#so take this with a massive amount of salt

[wuwubean]

Crack TMAGP theory time: my CS professor offhandedly mentioned that Windows NT, aka the os the OIAR is running, was known for being rife with memory leaks. It had to be rebooted constantly and overall was just a nightmare to deal with.

Now, hear me out, what if that’s how the JMJ gang are trapped. Memory leaks are basically when memory is incorrectly allocated, causing pieces of data that should be destroyed and freed up for other things, to not do that. Or in other words, they create unreachable, unusable, data, trapping it to never be released, only to take up space.

This would require Rusty Quill to understand basic computer science and specifically the problems that plagued Windows NT, which based on their knowledge of archives in their archive show (so many staplers…) I do not believe for a second they have. But just imagine if it was! The absolute horror of it all! Being trapped by a poorly designed machine that cannot get rid of you, only creating more and more garbage data until eventually, it destroys itself and you along with it. This is my new headcanon and nobody can take it away from me.

[wandasaura]

YOU ARE IN LOVE

summary — after a long day spent on the beach with your girlfriends, wanda and natasha’s love is loud enough to hear in the silence of your bedroom

warning(s) — established relationship, married wandanat, dom/sub dynamics, domestic dominance, mommy kink, daddy kink, exploration of subspace in nonsexual situations, fluff galore, fainest appearance of bratty reader, warning spank, wanda taunting natasha, hot mommy wanda in a bikini, sexy daddy nat on the beach in a bikini, dare i say more?

authors note — i combined like six different requests for this, so it’s quite a bit longer than my other summer oneshot! also, i can’t believe how perfectly this title fit a soft little moment written towards the end, it wasn’t planned at all but the full circle moment is beyond fulfilling!

The thin flamingo pink straps of your favorite summertime bathing suit made elegant crosses against your back whenever you allowed the unrelenting August sun to fall against you intimately. They were intricate enough that Wanda spent most nights tracing the evidence of once fairer skin with soft fingers, hot breath fanning tantalizingly across the nape of your neck as she spooned you in bed, but still simple enough that the lacy top didn’t take any more than a few seconds to slip on while dashing to get ready and meet them by the front door before Wanda came up to find you herself. The vibrant bathing suit that had been purchased by Natasha brought out a spark in your eyes that was addictive, and frequently you found yourself reaching for it whenever a pool day had been declared by your girlfriends. 

Today, Natasha had decided to do something different, and like many others that had fallen into the cycle of outdoor activities while the warmth of summertime lasted, you found yourself submerged in the waters of the Atlantic,  granules of coarse sand embedded throughout your scalp while the aroma of salt air captivating your senses. The rush of people had died down since late June and early July, leaving mostly locals around you as you frolicked and splashed through the waves that crashed against your back. Droplets of water clung to your skin, creating racetracks and mazes out of your arms and belly as you bobbed in and out of the waist deep water, only tracking the location of your girlfriends sporadically when you thought you’d drifted too far in another direction. 

Up higher on the beach, surrounded by granules of sand the color of a perfectly roasted marshmallows – in your opinion at least, Natasha was a freak who liked her smores black and charred – Wanda and Natasha on their bellies, their arms folded beneath their heads as they pleaded with the sun to allow them even an ounce of golden color to bear through the early weeks of approaching fall. Wanda had been more fortunate than Natasha in the months leading up to this impromptu outing, bearing a gorgeous bronze sheen against her limbs and face, while Natasha had burnt to a crisp within minutes despite every technique she’d tried to use. It was endearing, but desperately you wanted them out here with you. You’d spent three hours building sandcastles and pouring sand over Wanda’s feet whenever she’d explicitly told you not to do that, but eventually she’d sent you off to the water when your relentless energy grew to be too much to handle all at once. 

You weren’t sure how long you’d been out in the depths of the ocean for, diving into waves and body surfing back to shore whenever you grew tired of keeping yourself afloat, but as the sun faded farther into the horizon, you knew that at least a considerable amount of time had elapsed since Wanda sent you off to burn off some restless energy. With one final somersault into a massive wave, you trudged back up the expanse of sandy shorelines, marveling at the the endless abyss of blue that stretched on for miles above you. The cloudless sky had been a rarity in recent days, unpredictable sun showers and thunderstorms wreaking havoc on Westview like many other neighboring towns in New Jersey, but today had been a yearned for glimpse of peace that thankfully wasn’t quite over yet, and while you would absolutely never admit it, you were glad that Natasha had woken you up sweetly at seven in the morning instead of letting you sleep like you’d demanded. 

Your girlfriends were easy to spot, the large blue and tan umbrella one of the only ones that littered the shorelines. There was an endless array of color schemes spread across the beach, so much so that it was honestly an eyesore, but Wanda and Natasha had always preferred simpler things, and a refined palette of baby blues and muted tans made up most of their beach equipment. Everything had been custom made by a small boutique just a few blocks away; from their towels, chairs, umbrellas, down to the cooler packed with crisp waters and hard seltzer, it was all the same palette, which only made spotting two redheads on a beach full of bottle blondes and brunettes easier. 

When you reached them, water dripping off your frame as the wind blew and developed you in a gentle chill, you made sure that you stood directly over top of Wanda, not only blocking her back from the sun, but getting her wet in the process. You grinned cheekily down at her, kicking sand up at Natasha’s ankles when the fleeting thought of her being left out crept up on you. The russian cursed beneath her breath, turning over to send you a very pointed glare, only to be ignored as you continued to grin down at Wanda, who refused to budge despite your ministrations. 

“Mommy!” You whined when you didn’t get your way, shuffling your feet against the sand in a petulant fit, though her head was still burrowed into her arms as she lounged against the thick blue and tan towel that you decided now was your worst enemy. Your own head was fuzzy and light as a result of her constant babying since leaving the house that morning, having apparently discussed taking you out in subspace with Natasha while you were upstairs taking forever to get ready. Since that first time you’d gone to the aquarium and explored the limits of their dominance and your willingness to submit, you’d found an easy comfort in their domestic control, and that didn’t falter for a second even on a crowded beach. You trusted them, and more importantly, they trusted themselves to steer you clear into a blissful haze of intimate submission without pushing you too far over the edge and sending you into a drop. So much of their effortless love and careful time had been poured into shaping your trust, it felt like another lifetime ago when Wanda had been the very thing you aimed all of your fears and insecurities at, but now she was the one thing that you wanted so unabashedly that you weren’t above throwing a fit in public to get it. 

You screeched in startled shock when she abruptly turned onto her back, emerald eyes narrowed into thin, unamused daggers before she was reaching up and grabbing your wrists, pulling you down firmly on top of her, hardly caring that your wet body made an impression against her own dry bathing suit. She was planning on getting in the water with you anyways, so the evidence of your frame against her front was hardly of any significance. You whined in shameful embarrassment when her palm crashed down against your ass in a strike of pointed warning, the initial clap of contact thankfully drowned out by incessant seagulls that swarmed a nearby tent where french fries had been spilled by a toddler. For a moment, you focused on how her skin was warm beneath your body, your mind already melting away into peaceful contentment now that you had her arms around your waist, but you were brought back to the chaos of the beach when her lips ghosted along the shell of your ear, her breath heavy and warm as it swirled around your skin. “You throw a fit and we go home. Is that how you want today to go, little one?” 

You whined, shaking your head while a tear-filled expression came over your once radiant features. You absolutely did not want to go home, you were having so much fun pretending to be both a fishie and a mermaid, you’d begged Natasha all summer to take you down to the beach for a full day of activities and fun, but she’d denied your request every time because of the unrelenting crowd of rude tourists that gathered in Westview like clockwork each year. You didn’t want to lose all of this prematurely, so you mumbled a meek apology and hid your face within Wanda’s neck, on the verge of tears that she’d admittedly seen coming. 

Her hand rubbed your back soothingly, a weighted presence that brought a comforting peace over you easily, and comfortably you turned your head to look at the villages of sandcastles you’d built at the start of your adventure. Your fingers, ever unable to remain still, wandered over to the ones that were closest around you in disheveled clumps of beige, gravity having pulled them down over the hours that you’d spent in the water. Natasha’s castles still looked the best beside yours and Wandas, irritatingly so, and without restraint you smashed your palm down against her tallest one, careful not to damage the seashells that had she’d so carefully pressed into the dry sand around it, but effectively bringing a calamitous end to her quaint kingdom. Wanda’s disapproval was not so quietly delivered upon you, and disapprovingly she gripped your chin between slender digits, her glare unwavering and able to easily undo you. A strained whimper fell off of your tongue, the sound soft and meek, reflective of your sensitive headspace that despite its newfound edge of brattiness, both she and Natasha adored. 

“What is with the attitude?” Her voice is thin, edged with guarded dominance that has you whimpering and searching aimlessly for protection from Natasha, but the Russian at your side is in no mood to help you out, equally as curious as Wanda, and she merely narrows her gaze in pointed waiting as she nods just slightly back at her wife. You let out a soft grunt, teary eyes blinking up at your girlfriend as you attempt to press your face into her neck in embarrassed shame, but her fingers keep you still, only loosening when she feels your muscles go rigid with emotions you have no way to verbalize so far into a state of submissive bliss. “I thought you were going to be a good girl for Mommy.” She coos tenderly, shifting her approach as she watches you try to formulate a coherent answer to her previous question, effectively rousing yourself from that delicious state of bliss she’d worked tirelessly to bring forth. 

“Be a good girl for Mommy.” You mumbled, a soft pout pulling your lips downward as you stared deep into the kaleidoscope of greens that made up her dazzling emerald eyes. There was no easy color for her eyes to claim, but the glimmering appeal of a deep emerald hue was the most accurate, and a ring that typically adorned her slender fingers beside her engagement ring was a sparkling ring with a pristinely cut emerald that you had gotten her for her birthday. “Ring gone.” Your pout deepened when your realized that the chill of metal that typically came with her hands on your face was missing, and the gleam of sunlight catching jewels was absent as well. 

Wanda smiled softly, peppering your face in kisses that distracted you from your lapse in sadness. “Mommy left them at home so they’d be safe. Just like we left your ring at home, remember, sweetheart?” She laughed softly, brushing the pads of her thumbs against your sun kissed cheeks, softly tsking when she noticed just how pink you’d become since venturing down to the water. “I think somebody needs more sunscreen.” 

“No!” You whined sharply in adamant protest, wriggling away from her chest in a futile attempt to avoid the reapplication of her coconut scented sunscreen all together, but again she held you tightly to her chest, and again she tutted in disapproval. 

“Behave.” She warned lowly, accent seeping into the single uttered word. You whined, kicking your feet petulantly against the granules of sand that had been tickling your skin since she’d initially pulled you down onto her. “Malyshka, Mommy has to put sunscreen on you. She doesn’t want her little duckling to burn.” The added emphasis of her finger gently pressing against the tip of your nose did little to convince you, but the smallest part of your brain that still had the ability to think rationally warned you that there was no use in putting up a fight. 

“Daddy do.” You negotiated, knowing that at the very least, Natasha wouldn’t take the time to tease your already sensitive body like Wanda would, and did. She’d had you a blubbering mess of desperation before you left the house, her fingers having slipped beneath the fabric of your bathing suit on more than one occasion in a manner that was painfully suggestive. 

Wanda rolled her eyes fondly, shrugging you off of her body and toward Natasha who was trying her best to muffle her amused laughter as she watched you with fondness etched into her soft mesmerizing eyes. If Wanda’s eyes were impossible to name, hers were forbidden. There was no color in the world that would ever even come close to the colors that swirled within her eyes each day, constantly changing as landscapes and outfits did. The sun had dried you almost entirely since you’d abandoned the high tides of the midday Atlantic, but still a towel was run over your limbs and exposed belly before Natasha smeared the dreaded white lotion across her palms, warming it up before she even tried to touch your skin, having learned from Wanda’s mistake that morning. You wriggled impatiently, huffed and whined throughout the entire process, but you let her do it, so neither she nor Wanda reprimanded your attitude. 

“Now was that really so bad, utenok?” Natasha laughed teasingly, kissing the tip of your sunkissed nose affectionately before she turned toward the beach bag laid upright on the sand a few inches back from the towels, shaded by the umbrella that was practically useless as none of you had spent even a minute beneath its provided shade.  

“Don’t like.” You grumbled, sinking into Wanda’s lap when the Sokovian finally sat upright on her own towel, abandoning her plans of sunbathing, instead, patting her thighs in a wholesome invitation to cuddle properly. 

“I know you don’t like it, you make that very clear.” She mused softly against your hairline, tangling her fingers into the straps of your bathing suit, taking a peak at the tanlines that had darkened considerably since you’d first stepped foot outside. “What do you say we go play in the water some more while Daddy gets you an ice cream?” 

“Ice cream?” You perked up, eyes shining brightly beneath the sun at the mention of your favorite summer treat. You’d made it your mission to try every ice cream parlor in Westview, and being a beach town with an ample amount of tourism during the warmer months of the year, there were plenty to go through. You’d nearly completed the list, all that remained was the small shop toward the front of the beach, where the line was almost always wrapped around the building. 

“Yes, baby, ice cream. I told you we’d get a treat, didn’t I?” Wanda laughs at your excitement, eyes sparkling with elation as she reveled in the simple moments that were coming to a rushed end. In only a couple of weeks you’d be back at school, no longer living on campus but still away from home for hours upon hours in the already limited day, and to fill that time alone both she and Natasha would dive back into work. They’d delegated the minor tasks to trusted employees to spend the utmost amount of time with you as possible while they could, and as nice as it had been to take a much needed break and focus on their personal lives, they were itching to get back into the office, handling everything by themselves like they’d been doing for years since starting their own company. “What kind do you want?” 

“Strawberry! With peanut butter sauce and hot fudge!” The grin that split your lips was wide and so addictive, Wanda couldn’t help but allow her eyes to dance between your eyes alight with soft affection and your smile twinged with golden joy. You were the epitome of ethereal, lounging against her chest in a bathing suit that left little to the imagination, but still you looked so wholesome with your ass out for the residents of Westview to see, granules of sand clinging to your spankable cheeks. 

“Oh yes, how silly of me. I should’ve known.” She teases, because truthfully, she should’ve. You ordered the same thing all summer, and when Natasha suggested you try something else, knowing a handful of spots in Westview had signature flavors that tourists traveled just to get, you’d pouted and outright refused saying that was just as bad as you going around kissing other women. Wanda had spanked you for that, assuring that you remembered your place and that nobody could ever please you like she and Natahsa could. Still, you didn’t get a different flavor. “My little strawberry monster!” Wanda attacked your neck with kisses, her laughter mixing with yours as Natasha stood behind you both, phone out, capturing the sight of the both of you so entangled with love. 

“One strawberry ice cream for the little one, and what will you be having, Wands?” Natasha’s eyes glimmered beneath the sun, her red locks practically ablaze beneath the harsh kiss of daylight. She looked like something straight out of a portrait, but you doubted any artist could replicate her beauty by any standards.

“A bomb pop.” Was Wanda’s answer, and without any further questions, Natasha began the long walk up the beach, growing smaller and smaller as she left you behind. You waved at her retreating frame, hopeful that she’d sense your affection and turn to wave back, but it never came, and tearfully you turned your gaze to Wanda, eyes wide and glimmering with feelings that were all the more powerful in your blissful state of submission. She kissed your pout away affectionately, tapping your thighs thoughtfully. “What do you say you show Mommy what you were doing in the water, huh? Should we go down and explore while we wait for Daddy?” 

“Want Daddy to come back.” You pouted, the sudden reminder of Natasha’s absence falling heavily on your sensitive heart. Wanda smiled sympathetically, caressing your cheeks with delicate affection. 

“Daddy will be back soon, my little love. Come on, up you get.” Wanda gently eased you off of her lap, taking your hand in hers the second her feet were planted on the hot sand. She grimaced slightly, unprepared for the coarse granules to be so warm beneath the soles of her feet, but she didn’t let it deter her. Instead, it only hastened her speed, and you giggled as she pulled you along the beach, weaving in and out of families and couples that lingered on the shorelines. 

You must’ve been down in the water for nearly an hour and a half, splashing at Wanda and diving into her chest whenever a wave rolled through and rocked you into her, the sun truly beginning to fall beneath the tide now and turn the sky a breathtaking sight of divine orange and sweet pink around you. Your hair was a tousled mess on top of your head, held out of your face by a hair tie that was surely knotted in place by now. The Sokovian would have to meticulously untangle it before you fell into bed, but that was always something she adored doing, and you enjoyed it just as much. You whined when her playful ministrations came to an abrupt end, her fingers no longer digging into your ribs as she tickled you in the waist deep water that splashed and lapped at your upper torso. Her eyes had been searching the shorelines for any sign of Natasha since you’d ventured into the abyss of salt water, but now they narrowed in on one thing, something that you hadn’t noticed just yet. 

When you did notice, Wanda’s soft fingers tilting your head in the direction of the beige and blue umbrella, you booked it to shore without so much as a glance back at her. Natasha had seen your attack coming from a mile away, and had somehow been prepared for it when your body crashed into hers, your lips, soft from the granules of sand that you had face planted into a couple of times, peppering kisses on any inch of exposed skin that you could reach. She laughed, pulling you away only to connect your lips in a soft embrace. When Wanda caught up to you, you’d piled in on the towels, eating ice cream as you watched the sun fall further and further beneath the blanket of endless murky blue water. The shorelines of Jersey weren’t marvelously blue like the coast of Florida or the Maldives, but they were perfect for the simple moments you yearned to share with both Wanda and Natasha. 

When ice creams were finished, yours the last to be scraped clean of soft pink goodness, Wanad had forced you still as she wiped off your face and hands, softly reprimanding you as you whined and tried to wiggle away. How you’d gotten ice cream on both your cheeks and your nose, she wasn’t entirely sure because she had watched you use a spoon the entire time, but still your face was sticky and she doted on you lovingly all while Natasha began to pack away all of your belongings. 

You’d walked to the beach, pulling along a little cart that held the umbrella and the beach bag and cooler, and that morning it hadn’t seemed like a far stretch, but as darkness covered Westview entirely and the long day of playing and vulnerability caught up with you, it felt endless. When you finally passed Agatha’s house, your feet dragging against the sidewalk as you held onto Naasha’s hand firmly (well more like she held onto you because you had a tendency to wander off anytime something caught your attention), your were absolutely certain that it  had probably been at least twenty years, although Wanda would say it had only been twenty minutes and that was only because you kept stopping to whine and complain about being sleepy before Natasha started dragging you along again. 

When you slipped inside of the house, the airconditioning sent a shiver down your side, and instinctively you stepped closer to Natasha, seeking out the warmth of her sun kissed body. Natasha hums, smiling softly down at you, taking in the sight of your pink cheeks and tired smiles. Wanda had pulled the cart into the garage to be dealt with tomorrow, and when she returned, she merely grabbed both yours and Natasha’s hands and guided you upstairs, where pajamas were picked out, and towels for the shower were grabbed. The water was warm as it cascaded down your body, and Wanda’s fingers were soft as she rubbed soap against your skin and scrubbed sand from your hair. Natasha stayed clinging to you whenever Wanda wasn’t working on getting you clean, only fully separating when she wanted to be the one to rub strawberry scented body wash across her wifes body. It was a soft encounter, one full of delicate praise and affection, and slowly they were easing you deeper down, farther than they’d done that morning before you set off for the shore. 

Miraculously, the pajamas you’d picked for bed were a matching set, and one of your very own. The button up top was a soft blue color, printed with dusty white clouds and the smallest yellow duckling embroidered on the bottom left side. Natasha had done that for you one night, wanting to practice her skills, and while it was rather wonky and a little unproportional, you loved rubbing your fingers over the stitches as you fell asleep. She and Wanda had on the same style set, although Wanda’s were black and Natasha’s were a deep olive green. They matched in their own ways, and you couldn’t help but feel like they were so indicative of your differing personalities. 

Wanda had you sit at the vanity so she could brush out your hair and get it braided for you, all while Natasha rambled on the other side of the room, telling you and Wanda about the woman that had stood in front of her at the ice cream parlor and had decided to sample every single flavor, only to not get anything and walk out with a fuss. Wanda laughed, but you were too sleepy to really pay attention, your head falling backwards until it landed against her sternum delicately, your eyes closed and your breathing light as she secured the last braid together. 

“Come on, sweetheart. Lets get you all comfy in bed.” She cooed softly, not giving you a second to protest before she was guiding you to the bed that Natasha was already laying in. You crawled into the middle, your head falling onto the Russian’s chest with practiced ease before your hand reached out to hold onto Wanda’s. “Get comfy, baby. Mommy’s right here.” 

“Mommy.” You mumbled, eyes barely open, head resting heavily on Natasha’s chest as you listened to the rhythmic beating of her heart. 

“Shh, sleep baby. Mommy will be here tomorrow.” Wanda gently laid her other hand on your belly, her thumb slipping between the buttons that fastened your top, rubbing soft circles on your skin. It was only a handful of minutes before you were asleep, soft sighs slipping off of your lips as you snuggled closer to her warmth. 

“Such a Mommy’s girl.” Natasha laughed softly, brushing her thumb against your cheek before Wanda swatted her hand away, not wanting her soft affection to wake you up already. 

“You should’ve seen the near meltdown she had when you left for ice cream. I’d say you have yourself a little Daddy’s girl too. She just likes to push my buttons more than yours.” Wanda snorted softly, twisting onto her side, slowly pulling her hand off of your belly to instead intertwine her fingers with Natasha’s. 

“Oh don’t I know it. I can’t say I blame her either.” Natasha’s smirk was taunting, and Wanda rolled her eyes fondly. 

“Watch yourself, detka. There are plenty of other rooms in this house where I can remind you of who’s in charge. Or, maybe I should just take you here and make you be quiet. After all, I would hate to leave you unsatisfied if your desperate moans were to wake her up.” Wanda warned whimsically, and Natasha’s cheeks, already pink from the sun, grew crimson, her sudden silence a telling feature of her submission. “That’s what I thought.” Wanda tutted, getting her own body comfortable on the large bed you shared. 

“I love you.” Natasha whispered into the silence, her thumb rubbing patterns on Wanda’s cold hand. 

“I love you.” Wanda whispered back before she turned her attention to you, peacefully sleeping, unaware of the banter that happened over your head. “I love you, moya utenok.”

[darthfighter]

what do you see?

Chapter Three of Your Shadow series

warnings: tension, vulnerability, character death, angst like a mf, character development, sexual tension at the end…

summary: as qimir takes you in, he welcomes you into his home and the two of you grow closer physically and mentally (especially mentally)

word count: 3.3k

authors note: i’m gonna be so real i cooked with this chapter. i’m so proud of it, i hope you guys like this. smut in next chapter..

part two here !

Hyperspace always brings comfort to you. The quiet yet loud humming of traveling through the galaxy. Slightly feeling the force of gravity change. It’s like it’s just you in those moments. Like time doesn’t exist.

Time. Time. Time.

Time always moves forward while you look back. Your legs keep walking while your neck keeps looking back for your memories. Your neck should be sore at this point. You sat in Qimir’s ship, traveling with him and not knowing what the future held for you. You’d think that’s what you’d be thinking about, the future, but no. You thought of pristine glossy floors that reflected your every step. The Jedi temple floors. As you close your eyes and think about pacing, stomping, skipping through the massive halls, you find your comfort. The comfort that makes you feel warm inside again. Though, if you spend too much time. You get hot. Hot burning memories that scorch your head and skin. Some days at the Jedi temple, your again– hot tears would splash onto the reflective clean floors.

As if on cue Qimir comes around the corner. With your unspoken, and not so quite understood connection you have with him, you don’t doubt that he sensed your distress.

Your hand reaches your face and delicately wipes your salty tears off your undereyes while disguising your action with now scratching your eyes pulling them down to show a shade of pink beneath your white and colored eyes. The scratch burnt.

“We’ll be there soon.”

You nod. A couple silent seconds, and he takes you in with his gaze. Sucking, or lightly biting his lip. It makes your heart escalate. Qimir turns around and walks over to his kitchen, rummaging around. You stare at his build as he isn’t looking at you. The way his hair is long but not too long, his clothes and how they hug his body, his forearms with veins traveling around them like vines. He turns to grab a bowl on the other counter letting you see his side profile. He is smiling showing his unavoidable smile lines.

He knows. He knows your orbs are set on him. You look down to your hands in your lap and very loudly curse in your mind. Of course he can tell what your actions are. He’s a– well you were gonna say Jedi in your head, but he’s not. If anything, you hate to think, but he’s better than a Jedi. At least so far. He sees you the way you wish to be seen.

“Here.” You look up to him holding the bowl out for you. Relief washes over you. Your hands take the bowl without a second thought. Before even thanking him as you should in a moment like this, your hand meets the spoon and scoops up whatever is in it. You are so hungry you don’t even care to know. As you satisfyingly taste and swallow the food he gave you, he turns back to the cockpit making his way there. Your stuffed mouth is more than a thank you.

The slop in your bowl moves as you jump out of hyperspace, falling a bit more to the side.

—

You walk off the ramp of Qimir’s ship with a full stomach to be met with crashes of waves. The air smelt of salt and sea making the air damp and cold. Feeling as though moving your hand through the air could get your hand wet with all the moisture.

You slightly walked behind him, following him since this is his element. He looks back at you. The two of you look at each other, and the distance between you two is left unsaid. No words. Although with the short amount of time you’ve known Qimir, you can tell the two of you talk more with your eyes. In this moment his eyes say to follow him, and you do as such.

Shoes walking on uneven rocks, waves crash in the distance, cliffs with different ridges and textures, and comfortable silence. This island is nothing like what you grew up around. Feeling out of place is what you need. Nothing can make you feel like you're back in your child's body, besides the thought on how this can't compare to your home.

Your knees begin to use their strength with the elevated path you two began to walk on. Now walking beside the huge mountain resting on this piece of land. Eventually, you make it in front of an entry into the mountain. The uncertainty of it causes your pace to suddenly end. Your eyes inspect the entry. Though, Qimir is already halfway into the cave-like hall. Without turning around he speaks and his voice echoes against the rock walls, “Come on.”

He can read you, you thought. Why stop now?

Anxiously, you step into the hall. With each step more and more gets revealed. Before you know it you are greeted with a lair like house. There is a bed built into the mountain, a kitchenette, and a small hot spring. It’s not much, although you can’t help but find pieces of Qimir when you look around. How he made this his home. You’ve had more homes than you can care to keep track of. The only one you consider home is the one your family resided on. Home is gone.

This is home, for now.

With a full stomach means you feel satisfied and relaxed. Meaning your senses were decreased. Making Qimir’s verbal tour of his place muffled through your ears.

“Kitchen is over here. Workbench over there. I can leave if you wanna take a rinse off in the hotspring, or you can go to the shore. Over there is the-” Your body is already melted and stuck to the bed like a childlike sweet on a table in the suns. After Qimir looks at you, he finishes his sentence“-Bed.”

—

You jolt up awake. Alert. You're still here in Qimir’s home. You're not running, for once.

You’re still dressed in your poorly made disguise you put together to scout your old home, but since the climate is different, you decided to take off a sheet of cloth being your robe that rested on your shoulders. The air on this island was cold from all the crisp water, so all you needed was your thin dark green shirt, your baggy black pants, and work boots you’ve kept since one of your old jobs on a planet you forgot the name of.

Qimir was nowhere to be seen. It felt weirdly empty to be in his home without him in it. With that thought, you decided to go explore as much as you can.

Your legs wandered until you made contact with the waves meeting the shore. As you continue to wander, you find a rather comfortable spot with a large rock to rest your back against. Making contact with the rock made your back cold, sending shivers down your spine.

You were cold. Not hot. So you close your eyes, and start cold in your past.

“Master.”

“I will not hear it!” Your master's demand vibrated through the Jedi Temple training room. “Get up. And try again.”

You were sore. Countless fails. Many bruises. One weakness. Family. Early in your padawan days, you had a hard time being away from your family. Your mother and brother. They sat comfortable in your mind for your whole life, and to have the Jedi order be in your main mental chair, was a hard adjustment. Your family clouded your thoughts. To Jedi, this is a weakness. Though in their defense, you can care for your family, but to let it be in control of you, was not. In this case it was the reason behind everything to you.

Your family is the reason why you talk the way you do, the reason why you walk is because of your mother, the reason why you have compassion is because of your brother, the reason you can handle immense amounts of heat is because of your home. Where your family stays.

These thoughts cycled through your brain during training at this moment. Making you tumble to the floor.

“Again!”

“Master.. I’m tired.”

Before your master protests, she sees a bruise on your arm start to grow a darker shade. As well as a burn imprinted on your left hand from accidentally burning yourself with your own lightsaber due to your clumsiness. She puts her hands behind her back.

“Tomorrow, we resume. Let your thoughts not be clouded tomorrow.”

Now, you look down to your hand. You only see a scar. The reason for the scar not being your accident of combat, but a reminder your family will forever be on the front of your mind. Uncontrollably.

Although now it's warm. Your eyebrows frown at knowing you're not hot at your negative thoughts that aren't here, but you feel warm for another reason.

“Mind if I join you?”

Qimir stands above you. He radiates heat whenever you're around him, like he is a source of energy.

You scoot your bottom a bit to the side for him to position himself next to you, and when he does, there is barely any distance between the two of you. His bicep rests directly next to your arm as you both stare into the endless amount of waves onto the shore.

“So with what you said, before. On the roof.” You pick up a rock near you to examine as you ask Qimir your question, but he pays attention to you. Looking at you as you speak to him. “With joining you. You.. teaching me.”

He takes the rock out of your hands lightly. “What do you think it means?” He asks smoothly.

Quickly you retort “By using the dark side.” You don't even have to look at him to know he’s shaking his head. Your eyebrows frown together, trying to meet as one.

As he shakes his head he looks up to the shore as he answers you “You were molded to think that way. I'm gonna help you crack yourself out of the way the Jedi shaped you.”

You inhale through your nose to take his words in, like you needed to ingest them through your senses. Then, you grab a hold of the rock this time. Now feeling the warmth rest itself on the surface of it from both of your frictions caressing it.

“How will you make me chip away then?”

“Show you that you can do good in your own way. The natural way.”

“You think the dark side is natural?”

“I never said it’s the dark side.”

After going back and forth, he takes the rock back into his hands. This time, taking his sweet time lingering his touch on yours meaning his fingertips brushed your skin a bit longer than before. His touch burns you.

“You already are a natural at it.” You look up to him and his eyes are already set on you. He looks down to your lips for a split second and speaks again “I saw it. Yesterday on the roof.”

You don’t speak your mind at this moment. Though your mind is thinking about how right he is. You turn your neck in your mental memories, and look back at all the times you “failed” as a Jedi, but it was you just feeling the natural feelings that resided in you. Qimir seems to bring that out of you.

You agree with him as much as it is new to you to agree with such a different way of thinking than what you’re used to. It frustrates you on how it doesn’t feel wrong to agree with him.

Qimir personally hands you the rock this time, you lightly take it out of his hands. It’s warm.

He stands up to his feet and is looking down at you as he says “Tomorrow. Let your thoughts free.”

—

The next day you wake up feeling like you got the best rest since you left your childhood home. Maybe it had to do with our last conversation, you thought.

You lift up your body from the bed to see Qimir stirring a spoon in a pot. Instantly the smell of his meal hits your nose like a punch. You get up from the bed and walk over to join him. He pours out the liquid into your bowl. You reach out for it but he takes back the bowl slightly leaving your arm in the air before saying “Don't hide your thoughts today.”

“Okay.”

“Or your actions.” He leans the bowl towards you for you to grab and instantly the hot bowl meets your hands.

This was new to you. It went against everything you were taught. It was a new way of living. If anything, it felt like he was going to teach you how to breathe all over again.

After both of you finished your meals, you both silently got ready to prepare for your first day of training. If that’s what this is, you said in your brain.

You followed Qimir’s lead until he led you on the top of the mountain.

It felt and looked like you were in a dream. The fog that covered the top of the mountain like a blanket was all around you. Beyond Qimir who was about two steps in front of you, you couldn’t see beyond that. It was just you and him. As you rested from your very difficult hike up here, you breathed in and out.

Inhaling and exhaling the air, the fog traveled its way into your lungs. Now residing in you, making a sheet of fog in your insides.

Qimir then sits down in front of you. As he sits criss crossed, he looks up to you. You already know that look, so you join him.

“So how does this work exactly? Do I just tell you my darkest thoughts?” You humorly ask.

Although Qimir stays honest, “You don't have to tell me anything.”

This makes you feel comfortable, immediately.

“All I ask is for you to let your mind and body do everything for you.”

Your eyebrows frown in a question-like manner.

“When you think of anger, what do you see?”

You keep your eyes on Qimir as he asks this question. As he faces your silence, you close your eyes. You see yourself young. You’re hurt and bruised. You feel the fire in your chest as a Padawan. Being taken in to be trained as a powerful Jedi while your family is left behind. You remained homesick and it clouded your thoughts. It caused you to not perform well. Caused you to fall behind. Especially because your Master was extra hard on you. Thinking back on this, you shake your head in that moment thinking how a grown adult could be so cold to a young one like this. Qimir see’s this reaction, and asks his next question.

“When you think of fear, what do you see?”

Being taken in by the Jedi. The day you left is a memory that will always pop into your head every single day. How devastated your brother looked as you left him behind. Your mothers face is full of wet tears, and as you look at her, her eyes are nothing but red from despair. But despite her red eyes, she held a smile on her face. A smile to let you know you’ll be okay, as will they. As you boarded the ship, your knees shook below you. You walked by yourself onto the ship. Once the hatch closed, you fell to your knees. Kneecaps crashed onto the metal floor stinging you instantly. A Jedi present softly laughed at finding humor in it, but how could you, a child, find humor in being so afraid of being on your own that your legs gave out on you.

“When you think of loss, what do you see?”

The intercom. You see the hologram of a good family friend, broken apart as they tell you it’s your brother. That it is his last stretch. Surprisingly, The Jedi Council agreed to let you visit your home this one last time. It was only your third visit since becoming a Jedi. The other visits were to come back and heal your brother. Your brother was the hardest worker you knew. This brought him to his death. Working his blood, sweat, and tears wore him out. Those two times, you were lucky enough to be a medicine to him. To make him better. That third time, you weren't so lucky. Once you got to your homeplanet and landed your ship and booked it off your platform, you made it to your home. Where he laid. There was one specific thing you remember about that day, that being how cold he was. Walking up to him in your clean Jedi robes, to him in his worn out room. You began to do what you came to do. To heal. Your hand came in contact with his. In that moment, you gasped and underestimated how cold his flesh would be. Your heart stung in agony, but you needed to remain focused. You tried to heal him. You tried to make it work. You tried again. Again. You tried.

He was too far gone for saving.

Although you knew. There was a chance. A chance to revive him as you have done previously, but that meant he’d take your life. You’d give him yours. You turn around to your mom who has been hiding in the corner like a shadow. She says your name low, like a monster hiding in the dark. She disapproves. She scares you. You don't care. You grab his burning cold hand and start to use the force. You’re thrown out of your trance as you are thrown to the floor. Your mother stopped you. You rise to your feet as she throws her hands in the air, rambling to you how this was life. How life has beauty and ugliness. That this was a part of the ugly life, the life you didn’t want to face.

Your mother looks you dead in the eyes like a dagger, and tells you that this was the Jedi way. No attachments. Let it go.

You couldn't accept this. You attempt to push past her, but your emotions made you weak. You know you’re a million times stronger than your mother and can easily get her out of the way, but you couldn’t bear overestimating your powers and accidentally hurt her. So you wail like a baby instead, in her arms like the day you were born, on the day your brother died.

Your chest rose and fell at a pace that was noticeably fast, and you open your eyes to see Qimir. As you thought back on your worst painful memory, he sees you in this state. Vulnerable and hurt. Though, you see something in his eyes. You see resemblance. He’s also lost something.

You close your eyes again and with this familiarity between the two of you, you start to control your breathing. You feel the need to relax. To get warm. You think of home on the hottest days. You think of your mothers juice. You think of the excitement of finding your kyber crystal. You remember the anticipation to cut off your padawan braid. You again feel the relief of turning away from The Order. You reminisce on spending your first paycheck on blue noodles. You think of Olega, how arriving there you felt like something was there, waiting for you. You think of bumping into Qimir. You think of him seeing you as you are.

Your breaths are steady. Precise. You open your eyes.

Qimir’s eyes are set on you. With his teeth sucking in his lip.

“When you think of desire, what do you see?”

You look at him in front of you, and as he waits for you to close your eyes again. Your eyes stay open, seeing Qimir.

[tangledinink]

Hello sorry for tagging. I am very sick, my asthma is at its maximum level, my nose freezes, I have no medicine or food. I am in bad shape financially, I am a black disabled, who uses multiple medications, I pay for my food and lodging

Unfortunately I do not have all the resources to keep me safe, that is why I need your help, whatever you can contribute to me will be of great help.

Okay kids, are you ready for a lesson in SPOTTING ONLINE SCAMS????

*please don't message this person or harass them-- i do recommend that you report and block them, however.

right now it's incredibly important to give time, attention, and money to online fundraisers. but it's also incredibly important not to let scammers take advantage of that and steal money that could actually save lives right now.

firstly-- if we go to this person's blog, and navigate to "archive--"

this person's blog has only existed for a few days, only has a handful of generic posts (many reblogged multiple times,) and made their first reblog the same day that they posted their "fundraiser" post. this is a MASSIVE red flag.

please also note that neither their ask nor post actually mention palestine or gaza at all, but it's still tagged with "free palestine" and "gaza."

though this one should obviously be taken with a grain of salt, it is also worth noting the poor grammar here, because this can be (but isn't always!!!) another red flag. Note also that all the details are really vague and don't quite make sense... user describes "enduring cold" and their "nose freezing" though it's the middle of the summer. This user says that they're "sick," but doesn't really offer any further details about this. This user says that they need money for "resources," but don't elaborate on what exactly they need. They vaguely elude to a need for lodging, caretakers, and medicine, but don't actually give us any details-- despite this they have a "$1200" goal. What is this specific goal of $1200 for? Is that the cost of their medication? Overdue medical bills? Cost for rent this month?... They also apologize in their ask for "tagging" me... but they didn't tag me. They sent me an ask.

Another red flag is that their link labeled "Fundraiser link" leads directly to a Paypal donation page rather than a gofundme or anything else. If someone chooses to collect aid through paypal, venmo, etc. instead of through a gofundme, that's not a huge issue in and of itself... but it is fishy that it's mislabeled like this.

And if we GOOGLE this user's tumblr name or paypal name, we can find results like this:

This also led me to find them on @/kyra45's blog on their list of current scam accounts.

Despite all this, they have close to 100 reblogs from well-meaning people trying to signal boost and ask for donations on their behalf.

With the current situation in Palestine and the amount of actual, legitimate fundraisers and donations being circulated right now, for Palestine, Sudan, the Congo, or otherwise, it is more important than ever to be aware of people who are trying to take advantage of the situation for their own personal gain. Whenever possible, please take the time to do some due diligence when you receive messages like this and check to see if a fundraiser is legitimate! It always sucks for someone to be the victim of a scam and lose money to someone playing pretend on the internet... but it sucks even more when that money could have gone to people in actual, acute, dire need.

Here's some more information about spotting scams on tumblr! Shoutout to tumblr user kyra45 for compiling this, and for all the other hard work they do-- thanks.

Here's an actual, vetted, and legitimate campaign that could use your support. After receiving this ask, I went and donated. If you have the means to do so, it would be amazing if you did so, too.

[ see ALL gaza funds campaigns here ]

[gallusrostromegalus]

Hi Gallus, I'm doing some worldbuilding and you seem like you could be connected enough for me to find an answer to the problem of dwarven agriculture. Many problems are created by the requirement of no sunlight, as even the common response of mushrooms still need light to break down decomposing matter as a primary energy source. Currently, we're thinking that they use a special type of mushroom that breaks down rocks in an energy-producing reaction, giving them enough energy to absorb nutrients and grow - this would serve a second purpose in explaining why building a massive hollowed-out mountain fortress doesn't produce an equally large amount of gravel.

Any thoughts? We're grasping at straws kinda lol

Well, some thoughts:

There's plenty of cave systems (especially Karst Systems) that are at least partially open to Sunlight- especially the kind that have rivers running through them, which is something else that's really helpful for agriculture.

For Example: This Cool AF Sinkhole cave in china that has an entire Forest in it

Now There's a view to put outside the city Gates!

Karst specifically is a landscape where underground rivers hollow out the limestone underground and then the cave roofs fall in. This kind of landscape answers your gravel question nicely: the hollowed out mountain does produce an equal amount of gravel, but the gravel turns up as the sandy banks of the river system hundreds of miles away.

So, there's your sunlight that can be used directly, or reflected or magically transferred deeper into the cave system.

Or they just put more holes in the roof! Unless your dwarves are also vampires, there's no reason for them to not hollow out a few Skylights into the mountain too.

But let's talk some other cave ecology and agriculture!

For starters, your dwarves could be sitting on top of a literal gold mine that would allow them to trade for a lot of needed materials and crops.

And by gold mine, I mean Salt Mine.

Historically, salt comes out of hollowed-out mountains and is worth more than gold.

Also something the humans have historically fought a bunch of wars over, so there's some free political tensions if you needed that!

I can also mean the possible fucking enormous piles of bat guano that accumulates in Karst caves, which is the world's most insanely good fertilizer, and ALSO something that has been worth more than it's weight in gold.

Speaking of Gold, another thing that often lives in sinkhole caves in abundance is BEES. turns out, limestone stalactites are a terrific place to build a hive that is difficult for predators to reach, stays dry and the stone substrate means the hives can reach many tons in weight before they start having structural issues. That sweet, sweet insect-derived liquid gold is already important to Dwarves in a lot of folklore- it's really hard to have a Traditional Dwarven Mead Hall without the honey to make the mead, you know?

So you got your mushrooms, you got your sunlight-grown sinkhole crops, you got your traded goods and you got your source of alcohol- the only thing really missing from an ancient food pyramid here is a staple carbohydrate. To that end, may I propose our good Peruvian Friend: The Potato.

Grain crops aren't actually all that nutritious and were kept around in ancient societies more as legal tender that kept the peasants busy, because wheat or rice takes months to grow, an enormous amount of labor to harvest, and wheat also needs to be milled before it can be turned into food- all enormously time-consuming processes that keep peasants busy and easy to rule tyranically over.

Potatoes though? Pop one in the ground in spring and you can dig up fingerlings all summer, and if you make potato towers, you can harvest up to 40lbs of delicious, easy-to-prepare-and-store carb out of a single plant- a real space-saver for the limited sinkhole skyspace.

If your dwarves have cheese, the potato makes even more sense, because Potato+dairy is the easiest, most nutritionally complete survival food there is.

Finally, consider: Dwarven Vodka.

This post is open for anyone to comment suggestions on, but that's my take: put your dwarves in a Karst-sinkhole cave system, give them a highly in demand resource like salt or guano, bees, and taters. Boom. Whole agriculture, economy and political scheme starters.

[acti-veg]

Leather vs. Pleather: 8 Myths Debunked

Since we are all beyond tired of seeing the same regurgitated leather posts every day, I've compiled and briefly debunked some of the most common myths peddled about leather and pleather… So hopefully we can all move on to talk about literally anything else.

1) Leather is not sustainable.

Approximately 85% of all leather (almost all leather you'll find in stores) is tanned using chromium. During the chrome tanning process, 40% of unused chromium salts are discharged in the final effluents, which makes it's way into waterways and poses a serious threat to wildlife and humans. There are also significant GHG emissions from the sheer amount of energy required to produce and tan leather.

Before we even get the cow's hide, you first need to get them to slaughter weight, which is a hugely resource-intensive process. Livestock accounts for 80% of all agricultural land use, and grazing land for cattle likely represents the majority of that figure. To produce 1 pound of beef (and the subsequent hide), 6-8 pounds of feed are required. An estimated 86% of the grain used to feed cattle is unfit for human consumption, but 14% alone represents enough food to feed millions of people. On top of that, one-third of the global water footprint of animal production is related to cattle alone. The leather industry uses greenwashing to promote leather as an eco-friendly material. Leather is often marketed as an eco-friendly product, for example, fashion brands often use the Leather Working Group (LWG) certificate to present their leather as sustainable. However, this certification (rather conveniently) does not include farm-level impacts, which constitute the majority of the negative environmental harm caused by leather.

2) Leather is not just a byproduct.

Some cows are raised speciifically for leather, but this a minority and usually represents the most expensive forms of leather. This does not mean that leather is just a waste product of beef and dairy, or that it is a completely incidental byproduct; it is more accurate to call leather a tertiary product of the beef and dairy industries. Hides used to fetch up to 50% of the total value of the carcass, this has dropped significantly since COVID-19 to only about 5-10%, but this is recovering, and still represents a significant profit margin. Globally, leather accounts for up to 26% of major slaughterhouses’ earnings. Leather is inextricably linked to the production of beef and dairy, and buying leather helps make the breeding, exploitation and slaughter of cows and steers a profitable enterprise.

3) Leather is not as biodegradable as you think.

Natural animal hides are biodegradable, and this is often the misleading way leather that sellers word it. "Cow hide is fully biodegradable" is absolutely true, it just purposely leaves out the fact that the tanning process means that the hide means that leather takes between 25 and 40 years to break down. Even the much-touted (despite it being a tiny portion of the market) vegetable-tanned leather is not readily biodegradable. Since leather is not recyclable either, most ends up incinerated, or at landfill. The end-of-life cycle and how it relates to sustainability is often massively overstated by leather sellers, when in fact, it is in the production process that most of the damage is done.

4) Leather is not humane.

The idea that leather represents some sort of morally neutral alternative to the evils of plastic is frankly laughable, at least to anyone who has done even a little bit of research into this exploitative and incredibly harmful industry. Cows, when properly cared for, can live more than fifteen years. However, most cows are usually slaughtered somewhere around 2-3 years old, and the softest leather, most luxurious leather comes from the hide of cows who are less than a year old. Some cows are not even born before they become victim to the industry. Estimates vary, but according to an EFSA report, on average 3% of dairy cows and 1.5 % of beef cattle, are in their third-trimester of pregnancy when they are slaughtered.

Slaughter procedures vary slightly by country, but a captive bolt pistol shot to the head followed by having their throats slit, while still alive, is standard industry practice. This represents the “best” a slaughtered cow can hope for, but many reports and videos exist that suggest that cows still being alive and conscious while being skinned or dismembered on the production line is not uncommon, some of these reports come from slaughterhouse workers themselves.

5) Leather often involves human exploitation.

The chemicals used to tan leather, and the toxic water that is a byproduct of tanning, affect workers as well as the environment; illness and death due to toxic tanning chemicals is extremely common. Workers across the sector have significantly higher morbidity, largely due to respiratory diseases linked to the chemicals used in the tanning process. Exposure to chromium (for workers and local communities), pentachlorophenol and other toxic pollutants increase the risk of dermatitis, ulcer nasal septum perforation and lung cancer.

Open Democracies report for the Child Labour Action Research Programme shows that there is a startlingly high prevalence of the worst forms of child labour across the entire leather supply chain. Children as young as seven have been found in thousands of small businesses processing leather. This problem is endemic throughout multiple countries supplying the global leather market.

6) Pleather is not a ‘vegan thing’.

Plastic clothing is ubiquitous in fast fashion, and it certainly wasn’t invented for vegans. Plastic leather jackets have been around since before anyone even knew what the word vegan meant, marketing department have begun describing it as ‘vegan leather’ but it’s really no more a vegan thing than polyester is. Most people who wear pleather are not vegan, they just can’t afford to buy cow’s leather, which remains extremely expensive compared to comparable fabrics.

It is striking how anti-vegans consistently talk about how ‘not everyone can afford to eat plant-based’ and criticise vegans for advocating for veganism on that basis, yet none of them seem to mind criticisms directed at people for wearing a far cheaper alternative than leather. You can obviously both be vegan and reduce plastic (as we all should), but vegans wear plastic clothing for the same reason everyone else does: It is cheaper.

7) Plastic is not the only alternative.

When engaging in criticism of pleather, the favourite tactic seems to be drawing a false dilemma where we pretend the only options are plastic and leather. Of course, this is a transparent attempt to draw the debate on lines favourable to advocates of leather, by omitting the fact that you can quite easily just buy neither one.

Alternatives include denim, hemp, cork, fiber, mushroom fiber, cotton, linen, bamboo, recycled plastic, and pinatex, to name a few. There are exceptions in professions like welding, where an alternative can be difficult to source, but nobody needs a jacket, shoes or a bag that looks like leather. For most of us, leather is a luxury item that doesn’t even need to be replaced at all.

8) Leather is not uniquely long-lasting.

The longevity of leather is really the only thing it has going for it, environmentally speaking. Replacing an item less often means fewer purchases, and will likely have a lower environmental impact than one you have to replace regularly. Leather is not unique in this respect, however, and the idea that it is, is mostly just effective marketing.

As your parents will tell you, a well-made denim jacket can last a lifetime. Hemp and bamboo can both last for decades, as can cork and pinatex. Even cotton and linen can last for many years when items are looked after well. While some materials are more hard wearing than others, how long an item will last is mostly the result of how well made the product is and how well it is maintained, not whether or not the item is leather.

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Chapter 22

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: there might be some spelling errors here and there which I’m sorry about—I’ll try and remember to check through in the morning <3

word count: 7,866

-Part 21- -Part 23-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

More than once, you find your feet leading you in the direction of Bas’ house, but you always turn before you can reach his street. 

A few days ago you’d thought it would take a fortnight for the transition between autumn and winter to truly become apparent. You were wrong. 

There’s no way you could mistake it for anything else, with the way breath now huffs from chapped, rosey mouths like ancient, angry beasts prowling across an early morning moor; how now when you step outside and leave the warmth of the heating enchantments the cold nips at your throat, splashing ice into your lungs, encasing your arched ears in snow-kissed winds; how even without much sense left in your hands you can feel as your blood recoils from the temperature, scrambling back to be closer inside your body and abandoning your limbs for the sake of comfort. Useless body. If you were instead one of the massive bears kept in the Winter Court with thick coats and dense, padded bodies this would be much more bearable. 

As it is, you have to settle for keeping a brisk pace and wrapping yourself in an uncomfortable amount of layers. Layers that wrinkle too easily beneath one another and store sweat in their fibres. It’s always a relief to be once again indoors so you can shed the many skins. Especially when so much of the cosier cloaks are inlined with fur. You try not to let it bother you but as soon as that particular smell of leather creeps in, or meat with a little too much preserving salt…

Winter’s gotten a little easier. You can appreciate some of its beauty now it’s less likely to kill you. Its glittering exquisite. 

“What about this?” Elain gestures to a folded quilt that’s laid out amongst other similar items: bedsheets, pillowcases, towels, flannels, cloths. The quilt is a patchwork of small squares about the size of your open palm, each one different in pattern but similar in colour—pinks, pale pinks, whites, creams, oranges, pale oranges, a glitter of egg-yolk yellow. Around the hem hangs a slight frill made up of white lace. On its underside shows the padding designed for comfort, perfect for maintaining heat and being a cozy blanket to nestle under. 

An image passes through your mind then of all four of your crammed into that tiny bed, stuffed beneath a blanket like this in the depths of winter. Fingers so cold they felt like ice, cold enough to wake you from your sleep if a bare foot grazed your calf. Nesta and Feyre would usually be on the outside during the colder months, rarely taking place in the cozy, warm centre. You and Elain ever the middle children. 

A second image forms soon after, except instead of being set in an alternate past seems to fit more with a branch of the future: all four of you stuffed on the long sofa in the River House’s living room, the fire crackling behind its muffler but Nesta still on the furthest side. Some of you would be reading, Nyx might be cuddled beneath the quilt, close to Feyre’s chest, and maybe you might be stitching something together or sewing a pattern onto the sleeve of Elain’s top. Nyx would probably be briefly fascinated by the lace frill. Then if it was interesting enough he might try to eat it. 

You zone back in when you realise Elain’s looking to you for an answer. You wince, wanting to pull back into yourself and hide in your skeleton, sit on one of your own ribs, arms hung over an upper one. “I really… It’s lovely, but the bedroom I have is fine. We don’t need to find replacement stuff.” 

Elain seems a little crestfallen but quickly blinks it away, already turning her head to scour for something else that might take your interest. “Are you sure? It looks so warm,” Feyre pipes up, inspecting the little patterns of the squares. “I can imagine you all wrapped up in this, tucked away into a chair with a book heavy enough to break someone’s foot.” 

“I’m sure,” you assure her. “Really, the bedroom in your house is more than enough. I’m not sure I even wear half the clothes in the wardrobe—I’m fine.” 

After the news had been announced, tears had been shed, and you’d all spent the night on that sofa too afraid to let go of one another, Nesta had been the one to suggest fixing up the House of Wind again. It had been patched up after the initial explosion, but Nesta had suggested making it somewhere nice, reasoning all of the furniture had been destroyed anyway, so your room would be in need of some redecorating anyway. ‘Besides,’ Nesta had pointed out the following morning, ‘It’s mine. I can do what I like with it.’ And spend Rhys’ money while doing it, had gone unsaid, but after Nyx’s birth at least some of their aggression seemed to have boiled off. 

“This just seems like too much,” you admit while walking at Feyre’s side, Nesta strolling along the far side of the street while Elain’s already begun appraising a new set of pale green pillowcases. “You don’t have long,” Feyre murmurs in reply, her voice straining toward the end, “six months will fly by.” 

“I don’t mind,” you whisper absently. “My room’s fine as it is. We don’t need to redecorate the entire House of Wind.” 

Feyre falls silent, feet tapping in time together along the icy cobbles. Then her arm is tentatively slipping beneath your own, gently linking at the elbow, careful not to cause any aches in your flesh. You squeeze her faintly, bodies pressing closer in the cold, arms locked to try and keep up warmth while walking through the city. 

You glance up at the clock tower constructed at one end of the main square. It reads midday. Elain will be leaving for the human lands in a little under an hour and none of you have yet had lunch. Feyre follows your gaze, reading the time. “She won’t be gone for long, remember?” Feyre assures quietly. “She’ll be back before night.” 

You blink, turning to face your younger sister, “Oh, no, I wasn’t thinking…” You flush, averting your eyes as you pull your arm from Feyre’s, “I’m not that clingy.” It comes out sounding more defensive than you’d thought it would, the tug of your arm rougher than you’d anticipated, but you speed your pace regardless, crossing the street to instead join Nesta. She’s looking into the window of a large bookshop, her sharp eyes picking out titles even through the warped and rippling glass panes. 

Nesta reads even more than you do, which is saying something. You’re not sure you could even read a romance book anymore. Not without a piercing sense of loss pinned through your heart. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Nesta muses, pulling from your thoughts, standing straighter as if she’s considering entering the shop, “of having a meal up at the House of Wind. Would you come?” You blink, looking over to her inquisitively, “Just…a meal?” 

“I was thinking of bringing Emerie and Gwyn to it, too. None of you have met one another.” Nesta turns back to the window, though she doesn’t seem to be looking at the books anymore. “Elain and Feyre would be there, too.” 

“For sometime near solecist?” 

“That could work.” 

You pull a part of your lower lip into your mouth, nipping at the interior. “Have you thought of a present for Feyre this year?” You ask, still being without a gift. It’s still about two months away, but…time has a habit of slipping through your fingers. Silverish eyes slide sidewards to you, and you glance at her questioningly. Nesta looks back into the window, “I think the plan is to all do something together. Elain seems to think that’s what Feyre wants.”

“Do you think she does?” 

“Probably,” Nesta replies. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“Won’t that ruin the surprise?”

“Wouldn’t it be better to know what she wants so we don’t do something she won’t enjoy?” 

You purse your lips. “Elain can ask.” 

Nesta seems to decide she’s done with the bookshop, turning her body to move on ahead and you follow quietly. “So, about the meal?” She reminds, and you swallow but manage a short nod of your head. “It sounds nice.” Your lips part, throat flexing in preparation to add on, I’d like to meet them, but something stops you and then the moment has passed. Nesta seems satisfied enough with your answer. 

Had she also mentioned Elain and Feyre intentionally when bringing up the dinner? 

You worry your lower lip. It’s been nice spending time with them again. Being on the sofa. Feeling bones press together. Hair sliding over shoulders. But has it been too much for them? Feyre has a husband and a baby and a court. Nesta has Cassian and her own life. Elain…is who you’d usually spend time with, but she’s leaving to visit Lucien. 

Bas is leaving too, soon. 

Maybe you should be returning to the House of Wind on your own instead of making them take you there and pad the way. You’re not ready to go back. Maybe you should just lock yourself up in the Prison. But that’s a stupid thought, one that’s not going to help you. Why try and make things worse for yourself? 

Your stomach grumbles and you flush, putting your hand over it in attempts to quiet the noise. 

It’s about time for lunch, anyway. 

————

“You haven’t been up to the House since, right?” 

You startle, spinning around as your hand recoils from the door handle, chest rising and falling so rapidly that saliva gets caught in your throat and you have to cough into the crook of your arm. At least you didn’t eat too much over supper, or you might have been worried about being sick.

Azriel stands silently in the hallway a little distance away, his eyes vaguely alarmed at your abrupt reaction. He clears his throat. “Sorry. I thought you’d heard me.” 

“It’s fine,” you excuse, coughing once more before lowering your arm, going to straighten your skirts before a rush of something shy flutters through your chest and your hands instead join at your front. “You’re just…very quiet.” 

Azriel hums, and you shift on your feet. You’ve been spending so much of your free time with your sisters that you haven’t really seen anyone but them over the past two days. Well, aside from Madja, who you’re still seeing every morning at ten o’clock, much to your relief. You lick your lips, finding them chapped and dry. “So…was there something you wanted?” 

Azriel nods his head once. “Not exactly. I was thinking it would be a good idea for you to readjust yourself to the dimensions of the House, since Nesta’s told me you’re redecorating.” You flush, eyes dipping away, once again shifting on your feet. “Well, it’s more her idea…” you hedge, “since…you know, it’s hers now…?” 

“I know. But you’ll be wanting new furniture,” he reasons. “The walls had to be realigned so your room will be wider once it’s complete.” 

“Once it’s complete?” 

He nods his head. “You blew it up, remember?”

The flush deepens and you take a subconscious step back towards your room. You hadn’t meant to wreck the House, even if it was only your room that was really ruined. “I just meant…you mentioned walls needing to be realigned, so I was wondering whether they’ve yet been…” 

Azriel nods his head. “They have.” 

A beat passes. “So, are you coming?” 

You look up, surprised. “Hm? Where?”

His eyes narrow. “To the House. Is your head okay?” 

“Fine.” Your brows furrow. “Fine.” 

“No headaches?” He pushes, hazel eyes scanning swiftly over your body in a painfully analytic fashion. “No bouts of forgetfulness? Brain fog?” 

“No. No, I’m fine. None of that,” you assure, glancing down to the hardwood floor, a small part of you still stumbling at his attention. But it’s all good and fine noticing a problem once it’s obvious. “Besides,” you add, “I’m sure Madja would have picked that out by now…” Right? Madja’s been nothing but dependant as company. Competent and kind, so gentle with your skin and flesh and mind. 

Azriel seems to disagree, his head tilting slightly and you wonder if it’s a movement he’s showing intentionally or whether it’s simply something he’s learned to do when around other people after having every reaction trained out of him. “You’re only seeing her for about twenty minutes each day. It’s easy to miss some things.” 

“Yes, but isn’t she…? It’s Madja. Isn’t she supposed to be…I don’t know, one of the best healers in Velaris?” Isn’t she? Arrogance aside, wouldn’t it make sense Rhys would only want someone he could trust around during Feyre’s birthing? Madja must have proven herself to be reliable hundreds of times to be trusted enough to work so high up. Azriel nods his head, confirming your inner thoughts, “Probably in all of the Night Court.” 

“So, she would know if something was wrong.”

“There’s no harm in double checking.” 

You swallow, eyes awkwardly scanning him and the hallway, too nervous to look at him properly. “Well,” you say, once more clearing your throat, “I think I’m fine.” 

Azriel nods his head. “Shall we go?” 

You brows furrow deeply. “Where?” 

“To the House of Wind,” he says, stepping forward as if to reach for you, “Did you forget already?”

Your nostrils flare, lips curving at their edges. “I’m messing with you, Azriel.” 

His hand pauses in mid air, then it retracts and he stands straighter again, a look of faint displeasure held between his brows, “You shouldn’t joke like that.” Tension coils in your chest, and you look away from him, lips pursing, “life’s dismal enough as it is. I’ll joke about what I want to.” Azriel sighs, taking a step back to where he’d originally been standing, reinstating that cold distance between you that has your heart stretching thin. 

“Joke about what you like, but keep that humour away from your sisters. They’ll be going through a lot, right now.” 

You look at him then, arms lightly folded across your chest. “Will they?” You ask, tension coiling tighter. “Yes. I’m sure they’ll be finding it the most difficult right now.” Azriel’s chest expands, then he’s blowing out a harsh breath, “you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You know you could have said it better.” 

Quiet hangs in the air, then your throat is rolling, fight disintegrating when he makes no move to respond, shame at your snappiness creeping to your surface; disappointment he didn’t attempt to amend the exchange. Just one sentence would have been okay. You’re past pretending like you’d demand a lot from him. A few words and forgiveness would fall from your lips in a desperate spill, hungry for his care. 

Your lips press together. “Shall we go, then?” 

Azriel had flown you up—he hadn’t wanted you to winnow. You hadn’t thought much of the House since you’d been staying in Feyre’s home, but now you’re back and the smell is wrapping around you and it feels like you never left. It’s after a family dinner, you’re not yet obviously ill, warmth from Bas’ palms lingers on your hips and you’re still on good terms, Mor’s offered to take you out into Velaris and you never wrote back to Eris. You never told Azriel how you felt, and you still speak regularly in the library, your heart fluttering every time your eyes would meet, and you still think you’re in with a chance of keeping his attention. 

They hadn’t felt good at the time—they hadn’t felt enough—but you’d take them back in a heartbeat if you could. 

The two of you walk in silence down the hallways that lead to your old room, but when you reach for the handle you almost pause, able to feel the weight of Azriel’s attention on you and for a truly awful moment you worry they’re all inside, your room already done up, money already wasted on you, and you’ll have to pretend some kind of gratitude for the debt. But you cast the thought away, because that’s ridiculous—you’d been out with your sisters just this morning. 

You’d been unfair to Feyre. Short-tempered. Intentionally choosing to keep misunderstanding her. And then you’d done the same with Nesta, pushing your emotions onto them. 

Maybe it would be better for you to return up here again, so you’re away from them. Isolated, so your foul moods don’t bleed onto them. So they can stay happy, and you can deteriorate without having to feel bad about your inner necrosis. So they don’t see the way you’ll fall apart over these last six months. 

The handle twists in your palm and the door swings open. 

Azriel was right about the walls—they’re further apart than they used to be, your room suddenly a few inches wider, enough to disorientate you. But that’s not it. 

Your hand falls away from the handle, breathing shallow and deathly as you step back into the room. A small bed has been pushed where the old one used to lie, a similar looking desk up against the wall, a wardrobe near the windows, all resembling their previous pieces but so clearly different. Emptier. 

Your stomach drops, and the ground falls out from beneath your feet. 

“Where-” Your throat strangles the words in your mouth. Warping them to a hoarse rasp. “Where are my things?” 

You hadn’t thought about it. You’d put it out of your mind. Made sure to lock it up tight in a box along with the rest of the mess because you’d fall apart time and time again if you could think about it. But if the furniture was obliterated, and the walls destroyed… 

“They were blown apart, too.” 

The far end of the room stretches, distancing itself further and further from you as the walls either side become narrower, the floor beneath your feet groaning as if it’ll give any second. All of it’s gone? Everything? Everything?

You walk over to the desk, fingers tracing the surface, lips stitched shut. A painting had once sat there…greens, and golds, and falling stars. A romance book sat in solitary on an upper shelf. A bookmark with silver thread. A pendant with a small map contained inside. 

Your feet carry you to the wardrobe. There’s no smile drawn into the dust on the mirror. No lipstick, nor nail polish. The jigsaw you never touched, still wrapped in its bow. All of it? All of it’s gone? 

Scared eyes turn to the bed, glancing once to the empty bedside before you’re faintly walking over, lowering to your knees to peer beneath the mattress. Staring into the empty space beneath. Dark and hollow. No box holding your golden solar system. No bags from a shopping trip with Mor. No comfy slippers, and that dress that you’d only worn once, in the shop. The one that had looked nice, and you’d never worn it, too ashamed of yourself. 

“Did the-” The words are sticky, drying your throat together, tongue stuck too the roof of your mouth. “My orrery…?” 

Your heart is pounding and there’s a delicate fire beneath your skin, a cool sweat glossing your flesh. A soft roaring around your ears. You can’t have lost all of it. 

“A couple of things made it,” Azriel says from the doorway. You turn to look at him, the air around him warping and spinning faintly. Shallow and shimmering. Azriel shifts, something about his expression changing that you can’t quite pick out. “Are you feeling alright? You look…” 

“I’m fine,” you whisper, staring at him because it seems too much effort to really move your eyes elsewhere, lids pinned to your brows. A couple of things made it. A couple of things survived. 

Azriel nods his head. “Wait here,” he says, “I’ll get them.” He looks like he might says something else, hazel eyes flicking over you, but he keeps his mouth shut and turns, disappearing from the doorframe. 

In his absence a wave of dizziness overcomes you. It’s without nausea, but the room is shifting, your head unable to find a balance to keep your body upright and you end up settling lower to the ground, lying on your side, knees curled to your chest. The room is so empty without any of yourself in it. Is this what Bas’ home will look like once he’s gone? 

Is this what your room will look like, once you’re gone? 

You picture it, the raised bed with the thick duvets, the desk pushed up against the wall to lie beneath the window, the bathroom connected with its cool, pale tiles. The room you and your sisters spent an afternoon and evening contained in, chatting and drinking tea; the room Madja’s tried to heal you in; the room you found out you were going to die in. Will it stop being your room once you’re gone? Will Feyre repurpose it? Keep it as it is? 

A floorboard creaks in the hallway, but you just don’t have the energy to move. Choosing to instead curl tighter, allowing your eyes to close in order to try and contain the hot pressure that’s building behind them. You don’t want to cry. 

Can death come any quicker? 

Footsteps pause on the threshold, and shame tugs on your gut, wanting to scuttle away and hide beneath the dark hollow of the bed. To crawl away to some dark space and be out of everyone’s way, keeping to your own corner far from anyone else. Safe and alone in the darkness. Like a small spider lurking on the top shelf in a wardrobe, just trying to keep out of someone’s way. You could get so far if you had eight legs. If you were as small and nimble as a spider you could go anywhere. 

The mattress stretches as a weight is delivered to it, then a presence is gathering at your back. 

A few seconds pass, then he’s asking quietly, “What are you thinking about?” 

You take time evening your breaths before you answer. “Spiders.” 

“Is there one under there?” Azriel asks, still keeping to that soft, low voice. Your lips tremble, but you open your eyes enough to look into the darkness, peering about for any eight-legged creatures. You shake your head faintly. “What got you thinking about spiders?” He asks next, and you realise his voice is close enough he’s probably sitting behind you. On the floor with you. You try to shrug your shoulders, not wanting to answer, but the movement is stunted from lying on your side. 

“Do you mind them?” He asks. 

“No,” you reply, voice creaking through the quiet. They’d made you uncomfortable at first, when they’d started creeping into your house all those years ago. Spinning their webs on bookshelves and between table legs, down the hinges of doorframes, where the breeze brings in smaller bugs for them to catch. “They’re small.” 

“Even the big ones?” Azriel replies. 

“They don’t hurt anyone.” 

“They look creepy.” 

Your brow furrows, then you’re rolling over on the floor to face him. Sure enough he’s sat a little distance back, arms around his parted knees. “Are you scared of spiders?” 

Azriel’s eyes twinkle. “Not the small ones.” 

You blink, unsure what to make of that. “Then, the big ones?” He hums in a way that might be a yes. It’s hard to pick out what he means by that one, smooth noise. “Which ones?” You ask, watching him quietly. “I know there are large ones in the Summer Court jungles? Arachnids as big as your torso.” 

Azriel smiles. “Those are fine.” 

“But their venom can paralyse you,” you argue softly, brows furrowing. Small ones are fine, small ones can’t hurt you. But the larger ones, those can bite. Those ones can be dangerous. “They’re easy enough to avoid,” Azriel reasons. 

A look of concentration knits itself between your brows, and you push yourself up from the floor, shifting back to lean against the bed. “What court do they come from?” Azriel’s lips curve faintly—he’s not going to tell you. “The continent?” You ask, trying to work around it, but this time he shakes his head. “On Prythian?” He nods. Your eyes narrow, inclining your chin by a singular degree, “how big are they?” 

Azriel pauses, thinking. “Curled up…probably as large as that bed,” he answers, nodding to the bed you’re leaning against. “Splayed out…each joint in a leg was probably around your height.” Your eyes widen in fascination. Then they narrow again, suspicion rising in your mind, “is this creature magical?” His lips don’t smile, but his eyes do, and he nods his head. Your mouth parts, “that’s cheating.” 

“How’s it cheating?” Your mouth opens again but you can’t give an answer, eyes darting about as you think. “You’ve done most of your learning while you’ve been here, haven’t you? We have books on the creatures here. I’m sure you know some of them.” 

“I don’t know of any spiders that big,” you reply with your brows furrowed, frustrated you don’t know the species he’s talking about. Azriel laughs and you avert your eyes, scowling into the floorboards. 

“She’s locked up in the Prison now, anyway,” he says casually, as if that makes it better. You look at him again, “‘she’?” 

He nods. “Can you guess?”

Your brow tightens again. “I don’t want to.” You pull your knees up to your chest, readjusting your skirts so they’re covering your ankles. Leaning your chin into the dip of your palm, a downward tug to your displeased lips. Azriel raises a brow, “I didn’t know you were a sore loser.” 

“We weren’t competing.” You mutter. 

“Are you really upset?” He asks, sounding perplexed. You sigh, shifting on the floor now the bed is beginning to dig into your spine. “No,” you mumble, “I’m used to it.” 

He smiles, eyes twinkling, “used to what?” 

You don’t smile back. “You.” 

Azriel’s features mellow out, light winking away in his eyes and you watch the warmth sift down and out from his expression. “You aren’t entitled to my affections, just because of your situation,” he says softly, but sternly. No leniency afforded to you. No padding or gentleness to muffle the hurt. An ashamed blush creeps up your neck, spreading through your cheeks as you lower your head. “I’m not talking about that,” you mumble. Gloved fingers wring together and you pull your legs tighter to your body, “I’m talking about how needlessly cold you were. How clearly you cared for Elain without thought for me.” 

“You needed a clear answer. I was helping.” 

“You used me,” you whisper. 

Across the floor, you can feel it as Azriel stiffens. Almost freezes. 

“You used me,” you repeat, this time looking at him, “you knew how I felt about you. There’s no way you couldn’t have, Azriel. You-”

“You kissed me back.” Hazel eyes pierce into you, the shadows at his back stirring as though raising from their sleep. “You-”

“I’m talking about before.” The whisper rushes out of you on a swift exhale, hurrying to get the words past your lips so he doesn’t remind you any further. You swallow, a familiar feeling of shame coating your skin. “When I would speak with you in the library. And you would only speak with me to learn more of Elain. You were using me.” Azriel’s brows narrow and your heartbeat quickens unpleasantly. “You know I was making sure she was okay,” he claims softly, “the Mother knows you were too preoccupied.” 

“Stop lying to me.” A hot pressure is building behind your eyes again, staring at him in this room with the walls that feel like they’re closing in. “I know you love Elain. I know that, so stop trying to pretend like I’m imagining it. You wanted to know more about her so you spoke with me to learn more. You must have known how lonely I was, how hard it was for all of us after being ripped from our home, from our lives, and shoved into a world we had never wanted to be a part of. It’s like you’re just trying to get me to hate you.” 

As soon as the words leave your lips you freeze, staring at him with widened eyes. 

“Is that-?” You cover your mouth, toes curling in your socks as you huddle your limbs together. “Is that why you were so cold afterwards? Was it so horrible to deal with? Was it really so disgusting to you that…?” 

Azriel says nothing and you feel at that moment like the earth might split open and swallow you whole, suctioning you down far below the ground for discovering such a horrible secret, snatching you away before you can tell anyone and sealing you a thousand times in jagged stone beneath cold, damp earth. 

————

Her eyes are wide and her chest is heaving, knees pressing tight together as if to hide her body from him. He should lower his head to respect her dignity, look away to offer her privacy but that in itself would be yielding too much information. Doing anything other than watching her crumble would be exposing a part of himself and no matter how much she’s hurting, he cannot. He will not. 

Azriel doesn’t care if she hit the nail on the head. He hadn’t meant any of it. But had he really been expected to simply accept her tenderness for him? Even if he wasn’t the spymaster he’d be able to see how much she thinks of him, how she listens to him and hangs on his words as if they heal wounds. If she thinks she loves him, she should know how awful he is. 

————

You shake your head, still staring at him. Then you try to push yourself to your feet. 

You need air. Need fresh air, and to get out of a room as cramped as this one. But when you stand you spot the things he’d laid on the bed. The things that had survived the blast, and you freeze. 

On top of the bare mattress, weighing into the bed is a thickly bound volume. The spine reads: Prythian: An Anthology Of Discoveries, in golden lettering. Sitting small atop the book however, is a familiar silver band, its narrow edges smooth and shiny. It’s the ring Eris gifted you on that last day in Autumn. The one he’d told you would help keeping your magic in check. The one you’d left discarded then nearly killed Azriel by being unable to control yourself. 

“This…? This is all that made it?” Your fingers trace the title, and you consider for a moment raking your nails down its surface, scalping its smooth leather and ripping the pages from the spine. The silver is cold against your fingers, and you imagine casting the window wide and throwing it out to the winds. Throwing it far, far away, somewhere you’ll never have to see it again, where you’ll never be reminded of the poor choices you made that brought such an unbearable amount of shame into your life. 

You can feel it begin to crush into you again, and your knees shake like they might buckle. Why is this all that lasted? 

“The book was enchanted, as many are nowadays.” Azriel’s voice is far off in your head, the world tipping beneath you. “The magic protecting it was ripped apart, but the book’s still intact. The ring seems to have its own magic warding it, though it’s been damaged.” 

“Is this-?” You turn to face him, arm banding across your stomach, able to feel as the shame and hurt squeezes you insides. “Is this your way of punishing me for what I did? By showing me this?” Azriel’s brow furrows, and he takes a step forward, “No.” You’re not sure you believe him. He takes another step forward, so he’s stood before you and you have to tilt your head slightly to look at him. “I thought you’d be happy. I thought it would make you feel better. That you had something to keep.” 

“That reminds me of why you all hate me,” you say, hot tears spilling from your lashes, scalding your cheeks. “You can’t be expecting me to believe that you’re showing me these things because you’ve forgiven them. That you’ve so suddenly had a change of heart about what happened. Not this.” You sniff, trying to hide your face. “Not you.” 

Silence hangs in the air, stretched and painful until, “You think we hate you?” 

“I know you do,” you whisper, “and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” 

Scarred fingers collect around your wrists, and you try to cover yourself as he gently pulls your palms from your tear-stained face. “Look at me.” Look at me. 

Does he know what he’s doing? Or are you joining dots that have no business being joined? You open your eyes but look away, staring at the floor, at a section of wooden panelling that must have been redone when- “Look at me.” 

His shadows cooly gather beneath your chin, lifting your head but you stubbornly refuse, instead casting your gaze to the right where the door is. Just anywhere but him. Anywhere but his eyes, eyes that will make your heart splinter. You look at the threshold, the handle of the door- 

Azriel’s wings open, and then you’re ensconced in night. 

His shadows gather between your feet, circling overhead so there’s nowhere for you to look anymore but him, everything else inked out to be bland and uninteresting. Only a very small amount of light is allowed through the darkness, like a dozen black veils of silk have been thrown over you to keep you together. Slowly your breaths begin to settle, transported away from the demanding present and instead somewhere else entirely, where time has been paused and you have no pressure of worry beating down on you. 

Your nostrils flare, but your breathing has become even. Chest slowly rising up and down, calmed and quietened. 

Your throat trembles, but you look at him. 

His hazel eyes are normal. No disgust or revulsion to be found. No ice, either. At first glance you might have called the look indifferent, but…calm. Quiet. 

Hands release your wrists, one lifting to the circle of your shoulder, but the other moves for your chest. You inhale softly as his fingers graze across the fabric of your top, his touch featherlight and careful. They pause, coming to a stop in a place you’re certain he’ll be able to feel the pounding of your heart. But he makes no remark on the wild rhythm, instead pressing the pads of his fingers down so they’re resting atop your breast. “You have a scar here, don’t you?” 

Something tugs from beneath your ribs, an alertness jerking awake beneath his touch. 

“It’s small, isn’t it? Barely there. Less than a scratch, but it’s scarred.” 

What? How does he…? 

His hand finds yours and he guides you a step closer to him, then lifts your palm to the side of his stomach, his ribs. “I don’t hate you,” he says quietly, but in the shared silence you have no need to strain your ears; you can hear him perfectly. “None of them hate you either.” 

“You’re lying,” you whisper. 

“I’m not,” he replies, pressing your palm flat to where that matching scar lies, embedded deep in his flesh. Where he’d stolen the arrow you had meant for yourself. 

Your head hangs in defeat, and your forehead meets his chest. His hand releases your shoulders, scarred fingers skimming the small hairs sprouting from the top of your nape. 

————

Night has fallen by the time you return to the River House. 

It’s dark and you wrap your arms tight over your chest, wind playing with your hair, kissing ice up your neck. At your side, Azriel seems unbothered by the descending winter, appearing as stoic as ever. 

Coming up the pathway that leads past the front lawn you can see the lights in the House are one, letting you see in to the living room and kitchen, each separated by the hallway that connects to the door before you. No one’s in the living room, but you can easily make out the figures of two of your sisters in the kitchen—Feyre and Elain. You wonder what they could be speaking about when Elain soundlessly slams her hand down on the table. 

You pause, and you know Azriel’s watching too. 

Elain’s teeth flash in the faelight and your brows narrow, pulse spiking—they look like they’re arguing. You hurry a step forward, hand falling to the handle but Azriel places his palm atop your shoulder, pausing you. You look back at him. “We should give them space. Let them sort it out on their own.” 

You consider, glancing between him and the front door. Teeth nip at the interior of your lip—you’ve not seen Elain like that in a long time. She’s not one to become easily agitated. “No,” you say, “they’re my sisters. I want to know what’s wrong.” 

“It looks private. You should wait-” 

But you turn the handle, giving him a strange look, “They’re my sisters.” 

As soon as the door opens, Elain’s voice rings through the halls, bouncing off the walls with crystal clarity, “I want to know why I had to hear it through Lucien, Feyre. Who, I might add, didn’t even hear it from one of you.” 

Quiet settles, tense and taut and you halt, blinking. What have you just walked in on? 

With as little noise as possible you push the cloak from your shoulders, hanging it on one of the hooks in the entryway. Elain’s voice carries on, unaware of the new listeners. “Are you going to explain it?” She asks, voice softened from its previous cut, still bearing a nasty edge. “I didn’t want to worry you,” comes Feyre’s quietened reply. “I didn’t mean to hide it, Elain, but the timing was never right, and you’re both…” 

“We’re both what?” Elain asks sternly, her voice tight. “Untrustworthy because we aren’t as tightly knit with others in your circle?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth,” Feyre replies, with soft steel. “That’s got nothing to do with it.” 

“Then tell me why you didn’t think to mention it.” 

Silence falls, and you feel guilt gather in your chest for eavesdropping. You turn to glance at Azriel but he seems to have vanished into shadow at some point. Maybe he actually had intended to give them privacy, but you’re in too deep now. Instead of hiding you straighten your skirts, quietly stepping further along the hallway until you reach the kitchen, peeking your head around the doorway, “is everything okay?” 

Cocoa coloured irises flick to you and Feyre turns in the kitchen, spotting you in the hallway. “Fine,” Feyre says—too quickly. You look over to Elain, but she’s watching Feyre instead, coca eyes simmering. You swallow, and step decisively into the room, steadying your voice, “What’s wrong?” Because something’s clearly amiss. 

A tense silence passes and you can feel your insides trembling, as if the quiet is a living, breathing creature, gently but increasingly firmly pushing against you, weighing on your shoulders, pulling on your back, an invisibly current slowly trying to drag you from the room. You stand still. 

Feyre’s shoulders sag in a way you haven’t seen before, her can lowering in a way that casts heavy shadow beneath her eyes and into the downturned corners of her mouth. “We’d thought to keep you out of it,” she says, much too softly for High Lady. “You’re both…” But she trails off, landing her face in her hands and rubbing along the narrow lengths of her curved brows. Her hands fall to her sides and she leans back against the table, arms moving to fold over her chest. “I know what it’s like, to be kept out of something…” She looks at both of you in turn, blue-grey eyes anguished and distraught, showing a turmoil she’s been battling with for quite some time. And what she’s said is true—she knows what that’s like. How she almost died without knowing the circumstances of her own child. She knows better than anyone what it means. 

So what could have made her decide…? 

You release the tension of your stance, settling back against the wall since this seems like something important. 

“You may have seen us to be more on edge than usual…” Feyre confesses, casting a glance to Elain. Your older sister’s expression doesn’t give, but acknowledgement passes through her eyes and Feyre continues. “Nesta’s been practicing with Ataraxia more frequently, despite how little we know about its nature; Amren’s been trying her efforts at furthering her understanding of The Old Language; then the trip Nesta and Cassian went on to the Day Court…to visit Helion’s libraries.” She swallows thickly, shadows accentuating the roll of her throat. “Helion, Spell-Cleaver.” 

“Nesta mentioned a binding spell,” you now recall from that supper all that time ago. Amren had bitten her off. Nesta had Ataraxia out on the table when you’d gone to visit her. What Eris had been talking about during your visit to Autumn. It must have something to do with why he was surprised you weren’t learning to fight. 

But why would you need to?

“We…” Feyre starts but swallows her own words. Besides her, Elain shifts on her feet, her attention casting skittishly around the dimly lit kitchen, only small yellow lights lighting the large room. Your younger sister sighs harshly, rubbing her face once before looking at you fully, hands again to her sides. “We think the Prison is collapsing.” 

Her words settle into the quiet of the kitchen and seem to disappear in the external world while they ring endlessly within your mind, repeating in a space away from the linear passage of time and instead growing louder and louder with every hurried repeat. We think the Prison is collapsing. 

What are you supposed to say to that? 

You can feel your eyes stretch, throat turning dry from breathing through your mouth, lips open while you stare. 

“Why?” You manage to gasp out, throat closing up on itself. Why would the Prison be collapsing? Why now? Why?

“When Nesta fought Lanthys,” Feyre begins solemnly, “perhaps even when she first retrieved the harp…whether it was Ataraxia, one of the Dread Trove, or Lanthys exploiting a worn fibre of the spell’s fabrics…maybe a combination of the three…we don’t know for certain.” 

“You don’t know why the Prison is breaking?” Elain asks, staring at Feyre. 

“We know the wards are weakened,” she corrects, as if savouring the small grace that they seem to still be holding. But for how much longer? “We think it’s in relation to a magical object imbued with Cauldron-made power being in close proximity to such an ancient antiquity…that their magic might have abraded the spells of the Prison… But no. We don’t know for certain.” 

The walls tilt, shadows stretching and you’re thankful you’re leaning against the wall. Feyre meets your gaze with a look you could call grieving. “Please let’s discuss this further in the morning. I’m sorry it was kept…that I helped keep it from you—both of you—but for a conversation like this…” Feyre looks to Elain, a bit of that strength being forced to her surface. “We can speak in the morning.” 

Elain watches Feyre silently, and for a few moments you think you might see anger in her eyes, but it’s turned calm and quiet. “I imagine it’s difficult, in some respects,” Elain says, “to play the role of High Lady.” 

You can’t tell whether it’s meant as consolation or a jab, but Elain’s already departed from the room, leaving just you and Feyre. 

“How long have you known?” You ask in the quiet. Feyre shifts but doesn’t look away from you, “Long enough that we’re running out of options.” 

You nod your head, more than just fatigue now weighing on your lids. “I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well.” 

————

It’s strange how you find yourself meandering the opposite way from your bedroom when you reach the top of the stairs. Seeking out a room you’ve never once tried to approach without explicit permission beforehand. But the whole night had been strange, and your head is swimming slightly, paddling in the shallow part of a clear river. 

Your hand lifts, but at the last second, and for no discernible reason, you change your mind, opening the door quietly without knocking. 

Azriel is sat at his desk, a low light atop the surface, a lampshade tinting the colour a pale yellow. Ink scratches over parchment, and you pause on the threshold, leaning against the doorframe. You could understand the pleasure of spying, if it means seeing people like this. 

He looks up after a moment, seemingly finished with his task as he sets the paper aside and lowers his quill. 

“It was Blue Annis, wasn’t it?” You speak before he has a chance to. “The spider you were telling me about.” 

“Yes.” Azriel inclines his head. “It was.”

Something big enough, cruel enough, powerful enough to strike a chord of unease into Azriel. And the container holding her and countless others is fraying? 

You lean a little more of your weight into the doorframe. “How long do you think is left before the wards are sparse enough for one of them to slip through?” 

“Probably another month,” Azriel replies. His expression doesn’t falter as he adds, “one might’ve already managed.” 

“What do you mean by that?” You ask, fear twisting in your stomach. He must be able to smell it on you. Azriel leans back into his chair, “We’re checking each cell to make sure. So far everything’s been where it should, but it’s a slow process. By the time we happen across an empty one…” He raises a brow as if to say: Who knows how far it’ll have gotten?

A shudder spider-walks down your spine. “Are they all as scary as she is? As Blue Annis?” 

“You’ll work yourself up into a panic like that,” Azriel tells you, his face remaining serious. “You’re already imagining the worst possible creature you can think of, aren’t you?” 

“Is she less scary than I’m imagining?” You ask dryly, forcing a wry curve of your lips. 

Azriel’s eyes seem to twinkle, but maybe it’s the light. 

“What’s she like?” You force yourself to ask, voice lowered beneath the night. But Azriel shakes his head, “Ask me another time.” 

His lips curve, but the light in his eyes has winked out. “You don’t want her to be the last thing on your mind before night.”

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover @mrsjna

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya @starlitlakes @kksbookstuff @feerique @ratgirl2020 @just-m-2

cbmthy taglist: @impossibelle @naturakaashi @fae-glamour-petrichorus @ficienjoyedrbspot @azriels-shadowsinger @marina468 @misstea12 @going-through-shit @fussel9913 @minakay @i-am-infinite @wannabewolf @thegirlintheshadows101

[johnbrand]

The Basement

With @next-pharaoh

“Richie?” Billy called out into the hazy basement. “Richie, are you down here?”

Billy had never thought of Richie as a religious kind-of-guy, nor a Muslim for that matter. What other reason would he have had to come down into the creepy, old mosque? Heck, Richie’s whole family was Catholic, the stereotypical devout Latin family. Billy’s too, although of a Polish heritage instead. That was probably why they had always gotten along so well–they could bond through trauma.

“Richie?” Billy asked once more. The basement was rather small, just a single room with a twin mattress, a few sheets, and a tiny window shining the bare minimum amount of sunlight into the space. The place was covered in dust, something Billy unfortunately had not noticed until he had patted down his all-black outfit, surprised to find it covered in the pale powder.

“Alright, that’s it,” Billy grumbled. “I can’t even get reception down here anyway.”

That was how this had all started. Billy had received an emergency text with a location from Richie that he had been locked and needed help. However, that text had taken over 24 hours to deliver. Billy had rushed over here as fast as he could, but now he could not find Richie anywhere. Perplexed, he made his way back to the basement’s door, not expecting to find it locked.

“No…” Billy spoke to no one in particular. “No, no no!”

Frantically, Billy pulled at the handle, hoping, praying that it would come off. And yet, no matter how hard he tried, it would not budge. It was times like these that he wished he would have participated in some athletics throughout his schooling career, rather than focusing on communications and the arts. 

“Hello!” Billy shouted, banging on the door. “Can anyone hear me?!” He grabbed his phone and quickly sent out a text to his friend, not surprised when it was unable to go through. Backing away from the door, Billy began to consider what he could do. Someone would have to find him eventually, right? Phones had tracking devices, so it would not take long before people questioned where he was. And the window, maybe from there he could-

“Oh-!” Clumsily, Billy fell back onto the twin bed, so preoccupied in his thoughts that he had not paid attention to his footing. The dust flew up in a cloud around him, slowly cascading over his body. The particles coated his sandy-colored hair and fair skin as if he had been hit by a bag of flour. A bit embarrassed, Billy coughed, inhaling some of the dust.

“Gosh, what is this stuff…?” Billy questioned, his head suddenly a bit dizzy. “Is it…powdered salt…?”

Slowly, Billy’s body fell back onto bed, an encroaching weariness enveloping him. Within moments, he was fast asleep while the dust began carefully absorbing into his being.

———

Rashid unlocked the door to the mosque’s basement. He already possessed the keys to the lock, and he knew not to reopen the door until at least daybreak. Well, at least not while the current convert is awake. It was necessary for Rashid to go in while the convert was resting to provide the necessary materials.

“Ah, I see you are awake,” the strong, proud Muslim announced in Arabic as he swung open the door. “And already studying the analysis of the Hadith book I provided you with.” 

“Yes, thank you brother,” the reply came back, also in Arabic.

“Do the pants fit you alright, Bilal?” Rashid asked. 

“They will carry the load.” With his massive hand, Bilal cupped his mighty Arab meat to emphasize his point. Rashid took a once over of Bilal, taking in the bronzed alpha and confirming the dimensions he had hypothesized in his head. Bilal was tall, muscular, a perfect specimen of Islamic masculinity. His chest would ideally slide into the thobe Rashid had ordered for him, and his wide feet would easily fill the Nike sandals Rashid had set aside.

“Now Bilal, are you ready to promote the genetic Arabization of the world?” Rashid demanded. “To defend Arab interests, to sacrifice individuality for global brotherhood?”

Bilal immediately nodded, his fate had already been sealed.

Rashid smiled, “I assume you have already left your past behind?”

Smirking, Bilal motioned his head towards the drying white splurge behind him. By the afternoon, it would become just another part of the basement’s transformative dust.

With a nod, Rashid ushered Bilal up, and the two made their way out of the basement and back into the mosque. They prayed together, feasted together, and were preparing to leave the mosque just as a frightened Asian-American boy rushed past them.

“Billy? Billy!” His shouts echoed throughout the hall as he dashed into the religious hallways. Rashid and Bilal exchanged knowing smiles. They held hands and bid farewell, the keys transferring between their hands.

[mydadleft471]

An Ailing Heart, A Shimmering Soul

Summary: Another Tarnished invades the Shadow Keep and Messmer takes care of them. But something seems off this time. You comfort him when he is most vulnerable.

Spoilers, per usual, for Elden Ring and Shadow of the Erdtree. Warnings for descriptions of violence and a slight amount of spice wink wonk ;D (I've never wrote anything spicy please go easy on my ass, I'm so down bad)

I had two requests, one from the lovely @asianbutnotjapanese and the other from anonymous, and I thought they'd go so well together! I'll link the posts here and here! Thank you both for the requests! I love writing comfort for this lanky man.

As always, thank you for reading, reblogging, liking, and commenting! It makes my day every single time!

Another Tarnished had invaded the Shadow Keep today. This one made it to Messmer himself. Many others found themselves terribly outmatched by his many knights and guards.

You waited patiently in Messmer’s chamber for him to return victorious, just as he had done a multitude of times before. Fiddling with your hands, you tried to drown out the screams and thudding from the room adjacent to Messmer’s, but your thoughts did little to distract you. Your mind wandered, as it always did in these moments: would he come back from this fight?

You shook your head. Of course he would. He was a mighty demigod with more than his mother’s wishes to fight for now. He had you. It was something he whispered into your hair when you lay huddled against his massive form in his bed. You were drifting on the very edge of sleep when his voice, silky and smooth, cut through the silence.

“I will return to thee, beloved consort. This I shall promise.”

Your heart had flipped in your chest. You knew he meant it and he never went back on his word.

The large door creaking open interrupted the sweet memory. Pushing yourself off the bed, you stepped timidly until Messmer came into view.

Blood adorned his chest like rubies and his eye was glued to the floor. He had left his spear in the previous room.

You hurry towards him. “Are you hurt?” You grab his hands and clutch them tightly.

“Merely scratched and covered in blood that is not my own.” He sounds tired.

Carefully, you lead him over to his ornate washroom. He doesn’t say anything as you pull him behind you like dead weight. Even his serpents stay still as they’re perched on his shoulders. Dropping his hands, you hurry to grab some bath salts he likes and a fluffy towel. You turn the faucet and the tub begins to fill with warm water. Pouring some of the salts in and swirling them around, the room begins to smell sweetly of jasmine and vanilla. 

Looking back at your lover, you notice that he watches you tiredly. His eye droops and he doesn’t stand as tall as usual.

“Do you need help taking your armor off?” He merely nods in response, so you get to work.

You stretch your arms up to take off his helmet and he bows his head. You set it on the table behind you and comb your fingers through some of the rebellious strands of red. Carefully raising the cloak he wears, you allow the serpents to wiggle out of it before undoing the clasp and letting it fall to the floor behind him. Moving around him, you work on the various buckles on his armor and before long, it joins his cloak in a bloody, crumpled heap. 

“Come, my love,” you call out to him and his eye shimmers in response. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You take his hand and gently guide him into the bath, letting him go as slowly as he needs to. Once he settles into the warm water, he lets out a sigh of relief. You tilt his head back and pour water over his hair, just as you have done many times before. It’s become a daily thing to wash his hair and body. He loves the tenderness in every touch you lay upon him.

You begin to massage some of his favorite shampoo into his fiery locks. You take your time ensuring his scalp has been thoroughly washed and thread your fingers through the tips of his hair. He shudders and shivers in pleasure. 

You want to ask what’s wrong. He’s come back from fights exhausted and worried, but he’s never looked so dejected. Perhaps the fight was too close for his liking? When you took off his armor minutes earlier, you hadn’t seen any new bruises or wounds on his body, so that couldn’t be it. The Tarnished that came to his Keep enraged him, sure, especially if they had hurt any of his men, but they had never made him like this.

“Messmer?” His eye opens slightly. “What’s bothering you?”

“Whatever dost thou mean?” His voice is dejected and quiet.

“Did something happen during your fight?” You tilt his head back and wash the shampoo from his hair.

“‘Tis nothing. Thou needn’t worry.”

You sigh. “I thought we talked about this, about being open with each other. If something is bothering you, I want to help.”

He reaches for your hand and you gladly give it to him. He turns it over in his hand, seemingly marveling at how small yours is compared to his. He kisses your knuckles and moves your hand so you cup his cheek.

“That Tarnished held the belief that I was keeping thee prisoner here.” 

Your mouth hangs open. “Prisoner? My love, no! I’m happy here.”

“They did not thinkest so. Perhaps they imagined themself a protector, like I.”

“Messmer,” you make him look at you. “I stay here because I want to. I stay here because I love you. Okay?”

“I had never felt rage such as that. I lost myself.” He admits.

“I’d be angry too. It’s okay.”

He lets out a shuddering breath and a golden tear streaks its way down his pale cheek. You reach out to brush it away.

“I do not deserve thee, beloved. I am naught but a cursed monster.”

“You are so much more than that. I don’t care if you’re cursed.” You pull away from him and pour a generous amount of conditioner into your hands. You gently apply it to his hair. 

“You make me truly happy. I hope you know that.” You whisper those words into his ear.

“I shall try to remember that.”

You wash away the conditioner and wrap your arms around his shoulders, not caring about how the water soaks through your clothes. He grabs one of your hands and holds it. You lay a light kiss on his neck and he shudders again.

“Do you want me to wash your body, my love?” You ask into his hair.

“Please.”

“Okay.” You smile and unwind yourself from him.

You gather some soap and begin to lather it on his shoulders. You take your time and even knead out some of the knots in his back as you go. He lets out small gasps and you can see that his ears are a bright red almost rivaling his hair. You raise his arms from the water and squeeze his arms, feeling his muscles. He shoots you a look and you quickly look away, continuing to wash him as he requested. You tilt his head back, sweetly sweeping your hands across his neck and travel down to his collarbones, giving them the same treatment as the rest of his body.

“I ask thee stop this teasing.” His eye is screwed shut.

“Oh shush. You like this.”

“Perhaps.” You smirk.

Continuing down his body, you lather his chest in soap and delicately make your way to his stomach. He visibly tenses at this and you shoot him a puzzled look.

“Thou’rt cruel indeed. Continuing may force my hand.” He warns you, his eye shimmering a bright gold.

Oh. Oh.

As much as you would love to indulge in him, right now he needs comfort. You nod, face blushing as red as his, and you begin to wash away any remaining bubbles kissing his skin. Grabbing a fluffy towel, you wordlessly hand it to him and he stands. You tear your gaze away from him as he dries off and try to keep your thoughts decent. You go fetch his favorite robe from his chambers and grab his brush from where it sits on his bedside table. 

When you return, he’s sitting on the plush chair in front of the large vanity he had made for you. You offer him his robe and turn around, waiting for him to dress himself. He clears his throat and you turn around.

“Would you let me do your hair tonight?”

“If it would make thee happy.”

“Always. I love taking care of you.” That earns you a loving smile.

You begin to brush away any tangles he has, but since you’ve been giving his hair regular maintenance, it’s become easier to manage. The bristles gently scratch against his scalp and he lets out a pleased hum. You have such a lovable demigod.

Once you’ve ensured his hair is soft and smooth, you part his hair down the middle. You can see him watching you in the mirror. 

“I think you would look stunning in braids.”

He shakes his head. “Braids are intended for nobility and those with honor.”

“You’re a demigod, my love.”

He opens his mouth to say something but he stops when he sees you standing behind him with your hands on your hips, daring him to refuse you. “There is no sense in arguing with thee, it seems.”

“You are correct.” He rolls his eye. You were so stubborn.

Staring on the left side, you take three small strands and delicately weave them together. His hair is easy to work with and within a few minutes, you have a tiny braid.

You hold out your finished work. “Hold this, please.” He does as you ask, and you almost chuckle at the sight of him concentrating on keeping it pinched between his fingers.

Moving to the right side, you do the exact same thing. Strands of red dance in and out and soon, you have another braid. You admire your work.

You take the first braid from him with a small thank you and carefully lay them down on his head, making them join at the ends. It creates an oval-like shape and emits an air of importance. You grab a small hand-held mirror from the table in front of him and give it to him. He stands and faces away from the vanity, repositioning the tiny mirror so he could see the beautiful, yet simple, job you did. He eye crinkles and he seems to like it.

“Thou hast done a wonderful job. I thank thee, beloved.” 

You take the small mirror from him and return it to the vanity table. You gesture for him to sit, which he does without protest.

“Your serpents deserve braids too.” He chuckles and his companions look at you with wide eyes.

You open the drawer of the vanity and pull out two tiny braids made from some fabric. You had been practicing with these so your braids would look perfect.

The serpents come closer and you gently lay the strand of fabric on them. They shake a little at first, then flick their tongues excitedly.

“I think they look handsome, don’t you think, Messmer?”

He throws his head back and laughs. “They look quite ridiculous.” The serpents hiss.

You gently pat them both and they nuzzle into your touch. “Don’t listen to him. You both look wonderful.”

In truth, they did look a little silly, but they seemed proud to wear braids like their master.

“Thou always tends to my ailing soul, beloved.” He kisses the top of your head.

“Proud to serve, my Lord.” He rolls his eye at the use of his title.

He scoops your hands up in his and gazes into your eyes tenderly. “I shall say it now for fear that thou dost not realize: thou art free. Wherever thy soul wishes to roam, thou mayest go. I only request that thou returnest to me safe.”

You shake your head. This man. You lean up on your tiptoes and he bridges the gap, placing a loving kiss on your lips. There is no rush, no fight for dominance, just the both of you existing in the same space. Your hearts swell in admiration for one another.

There is nowhere else you’d rather be.

[peterspinkrobe]

Revelation - Priest!Miguel x Reader [part 3]

Word count: 2,878

Rating/Warnings: mature. Naughty thoughts and naughty bits. Mentions of parental death, religious content, food, soooo much Catholic guilt.

A/N: I’m so glad you guys are enjoying the series so far! No more money in my budget for commissioned art this month, but I did take this picture of St. Phillip’s Church while visiting my uncle in Charleston. Please let me know what you think of this chapter! If you haven’t read part 1 or part 2, go do that first :p

Tagged peeps: @friendlynbhdzero @ceoofghosts @hoelychildofgod @tayleighuh @luckycandykitten @beebslebobs @milkyardbetter @miaasmf @koimess @miggyswhore (sorry if I missed you in the taglist or if it messed up the tag!!!)

There were two things known about your mother: her cooking and her follow through. She was the delegate for church and community event meals; oftentimes in the kitchen doing the work herself alongside people that respected her and her cooking.

Your mother prided herself in her cooking and it kept her going in times of hurt for you both. She was the one baking casseroles to give to neighbors when dad passed. It was you who had to sit her down to eat something most days.

If God had anything to do with her getting better, it was in giving her that ability to provide in a way some overlooked. She buzzed while she worked her talents in the church’s kitchen now. The previously mentioned follow through evident in her meticulous manner of cleaning right behind herself as she cooked.

That follow through was especially true now as she was making sure you followed the rules she had set in place regarding church and attendance. Not only were you going this Sunday since you missed the last service, but you were also helping with the Wednesday church dinner.

You know she wants the best for you. It took you a long time (and a lot of space) to see that she showed it in the ways she knew how, the ways she was raised. You try to sprinkle the amount of salt she showed you earlier onto the massive amount of rolls. Despite your physical presence where she asked, you know your hearts and values don’t lie within the boundaries of shared faith.

You didn’t mind the service aspect of religion though. In fact, you enjoyed assisting your mother when she helped others in the community. You only pretended to follow the ‘good book’ and ‘walk the righteous path’ to spare her. What you had issues with was the institution of religion itself and some probably never-to-be-resolved personal qualms with the man upstairs. First, why did god have to be a man?

You’d never admit these questions and doubts to her, it would devastate her.

You did, however, admit it to someone.

Your confession last Thursday and the fact that Reverend Miguel was on the receiving end of all your revelations had you waking up suddenly in the night this past week - jolting from the bed, a quickening pulse, and sweat dampening the sheets. The concern in his deep, dark-eyed stare from that day stuck with you. You felt shame, guilt, maybe both, or something else unnamed and it kept you from indulging in the pleasure he had so easily made you feel without even being in the room. You still felt tense knots in your shoulders as you worked.

It was easy to feign sickness when you actually felt feverish and drained after you’d let those inner thoughts become spoken truths.. Your mother worried when you wouldn’t come out of your room. When you missed (skipped) church, she showed her concern and care with homemade chicken noodle soup. Moping, unbothered lasted only another day before she was yanking covers off you and having you run errands around town. ‘Getting back on your feet is the first step to feeling better,’ she retorted to your groans early that Monday morning. No more laying out of church…

You had to think of another way to avoid him. A way to steer clear of any sort of confrontation

You thought about moving away, dramatic, yes, but maybe into the city. Not too far from mom, because she needed help more than she admitted. Tonight was a prime example as her usual kitchen hands said they weren’t feeling well. This was helpful in negating any suspicions your mom had of you lying about being ill. Moving wouldn’t be running away, you were an adult.

You had literally run away though. As soon as the reality of who had taken your confession set in, you ran right out of that booth, back into the bustling city, onto the bumpy bus, and curled up into yourself at home. As you’re thinking about the many help wanted signs and rent postings you saw in the city, you hear chatter that interrupts the flow you two had created in the kitchen.

Mom is being pulled away by another member of the church and she instructs you to make two plates for the people who weren’t able to help her with cooking this evening. You’re pulling the last of the vegetables out of the oven and she hovers a moment, uncomfortable leaving you to the important final preparations.

It’s hard not to feel offended. Five years ago you would have rolled your eyes and commented on how if she didn't trust you, you shouldn’t be doing it in the first place.

“It’s okay,” you assure her as you wash your hands before preparing their plates, “I’ve got this.” You smile gently at her for you know you both need reassurance at times. She pinches her lips together but nods and leaves you alone.

Styrofoam to-go plates were open on the counter, waiting to receive their fill. You eyed the dinner and patted yourself on the back. Mom thought up the meal and did most of the actual ingredient brain power and temperature controls, but you’d done your part as well. It did feel good to do for others even if you still felt down.

A wide pan of meatloaf with a perfect caramelized sauce on top sat as the main course. Alongside it was some cabbage slaw and a broccoli cheddar bake. You make the to-go plates with equal portions and top them each with a roll. Your favorite part were the green onion rolls and you couldn't help but sneak one as the hours of prep and cooking left you famished.

You placed foil over the containers of your mom’s truly famous strawberry cobbler for it to cool when everyone ate. Most of the produce has come from the local farms. You savored the first bite of the fresh roll and marinated on the flavors of home, wondering if you could really leave this behind again.

You’re setting out the plates and silverware for the church members when you hear footsteps behind you. You turn to tell your mom that you’d made the plates, but it’s not her that now joined you in the kitchen.

Tense shoulders, little sleep… you were as tight as a coil ready to spring so you jumped a little when you saw the towering figure as you turned.

Reverend O’Hara’s eyes showed the same concern from last week, but softer. His feet shuffled slightly and he put his hands up as if he had approached an animal in the wild. He had a hesitant, more nervous aura than the suave confidence he usually eluded.

He opened his mouth to speak and you heard him say your name again in that sweet voice…

______________________________________

Standing before you now, Deacon Miguel found himself reflecting on the unexpected confession he heard last week. It was a confession that had stirred within him a mix of emotions and conflicting thoughts.

Miguel had contemplated how to address this delicate situation for it simply couldn’t go ignored. You matter. Your feelings matter. The deacon knew it was crucial that he approach this with compassion and understanding. Faith was a deeply personal journey, and each individual had their own struggles and doubts. Lord knew he’d faced his own in the past and that even if his current standings were solid, they were shaky.

His mind had been consumed by the weight of what he had learned. He couldn't help but feel a profound connection to you when he first placed the communion wafer on your tongue, the tongue that had inadvertently confessed impure thoughts to him. Though your honesty and vulnerability struck a chord within him.

Unbeknownst to you, the deacon struggled with similar doubts and desires. When he heard your confession, his heart weighed heavily with empathy and understanding. Though he couldn’t help the mix of relief in his emotions as well. It was comforting to know he wasn’t alone in grappling with faith, the temptation, and the forbidden attraction that he felt towards you.

Denying his own attraction to you was impossible.

Despite his commitment to his faith and role within the church, he too has found himself captivated by your presence and constantly battled his own desires. Since he’d laid eyes on you that faithful Sunday morning, he’d felt an invisible force bind himself to you. Much like he had bound himself to the service of God Almighty, he found himself wanting to serve you.

Miguel O’Hara couldn’t get that mental image out of his mind. Serving you… The more he tried to control his urges, the harder they became to ignore. He’d been doing what he was told all these many years in the church, abstaining from giving in too much. But no matter how much he tried to uphold the image of chaste, he is merely flesh.

The views of his brothers in Christ were archaic. They forget that the sacrifice of the only Son was done in love, despite our sins. He truly believed that it is natural, God-given even, to experience attraction to fellow flesh. It’s natural to seek a partner in life. He’s human. He’s prone to straying from the path. He is only human. He just hopes that God understands when he asks for forgiveness and repentance.

He struggles with the guilt of falling into temptation when he feels he’ll come undone if he doesn’t allow himself release. He isn’t able to hold back now as much as times prior. Not when you had captivated his spirit.

He also felt guilty for viewing you in the explicit ways that he thought of you. Focusing on the way clothes hugged your body and needing to know what hid in the heaven of your thighs. While Matthew says not to judge others, he also mentions in the Good Book that, “whoever looks […] to lust at someone, has already committed adultery with them in his heart.” If he were to really follow the written word, Miguel would have to pluck out his eyes for his transgressions against you in his mind.

His flesh weakens when he remembers how soft your lips were under the pad of his thumb. The way your eyes looked into his as he cupped your chin.

Cold showers are his usual go-to when it comes to trying to avoid the temptation of touch. His large shoulders hunched slightly when the frigid water fell onto his skin. It’s in vain though each time because his body still radiates heat of passion from thoughts of you. When he looks down at himself, he curses his body’s reaction to thoughts of your mouth. His painfully hard cock begs for your touch. It’s always too much to bear. The tip of him screaming red and leaking despite the cold temperatures.

When he gives in, it’s always too fast. Finally gripping himself the way he’d liked, imagining showing that way to you, he pumped himself with his hand. His grunts steamed the shower even further as he envisioned you with him. Oh, how he longed to feel you and learn you like scripture. His wanton movements force him to brace himself on the shower wall as an image that always brings over the edge flashes his in mind: your legs spread in offering of your own communion. It’s enough to make him see stars as your name echoes in his shower like hallelujahs.

He wishes it wasn’t shame that he felt after. He wishes his comedown was met with comfort from you. He allows the evidence of his shame to wash from himself down the drain, but the feeling is still there. You were more than someone to be lusted over.

While the sexual attraction was strong, he also yearned to know more about you. You’d only revealed little bits of yourself in the confession booth but he was intrigued, nonetheless. He wanted to know more about your conflict with faith, wondered what your childhood was like and what foods you enjoyed, interested in learning your outlook on life. Miguel wanted to learn your personal philosophies as if it were doctrine.

Not seeing you at the previous Sunday service hurt. He understood, given your beliefs, that he couldn’t expect you at church. It wasn’t an attendance issue, which he would not enforce on anyone, but the empty aisle seat in the middle pew made him feel equally as vacant. It didn’t matter to him if you were conflicted or steadfast on Christian values. Matthew 7 held his strongest position on the matter of judgment: it wasn’t his place. He was simply a figurehead of spiritual guidance.

In fact, he had geared his sermon slightly towards you for that Sunday. He couldn’t help the itch to address the issue in a way he was comfortable, through scripture. He didn’t want to convert your faith to Jesus Christ. He wanted to help you restore faith in yourself.

You conjured in him quotes from Corinthians: a book in the Bible that speaks of faith, hope, and love. He carefully highlighted 2 Corinthians 4:16-18 the night of your confession as he crafted his sermon. “[…], our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light, momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.” Yes… the Bible is literally referencing heaven as the eternal glory, but it’s all metaphorical. “Unseen” was the key word in this theological message. He knew the congregation visualized pearly gates and mansions of clouds as a reward for the pain they experienced on this terrain. What he had hoped you would have gotten to hear was that there were so many possibilities when one had faith in themselves. He wanted to show you the unlocked potential housed within yourself.

He had a lot to say as he stood before you now. There’s so much you need to know, need to hear.

First, you needed to know that you were wrong.

He said your name to get your attention.

But, there wasn’t a sound after that for a moment, until your mother and a few other members of the church came through the double doors.

________________________________________

You snapped out of the trance Miguel had you locked in with the song of your name on his lips when your mom burst into the kitchen with some of her friends.

You reach to get the cups out of a cabinet and simply ignore the deacon for a moment despite the flush in your cheeks. Easily explainable by the heat of the kitchen.

“Everything is ready! Mom, I’ve got two plates ready to go for later. Come on and eat, everyone!” Your mother’s friends all compliment her on her well behaved child and you catch her eyes. There’s no strictness in her expression. She simply beams at you, her child.

Members of the church start calling out, ‘Let’s eat!’, ‘Smells good!’, and mentioning how they knew they were in for a good meal as it was your mom that did the cooking.

As people pour into the serving area and line up, you hear Reverend Miguel’s voice above the hustle of hungry people.

“Before we enjoy this delicious looking food, let us first thank the cooks and then I suppose we should bless the meal, yes?” He was smiling as he said this, as if prayer before a meal was only a formality. It seemed as though the appreciation for you two was what he was after as you watched the church thank your mother and you for your cooking. You shrugged off the bits of praise you received as it really was your mom who did the majority of the work.

An elder member is selected to lead the church in prayer and everyone bows their head. You’re still riding a buzz from the work, not to mention seeing Miguel again after almost a week. You can’t seem to bring your eyes down.

You scanned the room of bowed heads and smiling faces and found the deacon’s gaze on you again. This time, you smiled at him and nodded in appreciation. The prayer concludes and your mother’s smile at the praise makes your heart feel warm. Due to the spotlight on her cooking she was forced to be first to get her plate of food, something she usually didn’t do until after everyone had gotten their own plate. Sometimes after they’d gotten seconds. She had found her a community of support and love.

As the church members started scooping portions onto plates, you saw Reverend Miguel approach you again. He stands by your side and you watch as the congregation gets their food and he leans to his side a little toward you. He speaks in a hushed tone as he asks,

“Can we go somewhere to talk?” You swallow dryly, but his next word nearly knocks you off your feet.

“Alone?”

[bonefall]

what poison/s were used in riverstar's heir at moth's celebration and when bright and flowerstar ate together? suggestion (if you hadn't decided yet): Monkshood/Aconite/Wolfsbane (Aconitum napellus) its a VERY poisonous plant native to the uk and europe, lethal with both ingestion and body contact and has historical use in killing and murder. symptoms appear quickly and death often comes in only a few hours; its a shame it wasn't used in canon lmao

Oh symptoms don't just appear quickly-- Aconite's name is said to be ancient Greek for "Without Dust." That refers to how aconite kills SO quickly that you will not even kick up dust in your death struggle. Death coming in a few hours is from the minimum deadly dosage, any good assassin worth their salt would use more (and take care to mask its bitter taste, it's not a subtle flavor like cyanide is.)

Forget "deathberries." Yew is nothing next to aconite.

Yew's deadly compound, taxine, acts by stopping your heart. Yawn. Aconite targets your heart, liver, kidneys, AND brain all at the same time. It's so potent that handling young roots will make your hands go numb. Only 2 miligrams of the deadly compound, aconitine, is a fatal dose in a human being; a single grain of rice weighs 20 miligrams.

Anon, my friend, you undersold aconite. It's not just a very poisonous plant in Europe, aconitine is top 5 deadliest poisons period. Members of the aconite family are widespread through the northern hemisphere-- indigenous Alaskan people have used it to hunt whales for tens of thousands of years. Its toxic properties break down within 24 hours, leaving the meat completely safe to eat.

So naturally, suggestion accepted. This is going to be SICK.

Especially since no one will be able to tell what happened. It looks like every major poison because it is. You might assume it was some kind of toxic cocktail from the symptoms. Convulsions, rapid heartrate, vomiting, numbness. It looks like yew, nightshade, and bryony all at once.

It'll be very easy for Bright Whisker to survive this and shake off suspicion simply by poisoning herself with a small amount of something else. If I go with Maple Whisker being a sibling instead of a cousin, I could have her simply join their meal a little late and realize that her mouth feels numb, just as everyone else enters convulsions, so she spits it out.

(Autism win! Avoided a poisoning because texture bad! Maybe she was waiting for the food to cool down too lmao)

And LASTLY... Aconite is Wolf's Bane. I think this is a really cool place to see the earliest incarnation of the Wolf Motif that will later show up in Bluestar's family. It tickles my brain a bit to think of Flowerstar somehow having the "hood" shape of the flower, and then she loses her first life in her gambit to poison the wolf among sheep.

I also had a stroke of inspiration and had an idea for one of the BB!DOTC cats, too. Dappled Pelt gets massively neglected in canon, imo, and I could set up the wolf thing even earlier. African Wild Dog time (painted wolf.)

[familyabolisher]

hi! i'm a follower, & i enjoy reading your posts and essays. in your recent post about the anti-intellectualism kerfuffle on tumblr, you said, "Part of my communism means believing in the abolition of the university; this is not an ‘anti-intellectual’ position but a straightforwardly materialist one."

i haven't heard of university abolition before, and if you are willing, i would like to hear what it's about. what is the university abolitionist image of a better alternative to universities? should learning still be centralized?

thanks for your consideration. :)

University abolition, as with any other form of abolition worth its salt, understands the role played by the institution of the university under capitalism in sustaining the conditions of capitalist-imperialist hegemony, analyses the institution accordingly, and recognises that the practices that the university purports to represent (that of intellectual production, the sharing and developing of knowledge) will undergo a fundamental overhaul and reconstitution under communism. This means looking at the university not merely as an organic institution wherein we study and develop ideas, but asking what ideas are developed and legitimised, and who is afforded the opportunity to do so, and why the university exists in the first place; we are taking a materialist rather than idealist approach. 

Simply put, the role of the university is to restrict access to knowledge and knowledge production, and to ensure the continuance of class divides and hierarchised labour. These restrictions come about in a vast number of ways; the most immediately obvious is the fact that one must meet a certain set of criteria in order to qualify for entrance in the first place, and this criteria tends to require compliance with the schooling system (itself another such arm of capitalist governance), a certain amount of wealth (and/or a willingness to accrue debt), and an ability to demonstrate methods of intellectual engagement compliant with the standard of the academy. Obviously, there are massive overlaps in this set of criteria; those who come from wealthier backgrounds are more likely to have had a good education and thus can better demonstrate normative intellectual engagement, those who can demonstrate that engagement have probably complied with the schooling system, and so on. The logic behind the existence of private schools is the idea that sufficient wealth can near-enough secure your child's entry into the university and therefore entry into the wealthier classes as an adult, with the most prestigious institutions overrun by students from privately educated backgrounds. Already, you can see how this is a tactic that filters out people from marginalised backgrounds; if you’re too poor, too un[der]educated, too disabled, not white enough, &c. &c., your chances of admittance into higher education grow slimmer and slimmer.

Access to the university affords access to knowledge; most literally through institutional access to books, papers, libraries, but also through participation in lectures and seminars, reading lists, first-hand contact with active academics, the opportunity to produce work and receive feedback on it, the opportunity to develop your own ideas in a socially legitimised sphere. As I explained above, who is afforded access to such knowledge is stratified and limited; the institution is hostile to anyone deemed socially disposable under capitalism. Access to the university also affords access to a university degree, with which you can continue down the research path (and thus participate in the cycle of radical knowledge-production being absorbed and defanged by the academy, and water down your own ideas to make them palatable to institutions which tend to balk at anything with serious Marxist commitments), or gain entry to better-paid, more stable, more prestigious jobs than those which people without degrees are most often relegated to. In this sense, the people who are more likely to be able to meet the access criteria for the university and then successfully participate in it are able to retain their class position (or else promulgate the myth of social mobility as a solution to mass impoverishment) and thus gain a vested interest in maintaining the conditions of hegemony. Those who gain entry into the middle class have done so after undergoing a process of stratification according to means; which is to say, class, race, [dis]ability; and tend to lose interest in defending a politic which seeks to destabilise their relatively privileged position in the pecking order.

Success in a research career, too, depends upon liberties afforded by wealth; can you afford to go to all these conferences, do low-paid and insecure teaching work in the university, churn out research, and support yourself through a postgrad degree without going insane? Not if you don’t have independent means. In the UK, the gap between undergrad and masters funding is absolutely wild—obviously there are scholarships afforded to a limited number of people (another access barrier—the whole institution runs on the myth of artificial scarcity), but broadly speaking, it’s pretty much impossible to put yourself through an MA with just the money you get from SFE unless you work a lot on the side to pay your bills (this is what I tried to do; I went insane and dropped out, lmfao) or have independent wealth. Establishing oneself as an ‘academic’ is simply easier when you have financial security. In this way, the people who make it to the very top of academia (the MAs, the PhDs) tend to be people who come from privileged backgrounds; people who are less likely to challenge hegemony, who will maintain the essential conditions by which the university sustains itself, which is to say the conditions of social stratification. These people often tend to hold reactionary positions on class—the people who are outraged at how little a stipend postgrad students get tend not to think twice about the university’s cleaners being paid minimum wage, or think of working-class jobs as shameful failstates from which their academic qualifications have allowed them to escape (how many people have you heard get absolutely aghast at the thought of ‘[person with a BA/MA/PhD] working a typically working-class job’?). Academic success tends to engender buying into the mythology of academia as a class stratifier and class stratification as indicative of one’s value, even amongst people who probably call themselves academic Marxists.

Universities are also tangible forces of counterinsurgency. I live in the UK, where universities are huge drivers of gentrification; university towns and cities will welcome mass student populations, usually from predominantly middle-class backgrounds and often coming to cities with significant working-class and immigrant communities, neighbourhoods formerly home to those communities will be effectively cleaned out so that students can live there, and the whole character of the neighbourhood changes to accommodate people from well-off backgrounds who harbour classist, racist feelings towards the locals & who will assimilate into the salaried middle-class once they graduate. More liberally-oriented universities will tend to espouse putatively progressive positions whilst making no effort to forge a relationship with grassroots movements happening on the streets of the city they’re set up in; student politics absorbs anyone with even slightly radical inclinations whilst accomplishing approximately fuck-all save for setting a few people off on the NGO track; like, the institution defangs radical potential whilst contributing to the class stratification of the city it’s set up in. 

This is without even touching on the role played by the university in maintaining conditions of imperialism and neocolonialism, both through academic output regarding colonised regions (from ‘Oriental studies’ to the proliferation of white academics who specialise in ‘Africa’ to the use of the Global South as something of a playground for white Global North academics to conduct their research to the history of epistemologies such as race science as transparently fortifying and legitimating the imperialist order) and through material means of restricting access to and production of knowledge based on country of origin (universities in the Global South are significantly limited in what academic output they can access compared to those in the Global North; engagement with Global North academia relies on the ability to move freely, something that is restricted by one’s passport; language barriers and the primacy of English in the Global North academy) keeping knowledge production in the Global South dependent on the hegemony of the North. Syed Farid Alatas has termed this ‘academic dependency,’ as a corollary to dependency theory; academia in the GS is shaped by the material dependence it has on the West, which in turn restricts the kind of academic work that can be undertaken in the first place. Ultimately, all institutions under capitalism must ultimately reroute back to the conditions that favour capitalism, and the university is not an exception.

This is just a very brief overview of an expansive topic; I would recommend going away and examining in greater detail the role played by the university under capitalism, and what the institution filters out, and why. What sort of research gets funding? What sort of knowledge gains social legitimacy? What can the university absorb and what must it reject? Who is producing knowledge and to whom are they accountable? etc.

[jasmineoolongtea]

coffee jelly and parfait ― chapter 1: caramel pudding

pairing: bodyguard!toji x baker!reader (f), toji is 38, reader is 22

summary: after working towards and succeding in accomplishing your lifelong dream working for one of the most famous bakeries in tokyo, you decide to go out for a night of celebratory drinking. however, the next morning, you wake up and find out that you're now married to a total stranger and an older one at that! but, turns out, this accidental marriage of yours might be more useful than you think.

contents: a sesame salt and pudding!au, age gap relationship (16 years - everyone is completely legal here!!!), marriage of convenience/accidental marriage, fluff, angst, slice of life, nicknames (toji is referred to as ossan by reader which is an informal way of referring to a middle-aged man in Japanese and this is taken directly from the manga inspo behind this)

warnings: drinking/alcohol, smoking (from toji)

word count: 3.9k words (much beefer than i was expecting ngl)

extras:

⤷ mood board/pinterest board

a/n: ahhh i'm so excited to finally be able to work on this series since it's been workshopping in the back of my mind for a while shdhahwj hope you guys enjoy this and hope you have an amazing day/night !!! sorry that this chapter is so exposition-heavy rip djasd, i promise later chapters will get better. as always, any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated <333

It's normal for weird things to happen after a night of heavy drinking, right?

You've heard all sorts of stories from your friends and family about the strange antics drunk people get up to once they get a certain amount of liquor running through their veins. It can range from small silly things like trying out a new skill in public due to a sudden burst of newfound confidence to more extreme ones like running away from an angry mob of people that you've accidentally incited somehow. Despite the difference in their severity, the common thread here remains: all are mostly harmless things and nothing that is possibly life-changing.

Much to your dismay, however, you seem to be the outlier in all those cases. Actually, it appears to be that you've managed to outdo almost everyone this time as this one definitely has to take the cake right here or whatever award they give out for things like this.

This morning, as you wake up and open your bedroom door, you suddenly find yourself face to face with a complete stranger, who very much appears to be an older guy, standing right outside in your apartment.

And to top off this already weird trajectory of events, as if things could not possibly get even stranger, it also turns out that you've apparently married said stranger last night.

...What!?!

-

To say that your memory of last night is hazy would be a massive understatement in all senses of the word. But what you do remember clearly is the reason why you went drinking in the first place, which was to congratulate yourself for finally achieving your lifelong dream up to this point.

After years of blood, sweat and tears spent at the Tsuji Culinary School where you fought with tooth, fist and nails against hundreds of other culinary hopefuls to win the highly coveted and only place available for the exchange programme to Le Cordon Bleu institute in France, your suffering was not all for nought as on your glorious return back to Japan, you've managed to land your dream job of working at one of Tokyo's most famous bakeries, Pierre Hermé.

If that was not a perfect reason to celebrate and drink the night away completely carefree then you don't know what was.

However, there was one tiny little snag in your plans for a joyous night out. The moment that you returned home to give your roommate the good news, still trying to come down from the high of hearing the good news, it seemed that she apparently also had a similar genius idea of her own and decided to inform you that she was leaving you to search for somewhere else to live closer to her job.

For most people, that wouldn't be a problem as they could just be able to leisurely search for a new roommate at their own pace. But for you, this was not the case as you were facing a different set of circumstances. For you, your move to Tokyo was entirely conditional on the fact that would stay with someone and this was explicitly set and outlined by your dad. Now roommate-less, you suddenly had a ticking expiry date placed on all your ambitions that you had barely scratched the surface of by this point.

This was probably the worst case of whiplash you've ever had, going from an extreme high to an extreme low all in the span of less than 10 minutes. Unfortunately, it seemed that the odds were very much not in your favour. But how could you let that waver your resolve? If you had learned anything from your years of existing is that you weren't going to give up and relent that easily.

So, in actuality, it was somewhat a lie that you were only out drinking for one reason. In reality, it was for two reasons; one, to congratulate yourself on achieving your dreams and two, to try and forget your newfound problem through the power of alcohol. And this was how you found yourself complaining to a bunch of strangers at a local izakaya, surrounded by several empty pints of beer.

A loud drunken sob echoes through the small confines of the bar which is accompanied by the thud of an empty glass cup slamming against the wooden countertop of the bar.

"It isn't fair at all! Do you know how hard I've worked to get here? I've basically given up everything for this and now it's going to all disappear?" You bemoan out loud to whoever's around you, signalling to the barkeep to fill up another pint for you as you're clearly intent on accomplishing your plan of drinking away your problems.

There's a lady and her boyfriend, whose face you can't really remember or recall in any particular detail, sitting next to you on your right trying to comfort you with sympathetic coos and awkward back pats. While they're trying their best to comfort you, or as best as drunk people can, their efforts are seemingly in vain as you can only sigh in defeat at your current predicament.

Taking another swig of the freshly poured pint, you continue on your rant. "And you know, my dad is only letting me stay in Tokyo if I either have a roommate or if I'm married even if I'm happy here as is!"

The lady nods in an empathetic manner as if to say she's gone through the same thing as well, commenting, "My dad's the same way as well, he's kinda old-fashioned when it comes to stuff like this and it's awful."

"If only alcohol could cure problems like this," You muse. "My roommate and I used to come here all the time and everyone we met here is always so nice."

At your praise of the other bar patrons, there's a murmur of agreement and cheers from all around. The frothy foam of your drink has bubbled down by now but as you stare into the half-drunk glass, you're suddenly hit with an outrageous idea. "Hey, what if I get married to one of you guys tonight, right here right now?"

Boisterous laughter immediately erupts at your words. One dishevelled salary man from the other side of the bar jokingly remarks, "If you do that, you won't even be wanted back home!"

However, once the laughter dies down there's a genuine pause from everyone, including yourself, as if you all were genuinely considering carrying out this ridiculous and definitely impractical idea. Following the brief silence, the other patrons turn to their neighbours and begin to talk and discuss amongst themselves, their heads swivelling left and right in what seems to be an attempt to size up and judge the men at the bar as potential candidates.

"I'm already married to a wife I love dearly so I'm going to have to turn down that offer." Announces a middle-aged man from opposite you, with other similar comments and statements soon chiming in to eliminate themselves from the running based on a variety of different reasons.

Before the lady's boyfriend can even open his mouth to volunteer himself, she sends a withering look and an accusatory finger his way as she warns him, "Don't even think about it." At her stern warning, he quickly sinks back down into his seat.

An elderly man sighs wistfully to himself. "Ha, maybe if I was 20 years younger..." He then turns to his side, nudging the guy next to him with his elbow to get his attention before asking him. "Hey, what about you?"

You can't really see the other man's face since he's pretty much on the other side of the long table and your vision might have been slightly hazy on account of all the alcohol flowing through your system at this point, though you hear his gruff voice ring out as he shrugs his built shoulders and responds, "Me? 'M single I guess."

From all the other voices you've heard tonight, you don't recognise his, guessing that he might have been relatively silent throughout most of the conversation. Although you can't see much of him, you notice even sitting down, he's about two heads taller than those around him and his broad shoulders and well-built physique are accentuated by the tight-fitting black shirt he's wearing. God, it looks like he's basically vacuumed and sealed into that thing as the fabric shifts with every flex of his muscles.

Maybe it's the dim lighting of the izakaya but you're sure you catch a brilliant flash of green from across the table looking you up and down with vague curiosity and interest. You think to yourself, he doesn't look half bad.

Suddenly filled with a renewed sense of energy, or rather you're getting to the point on your drunkness scale where you feel comfortable enough to throw logic out of the window, you leap up from your seat and point at the man as you shout at the top of your lungs,

"Alright, you in the black shirt! Let's get married!"

After hearing your declaration, the lady starts to furiously flip the magazine in front of her until it lands on a certain page before picking it up and showing it to the others. "Hey, look! This magazine I bought has a marriage registration form at the back."

"What an amazing coincidence." Someone mutters from beside you with a few other voices soon relaying their own hums of agreement.

"We can all be witnesses! Come on and sign it!"

Chants of "Sign it." start to fill up the bar as the other patrons begin to cheer you two on like a crowd at a live stadium sports match from the sidelines of their seats. The moment your pen clatters against the floor, the crowd bursts out into celebratory shouts and cheers, with that being the extent of your memories of last night with whatever after it fading into black.

-

Now back in the present, you feel your face start to burn with a renewed sense of embarrassment as memories and small recollections of last night start to flood your mind. Any chance of even possibly denying the events of last night goes out the window as turns out, your drunk self decided that it was the perfect opportunity to apparently take a commemorative photo of the event with the marriage license at the dead of centre of it, your names unmistakably written on there in bold.

As you examine the form, still slightly gobsmacked, you spot his name next to yours. Fushiguro Toji, huh? You think quietly to yourself, his name sounds kind of nice. But before you can find yourself getting lost in thought, a husky voice snaps you back into reality.

"Now, do'ya remember?" The man, or Toji as that's what appears to be his name, quirks an inquisitive eyebrow at you.

"Yeah, but that doesn't explain how you ended up in my apartment." Eyeing him up and down, you pause for a second as you take in your equally dishevelled appearances, something suddenly clicking in your head as your overactive mind begins to draw its own conclusions about what happened after the events of the izakaya. "Oh no. Di-did we..?" You gesture frantically at the two of you, hoping that he understands what you're implying with your question.

Toji shakes his head, a slightly irritated or perhaps even amused sigh leaving his lips, you're not sure. "No. Yer insisted that you should take me home since I mentioned that I didn't really have a place to stay for the night."

A sigh of relief escapes you.

You take this time to now fully examine him since you didn't get much of a chance last night, or rather you had forgotten all about it. There's an unquestionably intimidating aura about him with his shaggy black hair, incredibly muscular physique and piercing emerald green eyes that look like they could kill a man where he stood with a single stare. His all-black clothing and what appears to be a vertical scar situated on the right corner of his lips do him no favours to make him look less like a gangster straight out of an action movie.

Although there aren't the typical tell-tale signs of ageing on him like obvious wrinkles or a head of grey hairs, there's a faint imprint of more permanent creases starting to form in the middle of his brows and if you look closely enough, you might even notice some small sprinkles of white starting to pop up amidst the rest of his raven locks. This all points to the fact that he's definitely older than you but you're unsure by how much from your initial assessment of him, probably at least ten years older than give or take.

Though, besides this outright menacing factor to him, you can't help but admit that he's also strikingly handsome in a rugged way. You realise that you might have been caught staring at him for too long when he clears his throat and gives you a pointed glance with those sharp green eyes. Just having his gaze on you is enough to send a tingling sensation down your spine.

Deciding to brush it off, he huffs to himself as he leans his weight against the white walls of your apartment. "It's probably too late to cancel it since we already signed and submitted it last night so the only option we have now is to divorce."

He fishes around in the pockets of his pants and produces an already half-empty and slightly crumpled cigarette box. Before taking one out, he turns towards you and silently asks for your permission with a tilt of his head. You nod at him, expecting him to crank open one of your windows to smoke but instead, he walks towards your kitchen and turns on your kitchen hood. Curiously, you follow behind him and see him use a dingy lighter to light up the cigarette, the pale glow of the flame illuminating the harsh lines of his features, as he takes a deep puff of it before blowing the smoke up the hood.

So he's a kitchen smoker, huh? Obviously, you want to know how he's developed this peculiar habit but you decide to bite your tongue for now as there are more pressing issues on hand such as the undeniable elephant in the room.

There's a brief moment of silence before Toji starts speaking again. "Y'know, I kinda feel bad for last night 'cause you're going to be a divorcee so young."

"Hey! I'm not that young you know, Ossan!" You protest in return, crossing your arms over your chest in a slightly childish display of annoyance. That earns you what sounds like a breathy laugh from him as one corner of his lips tilts upwards in a somewhat crooked manner.

"Oh yeah? Then how old are ya?" There's a teasing lilt to his voice, almost as if he's slightly amused by your antics.

You huff. "22. What about you?"

"You really can't remember much from last night huh? I'm 38." If he's 38 then that means there's a 16-year age difference between you two. Not the worst-case scenario that could happen when it comes to marrying a complete stranger by accident, you think to yourself.

It seems that your apparent lack of reaction, only giving out a half-hearted hmm, to finding out his age is surprising to him. If he was going to be honest, he wasn't ruling out that you might have started bolting out of your apartment at the mention of it and in that case, he wouldn't blame you.

You state, "Besides, you're not the only one to blame here. It's on me as well since we both signed it. So don't feel bad. We'll get it taken care of as soon as possible." You send a reassuring smile his way, waving off his concerns with an easy-going wave of your wrist. For some reason, he feels like he might even believe your assurance for a second.

Much to your public embarrassment your stomach starts to grumble loudly with what some might say is impeccable comedic timing. "Or well, as soon as I get some food." You comment bashfully, your previously carefree attitude fading away relatively quickly as a new priority has emerged.

As you make the move towards your fridge, you look over at him from your shoulder as you ask, "Oh right. Do you want something as well? I don't really cook meals that often so all I have in my kitchen is basically just baking ingredients."

Toji does a quick look around the kitchen, examining the clear state of mess and disarray that it's in and scoffs offhandedly to himself. "Didn't realise you could call this mess a kitchen."

"In my defence, my roommate used to do all the cooking and cleaning whilst I mainly covered the bills." You point back at him, a wooden spoon in hand as you wave at him warningly.

"What happened to them then?"

"Oh, you know, suddenly deciding to move closer to work even though your roommate has already paid the lease for the year for two people and stuff like that." There's an edge of annoyance to your tone, clearly, you're still annoyed at your roommate for putting you in this predicament, but Toji decides not to comment on it.

After watching you struggle to turn on your gas stove for what seems to be like the tenth time in the span of 2 minutes, a loud sigh of exasperation escapes him as he places his calloused hand on top of yours. stopping you in your tracks. "Come on, just let me do it." He states. As he moves closer to the kitchen counter, his body is positioned so close to your left side that you can feel the heat radiating off of him.

He starts to busy himself with various ingredients as it seems that he's now begrudgingly taken over cooking duties from you, no protests from your side by the way. Before you go to take your seat at the kitchen table, you hear him mumble under his breath. "Can't believe you have the time to go out and get drunk and not even to clean your place."

"Hey." You turn around to face him once again, your voice stern. "You don't know me, alright? I wanna stay in Tokyo because I just got my dream job and I'm not planning on leaving any time soon."

"...Yer job? What d'you do?"

"I'm a baker. Have you ever heard of the bakery, Pierre Hermé?"

He pauses, bringing a finger up to his chin as if deep in thought. "Think 've walked past it a few times. Why?"

There's a renewed sense of excitement to you, passion very much evident in both your words and expression as you launch into an animated spiel at his question. "It's one of the top bakeries in Tokyo and I've spent my whole life working towards being able to get a job there." You look out at the window, quietly contemplating and contrasting the crowded and bustling streets and skyline of Tokyo with the sleepy and relatively isolated atmosphere of your hometown.

"Back in my home town, there isn't really much opportunity to work somewhere like this, especially since it's a foreign bakery specialising in French pastries so this is basically my only chance to fulfil my dreams." You can't help but let a wistful sigh leave your lips, thinking about how hard you've fought to get to this point now. Unbeknownst to you, Toji suddenly sits up straighter, his back pressed against the cool ceramic countertops as he stares at you, seemingly studying you in a new light after your words. Before you can realise it though, he quickly adverts his gaze elsewhere, taking another drag of his cigarette.

"What about you?" You ask him, a sense of interest clearly present in your voice. For someone like him, you don't even know where to really begin when it comes to guessing what a guy like him could do for a living as it could range from semi-realistic to wildly fantastical like straight out of a TV show.

"...I'm a bodyguard for hire." Compared to you though, his tone is devoid of the same energy and passion present in yours with him even pausing slightly before answering, as if he was hesitant to reveal this aspect about himself.

"Wow, that's cool." There's a small sense of awe at his response. Being a bodyguard would definitely explain that muscular physique of his, you remark quietly to yourself.

A tsk sound escapes him at your comment, shrugging it off with his shoulders as he turns to the side. "All I care is that it pays well. Nothin' more."

You deflate a little at his words. To you, he sounds more begrudging than anything and you think that there's probably a story behind that as well, like many other things about him like that lip scar of his, but you choose to avoid prodding him even further as well in his defence, you've technically just met each other last night. All of a sudden, you're hit with an idea, a crazy idea just like last night, but this time now sober, and it might just be crazy enough to work or you two might just be desperate enough to make it work. You clear your throat before you call out to him.

"Hey, Ossan." Toji looks back at you, and clearly, you've managed to pique his curiosity by the amused expression present on his face. If you were a lesser person, you might have shrunk under the intensity of his gaze so intently trained on you but you don't, there's too much of your future dream riding on this now for you to back out before anything could have even begun. You look into his eyes, maintaining eye contact before you continue. "I have an idea, actually, it's more of a request. The next time I go back home to visit my parents, can you come with me as my husband? If I'm married to someone who lives in Tokyo, my dad can't tell me to move home anymore and he'll definitely believe that it's real once he sees your name on the official family register."

Before he can even say no or offer any protest of his own, you add, "Plus, this deal will be beneficial to you as well since you'll get a place to live until you get your own apartment. So, let's hold off on the divorce until then."

There's a hopeful look in your eyes with a look of determination painted on your features. Evidently, even without his input, it appears to be that you're dead set on this plan if it means you get the slightest chance of staying here. He contemplates a future where he says no, imagining another week of being forced to couch surf on his boss's stale office couch and living in a constant state of uncertainty for who knows how long. Sure, it's not like he's so sure about what going to happen now but at least if he agrees to this, he's not alone in dealing with whatever uncertainty is thrown his way.

He shakes his head, stubbing out the burnt end of his cigarette in the sink and takes your hand in his.

"Alright fine, yer got a deal."

taglist: @catobsessedlady , @aluvrina , @thulhu , @sn1perz , @meowmeew , @hprnx , @r0ckst4rjk , @dianakisses , @lashaemorow , @cinnabooonn

[cyren-myadd]

GIRL WHAT??? WHERE IS THIS??? DID I MISS SOMETHING OMG IM SO LOST HELP

girl you missed a lot of somethings! But it's cool, I'll catch you up to speed on all the leaks. It's a little late at this point, but 🚨SPOILER WARNING FOR AVATAR 3🚨

Varang using kuru mind-control: @spider-socorro-stan was able to make out some of the very blurry writing on this script page that was accidentally shown in BTS footage. As far as they could tell, the first line says "Varang wills Quaritch's arm to... bulging, as his hand opens and he..." which makes it sound like she's controlling him somehow. This led people to speculate that Varang might use tsaheylu to control others. Out of all the "spoilers," this one has the least amount of evidence supporting it so take it with a grain of salt.

2. Norm taken prisoner by the RDA: in this BTS image, two Na'vi in Ash attire stand with another Na'vi wearing an orange prison jumpsuit in the RDA control room. A lot of people believe that it's Quaritch and Wainfleet taking Norm prisoner.

3. Neytiri also in Ash People clothing: in this BTS image, Jake stands next to a Na'vi woman wearing Ash People attire, with Spider wearing... whatever the fuck that jumpsuit thing is in the background. It's hard to tell with her face hidden, but most people think the woman is Neytiri based off her height, build, and proximity to Jake.

4. The betabridge: this is the spoiler we have the least information about. According to the leaked script, right after Jake and Quaritch have their civil conversation while Spider is breathing the air, Quaritch leaves them (probably scared cause Neytiri showed up lmao) and flies back to Bridgehead with Wainfleet. There, they witness a massive machine that looks like "an oil rig crossed with a nuclear reactor." It lets out a loud noise and Wainfleet remarks that it is working now. We have no other information on what the Betabridge is other than what it looks like, but if it was built in Bridgehead, it can't be good for the Na'vi. Here is a transcript written by twitterX user AkumuHoshi based on what they could read:

@spider-socorro-stan also has a nice guide to all the script leaks pinned on their blog if you want to read more!

[bamf-jaskier]

Cavill is not a martyr

I have been seeing so many posts and comments along the lines of “Henry Cavill left the Witcher because they were inaccurate to the books and he had enough of all the changes”

And this thought process, especially if you mention the recent DeMayo writer’s interview, is just a flawed thought process.

Just a quick blurb on DeMayo, as I said here his comments are probably a cry for attention from a fanbase he knows how to rile up and I would take what he says with a grain of truth salt. And Cavill has already filmed season 3 and I can assure you that a random writer he probably has already met making these comments didn’t send Cavill over the edge and have him march into the office an rage quit. Recasting and deciding on a new actor and getting out of contract is a lengthy process that has likely been going on for months. If anything it’s more likely DeMayo knew about Cavill leaving and then made his comments than the other way around.

So Henry Cavill announced he was leaving the Witcher just a few days after announcing he was returning to Superman.

In fact, he was quoted as saying this about his recent cameo as Superman in the new Black Adam movie:

"It was a very powerful moment for me. I wasn't sure how I would feel… whether it would be something very emotionally connective because I put the Man of Steel suit back on," Cavill said. "I chose that one in particular because of the nostalgia attached to the suit. It was important for me to be standing there and enjoying that moment. That is one of the top moments in my career. It feels great to have the opportunity to wear it again."

"The character means so much to me. It's been five years now. I never gave up hope," Cavill said of the half-decade he spent waiting for news about playing Superman again. "It's amazing to be here now talking about it again. There is such a bright future ahead for the character. I'm so excited to tell a story with an enormously joyful Superman."

And that 5 year mark is important. Because it is no coincidence that on September in 2018 it was reported that Cavill will no longer be playing Superman in the DCEU just days after it was announced he would be taking on the role of Geralt in The Witcher.

In fact, it was stated:

the Witcher commitment came after the Warners impasse, suggesting a change in the studio’s strategy.

Meaning he signed onto the Witcher because he stopped being Superman. So what we are seeing right now with Cavill announcing he is returning as Superman and then announcing he is leaving The Witcher is an exact reverse of the situation in 2018.

Cavill loves playing Superman and not only is it a project he is passionate about, but he also nets in a massive paycheck.

Even back in 2018 when Cavill left the role of Superman there was talk that he left because of contract disputes:

Cavill's original contract was for four movies, so a contract extension would naturally need to be arranged before Warner Bros. could move ahead with another standalone Superman movie. According to Revenge of the Fans, Cavill's team wanted to leverage a better deal out of the contract extension - including more movies, more money, and possibly even a producer role. From Warner Bros.' perspective, however, there isn't exactly a burning need to get another Superman movie made.

Then in August of 2022 reports began to come out from comi-con that Henry Cavill was looking to return to the role of Superman but wanted more money for the role.

And considering Cavill was paid a truly insane amount for 2013′s Man of Steel -- an estimated $14 million and a $20 million for 2017′s Justice League I have to wonder what wildly high amount he will be paid to return as Superman now in 2022 when he is a bigger star than ever before.

And his Witcher paycheck does not compare to that Superman money -- with him making 500k an episode in season 1 and $1 million an episode in season 2. Even if he was just making as much money as Justice League, and he is likely making much more to return, that is still well over double the amount of money to play Superman vs playing Geralt.

And at the end of the day, The Witcher is a show with very specific scheduling requirements and set locations. Blood Origin and Season 2 lost actors because of the scheduling conflicts. And that is not at all unusual for the industry.

And for set locations The Witcher is mostly filmed in Mafan Film Studio in Hungary as well as various locations around the country as well as Arborfield Film Studios in the UK and other locations there such as North Yorkshire & The Lake District. And with fewer COVID restrictions the production team is likely to want to go around Europe again for S4 and S5.

Meanwhile it’s hard to know where the new DCEU movies will be filmed but Man of Steel was filmed around Vancouver, British Columbia and Illinois in the US. Justice League was filmed around Scotland and London. Black Adam was filmed in Atlanta Georgia in the US. 

All this to say filming DCEU movies and The Witcher are two very time intensive processes that require film locations that could be on opposite sides of the world. And in addition Cavill is starring in the new Highlander Reboot and in the Enola Holmes movies. Being a TV actor takes a lot of time for not as much money and acclaim. Cavill is seemingly going back to just being a film actor instead of a tv actor which considering his busy schedule makes a lot of sense.

So it’s pretty clear why he would leave The Witcher to return to Superman and his other films roles:

1) Far higher paycheck to play Superman

2) He loves both the characters but Superman is very meaningful for his career and he has stated he has always wanted to return to the role

3) Scheduling conflicts and very different filming locations and the prestige of film vs tv

Trying to spread the narrative of “Cavill is a martyr in the battle against the inaccuracies of the tv show” is based on nothing but your own confirmation bias. And it honestly says a lot about the type of person you are that you jump to find a symbol to represent the victimization of your hatred of the show.

You can dislike the show but the tinhatting and conspiracy theories I have seen flying around are quite frankly embarrassing and this is a needed reality check.

At the end of the day Henry Cavill is a high-level movie star who makes choices based on his career and what he wants to do. Your parasocial relationship with the man is entirely in your own head and I recommend trying to get out. 

[justmediocrewriting]

“Messy,” {r.z}

A/n: and the second installment of the dialogue prompts, this time featuring our beefy mosshead ;) this is only the second part, I’ve got 10 more to make, and I’m already having the time of my life. I hope you guys enjoy this one!

Warnings/tags: explicit sexual content, irrumatio, rough!zoro, lots of bodily fluids (spit, cum, juices, sweat, etc), deepthroating, dirty talk, explicit language, cock worship, d/s undertones, slight dumbification, outdoor sex, semi-public sex, Zoro really likes to pull hair, 100 follower NSFW dialogue prompt special

Genre: smut

Pairing: Zoro x fem!reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Prompt: “Don’t make a mess, baby.” (#2 on the list)

{{:================================:}}

“You’re so fuckin’ messy.”

Zoro’s statement from above you was punctuated by a stinging in your scalp when he used his grip in your hair as leverage to repeatedly fuck his cock deeper into your throat, spreading open the walls of your esophagus as if he didn’t care that you were on the brink of blacking out from poor oxygen intake. The chill of the evening air slightly cooled your heated skin, but it did nothing to douse the flame of arousal burning hot in your gut, and the fresh air didn’t clear the fog from your head either — it was impossible to think clearly or feel anything other than fiery arousal when Zoro was using you like this.

You moaned around his thick cock, eyes nearly rolling to the back of your head from the heady taste of salt in your mouth. Your nose was clogged with the scent of Zoro, so much so that the minute breaths you could pull through it were saturated with the scent of sweat and sword oil, a mixture that you had come to define as unique to the swordsman, and it was so mouthwatering, almost as much as the cock in your throat.

“You’re fuckin’ droolin’ all over my cock. You like it when I fuck your little throat like this?”

Zoro’s hips snapped at a rapid pace, the weight of his balls slapping against your chin as each rough thrust landed him buried to the hilt in your throat. The velocity of his thrusts left little room for recovery in between, your head already light and floaty from the deprivation of oxygen, so you barely even registered the fact that spittle and drool was currently being fucked out of your mouth and plopping down onto the deck. But Zoro noticed, and that visual combined with your glazed over eyes looking up at him as if his cock was the best thing you’d ever tasted, as well as the wet glide the copious amounts of liquid granted, sent him into a near-feral frenzy.

Zoro knew you couldn’t answer him, but his filthy questions never stopped, lips dropping a litany of abrasive verbal abuses as his pace never faltered, cock drilling into your mouth almost painfully.

“You were made for this, weren’t you? Made to take my cock down your fuckin’ throat.”

“Fuckin’ look at you. All fucked out just from this. I bet you’d love this cock in your pussy right now, wouldn’t you?”

“Fuckin’ take it, baby.”

Every single word rumbled by that deep voice sent heat flaring straight down to your core, your clit throbbing in time with your rapid heartbeat as your pussy clenched around nothing — Zoro’s comment about you wanting his thick cock in your pussy wasn’t too far off the mark. No matter how many times he fucked your holes they never truly adjusted to the stretch of his massive cock, the slight discomfort of it offering you a euphoria that previous partners had never managed to touch. Of course you’d love to have Zoro’s cock in your pussy… but this right now, the smooth glide of his cock across your tongue and the intrusion of his length in your throat… there was nothing that could beat that at the moment.

Zoro’s hips stuttered and his cock twitched on a particularly rough thrust, momentarily hardening even further within your mouth. Excitement and anticipation clawed up your spine, because you knew what that meant — Zoro was close, and soon enough he would be rewarding you with a stream of hot, salty cum straight down your throat.

“Fuck, your mouth is gonna make me fuckin’ cum. Fuckin’ touch yourself, baby. Rub that pretty pussy while I fuck your face.”

Your hand dropped down immediately to comply with Zoro's order, your pussy more than welcoming the touch when you shoved your fingers past the confines of your panties and promptly shoved two of your fingers inside. They slid in without any resistance, your walls wet and mushy from arousal, and you set a rapid pace to match with Zoro’s. It wasn’t the same as Zoro’s cock, but the stimulation of your mouth and cunt being filled cinched your gut with hot arousal, and with just a few well timed curls that familiar coil formed.

The deck became home to a symphony of muffled moans, grunts, squelching and filthy curses, orchestrated by the act Zoro and yourself were partaking in — there was a risk that came with this, one that would be hard to recover from, as anyone could walk out at any point to find Zoro’s cock buried in your throat. But somehow, that risk only made the coil wind tighter, the edge of danger adding an enticing amount of lewdness to everything.

Zoro’s words faded into mere grunts and groans, and his thrusts became even faster, sloppier, his hand in your hair tightening and moving your head in a contrasting rhythm than that of his hips — he was close, his cock throbbing and twitching with every rough thrust into your throat, and you pulled your fingers out of your cunt to harshly rub your clit with as much velocity as you could muster within the confines of your pants and underwear. You wanted to cum when Zoro did, so you could feel that euphoria of an orgasm at the same time.

“Fuck, fuck, here it comes. Don’t make a mess, baby; swallow every fuckin’ drop.” Zoro growled, hips reaching a peak speed before slowing to a near stop, your nose pressed into the pubic hair just above Zoro’s cock as he buried himself as deep as possible.

Your throat constricted around his cock as you gagged, your brain screaming at you to pull back as your ability to breathe was stolen from you, but Zoro held your head in place with a firm hand as his cock twitched once, twice, then throbbed heavily as ropes of cum splashed against the walls of your throat.

“Shit,” Zoro breathed, the curse being dragged out and completely drenched with pleasure. “Fuckin’ — yes, fuck, take it all.”

Zoro’s hips moved in small thrusts as he rode out the rest of his orgasm, saltiness bursting over your tongue as droplets of his spent smeared over it with each little buck. You drank down the remnants fervently, sore throat constricting pleasantly with every swallow, and when Zoro pulled his cock out and demanded you to open so he could make sure you swallowed everything, you did so without hesitation.

“Fuck, that’s my good girl. Did you cum, baby?” Zoro ground out, his dick beginning to soften slightly in the aftermath of his orgasm.

With a start you realized that no, you hadn’t. You’d been so wrapped up in the sensation of Zoro’s come sliding down your throat that your fingers had completely stopped moving. You gave a small shake of your head. Zoro reached a hand down and stroked his thumb over your lips, his own quirking up into a devilish smirk.

“We’ll have to fix that baby. You did so good, and you deserve a reward. Get on your fuckin’ hands and knees and let me fuck you ‘til you can’t take it anymore.”

{{:================================:}}

I probably should have clarified this in the first installment of the series, but these prompts won’t be written/posted in numerical order. My brain does really have the focus to do it that way, so whichever prompt offers me the most motivation is the one I’m going to write. I hope you all enjoyed this one, because I sure did ;))