#nav: identity

[boxesforsys]

Hello! We're BoxesForSys! We make userboxes for systems. Any style, colors, or specific images are okay to request when our inbox is open!

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[nomomio]

If I had a nickel for every time I found a space opera with a masculine female lead, a lesbian romance, and motifs/character experiences so uncannily similar to DID that I need to sit the author down and ask some fucking questions, I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it's happened twice.

[expressionless-fr]

it's funny how you have only one (1) life lile this and if it gets fucked in the days you have no control over shit it's over for fucking ever. you'll never be normal.

[felidaefatigue]

gideon is so nonbinary in my brain i legitametly sometimes forget shes a she. or a woman. etc. but also its not like im thinking man. but ill be like "man i shoukd draw gideon in a leather jacket" and then im like bUT WHAT IF WAKE hah yea i like drawin women- wait...."

[gohjuo-a]

gojo and trauma:

gojo in fact does not bode well with trauma, not entirely coming to terms with losing geto & the fact that he does two things in reaction to coming back from the dead and losing the most important person in his life. for one, physically gojo continues to have his technique on, twenty-four seven. there is no drawback to his power once he returns from the cusp of his death. after his fight with toji, he takes it upon himself to never be caught off guard. it's his way of dealing with never having that loss again ( even though he does crave a good fight, being able to go all out). it's also his way of shielding others away from him since space can't reach him & unless you are someone extremely close to him he would not take the chance to deactivate his technique. that short list includes ( suguru, shoko, megumi, tsumiki, nanami, & his students). other than that anyone would be hard-pressed to find him without it on. he did spend days post-toji fight trying out his technique & racking his brain on all the things he can do. secondly, gojo does not talk about his trauma at all. in a way, his form of denial is never talking about what he went through. his response is to isolate himself, to go back to relying on who he was pre-suguru. the strength & the destiny that his clan has instilled upon him & the very way that jujutsu society works. he picks up his blindfold & he goes right back into carrying on whatever mission is thrown upon him. in fact, he carries it with him in the back of his head. it is those late nights when he gives himself a semblance to feel, to allow himself to feel just a tiny bit. it would be very rare for gojo to open up about anything, about what he goes through, about how he is feeling. sometimes he finds it hard to describe how he's feeling or even process what he goes through. he lived a very sheltered life, one that in a way emotionally stunted him. as someone who is particularly touchy with his loved ones, he chooses to keep the barrier between himself & the rest of the world. he also chooses to shield himself from meaningful relationships that he wishes to have even though he lost his most important one.

[ironwoodwolves]

🎵 Still trying to get my head around us having a fictionhearted fictive.

[chubby-bun-bun]

untitled (part 3)

You reunite with your crow friend! But it seems to need your help with… a man?

nav: one, two, three (current), four, five, six or: read on ao3

tags: sylus x reader, an au where you're an average citizen, slow burn, hurt/comfort, angst, mentions of blood and death, descriptions of a panic attack, bossman is here yay

“Congratulations! You’ve just won the loyal customer raffle at Linkon Supermarket!”

“But I shop at Bloomshore Mart.”

“Yup, congratulations!”

You furrow your brows, eyeing the paper the delivery driver is enthusiastically waving in your face. Sure enough, it announces the conclusion of the famous supermarket’s year-end raffle, and there it is: your full government name printed neatly under “winner.”

Beyond his shoulder, you notice the other worker unloading boxes from the delivery truck. He’s dressed in the same uniform, with identical dark curls and also sporting a black face mask. He catches your gaze and gives a lazy thumbs-up.

There must be something wrong with your memory, because you could swear you haven’t stepped foot in Linkon Supermarket in years—let alone registered for their raffle. That place isn’t exactly known for catering to the humbler economic classes.

And it’s still 5:30 a.m. Have supermarkets always done graveyard shift deliveries?

“Thanks…” You squint at the driver’s name tag. “…Lukas.”

“No problem!”

Once the two workers finish unloading and stacking boxes of who-knows-what in your living room, they wave cheerfully before speeding off down the street. Half-asleep, you manage only a bemused wave in return.

You think you might’ve been cursed. Or blessed. It’s hard to say. Because ever since your crow friend escaped a week ago, it feels like you’ve already blown through a lifetime’s worth of luck.

In the span of days, you’ve gotten a raise and better employee benefits (odd, considering you’re still just an assistant manager), won lifetime vouchers for three of your favorite food spots, and now, apparently, won a supermarket raffle—complete with at least three months’ worth of groceries.

Rummaging through the boxes, you find they’re stocked with all your usual brands. Snacks, non-perishables, beauty products, household items—everything. Even fresh produce.

For the first time in a while, you won’t have to worry about going hungry.

—

You’re not sure why you’ve come back to the park tonight.

It’s late, and you’ve already visited the crows earlier, spoiling them with extra bags of peanuts thanks to your recent streak of good fortune.

The crows seem to wonder the same thing. While they peck enthusiastically at the peanuts, their beady eyes occasionally flick toward you, as if to silently judge your lack of anything resembling a social life.

Admittedly, you’ve been hoping to see your crow friend again.

You think you’re starting to come to terms with its disappearance. Life goes on, right? It’s just an animal, after all. It probably doesn’t feel the same complex emotions humans do—the kind that have you so affected by its absence after only a few days of sharing a space. (Maybe it was a one-sided friendship all along...) It probably just followed its instincts, leaving to do whatever it is that lone crows do.

Still, a petulant part of you feels bitter. Sure, it left behind a hoard of treasures—trinkets, gems, and gold so polished they must be real (though you’re not ready to think about where it might have stolen them)—but it could’ve at least waited for you to come home before flying off.

In hindsight, maybe it’s a good thing you never had pets. Your apparent abandonment issues would be a nightmare to deal with if they got lost, ran away, or died.

Suddenly, a familiar series of shrill caws pierces the air. Before you can process what’s happening, something crashes into your lap, a blur of loose black feathers hitting your face.

Could it be…?

The unmistakable garnet glint in the midnight-feathered avian’s eyes confirms it. Without hesitation, you scoop the bird into your arms, pulling it tightly to your chest, and press a rough, enthusiastic kiss to its head.

“Where have you been?” you exclaim, laughing as you nuzzle the void-like creature against your cheek, smothering it in an embrace. “I’ve been so worried about you!”

Its muffled caws are drowned out by your babbling. “Oh gosh—your wing! How is it?” you say, quickly pulling back to inspect it.

Its feathers look good—healthy, even. In fact, they almost seem brand new, gleaming like a freshly unboxed gadget. Its once-injured left wing no longer looks broken—or as you’d thought before, no longer resembling a mechanical part with a loose screw.

Before you can start fussing over it again, the bird suddenly wriggles free from your grasp and lands steadily on your lap. It caws again, but something’s different. It’s louder, more piercing—frantic. It paces across your lap, continuing to practically scream at you, as if trying to tell you something.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” you ask, your heart squeezing at the sight of its feathers puffing up with each stressed caw.

You try to pat its head, hoping to calm it down, but it jumps off your lap and lands on the ground, still cawing. The other crows, clearly spooked by its urgent cries, start to scatter. Bewildered, you bend down, attempting to scoop it into your arms again, but it evades you by hopping a few feet away, still cawing—loudly.

“What is it?” you say, exasperated. I can’t speak crow!

You step closer, bending down once more, but it hops away—again.

You stare up at the heavens. This has to be some cosmic joke. You can’t believe you’re playing this strange version of tag with a bird.

You don’t even realize how far you’ve walked, now a good distance from the bench you were sitting on. You’ve reached the darker area of the park, still desperate to grab the cawing bird and figure out what’s wrong. Then, without warning, your foot catches on a tree root. You stumble, and before you can recover, you hit the cold, wet ground with an unceremonious thud.

“Well, there goes my good luck streak,” you mutter, trying to push yourself up. Good thing nobody’s around to witness your embarrassing lack of coordination.

“Tell me about it.”

The sudden presence of a deep, unfamiliar voice makes you freeze. Heart pounding wildly, you scramble to sit up, eyes darting toward the source.

It wasn’t a tree root you tripped over. It was a leg—a stretched-out leg attached to a man slumped against one of the park’s statues. A huge, beautiful man, with silver hair and a pair of breathtaking garnet eyes, half-lidded and filled with amusement. He’s clutching his abdomen, the fabric there soaked in dark, ominous red.

Blood.

A field of red datura blooms. A starry night sky with the clouds beneath you. Mountains of gold against jagged walls. A burning plaza. A bloodied claymore.

You don’t register the ringing in your ears or the flash of blurry, unfamiliar images racing through your mind. Your gaze remains locked on the man’s injury. Before you know it, you’re shrugging off your puffer jacket and sweater. Now clad in just your turtleneck, you drop to your knees and press your sweater firmly against his wound.

You, waiting for your turn to walk on stage to receive your diploma. A university staff member rushing toward you. You, running out of the graduation venue. Two totaled SUVs. Three dead bodies.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you work methodically. Stop the bleeding. Stop the blood. Apply pressure. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Just keep pressing. Don’t think about how much there is. Don’t panic. You fold the sweater tighter against the wound. Okay, stop the bleeding first. That’s all you know. Just keep the pressure steady. He’s losing too much. Is this enough? Should I tie it off? No, just keep pressing. Keep him alive.

The edges of your vision begin to blur. You have to save them. You have to save him. They can’t leave you. He can’t leave you. Not again.

“Sweetheart.”

The word, softly spoken, snaps you out of your trance. Your eyes lift to meet his, and the world seems to still. You’ve never met this man in your life, but the way he looks at you—it hurts. It feels like an ancient grief has surfaced from the depths of your soul.

You finally notice the state you’re in. You’re shaking. Badly. The cold winter air bites into your skin, sharp and unforgiving. Your palms are scraped from your earlier fall, but you hardly register the sting. The man’s hands—large and warm—enclose your trembling ones, grounding you.

And it’s like you’ve never known peace until this very moment.

note: can u tell the extent of my yearning to be spoiled with groceries LMAO

nav: one, two, three (current), four, five, six or: read on ao3

check out my other works!

[sematarygirls]

                      Salt &&. Secrets (SMAU.ᐟ)

summary: what started as a fun hobby quickly became more when your anonymous gossip blog unexpectedly began gaining traction after "kook king" rafe cameron discovered your writings about him and publicly bashed you, vowing to discover your identity.

     NAV ! Part Fourteen. Part Fifteen. Part Sixteen.

notes .ᐟ oop 🤭 i hope yall enjoy this EXTRA special chapter

taglist .ᐟ @kyranheyward @theeternaloptimistt @lovinqbella @glitterybombshell @thebumbqueen @zyafics @psychicnatural @fortheloveofwbb @a-lovers-card @rafesangelita @colbysbrocks @shincidios @memoirofasparklemuff1n @drwstarkeys @k-k0129 @lilithblackkk @hewwokitti @hwaaholic @loveu-always @ietss @cl4uus @blckbrrybasket @vanessa-rafesgirl @emmasclaws @fandomhopped @enthusiastms @writinqfever @whorelaud @frankoceanluvr11 @hadids-world @upsidedownjill @ditzyzombiesblog @wearemadeofstardust0 @bradshawed @slipawaylrh @lexvenuss @harrys-housewife @cometmultiverse @sage-burrow @rafesweetie @drewstarkeyzwhore @blushmimi @angelsbreath-1 @suniee3 @akobx @my-fabulousness-has-arrived

                                ୭ৎ

[boxesforsys]

Userboxes for systems that use they/them pronouns! I went with a nonbinary theme for one set, and a more neutral theme for the other.

Click for quality!

[bluntzah]

THE PURGE ੈ♡˳

♫ hole — PETALS. nav ; m.list.

౨౿ ྀ word count. 2.7k

౨౿ ྀ pairing. brother’s bsf!hamzah x fem!reader.

౨౿ ྀ warnings. mentions of blowjobs, very detailed description & foul language. please review all warnings before proceeding. i’m not responsible for what you choose to engage or interact with.

౨౿ ྀ summary. your brother plans a prank to scare you with help from his best friend, hamzah, but you flip the damn script. what was meant to scare you turns into a insane, fucked moment, one that risks exposing the secret you and hamzah have been hiding all along.

“We’re gonna get her sooooo good,” your brother said with a grin, giving a thumbs up toward Hamzah, who was trying to keep the camera hidden: almost like saying: She can’t see it from here. “m’not entirely convinced she’ll fall for this prank,” Hamzah muttered as he walked over and took the mask from your brother. “She’s kind of slow when it comes to life or death situations.”

“True,” your brother muttered, pulling the mask over his face. The plastic stretched slightly as it slid into place, transforming his familiar features into something more creepy. Hamzah caught the edge of the mask’s hollow eyes, making them look even more weird.

Ever since you’d accidentally snapped the arm off your brother’s glasses and flat out refused to pay for a replacement, he’d been planning over a way to get even. He wasn’t out for revenge exactly, just a good scare. Something to remind you not to mess with his shit again.

Hamzah had casually mentioned that you watched ‘The Purge’ last night, dropping it into conversation like it was nothing. But the moment the words hit his ear, your brother’s head snapped toward him.

“How the fuck do you know that?” each word dripping with suspicion. Hamzah froze for a moment. “Heard it when I was leaving yesterday.” Just like that, your brother’s gaze stayed for another second, long enough to make Hamzah feel the fuck out of it, before he gave a small grunt and looked away.

The breath Hamzah let out was as though he’d been underwater and had finally broken the damn surface. The relief that washed over his face was instant. His shoulders dropped slightly, and his fingers unclenched from the edge of the couch. He was lucky, seriously lucky that Hamzah actually came over yesterday to hang out with his best friend before slipping off to your room. If he hadn’t, that quick little lie would've crumbled the second he decided to push further.

Your brother was already plotting something. So, later that day, he dragged Hamzah along with him to a sketchy party store. They came back with cheap masks, but weirdly identical to the ones from The Purge.

You had gone to pick up the food your brother purposefully assigned to you, all part of his little prank. He needed time, after all. Time for him and Hamzah to finalize their plan, throw on the all black outfits, and run out to grab the masks.

And because your brother knew you better than you'd like to admit, he ordered from that one spot located near all your favorite stores. He counted on you getting distracted, staying longer than necessary, just like you always did.

It had become a habit, one that annoyed him more times than he could count. But today, it worked perfectly in his favor.

Hamzah had played ‘The Purge’ broadcast sound on the living room TV, strategically chosen, since it would be the first thing you’d hear the moment you walked through the door.

They had every detail planned out: Hamzah would be the first person you’d see, standing silently in a corner, hidden behind his mask. The second you bolted in fear toward your bedroom, your brother would be waiting for part two of the prank. Both of them closing in on you until you were so terrified you’d start crying: that’s exactly how your brother imagined it going, and exactly how he instructed Hamzah to carry it out.

“What if she tries to run out the door?” Hamzah asked, imagining the door still slightly open when you catch sight of him and run the other way. “Grab her? We’re grown men, Hamzah. She’s a little fuckin’ girl,” your brother annoyingly muttered as he jabbed the volume up button on the remote. “I give you permission to touch her if that makes you feel better, or whatever,” he added with a shrug.

Hamzah nearly laughed at the phrase “little fuckin’ girl,” considering you were only a year younger. And when your brother said, “I’ll give you permission to touch her,” stupidly unaware that Hamzah had already done far more than just touching you.

“Stick to the plan,” your brother said, adjusting his mask. “That bitch is gonna learn not to break my stuff and then act like she doesn’t have to pay for it.” Hamzah pulled on his own mask: the one he’d specifically chosen, the one your brother had called ‘creepy as fuck,’ which was exactly the vibe they were aiming for.

It wasn’t until then that Hamzah noticed your car pulling into the driveway, visible through the porch camera. Your brother quickly jogged to your room, and as soon as Hamzah heard your door shut, he moved to his usual spot in the living room — tucked away in the far corner hidden by the window. It was the perfect place to stay out of sight.

Hamzah heard the sound of your car door shutting, followed by the rustling of bags. He nearly rolled his eyes. Of fuckin’ course, you’d gotten more than just the food. Your brother had called it perfectly. Sure enough, you walked up with four extra bags from different stores. One of them was from a clothing shop, and Hamzah had to stop himself from grinning at the thought: he couldn’t wait to ask you to try everything on for him later.

He heard your keys jingling first, then the creak of the door opening. Luckily, you didn’t notice Hamzah right away, too focused on getting all the bags inside without anything spilling or tearing open. “Got your shit!” you called out, not even bothering to unpack.

You dropped the bags where they landed and turned toward the living room. Only to freeze, eyes going wide the moment you saw him. Or rather, the masked figure you thought was a stranger.

For a singular second, panic flashed across your face as Hamzah stood there, having to chase you to your room — the one place you were supposed to run to. But to his surprise, you let out a quiet sigh. A sigh of relief. Hamzah took a step forward, bracing himself for the sprint he thought was coming. But you didn’t move. You just stood there, frozen in place.

You bite the inside of your cheek, shaking your head as you step toward Hamzah. You slowly close the distance until you’re standing right in front of him: so close that your nose brushes against the cold surface of his mask.

“Cute,” you muttered. “Watching The Purge while you fucked me into my bed last night gave you the idea, hm?” You hummed, knowing full well what you were doing. Even though you couldn’t see his face, Hamzah’s neck flushed red. He had a weird way of blushing, and this was definitely it. You’d made a point the night before to mention how hot the girls in the movie looked in those “KISS ME” masks. And sure enough, that’s exactly the one he was wearing now.

Hamzah prayed on anything and everything that your brother hadn’t heard a word. And as if the universe decided to mock him, the TV kicked on right then: “This is your Emergency Broadcast System announcing the commencement of the first, official Purge. Sanctioned by the New Founding Fathers. A nationwide experiment of violence and crime is now in effect for twelve hours. All crime, including murder, is legal.”

You glanced over your shoulder when the broadcast started playing, but that was all. A blink, then your eyes were back on Hamzah.

He was still frozen. Not because the plan called for him to chase you into your room but because he physically couldn’t move. He couldn’t risk your brother seeing just how hard he was for his sister, how your casual teasing about last night made his heart pound like a drum.

You turned back with a sweet smile, reached up, and gently lifted his mask: just enough to see his face one last time before you slowly dropped to your knees.

“Your brother…” Hamzah finally managed to say. You shrugged, completely unbothered. “What about him?” Hamzah nearly choked on a gasp as your fingers started trailing along his belt.

“He’s… in your room,” he muttered, guilt creeping in. He knew damn well that if your brother found out he threw the whole prank by giving in to you, he’d probably slam Hamzah’s head into the nearest wall. You looked up at him through your lashes, innocent and dangerous all at once. “Why is he in my room?”

You began unzipping Hamzah’s pants, making his eyes flick toward your bedroom door: closed, but far too close for comfort. He knew your brother, his best friend, was waiting just behind it. “We were… uh… doing a prank,” he mumbled, trying to focus. You hummed, encouraging him to go on.

“Thought we’d scare you… after you broke your brother’s glasses…” His words trailed off, dissolving into silence as your fingers brushed against him through the thin fabric of his boxers. He inhaled, chest rising with the struggle it took not to make a sound.

“And you agreed to help him?” you asked with mock disappointment. Hamzah nodded, a little breathlessly. You shook your head slowly. “That’s so mean.” Just as the words left your mouth, you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and tugged them down, his dick springing free the moment it was released.

“Your brother—” “Then you better stay the fuck silent unless you want him to hear you,” you cut him off instantly, eyes locked dead on his. After all, they were the ones who planned this whole prank, now it was just about to blow up right in their faces.

Hamzah doesn’t protest. How could he? He doesn’t want you to stop. Who would? You’re on your knees, lashes fluttering as you look up at him, and now all he can think about is the heat of your mouth.

His cock throbs, just inches from your face, the tip already dripping with pre-cum. You lick your lips, hunger written all over your expression, desperate for the smallest taste.

You wrap your hand around his cock, your fingers not quite able to meet around him. You stick out your pink tongue and swipe up the drip of pre-cum, savoring the salty sweet taste, not givin’ a fuck at the slight bitterness that hits your tongue.

A soft hum escapes you: you like it. You part your lips and take the tip into your mouth. “Easy… mm… m’sensitive,” Hamzah stuttered, his voice shaky as his hand found its way into your hair, fingers curling. He loved the way your warm, wet mouth wrapped around him, how he could feel your saliva with every movement. Your tongue swirled around the head, gathering more pre-cum, like you were smacking on every drop.

You began to gently suck on his tip, and the reaction was instant: he twitched in your mouth, jaw tightening. “Mm,” he barely managed, biting down on the inside of his cheek to stay quiet. He was doing everything he could not to make a sound, everything. But it was nearly impossible with the only noise in the room being the sirens from the ‘Purge’ broadcast from the TV, the prank long gone from his mind.

You take him deeper, your lips stretching wide to fit his size. The head of his dick presses against the back of your throat, triggering your gag reflex. Your eyes begin to water, tears welling up at the corners and slowly spilling over onto your puffy cheeks.

Forcing your jaw to relax, you push him impossibly deeper until your nose buries itself in his abs. "Sohh guhd," you try to say around him, but it comes out muffled and garbled, sending vibrations down his dick.

You arch your neck, pressing your throat and chin against him, creating the perfect angle for him to start face-fucking you. He grabs a handful of your hair, using it as force to snap his hips forward, driving his dick out and in, in and out of your mouth.

You pullback, lips sliding off his dick with a wet pop. A string of saliva stretches from your mouth to his meat as you gasp for air, your chest heaving as you look up at him through watery eyes.

Snatching the white mask with the grotesque smiling mouth from where you had perched it up on his head, you secured it back over Hamzah's face. You drop back down to your knees, wrapping your lips around him again, immediately picking up speed. Your head bobs faster, creating a wet sound as your mouth stretches around his thickness. Saliva bubbles at the corners of your lips, making the blowjob all the more messy.

Your cheeks hollow as you suck harder, creating the tightest seal with your lips. You watch in a trance as the masked Hamzah throws his head back, stretching his strong neck. You swirl your tongue around him, feeling every throbbing vein, sending trembles down his overstimulated body.

"Squeeze me right here, please squeeze... Mhm!" Hamzah's eyes roll back as he starts to lose control, his hands gripping your head tightly as he fucks your mouth. He knows that if his best friend walked in right now, he would be met with a beating. The sight of you on your knees, taking his cock so deeply down your throat that tears stream down your face, would enrage him. However, Hamzah can't stop, and neither can you.

You love the taste of him, love the way his cock throbs and twitches against your tongue and throat. Each movement brings him closer to the edge, and you can feel it building with every suck and swallow. His approaching orgasm is obvious in the way his dick pulses and jerks in your mouth.

His cock bulges noticeably before releasing the first hot spurt of cum directly into your throat. You gag slightly as the first wave hits you, immediately forcing you to swallow. The taste is amazing - creamy and salty, flooding your mouth and coating your pink tongue.

Hamzah quickly grabs the pillow from beside you on the couch, pressing it firmly against his face. He bites down hard, muffling his loudest moan. You stand up gracefully, carefully placing the pillow back where it belongs. Hamzah's breathing is heavy, rising and falling rapidly as he recovers from the mind blowing orgasm you just gave him.

He quickly pulls up his boxers and zips his pants, attempting to compose himself as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, you storm towards your bedroom, slamming the door open with a loud bang.

There was silence before Hamzah heard your brother’s frustrated voice. “How the hell did you know? Did Hamzah say something? Hamzah! What the fu—” but he was quickly interrupted by you. “Hamzah didn’t tell me anything. You and his height aren’t exactly hard to notice, dumbass.”

The next time the two of you came out of your room, Hamzah overheard your brother mutter, “You’re fuckin’ irritating.” You just shrugged, offering a small smile. “I don’t know, Hamzah doesn’t seem to find me irritating.” The only reason you said that was to get a reaction from Hamzah, knowing he was still recovering from the aftershocks of what you had just done. With your brother also in the room now, he couldn’t fully relax.

“The fuck are you talking about?” Your brother’s gaze immediately shifted to Hamzah, who quickly flushed and shrugged nervously, a slight panic evident in the back of his neck.

“I just mean,” you continued, “he doesn’t seem upset that the plan didn’t go as planned… right, Hamzah? You’re not mad?” Hamzah caught the playfulness in your eyes, recognizing the smile tugging at your lips as you recalled the moment you had taken care of him, made him feel so good.

“Whatever,” your brother muttered, signaling Hamzah to follow him as he began heading back toward his room. Hamzah let your brother walk ahead for a moment, then jogged over to you quickly, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before running to catch up with your brother.

[prythiansprincess]

CHAPTER ONE | TSOFAS.

pairing: azriel x reader.

word count: 3,056.

author's note: surprise! it feels strange to be writing for azriel again after such a long break, but here I am returning to my roots. this series has been sitting in my drafts for a year and now i've finally got it fully fleshed out. let's just pray to the cauldron that I actually get the motivation to finish it all the way through.

♫ dark matter - rivals. nav. series. moodboard.

Every mission required you to play a part.

Over the years, you have worn many faces. The thief. The seductress. The assassin. The dagger in the dark that no one ever saw coming. 

Tonight you were a tavern wench from the Western Isles, eager to attract the attention of a nobleman who hailed from one of the oldest families in the Night Court. Given his societal standing, his voice of dissent against Rhysand and Feyre’s rule and rumored sympathies towards Hybern’s cause had not gone unnoticed. Certainly not by you nor the High Lord and High Lady themselves. 

For Rhysand to send you out to personally deal with the lordling meant that the situation required your level of skill and discretion. The High Lord usually preferred to keep you close to home so you could monitor any potential threats in Velaris, but this pesky little lord had caused enough trouble to warrant your involvement.  

For centuries, you had served the Night Court well. Even before Rhysand assumed power, you moved in the shadows like a phantom, setting matters straight when threats arose and making sure your beloved city was safe.

At present, the threat before you took the shape of a High Fae male, who in all honesty, had a rather lofty opinion of himself. You could tell he was unseasoned and unblooded from the way he carried himself, moving with the ease of someone who had never seen the toils of war and strife. The lordling likely lived in the luxury of grandiose balls and palaces filled with servants tending to his beck and call. No was not a word in his vocabulary. 

He had a pretty face and a cruel mouth, those gray eyes of his raking over your figure with unabashed scrutiny. The dark veil covering your face reveals a sliver of your amber eyes, concealing your identity and drawing him into the mysterious aura you perfectly crafted with ease. 

You had dealt with his type a thousand times over. Males who looked at you like a challenge, a prize to chase after and inevitably conquer before tossing you to the side for the next pretty little thing that crossed their path. Little did he know that once you set your sights on him, his fate was as good as sealed. 

Judging from the finery of his clothes and the gold rings adorning his fingers, this one was a rich little lordling, probably the heir of some cranky old bastard who would have known better than to engage with someone like you. It was glaringly obvious that the male had never learned how to spot an enemy, so he didn’t know any better when he sidled up next to you, completely unaware of the blades concealed underneath the simple cotton dress you were wearing. 

A small smile graced your lips, playing the part of the shy and demure maiden who was unfamiliar with being approached by handsome lords.

Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent underneath it. 

“What does a lord have to do to get a pint around here?” He greeted with a smirk as he slammed down his empty glass. You didn’t miss the way his oily gaze lingered on the swell of your breasts peeking out from your tight corset. 

“It’s on the house, my lord,” you said sweetly while you poured ale from the flagon in your hands, filling his glass with amber liquid. 

The lordling threw the drink back in one gulp and slammed his hand down on the wooden table with a loud smack. From the far end of the tavern, his companions hooted and hollered at his little performance. 

In the three days that you’ve been tracking him, they’ve never left his side. Two of them were his personal guards — trained soldiers who you would’ve liked to toy with if you had the time, but unfortunately your schedule wouldn’t allow for deviations no matter how much you would thoroughly enjoy carving those traitors up. Instead, you settled for incapacitating both males for the rest of the evening. The rest of the lordling’s company was inconsequential, too busy gambling and pulling females into their laps to take note of you. 

“What about you? Are you on the house as well?” 

Your fingers itched to reach for the twin blades sheathed on your hips, but you resisted the urge and offered a smile instead. “I’m afraid not.” 

He grabbed your wrist, pressing his lips close to the shell of your ear. The heady scent of ale was heavy on his breath. “Don’t you want to know what it feels like to lie with a nobleman? I promise I’ll treat you like a lady.”

You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, surveying the boisterous crowd in what appeared like self-consciousness, but in reality you were assessing whether or not you would be able to slip out with your mark without anyone noticing.

“But what will your companions think?” 

The lordling chuckled. “They think whatever I pay them to think.” His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you into his lap. “But you need not worry, I have a room all to myself upstairs.”

With one last look at the crowd, you lured the male right into your trap. Pushing those golden curls out of his eyes, your fingers traced the outline of his lips. “In that case, lead the way.”

Compared to the boisterous tavern downstairs, the dark room he ushered you into was quiet and intimate. Clothes were strewn all over the wooden floors and his sheets were unmade. Moonlight streamed in through the glass windowpane, leaving half the room shrouded in night. The male wasted no time and pressed you against the closed door, his eager mouth nipping at your neck impatiently. His hands sidled up your spine, deft fingers tugging at the veil tied behind your head. 

You caught him by the wrist, preventing him from untying the fabric before pushing him towards the bed. “Not so fast, my lord. I need you to savor this.”

Dark, lustful eyes drank you in as you crawled across the mattress, straddling the male and effectively trapping him in a vulnerable position. You lifted his arms over his head, tutting your disapproval as he tried to reach for you. He was so drunk with desire that he didn't even question the rope you pulled out from beneath your skirts.

“Be patient and I promise I’ll make it worth your while.” 

He inhaled sharply, his body thrumming with anticipation beneath you. “You’re no lady, are you?” 

At his words, you unleashed a glimpse of your true self as your lips curved into a seductive grin. “You have no idea.” 

You tied his hands to the bedpost, twisting the rope into a secure knot. Slowly, you unbuttoned his shirt, trailing your fingers down the hard muscles of his chest. The male shivered at your touch, bringing a smile to your lips. He was making this way too easy. 

“I’ve been watching you for days.” You discarded his shirt to the side, making your way down to unbuckle his belt. The bandolier of knives secured around his waist fell to the floor with a soft thud. “You never go anywhere without one of your sentries. You’ve made it very hard for a girl like me to get you alone, my lord.”

“I’m here now,” he responded in a low voice. The fog of lust dancing in those sharp gray eyes clouded his vision.

“Indeed you are. I’ve been waiting a very long time to get you all to myself, Lord Covington.”

At the sound of his name, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I never told you my name.” 

You laughed mockingly. “No, but I know exactly who you are. Declan Covington, heir apparent to the Western Isles. An avid supporter of Hybern’s cause. A loyalist through and through, hiding in plain sight. Your family provided the gold for weapons and supplies to our friends in the West, did they not?” 

He bucked underneath you, pulling at his bound hands. “Who the hell are you?” 

“A friend of the High Lord and High Lady,” you said with a devilish grin. The sharp edge of your blade gleamed against the moonlight as you traced his torso with it. “Rhysand sends his regards.” 

Panic set in his features. “Whatever he’s paying you, I can double it. My family has great fortune. We have connections. Name your price and it’s done.” 

This was always your least favorite part. The bargaining, the pleading. It was all so tedious. 

“You couldn’t afford me if you tried.” Your fingers threaded through his golden hair as you tugged his head backwards. “What you will give me is the name of every family who helped support Hybern’s cause.” 

“Over my dead body,” he said defiantly. 

“I can arrange that, my lord.” Shifting your hips on his lap, you examined his face. You almost felt sorry for him. He looked so young and naive. The lordling didn’t stand a chance against you. “Though I’d hate to waste such a pretty face. Give me their names and I’ll grant you a swift death.”

Anger came next. He spit in your face, which only made you throw your head back in laughter. You always liked the feisty ones. Watching the fight go out of their eyes brought you a sick rush of power. 

“My father will hear about this! He’ll drag your lifeless corpse through our lands and gift your head to me on a golden platter.”

As far as hateful vitriol goes, the little lordling was rather creative, but neither he nor his father could stop what was about to happen. These males were all the same. They never recognized the danger you posed until it was too late. It was a weakness that brought you great pleasure to exploit. 

“I’m afraid your daddy won’t be able to get you out of this one, Lord Covington.” 

Deciding his fate, you untied the veil and let it fall to your lap. His eyes widened in fear and for the first time since he laid eyes on you, the severity of his situation settled into the worried lines on his pretty face. A silhouette of fire materialized from your body as you unleashed the beast within. Your true form was a nightmare personified, murderous and bloodthirsty, composed of the fury and vengeance that you tried so hard to restrain. Tonight, you loosened the reins to give her what she wanted. 

Mine, she whispered as fiery tendrils caressed the lordling’s pretty face. The victims who saw her never lived to tell the tale. 

“You’re her,” he breathed, his voice full of trepidation. “The fire priestess. I thought you were a myth.” 

The crimson slash of your smile served as confirmation. “I’m no one and I will stay that way even after you’re long gone.”

Lord Covington narrowed his eyes. “You weren’t always, were you? You’re the exiled priestess of the Autumn Court. Lady Thorne.” 

Kill, your transfiguration hissed. She hated that name and so did you.

Silence fell upon the room. Whatever pity you might have felt for him vanished at the mention of the girl you used to be. The one who died the minute you crossed the Autumn Court’s borders. 

“Like you said, I’m no lady.” 

You pressed your blade into his cheek and crimson droplets dribbled down the front of his chest. The male shivered as you licked away the blood, savoring the sweet taste of his fear. With crimson dripping from your lips, you opened your mouth and sang. The lordling fell into a daze, his silver eyes clouding over with fog as your voice wrenched through his mental defenses. With a jolt, you invaded his thoughts and drew out his deepest fears. 

Everyone was afraid of something. This little lordling’s weakness was snakes. The spell of the song took hold, making him see what you wanted him to see. Serpents appeared all over Lord Covington’s body, crawling through his arms, tangling in his limbs, and twisting around his neck until he was gasping for air. The illusion was plucked from his own personal version of hell.

A nightmare, that’s what you were. 

The veil of the illusion slipped, swallowed by the living flame of your true form. Whatever fear the serpents invoked paled in comparison to what he felt as he looked upon the monstrosity of the reality before him. A creature of fury, a demon of vengeance.

Lord Covington screamed and begged for his life, but the ward you cast in the room swallowed the sound. No one was coming for help. 

Just then, a pulse of magic thrummed against your wards. You stopped singing and reigned in your flames. Your true form hesitantly retreated into the darkest pits of your heart, rattling against the cage you kept her in. Even as the flames receded, you could still hear the echo of malice. The small taste of blood wasn’t enough. 

It was never enough. Someone was going to pay for the disruption.

Out of instinct, the dagger in your hand sliced through the air. Without missing a beat, the male who materialized out of the darkness caught the blade with precision. He hurled the blade back at you swiftly, making you twist in an uncomfortable angle to snatch it out of the air. 

Glowing hazel eyes appraised you with scrutiny as the familiar silhouette of wings darkened the room, belonging to the tall and lean figure of the warrior standing before you. Cold, beautiful, and utterly lethal, Azriel flashed you a smile that chilled your bones. 

The shadowsinger briefly took in the male squirming beneath you. With a voice like cold death, Azriel’s drawl made your skin crawl with irritation. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to play with your food?” 

Your head whipped in his direction. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

The Illyrian warrior moved in a shroud of darkness, shadows twisting across the dark leathers adorning his powerful form. The blue siphons on his armor glowed brightly, bathing the dark room with a soft cobalt light. Azriel paused at the edge of the bed, leaning against the wooden bedpost with a bemused smirk.

“It’s nice to see you too, princess.” 

The nickname grated your nerves. In fact, everything about Azriel had the same effect. He seemed to have a special talent for getting under your skin.

“Bite me, shadowsinger.”

Whatever sarcastic remark was dancing on the tip of his tongue was interrupted by the male pinned between your thighs. Distracted by your hatred for the spymaster, you nearly forgot that he was even in the room. Freed from the spell of your song, he returned to consciousness and thrashed underneath you. 

Lord Covington released an ear-splitting scream that ravaged his throat. His silver eyes flickered to the shadowsinger, fear and trepidation undulating from him in violent waves. 

“Please,” the lordling pleaded. “Please, get it away from me. Kill me if you must, but please don’t leave me with her — don’t leave me with it —”

“For Cauldron’s sake.”

You drove the hilt of your dagger against the lordling’s forehead and he fell slack, mouth hanging open with unspoken pleas. Rising from the bed, you marched towards Azriel and shoved an accusatory finger at his chest. The action failed to even startle the shadowsinger. If anything, the cock of his head displayed nothing but amusement. 

“Why are you here?” 

“I need you to come with me, Thorne.” You paused for explanation, but none came. Azriel only stared at you as though his vague words were enough to make you drop the mission and go traipsing off with him to the Cauldron knew where. 

You waved your blade in the direction of the unconscious male. “What about him?” 

“What about him?” 

The glare you directed at the shadowsinger would’ve sent lesser males to run off with their tails between their legs, but the Azriel only repaid you with equal venom. Needless to say, the dislike was mutual.

Without warning, Azriel disappeared into a shroud of darkness and the void of his shadows swallowed the lordling along with him. He reappeared a moment later with his arms crossed. The red and golden membrane of his wings shimmered at his back, blocking the only source of light in the room. 

You balled your hands into closed fists. “Where did you take him?” 

“The dungeons.” 

“You had no right! I’ve been tracking him for days. He’s mine.” 

You shoved at his chest again, but Azriel was immovable. His gaze dipped down to your shoulders and you realize with a start that the laces of your corset had come undone, leaving your collar bones exposed. The bloodstone necklace that you never took off peeked out from the swell of your breasts. The shadowsinger’s eyes lingered for a split second before his unrelenting stare flickered back up to your face. 

“There’s other pressing matters at hand. We need to meet the others.”

You fumed with anger. You’ve been working on your mark for days and now thanks to Azriel, you wouldn’t even get to reap the benefits of the hunt. 

“I don’t answer to you, shadowsinger. Rhysand sent me here for a reason and I don’t intend on coming home empty handed.” You screamed in his face and though you’ve always been on the taller side, you barely reached Azriel’s shoulder. He had the nerve to blink as though you were merely conversing about the weather. “Now return the lordling at once or you and I will have a very unpleasant discussion with the High Lord.”

You blanched as he closed the gap between you, his eyes darkening with something unreadable. His voice was smooth and steady, washing over you like shadows given form. 

“Who do you think sent me here?” 

Your mouth fell slack as the shadowsinger held your gaze. You hated it when Azriel looked at you like that. Like you were some sort of puzzle that he was on the verge of deciphering. 

One of his shadows darted towards you, but before it could touch your cheek, Azriel took a step back. Without a second glance, the shadowsinger held out a scarred hand in your direction. 

“Come, princess. The High Lord has need of you.”

₊˚⊹♡ thank you for reading. as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated. feel free to drop an ask too — i’d love to yap & chat with you all.

[honeydippedfiction]

#5 with Joe please from hurt/comfort

1k & Birthday Bash nav | main navigation | reqs | table of contents

#5. They overhear you arguing with your family/friends and are quick to come to your defense when they start insulting you.

Joe Burrow x black!femreader

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

The house was unusually quiet for a Saturday afternoon.

Sunlight poured through the wide windows of the living room, casting soft amber streaks across the floor. Joe was in the kitchen, rinsing out a protein shaker, the TV on low behind him. Game highlights flickered across the screen in silence. The sound of faint voices drifted in from down the hall.

He didn’t catch the words at first—just the tones. A soft murmur, the low back-and-forth rhythm of two sisters talking. There was a familiarity to it, even a comfort. Joe had heard them like this before: teasing, venting, laughing about things he didn’t always understand. He smiled to himself and glanced down at his phone.

Then something shifted.

A sharp edge sliced through the air, barely masked by distance.

“No, that’s not what I said. Don’t twist my words,” her voice—his girlfriend’s—rang out, no longer calm. “You asked a question. I answered it.”

Joe’s head turned toward the hallway. He froze, listening.

Her sister’s reply came just as sharp. “And I’m saying your answer doesn’t make sense. You act like you don’t owe anyone a straight explanation anymore.”

“What is that even supposed to mean?” she shot back, louder now.

Joe took a step toward the hall.

“It means,” her sister said, “that ever since you started living in this—this fantasy—you think you’re above the rest of us.”

“Fantasy?” There was a laugh then, brittle and full of disbelief. “Because I’m finally happy?”

“Happy? Or comfortable?”

Joe’s hand tightened around the shaker bottle.

“I’m comfortable because I’m happy,” his girlfriend replied. “And I’ve worked for that. You know I have.”

“Oh, please,” her sister scoffed. “You used to be real. You used to show up for people. Now you’re just—posing. You walk around in designer everything and post your little couple pics like your life is some kind of photo shoot.”

There was a pause. Long enough to make Joe step into the hallway, but not quite down it.

His girlfriend’s voice came next, quieter, but far more dangerous. “You’re mad because I’m not struggling anymore. Admit it.”

“I’m mad because you left us behind.”

That landed like a slap.

“You mean because I stopped drowning with you?” she replied, breath trembling. “Because I chose something better for myself?”

Her sister didn’t answer right away. The air stretched between them—sharp and silent. Joe felt every word through the walls.

“You changed,” her sister said finally, low and bitter. “You’re not the same.”

“No, I’m not,” she said. “I’m stronger now. I know who I am.”

“Well, who you are now is a stranger. A trophy girlfriend for an NFL star. You traded your identity for box seats and clout.”

That was it.

Joe stepped into the doorway.

Both women turned. Her sister’s face, flushed and defiant. His girlfriend—she looked stunned for half a second, but her eyes met his with something else, something pained and pleading.

Joe’s voice was calm. Firm.

“Don’t talk to her like that.”

The weight of it dropped between them like a hammer.

Her sister’s mouth parted in shock. “Excuse me?”

He stepped forward. Not aggressive, but grounded. “I don’t care what this is really about, but that right there—those words—you don’t get to throw them at her.”

“Oh, so now you’re jumping in to save her?” she said with a mocking smirk, arms crossed.

“I’m not here to save her,” Joe said, his gaze unwavering. “She doesn’t need saving. I’m here because I’m not gonna stand by while you tear her down to make yourself feel better.”

“She’s not the same person you grew up with? Good. That means she’s evolving. That’s what we’re supposed to do. You’re holding her hostage to a version of herself she had to outgrow just to survive.”

Her sister looked away, eyes narrowing.

“You don’t know anything about our family,” she said coldly.

“You’re right,” Joe agreed. “I don’t. But I know her. I know how hard she’s fought to be where she is. And I know how much it hurts her to have the people she loves most throw that in her face.”

He turned to his girlfriend then, his expression softening.

“She’s been everything for everyone, all her life. And for once, she’s trying to choose herself. Let her.”

Silence settled again—thick, unresolved.

Her sister looked between them. Her lips trembled, just slightly, like she was trying to hold something in. Emotion, maybe. Or pride. Maybe both.

Without a word, she grabbed her bag off the console table, turned, and walked out the door. The latch clicked softly behind her.

The stillness that followed was suffocating.

Joe turned back to his girlfriend. She was standing there, arms crossed, like she was holding herself together by force. Her jaw was tight, her eyes glassy.

He closed the distance between them slowly. “Hey.”

She didn’t speak. Just let him wrap his arms around her. And once he did, she exhaled—slowly, like her whole body was finally giving in to the weight she’d been carrying.

“I didn’t want you to hear all that,” she said quietly into his chest.

“I know.” His hand moved gently along her back. “But I’m glad I did.”

She pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. “I feel like... like no matter how far I come, someone’s always waiting to remind me I’m not enough.”

Joe’s jaw clenched, but his voice stayed soft. “You are. Don’t ever doubt it.”

“She misses who I used to be,” she whispered. “The one who needed her. The one who didn’t have a future yet.”

“You outgrew the version of you that had to survive everyone else’s expectations,” he said. “And that scares people who haven’t figured out how to grow with you.”

She nodded slowly, tears threatening, but not falling. “It hurts more than I thought it would.”

He kissed her temple. “Because you still care. That’s who you are.”

They stood in silence, wrapped in each other, letting the echoes of the fight settle into the corners of the room. Outside, the light was fading, the golden hour giving way to dusk.

And inside, despite the wreckage of the argument, despite the broken edges of love and family, something remained steady.

Her.

Him.

Them.

[kozzdraw]

Omg i don’t know if you already have an idea for what to do.. but if you don’t yet could you make Dabi a winged dragon like creature for Dekus creature chronicles? your art is so amazing and i’ve always loved the dragon dabi aus and i’m curious to see your take on it. if not that’s totally okay i’m sure i’ll love it no matter what you think of since i’ve loved everything so far the details are so amazing 🥹💕

This is very sweet- I am afraid I'm not in the fandom to be familiar with AUs, but dragons are always a favorite pick amongst reimaginings. There happens to be only one true dragon in this particular story... but I can show you the Todoroki's now that I have them finished- (I plotted them as a unit)

You can learn a little more of the myths under the cut if you like :)

part 9! Nav: 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6 // 7 // 8

tidbits under cut

Dabi was the lynchpin design-and his family was built around him! They are all creatures of reincarnation, but with various meanings-

Canon Touya threw around some strong words about being reborn. The way he seems mentally stuck to his childhood, felt like a Phoenix who can't (or perhaps won't) allow himself to grow beyond a certain point, doomed to repeat his self-destruction. Like the other villains though - he's a little more morally grey in this story.

Firebird (Slavic) are often harbingers of either good fortune, doom- or unattainable goals in their tales. If that doesn't sound like Endeavor I'm not sure what does. They differ from phoenix in which they are 'always on fire', but they don't self immolate - they're just 'built like that'.

Tsurara onna (icicle woman) are created from the loneliness of single men during the winter time. When a man gazes longingly at a strong, beautiful icicle, they may appear. They disappear in the summer, and may reappear in winter. The love stories invariably end in tragedy. Considering Rei's dynamic to Enji, it felt fitting.

A Snegurochka (Russian- Snow Maiden) the fairytales often echo tsurara onna, of maiden that melts due to "shenanigans" (not always tied to love stories). 

Simurgh (Persian) is more of a reach - you can really dive into their different lore and variations, but they are similar to phoenix in which they also immolate to reincarnate after a very long time. They have connections to both fire and water.

There's no myth creature equivalent of both fire and ice. Yet in canon, Shoto is the only one who doesn't provide himself a hero title. His name is his identity. So- he's the only "undefined" creature. There's a number of myths you could read him as if you wanted (he doesn't care).

... Dabi's pheonix fire also plays into forming the character Juzo (Not that anyone asked- this is reaaaaaaaallly reaching into the semantics on the yliaster, or prima materia that forms the philosophers stone- which mentions pheonix fire purification as a metaphor... ah don't worry about it).

Gashadokuro's are the scariest creature I could think of for a nomu.

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Not A Verstappen: A New World {7}

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!driver!reader x Lando Norris Summary: It's summer break and that means drunken shenanigans. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, fluff, alcohol, sexual themes WC: 1.8k F1 Masterlist NAV: Sibling Rivalry One || Two || Three NAV: Gridlocked One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine NAV: A New World One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight

A gentle melody echoed down the hall and you smiled at the sound as you quietly closed the front door. A soft moan escaped your lips as Lando eased your coat off and kissed your shoulder. 

“I think Charles beat us home,” he whispered against your skin. 

“Or there is a very refined intruder here.”

Lando chuckled as he kicked his shoes off and laced his fingers with yours. You stepped carefully along the wooden floorboards, creeping your way to the arch that opened into the larger living space. Deep in his zone, Charles sat shirtless in front of the piano and didn’t notice your arrival until you and Lando slipped onto the bench chair beside him.

“Keep going,” you urged when his fingers stilled and the note rang out. “It’s beautiful.”

Lando lightly tapped a higher key and Charles reached for the lid with a shake of his head. “It’s not ready yet.”

He was always a little shy with his music, until he was certain it was complete. It was challenging not to press him when you weren’t the most patient of people. But you tried. 

“Have you had lunch?”

He shook his head again, water drops flicking from his wet hair and tickling your skin. “I just got home too.”

It had been a long three days apart but if you wanted to have a few weeks undisturbed then you had to go to the factory for some work. Lando had been in Woking, Charles in Maranello and you had gone to the new HQ in Silverstone. Everyone was happy to be home in Monaco, together. 

“How about we go out?” you offered. “It’s officially holiday mode…and August.”

“You just want to get drunk,” Lando teased with a wink. “I’m in for some bottomless mimosas. Charles?”

“Only if I get you all to myself for the rest of the weekend. I don’t want to leave the apartment at all, especially if I am hungover.”

“I suppose I could handle that,” you said with a playful eye roll, “but you'll have to find some way to keep us entertained.”

He looked down with a smile and nodded. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

Half an hour later you were almost ready to go out when there was a call from the concierge about an oversized delivery. “Did you guys order anything?”

“Not that I remember.”

“I have some new Quadrant hoodies but they shouldn’t be oversized.”

You curiously hung around the front door waiting and frowned at a crate that arrived in the service elevator. “Is that Heineken?”

One of the men looked up at the only apartment door on the floor before double checking the name. “Delivery for Verstappen?”

“That would be the next block over,” you said pointing to the identical apartment tower across the street, until you saw the first name on the delivery notice, your name. “What the hell is my brother up to?” 

You swiped the invoice off the top of the crate and tore it open to see there were 30 boxes of Heineken’s 0% alcohol beer, courtesy of Max’s latest commercial he had done for the brand. Pulling your phone out, you hit Max’s contact and stepped out onto the balcony that faced his apartment from the guest room.

“Hello, zusje,” he greeted with a smile in his tone. “How can I help you?”

“Step outside.”

You heard the scrape of his door sliding open before he stepped out onto his balcony and waved across the street. Cupping your hands around your mouth you shouted to be sure he heard you, “What the fuck, Max!”

“I’m looking out for your health,” he laughed into his phone. “Tastes good, you should try it.”

“I didn’t just go a month without alcohol to drink that shit. Come and get it before I get home or I’ll get a slingshot and send it back the fun way.”

His curiosity was piqued as he took a seat in the shade. “Where are you going?” 

“Lunch and drinks, then see how we go.”

“I’ll see what Kel’s plans are but meet you at Jimmyz?” 

You gave him the thumbs up. “Sounds good if we can still walk by then.”

The room spun as you tried to stand up. You no longer had a brain, just a constant beat of a drum that throbbed painfully in your head with every movement. The air was stale in the room but the smell of rum was stronger and you opened a window to save your stomach from heaving. Images of the night before came with sporadic bursts that made zero sense and your boyfriends were of little help as they lay comatose on the bed. 

You were in desperate need of water so you grabbed one of the silk robes abandoned on the floor and stepped out into the hall as you tied it around your waist. You had barely finished tying it off when you stumbled past the guest room and saw a pasty white ass on the bed. 

“Pierre?” 

“Je dors, go away,” the man groaned and rolled over to barely lift his head from the pillow, both confirming his identity and also scarring your eyes as you rushed out of the room. 

 You were still trying to erase the image of him when you ran into Kika leaving the kitchen with a mug of coffee. “Are you okay?” she asked as she placed a calming hand on your shoulder. “You look sick.”

“I feel sick,” you grumbled as you stole the coffee. “I saw more of your boyfriend in the last three seconds than I have in three years of knowing him.”

Kika giggled sheepishly. “Sorry, I didn’t think anyone else would be awake so early. You guys were pretty hammered last night.”

“I’ll be honest, I can’t remember anything.”

Kika grabbed your hand and towed you back to the kitchen, placing you on a stool at the breakfast bar before making herself another cup. You weren't sure about actually drinking the coffee just yet but the scent alone was enough to bring some life back to you as you watched Kika take a seat on the bench next to the coffee machine while it made another espresso. 

“You guys went fucking wild last night,” Kika started with a laugh. “You were already wasted by the time Charles called Pierre to invite us out. It’s a surprise they even let you into Jimmyz.”

“I can act sober when I need to.”

Kika snorted a laugh. “That’s exactly what you told the bouncer too. Good thing Charles was able to convince him.”

That wasn’t anything new, Charles could sweet talk his way out of anything, especially in Monaco. “Fuck, I can’t remember any of that.”

“I’m not surprised,” Pierre chuckled behind you, surprising you enough that the coffee splashed over your hand. “I should bill you for emotional damages.”

“Me? I had to wake up and see your ass, when I was already feeling nauseous. You need to get some sun on those buns, dude, I thought it was a full moon. You should pay me.”

“At least you didn’t have to listen to a pull out competition on the other side of the wall.”

You froze as you felt the whispers of the memory on your skin. Lando and Charles had made a bet when the alcohol was running rife in their bloodstream. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said with a dramatic shiver.

The machine beeped and Pierre stole the drink before Kika could and she huffed as she made a third attempt at getting her coffee. After shoving a fresh cup under it and hitting the buttons, she leaned into Pierre’s side and said, “From the cheers it sounds like the boys won.”

Your cheeks heated with embarrassment and you buried your face in your hands as they continued to tease you with the sounds you had made last night. 

“Mate, some of us are trying to sleep,” Lando grumbled as he lumbered into the room in a daze, rubbing his bleary eyes. Charles was only a few steps behind him having the time to pull on sweatpants unlike Lando who was happy to wander around in his boxers. 

“Well some of us were trying to do that last night,” Pierre replied as he draped his arm over Kika’s shoulders. “Right, babe?”

“Please tell me they are joking,” you begged as your boyfriends sat down at the breakfast bar with you. “They think you two were stupid enough to try pulling out.”

Lando scratched the curls at the top of his head, his biceps flexing as he tried to distract you from the shrug he gave. 

“No,” you groaned, turning the other way. “Charles?”

“Mamour, you dared us. You bet we couldn’t, and we are competitive people.”

“Fuck…”

“If it makes you feel better, love, you lost.” A warm hand drew soothing circles on the small of your back and Lando kissed your cheek before whispering in your ear, “But it wasn’t really losing, you were very much happy with the results, in your mouth, on your ass. I think we all won.”

You pushed him away before you made another stupid decision and busied your hands with the coffee, taking a sip in the hopes you could wash away the dirty thoughts. They had ignited the memory and it came on so suddenly you nearly choked on the drink as you heard your taunt. 

“Godammit,” Lando huffed as he struggled to open the foil wrapper on the condom. “I’m still not used to doing this shit again.”

“If you had pull-out game you could already be inside me,” you teased him as your fingers ran down your body and you spread your legs for him. “But your self control is shocking.”

“Is not,” he scoffed indignantly, tossing the packet aside. “I can pull out.”

“I bet you can’t.”

“This is not a good idea, mamour.”

“Are you scared you will lose? Tsk, tsk, I thought you were braver than that Charles.”

Charles grabbed your hand before you could reach the juncture of your thighs and pinned it above your head as he smirked to Lando. “Fuck it, lets go.”

Click here for the next part.

[traeumenvonbuechern]

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If you like Gideon Nav, you will love Riot Maidstone. Just look at this fanart!

[scionofurza411]

Everything going on between Harrow and G1deon is fascinating, and we would be able to see it a lot more if John didn't order Gideon to kill Harrow, as the two end up in an interesting split between mirrors and opposites.

Let's look at all of their traits that they share in similar:

Both of them have a shard of their cavalier's consciousness floating around them. Probably the most obvious similarity.

Their relation with God ends up being different from the other Lyctors, with Augustine and Mercymorn being in a weird threesome with God while plotting against him, and Ianthe doesn't appear to be very close to God. Throughout HtN, Harrow and Gideon are more loyal to John than the other Lyctors, and are completely platonic with him. Their relations aren't completely identical, as Gideon serves as John's attack dog, a role that Harrow does not fulfill.

Their weapons. In HtN, Gideon's use of a spear for an offhand is seen as shocking, but Gideon's actual offhand is even more unusual than that: a rapier. His spear is his primary weapon, and his rapier most likely serves the purpose of an offhand or sidearm, carried for tradition. Harrow's primary is Nav's two-hander, but she uses a rapier, as she cannot effectively wield the longsword. If the lobotomy never happened, she would most likely eventually use the two-hander as her primary weapon, with the rapier for fighting in cramped environments. Either way, both a spear and a zweihander are battlefield primary weapons that are most likely rarely seemy with cavs, while a rapier, the standard of a cavalier, was never used on the battlefield in the real world.

Personality. Both are much more introverted than the other Lyctors, not really liking the social dinners, and preferring to be on their own, all without the caustic reactions Mercy has to these sorts of things.

Now let's look at some traits they have that the other has the opposite of.

Build. Gideon is a hulking, muscular man. Harrow is a tiny, frail nunlet.

Combat preference. Gideon barely uses necromancy, primarily using his spear and rapier, while Harrow relies on necromancy.

Age. Gideon is over ten thousand. During HtN, Harrow is eighteen. Of course, the same goes for other Lyctors in comparison to Harrow, but worth noting nonetheless.

Eyes. Harrow has black irises, Gideon has Pyrrha's bright green ones.