Burgeoning: beginning to grow or increase rapidly, or flourishing

Wisteria: a climbing shrub of the pea family, with hanging clusters of pale bluish-lilac flowers, and native to North America and eastern Asia, ornamental varieties are widely grown on walls and pergolas

[nightswatchdisbandmentera]

I have a few jumbled thoughts about the ending of the Long Night, especially as it would relate to the whole idea of “the dragon has three heads”. The Long Night represents a disruption in a larger, cyclical framework—a period where imbalance overtakes the natural order. And within this context, I see each ‘head’ of the three-headed dragon as uniquely responsible for restoring balance and bringing the world back into harmony. Each ‘head’ embodies a distinct facet of restoring balance to the world, yet they work together, either in tandem or sequentially, to set things right once more. So I’ve been trying to tie together some thoughts I have regarding what each being in this triumvirate is uniquely suited to do. Because I personally don’t think any one person will be responsible for being the hero, as that just seems so antithetical to this series; and I also think the Long Night is just way too multifaceted to be ended by a singular action or person. 

This is what we know about the Long Night:

“Oh, my sweet summer child,” Old Nan said quietly, “what do you know of fear? Fear is for the winter, my little lord, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep and the ice wind comes howling out of the north.Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and hungry, and the white walkers move through the woods.” “You mean the Others,” Bran said querulously. “The Others,” Old Nan agreed. “Thousands and thousands of years ago, a winter fell that was cold and hard and endless beyond all memory of man. There came a night that lasted a generation, and kings shivered and died in their castles even as the swineherds in their hovels. Women smothered their children rather than see them starve, and cried, and felt their tears freeze on their cheeks.” Her voice and her needles fell silent, and she glanced up at Bran with pale, filmy eyes and asked, “So, child. This is the sort of story you like?” “Well,” Bran said reluctantly, “yes, only …” Old Nan nodded. “In that darkness, the Others came for the first time,” she said as her needles went click click click. “They were cold things, dead things, that hated iron and fire and the touch of the sun, and every creature with hot blood in its veins. They swept over holdfasts and cities and kingdoms, felled heroes and armies by the score, riding their pale dead horses and leading hosts of the slain. All the swords of men could not stay their advance, and even maidens and suckling babes found no pity in them. They hunted the maids through frozen forests, and fed their dead servants on the flesh of human children.” (Bran IV, AGoT)

We focus so heavily on the Others—understandably so—that we often overlook some crucial details. The Others don’t exist in isolation. They arrive in the wake of an extreme winter, which enables their existence for they are “demons made of snow and ice and cold” (Samwell V, ASoS). And with the sun and its heat gone, they move within the darkness. So confronting the Others in battle, in and of itself, does not end the Long Night. The true struggle lies in addressing the elements that allow them to exist in the first place. To fully defeat the Others, our heroes must first restore light and the balance of the seasons.

No single character in this series has the ability to achieve this on their own. Even the key magical protagonists are only equipped to address certain aspects of the conflict. That’s why the dragon must have three heads, each embodying a crucial responsibility: one to restore the natural cycle and end the long winter, another uniquely positioned as the antithesis to the Others, and a third tasked with confronting darkness by bringing light back into the world.

By now, you can see where I’m heading with this, right? I believe the three heads are Bran, who represents summer and stands as the antithesis to winter; Daenerys, whose dragons are the direct counter to the Others; and Jon, who occupies a more complex role as both the one who harnesses light and embodies it. Beyond this, each of these characters has been positioned as a chosen one, with distinct yet mirrored magical destinies that set them apart from the other POV characters.

I’m reminded of a quote from Arya’s POV in Dance:

One time, the girl remembered, the Sailor’s Wife had walked her rounds with her and told her tales of the city’s stranger gods. “That is the house of the Great Shepherd. Three-headed Trios has that tower with three turrets. The first head devours the dying, and the reborn emerge from the third. I don’t know what the middle head’s supposed to do….”

While I have more detailed thoughts on this passage, for now, I believe Daenerys represents the first head, Bran the third, and Jon the middle. Each head is tasked with a unique responsibility—one that is specific to them, that the others cannot fulfill. To end the Long Night, the three heads work together, but each plays a distinct part. There is some overlap, particularly with the middle head, who might serve as the balance between the extremes, yet each figure is positioned to occupy a particular space within this framework.

So I want to lay my thoughts here and see if we can get some wider discussion 👀 

The first aspect of the Long Night - and perhaps the most important if we’re thinking of what makes it happen in the first place - is the long winter that precedes it.

Bran looked down. There was nothing below him now but snow and cold and death, a frozen wasteland…  (Bran III, AGoT)

This winter provides the very elements that sustain the Others: snow and ice. It’s this aspect that I believe extends humanity’s struggle during the Long Night. With an almost endless supply of ice and snow, can our heroes truly defeat the Others through direct combat alone? I really don’t think so. The abundance of snow, accompanied by a persistent cold, suggests that new Others can continuously be ‘created’. While this is largely speculative given how little we know about them, I find it compelling that the Others seem to materialize out of the darkness itself (see Prologue, AGoT). And when Sam kills the Other in Storm, it simply dissolves…

Sam rolled onto his side, eyes wide as the Other shrank and puddled, dissolving away. In twenty heartbeats its flesh was gone, swirling away in a fine white mist. Beneath were bones like milkglass, pale and shiny, and they were melting too.

And that might not mean much in and of itself, but I’m inclined to think of the ADWD prologue:

The white world turned and fell away. For a moment it was as if he were inside the weirwood, gazing out through carved red eyes as a dying man twitched feebly on the ground and a madwoman danced blind and bloody underneath the moon, weeping red tears and ripping at her clothes. Then both were gone and he was rising, melting, his spirit borne on some cold wind. He was in the snow and in the clouds, he was a sparrow, a squirrel, an oak. A horned owl flew silently between his trees, hunting a hare; Varamyr was inside the owl, inside the hare, inside the trees. Deep below the frozen ground, earthworms burrowed blindly in the dark, and he was them as well. I am the wood, and everything that’s in it, he thought, exulting. A hundred ravens took to the air, cawing as they felt him pass. A great elk trumpeted, unsettling the children clinging to his back. A sleeping direwolf raised his head to snarl at empty air.

The Other and the human skinchanger dissolving after “death” is so fascinating. And it raises many questions. Death wasn’t the end for Varamyr as his spirit went into his wolf. So is that the same with the Other who also dissolved into white air? As long as magic and suitable conditions (i.e., winter and all its elements) exist, then the Others can never truly die and thus could take on another form?

If that’s the case, then winter itself must be addressed to cut off the Others’ vital resources—along with the magic that sustains them, though we’ll get to that later. And who better to combat winter if not Bran Stark of “Winter-fell”?

Now you know, the crow whispered as it sat on his shoulder. Now you know why you must live. “Why?” Bran said, not understanding, falling, falling. Because winter is coming. […] Bran touched his forehead, between his eyes. The place where the crow had pecked him was still burning, but there was nothing there, no blood, no wound. He felt weak and dizzy. He tried to get out of bed, but nothing happened. And then there was movement beside the bed, and something landed lightly on his legs. He felt nothing. A pair of yellow eyes looked into his own, shining like the sun. The window was open and it was cold in the room, but the warmth that came off the wolf enfolded him like a hot bath. His pup, Bran realized … or was it? He was so big now. He reached out to pet him, his hand trembling like a leaf. When his brother Robb burst into the room, breathless from his dash up the tower steps, the direwolf was licking Bran’s face. Bran looked up calmly. “His name is Summer,” he said.

Bran’s wolf, a reflection of his own identity, only receives his name after Bran glimpses his magical destiny. With winter’s horrors looming, Bran must become the summer that rises to challenge it.

As the Prince of Winterfell, Bran’s title and inheritance—rooted in the Stark legacy from the first Long Night and Bran the Builder—signify a dominance over winter. He is the summer prince, heir to the place where “winter fell, defeated”.

“And who is Summer?” Jojen prompted. “My direwolf.” He smiled. “Prince of the green.”

Prince. The man-sound came into his head suddenly, yet he could feel the rightness of it. Prince of the green, prince of the wolfswood. He was strong and swift and fierce, and all that lived in the good green world went in fear of him. (Bran I, ASoS)

Because winter brings death to the land, summer is needed to restore warmth, vitality, and breathe life back into the world. And that’s why Bran’s identity not just as the “prince of the green”, but as the last of the greenseers (of course once Bloodraven kicks the bucket) puts him in a unique position during the Long Night. 

He will be the one to end the winter.

I’m still piecing together what this might ultimately look like, as we need more information about greenseeing and how Bran may fully harness it. However, from what we do know, it seems greenseeing is extends to earth magic—shaping and manipulating the natural world, as seen with events like the Hammer of the Waters. Additionally, greenseers can perceive past, present, and future, which essentially aligns with the passage of time. And isn’t that what the cyclical nature of the seasons embodies? Time flows, and with it come physical changes in the land: winter brings barrenness, spring rebirth, and summer growth. Humanity needs someone who understands this cycle and possesses the power to influence the earth itself.

Since Bran has already glimpsed the heart of winter, it’s possible he will find himself returning there, perhaps retracing the steps of the last hero. Additionally, the Isle of Faces and the God’s Eye, rich with weirwoods and sacred significance, seem like fitting locations for him to play a pivotal role in restoring balance; especially when we consider his role as a Fisher King/Grail figure who is linked with the renewal of once barren land. Whether Bran has to dig deep into the earth’s roots or manipulate the flow of time itself, the Long Night cannot end without his dominance over winter.

However, while restoring the balance of the seasons is crucial, neutralizing the immediate threat posed by the Others and their thralls is extremely important- and that’s where Dany comes in!

That night she dreamt that she was Rhaegar, riding to the Trident. But she was mounted on a dragon, not a horse. When she saw the Usurper’s rebel host across the river they were armored all in ice, but she bathed them in dragonfire and they melted away like dew and turned the Trident into a torrent. Some small part of her knew that she was dreaming, but another part exulted. This is how it was meant to be. (Dany III, ASoS)

I’ve argued before that, of our three chosen ones, Dany is the best suited to take on the role of military commander—and I don’t think that’s a far-fetched claim. She has one of the cleanest and most impressive military records in the main series, proving herself a formidable tactician. Not to mention, she commands the dragons—living embodiments of fire—who have been positioned as the direct counter to the Others, creatures of ice. While the Others bring cold and death, Dany and her dragons are fire made flesh, a force of life and renewal.

There are other narrative arguments for why Dany’s role is going to be so heavily militaristic. 

Until one day Prince Rhaegar found something in his scrolls that changed him. No one knows what it might have been, only that the boy suddenly appeared early one morning in the yard as the knights were donning their steel. He walked up to Ser Willem Darry, the master-at-arms, and said, ‘I will require sword and armor. It seems I must be a warrior.’” (Dany I, ASoS)

“No one ever looked for a girl,” he said. “It was a prince that was promised, not a princess. Rhaegar, I thought … the smoke was from the fire that devoured Summerhall on the day of his birth, the salt from the tears shed for those who died. He shared my belief when he was young, but later he became persuaded that it was his own son who fulfilled the prophecy, for a comet had been seen above King’s Landing on the night Aegon was conceived, and Rhaegar was certain the bleeding star had to be a comet. What fools we were, who thought ourselves so wise! The error crept in from the translation. Dragons are neither male nor female, Barth saw the truth of that, but now one and now the other, as changeable as flame. The language misled us all for a thousand years. Daenerys is the one, born amidst salt and smoke. The dragons prove it.” (Samwell IV, AFFC)

“Azor Ahai, beloved of R’hllor! The Warrior of Light, the Son of Fire! Come forth […]” (Davos I, ACoK)

Azor Ahai is said to be a warrior, and while Dany doesn’t fit the traditional image of what that means, she is still an active participant in warfare. Moreover, one of the central aspects of her character is her role as an agent of freedom:

“…this Mother of Dragons, this Breaker of Chains, is above all a rescuer.” (Tyrion VI, ADWD)

She has spent much of her arc directly combating slavery which might seem unrelated, but the Others come with their own type of bondage in their creations of undead. The slavery of the Others is not just physical, but spiritual, and Dany’s role in battling them aligns with her fight for freedom. She isn’t suited to combat winter itself, as Bran is, but her strength lies in physical battle, which Bran is not. To put it another way: if Bran is Frodo journeying into the depths of Mordor, Dany is Aragorn, turning Sauron’s eye with her dragons and leading the fight to defeat his armies.

But I don’t think her role ends there. 

The Others are not dead. They are strange, beautiful… think, oh… the Sidhe made of ice, something like that… a different sort of life… inhuman, elegant, dangerous. SSM

I’ve already mentioned that beyond the elements of winter—snow, ice, and cold—the Others are sustained by magic. Building on the idea of the Other dissolving into mist, it’s possible that magic is what binds these beings together: magic fuses a consciousness with snow and ice into a corporeal entity. So, in addition to battling them physically, our heroes—and Dany in particular—may have to confront this magic that gives the Others their form and power.

“Half a year gone, that man could scarcely wake fire from dragonglass. He had some small skill with powders and wildfire, sufficient to entrance a crowd while his cutpurses did their work. He could walk across hot coals and make burning roses bloom in the air, but he could no more aspire to climb the fiery ladder than a common fisherman could hope to catch a kraken in his nets.” Dany looked uneasily at where the ladder had stood. Even the smoke was gone now, and the crowd was breaking up, each man going about his business. In a moment more than a few would find their purses flat and empty. “And now?” “And now his powers grow, Khaleesi. And you are the cause of it.” “Me?” She laughed. “How could that be?” The woman stepped closer and lay two fingers on Dany’s wrist. “You are the Mother of Dragons, are you not?” (Dany III, ACoK)

The birth of Dany’s dragons seems to have strengthened fire magic, tying her deeply to the very fabric of magic itself. The AGoT bookend suggests that the Others’ ice magic and the dragons’ fire magic may be connected, part of a larger magical ecosystem, or perhaps opposing forces that coexist on opposite ends of the spectrum. Ice and fire, death and life—both seem bound by the same mystical forces. Given Dany’s connection to magic and the fact that the reemergence of her dragons parallels the resurgence of the Others, she seems best suited to combat the magic that enables the Others to take form—serving as an inverse to her bringing dragons to life. And this underscores her dual role as both a destroyer and creator of life

The specifics on Dany’s confrontation with the Others and the magic that creates them remains unclear. She could venture to the heart of winter/the Lands of Always Winter and face the source of their power, creating narrative symmetry between the dragons of the Lands of the Long Summer and the creatures from the Lands of Always Winter. Alternatively, she might find herself in the Isle of Faces if her dream of fighting the Others at the Trident is fulfilled literally. The Isle, with its rich magical ecosystem, would be a fitting place for such a climax.

Bran, too, seems destined to go to the Isle of Faces (I’m a firm ‘Bran, King at the Gods Eye’ truther). This could be where their paths cross and their roles intersect. Bran, with his deep connection to nature and time, might provide Dany with guidance on how to engage with magic and influence its effects on the world. With Bran’s knowledge and Dany’s firepower, she could then deliver the final blow. While much of this remains speculative, what is clear is that their roles complement each other.

And that leaves Jon, the “light bringer”.

They said the words together, as the last light faded in the west and grey day became black night. “Hear my words, and bear witness to my vow,” they recited, their voices filling the twilit grove. “Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night’s Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.” (Jon VI, AGoT)

It’s important to see Jon’s primary function as an extension of his current role. He is a man who watches for the night—a sentinel standing against the encroaching darkness. This role is deeply embedded in his identity, and it’s fascinating to see how it manifests in his prophetic dreams.

It’s black inside, and I can see the steps spiraling down. Somehow I know I have to go down there, but I don't want to. I'm afraid of what might be waiting for me. The old Kings of Winter are down there, sitting on their thrones with stone wolves at their feet and iron swords across their laps, but it's not them I'm afraid of. I scream that I'm not a Stark, that this isn't my place, but it's no good, I have to go anyway, so I start down, feeling the walls as I descend, with no torch to light the way. It gets darker and darker, until I want to scream." He stopped, frowning, embarrassed. "That's when I always wake." (Jon IV,AGoT)

Last night he had dreamed the Winterfell dream again. He was wandering the empty castle, searching for his father, descending into the crypts. Only this time the dream had gone further than before. In the dark he'd heard the scrape of stone on stone. When he turned he saw that the vaults were opening, one after the other. As the dead kings came stumbling from their cold black graves, Jon had woken in pitch-dark, his heart hammering. (Jon VII, AGoT)

The Winterfell crypt dreams contain many intriguing elements, but I’ll focus primarily on two key motifs: death and darkness.

Jon is the most natural fit for the middle head of the dragon because he exists at the intersection of extremes: light and darkness, destruction and renewal, death and life.

When the spirit stepped out of the open tomb, pale white and moaning for blood, Sansa ran shrieking for the stairs, and Bran wrapped himself around Robb’s leg, sobbing. Arya stood her ground and gave the spirit a punch. It was only Jon, covered with flour. “You stupid,” she told him, “you scared the baby,” but Jon and Robb just laughed and laughed, and pretty soon Bran and Arya were laughing too. (Arya IV, AGoT)

While Bran is connected to summer and warmth through his magical familiar, Jon possesses a unique sensitivity to death, embodied by his bond with Ghost.

He sniffed at the bark, smelled wolf and tree and boy, but behind that there were other scents, the rich brown smell of warm earth and the hard grey smell of stone and something else, something terrible. Death, he knew. He was smelling death. He cringed back, his hair bristling, and bared his fangs.  Don't be afraid, I like it in the dark. No one can see you, but you can see them. But first you have to open your eyes. See? Like this. And the tree reached down and touched him.  (Jon VII, ACoK)

Furthermore, Jon’s fate at the end of ADWD implies that through his death and eventual rebirth, he becomes a ghost in his own right—caught between life and death, existing yet not fully alive. This intertwines with his connection to darkness, as Jon straddles the boundary between light and darkness: a shadow.

All in black, he was a shadow among shadows, dark of hair, long of face, grey of eye. (Jon VII, ACoK)

“I can show you.” Melisandre draped one slender arm over Ghost, and the direwolf licked her face. “The Lord of Light in his wisdom made us male and female, two parts of a greater whole. In our joining there is power. Power to make life. Power to make light. Power to cast shadows.” “Shadows.” The world seemed darker when he said it. “Every man who walks the earth casts a shadow on the world. Some are thin and weak, others long and dark. You should look behind you, Lord Snow. The moon has kissed you and etched your shadow upon the ice twenty feet tall.” Jon glanced over his shoulder. The shadow was there, just as she had said, etched in moonlight against the Wall. (Jon VI, ADWD)

Shadows, like ghosts, are echoes of something once tangible. They arise from obstructed light, existing in a realm that is neither completely dark nor wholly bright, hovering between presence and absence. They highlight where light is absent. But shadows also exist only in the presence of light, revealing the delicate boundary between illumination and the lack thereof. 

So building on that idea, it’s significant that Jon’s frequent journeys into the Stark underworld, where death and darkness prevail, take a pivotal turn in ASoS when he becomes vividly aware of light fading in real time.

He dreamt he was back in Winterfell, limping past the stone kings on their thrones. Their grey granite eyes turned to follow him as he passed, and their grey granite fingers tightened on the hilts of the rusted swords upon their laps. You are no Stark, he could hear them mutter, in heavy granite voices. There is no place for you here. Go away. He walked deeper into the darkness. "Father?" he called. "Bran? Rickon?" No one answered. A chill wind was blowing on his neck. "Uncle?" he called. "Uncle Benjen? Father? Please, Father, help me." Up above he heard drums. They are feasting in the Great Hall, but I am not welcome there. I am no Stark, and this is not my place. His crutch slipped and he fell to his knees. The crypts were growing darker. A light has gone out somewhere. "Ygritte?" he whispered. "Forgive me. Please." But it was only a direwolf, grey and ghastly, spotted with blood, his golden eyes shining sadly through the dark…

This is particularly noteworthy because of a similar, parallel dreams:

That night he dreamed of the feast Ned Stark had thrown when King Robert came to Winterfell. The hall rang with music and laughter, though the cold winds were rising outside. At first it was all wine and roast meat, and Theon was making japes and eyeing the serving girls and having himself a fine time . . . until he noticed that the room was growing darker. The music did not seem so jolly then; he heard discords and strange silences, and notes that hung in the air bleeding. Suddenly the wine turned bitter in his mouth, and when he looked up from his cup he saw that he was dining with the dead. (Theon V, ACoK)

The fires that ran along the blade were guttering out, and Jaime remembered what Cersei had said. No. Terror closed a hand about his throat. Then his sword went dark, and only Brienne’s burned, as the ghosts came rushing in. (Jaime VI, ASoS)

The ASoS crypt dream runs parallel to Theon’s ACoK dream and Jaime’s ASoS dream, with a common element: the presence of death and growing darkness.

While the crypts are inherently dark, Jon perceives when other sources of light are extinguished—true to his role in the Night’s Watch, which is to keep vigil against encroaching darkness. This ability to sense the fading light underscores his ghostly nature, where he reflects light while simultaneously existing in a state of absence. It also highlights his role as a shadow, existing in the blending of light and darkness. As both a shadow and a ghost, he can navigate these dual states, acting within the world’s transitions between day and night.

Which brings us to what I consider a continuation of Jon VII; while that chapter is marked by a lack of light, this next chapter is characterized by an abundance of it:

Burning shafts hissed upward, trailing tongues of fire. Scarecrow brothers tumbled down, black cloaks ablaze. ‘Snow,’ an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. As the dead men reached the top of the Wall, he sent them down to die again. He slew a greybeard, a beardless boy, a giant, a gaunt man with filed teeth, and a girl with thick red hair. Too late he recognized Ygritte. She was gone as quick as she’d appeared. The world dissolved into a red mist. (Jon XII, ADWD)

At some point between these two dreams, Jon found (or even created) light and he wields it as a weapon. And it’s clear that Jon’s sword in this dream is the actual manifestation Azor Ahai’s Lightbringer:

“In ancient books of Asshai it is written that there will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour, a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him.” (Davos I, ACoK)

Lightbringer has two major requirements: to give off heat and to illuminate. Jon’s sword does both!

We’ve seen a number Lightbringer-esque weapons (e.g., Beric’s and Thoros’), but Stannis Baratheon’s sword is the most intriguing proxy.

Davos knelt, and Stannis drew his longsword. Lightbringer, Melisandre had named it; the red sword of heroes, drawn from the fires where the seven gods were consumed. The room seemed to grow brighter as the blade slid from its scabbard. The steel had a glow to it; now orange, now yellow, now red. The air shimmered around it, and no jewel had ever sparkled so brilliantly. But when Stannis touched it to Davos’s shoulder, it felt no different than any other longsword. “Ser Davos of House Seaworth,” the king said, “are you my true and honest liege man, now and forever?” (Davos IV, ASoS)

While Stannis’ sword is visually dazzling, it is, in essence, a well-made fake. Its bright glow meets one of the two requirements for “light-bringer”, yet its impressive variety of hues with no actual heat serve as a clue that it is not the true sword of heroes. When the world cloaked in darkness, a weapon that shines as brightly as the sun is undoubtedly a powerful symbol. And Stannis’ sword is bright….

….but it’s almost too bright. His sword emits the wrong kind of light—one that is all glamor with little substance. This great conflict is referred to as the “war for the dawn”. So what humanity needs is a reminder of the dawn itself:

As a red dawn broke in the east, Grey Wind began to howl again. (Catelyn X, AGoT)

A swollen red sun hung low against the western hills when the gates of the castle opened. (Catelyn IX, AGoT)

Dawn and the sun are often associated with red hues in the text, a color heavily tied to fire (e.g., House Targaryen and R’hllor). Stannis’ sword gives off light, but it lacks the essence of true warmth. In contrast, Jon’s sword is the real Lightbringer: it is hot enough to burn against the cold and it radiates the actual red hues of dawn, thus illuminating the world around it.

Jon’s role as the archetypal fantasy protagonist necessitates a magic sword—Lightbringer will be his Excalibur; his Anduril. But more than just being a weapon, his Lightbringer symbolizes the transition from darkness to light. Dawn, a moment of transformation, begins with deep red hues that retain the shadows of night before blooming into the full brightness of the sun. Like the early dawn, Jon straddles the line between night and day, existing between life and death, darkness and light. As the middle dragon head, he embodies balance.

I’m not really sure how that plays out in the endgame; hell, I still can’t figure out how Jon will “forge” Lightbringer in the first place. But he has to end up somewhere for his arc to reach its magical climax. I’ve speculated that Bran and Dany might find themselves at the Isle of Faces or the heart of winter. The latter is a strong possibility for Jon, especially if he too recreates the last hero’s journey; not to mention his connections to snow and winter. But he could also return to the Wall, a mighty structure that symbolizes the boundary between life and death. The Wall is also imbued with ancient magic that radiates outward (e.g., strengthening Mel’s magic and prolonging Maester Aemon’s life). Therefore, it could serve as the ideal location for Jon to reignite and wield the light that has long been hidden.

Though Bran, Jon, and Dany each have distinct roles in restoring balance, their actions are deeply intertwined, with shared themes across their arcs. Jon and Bran connect through their existence in darkness, as seen in their ACoK dreams. All three share connections to death: Bran inhabits the realm of the dead (Mel I, ADWD; Jon’s ACoK wolfdream), Jon embodies a ghost-like nature that straddles life and death, and Dany is called the “bride of fire, daughter of death”. Additionally, Jon and Bran are linked to winter, and both Jon and Dany share the legacy of Azor Ahai and Lightbringer, with dragon breath also echoing the red hues of dawn. Together, they are not just separate forces but three heads of the same dragon, working in concert to ensure that the Long Night ends and the cycle of life and death continues.

TL;DR:

The dragon has three heads, each with a unique role in maintaining the cycle of balance, despite their overlaps in common themes. Bran, the Prince of Winterfell, embodies summer and inherits the legacy of the kings of winter, making him the most suited to confront the Long Night’s origin: winter itself. The Long Night cannot end without Bran’s triumph, as winter represents death while summer signifies new life. Dany, linked to the ebb and flow of magic and the direct antithesis of the Others, is best positioned to engage them in battle and counteract the ice magic that enables their existence. As the perfect manifestation of fire magic, she serves as a powerful weapon, embodying the theme of destruction by being “breaker of chains”. Meanwhile, Jon straddles the boundaries of light and dark, life and death, destruction and creation. His unique position allows him to navigate these extremes, bringing forth the lost light while holding back the consuming darkness. As the embodiment of balance—dead yet alive, icy yet fiery—he ensures the proper equilibrium between these forces.

Dragons, symbols of life, fire, and summer, starkly contrast with the cold death represented by winter and its children. Daenerys, as the Mother of Dragons, embodies the nurturing aspect of life, actively bringing forth new existence by counteracting suspended states of life (e.g., awakening dragon eggs and freeing slaves). Bran, representing youthful vitality, symbolizes young life that is both born and maturing. Jon occupies a unique position in the middle; he is like spring, a new life emerging from darkness, akin to an awakened dragon—life once petrified but now revitalized. Together, these three form a multifaceted dragon that embodies various dimensions of life, each contributing uniquely to the fight against the Long Night.

[jinjojess]

Stupid Names: Rain Code Edition (Vol. I?)

I gotta say, I do appreciate that the Rain Code characters’ naming keeps the DanRon sensibilities, but formats them in a Western enough way that I can finally point to something to get people to understand the specific kind of stupid that DR names evoke.

Up until now, the closest I could get was the Gyakuten Saiban/Ace Attorney series, but in those games the names are extremely on the nose, where as DanRon is a tiny bit more subtle.

Like all of these characters’ dumb, dumb names sound hit the ear just the same way as most DR characters’ do to someone who knows Japanese. Aside from a few extra tidbits here and there, I’ll mostly let you guys soak in how dumb the names are this time and do quick intros for the characters.

First up, we’ve got our crew of detectives with their special talents. (Why is special backwards? Does that mean something?) They’re all dispatched out to the Kanai Ward, where the game takes place.

First one out in the open and the rest under the read more:

Desuhiko Thunderbolt

Special Skill: Disguise

Okay so I have to assume that the “desu” here is evoking “death” and not the meme about the part of speech, but you never know. The “-hiko” ending is, as you may know, a common boys’ name suffix. This is our womanizer character, who also wants to become a famous detective. He’s always carrying his giant backpack full of disguises, like a horny little happy mask salesman.

Also, reading the notes about how he can change not just his face and clothes, but his height, voice, and body type is making me laugh, because they really just made a More OP Sagishi, didn’t they?

Aphex Logan

Special Skill: Detecting Life

A veritable Seer of Life, here. Can sense and pinpoint the location of any living thing within a 50 meter radius. His posture, backstory, and overall vibe say yanki tough guy (after his lawyer parents died, he grew up in the slums), but that hat/mask thing kinda says New Japan Wrestling, so now I’m wondering if his last name is a reference to one half of the internet’s shittiest brothers. It does say he tends to solve things with violence.

Zange Eraser

Special Skill: Thoughtography

I want the last name to be a pun on eraser + razor so bad. I mean, the “zan” in the first name could refer to slicing with a sword, so it’d be so good! Oh well. In Japanese, “erasing” is slang for killing someone, in the same vein as “rubbin’ him out” kind of Looney Toons mobster talk. This older guy has the vibe of a seasoned warrior, and never speaks about his past. However, since he sometimes refers to himself as a “former official”, it’s possible he may be an ex-govt employee. His ability is that he can project his own memories as images onto digital devices, so I’m not sure what the pole is for. Selfie stick?

Zilch Alexander 

Special Skill: Animal Puppetry

Being able to control animals is cool, I guess, but man this is a really good example of DR’s trademark “One Normal Name + One Really Stupid Name” principle in action. 

Anyway, Zilch here loves the harmony between man and nature, and so he specializes in things that blend the two (i.e., animals). He has tendency to overtake conversations in order to make sure things proceed optimally, which gives off the impression to others that he thinks he’s better than everyone else. But hey, nobody’s perfect.

What an amazing character design. Love these animals’ poses and expressions, too. No notes.

Vivia Twilight

Special Skill: Separating Spirit from Body

Despite the name sounding like someone’s MLP OC, this little twink can yeet his soul out of his body to become invisible and not let walls or floors stand in his way. This name is so good, damn. 

Vivia is one of those people with aesthetic, decadent kinda vibes. You know the ones. He’s got a self-indulgent type of personality, and you can often find him sleeping under the agency’s heater or beneath a hotel grand piano or whatever.

This is 100% the fanbait character.

Pucci Lavmin (Pucchi Ravmin)

Special Skill: Super Hearing

She may look like a little kid, but beneath her petite exterior lies machine-like serenity and intellect. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t get to talk to other people much, but she has a habit of unexpected responses or emotional outbursts in conversation. Guess she took the touching grass thing prescriptively?

Her skill seems a bit underwhelming considering we have a guy who can shapeshift and one who can re-enact that Pokemon Tower anime episode at will, but what do I know. I guess there’s lots of good practical applications to this one, which they point out, like listening in on conversations or for footsteps and stuff.

Harara Nightmare (Halala Nightmare)

Special Skill: Past Vision

Oh sure, don’t give me any direction on the romanization for this one, thanks. Also, why are both detectives on this page voiced by someone named Yui, written the same exact way? Weird. Anyway, excellent name, love it. Hindsight is always 20/20, and imagine if you could look back at actual 2020? Nightmare, right?

Harara/Halala always keeps a cool head and is able to make very precise deductions, so they’re a veteran of plenty of tough cases. That said, they trust nothing more than money, and won’t take on any clients that don’t offer sufficient compensation for their skills.

※ Thanks to @jadyjads​ for letting me know that the character’s official English profile uses they/them! (I’m sure you’re not surprised to learn that there are zero gender indicators in most of these blurbs in Japanese, so I usually just go off the VA to make a decision.)

Fubuki Clockford (possibly Crockford, but come on)

Special Skill: Rewinding Time

This one is my favorite name. As you may or may not know, “fubuki” means blizzard but is also a common girl’s name, but that’s not what makes it wonderful. The real star of the show is the meaningful last name that also sounds like a background character in Illbleed.

Good news: this Knight of Time’s powers aren’t busted, because you can only go back once, and after that you can’t use the power again until more time has passed. 

Fubuki herself is an illustrious daughter of the noble Clockford family, and hasn’t had a lot of opportunities to interact with the normal, everyday world. As such, she’s got some unique views on things, and she’s often causing issues for people by marching to the beat of her own drum. She’s also got a bad tendency to drop conversations, which doesn’t help.

Melami Goldmine (Merami Goldmine)

Special Skill: Necromancy

This is another great name, because this one seems to hint at an avaricious nature, rather than being a direct reference to her talent. (Unless of course this is also a Zombieya no Reiko reference in which case, WOW.) She can raise the spirits of the dead for a price, but only if she’s wearing something the deceased wore in life.

Melami likes clothes, and people who'd look good in clothes she likes.

I... Okay, sure.

Yakou Furio

Role: Head of the Yakou (Midnight Service) Detective Agency

Not one of the Super Detectives (or Great Detectives? I haven’t kept up with the direction the loc is going), but still an accomplished sleuth recognized by the International Detectives Organization (World Detectives Organization? This might be a WHO reference). Presumably the founder of the agency, he’s also the only office staff, and everybody’s boss. Despite running the agency, he tries to keep operations on the downlow to avoid dealing with the Amaterasu Co. Security Dept. He’s known for his timid demeanor, but his name belies fiery rage (”yakou” can also mean “let’s burn”).

Yomii Hellsmile

Role: Head of Amaterasu Co.’s Security Dept

This is simultaneously a floor master from Kimi ga Shine (name, personality) and our Junko (personality, presence in a Kodaka game). He’s young but delights in the misfortune of others, crushes people with a serene demeaner, and uses his underlings just to toss them aside after. He rules Kanai Ward, and uses that achievement to broker influence within the Amaterasu Mega Company. (Wasn’t the big evil company in Enen no Shouboutai called Amaterasu too?) 

Also, I revise my earlier statement, this may very well end up being the fanbait character...

Suwaro Electro

Role: Vice Head of Amaterasu Co.’s Security Dept

Meanwhile this character design is one that speaks to my heart. The first name kinda sounds like both the imperative order “sit!” and the English word “swallow”, while the last name just sounds like a C Tier comic book character. This is Yomii’s right hand woman, who is the beneficiary of his sprinklings of trust and love, and she thinks very highly of herself. She normally has zero mercy for those who oppose her but makes an exception to be a loyal lackey for Yomii, making her sorta like this game’s Mukuro. I hope she’s just as fail and tragic as my beloved Corpsey.

Then there’s these weirdos who work in the Amaterasu Co. Security Dept:

This rejected Persona enemy is Spank Cassanero, and he likes money.

I’m guessing at how to transliterate this name, since it could also be Spunk, and the last name could be a little different. Seemed like it was going for Italian to me, I dunno.

Next, the bullybait looking person is Seth Brows(e), the head of the security department’s investigation team. He speaks so softly that he needs a megaphone to help him project. He’s pretty subdued when he speaks, which makes him come across as kind of sickly.

The third-string Vtuber is called Gyoumu Hall, which is a classic stupid Japanese name, where you use the Western surname to just call a character “conference hall”. The leader of the security department’s Anti-Terrorist Unit, she talks fast, is rather animated, and uses the first person pronoun “this” (kore).

Finally, we have this 6′6″ fellow known as Dominic Fulltank. How apt. He sure looks like a Dominic, doesn’t he? He’s the vice head of the Anti-Terorrist Unit. He’s totally loyal to Gyoumu, though sometimes struggles to carry out more complicated orders.

...Some of these characters have unfortunate optics, man.

So there you have it!

This includes most of the actual info from the Famitsu issue last week; if you want to see some of the other text on the pages then cool, but you aren’t missing too much.

Thanks for reading and have a good week!

[hankwritten]

they say, “no one’s going to save you, better make it on your own”

Day 4: TIL’ DEATH DO US PART (Bomb Voyage) warning for mentions of hate crimes

Tavish is dying.

He is lying in the alley behind the bar, and the blood is coming out of him too fast to even make a proper metaphor about it. There’s the sound of feet running, and of violence, but he doesn’t absorb it with all the pain in his abdomen.

Just as the encroaching dark is about to overtake him, a different and altogether sudden pain stabs him. His last thought before blackness is that he swears someone just pinched him on the neck.

***

He wakes in an apartment he doesn’t recognize.

“Ach…Jesus I feel terrible,” he says, trying to prop himself up on an elbow.

“I should think so. You’ve just been dead.”

There’s someone else with him. He whips his attention to the left, giving himself a headache in the process but now aware of the sharply dressed man in the corner of the room. Tall, dark, and handsome doesn’t even begin to cover it—the man is ungodly attractive, and familiar to boot.

Shit, Tavish really isn’t in a place to be ruminating on random men. Not when he still feels like he’s about to empty the contents of his stomach.

“Dead?” he asks. “What the bloody hell do you mean I’ve been dead?”

“Technically you still are, though more of the undead variety. I apologize, you were bleeding out, and it was either this or…let nature take its course. I made a snap decision.”

He’s holding his cigarette awkwardly, and Tavish has the strangest intuition that this man really doesn’t apologize lightly. Underneath the stiff formality, he does seem genuinely sorry.

“Though,” he goes on, “if you truly rather I hadn’t, a stake through the heart is still an option.”

“I…know you.”

“Somewhat.”

“A bunch of men tried to shank us?”

“Indeed.”

“Why can’t I remember anything else from last night?”

He shrugs. “Trauma related memory suppression, the copious alcohol you’d consumed beforehand; take your pick. Not to mention a recent Turning has its own host of symptoms.”

It’s all starting to come together. Tavish’s hand fumbles up to his neck, where a locus of pain that has been thrumming since his arrival at consciousness now makes itself unignorable. He lurches to his feet, finding the apartment’s bathroom quickly and slumping in front of the mirror.

His skin has taken on a grayish pallor. There’s a rip in his shirt, and his flitting memories from last night inform him that he was very much stabbed, but the skin underneath the tear is smooth and unscarred. What is not unscarred is the mark on his throat; two pinpricks of inky blackness, raised where he runs his fingers over them. The veins around them are pulsating with ichor, radiating out into his body.

“Bloody hell,” he whispers. “You turned me into a bloody vampire.”

“As I said,” the man agrees. The note of defensiveness is back.

Tavish turns on him. “How do we know each other?”

Clearly, the stranger has not been looking forward to this conversation.

“We met last night at the bar,” he begins.

Tavish remembers. Vaguely. Seeing him across it, paying for a few drinks…

“Then we went out back to…further our acquaintanceship.”

Thinking that the stranger was maddeningly good looking, that he’d let himself slip just this once. Tasting the other man’s gin on the insides of his mouth.

Tavish groans. “Fuck. No wonder they tried to kill us.”

The stranger flinches.

“This,” Tavish stammers. “This can’t be happening. I need to go home, I need to-”

“You absolutely cannot go home,” the vampire cuts him off.

Vampire. So many things make sense now. The fact that while he was exploring the other man with his tongue he swore he felt unnaturally sharp canines.

“Why not?” Tavish huffs.

“Do you have anyone at home? Or any friends that would come to check on you?”

“I live with me mum, aye.”

“And when you lose control of yourself, as all young Turned eventually do—when you cave to base cravings, is your mother strong enough to hold you off? Would she be able to kill you before you killed her? That is the best case scenario, the one where you don’t have the blood of those you love most on your hands.”

Another memory, of when the group of men attacked. After Tavish had taken the first hit, he’d been able to see the fallout, of the vampire fighting back. Was able to get a front row seat to the sheer speed at which he tore through the humans, splattering viscera on the wall as he went. Tavish imagines himself like that. Imagines his poor, fragile mother hounded by a nightmare version of himself.

He shudders.

“You see,” the vampire goes on. “Anyway, I must be heading off.”

“Wait,” Tavish sputters. “What? Why?”

“It is…inappropriate for a young Turned and their Originator to be around each other during this delicate transitional process. I’ve found it breeds feelings of resentment. Call me up in a decade or so, and I’m sure we’ll be able to form a much healthier bond.”

“But…”

The vampire swings on his coat.

“There’s blood bags in the fridge. I recommend staying out of polite society for the next two to three weeks, until the worst of your bloodlust has worn off. Keep the apartment if you like. I have plenty. Adios.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

Tavish spends the next several hours walking the apartment: agonizing over calling his mother, agonizing over his fate, trying to ignore a deep hunger that seems to be building inside him. He wouldn’t go blood crazy. He wouldn’t.

Would he? It’s not like he’s been good at mastering his drinking habits the past thirty-five years of his life.

He sighs, and puts the phone back on the receiver for the fifth time. He paces. He tries to eat one of the bags in the fridge and gets it all over his shirt and the intoxicating smell makes him black out for half an hour. Maybe it’s good he’s staying inside.

But as the night comes in and Tavish finds himself sitting on the toilet seat concentrating really hard about turning into a bat, he admits he can’t do this on his own. What right does that bastard have to turn him into a vampire and then just run? Tavish should confront him, make him help him through all this. At the very least squeeze him for more instructions than just “eat my fridge full of blood.”

The only lead Tavish has is the bar they met at, so he scoops the apartment keys off the hook by the door and heads out into the city.

He really hopes the vampire hasn’t skipped town already. As Tavish orders a drink, he wonders how he’s going to find him. Maybe this place was a vampire hotspot all along, and Tavish just didn’t realize? If there were more vamps around, someone might know his mystery man, and be able to point him in the right direction. He’d been scouting this place before, evaluating individuals on completely different criteria, but if it’d accidently lead him to a vampire once maybe it’d happen again?

His judgment pulls him to a lone, lanky man leaned at one of the standing tables. Tavish can’t tell why; intuition maybe. A gut feeling. But something pulls him towards the man with the five o’clock shadow and the glasses hiding his eyes.

“Er…” Tavish begins. “I’m looking for someone. You wouldn’t happen to know a man wearing a suit, comes by here every now and again, would you?”

Jesus this is terrible. He’s been less awkward when he’s scouted a man for a hookup.

Sunglasses doesn’t react though, just raises an eyebrow.

Tavish goes on, “Tall, slicked back hair, good cheekbones.” Cautiously, he adds, “He’s er…of the supernatural variety.”

Sunglasses snorts.

“Got some balls on you for going out and saying it, but yeah, I know ‘im.”

“Oh good, good. So you’re er…” Tavish gestures an around motion. “Part of the club then? How do you know him? Do you know his name? Did he, you know,” Tavish mimes biting, “you too?”

“No,” Sunglasses says slowly, evaluating Tavish hesitantly. “That’s…not how we know each other.”

Even behind the glasses, it seems like his eyes flick to Tavish’s neck.

The stranger continues, “He goes by Marcel, at least ‘round here he does. My name’s Mick.” Mick puts out a hand.

“Tavish.” Tavish shakes it.

“I may know where our mutual friend has gone, if you don’t mind a bit of a walk.”

“Of course not,” Tavish says, relief in his voice. “Anything just to get a bit of help around here. I’m new at this you know.”

“New?” Mick asks lazily.

They’re already making short time toward the door, Mick moving as soon as Tavish agreed. Within a few seconds they’re outside, and though objectively Tavish knows it’s a chilly night he just can’t quite feel it.

“New new,” he says. “As in just last night.”

“Mm. That have anything to do with those bodies that were found in the alley?”

Tavish winces. “Right. Those. I assume word got around?”

“Nah, night really. Got cleaned up pretty quickly, but I have my own channels for hearing about suspicious activity.”

“It wasn’t what you think! That lot were trying to kill us, and Marcel…he well, saved me.”

Mick hesitates. They’ve stopped in a part of the city Tavish doesn’t recognize—Mick was right, wherever they’re going it really is a walk. Would be damn nice if Tavish could figure out the bat trick.

“Saved you?” Mick raises his brow.

“Aye. I was still human, remember?”

It takes a moment. So long that Tavish is about to ask if they’re still going to see Marcel when Mick says, “Right,” and keeps walking.

They really have been going for a while now, and Tavish’s nerves have gotten the better of him, leading him to blabber on randomly but Mick doesn’t acknowledge anything’s amiss. There’s hardly any people about now, and Tavish really should have asked where they were going-

A blur shoots out of the dark.

Tavish flinches, searching desperately for his new vampiric reaction speed that doesn’t seem to be there, and pathetically puts his arms in front of his face. But it’s Mick who’s struck down by the sudden figure. The man goes sprawling further into the alleyway, and the person in front of Tavish has his back to him with one arm thrown protectively his way.

“Don’t you dare touch him,” Marcel hisses at the prone form.

“I wasn’t going to hurt your baby bat,” Mick scoffs. After being hurled twenty feet across the ground, he’s struggling to an upright state. “He was just bait.”

Tavish looks between the two. “Ach, I guess it was bad to assume all vamps got along…”

“Vamp?” Marcel glances at him, his fangs bared. “That man is not a vampire. That is a hunter. Be glad he didn’t gut you as soon as he found out what you were.”

“Relax Spook.”

Mick is on his feet now. Tavish thinks he should have realized it sooner: the supernatural speed of a vampire isn’t there in the way he adjusts himself, or how he responded when Marcel appeared. Also, there’s definitely something that looks like stakes strapped to the inside of his vest.

Still, his posture isn’t threatening. “I’m not here to gut him, and I probably won’t gut you either.”

“Probably?” Marcel raises an eyebrow.

“Nah. Was just making sure you had a soft spot after all these years. Seems like you do.”

Marcel grits his teeth. “The real reason, bushman.”

Mick laughs.

“He vouched for your character.”

Marcel glances back at him. If there were blood still moving through Tavish’s veins, he’s sure he would have blushed.

“The Administrator wants you gone,” Mick admits. “Thought I might at least have a chat with you again before picking up the contract.”

“How touching. But now that we have established that we are still no threat to one another, we can go back to our peaceful arrangement of staying a continent apart at all times, no?”

“Works for me. But,” he glances at Tavish, “try to take better care of your people, Spook. Can’t just keep cutting and running every time.”

Marcel says nothing as the hunter makes it his intent to be swallowed by the city.

“…Thanks for that,” Tavish says.

“You apparently were not in any danger.”

“Well, thanks for that and. You know. My life, earlier.”

“…I regret taking the choice out of your hands. I couldn’t exactly ask for your permission.”

“I know. And it’s not a great situation, but I am glad I’m alive. Just wish you wouldn’t’ve have disappeared on me.”

“Really?” Marcel asks. “Most people I know…would rather I was gone.”

“I don’t,” Tavish says, taking his hand. “I need to work through this either way, and it’ll be easier with your help. Come back with me?”

Slowly, like a startled cat that’s been too long on the street, Marcel says, “Very well.”

[laplacemail]

@kesil: ❝ you’re a destroyer, like me. ❞ strahd to adonia god of war: ragnarok starters

A request that could not be denied, self preservation speaking louder than anything. Strained smiles dipped in honey, thick and sticky. Rotten sweetness, poison that seeps into one's veins and seeks to overtake the body. Porcelain clinks softly, a meeting in which no one should go alone. Yet here he stands, defiance against the wildest odds. There are many things that aggravated Adonia in his first visit to Castle Ravenloft. The same things are present in this second visit, one of a more particular nature. 

He knows that you know. Adonia is fully knowledgeable of his weak points, raw wounds exposed to air. Yet he refuses to be pinned to a wall like an insect, refuses to give this man the simple accomplishment of trophy collection. The wise man takes the stage instead of the cowardly prince, the confidence and graceful gestures ever present. His brother is apparently absent, but he knows better. In the shadows, eyes. 

Adonia looks down to his teacup, then to the carefully crafted table. He recognizes one, then the other. Of course.

Of course he does. Adonia remembers every face, he remembers with painful clarity the faces of the dead. Another thing the rot stole from you, another thing that it takes away. The stolen works of art, defiled and destroyed culture on display like it belongs here. Adonia is aware it does not. 

It does not. It belongs to the sun, to a people deprived of ruler and land. To people who have been forced to stay so far away from home. Adonia remembers when this table was made - the gentle expression of the elf who greeted the curious young prince into his workshop. His smile is frozen solid, frozen thorns that seem intent on injuring whoever crosses his path. 

"How flattering." pitch black liquid that smells like rotten flowers, Adonia bows his head politely. That, too… is a mockery of good manners. It is as ancient as the ruler of these lands, it is as fierce and as vengeful. 

Adonia knows, deep down, that they are not that different. 

"I shall take that as a compliment, dear Count." Strahd is aware Adonia looks to rebuild instead of destroy. That he will grab rotten roots with bare hands if it means getting rid of the sickness that plagues this land. "However, I would not quite put it that way. I prefer to avoid conflict whenever possible, even if I am aware it is not always the way to go." The difference between willingly bloodying your hands, and having them stained deep red as a consequence of your juvenile actions. 

Every single object that was taken from Ruthia in this castle is tinted a deep, deep red. The land bleeds. He knows why he is here, Adonia understands the necessity of his presence here. To close a chapter. To right his wrongs. 

"I would rather leave this title to you. Consider it a gift, if you would." 'I do not want it', Adonia states clearly as he takes another sip of warm tea. Unlike his first visit, this time he indulges his host. If only for a moment. 

Like tree roots uplifting rock, revealing the putrid underbelly. Adonia cuts through it clean, restoring vitality to nature whenever he can. It is his mission, it is his reason to be here. Men who are too similar to each other that they become logical antitheses. 

Oh, he knows. A few wrong turns, and he would be in the same position. If his Sun was taken away, then Adonia would see no issue in plunging the entire universe into eternal darkness, too. 

But he did not. He would not. He will not. 

"What a pity. Did you consider - even for the most fleeting of moments - that you would find common ground with me? I would reconsider such a thought." In the absence of violence, words pierce just as easily as a blade. "I abhor conquerors. I loathe those who claim others through overwhelming power. It is easy to break people. You would know this.

But you would also know that muddled loyalties are the most treacherous thing a ruler can come across. You would raze down your domain over and over again. 

I detest that. The title of "destroyer" fits you, Strahd von Zarovich. It is a crown that will bloody your eyes for as long as you live." A pause. They both know what it means. A warning. Adonia smiles ever so sweetly. "Be sure to wear it well until the end. I have no need for the twin crown you so kindly offer me."

[elizabethaethertownusa]

There has been surgery stuff in my life lately (not me). So please enjoy some sections from the diaries I kept just before a pretty low-key surgery in '21.

Thursday March 4th, ’21

Ate all of 2 Kind bars today then went to get my blood taken. My memory of last time—at Quest, first with pseudocovid then a few weeks later—was so neutral that I hadn’t really thought about this so much. Building under construction, yellow light moving in gap between big BEAR WITH US, GROWING HEALTH NEEDS OF THE VALLEY posters covering windows, seated at angles from others waiting—in [Place name] Hospital, not Quest. Memories of dad's accident. Thought it’d be quick.

The cubicles I’d forgotten about entirely from last time. An intake nurse who called an old man Honey and talked to him like a child. He told her how he’d been doing. I thought that maybe when you are old and ill the intensity of your involvement in your own illness changes the way you hear their condescension—maybe all you hear is their asking what seems to you to be natural questions about how much you’ve eaten etc. This nurse did not like me. Now I think of so many women in so many offices in school. “She’s so cute,” she said to a nurse about an old lady 2 feet away. This is the type of woman with somebody’s head in her fridge.

She asked if I needed a “companion” to walk me to the lab. Really that was an adorable way to put it and thinking of it now I soften toward her. I just don’t like it when people condescend to old folks.

Through the miserable halls just like dad's accident. Gray-green and practically tick-hum tick-hum lights like in a movie. Following the ELEVATORS LOBBY stickers on the ground. Everyone looking at me curiously. No other patients walking. As she asked if I wanted a companion a group of construction workers went past, orange, and one turned his rhino head and looked at my thighs up like that trucker of old. I found it delightful. When I passed them again I looked down with my eyes like that “American girl in Italy” because it seemed charming and also simple.

A person in a knit beanie with many many red spots on their face, hands on legs in wheelchair, not doing well but also rather more neutral than urgent, like a passenger in a sidecar, a minor clamor among nurses, this person is from the addiction center, blue square fronts of nurses and this passing, but really I am passing, awkwardly trying not to march in time with a nurse later nor to overtake her but when somebody looked at me as if I were robbing her I just sped up for the elevators.

Two windows facing each other radiology and lab like a prison in a movie. Like they’ll take my belt and wallet. Tiny room. Disney channel shouting. Raven’s House. I thought about how short and united the line of time had been from That’s So Raven to whatever this was. Has life always been so short? To children now it must be impossibly far away. But it is very close to me. Really scary dialogue. Put all those Disney producers in jail. It is scary because of its perfection, like Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney, and its bizarre, McNugget material of adult comedy, that is, comedy which is popular with adults, made perfect and miniature.

The old man from before was wheeled in. “Do you want me to leave him facing the window or do you want him on the side?” Oh that’s fine. So he stayed facing the window, close enough to me in my chair to touch. I sense he was ashamed but I may have been projecting that. Maybe there was a red-purple dot on his jaw or maybe not. Not shaven well. But I tried not to look. I thought about asking where HE would like to sit but I erred on my Chicagoan default of It would shame him to be acknowledged.

Nurse long blonde-white hair Swarovski glasses which we talked about. Weird little back area, PLEASE DO NOT PUT SAMPLES HERE, spare gurney maybe—not a clear sense of what surrounded me. Little folding arms chair. I remembered suddenly that they can’t get a vein if you’re dehydrated. On the counter vials with pretty caps, pink and yellow and blue, and was there orange? Like a pumpkin candy corn? She said “Let me guess … you absolutely love needles,” and for some reason I made a Trainspotting joke. Long thin goodlooking woman, yoga type, nor young nor old.

I didn’t look because I remembered that one funny time when the cheerful young nurse showed me my vial and the world warped like one of those sheets you wobble to make thunder noises. Blood was coming slowly. “You’re so teeny tiny,” she remarked earlier while trying to get a vein. I began to feel off and said something about it. She said we were more than halfway done. "They asked for a lot of tests." That we were more than halfway done was good to me but also bad, and I asked if I would need a second shot. The first going in had really hurt. She said no and then looking at the caps I made a joke about how it wasn’t really a shot. She laughed in recognition but yes it’s the same needle. Same species I said. Only nothing’s going in only coming out she said. I began to feel that ominous jack frost lace ice crawl up my cheekbones and temples.

Mister Pickwick voice appeared. I wonder if I might pass out, I said. Nearly there. I was better and then worse. And now it gets legitimately interesting. Interesting to experience and to think about again. Oh dear oh dear I may genuinely pass out. Fever ripple and suddenly my cheekbones frigid and sweating. I got all I need, cheerful and comforting me. I’ll stay with you as long as you need. Absolute nausea pluge and blackening eyes. “Oh dear oh dear,” I said. “I’m so sorry. This has never happened before.” I couldn’t see. I actually made the ehue ehue sound you make to pretend to cry. It was like the gravity in dreams but located in my intestines rather than the kind of erotic—though awful—dream-falling. And the same rushing as though you’re above your own falling form.

She was asking a nurse for a wet cold washcloth for my head or neck. I explained that I hadn’t eaten enough. Each time she said “She hasn’t eaten anything today,” to another nurse I corrected her, like lobbing a basketball up at an impossibly tall net: “I only ate a little. I didn’t eat enough.” I was thinking with scorn and pain of the good movie I’d watched last night, “Murder, My Sweet”, where Marlowe kept getting clubbed and drugged and the camera fills up with black from the sides like a Canadian Film Board animation—I was thinking how weak I was, watching a guy in a movie like that and identifying with him as you do and here one blood sugar drop was poignant torture, real pointed torture. So nauseous. I thought of nausea after anesthesia. I thought “I can’t do this”. Washcloth back of my neck did improve me, maybe because I willed it to. A young man nurse asking if we needed a wheel chair, there was one free. I think this was after I said “I’m afraid I’ll need someone to accompany me out.”

Take your mask off, take your mask off, early in the drop. Doublemasked per hospital law, through which I had already been having trouble breathing. Brought me ice cold water which I sipped. The young nurse had yellow points on his short braids, eyebrows up, very nice face. Do you have a history of passing out when your blood is taken? “No, no, this is the first time. I’m so sorry, guys.”

“Can you chug the water?” said the woman nurse. I had been sipping. Can I put my head down. Sure. She went to get more water. Head on the blue, airplane-blue (American Airlines) armrest, hand on my own forehead, wet and cold, dim surroundings. [I said] Thank you for your patience, etc. Came back with water, I sipped it and passed my hand over the grease mark my forehead had made really for show. Could you chug it, please. I did and asked if there was juice or something. Sugar. She asked if there was, but no, Covid or something. There’s really nothing better than chugging water! she said brightly. She was smilng and kind. Can you do a third? And I was all right after that. Guy nurse sitting on the gurney, hands between his legs like a kid on a wall. “Don’t worry, it happens all the time!” Woman nurse said, “I can’t even talk to my husband about needles. He goes ‘bleghhh!’” Hands in her blue belly, making a scrubs rumple.

I went to the bathroom, peed in the cup, surprised as always by its heat. Gratified at least that all that chugging made it easy to pee. Unsure where to put the cup. Balanced it on the trash can lid while rinsing my hands. And outside when I opened the door, close as before, the old man, me with my hot-sided sample cup of urine right there by his head. He looked at it and me. I was turning, friendly saying Where shall I put this? I had heard his voice from outside the bathroom and it was clear and strong. I wondered while turning if this would be sexually gratifying for him, the way your desires and interests get weird when you’re confined. Young woman with her breasts on display with a cup of her own recent urine—like a complete nudity; this will be porn in the future; simultaneity of all concealed body—better than Baudrillard, because I see that the organs themselves, still inside and functioning but somehow seen, will become objects of sexual interest. “Just set it there,” said the young man, and the woman said “I can take it.” I gave it to her and I thanked again, earnestly, for her kindness and patience.

While it happened I felt helpless and pathetic, but almost immediately after, I was glad at how strange and interesting it was.

[lex-the-flex]

morpheus reuniting with his lover after a century.

like y/n drops whatever they’re hold it shatter and they just run towards him tears In their eyes.

Forever Mine

Morpheus x reader

Word Count: 1.2k 

Warning(s): Memories in italics! Mega fluff, slight angst, mentions of heartbreak, brief loneliness, 18 + – SMUT, unprotected sex (stay safe kids), oral (f! receiving) and nudity.

A/N: I hope you enjoy and thank you for requesting! The only thing I changed is having the reader be an Endless like Dream. And I’m sorry if the smut is terrible, I haven’t written it in a while. 

“What do you see?” His deep voice whispered past your ear. 

Squinting your eyes to see further, you guide the pair of binoculars over the vast Dreamworld, only to end at the dark graveyard beyond the Palace grounds. 

“Hmm, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. The graveyard looks undisturbed.” You reply.  

Inching closer to your straightened form, your husband carefully places his hand on the small of your back. Taking your wrist in his closed palm, Morpheus guided the binoculars to the far lower right corner of the graveyard.

“Look closer.” He says, revealing a brand new gold necklace with a round bright red ruby that was polished to perfection. 

Lowering the binoculars, you turn to Morpheus as a soft smile overtakes his lips. Wrapping his arms around your back, he places his chin on your shoulder. 

“I had this made specifically for you. It’s so you’ll have a piece of me when I travel.” Morpheus explains, while pressing tiny kisses to the side of your face. 

*****

The distant echoing of car horns and the mumbling of conversations forced your eyes open, abruptly ending your dream, turning your once pleasant memory into a haunting sadness. Slowly sitting up, the low rumble of rain tapped on your windows, covering the bustling city in a thin sheet of grey. 

Pushing yourself out of bed, you sluggishly made your way to the bathroom. Flicking on the lightswitch, a large yawn escaped your lips as you squinted at the fluorescent light. Dropping your head in your hands, you peeked at your reflection in the mirror. 

A century had passed, but it felt like a tortuous infinity. The Dreamworld, your safe space, and the only home you’ve ever known was destroyed brick by brick, leaving the once peaceful place abandoned for more than a century.  There was no sign of your husband anywhere. It was like Morpheus vanished without a warning. And it was destroying your soul at the seams. 

Much like your husband, you both shared the same royal blood of the Endless running through your veins, as well as unique powers of your own. Manifesting the abilities of conjuring miniscule glimpses into the future is what attracted Morpheus to you in the first place. Like the rest of his siblings, the man of dreams didn’t choose you for your powers, he chose you out of pure love and adoration for who you were. He didn’t care if these glimpses in time could jeopardize your relationship, Morhpeus stayed loyal to you and only you. 

Reminding yourself of that, you glanced down at the marble countertop, and your tired y/e/c irises made contact with the small dish where you kept all your jewelry. Underneath the various gold and silver rings, bracelets, your fingers dug through the bowl to reach the bottom. Uncovering the spotless gold necklace, the ruby remained as beautiful as the day you received it. 

Holding the necklace to the natural light, a bright red reflection shined down to your eye, reminding you what was truly important. Despite your husband’s absence, he still loved you. He refused to let his powers control him and use his mind as their own hive. Clutching the necklace close to your heart, you vowed then to get your life in the mortal world in order and to no longer wallow in this unending sadness. 

*****

Balancing yourself against the kitchen countertop, you sighed in relief at the state of your clean apartment. You had one last big job to do before finishing the day and it was your least favorite thing: the dishes. Groaning at the full sink, you decided to finish them in the morning and went to bed. The moment you collapsed on the unmade piece of paradise, you fell into a deep sleep. Except this time, no dreams came your way, just one terrible nightmare. 

A thin layer of sweat covered your brow as you jolted from the nightmare as an eerie silence consumed your home. Your brows furrowed together while the resonating sound of dripping water bounced against your eardrums. 

You weren’t prone to sleepwalking, so you had to be dreaming. Right?

Slowing trekking into the kitchen, you hugged the robe around your chest, and paced to the sink. Twisting the handle, cold water rushed from the faucet and you started to pour yourself a cup of water when you felt it. In an instant, it seemed like there was a second pair of eyes on you.

Turning to face the living room, you were greeted by a pair of piercing silver eyes watching you in the darkness. Jumping in surprise, the cup slipped from your hand and shards of glass covered the floor. Tears filled your eyes as you couldn’t believe what you were seeing. Emerging from the darkness, Morpheus’ eyes returned to normal, and he extended his arms towards you. 

Running to him, you embraced your husband with every fiber of your being as he carefully lifted you off your feet. 

“I’ve finally found you.” He said, tightening his grip around your shoulders before setting you down. 

“I’ve missed you so much, Morpheus. Life hasn’t been the same without you.” You replied through frequent sobs. 

“I know, my love. But I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere.” Morpheus declared, taking your chin with his fingers.

Inching closer, Morpheus captured his lips on yours, refusing to let go. Deepening the kiss, his hands began to trail over your body, seeking more. Breaking the moment, your breath hitched in your chest. 

“Are you sure?” You asked in a whisper. 

“I’ve thought about nothing else for over a century.” Morpheus practically growled before picking you up in his arms. 

*****

Rays of moonlight peeked through the curtains of your bedroom as you nearly stumbled backwards from the few obstacles in the room. Untying the knot of your robe, Morpheus’ hands worked quickly to discard the item of clothing off your body. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, he lifts you in his touch, laying you down. 

Gazing at you in complete awe, Morpheus sank to his knees, and made his way up your body with quick kisses to your skin. His pink lips smirked at the way you were quivering for him, how your knees went weak for him. Swirling his tongue around your sensitive folds, you let a harsh gasp. Grasping your waist, he tried everything to keep you still, but you couldn’t. 

Sitting on his knees, Morpheus slipped the ebony robe over his head and crawled to face you. Settling between your hips, he teased the tip of his cock against your hot folds, earning a whine from your lips. 

“Please, Morpheus, I want you.” 

The sound of his name on your lips made the man’s chest heave with a wave of lust in his lungs like no other. Pushing his manhood past your entrance, Morpheus’ bright eyes pierced through your soul, and his cock stretched you out. Swallowing every little sound that escaped your lips, your fingers dug into the fibers of his muscles. 

Diving a little deeper with each thrust, your toes curled as Morpheus felt his spine tingle as he moved for your neck. Trembling against your body, he lowered his head to your chest, soaking in your love, and you pulled him closer before falling asleep in the safety of his arms. 

the sandman taglist ~ 

@dreamliners

@nebulosa-reina

@smolfrogz

@vanessalenrie

@margozovaa

@hercherrysong

@missnightingale1971

@plentyoffandoms

@calicoevening72

@thingy-mar

@jason-todds-bitch

@nimalucius

@cosmic-marauder

@vampninjaz

@simplyjaana

@maybeimart

@amysteryspot

@milfzatannaz

@gay-dorito-dust

@elevencllara

@theflowerhashira

@kill-the-lights

@simplyjaana

[damiano-mylove]

Paintings and Peach Juice

Pairing: Ethan Torchio x afab!reader (I'm so sorry)

Wc: 1.5k

Cw(s): SMUT, swearing, oral (reader receiving), lowkey praise kink, but pretty vanilla (tell me if it sucks)

Summary: You, the reader, work on a painting during the night, but Ethan wants to bring you back to bed.

Masterlist

Paint stroked across the canvas in perfect placement with your brush. It laid onto the stretched canvas like the softest butter on the warmest toast. Every stroke, every colour, the portrait was only enhanced and made that much more beautiful by your talent. The smell of the oil paints filled the room, vented out by the window across from you; the scent only relaxed you further. Your thoughts roamed to the most peaceful crevasse of your mind while your hands seemed to know just what to do.

By the corner of your eye, you caught your reflection in the mirror in your living room. You had a paint smear on your cheek, and the messiest hairstyle you'd ever seen. But you looked happy. In the bright moonlight from the window, your eyes glistened with thought and concentration. You smiled to your reflection before continuing your painting.

In just a few days, Ethan would finally be allowed to see the painting. He'd promised he hadn't seen it, and you had to trust that he hadn't ruined his birthday present, that you've been working so hard on, for himself. While Ethan was milling about and awake, you'd had to cover the canvas in a cloth, but when he was gone or asleep, you sat right on your cushioned stool, legs crossed, totally ensconced by the artwork at your fingertips.

Just as you began touching up the whites of Ethan's eyes, on the portrait, you heard his soft footsteps against the hardwood floor of your flat. You quickly but carefully covered the painting with your cloth, that once was white but now appeared yellow with a streak of blue paint. Languid and nimble were your movements, just as Ethan rounded the corner into the living room, where you were.

His perfectly sculpted lips pulled into a smile, only revealing to you that he was still partially asleep. You grinned right back at the man without any clothing, save for his boxers. Your gorgeous swain padded toward you, then wrapped his strong arms around your middle. His lips, that were still slick with lip balm, met with the most tender part of your neck.

"Bed's cold without you," Ethan whispered in your ear. You sighed with a small smile, turning your head to capture Ethan's lips with your own very chastely. Within the kiss, Ethan began to smile before he spun your stool around to place his hands on your thighs.

Once the kiss broke, you sighed, "Five more minutes?"

"Amorino." His tone was the perfect bridge between authoritative and begging, only enhanced by him removing his hands. Sweetly, you pulled Ethan toward you with your legs. His warm, rough hand traveled up your leg as he came forward, only to rest on the underside of your thigh, that wrapped around his waist.

Gently, your fingers touched to his jaw. They danced just every so slightly as your hand began to rest, cupping his jaw, with your fingertips touching the roots of his illustrious hair.  Ethan's other hand pulled you infinitely closer, with his fingers gripping your waist as if you were the most expensive glass in the world; not hard enough to break you, but not soft enough to drop you.

In a steady yet slow movement, both of your leaned forward just enough till your lips came together, softer than The Creation of Adam. Your other leg hooked around his waist, to join the first, and Ethan picked you up with ease. He'd never had any trouble picking you up, even in a sleep coated state.

The kiss continued with a warm passion that translated between both of your souls, that you could feel from the pit of your stomach to the tip of your brain. Warmth from Ethan's skin was absorbed by your own skin, only forcing your heart to ache, along with the sweet watermelon taste from his lip balm that he applied every night before bed.

His footsteps were very sure and steady as Ethan brought you to the couch. The room got warmer, despite the cool Autumn air coming in through the window. Your hands wandered Ethan's exposed body in calm and known movements, while Ethan's hands squeezed handfuls of your thigh, leading to your ass. Lightly, your nails drew small patterns and pictures on Ethan's warm back, his muscles rippling beneath your touch.

"Dolcezza mia, I love you, I love you with my entire being," Ethan mumbled against your lips. You smiled like you'd never smiled before. Without a word, your lips wandered to the corner of his mouth, down to his jawline.

Your own lips peppered kisses that were wet and sloppy, but full of love, followed a vein on his neck. Ethan hummed above you, but his breath caught when, between your teeth, was Ethan's earlobe. You chuckled lowly, grazing your teeth gently across it. Ethan captured your lips again, the passion raw yet still demure. You broke the kiss to remove Ethan's t-shirt, that you were wearing.

"I love you even more," you responded.

With the revelation of the words leaving your lips, Ethan's ferocity was renewed. His lips pressed into yours with gracious meaning, leaving your heartbeat to multiply as he grinded himself into your heat that was clothed in just a pair of thin underwear. Ethan's tongue slipped by your lips, then perused your mouth. He tasted of peach juice and mint, which went extremely nicely.

Just as you were enjoying the taste of Ethan's tongue, his mouth left yours, opting to kiss and nip at other parts of your skin. In a hot and wet trail, Ethan's mouth began to trail down your body. His eyes looked to you for consent, to which you adamantly nodded, your breathing already heavy and hot.

In a steady yet serene movement, Ethan broke the hold your legs had on him to pull your underwear off of your form. For a second, before returning, your boyfriend took a moment just to admire you in your natural, beauteous state. His smile returned with his body on yours.

His face was level with your dripping, wet heat, as Ethan looked up at you with dark eyes, clouded with lust and extremely dilated pupils. You bit the corner of your lip just as he licked up your slit, catching your juices on his tongue, then enjoying your taste. You'd both been drinking peach juice earlier.

Then, without warning, the sweetness turned to pure sex. You let out a gasp as his tongue entered your folds, your hands tangling in the roots of Ethan's long hair. Still with his tongue circling inside of you, Ethan moaned at the sensation of you pulling against his hair, which sent vibrations through your core that seemed to reach even your fingertips.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Ethan," you groaned as his thumb found your clit. Ethan circled the sensitive bundle of nerves with the pad of his finger, until his tongue and fingers switched roles.

It became his tongue that circled your clit, and Ethan's long, rough finger that entered your tight hole. You let out a pleasurable moan, which was only encouragement for the man between your thighs.

"You're absolutely fucking amazing." Who the fuck knew if your words were even intelligible? How could they be when the most gorgeous human being on the planet was taking you with his mouth, right on your couch, in the middle of the night?

That familiar pressure in your stomach began to form. It was a nucleus of sensation, your orgasm just ready to burst. Ethan noticed your breathing become more ragged, only to add another finger but keep the same pace. You began to shake, ready for what was to come, as your body began to coat in sweat. Against your clit, Ethan could be felt smiling, just before he delivered the final blow.

His lips completely captured your clit, sucking on it gently.

Orgasm hit you like the train at the end of Anna Karenina. Your legs shook around Ethan's head, your walls pulsing around his fingers, and total bliss overtaking every single one of your senses. Ethan only chuckled, lapping up the juices you produced for him. That only increased your pleasure tenfold.

"You're so gorgeous when you're getting fucked," Ethan commented after kissing your clit. You smiled, looking at him with slightly blurred vision. He laughed before picking you up in a bridal style, letting you rest against him.

Ethan brought you to the bedroom, where he then brought you a clean pair of underwear and a washcloth. You then asked, "What about you?"

"Oh, Amorino, you don't even have to touch me to make me come," Ethan laughed as he cleaned you off. You cast your eyes to his boxers, where an incredibly wet patch was visible. You felt a bit bad, but nothing could bring you off of this high. Ethan cast the washcloth away, to be dealt with when the sun rose, before changing his boxers out for clean ones.

As you both got back into the bed, Ethan pulled you close to his chest, where his lips connected with your forehead. "I really do love you," you whispered.

"And I love you."

Sleep came in a swift wind, making your senses shut down each by each. Last to go was the sound of Ethan's heart, beating in a deep rhythm, and his breathing that tickled your hair ever so slightly.

[whaleofatjme1920]

EJ SIMPS RISE 😤😤💪💪💪

may i please request a scenario for yandere ej x fem reader where ej is punishing the reader for escaping ? feel free to go DARK dark with this one <3

Cream Colored Ceiling

[Eyeless Jack X F!Reader]

[Warnings: NSFW - but not for sexual content, just violence, what isn't a warning in this one, mentions of cannibalism (but there is no described cannibalism, just allusions to it), EJ physically harms the reader, amputation, violence of all kinds, throw up, look this is just,,,, it's dark. I repeat, there is no sexual content in here, it's just physically violent]

[AN: yeah. This was uh, yeah.]

Hazy, your mind is hazy. You wake and open your eyes to see that same fucking cream colored ceiling with water damage leaking through the top and dangerously close to your bed, if you’d even want to call it your bed.

You raise one of your hands that feels heavier than stones and wipe quietly at your eyes, dusting them from the sleep. Your body feels heavy, oh so heavy.

You sit up. Nothing strange so far.

Has he really been that gracious with you?

You yawn and stretch, joints and bones popping as you look out the window. There’s that cursed forest. It looks dark, shadowy, misty. The fog is rolling in and you know with it comes the rain. You’re going to be stuck here forever, aren’t you?

The sunlight doesn’t filter through the window, but there’s light regardless. You’re deep into mid Autumn and with it will come winter. It’ll be the third winter you’ve been trapped with this monster.

Your mouth feels dry, much too dry. You smack your lips together a few times, wondering where your saiva has gone and decide to go to the kitchen. It seems like Jack isn’t home right now, which is probably for the best. Alongside him being out, so too is your natural fear of him. You swing your legs over the side of your bed, wondering why you feel so physically exhausted before attempting to stand up.

“Shit!” You cry out as your knees buckle beneath you, your body cascading like a pile of bricks to the floor. Your knees and palms blank onto the hardwood, digging into you most uncomfortably. Tears well in your eyes as you struggle to get off the floor. You continue to curse under your breath as you glance back at your ankles where large surgical wounds lay, covered in stitches and gauze. What the fuck? When did that happen?

Your heart begins to race when you slow, calculated steps padding on the floor. You’re all too familiar with the sound of those combat boots knocking on the floor, pacing back and forth and keeping you awake at all hours of the night. Panic sears itself into your heart as you attempt to get up, pathetically crawling along the floor and reaching for your bedpost.

Jack stands in your doorway, his large form casting a shadow on your throw rug. He tsks, and you can already tell he’s more than disappointed with you. “What did I tell you about getting up?” He asks, voice smooth and clinical, once again padding towards you.

You feel tears well in your eyes as you curl as tightly into a ball as you can.

Jack breathes out with slight disappointment before crouching down and seeing your sorry form. “You knew this was going to happen,” he says, half lidded eyes watching you curiously before he reaches his large, gloved hand out. “Did you pop any of your sutures?” He tilts his head to the side and looks over your swollen, still bloodied ankles. “I think you might’ve.” He reaches to pick you up and you begin to panic, blubbering your apologies.

“I’m sorry, please, don’t touch me, don’t hurt me-” you begin to babble, your remaining strength trying their hardest to push the behemoth away. Tears well in your eyes as Jack grips your calves, sending pain holting like lightning strikes up and down your lower body, making you cry out in pain.

“You deserve it,” he murmurs, his claws pinching into your skin before he lifts you. A glance of annoyance passes over his face before he yanks your grip from the bed.

You struggle against him as you pound your fists into his broad chest, tears of frustration falling down your cheeks.

The tall demon moves without budging. He doesn’t care, you barely feel like a scratch to him.

You watch your surroundings, still fighting against him and feel your heart sink when you realize he’s taking you down the hall that he’s deemed forbidden. The energy you feel from this specific hallway makes you cry out in fear.

Jack eats it up, his own heart beating just a little faster. You won’t ever do what you pulled last night again. He juggles you into one his arms and uses his free hand to unlock the door, the slight beeps of numbers being added into a keypad making your attention shift ever so slightly.

The inside of this room is like a horror scene to you. You see an operating table, and stainless steel tables, cabinets and countertops. There’s a large trash bin filled with bloody gauze and other things, such as discarded clothes, clumps of hair, things you don’t want to think of. Is this it? Is he finally going to kill you?

Fear overtakes your system again and renders you to nothing but silent sobs as Jack pulls off a turquoise colored sheet from the operating table, placing you down.

You try to get off, wiggling and clawing at him. “Let me go!” You cry out like a broken record of a mantra, your eyes wild and feral.

Jack simply shrugs you off, tying large leather brown straps over your waist and your chest, rendering you immobile. “The more you struggle, the more it’s going to hurt you,” he hums, his clawed hands moving across your chest to your wrists. He quickly ties you down there as well, your legs numbly kicking at him through the pain due to severed Achilles tendons. He flicks the wound on your left leg, grinning at your pain. “Won’t be needing these anymore,” he chuckles.

“What?” You say in shock, pupils restricting to the size of pim points.

He takes a seat on his wheeled stool and begins setting you up with an IV drip. “Gonna sedate you, and when you wake up?” He warmly smiles, pricking the vein on your right arm with the needle, making you weakly thrash once more. “Get some sleep,” he murmurs, pumping some sedatives into your bloodstream.

You feel more tears welling in your eyes as your conscience begins to wean. The world becomes more shapes and colors, merging into brightness and shadows before you finally slip into your dreams.

You haven’t been able to trick Jack like this in the history of well, ever. Almost three years with this nightmare and you’ve finally gained enough of his trust to ask him for some time out.

“Don’t stay in there for too long,” he says, large hand gripping your thigh as you swallow down the feeling of hitting him from where you remain seated in the passenger seat. “I want you back safely,” he murmurs, his other hand gently letting go of the wheel to cup your face.

You do your best to show love and admiration in your eyes as you meet his gaze. “Don’t worry. It’s just an hour or so, okay?” You hum, your hand gently holding his and burying your face deeper into his warmth.

“I don’t know why you need anyone else’s company,” he says, a slight acrid venom seeping into his tone. “You don’t need anyone else but me.” It’s almost cute how offended he sounds.

You play the part of loving him. “I know, I know,” you coo, taking his hand from your face and pressing your lips into a pucker. You raise his hand to them, planting a kiss on his palm. “I love you. I won’t be that long.”

Jack’s heart flutters. “I’ll be here, waiting for you.” He says, watching you as you unbuckle yourself, his hand reluctantly leaving your thigh.

You flash him a warm smile and lean over to press a kiss to his cheek, and then his lips. You try not to spit at the scent of blood and taste of rot before pulling away. You then open up his car, sliding from the passenger seat and to the rinky dink little bar you’d managed to convince him to let you go to. Just an hour - that’s all it was. Just an hour. You’d be in and out, get some drinks, and come straight back to his car.

Due to Jack’s appearance, he had told you he couldn’t go in. They’d know something was wrong with him immediately, and you’d gained enough of his trust for you to be away for just an hour. Come straight back to the car when it reaches 10 PM. You promised him. And he fucking believed you.

It wasn’t that hard finding some idiot down on his luck with the ladies. You cozied up next to him, getting to sit with him at the bar and start talking. He was so attentive and sweet, so receptive to the story you had made up to him.

“That sounds awful,” he says, voice low and sweet. His deep blue eyes look at you with nothing but gentleness and fondness. His hand reaches for yours across the bar and you smile, allowing him to take it.

“I just wanna get away from that brute,” you admit. “I just wanna go home.”

He squeezes you just a little tighter. “Why don’t we go back to my car and call the cops?” He offers.

“Where did you park?” You ask, hoping it’s not in the front lot where Jack remains waiting for you.

“In the back.”

What a relief.

A slight smile blooms on your face as you nod. “Yeah, let’s go,” you finally answer. You hop off the barstool and then grip his hand, letting him lead you through the bar and the sea of people. It smells like sweat, alcohol, and regret - you love it. It smells like the beginning of freedom, something better. Maybe, just maybe…

He opens the backdoor to you, allowing you out first. The crisp night air of autumn greets you with her beauty. You can smell maple leaves and pumpkins out in the distance, the atmosphere is incredible. “That one’s mine,” he says, pointing to his car a little ways down in the parking lot under one of the yellow lights. He continues holding your hand as the two of you walk through the parking lot.

You watch as he unlocks the car door, walking around the side to let you in. You accompany him and slide into the passenger seat. Putting this seat belt on feels almost liberating. You giggle when the short man closes the door before walking around the front of his car.

And then he pauses.

Fear seeps into his eyes and leans forward, his abdomen cutting into the hood of the hunk of metal that can barely be called a car before sweat beads and rolls down his forehead. He begins to cough, violently.

Your eyes widen in shock as he begins to cough up blood, and tears well in his eyes. They roll down his cheeks, fat and crystalline like the beads of sweat. He reaches out to you, mouthing for you to run before finally slumping forwards.

You see him, the behemoth that’s held you captive for three years, a sapphire colored mask boring into your soul and searing into your mind with what you can understand is pure, unadulterated rage. You scramble, panicking as you notice the large blade that’s wedged itself into the man’s back as he seizes on the car, his thick body rolling off from the hood and landing with a large ‘thump!’ as he does so. Foam and the smell of something unpleasant wafts upwards and you palm the handle of the car, attempting to release yourself.

Jack takes slow, calculated steps forwards, his shadow growing larger as he gears up to catch you and claim you as his.

Your heart pounds like a drum in your chest, the panic overtaking your system as you finally get the car open. You shoot out of the metal cage like a bat from hell and stumble onto the asphalt, hissing as the black tar digs into your knees and palms. No time for registering your pain, you need to run! Like a freshly born faun, you hobble up and begin to run, wondering if you can make it back to the bar and the safety of other people when Jack’s steps grow quicker.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! He’s going to catch you and he’s going to kill you!

“You’re such a stupid little rabbit,” he hums, watching as you sorely sprint towards the door. “Look what you’ve done,” he taunts, hand gesturing to the man. “You made me kill him and I’m not even hungry,” he hums. “Maybe I should make you eat it instead,” he muses.

The thought alone makes your stomach retch. You stumble once more, body feeling violently ill as you cave. The alcohol paired with his words has you emptying your stomach of its contents that splash to the asphalt, the sickly acrid and saccharine taste overtaking your mouth.

Jack’s giant form finally overtakes you. He stands with his hands behind his back, peering down at you with disdain. “Fucking disgusting,” he coos in a tone that reminds you of a condescending father. He grips the back of your neck and forces you down.

You screech and fight him, not wanting to touch what came out of you.

“No? No,” he grins. “Fine. Let’s go see your date.” His claws dig into your neck as he drags you back to the man’s car where he’s finally gone still. He’s left a puddle of blood. Jack laughs quietly at your struggling before forcing you to your knees. “Are you hungry?”

“No-”

“I think you mean yes.”

The taste of blood still lingers in your mouth, and it remains even in your slumber.

Of course, you passed out due to your traumatic experience, and threw up again as well. Jack took advantage of your fragile state and brought you back to your home, the place you belonged - with him. He cut your Achilles tendons, just a warm up, really.

“Time to wake up.” Jack’s voice permeates your head, rousing you from your slumber. His gloved hands are snapping in front of you.

It’s bright, much too bright. Your body feels simultaneously heavier and lighter. Where are you? You see that you’re now looking into an operating light, and it’s super uncomfortable. “What did you do to me?” You ask drowsily.

Jack ignores your question and instead picks you up. His footsteps begin to lull you into sleep.

Exhausted, you fall back in again, and this time? This time, it’s dreamless.

It’s that fucking cream colored ceiling again that you open your eyes to. The water damage is still the same, and you realize you’re still stuck. You’re about to get up when you hear your door opening.

“Nice to see you up,” Jack says, watching as you slowly come to. “Did you dream about anything?”

You narrow your eyes recoiling as he reaches his hand out to pet you.

Jack glares at you for a moment, his hand straightening before he slaps you. “Don’t get testy, I’ll take your arms next,” he murmurs.

You’re about to bite back when you take in his words. What? Your heart begins to sink, deeper and deeper as your hand shakily reaches to the edge of your bed sheets. No. No. NO. You hold your breath as you rip the sheets off. Your flesh is swollen, puffy and looks like it’s crying out in its own form of pain. Large, manila colored casts and bandages surround your thighs and what remains of your knees.

You begin to hyperventilate. Your chest begins to rise and fall faster and faster - your body feels like a prison.

Jack only coos. “Stop that,” he says lovingly, hand petting your head as you fall deeper and deeper into despair. He removes the black glove from his hand and grabs your face, his dark, eyeless sockets boring into your own eyes. He looks at you with such adoration that acts as a front for the betrayal and anger he feels for you deep down inside. He draws closer to your tear stained face, a small smile bearing shark-like teeth at you before parting his lips to speak to you. “You’re being hysterical.”

[senjuside]

“Uchiha Izuna,” it—he rasps dryly, face cold as marble. “Good morning. Would you tell me why your brother keeps throwing gifts in my face everytime we meet?”

Looking at the sides of his futon with the sudden realization that Tobira isn’t letting him goes anywhere, with the heavy body almost smashing him in the mattress, Izuna thinks about how he should tell a fucking siren that his absolute insane brother is trying to propose in a very, very archaic way.

Giving a trembling, wry smile at the thing, Izuna shivers heavily when the siren smiles back, with too many sharp teeths to be peaceful or friendly in any way.

And they’ve the audacity to tell Izuna was the one who hadn’t any survival instinct remaining.

Pairing: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara

Rating: T

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Chapters: 1/1

Words: 2734

Written for @madatobiweek, Week 1: Folklore and mythology // The moment I knew. Read on AO3 or under the cut :)

(my bad for any mistake or something guys. english, as you'll see, isn't my first language :p good reading, anyway <3)

Madara had never been a usual lover—always all sharp barbs and rough language used as a comfortable shield to hide the soft gazes he’d give Tobirama—even if, Tobirama supposes, they’ve never been a usual couple either.

Madara is a peculiar creature, Tobirama knows. He’s harsh to deal with, hurdle, and for onces paranoid. But, Tobirama thinks with a nearly fond, in love smile, he would’ve his moments as well.

Like his apparently newly gained obsession with gifts.

It was quite cute from the very first time. A weighty book written in the old language of the dwarfs, that lived in the south. An anklet of silver, and a ring of amestice. Even a couple of heavy fur collars, soft that hurted at the touch, smelling distinguly like Madara.

All the gifts are carefully bestowed inside of his cave, in a safe bubble of air to not screw up with nothing. Was a really sweet action of such a rough man like Madara, rude like Tobirama is pretty aware he usually is, so Tobirama wouldn’t like to waste those kinda rare openly ways to show affection.

Unlike the dragons, sirens like Tobirama in general don't really give a matter to the thing’s price, gold or diamond—even if Tobirama is pretty sure that sirens do not usually get gifts from pleasure. They’re usually too busy with the ‘charming pretty sallys underwater and so devour’-thing to make good first impressions or build relationships.

But, Tobirama supposes, everything certainly has a limit.

And now Madara is nearly to overtake it. Hard.

“FOR YOU,” Madara yells, even if he's one step away from Tobirama, sitting poorly in the river’s muddy margens.

Tobirama blinks at him, wordlessly for a second, but Madara doesn’t offer anything more but turns into his back and runs away, giving Tobirama no chance to thank or say a word.

For the fifty time, just this week.

It’s starting to turn… cansative, Tobirama ponders, looking carefully at the golden mirror in his hands.

Pursing his lips down, Tobirama honestly thinks that this shit is elongating itself for a way more than it would be necessary.

If Madara isn’t going to get his head out of his ass, Tobirama may have some questions to ask the Uchiha.

———————

A drop of water falls down to rest on Izuna’s cheek, followed by another, and another. Izuna struggles himself over asleep, frowning.

Another drop falls through his jaw, to dive inside his open sleep-yakuta, cold as hell, making Izuna quivers hard and wake up suddenly, shaking, just to blink open his eyes, his vision cloudy by the sleepness, and get himself face to face with—all Izuna’s words — a sharp feature elevated above him, pale as a paper with devilish red eyes, imobile, gazing at him deeply.

The only thing that hinders Izuna to scream for help is the creature’s hand put against his mouth. The room still was shadowish by the close fusumas, and a thick trail of water left spots on the tatames. Not daring to look away, Izuna inbreate sharply, wide-eyed looking at the impassive face of the thing above him.

A vision that, for Izuna’s total and absolute terror, slowly starts to remind him disturbingly of some of Madara's descriptions.

And, although Izuna knew Madara has a lover outside the clan—and probably any person that could hear or read lips in the Uchiha did notice Madara being insupportable and repugnantly sweet when he was singing praises at his dearest Tobira— he could never expect a fucking siren just out of Izuna’s wrostes nightmares.

“Uchiha Izuna,” it—he rasps dryly, face cold as marble. “Good morning. Would you tell me why your brother keeps throwing gifts in my face everytime we meet?”

Izuna shallows hardly, repentinaly regretting deeply having fought with Madara to sleep for one more hour instead of attending the clan’s reunion this morning. Looking at the sides of his futon with the sudden realization that Tobira isn’t letting him goes anywhere, with the heavy body almost smashing him in the mattress, Izuna thinks about how he should tell a fucking siren that his absolute insane brother is trying to propose in a very, very archaic way.

Giving a trembling, wry smile at the thing, Izuna shivers heavily when the siren smiles back, with too many sharp teeths to be peaceful or friendly in any way.

And they’ve the audacity to tell Izuna was the one who hadn’t any survival instinct remaining.

———————

Dragons are such beautiful, sweet and possessive creatures, Tobirama learned with the time. Differently from his specie, for onces cold and kinda cruel, hovering in deep, cold waters, so deep that even the light couldn’t come in there sometimes, the dragons aren’t any different from the fire they could spit out.

Their love would burn, deep and beautiful, as blaze fierling all along the night.

Tobirama is a child from the sea; his love isn’t scorching as the dragon’s love is but silent and peaceful like a quiet summer night browsing in calm sea, at the same it is furious and instotable like the worst of the storms. It is measureless as is the ocean, for sure hurdle, for times, but never flawed.

Dragons are explosive as the fire that growls into their veins. They’re imediatalist, and they trust deeply or simply do not. There’s no middle term in love, in family. You’re theirs, or isn’t.

They’re explosions of emotions, stars collapsing in supernovas—all the opposite of Tobirama, cold and racionable when the situation needs, treacherous in confidence, never trusting in no one but himself, despite using it to climb at his objectives, and there’s no shame in admit that: he’s what he’s and wouldn’t change for nobody.

Tobirama knows he’s hard to deal with, but, if there’s a single resemblance between sirens and dragons, when you’re into his heart, you’re there forever—because the tide may change, but the trail will be always there for thoses who venture to travel and conquist. And when Madara stole that kiss from him, Tobirama allowed him to stay, for forever, if he wanted to. He was from Madara from body and soul since that time when Madara’s fingers nuzzled down his scales.

Tobirama chuckles softly to himself, nestling the pearl necklace Madara had given him this week against his chest. He’s just Madara's, but it seems like his koibito doesn’t notice this yet.

Little fool.

———————

“You were building a treasure for me.”

It is the first thing Tobirama says, his voice dry as usual while he points out, when Madara comes into his field of vision.

Naturally, Tobirama knew of the dragon’s tendencies to accumulate, of course. He may have spent half a life peeking around deep waters, but he’s not oblivious. Even Madara already had prided himself for Tobirama after he stole—”found around the battlefield, I ain’t a thief, siren of hell”— a sword or a helmet he considered good enough to be on his particular treasure.

He never thought, however, that this would extend to their partners.

Madara seems to freeze in half a way, a few steps from where he meets Tobirama almost every night. His heavy cloak rock softly with the wind, the stiff scale next to the horns in the temples fading out with the creamy skin the moonlight's light—light that doesn't do anything to hide Madara's soft flush when he stops throughout the trail to the river’s margers, looking anything but absolutely cute.

Who’d say that this ugly mug may be so adorable, Tobirama scoffs mentally, playful, as he perceives Madara starts to look more and more ashamed. So different from the pride warrior he had seen Madara transformed himself amidst the battlefield more than one time, tearing apart flesh with his claws as he'd cutting raw silk.

Tobirama smiles softly, although he’s been pretty aware that his sharp, long teeths probably doesn't seem like an amorous expression at all. "Stop get stood here like a idiot and come here, stupid," Tobirama scoffs gentily.

Madara's eyes narrow thighly, the narrow slits brighting in the night with a soft red glow, but does, taking a step in to sit in the river's margers

Tobirama pushes his body up to rest his head next to Madara's lap.

“You made quite a mess, you know that?” Tobirama said softly. “Your brother seemed to be absolutely terrified when he saw me.”

Madara frowns, widening his eyes a bit.  “Did you go see Izuna?”

“Any problem?” Tobirama asks dryly, arching a cheeky eyebrow. “I was getting tired of having my partner throwing things at me and so turning away to run off, you know.”

Madara grimaces, poking Tobirama’s forehead softly. “Peace, siren of mine. I was just asking.”

Tobirama huffs, as the pride creature Madara knows he’s, narrowing his eyes before getting started again, “he didn’t help, though. I suppose he was too afraid of me eating him alive or something to mutter more than a couple of words without passing out.”

Madara cannot help but laugh. “Sounds like him. And explains why he was looking like a crazy man to the koi pond when I went off.”

“Of the couple of things he could make minimally undestable, I discovered some interesting things,” Tobirama continues dryly, but there’s a background of palpable diversion in his voice. “He said something about ‘absolutely insane relatives’—” Madara turns his eyes there, “—‘stupid courtship’ and I’m pretty sure he did yell a think alike ‘engagement.’”

Madara suddenly curses mentaly his pale skin when his cheeks sembles to catch on fire again, as well the always trained eyes of Tobirama, shining like two rubies in the damp, his gaze burning in his face, watchful at all his little reactions. Huffing to get away his sudden embarrassment, Madara grumbles grumply, “and you connect the dots. Of course you did, fuckin’ genius son of a bitch.”

Tobirama smiles, a simple contraction on the edge of his lips. “Naturally,” he brags himself, the insupportable. “I’d appreciate a contribution of yours, throught.”

Madara grimaces, but doesn’t take a word against him. Cleaning his throat with a soft disgust contraction on his lips, he gets started, “... yes, it’s kind of an engagement, but more like… a proposal. You know that every dragon has a collection of something, right? I collect bright, mortal things. Such as weapons,” Madara explains calmy, but he’s feeling anxious, Tobirama can say by the way he keeps his gaze trained in his hands, an adorable soft flush covering his pale cheeks. “Therefore, when we’ve got interest in someone, it was usual for the dragon to give his interest with gifts to add to their treasure. That’s why I wanted to give you something that would… fit with you. Not just. Trinket."

“I supposed it would be something like that,” Tobirama sings, smiling. “So, I should return your gifts, shouldn’t I?”

Madara whips up himself, stumbling around the words, “I-I mean, if you’d accept the courtship—”

Tobirama laughed. “Oh, you’re such a fool sometimes, my love.” Madara opens his mouth to hash out wrathful, but Tobirama keeps speaking before Madara can have the chance for saying anything, “of course I’d, Madara. If a siren matches, they’d match for a life. There’s no dating. You’re mine and I've been yours since the day I accepted you inside my home.”

Madara blinks. He breathes, “oh.”

Tobirama scoffs before he could hold himself, “oh, fuckin’ jerk.”

Madara squawks aloud, opening his mouth to fuss, but Tobirama just chunkles, getting on his elbows to stand up and press their lips softly.

“I hate you,” Madara murmurs against Tobirama’s mouth a second later, just to make his point.

One of Tobirama’s teeth nips on Madara’s lip lightly, not enough to hurt or to take off blood, but teasing. Feeling playful, Tobirama gently pushes down a handful of Madara’s hair to make him curve next to him, easing the angle for Tobirama to lick inside Madara’s mouth. “I hate you too, sweetheart,” he scoffs, “no worries.”

Madara turns his eyes, sighing when he presses their foreheads together. “Shitty idiot. I was trying to be romantic, y’know.”

Tobirama arches an eyebrow. “I highly doubt you were romantic for a second of your entire life.”

Madara seems to be offended, bristiling like an urchin. “I’m very romantic, thank you! And thinking I did an entire courtship plan to you bawl me out like that…”

Smiling easily, Tobirama nudges softly, “did you, so?”

Madara flusters himself with a petty whiff, getting started grumply, “I mean, it’s a little anquite, but… I wanted to show you that, mm-I mean, like the tradition says. That you aren’t something I’m taking ownership of, but that I am sharing my treasure with you, and what’s mine is yours.”

“That’s,” Tobirama says a couple of moments later, blinking a bit of surprise, but with his voice repugnantly soft and gentle, “especially sweet of you. Thank you, Madara.”

Madara huffs. “Don’t mention it.”

Tobirama rolls his eyes, playfully poking Madara’s tight with sharp teeth. “Don’t be so smug about it.”

Madara arches an eyebrow. “Hope you haven’t forgotten I am an Uchiha. It’s in my blood.”

“Stupidness?” Tobirama asks dryly.

“No. We do like to exhibe our things. Especially those mortal and beautiful. Or just the ones that bite.”

Tobirama’s face covers quickly with red. He grumbles, pouting sulky, “shut the fucking up, Uchiha. That’s the only thing your pea-sized brain can think about?”

“When I’ve a willing, beautiful siren only for me?” Madara smirks. “Absolutely.”

Preening a hand across the soft, sleek scales where it united together with the almost phantasmagoric white skin from Tobirama’s belly, by where it is out of the water, resting in the mud next to one of Madara’s legs, Madara hums happily. “Sirens don't have some type of honeymoon?” he asks serenely.

Tobirama chuckles. “I think they’d.”

“I suppose I’ve to celebrate with my pretty fiancé.” Madara shudders. “Haven’t I?”

“I’m sure you’ve,” Tobirama replies easily, spreading out his arms to deliberately offer Madara a better vision of his chest, letting the way down his belly free, easy for Madara to slip with his hand. Arching an eyebrow, Tobirama asks, “shy now, Madara?”

Madara scoffs aloud. “Nothing I haven’t seen yet, bastard.”

“Tired already of, so?”

“Never.” Madara’s quick to ensure. “You’re always a show aside. And I’d suppose we'll have to consummate. Again. Dragon style.”

Tobirama cannot help but laugh. “Why are you always a shitty mood killer? Better—why do I accept getting engaged with you, from all the people?”

Giggling, Madara noses Tobirama’s jaw absently. “Because you love me, clearly.”

Tobirama does, of course—but it wasn't like he’s going to say it and inflame Madara’s ego more than it already is.

Instead, Tobirama just moans softly when Madara scrapes his blunt teeth in his neck, huffing a blow of heated air against the bruise he certainly left.

Greedy, his lover is, and Tobirama doesn’t do anything to appease that when Madara growls softly some verbal affirmation of that but smiles, his teeth scraping dangerously Madara’s pants, sucking a bruise next to his hips.

Tobirama’s smile is all teeth. “Cute of you to think dragon’s are the only ones with possessive tendencies here.”

———————

“There’s a motherfucker demon living on your koi pond, Madara! Are you fucking crazy?!”

“The demon surely has a name,” Tobirama rumbles, thicc and sharp, a dark playfulness trickling on his tone, from where he’s upholding his head on his hands, above the engawa, arching an eyebrow to Izuna as he smiles, all teeth.

“Madara!” Izuna cries out. “He’ll pull my feet when you’re asleep and so drown me! Look at him!”

Tobirama hums, without any shame, and, perhaps propositaly, arches his upper lip a bit to show his teeth better, as he’d growling.

“He’s learning how to smile,” Madara grumbles at him, blind by passion. Or charmed, Izuna thinks, narrowing his eyes to the thing, floating in the koi pond, looking absolutely suspiciously serene. “And Tobirama will be perfectly fine. He’ll not drown you or anyone. Stop being rude with my bride, Izuna! Where’s your manners?”

While Madara keeps talking around and complaining about Izuna, Tobirama arches a sharp eyebrow at him. “Easy now, Izuna. I’m living here, and I’d hate to eat my brother-in-law accidentally.”

Whimpering, Izuna would like to know where he could sign up to change from his family, thank you so much.

[little-diable]

Twinkling stars - Harry Styles (smut)

First try at writing for Harry, I hope you guys like it and will request some imagines for this lovely man. Enjoy my loves. xxx

“It’s lovely, innit?” Harry sat down next to her, back pressed against the cold railing of his roof, eyes wandering up to the dark night sky, admiring the mass of stars. “Mhm,” her eyes momentarily wandered over his features, his green eyes twinkled in the faint light, outshining all those stars. “Shouldn’t you be down there?” (Y/n) nodded her chin towards his garden, finding their friends sitting around his pool, giggling about god knows what. 

“They’ll be fine without me,” his calm voice made her shiver, a reaction she was used to by now, after all she already had been around Harry for a few months, still not quite sure, if it had been just a lucky coincidence or one of the worst decisions of her life. She had trusted Anna, trusted her as she told (y/n) about his kind nature, the smile he so naturally carried on his pink lips, appreciating all the people around him. 

But, Anna didn’t tell her how alluring his smile would truly be, didn’t warn (y/n) about the possibility of falling head over heels in love with one of the biggest names in music, didn’t even mention how his touch would make her body tingle for hours on end. 

(Y/n) was well aware that Harry, the Harry Styles, would never truly be interested in her, she wasn’t one of those naturally pretty model faces, of course she was beautiful, but she wasn’t special, at least that was what her inner voice would tell her, every time her mind would dream about being with him. She should have trusted the feeling in her guts, should have stopped accompanying  Anna to his parties, to the events he’d host, but, she simply couldn’t. 

“Don’t think I’ll ever get used to this view,” his head rolled backwards, fully taking in the night sky, a carefree smile danced on his lips, she hummed once again, hoping that she’d find the strength to rip her eyes off him. Harry caught her staring, not truly intending to, deep down he had hoped, that she’d still look at the stars, giving him the opportunity to admire her, like he’d always do. 

A frown was gracing her features, eyebrows knitted together, the line between them seemed to get more prominent, she had been pulled into her confusing thoughts, detesting her heart for betraying her like that, letting itself fall into another heartbreak. Her eyes wandered down his jaw, to his neck, where his necklace hung, (y/n)s finger ghosted over the metal, unconsciously creeping closer. 

Harry gulped, trying to pause his racing thoughts, his heart was rapidly beating, pounding against his ribcage, he could almost feel her breath on his skin, how easy it’d be to dip his head down and finally kiss her. But just as he came up with enough bravery to move closer, (y/n) shook her head, rising from the cold floor, “I’ll have to get up pretty early, should be finding my way home now,” she demonstratively yawned. 

“I’ll walk you down,” Harry grasped her awaiting hand, following her down the steps, the knot in his abdomen seemed to tighten, he didn’t want her to leave, there were too many things he still wanted to say to her. “Do you want me to drive you home?” He shot her a concerned glance, she shouldn’t have to wander through the dark streets around that time, he’d always worry about her, no matter what. 

“’M good, thank you,” (y/n) squeezed his hand, shooting him one last tight smile, that truly didn’t reach her eyes, displaying the raging storm of emotions overtaking her senses. A lump began to form in her throat as she walked through his gate, eyes focused onto her phone screen, his voice began to rumble through her earphones, singing to her, engulfing her on the walk home. 

It took Anna a few days to reach out to (y/n), telling her about Harrys new invitation, he’d play “fine line” to his friends for the first time, after teasing them for months about his new album. “No, I won’t make it,” she chewed on her nails, wrapped up in a big blanket, placed on her sofa, “oh come on, won’t be as much fun without you.” Anna desperately tried to convince her friend, she didn’t hear the pain in (y/n)s voice, didn’t notice her friend struggling, letting her go with a simple “take care”. 

Of course she had wanted to take the invite, (y/n) couldn’t wait for Harry to release his new music, music she’d listen to for hours on end, wondering if he had thought about her, while writing one of his songs. But she’d quickly dismissed the thought, switching her focus onto something else, distracting herself from the name “Harry Styles”. 

Another deep sigh spilled from (y/n)s lips, she was laying on her bed, eyes following the movie, which played on her tv, only getting ripped out of her trance as a knock echoed through her apartment. Her naked feet tapped against her cold floor, hair pulled up into a messy ponytail, “Harry?” He was standing in front of her door, dark green jumper covering his figure. 

“Hi love”, he smiled at her, tentatively stepping into the apartment, he had never been there before, Harry had always wondered what her home would look like. A simple look around was enough for him to fall in love with her four walls. “Why are you here?” It sounded more rude than she had intended, curious eyes watching Harry clear his throat, “you didn’t come.” 

“Oh,” she bit down on her lip, not quite sure what she should tell him, would it be appropriate to simply say “sorry”? (Y/n) stuttered a few words before she gave up, sighing as her eyes momentarily fell close, collecting herself, he’d always have this effect on her senses, letting her drown in his scent, hairs rising as she felt how close he was standing. Harry grasped her chin, tilting it upwards, not giving her any chance to look away. 

Her cheeks were flushed, dilated pupils staring at his tall frame, a few locks fell into his face, projecting a light shadow onto his features. “Love,” Harry mumbled, eyes switching down to her lips, giving into his instincts before he’d find himself overthinking the situation. It took (y/n) a few seconds to react to the kiss, wondering if he was truly kissing her right now, lips moving against hers, arms wandering up her sides, pulling her into his chest. 

He chased her lips, not breaking the kiss once, she didn’t seem as tensed, finally relaxing, giving into his touch. (Y/n) didn’t dare open her eyes as he broke the kiss, heavily breathing, forehead pressed against hers, a chuckle rumbled through him, hands placed against her cheeks. “Do you want to stay?” (Y/n) mumbled against his lips, hoping that he wouldn’t leave just yet, not after overstepping the invisible line between them. 

“Of course,” Harry pecked her lips, following her into her bedroom, eyes finding the movie she had paused before answering the door. “Harry Potter? How fitting,” he chuckled, crawling under the covers, arms wrapped around her, chin placed on top of her head as he tugged (y/n) into his chest. 

The scent of his Tom Ford cologne filled her senses, she’d recognize the luxurious perfume everywhere by now. His fingers danced across the exposed skin of her side, her jumper had risen up just a bit, giving him enough room to glide his fingers over her skin. 

(Y/n) pressed herself further into his chest, she couldn’t truly process what had been happening just moments ago, could still feel his lips against hers, his taste heavy on her tongue. Harrys fingers moved underneath her sweater, her mind was focused on his touch, goosebumps rose on her skin, her thoughts were racing, hopefully he wouldn’t be able to hear her rapidly beating heart.

Just as the credits began to roll, Harry pulled her back in for another kiss, ignoring the buzzing of his phone, ignoring the messages, that kept on flooding in, he couldn’t concentrate on anything, besides (y/n). She crawled into his lap, fully sinking into the kiss, eyes closed at the sensations, no worries clouded her mind, nothing to make her lose her focus, just peace flooding through her veins. 

His green eyes pierced into her (y/e/c) ones, Harry knew, that he wouldn’t be able to stop himself, if he’d kiss her once again, it felt too real, too good. “We don’t have to rush things, love.” The nickname made her shiver, tingles shooting up her spine, his husky voice echoed through the room, hands fumbling with the outlines of her shorts, shuddering at every opportunity he got to explore her skin any further. 

“Don’t want you to stop,” she admitted, voice so silent he had almost missed the words leaving her, (y/n) averted her eyes, focused on his necklace, tracing its shape. Harry tangled his hands in her hair, covers falling from her frame, lips moving in synch with his, expertly he flipped them around, shifting his weight onto one forearm as he hovered above her. “So sweet,” Harry kissed his way down her neck, his left hand moved up her sweater, teasing the fabric of her bra, pinching her clothed nipple. 

A moan fell from her lips, eyes fluttering close, only opening them as he pulled her sweater over her head, exposing her chest to his darkening eyes. “You’re so gorgeous,” he pressed a kiss to the valley between her boobs, slowly pulling her bra straps down, his rings felt cold against her skin, he sucked his lower lip in as he appreciated her naked skin. “Harry.” She breathed out his name, tugging on his locks, he attached his lips to her nipples, sucking and slightly biting on her skin, like he had wanted to do for ages. 

Before Harry made his way down further, he pulled his sweater and shirt over his head, clothes falling off her bed, (y/n)s eyes were ranking up and down his skin, admiring his tattoos, his muscles flexed with every move of his. She traced her fingers down his abs, his skin felt oh so soft underneath her fingertips, “are you sure?” Harrys eyes found hers, hands tugging on her shorts, smiling at the soft “yes” that spilled from her lips. 

The cold air brushed against her exposed skin, she was completely bare, fighting against the will to cover herself up, the adoring look in his eyes was enough to calm her down. “’S that alright?” Harry mumbled, fingers gliding through her wet folds, eyes not leaving hers, even as he dipped his head down, to suck on her clit, he was still holding eye contact. He found himself obsessing over the sight in front of him, she was glowing, chest heavily rising and falling, moans leaving her.

He felt his bulge throbbing against his trousers, desperate to feel her walls around him, aching for her touch. “Harry-” (y/n) panted, “-more.” She didn’t need to explain herself further, he unzipped his trousers, pushed them down his legs, boxers following shortly after. She reached for her bedside drawer, pulling out a condom, eyes falling down to his exposed length, visibly gulping. Her fingers were trembling, pushing the material down his member, coaxing a deep growl out of him. 

His eyes burned through her, waiting for her approval, a sigh left Harry as he parted her folds with his tip, slipping through them a few times, giving (y/n) enough time to overthink the situation, he didn’t want to pressure her into anything. “Stop the teasing Harry,” (y/n) wrapped her legs around his middle, she probably would have chuckled at sight of him smirking down on her, but the sound got stuck in her throat, turning into a high pitched moan. 

Slowly he stretched her walls around him, sinking into her heat, she was aching for him, walls burning as she tried to adjust to his length. Harry pressed a few kisses along her neck, up to her features where he found her lips, distracting her from the pain. “Move, please,” (y/n) begged, sighing in relief as Harry pulled out of her, thrusting into her heat over and over again. The burning sensation soon turned into something more, something deeper, lust was flooding through both of their veins, overtaking their senses. 

“You feel so good, so tight,” Harry blabbed, building up the speed of his thrusts, stretching her further with every motion. His skin slapped against hers, (y/n) scratched her nails down his spine, muscles flexing for her, pulling him down for another kiss, tongues fighting for victory. His name fell from her lips, she couldn’t find any other words, (y/n) was too far gone, sobbing as Harry started circling her clit with his thumb, he’d push her over the edge way too soon. 

Just as (y/n), Harry felt his own release approaching.“’M not gonna last long,” Harry warned her, groaning, she clenched her walls around him, sweat pooled on both of their foreheads, his hair stuck to his skin, eyes brighter than ever, making her drown in them. (Y/n) arched her back, mumbling his name one last time before she came around him, giving into the massive wave of emotions, sobbing some incoherent words. 

Harry couldn’t rip his eyes off her features, he rode her through her high, eyes fluttering close as he tumbled over the edge, releasing himself into the tight fabric, growling and groaning, hands fisting the bedsheet. He collapsed on top of her, face pressed into the crook of her neck, her hands traced his skin, moving up and down the back of his neck, heavily breathing. 

She kissed his forehead, eyes fluttering close, finally giving into the exhaustion. 

[hopelesshawks]

Official Accounts Part 27- Think Fast

Summary: (y/n) was perfectly happy remaining anonymous, even if her best friends were all pro heroes and she worked under THE Hawks. Handling the technical aspects of hero work from the background suited her just fine, thank you very much. That goes out the window when suddenly her twitter blows up thanks Denki and the famed no. 2 hero is asking her to run his own official twitter as a result

If you don’t want to see Official Accounts content blacklist #hopelessoa

Warnings for alcohol and recreational drug use

Masterlist

Hawks watches somewhat apprehensively as you put solo cups, mixers, and multiple handles of hard liquor out on your counter. “You look more terrified right now than I’ve ever seen you before facing a villain,” you point out. “I trained my whole life to fight villains. This is new. How many people did you invite?” He asks incredulously. “Just the Baddies,” you shrug. “All this is for just seven people?” “Technically all this and more, Kacchan’s bringing beer and Mina’s bringing white claws. Don’t worry we won’t finish it all!” you assure him before briefly pausing. “We probably won’t finish it all,” you correct yourself. At seeing the continued hesitation in Hawks’ face you stop your preparations for a moment and turn to him. “Hey I can call this whole thing off if you want,” you offer, but he shakes his head. “No, no don’t do that. Beneath the nerves I’m excited I promise. Plus what would people think if the great Hawks chickened out of a simple little party?” “I’m more worried about Keigo right now than Hawks.” “Keigo will also be fine.” “Ok, but you are more than welcome to stop drinking whenever. We won’t pressure you to get drunk if you don’t want to.” “I am older than you, yknow. You don’t have to baby me.” “Older yes but I, dear Keigo, am the more experienced and wiser one here.” “Well then, oh wise one, why don’t you show me the proper way to take tequila shots.” “I’ll grab the limes.”

You and Keigo might have gotten the tiniest bit carried away with your pregame so by the time the rest of your friends come knocking at your door you’ve already got a buzz going. As you swing the door open Denki and Mina are grinning back at you, Denki with an impressive bag of weed and Mina with the promised white claws, as the other three wave from behind them. “Let’s get fucking plus ultra in this bitch!” Mina yells and the rest of you reply with similar enthusiasm as you usher everyone inside. “Hawks and I already started so you guys have to catch up,” you tell them as you unlock your phone and toss it to Kirishima to pick the music.

At the start of the night you made a point to stick close to Keigo so he’d always have a familiar face to rely on if he got overwhelmed or didn’t feel like talking anymore, but as the drinks kept flowing you were delighted to find he seemed to be doing just fine on his own. In fact, Denki genuinely seemed keen on getting to know him more and the rest of your friends were just as welcoming. Soon it felt just like any of you all’s usual hangs and it wasn’t much longer after that that everyone was properly drunk. Soon Mina had somehow convinced Bakugo and Kirishima to back her up in an impromptu round of karaoke while Shinso and Hawks watched on from the sidelines. Denki sidles up next to you, throwing one arm around your shoulder while holding a perfectly rolled joint in his free hand. “Shall we head to the balcony?” he asks with a grin. You throw one more glance Hawks’ way to double check he’s doing well and when you see him burst into laughter as Bakugo and Mina fight over something inane, you feel something warm spark in your chest. “We shall,” you confirm before letting him guide you over to the glass door and opening it with a flourish.

There’s a chill in the air but the alcohol flowing through your veins means you barely feel it as you step onto the balcony and lean across the railing, Denki joining you as he pulls a lighter from his pocket. He places the joint in his mouth and then lights it with the kind of ease that comes from experience before taking a large hit and passing it to you. The two of you pass the joint back and forth a few times before Denki finally speaks up. “So how’s the little arrangement going so far?” he asks. “Better than expected to be honest.” “Have you guys talked about what happened yet?” “Not explicitly. He told me... a lot... about his past so I kinda get it now? but not about the night it went to shit.” Denki hums in acknowledgment. “How are you doing in general after everything that happened?” he asks. “I’m fine Denki.” “(Y/n)...” “I mean it. Don’t worry about little ol me.” “I’ll always worry about you.” “And I, you. Now stop killing the vibe. This is supposed to be a party remember?” Denki laughs at that as you move to sit on the railing of the balcony.

Keigo has to admit he’s pleasantly surprised by how tonight is going. He had worried about dropping into the middle of your friend group and spending the whole night feeling like an intruder but instead all of you have welcomed him with open arms in spite of everything. Between that and the alcohol he’s feeling more uninhibited now than he ever has his entire life. “I should’ve done this sooner,” he declares as he takes another sip from his solo cup. Next to him Shinso laughs, “damn right you should’ve.”

“Hey Kacchan!!” he suddenly hears you call. When he looks over he notices you sitting on the railing of the balcony. That can’t be safe, you have to be at least as drunk as he is and the joint you’d been sharing with Denki has burned pretty low so you’re definitely high too. “Think fast!” you shout and then you’re letting go and leaning backwards until you’re falling, the bright grin on your face never faltering. The blood in Hawks’ veins runs cold as he watches you disappear from sight. The muscles in his back twitch on instinct but barely any of his feathers have grown back yet so he. can’t. save. you. He can’t save you and he’s starting to panic when he notices Bakugo launching himself over the railing, the sound of explosions loud in the quiet night. Hawks jumps as he feels a hand land on his shoulder and turns to find Shinso giving him a reassuring smile. “Sorry should’ve warned you. She does that a lot, especially when she’s drunk,” Shinso tells him. “What? Falls off buildings?” “Yea pretty much.” “What?” “It’s a trust thing. The first time she did it was to prove a point. She knew he’d catch her. Now I think she just likes the feeling of falling while crossed.”

Bakugo reappears over the balcony with you giggling on his back completely unharmed and Hawks releases a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. “That’s a lot of trust. When’d she start doing that?” Hawks asks. “I’m actually not sure,” Shinso replies, “yo Mina!” “What?” “What year did (y/n) start the whole ‘think fast’ thing? Second or third?” Mina walks over to join the conversation, plopping down next to Shinso. “Uhh I think it was third year after they started dating” she says. Shinso shoots her a look and elbows her but it’s too late. “They dated?” Hawks asks. Mina’s eyes widen in realization but it’s too late to take it back so she instead says “I’m gonna get more to drink!” and jets back off to the kitchen. Shinso rolls his eyes. “Yea, they did. In the end they decided they were better off as friends though, especially because Bakugo was a lot less mature then.” “That’s why she gets away with calling him Kacchan.” “Yea, probably. That was years ago now though, I don’t think anything’s happened between them since. I wouldn’t worry about it,” Shinso assures him before excusing himself to go talk to Denki.

Hawks knows it’s not his place but he can’t help but feel jealous now watching you tease Bakugo about getting slower as he lectures you on being an idiot. “I’m not an idiot!” you pout. “What else would you call someone that intentionally falls off a building?” he seethes. “Was there any chance you would have let me hit the ground?” “Obviously not, dumbass.” “Well there you go! Perfectly safe!” Bakugo sputters, his cheeks reddening, before finally grumbling “I’m getting another drink,” before walking away. This only makes you laugh harder. “Love you Kacchan,” you tease after him. “Fuck you!” he shouts back.

He’s one of your best friends. He’s one of your best friends. He’s one of your best friends. The phrase plays on a loop in Keigo’s head in a desperate attempt to quash the jealousy burning through his chest but he can’t help it. How long had the two of you dated? “Longer than the two of you did,” his brain unhelpfully supplies. His thoughts are interrupted when Kirishima drops down next to him with two beer cans in hand. “You look like you’re pretty deep in your head and (y/n) would kill me if I let you stay that way. Ever shotgunned a beer before?” Kirishima asks. “I didn’t realize I was that easy to read,” Hawks says as he takes one of the offered beers. “Typically you’re not. Watching you in action? You’re totally inscrutable dude, it’s super manly! But when you’re with friends you shouldn’t have to worry about that. Anyway, let’s not talk heavy shit man, am I teaching you to shotgun or not?” “Fuck it, why not.” “That’s the spirit!”

The party eventually reaches its natural conclusion as exhaustion starts to overtake even the effects of alcohol. Not to mention, your friends are keenly aware that unlike you and Hawks they actually have to get up and be out for work tomorrow. Hawks isn’t surprised when you give each of your friends a tight hug goodbye. He is surprised when the same offer is extended to him. It’s almost scary how perceptive your friends can be. When Mina’s hands get a little too close to where his wings should be he can’t help but flinch and immediately she adjusts. The rest of your friends make a point to avoid the area. Bakugo and Kirishima are the last to leave and it takes everything in Hawks not to let his jealousy show as you hug Bakugo goodbye. He’s once again shocked when Bakugo goes to hug him but he soon realizes that it’s not necessarily done to be friendly. “Take good fucking care of her bird brain. Cause if you don’t? I will,” he whispers harshly. As the two pull away from each other their eyes lock in a silent challenge until Kirishima calls from the hallway “Bakubro let’s go! Taxi’s here!” “I’m coming Shitty Hair relax!” he shouts back before finally breaking eye contact and heading out the door with one final wave in your direction.

Author’s Note: The party was honestly pretty built around the “think fast” scene. Once that idea came to mind it refused to leave. The Bakugo stuff well 👀 what can I say I like ✨drama✨ also I felt a little bad that Bird Boy stole the fic I was gonna write for Bakugo from him. Originally I was gonna have Hawks’ jealousy be unfounded but then I saw an opportunity and decided to run with it oops

Taglist [open]: @cathy8taffy @katzurras @grumpyfroggies @captaincyberqueen @itskindofafairything @420-uwu @someweirdshitman @oliviasslut @the-adzukibean @a-fucking-sero-kinnie @ladyzayismultifandom

[river-bottom-nightmare]

hc that dick gets little shocks of electricity every time he kisses wally

it starts when their friendship beings to turn into something else. now, whenever wally slug an arm around dick’s shoulders, or grabbed his hand to tug him somewhere, or wrapped dick in a hug, dick could swear he felt a little tingle. once he eventually figured out his neon-bright feelings for the speedster, they began to make a little more sense. after all, people everywhere described having a crush as “getting tingles all over your body,” right? except it seemed like they were only growing. whenever, wally gripped his hand in the field, whenever he passed wally a snack and their fingers brushed, whenever wally ruffled his hair, dick could feel those little zaps and pulses getting stronger and stronger.

it all came to a head one day when dick finally broke, and after a mission where wally almost died, dick leaned back from a hug, curled his fingers around his jaw firmly, and pressed his lips to wally’s. that same jolt of electricity was there, except it was so much stronger than before. he could feel it as it touched his lips, a hair before wally’s actual mouth, and the way it traveled through his mouth before dissipating made him jump. of course, wally’s first reaction was to apologize for the zap, and how he didn’t mean to and he’s so sorry if he hurt dick and god he’s so embarrassed he’s just going to leave now, but dick shuts him up with another kiss, reveling in the sting of electricity. 

“so let me get this straight. every time bird boy flinched and jumped away from you like he’d been shocked, it was because he’d actually been shocked, because you couldn’t control your crush like a normal person?” “shut up roy” “wally he’s got a point.” “shut up dick.”

over time, dick comes to fall in love with those little zaps of electricity. they were proof of wally’s love, proof of wally’s natural happiness and adoration. whenever wally peppered his face with feather light kisses, dick smiled into the little zaps. whenever he pushed wally into the wall, dick smirked at the surge of electricity that had wally’s eyes wide and his lips breathless. whenever wally practically attacked him after an incident at the station, or after a league or titans mission gone wrong, he wrapped dick in his arms, the two of them curled up into each other, a low-level current a constant buzz between them that dick came to cherish. whenever dick pressed wally into the bed, the electricity was strongest then, sparks of lighting flying out from wally’s flushed skin, wrapping their way inside dick instead, and the shock of it never failed to make dick moan. whenever sparks jumped between their intertwined fingers out and about. yes, those zaps of electricity were things dick learned to adore.

but he realized too late he took advantage of them. because, as quick as one of those lighting bolts, wally was gone. 

barbara’s lips were sugar coated, sweet enough to make him smile again. kory’s mouth made him feel like he was on fire, the flames devouring him from the inside out. kissing tiger meant he tasted the tang of copper on his tongue, because the man was rough. 

but none of it was enough. none of it was the hard bite of electricity, the rush of lighting that could almost overtake him. none of it was the secondhand current running through his veins, connecting him to another person the way no one else could. none of it was the pure heady power that enveloped the both of them when they were wrapped up in each other.

and dick could hate himself, curse himself. he could look at all the photographs of wally in his apartment and try not to ruin them with his tears. he could spend the night in bed after bed, unable to make himself sleep in a bed in his apartment that was never supposed to be just his. he could take his escrima sticks, jab the tip into his skin, and pretend, for just a moment, that it was wally’s hands holding him again. 

it didn’t matter. he would never feel those sparks skipping across his skin again. 

would you look at that! i made it sad! anyway have fun with this one guys. full disclosure, this started out as a smut fic idea, and then instead of writing about dick having an electricity kink, i made him cry instead. fun times

anyway tag list: @comicsandhoney @yesboopityboop @birdy-bat-writes @astroherogirl @dangerduckjpeg @thebatsandbirdsofgotham @anothertimdrakestan @subtleappreciation

[temnurus]

Hi!! I'm feeling rather emotional now, really need something that makes me grin or sob or heartbroken, anything. Can you rec me fics which are full of emotions?

Oh, my dear Anon. I meant to answer this the week it was asked, and then life decided to sidetrack me for a while (like a super long time actually, omg, I'm so sorry). I dug out my notes for how I was going to answer, and I’m compiling them now, horribly late, but still utterly sincere. Each of the fics on this list is both chock full of emotion and made me an emotional wreck. Not in a bad way, mind you, because I am a wuss, and unhappy endings would crush my fragile heart. But still. There was lots of laughter, lots of tears, and definitely a good bit of blushing. Please note that I read mostly explicit fics, so a lot of these are spicy. Fair warning!

Drarry Fics

Title: Balance, Imperfect Author: bixgirl1 Rating: Explicit Words: 91,000 Highlights: EWE, Healing, Healer Draco, Domesticity, Romance, Dating, Falling In Love, and some lovely NSFW tags Warnings: Physical Disability, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Longing, Dubious Medical Ethics, Disability Summary: When Harry sustains an injury in the line of work, he no longer knows how to navigate the life he loved, and finds help and solace from the most unexpected source.

Thoughts: I wrestle with myself relentlessly over whether or not this should overtake That Old Black Magic as my favorite bixgirl1 fic. It ripped me open and left me bleeding several times. I wept openly no less than four times during this fic. It's just scalding raw emotion poured directly into your veins and deals with such difficult subjects and feelings in gorgeous and flawless ways. There is a happy ending. Make no mistake. Bix has never failed me in this regard. I've read TOBM more times so far, but this fic was an absolute experience. If you enjoy being gutted and then made whole again, this is absolutely the fic for you.

Title: Burn The Witch Author: lettersbyelise Rating: Explicit Words: 95,800 Highlights: Unusual Careers, Demisexual Draco, Case Fic, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Autistic Scorpius, Slow Burn, Banter, Snark, Happy Ending, lots of delightful NSFW tags Warnings: Pining, Mentions of Violence, Angst, Scars, Mention of Panic Attacks, Mentions of Therapy Summary: When Harry Potter is sent in to investigate Draco Malfoy’s successful potions company, posing as Draco’s bodyguard, he doesn’t know the case will launch a series of events that will change his life — and Draco’s. A story about choices, scars, Chopin piano pieces, and finding all kinds of love in the most unexpected places.

Thoughts: The author wrote Draco beautifully as someone who really grew out of the prejudices his parents instilled in him and found his own mind and voice and purpose in a really meaningful way. I thought his relationship with Scorpius was beautiful, and their take on a child on the autism spectrum was handled with care and aplomb. Ernestina was one of my favorite OCs ever in a story. She's really fantastic. Harry seemed to slip right into their lives so comfortably, and I liked how natural that felt. Like it was bound to happen (because of course it was, haha). I loved how fiercely protective he was of both Draco and Scorpius, and the author caught Harry’s endless capacity for love just perfectly in this story. The action scenes were wrenching, though minor in the scheme of things. This was an absolutely gorgeous story, one of my favorites.

Title: Blood and Fire Author: lq_traintracks Rating: Explicit Words: 44,888 Highlights: EWE, Tattoos, Patronus, Dragons, Kneazles, Owls, an epic shit-ton of white hot NSFW tags Warnings: Angst, Pining, Scars Summary: Harry has spent the last twelve years in Romania, not returning to England as often as he knows he should. It's complicated. But when Ginny asks him to be her best man and help her plan her wedding, he can't say no. Having a reckoning with his choices, with himself, won't be easy. To say nothing of seeing Draco again.

Thoughts: Harry running off to Romania to take care of dragons was such an inspired idea. I don't know why I hadn't considered it before, but it suited him perfectly. I've always thought it likely he'd want to travel or get away from his fame somehow, and this was an amazing way to go about it. I did not anticipate how much the idea of both him and Draco pining for each other for 12 years would gut me, but my god, the tension when they encountered each other first at Ginny and Pansy's and then in the pub was electric. My comment on this fic was embarrassingly enthusiastic. Read this. It's phenomenal.

Snarry Fics

Title: the gentleness that comes Author: Likelightinglass Rating: Explicit Words: 29,272 Highlights: EWE, Canon Divergence, Severus Snape Lives, Fluff, Domesticity, and again a ton of NSFW tags (What can I say? I have a type.) Warnings: Insecurity, Scars, Hurt/Comfort Summary: There's something bothering Severus, and Harry wants to help. It's easier for Severus to let go when he's exploring his submissive side, so Harry plans a weekend to show him just how loved he is, and how much Harry wants to care for him. Based on the prompt: Harry has a thing for scars, and Severus has a need for reassurance. They just happen to be what the other requires.

Thoughts: There is no sweeter dynamic than the one captured by Light's versions of Harry and Severus. The tenderness Harry shows for Sev in this brought me to tears several times. The smut was hot and sweet and everything I wanted. I am fully admitting my bias with this being a gift fic for me, but this is more than just an exploration of kink on the softer side of things. It's a gorgeous piece of prose that's just chock full of love in its most beautiful forms. I can't recommend this enough. It's perfect.

Title: Finders Keepers Author: Lilian Rating: Teen And Up Words: 7,325 Highlights: EWE, Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Severus Snape Lives, Magical Realism, Hedwig Lives, Drama, Healing, Happy Ending Warnings: Age Difference, Angst, Hurt/Comfort Summary: Soulmate AU from tumblr @the-rotten-prince: Imagine whenever you lose something, your soulmate winds up finding it. Severus Snape doesn't find a single thing until he's twenty. By that time, he has given up and ignores a young boy, when he arrives at Hogwarts.

Thoughts: Lilian is a frigging genius when it comes to soulmate fics. That's all there is to it. This was absolutely gorgeous. I loved getting to see Severus' younger years, though him losing things in order for his soulmate to find them and consequently find him broke my fucking heart. This fic brought all the feels, and it is so, so good. There's not a thing I've read of hers that I haven't liked. Just lovely.

Title: The Measure of a Man Author: Acid Rating: Explicit Words: 50,163 Highlights: EWE, Canon Divergence, Severus Snape Lives, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Trans Harry, Spinner’s End, Coming Out, FTM Harry, Trans Male Character, Gender Identity, Auror Harry, Legilimency, Transitioning, Transgender, Trans Female Character, Severus Snape Has A Heart, Grimmauld Place, Smut Warnings: Closets, Minor Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Misgendering, Gender Dysphoria, Trust Issues, Drinking, Gender Roles Summary: Several years after defeating Voldemort, Junior Auror Harry Potter discovers himself and, at the risk of losing his childhood love, follows the truth. Through it all, Snape is an unexpected solace. Will he become more?

Thoughts: This fic was an incredibly powerful look into Harry's mind during his transition. The relationships were rich and deep, and the feelings in this were both raw and immensely powerful. I related strongly to parts as a trans nonbinary person, and the topic was covered honestly and thoroughly. Harry and Severus' characterizations were gorgeous, and the evolution of their relationship was stunning to watch. This is a must read for me. I thoroughly enjoyed it and highly recommend it.

Golden Trio

Title: Where Silence Has Come To Lick Its Wounds Author: p1013 Rating: Explicit Words: 2,681 Highlights: Canon Divergence, No Dialogue, Porn With Feelings, a few more lovely NSFW tags Warnings: none Summary: When he comes back to the Horcrux hunt, Ron asks if Harry still wants him, if they still want him, and it's a cold shock almost worse than the frozen lake around Harry's body that Ron might consider the answer is anything other than yes or please or never leave us again.

Thoughts: I have yet to read a ton of fics for this OT3, but I just had to include it in this list. The author's style is wonderful, and I loved the wordless communication through touch and expression they all had throughout their love-making. This was pure poetry in motion, and the three of them coming together felt very natural in the moment. Just gorgeous.

[doobler]

Indebted

//Implied NS.FW content warning//

Stephen knew Chrys was still in the Sanctum. He could feel his energy, the natural spring of magic that bubbled inside the dhampir. His aura was often a lovely dance of grassy green and hot pink. Now, it was sallow and grey, the colors muted and cold. He finally found him slumped down in a beaten old armchair, eyes lidded, lips parted as he stared into space.

"Chrys?" Stephen asked tentatively, unsure if he was meant to be a sorcerer or a doctor in this moment. "Are you okay, bud?"

"Ah, sorcerer," It seemed to take a lot of effort to speak. Chrys' usual silky English baritone was crackly and soft. "Pardon me, this is. A sorry state to see me in."

"What's wrong?" Stephen stepped closer, hands anxiously hovering over the dhampir.

"It's been so long since I last fed," Chrys' head lolled back and he squinted at the ceiling. "The hunger... I do my best to feed so little, sustaining myself on large meals and deep meditative states but... I can't fight my lineage, I must feed at some point or I'll wither away."

Stephen swallowed. He bridged the gap and laid shaking hands on Chrys' forearms. The dhampir jumped a little in his seat, his pupils shrinking into thin little slits.

"... Would that be... Dangerous for whomever you uh... Feed on?" Stephen cursed his lack of knowledge.

"No, I don't have the power to turn anyone," Chrys croaked. "Only pure-bloods and those who've been turned can spread it. My mixed blood isn't enough."

Stephen swallowed. He looked back over his shoulder. Wong was out for today, probably passing on some updated records to Kamar-Taj. It was only Stephen and his dhampir; his large, handsome, selfless, romantic, self-sacrificing dhampir. He tried to tighten his grip on Chrys' arm but his damaged hands didn't permit it.

"What if--"

"Stephen," Chrys tried to sit up, groaning lowly. "That would require... Consent. And a lot of trust between us."

"And?" Stephen searched his face, maintaining eye contact. "I... Trust you, you've been an incredible ally for the time you've been here and a confidant and a teacher--"

"You hesitate," Chrys raised his hand, cupping Stephen's chin. He rubbed circles against his jaw with his thumb. "I need... Complete and total trust. Consent with no regret. Otherwise, I'd never. I could never forgive myself. I can sustain for a while longer, I'll just. Animal blood will suffice--"

"No," Stephen stood, bracing his hands against Chrys' chest. He ran so warm but now he was burning hot. "No. I trust you. Completely. You've already saved my life more times than I can count--"

"As you have mine," Chrys took a deep shaking breath. "Are you sure? Absolutely?"

"Yes." Stephen inhaled slowly, steeling himself. He nodded. "I know... You'll be safe. You won't hurt me, turn me... Kill me. I trust you."

Chrys watched him warily. It was easier to see his age like this, the century of pain and heartache that lived behind his eyes. In his weakened state, he seemed more genuine, old blood magic and an alien sort of beauty laid bare in his features. He took Stephen's hand, intertwining their fingers.

"Take me to your room then. We'll do it there."

Stephen's quarters were somewhat humble. He had a four-post bed covered in a variety of blankets, a oaken desk, a walk-in closet, a dresser, and a slim floor-to-ceiling mirror. While the Sanctum itself had a bit of an old dusty smell to it, Stephen's room smelled like the sorcerer himself. Part of Chrys wanted to faceplant down onto his mattress for another seventy-five year nap.

"Are you sure about this, Stephen?" Chrys asked once more, hovering over the bed.

"You seem far more hesitant than me now." The sorcerer laughed. He'd already shed his sweater and shirt, now standing bare-chested at the foot of his closet. 

He folded up his shirt, still holding it against his chest. Chrys could hear his heart beating, slowly and evenly. He could hear the blood pumping through his veins, the air whooshing through his lungs, the delicate flutter of his eyelashes.

"You and I are a lot alike," Stephen sighed. He sat down, patting the bed as invitingly as he could. "We're both old souls with a lot of trauma. We're both beings of magic and science. We're both... Misunderstood, I think."

Chrys sat beside him, watching his face in earnest.

"This past month as been interesting," Stephen chuckled. He peered up and Chrys found himself lost in his pale green eyes. "I've learned a lot. I think of you as more than just an ally, you're... More than a teacher, more than any of that. And I cherish it."

"I feel like you're leading up to something." Chrys held his breath.

"Just. Trying to communicate that I trust you," Stephen smirked. "I've been betrayed and backstabbed and hurt before but. I struggle to believe you could ever be that guy."

"I would rather die," Chrys laid a hand over his heart. "I... I cherish you, too, Stephen. I've really enjoyed our time together."

There was a pregnant pause. Chrys could practically taste the pounding of Stephen's heart. He leaned in, as did Stephen, until their faces were mere inches apart.

"I think...." Chrys licked his lips, trying his best to hold Stephen's gaze. "I think I'd very much like to kiss you now."

"Please." Stephen breathed and they crashed together.

Chrys was clearly the type to love with his entire being. He cradled Stephen in his arms, cupping his cheek with one broad palm. He curled his arm around his slim waist, dipping his head to deepen the kiss. Stephen felt dizzy. He carded trembling fingers through the ocean of Chrys' hair, moaning quietly as he was ravished.

"Wow," Chrys breathed as he pulled away. "I uhm. Wow."

Stephen laughed, bright and loud. His lips were flushed, his high cheekbones painted a pretty rosy color. Chrys felt his heart flip a few times. 

"Can I...?" He stroked his thumb along Stephen's neck, pressing gently where he felt his pulse pound the hardest.

"Yes, just-- run me through it first. Please."

"I'll bite down on your neck," Chrys held his gaze. "A venom will be released into your bloodstream that will temporarily thin the consistency of your blood. I'll drink it-- not to worry about overdrinking, I know exactly how much blood fits in a human body. When I'm sated, a second venom will be administered to thicken your blood and seal the punctures. Within a few minutes, your blood will have recycled through your body multiple times, flushing out all the venom in the process. There won't be side effects or anything, just a mark on your neck for a week or two. And... That's it."

Stephen laid back, hands folded over his sternum, and nodded. He tried not to flinch as Chrys touched him, gently coaxing his head to turn to the side. Chrys pressed his lips to the sorcerer's neck. He could smell his blood now, counting the beats of his pulse. If he focused hard enough, he could sense the natural magicks that flowed through Stephen's body, glimmering through his aura like fireflies. He laid a few open-mouthed kisses along Stephen's neck before he bit down.

Stephen gasped but did his best to stay still. He could feel Chrys' fangs sink into his flesh, much sharper and longer than he realized. The initial pain faded quickly, replaced with a warm dizzying feeling. Stephen huffed, a chill running down his spine. He reached out for Chrys and clasped his hand as well as he could. The dhampir drank. He was silent, the only tells being the sound of his hungry swallows and the alien sensation overtaking Stephen's neck.

Chrys drank for what felt like ages. Finally, he laved his tongue over the wound and retracted his fangs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He was a very clean drinker, the only lingering evidence being a small streak of blood along his knuckles.

"Are you alright?" Chrys gathered Stephen up in his arms. Already, his skin looked healthier, his eyes bright and sharp. His aura was almost smothering, it radiated so brightly.

"Uh huh," Stephen tried not to squirm as he pressed the heel of his hand against his groin. He was rock hard. "I'm. I'm fine."

"I apologize, there are occasionally some... Side effects," Chrys blushed though there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I'll ah. Let you take care of that."

Chrys stood to leave but something made him hesitate. He turned back and froze like a deer in headlights.

Stephen was panting, cherry red lips parted, pupils blown, his naked chest heaving. The fly of his slacks were already down, when he'd done that wasn't apparent. He watched Chrys and Chrys watched him.

"Unless..." The dhampir curled his hand around one of the bedposts, gripping until he could feel tendons roll beneath his skin. "... You'd like me to stay?"

"Did you drug me?" Stephen spluttered. He pressed his fingers against his chest, over his heart. "Is there. Is. Is vampire venom... An aphrodisiac?"

"It's a sacred and intimate exchange," Chrys squeaked, swallowing loudly. "I. Can't control the effects it has on your body, I'm--"

"Stay," Stephen breathed. He was always so calm and cool and collected, seeing him so unraveled had Chrys nearly drooling. "Stay and... Fix this."

"I'd be honored," Chrys' shirt was off before he even finished his sentence. "I've craved you since we first met, I'm--"

Stephen shook his head, raising his brows. His more standard brand of humor shone through.

"I'm gonna need a first date before we put any labels on anything."

"Yes, absolutely, of course," Chrys babbled, shucking off his pants. "Anything for you, let me take care of you first."

Stephen laughed as Chrys' full weight hit the bed. The sorcerer was thrown up a few inches, thumping back into his forest of pillows and blankets. Chrys leaned over him, his hair cascading like a waterfall and framing Stephen like a curtain.

"You're very eager." Stephen felt smug for once.

"You're quite a man," Chrys shrugged with a shy smile. "I'm delighted."

They shared a kiss and didn't say much else for a good while.

[glorykill-a]

         his mind had grown restless    ,    silence gripping the confines of the fortress like a silent serpent…   coiling    ,    tightening…    it was nearly maddening    ,    a sort of ache thrumming in his chest that ebbed its way down to his stomach.    dull pain became a pang in his midriff    ,    that familiar sensation of longing and loneliness…    one he had hoped never to experience again.          (     HE HAD FORGOTTEN HOW IT FELT.    maybe he shouldn’t have    ,    it would have softened the blow    )          he would have asked vega to converse with him    ,    but as intelligent as the AI appeared to be    ,    the nuances of human conversation seemed to escape him…    and samuel was simply out of the equation entirely    ,    the slayer opting to launch himself out of orbit rather than speak a word to him…    nothing but loathing for the former seraphim.          IT’S FINE… I CAN KEEP MYSELF OCCUPIED.

         eyes stared at the metal and wood frame of lucifer’s bane    ,    argentan alloy glimmering with an iridescent finish    ,    cloth and oil set aside    —    orion had taken it apart and put it back together a dozen times    ,    an obsessive act that was provoked through his need to keep himself busy    ,    to prevent his mind from overtaking the simplest or logics…    though    ,    the muscle of his arms felt heavy    ,    like lead had been pumping through his veins instead of blood    —    shoulders hanging heavy with his melancholia.          THIS IS STUPID…          his jaw clenched at his own thought    ,    a spark of aggravation that flickered and went out as soon as it came…    sluggishness returning to his movements    ,    limbs lazily moving forward as form moved with it    ,    forearms creating a makeshift pillow for his head to rest on.    it was comforting in a way…    orion thought about sleeping    —    but he was quickly reminded of the nightmares that could come…    steep price to pay    ,    for an easy way to pass the time.

         it distressed him    ,    just how much the absence of one man affected him…    but then again    ,    this wasn’t any man that could be waved away…    this was john.          (    THE MERE THOUGHT OF HIM SENDS A CHILL DOWN HIS SPINE    ,    a bristling warmth and a numbing sensation indicating the presence of goosebumps on his scarred flesh    )          a man    ,    a warrior    ,    a spartan…    the owner of orion's ragged heart.          NO…    HE’S MORE THAN THAT.          a force of nature was a phrase that aptly suited him    ,    a name whispered to inspire hope for the layman and those that fought alongside him…    thundorous    ,    raucous…    larger than life in the image that people projected    ,    but the slayer revered him with tenderness and respect.    out of the public eye    ,    it wasn’t hard to see how weary john could be…    the numerous scars that adorned his skin    ,    the small moments of disconnection    —    sometimes he appeared to be stretched thin    ,    but he wouldn’t admit it to anyone    ,    let alone himself.          I WONDER IF HE’S DOING IT NOW…    IT’S BEEN SO LONG…          expression becomes strained    ,    a frown tugging at the corners of his lips    ,    furrowing his brow with concern.    orion being left behind…    as much as he understood why          (   AGGRESSIVENESS WAS HIS CALL-SIGN    ,    brutality a mindset…    but it was ill-suited for meticulous planning    )          he couldn’t protect what was most precious to him if he was stuck here…    worry tore into his abdomen    ,    and he recoiled with a harsh breath    —    he didn’t even know when john was coming back    ,    that was what hurt the most…    agonizing to count the days    ,    weeks rolling by without any sign of him.          OH    ,    MY JOHN…    PLEASE BE SAFE…

         wasn't the first time that his spartan had been summoned by those that gripped him    ,    lecherous and self righteous...    '    the ends justify the means    '    as long as it suited them.    orion couldn't help but think of the goodbye...    there was never a promise of his return    ,    only a simple    '    i'll be back    '.    the heart-wrenching ordeal never got any easier    ,    indicated by the tightening of his heart that made every pulse seem like it would be his last.          (   THIS WAS ALL THE PART OF THE PROCESS...    not so much a lie    ,    as much as it was a simple twist of the truth    )          he didn't know how long he had been sitting here...    almost felt like he was melting into the leather hide of the chair.    it was borderline uncomfortable    ,    the position he was in    ,    but he didn’t care enough to move...    he simply didn’t see the reason    ,    all of the hobbies that would normally keep his mind occupied had worn off their luster.          THIS IS WHAT HELL’S ACTUALLY LIKE...          so lost in his thoughts    ,    he didn’t hear vega calling his name until the AI seemed to shout.    orion blinks    ,    raising his head with enough subtlety that it seemed like he hadn’t moved at all.          “    hm...    ?    “          a simple grunt was all he could offer to his computerized ally    ,    merely a voice within the fortresses’ interior.    he could have a physical form    ,    but vega preferred the familiarity of being just a presence   —    orion couldn’t blame him    ,    there was a comfort in being unknown.

         “    slayer    ,    “          vega’s voice was firm    ,    yet had a tinge of sympathy in his tone.    it seemed like the restrictions that orion had removed from his emotional inhibitors were slowly working    ,    but vega didn’t make it obvious to anyone.          “     i have detected signal from spartan-117    ,    i am opening the portal now.    “         for words spoken so calmly    ,    they were the most relieving to hear...    energy returned to the slayer’s body as if it had never left    ,    the familiar humming and surging of energy being redirected to power the slipspace portal contained in the hub.    orion practically sprang up from the chair like a newborn foal    ,    knocking the heavy piece of furniture over as it landed on the metallic floors with a loud THUD...    he didn’t bother to pick it up    ,    darting off in a sprint    ,    heading up the furnished stairs with reckless abandon until he skidded to a halt in front of the familiar blue hue of a rupture in space.          HE’S HERE... HE’S FINALLY HERE... MY JOHN.          orion could barely contain his excitement    ,    his heart almost beating out of his chest    ,    watching as the blue sheen gave way to a pitch black hole of space and time    —    for a moment    ,    all was silent...    he could hear nothing but the sound of his own breathing    ,    a quick and heavy pulse ringing in his hearts...    then there was the familiar    ,    heavy footfalls of mjolnir armor.

         he softly gasped    ,    seemingly holding his breath as john stepped through the black mass...    his armor was stained a bluish-purple hue from the blood of the elites    ,    a familiar burn mark from boiling plasma on the front of his chest-plate.    vega was quick to close the slipspace rupture    ,    preventing anything unwanted from entering their home...    but that mattered little to orion...    john was home.    heat bloomed within his chest at the sight of him    ,    tears burning and welling hot in his eyelids as he watched john’s armored hands reach up and remove the helmet to expose his features.    cool silver met emerald green    ,    and the smile that crossed orion’s features was one made out of relief and pure joy.          “    john    !    “          the spartan already knew what he was about to do    ,    quickly reaching over to place his helmet down on the console before spreading out his arms in a welcoming gesture...    the smallest of grins on his own face as orion leapt onto his open form    —    his legs firmly wrapping themselves around john’s waist    ,    his hands clasping around the nape of his neck as much as they possibly could.

          this act had been done so many times    ,    and yet it always felt like the first time...    orion was quick to bury his face in the warmth of john’s neck    ,    the tiniest whimper leaving him as he felt john’s cheek brush against his hair in a comforting gesture...    his own hands hoisting orion up by the thighs as his grip refused to soften.    he was shaking    ,    not out of fear or anxiety    ,    but out of the sheer amount of emotion he felt...    overwhelming him    ,    nearly freezing his limbs in place due to his fraying nerves.    callused digits slowly trace john’s features    ,    as if he were feeling them for the first time    ,    rubbing against the scratchy surface of his buzzed haircut...    index finger lightly touching the shell of his ear    ,    moving to his sturdy jaw.    orion shifts himself slightly    ,    leaning back just enough to gaze adoringly at the face of the man he loved.          HE WAS ALWAYS SO HANDSOME...    I COULD NEVER GET TIRED OF SEEING HIS FACE...          his cheeks felt hot    ,    a light shade of red as warmth persisted...    thumb tracing the contours of his skin    ,    streaming upward with fluidity in his movements to finally caress the softer skin of john’s lips.    light pressure was applied    ,    tender flesh slightly parting as the spartan and the demon slayer embraced each other’s forms.

@jhn117​​ said    :    he offers doom a kiss. its been a long mission. but finally, wordlessly, he is back home.

          eyelids became hooded as john gently craned his neck    ,    orion meeting him halfway...    his nose briefly nudging john’s own before their lips pressed together...    a gentle whine emanating from his throat as tears began to collect once more    —    it felt like they hadn’t seen each other in years...    his hands desperately clinging to the collar of john’s armor    ,    tongue grazing over his teeth before they finally met in a passionate embrace.    orion gently huffs    ,    quickly taking in a breath through his nose while his body presses closer    —    a fervent and wet smacking with every act of adoration.    the slayer could smell the faint remnants of copper    ,    leftover from blood    ,    but above it all...    was an earthy tint that he knew belonged to john and john alone.    every hot breath was shared    ,    a smoldering flame igniting into an intense inferno with each second that passed    —    only pulling away to pant and breathe in much needed air...    as their eyelids slowly parted open    ,    their gazes never left    ,    a familiarity and vulnerability in each other’s presence that they would never have with anyone else.    orion motions once more    ,    kissing the edge of john’s lips before he pressed his forehead against his lover’s own...    he would never use the word ‘    heaven    ‘ to describe anything beautiful    ,    a word that became tainted and soured at the memories of the maykrs...    but right now    ,    whatever heaven may have been...    it could never have measured up to this. nothing ever could.          “    i’ve missed you so much, my john...    so much...    “