#two THOUSAND years and you still drive THIS badly???

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

if graham thought the used to be a man thing was just joking and like 5 minutes earlier she said she used to live in the outback for 123 years, he also definitely doesnt have ANY idea how old she is does he

[actual-changeling]

we do not talk enough about the moment right before crowley puts his sunglasses back on. the "nothing lasts forever" is devastating and if you're like me your eyes were so full of tears you couldn't see the screen the first time you watched it (just like crowley, look at us all twinning in sadness!).

there is a shift that happens in his eyes and i think it is absolutely fascinating and heartbreaking at the same time.

we begin with crowley averting his gaze from aziraphale's face and staring off into the distance instead, and you can see his spirit break. that crowley just lost the one thing in the world he cannot live without and we can see it written across his face like a neon sign.

then, as you'd expect, he gives into the need to cover up his pain, to try and make himself less vulnerable, and even before he lifts his glasses he looks down so aziraphale can no longer see his eyes.

now, the next part is what would not let me out of its grasp all day. we know it happens because of his demeanour afterwards and up until the kiss, but you can actually watch as crowley makes himself numb to the world.

i am intimately familiar with dissociation as a trauma and stress response, and while you can never fully control it, you do eventually find the switch in your mind that makes you snap back into the haze. crowley has had six thousand years to get really, really good at leaving reality behind when he needs and/or wants to.

that's exactly what he does.

he still looks sad, and yet there's just something distinctly distant in his eyes, the shift from openly heartbroken to "i don't want to feel any of this let me leave".

glasses? on

emotions? off

hotel? trivago

i have stared at those four frames more than any person probably should and i don't know if it's the light, if i am going insane, or if there is a single tear sliding out of his right (our left) eye. i'm probably insane and the light is a bitch so if anyone has some high resolution shots or anything that could answer that question without a doubt PLEASE do add it.

by now you are probably ready to threaten me with a knife in a dark alley but before you do that or drive your car off a cliff, let me tell you the best part:

aziraphale notices.

they might be communicating on two different frequencies but aziraphale knows crowley. he knows and loves him, and, most importantly, over the last few years he has gotten used to seeing crowley without his glasses. aziraphale could probably write a book on the expressions in his eyes alone and watches that shift happen and is devastated.

look.

he tries to make himself hope the same second, tries to convince himself crowley is putting on his glasses so they can leave together, but he knows.

aziraphale sees the light leave crowley's eyes, sees crowley leave, knowing that he is quite literally running away from him. you and me against the world, angel, but in that moment crowley firmly pushes him back to "the world" (or tries to, anyway).

the entire season we see crowley take off his glasses whenever he enters the bookshop to the point where he's running around without them on in broad daylight with jimbriel right there.

can you imagine how hurt and confused aziraphale must be?

because what crowley is telling him, if we really, really break it down, is that aziraphale is no longer a safe person for him. and repairing that trust is going to take time and work, no matter how much crowley loves him, how badly they love and need each other.

anyway to seal this off and really rub in the pain - how it started vs. how it ended. <3

oh one last thing: now crowley no longer has a single person he can be himself around, no one that knows him, no one he trusts. no one in whose presence he can take his glasses off.

and outside of the bentley and his own flat, he no longer has a place to do so either. the bookshop was theirs. with aziraphale gone, is it really a safe place anymore? is it somewhere he can just let himself be knowing he will be looked after and protected?

easy answer: no.

alright, off i go. see y'all on the next angst post or in the tags.

[cherryredstars]

Next door part two! I NEED THEM IN MY LIFE THAT WAS SO GOOD!

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Smut with Plot, Wet Dreams, Sexual Fantasies, Brief Mentions of Male Masturbation, Blowjob, Cum Eating

Summary: Nice but naughty, a heart that’s pure. She's the girl next door.

Word Count: 2.6K (Not Edited)

Part 1

He’s driving himself fucking mad.

It’s been almost two weeks since he last saw you in person. It’s somewhat his fault. He hasn’t been avoiding you exactly, just giving you room. You were so dazed when he left you, he could almost smell the remains of sex on you. It drove him crazy, fists clenched as he stood outside your closed door for what felt like years. He cock strained so painfully against his pants that he had half the mind to pull it out and jerk off in the middle of the hallway. 

He didn’t want to scare you. Big, old him running after small, delicate you. A pretty and young thing that he wouldn’t mind locking in his bedroom and fucking until the sun rose and he was off to work. He could- would - worship you. He has done it thousands of times in the last two weeks in his dreams. They plague him almost every night, his body pressing you down into the mattress as you mewl out for him. He can hear the sound of your arousal as his balls slap against you echoing in his ears. Your phantom grip on his cock follows him when he wakes up, his hands wandering into his pants to try to replicate the feeling. 

He’s always interrupted by the sound of your front door slamming as you rush out to go to one of your little classes, his frustration and want burning strong in his chest. But he has to be patient, has to wait for you to seek him out. He can’t just break through your door, no matter how badly he wanted to and show you how a real man would treat you. How he’d treat you so good, spoil you in a way that none of the boys your age can. He could make you his pretty little girlfriend, giving you anything you want. Fuck, he’ll pay for your entire college tuition if you asked him to. 

Or, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d make you beg for it. Maybe he’d force you to work for it. He can already imagine it. He’d have you riding his cock, maybe even his face, laying back and watching you take your pleasure from him. He’d enjoy himself, moaning as you gasp and cry above him. You’d look so pretty with tears running down your face, asking him so sweetly to give you what you wanted. Your hips working to show him how much you deserved it, how you’re his good girl who deserves the right to every one of his credit cards. He’d have you coming until he’s satisfied with your pleas, finally giving in to you a-

Fucking annoying piece of shit.

Miguel’s eyes snap open, wondering to the alarm clock on his nightstand. The numbers are still blurry, and the sound of someone knocking on his door is the last thing he wanted. Especially when it pulls him away from his private time with you. His cock is poking a dent into his sweats, and he runs his hands down his face in frustration. He groans to himself as he gets up, adjusting his pants as he goes. His mind is still semi-stuck in his fuzzy little fantasy when he opens the door, mind slow as they try to process the sight of you. 

You’re looking up at him with regretful eyes, a blanket draped loosely around your shoulders. His eyes can’t help but travel down your body, salivating at the way your cropped long sleeve shirt pokes out from your nipples and reveals the expanse of your navel. His eyes travel further down, catching on the plaid pajama pants that sit low on your waist with the strings untied. If his cock wasn’t hard before, it definitely is now. 

“I’m sorry to wake you up,” Your siren voice calls to him, his eyes snapping back to your shy face as you bite your lip. “But, my heater is acting up again and I can’t sleep with it switching between hot and cold. I already called the landlord, but he said he’d send someone by next week.”

You look so pretty before him, cheeks slightly red from embarrassment as you stare up at him like he’s your savior. His hand grips tight on his door as he processes what you said. His poor little baby, suffering in her apartment. You should have come to him sooner. He would have gladly taken care of you. This just goes to show how he’s the only man capable of taking care of you, the only man you need to take care of your needs. 

His hand covers the expanse of your stomach as he touches it. His warm hand is instantly met with your cold skin, sending shivers up your spine as he pushes you back so he can walk through his door. You walk obediently, taking a step back for every step he takes forward until you’re following him like a sweet puppy into your own apartment. It’s ice cold when his bare feet hit the wooden floors, his eyes trailing down to your own sockless feet. It brings a frown to his face, brows furrowing as he leans down and picks you up. 

Your cold hands shock his shoulders as they hold onto him tight. The most precious squeal leaves your lips at the unexpected move, looking up at him with wide eyes as he carries you to your room. Most of the lights are on from your journey to the front door, but your bedroom is still clad in darkness. Your bed is soft when his knee sinks into it, lifting the covers to tuck you in where you’ll be nice and warm. He wraps them around you, covering you as much as possible. He makes sure you’re taken care of before he goes off into the hallway to check the heater. 

It’s a quick fix, something he can do easily and doesn’t need a maintenance guy for assistance. It’s just dirty air filters, and he has spares in his apartment. It's a quick trip, with minimal labor. It takes him less than an hour to complete, but it’ll take some time before the heat starts filling up the place. When he walks back into your bedroom, you’re still under the covers and they shake slightly from the way you’re shivering. 

“Got it fixed, should be working fine soon, give it an hour max.”

The soft thank you and beaming smile you give him tempts him to break something else in your house so you can give him more. He walks over to you, sitting next to you on the bed. Your skin still quakes from the chill, and he hates to see you so uncomfortable. His hand comes up to your cheek, attempting to warm the skin with the heat of his hand. You instantly melt into the touch, practically purring as you lean into his hold. He’s seen this scene so many times in his dreams that he can't help the dirty thoughts circulating in his head. 

The darkness of your room hides the glazed look in his eyes as he studies your mouth, his thumb rubbing the expanse of your cheek, “You’re so cold, cariño. Needa find a way to warm ya’ up quick.”

The words are almost unheard, his thumb sliding down your face until it presses into your bottom lip. Your lips part slightly from the movement and he doesn’t ignore the temptation to slip the pad of his thumb through. Your mouth is warm and oh so inviting, your saliva coating his thumb print. You instinctively suckle at the skin, eyes shining bright at him as you open your mouth wider. It makes him groan softly, pressing his thumb further into your mouth until his hand is supporting your chin as his thumb presses flat against your tongue. It holds you still, blinking innocently at him as he rubs gently. 

He can feel his cock twitching in his pants, and it doesn’t take him long before he picks you up again, dragging you and the covers to the floor until it forms a pile before him. You’re on your knees, body half covered in blankets and sheets. They protect you from the icy cold of the wooden floors, and simultaneously makes you look like an offering for him. Miguel spreads his legs, grabbing your chin again until your face is hovering at the same height as his stomach. Your beautiful doll eyes blink up at him and he smiles at the sight of you. 

“It’s okay, I got a way to make you feel better again.” He mumbles down at you, his free hand fishing into his pants until he grips his cock.

It’s heavy and burning in his touch, a bead of precum glistening at the tip as it meets the frigid air. You stare at it in wonder, leaning your face closer to see better through the darkness. He watches you closely, slowly stroking his base as he basks in your attention. His hand leaves your chin, moving around until he grips the back of your neck. He pushes your face closer to him, stopping when your face is pressed to the underside of his cock. 

The skin burns where the two of you meet, and his cock jumps in excitement. His hips move slightly, slowly dragging his cock along your face, the tip of your nose brushing just under his tip. Miguel lets out a muffled moan, his hand squeezed tight at his base as he slaps his dick against your face. Your eyes instantly closed, taking it without complaint besides a low whine. 

Miguel lets out a low ‘fuck’ as he looks down at you, pulling your face away until his tip presses against your lips. He rubs his cock along the seams of them, watching as they get glossy with his precum. Your tongue tentatively slips out, gathering some of it as you hum out. His cock is quick to follow your pink muscle, slipping in the crown of his tip into your mouth. He can feel your hot breath on his tip as you gasp at the intrusion, your tongue pressing against him. 

He lets out a pleased sigh, slipping his tip back out to slip it back in. You try to call out his name, but it gets swallowed by his cock reentering your mouth. Your hands fall to his thighs, gathering the fabric in your fingers as you lean into him. You instantly gag when you do, mouth and throat not used to taking something thick. It makes Miguel moan, knowing damn well he’s nowhere near the back of your throat yet. You’re so fucking sensitive. He pulls back, but you eagerly try to follow. His grip on your neck tightens, making you whine as he keeps you in place and he slips out. 

“Careful now, muñeca. Don’t hurt yourself.”

You whimper at his words, blinking teary-eyed at him. He coos gently down at you, shutting you up by sliding himself back into your mouth. You hum against him, eyes shutting as he works himself in and out. He barely gives you anything, going no further than the end of his tip as your tongue glides against him. He moans, finally feeling what he’s wanted for so long. You’re sloppy, tongue uncertain as it prods at his slit and drinks up the precum he spills into your mouth. It’s warm and slightly salty as it travels down your throat, making something warm bloom in your stomach. Your hands fist his pants tighter and Miguel’s eyes drop down to them. 

His finger is gentle as it glides over the back of your hand, the cold skin raised with goosebumps. He tsks lightly at you, grabbing your hand and placing it around his length. He moans at the contrast in temperature, hips bucking into your touch. 

“Shit, baby, gotta warm up those hands too.”

He grabs your other hand, putting it slightly lower than your other on his cock. His hands leave your body, falling over your own as he guides you to stroke him. His tip still lingers in your mouth, and you moan around him from how heavy and warm he is in your grasp. Once you work up a rhythm, Miguel’s hands leave yours. His hand falls back to its original position at the back of your neck, letting out soft groans and grunts as you work him. He massages the pressure points near the back of your neck, encouraging your mouth to relax and start sucking at him again. 

Miguel can’t help throwing his head back, eyes shutting as you work waves of pleasure out of him. He can feel his balls grow heavier. His cock twitching and jumping in your mouth the more you play with him. He’s close, and he looks back down at you before he pulls his cock away from you again. You cry out in displeasure, looking up at him with a pout on your wet lips. He sighs deeply at you, moving back to grip your chin. 

“Open your mouth for me, yeah?”

You instantly do, not needing to be asked before you stick your tongue out eagerly. He chuckles lowly at your desperation, hand tight around his base as he rubs his tip against your tongue. You whine at him, eyes getting droopy as he slaps his cock against your muscle. It doesn’t take long for him to cum in your mouth, watching as thick, white liquid spills onto your tongue. He moans as he finishes, tapping his cock against your tongue a few more times to make sure he’s given you everything. 

When he pulls his cock away from you, you close your mouth and swallow. Your eyes close as you savor the flavor, feeling the warm liquid slip down your throat and warm your belly. The warmth makes you sleepy, eyes half-lidded as you lean forward and press your head to his stomach besides his semi-hard cock. His hand comes to stroke your hair, humming at you as your warm breath hits his skin. Sometime during his attempt at warming you, warm air has started to spill into the bedroom. Miguel sighs in content, leaning down to kiss the top of your head before picking you up for the last time. 

You instantly snuggle into him, always whining out when he deposits you into the bed. Your covers are soon placed over you, and you watch as Miguel tucks himself back into his pants before sliding into bed beside you. You’re quick to snuggle up against him again, basking in the extra warmth he gives off. The warmth in your stomach and from Miguel loll you into a sleep, your body pressed hard against him. 

The comfort of it all and the post-orgasmic bliss makes Miguel drowsy, breaths beginning to slow. He can feel his eyes drooping, taking in the final sights of you before his eyes close. But once they do, a loud band echoes in his head. He’s quick to spring up from the bed, eyes opening as he finds himself staring at a wall. His wall. In his bedroom. In his apartment. Even from his bedroom, he can hear the sound of you rushing towards the elevator and on the way to class. 

Miguel blinks in confusion, eyes moving towards the alarm clock at his bedside table. 8AM. He groans, falling into his bed as he sighs in frustration. His hands trail down his body, moving towards the aching dent in his pants.

Just another fucking dream about the girl next door.

Pt. 3 Pt. 4 Pt. 5

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[feyascorner]

6 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. You remember how the sunlight glistened against his skin the morning after your first night together. The longing in his eyes for the very same thing now makes your stomach churn.

It might have suit him even more than the moonlight.

With an irritable sigh, you take your blade and press the sharp end against the tip of your finger.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping you alive,” you reply, pushing your fingertip now with a bead of blood trickling down its side, toward his face. “Drink.”

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. 6.4k words,,,tav is better than me i would've thrown hands like twelve years ago,,,I HAVE NO IDEA HOW I WROTE THIS IN LIKE TWO DAYS???? also thank you for all your comments they really motivate me to write!! so have this monster of a chapter early as thanks!!

"You'll kill them, Astarion," you mumble. "They might not have had the power to help you, but they're still your siblings. I don't want them to die hating you."

"They're not my siblings--not really. I don't care what they think of me. Hells, they could haunt me even in the afterlife, as annoying as that would be, but they're no innocents either. They've brought in as many souls as I have," he responds, his jaw visibly clenching at the thought. "I don't care if all seven thousand of them die hating me as long as you're here."

And while you feel flattered, you can't disregard the worry driving a hole through your conscience. Ever perceptive, he lifts a hand to brush stray strands of hair out of your face, his fingertips tracing your jaw. His voice is but a hushed whisper.

"You understand, don't you, my love? It would set me free--after two hundred years of forcing myself through hell--I can finally free myself from Cazador," his tone sours at just the mention of his master's name, and he intertwines his fingers with yours, drawing your attention back to him.

"It is what you want for me, no? For me to be happy?"

It is what you want. Just not like this.

Music was your way of releasing the mountain of feelings you kept locked away in your chest, waiting for the right person to recognize them for what they are. You’d hoped someone would understand the meaning behind your lyrics without you telling them outright, and they’d know what it truly meant to you. And for a while, you’d believed Astarion would be the key to this safe.

You couldn’t have been more wrong.

“While I usually entertain your certainly out-of-the-box plans, this is bordering on just foolish, I’m afraid,” Gale sighs, eyes tracing you as you pace around the house, stuffing every possible weapon and healing potion into a brown sack. Despite his insistence, you ignore him, testing the blade of a knife against the edge of the table. It’s not entirely dull, nor is it sharper than the dagger in your drawer, but it’ll have to do. “Simply charging into the tavern won’t do much good if you’ll be overwhelmed in number anyway.”

“I know what I’m doing, Gale,” you hiss, snatching an Alchemist’s Fire and shoving it a tad too hard into your bag. He tenses. “If they want to talk to me so badly, then I’m not waiting around for them to attack another one of my friends—I’ll go to them.”

“Yes, your determination is certainly praise-worthy, but can we please just sit down and think this through before running into a battlefield with a few knives? This is basically a suicide mission.”

“The wizard is right, even if it’s hard to believe,” Lae’zel announces from the corner of the room, wiping a cloth on her sword. “When I arrived, they’d already fled. They could be anywhere by now, and they’ve had more than enough time to plan another ambush if we were to charge now. We must be smart about this. I am a warrior, but I am no fool.”

“I’ll go by myself,” you say, a sense of finality in your voice. “They already showed what they’d do if someone they didn’t want to talk to approached them. I’ll just talk to them.”

Gale stares with lidded eyes. “So why are you packing so many explosives, exactly?”

“...Precaution?”

Silence befalls the room, and you take it as a sign to finish your preparations. All you can hear is the crackling of the fireplace and the rain falling against the windows of the home. The lot of you had somehow managed to stabilize Shadowheart by the time Lae’zel returned, and while she’d been conscious earlier, you insisted she rest before she consumed herself with the investigation again. You didn’t miss the way she limped back to her room with little to protest against you.

“Take the spawn with you.”

Two jaws drop at the words, the only one remaining fixed belonging to Lae’zel.

“The kainyank is living here to help. Not cause more problems for us. And so far, he’s only done one of the two things, and I’m dangerously close to turning to my blade if he doesn’t choose otherwise,” she says. “The spawn are searching for him, too. If blood breaks out, you must use him to flee safely.”

Gale blinks. “As in…use him as a body shield?”

“What else is he good for?”

While the wizard seems positively appalled, you can see the contemplation flicker in his eyes before he shakes his head. He's always been more considerate than the rest of you. “No, Tav would never agree to such a-”

“Okay.”

They both whip their heads toward you, and you avoid their piercing gazes, staring down at the dull blade in your hand. “It might help, too, if we find out why they want him. There are nearly 3000 spawns in the city—we can’t kill all of them, at least not immediately. It’d be best if we convinced them to leave, and the best way of doing that is to understand what they want in the first place.”

Lae’zel narrows her eyes. “Then you must swear it. Swear that if Astarion were to face risks, you will leave him behind. If he were to turn on you, you slice through his throat without a second of hesitation. He is there to aid you–nothing else.”

“I will,” the words feel hot on your tongue.

And so, you soon find yourself standing in front of his door, hand reaching for the door handle. There’s a slight pause right as you touch the cool metal, but you bite your tongue and shove it open, praying he’s still not as ravenous as he was a few hours ago. And much to your surprise, he appears wholly composed.

He lowers his book to his lap, eyes training themselves on you as they dart from your bag and then back to your face. The window’s wide open, bathing him in the moonlight, with dark curtains tied to the wall to keep them from obscuring his view of the city. He raises a brow. “What could you possibly want from me at two in the morning? Come here for a cuddle?”

You’re scowling again.

“I need you-”

“I’m flattered, but I fear you may stab a butter knife into my eye, so I’ll have to decline.”

“Not like that.” Your frown creases deeper at his smug grin. “We’re going to the Blushing Mermaid to find the spawn.”

“Just us?”

“They want to see us.”

“And if I refuse?”

The answer is almost immediate, cutting through the atmosphere like a knife on bread. “I hear the bloody bedrolls in the Duke’s dungeon are very comfortable.”

He drops his smile at this, and a tiny spark of pride puffs your chest. He seems to weigh his choices before snapping his book shut and standing from the bed, snatching a comb from his bedside table before pacing up to you, pocketing it behind him.

"A comb?"

He shrugs as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, I doubt you’ll be giving me a weapon of any sort, so I must make do.”

You don’t correct him.

As the two of you make your way downstairs, you hear your other companions speaking.

“I didn’t expect you of all people to defend Astarion,” Gale says in disbelief, still comprehensive as Lae’zel poorly cuts up slices of an apple.

“I am doing no such thing, istik,” she mutters. “I am giving him a choice. Either to pick up his dead weight and prove his life is worth more than the dirt on my shoes or die at my hand.”

The walk to the Blushing Mermaid is painfully awkward. To you, anyway, because he seems positively unbothered the entire time. Seeing him leisurely follow behind you is irritating—and it bothers you more than you’d like to admit.

By the time you survey the area around the tavern, you’ve discerned they must be inside, considering there are no ambushes awaiting your arrival. While it’s a relief, it also increases the anxiety of what lies inside the tavern itself, and you confirm your knives are at your disposal if it were ever to come to that. You sincerely hope it doesn’t. Astarion sighs dramatically for the umpteenth time as you approach the front doors, and you finally snap to look at him with a glare.

“Will you stop breathing so damn loud?”

The change in your attitude toward him is apparent, but he doesn't seem to care. If anything, he seems more pleased with you than he was before every time you shoot him an annoyed glance or something along those lines. He responds with lazy answers, but it's better than the bitter ones he gave you before.

You're not terribly surprised, though. He's always loved pissing people off for his own entertainment, and it would be an understatement to say that he's been somewhat successful with you.

“I’m not breathing, my dear. I don’t need to, remember?”

“Then what is your problem?” you hiss between your teeth. “Are you trying to wake up the entire city with your insistent groaning?”

“Must we do this tonight, of all days? Couldn’t this wait till tomorrow?”

“No!” you say in exasperation. “That gives them too much time to heal and recover from Shadowheart and Gale. It has to be tonight, just in case they do decide to fight—then we’ll have an easier time because, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s just us two!”

He sighs again, and you swear you might pluck a strand of his hair for good measure. And just as you shove past him and reach for the door, he clears his throat again. Loudly.

“For God’s sake, what?” you nearly yell.

He smiles at you, pointing at the front door. “Well, if we’re looking to avoid an ambush, perhaps we should find another way in than the main entrance. Unless my prior knowledge as a rogue proceeds me.”

You blink. You recognize the validity of his statement and feel your face flare, and you immediately march past him again—the other way this time—and search for the nearest wall you can climb up to the roof. You hear him snicker, but you do your best to ignore it. 

Somehow, you manage to climb in through the window, admittedly a lot louder than him, but you don’t think it’s fair to compare yourself to him when he has footsteps lighter than a child’s. Hidden behind one of the tables, you peer into the rest of the tavern, which is completely empty save for the bottles of alcohol scattered everywhere. You turn to signal to him that the coast is clear, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

Immediately, your face drains of color.

“Right here, darling.”

He drops down from seemingly thin air, and you gasp, nearly letting out a shriek if it weren’t for your hand covering your mouth. He grins at that.

Bastard.

“There’s nobody in the entire building–at least, not visible to the eye,” he confirms, glancing around the room.

“How do you know that?”

He points at the ceiling, and your eyes follow it. “Someone decided to build such useful beams on the roof. You can see the entire place from up there. Care to take a look?”

While you would have thanked him if he had been any other person, you only march straight by him. “Don’t do anything without telling me first.”

“No ‘thanks, Astarion’?” He quirks a brow but huffs when you ignore him. “Very well then, my liege. No need to acknowledge a humble servant such as I. But I shall let you know when I’m about to take any questionable decision.”

You’re starting to wonder if his presence is worth the headache it gives you.

Pacing around the tavern, it seems all too normal. No blood splatters against the wall, no broken chairs—hells, even the booze cups look clean, which is a rarity for the Blushing Mermaid. You check each room, inspecting down to the last cups in case there are traces of blood in them, but to no avail.

It’s like there was never anyone here.

“You look like you’re having trouble, my dear,” Astarion clicks his tongue mockingly, leaning back in one of the more luxurious chairs he’s decided is his own.

“Considering the only company I decided to bring along is lounging around like a bum, I’m not surprised,” you say back, now searching the smallest cracks in the walls for some sort of secret passage. It’s strange. Even though your companions had spoken of the bodies they encountered when facing the spawn, there’s not a single speck of blood in sight. Neither is there anything outside but the whistle of the wind.

“This particular wall must be quite fascinating.”

You fight the need to groan and whip around to snap at him, but he’s suddenly just a foot away from you, staring at the spot you’d been squinting at. Gods, you hate how quiet he is when he walks.

“As wonderful as it is getting a fresh breath of air,” he feigns disappointment with a half-hearted sigh, turning to walk toward the entrance. “I believe we’ve done what we can. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d love to return to my book–”

The wooden floor underneath him creaks. It sounds hollow.

As if there’s something underneath.

“The basement,” you blink, eyes wide. “The hag’s lair.”

He stares at you as if you’ve taken too many mushrooms. “It was sealed up after we rid of that dreadful woman. Good riddance, too, I mean, I’m not particularly fond of children, but eating them, even I wouldn’t be able–”

You rush toward the very corner of the tavern, sensing that he’s following you regardless of his obvious distaste toward your decision. There, you push against a table perched on top of the basement latch and test its locks.

It’s open.

“Heavens, it reeks here. How didn’t I smell it before?”

“Of what?” You sniff the air. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Blood, my dear. Fairly recent, too, if my judgment hasn’t gotten rusty in the time I’ve spent cooped up in that room,” he pauses. “And I haven’t gotten rusty, to be clear.”

“Right,” you retort, reaching down to pull the latch open. You don’t see him do the same, and you glance at him quizzically.

“Gods no,” he says, when he realizes why you’re staring. “I’m doing no such thing that ruins these nails.”

You sigh. Loudly.

The latch opens relatively easily, but you make an effort not to simply swing it open in fear the occupants inside might be warned of your arrival. You prop the trap door open against a chair and begin your descent down the stairs, remaining as silent as possible.

The first thing you can notice is that he’d been right.

The stench of blood burns in your nose, and you immediately cover it with your sleeve to avoid inhaling anymore. You’ve smelt enough of your companion’s blood today, and you’d rather not continue the streak with the blood of complete strangers. Astarion, however, frowns.

“Such a waste,” he mumbles.

When you turn to where he’s looking, there’s a pile of bodies—poor victims, no doubt—lying over a puddle of their collective blood mixing with one another. It almost feels inhumane to leave them that way, just hours after their death, as if they’re cattle to be used.

Though, in this case, they are cattle.

“Are you sure it’s them?”

“I’m telling you it is!”

“Where’s their lyre, then?”

“How would I know that?”

You locate the source of the whispers instantly, reaching for one of your daggers as your eyes bore into the corners of the lair that are obscured from your view. Astarion steps forward before you can figure out a plan to approach them, arrogance exuding from his very body as he holds nothing but the comb tucked in his back pocket. “We can hear you, you fools. Come out before I lose my patience.”

“What are you doing?” you hiss.

“They’re only a few spawns, my dear. Nothing like Cazador—no need to be so cautious.”

You open your mouth to protest, but a woman emerges from the shadows, her eyes trained on your own as she marvels at your mere presence. You realize she’s not alone as multiple vampires begin to emerge from different corners of the room, all a safe distance away but not enough to ease the nerves jittering in your stomach. She steps toward you. “It’s really you, isn’t it?”

Another spawn steps beside her, and you immediately notice how ravenous he seems, eyes almost glistening with hunger as they bore straight into you. The woman puts a hand on his neck, seemingly soothing him, before he slumps his shoulders again, but the pure violence swirling in his head doesn’t seem to vanish. She then looks to Astarion, and the expression on her face morphs into something more akin to dread. “And you, brother.”

“Dalyria.” Astarion only stares with lidded eyes, visibly unfazed.

You instinctively scan the entire lair, searching for any differences you can spot since the last time you were here. The only glaring thing besides the bodies piled in the corner is the study desk on the other side of the room, scattered with different potions and concoctions. Behind the desk is an entire wall plastered with diagrams—most of which study the anatomy and functionality of what you can only determine to be a vampire judging from the fangs. There are also beds everywhere—though they look like they could collapse any second—and the room almost looks like a hospital.

The atmosphere between the siblings is so uncomfortable you’d think they’ll start attacking one another any second.

“Is Leon here?” you finally cut through, lowering your hand away from your blade. “I need to speak with him—technically, all of you.”

“How curious. We were hoping to speak with you as well,” she says, motioning all the other spawn to stand down. It does little to ease you. “By all means, feel free to go first.”

You take the opportunity, too exhausted, to demonstrate polite etiquette. “The spawn are causing too much trouble in the city, Dalyria. They’re killing too many people, and it’s getting noticed by more than enough people. At this rate, you’ll lose some of your own if the Fist figure out how you guys are hiding throughout the city.”

“...Yes, I’m aware.”

The resignation in her voice makes your throat bob, but you continue anyway. “I’m saying we need to get you guys somewhere more stable. Whether it be the Underdark or elsewhere, we can’t have you staying here.”

“I see,” she says slowly. “I appreciate you trying to talk this out with us, but I’m afraid I cannot grant your request.”

Your shoulders tense, and you can see Astarion shift beside you. “You don’t understand, sister. There’s going to be an outright war at this rate-”

“Baldur’s Gate is our home as well, Astarion. You, of all people, should know this,” she demands. “We have a right to remain here, and if the Fist insists on forcing us out, we have no choice but to retaliate.”

“But you’re killing the city off!” you gawk in disbelief, unable to believe what you’re hearing.

“We’re surviving,” she corrects, the corners of her lips turning downward. “Surely you can’t hate us for that.”

“Then…” you blink at her, positively appalled at her words. “Why the hells did you need to speak with me? What was worth putting my companion through hell?”

“...There is a way—for both parties to benefit.” She looks down at her hands, then back up at you. “I didn’t expect the both of you to come together. Our informants were correct when they claimed to see Astarion in your possession. In all honesty, we technically only needed one of you, but this makes things a lot quicker.”

Confused but desperately wanting an answer, you urge her to continue. Only you can see the way Astarion’s hand slips toward his pocket, where his comb lies.

“We were going to ask you to bring him to us, you see. But it appears you’ve already done the hard part.”

The dreaded intuition in the back of your mind tells you something is wrong. Very, very wrong.

“Me? What do you need me for?” he scowls.

She disregards him and continues speaking to you, leaving a sour taste in your mouth. “If you turn him over to us, you’ll never have to see him again. That is what you want, yes?”

Both you and the pale elf freeze.

“I watched as my brother nearly killed you the day of the ritual,” she continues. “I understand how you feel being betrayed by someone you thought shared your pain. And I believe this is a way to relieve you of that pain—and finally move onto a new stage of your life.”

She acts as if Astarion is the only thing holding you from moving on from the past few months of your life. And if she’d said so a week ago, you would have nothing to defend yourself with. But you’ve cut the few strings left that tie yourself to him. You remind yourself that you no longer care for him, regardless of the slight squeeze in your chest. You’ve already sworn to force yourself to disregard him, and you want to say all these things to her, but nothing comes out. So, instead, you keep your mouth sealed.

Astarion scoffs from beside you.

“For God’s sake, please tell me you’re not actually considering this. Let’s just force the madwoman out and go,” his voice attempts to stay firm, but it’s high-pitched at the end. He’s panicking.

You don’t respond to him, and he stiffens. “...My main concern is the city. If you think you can use my personal matters to convince me to just let you keep killing all these people–”

“That matter will resolve itself in its own time. We’ll return to the Underdark—or wherever it is you wish, and you won’t have to spend your nights hunting us down anymore.”

With a dry throat, you fixate your gaze on her face, desperately trying to discern any hint of a crack in her mask. Instead, you find nothing. “Why would you do that? For one spawn?”

“I’m afraid that’s for me and my siblings to know. But I can promise you that no harm will come to you if you take this deal.”

For what seems like the millionth time this month, you have no idea what to do. Lae’zel’s words flood you like a wave crashing onto shore as you remind yourself that Astarion is here not as your ally but as a shield. If things are as Dalyria says, simply turning over the man standing next to you would end this entire ordeal. You could return to your everyday life of repairing the city, learning to heal and grow from the terrors of the illithid invasion. You could learn to let people in again.

You could learn to play music again in hopes of finding the person you dreamed would understand.

Such an enticing, perfect deal. It’s almost too perfect. But you’ve learned not to trust perfection, especially when handed to you by a vampire spawn.

Astarion, who had been observing your expression this whole time, almost seems to read your mind. Or perhaps he’s just feeling selfish, ready to defend himself. “You’ve created a lot of problems for me, dear sister. I’ve gotten accused of your own murders, thanks to your pets.”

The delirious spawn, who’d looked sluggish after Dalyria’s soothing, now bares his teeth at Astarion. Dalyria attempts to calm him again, but it’s no use. The bloodthirst cannot be satiated unless there’s blood spilled on his very hands.

Astarion doesn’t seem to take a hint—or maybe he does but chooses to simply ignore it. “I’ve always known you were strange, Dalyria, but really? Experimenting with your ‘useless procedures’ on fresh spawns? He looks positively possessed, sister. He might just resort to eating you instead.”

“They are not useless, Astarion,” she snaps. “I am a doctor. I’m only curing what needs to be cured.”

“Then tell me why you haven’t managed to cure yourself of our curse? You may be intelligent in medical aspects, but gods above, you are more foolish than Cazador himself if you really think you can cure vampirism.”

“I had nobody to test my ideas on for two centuries, Astarion! Now that I do, surely I can-”

“You’re starving them, Dalyria,” he snaps, tone drastically different from the banter you shared just minutes ago. “And they’ll give into the thirst sooner or later.”

His words are the final straw.

The spawn who’d been standing beside her launches himself toward you. Before you can even register what’s happening, his fangs are at your throat, your neck tilted so it shoots pain up your side. Just as you feel your skin split at the tips of his canines, Astarion rips him away from you so harshly that the spawn flies helplessly into the wall, which crumbles under his weight. Dust flies into your eyes, and you cough, wiping at them until it clears just enough to see Dalyria staring in horror.

“I told you, Dalyria. You are no doctor, not anymore,” Astarion scoffs, eyes narrowed into slits. “And I’m afraid I can’t let you kill my liege here, as I’d much hate to be trapped in a cell somewhere underground.”

You reach the specks of blood drops forming on your neck, horrified by the close encounter you had with death just seconds ago. The culprit of your injury lies unconscious beside the cracked wall, and you wonder just how hard he had to be thrown to be rendered in such a state. You can see the other spawns’ eyes practically glow at the sight of your blood—fresh, unlike the pile of corpses on the other side of the room.

She turns to you, desperation pouring from the wavering of her voice. “Please, don’t make me do this. Don’t make us enemies. All you need to do is give us Astarion. My brother, for heaven's sake!”

You think better of it. Something that obviously pleases Astarion if the way his face relaxes tells you anything.

“May I?” he glances at you.

Surely, there are ways–more civilized ways–-than drawing your blade, but the ferocious growling from the rest of the spawn tells you otherwise. You need to find out why she needs Astarion so badly, and clearly, she’s not willing to tell you unless it’s through pure force. You despise the idea as much as you despise the predicament you’re in, but you refuse to be attacked and deliver nothing back.  Just as you nod to his question, another spawn lunges, unable to resist the red staining your neck.

But it’s smart this time, choosing to eliminate any threats before turning to the full course. In this case, the only thing between you and the vampires is another vampire.

“Brother!” Dalyria shouts, horrified.

You don't bother calling his name, only barely manage to tackle Astarion out of the way before the spawn’s claw sinks into the very ground he was standing on just seconds ago.

As embarrassing as it is to practically crash on top of him, both of you wince because it’s more painful than anything. You force yourself up with your arms, and it’s then that you see even more spawn crawling from whatever shadows they hid in, and you realize you are terribly and most definitely outnumbered. By a lot. 

“Dalyria, if you’re truly a doctor, do something! Stop them, godsdammit!” you shriek in her direction.

“They’re not—they were doing so well!...” she gasps before she reaches for a tattered journal and desperately files through its pages in a frenzy. “They were nearly docile before. I don’t know why–”

You feel Astarion’s hands slip out of the sack you carry on your back, realizing you hadn’t even noticed him opening it. He’s still lying flat on the ground, and you look down at him, puzzled before he laughs bitterly.

“I’ll be borrowing this for a few minutes, darling.”

You barely dodge another spawn that comes flying at you, rolling off of him and practically slamming into the wall. And before you can crawl away, your knife—in Astarion’s hand—stabs through the spawn’s left eye through the back of their head, specks of their blood splattering against your cheek.

You want to throw up.

“No, don’t harm them! Please, just let us go!” Dalyria pleads, but you’re finished being patient with her. She clearly has no way of calming the spawn, and you’re tired of being thrown around like a ragdoll in the mess that is the lair.

You yank out the Alchemist’s Fire and chuck it at the nearest cluster of spawn—around 2 or 3—and flinch as the vial collides and explodes into flames right before your eyes, blowing your hair out of your face in a gust of smoke and wind. You swear you hear Astarion cackle in utter glee at the destruction, but you choose not to dwell on it, too busy figuring out how else you could get out of here alive.

“You’re ruining the patients!” Dalyria screams, and you almost regret not throwing the vial at her instead.

“Your spawn are the ones attacking us!”

Suddenly, her face goes impossibly pale, and you hear a hiss of pain from a few feet away. Astarion winces as one of the spawn claws at his chest leaves behind a reasonably deep wound following the path of their sharp nails. Your knife is kicked away from him, and you hear Dalyria again just as he reaches for the comb instead. “Brother, be careful!”

You’re not sure if she wants you and Astarion dead or not, but it’s seriously giving you backlash at this point.

He stabs the comb into the spawn’s neck and kicks him away, and you take the opportunity to send the knife he dropped through the air.

By some miracle, it pierces straight through the spawn’s arm. Astarion lets out a breathy laugh from the floor, attention glued to your handiwork. “Ha! And to think that could have been me!”

And while you want to admire your aim yourself, there’s no time. Dalyria’s footsteps rush up the stairs, out of the basement, and you realize you need to follow moments after Astarion, who’s already fleeing up the steps, cursing under his breath. “That demented wench!”

You stand to follow after him, but the remaining spawns are already blocking your way. There are only two more, but you brace yourself for the worst, reaching for whatever remaining weapons you have left in your sack. The smoke and debris feel suffocating in your lungs, but you have no choice but to push through, praying to whatever God you can remember at the moment that this be the last time you have to fight this many vampire spawn. Or any, for that matter.

You wish you had left your fighting days behind you when you defeated the elder brain, but you suppose even that was too much to ask for.

You arrive just in time to see the sunrise.

Lying against a wall is Astarion, who you find just before the sunlight hits the part of the ground he’s on. He’s clutching his shoulder, which drips with his own blood, and showing no signs of the quick vampire regeneration. You stare down at him, face stoic as you wait for him to say something.

Judging from his condition, you assume Dalyria got away.

“Leaving me to die here would be unwise,” he scoffs. “Though it’d be rather easy to let me burn to death in the sun, I must remind you that I much rather prefer decapitation if it’s all the same to you.” 

“I’ll consider it,” you reply curtly. "Can't promise anything, though."

He leans his head back, amused. The sunlight is just a few feet away now, and you wonder how long it's been since he's been outside to watch the sunrise. “You’ve always had a cruel streak in you. I just had to lure it out, sometimes, but when it did come out—Gods, you should have seen it yourself.”

“You’re delirious,” you remind him, observing just how much blood he’s losing. You remind yourself of your resentment when worry probes a small part of your heart. One that you hope dies soon. “Why aren’t you healing?”

“I haven’t been exactly feeding well, unfortunately. And days old boar’s blood can only sustain me so long, darling,” he lulls his head forehead, sneering to himself. “Now that I think about it, dying by sunlight sounds rather poetic, don’t you think? Perhaps you can make a song about my glorious death.”

He’s definitely unhinged from blood loss.

You sigh, tossing his arm over your shoulder as you deem the sunlight a bit too close now. It’s a slow process with your own body’s soreness, but you manage to drag him to a more shaded area, propping him against the wall there so that you can rummage through your sack for a healing potion. You stop when his hand latches onto your arm.

“What?” you frown.

“It won’t help. I need blood, my dear.”

“There’s none for you here.”

“The bodies in the basement,” he bites back a groan, more blood gushing out of his shoulder. “I can make use of them--give their deaths a sense of purpose."

The displeasure on your face must be apparent because he laughs.

You pause, lowering the sack onto the ground. While you’re illuminated by the sunlight now, he remains in the shadow of the building, only able to see the sun with how it reflects off of your skin. And you find that he’s no longer looking at you but looking past you into the glowing orb you call the sun. You remember how its light glistened against his own skin the morning after your first night together. The longing in his eyes for the very same thing now makes your stomach churn.

It might have suit him even more than the moonlight.

With an irritable sigh, you take your blade and press its tip against the tip of your finger.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping you alive,” you reply, pushing your fingertip now with a bead of blood trickling down its side, toward his face. “Drink.”

His eyes widen, and the temptation is more than evident with how his mouth falls open as if he tastes your blood from a few inches away. But as fast as it had come, he tears his eyes away. “I’m not taking your blood.”

“Stop with your prideful act, Astarion. You’re going to bleed out.”

“I wouldn’t die, exactly. I would just remain unconscious until I can properly heal myself.”

You spare him a long, hard stare. He refuses to look at you, biting the inside of his cheek to ignore the scent of your blood. And it's painfully clear he's failing.

You have no idea why he's so insistent on avoiding your blood, but you refuse to spend your own time pondering it.

“Fine then.”

He watches in utter loss as you lick the blood off of your finger, shrugging. “Bleed out for all I care.”

You turn to stand, but his hand latches on your arm once more. You’re not sure if you’re imagining how warm he feels, but you think you must be. He's always been terribly cold.

“Do you hate me now?” he asks again, this time staring up at you through his lashes. “Have I finally run through your patience?”

The question remains the same as he asked you a week ago, but it feels different now. This time, you know your answer, and it feels so, so relieving. You just wish you could understand his own feelings, but his expression is so superficial you don’t even attempt it.

“Yes,” you reply blankly. “I hate you.”

He takes a moment to process your words. You have to admit it’s satisfying to say it to his face, even if your hatred for him is new. But perhaps because it’s new is why you feel it so strongly, and you silently thank it for how confident you sound saying the words. Even if they taste bitter. You think he might have some quip to respond with, but he only smiles, and as usual, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

You never want to see it again.

Without another word, he pulls you down to him, and you nearly topple over before stabilizing yourself with either of your knees on either side of his legs. He breathes against your neck, and you think he might drink from you until you feel his fingers brush against your nape. Immediately, your body freezes like a deer in headlights, flinching at his touch as your mind involuntarily forces the last memories you have of his hands on your neck.

And ever so perceptive, he notices how you recoil from his touch.

You hate your body for reacting the way it does out of fear. Not the disgust or the anger, but something much more pathetic, and you want to go back on your own actions to stop yourself from appearing so weak to him. You think he might tease you--taunt you, even, but he stops, slowly pulling away and lowering his head from the crook between your shoulder and head.

You’re unable to see his face, but his movements seem more sluggish.

Instead of going for your neck, he lifts your wrist, brushing his lips against it before sinking his teeth into the tender flesh.

Despite the initial sting, it’s a feeling you’ve grown accustomed to over time. With him, it had always felt so intimate. It’s why you can’t help but feel heat bloom across your cheeks before you remind yourself you no longer care for him. Only when you think he’s drinking a bit too long do you try to pull away, but his arm loops around your waist, bringing you even closer as the amount of blood he’s taking increases with how deep his fangs are.

You feel so cold, yet heat burns through your very blood. It makes your head dizzy, and you take it as a sign that he’s had enough.

You only manage to speak a few seconds later, breathless. “Astarion.”

He pulls away, seemingly out of breath himself as he releases his hold on the rest of your body. He runs his tongue over the access, staining the side of his mouth. He uses his finger to make sure the rest is off his face. “I know.”

He rarely feeds so messily, so you discern he wasn’t lying when he said he hadn’t been drinking well. Knowing he wasn’t deceiving you brings little relief, but it’s still a welcome feeling. Rubbing at your wrist and the two puncture wounds now residing there, you stand up and slug your sack over your shoulder. He watches you the entire time, and you hate that you can never seem to read his expressions—only one, and that’s whenever he claims to despise your very existence.

His shoulder has already stopped bleeding.

“Why didn’t you drink from those people at Sharess’ Caress?” you finally say.

“Their blood…” he pauses, trailing off, and suddenly he seems to change his mind. “...I've grown tired of it.”

“Blood is just blood, isn’t it?”

He stares at you for a moment, then laughs.

“I wish it was, darling.”

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[bullet-prooflove]

I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights

The night that your cottage burns down you’re not at home, you’re at Angel’s place instead, his hands raking through your hair as he makes love to you in the shower. You don’t hear your phone under the stream of hot water that cascades over your skin. It’s only when you step out of the bathroom clad in one of his navy-blue towels that reality intrudes, and you pick up the messages from your neighbour.

The fire brigade are still on scene when you arrive, battling the blaze as you throw yourself out of the passenger seat of your car. Your hands were shaking too badly to drive, after you’d dropped the keys for the third time Angel had scooped them up and made the executive decision to do it instead.

It’s too late to save anything inside of the cottage, you can see by the way the flames lick through the blackened windows that the interior of the house is completely destroyed. The outside structure isn’t fairing much better, there’s a loud rumble before the roof collapses in on itself, taking most of the walls with it.

It feels like someone has eviscerated you, as if they have reached inside the confines of your ribcage, wrapped their hand around your heart and squeezed. It’s fucking agony. You want to scream, you want to shout, you want to rage because your home, it isn’t just a place, it’s a treasure-trove of memories.

The cottage has been in your family for three generations, it had passed down to you after your Nana had died, the essence of who you are is tied up in the objects that resided in that house. The quilt the two of you had worked on in her dying months, one patchworked together from materials that you had collected in fabric sales over the years. It’s the most precious thing you own, and it’s gone, everything is gone.

You have to turn away because the destruction, its too painful to look at.

It’s then that you catch sight of the shiny black Mercedes parked across the street. The one with the personalised licence plate that reads K1NG. You don’t even register that your moving, not until you’re in front of the car with the Halligan in your hand, the one you snatched up from beside the fire truck because one of the firemen had left it unattended.

The first hit smashes straight through the windscreen, showering glass all over the man inside. You hear him yelp and you find that sound so fucking satisfying. You strike the bonnet next, driving the spiked edge thorough the hood before tearing it out and smashing it down once again.

“You crazy fucking bitch.” Simon’s already out of the car, blood smeared across his face from the cut across his cheek.

“You burned down my fucking house.” You snarl at him, releasing the Halligan and leaving it embedded in the hood of his car.

“You burned down my fucking farm.” He spits at you as his hand wraps around your arm, each one of his fingers digging into your sensitive flesh as he yanks you towards him “You have to learn there’s consequences to your actions…”

“Do not fucking touch her.”

You don’t see the punch before it lands, only the aftermath. The crunch is audible, cutting through the air as Simon’s head snaps back, blood erupting from his nose and over the crisp thousand dollar shirt he’s wearing.

It happens quickly after that.

The two of you find yourselves handcuffed in the back of a squad car while Officer Frankie tries to pacify Simon as an EMT surveys the damage to his nose.

“I’m sorry.” You say, closing your eyes as your head comes to rest on the back seat. “You weren’t meant to caught up in this shit.”

“He put his fucking hands on you.” Angel reminds you venomously. “He’s lucky I didn’t tear his face off.”

You tilt your head to look at him and he looks back shrugging his shoulders.

“I told you I was ride or die and I meant it.” He tells you earnestly. “Someone hurts you, they hurt me too.”

[ownedbytaylorswift-13]

yokohama, kangawa, japan | myg x fem!reader

4th

summary: You and Yoongi go everywhere together. 

description: You stood in the VIP section of the PIA arena, watching your boyfriend of one year (almost two if you count the seven months he had taken between hooking up and finally asking you to be his girlfriend because the trust issues were strong) give a show. Full confidence on that stage, he turned into a different man when the lights became too bright and the screams of the thousands of fangirls you were surrounded with got too loud, deep down you know you're his biggest fangirl, the fact you get to go home to him was just an amazing plus. 

a/n: Hello beautiful human, thank you for taking your precious time to read this little piece of trash, ily, so basically yoongi gives show, yoongi is tired but horny, yoongi and reader det to itttttt. anywaaaayyyys xoxoxo💋💋💋💋.

tw: bad writing, fluff, min yoongi, cringe, alcohol, me, self insert, y/n, badly written smut, just trash. 

wc: 3k.

You stood in the VIP section of the PIA arena, watching your boyfriend of one year (almost two if you count the seven months he had taken between hooking up and finally asking you to be his girlfriend because the trust issues were strong) give a show. Full confidence on that stage, he turned into a different man when the lights became too bright and the screams of the thousands of fangirls you were surrounded with got too loud, deep down you know you're his biggest fangirl, the fact you get to go home with him was just an amazing plus. 

You new you were being watched, you could feel the stares and camera flashes of a couple hundred girls around you, they recognized you, you would definitely see yourself on twitter tomorrow. You can still remember when the first set of photos of you hugging your boyfriend and giving him a kiss came out, the internet burned, collapsed, and broke records with your names trending all at the same time. 

The model, actress, and the newest addition to her curriculum, singer, y/n, and the SUGA from BTS dating. No one could have prepared you for that, nevertheless prepare the world. Although you knew you were being stared down, even though you could feel the jealousy, the flashes, the screams, none of that mattered, because when Min Yoon Gi is on that stage growling, and signing, and kissing his mic because thats what he does to drive you insane from where you are nothing else matters, you just have too watch. 

You had been sitting in his dressing room for a couple of minutes, just before the show ended security had brought you backstage. You were mindlessly scrolling through your phone when you heard the door open, you looked up and there he was, breathless, sweaty, and the most beautiful fuck me eyes. 

“Hi baby!” You got up to greet him, you hugged him tightly with your arms around his neck, and felt his sweat and breath on your skin. 

“Hi, jagi” He half hugged you, his voice was raspy and he sounded tired but once he had an arm wrapped around you he nustled his face into your neck. 

“I loved tonight, this show felt extra special, how does it feel to finally close Japan baby?” You stayed in the same position, he didn't answer he just pressed soft sweaty kisses to your neck making you squirm, he straightened up and pressed a good kis to your lips which told you all his thoughts and desires. 

“Just wait till we get to the hotel baby,” You broke of the kiss and looked him in the eyes, you gave him a quick peck, he grunted lightly in response. 

“Do you need to stay for anything else?” You asked, giving him a little kiss on his cheek before turning to get your bag and your phone.

“No” He answered simply.

“Then lets go, are you tired, yoon?” You asked grabbing his hand and leading him outside. 

“Exhausted” you could tell, he was a man of few words and even fewer when he was tired. He was quiet during the whole car ride to all the way to the hotel room, you unlocked the door and went inside, Yoongi always insisting on talking off your shoes when you go in a room made you make a habit, once your coat and shoes were off you walked in further to see Yoongi already in bed, lying over the covers, breaking every rule of outside shoes and clothes. 

“You can’t go to bed like that baby, you need to change at least” you said grabbing his hands and pulling him up by his arms, he groaned. 

“Come on baby help me out! I can’t carry more than three kilos Yoon, you know it,” Fuck yeah he knew it, he smirked and pulled at his hands, releasing them from your faulty grip, he pulled you in by your waist and captured your lips with his own, you let him. He was laying flat on the bed with you on top of him, the kiss was hungry, passionate, sloppy, after all he was tired. 

“How far can I go tonight, jagi?” He asked breathlessly, breaking the kiss for a second then going back again. You completely pulled away from him, your hands on his chest, knees on either side of his hips, breathing heavily. 

“I actually wanted to try the jacuzzi in the terrace it looks nice,” You got up and Yoongi looked at you with a face. 

“Is that what you want to do, huh?” He said, thick accent and raspy voice igniting something in you. 

“Yup,” you said unbuttoning your pants letting them fall to the floor, Yoongi's eyes glued to your body, now that you had taken that piece off, you were left with a matching dior underwear set, “Come one it’ll be fun, you need to relax” You went to pull him up by his arms again, this time he let you.

“Take your clothes off, all of them,” you said and went to get a hair tie, you tied your curls in a high pony, and walked outside, the temperature was nice, not hot but not cold. 

“Are you coming?” You turned to Yoongi who was still inside. He walked outside, he was only wearing boxers and they had small tent in them. You turned around.

“Can you help me baby?” You said getting closer to him. 

Yoongi cleared his throat before speaking, “Mhm, yeah, yup” You smiled at his slight nervousness, he unclasped your bra and took it off, throwing it to a chair near you. He turned you around, slowly, then just looked at you.

“You’re perfect” He cupped your breasts testing the weight of them, then lightly squeezing, you let out a small whine, he kissed you. You let your hands rest on his waist slowly travel down to his boxers waist band, you hooked your fingers on it and pulled lightly, he nodded still kissing you and you pulled them down, he broke the kiss to kick them off, he then hooked his fingers to the waistband of yours and pulled the waistband before letting it go, he was looking directly in your eyes when you felt the light sting. 

“Take them off” You said, putting your hands on his shoulders, but before you could travel to his neck he started pulling your panties off while he got on his knees, your hands remained on his shoulders he was eye to eye with your cunt.

“You’re fucking beautiful, put your leg on my shoulder, jagiya” He wrapped his hand around you left thigh and pulled it up, you placed it on his shoulder as he said and tried to balance yourself with his shoulders. You could feel the cool air and his hot breath at the same time directly in you wet cunt. 

“Yoongi, please” You made him look at you, cupping his face with your hands.

“Please what, jagi?” His eyes were shining, he was going to make you say it.

“Please lick my pussy?” You weren’t going to play hard to get tonight, he already was face to face with your most intimate part, nothing could make you embarrassed around him anymore. 

He smirked and then placed a kiss to your clit, his hands traveled from your thighs to you your ass and lower back while yours traveled from his face to his hair and forearms. He was impossibly close to you, you suddenly felt his wet, hot tongue lick a thin stripe from your asshole to your clit, he did it again going from your entrance to your clit and then again flattened his tongue on your clit. You whined and gripped his hair making him groan. He quiet literally made out with your pussy, and you were a complete mess over him, you had stumbled back and ended up sitting on the edge of the jacuzzi further opening your legs letting him eat you out. 

“Gosh Yoongi, you’re so. fucking. good!” You were crying out his name, and the moans wouldn’t stop, you felt too good. His hands were on your hips but one slowly traveled up to massage one of your boobs, pinching the nipple, you were shaking. His mouth traveled from sucking on your clit perfectly to poking his tongue in your vagina until he was fully fucking you with it, the hand that wasnt playing with your nipples started rubbing in light small circles at your clit, all while looking at directly in your eyes, all of that was to much for you and you threw your head back, moaning his name, closing your eyes. 

“Look at me or I will stop,” Yoongi said, his voice firm and clear, you looked at him and he resumed his actions, making you heave. You could feel heat in your face, pure heat, your lower abdomen was on fire, the feeling was unexplainable, a rush almost, you could feel his wet tongue, his saliva mixing with your juices as you heard the obscene sound of slurping and lapping, your nipples were rock hard and it all felt fucking amazing. Your heart beating at one thousand per second, it was hard to keep your eyes open but you held on because you knew that meant he would stop, tingles traveled from your cunt to the ends of your hair, your hands were shaking, and your thighs trembling around him, you could feel that hot feeling right on your cunt

“Yoongi I’m so close, please don't fucking stop, don't stop baby, please! ungh make me fucking cum!” You were loud, so loud you might get a complain, but who the fuck cares about a noise complaint when Min Yoon Gi has his tongue buried in your count, nose rubbing at your clit with everyshake of his head, and he looks like hes the one getting the oral of his life. You tightened your grip on his hair and grind your pussy to his mouth.

“Yeah, fucking use me, ssi-ssi-bal” He said fast, in a raspy deep voice, almost raw, and went back to absolutely destroying you with his tongue, the accent, the curse words, the effort he was putting ino making you feel good, and those damn eyes that make you fall to your knees, finally became too much and you fell completely apart on his tongue, crying out shamelessly, the most beautiful release to him. He licked you clean while you whined then helped you into the jacuzzi. 

“Be careful jagi,” He used his strong hands as support to help you in the jacuzzi, your legs a wobbly mess. You hissed when the hot water touched your pussy, still very sensitive from your mindblowing orgasm. Yoongi followed right after and you got full view of his rock hard, big cock, flushed, leaking ready to be shoved into your pussy and pound you stupid. 

“Like what you see?” Yoongi chuckled lazily. You blushed and looked away, even a smile tried to creep into your mouth but you puckered your lips to stop it, he got in the tub beside you and pulled you towards him, the water giving him full advantage to handle you as he pleased. You were completely seated on him, your ass on one of his thighs and legs facing to the side, you held onto his neck with your hands.

“Hi,” You said, looking at him with doe eyes, biting your lip softly.

“Hi, jagi” That nickname made you melt, you were dizzy, you couldn’t help it anymore and finally kissed him, rather softly instead of hungry or lustful like before. 

“I love you baby, so much” You said in between kisses.

“I love you more jagi, I know I don’t say it often, it’s a little hard for me to fully express it with words sometimes, but you’re the most important thing in my life y/n” He said, holding your face, making you look him in the eye. 

“I love your accent, it’s so cute, I love you Yoongi more than anything” You scooted closer to him until you felt his hard dick barely against your leg and kissed him. He grabbed your waist and kissed you back, you pressed your chest together and your nipples were soft due to the warm water.

Your hands were playing with the hair on the back of his neck, but you let one hand stay there and another travel down slowly, first to his chest, you softly flicked his nipple and then pinched, he let out a noise and you used it as and opportunity to slip your tongue further and heat the moment even more.

Your hand moved even lower to his soft waist and tummy, caressing and softly racking with your nails, until you finally got a hold of his rock hard dick. Yoongi pulled away and gasped when he felt it, the grip on your waist tightened and he pressed your foreheads together as his brows scrunched. 

“Is this okay baby?” You squeezed the base of his dick.

He nodded fast “Y-yeah, yes, please jagi, don’t tease me,” Yoongi looked like a work of art, flushed pink because of the hot water and the sinful actions, lips red because of how much you had been kissing them, eyes and eyebrows scrunched. You had moved to sit on his lap, straddling him, knees in either side of his legs, one hand on his knee, balancing yourself, and the other one steadily stroking his dick, just how he liked it, medium to slow speed and lots of pressure, special attention to his head.

You were watching his every move, his head was thrown back, he was biting his lip and scrunching his brows, you assume to not let out a lot of noise. He didn’t like to be noisy, it made him a little embarrassed, but how you loved it. You moved your hand from his knee to his neck, and straightened his head making him look at you with those pretty eyes of his. His mouth was now slightly open, eyes glossy, struggling to stay open. You moved the hand in his dick from stroking to massaging the head with your palm and he made the prettiest little noise while scrunching his gorgeous face.

You pressed your self closer to him, the base of his cock was touching your clit, “I love the noises you make baby, they turn me on so much, don’t hold them back please,” you kissed him again, playing with him until he was crying out, you let go of his dick.

“Y/n, jagi, please don’t stop,” He was breathless as he said that and at the same time he squeezed your hips and rocked you back and forth, both of you moaning at the friction of your clit and the base of his dick.

“Baby, I want you inside me, now, please fuck me Yoongi, right here,” You were desperate to feel him inside, you stood up from his lap and dragged him with you to the other side of the tub, where the city was in full display for you. You gripped onto the edge of the pool and placed your knees on the step that was supposed to be for sitting, in that position your ass was half on the water half not, but on full display for Yoongi, you looked over your shoulder and saw Yoongi placing his hands on your ass spreading your pussy, he teased your clit with his fingers before inserting them in your pulsing hole, making you gasp, you could hear how the water moved with every thrust of his two fingers, in one of those thrusts he decided to keep the fingers deep inside you and rock them back and forth and in circles, you choked on his fingers, the noises were as dirty as they got. 

“I’m going in aegiya, are you ready?” He said and placed a kiss to your cheek, his fingers long gone from your pussy making you clench around nothing.

“Please baby,” You answered, he aligned his dick with your entrance and slowly thrusted himself in and cursed in his native language when he completely bottomed out, after a couple seconds he started to move but you quickly stopped him still not used to the stretch.

“A-aish…I don’t fuck you for two weeks and your pussy gets all tight, jagi” He whispered in your ear, completely still buried in you, he teased your clit and placed kisses along your neck while you got used to his cock. 

You knew even before you saw him that he was going to be big, every time you were out with his friends and he happened to be there, the way he would confidently be present, mysterious and quiet, when he wouldn’t say a single word to you, not even hi when you’d hang out with Jungkook or Joon, but would just sit near, but still far away manspreading, you felt bad for doing it the first time, when your curious eyes inevitably traveled down to his soft dick that formed a bulge in his loose pants, you only could imagine how big he’d be fully hard, you remember the embarrassment of him clearing his throat and you looking up to him smirking, making you immediately turn away embarrassed your friends in common completely unaware of the little moment, but since then you knew that he was big, and you also knew that one day you’d had the pleasure to have him stretch you out completely. Exactly like right now, skin slapping, calm bubbly water turning to waves, high, pitchy, and whiny cries of pleasure coming out of you and deep soft groans and the occasionally deep moan from him, he was hitting every spot perfectly, going so deep you could feel him in your chest.

“Fuck yoongi, fuuuuuuck!” Along the way your words became incomprehensible and started to just sound like moans and groans, you felt his hands squeeze at your hips and lightly slap at your ass from time to time, soon you were close, very fucking close, and you knew he was too, one of his hands traveled back down to your clit, his chest was pressed against your back and his cock was impossibly deep inside you, all you could feel was warmth an pleasure, the cool on the wet spots of your skin that weren’t in the water, Yoongi’s dick hitting your sweet spot like his life depended on it, one of his hands playing with your clit, the other with your nipples and boobs, his hot breath and deep noises directly in your ear, along with his demands for you to come with him, now. 

“Sarang-aauh, s-sarang-hae, y/n” You could feel his cum shotting deep inside you, he groaned and moaned in your ear while you clenched around him, he was still fuckign you through both your orgasms dragging it out. 

“I love you too, Yoongi, so much,” You said when you finally catched your breath, he was still inside you but almost limp above you. He slowly pulled out of you and sat down, he pulled you to his lap and kissed you deeply.

“Y/n, I love you” He said in between a kiss, one of his hands was on your waist the other on your face caressing. You pulled away from his kiss, he followed your lips but you stopped him by placing your hands on his face keeping him in place. 

You have him another peck, then squeezed his cheeks which formed a pout and kissed him again, “I forgot to bring towels baby,” You said and kissed him again.

“It's okay, I’ll bring them,” You got off him and he started to get out of the tub to get towels and you couldn't resist the urge to slap his cute little round butt, you watched as he flinched and his ass jiggled. 

“Hey! I could’ve fucking fallen y/n!” He said, turning around dramatically. 

“Get the towels! I'm getting cold!” He rolled his eyes (He couldn’t even roll them properly) then went to get towels, he came back with a towel wrapped around his hip. He handed me a towel as you got out, the cool air perking up your nipples, you we’re fully out of the tub and with both feet in the ground slightly shaking he wrapped the warm towel around your body and hugged you to him, he kissed your head and rocked you back and forth before walking you inside. 

You were lying in bed, dry, naked, under the covers making out, the kisses were soft and deep, you were holding the other close, you both felt like there was a warm buzz in your chests settling with the aftermath of your orgasms lulling you to sleep.

“I love you” was the last one thing you heard, you half answered back and felt a light kiss on your forehead, and finally sleep took over.

NEXT CHAPTER->->

JAPAN INDEX

D-DAY TOUR INDEX

[thebaffledcaptain]

Things that happened at the 250th anniversary of the British garrison at Fort Ticonderoga

as relayed by a humble fifer for His Majesty’s army, for his own records:

As if the unit needed any more musicians, we now have a fifth. We will not be sharing any with the rest of the British Brigade but you can bask in our glory and also our obnoxious fife practicing.

Speaking of which, we accidentally kind of adopted the 13-year-old drummer from the 24th. We joked about poaching from from his unit until we actually had to talk him out of it because he's not based in our area and, being 13, cannot drive himself to events that are fully in a different state.

At some point, however, he shows up in a bright yellow 26th regiment coat, having been temporarily poached to drum their musket demonstration anyway.

For some reason the Captain decided to entrust Music with kitchen duty this weekend, which seemed like a risky move at first given that we are essentially a bunch of overgrown teenagers who simultaneously overcooked the rice and undercooked the peas, but it ended up being pretty damn good apart from that. I cannot personally take credit for much as I was in the middle of Lake Champlain for the entirety of the time supper was being cooked.

We made a frankly ludicrous amount of boiled cabbage for dinner (lunch). No one was going to eat that much cabbage. The officers instructed us to dispose of it somehow.

Of course, we couldn't just let one person do it. All six of us had to go. Our 21-year-old acting fife major took this job very seriously.

"Cabbage Detail... to the front… march!”

The cabbage was rather inelegantly dumped into a pile on the edge of the woods. We gave it a soldier's funeral (saluted it and sang Roslin Castle badly).

Helped to load the bateau onto the cart to be put into the water. Little 24th drummer showed up in full regimental regalia because no one in his unit warned him the thing was covered in pine tar (which, I realized, has a rather pleasant smell that made the whole ordeal much more bearable). His white smallclothes did not make it out entirely unscathed.

Fellow Cheshire fifer and I immediately volunteered to be part of the boat crew. I had assumed the spots would go faster but perhaps most people don't want to spend half an hour bailing lake water out of a bateau.

Some guy at the marina was either high or drunk and heckled us for a solid 10 minutes as we loaded the thing into the water. I suppose it's not every day you see a bunch of 18th century soldiers get into a glorified canoe and start bailing within two minutes but still, you'd think that if something worked with consistent success for thousands of years even a guy with no sense of history would realize that's not going to change now.

Like, we were maybe 200 feet out and he was still going. He just could not fathom that we could get around the point and to the dock within the 25 minute estimate given to him by our boatmaster. But you know, in his defense, maybe it was 30 minutes and not 25...

Supper was quite good except that, with Music doing the cooking, we almost de-soldered a kettle by cooking a bunch of dill and potatoes in it without any water. Once again I was on the lake while this happened so this was not my fault.

I managed to lose my modern thumbpick for my mandolin at home somewhere along the line and didn’t realize until I got to the event. I used a horn button instead. I would not recommend it unless you have no other choice.

Small tavern night but nothing compared to the raving tavern we had at Dey Mansion. A bunch of boy scouts sleeping over with LED headlights were running around and kind of killing the vibe.

Next morning is rainy and dull. At least one fellow sleeps through reveille but in his defense he was feeling quite awful from a migraine, in period accurate style.

Also in period accurate style, the Captain shows up with two dozen Dunkin Donuts for the 22nd lads now that a fire isn't an option. That's how you know it's Sunday morning. Little 24 manages to snag two.

In his defense, I had two as well. The 13-year-old boy in me won. I figured I'd spent enough time on the two-person saw yesterday to earn it.

For some reason yesterday I decided to volunteer for gabion duty in the morning. Now it’s raining and I don’t know why I did that.

The gabion crew spends maybe 45 minutes complaining in the mud and the rain. There’s an assembly line going: a couple guys digging, a couple guys passing the buckets up, one guy dumping them and throwing them back down, and a Bucket Boy to catch them. Allegedly.

The banter is spectacular. Our only marine is nearly decapitated by a flying bucket. Little 24 shows up (in a DIFFERENT 26th coat) to be the Bucket Boy but our Bucket Boy sucks and keeps tossing the buckets in the wrong direction. The musicians threaten several people with the cat-o-nine. None of this is OSHA approved. There’s talk of unionizing. The cabbage is still in a pile at the edge of the woods.

At some point the artillery company marches out and we all collectively decide gabion duty is done despite being on duty for another hour or something. Ironically enough this was one of the more enjoyable and memorable parts of the event by virtue of it being so miserable. It was quite authentic.

Also really enjoyed the singular marine (with his head thankfully still intact after the gabions) at this event, who, when I asked if my brand new forage cap—rather large on my apparently rather small head—was still holding up after hauling mud around for 45 minutes, observed that the front was practically over my ear and very politely commented “it’s very rakish”

We all kind of shuffle around in the grass to get the mud off our shoes. In my own words, my ‘dashes are absolutely spattered. I am still repeating this phrase because it sounds like British slang for being really drunk or something.

I return to the barracks to hold some very warm hard boiled eggs in my very cold hands. Very effective, would recommend.

Not much going on apart from a few very dedicated visitors who braved the rain to make it to the event. We march out an hour early. My fellow fifer and I get to the car and make a beeline for the local Stewart’s for shakes to ease the post-reenactment depression.

All in all, a small but memorable event that, for me, really solidified the concept that Normal People don’t drive several hours to dress up in period clothing and do physical labor. I, however, am not Normal People, and had a great time.

[elvenbeard]

2071

"Had to drive a thousand miles just to realize that this is where I belong... This is my home. I'm so fuckin' stupid."

"Some mistakes you gotta make, hermano. How else're you s'pposed to learn from them?"

Vince left Night City for a little less than a year in 2070. He'd burned too many bridges, in Charter Hill, in Kabuki... There seemed nothing left for him to gain, nowhere deeper to sink. Also, his mother had tracked him down two years into his hiding from her. Even though they parted ways somewhat amicably and Vince did not expect to see her again, a certain level of unrest had accompanied him ever since.

Together with someone he thought he was in love with at the time, he joined the backstage crew of a Korean lazrpop duo touring the NUSA. His actually quite extensive technical knowledge... did not land him the gig. It was mostly the good word put in by his acquaintance that was supposed to get him out of the city. But so, instead of working with the crew's techies, setting up the lights and sound for the impressive shows ahead, he ended up having to haul equipment cases most days.

Needless to say, the experience was underwhelming. Combined with his relationship turning sour halfway into the trip, Vince suffered from the worst homesickness ever - for Night City, of all places, the city and the people that had continued to wrong him so many times over, with their games and intrigues.

One thing though Night City had done very right: Jackie Welles. The first person who sincerely liked Vince for who he was, no ulterior motives. The first true friend whose intentions he no longer doubted, that would have his back no questions asked, and vice versa.

Bonding with him over their shared experiences with abusive parents, Jackie was to Vince the older brother he had never had. Naturally, Jackie was there to pick him up when Vince returned to Night City in 2071, disillusioned, alone, and uncertain about his future more than ever. But Jackie always seemed to know someone or something that could be done to get Vince back on his feet.

Night City had changed as much as Vince had during his short-lived, self-inflicted exile. The Unification War was over, Night City a free city. Most importantly though - unbeknownst to both Vince and Jackie still - the old, powerful corporation that had returned to the city's heart with its new, rebuilt headquarters, would forever change their lives just a few years down the line...

Vince through the years (3/9)

For today's behind the scenes ramblings: a few thoughts on something I've been noticing on my VP journey lately...

No matter where you go... I think in any scenic location near Night City, you can see the Arasaka logo somehwere in the background, and I think it's done very purposefully by the environment designers XD It's either the clover, or the whole word "arasaka" spelled out, glowing somewhere on the side of a building or an ad display. It is often there in important story scenes somewhere, too, subtle in the background, a constant, subconscious reminder to V (you know... apart from the constant, subconscious bickering at the hands of Johnny XD).

Arasaka Tower itself is also extremely prominent, unmistakeable with its shape, whenever I'm taking pics lately that are in slightly elevated locaions I look around to see if I can spot it XD And I chose this spot specifically because it's so nicely visible from there, too...

This was one of my very first shoots with AMM - don't think I ever shared these (and wanna recreate them badly now). Just Vince and Johnny pondering the next move, what they're gonna do and say during the meeting with Hanako, Arasaka Tower in clear view in the distance, almost as if it's taunting them.

This particular spot is very important to Vince... as mentioned, it's where Jackie picked him up after he returned to Night City in 2071, but it's more than that. Jackie showed him the place shortly after they became friends, to give Vince a "different perspective" on Night City he wasn't really aware of then, with his sheltered upbrining and the circles he moved in. It's by the dam, overlooking Rancho Coronado, and in few other places the extreme difference between poverty and wealth appears quite as jarring.

In the years to come after this first visit here, it develops into a favourite meeting spot of Vince and Jackie to discuss all manners of things in quiet and relative private... here is where, just a year later, Vince tells him that he's gonna take on a job at Arasaka 👀 And Vince is drawn back there over and over again, even when Jackie can no longer meet him there.

It's simply where he still feels closest to Jackie, due to so many important conversations they had here...

... and he takes Kerry here, later, too, to get away from the city for a little while, talk about the past and the future.

Sometimes he comes over on his own when he needs some quiet time to think, too. What would Jackie do now? What would he suggest? Does it all even matter in the grand scheme of things? What is really important right now, and what can wait for later?

It's the perfect spot to clear your mind, and gorgeous at every time of day <3

Also, I wrote above that Vince was homesick for Night City... but it was less Night City that he missed, but Jackie's presence.

[sarascamander]

If you love Kit and Ty, you HAVE to read the Adventure of Holloway Holmes — it gives the EXACT VIBE of KitTy. I'm not even kidding. We have two wannabe sleuths absolutely pining for each other, crimes to solve, amazing banters, and just so much more! One of the similarities:

1. The main character is Jack Moreno who Kit wished he was. I LOVE KIT but Jack stole my heart in a way he didn't lmao. They both are sarcastic, hilarious, independent and undeniably in love with their partner in crime. Honestly, being in Jack's head is one of the best experiences of my love. It's so fun!

I wanted to close my eyes. I wanted to smack my head against the steering wheel. Off the top of my head, I could make a list: some fairly good weed, a lot of addies, condoms (not that those were illegal), unopened vapes (those were), this rare tentacle porn manga that Ty Bryce had paid me for but asked me to hold on to. After I got out of prison in thirty years, I already knew, Dad was going to make me have a super awkward sex talk.

2. And Holmes aka H (as Jack fondly nicknamed because Holloway Holmes is such a posh name in his humble opinion) is so precious!!!! I want to wrap him in a blanket burrito even though he is actually capable of breaking my arm without blinking. But god! Someone needs to take care of him. Although it's never been specified in the book, I'm 80% sure he's autistic. Either that or he was badly abused (which he was). He reminded me of Ty by the way he speaks and acts.

I examined his face. Then I gave him a smile. He was doing a Holmes thing, not looking me in the eye, so I moved my head until he was. This was something we’d been working on.

3. You know how Kit will suddenly drift to a paragraph of how beautiful Ty is? Well, Jack Moreno might give Kit a run for his money (he's so obsessed with H's knuckles and the thousands of shades of gold in his hair, it's embarrassing)

He made a frustrated noise. Then he smiled. The expression was a little stiff; he wasn’t used to doing it, and it was another of those things that he was self-conscious about. I’d read about people who get up at two or three in the morning—on vacation, no less, when they’re in Hawaii—and then they drive hours and hours, and all of it is to see the sunrise from this one specific spot, and I thought, Come to Utah if you want something worth your time

Context: they're in Utah. Jack basically said that Holmes' smile is prettier than the sunrise!! 😩

4. Their relationship is literally so pure and one of the things that get me insane about them is their communication!! They always worked hard to communicate with each other and sort things out it's so satisfying to read!!

“I lied,” Holmes said, but he still wasn’t looking me in the eye. “I am angry with you.” “I guessed.” “I don’t want to do this right now.” “It’s good practice."

5. Their banter is *chef kiss*

“I’ll tell him it’s a sex thing.” “Good,” Holmes said. “He’ll be pleased that all your hours of mindless pornography are finally paying dividends.” My jaw legit dropped. “H!” “Desk, please.” “That was so amazingly bitchy.” “Desk.” “And, like, also kind of evil. Which I loved.”

And there are literally hundreds of reasons to read this trilogy if you are craving for Kit and Ty. And although their vibes are similar, they are also their own people. And words can't say how much I adore them. The story and relationship is really beautifully written. I honestly don't care much about the crime but I'm obsessed with these two

Some of my favourites quotes:

He sat there in silhouette, head down. I knew the curve of his spine. I knew the span of his shoulders. Anywhere, I thought. I could be anywhere and know you

“You are my soul, Jack Moreno. I do not know why John Watson wrote his stories that way, why he wrote himself so small, when he was so much more. I do not think I will ever understand. But I do not want to know what I would be without you.”

I knew that he was something more than me, something vast and wonderful that I could only touch the edges of. But for someone like me, the edge was enough—just a glimpse was enough. And, more importantly for right now, I knew what he sounded like when he’d been hurt, the quality of his breathing, because I’d hurt him in a way few people ever had. Which was why, in those rare midnight hours when I could be honest with myself, I knew it was better this way, as friends. Because I didn’t deserve him

“But he was so much more. Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant detective, Jack. He would have been that regardless of other circumstances. But he was a good man—he was a happy man—because of John Watson.”

“What do you say to that, I wanted to know. What am I supposed to say? What do you want me to say? But what I was really asking was, How am I supposed to do this again? I barely survived the first time; what am I supposed to do when you leave me again?”

I had seen, this spring, jacaranda blossoms so pale they were almost blue, trembling with the breath of the mountains. I had seen, when I'd been twelve, a foil of goldfinches flocking against the crushed dusk. I had seen a shooting star once, thinning across the sky like combed silver. And I had seen Holloway Holmes smile.

There's so much but I don't want to spam so I really hope you give it a try!!

[wastemanjohn]

look back into the sun

been talking with @deanwinchesterpregnant, about, well, dean winchester being pregnant. or deanna. here's a short extract from a fic i wrote several thousand words of in one day last year and haven't touched since bc it's just rotting in my drafts 🥲

Deanna found out in a gas station bathroom. She’d been carrying the test around with her for a week. Praying her period would surprise her in the meantime, knowing in her heart that - and she couldn’t stand it anymore. It was hot outside, Sammy had been whining about it for the last hundred miles, and she’d been nauseous the whole drive, terrified to mention it. The two pink lines showed up right away.

The bathroom smelled terrible. She wiped off the test, stuck it in her pocket and threw up in the toilet, like her body was waiting for confirmation. She didn’t feel any better afterwards.

They settled in a motel after sundown, on the outskirts of Bumfuck, Pennsylvania. Everything had felt so normal, in a dreamlike way. Sam had been complaining about them staying in one room, about the privacy he was so obsessed with; John had snapped that he could start making demands when he was bringing some money in himself. Deanna sat next to Sam on the end of their bed, knees touching, as John ran down what he thought they were hunting. They didn’t really need a rundown, though. Missing hearts, pathologist notes John somehow managed to get hold of, query animal attack. It was pretty fucking obvious, and werewolves are straightforward enough.

Sam said as much, then went for a run. John rolled his eyes and let him go, even though it was late, because his resolve to fight with Sam was always in pieces at the end of a long day like that. 

Deanna remembers touching the back of her father’s arm and saying, voice all tight, “Daddy, can I talk to you?”

John looked at the test for what felt like a full minute. A full minute for him to say, “Oh.”

Deanna stood in front of him, arms coiled around her waist like ropes. Quietly, she said, “Yeah.”

John blinked at her. Then stared, like he was seeing her for the first time. “Is it mine?”

“How could you ask me something like that?” Her voice came out all hoarse.

Deanna’s eyes misted over. She felt like she’d been punched in the gut.

John may have had his little bar skanks, his flings when he was states away. He never hid them from Deanna, which made her feel like crap. But Deanna had been faithful. There hadn’t been anyone else since she was seventeen years old. It almost hurt her more that John would think otherwise, than the fact that he wasn’t faithful himself.

He didn’t apologize. He rubbed his hand across his forehead. It was shaking a little. “How did this happen?”

“I don’t know.” Deanna’s hands were shaking too.

“You’re on the pill.”

She nodded. “I-”

“And you take it every single day?” "

There were days when Deanna would forget. Days when it was impossible. She couldn’t just hold the rocksalt and ask a vengeful spirit to wait while she took her contraceptive. John should understand that. He had to understand that. 

She didn’t answer him. But John didn’t really seem to be listening anyway.

His hand was in his hair now. Running through it manically. “I don’t believe this.”

“You think I do?” 

She was in tears. It was the hormones. The hormones, that wanted so badly for her father to give her a hug. Hold her, reassure her. Make everything feel less horrifying, turn down the volume on it. 

“Dad, look at me.”

It was only when the words left her mouth that she realized John wasn’t. He was looking anywhere but. “Fuck,” he muttered.

“I know.”

“Fuck.”

He handed her back the test, still not looking at her. Thrust it at her, really. When he left, with this awful look on his face, Deanna knew better than to follow.

Sam went to bed soon after he got back. Deanna stayed up on the couch, the TV on with the volume down to nothing, picking at the fraying threads on her jeans and gritting her teeth so tight her skull vibrated. The longer she talked herself out of saying fuck it all and having a drink (just one wouldn’t hurt, right?), the longer she wondered how the hell some people go through life never drinking at all. She’d never felt hurt like this, alone like this, afraid like this. Afraid John wouldn’t come home, afraid of what would happen if and when he did.

There was a night, six weeks ago, a hot July night when John had come to her. They’d left Sam alone in the shitty apartment they were renting at the time to go take care of a quick salt and burn, nothing big, done in two days. And John hadn’t been coming to her much during that stretch of time, Deanna remembered that; so it must have been that night. They smelled of lighter fluid and corpse, and there was dirt on their clothes, under their fingernails, and Deanna’s shirt had been off and the night air through the Impala windows felt refreshing against her clammy skin, and John was gentle with her like he nearly always was; and whether it was the adrenaline of the hunt, or John was just feeling lonely, Deanna couldn’t know, but she sat in his lap in the backseat and he tangled his fingers up in her hair and told her he needed her, he needed her right by his side, always, sweet words like that, sweet words that Deanna loved, because John could be really sweet, when he was inside her and they were both flushed and breathless. He had his hands on her face when he came, inside her like always, and Deanna felt the rush of it, and thought nothing about it.

[mpregandproud]

Isaac (Part 5)

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9]

We had already been on the road for three hours. We were halfway between Sandra's town and the city where Isaac and I were living and where I moved to when I started college. I had made that drive thousands of times in those four-plus years and it had never felt as long as it did that day. I was tense, I sensed that something bad had happened. I was worried about Sandra, of course, but one question kept hovering over me: would my children be okay?

Since we rushed out of the house, I kept rubbing my belly. It was as if my body was asking me to protect the three lives I was carrying inside me. I was telling them that they would be safe with me, that nothing would happen to them. Could I really guarantee their safety? Would I really be able to give them a good life? A whirlwind of questions and doubts flooded my head, and Isaac's hand.

He was driving the car, but he practically never let go of my left hand. I barely told him that the call was from St. George's Hospital, where Sandra was supposed to deliver. I was told that something had happened with her and that I should report to the hospital immediately. Isaac's reaction was instantaneous, he set about packing two travel bags with clean clothes and some necessities. In 10 minutes he had everything packed for him and me as well while I wandered around the house with a blank stare and my hands on my belly. Isaac called the university where he was teaching to ask for a few days off so he could come with me. He knew very well that my insecurity and anxiety, even though they seemed to have been overcome, were still there, and that he was one of the few things that put my life in order.

We arrived after two in the afternoon. We asked at reception for Sandra Díaz and were taken to a large meeting room. There the hospital director, the head of maternity and a couple of lawyers introduced themselves. I knew one of the lawyers, he was a friend of Sandra's, I had dinner with him several times while I was married to her. That whole scene only made me even more tense, until James, the hospital's lawyer, began to speak.

"Mr. Norris, thank you for coming so quickly. I imagine the gentleman with you is your current partner, your ex-wife's lawyer has brought us up to date. I'm sorry to have to give you this news, but considering your pregnancy, we felt it best not to tell you anything until you were here. Three days ago, Sandra, your ex-wife, went into labor and it was her mother, Linda, who brought her here. Unfortunately, on their way to the hospital they were hit by another hit-and-run vehicle. Linda died and Sandra was badly injured. She was immediately transferred to this hospital and we performed a cesarean section to try to save the babies. The boy did not survive, but the girl is safe and sound, being cared for by the nurses. Sandra, she clung to life for a few more hours, until she passed away early this morning," the lawyer said coldly. Isaac gripped my hand tighter than ever, and draped his other arm over my shoulder supporting me. I needed something to give me stability at that moment. I needed Isaac. The four people in front of me offered their condolences and regretted what had happened.

After a brief pause, Ernest, Sandra's lawyer and friend, spoke. "I'm very sorry we have to meet under these circumstances, Dan. Sandra hasn't stopped talking about you these last few weeks since she came back to town. For her, leaving you, was the biggest mistake of her life. She admired you, and she admired what you had built with Isaac. She wanted you to be a part of her children's lives, she wanted them to know a man as good and caring as you. Now, sadly, that little girl will never get to meet her mother. How unfair life is”. Ernest found it hard to say those words, he was very fond of Sandra. Once she told me that when they studied together at the village high school they were like sweethearts. "The thing is that the only family Sandra had left was her mother, and she died in the accident. Before she passed away we presented her with different solutions and she was clear from the very first moment that she would like you, the girl's father, to take care of her. One of her last wishes was for you and Isaac to be the parents of the little girl. I know it's all very hasty but we should settle this matter today, otherwise the child would go to social services," Ernest said. "Think about it, Mr. Norris, talk it over with your partner and let us know in a few hours what you want to do," the hospital director added. "If you want to see the girl you can ask one of our nurses to accompany you to the maternity service to see her," the head of that department added.

The four of them left, Ernest being the only one who came over to give me a hug. We both burst into tears at that moment. He already had a partner and a baby girl, I had already divorced Sandra and was expecting triplets with Isaac, but neither of us had forgotten her. He smiled and said goodbye to me, shook Isaac's hand and walked out of the room to leave us alone. I turned and before I even started crying again Isaac wrapped his strong arms around me. I soaked his shirt with my tears, but he didn't let go of me at any point, nor did he make any pretense of trying to stop my crying. He let me cry until I had completely let it all out. And after that, when I had hardly any tears left to shed, he grabbed both my hands, smiled at me, looked at my lips and kissed me. "I want you to know that I love you and that I will support you 100% in whatever decision you make," he said.

We asked a nurse to accompany us to the maternity ward. There in a crib was the little girl. She looked just like me, except for her eyes, which resembled Sandra's. I was seeing a little cross between me and my ex-wife, I couldn't believe it. It was the most beautiful and exciting thing I had ever seen in my life. I took the baby girl in my arms and rested her on top of my belly. I spent long minutes cradling that precious little girl in my arms, while Isaac fiddled with her tiny hands. She was perfect, precious, beautiful... she was my daughter. Isaac knew from the moment I saw her that I wanted to take her with me. I don't know if it was pregnancy hormones or my parenting instincts, but I couldn't conceive of my daughter being raised by other people. "We'll have to prepare her room at home, buy her a beautiful crib, toys and lots of clothes. And name her," Isaac told me, without needing to ask me if I wanted to take her. "Her name will be Sandra," is all I told him.

We met again in the afternoon with the committee and processed all the paperwork. Little Sandra already had a father, and in the same paperwork, Isaac legally adopted her. Her mother would not be able to take care of her, but her father would be with her all her life.

For the next two days we were in the hospital. The nurses taught us several tricks to give her a bottle, too bad my breast is still not able to give her milk. We learned how to change diapers. We learned how to be parents in an express way. Looking at the situation, it will be good for us to practice with Sandra for when the triplets arrive.

My pregnancy, as you can imagine, was the center of attention during those days. Isaac took the tightest clothes he had around the house, so much so that part of my belly had to be worn up in the air at times. I was four and a half months pregnant with triplets, my belly was unmistakably pregnant. The head of maternity offered to reveal the sex of the babies we were expecting. I was tested and was pregnant with a girl and two boys. The tests were all in order, except for the weight, which was too much for this stage of pregnancy, although it was nothing alarming, at least medically speaking, my clothes did not agree.

When we left the hospital I asked Isaac for the most complicated favor. "Honey, I want to stop in my village on the way back to our house. I want to talk to my parents and introduce you and little Sandra, my family. I think I'm finally ready to take this step."

To be continued...

[saint-batrick]

i got the spoon 5-6 years ago. you know, so i'd always have one spoon left.

i have become significantly more disabled since then.

yesterday, i got this tattoo (paid for in april, but scheduling kept being weird) and had them do it specifically so that it looks like it's being summoned by my spoon tattoo. like yeah, not only am i down to my very last spoon, i gotta summon all my feral screaming and biting energy to use it.

i nearly got the flower on the top right. glad i went with the posso. i know i'll want the area between the posso and the spoon worked on a little more, but there's only so much i could ask of an artist on a greatly delayed prepaid tattoo. in the meantime, though, i am so pleased with it.

[edit] i meant to add: i haven't been around much lately, and that kinda sucks. and is probably gonna continue for a bit.

my physical health has been tanking - i legit had to draw upon my feral posso spoons to get my posso yesterday bc the artist wouldn't reschedule again and that was $80 non-refundable - but i spent around 9 hours in the ER day before yesterday, most of it in a waiting room chair. then had to do a two hour round trip for the tattoo. god bless the tattoo endorphins, i slept so soundly last night. my back is still killing me, though, between the ER and the drive. my mental health has been tanking. BADLY. the living room floor is caving in, and we might lose the house at the end of the year which...that's its own post. foreclosure shit. shit i largely have no control over because this is not my house. i need to rub more than two brain cells together to create a fundraiser about it, but i keep not having two brain cells to rub.

i am tired. i am weary. i could sleep for a thousand years.

but i'm still here, motherfuckers. 💜🩵

[authoralexharvey]

INTERVIEW WITH A WRITEBLR — @goldenempress

Who You Are:

The Empress || She/her

After 12 years and thousands of ideas, I have successfully curated a list of 10 WIPs to last me the rest of my life. I will not be taking criticism at this time.

What You Write:

What genres do you write in? What age ranges do you write for?

Action, adventure, comedy, fantasy, mystery, and paranormal. Young and New Adult.

What genre would you write in for the rest of your life, if you could? What about that genre appeals to you?

Slice of Life. Anything can happen in slice of life, because you can even follow the daily lives of superheroes or prophesied saviors. Everything is slice of life if you want it badly enough. And that's beautiful.

What genre/s will you not write unless you HAVE to? What about that genre turns you off?

Tragedy. Tried it once, but I hate being sad. Also romance. Because while I do love a good rom-com or rom-fan, I prefer to focus on platonic relationships in my writing.

Who is your target audience? Do you think anyone outside of that would get anything out of your works?

Me. I am my target audience. I would love it if literally anybody found something good about my work, but there are no guarantees, so pleasing other people is not on my priority list when it comes to writing. I know better than to engage in pyrrhic battles.

What kind of themes do you tend to focus on? What kinds of tropes? What about them appeals to you?

I like stories about people who are relentlessly devoted to each other to the point that other people are confused by it, because that's so soft and so beautiful and it means everything to me. I like stories about OP characters because I hate seeing my characters lose, which is very personal. And I like to combine those two ideas into one because it is the ultimate incarnation of chaos to watch over-powered people do whatever it takes to secure their loved ones' happiness. That's just my niche.

What themes or tropes can you not stand? What about them turn you off?

Anything sad, really. Yeah. That's it. That's bad vibes.

What are you currently working on? How long have you been working on it?

I'm currently working on 4x5 (title pending), which is a project that consists of 20 separate stories following the same 4 characters. I've been working on it for either 8 years or 15 months.

Why do you write? What keeps you writing?

I write because stories are all I think about. And because I love the characters in my stories and if I don't write them their happy endings, who will? And I keep writing because I can't not.

How long have you been writing? What do you think first drew you to it?

I've been writing for about 13 years, and honestly? No clue. Or, maybe reading. Yeah, no, that's it. I spend my entire childhood at the library, so was there ever any other option for me?

Where do you get your inspiration from? Is that how you got your inspiration for your current project? If not, where did the inspiration come from?

I get my inspiration from other stories. It can be a moment, a line of dialogue, a theme, an idea, a character's power or personality trait, a scenario, anything. If I loved to watch it or read it, then I want to see if I can apply it to my stories. My current project was indeed inspired by other stories. I can't get any more specific than that. Because I have no idea what the specifics are.

What works of yours are you most proud of? Why?

An 80,000 word unfinished story that has been permanently lost to time due to a corrupted hard drive and thumb drive. Those 80,000 words were the first act of the first installment of a trilogy and I wrote them when I was 11, but they're still the best thing I've ever done because I've never had as much fun as when I was writing that. That sort of pure joy is something I've been chasing ever since.

Have you published anything? Do you want to?

I did. Once. Briefly. And then I unpublished it because I was afflicted by crippling regret. I do eventually want to start self-publishing my own work, but I have to build up to it.

What part of the publishing process most appeals to you? What part least appeals to you? Why?

Umm… I can't say I know how to answer this question. Hmm. I like the idea of publishing because maybe someone, somewhere, someday will find my work beautiful and feel better because of it, even for a moment - the way the best stories make me feel. I don't like the idea of publishing because my stories never make me feel that way personally, and putting out something that I'm not truly happy with is maybe a little nauseating. See, the aforementioned crippling regret.

What part of the writing process most appeals to you? What part is least appealing?

I like planning the most and revising the least. Revising because I don't actually know how to revise and the very act of reading my own work can be demoralizing, which is very personal. Planning because when I'm conceptualizing and imagining, I get to soak myself in my ideas at their most pure.

Do you have a writing process? Do you have an ideal setup? Do you write in pure chaos? Talk about your process a bit.

I have a 10 to 11 step detailed process for planning my story. This ensures that I know everything that will happen in my story from start to finish before I ever sit down to write. There are occasional deviations, but most of the time, my plan is as inflexible as I am. And that's how I like it.

Your Thoughts on Writeblr:

How long have you been a writeblr? What inspired you to join the community?

I've been here for maybe 5 months and I joined the community because I wanted to get to know people who loved stories as much as I do.

Shout out some of your favorite writeblrs. How did you find them and what made you want to follow them?

I don't think I'm engaged enough in the community to comment on this properly. In spite of my best efforts, I've yet to actually find my footing here. Or maybe my efforts are just poor. Who knows?

What is your favorite part about writeblr?

I like when I get to see the project updates people post. Some people put together moodboards or character profiles or story summaries or quote - and I like the writing games.

What do you think writeblr could improve on? How do you think we can go about doing so?

I don't know enough about how it actually works to give any solid advice. I feel very lost on these things.

How do you contribute to the writeblr community? Do you think you could be doing more?

I don't contribute at all and I don't think I could be doing more because I don't really have much to offer. Which might be why I've yet to find my place in the community.

What kinds of posts do you most like to interact with?

I like to interact with posts that give me a real glimpse into the bet parts of a writer's world and characters. The posts that show what the writer thinks are the best parts. The posts that are really mostly inside jokes between the writer and their story. They're my favorite.

What kind of posts do you most like to make?

See the above.

Finally, anywhere else online we may be able to find you?

I've got a blog where I craft and post about writing and a youtube channel where I draw and talk about stories - my own and others'. Oh. And an Instagram.

Questions For Fun:

What is your favorite book you've read? Why?

I could never choose a favorite book in a million years and I'll cry if you make me.

If you could go back to yourself as a beginning writer, what would you tell yourself?

I would tell myself not to take other people's writing advice so seriously. I would read craft books and take them to heart and make myself miserable trying to follow their rules. It was a dark time in my writing life.

If you could have a conversation with any writer out there, alive or dead, who would it be and why? What would you say?

Agatha Christie probably. She was so prolific and so clever and so talented and I love mysteries and crime books, so she's something of a literary hero to me. I would just ask her… everything. What her process for developing mysteries was like, what her actual writing process was like, how long it took her to write, what she liked best about her stories - everything.

[king-ratboy]

Decided to watch Cast Away because I love to make myself sad, and was overcome with the need to write some angst. Enjoy!

-----X-----

It’s a nondescript, quaint little house – pretty, like every other house along this sunny, tree-lined street. Pale blue siding, a bright yellow door, flowers growing thick and lush in neat fenced-in rows. The sort of home Billy had always known he would never have, and exactly the kind of place a guy like Steve Harrington was bound to end up.

There are two cars parked neatly in the driveway, and though Billy can’t help but grimace at the sight of the wood-panelled station wagon, the maroon beamer beside it sends a swell of emotion through his chest that tugs sharply at his heart, a thousand memories of late-night drives and clumsy kisses teasing at the edges of his mind.

Billy barely registers the sound of the cab pulling away from the curb behind him, feet planted resolutely on the sidewalk even as his hands tremble minutely at his sides, and with purposeful, single-minded determination, he takes a step forward –

and abruptly notices the booster seat buckled into the back of the wagon.

And Billy had known, is the thing. He’d been well warned of what he was going to find when he showed up here. It had been three years, three fucking years, and Harrington –

Billy knows it’s stupid to hurt so badly. Eight months, eight months in hospital and not a sight, not a word, and though Max had tried, tried her fucking hardest (he wants to visit, he does, he just – gone for so long, Billy – all thought you were dead – couldn’t stay in Hawkins, not after everything –) it still hurt. Harrington had never come to see him, had never called, had never deigned to send a fucking letter, and being here, standing on this street, undoubtedly drawing the eyes of every nosey old bat in the neighbourhood, is utter bullshit. He should just leave, go back to Maxine, pass out on her couch like the good-for-nothing homeless freeloader he is, but…

The Upside-Down (Max’s name, not his) had been shit. He can’t think of any other way to describe it. Three years of running, of hiding, of being torn to shreds inside and out, and the whole time he’d only been able to think about getting back to goddamn Harrington, making sure the stupid fuck was okay. And they hadn’t even…by the time the Mind Flayer or whatever (again, Max’s words) had gotten its hooks in him, eviscerated him from the inside out and made itself a cozy little home behind his eyes, he hadn’t spoken to Harrington in weeks. He couldn’t even remember what the fight had been about, anymore. It hadn’t been the first.

So he knows it’s stupid. Knows he has no right to Harrington’s time, his attention, his anything. Billy had spent three years in hell, but Steve had spent three years fixing his fucked-up life, and here Billy is, trying to pull him back down, ruin what he’d made for himself, destroy everything like he always fucking did –

He’s backing away, turning to the street, preparing to make his way to nearest payphone and call a new cab, when a sound draws his eyes back around. The bright yellow door swings open, and everything in Billy turns to stone.

For a second – only a second – Billy doesn’t recognise the man standing across the lawn. Three years have changed Steve Harrington in a way Billy hadn’t anticipated. The hair is the same, long and thick and in every direction, but the pretty cashmere sweaters Billy remembers so fondly have been replaced by a ratty black tee and a heavy denim jacket that sits loose around his shoulders. He laughs at something someone says behind the door, hands shifting on the black bag of trash he’s juggling in his arms, and then he’s turning, heading for the curb, heading straight for Billy, and there’s no time to run, no time to hide, no time to get the fuck out –

For a second – only a second – Harrington doesn’t seem to realise who’s standing on the other side of his picket fence. He squints behind his wire-rimmed glasses, brows furrowing across the distance, and then the bag of garbage is hitting the stoop and tumbling across the walkway.

This was a mistake. This was a horrible fucking mistake.

Harrington stares, face turning slowly ashen-white as his eyes go comically wide, a cartoon character faced with a ghost, staring down something terrible and unfathomable and unwanted and –

“Billy?”

And suddenly he’s there, a step away, nothing but the flimsy wooden posts of a ridiculous white fence between them, and those wide eyes are wet and shining and disbelieving, and Billy doesn’t know why he came here, he doesn’t know why he came here, he doesn’t –

“Hey, Harrington.”

[forbidden-creepypasta]

Breakdown

Honestly don't think it's developed or good enough for the main site, but if you feel otherwise, go ahead and use it.

This is NOT my Halloween contest submission. I was working on this before that was announced.... it just happens to be on Halloween night. I hope you guys like it.... I don't think it came out that well. If you have any input or plot-twist ideas to make it better please let me know.

-------------------------

For Randy, Halloween night was never about the costumes, the candy, getting belligerent under the influence of various substances, or attractive women with an excuse to dress in ways that would be considered anything less than downright promiscuous on any other date or time. Getting laid was a plus, of course, but only a side bonus.

No, rather, Halloween was about the music. There was always a kick-ass concert on Halloween night, depending on how far you were willing to travel. In the past ten years, he'd been to some great shows, but Metallica had taken the gold by far. They were closing with "Ride the Lightning," now, after a roar from the crowd demanding an encore after a good three hours of massive, fast-paced shredding. He'd brought two lighters this time, instead of one. He was hopped up, completely engrossed in their performance; the pounding hit of Lars Ulrich's bass drum rocked his innards to the very core, and James Hetfield's raspy voice was like hot chocolate to his ears. He was almost upset that it was over. Almost. The only downside is that his shoulder was itching badly.... the scar, it had never quite healed up completely.

He lost himself in the music, but he wasn't like the others. It wasn't the sound itself, or the euphoria and testosterone that got flowing when he heard some good heavy riffs. He saw things in his mind that were indescribable. They were amazing, vivid dreams that seemed real, happening in real-time.... an escape from his normal, miserable existence in to a mental paradise. It was the perfect getaway, and he'd always had the ability, since he got the scar when he was ten.

He had to be at work the next morning, and so as the thousands of people crowded out of the venue that had been the site of the most glorious rock concert he'd ever witnessed, he finally got his car out of the parking lot and on to the highway about ninety minutes later. He had a four hour drive ahead of him.

He thumped the dashboard with his index finger, tapping the rhythm to the live recorded CD he'd purchased of the show on his way out.

"Take my hand..... off to never never land...."

He'd been driving for around two hours, and he was around halfway to his apartment, by his estimations. He was taking the back roads, trying to evade road blocks, Halloween night chaos, and in general, any measure of trouble whatsoever.

"Suicide.... I already died...."

He felt the engine of his old Monte Carlo start to shudder, and a few moments later, his RPM's were somewhere up in the seven thousand range, and his speed was dropping by a good ten miles per hour every few seconds.

"Cyanide.... living dead inside...."

Something was wrong, and as he pulled over to the side of the country bumpkin, one-lane road that he was traveling on, he cursed loudly, slamming his fists in to the steering wheel. His ride had petered out to a complete stop on the shoulder.

"FUCK," he exclaimed, popping his hood only to find a torrent of white smoke and the sizzling sound of a blown radiator. His stereo was still pounding, full blast. As he reached in towards his console to turn on his hazard lights, he switched off "Sanitarium."

Randy was a good old boy when you got right down to it. Generally, he was the guy who came home, propped up his feet, watched the news, ate a steak, and passed out in his easy chair drinking beer until it was time to wake up and go to work. It was a grind, a cycle, but it was a lifestyle that fit. Randy didn't want much of anything else, except a kickass show now and then. Of course his car would overheat and blow its gasket on one of the few nights a year that he actually went out to do something. Halloween night, of all nights.

He looked up at the half-clouded autumn night sky, and a wave of the "willies" swept over his shoulders in a brief spasm. This was the first time that he could remember a full moon on Halloween night since he was a kid. Yeah. THAT night. He reached backward through the collar of his shirt to scratch his shoulder-scar again, then he took some of the heated radiator water and splashed a bit on the surface. Odd, really. It hadn't bothered him for years.

He flipped open his aging cell phone to call Triple A, and, to no surprise, he had no coverage. Of course not. He was in the middle of bum-fuck Egypt. He could start walking, or he could wait for another passerby. Either way, he'd be stuck here awhile. Just then, his stereo came to life, the sound blaring in his ears. He'd switched it off, but had he turned down the volume? He reached in to his pocket, and felt the familiar, and somehow terrifying "clinking" of his car keys.

"EXIT....... LIGHT....."

This was the first time the sound of Hetfield's voice terrified him, because he shouldn't have been singing. How was it possible? He walked around the front of his car, and sure enough, nothing else was on.... the hazard lights that had been flashing moments ago were off, his car was dead by all mechanical standards... and yet, there was his CD player console, thriving with life, with old-school 80's metal. Dread overcame his senses as he read the digital scrolling marquis across its surface.

"Give it back, Randy."

He'd made every attempt to play the tough guy, the roughneck man who'd blocked out that Halloween when he was ten years old. He probably should have been in therapy, considering what had happened, but instead, he played it tough, like his dad had always told him. "Play it tough. Whining never got nobody nowhere, son."

Therapy wouldn't have helped his ass, anyway. He wasn't crazy. It was back, plain as day.... no one around to see it in the pitch darkness except him, but by God, it was REAL. He knew, not because his CD player was possessed, not because he was stranded in the middle of nowhere.... but because he was itching. He'd taken the gift, the treat, and it was his fault. No one else's.

It wasn't out to get him because he was unlucky. He owed them a debt.... he'd made the bargain, signed the contract.

He ripped at the buttons of his flannel shirt and clawed at the itching protrusion of flesh. It was peeling off in long, dripping strands, but it felt so much better to expose it to the night air, to get it out there. It was that mark. That fucking symbol that the crazy bitch had carved in to his skin while he'd been held down by the dead hands and the black cloaks. It was pulsating in his skin, like a living, breathing distress beacon, that called to the black thing. He'd tried his damndest, all these years, to stifle the images of the black thing in his head, but it was impossible to seal out now. He could hear it, a long ways off, coming to him in this desolate place, because the mark told it to. It was time. The stereo was on again.

"AND IT ALL CRASHES DOWN. AND YOU BREAK YOUR CROWN......."

She was pretty. That's what he remembered. That's why he went inside. She didn't have those shitty orange and black candies that you could get a million of for a buck at the store. She'd had GOOD stuff, like Milky Ways and Snickers bars, and the smell from inside was so sweet. He liked chocolate, but that sweet smell, it was heaven to his head. He wanted the sweetness with him, always.

"Trick or treat, Randy?"

She knew his name, and he'd chosen treat, and he'd walked in to the room with the figures in the robes, to the middle of the circle. That's where the smell came from... from a small little ball of green light. It was beautiful, and he had to have it. He knew it was the greatest thing in the world.... what he needed. He'd make any deal, any bargain, to have it.

"KING NOTHING!"

When they put him in the circle, he tried to fight, of course. He'd agreed to take what they offered, at a price. He'd been the best hitter on his little league team, and when his little ten-year-old knuckles had hit one of the robes straight in the kisser, it almost shattered his fingers. He'd knocked the hood away, for a moment, before they'd slammed their bony hands in to his neck and forced him to the floor. He hadn't punched a face. It was a skull, and that was the last thing he saw except for the dirty, filth-ridden wooden floors of the blonde lady's dining room.

He'd FELT everything after that. The carving, the blood trickling down the small of his back, the chants.... and, when that was finished, the black thing, shrieking with a terrible ferocity in his mind's eye. The sphere had been implanted. They'd put the little sphere inside him, and he could see everything in a new light. Over time, the music brought it to life, created the fantasy in his head with more vivid and delicious detail.... but, in the last second, every time, at the conclusion of each song.... he always saw the black thing. As if to say, "Yes, Randy. This is wonderful. This is amazing, but one night, the black thing will win."

Best concert. Full moon. Car trouble. It all added up. This was that night. It was time.

They'd never told him the stickler, about the ass end of the deal. He knew, sometime, that he would meet the thing. And, strangely enough, all the travels he'd made in his head, in the middle of his easy chair with his stereo.... he had to admit, it was all worth it.

The trees shook with a heavy shudder, and he felt the throbbing in his back, as if his entire body were about to implode around that little sphere. As the black thing emerged through the highway forest line and swept him up within it, to take back what rightfully belonged to it, he could hear the fading sounds of his stereo in the distance.

"So build a wall.... behind it crawl .....And hide until it's light .... "

Credit to: Violent Harvest

[myheart08]

Second Chance

I gave “us” a second chance

thought the baby would heal us

like seeing you differently

but now seeing you even more badly

You try your best, you say

you do this and that you say

you bought a house you say

you pay the bills you say

Guess what, that is not just making a man

should be what way he’s treating his woman

is a very must you help

is very nice you give a hand

Money is not a problem for me

I pay my bills, do groceries and baby expenses

Even giving you money for your house

guess what, I still see it as yours since you keep saying “I bought“ “My money” “my house”

Commitment is very important

in a relationship to last

Trust is even a must

and a caring, humble heart

I gave up a lot of things

and you know that so please don’t

act like you know nothing

Im thousand miles away from my home

my goals, my job, my dream

sacrificed my body, comfort

and my freedom just to be with you

since you’re my everything

Where did I do wrong?

perhaps I loved you too much

even we don’t know each other for long?

gave you a baby to make “us” strong

but gave me more anxiety and more stress

since I mostly I do it alone

Hearing your friends saying I am lucky

well, pf course they’re dutch so they see money

but guess what I don’t see that you’re wealthy

since wealthy man treats her girl nicely

I fell bad mostly

since you are saying things that is not so nice to me

“let’s run DNA test you say”

you don’t know how it dig up my heart who loved and give you my life entirely

Why can’t you love me as how much I love you

for two years I endure and opened to you

been careful and took care of you

cooks, folds and iron your clothes,

clean the house as you say so

well, perhaps been too good that you don’t

see my worth as you ought to

During my pregnancy you lied

you would drive on the bike with other girl

and would shamelessly kiss me way back

guess what I know it all

since the begin and see you denied

babe I’m not stupid, just letting you off

since I don’t want to stress up the baby inside

My heart is aching

and it is so frustrating

since though I’m in pain am just smiling

so maybe you thought my patience is unending

Just so you know clock is ticking

my cup is down to filling

hope it slow down and see what people see you so admiring

for I’m already tired and was already seeing the ending

….

#clock #relationship #sacrifice #money #Worth #broken #hardships #culture #different #away #heartache