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justporo · 6 months

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Sweet Things

You've been brooding all day, even Astarion is at a loss on how to pull you out of it - until he offers you a sweet treat, with lots of bickering of course.

MASTERLIST | AO3

Author's Note: Written for the Hot Chocolate/Mulled Wine" prompt of the BG3 Winter Holiday challenge. Honestly my favourite piece I've written so far for the challenge - let's see if it will stay this way.

Pairing: Astarion/GN!Tav (You) Warnings: none Wordcount: 1,6k

~~~

You had been in a bad mood the whole day with no particular reason for it. And nothing was able to lift your mood. Not even your vampire and his usual shenanigans had been able to pull you out of your puddle of negative feelings. Especially when Astarion had suggested you come with him into the city to run some errands.

The usual excitement you felt to go outside during the crispy cold but beautiful winter weather, to walk through the snow and see the lights in the city - it was non-existent today. In fact, you had taken one look out of the tall living room window, scowled and Astarion had thrown a little fit about how ‘you made him venture forth into the perils of the winter smitten city so the two of you may yet survive the bitter cold’. But even his histrionics, little pout and round red eyes had done nothing to change your mind.

Astarjon had sighed in defeat: “Alright, my love, you go and soak in your bad mood as long as you can, I'll wrangle you out of it soon enough.” “Don't threaten me with a good time, Astarion”, you had replied dryly but the vampire had just smirked. A plan had undoubtedly been set into motion. After that he had been off to go into the city - of course not without coming over to you, cupping your face softly and pressing a kiss to your lips.

Afterwards you had tried to make your peace with your bad mood and had curled up on the couch in front of the fireplace, just staring into the flickering flames.

A while later you heard Astarion return to your shared home.

“I've returned from the hunt, my love, and I bring you some bounty”, the vampire declared. You turned around to see him standing in the doorframe with a huge grin and an inconspicuously looking bag in his hand. You saw some melting snowflakes glisten in his curls. He looked very proud of himself with how he let the bag dangle in front of you, one eyebrow lifted inquisitively.

Oh, you knew he was daring you to ask about it. This was one of his signature ways to get what he wanted: teasing you by holding the carrot in front of your face and then quickly moving it out of your reach with an “ah ah ah” and a fang-baring grin.

And you felt how his tactic even slowly started to work now.

“A bag? Aw Astarion, you shouldn't have! Bags are my favourite!”, you gave back and felt a sassy grin grow on your face. Turning around on your knees on the plush sofa you placed your arms on the rim of the piece of furniture and then placed your cheek on top of it - basically hugging the backrest.

The vampire frowned at you, obviously unsatisfied with your insolent reaction. But he wouldn't be Astarion were he to give up because of that.

“Yes, a bag. And if you stop being such a miserable and yet so sassy little thing, you might even get what's inside of it”, he snapped back mockingly.

“You know, usually this time of year when someone threatens you with the thing they have inside their bag it's a rod to punish the naughty.”

“Well, seeing how naughty you've been to me today, who says there isn't a rod in there?” His grin had turned sultry, his gaze dropping in a way that made other than your negative feelings churn inside of you.

“I repeat myself from earlier: don't threaten me with a good time, Astarion”, you replied with a smirk. Simultaneously you noticed that your bad mood was slowly lifting. Well, he was your soulmate after all, wasn't he? He knew all the tricks.

Astarion in the meantime had put his hands on his hips in an affronted manner. You heard telltale, soft clanking sounds coming from the bag and raised your eyebrows at the vampire.

“So, are we sulking or are we trying to outwit me, eh?”, he commented with a little sneer, but you knew he was only teasing. “Can you at least decide what your mood is?”, he continued when you first made big sad puppy eyes at him and then stuck out your tongue at him. “It's getting exhausting to keep track of your whims, love.”

He quickly and easily dodged the pillow you threw at his face and grinned at you.

“That's pretty rich coming from you, love”, you answered and flipped him off. “Now tell me what's in the bag!”

The vampire clicked his tongue in disapproval: “You lost the privilege of finding out when you threw the pillow, no you'll have to wait.”

You threw another pillow with a pout but your partner had quickly turned and left the room altogether.

Since you had no intention of losing other privileges and knew exactly that Astarion was way too greedy for praise and thus would come to you again, you just turned around and lounged on the couch once more. You closed your eyes and felt that most of your bad mood had disappeared already, so you simply relaxed to the bustling and rustling that had started coming from the kitchen.

You hadn't planned on drifting off.

But then you were awoken again by the smell of something delicious filling your nose. You opened your eyes and saw an incredibly ugly mug in the form of a boot in front of you.

But more important than its form were its contents you immediately recognised as: delicious hot chocolate with some slowly melting meringue drops on top of it.

And when you looked up you saw that Astarion was holding the cup almost directly under your nose with a smug grin on his lips.

“Something sweet for my sweet thing?”, he asked while batting his eyelashes excessively and his grin growing even broader.

“Where did you find the most hideous mug on this plane of existence?”, you replied and sat up on the sofa - also making space for Astarion to sit beside you.

The vampire sighed massively while he sat beside you and handed you the mug: “You are a ghastly little thing today, have I told you that?”

“At least with me it’s only today.”

Now even Astarion was flabbergasted.

“By the gods, love”, he said with raised eyebrows and then took a swig from his own mug you hadn’t noticed before. “You really do spend too much time in my company”, he finished after he had put down the cup again.

You peeked over at his cup and figured he must have gone for something with a little more kick than hot chocolate - mulled wine most likely.

“And now go and drink your hot chocolate which I so painstakingly made for you, love, or I’ll show you ghastly”, he said and leaned to you, narrowing his red eyes at you. You just made big innocent puppy eyes at him again.

You had every intention to comply - but first you swung your legs over his and covered the both of you with your blanket to make it extra cosy. And then after some fussing from the vampire and some readjusting you had snuggled up on the couch. Astarion kept sipping on his mulled wine and you finally tasted your hot and sweet beverage.

When the first of the rich, warm taste hit your tongue, you couldn’t help but let out a pleased moan and let your head fall back.

“It tastes amazing, love”, you moaned and let your eyes roll in delighted pleasure.

“Well then. Maybe I should introduce some hot chocolate in the bedroom if this is how you react to it”, Astarion commented. He was trying to play over it with his sultry joke but he was obviously proud of himself for having made what caused this reaction in you.

“You prepared it perfectly, Astarion, thank you”, you said now in a genuine tone and let one of your hands cover his which he had carefully placed on your blanket-covered knees.

He looked at you then with a small, sweet smile.

“Thanks for taking the time and the patience to put up with me and make this, Astarion”, you said and softly squeezed his hand. His smile grew broader.

You sat and drank and talked and joked. At some point you made Astarion try his own creation while you got a sip of his also very delicious mulled wine. He insisted he still preferred savory because he already had that one sweet thing in his life. But you saw him lick his lips after trying the chocolate.

When you had downed your beverage to the last drop, you sighed contentedly while the vampire looked fully pleased with himself.

“Feel better now?”, he asked and put his mug down on the floor. You simply nodded and watched as he leaned over to you.

“Good”, he whispered while he kept leaning in closer still. “But you still have a little something there”, he continued in a deep tone and eyed your already opened lips. You just made a silent “oh” while you expectantly awaited yet another treat from Astarion.

He softly grabbed your chin and closed the distance between you. You closed your eyes, expecting the kiss.

But then the vampire just grossly licked over and around your top lip to get rid of the remaining chocolate there.

You kicked and squealed trying to get him off you and stop torturing you with this gross procedure but he had the upper hand.

And then he had jumped up grabbing both your cups, promising to return with a refill of mulled wine for the both of you while you wiped off your mouth with the back of your hand.

“And you call me ghastly”, you screamed after Astarion but you couldn’t stop the big smile spreading over your face.

From the kitchen you only heard the vampire’s laughter in response.

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#astarion #baldur's gate 3 #astarion ancunin #fanfiction #astarion x tav #bg3 spoilers #baldur's gate iii #baldurs gate #astarion x mc #astarion x oc #bg3holidayfluffle23 #astarion x you #astarion x reader #bg3

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naomeii · 4 months

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Hello! Here's my request:

Modern au where Childe and reader get into a particularly heated argument because he always comes back bloody, battered and bruised from a fight. Unfortunately, Childe ends up telling her he liked it better when she was ignoring him instead of nagging all the time, which shatters her heart. He tries to apologize but she's already out the door and staying over at her mother's house. Even when her mother reassured her that Childe does love her, it did little to heal her heart.

On the other hand, Childe was in shambles. He kept on trying to call, email, and text her but she won't pick up. He was left alone at their shared house, the meal she made had gone cold but he still ate it and yet, he didn't feel full. He ends up crying himself to sleep on their entryway.

The next day, reader returns to their home with the intention of packing up her things and leaving but is stopped by an exhausted Childe who follows her even when she tells him not to touch her. He notices her missing engagement ring (she had left it in their bedroom) and is terrified; he begs her not to leave him while sobbing and holding her tight. Eventually, his pleas were heard when she finally forgives him after he apologizes for snapping at her.

Metamorphosis.

—Pairing: Childe x F!Reader

Content: Modern au, angst to fluff, arguments

Childe's entrance into your shared apartment was marked by the tired shuffle of his boots against the floor. The faint odor of blood mixed with the antiseptic scent of a healing agent lingered in the air. He looked up, eyes shadowed with weariness, as you confronted him in the doorway.

"What happened to you this time, Childe?" Your voice was a mix of concern and frustration, and your eyes scanned his battered form with a mix of anger and worry. This had become a routine – him coming back battered and bruised, and you, waiting to pick up the pieces.

Childe sighed, leaning heavily against the doorframe. "It's part of the job, darling. You knew what you were getting into when we started dating."

Your jaw tightened at the dismissive response. "Part of the job doesn't mean you have to come back looking like you've been through a war every single time! Do you even care about how this affects me?"

Childe's tired eyes met yours, and for a moment, there was a flicker of remorse. "I liked it better when you just ignored me, you know? Instead of nagging all the time."

As the weight of his words sank in, you couldn't help but recall the days when Childe was indeed all over you. His playful antics, the way he made you laugh until tears streamed down your face, and the warmth of his love enveloping you. It was a stark contrast to the current reality, where his flippant remark shattered the remnants of those precious moments.

"Childe, what happened to us?" The question slipped out, laced with a mixture of pain and confusion. "You used to care about us, about me."

He avoided your gaze, a hint of guilt crossing his features. "It's just the way things are now. We both knew my life was dangerous."

A bitter chuckle escaped you. "I knew, but I never thought you'd grow indifferent. I miss the Childe who used to come home to me, not this stranger who treats me like a burden."

His eyes softened, but it was too late. The damage had been done. You turned away, tears threatening to spill. "I can't do this, Childe. Not if it means losing myself in the process."

As Childe desperately reached out for your hand, the door swung open, as you quickly left.

"Wait, please!" Childe's voice cracked with desperation, but you were out the door, oblivious to his pleas.

In your tear-streaked haze, you hailed a cab, directing it to your mother's house. The city lights blurred as you tried to make sense of the shattered fragments of your relationship. The cab's interior provided a temporary sanctuary, shielding you from the unresolved emotions that lingered at the doorstep of your shared home.

Arriving at your mother's house, the front door creaked open before you could even knock. Concern etched across her face, your mother pulled you into a tight embrace, her worry palpable.

"What happened, sweetheart?" she asked, guiding you inside.

Through choked sobs, you recounted the argument, the hurtful words, and the irreparable damage that had driven you away.

"Sweetheart, people say things they don't mean when emotions run high. Childe does love you; I'm sure of it. Relationships have their ups and downs, but love can overcome even the toughest moments."

Her words, meant to console, offered a lifeline in the storm of emotions. Yet, despite her reassurance, the ache in your heart persisted. The wounds were fresh, the echoes of Childe's indifferent words still reverberating within you.

"I know, Mom, but it just hurts so much," you whispered, tears welling up again.

She held you at arm's length, her gaze filled with concern. "Take your time, dear. Healing doesn't happen overnight. If he loves you, he'll realize the impact of his words and make amends."

On the other side, Childe's attempts to reach you knew no bounds. His phone buzzed with unanswered calls and texts, each message a desperate plea for forgiveness.

+𝟗𝟗 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐃𝐮𝐦 <𝟑 3:33 am Y/n, please, just pick up the phone. I'm so sorry. I never meant what I said. I love you more than anything. 4:32 am I'm an idiot, love. I messed up, and I need you to hear me out. Let's talk. Please. 4:45 am ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10 (Hey, dummy. I know I screwed up. I didn't mean any of it. I miss you... Can we just talk?)

The echoes of your silence were deafening. Each attempt to reach you felt like shouting into the abyss, the void swallowing his words.

Returning to the shared house, the remnants of your presence lingered. The cold meal you had prepared sat untouched, a poignant reminder of a time when warmth filled the home. Childe mechanically picked at the food, each bite a tasteless reminder of the void that now enveloped him.

The once-familiar walls seemed to close in as he wandered through the silent rooms. The solitude amplified the weight of his regret, and a profound loneliness settled over him. Despite filling his stomach, an emptiness gnawed at his insides.

Tears welled up, and he crumpled to the entryway floor, the place where the love you both had built now reduced to a battleground of hurtful words. The cool surface provided little comfort as he cried himself into an exhausted slumber, the entryway serving as a painful witness to the wreckage of a love he feared might be irreparably broken.

As the morning light filtered through the curtains, you cautiously returned to your shared home. The air hung heavy with the residue of the previous night's turmoil. With a determined resolve, you planned to pack your things and spend some time with your mother until the wounds of the argument had a chance to heal.

The moment you stepped into the entryway, you noticed a disheveled Childe, still draped in the shadows of sleep. His eyes, red-rimmed from crying, widened in surprise at your presence.

"Y/n…" His voice wavered, a mix of regret and exhaustion lacing his words.

"I'm here to pack my things, Childe," you stated, avoiding eye contact.

His eyes pleaded with you, but you remained steadfast. "Please, love, let's talk. I need you to understand."

"No, Childe. We've said enough," you replied, your voice firm. The weight of the situation pressed down on you, but you were determined not to let it sway your decision.

As you began gathering your belongings, Childe, propelled by a mixture of desperation and a genuine desire to make amends, rose from the floor. He moved closer, his hand reaching out involuntarily.

"Don't touch me, Childe," you warned, your eyes flashing hurt.

Childe's heart sank as he continued to trail behind you, the weight of your silence pressing down on him. The atmosphere was thick with tension, and he winced at the palpable pain in your voice when you told him not to touch you.

His eyes were red and swollen from the tears that had stained the entryway floor the night before. Yet, a glimmer of hope flickered within him, fueled by the desperate need to salvage what was left of the love that once filled their home.

As he followed you through the house, his eyes caught sight of your left hand. The familiar glint of the engagement ring was conspicuously absent. Panic seized him as he realized its absence, the realization hitting him like a punch to the gut.

"Y/n, where's the ring?" His voice trembled with a mix of fear and desperation.

You glanced at him briefly, the weight of your gaze heavy with unspoken words. "It's in the bedroom. I left it."

Childe's heart raced as he hurried to the bedroom, his footsteps echoing in the empty space. The room, once a sanctuary of shared dreams, felt haunted by the shadows of fractured promises.

He found the ring on the dresser, its absence from your finger a stark reminder of the fragility of the bond they had built. The intricate design, a symbol of their commitment, now seemed like a fragile artifact of a love slipping through his fingers.

Fear gripped him, the gravity of the situation hitting him like a tidal wave. He returned to find you near the front door, the distance between you growing wider with each passing moment.

"Y/n, I—I can fix this. I'll do whatever it takes. Please, don't go," he pleaded, the vulnerability in his voice bared for you to see.

As you moved towards the door, a determined resolve etched across your face, Childe's hand shot out, instinctively reaching for you. He caught your wrist, his grip firm but not forceful. His eyes pleaded with yours, mirroring the desperate turmoil within him.

"Y/n, please, I beg you… don't go," he pleaded, his voice breaking.

You paused, feeling the grip on your wrist, the pull of emotions warring within you. Childe's sobs echoed in the silent room, the raw vulnerability he displayed tearing down the walls you had erected around your wounded heart.

"Childe, you can't fix this with just words," you said, your own voice wavering with the weight of the situation.

His grip softened, fingers slipping from your wrist to intertwine with yours. "I know… I know, but let me try. I love you, and I can't bear the thought of losing you."

His tears fell freely, staining the floor beneath him. The vulnerability he exhibited, coupled with the sincerity in his eyes, created a tumultuous whirlwind of conflicting emotions within you.

"I can't promise anything, Childe," you said, gently trying to disentangle your hand from his. "But I need time to think, away from this… chaos."

Childe, however, held on tighter, his sobs intensifying. "I messed up, Y/n. I don't want to lose you. Please, just stay. Let me try to make things right."

The conflicting emotions battled within you as Childe's sobs reverberated in the room. Despite the anger, hurt, and the shattered trust, a deep well of love still lingered within your heart. The sight of him crumbling before you, laid bare in vulnerability, tugged at those lingering threads of affection.

Taking a deep breath, you relented. Your free hand reached out, gently cupping Childe's tear-stained cheek. Your touch, though soft, held the weight of both love and reproach.

"Childe, stop crying," you whispered, your voice a delicate plea.

His tearful eyes met yours, and for a moment, the world outside their shared turmoil seemed to fade away. The touch of your hand, wiping away his tears, bridged the emotional chasm that had grown between you two.

"I love you, but this can't be fixed overnight," you admitted, your tone a delicate balance of firmness and compassion.

Childe nodded, his grip on your hand relaxing.

In the days that followed, the atmosphere in your shared home transformed. Childe, once a tempest of chaos and unpredictability, began to change. The realization of the pain he had caused you, coupled with the fear of losing the love he cherished, became a catalyst for a profound transformation.

His actions spoke louder than words. Childe started attending therapy, seeking guidance to navigate the complexities of his emotions and learn healthier ways to cope with the challenges that came with his role in the Fatui. The reckless impulsivity that once defined him began to give way to a more measured and thoughtful approach.

The wounds of the argument were still fresh, and trust needed time to mend, but Childe's commitment to change became evident in his actions. He took on a more active role in maintaining the home, shared responsibilities with newfound diligence, and made genuine efforts to communicate openly.

Gone were the days of recklessness overshadowing your relationship. Childe, now more attuned to your needs and the impact of his words, worked tirelessly to rebuild the connection that had weathered the storm.

While the scars of the past lingered, the metamorphosis within Childe created a sense of hope.

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imaginethezeldaverse · 9 months

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Hi! Could I request a Ganondorf x fairy reader? Reader has always followed Ganondorf throughout time, and they are able to shift from a small fairy form to a human size fairy form!

Hope you having a wonderful day!

-the fairy anon 🧚‍♀️

Well hello, fairy anon! Please allow this fairy of fiction to fulfill your request! ✨ (I'm gonna make you a Great Fairy, but not exactly like the ones from BotW/TotK - you'll see what I mean)

To the naked eye, the small, zipping ball of light could easily be mistaken for a sunset firefly. Skittering around the desert may have been a little strange, but not wholly uncommon. For these facts, you were very grateful. On your tiny wings you flitted through the very open windows of top floor Gerudo bedchamber. You half expected it to be empty, a plan in mind to simply wait and surprise the person you'd planned on visiting - but fate would have other plans in store for you.

"To what do I owe the honor of a Great Fairy at my humble abode?" His tone was a mix of curious and cocky, with just a touch of threatening. With a quick spin, sparkles surrounded your body - and suddenly were a normal, human size. Rattling your wings gently to relieve them of any excess sand that clung to you, you simply made a sound akin to an interested huff. Your long lashes lifted to allow your sweetheart eyes to connect with fiery amber ones,

"Just stopped by to visit an old friend is all..." painted lips turned up in a minxish smile, "But then again...we weren't always only 'just friends' were we...Ganondorf?"

The Gerudo chief eyes you with suspicion, his originally smug expression faltering to something untrusting. You have information he clearly doesn't - a weakness that he doesn't like having exploited. Still, he approaches you, standing tall and wide to loom over your smaller frame. A full head taller than you are is he, yet that does not move you from where you stand. Peering down at you his voice evens out to a tone you can't read, "You speak as though you know me, sprite - but I don't recall ever knowing you."

There's a bitter chuckle in your throat, though you swallow it down. This is always the part you hated the most. You bit back a few oncoming tears, trying desperately to shrug away the hurt that hits you every time you hear an iteration of those same words. Ganondorf watches your eyes grow a tad misty, his brows furrowing at your sudden shift from your initially playful demeanor. "Not yet you don't," your wavering voice whispers up to him. You don't give him time to react, kissing the tips of your fingers and pressing them lightly to his forehead. Immediately Ganondorf jumps back from you, his head beginning to pound as visions bombarded him at full velocity.

"YOU!" he barks, pain swimming in his head. His vision flashes, your faye visage totally different now - soft green vines envelope the length of your body. He remembers vividly the fountain he'd always frequent to find you. Remembers the way your long nails felt against his scalp when his hair was much, much shorter than it is. He recalls sealing you away in a rage, the evil inside of him unable to fathom why you'd help the very person meant to be his downfall.

His skull throbs again, and suddenly he feels a salty breeze upon his face. He sees your iridescent skin, revels in the memory of how smooth you were against his ruggedness. He remembers telling you how much he'd missed you, and how the sea was lonely, but punishment in the sacred realm just without your reach was far lonelier. It comes back to him the nights spent watching the waves with you, your long illustrious locks floating about against the backdrop of the setting sun.

Once more the rush of pain stabs at his head, his visions swiftly reconnecting to a darker world. One surrounded in a shroud of twilight and deep hues of the chaos he had caused. He has your soft face in the palm of his hand - you look so scared - and yet you clung to him. He remembers promising you a new world at his side, you choose not to hear it. You've done this before - though he does not know this. Your big eyes brim with tears, but he brushes them away before they can fall. His memory jogs as he hears you tell him you love him, your luminous, opalescent wings flittering as your heart does. Ganondorf remembers sealing his lips over your own, pinning you to the nearest wall and etching a love on your skin that has transcended the many lifetimes he's lived already with you.

Suddenly the pain stops.

Ganondorf heaves, realizing he's been brought to his knees from this ordeal. His large hand clutches his head, thick fingers weaving through his long scarlet locks. There's a struggle to catch his breath, but he ultimately does as he blinks the scattered memories back into the confines of his mind. Lifting his head, he sees your tearful expression with all the recognition in the world. His steadying hand drops to his knee - he picks himself up. Heavy, thudding footsteps make their way toward you slowly, and judging by his hardened, blank expression, you're a bit fearful for what the sudden onset of several lifetimes' worth of memories could have done to him so you brace yourself - ready to transform and leave at a moment's notice.

You shut your eyes as he's suddenly in front of you, only for them to open once more. His hand caresses your cheek with complete tenderness, "You..." comes his strained voice. When your eyes meet, you see it: him. The Ganondorf who has loved you through every version of him that's existed. You lean into his hand, crystalline tears rolling down the gentle curves of your face, "Me..." Ganondorf wastes no time claiming your lips. A kiss that you very enthusiastically meet him halfway with. Before you know it, your legs are scooped up and wrapped around his waist, all while his lips are still connected to yours.

At your brief parting, Ganondorf lends you a genuine smile. He rests his forehead against your collarbone.

"You always know how to find me, my love. Faye of my heart, you've come back to me."

Arms coming around his head, you embrace him tight to your chest, "No length of time, nor change of your looks would ever keep me from finding you."

And you always would. You had found love once...with him. It made you thankful that you were blessed with eternal life; because although Hylia would strike him down at all costs; though you knew of the evil he truly was deep down; though you were sure the goddess would curse you for the atrocity of laying with her enemy - you would love him every time.

#God...I'm gonna hold this one close to my heart #A love story for the ages #legend of zelda #ocarina of time #wind waker #twilight princess #tears of the kingdom #ganondorf #ganondorf x reader #x reader #great fairy!reader #fairy!reader #love transcending time #fluff #hurt/comfort #tears of the kingdom fanfiction #totk fanfic #ganondorf imagines #totk ganondorf

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flame-resistant · 2 months

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He felt sick. Why did you look at him like that? Why were you being so nice? Why weren't you scared of him like everyone else? It made his skin itch just enough; he needed it to stop.

Content: stalking, death threats, yandere

He remembered you well, the look you gave when you offered him the soda. How you said it was an extra by mistake, a kind gesture that just didn’t sit well with him. What was your game? Didn’t know who he was? Even if you didn’t, how could you not see he was bad news, how disgusting he looked. A bitter feeling entered his chest as Shigaraki watched you leave, off to do God knows what, just a stupid little civilian who didn’t know any better. You made him sick.

It didn’t take him long to find your social media, only a few days of trying to fish for information. The area the two of you met in was near a university, you looked about his age, so a student fit and damn was he correct. Even there you presented as this kind individual who could do no wrong. Helping with the needy and deprived like some saint, an obsessive thought edging its way into his mind. What would happen if someone made you snap? A grin crossed his dry lips as the bright screen created a halo around his thin figure, but he was far from angelic, and he was damned to prove you weren’t as well.

“Hey who is this loser posting hate comments in your posts?” A friend had asked after you received a few hate comments, while cyberbullying and trolling wasn’t a new topic, it was odd that your small blog would be hit. Shrugging your shoulders, eyes skimmed the words from the anonymous user: “fraud”, “die in a hole”, “you think this makes you good?”; it almost seemed this user was taking everything personal. Though you couldn’t figure out just what you did to them specifically.

“It’s probably just someone mad and taking it out on random blogs, no? We never interacted before so we can’t possibly know each other. Look, we don't even follow the same accounts.” That was a good point, your friend mumbled in agreement. Perhaps it really just was some spam account, they only told you to be careful in case it got more extreme.

“Just be sure to take screenshots if they threaten you.”

And you did, the comments not stopping only growing by the hour. It got to the point you had to block the account, something you usually didn’t do but felt pressured due to the volume of spam comments and your friend saying they deserved it. A part of you was tempted to just reach out and ask what their problem was, an idea that was dropped when mentioned in your social group. Brows furrowed as the others called you too nice, that people don’t think like you, that some are just fucked up.

It seemed to be going well, after the block the hate comments stopped, and things started to go back into the boring norm of college classes and hanging out in your free time. A notification on your phone distracted you from the recent discussion with your study group. Blood leaving your being as you read the message sent to you, a new account, but the same words.

“Did you really think blocking me would help? I knew it, you’re just like the rest of the trash in this world. One day you’re going to wake up and everything around you is going to be dead, that goody-two-shoes attitude won’t be able to help you either. You’re all going to die and I’m going to do it.”

All attention was back on you when your phone dropped to the floor, your face pale from the feeling of anxiety growing inside you. Saying a quick “excuse me”, they watched you leave to the bathroom in a fit of paranoia. The mirror staring back at you showed a reflection that was never crossed before; widened eyes and mouth agape as you caught your breath. Mind raced with thoughts as you moved to check the stalls behind you, a breath of relief seeing that you were alone.

After the lovely encounter with your new pen pal, your friends convinced you to go to the police in hopes of finding the creep. Though it was shown they couldn’t pinpoint a good enough address, something about a VPN, your mind distracted by other things than computer tech. Looking out the window, every person became a possible threat. Was it the guy in the hoodie getting into a cab? Maybe the woman who was screaming at her phone while ordering a coffee. Your trust in humanity slowly dwindles, a hand on your shoulder breaking those negative thoughts as your friends give a few reassuring smiles. You weren’t fighting this by yourself, you had support.

Taking the police’s advice on blocking the account and switching your social to private, you had a bit more hope that maybe this would end. The small group headed back to your apartment as your friends discussed how crazy the person was. Your mind once more lost in thought on trying to figure out just what you did. The person said you were a goody-two-shoes, maybe they just meant your social media likes and posts, though something in your gut said it was more than just that. It was like they took your existence personally, as if you had truly offended them. A part of you wanted to at least try and apologize for whatever the fuck you did, but the other part knew it would anger the anon more. For now, you decided to push it aside, you did what you could.

Again, things seemed to be calming down, while it was frustrating to be on private, you knew you had to wait it out until things died down. A few weeks, maybe a month or two? God, you just wanted this to be over with, surely the person must have moved on by now, right? Someone couldn’t be that obsessed with freaking you out. So, after a month and a half you opened up your social to the public again. A few happy comments from some mutuals on seeing you back, glad to hear you were doing well. It felt good, almost therapeutic to have that control back.

Another week and still no hate comments from random accounts, maybe they really did give up? You could be so hopeful. Checking your phone for a notification at the store entrance, you moved to place it back in your pocket before being hit by an oncoming person’s shoulder. A quick apology was sent their way as you fumbled with your phone from almost dropping it. Not receiving a reply, you figured the person was just in a rush. The dark hoodie blending in with a crowd of bystanders. Hearing your phone beep caused your eyes to leave the crowd and until the new notification. A simple sentence message from a new account: watch it.

“So, the creep really does know you? We need to go back to the police!” After the encounter, you booked it to your friend’s place, not feeling safe going shopping alone. Shaking your head, you knew it would be pointless. You didn’t get a good look at the person; from what you could see they looked male but that was just a hunch. The police would just shrug it off like they did before, not enough evidence did nothing to help them possibly hunt down a culprit.

“They’ll just blow it off again, tell me to put my blog on private again. It was torture not getting to talk to my friends outside of our group, I don’t want to do it again.”

“Yeah, but this creep saw you! They literally shoulder bumped you!

“But I didn’t see them.”

The two of you fell quiet, a huff from them knowing you were right despite how annoying and stressful the situation was. “So, the guy can just keep stalking you and the police won’t do shit, ridiculous.”

It was, but it was also legal. An agreement came after this that you wouldn’t be left alone if it could be worked out. More eyes meant more chances of seeing who the guy was, which made sense. Part of you felt bad that your friends made sure to be around before and after your classes and even walking you home. They would reassure you it was fine, that they rather do this than hang up missing posters.

Every now and then a new message would surface from a new account, statements about what you were wearing, even pictures taken of yourself and your friends. Screenshots saved before blocking the next account. It was almost starting to feel normal, as if on cue you knew he would send you a new notification on the dot. And one of those days you finally felt bold, what could he do anyway, you weren’t alone so he couldn’t exactly hurt you, besides you almost wanted him to do something in public to put an end to this and call the police.

moth.eater sent: You should try the mountain dew, maybe it would give some spice to your lame life. netizen.55 sent: Why are you doing this? What did I even do to you? moth.eater sent: I just want to see you tick.

That was it, all he wanted was to piss you off? He was doing a shitty job at that, if anything he was just scaring you into a corner. A phrase you remembered from your psych class came back to your mind, anger was a secondary emotion usually from rejection or fear. This guy was trying to scare you to the point of anger, the thought alone didn’t settle well with you. That rush of adrenaline hitting you once more before you could rationalize your response.

netizen.55 sent: I’m not scared of you.

That seemed to do it, it was the first time he blocked you. A feeling of pride filled your lungs, it’s been a while since you felt this satisfied. You won this weird argument; the block proved it enough. He should leave you alone now.

It itched; his skin never stopped burning despite how much he scratched. Red eyes stared through the screen; past the words you so bluntly wrote. You weren’t scared of him? Maybe not right now, but you would be. Every single person in this stupid world would be, sensei said so after all. The chair rolled back behind Shigaraki as he grabbed his old hoodie.

Final exams were nearing, but now that your number one hater had been leaving you alone it seemed less daunting. Your friends were even able to do their own things again which helped the guilt die down, no more being some protected being. Picking up the last textbook from the library, it was a straight direction back to your apartment. The time showed just past 7:15pm meaning a few hours of studying before crashing. Sounded like a good Thursday to you, especially with no notifications! A need to skip home almost overcame you, though the look of bystanders kept you in check.

With the apartment door shut and books tossed on the desk, it was time to get to work. Cracking your balcony door just a bit to let a breeze in, your eyes moved to observe the text. It was a relatively quiet night, not yet the weekend in which other college students would be howling below after a few drinks. Sometimes a police siren would go by, nothing too dangerous from the sounds of it, besides a few heroes were patrolling the area. Getting up to take a break, the clock now showing 8:43pm, it didn’t hit you how long you had been reading for. A hand moving to massage your face and wake up. One more hour you told yourself as you walked towards the kitchen for a drink.

Weird, did you leave the kitchen sink on? Brows furrowed as you tried to remember each step you made when you got home but couldn’t really focus due to being in a slight daze. Maybe you washed a dish and forgot to turn the faucet off. Shrugging it off, you turned the handle and moved to the fridge. Cold pizza and a few beers stared back at you, a mental note to get more groceries this weekend was made as you went back to the sink. Maybe past you knew what they were on about with the sink being on.

Cup in your hand, you stopped dead in your tracks, eyes widening from what was staring back at you. The hallway that faced the sink was empty, a window at the very back that usually helped you see what was going on in the dark apartment was now blocked by the figure. Red eyes stared back at your own, each step you took to move back was followed by another from the person.

“You said you weren’t scared of me; you look like everyone else who sees me.” The voice sounded scratched, like he hadn’t drunk anything in years, as if he was the embodiment of a desert. If it didn’t hit before, it hit now on who it was. Quick to run to the bathroom door, the closest one that would get you away from the stalker, you let out a strangled grunt when you were shoved against it instead. Face now pressed into the wood as the palm of his hand kept you in place. “I knew it, once that little facade breaks, you’re just as shitty as everyone else.”

“Let go!”

Not caring about the panic in your voice, you tried to turn around or at least get him to move, a “tsk” was heard as the hooded man showed you the cup you were once holding. Confusion turned into fear as the cup began to turn into dust just by his touch alone, a silent warning that you would be next if you kept it up. Still processing everything that was going on, the only question that could come to mind was asked, your nervous system in full overdrive with logic out the window. “Why?”

“I told you; I just want to see what’s under that mask. You should really think twice on who you offer free drinks to.”

Darkness was the final reply you got, the world shutting down around you. If you survived this, you would keep the extra soda for yourself.

#flameresistant #shigaraki tomura #shigaraki imagine #shigaraki bnha #shigaraki my hero academia #shigaraki x y/n #yandere shigaraki #poor reader just had an extra soda

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doxypsychlean · 2 years

Text

Cupid's Chokehold

Aegon ii Targaryen x Reader

|Oneshot|

Warnings: Explicit language, implied nudity ig?? dude's ass was out for everyone to see in that one scene anyway?

Thou shan't repost/copy/ translate any of my work or I'll sneak into your home late at night and bite your nose off!

English isn't my first language. I don't proofread. I slap commas wherever I feel they're needed.

A/N: Lol this one's kinda sad...Oh yeah, and no use of Y/N, couldn't get myself to do it.

"Where the fuck were you last night?" She entered their shared quarters, angry tears threatening to spill from her eyes. "For fuck's sake, Aegon!"

"Hm?"

"Where were you!?"

"What?"

She tore the sheets off of him. All he did was roll over and mutter something under his breath.

"Why do I even bother..." She sighed in defeat, crashing down on the corner of the bed. Their bed. At least in principle. In reality, the princess had spent most of their marriage sleeping on one of the lounging chairs they had in their chambers. She couldn't bring herself to get into the same bed as him. Especially when he smelled of wine, vomit, other women and Gods know what else...

"I never wanted this, you know..." She said more to herself, than him. "I would've been more than happier to marry some unknown lord of some unknown pile of shit on the other side of the realm."

There was no stopping now, it all came crashing down. The words kept spilling from her mouth.

"I can still see it. Me and this fanthom lord husband of mine, smiling at eachother, our children running around. A babe growing in my womb. I could've been so happy, Aegon...So,so happy."

Unbeknownst to her, he had heard it all. Red puffy eyes looked back at her, tears creeping their way down his flushed face and landing on the soft pillow under the prince's head. He sat up, hand reaching out for her.

"I never knew... I-" His voice trembling.

"How could have you ever known, you're never here..." She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, moving away from his touch. "Sometimes I wonder if you even know my fucking name"

She stood up abruptly and started circling around the room like a caged beast. A pair of crystal blue eyes followed her movements. Aegon could see it all now, clear as day. The pain, the distrust, the resentment.

"I tried loving you... Back when Cupid still had me in his chokehold" the woman let out a bitter laugh. "You fucking idiot, you have no idea what it's like! All I wanted was someone to love me. Someone to fucking love back! If that is love, then I don't know what love is..."

She slammed a hand against the wall, bones shattering. All the adrenaline that rushed through the young body kept her from feeling the severity of what she'd just done to herself.

"Instead I got you- a lifelong sentence. And I have yet to figure out what kind of monstrosity I must have committed to deserve such a punishment."

"Please, I'll-"

"You'll what? Change?" She interrupted. Her voice was barely above a whisper now, clutching her broken hand with the one that was still intact. "Oh, please. You've had all the time in the damn world to do it. You think me yelling at you once is what's gonna do it. Please, Aegon, even I am not that naive."

The prince looked down at her broken hand. He knew it. She was right.

"My dear, sweet Aegon..." The woman grabbed his chin between the thumb and index finger of her good hand, lifting up so he could meet her gaze once again. "You'll spend the rest of your life chasing whores and bottles. You're not good for much else. Remember that."

She bent down and kissed him gently. The first and last kiss they'd shared since the wedding ceremony. His eyes fluttered shut.

"Not long after your pretty silver hair will start to fall out. You'll get weak. Frail. The only children you'll father will be bastards that you'll never meet. And the only person that would have tried to love you for who you were, will be long gone..."

She was at the door by the time his eyes opened back up.

"Farewell, my love."

#aegon ii x reader #aegon ii targaryen #aegon the usurper #aegon targaryen x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd #hotd one shot #gameogthronesfanfic #gameofthrones #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen #queen alicent #alicent hightower #oneshot #angst

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wenclairly · 15 days

Note

I will probably just write this myself someday but

A fic where the Stalker is revealed to be Yoko. Much like Rowan, she has convinced herself that Wednesday is dangerous, and wants to keep her bestie Enid from getting hurt again. Unlike Rowan, she was radicalized by MorningSong, whose "therapy" app actually exaggerates fear and doubt to dangerous extremes.

letters, knives, and second chances | wenclair

wednesday addams x enid sinclair

description: wednesday and enid receive a note from wendesday's stalker, leading to revelations that they never could have expected.

tags/warnings: stalker, stalking, post-canon.

wc: 3.5k

a/n: thank you kbb306 for this amazing request, and our first one no less :) we apologize for a tiny delay! we've been trying to balance our own writing with this blog too. and we're very excited to share our first co-written req!! we do have another requested one shot in the works, and feel free to request more guys we LOVE when you do! enjoy this lil one ;) - jes & aly

The metallic clang of the cafeteria doors echoed behind Wednesday as she emerged, the lingering taste of lukewarm gruel a bitter reminder of Nevermore’s culinary shortcomings. The midday sun was casting its usual shadows across the cobblestone courtyard; yet something felt amiss. The distorted patches of darkness seemed to cause an unease in Wednesday, one that had long taken root since her return to school.

Two months had passed since the harrowing events that had nearly torn Nevermore apart, and the scars were still visible. The manicured lawns bore the scorch marks of battle, the stone gargoyles seemed to leer with a newfound malevolence, and the whispers of students now carried an undercurrent of fear that hadn’t been there before.

Wednesday tugged her blazer tighter around her, a futile attempt to ward off the growing chill. Even her usually vibrant roommate had subdued, her infectious laughter now punctuated by moments of quiet introspection. It was as if the darkness that had threatened to consume them all had left a permanent stain.

As Wednesday made her way back to the dorm, her mind drifted to Enid’s therapy session. The new therapist, a chipper woman with a penchant for pastel sweaters and motivational posters, had arrived in the wake of the chaos, a self-proclaimed expert in trauma recovery. Enid had embraced the sessions with her usual enthusiasm, but Wednesday remained skeptical. Could a few platitudes and breathing exercises truly mend the wounds inflicted by a centuries-old monster?

Lost in her thoughts, Wednesday rounded the corner. Only to be jolted back to reality by an unexpected sight. Their door, usually firmly shut, stood slightly ajar. A frown tugged at her lips as she approached, her pace quickening with each step. Had Enid forgotten to close it before leaving? Or had someone else ventured into their shared space, disturbing the delicate balance they had carefully constructed?

The air hung heavy with an unfamiliar scent, a subtle blend of cedarwood and something floral, decidedly not Enid’s usual werewolf musk. A chill slithered down Wednesday’s spine. With a soft push, the door creaked open.

The room appeared undisturbed at first glance. Enid’s collection of stuffed animals were still perched on her bed, their wide eyes watching Wednesday with an unnerving intensity. And her overflowing bookshelf of romance novels and werewolf folklore remained untouched. Even Wednesday’s typewriter sat calmly on her desk, a half-finished poem visible in its carriage.

But as her eyes adjusted, a discordant detail pierced the illusion of normalcy. A crisp white envelope laying on the inky blackness of her bedspread. It was intrusion, a violation of her personal space that set her teeth on edge.

With a measured step, Wednesday approached the bed. Her eyes fixed on the envelope as she reached out to brush her fingers against the smooth paper. It was unsealed, an invitation to delve into its contents.

She swiftly slid her finger beneath the flap and tore it open. A single sheet of paper, thick and heavy, fell into her hand. The handwriting was an attempt at elegance, but held an obvious note of sloppiness. Yet it wasn’t how the letters were penned that unnerved her, but the words themselves.

“Dearest Wednesday,” the letter began, “Your darkness casts a long shadow, a blight on the innocence of Nevermore. I see the danger you pose, the poison you spread with your twisted words and morbid obsessions. Enid, my dear sweet Enid, deserves better than to be ensnared by your darkness.”

A cold fury ignited in Wednesday’s chest. But she read on, each word twisting the knot in her stomach tighter.

“I will not allow you to corrupt her any more than you have, to drag her further down your abyss. You will leave Nevermore, or I will ensure that Enid pays the price. Consider this a warning, a taste of a different darkness that awaits you, should you refuse to heed my words.”

The letter ended abruptly, the final sentence hanging venomously in the air. Wednesday’s grip tightened on the paper, her knuckles turning white as she fought to contain her rage. This was not a prank, not a childish attempt at intimidation. This was a declaration of war, a threat against the person she held most dear.

* * *

When Enid returned from therapy, she entered the dorm to see Wednesday furiously typing away, the familiar sound of the typewriter clacking aggressively. Enid’s eyebrow raised, though she didn’t question Wednesday’s anger. It could range from something serious to a minor inconvenience that had ruined her day. As logical as Wednesday was, Enid had to admit that sometimes she was quite brash.

It wasn’t the aggressive typing that worried Enid. Instead, it was the way Wednesday stood up and pulled the paper from the typewriter, crumpling it and flattening it down onto her desk. Thing was waiting there and kicked it into the waiting wastebasket. After that, the clacking sounds stopped. Wednesday sat at her desk and huffed a loud sigh.

“Everything okay?” Enid asked hesitantly. She’d beelined for her bed, laying down with her laptop resting on her legs. She had an essay due within the next few days, and she was terrible at getting them done on time. She had considered asking for help, but Wednesday’s apparent bad mood was enough to prevent her from doing so.

“I’m fine.” Wednesday answered briskly, not even bothering to turn around to face Enid. Instead she stared at her typewriter as if trying to burn a hole into it.

Enid hummed thoughtfully, then slid her laptop off her legs and onto the bed beside her. “You don’t seem fine.” Enid pointed out, much to Wednesday’s chagrin. The girl’s shoulders tensed and she turned, her permanent glare boring into Enid. “Yikes. Okay.” Enid immediately turned her attention back to her laptop, turning so her back was facing Wednesday.

Things were quiet for a moment, before she heard another long sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m simply frustrated. It seems my ability to write has conveniently decided to disappear.” There was a slight tremor in Wednesday’s voice. It was definitely more than that.

“Writer’s block?” Enid suggested, her gaze moving back to Wednesday. The raven was resting a hand on her temple, her elbow propped up on the desk.

“Absolutely not. I have never once been afflicted with writer’s block and I certainly will not begin to be now.” Wednesday drummed her fingers on her desk.

Enid’s sensitive hearing picked up on the drumming. Her eyebrow rose in a skeptical expression. “Maybe something else is bothering you?”

Wednesday froze at the remark. Enid tilted her head. That was an indication of her being correct. It seemed clear enough to her that something else was going on inside of Wednesday’s head. Something that was bothering her. “What’s wrong?”

Enid watched as her roommate looked at her, then averted her gaze, then looked at her again. She was unsure, nervous, even. “I received another message from my stalker.”

Enid perked up, sitting up straight in her bed upon hearing the news. “Really? What was it?”

“A threat.” Wednesday said ominously, opening the drawer at the side of her desk and pulling a letter out of it. Enid got on her feet, swiftly crossing the line between their two halves and taking the letter from Wednesday once it was offered to her. Her eyes scanned the piece of paper, and with each line she felt more nauseated.

“‘My dear sweet Enid’?” Enid quoted the letter, frowning. “Whoever wrote this clearly has no idea who you are.” She felt anger of her own festering in her chest, building up. Who did this person think they were? Insulting Wednesday and their friendship. As if Enid was too weak to be friends with someone like Wednesday.

Enid was tired of being seen as weak.

“I have a relatively good idea of who it might be.” Wednesday’s burning glare returned back to the paper loaded in her typewriter. “Who else would refer to you that way? It must be Ajax.” There was a sort of bitterness in her voice. It wasn’t aggressive enough to be anger, but it wasn’t placid enough to be just a simple dislike. It was deeper than that. Enid wondered if she was overthinking it, but if she didn’t know any better, she’d think Wednesday was jealous.

“That’s true.” Enid’s eyebrows furrowed. “But he’s never called me ‘dear’ or ‘sweet’.”

“A failure of a partner, if you ask me.” Wednesday grumbled under her breath.

Enid blinked. “That’s a little harsh.”

“Not harsh enough. I should have nailed his heart to a wall before you two reached whatever you define it to be now.” Wednesday looked up at Enid, who was staring down at her with a confused expression.

Enid sighed softly. “It’s complicated.” She quickly muttered, not particularly in the mood to detail how the best word she could use to describe what she and Ajax had was “situationship”.

“That’s what they all say.” Wednesday bit back, turning her gaze back to the blank piece of paper in front of her.

“Okay, well-” Enid started to argue, then paused and took a deep breath. “That’s besides the point. What are we supposed to do about this stalker?”

A smile tugged at the corner of Wednesday’s lips. “I could always build another makeshift guillotine.”

“Wednesday, no.” Enid huffed. “Something that doesn’t involve killing my…” She hesitated, “...him.” She finished, unsure once again how to describe Ajax.

Wednesday scoffed. “You’d be better off without him.”

Enid waved her off. “That’s besides the point.” She rubbed her temple with two fingers, starting to get a headache from Wednesday’s one-sided hatred of Ajax. “Why don’t we just talk to him?”

“I suppose. But I’m bringing a knife with me.”

Enid already knew that Wednesday wasn’t going to budge on that point, so she didn’t bother trying to fight it. “Fine.” She said lowly. Wednesday was already standing up and moving to her bed, kneeling down and reaching underneath it. “Wait, you mean right now?”

“Yes, right now. We need to get to the bottom of this immediately. These letters are unacceptable.” Wednesday pulled a small box out from under her bed, opening it to reveal an intricate dagger.

“You don’t-” Enid rolled her eyes. “Okay. Fine.” She agreed begrudgingly once again. “Let’s just get this over with, yeah?”

“Alright.” Wednesday stood up, hiding the dagger in her sleeve, and began walking towards the door, Enid in tow as usual. The two of them exited the dorm, bent on ending this “stalker” business right then and there.

The quad at Nevermore was a microcosm of the school’s social hierarchy. Flocks of sirens gossiped near the fountains, their scales shimmering in the afternoon light. A group of gorgons, their stony gazes fixed on chessboards, hurled under the shade of the outside trees. And nestled in the corner, at a small stony table, was Ajax Petropolus sitting beside Bianca Barclay.

Wednesday and Enid approached the pair. Enid’s usually bouncy gait was tempered by a hint of apprehension as she trailed behind Wednesday’s, whose stride remained as purposeful as ever. Her eyes were fixed on their target with the intensity of a predator stalking its prey.

Ajax, oblivious to their approach, was mid-sentence. Bianca, her eyes half-closed against the sun, seemed to be humoring him with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Petropolus,” Wednesday’s voice cut through the air like a knife.

Ajax’s head snapped up, his eyes widening in surprise as he took in the sight of Wednesday and Enid standing before him. A nervous smile flickered across his face before it was quickly replaced by a look of feigned nonchalance.

“Yo, Wednesday, Enid,” he greeted them with a casual nod of his head. “What’s up?”

Wednesday’s lips curled in disgust. “Don’t,” she snapped, the word dripping with venom. “We have a matter of grave importance to discuss with you.”

Enid, sensing the rising tension, stepped forward in an attempt to be a calming counterpoint to Wednesday’s iciness. “Ajax, we need to talk about the letters,” she said, her eyes searching his face.

Ajax blinked, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. “Letters?” he echoed, his voice tinged with genuine confusion. “What letters?”

Bianca tilted her head, even her expression betrayed a hint of bewilderment. “You mean fan mail, Enid?” she quipped, a playful lilt to her voice. “Saving Nevermore isn’t taken lightly. You’ve got quite the following now I see.”

Enid’s patience, already stretched thin, snapped. “Not fan mail, Bianca,” she retorted, her voice rising an octave. “Threatening letters. From Wednesday’s stalker.”

The word hung in the air. Ajax’s expression shifted from confusion to concern, while Bianca’s demeanor was replaced by a mask of guarded curiosity.

“A stalker?” Ajax repeated, his voice barely a whisper. “But who would…?”

Wednesday cut him off with a chillingly calm voice, her eyes narrowing to slits. “You tell us, Petropolus,” she hissed, her words dripping with accusation. “You seem awfully confused, perhaps suspiciously so.”

Ajax recoiled under Wednesday’s piercing gaze. “Woah, Wednesday,” he stammered slightly, raising his hands in a gesture of defense. “I don’t know anything about any stalker. What even makes you think that?”

That’s when Bianca stepped in, her voice sharp and defensive. “Back off, Wednesday,” she snapped. “Ajax is the last person who would do something like this. He’s been nothing but kind and supportive to Enid—”

Wednesday was quick to interrupt with a scoff. “Kind and supportive?” she echoed, a venomous edge to her voice. “Or perhaps he’s simply following a well-trodden path of deception, lulling us into a false sense of security while harboring sinister intentions.”

Ajax flinched as if struck, his face paling under the intensity of her accusation. Bianca bristled, her lips forming a thin line of displeasure.

Enid, however, had reached her limit. She stepped forward, her voice a low growl. “Enough, Wednesday,” she hissed. “You’re being unfair now. Ajax… isn’t him.”

A tense silence descended upon them. Wednesday was momentarily taken aback by the outburst, remaining silent as the implications seeped into her. It stung. But there was a creeping sense that perhaps Enid was right.

After a beat, Ajax finally spoke, his voice a hesitant plea. “Enid, I don’t get it,” he said, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What did the letter even say? What kind of threats are we talking about?”

Enid’s breath hitched, the words of the letter had been a sour taste on her tongue. “It said,” she began, lowering her voice, “something about Wednesday being a ‘danger’... a ‘blight on the innocence of Nevermore’. It says that I… I deserve better than to be ‘ensnared by her darkness’.” She paused for a moment, tracing her mind back to what else the letter had said. A knot formed in her stomach as she remembered the rest, the threat to her own safety. Enid couldn’t bring herself to say it aloud.

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. “Such theatrics,” she muttered, a hint of disgust lacing her tone. “One would think we were dealing with a Shakespearean villain, not some cowardly stalker hiding behind vague threats and flowery language.”

Bianca dismissively waved her hand. “Sounds like the kind of fear-mongering nonsense MorningSong’s ‘wellness app’ is always peddling,” she scoffed, the disdain evident. “All that talk of darkness and danger, it’s enough to make one paranoid.”

“MorningSong?” Wednesday echoed, deceptively calm. “Who here subscribes to that drivel?”

Ajax shifted uncomfortably on the bench, his eyes darting nervously towards Bianca. “Yoko,” he blurted out, the name a low mumble.

Enid’s eyes widened. “Yoko has that app?” Her voice was filled with incredulity.

“I told her not to get it.” Bianca hummed pensively, shaking her head. “But she said it was just a joke, that she wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I didn’t think she’d take it seriously.”

Wednesday’s expression darkened. “Well. I suppose we know who our stalker is. Good thing I brought a knife.”

“You brought a what?” Ajax blinked, watching closely as Wednesday gestured towards her sleeve.

“It’s Wednesday. What were you expecting?” Bianca grumbled sarcastically.

Enid waved them off. “Does it really matter? Let’s just go find Yoko and talk to her. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. She knows what we’ve been through. It’s gotta be that stupid app.”

“Good luck.” Bianca called as they walked away, settling back down next to Ajax, who looked as confused as always.

“When I find that vampire, I’m going to shove a stake through her heart.” Wednesday hissed under her breath. The two of them made their way to Yoko’s dorm, Wednesday fuming and Enid feeling more unsure with each step.

When they finally arrived, Enid went to knock on the door, but Wednesday simply shoved it open with no regard of who might be on the other side or what they might be doing.

“Tanaka.” Wednesday practically growled, entering the room like an ominous storm cloud.

Yoko was sitting at her desk, her laptop open in front of her. She jolted, her shoulders tensing. She whipped around in her chair, staring directly at both Wednesday and Enid, a nervous smile flickering over her face. “Uh… Hey, Enid. Wednesday.” She greeted, her voice shaking slightly.

“Care to explain your pathetic letters?” Wednesday stormed over to Yoko, slamming her hand onto the desk and leaning over the vampire.

“Wednesday-” Enid started. She was promptly cut off by Yoko, who stood up. Given Wednesday’s small stature, Yoko stood a few inches taller than her, looking down at her with a glare. “I’ll explain it alright. Enid wouldn’t have been hurt by the Hyde if it wasn’t for you. She wouldn’t have come crying to my dorm if it wasn’t for you. All you do is hurt her, Wednesday. You’re dangerous and reckless.”

Wednesday was clearly ready to fight, but Enid crossed the room and put space between the two of them, holding her arm out in front of Wednesday. “Yoko, where is this all coming from? You were there the night we fought the Hyde. You were there the night she saved the school. You know what happened.”

Yoko hesitated, shoving her hands into her pockets. “This app I downloaded. It was telling me that something dark and foreboding was coming. I kept getting stuff like that, and the only thing I could think of… given she was the reason everything happened in the first place…”

“That app spews nonsense in exchange for popularity. You are a fool for taking anything it tells you to heart.” Wednesday snapped, barely able to hold back her anger. “You should have known better.”

Yoko seemed unsure of herself now, her shoulders slumping. “I… I just wanted what was best for Enid.”

Enid sighed softly. There wasn’t any anger in her expression, and her tone was gentle. “You don’t get to decide that for me, Yoko. I know you care, but Wednesday and I care about each other. And we’ve worked out our issues.” She looked back at Wednesday, whose demeanor had softened. “She would fight for me in a heartbeat. Even if she refuses to admit it.”

Wednesday grumbled something under her breath. Enid didn’t hear it, though she was sure that it was yet another empty threat.

“Come on, Yoko. You know better than this.” Enid chided quietly. “Delete the app, and all is forgiven.”

“Who says all is forgiven?” Wednesday asked, straightening her posture. Until Enid glared at her and she relented. “Fine.”

Yoko took her phone out of her pocket, scrolling through it and deleting MorningSong from it. “It’s gone.” She flipped her phone around, showing both Wednesday and Enid that it was completely gone. “I only got it as a joke, I wasn’t expecting it to be so effective.”

“It’s all about psychology. If you had any sense of logic, you would realize that.” Wednesday relaxed now that the threat was gone, her tone less abrasive.

“Now that that’s over with…” Enid started, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. “I think you two should have some bonding time! It’ll be great. My two besties, getting along!”

“Absolutely not-” Wednesday tried to object, but was immediately cut off by Enid.

“We should go get coffee at the Weathervane to celebrate! And Yoko, you should definitely bring Divina. We’ll become a gang, the four of us!” She raised her hands to her chest, balling them into fists. Excitement was radiating off of her. Excitement so genuine, that not even Wednesday could deny her wishes. “Alright, stop your incessant jabbering.” Wednesday turned to exit the dorm, glancing back at Yoko. “Meet us in the quad in fifteen minutes sharp, Tanaka.” She put an emphasis on the word “sharp”, wanting to be completely clear.

Yoko, who was stunned by the quick forgiveness, could only stand and nod as the two girls exited her dorm, Enid talking Wednesday’s ear off and Wednesday only able to listen grumpily as they walked side by side, shoulder to shoulder.

#wenclair #wednesday #fanfic #writing #wednesday addams #enid sinclair #wednesday netflix #wenclair fanfic #ao3 #fanfiction

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bitterkarmaa · 10 months

Note

Eclipse: *walks in with little Veil*

Everyone in the room:

*whispering* the fucc?

Re-writing this in 4k

Pt 1

Eclipse emerges into the main room with little hesitation, having already devoted himself to allowing this type of vulnerability to show. He didn’t know why he was showing it, but…he felt like he needed to. For Veil, perhaps, or to assure himself that he was a comforting presence now, instead of a threatening one.

No matter the reason, he was here now, and there was no going back.

But, oh boy, does he want to go back the moment that everyone turns to look at him.

He would’ve done just that if it wasn’t for the way Veil tightens his grip under all those eyes, hiding timidly amongst Eclipse’s oil-streaked clothing. The elder animatronic stands his ground, as he usually does, despite the looks he is being given.

Judgement dances in the stances and stares of everyone around the room, and, for just a moment, Eclipse wants to wipe those looks away. He wants to snap and slash, catching each one of them in his claws like wild animals caught in the clutches of a snare.

But he doesn’t.

He’s been good.

“What did you need me for?” He breaks the silence with a tight voice, one that demands an answer so that he may leave.

“Uh…are we just gonna…ignore that…?” Moon motions to Veil in his arms, a wrench dangling from his hand.

“Ignore what?” Eclipse asks innocently. He knows playing dumb won’t get him very far, but since when has that stopped him from doing something?

“Don’t play stupid!”

Blood Moon bristles, their claws digging into the beanbag they were previously peacefully situated upon. Now they kneel amongst it’s fabric with wild eyes, shoulders tight, back arched like a cat about to leap into a battle.

Eclipse glances down to them in a calm manner.

“Play stupid? Me? You’re amusing, boys.” He smiles in a mock sort of warmth, addressing his sons as if nothing is wrong. In reality, there is nothing truly wrong, but…

This seems to agitate them, for some reason.

Hearing Blood Moon’s sharp tone seems to frighten Veil, of whom begins to shake in his arms. He shuts his eyes tightly against the growing fear that sinks its teeth into his head, willing it to leave him be.

“You-“ Blood Moon starts, voice barely above a growl. Lunar reaches out and lays a hand onto their arm, his own eyes round with worry.

“Stop that! We’re having a moment!” They snap, shoving Lunar’s hand off with more aggression than they intended. Lunar lets out a squeak and scoots back, but…he doesn’t seem scared. No, he almost seems…angry…

“That was mean!” Lunar crosses his arms over his chest, eyeing Blood Moon with unwavering determination. They don’t even look at him.

“That thing hurt all of us, and you’re just…what, caring for it? Being gentle with it?! Replacing us with it?! Hell, it killed you!” Blood Moon snarls, noting with satisfaction that Veil flinches on almost every word.

Eclipse can’t help but bark out a laugh.

“Replace you? What are you going on about?” He asks, tone dripping with amusement. This only seems to upset them more.

“You’re not even listening!!” They shout, slamming their hand down onto the beanbag they’re still hunched upon.

“Because you’re having a temper tantrum.”

“TEMPER TANTRUM?!” Their voices shift and crackle, static coursing through their bitter tones. Two voices, perfectly aligned, speaking as one. They both feel this outlandish jealousy, and they both feel it to the same extreme.

Lovely.

What frustrates Eclipse is that Veil begins to cry in his arms once again, his eyes blazing with anger as he glares daggers into Blood Moon’s own pointed stare.

“You made him cry.” Eclipse scolds.

“ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!” Blood Moon raises their hands, tugging at their cap with shaking claws, taunt with shock and betrayal.

“Be quiet, both of you. What is it that I was to be questioned about? I would like to get this over with before this environment becomes more hostile.” Eclipse quips lightly, glancing around the room. Sun looks at Moon, and Moon looks at the floor.

“…I was gonna ask if you had the cat memes still, to share with Sun.”

Eclipse’s expression flattens. “You’re deadass.”

“I’m deadass.”

“No, your ass is dead.” He hisses, and Moon instantly raises his hands in a show of innocence.

“You could’ve said ‘hey, I’m having a moment and need a bit of time, can you hold on?’ You know, like normal people do?”

Eclipse scowls, but makes no attempt to refute Moon’s statement.

“By the way, thanks for pointing fingers, Sun.” Moon comments sourly.

“I looked at you!” Sun defends, throwing his arms up in the air in exasperation.

“With purpose!”

“Oh my god you cannot be serious right now-“

As the two siblings begin to bicker, Rays slowly raises his hand in the midst of all the chaos. Eclipse gives him a confused look, but nods to him nonetheless.

“Does he have a name?” He asks quietly, giving a vague motion towards Veil. Eclipse stares at him for a moment, seemingly surprised that someone is trying to accommodate for Veil despite the obvious tension his presence provides. Then again…Rays wasn’t exactly around when Eclipse was slaughtered by his newest son.

“Veil.” Eclipse responds after a long silence, glancing down to the animatronic in question as his creation stirs in his arms, looking nervously over to Rays, of whom gives him a small wave and warm, welcoming smile.

Thank god…someone has sense.

“That’s a cool name.” He adds, making Veil smile the slightest bit.

“Thank you.” Veil murmurs shyly.

“It’s a dumb name.” Blood Moon mutters from their place beside Lunar, arms crossed and face set in a sour sort of pout.

“Be nice. He’s scared.” Rays attempts to reason with the envious twins, of whom shut down his consolations with one sharp glare. Rays withers back into his place near the couch, falling into a heavy silence.

“Blood Moon’s a dumb name.” Veil retaliates, though immediately regrets it when they turn their head 180 degrees to face him, neck bent at an odd angle while their arms are still firmly crossed in front of them.

“Say it to our face and see what happens.” They threaten, quite obviously wishing Veil to take up their offer so that they’ll have an excuse to lunge.

Eclipse turns so that Veil is out of their sightline.

“Enough.” He demands, tone flat, reminiscent of the days that Blood Moon remembers being the worst of their lives. They look away, turning their head back the right direction with a barely audible ‘click’ as it falls back into place.

“You too.” Eclipse scolds Veil, of whom shrinks away from him with a quick, frightened nod.

“You’re keeping him.”

Lunar’s voice, so uncharacteristically cold for someone as lighthearted as he usually is. It isn’t a question, no, but a statement awaiting confirmation. His sky blue eyes bore into Eclipse’s back, and he turns to see the most furious expression he’s ever seen on his little brother’s face.

“He’s not a dog, but…I guess, yeah, in a sense, I am keeping him.” Eclipse responds skeptically.

The fury intensifies.

“He killed you.”

Lunar usually doesn’t outright say these things, as admitting the event happened can often lead to him crying for hours on end at the memories. He has a few specific words he has vowed not to say, and ‘killed’ just happens to be one of them.

“Yeah.” Eclipse tries to ignore the unease that stirs in his circuits.

“Did that mean nothing?”

Eclipse remains silent at that, looking away, avoiding Lunar’s accusatory gaze.

“I cried for you. Because of him. And that’s just it? It means nothing to you?”

“It doesn’t mean nothing. It just means that I’m willing to forgive him.” Eclipse flashes back, head coming up so that he can meet Lunar’s eyes once again.

“What if none of us are willing to forgive him? What then?” Again, that same cold, unfeeling tone. It doesn’t fit Lunar. Eclipse hates hearing it from Lunar.

“Then there will be an issue.”

The room falls silent after that. Everyone stays still, Sun and Moon having since ended their argument due to the amounting stress in the room. Now, they exchange conflicted glances, offering one another silent apologies.

A scrabble of claws over wood brings the group from their trance.

“Blood!” Lunar shouts, reaching out in a vain attempt to stop their deranged behavior before it gets someone hurt.

But they’re already out of his reach.

“Run.”

Eclipse looks down to Veil, a frenzied panic clearly reflecting in both father and son’s eyes. Veil, however, had an urgency in his voice that drives Eclipse to act instead of stand and stare.

He does just that, sliding to the side right as Blood Moon lunges, colliding harshly with the wall, in the place that Eclipse just stood.

Not directed at me.

Eclipse’s eyes widen, watching his crazed sons shake their head like a stunned dog, then turn to face him with a vacant look that chills him to his core.

Their gaze is locked on Veil.

Eclipse takes another step back as Sun and Moon begin to move towards them, Lunar not far behind.

“Over here!”

Eclipse looks up, over to the ladder, where Rays is perched with his arms outstretched, urging Eclipse and Veil towards him. With one last helpless look over his shoulder at Blood Moon, Eclipse moves over to Rays, grabbing his hand and being pleasantly surprised (and kinda impressed) when the battered animatronic manages to hoist him up onto the platform that leads out into the daycare.

Blood Moon has since been restrained by Moon, but it doesn’t seem to stop their relentless pursuit. This…this is a hunt to them. They won’t stop until Veil is either killed, or out of their sight.

But where would they go?

Moon yelps, tossed off to the side as Blood Moon manages to get some sort of advantage. Sun dives to take his brother’s place, but Blood Moon has already begun to bolt towards the ladder.

Rays positions himself at the top, planting himself between the aggressor and Eclipse, of whom still clutches Veil firmly to his chest.

“They won’t stop.” Eclipse says helplessly, and Rays glances over his shoulder just long enough to say perhaps the most badass thing he’s said since his arrival.

“You know what to do. I’ll hold them off.”

Eclipse watches in horror as Blood Moon grapples with Rays, savagely beginning to tear into the poor animatronic. Then it clicks.

I can stop this.

Eclipse’s pupil shrinks, a pinprick in the endless darkness of his eye. The other eye flickers to life, a barely visible ring of light glowing from beneath the cracked glass.

The other side of his vision comes back in a burst of color.

“Veil, don’t look.”

He sets his newest son down onto the floor, planting one of his legs in front of him as the young bot covers his eyes with shaking hands.

I don’t want to hurt them. They’re family too.

Eclipse raises his hand, realizing how badly it shakes as he points it towards Blood Moon.

They’ll kill him.

He doesn’t have any time to decide before a large, clawed hand slams down onto Blood Moon, ripping them off of Rays and dragging them over the side of the stage, sending them cascading into the ball pit below.

—————

Want a pt 3

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chicgeekgirl89 · 5 months

Text

Summary: A nightmarish White Elephant gift haunts Carlos for the entire holiday season. Rating: M (no sex, but like...heavy on the implied) A/N: Is this a Christmas fic? Yes. Is it now January? Also yes. But Christmas is a feeling you can have anytime! Read on AO3

“Noooo!!!”

There’s a collective shout of protest from the entire group as Mateo snatches a mug full of handmade chocolate from Paul and returns smugly to his seat on Owen’s sofa. “I got it for you boo,” he says, smiling up at Nancy with such a lovesick expression that it prompts another groan from everyone.

“Cap that’s not fair! People shouldn’t be allowed to steal gifts for other people!” Marjan protests.

“You’re just mad because now Paul’s gonna steal your bath bombs!” Mateo tells her, not looking the least bit sorry.

“Yep,” Paul says, hopping up and plucking the bag of bath bombs from her lap.

“Cap!” Marjan protests again, trying to grab it back and failing.

“There is nothing in the rules that says you can’t steal a gift with the intention of giving it away once the game is complete,” Owen says calmly.

“Is there anything that says how unfair it is that the couples get to take home two gifts?” Marjan grumbles, crossing her arms and sinking back into her chair petulantly.

“Maybe you should bring a boyfriend next time then,” Mateo shoots back.

“Okay enough children,” Tommy says calmly from where she’s sitting next to Judd and Grace. “Marjan you get to either steal or pick a new gift.”

“Fine,” she huffs and rolls her eyes. “I will take a new gift.”

Owen’s annual White Elephant party has been in full swing for a couple hours. The food and drinks have been flowing all night and they are deep into their gift exchange. Tommy holds a gift certificate for a local movie theater, Carlos stole a set of ornaments from Nancy two rounds ago, Judd has managed to wrangle a set of freezable beer glasses back after three steals, and Grace has threatened bodily harm to anyone who tries to take the gift card for a pedicure that she unwrapped to start the game.

It’s been a night full of laughter and holiday spirit, much needed after the last few months. T.K. is snuggled into Carlos’ side, his eyes full of light and happiness. The relief Carlos feels at seeing him enjoy this time with friends and family is palpable.

“Fine,” Marjan says, putting on that air that says she’s “rising above” even though she’s likely still harboring bitterness inside. “I will choose a new gift.”

She opens a gift bag with snowflakes on it to reveal a “Grow Your Own Avocado Kit” that mollifies her. “Okay Tommy, you’re up,” T.K. says. “Are you stealing or opening?”

“I think I will open,” Tommy says, reaching for a flat-ish gift that’s wrapped in the standard Amazon gift wrap. “I like an element of surprise.”

She puts on a face of fake contemplation and shakes it lightly. “Hope it’s not breakable,” Judd teases.

“Doesn’t sound like it,” she says, pulling the packaging off.

She and Grace both realize what it is at the same time and their eyes go comically wide. “Oh…my,” Tommy says as Grace clears her throat and shifts a little, clear amusement on her face.

“What is it Tommy?” Nancy asks, craning her neck to try and see.

“It is um,” Tommy turns it around for everyone to see, “an adult advent calendar.”

For a long moment the only sound in the room is Michael Bublé crooning on about white Christmases and sleigh bells. And in that moment, Carlos should realize that he’s doomed. But he’s too relaxed and full of holiday cheer to realize his fate has been sealed. So instead he sits there in blissful ignorance and doesn’t realize that his fiancé, cuddled sweetly in beside him, is already plotting a course of action that is going to ruin his holiday season.

“Well,” Owen says finally, “that is…an interesting choice. Who um, who decided to bring that gift?”

“It was me!” Mateo says proudly. “My buddy got one last year and said it was awesome. He and his girlfriend really enjoyed doing the activities.”

Carlos winces. Poor Mateo. The kid really doesn’t get it sometimes.

“Babe,” Nancy says patiently. “What do you think an adult advent calendar is for?”

“I don’t know,” Mateo says, obviously confused by everyone’s reactions. “Like drinking wine and stuff? Things for adults.”

“Mateo, can you really not think of another meaning for the word ‘adult’?” Judd asks.

He wrinkles his forehead in confusion and then it clears, his mouth forming an “o” shape. “Oooooh, adult like…ADULT.”

“There it is,” Paul says with a nod.

Marjan leans over Tommy’s shoulder. “Twenty-four naughty challenges for every fast day,” she reads aloud. “Every fast day? What the hell does that even mean?”

“I think it means this came from a country where English isn’t the primary language,” Grace says in amusement.

“Oh god, Tommy, I’m so sorry!” Mateo says, looking horrified.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Tommy says with a laugh. “I don’t think I’ll be getting much use out of this as a single person, but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

The group gets a good laugh at Mateo’s expense and the game moves on. Owen opens a gigantic Hershey bar and immediately goes on a rant about how sugar is a metabolism killer before trying to foist it off on Judd to give to Charlie, and then Marjan steals Grace’s gift card and all hell breaks loose for about ten minutes as vicious gameplay ensues. Carlos loses his ornaments and ends up with the Hershey bar, which, if nothing else, will make his nieces and nephews happy, so it’s not too big of a loss.

When the dust settles everyone is left with a gift except for T.K. “What’s it going to be T.K.?” Judd asks. “Are you taking the last gift or choosing to restart the violence?”

T.K. looks up at Carlos, a wicked smile on his face and Carlos’ stomach lurches. “Please don’t,” he says.

“Don’t what babe?” T.K. asks innocently.

“You know what,” Carlos says, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.

Because somehow, in all the chaos, Tommy still has the sexy advent calendar. Apparently no one else is interested in “naughty challenges for every fast day.” But T.K. is always up for naughty challenges. And embarrassing the shit out of Carlos.

“What are you two whispering about?” Nancy asks suspiciously. “Are you crafting some master plan for stealing these bath bombs? Because you can pry them from my cold dead hands.”

“Relax. I don’t want your bath bombs Nance,” T.K. says in that voice he uses when he’s about to ruin Carlos’ life. It’s the one that’s obnoxiously casual with hints of mischief and delight and it sends fear shooting through him like nothing else.

“Okay well we don’t got until New Year’s, pick a gift T.K.!” Judd says.

“If you insist.” T.K. stands and walks toward Paul only to do an abrupt about face and grab the advent calendar from Tommy instead. “I think we can probably find a way to have some fun with this at our place.”

Carlos dies. He literally dies. He can feel his face going fire engine red. He wishes he could sink into the couch and disappear. He knows T.K. is sex positive. He knows that that entire 126 is far more aware of the intimate details of their bedroom life than he would like. He knows. But rarely does he have to see it flaunted so blatantly in front of his face. In front of his soon to be father-in-law’s face.

Right now Carlos is also sex positive in that he’s positive they’re never having sex again.

T.K. plops back down next to him and opens it up to a random page. “Ooh look at Day Eighteen babe!”

“I wanna see Day Eighteen!” Mateo comes running and leans over Carlos’ lap to take a look.

“Don’t look at Day Eighteen, skip right to the end,” Nancy says, snatching it from T.K.’s hands and riffling through the pages. “Game in Santa? Is that like a threesome? Do you have to hire a Santa actor? That feels like something that should have been booked months in advance.”

“Santa actors are indeed very busy this time of year,” Owen says. “And I’d imagine a Santa willing to participate in a threesome is going to be much more expensive than your standard mall Santa.”

Carlos slumps lower in the couch and covers his face with his hands. This is a nightmare.

Carlos is on shift the next day when his phone buzzes with a text message. He and Lexi are on desk duty, working on end of year paperwork. Other people might be unhappy about it, but as much as Carlos enjoys the more active aspects of his job he also finds paperwork soothing. It’s like putting things to bed and tying it all up in a neat little bow.

Lexi does not agree.

“Whyyyyyy are there so many forms?” she moans, dropping her head dramatically onto her desk, dangerously close to her coffee cup.

Carlos automatically reaches over and moves it to safety. “You’re going to have to do them all over again if you spill coffee on everything.”

“No I won’t. I’ll just send them in covered in coffee stains. That’s admin’s problem.”

“Your desire for perfection is admirable,” Carlos teases her, picking up his phone to find T.K. has sent a picture of their sock drawer. Everything is neatly aligned and perfectly in place, just the way he likes.

Thanks for doing the laundry babe, he texts back.

Three little dots pop up immediately followed shortly by a second picture, this time of their spice cabinet. Carlos frowns in concentration and zooms in a little bit. “Did he refill all the spices?” he asks under his breath.

“What was that?” Lexi asks, clearly eager to be distracted from her work.

“T.K.’s home today and he’s sending me pictures of his chores,” Carlos says, showing it to her before typing back, Busy day huh? Thanks.

Their sergeant calls them in for an impromptu meeting after that and Carlos doesn’t get to look at his phone again until lunchtime. A third picture greets him, this time of their vacuum, lines apparent on the carpet where T.K. has done some vacuuming. Carlos chuckles to himself, amused by his boyfriend’s antics. Thank you? he responds. What’s with all the extra chores today?

He knows something’s up when T.K. begins responding immediately. Even through the phone he can sense T.K.’s eagerness and glee. Whatever’s going on, T.K. is very proud of himself and probably about to make Carlos just a little crazy.

It’s Day Seven.

Carlos stares at the text, his mind drawing a blank. Day seven of what? December? What does that mean?

He texts T.K. back asking as much and receives yet another picture in reply. Carlos has to bite back an incredulous laugh when he realizes it’s a page from that stupid advent calendar telling them to send suggestive texts to each other throughout the day.

This is your version of sexting? he types out, trying not to smile too obviously. The spice cabinet and the vacuum? Very hot.

The reply comes immediately. No, it’s your version of sexting. This is my version of sexting.

The dots disappear for just long enough that Carlos gets distracted by a couple forms that need his signature. When he absentmindedly checks his phone again a few minutes later his jaw drops.

T.K. has sent a selfie of himself in front of their bathroom mirror. His shirt is unbuttoned, chest fully exposed, his belt and the button on his pants undone so they’re slung low on his hips with the waistband of his boxers peeking out tantalizingly over the top. And his face, god his face. Most of the time T.K. looks like a giddy little boy. But with his head tipped back, eyes half closed, mouth slightly open, god, he looks like…

Fuck.

“Carlos? You okay?” Lexi asks, bringing Carlos crashing back into the present and his current location.

He shifts a little and immediately turns his phone screen off. “Yeah, just um, just need a break I think.”

She nods. “See? Told you. All this paperwork is bad for you.”

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat, heat still pooling in his midsection. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Don’t rush. The paper’s not going anywhere,” she says.

He slips into the locker room, checking to make sure no one is around before locking himself in one of the bathroom stalls. He taps T.K.’s name and it takes only one ring before his boyfriend is picking up. “Hey baby.”

“Jesus Christ T.K.,” Carlos says. “I’m at work.”

“I’m aware.” T.K.’s voice is full of delight.

“You’re going to kill me,” Carlos says, letting his head fall back against the cool metal of the stall wall.

“Mmm might you be a fan of the advent calendar after all?”

Carlos huffs. “No. I have,” he checks his watch, “four more hours before I can get home to you. I very much do not like the advent calendar right now.”

“Four hours huh?” T.K. says. “I can send a lot of sexy text messages in four hours…”

“T.K. I swear to god, do not keep sending me stuff here. I’m going to turn my phone off.”

It buzzes as he speaks and he pulls it away from his ear to see yet another text message. “Just one to remember me by then,” T.K. says, his voice flirty. “I’ll see you when you get home.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Carlos alone and turned on as hell. He sucks in a breath and tries to give himself a stern talking to about professionalism and decency.

It barely works.

He equal parts wants to worship T.K. and murder him.

He can’t help himself. He opens the last text. Couldn’t resist, it reads and then there’s a picture of T.K. in nothing but his boxers, lip caught between his teeth, his free hand so suggestively placed that Carlos considers faking sick and rushing home as fast as he can.

Instead he hardens his resolve. Two can play at this game.

He flicks through the pictures on his phone, settling on a selfie he took a couple weeks ago. He’d really been feeling himself after a heavy lifting session and snapped it in the gym bathroom. His shirt is pulled up between his teeth, his curls messy and sweaty in a way he knows T.K. thinks is sexy as hell. You can just make out the faint outline of a bulge in his shorts.

Carlos smirks as he sends it, then turns his phone off without waiting for a reply. He has to make it through the rest of the day and that’s not going to happen if T.K. keeps texting.

When his shift is over he stops at the grocery store to grab more cheese and a salad to go along with the pasta they’re having for dinner. He gets home a little after six, his mouth watering at the smells of tomato and garlic that are swirling from their loft out into the hallway. “Hi!” he calls as he steps inside and slips off his shoes.

“Hi.” T.K. steps out of the kitchen, an apron over his clothes and an amused smile on his face as he gives Carlos a welcome home kiss.

Carlos rolls his eyes. “Dinner smells good.”

“Should be ready in a few minutes.” T.K. watches as he sets down his work bag and starts looking through the mail that’s on their console table. “Have you checked your phone lately?”

“I turned it off,” Carlos tells him. “You were extremely distracting and I didn’t think I could make it through the rest of my shift if you kept texting.”

T.K. takes a step closer, false casualness coloring his voice. “You might want to take a look.”

Carlos sets the mail down. “If I look at more dirty pictures of you now we’ll never eat dinner. And I’m starving.”

“I think my dirty pictures are the least of your worries,” T.K. says, glee lighting up in his eyes. “Your picture on the other hand…”

Carlos smiles as he pulls his phone out and powers it back up. “Oh you liked that huh?”

“I definitely liked it. And so did everyone else.”

“Everyone else? What are you talking abo—“ Carlos’ eyes go wide as forty-six missed messages pop up onto his screen. The most recent one is from Judd, and when he opens the text thread he finds that—

“Yeah, you sent your revenge thirst trap to the 126 group chat babe,” T.K. tells him.

Horror fills Carlos from top to bottom as he scrolls through the messages.

“Whoa, what is this, Thirst Trap Thursday?”- Paul

“Dang, do you lift bro?”- Mateo

“Oh Carlos, sweetie, I think you sent this to the wrong person.” -Tommy

“Okay Officer Hottie!”- Nancy

They go on and on, everyone chiming in at one point or another, including Owen, who offers to hook Carlos up with his supplement regimen the next time they’re at the house and culminating in a text from Judd asking everyone to stop forking texting, his phone hasn’t stopped buzzing for an hour.

Carlos has never been more mortified in his entire life. “Oh my god,” he says.

“Deep breaths. You’re okay,” T.K. says, patting him gently on the back.

Carlos pulls back and glares at him. “This is your fault!”

“Pretty sure I didn’t send my sexy pics to the wrong group thread. How is it my fault?”

“You and that stupid advent calendar! This never would have happened if you’d just let Tommy keep it!”

“It’s one picture Carlos. Everyone will have forgotten about it by tomorrow.”

(No one forgets. They bring it up all the time. They blow it up to poster size and hang it in T.K.’s locker at work. They send a graffitied version of it to Carlos on his birthday. The following year’s white elephant exchange includes a copy in a garish frame.)

Carlos crosses his arms over his chest. “We’re getting rid of it.”

T.K. snorts. “No we’re not.”

“Yes we are!”

“It’s my gift! You can’t throw away a gift!”

Carlos clenches his jaw. “That thing is trouble T.K. I don’t want it around anymore.”

T.K. steps closer. “That’s funny. Because usually you like it when I get into trouble.”

“Do not start with that.”

“Come on baby,” T.K. says, his tone flirty and suggestive. “We were having a pretty good time with it before all this.” He runs a finger along the buttons on Carlos’ shirt. “I thought that picture was hot. And I like that everyone knows this beautiful body is all mine.”

God help him, something inside of him unspools when T.K. talks like this. “Your dad saw it. And Tommy,” he protests, the embarrassment lingering.

“Tommy sees bodies all the time at work,” T.K. says. “And my dad really doesn’t care. Honestly it’s kind of surprising he didn’t send a selfie back.” He looks up at Carlos through his lashes. “Let’s have dinner and then I’ll make you forget about anything except how hot we both are, okay?”

He must be the weakest man alive. “Okay,” he says. “But you have to promise me that that stupid calendar will stay between us from now on.”

“I promise,” T.K. says, patting his chest. “Only the two of us will know anything about it.”

“Good,” Carlos says in relief.

A couple weeks later Carlos comes home from Christmas shopping, struggling to find his keys as he exits the elevator with an armload of bags full of gifts for his family and T.K. He’s so focused on trying to extract his keys from his pocket without dropping anything that he doesn’t notice their front door is slightly ajar until he’s reaching toward the lock.

He immediately goes on high alert. T.K. had texted he was on his way home five minutes ago. There’s no way he could have gotten here so fast. And even if he had, there’s no way he would have left the door ajar.

Carlos carefully sets down his bags and pulls out his phone as he eases the door open a little further, peering carefully inside. There’s music blasting and the smell of cookies in the air. Are they being robbed by the Keebler elves?

He ventures in a little further, body tense and ready for a fight, when out of nowhere there’s a blood curdling scream and he has to duck as a mixing bowl comes flying at his head. “Whoa!” he yells as it crashes to the floor behind him, splattering something all over their entryway.

“Carlos?! What the fuck?!”

He looks up to find his sister staring at him. “Cesca! Oh my god!”

“You scared the shit out of me!” she yells angrily.

“You scared the shit out of ME!” he yells back, rubbing his chest where his heart is still thundering away.

“Why is everyone yelling?" Adriana appears from the bedroom looking confused and mildly annoyed, giving him his second heart attack of the last three minutes.

“Why are you both in my house?!” he asks incredulously.

“We’re baking cookies,” Francesca says, as if this is totally normal and acceptable.

“Don’t you have an oven at your place?” Carlos asks.

“It’s broken,” Adriana tells him, as she walks around the couch and then spots the mess the mixing bowl left on the floor. “Cesca, what the fuck? We’re going to have to make the icing all over again.”

“He broke in and scared me! I had to defend myself!”

“I didn’t break in, this is my house!” Carlos says. “And you left the door open!”

“Sorry you have a weird ass bougie slidey door that’s difficult to close,” Cesca mumbles with a roll of her eyes as she returns to the kitchen.

His heart finally returning to normal, Carlos steps outside and retrieves his bags and then firmly closes and locks the door behind him. He’d prefer if his cousin and sister were on the other side, but getting rid of them is harder than getting rid of Christmas card glitter. He’s just going to have to accept their presence in his home until they get tired or bored and leave.

“Why didn’t you just go to Mom and Dad’s?” Carlos steps around the sticky mess on the floor to deposit his purchases on the couch before going in search of a towel to clean it up.

“We did,” Adriana says. “Your mom kicked us out.”

Carlos picks up the mixing bowl and swipes a finger along the icing inside, popping it in his mouth as he heads toward the kitchen sink. “Why would she kick you out for baking cookies?”

His eyes land on the kitchen counter and he stops dead in his tracks. Every square inch is covered in gingerbread people, some of them already decorated, some of them still plain brown. But decorated or not, one thing is very, VERY clear. Every. single. one. is having sex.

“Tía Andrea claimed it was pornographic,” Adriana says, picking up a piping bag to add some details to a pair that are doing it doggy style.

Carlos feels like he’s having an out of body experience. His sister and cousin have always pushed the envelope of decency a little bit, but this is another level entirely. And he’s completely trapped. If he expresses dismay they’ll call him a prude. If he says nothing, he risks this happening again.

“We call it The Caramel Sutra,” Francesca tells him. “It’s for our Christmas party.”

“You and T.K. are invited, by the way,” Adriana says. “It’s on Friday.”

“I think we’re busy,” Carlos says, his voice strained. Does he yell? Does he run? Does he go in the bedroom and shut the door until they leave?

“Oh my god, not you too,” Francesca says with a roll of her eyes. “That’s the same look Mom had on her face right before she started yelling at us to get our smutty cookies out of her kitchen.”

“I mean, they’re pretty…aggressive,” Carlos says.

“They’re just cookies,” Adriana says. “Don’t stand there and pretend like you’re some kind of prude. We know what you and T.K. get up to around here.”

She picks up something off the counter and waves it at him. Hot dread spikes through him as he recognizes the god damn Sexy Advent Calendar. “Where did you get that?” he asks.

“It was on your bed,” she says.

Damn it T.K.

Despite his best efforts to get T.K. to forget about the calendar, he’s given in a few times and allowed his boyfriend to use it to spice things up. Most of the suggestions are ridiculous, but Carlos has to begrudgingly admit that a few have been kind of fun. Still, he hadn’t expected anyone else to see the stupid thing.

“Why were you in my bedroom?” he asks, trying to keep his voice even, still not rising to the bait they’re dangling in front of him.

“I was using your bathroom,” she says. She flips a couple of pages. “Did you guys try Day Nine? Oooh Tía Maria is going to make you go to confession for that one.”

“What’s Day Nine?” Francesca asks, wiping her hands on a towel and leaning over to see. “Oh god. Wow. Do you have that hip flexibility?”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Carlos says, unable to stand it any longer. “Give it to me.”

He holds out a hand but Adriana pulls it back. “No. I’m getting ideas.” She pulls out her phone. “Hold still.”

“Now what are you doing?” he asks.

She lifts the calendar and snaps a photo of it with him in the background. “Perfect. I’m going to hold onto this in case I ever need it for blackmail.”

“Adriana, give me the calendar,” he demands in his best police officer voice.

It does not work.

She flips another page. “Oooh lap dance on Day Twelve! Nice that T.K. got to revisit his stripper roots on that one.”

He lunges for her, his hand closing around air as she darts away from him into the living room. “Adriana I am not kidding!” he yells as he follows her.

She runs around the couch, facing him down on the other side as she flips another page. “Tell us Carlos, what is your ‘free naughty wish’?”

“My current wish is that you leave here and never come back!” he says, feinting to the left and then dashing to the right to try and catch her.

She squeaks and evades him again by climbing up onto the couch cushions, holding the calendar high above her head.

“Get down from there! No shoes on the furniture!” Carlos yells.

“Throw a pillow at him!” Francesca says from where she’s mixing new frosting and watching the entire situation unfold.

He turns around sharply and glares at her. “Shut up!”

“You shut up!”

He changes course and stalks toward her. “Oh hell no Carlitos,” she says, cutting through the dining room and holding the mixing bowl threateningly above the floor in front of Lou II’s aquarium. “I will drop this on your carpet and I will not feel bad about it.”

“Day four seems messy,” Adriana says.

“Stop reading it!” Carlos yells.

“Um, hi?”

They all turn toward the once again open loft door to find T.K. standing there, his work bag in hand.

“T.K.! You’re here!” Francesca says in delight.

Carlos uses the momentary distraction to vault the couch and snatch the calendar from a shocked Adriana. She lets out a squawk and topples into the cushions as he lands on the other side, triumphant. “Hey babe,” he says, slightly breathless. “Welcome home.”

“This looks fun,” T.K. says, that gleam in his eyes that says he’s going to be of absolutely no help to Carlos.

Everyone dreams that their family will get along with their significant other. Sometimes Carlos dreams that T.K. would get along a little worse with his.

“T.K. I need to know, who was on top when you did Day Thirteen and do you have regrets?” Adriana asks.

“Our personal life is none of your business!” Carlos hisses at her.

“Then why did you leave your sex-vent calendar out in the open?”

And that is when Carlos loses it. He’s sixteen years old again, the two of them invading his privacy, and he reacts accordingly. “IT WASN’T IN THE OPEN IT WAS IN OUR BEDROOM AND YOU’RE NOT EVEN SUPPOSED TO BE HERE AT ALL!”

There’s a brief moment of silence as they all process his outrage. And then, “T.K. want a cookie?” Francesca asks.

“I would love one,” T.K. says. “But I think your brother might combust if I don’t talk him down a little bit first.”

She shrugs. “They’re here when you’re ready.”

“I’m fine,” Carlos snaps when T.K. walks over to him.

“Mmmm okay,” T.K. says, amusement on his face. “Come on, come here for a minute.”

Carlos follows him into the bedroom and stands stiffly with his arms crossed as T.K. shuts the door, giving the illusion of privacy even though his sister and cousin can probably still hear every word. “This is why we should have gotten rid of this thing!” Carlos yell whispers at his boyfriend, shaking the calendar angrily. “You can’t leave it lying around! My family has no boundaries! They wander in and out at will! This is our private sex life and I don’t want them to be a part of it!”

“I know,” T.K. says calmly, prying it gently from his fingers. “I get it. I’ll make sure it gets put away where no one can find it.”

“Thank you,” Carlos says, releasing an angry breath. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for you to come home to this.”

“Carlos I am familiar with the ways of your sister and your cousin. It doesn’t surprise me anymore to come home and find them hanging around.”

“Does it surprise you that they broke into our home to bake pornographic cookies in our oven?” Carlos says bitterly.

T.K.’s eyebrows rise. “That…is a little surprising, yes.”

“Well that’s what’s happening. So, yeah.”

He sits down on the bed and tosses the calendar down beside him. T.K. steps forward until their knees bump together. “You know what might help?” he asks gently.

“What?” Carlos asks, still feeling moody and pissed off at his family.

T.K. rubs a hand up and down his arm, that gleam back in his eye. “If we try out Day Sixteen again.”

Carlos flashes him a sour look. “I hate you.”

“But you loved Day Sixteen,” T.K. says, pushing a hand into Carlos’ curls.

That’s true. And T.K.’s sweet smile and bright eyes and the way his fingers feel in Carlos’ hair make his stomach do that stupid flippy thing that always happens when T.K. is around and he feels himself teenage angsting a little less. But then he glances down at the advent calendar beside him and remembers what a nightmare it’s been.

“I don’t think we should use it anymore,” Carlos says.

“Not even for Day Sixteen?” T.K. tries.

“We don’t need a calendar for Day Sixteen. We already know how to do it.”

T.K. sighs. “Fine. You win. I will get rid of the advent calendar.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really. It’s clearly bothering you, so I’ll make it disappear.”

A smidgen of guilt flitters through Carlos, but the relief at not having to worry about the unpleasant side effects the calendar seems to bring them overpowers it. “Can you get rid of my sister and cousin too?” He realizes he sounds whiny, but he’s too wound up to care.

“I will.” T.K. says. “But it might take a little while. You know how difficult it is to get them to leave.”

Carlos sighs. “I know.”

“And your mom would probably want us to invite them to stay for dinner.”

“Ugghhhh,” Carlos groans. “Fine.”

T.K. steps back and holds out a hand. “Now come on. I’m actually dying to see these cookies.”

Carlos lets T.K. pull him to his feet. “I knew you would be.”

Noche Buena has always been chaos at his parents’ house, and it’s only gotten crazier since his sisters started getting married and having kids. Their family seems to expand by at least ten people a year and everyone has an open invitation to show at up at any point throughout the night.

Carlos goes over early to help with tamale assembly. The house is already full of family even though it’s early yet. His sisters are all here with their husbands and kids, and a few cousins, tíos, and tías have shown up to help with food prep too. He smiles as he listens to his mom and Tía Maria argue over how much salt to use in the masa. They have the same argument every year and every year the tamales are exactly as good as the year before no matter how much or how little salt they put in.

He’s stirring what equates to a vat of sauce when the doorbell rings. “I’ve got it Andrea, your hands are full,” Tía Lucy says as his mother searches in vain for a towel on which to wipe them.

She disappears from the kitchen and seconds later he hears her exclaim, “T.K.! Feliz Navidad, come in, come in!”

“T.K. is here?” The words are spoken nearly in chorus and the next thing Carlos knows he’s been left completely alone as every woman in the house flocks to the front door. When they return they have his boyfriend in tow.

“Now you know that you are family in this house, no more ringing the doorbell mijo,” Carlos’ mom is chastising him as they walk in, the rest of the group murmuring their agreements and insistence that he simply walk in and out at will like everyone else as they return to their food prep duties.

“I’ll remember for next time,” T.K. promises, even though Carlos knows full well that he won’t.

“T.K.! Come taste this!” Lucía, one of Carlos’ middle sisters, holds out a cookie toward him.

He takes it dutifully, his eyes finding Carlos’ and sparkling with joy. Sometimes Carlos feels like his family is some kind of zoo exhibit, wild and crazy and amusing to anyone on the outside. But T.K.’s brightness and exuberance have fit seamlessly into the mix. In fact sometimes Carlos thinks T.K. fits in better than he himself ever has.

“Ay, let the man kiss his boyfriend. They haven’t seen each other in hours,” Teresa says over the chatter, her Mrs. Claus apron fluttering as she bends over to check on things in the oven.

They let him through the crowd and Carlos pauses his stirring to give T.K. a brief peck on the lips. “Welcome to the crazy,” he says with a smile.

“I love the crazy,” T.K. reminds him.

“I know,” Carlos says, warmth filling him from head to toe. “Don’t let them talk your ear off. Oh,” he lowers his voice, “and definitely do not answer if Tía Maria and Tía Dolores ask you whose pozole is better. It’s a trap.”

“Got it,” T.K. says, giving him a mock salute with his un-cookied hand.

“Carlos! The sauce will burn! Stir!” Tía Maria calls out sternly and Carlos quickly returns to his duties.

T.K. is pulled away after that, plied with food and drinks and taken to the living room for conversation by most of the tías. “Mom, go with them,” Elena urges. “We’ll handle things in here.”

“There’s still so much to do,“ his mom protests.

“We’ve got it,” Lucía insists. “Go.”

She looks reluctant, but removes her apron. “Don’t let Adriana and Francesca touch the masa.”

“Hey!” they protest at the same time from where they’re seated on the counter’s barstools, both of them halfway through their second glasses of wine and doing absolutely nothing to help.

“You heard me,” she says, giving them all a warning look before disappearing out the door.

Carlos switches hands, his right arm aching from stirring. Teresa sidles up to him. “So,” she says. “How’s the advent calendar working out for you?”

Carlos whips around. “I’m going to murder you!” he says, holding the dripping spoon out like a weapon at his sister and cousin. He should have known they wouldn’t keep it to themselves.

“No murder during the holidays,” Teresa tells him.

“What?” Francesca asks. “She asked how you guys were doing. What was I supposed to say?”

“Literally anything else,” Carlos tells her through gritted teeth.

“I think it’s fun,” Lucía says. “You’ve gotta keep things interesting somehow.”

“But not too interesting. That’s how you end up like this,” Elena says, rubbing a hand over her pregnant belly.

“Good thing Carlos and T.K. don’t have that problem,” Adriana says. “All fun and no consequences.”

“Tell us about Day Nine,” Lucía says, her eyes sparkling. “That sounded very fun.”

“Since when did we become a family that discusses our sex lives?” Carlos asks, feeling suddenly hot and short of breath.

“Oh we’ve always talked about it,” Elena tells him. “You’ve just never gotten to be part of it because you’ve never brought a boy home before.”

“Sh! Shut up!” Teresa hisses, all of them going quiet as Tía Maria reenters the kitchen.

She looks at them suspiciously. “Your mother wants the green tablecloth with the poinsettias on it.”

“I’ll get it,” Francesca says, hopping off her bar stool and opening a drawer next to the pantry. “Here you go.” She’s doing this fake sweet innocent thing with her face that makes her look even more guilty.

“Gracias,” Tía Maria says, still eyeing them all as if she knows exactly what they were just talking about. “Carlos, you’re not stirring.”

“Sorry tía,” he says, quickly turning around and going back to work.

She gives them all one more look and then leaves. Carlos puts his spoon down and turns on his sisters. “And that is just one reason why I don’t like talking about my sex life. Are you trying to get me lectured on Christmas Eve?”

“God don’t be such a prude,” Adriana says with a roll of her eyes, popping a chocolate into her mouth and talking around it. “You’re over here gatekeeping the good stuff from us.”

“I’m not gatekeeping anything,” Carlos says. “You could get that stupid calendar on Amazon if you really wanted it. And we didn’t even finish it anyway.”

“Uh oh. Trouble in paradise?” Elena asks.

“Did one of you get a sex injury?” Francesca wants to know.

“God I can’t remember the last time I had a sex injury,” Lucía says wistfully.

“No!” Carlos says. “I told him we had to stop because everyone kept asking us about it.”

There’s silence in the kitchen. “You quashed your boyfriend’s holiday sex fun?” Teresa asks. “Yikes Carlos. Not good.”

“What a Scrooge,” Adriana mutters.

And odd mix of guilt and embarrassment floods through him. “I—it was—“

“Someone literally handed you a book of Christmas sex ideas and you turned it down,” Francesca shakes her head. “I’m ashamed to call you family.”

“Rejecting your partner can be very damaging to the relationship,” Lucía says as if she’s reciting from a self-help book. “Especially at the holidays.”

“I really don’t need your advice thanks,” Carlos says, even as her words hit home. Has T.K. been feeling rejected? He hasn’t seemed off or upset but…sometimes T.K. is really good at hiding things from him.

“Just saying this is Texas. There are plenty of other Carlos Reyeses around if T.K. feels like you’re not respecting his interests,” Francesca tells him right before she drains her wine glass.

“Okay, we’ve made the poor boy suffer enough. Let’s leave it,” Teresa says, finally taking back the reins of peacemaking oldest sister. “But seriously Carlos,” she says, leaning closer so only he can hear, “you should live a little. Before you know it you’re old and married and have to schedule sex on Google calendar between karate classes and PTO meetings. Take advantage while you’re both still young and fun.”

Carlos feels stricken. He continues stirring automatically, but as soon as he can persuade Lucía to take over he goes to find T.K.

His boyfriend is laughing at something Tía Lucy is saying and Carlos pauses for a moment to appreciate how natural T.K. looks sitting with the rest of the Reyes clan. If T.K. thinks organizing their sock drawer is the sexiest thing he could possibly do, he is deeply, deeply wrong. Seeing T.K. fit into their family like he’s always been there is a massive turn on.

But there are more important matters at hand so Carlos pulls himself back to the moment and interrupts. “Hey, sorry tía. T.K., can I talk to you for a second?”

“Ooh some Christmas secrets? Or are you two off to kiss under the mistletoe?” Tía Lucy asks, the sparkle in her eyes matching the one Lucía had earlier. “Wait! I have some in my pocket you can use.”

“That’s okay, we’re good,” Carlos says, waving her off as T.K. gets to his feet. “We’ll be right back.”

T.K. follows him up the stairs and down the hall to his childhood bedroom. “Everything okay babe?” he asks when the door is shut securely behind them, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Did I make you feel rejected?” Carlos asks. “When I said no more advent calendar?”

“Rejected? What are you talking about?” T.K. asks in confusion.

“I told you no more advent calendar. Did that make you upset?”

“I mean…it was kind of a bummer,” T.K. admits. “I was having fun and I thought you were too when you weren’t sexting our friends or chasing your family around the loft.” He shrugs. “But it’s fine. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” T.K. says, patting his stomach reassuringly. “Come on. Tía Lucy was about to tell me about the time she went paragliding in Hawai’i.”

T.K. heads out the door and back to the party, leaving Carlos to relive the kitchen conversation on his own. All he can think about is scheduling sex on Google calendar. Which sounds exactly like something he would do. And he absolutely does not want that to be their future.

Maybe his sisters are right. Maybe he is too much of a prude.

Carlos looks around and spots his dad’s printer. Before he can second guess himself he grabs a piece of paper and goes to work.

XXX

T.K. is woken by soft, but persistent kisses. He inhales deeply, eyes fluttering open, gritty with lack of sleep. “Hey,” he grinds out.

“Merry Christmas,” Carlos says softly, pressing another kiss to his lips, then sliding his body over until he’s draped across T.K.’s torso. He trails kisses across T.K.’s collar bone, around his pec, and then back up to his neck.

“Mmm, that’s nice,” T.K. says, shifting a little bit to get more comfortable.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They’re crammed into the full size bed in Carlos’ childhood bedroom, but T.K. doesn’t mind a bit. It means they have to snuggle close, cuddling each other while they sleep.

Last night they’d donned matching pajamas and stayed up late playing games with Carlos’ sisters and brothers-in-law after the kids went to bed. T.K. had stuffed his face with tamales and buñuelos and laughed at the antics of the Reyes children. They’re a special kind of chaos and it’s very funny to see his calm, sweet boyfriend absolutely lose his shit over a board game.

T.K. skates a hand across Carlos’ bicep and up the back of his neck, toying with the soft curls he finds there. “What time is it? Do we need to get up?”

Carlos shakes his head. “I don’t hear the kids yet.”

T.K. blinks a few times and squints so he can focus on the alarm clock next to the bed. “Carlos!” he squawks. “It’s five o’clock in the morning!”

“I know,” Carlos says, nuzzling into his neck.

“Baby.” It comes out on a long suffering groan. “We’ve only been asleep for like four hours.”

“We need to take care of the final day of the advent calendar before everyone wakes up,” Carlos tells him softly, his nose brushing against the shell of T.K.’s ear.

T.K. frowns and pulls back a bit, forcing Carlos to lift his head and look at him. “The advent calendar is done. The last day was yesterday.”

“Mmmm, are you sure about that?”

“Yes?” T.K. says in confusion. “It was Game in Santa. Which we couldn’t figure out.”

“You know I’ve always thought it was kind of lame that you don’t get anything from an advent calendar on the twenty-fifth,” Carlos says. “It seems like you should get an even bigger gift.”

“I think that’s the point. You get something every day and then all your Christmas gifts on the twenty-fifth,” T.K. tells him.

“I don’t like it,” Carlos tells him.

T.K. snorts. “I’ll be sure and submit your complaint to the advent calendar council.”

“Good,” Carlos says, nuzzling down into his chest again. “But for now, I think you should check the advent calendar and make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

“The advent calendar is at home.”

“Is it?”

“It should be since you made me swear on my life that I would hide it away from any prying eyes.”

Carlos rolls away from him and reaches over the side of the bed, dropping a piece of computer paper on his chest. “Carlos what on earth?” he asks with a laugh.

“Take a look,” Carlos says, a smirk on his face.

T.K. reaches over and turns on the bedside lamp and squints as he reads Carlos’ bold handwriting.

Day 25: Fulfill a Fantasy.

He looks up at Carlos, a questioning look at his face. “What does this mean?”

“What do you think it means?”

“I—-I have no idea. You’re going to have to spell it out babe.”

Carlos pushes up onto an elbow and uses his free hand to grip T.K.’s hip, stroking his thumb back and forth right along the waistband of his pajama pants. “You stole Adriana’s phone last night.”

“You saw that?”

“I did,” Carlos says. “You deleted the blackmail photo she took of me and the calendar, didn’t you?”

“Very good detective,” T.K. says with a chuckle.

“You took care of me,” Carlos says, his voice low. “I think you deserve something special for that.”

He pulls T.K. closer and kisses him, firm and insistent, his mouth warm and wet and it sends sparks flittering through T.K.’s core. He pulls back for a second. “Are we going to have sex in your childhood bedroom?”

“Mhm,” Carlos says, diving in for another kiss.

T.K. lets him go for a second and then pulls back again. “We’re not allowed to have sex in your childhood bedroom. You tell me all the time that we’re not allowed to have sex in here.”

“I know.” Another kiss.

“Then what—?”

“Isn’t it one of your fantasies to have sex with me in here?”

“I mean yeah but—“

“Well,” Carlos says, trailing a finger down T.K.’s bare stomach so that his muscles jump and twitch under his touch. “Let’s consider this a one-time special Christmas gift. But you are going to have to be very, very quiet.”

“What if your sisters walk by?”

“The door is locked.”

“What if your mom walks by?”

“T.K. do you want to do this or not?”

God he’s so turned on right now. Carlos’ fingers dip beneath the line of his boxers and T.K. arches into his touch, letting out a moan that Carlos immediately swallows in another kiss. “Yes,” he says breathlessly when Carlos releases him from it. “God yes, yes, yes.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“This is going to get us both on the naughty list,” he says.

Carlos laughs. “I think I can deal with that for one year.”

Tagging some people who might be interested in reading: @lemonlyman-dotcom, @liminalmemories21, @carlos-in-glasses

#Tarlos #Have Yourself a Sexy Little Christmas #Advent Calendar Fic #Tarlos Christmas #Fluff #Humor #The Reyes Sisters (My Version)#Adriana and Francesca

22 notes · View notes

prophecyqueen · 10 months

Note

Hot Take: Alicent’s characterization from Episode 8+9 should have been her characterization during episodes 6+7 (up until the eye incident), where she was still trying to make some sort of peace while also trying to protect her kids.

Her characterization in episodes 6+7 should have been her final characterization. Scheming and working more actively against Rhaenyra and undermining her. Calling her out during small council meetings and giving her the stink eye and more actively making her kids aware of the danger (with them getting her concerns since it would be after Aemond lost his eye).

It just feels like they went backward instead of forward. That last bit isn’t a hot take. But still.

i don't feel like this is a hot take because it's... very real

i'm sorry but no amount of arguments will ever make me not believe that episode 8 alicent was a mess, writing wise

i mean think about it: alicent is groomed by her father and rhaenyra's father, rhaenyra's father decides he wants to marry her, rhaenyra is upset with her and stops talking to her for 3 years. at this point alicent is still trying to reach out. she's been through the hell that must have been the beginning of her marriage alone, she gave birth alone, she underlines herself that she doesn't have many friends (which is weird, and another decisionTM by the writers), rhaenyra never tries to call out her father for picking her best friend and is likely more upset with alicent even though she is aware alicent's position is a unpleasant one ("it bothers you does it not?" "laena is your daughter princess, does it bother you?" "of course it does")

so if anyone is blaming a woman for the deeds of a man first, it's rhaenyra. at no point after that even during their good times does she try to help alicent. to me it's always been a friendship where alicent gives and rhaenyra receives. it's alicent who always thinks of her and wants to go back.

and then of course comes the lie that makes her look like a fool and she loses the only family member she had at court with her. even when that man wasn't having her own mental health as his priority, she still depended on him as being the only one in her corner, even if it was for his own benefit. she's all alone, for a long time. she grows bitter, and rightfully so. i think for me the point of no return would have long before that but i digress.

by this time it's obvious rhaenyra's children as bastards, harwin makes it a done deal too, and after years and after all of that rhaenyra thinks of making an offer: marry your only daughter to my son who is obviously a bastard. she refuses, everyone is like omg "don't you see how hard rhaenyra tries?" eyeroll etc etc

then episode 7 happens with aemond and well, that should be a done deal for anyone right? it would be for me. i think i'd rather chew glass than think of rhaenyra as a friend at that point. emma was right, alicent is gaslighted and dare i add humiliated in front of an entire room of people. her son loses his eye, rhaenyra asks for even more of him, viserys couldn't care less and in the end it is still alicent and her sons that get threatened by viserys.

by that point i would be planning big, violent things

it is unrealistic to me that alicent still holds and treats rhaenyra with kidness in episode 8, that she has kind words for her, that she does so without being given an apology for aemond, especially after daemon and vaemond. imo it is unrealistic. she should have been scheming the biggest scheme.

this isn't a woman turned into an evil caricature, this is a normal reaction to living in a hostile environment with a hostile family that does not regard you or your children with love or respect.

unfortunately alicent is being largely written in a way to tell rhaenyra's story so she has to have such deep love for her that is bigger than for anyone else because the writers need to show how special rhaenyra is and how much they love her through alicent. as a character, she's forever tied at the ankle to rhaenyra and the narrative is largely written to punish alicent for not choosing rhaenyra. this is also tied to jaehaera having to die and the "sins of our father" trope.

no matter how we like the green characters and their potential, the writers largerly care more about team black characters and have striped alicent of much of her ambition.

it is silly to write alicent as a character that only finds out in episode 9 that "the council" was planning to instill her son as king. it is silly to write alicent as choosing to crown her son and by extension declare war literally.... overnight. it is silly further for her to do it or push the idea that just before he died, viserys whispered of aegon ii.

of course that is the story we're given, but it is ultimately not a great story for alicent hightower and they could have done so much better, but they were mainly focused on writing daemon and rhaenyra and that's about it.

but yeah, i totally agree. anything positive from alicent past episode 7, especially in the manner in which she acted during the dinner in episode 8, is unrealistic imo.

#asks #did not reread this answer might have many typos

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thieves-oasis · 3 months

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hello here’s a part of the project i’ve been working on for a roleplay on ESO. the story is called ‘Shatter Me’ and this was a teaser I posted for my rp group :)

Darkness.

Bitter, cold darkness.

It is all I have ever known. And it is quite possible that that will not change.

Such is the way of death.

I know not my name nor my cause of death, but what I do know is that whatever took me from the realm of flesh did so prematurely. Even if I have no recollection of my time as a mortal being, Death herself has a way to make sure that I am begrudgingly aware of it. Whether it be by blurred flashes of my former face, or a fading memory that reaches towards me only to recoil in fear of what I might do if I were to grasp it, there are moments where I know that there was once more before this. But once those moments pass, I remember nothing of my life, and only that I have been floating here in the nothing since the beginning of time. Perhaps even before the beginning of time. I cannot tell... Time is not a finite thing in the void. I used to occasionally hear voices from the outside speaking of meaningless things such as time, but their tongues have warped and distorted making it impossible for me to confirm anything they say. The voices were never clear, anyways. Whatever shell holds me in its dripping, lifeless claws had always made sure the voices were nothing if not disembodied whispers that just so happened to reverberate around me in a way that I could catch. They used to mean something to me, but I have renounced the need for meaning.

Feeling has also escaped me. I am able to understand brief instances of emotion, much in the way that one understands the contents of an encyclopedia; simple facts with no deeper meanings. I know that a distant part of me is comforted by the notion, as whenever the thought arises, the frigid nothing of the void grows slightly warmer. It is one of the ways that she acknowledges my former mortality; a nod to the feeling that once would have been considered mortal comfort. There are many echoes of emotion that float near me from time to time. I can sense them approaching, but none have ever gotten close enough to warrant a reaction from myself nor from the void. But as of late, each sensation has grown more powerful. Expanding from mere feelings to the strongest of fervors, as if my mortality, shattered and scattered, has begun pulling itself back into one.

There is one emotion that makes the void grow silent when it approaches. I cannot quite feel it on my skin the way that one can feel a hand of pity placed on a shoulder of defeat, but beyond all others, this feeling holds revolutionary ardor. Longing. A burning ache within my shattered self, a magnet that calls to other pieces of my mortality and leads them back home. Even just the concept of longing makes my shell weaken when mentioned. I can hear the voices clearly even if I cannot understand them well, I can see a dull light beyond the cracks of my prison that open and close like a pulsating wound, myself the blood just waiting to ooze out and continue… Continue… What? I know there is meaning to this. This fire that threatens to burn my entire being from the inside out… I had thought that desire had long since abandoned me, leaving the answers somewhere deep within the pitch darkness.

But it would appear that something has the means to become my guiding light.

#writeblr #tesblr #elder scrolls #tes #shatter me #eso #the elder scrolls online #the elder scrolls #writing #creative writing #my writing

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korn-y-copia · 2 years

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Heir Apparent

Hi yes, I am currently experiencing baby fever (it’s bad), and I am unashamedly in love with Copia (it’s bad) and from that fatal concoction, this monstrosity (my first ever published work!) has been born.

I am new to all of this and could not think of a proper title, but basically, please enjoy this little piece entailing the first few hours following the birth of your son with Papa Emeritus IV (it is intended to be very fluffy, I really hope it reads that way!)

Word count: 1,333 (roughly)

Written in second person P.O.V.

Warnings: AFAB reader (gendered language, “mamma,” and “cara” should be the only instances), slight cursing, allusion to Terzo being a whore (affectionate), mentions of “parental instincts,” brief mentions of childbirth and breastfeeding which some readers may find uncomfortable!! If I missed anything please let me know! Constructive feedback and reblogs are appreciated!

“Ah, shit,” grunted Copia, for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. The first 40 times, it was because your water broke. The next twenty instances slipped between haphazardly lifting you from your seat in the car, to wheeling you into the hospital. The latter 39 counts were muttered and groaned as you gripped his hand amid labor, in such an ungodly grip that it took an hour for the feeling in it to return. In that time, rather reluctantly, he sped back to the ministry (Nuclear Assault blasting the entire way, and yet he hadn’t “heard” it), his mind in such a euphoric haze that he also failed to register when Primo concernedly inquired about you and the baby, or to notice when he nearly trampled Terzo and his chosen sister of the evening, or when he bumped into Secondo—an action that would normally result in Copia nearly dying of fright—while on his way to your shared quarters, to retrieve the forgotten hospital bag for you (luckily, his brothers, for as unforgiving as they could be, gave him a break just this once, since they understood the importance of the evening—the Emeritus bloodline was now secured once more, with the birth of Copia’s son). Now, after grabbing the bag, quickly changing into his favorite pair of sweats (he of course, nearly tripped changing into them) and bumping into several nurses in his hurried return to you, he found himself uttering his favorite foreign curse for the hundredth time, as his cacophonous movements, upon reaching your room, caused a stir from the bundle of blankets lying in the bassinet before him. Copia winced when the gentle coos of his awakening son quickly turned to cries. Panicking, the potent concoction of his paternal instincts—which he had nurtured, and refined through the help of several parenting books, and attending doctor’s appointments with you throughout your pregnancy—chronic anxiety, and adrenaline, sent him into action.

“Aw, what’s the matter, little man?” He fussed, caressing his son’s cheek before settling his gloved hand on his belly, patting him softly. “Why do you cry? Why—you should be happy, yes. You have the best mamma in the world!” The baby, not yet named, only looked up at him with a pair of curious eyes, matching his own. The tears had stopped at the familiar sound of his father’s voice (Copia had made it a point to talk to your belly as often as his papal duties allowed him to, for this exact reason). Copia smiled, his eyes threatening to fill up with tears once more (when the baby was first born only a few hours ago, he had been in near hysterics). “Yeah, you do!” He continued, “and your papa,” he gestured to himself. “he might not always be around, but he’ll…” his mind momentarily wandered back to his childhood. He still carried with him the heavy weight of growing up without the love of a mother or father. There was still a lonely child residing within him, one that sat outside in the bitter rain, on the steps of the abbey, wrapping his arms around himself as he cried into his lap, relying only on himself to bring him comfort, since no one else would. He’d be damned now (again) if he’d let his son fall victim to this same lonesome fate. “He’ll be there, sì? I promise.” Papal duties or not, Copia would always make his way back to his son, and to you—this was a promise both to his son, and to himself. The baby soon dozed back off to sleep, causing Copia to hum contently. He took the opportunity, in the silence of the room, to carefully lift the baby—exhausted from his entry into this world—into his arms, holding him to his chest as he sat down in the recliner beside you, taking the moment to sigh in relief. He couldn’t help himself—he was just too restless, too exited to finally be a father—and so he sat there, eyes fixated on every little movement the baby made, rubbing his thumb across his cheek. “My little man,” Copia whispered, placing a kiss to his forehead. He sat there, snuggling his son and heir, ignorant of the time that had passed, but relishing in every moment of it, until he began to fuss again.

Copia rocked him in his arms gently, soothing him. “Oh, why so negative, huh? Are you hungry? You want a little somethin’-somethin’?” The baby only continued to whimper. “Come on,” he grunted, standing up from the recliner (which certainly wasn’t doing his back any favors), and approached your bed. “Maybe mamma has a little somethin’-somethin’.” Exhausted from the birth, you’d fallen asleep shortly after, only awoken when nurses came in to check on you—Copia wouldn’t dare wake you, after having witnessed all the tears, and the screams of pain that you suppressed (not wanting your son to enter the world to such a jarring noise), none of which he could ease, all while you birthed another human. Now it seemed, out of necessity he would have to, and so while holding your son firmly with one hand, he brought the other to the side of your face, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear. The sensation of leather, just barely ghosting your skin awoke you. With your eyes still blurry from exhaustion, you questioned “is the baby okay?” Copia’s heart melted. “He is here, amore,” he spoke gently. “He is okay. But, uh, I think he needs his mamma now.” That was enough to momentarily bring you out of the haze of exhaustion, as your own instincts filled you in on what precisely Copia meant. Sitting up, you allowed him to hand you your son for the first time. “Oh, he’s perfect!” You cooed, examining his little face. Once more, Copia found himself utterly bewitched by your bright smile—it made him just as weak in the knees as the first time you had met. “He has your nose,” you chuckled, looking at Copia (his old nose, anyway). Copia smiled softly, relishing in the unholy vision before him. He long dreamt of being a papa, and part of that dream was seeing you as a mamma—and here you were, glowing and radiant, and absolutely divine in his eyes, as you cuddled your son close to you, guiding him to feed. You sighed, relaxing as you felt the baby successfully latch onto your breast. You looked up to Copia, who now moved closer, sitting beside you on the bed. He kissed your temple, gently petting your hair as he whispered praises to you. “Oh, you did so good. Molto bene, cara mia,” he softly spoke, rubbing the back of his knuckles against your cheek. You nuzzled against his touch, closing your eyes, content to finally be holding one boy in your arms, and to be held in the arms of the other. Silence lingered as your mind danced between a state of consciousness and unconsciousness. “Copia?” You finally spoke. He looked at you with such softness in his eyes, that you could have sworn you’d melt into a puddle right there. “Amore?” “Thank you.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I should be thanking you! You carried him, you did all of the hard work—” “for those things you said, about me being the ‘best mamma in the world?’” You smiled, heat rushing to your cheeks at the remembrance of words spoken so earnestly. Now it was Copia’s turn to blush, rubbing the back of his neck embarrassedly. “Heh. You heard that, did you?” “Copia,” you spoke slowly. “Hm?” “I think you forgot something.” His face fell, as he momentarily panicked, assessing the room. “What, what is it, amore?” You bit your lip, finding him just as endearing as the first time you had met him, and beckoned him closer, whispering “he has the best papa in the world too.”

Note: “molto bene, cara mia” = “very good, my dear (f.);” “amore” = “love;” “sì” = “yes;” “mamma” = “mama.”

#Papa Emeritus IV x reader #Copia x reader #Popia x reader #Ghost x reader #Papa Emeritus IV x you #Copia x you #Popia x you #tw: childbirth #tw: breastfeeding #afab reader

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ffxivtribehydrae · 8 months

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#19 Weal

For FFxIvWrite2023 Characters: Childé Hydrae, Bolormaa Dazkar

The day was still, with just the pitter patter of droplets of rain hitting the earth outside and the roof of the ger.

Outside tribe’s members continued with the day’s chores, a trickle of water wasn’t going to stop them from hunting or feeding the cattle, just raise a few covers and many could still sit outdoors if they so wished. Most of the children had opted to stay inside however, play on the dry wooden floor or sleep through the boring day. And their overseer today was Childé.

Despite being in the role of second Khan, he often times found himself with the chore of watching over the young ones, especially since the addition of another daughter. Not that he minded, he married a Dazkar after all and caring for the people in general was his preference.

His little girl slept as well this day, but in the comforts of his lap. His hand idly brushed over her head as he watched the people outside move about the day with a thoughtful stare. His thumb caressed the small horn, oh she was growing so quickly, yet she was still so small. And they’d practiced walking the day before; it was exciting, even if the stoic man didn’t express it so vividly.

And he had almost missed it.

With his other hand, he reached to feel his chest, but paused, leaving fingertips hovering over the fabric of his attire. He hated to remind himself of that day, the day he was supposed to die, never to see Amarjargal being born, and the bitter acceptance of an outsider’s help.

Suddenly his train of thoughts was disrupted by arms snaking around his shoulders from behind, a firm hold that pressed his hand against this chest to feel the hidden bumps. The wounds had been deep enough to prompt scaling to begin growing over the scars.

“You are doing it again, hun. Contemplating life?” Bolormaa spoke in a hushed tone, not to disturb those sleeping and keep their conversation hushed. When all the response she received was a huff, she knew she was on the right track, “Would you make up your mind already? Are you thankful or bitter for the help back then? I know I am very thankful to have gotten to keep you, so are your daughters, and the rest of the tribe.”

Her hand snuck underneath his attire, giving his chest a soothing rub along the marks. To her they weren’t as stigmatized as the rest of the tribe would view them, and she thought it silly they felt in such a way to begin with. “Not many get a second chance here, you are lucky.”

Frustration laced his words when he finally spoke, a little too loud at first before he grabbed hold of his emotions to keep them in check and not disturb anyone, “I’m not going trust her for a single good deed. We do not need some foreigner’s black faith to threaten our peace.” Childé twisted in his seat uncomfortably, if it was to her touch or the topic didn’t wasn’t clear, not that the reason mattered. “I know many were unsettled by her presence here and if I can help it I won’t let them suffer through it again.”

Bolormaa sighed and moved to a spot where she could face him instead. Serious eyes looked at him as though she’d lecture an apprentice, or scold a misbehaved child. Just the look was enough to prompt the proud man to turn his head away. “They were, yes, but have you spoken with them again? The past cycle have just been you and Bolgue bickering.” When her husband’s head remained turned, she sighed again with exasperation. A hand reached up and grabbed his horn, firmly yanking his head to look at her, prompting surprise to paint the Khan’s expression. “I know you care about us, but lately it has not been showing. Get out of your head and look around- at those who silently watch, our children, your brother. If you don’t you will just expand your list of regrets, no more jumping to conclusions, alright? No one will judge you for listening, for once.” Once done, she let go of his horn and rose to her feet, crossing her arms as she waited for- demanded a response.

It took a long time for Childé to process her words, and to get over the inner conflict of accepting the truth in what she said. It was in defeat he spoke in just a sigh, the words hard to form on his tongue and almost hurting as he spoke them- hurting his pride, that is, “You are right��”

Pleased, Bolormaa’s features softened with a gentle smile, glad he had heard her words. This time when her hand reached for him it was instead to pinch the scales on his chin, bending down to bump their foreheads, nuzzle horns together, and finally peck his lips with her own as she pulled away.

“Good. Now hand her over and get out there, be the leader you always told me you were.”

#ffxivwrite2023 #Story Time!#Childé Hydrae #Every time I think I should write something short #it gets longer than usual #oh well #it was fun!

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vecnuthy · 2 years

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How Long

pt2 pt3

Eddie Munson x gn reader (implied femme in others)

Blurb turned 3pt series, reader is struggling with their feelings for their best friend

Angst, pity party, pining on steriods, fluff in the other parts

You don't know why you did this. You didn't know why you willingly subjected yourself to this level of torture, more nights than were socially acceptable, ignoring your own boundaries, complete lack of respect for your feelings. There you were, yet again, in his bed for the millionth time. It was a safe space, a shared space for you two that went back to when you were in elementary school, just best buds cut from the same cloth, dealing with shit no kids should have to deal with.

The remaining innocence of youth had maintained its hold on you and Eddie, or at least it had for you. You had never dated, never had anybody express interest, and if they had, you would've been clueless or refused to recognize it for what it actually was. It didn't bother you, truthfully. How could I know what I'm missing if I've never had it? you would reason with yourself. Your relationship with Eddie was special, treasured, coveted, deeply rooted, but the potential for its immense fragility was enough to keep your truest feelings choked down.

Off limits.

But you knew what you were missing. You saw the (mostly star-crossed) displays of high school love five out of seven days a week. The looks in their eyes, contentment on their faces, the intimacy of their touches, the openess of it all. It didn't help that Eddie had always been a physically expressive person with no sense of personal space. You tried so hard to suppress your feelings, refusing yourself the sweet luxury of reacting to him, but eventually it would fester enough in you to make the ache in your chest grow to be too much, and you'd find yourself having to give into the sting in your eyes and the excruciating lump in your throat and let it all out at the end of the day in whatever privacy you could find, only to go to his place or him come to yours later on and have him so close yet again.

More nights than you probably should, you'd find yourself in the same position: slightly fetal on your right side, gazing over the expanse of the bed toward a sleeping Eddie. If he only knew how you would brush your thumb across the underside of your forearm as you lay there, wondering how his callused fingertips would feel if he touched you like that. Or how you would let your thoughts wander to a world where all defenses were dropped and the act was ditched. He was right there, so close you could feel the warmth radiating from him. You had to ball your fists up and squeeze them to keep from reaching over and brushing his hair from his face or caressing his hand when it stuck out from under his pillow, from touching his lips. Your confessions bubbled in your throat, stinging your tongue, threatening to spill out in the softest of whispers, but you wouldn't dare. You couldn't. You wondered if he ever noticed the watermarks on your the pillow, the innocuous evidence of the ribbons of tears that had been siphoned from the corner of your eye as you lay there, the one place that gave you the greatest comfort but the most bitter taste.

But god wasn't this view just stunning, and god weren't those thoughts just so pretty. Truly, this was hell, but you would and did suffer hell for the sake of safety, for the sake of having what you could, even if the scraps you clung to left you starved and hollow. You had it so bad for him, and you knew you had so much to give, but you wondered how long you could keep this up, because here you were: beating yourself up internally, silently wiping away more tears as you took in how a soft beam of moonlight broke across his beautiful sleeping face, willing to give up everything to be that shard of light, if only for a moment.

If only you knew how he was going to finally buckle a week from now after waking up to your sleeping form nuzzled into him.

#eddie munson fic #eddie munson x reader #stranger things #i made myself cry with this one #it was quick but im wrecked #eddie munson × fem!reader #eddie munson #1/10 do not recommend thinking about this shit at 1am #which is definitely when i wrote this #how long #eddie munson × you #fic

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krsive-writes · 11 months

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Better Out Than In

Title: Better Out Than In

Author: krsive

Rating: T+

Tags/Warnings: Angst, toxic episode, suicidal ideation

Rick had been drinking for a full week, counting out the minutes of Morty’s absence in bitter quaffs. He was dissolving his brain hour by hour; maybe soon what was left of it would ooze out of his nose and this would all be over.

The room spun like a top every time he closed his eyes, even after he had vomited every drop of bile from the very bottom of his stomach. Alone in his cot, the thickness of a quiet night cradling him like cotton batting in a package, Rick lay regretting every decision he had ever made.

A cursory examination proved that he couldn't read the screen of his phone. He couldn't even make out the photo of himself and Morty that was his wallpaper, now just a bleeding aura of yellow and blue. An attempt to peruse his contact list proved fruitless. The letters had all turned blurry like raindrops.

"You there, hot stuff?" Rick slurred. The AI liked a bit of flattery.

>>As always.<<

"Call somebody."

>>Would you like to be a bit more specific?<<

"SuUurprise me."

The phone began to ring. While Rick waited, he gave a stern talking to his stomach, which was threatening to turn itself inside out again though it was well and truly empty.

"I don't know who this is, but lose my number." The voice was youthful, feminine, familiar.

"Redheaded bitch," Rick greeted expansively, reaching his hand up towards the ceiling.

"Morty's grandpa?" Jessica sounded baffled. Rick took some pleasure in being the only one who knew what was up.

“I have a name."

"So do I." Jessica sighed. "Why are you calling me at 2 in the morning."

"Why does anyone do anything, really?"

"This is real fun, Rick, but unless you have a point, I'm going back to sleep."

"Rude much?"

"Two in the morning, Rick. Is this just a drunk dial?"

"I’m too drunk to dial," said Rick, giggling at his own clever joke.

"Ugh, whatever. Don't call back, I'm going to bed," Jessica said, and abruptly hung up.

"Told you," Rick said to no one. "Megabitch."

***

"I told you not to call back," Jessica sighed, three nights later. He could hear her breathing into the phone.

Rick wanted to wipe that sass right out of her mouth. Who was she to take that tone with the great Rick Sanchez? He put the beer bottle to his lips and drank. He had let it grow warm and go flat, but that was fine. He wasn’t drinking for the taste. His hands were shaking, and he had a pungent flop sweat going. The sour scent was thick around him, but he couldn't be bothered with a shower. He had business to attend to, feelings to drink away.

"You're not the boss oOof me. I can call anyone I want."

A pause, longer than it should have been. Long enough for Rick's mind to start prickling with anxiety at the edges.

"Then call Morty." she said.

One shot, just one shot from the stupid girl, and Rick collapsed in on himself like a Jenga tower. His breath hitched. He quickly swallowed the rest of his beer and threw the bottle with the others on the floor.

"Morty won't answer my calls." His jaw felt tight, his voice thick. "Out there living his best Gwyneth Paltrow life. No room for grandpa."

"He dumped you."

Rick made a point to audibly scoff. "No one dumps me, o-ok? Not that that's even what this is. I don't really care, it's just—you're the one who brought it up!"

"Maybe it's just healthier for him to live his life without you, and you should decide to be happy for him.”

"Little fuck has no idea what's good for him. That's why he ran off—his dumbass thought it was better to run away from the people who—“ Rick pressed his lips together, trapping hrs words inside.

"Who care about him?"

''Fuck that," Rick snapped. “‘Care,’ how gross. Sappy bullshit.”

"If Morty wants to reject people caring about him, maybe you should ask yourself where he learned that."

"Fuck you," Rick snarled.

He hung up and tossed the phone on the foot of his cot, as if it might bite him like a snake. Jessica sure had some audacity, talking to him that way. What did she know? Morty wasn't like him. Rick hadn't ruined him, not totally. Not by himself, anyway. Morty had just been watching too many movies, that was all. Blame that James Bond marathon last month. Blame Jerry for making caring look so blatantly lame. For once this was not Rick's fault. Morty was just a moron who thought Tyler Durden was the paragon of health. He had watched one too many sigma male grindset tiktoks.

Rick's care for Morty was toxic. It was sick. It wasn’t the care that a grandfather had for his grandson. Rick had done the right thing to excise it in that stupid machine. All of that made sense. Morty was different, though. His sweet, benevolent heart was beautiful, and he knew how to love without disease in his soul. Morty's uncaring ‘healthy' self was all wrong. Rick knew what was best for him, knew him better than he knew himself. If only he could make the idiot listen, if only Morty would call him back, then he could fix this in ten seconds or less.

If only, if only, if only.

***

The ship needed a tune up; she rattled a bit, the vibration warming Rick's ass uncomfortably. Though, really, that was a moot point because he had come here to kill himself. For the past few days he had feasted on a diet of ketamine, meth, and oxycontin. He felt good, now. He was doing the right thing. Truthfully, he was excited. After everything that had happened, at least he had some perspective on his ever-present desire to take his own life. His raging insistence on holding on, the part of him that would tear worlds apart just to live another day, was undoubtedly toxic. This was really better for everyone. So here he was, idling just outside the event horizon of his favorite black hole, ready to drive in.

The phone in his hand rang and rang. He thought she might not pick up, but eventually Jessica's voice greeted him.

"What is it this time? I have an English test in the morning, you know."

"I'm killing myself, now." He said, and why was his voice so clear?

"Woah. This is way above my pay grade. I'm gonna call 911—“

''Don't bother. I'm in space."

Rick dug a half-finished pack of cigarettes from the glove box. He wanted to feel the smoke in his lungs one last time.

"Why would you call me? This is super fucked up; I’m just a teenager." Her anxiety was palpable.

"Planetary minded." Rick took a deep, thick drag. His Morty would have been able to take the call. His Morty knew what life really was, thanks to Rick. "Suicide is morally neutral. There are hundreds of intelligent species that commit suicide to reproduce. There are entire planets where you can go kill yourself on stage at Coachella in front of a cheering crowd."

"I'm not comfortable with this, Rick."

"I didn't call you to stop me. I want to leave a message in case... i-in case Morty ever..." Really? After all that, Rick was going to cry? He pinched his nose and tried to tell himself it was just the smoke.

"Then talk to his mom!"

"No way. Not happening."

The cigarette burned down while Jessica sat silent on the other end of the line. That was alright. Rick had time to wait.

"What do you want me to tell him?" She was shaken, but Rick had to hand it to her; she was pretty brave under the circumstances.

''Tell him...tell him..." Rick belched, nearly vomited. He took a shaky drag. ''Tell him it's all his fault. Tell him…"

"I'm not saying that! That's way too fucked up. No way."

"Tell him I'm sorry. But also fuck him. Tell him he had his chance—tell him I had my chance...tell him it's too fucked up now—“

"No. This is too much. If you do this, if he calls me I won't even tell him you ever called. I won't even tell him you're dead."

''That's pretty messed uUup. You won't grant a dying man's wish?"

"You're not dying. You're killing yourself and putting the burden on a kid. I'm done with this conversation, Rick." There was a shaky breath, a rustling. "Call me tomorrow, ok?"

Rick felt shame like lead in his gut. "Yeah ok. I will."

***

Rick lay on his side, curled around himself, shaking with his sobs. The bar of his cot was digging into his ribs. He could just barely hold the phone to his ear.

"I said it to him when he was so scared, right in my arms.” The bitter memory haunted him. "I said he was gonna be fine. 'Grandpa's h-here'…" He choked on a sob, mouth full of saliva. "Grandpa's here, I promised...”

"It's ok, Rick," said Jessica, so gently.

"I just wanted to save him. This time all I wanted was to do a good thing but I fucked it up, I always fuck up..." He tried to wipe his wet, snotty nose. "Grandpa's here," he sobbed.

"You did your best. And he's ok. He's alive and stuff.” Even so out of her depth, Jessica was trying.

"Not all of him. Not the part of him that needs his grandpa." Rick kept chasing after the next breath, lightheaded from his sobs. "He doesn't need me."

"Maybe that's good. Like he's growing up or something."

"He knows that caring about me is a fucking mistake. He threw me away. Didn't even look over his fucking shoulder." Scrunching up tighter, he whimpered. "I love him so much. I just want him back."

"O...k... Not touching that."

"If he would just come back I’d be better this time." Rick's tears fell in a never ending stream. "He should come back and I'll be so good. I love him. I want to tell him. He needs to give me a chance."

"Morty's kind of given you like a million chances, Rick. You're always a dick to him."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

"It's too late, I think."

"Please, you have to help me get him back. Please, you have to."

"I don't really think that's a good idea."

"I don't feel so good..."

When was the last time Rick had eaten? The world was turning dark at the edges.

"If you want, I can stay on the phone while you go to sleep.”

''Fuck you. I'm not a baby." Rick's eyelids were growing heavy. "But don't hang up."

"I won't."

"I don't wanna... be alone..."

"I know, Rick. I can tell."

Rick wasn't really sure what she meant by that, but he didn't like it. He let his eyes fall closed. In his dreams Morty would be waiting for him, and it didn't much matter whether it would be with open arms or accusing eyes. Rick would take either if he could just see him again.

***

The rest of the family had fled when Jessica arrived, which was fine with Rick. He was sober, he was focused, he was ready. The others would just have fucked him up. Jessica, for her part, looked calm. Good. She wasn't going to wimp out.

"Just keep him on the phone for one minute. That's all that matters so do it no matter what."

"So you've said. Like fifty times.” Jessica cocked her hip out and gave him a painfully teenage look.

"Just dial. Hurry up. I want to get this done."

"Yeah. I know." She held up her phone to show it dialing.

Please pick up, please pick up...

''Hi, Morty. It's Jessica. Look, can we just talk for a minute?"

Rick's heart was in his throat, his portal gun clutched in his hands. He watched the dial narrowing in on Morty's location as the seconds ticked by.

"Come back, Morty. I miss you." Jessica shot Rick a meaningful look while she listened to Morty's answer. "How do you know I don't want to love you?"

The quiet stretched out, but the call didn't go dead. For the first time in weeks, Rick felt something like hope bloom in his breast.

Morty hadn’t hung up.

Morty wanted Rick to find him.

#rickorty #rickortyweek2023 #rick sanchez #jessica #toxic episode #angst #rickorty fanfiction

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nightmaretist · 11 months

Text

Bitter Dreams // Inge and Rhett

PARTIES: Rhett @ironcladrhett & Inge LOCATION: Rhett's dream and van. TIMING: Current. CONTENT WARNINGS: Violence, mention of sibling death. SUMMARY: Maybe messing up a hunter's dreams isn't the best course of action. Rhett wakes during Inge's feeding and makes an attempt on her life. As per, he does not succeed.

Dreams were nonsensical things and for that, Ingeborg loved them. It was so easy to jump from one thing to the other, the subconscious an easily distracted and moldable thing — if the dream a person was having didn’t interest her, she could just get her fingers (or claws, depending on the night) in there and swap the scene. And this dream, had by a man sleeping in a van somehow decorated by fungi, was neither nonsensical nor interesting.

So the scene transformed, as dreams tend to. One moment, the bearded man is sat on a boat talking to a woman laying in the bright sun (something about baby names, which makes sense considering the swelling of her stomach). The other moment, the sun is gone, as if someone flicked a lightswitch and the sea starts swelling and sinking, waves growing restless, licking the side of the boat. Inge took charge of the strange woman, letting out a piercing scream and holding onto the deck of the boat with one arm while clutching her pregnant belly with another as a storm took over the confines of the dream.

Strange, to touch a pregnant belly again, but there was no time on ruminating on her own past as she screamed once more at the bearded man, a gust of wind making the boat sway dangerously. “Help!”

—

It wasn’t quite right, but as one is wont to do when it comes to dreams, Rhett didn’t question it. Mariela was far more pregnant than he’d ever actually seen her, and they were on a boat that wasn’t quite the boat he’d lived on with Dez—and the aforementioned warden was nowhere to be found. It was just the two of them, enjoying the sun and the ocean breeze together, talking about the child that would be born soon and what to name them. Most startlingly, Rhett wasn’t infuriated by the sight of her. But it was a dream, and maybe dreams simply showed him what he wanted most. Peace. For nothing that had happened to them back to have happened at all. He could have been a father. A husband. A good person.

But he wasn’t any of those things, and that seemed to be reflected in the way a storm suddenly rolled in, casting shadows over the comforting scene. In one moment, he was twenty-five and still full of hope for the future, and in the next… the unbearable weight of loss and anger and hopelessness came crashing down on him, aging him appropriately. Still, his lover screamed and held herself as the boat rocked dangerously, and still, the warden reacted like he would have when he was young.

He leaped toward her, shouting her name over the crash of thunder in the sky above. “Mari!” The waves swelled larger, heaving the vessel, turning it damn near on its side. He fell, body slamming into the handrail as he watched Mariela fall into the water, hand outstretched toward him. “Mari! No!” His bellows were drowned out by the storm as he reached for her, desperately, even as someone else came up behind him and pressed a knife to his throat.

He knew it was Desmond, his dead brother. Rhett’s arm reached further in spite of the blade, feeling the edge cut into his skin and spill his blood. Mari’s fingers brushed against his own and he howled in pain, lunging forward to grasp her hand. The current threatened to rip her away from him, and Desmond’s knife was burying itself deeper in his flesh. Of course, because it was a dream, he didn’t immediately begin to bleed out.

—

The minds of the people in Wicked’s Rest were glorious mazes. Inge preferred to take charge of the nightmares she visited, but in this town it sometimes was just as easy and watch the subconscious’ of her sleepers take charge. It seemed there were ugly pasts buried in many a people’s memory here, ready to be transformed. Sometimes, she really did wonder if maybe she did something right by them, by putting their bad memories in another context. Most of the time, though, she barely thought about it at all.

She let the dream flow, watched another figure join the scene who pressed a knife against the subject’s throat. The figure she had inhabited was bound to drown in the ocean if she just let it be, but instead Inge took charge. The screaming face grinned, not at her subject but at the person behind him — as if there was some kind of secret between them.

She did not know what was going on here, but it was simple enough to figure out that the person in front of her cared for the drowning woman, so much so that he’d cut himself open for it. So Inge reached forward, pushed by a wave and grabbed the hilt of the knife he might bleed himself dry on and pulled it towards her.

Loss was so dreadfully simple. People died. They were murdered or taken by disease, got old or got in accidents — it was an undeniable truth of life. Something much harder to digest was betrayal. And so Inge did not bring the knife to her/the woman’s throat, but instead brought it forward, two hands wrapped around the hilt, and slammed down the knife in the other’s chest, pulling it out with the intention of bringing it down again.

—

All at once, the fear, anger, and hate came rushing back into Rhett, so intensely that it ripped him from his sleep. His paranoid mind sensed a threat, be it external or from within, and he wouldn’t be snoozing after that.

His eyes flew open, lungs gasping for air as the pressure of a knife buried in his chest still ached from the dream. His gaze was fixed on the van’s roof, body pinned to the floor of it by an invisible force. Paralysis. Recognizing that it was just another episode, Rhett attempted to calm himself. At least until he noticed the unusual red glow in the van, and managed to angle his gaze downward toward his feet.

A figure was crouched there, eyes burning red like the devil’s asshole. Fuck. Rhett gave a throaty groan and forced himself to move, knowing a god damned mare when he saw one. It was perhaps only thanks to his status as a hunter that he didn’t just succumb to the feeling, and instead ripped through it like a chainsaw through tissue paper.

Kicking one leg out, Rhett tried to hook it around the figure’s own and drag them to the floor of the van as well, finding it easier to move his legs than his torso just yet.

—

This happened sometimes. Inge tended to go overboard (both literally and figuratively in this case) and push her sleepers into wakefulness before she was done. It was the red thread of failure through her life as a mare in general: her pushing it too far. Playing with people’s dreams too much and that leading to moments like this.

He woke up and so, in a way, did she: staring at his paralysis with her red-glowing eyes. In the time she spent considering whether she would try and force him back to sleep, he seemed to gain enough consciousness to make the decision for her. Fuck. Fuck.

This didn’t happen often, especially not with first-time-feeds. It tended to happen after repeated feedings over a long stretch of time, where she made her appearances predictable. The fact that this man’s instincts were this sharp and this quick to put him to action made Inge respond with fitting panic. But there was no chance to get her mind to focus and get out, with his leg moving for her, pulling her down on the ground of the van.

She could not suppress the groan that flew from her mouth at the impact. How she hated this, being brought back with force onto the earthy plane where she had none of her powers of terrorization and transformation. Here, she was nothing but her pitiful physical form. Inge pushed herself up on her arms, making a move to crawl away from his reach and most of all taking great care to keep her face somewhat obscured.

—

With great effort, Rhett rolled onto his side, grunting as he did so, still recovering from the creature’s ill-effects. His breaths came in heavy pants as he pulled himself out of the episode and reached for the intruder, sitting up and lurching forward to grasp at an ankle and giving an exhausted wheeze.

He wasn’t… a hundred percent sure on what the best method for killing mares was, never having done it before. He’d only been told stories by Emilio’s family, and had only ever seen one in person, himself, before he really knew what they were. But he at least knew the methods of keeping them in place—salt, patched up keyholes, and physical contact. Hence the hand on her leg, and the other one coming down around her throat. Couldn’t be suffocated, he figured, being undead and all, but it was a good spot for keeping control of her.

The warden glared down at her, his face illuminated by the red glow of her eyes, and used his own body weight to pin her to the van’s floor. His weapons were, unfortunately, currently out of reach. “Picked the wrong fuckin’ hunter to mess with,” he snarled, lifting his gaze from her face only to try and look around and see what’d happened to his knife. Beheading might do it just fine. Most things died if you removed the head, right?

—

It made sense, when he said he was a hunter. Inge’s red glowing eyes were wide as her own body was pinned on the floor, the quickness and effectiveness with which he’d responded to her indeed fitting with the kind of person who killed for a living. Fuck. She struggled below him on the floor, but with his combined weight and pressure on her throat, there was little wriggling to do.

“Fuck you,” she spat, deeply regretting her decisions. What sour luck she had! Feeding off a hunter, and one twice her size as well. She wished to return to that boat, that sweet dream she’d ruined, the knife she’d sunk into his chest. But here they were, the hunter able to fully see her face and Inge not finding a way to escape at present. All she needed was his weight off her and her skin untouched and she could be gone, far from here.

With his attention diverted at God-knows-what, however, she managed to wriggle a hand free and press it against his side, under his shirt, clutching the flesh of his stomach. If only he could fall back asleep, she thought, then she could push him from her. With a growl leaving her mouth, neck arching back, she tried to focus on bringing the other back to sleep.

—

He wasn’t a slayer, and he didn’t hunt mares with any sort of regularity, so he was definitely not immune to their sleep inducing touch. As soon as her fingertips found bare skin, he felt woozy. Trying to fight through it, Rhett snatched up his knife as he saw the blade glint red, just sticking out from his jacket pocket.

“Feeling’s mutual,” came his snarl, grip on the hilt tightening as his mind grew foggy and vision blurry. His eyelids fluttered involuntarily, sleep threatening to overtake him with each second that passed, and he found that infuriating.

No more thinking. Just stab. He made a motion to do so, to hopefully get her to be still long enough to get a decently sized cut through her neck so he could begin to saw at it, but his aim was shit with the way the world tilted beneath him and her struggling. He wasn’t even sure if he got her with the way she was thrashing and the way his vision went fully dark as his eyes sank closed again, but muscle memory was all he needed, right?

Right.

Not so much. “Damn.”

The warden gave in, the weapon clattering to the floor of the van as he slumped over, still half on top of her but certainly dead to the world for the next couple of hours.

—

So they both brandished their respective weapons now. Inge just had her touch and willpower, her sheer and fierce reluctance to die at the hands of a hunter but this bearded man had an actual knife. It glinted in the limited light and her focus was solely on continuing her touch and keeping it powerful enough. Whatever energy left was spent on wriggling to make it as hard as possible for him.

She would have goaded him, if she had more energy left to spare, asked him who the people in the dream were. Her fingers dug into his flesh, and only dug deeper when the knife sliced. Not at her throat, but close enough to open the skin of her upper arm near it. The noise came out of her throat was almost animalistic and she clawed, furious, at that bit of flesh she got in her grip. Sleep, you fucking oaf.

Eventually though, he slumped over, his body on hers as glitter drizzled from her upper arm onto the floor of the van. Inge made quick work of taking the knife out of his hand and tossing it to the other side of the van. Whether he had any other weapons wasn’t a question worth asking, because up next was trying to get him off of her, pushing at him with her knees and good arm. She hoped her groans wouldn’t wake the light sleeper up again.

Once all touch was broken Inge made quick work of broadening the distance between herself and the hunter. For a moment she considered retaliation, retrieving the knife and really sinking it in his chest, but her arm ached and she had always leaned towards cowardice once her recklessness had proven too much. And so off into the astral plane she went, leaving a small pile of glitter in her wake.

—

Once he woke, groggy and disoriented, Rhett sat up in the van and held his head for a while, trying to recall what the Cortezes had told him about mares. The trip down memory lane was an unpleasant one, of course, and the man lost himself to them for a while, but as the sun peeked over the horizon, he had a plan.

One, how to keep that mare from coming back for more. But more importantly, how to keep it here once he found it again. And find it, he would.

#rhett.#threads.#bitter dreams.#this was FUN :hellmo:

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