#so far not seeing very many changes but i keep reminding myself its only been a month

[munch-mumbles]

OFFICIALLY DONE WITH MY FIRST BOTTLE OF T GEL YIPPEE

#so far not seeing very many changes but i keep reminding myself its only been a month #my voice has been getting a little funky but nothing super noticeable yet..... #also i THINK im a little hairier but its hard to tell if its for real or if its copium #starts looking to the stars and praying. pleaaaaase let t turn me into a bear pleaaase PLEAAAAAAAASE #been keeping a little video timeline updating each week and its tempting rn to go back and rewatch through to see if the voice has changed #more than i realize... but also what if it Hasnt and i get sad and also i hate seeing/hearing myself LOOOOL. #edit nvm i went back and looked and theres definitely a slight but Real difference so far HEEHEEEEEEEEEE

[front-facing-pokemon]

Yes, Honedge!

Something i'd like to point out about its face:

It doesn't have a goofy face, the holes in the scabbard just make it look that way. In reality, it just has a single eye.

With that in mind, could you please do a version without the scabbard?

iiii figured this was common knowledge enough to not warrant an additional form, but alright:

some of the guard disappeared but it's okay. i never even saw that part of the scabbard as a face—the blue eye is very obviously an eye. i don't know if anyone actually thought that was its face. however, i do find it interesting that even after removing the scabbard textures, it still has textures for that "face" remaining:

which implies it's a face more than anything i've seen of the matter before this point

anyway there's so many asks in the box right now so let's just go through all of them:

in order from oldest to newest, here we go:

this is true. most of the models are shiny, unless they have a "colladamax" variant

ahh it's fine. i considered it might have been a request but i also doubted it considering pangoro was literally next so i assumed you were just excited. me complaining about requests was unrelated—another ask i got around the same time

well then maybe it's not a bad thing. you certainly phrased it like one, it seems, but that might just be unfortunate connotations with the way you said it? glad we could clear up the confusion i guess

we do need more snakes, but i also like the bipedal pokémon, as a furry. back when everyone was begging sprigatito not to stand up, i saw through their thinly-veiled furry hate and was begging sprigatito to go against the grain and stand up anyway. and then they did and now meowscarada is one of my favorite pokémon. get fucked, normies (i am sorry for saying this)

↑ i didn't know this until i looked it up! this is interesting. stuff like the male version learning misty terrain but the female version learning more type coverage. this is very strange but i like it. only girls can use magical leaf and charge beam sorry boys

thank you! i can explain it. it is because pokémon are getting very close and staring at you as for the inspiration for this blog, it was mostly snivy. i remember one day thinking that snivy's big nose would make it look very silly from the front, and being like "damn. someone should compile a list of what every pokémon looks like from the front. damn. that would make a good tumblr blog bc some of those would be really funny. damn. i should do that" and then i did. but that was back in 2020—pretty soon after i ended up starting college which didn't allot me a lot of time for updating this blog, and although i kept swearing i'd go back, somewhat soon after that i went through a breakup and just wanted to take a while for myself. a bit after that, tumblr user sewatari reblogged one of the posts on this blog again (the weedle post, i believe?) and singlehandedly revived this blog by reminding me that they still cared about it. and that's fucking awesome?? tbh?? so thank them for this blog's continued existence. if you scroll waaaayyyy back far enough in the archive, you'll probably see that miniature saga. the images back from the first gen and onwards were a little bit icky as i got grips on how to actually go about this blog and manipulate the models in the right way to get them to work, which is why i can never really recommend folks scroll all the way back in the blog, but it's a look back into my own personal history, i suppose

apologies for breaking the magic, although i don't think anyone keeps up with the "i am a pokémon taking real live pictures of other pokémon with the camera right in their face" lore because no one pays attention to the backgrounds of the images (which used to change much more than they do now, but that's just because no one ever noticed or pointed them out. the background is not the focus of the image—it's the pokémon itself; thus, why look at the background? staging the pokémon in a setting used to be important to me, but now i don't worry about it and cycle between the same few backgrounds) or the asks, really. it's the commentary in the tags everyone comes here for, of course

she's a fully-grown woman with a house

then you'll love the top of this post

they probably wouldn't think it looks like anything because they aren't familiar with what honedge looks like so they would just picture nothing in their head. or they would just make up what they Think honedge might look like based on its name, or something, and then imagine that front-facing

i don't know which one of these is the real one. but we have some discrepancy here. also apparently this is a wider-spread belief than i thought

OKAY. i think that's all of them. if you read all the way here to the end, that's. powerful. for those of you who stuck around this long, i'm live right now with a test stream having some breakfast and playing pokémon. come join in, if you're bored this morning!

edit: it's over but i'll probably do it again some time, more likely at a more reasonable hour next time. considering the idea of doing a fully voiced pmd series—perhaps that'll be the next stream. or i'll leave another test one for it. who knows!

#not pkmn #nose ratings #extremely long post under the cut #i missed a few days of these so you're getting them ALL at once #the test stream probably won't be anything interesting btw. so you're not missing out if you don't show up #probably. who knows what i'll do. maybe i'll queue up the next set of pokémon live on camera. or maybe i'll fail at some tera raids #or maybe i'll find a random full-odds shiny in sv. or i'll go shiny hunting or something. y'never know!! #also fun fact apparently if you edit a tumblr post with a readmore‚ it moves the readmore down every time you edit it #why? no idea

[debsarcasticplight]

Starlight

The Impala rumbles to a halt outside The Starlight Motel, its tired engine sighing in relief. Dean leans back in the worn leather seat, rubbing his eyes, exhausted. The road has started to take its toll on Dean despite him having made this trip countless times before. After nearly a decade, his journey here and back again has become the only ritual that keeps him connected to his past and the one person still holding a piece of his heart.

Stepping out of the car, Dean can't help but glance around, his eyes scanning the familiar surroundings. The Starlight Motel hasn't changed much over the years. It’s still the same dingy, run-down place where he and Cas first met, spent countless hours as kids, and dreamt about escaping from someday.

Dean makes his way to the front desk, the bell above the door jingling softly as he pushes it open. The desk clerk, a tired-looking woman with bleach-blonde hair and bright red lipstick, removes an unlit cigarette from her lips before offering him a half-hearted smile. 

"Can I help you?" she asks, her voice heavy with boredom.

"Yeah," Dean replies, pulling out his wallet and tossing a few crumpled twenties onto the counter. 

"I need a room for a couple of nights."

"Okay, you're in #12," The clerk says, taking the money and handing Dean a key with very little investment.

Dean nods and heads for the lobby, the worn carpet muffling his footsteps. It's early November, but there are still a few flimsy-looking Halloween decorations strewn around in the corners of the motel. Just another subtle reminder that time keeps marching, regardless of whether anyone’s ready to start letting go. Room 12 is just like every other room in the place—barely functional, but it has a bed and a shower, which is all he really needs.

Dean tosses his duffel bag onto the bed and lets out a long sigh. He knows he has to check on Cas next. Doing so has become a routine for him, a way to ease his conscience, even though Dean’s never sure what he will find. Dean’s been renting Cas a room at the Starlight Motel year-round since he left, figuring it's the least he can do for the guy. Cas has a tendency to move around a lot, seeking out the sketchiest people while chasing his next high. At least this way, Dean can try to help his friend retain some semblance of home, even if it's back here, of all places.

Pulling out his phone, Dean scrolls until he finds his favorite picture: two young boys, their eyes wide with anticipation and ready for whatever life has in store. Although the original photo was taken many years ago, Dean can't help keeping a digital copy purely for sentimental value.

Holding a breath, Dean taps "Call" as a pit of concern opens up beneath his ribs. He’s got six different phone numbers for Cas currently, and it's always a gamble whether any of them will even go through.

"Hello?" Cas's voice crackles over the line, already sounding very far away.

"Hey, Cas," Dean says, trying to keep his voice casual. 

"It's me."

There is a long pause before Cas replies.

"Back again so soon, Dean?"

Dean runs a hand through his disheveled hair, trying to steady his breathing.

"Naw, you know me, I’m just passing through. But I thought I'd call and see how you're doing."

"You know how I'm doing, Dean." Cas states, his voice thick with bitterness. 

Dean winces at the truth in his friend's words. Knowing all too well how much Cas has struggled for years now, battling demons Dean still doesn’t fully understand. They had been close once, more so than anyone could’ve imagined, but life has taken them down different paths.

"Listen," Dean begins, 

"I rented myself a room at The Starlight for a few nights. Why don't you swing by? I’ll order us some pizza and maybe restock your fridge. We can catch up."

Cas hesitates, and for a moment, Dean thinks he might actually say no. 

"Okay, Dean. I'll be there." Cas says, sounding defeated.

Dean hangs up and lets out another sigh, this one heavier than the last. He knows he can't save Cas or fix the mess that is his life. But he also can't find it in himself to walk away either. Not after everything they have been through.

Dean leaves his room, returning to the front desk once more. When he requests an extra copy of Cas's room key, the clerk hands it over without question. She’s seen this all before, the two of them coming and going like ghosts.

Back in his room, Dean sits on the edge of the bed and stares out the window. The parking lot is empty, save for a few beat-up-looking cars. The neon sign of The Starlight flickers and buzzes, casting an eerie glow over everything.

Dean can't help but think back to his and Cas’s origins as he waits. They had been inseparable as kids, each other's lifelines in a world that seemed determined to tear them apart. They had even dated briefly, an awkward and confusing experiment in teenage love. Then Sam died, Dean left town, and Cas stayed behind to pick up the pieces alone. Even now, after all these years, the wrongs of the past haunt Dean, while the present feels no less bleak. But he’s determined to be there for Cas, no matter how impossible the task seems. For the sake of the man he once loved and probably still does, Dean knows he has to at least try.

#spn fanfic #destiel au #endverse!cas #endverse!dean #tw implied/referenced substance abuse/addiction issues #tw implied/referenced mental illness #tw grief and loss #suptober23

[shai-manahan]

Hello!

I am a person who is writing his own Interactive Fiction game. I currently have about 50k words written for it and will probably be making a forum thread soon. But I really need some advice from you as your game is one of my favourite.

The thing I am struggling with is my plot seems a bit bland to me and I just don't know what to do about it. Like I at the start only decided my game is going to be very reactive to choices and I have loads of meaningful choices and lots of variables remembering lots of things. But when I read through what I have written so far it feels a bit meh. Like your game is soooo intriguing as a reade. So my question was how do I make the plot more intriguing?? Sorry for the long ass post

I'm probably not the best person to ask about this; I go through cycles of self-doubt at least a few times a month 😞

But I'll do my best to help!

First of all, 50k words for an initial demo is impressive! HM had around 28k words when I first uploaded a public demo (which was just the first version of the prologue), so you're doing very well!

I think it would help tremendously for you to sit down and figure out what themes you wish to put focus on. It doesn't mean that you can't tackle a few others as you write, but it's always good to set goals like this to maintain consistency and make their presence strong in the story. It doesn't have to be something "grand"; it just needs to be clear in your head.

It's cool to aim for your choices to be meaningful, but watch out for scope creep. Not that I can talk; I have way too many variables tracking the MC's actions/dialogue choices as well as routes that not many will ever know about. And they can be fun! Just remember that fun doesn't always remove the stress attached to those boosts of excitement. I'd say try to focus on choices/variables you're sure you can deal with, particularly those that can enhance the quality of your plot, and you can decide to add more once you're certain you can handle them.

I have no way of knowing you're not already doing this, but well-developed characters help the impact of the plot grow stronger. Their fears, motivations, what they need to see vs what they have currently. Humans are complex beings, and for me, it's always interesting to try and explore that complexity. I love exploring it.

Try to talk to a friend about what you have at the moment! It helps to have some who'd never mince their words and are willing to give honest feedback while being helpful at the same time. In a way, it can be encouraging to know you have someone to depend to, and I hope you can find them if you haven't met such a person yet.

It's a first draft!! This is something I also keep telling myself, though it doesn't necessarily help me clear out all doubts all the time. But you should at least be aware of it. This is the first time I'm creating an IF, but I did a lot of film screenplays before, and my first drafts always sucked. It's why rewrites are not a foreign concept to me, and why I know HM might go through a lot of changes before I settle on its final version. But I do think both readers and writers should be aware of the fact that first drafts aren't supposed to be perfect; and WIPs, no matter how long they are, shouldn't be expected to have no flaws at all.

I cannot stress this out more, but taking walks outside or even doing the most mundane of errands can help to clear your mind! Try to take some rest; it might even give you some perspectives you haven't thought of before :))

I think that's all I can give for now, and I hope you're having a great time writing so far! I do want to remind you that you'll have to find methods that personally work for you as well, whether you're a plotter, a pantser, or something in between. It's why I haven't been too specific with the things I said; it's best for you to try and see what actually works for you as a writer. Best of luck <3

#writing #interactive fiction #anon #ask

[vampiresuns]

I don’t know what’s possessing me to write this, maybe it’s bc I’m a ND with a planner, but I have come to the conclusion the main reason why Neurotypical people are so incredibly annoying and unhelpful about the planner and organisation advice is because they’re incapable of seeing organisation as a tool.

They see it as a solution when it very much has always been a tool. Which is why ND people and mental healthcare professionals who educate online change the How you organise vs. the traditional ways we’ve been told you have to organise, which cater to NT people only.

Because they understand it is a tool. Not a solution.

And it is always a tool. Whether you’re neurotypical or neurodivergent, regardless of any comorbidities you may have, regardless of gender and age, it stays a tool because its status as a tool is not dependent on who uses it, but on what is it for.

Let me explain, I’m a ND with a planner and I pretty much rely entirely on it, but I have also 1. begun steady treatment 2. did the work to identify how to work with my plethora of issues instead of against them. I know exactly what planner will work for me (big with space to visualise multiple things, plenty space for writing, allows a degree of customisation), which ones will not (I need a monthly and a weekly view, without these I’m doomed, and it cannot be pocket sized. I need space)

I also know exactly what will and won’t work with me for it. I don’t use it to keep a perfect life-work balance, or to keep track of my habits or my spending or literally anything else. I use it solely for reminders and to-do lists. Thinks I can scratch off. I do not care how many days of the week I exercised, how my mood was, or how many hours of the day there are. I have ADHD, and I have issues retrieving information, what I need from a personal organisation system is something that allows me to quickly access information, in order to avoid overwhelming myself with tasks, or that I can write things down in the moment in one single place.

Sometimes I don’t check what I write, or the notes I take. Sometimes I forget to write things down. Doesn’t matter. I use this for work, academic purposes and day to day house keeping. I will get overwhelmed if I don’t write down a single thing that I need to do and then go do it. I need to see it. I need to hold myself accountable some way.

Usually, I mentally have a record of most of what I need to do, or bc I have ADHD I will usually discover them throughout the day. But again, because I have fucking ADHD and GAD I will absolutely get overwhelmed. My medically backed up perfectionism that fuels half of my anxiety every single day will ally with my executive dysfunction issues, and they will best me.

Or I will forget. And they will still best me because I’ll either get decision or executive paralysis, become extremely guilty about not doing anything, and work myself into a panic, so on and so forth.

So I pick. Usually by vibes or by what I call “ADHD whimsy”. Instinctively, I usually know what I want to do first and what I don’t want to do first, sometimes if only because doing steps in one way feels more off than if I do it in another.

 I write it down. I go do that. I tick it off. I pick another thing. Or I write some lose objectives for the week or the day. I do not deadline me. But they’re there. Easy to retrieve. Easy to access.

Between capitalism, grind culture, ableism and the perpetual catering to NT people, people still think keeping organised will solve their problems. It will not because it’s not a solution. It is not related to the cause of your problems. Organisation won’t fix stress, mental loads, or give you a better life-work balance. Unless you address the cause of your stress or personal imbalance, organisation can only carry you so far.

Sure does help. ADHD does best me often but fuck me if I don’t love a good organisational system. But they won’t solve my ADHD. Honestly nothing will, the chemical imbalance is permanent, even if I’m medicated, but that is not my point. My point is after years of trying several of ill fated advice catered to NT people about organisation, I only became better at it and used it as an effective tool when I addressed the cause of my problems directly.

Disorganisation is not a cause. It is not a moral flaw. Disorganisation is a symptom, and when it comes to mental health and your general well-being what will help you is finding the cause of that symptom, not coping with it for the sake of coping with it

#actually I do know what possessed me to write this I remembered someone from work went at me about this last week #jules posting #adhd #neurodivergent #adhd post #ok to reblog death to the nt planner culture you bastards don't even know how to use one i will stand by that how does blocking off your #your day in endless task lists not drive you insane looking at you morning routine wellness influencers

[hanaasbananas]

this was the very first page

Marinette and Adrien are both immortal and somehow, her diary finds its way into a museum exhibit. Of course, the entry they choose to display is one where she's gushing about her first meeting with Adrien. She is never going to live this down.

AO3

An exciting new discovery, this diary, provides us with an intimate look into the courtships between young nobility in the 18th century…

“Oh you have got to be kidding me.” Marinette stared in disbelief at the plaque in front of her. “Fuck.” 

The universe had it out for her. What other explanation could there be for such cosmic levels of bullshit? It wasn’t her fault that she’d lost her old diary in a building that would later become a historical archive. Really, it was a miracle the diary had survived at all, considering how poorly she’d treated it when it had been in her possession. 

Stepping closer towards the exhibit until her nose was almost pressed against the glass, Marinette swore again under her breath as she read her own words from so long ago.

It seems I have found someone to match my wit at last. Lord Adrien was not at all displeased by my demeanour. In fact, we took several turns around the garden and more dances than is customary for those who are unwed. I can only be glad that the night was warm and the sky dark to hide my blush.

It was highly improper–and the disapproval from those older–ha! Older than him perhaps– was made clear several times. Lord Adrien seemed content to ignore them and so I followed his example and turned a blind eye to them.

I am sure that we will be the topic of much frivolous gossip in many of these ladies tea rooms tomorrow. I however, do not care.That the dull evening transformed into something much more enjoyable with his company is enough to keep me in good spirits. 

Truly, I find myself enchanted by this handsome fellow and pray–perhaps futilely– to meet him again. Whether it will occur naturally or not, there is a strange inclination within me to delay my journey into the countryside and attend more debutante balls, if only to tempt fate so that we may cross paths again. I wonder–is he betrothed to someone or–

Oh! What madness has come over me? 

Good God. Adrien was going to be insufferable about this. It wasn’t embarrassing enough that her old diary had made its way into a museum exhibit, the subject of the entry just had to be immortal too. 

Really, what were the odds?

As if on cue, Marinette’s phone rang, Adrien's name flashing up on the screen. “Oh for–”

“A handsome fellow, you say?” Adrien sounded positively giddy with delight. “My Lady, I never knew you thought so highly of me. I’m honoured!”

“Shut up,” Marinette grumbled, “how did you find out so quickly?”

“I have a google alert set for our old names, I told you this.”

“Right. Why?” 

“Why, for times like this of course!” His voice became strangely echoey as he spoke, and with a sinking heart, Marinette turned around to face him.

Even now, almost three hundred years later, Adrien still had the ability to make her breath catch in her throat. His green eyes sparkled with the same mirth that had enchanted her so long ago. It didn’t matter how much time had passed, how casually he dressed, or how untidy he kept his hair, she could always see the traces of nobility that he hadn’t been able to scrub away in the way that he held himself, in his features and the arch of his brow.

She liked that. It reminded her of the night they met. Of how far they’d come, both separately and together in the time since and it was almost comforting to know that some things never changed. 

As she watched, Adrien hung up the phone and came to stand beside her, bumping her shoulder gently. “You should have asked me, you know.” 

“Asked you what?” 

“If I was as…enchanted to meet you as well. It would have saved us a lot of time”

Marinette frowned. “Time? How would it have saved us time? You and I both know we hardly need to save that. Time is the one thing we have an abundance of.And anyway, it’s not like we ever really see each other that often.”

And whose fault is that? A small voice whispered in her mind before she could squash it down. Truthfully, she had entertained the possibility of telling him her feelings many, many times over the years, but had always backed out at the last minute. Though they met infrequently, they had still formed a strong friendship, bonding over their immortality and she always looked forward to meeting Adrien every few years, whether they met sporadically or spent a long time together.

She didn’t want to risk losing him. 

“You know what I mean,” Adrien chided, breaking her out of her thoughts. “What about that decade in Rome? You could have told me then.”

Adrien hadn’t answered her question, she noticed. What had he meant, saved us time? Sneaking a glance at him out of the corner of her eye, Marinette saw that he was standing with his hands clasped behind his back as he read the plaque in front of her diary. Her heart twinged at the sight, his pose so similar to the way he’d stood that first night he had asked her to dance.

She could tell him now. The evidence was right in front of them after all, and it wasn’t that strange to believe her feelings had strengthened from that first charming meeting. She could–

Marinette sniffed. “First impressions can change you know.” Coward, her mind whispered. She squashed the thought and continued “you went down in my good graces the moment you tried to rob me the second time we met.”

“Look–” Adrien exclaimed indignantly “how many times do I have to tell you, I was trying something out!”

“You don’t try out being a highwayman–”

“It was all the rage! What else was I going to do?”

“Anything but that! You mmph–” Marinette’s eyes widened as Adrien suddenly shoved a hand over her mouth, cutting her off.

“Shush!” he hissed. “Don’t move.” 

She froze, heartbeat thundering in her ears when she heard it. Footsteps.

“Hello? Is anyone here? The museum is closed!” a loud voice rang out, echoing loudly around them. The footsteps didn’t come any closer, and Marinette was suddenly glad that her diary was displayed in its own alcove that hid them from view. She wasn’t sure she could even move if she wanted to, with Adriens warm hand pressing against her face.

“Shit,” he muttered, stepping forward until there was barely a hair's breadth of distance between them when the man turned his torch on, doing a cursory sweep of the room with the light.

Marinette swallowed roughly, meeting Adrien’s gaze. His expression was serious, head cocked to the side as they listened for the security guard. Luckily for them, the man did not seem inclined to investigate further, his footsteps receding back the way he came. For a long moment, neither of them moved, suddenly aware of their close proximity. Adrien’s eyes flicked down to meet hers, his cheeks flushing as he held her gaze for what felt like an eternity before he stepped away, removing his hand from over her mouth.

Exhaling shakily, Marinette fiddled with the strap of her bag. “That was close,” she murmured. “We should have come by in the daytime.” 

Adrien snickered quietly “where’s the fun in that?”

“Anyway,” he continued “in case you’ve forgotten, I was a very good highwayman.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Gesturing to her diary behind the glass, Adrien shot her an exasperated look.

Oh. Oh. 

“We can do that?! I mean…is it really stealing if I lost it and I’m just getting it back? I don’t think so, after all I’m just taking back what belongs to me, and it’s not like I donated my diary or something like that other guy but–”

“Hey.” Adrien grabbed her by the shoulders, surprising her into silence. “Let’s just take it, and you can catastrophize about the morality of it afterwards, alright?”

“Uh…alright.”

“Just so you know, though, I don’t steal things for any old person. You have to be on my list of people I’d steal for.” 

At her surprised look, Adrien shrugged. “What? The highwayman thing was cool but I figured it would be good to have some rules for myself.”

“Oh yeah? And where am I on this list of yours?”

Adrien grinned at her. “My Lady…” he tutted, shaking his head fondly “don’t you know? You’re at the top of my list.”

#miraculous ladybug #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #ml fanfic #banana writes 🍌 #apparently i just write crack now

[crystaldwightsworld]

I know its been like 2 years since you updated Nerve so sorry if this is annoying!! But i just finished reading chapter 2 yesterday and today i accidentally found your tumblr account?!?! I'm so shocked, I think it was fate haha 😄

So anyway, I found myself thinking about your story for the whole day. I really love your writing style. I couldn't look away from the screen. You perfectly captured Ashley's emotions, I could feel her pain and her hesitancy towards Leon. And Leon... he's so gentle and tactful. He instantly makes you feel safe.

I just wanted to thank you for writing this, I noticed that you seem a bit unsure if your stories are good (you mentioned rewriting it a lot of times 😅) and I just want to tell you that THEY ARE AMAZING!!! You are very talented and I hope you have lots of motivation and inspiration to write more great stories in the future. ❤

No need to apologise, it's far from annoying. Maybe fate, maybe not, I did link to my tumblr on some of the chapters in my fics (actually went back and linked to it on all of them since I realized I hadn't been doing it lol).

It still baffles me that I get so many comments on the story and messages here on tumblr. You're not the first person to message me about it lol. Baffled because... you're right, I don't think it's that good xD. I know Leon x Ashley is far from the popular pairing but that's exactly why I started the story/ies. Not a lot of ppl write for them specifically and not a lot of ppl like Ashley to begin with.

I'm glad you like the story. I took a BIG gamble on that second chapter, speaking from Ashley's POV for most of it and sprinkling in a little bit of Leon's as well. I'm doing my best to keep them in what is in my mind, in character. Is a lot of it made up and merely speculation? Of course it is, we only know so much from lore and the games. I had thought ppl were going to hate it though, POV chatter from a character tends to piss ppl off for some reason...

2 years... yikes lol. Trust me, I'm just as disappointed as the fans of the fic are. The inspiration is there, stories that I'd like to write, one offs, au's, things that I already have started sitting in Docs, it's just finding the motivation. I've kind of lost my flow recently, IDK why. Nerve has some deep and dark subjects present in the story as well so it's a little difficult for me to write about something I've never experienced or have no experience in. It's a miracle if I can go back to the third chapter and manage to whip out a few sentences. Chapter three has been sitting in my Google Docs for quite some time, along with the other chapters or drabbles that I want included in the story. I've said it before but Leon and Ashley is always in the back of my mind, always on my mind in some form or another. Always reminded that I need to get the next chapter out. The new RE4 remake coming has really rekindled my interest, I'm really looking forward to seeing Leon and Ashley again. I'm hoping for more bonding moments, more banter, idle chatter and conversation. I about damn near cried at the second trailer reveal and game play footage. That spark is back, that nervous excitement you get in your tummy that burns (in a good way) with fluttering butterflies... I cannot wait to see them again lol.

I'm not going to guarantee when the next chapter will come out. I really have no idea. I can't write unless I'm feeling it and forcing myself to do it any other time just leaves me sitting there staring dumbfoundedly at the draft, knowing exactly what I want to say but unable to get it out into words on the screen. I guess... we'll see. I'm not giving up on it though, I refuse.

Thank you for taking the time to write to me. I'm very doubtful of myself and the stories so finding messages or comments from peeps that really enjoy the stories really reminds me that I'm too hard on myself.

To keep spirits up, I will reveal something from the fic but as always, it's always subject to change. I try to give out mini drabbles of things I'm for certain I want in the story.

Chapter 3

“Ashley?” He voices his greeting gently from above, hoping that it wouldn’t startle her. Her eyes peel open, finding Agent Kennedy standing over her in the dimly lit room. She acknowledges his being with a forced tiny smile followed by a pained whimper, the cramps from her period giving her hell. The headache had lessened but her head still throbbed, her pelvic region felt heavy with pressure and she kept sweating due to the frequent hot flashes. 

“You’re up early, graham cracker.” He says, the silly nickname making her grin as her tired eyes fall to the wall behind him. “Dumb question but you okay?”

Her throat is dry, feeling as if it would almost cave in on itself. She forces her gaze back up to his but only for a moment to shake her head no, reverting her stare back. 

“No? Do I need to get a hold of Marc?” Leon offers. Again, she shakes her head.

“No talking kind of day, huh?” 

Ashley had had a few of them and Leon had grown used to them. He knew better to bother anyone when all they wanted was to be left alone. He had experienced many days like that himself. She makes a pained expression, teetering on the edges of wince and bothered before shaking her head no again.

She sits up slightly, keeping the hot pack in place as she moves to the middle of the bed. She doesn’t ask and she doesn’t tell but only reaches her hand out for Leon’s, her fingers folding easily into his palm. She pulls for him, motioning for him to take the spot next to her. He smirks but doesn’t take it right away, the caution and hesitancy hard in his gaze. Her tired gaze grants him permission, tugging his arm forward again. He relents, taking the open spot next to her, leaving one leg to hang off the edge.

“Lay.” She mutters in her sleepy drawl and the request takes Leon by surprise.

“You’re being brave today, Ash.” He comments, watching her pat against the sheets to gesture for him to join her. Against his better judgment, he obliges and takes his spot, turning to lay back comfortably, the warmth from where she was radiating through his blazer jacket. 

Was it a good idea? Probably not. She doesn’t say anything though and neither does he, sharing their quiet moment together, the warmth of her beside him and the dim light of the room pulling at sleep strings he much longed to fall back into. He stared up at the ceiling, nothing but the sound of commercials and her breath meeting his ears. It was… nice. Peaceful.

<3

#asks #leon kennedy #ashley graham #leon x ashley #nerve #resident evil 4 #re4 ashley #ashley re4 #my writing #my fic #leon s kennedy #resident evil

[brisquad-unit-4402]

question 6?

it's been amazing reading the other responses and being able to see how far you've come. I may be a little late to the bandwagon, but j can say with certainty that it's been an honor reading your fics over these last few months. Please keep being you and working hard towards the things you want to achieve (*^▽^)/★*☆♪

these are very sweet words. the best time is now! i appreciate it muchly, and i hope the rest of the year—and the next as well—treats you as kindly as you treat me

6. Favorite title you used?

the struggle of being a writer on tumblr that crossposts to ao3 is that with tumblr, asks tend to do the job that titles would. so a lot of entries on my masterlist are like cuddling with [character]. what [character] does after a long day. ways to kiss [character]. which is all well and good, my work is exactly what it says on the tin and we're all happy. i don't have to worry about titling things

now i also, and most often, crosspost to ao3 at night, when i'm tired.

in some cases that's great. in other cases i mention in an author's note that ike weighs about as much as a box of cheez-its. this is all to say that my ao3 titles are awful and bad and not nearly the same vibe as its contents, and i don't think i'd have it any other way.

dudes who only order boneless 🍗 wings close the fridge with their hips and brutal garlic disaster horrifically kills 1, injures 3.9k viewers are bangers. and who could forget the indomitable royal splash

i find that the less stress i put on myself to think of titles the better, because then i just get it done without stressing. so, like... memes.

unironically, and predictably, stars above your skin is my favorite of the intended titles.

stars above your skin is most directly a reference to ike's freckles in that fic. they're something that represents how his and reader's relationship changes once they meet up; on cameras they're hard to see and in real life the sun tends to make them more prominent. they're a reminder that he's real (non-parasocial), and the moment reader notices them in detail, they go from giddy and crushing into comfortable and in love. it also refers to the confession scenes. the failed confession is literally under the stars and his appearance is described with the context of stargazing.

"The night turns the tips of his hair bluer than usual, and the stars remind you of the freckles hidden along his creamy skin. His glasses reflect the galaxy above."

this is where i decided stars above your skin would be the title. in the proper confession, they're so at peace with one another that the bumps of this nasty ass airbnb ceiling might as well be stars, like making up for their bum confession in a romantic setting. and yes there's metaphors of his freckles being stars in there

if in pursuit to and from the sun was more eloquent it would've been a contender and more likely to win. yadda yadda the sun is a symbol for both death and hope, mysta metaphor, uh huh. it just has too many glue words in it for me to take it seriously. if it didn't take tumblr 7 minutes just to load the editor on that post i'd rename it to something better, like, idk, mastodon's sixth album or something

#unit 4402 reporting #4402 answers #ao3 wrapped 2023 #shybunnyseaslug #nice comments

[dragonmuse]

we usually see lucius giving out advice to others, esp at this point in the timeline. id love to see an instance of him needing advice himself (dealer's choice who its from)

(ooh good good. I keep meaning to write more about Stede and Lucius' friendship so here is some of that. The first bit takes place only two or three months after Lucius is hired)

Lucius read through the email from his college's professional development department again. Asking for accomplishments to brag about it in the next glossy brochure.  He set his phone down very carefully so he wouldn’t scream. Yes, his life was very brag-worthy, very much worth the cost of an albatross of debt around his neck. 

The bar was dead, too early for any real movement. Mr. Bonnet was sitting at one of the tables, frowning at something on his laptop screen. He’d come out here for a ‘change of view’ and had been making ‘hms’ and ‘wells’ at his screen in between moments of typing. 

So Lucius was having a fun little crisis with his boss about ten feet away. He turned his back on him so he could regard the wall of bottles to try and pull himself back together. It was fine, he reminded himself. Everyone’s successes were different. He wasn’t lesser because he hadn’t managed to miracle himself into a different person with better connections or smarter life choices.

Bartending was fine. He had an art career, even if it was niche. He sold pieces. It was fine. He was fine. 

He was having a little trouble breathing, but he was fine. 

“Lucius?” Mr. Bonnet’s voice was suddenly far too close. 

He pasted on a smile and turned around, “Yes?” 

“Ah, I was wondering if we had any bottled water left?” 

“One sec,” Lucius ducked down under the bar and gave himself strict instructions to get it the fuck together, before coming back up with a bottle. “Here.” 

“For you,” Mr. Bonnet said with a light smile. “I was thinking that it’s very hot out and you walk here, don’t you?” 

“Part of the way,” he agreed. And yeah, fine some water wouldn’t be a bad idea. “Do I look sweaty or something?” 

“Not particularly, but maybe a little under hydrated,” Mr. Bonnet set a package of cookies down on the bar. “Would you split these with me? I picked them up a few days ago, but if I open it up I’ll eat them all myself and regret the stomach ache later.” 

Lucius opened the water and took a sip. Cookies sounded...yeah maybe he had missed lunch come to think of it. 

“Not going to say no to that,” he decided. 

“Oh good,” Mr. Bonnet laughed. “Thank you.” 

They ate quietly, unusually for Mr. Bonnet, who seemed to thrive on generating sound like it would blot out all the unpleasantness in the world. 

“You know,” said Mr. Bonnet when he’d eaten the last bit of his last cookie. “I have found in life that so many problems that seem insurmountable can be fixed with some water and a snack. Perhaps a nap too or a brief talk with someone who listens well.” 

“Have you?” Lucius finished off the bottle of water. 

“Mm. It helps me in any case.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He did feel ever so slightly better, even as Mr. Bonnet seemed to wait for something. Lucius gave him a confused look until the man wandered back to his laptop. All right then. 

But whatever he'd been waiting for did come to pass.

Several years later, Lucius was chewing through a bastard of a morning. He and Izzy had fought over something utterly ridiculous (and maybe Lucius had picked the fight and forgotten he was in the wrong house to get a sweet makeup hug instead of several days of bitter wrangling), he’d missed the express and been stuck on the local for what felt like hours, only to come in and discover he had the schedule wrong and didn’t even have to be there. 

“Shit,” he sat down hard on a barstool. It was only noon and he was already fed up with the day.

He got out his phone, considering reaching out to Pete, but sweet man that he was, he would probably tell Lucius to just apologize which he was very much not in the mood for. 

Lucius: Thoughts on day drinking? 

Stede: In general or at the moment? 

Lucius: Right now.  

Stede: I haven’t had lunch yet. What about that little Italian place? 

They met at the restaurant, securing a table outside. They both got tall spiked lemonades. 

“So what has you all knotted up?” Stede asked as soon as the bread was delivered and they had both slathered their respective pieces in butter. 

“Who says that I am?” 

“Mostly the wrinkles in your forehead,” Stede gestured with his butter knife. “And the day drinking request.” 

He bit into his bread and chewed sullenly for a long minute.  Stede waited him out, damn the man. He used to be so impatient for his turn in the conversation that Lucius could just let him ramble when he wanted to hide. These days he paused more. Listened better. Fucking Eddy’s work, probably. 

“I got in a fight with Izzy,” he admitted.

“Over what?” Stede asked mildly. 

“He plugged in my tablet last night without checking and he must’ve jostled something because I lost some progress.” And shit it sounded worse out loud. 

“That was...unfortunate?” Stede hazarded. “Had you asked him not to move it?” 

“Not in so many words,” he admitted. Izzy wasn’t supposed to move any of Lucius’ things actually, an order that Izzy generally held firm on, but they’d both been tired last night and the man had seen the low battery after Lucius drifted off. “He...might’ve been trying to be helpful actually.” 

“Ah,” Stede leaned back. “So what were you actually mad about?” 

“The drawing?” Lucius frowned. “What do you mean?” 

“I find that when Eddy and I have little fights, they’re usually about something bigger, actually. Sometimes with each other or maybe we’ve brought home some annoyance,” he considered his lemonade. “It’s never really the lack of a coaster or something left in the hall. It’s about consideration or respect or understanding each other’s needs. Sometimes...well. Sometimes it’s just being a little hungry or thirsty.” 

“Or maybe someone having to get up at ass o’clock in the morning because if they don’t get in a run before they go to court they might actually kill someone,” Lucius groaned. “Oh fuck. I was really annoyed about not getting to our plans last night because he wanted to go to bed early and somehow that always happens on nights when it’s something I want to do. Which probably isn’t even true, but it feels true. And I forgot to eat dinner and he’d already eaten when I got there because he assumed I had and I told him not to make me anything because I was already annoyed...” 

“Mmmhnm,” Stede nodded. “Please do not take this as me defending the man, because I truly believe he is an ornery and impossible person, who likely deserves every bit of your vitriol.  But....” 

“Noo,” he complained. “You were not supposed to make me apologize.” 

“I’m not making you do anything,” Stede laughed. “Break up with him over it and make me a more relaxed human being.” 

“You lie like a rug. You like knowing I have eyes on him. For entertainment purposes if nothing else.” 

“I have no idea what you mean,” he said like the entire pat of butter on the bread wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “In any case, please tell him if you do apologize that it’s thanks to me. Truly no better gift you could give me.” 

Lucius picked up a glass of water instead of his drink and took a sip. 

“Yeah, I’m not going to do that. But....thanks.” 

“You’re very welcome,” Stede beamed at him. “Did you get around to that odd little book I lent you?” 

“Mm, I have several thoughts, none of them flattering.” 

“Say more immediately.” 

Lucius did, and they passed a very pleasant hour over chicken parm, more lemonade and literary gossip.

#leda house and the kraken verse

[majikstan]

Week 8 of no work and this depression, no local friends

I really don't know how many people actually do see or read what I write considering that lately, its mostly of dread.

I mean what do I really have?

Its now week 8 of having no work, no job and still looking! my recent boss has not contacted me in nearly 3 weeks ago.

I have no local friends still as no one contacts me or even bothers to check on me, the former work mates that I had limited contact over Discord, have well not said a thing for a few weeks. except to forward some news from EPIC about license changes planned for next year.

I have no mates or buddies to hang out with and no one here wants to hang out. Let alone anyone from the HB community when all those that would love to have to be located so far overseas, so I cannot meet them anyway. But really who is that interested in wanting to listen to my heart too. Not that any friend that I would have, would ever be required to have that interest, I mean I have over 1000 interest, sure sport is not one of them.

But most people over here hold this expectation that you must have a car, otherwise no friendship, what the heck is that? I have been dumped for that exact reason to many times. Because I don't have a car!

And no one over here wants to date me, never have in Australia, all those that have wanted to or had been interested, are the ones that are far overseas, like when I lost my last one because of Immigration's in this country, and the thoughts of me moving instead overseas, is not supported by my family, in-fact my mother does not support that all. she is afraid of losing contact from her only son, even though I check on family very often over the phone at least.

I reminded my father that I am 46 and that no one in Australia has ever had any interest to date me, let alone want to be my friend. and I don't want to end up being alone forever! if I were to not ever find anyone in this country interested in me.

This rotten Depression and Anxiety, and I have no one I can even talk to, having such a low self esteem and low confidence is not helping when I have no job, no Girlfriend, no friends, no visitors and all alone and feeling so forgotten, is not helping.

Again who is even ready what I write, what is my audience here, if that can be called that. I just feel like I'm a loser and like everything is all against me too. Having experience in the last 15-23 years of bad luck, what is the good luck? 1 week in 2010? which thanks to the government they took that away from me. Or the 30th of September of 2019 when I was able to start my what had been my dream job, only to have lost it 8 weeks ago!

In the mean time my sister has again well even her husband keeps persisting for me to come back home back to Melbourne, and to stay with them for a time till as like my sister said, " To start again" but to do that, I would feel like I failed myself, or is that really it.

I am a failure or a loser? Its like everything else over here has been pushing me to believe that for the last 20 years. Just like the "Not good enough Flag" Oh I wish I could just tear that down so much and bury it. It's tearing me down! Just like all those other demeaning things that I have been told, been called over the years and the ways I have been used and abused. So sick of it.

Sometimes even the act of being able to share my heart online can help , or to listen to a friends online, but that is also a rarity now as well, to have a friend I can talk to also would help, but who is that who would want to spend time with me. I have known a few overseas that claim that they wish they were living next door and would love to hangout if that were the case, but how true is that but then they are overseas so I have no one that could even hug me too, let alone hold me or hold my hand.

To get a hug when I am a hugger, but that's even rare too, sometimes sharing heartbeats can be almost thought like a virtual hug in itself, but then again?

I know I am rattling on here. Just wish things would improve and that I could have a real life, rather than all these constant frequent disappointments and everything that pulling me down would just go away. :-(

Sometimes I feel like I'm losing myself, I never drink, never touched a cig or ever touched drugs, I am clean, but my mental self, when alone and with no friends, I feel forgotten and unwanted.

Would love to have a visitor a friend, but no one want s to know me.

I know I wrote too much, here.

#depression #joblessness #friendless #loneliness #forgotten #anxiety

[arzner]

It’s been so quiet and lonely at home ever since my dog died. I feel sick to my stomach every time I open my front door and her adorable little face isn’t there to greet me and make my entrance feel special. I feel forlorn no longer having my little shadow following me from room to room. I miss talking to her and petting her and holding her and playing with her and seeing her tail wag with excitement when interacting with me.

I hate seeing so many reminders of her all throughout my apartment -- her toys, blankets, beds, food, treats, bowls, leash, etc. -- but I also really don’t want to put them away yet. Her food bowl still has her breakfast in it from yesterday when I tried to feed her but she was too ill to eat. There’s an unopened bag of dog food that I’d bought just a couple days ago that I now plan to donate to an animal shelter.

I stood in my living room earlier smelling her collar and it still smells so strongly of her. She was the most pleasant-smelling dog I’d ever known.

It’s jarring how your entire routine changes immediately: I no longer have to let her outside, feed her, take her for walks, shut certain doors to keep her out of trouble...

I took today and yesterday off because I just didn’t want to deal with work on top of everything else + I was exhausted from not sleeping due to the whole ordeal, and now I almost wonder if maybe that was a dumb idea because I’ve just had too much time to think and wallow and torture myself by looking at pictures of her. The skin around my eyes and nose is raw, red, and peeling from how much I’ve cried. Time has gone by so slowly all day, and I can’t stop thinking about her and hoping that she enjoyed her life and hoping that I took good care of her.

I keep replaying the whole day in my head over and over. I brought her to the emergency vet very early Sunday morning when she first showed signs of illness. The vet explained what was happening and suggested that they do a procedure to give her some temporary relief and then she could go home to live out her final days (or weeks or months). I brought her home and we slept for a few hours, but she’d gone downhill again when I woke up. I was hoping to have more time with her, but it was clear that she was too far gone if the symptoms had already returned after only a few hours. Her final moments deeply disturbed me -- she made horrible noises and died in my arms while my mom drove us to the emergency vet to have her euthanized. It was too late for that and I can only hope that she wasn’t suffering too much (or at all, preferably). I screamed and wailed in my mom’s car while she was kind enough to go inside to see what we should do. We brought her inside so they could call her death and then I chose to have her cremated. I should be able to get her ashes in a few days.

I’ve lost other dogs (and people, for that matter) and gone through all of this before, but I hadn’t experienced it since my last dog died 12 years ago, so I guess I’d forgotten just how completely rotten it feels. In a weird way I feel guilty for experiencing the aftermath of this loss in the way I am vs. the way I did when my dad died a few years ago, but every loss is different and devastating in its own way and I shouldn’t compare them.

Sometimes I feel the weight of this, like, kneejerk invisible expectation or judgment that I shouldn’t be so distraught and feel everything so strongly and that I didn’t deserve to take time off from work because she was “just” a dog, but no, I’m not going to apologize for being affected by this and for loving her as much as I did. She was deeply special to me and that’s all there is to it.

#rambling and using this as a journal because I want to put it down somewhere but I don't want to bug anyone with this one-on-one

[blam-marie]

A Metaphor's Guide to Rewriting Destiny

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We hurried to the hotel’s coach house, where we took one of the nondescript carriages that were used to ferry around paying guests at their convenience. Our same coachman as on the first night took the reins and Jeanne, perhaps having gotten into her head that she ought to keep an eye on me, begged us to wait as she changed into her footman attire before catching up to us outside.

Compassion and two of the scholars climbed inside of the cabin after me. There was an air of heavy expectation as the carriage rumbled over cobblestones as we undertook our journey. The men tried to draw me into conversation but I did not have the patience for it. I shut them down and they lapsed into tense silence.

Sat on the seat facing mine, Compassion watched me with dark, pensive eyes. We had never been companions but I had tried to kill him many times, and we kept aware of each other’s work. This situation was unlike either of us. But few knew what I did outside of the times when Walls actively deployed me as their Rage, and few believed the rumors of what Compassion got up to outside of the sanctuary of the various temples and monasteries where he kept incarnating. That was because they did not understand what Compassion truly was. I did. I had asked myself the day before, when wondering how he had known how to take down a magical barrier, ‘compassion for whom’. That was a flawed question. The answer was ‘yes’. It was ‘everyone’, or ‘whoever happened to be in front of him at any given moment’. Regardless of who that person actually was.

I was not surprised that he was involved in this brewing revolution. What surprised me was that he was not involved more. He did not care about politics but he cared very, very much that people were suffering.

Unfortunately, here and now, it was me that he was focused on. My suffering which he sought to diminish or ease. I clenched my hands into fists and stared out of the window. I didn’t want this. It would have been better for everyone if he had cut me loose at the gate of the Lighthouse and turned his purpose towards those who actually wanted him. I was keeping him from them now. I was restless under his attention. I never should have pushed him into the cell and extracted his promise to help.

I closed my eyes. I tried to remind myself that I was doing this for Astoria, that I owed her this at least. I tried to lie to myself that there was still something that I could do for her, that my efforts were not too little and far too late. It didn’t help.

I wished that I could simply set this city ablaze with everyone in it and never have to look upon it and its misery ever again. There was a time when I would have. When torching vast swatches of land instead of pretending to be a nice little civilized Exemplar who played by the rules was an option that was open to me. But not anymore. The world had gotten too complicated. I had made too many ties, gathered too many stories to keep locked behind my breast, safe from the world and the passage of time.

I had gotten soft. And tired.

This exhaustion was exactly what made Compassion so dangerous to me. His purpose was the end of mine, and therefore it was he that would be the end of me, some day. This had not been prophesized, nor was it written down anywhere for anyone to see. But I knew it, and I suspected that he did too.

After three thousand years I was well aware by now that my destiny was set in stone, and could not be rewritten by will nor stubbornness alone. There were some who believed that Anydrite was not truly gone, and that one day she would return and call back her aspects to her, and that this would be the end of the Exemplars. Others believed that if only the three hundred of us could just gather at the same place at the same time, then our powers would be pulled out of us and she would be re-formed. But these were ridiculous and fanciful notions, formed by minds who had not been suited to immortality and strained under its weight.

We were nearing our destination. As our carriage slowed down, I set my jaw and told myself firmly that whatever end awaited me, today was not that day. I caught Compassion’s eyes again. He seemed to sense my renewed resolve, for it was he who lowered his gaze now.

We rolled to a stop in front of some manner of factory. The door opened, and Compassion turned to our boy leader.

“I will speak to the workers here. Don’t wait up.”

He stepped out. Then a tall man in faded clothes emerged from the factory’s shadowed doorway. He exchanged a nod with the Exemplar and climbed up into our carriage to take his place. Jeanne closed the door firmly behind him. We felt the coach dip as she climbed back onto her perch at the rear. The two scholars greeted the man, who seemed rather exasperated with them. He shot me and intrigued look, but as no one had yet introduced me, he chose instead to sit next to our charismatic blonde leader. He removed his hat and ran a hand over his bald head.

“I appreciate your kindness in bringing me to the train station,” he began before anyone could say anything. “But if this is another attempt at convincing me, I will remind you that my position is perfectly clear—”

“The situation has changed,” interrupted the leader of our cause.

“Jean-François...” cautioned the other scholar under his breath.

Jean-François twitched a hand towards him, as if ordering him to settle down and let him work.

“I apologize for being so candid,” he told the man whom I assumed was Ambreville, “but we will not gain anything by hiding behind manners and double-speak.”

The other man sighed. “Speak plainly then. What exactly has happened that is so important that it could change my decision?”

Jean-François and the other scholar turned to me then and waited. Perhaps they thought that I would speak, or at the very least lift my veil. I did no such thing. I had been a propaganda piece for longer than they both had been alive. I knew how best to play my part. I raised my chin and tilted my head to the light coming through the window, knowing that the glow of my inhuman golden eyes would shine through the dark fabric.

Ambreville noticed, and his expression fell into frank astonishment.

“Another? But I thought... Compassion...” he gestured back the way we had come.

“She is nothing like Compassion,” said Jean-François, leaning in. His eyes glowed almost as much as mine in the shadowed interior of the carriage. “Mr. Jules-Honoré Ambreville, let me introduce you to the Exemplar of Rage.”

***

As expected, my presence had the desired effect. They spoke animatedly the rest of the ride to the train station. I kept my eyed fixed on the man I had been brought here to convince, my posture confident but alert, my hands loose on my cane. I knew how to give the impression of a predator, coiled dangerously in the darkness. It made men’s pulses race, sweat gather at their temple, their breathing grow shallow. Their entire body trembled in terror, when they knew me their enemy, or excitement, when they thought me their tool.

Sometimes, I even had that effect on other Exemplars, who really should know better. Or perhaps they were stirred because they knew me and what I was capable of. I wondered whether I could arouse such turmoil in Compassion if I really applied myself to it. It seemed unlikely. He did not seem a man easily threatened, and he was not foolish enough to think that I could be controlled.

As expected, I did not need to speak to Ambreville, nor was I asked to. As the conversation washed over me, I let my mind wander. There had been a time when I would have cared about such things. The first of me had been a king, a leader of men. He would have had much to say about this revolution. But that had been the first and last time that I had had any such power. Every one of me afterwards had been part of the lesser, the downtrotten, the ones who did not have a voice until I started stabbing in their names. The world seemed different from that angle, desperation more cruel, pain more raw. Lessons had been learned.

#a metaphor's guide to rewriting destiny #writer #writing #writing is hard #aaaaand that's it! #I still have the write the rest ahah #if you enjoyed this please reblog #and maybe comment or add a nice tag #and please please please check out my patreon or my website (link in bio) #and hit up my blog to read my other stuff! I have a few different stories whose first chapters I posted recently :) #some are for longer stories that you can read on tapas

[howtopretendtobeawriter]

What Awaits on the Other Side

I stand now at a precipice, uneasy feet reluctant to peel away from that final inch of familiar ground as I stare over the edge. That last little bit of once-was, comfortable only in its familiarity. I had been standing here in one spot for so long that it almost began to feel safe, that this is where I was meant to be. But it was not the warmth of home that I felt, it was the pull of quicksand at my ankles, slowly dragging me down into the ease of stagnation. I know, as much as I am loathe to admit it, that things must change. That I cannot remain the way that I am forever, because I am so very tired of the way that I am.

I had been rotting for the better part of a decade now, quietly allowing the image of the man I had hoped to become wash away, picture perfect reduced into a murky, poorly defined mess. Entire days were eroding before me as I lay helplessly in my bed. Covers pulled up nearly to my ears, not because I was cold, but because they felt too heavy to peel away. This was not living, if anything it was the opposite. It was a slow way to die, sure, but it was a death all the same.

I knew that things needed to change, I wanted them to change more than I possibly put into words. But then, why was this so hard? Why did I feel that all too familiar swell of anxiety in the pit of my stomach? I was in no danger, still the urge to turn tail and run was almost overwhelming.

 It was just a door. It was just a handle, like so many others. Burnished steel covered with the fingerprints of all those people who had been far braver than I. Small reminders of their accomplishment, the very same one I had yet to make. I put my hand to it countless times, sucking in that same deep anticipatory breath, only to pull away in defeat. I’d be doing this ridiculous little song and dance for nearly fifteen minutes now, somehow managing to conjure up a new reason not to step past this seemingly insurmountable threshold.

Why bother? You know it won’t help.

It isn’t worth it.

YOU aren’t worth it.

But I was. I knew I was. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be so afraid. They always say nothing worth doing is easy, which I had always believed to be a trite little platitude to pat yourself on the back with when you needed a little pick me up. But I had come to know that it was true.

“This is getting absurd, just open the goddamn door.” I whispered to myself, hushed under my breath, too worried about what some imagined reflection of myself on the other side of the door might think about me. There was no turning back now, I was tired of coming up with excuses for myself.

 One last moment of hesitation. Once more steeling my resolve, preparing myself for whatever manifestation of hell might await me. I grab the handle, and twist, fighting to keep my eyes from screwing shut. Whatever it may be, it surely can’t be any worse than what awaits me back in my bedroom.

Much to my shock, it was just a waiting room, like any other. Slightly-too-bright fluorescent bulbs bathing the sparsely decorated space in anti-septic lighting, a row of hard plastic chairs lining three of the four walls, faded carpeting, and a middle-aged woman with a kind face seated behind a chest high desk, idly tapping a pen against her chin in contemplation. She turned her head from the computer screen as I step in, offering me a smile. “Hello, how can I help you today?” Some nondescript pop song played on a radio I couldn’t see, just barely loud enough to drown out the electric hum of the building.

Maybe it was the timbre of her voice, soothing and kind, or maybe it was just the sudden realization that all my obsessive worrying had been, in fact, totally for nothing. I felt a great sense of relief wash over me. A weight lifted from my shoulders, allowing my posture to relax, my lungs finally able fully draw in air. “Y-Yes.” I said meekly, hands clumsily fumbling through my front pockets. “I have an appointment, with uh—” I stopped, casting my gaze downwards as I was able to extricate a folded piece of paper.

The woman didn’t say anything, made no room to interrupt or finish my sentence. I can only imagine she’d seen this, and so much worse, a million times before. She simply smiled, waiting patiently.

“I uh, I have an appointment with… Greg? Greg, I think.” I tried to smooth out the surface of the paper, edges frayed and torn, before placing it in front of her on the desk. My own lips curling into an awkward facsimile of a smile. I was trying to fake it and failing miserably.

This too, did not seem to phase the woman. With practiced ease she pulls the paper toward herself, quickly scanning it over the rim of her glasses. “Of course, Mr…?”

“Kouzoukas, Steven is fine though.”

“Steven, okay. Greg will be ready in just a few minutes. Why don’t you take a seat?”

“Sure, thank you.” I felt a shift of perspective as she said this, a profound change occurring within my own psyche in real time. A lifting of the veil, a liberation from that all-consuming fear that had tried so hard to convince me to leave.

This was not the personal apocalypse I had been so sure it would be. This was not an end of days or some terrifying beast to overcome. This was just my first time going to therapy.

I’d be fine.

#flash nonfiction #writing #writeblr #writerscommunity #writers on tumblr #therapy #depression

[oceanbastard]

"By The Skin of Their Teeth" - IDK Young J: A Masterclass in Consistency, Flow and Lyricism ~ 8.5/10

IDK Young J's latest offering, "By The Skin of Their Teeth," is a lyrical tour de force that kicks off with the provocative opener, "Motherland." From the jump, Young J isn't afraid to tackle heavy topics like racial bias and political corruption. Their confidence shines through as they delve into these issues, unapologetically expressing their views.

Throughout the album, Young J maintains a consistent cadence and flow, displaying that aforementioned air of confidence while remaining surprisingly humble. Tracks like "Quelle Tragedie" and the titular "By The Skin Of Their Teeth" reveal a more personal and emotional side to them, reminding us that they're not just a rapper but a person with depth and complexity.

One of the standout features of the album is the exceptional lyricism. Young J drops a barrage of insane bars that demonstrate their prowess as a wordsmith. Lines like "Niggas should call me the arctic, 'cause I’m cold and on top of the world map" showcase their ability to craft clever and memorable verses. The production and engineering on the album are top-notch, providing a professional and polished sound with clear and understandable vocals.

Despite its relatively short duration, "By The Skin of Their Teeth" offers enough variety in beat selection/production to keep things interesting, while still having enough common threads to maintain a cohesive experience. Young J's penchant for incorporating obscure references (such as "Demon flow, saints let me go, like Ralph Hassenhutl", for example)  into their lyrics adds an extra layer of depth for attentive listeners, making their lyricism all the more engaging.

The rhyme schemes throughout the album are a testament to Young J's technical skill. Even when using relatively simple structures, they manage to elevate them to a superior level. Their ability to twist pronunciations to make bars work never feels forced or jarring, either - in fact, it sounds natural in many cases, even when they do things like pronounce “Abe” as in Lincoln, as “ah-bay”. 

While the album has only two features, they are tastefully chosen and complement Young J's style seamlessly. Maxwell B's effortless flow on "Stigmata" and I.R.'s harmonious collaboration on "Cactus Plant Flea Market" add value to the project without overshadowing the artist themselves. Both are talented in their own right, and especially with I.R., play off of one another gracefully.

The album's closing track displays some more of Young J's emotional depth, this time offering a more vulnerable side of the artist after the onslaught of confidence and self-love permeating the record. This emotional openness not only showcases lyrical versatility but also emphasizes Young J’s extraordinary drive and determination. There are always areas to be improved on, and Young J is no exception. However, they are few and far between. Personally, I'd love to see a little more variety among the tracks, but I'm a bit of an eclectic artist myself so it may be bias. It's clear these tracks are intended to sound similar to maintain a cohesive experience as previously mentioned. In the past it could have been argued they relied a bit on features to fill out their work, but this has clearly changed, rendering most criticisms I may have had in the past or now essentially moot. I only truly find myself feeling two things require criticism - Occasionally, there is some muffled or muted pronounciation, which of course may have been an artistic choice, but nonetheless can be very forward and jarring given the vast majority of the time, lyrics are very clearly enunciated. Also, it would behoove J to improve on their hooks - That isn't to say any of the hooks present here are bad, quite the opposite - but they're called hooks for a reason, and sometimes the placement leaves other parts of the song to carry the most weight, or can be obscure in a way that prevents the hook from being memorable for a lot of people.

"In J We Trust" saw significant progress from "Mama Raised A Menace," and "By The Skin Of Their Teeth" takes the bar even higher. The album is a powerful and cohesive record filled with incredible moments and thought-provoking lyricism. It's clear that IDK Young J's consistent improvement in every facet of their music is setting the stage for even greater things in the future. "By The Skin of Their Teeth" is a must-listen for any hip hop enthusiast, a testament to an artist who continues to raise the bar with every release.

#hip hop #idk young J #Spotify

[kyberphilosopher]

Smile

Word Count: 3467 Requested: yes. Based off ‘505′ Warnings: strong hints to sexual disposition. Spoilers if you squint.

“I’d probably still adore you with your hands around my neck... I did last time I checked.” -Arctic Monkeys, ‘505′.

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

With hoarse breath and unwavering eyes, you look up to the stars as you speak. “So, you’re really going to do it then?”

“I have to,” you hear him say. His voice has gotten far more mature and calm since the first time you’d heard him speak. Still angry and determined, but in an intelligent, adult way. Eren is a more capable person now. The only thing left to do is wait and see if that’s a good thing, or a bad thing. 

“What do you think are the chances of winning?” you question. A shooting star whizzes across the sky at that very moment, and it’s gone before you can think of a wish. 

You turn around to face him, but his eyes are already on you. Once upon a time, Eren’s eyes were emerald and teal and deep. Now they’re paler. They are cold and steady as a byproduct of who he’s become. It’s hard not to wonder what he’s thinking about when he looks at you like this, especially since he’s become harder to read over the years.

At first, Eren was one of the most insufferable people you’d ever met. He acted out so often, it was hard to see him as another person of intelligent life. You mostly just minded your business through your cadet years, usually hanging around Reiner, who was also difficult to see as intelligent life. Sometimes you and Eren would argue, but it was never passionate. You just had different world views. 

Things got better when you found out what Eren really was. Since you hadn’t made top ten, you could only choose between the Garrison Regiment, or the Scout Regiment. And with Eren’s newly discovered power showing the promise of hope, you decided on the Scouts. He liked that. 

After that, it was hard not to mature at the same time as he. Eren often blamed himself for the death and carnage that surrounded the regiment. You were solely responsible for the passing of your best friend. And after everything that happened with the government, almost dying at Shiganshina- you knew you couldn’t stand this much longer. With your relationship with Eren still budding in its early and steamy stages, he was the only one you told of your desertion. You abandoned the corps, finding a small, abandoned farm within wall Maria to hide out in. 

Eren was too tired and sick of everything to think you were being cowardly. He wanted to leave too. Maybe come with you. But Eren had plans in the works that he couldn’t leave alone. He visited you less and less. Luckily you never made a fuss. 

And now Eren wants to end the world, to save the world. How does he expect you to react to this?

“I just thought I should see you,” Eren replies. You know he’s deflecting your question. You’re not stupid. 

You nod slowly, blinking as you think. “Am I going to die?”

Your companion crosses his arms calmly. “Yes,” he tells you. 

There it is. 

“You know I can’t support you in this, right?” you tell Eren, equally as calm. 

He only replies after a moment, also in deep thought. “I know.”

You look back up to the sky, sighing out through your nose. “Why did you come, Eren? Did you want me to tell you that I think you’re doing the right thing? Or was it because you need to let out some anger? I wonder.”

“I did want to see you.”

“Do you still?”

Silence. 

“Yes.”

“And I suppose there’s nothing I can do to change your mind?”

“No.”

The stars are glittering with pastel hues, like a rainbow, or kaleidoscope. Each one is a different size, bordering on different shapes, all fusing and melting together like your idea of heaven. You can barely even see the midnight color of the sky through all them. It is beautiful, but it’s also bitter. Everything is bitter, here. 

“I didn’t make myself any dinner yet,” you say. “Couldn’t think of anything.”

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

When she was alive, Eren’s mother would make a soup for the family. It was creamy, hot, filled with meat and cheese at the bottom. Eren never liked soup, but he did love that dish. She was always sure to make extra for him, so that he could enjoy it for several days. And although it wasn’t until after she was gone that Eren realized he rarely ever thanked her for it, it was still one of the warmest memories Eren had. 

He fills your wooden bowl with it, being awfully generous. He knows that even though you haven’t eaten much in the last few years, you too had grown fond of the soup. He knows no matter how slowly you force it down, you are enjoying it. It burns the roof of your mouth every time, but you’ve never cared. All that matters is the creamy sauce, and the cow cooked to perfection. 

You stare at the fireplace beside you, flames cackling and licking upward. Eren sets the bowl in front of you, and takes the seat on the other side. You know he sets his long hair behind his shoulders. You’re already prepared. From your pocket, you produce a stretchy brown hair tie on the verge of snapping, handing it to him. 

“Thanks,” he says, even though this routine has happened however many times he’s seen you. 

“You’re welcome.”

The soup is as amazing as usual. You’re willing to bet Eren makes it even better than his mother did, but you dare not say it aloud. It’s creamy, perfectly seasoned. It goes down your throat, still steaming. 

“Does Mikasa know about this?” you question, taking one more delicious bite. 

“No. None of them do,” Eren answers. “Armin will figure it out soon.”

“You want me to kill ‘em?”

Eren shakes his head. To a lot of people, this would be taken as a joke. But this is nowhere near it. Your tone is too casual, too low for it to be humor of any kind. And the way the man across from you reacts- he’s thinking the same thing. 

“No.”

“How are they, then?”

Eren thinks as he takes another bite, the warmth creeping up his chest sweetly. “They’re alright for now. I don’t know for how much longer. I can’t see everything.”

“Can you see who’s next?”

He squints at his bowl as if he were angry, but his eyebrows barely move. “Sasha.” 

Sasha. She was always a good presence to have around. While she seemed like the type of person who would annoy you, it was hard to hate her. And you admired her keen intuition anyway. 

“Will you give her something for me?”

Eren nods. Then you both go back to eating for a few seconds, basking in the orange glow from the flames. 

“How are things here?” he questions after a minute. 

“The same,” you tell him. “I think the cow might die soon.”

Some people might reply with condolences, or sympathy. But your lover does not, and you do not expect him to. “I’ll get you a new one,” he says flatly, almost like a promise. You nod once.

Despite the atmosphere which can only be described as bitter, you’re glad to see Eren again. You’re glad that he’s alive, and as alright as he can be. The bed is always colder without him, heated up only by your lingering fingers that you pretend are his every other night. Whenever he leaves an article of clothing behind, usually on purpose, you hold off on washing it so it can smell like him for you as long as possible. Then there are the hair ties you keep either in your pocket or on your wrist, specifically for him. The razors in your cabinet he often didn’t even bother using. 

Even with the sullen demeanor that had managed to overtake both of you, there was at least one thing you cared about in the world still. Maybe it wasn’t the most conventional kind of caring, or the healthiest coping mechanism. But it was still caring. And all that you cared about was him. 

You knew you weren’t Eren’s first priority. You were probably second, or third. It didn’t bother you. Eren’s head was one of the first things lost when the truth was presented to him. It came back coldly and sternly, in contrast to how previously hot and impatient it had been. But by then your head had also grown colder and sterner. In simpler terms, Eren did care for you. He did love you. But he would consider letting you die if it meant achieving what he set out to do, and you knew this. 

Across the table, Eren lifts his head to look up at you as he chews slowly. The burning meal slides down his throat easily, albeit painfully. It doesn’t even register with him, his piercing eyes slowly gaining a glint from the fire light. 

You meet his eyes after a few seconds, feeling them on you. You don’t say a word, don’t even give a questioning look. You just hold him patiently, which is something the two of you find yourself doing often. 

“You can’t stop it,” Eren speaks, looking you dead in the eyes with a steady gaze. There is love behind his eyes, far behind the anger, but you can tell from the tone of voice he is trying to tell you something as if it were an order. Your lips part slightly from the intensity radiating from your lover, who doesn’t move a muscle. “You’ll be free soon.” 

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

Dinner ends. Eren helps clean up the dishes for you and goes to get water from your well so you can clean easier. You already know from the way his thumb brushed against your own when you took the bowls that you’ll likely be bent over the sink in a few minutes, which you don’t mind, but you wonder if he’ll be willing to be softer than usual as an apology for what he’d said earlier. 

He’d meant to scare you. You’re intelligent enough to figure that out. Even though you don’t scare easy, and you didn’t even give an extreme reaction, the look in Eren’s eyes had made your heart drop to your stomach. Sometimes you forget that Eren sees everything. Then he says something like that to remind you in the most memorable way. 

The wooden door opens and closes behind you. Boots scuff the ground for a few seconds, drawing closer and closer as something in you sparks with anticipation, as it always does. A pail of water hits the surface beside you, partially sloshing over the sides, shining silver in the moonlight from the tall window in front of you. Finally, ultra hot hands slide around your waist and push gently but tightly against where your ribs diverge. 

A jaw leans down on your right shoulder, chin poking against your collarbone. Locks of hair brush against your own, just as the hand on the left runs across your side to finally put a small band in your pocket. 

“I did miss you,” Eren’s low voice seemingly growls, his chest rumbling softly against your back. 

“I was thinking about you,” you admit with monotone, knowing your lover can read through it like as easily as a knife slices through skin. 

“I hope I didn’t worry you,” he says, though you can also read through his own tone. He probably didn’t care about worrying you. He definitely doesn’t still. 

“You didn’t.”

You place a both bowls in the sink, running your fingers over the dirty spoons. Eren’s orbs follow your movement. You can feel his chin change positions ever so slightly in the coming seconds. 

“Can you pass me the rag?” you ask, eyes focused on a piece of food on the spoon that doesn’t even exist. 

In response, Eren doesn’t pass you anything. Only his right hand gives you any kind of acknowledgement, passing from on your ribs to down lower. His fingertips skin over the erogenous zone under the waistband of your undergarments. 

“I worried about you,” Eren murmurs boldly. The hot fingertips pass under the cloth finally, pricks of stubble on his jaw scratching your neck and shoulder as he shifts. “I wanted you to be okay.” His left hand raises to grasp the breast above it. Slowly at first, then firmly, like a warning. Everything is a warning with him. 

Your head lulls back uncontrollably. The back of your hair matts up as it rolls against his own shoulder. 

“I said you worried me,” your partner grumbles. “Did you hear me?”

“No,” you lie lowly, refusing to let your voice shake despite the shiver in your throat. 

“Mm,” Eren hums in condescending understanding. A force presses against your core, which has turned burning hot and ice cold at the same time. The force pulls away, a string of something smooth and slimy following it that makes a sound draw from your lips. It’s high pitched, weak, and unstoppable. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t so associated with Eren. 

His hand gives your breast a firm squeeze, soreness blossoming from the center. Your back arches quickly and returns lax against him, though now something pokes against your bottom that makes your eyes pop open with a new alertness. Eren’s hand gives you no time again. From your chest, it flies to your throat, holding it back with soft strictness as the other finally dips into the hot pool between your hips. 

“I worried about you.”

A strangled groan releases from between your lips again, this time fully carried up through the air. To Eren, it must sound like nothing more than music, or background noise. 

Thick cylinders pump inside you to the knuckle. They feel better than your own. They always have. 

It feels good. Full. Tight and fast and like the inside of you is quivering under the weight of something that you can’t see or hear. Eren is like a blanket supporting you from falling over, keeping you upright with his grip and his fingers buried inside of you. Prodding every angle, every spot. Not necessarily romantically, but still lovingly. He has always had this goal during intimacy. Nothing matters but communicating to you just how close he wants to be. 

“Eren,” you choke, a dribble of spit sliding from the corner of your lips. 

“Again,” he hisses in response. His fingers hit a tight spot, making every muscle in your body clench at the same time. 

You don’t say another word, your mouth hanging partially open as you focus on everything around you. And it’s all Eren Jaeger. His smell, his growls, his voice, his breathing, his chest, his muscles, his hair, his anger, his bitterness, his intelligence, his determination. It’s overwhelming. It reminds you of getting swept in one of those waves at the ocean he described to you. He’s yours. No- more likely, you’re his. End of story. 

“I said again.”

“Eren,” you moan.  

His head nuzzles into your neck comfortingly, his fingers pushing faster and harder. You can feel how warm you are, never mind how slick. And the way your own body holds around his digits every time he pulls away is enough to make you all the more warm and slick. 

But then...

What is he doing?

He had said “you’ll be free soon”. And yet, here he is, gripping you tightly as he forces you into the corner of submitting. And yes, it is hot. It arouses you as it always has. But something about it makes your stomach turn into a knot of unpleasantness, in contrast to the other one of liquid pleasure. 

“Eren,” you strain, squirming against him. 

Eren speeds up again. A grunt falls from his own mouth from his own power, and you know he’s getting off almost as much as you are. It doesn’t stop feeling good. Feeling euphoric. 

It’s getting rougher. Rougher and harder and faster, more intense. 

“Eren.”

Another gruff moan from him. 

“Eren! Stop! Stop!”

Eren’s palm softens away at once. It lifts away, his eyes opening and his hand stilling inside of you. He watches you shake as you gaze up to the ceiling, wide eyed. Your thighs sputter, entire body twitching. You didn’t cum. 

His eyes trail over you. You’ve worked up a steady sweat glistening and glowing, shivering and shaking and quaking because of him in the best way. You’re his. His partner, his friend, his ally he knows for a fact he can rely on.

“C-can we... Eren...” 

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

Drips of water dribbling down Eren’s temple. One of your hands are threaded in his brunette locks, holding them back so you can have an uninterrupted view. The other hand is dabbing cloth against his forehead and hairline, bathing him softly. 

He’d gone a while without bathing again. You could tell. Eren’s eyes are glued to yours, deep teal memorizing all the flecks in your own as if he hadn’t a million times over. 

Eren loves you. Dearly. He’d travel all seven hours and forty five minutes just to tell you that. He doesn’t know what made you stop earlier. He doesn’t ask. But he’s not mad. Overall, Eren understands that it doesn’t matter what you asked to stop for. You give the word, he obeys. Not because he has to, but because he loves you. 

Still, he knows something is wrong. You don’t show it. You’re steady, calm, mature, apathetic as always. But in the pit of Eren’s stomach, something brews. A warm, strange feeling of intuition and omniscience. 

“You look very pretty today,” Eren ventures, wondering only of your response. “Did I tell you that?”

Your eyes squint. “Thank you,” you reply back. 

The cloth continues to rub against his skin, cleaning something that probably doesn’t even exist. Dirt, maybe. Eren’s stopped taking care of his skin in the past few years. 

“You’re welcome.”

Your eyes squint again. This time, they gloss over with sharp wetness like glass. The eyebrows crease like a break, your bottom lip trembling as you suck it between your teeth. 

He doesn’t know what he was expecting. But your lover wasn’t expecting this. 

Eren hates when you cry. He can remember the first time he’d seen it, but not the most recent. You didn’t cry often- you were strong. Crying over something as useless and flimsy as emotions didn’t seem worth it. So what was this for? What were you about to make Eren break down inside over?

Your hand falls limply from his forehead. Shoulders hunch over in defeat, staring down at the floor as your hair covers over your face. And then the sniffles come, choked out coughs like sobs. 

Eren can see the lightest of bruises he’d left on you from earlier, but you’d never had a problem with it before. No, it was something else. But what?

Silent, your teeth grit together as you wince, tears streaming down your face inexplicably. 

“Earlier w-when you,” you gulp, snot beginning to form, “when you- I did worry a-about you. I- I don’t know why I didn’t...”

You stumble forward. Eren stands from your bath tub to catch you as you slump against him tiredly. 

“I hate it when you go.”

Eren switches positions with you, pushing you down to sit on the edge of the tub. He takes the wet rag from your hand and holds your shoulder back so he can have a good look at you. Then the cloth dabs against your own forehead, just as you had done to him. 

“I hate it here,” you sigh, a single tear drop blurring your vision as it falls finally. 

Your lover moves the cloth from your head to your cheeks, smearing the wetness into your skin and away. They moisten and dry, your eyes red and shiny. Eren tilts your head up under your jaw, creasing his brows and using the towel to clean closer to your eyes. 

“If it helps,” he says, looking straight into your eyes, “you’re crying, but I still think you look pretty.”

You’d be lying if you said that didn’t help even a little, because you love him. 

A soft smile creeps to your lips, your hands dropping in between your thighs. 

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

No I didn’t reread this lmfao enjoy. Hope I did you justice anon

#eren x reader #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #aot eren imagines #aot eren x reader #eren smut #eren fluff #eren angst #eren jaeger smut #eren jaeger fluff #eren jaeger angst #eren jaeger imagines #eren yeager smut #eren yeager fluff #eren yeager angst #attack on titan x reader #attack on titan eren x reader #attack on titan imagines #attack on titan fanfiction #Eren Jaeger #eren jaeger fanfiction #fanfiction #smut #fluff #angst #x reader #imagine #imagines #shingeki no kyojin fanfiction #shingeki no kyojin x reader

[deepdarkdelights]

Run Little Red (Namjoon x Reader)

Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

Word Count: 7.8k

Warnings: 18+, Yandere, Werewolf Namjoon, Stalking, Obsession, Forced Relationships, Blood (Lots of it), Gore, Fear, Panic/Anxiety, Discussions of discovering dead bodies, People going missing, Devious Intentions, Depictions of Guns, Mourning, Wolf Courtship Rituals

I do not condone the acts displayed in this story nor do I believe any members of BTS would actually engage in this type of behavior. This is simply written for entertainment purposes and should not be taken as a reflection of my own values, opinions, or morals. 

<<Forbidden Fables Masterlist>>

Preview:  A calm life in a small village was all you ever knew, your days spent in the bakery and keeping to yourself. You liked the quiet and gentle nature of your life, but one day a wolf stands outside of your window, a stranger arrives, and people begin to go missing. Do you dare don your red coat and enter the forest?

A/N: Hello babes! My fellow authors and myself decided to change up the order of our release dates for our Forbidden Fables Collab! And, since I recently finished this little beauty, I get to release it first. yay! Now I can sit back and savor the delectable writings of my fellow authors 💜 I hope you enjoy Run Little Red it was fun to make! I can’t wait to read the comments and asks 💜

There was a wolf outside your window. 

It’s eyes gleaming in the early morning light like molten gold with silver fur that melted into the snow. 

You sat up in bed, wrapping your patchwork quilt around your shoulders as you scooted to the foot of the bed. It was staring at you, that much you were sure of. And that startled you, the almost human like appearance to its gaze was intense and unsettling. It was an animal, but it appeared to be far more intelligent than you had first anticipated. 

Maybe it was hungry, perhaps that was why it was so intent on peering through your window.

No, it certainly wasn’t, that was evident. What you had missed before was glaringly obvious now, its silver muzzle was stained in red. It had made a fresh kill before it had wandered over to your cottage mere feet from the woods. 

So, if it wasn’t hungry, why was it here?

You watched in morbid fascination as its tongue slipped out of its mouth and laved over the fresh, thick, crimson blood that decorated its muzzle. You could see the rows of sharp canines hidden within its maw for mere seconds before the wolf clenched its jaw shut and settled on its hindlegs in the drift of snow.

“My, what big teeth you have.” You whispered to yourself, your voice seemingly louder in the empty room.  

You couldn’t help but wonder what it had made it’s meal. Perhaps a deer, or a squirrel, maybe a bird, or even a small, innocent, little rabbit. 

That would have been ideal. But, you knew it was most likely one of the poor farmer’s livestock. Your village was small and self sufficient, rarely reaching out to its neighboring villages and rarely receiving visitors of its own. So, when the cattle and the goats began to disappear, only their entrails remaining, the town quickly became suspicious. 

It was either one of two things, rebellious teenagers making a hassle for everyone, or a wolf amongst you.   

If only you had known what was to come. 

You stared back warily out the window at the creature, suddenly realizing just how easily it could bust through your flimsy window if it wanted to. This wolf was probably the largest you had ever seen, it was almost the size of a pony, with long limbs that held thick muscle from the time it spent chasing down its prey. You were certain a simple snap of its jaws would kill you in an instant if it desired to do so. 

It’s gaze had not left you, petrifying you to your very spot. You felt like the two of you were playing a game, waiting to see who would be the one to make the first move. 

The call of your mother’s voice was the tie breaker. 

You rose to your feet, your bare skin brushing over the cool wood of the floor as you retreated through your door, back first. 

“Yes?” You replied, angling your neck to the hallway for a moment. 

“Hurry, sweetheart! You’re going to be late!” She called back from the kitchen. 

The bakery had been in your family for the past three generations now, starting with your grandfather, then your mother, and now you. Your mother was showing signs of her age now, her hands were unsteady and unreliable creating more of a mess than a sellable meal. So, it was your turn now. It was the only thing you could do for her, besides be married off and you weren’t quite ready for that. No one was. 

At least that was the gentle way of putting it, in reality you had made yourself quite the social pariah. You were a determined woman, one who liked to keep to herself, one who liked owning the bakery and not having to sign over the ownership to a husband. You had your mother to care for, a business to run, and a grandmother that lived deep in the woods to fret over. 

It didn’t really matter what you wanted, you did what was necessary to stay afloat. 

“Just a minute!” You called once more before slinking back into your room. 

There was a noticeable difference about the space now, the wolf was gone. The only sign he had ever been there being the large dip in the snow that his form had disrupted and a track of paw prints headed into the forest. How strange. 

You shook your head in an attempt to clear your thoughts, you didn’t want to think about what you would have to do if the creature returned. The shotgun looming over you from above the front door said enough.

You couldn’t allow a predator to get comfy around your home, that would only invite trouble into your life.

You dressed yourself quickly that morning in as many layers as you could. The walk to the bakery wasn’t a far one, but it was a frigid one. You made sure to wear your wool stockings and your leather boots, the snow looked to be thick and you didn’t fancy the idea of wet feet all day while you worked. 

You leaned over the side of your bed, scooping up your bag and throwing the keys inside of it in one motion. The extra sleep you had gotten the night before had cost you the time you needed in the morning to ready yourself. 

Once you gave yourself a quick look over and ran through your mental checklist, you rushed out of your room and into the main room of the house. Your house was more like a cottage, it was incredibly small. With only your mother’s room, your room, and the kitchen in one corner with the fireplace in the other it made for a quaint and cozy home. Albeit a cramped one. 

“Your breakfast is on the table.” Your mother said, smoothing a stray hair behind her ear with trembling hands. 

You could see her cleaning up the mess she had made that morning in an attempt to show you kindness. Normally, you were the one to wake early and prepare the both of you for the day ahead. But she had also told you many times before that she was your mother and she was supposed to take care of you as well. 

You eyed the bowl of steaming porridge that sat upon the rickety table. “I don’t think I’ll have the time to eat it.”

“Then you’ll make the time.” She huffed, wiping a wet rag over the counter in two swipes. 

“I shouldn’t have overslept.” You sighed, resting your bag on the floor as you took a seat. 

“You needed the rest, dear. You’re up every morning at the crack of dawn and you don’t come home until nightfall. You don’t need to work that much.” She chided you, smoothing her hands over your hair in a fond manner. 

“I do, for you and for Grandmother.” You reminded her. The cost of living was not cheap. 

“And what about you? You should be spending time with people your age, not working yourself to the bone.”

“I don’t need anyone but you, and Grandmother.” You smiled before sipping at your spoon quickly, hissing as you burned the tip of your tongue in your haste. 

“Youth is wasted on the young.” She chided under her breath, spurring a giggle from your throat. 

You finished your food as quickly as you could before excusing yourself from the table and heading for the door. 

“Your cloak, dear!” Your mother called as you pulled the door open, the chill of the snow seeping into your bones. 

“Yes, mother!” You chirped with an amused roll of your eyes as you curled your fingers around the crimson fabric of the cloak. Your grandmother had made it herself two winters ago, as much as you loved it and her you had to admit it was a tad ostentatious and you weren’t exactly one for attention. But it was warm and it served its purpose well. 

The door creaked shut behind you, squeaking softly as it settled back into the frame. The snow had fallen much higher than you had previously anticipated. You tightened the ties of your cloak and delicately flipped the large hood over your head before gripping your layers of skirts and hiking them up as you began your journey. 

It was rather slippery that day, you couldn’t restrain the slight squeals that fell from your parted lips each time the heel of your boot found a patch of ice and sent you sliding. You were certain you should have caught the attention of a few passerbys, but to your surprise a large group of them had become preoccupied. 

There were about fourteen of them, all in one great circle fervently discussing something. They seemed to be worried, panicked even. It had caught your attention now that the group was made up mostly of men excluding the butcher’s wife and daughter. Both’s cheeks were stained red, their eyes brimming with unshed tears as they held onto each other tight in the crisp air. 

Your face tensed in confusion as you approached the bakery, the group not too far away from you. 

“Oh, poor Sarah.” A tender voice cooed worriedly from next door. It was the tailor, she and her apprentice were stood outside, thick shawls wrapped around the both of them. 

You occupied yourself by rifling through your leather satchel, pretending to look for the shop keys you held in that very hand. You knew that eavesdropping wasn’t very polite, but you also were the curious sort, and that curiosity demanded to be satiated. 

“Don’t worry, miss. I’m sure they’ll find him soon, you know how the young ones are.” The apprentice said, her hand resting on the tailor’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort. 

“It’s not like William though, he’s a sweet boy. It doesn’t make any sense for him to go up and missing at the crack of dawn.” She replied, her dark eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I just find it funny is all, that a stranger shows up here the same day that Sarah’s boy disappears.”

“Coincidence isn’t evidence.” The apprentice hummed, pulling her shawl tighter around herself  as she began to back up against the shop door, aggravated by the chilly air. “I’m sure he’ll turn up, with a search party that size he’ll be back home in no time.”

With that, you finally retrieved your “missing” keys and unlocked the door, sliding into the safety of the bakery. You knew William as well, he really was a sweet kid...to most. Your heart did go out to Sarah though, you didn’t know the pain of a missing child but you could empathize. The sight of her broken face remained burned into your mind as you readied the shop, lighting the hearth and preparing your materials to start your first batch of bread for the day. Your late start was going to nip you in the behind, most of the women arrived by noon to get their first pick of goods and the two hours it would take to make your batches was going to loom over your head the entire time. 

You were mid kneading your dough when the familiar tinkle of the bell above the shop door demanded your attention. You paused for a moment, your aching arms thanking you for the short reprieve. Almost immediately your breath was caught in your throat. You had been expecting one of the regular mothers wandering their way in, or perhaps even one of their children running errands. Not this man that stood before you. 

This was most obviously the stranger the tailor had been referring to moments earlier, there was no mistake. Your village was small, everyone knew everyone and this stranger looked nothing like any of the people in your town. 

He was so much taller than anybody else, broader too. But most astonishing was his pure silver hair and the deep honey shade of his eyes. You had never seen anyone as young as him with hair that light, it surely wasn’t grey, the shade far too bright to be mistaken with something that dull. He was damn near ethereal and unfairly attractive. His looks had almost distracted you from his attire but now that you were paying attention, he was severely underdressed for the weather. He had to be freezing cold. 

“Hello, can I help you?” You asked softly, patting your hands against your apron to remove the excess flour from your skin. 

He had a rather confident stance, like he was the owner of the shop instead of you, you who was slightly cowering and thrumming with anxiety. 

He sent you a wide grin, his teeth were pearly white and for some unknown reason that sent your heart crashing into your stomach. You could have sworn they even looked slightly pointy at the ends, not unlike those of the creature you had seen outside your window that morning. You had almost been distracted by the sweet dimples that rested in his cheeks. What duality he had. 

He tilted his head back slightly, peering down at you from above, “Hm, I’m looking for something sweet.” He hummed. 

“Sweet?” You mumbled to yourself, resting your hand on your hip in thought.

“Oh! I made some sweet rolls yesterday, how about that?” You said with a snap of your fingers, retreating further into the shop without a response from him. 

Now in work mode you busied yourself with preparing the stranger’s order. You couldn’t help but wonder why he had arrived, what his reason for being there was. Barely anybody passed through your village, and they certainly didn’t stay as long as he had. 

Once you had retrieved the tray of rolls you set them on the counter before grabbing a pot of freshly warmed icing and gently drizzling it over top. Once each roll had been thoroughly coated, you set the pot aside and headed to the cupboard to retrieve a bag for them.  

“Perfect.” You sighed in irritation, craning your neck back to see the top of the shelf. 

Normally, you had endless amounts of bags and never needed the ones stored on the top shelf. But this winter had been far more difficult than past ones and your stock had not been refilled in quite a while. 

Desperately not wanting to search for your wooden stool, you stubbornly resorted to balancing on the tips of your toes, your fingers just barely brushing against the material of the bags. You groaned in frustration, bouncing up slightly only to knock the bags back further on the shelf and worsen the ache in your shoulder. 

Just as you were about to give up and resort to looking for your rickety stool, you felt a hand settle on your waist and a chest press against your back as the stranger reached up and grabbed the bags for you. He was incredibly warm, so warm you thought he may even be sick. He felt as warm as the heat emanating from a fire of fresh coals and that was incredibly alarming, but also explained his state of dress.

You flinched in surprise as you felt him set the bags aside and settle his other hand on your shoulder. It was deathly quiet, the only sounds being his slow, steady breaths underlying your panicked ones accompanied by the calm rise and fall of his chest against your back. You had never been this close to anyone before, it was incredibly uncomfortable. 

You felt much like a rabbit, cornered, panicking, and believing that if you stayed still enough he wouldn’t see you and would go away. 

He gently rested his forehead against your hair, nuzzling from side to side before reaching up and playing with a stray strand. You could feel him taking a deeper breath this time, humming softly like he was pleased. 

“Sweet.” He mumbled to himself. 

Oh. Oh, no. Who did this man think he was? You were not on the menu. You shuddered in fear before jerking away, smacking his hands off of you. 

You turned on your heel, backing away from him as you fixed him with an annoyed glare. The look he gave you was one of clear confusion, a layer of hurt and frustration buried beneath. 

“I’m not sure how things work where you come from, but normally you ask for permission before you go touching someone you don’t know.” You huffed, slamming the empty bag on the counter as you began to package the rolls. 

It didn’t matter if he was attractive or not, you were not going to let him touch you as he pleased or get the wrong message that you weren’t even conveying in the first place. 

The stranger rounded the counter, the block of wood effectively separating the two of you, making you feel a little safer. His eyes looked darker than before, less like honey and more like amber. 

His confident demeanor had returned, effectively confusing you even more. 

“Forgive me,” He said, another smile gracing his lips as he rested his forearms on the countertop, “It seems we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot? My name is Namjoon, and yours?” 

So, he did have the capability to be somewhat of a gentleman. He was rather well spoken, and his strange mannerisms and quiet demeanor had all but disappeared in a flash. 

So, begrudgingly, you replied with your name. 

He repeated it after you, his tongue swiping over the full flesh of his lower lip like he was tasting it, sending a chill down your spine. 

“I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, you were correct in assuming where I come from we do greetings a little differently.” He said with a soft chuckle, his amber eyes tracing every movement you made. 

You did feel a little bad now for how you had lashed out at him. Normally, you weren’t one who was quick to anger, but that still didn’t excuse what he had done. 

“It’s alright,” You said, slowly, “You need to be more careful though, if that had been anyone else I don’t think you would have gone unscathed.” 

“Are most of your people so quick to violence?” He asked, titling his head slowly, a strong sense of intrigue exuding from his form. 

“I wouldn’t say so normally, but we’re all a little on edge as of late. Our livestock has been attacked and just this morning one of us went missing.”

“Missing?” He asked, a new glow to eyes. 

“Yes, I’m afraid so. The butcher’s son hasn’t been seen all day, it’s very unlike him.” You said, your teeth sinking into your lower lip, unsure if you should tell him more. But, considering it concerned him you felt maybe it was in his best interest to tell him. 

“If I were you, I wouldn’t stick around for too long. Some find it suspicious you turned up the same day that William went missing.” 

“And what if I don’t feel like leaving just yet?” He asked, disregarding the information you had just given him as if he had no reason to be worried. 

You had no answer for him, truly you didn’t. The packaged rolls sat between the two of you and a long stretch of silence as he stared at you and waited for a response that didn’t come. And, without another word, he dropped a few too many coins on the counter, gathered up the bag, and headed for the front door. 

He stopped for only a moment, his fingers gently stroking at your red cloak you had hung up beside the door. His amber gaze trailed over each stitch as he lightly grazed the material a few more times. 

“I’ll be seeing you soon, little red.” 

~~~~~~~

After he had left, your day had not gotten any easier. Just as you had expected, it had been another busy day. You had managed to satisfy all of your customers, despite that late start you had made. 

There were a few upsides to the job you had, one being that it allowed you to tune into any gossip you would normally miss out on. You were more of a hit with the older women of the village, the people your age finding you to be a tad strange and off putting. 

That day your shop had been filled with hushed whispers of what had come to pass, the search party still had not returned from their trip to recover William. The outlook was not in the boy’s favor, not with the increase in predator activity you had been receiving as of late. You weren’t so sure you would be seeing William walking back into town any time soon. 

Once the day had come to an end, the sun dipping just below the tree line and casting shades of red over the snow, you had extinguished the lights of your shop and were locking up, your hood drawn over your head. That was when you found out the horrible truth. 

As you slid the shop keys into your bag and turned on your heel, you saw the search party emerging from the woods. And with them, you could see a blanketed form lying in the snow, the sheet swaddling the body slowing turning red. 

You swallowed harshly, turning as quickly as you could and beginning to make your way through the snow and away from what you knew was coming. You didn’t want to see the look on Sarah’s face, you didn’t want to watch her go boneless in the arms of her husband. But it didn’t matter what you saw or didn’t see, you would never forget the sound of her screams piercing the crisp, snowy air.

Your breath was visible in hot puffs in front of your face as you felt the burn of tears beginning to prick at the corners of your eyes. It didn’t matter if you didn’t care for William, it didn’t matter if you knew what he was really like, there was nothing quite like the sound of a mother’s heartbreak. It was enough to send anybody down to their knees. 

Your numb fingers wiped away the warm tears rushing down your cheeks, and amidst your blurry vision you could have sworn you saw a familiar figure slinking off into the woods, a flash of silver hair that just barely materialized. You could have sworn that that was Namjoon disappearing like a ghost into the frigid depths of the forest. 

You shook your head, you shouldn’t bother yourself with what he was doing, your main goal should be getting home before the sun completely dips below the horizon and plunges you into darkness. So, with that thought, you rushed home. 

Once you entered the cottage, things didn’t get any better. Your mother was stood there, waiting anxiously for your arrival. As soon as you had stepped foot inside she whipped the door shut and helped you remove your cloak as you toed your boots off. 

“No more working late, do you hear me?” She said, gripping your shoulders to get you to look at her. “It’s not safe out there.”

“Word travels fast then?” You asked humorlessly. 

“It’s a shame what happened to that boy, and I’ll be damned if that happens to you.” She replied sternly. 

“And what about Grandmother then? What do we do about her? She’s out there, all alone, with no one to protect her.”

“She has the lumberjack-”

“And he only checks on her every two weeks.” You interrupted, “Let me go out tomorrow and bring her back to us. I’ll go first thing in the morning.”

Your mother bit her lip, her hands shakily settling on her hips as she thought to herself. “I’ll go with you then.”

“No, you can’t possibly think you’ll be able to make the trip. The snow is thick and it’s a long walk there, you’ll exhaust yourself. It’ll be better if I go, faster too.” You said as you approached the fireplace, raising your hands to the flames to warm them. 

“And your grandmother, you think she’ll be able to make it back through the snow?” She probed, raising her eyebrow. 

She had a point, if you were saying she wouldn’t be able to make it there how would you expect your grandmother to make it back with you? 

You rested your hand on the back of your neck, pacing the floor and causing your layers of skirts to swirl around your ankles. You came to a sudden stop, your eyes settling on the shotgun that was mounted above your front door. Idea.

You didn’t like the thought of her being out there all alone, but if you knew she had something to protect her from the wild animals that would make you feel much better. 

“Alright, what if I bring her some supplies instead? I’ll grab some things that’ll last her a good while and I’ll show her how to use the shotgun. I’ve saved up some money of my own, I could purchase us a new one.” You mused out loud.

You loved your grandmother, she was the last living member of your father’s side of the family, she was the only connection you had to him at this point. You couldn’t bear the thought of losing her just yet, not when you could prevent it from those creatures that were beginning to terrorize your people. 

Your mother was silent once more, her thumb settled between her lips as she nervously chewed at the nail. She didn’t like the idea of you headed out into the woods alone, but she was comforted by the thought of you taking the shotgun with you, that much you were certain of. 

“We don’t know when the next storm will hit, and the last thing we need is for her to be stuck out there, all alone, with no food, surrounded by the wild. Let me go.”

And that was enough to break her resilience. 

“Promise me, promise me that you’ll come back.” She whispered, her body visibly sagging as those words left her lips. 

“It goes without saying.” You murmured, wrapping her up in your embrace. 

It was easier this way, you didn’t want to make a promise you had no certainty in keeping. 

The air in the cottage had lost all tension, everything was much calmer than before. But your peace could only last for so long. It was when you entered your bedroom that you realized something else was wrong.

The room was positively frigid, and upon further inspection you realized that your window had been pried open, the cold winter air surging forth and snuffing out any traces of heat. 

You surged forward and grasped the window, attempting to swing it shut as quickly as you could to try and insulate whatever warmth was left. But the thick scent of copper quickly stalled your movements. Instead of closing the window, you found yourself leaning forward into the brisk air, sniffing intently as you tried to make out where the scent was emanating from. You didn’t have to look far.

Your hands sealed themselves over your mouth, smothering the scream that threatened to break through them. 

Sitting in the snow where the wolf had once laid, was a human heart. The snow seemed to sizzle around it, the organ still warm and slick with blood that carved rivers and valleys into the pure ice. 

You could feel bile rising up your throat, your vision shaking so violently it made it appear that the heart was vibrating with steady pumps like it was still alive. 

And, to your horror, you could make out a form a few feet back in the snow. The only thing that was visible in the pitch black were it’s molten gold eyes, shining back at you in recognition before it scuttled away into the darkness.

You frantically slammed the window shut and drew the curtains closed tight. 

There was no mistake now, someone or something had been following you. 

~~~~~~~

When you awoke the next morning from a restless sleep, you elected to keep your discovery to yourself.

Although you were incredibly frightened by what you had seen, the last thing you needed was to scare your already frail mother. Your grandmother was still in need of assistance, and you couldn’t allow your mother to halt your plans. You had a mission to accomplish, and you were set on completing it with a shotgun slung over your arm and a picnic basket on the other. 

So, you shakily grasped your red cloak and wrapped it around your shoulders in haste, your fingers struggling to do up the ties at the base of your throat. Once you had completed the normally easy task, you slipped your basket onto the inside of your elbow and pulled down the shotgun from its resting place above the door. 

You regularly cleaned it, a task your father had enjoyed teaching you at a young age, so you were certain it wouldn’t jam if you needed to use it in a hurry. You slid a box of ammunition into your pocket, one for you, and another box into the picnic basket, one for your grandmother. 

And then you were off, bidding your mother goodbye with a hug and a swift kiss to her cheek, and an unspoken promise tittering on the edges of your lips saying that you would be home for supper. But those words were better left unspoken. 

The sun was just barely peeking through the thick clouds overhead, you were certain a blizzard was brewing. This only urged you to move quicker through the cleared paths. 

But the clouds weren’t the only foreboding message that morning, it was the mother’s wailing in the town square. There were three more now, holding each other in a comforting manner as they wept into each other’s shoulders. 

More children had been snatched from their mothers.

Sarah sat by herself, of her own volition, an obsidian mourning veil obscuring her tear stained features. A chill ran down your back as you urged yourself to walk by them quicker, she looked more like an executioner than she did a mourner, surrounded by a choir of weeping women. 

You could still hear the echoes of her cries in the back of your mind, the raw chords striking your ears once more. 

You tightened your grip on the strap of your shotgun, your pace slowing as you reached the bridge that led you into the forest. You felt like you could breathe now, despite the knowledge that people your own age had lost their lives in the thick overgrowth before you. The relief that you felt from the women in the square outweighed your fear.

The bridge creaked in protest as your boots tapped against the wood. It would need to be repaired come spring. 

“Little red!” A voice called from the treeline causing you to suddenly stop, snow kicking up beneath your boots. 

Moments later, a familiar figure emerged from the frost coated trees, tall, ash hair, and honey eyes. Namjoon. 

“Where are you off to, little red?” He cooed, his voice low with a sultry edge that sent shivers down your spine. You couldn’t tell if they were delighted or terrified chills. 

“My grandmother’s, what are you doing here?” You asked, your body tense and defensive. 

He drew nearer now, a wide grin gracing his lips with a set of teeth so white they resembled the snow beneath your boots. The closer he got the more you noticed about him. His perfect white teeth seemed a little sharper than most, and the clothes he wore were once more, not suited for the frigid weather. 

“I caught sight of this old thing,” He hummed, his finger tracing over your cloak and the strap of your shotgun as he slowly circled you, “And couldn’t help but see you.”

You stepped back hesitantly, his presence was unnerving. Without saying anything more you pulled away from his reach and began to walk by him briskly, headed into the woods. 

“Leaving so soon? We only just met.” He laughed, it would have been a nice contagious laughter had you not heard the bitter edge to it. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have the time to dawdle, Namjoon. I need to reach her before the storm hits.”

“Well then, won’t you let me accompany you?”

“I don’t need an escort, I know my way just fine, thank you very much.” 

“And what about the beasts then?” He asked from beside you, sending you halting to a stop. 

“Beasts?” You asked slowly, gazing up at him from beneath the cover of your hood. 

“Well, surely you know?” He asked in a patronizing tone, his honey eyes narrowing. “Four people from your village have gone missing, red. Surely you know that wasn’t an accident. Great beasts have roamed this forest for centuries and they don’t take kindly to intruders. It would be much safer if I came with you.”

You stood there for a moment in silence, contemplating his words. He was not wrong, two people were much safer than just one. 

So, begrudgingly, you accepted his offer. 

His hand quickly captured your own, his fingers intertwining with yours as he pressed his side tightly to your own with a grin. How bold. You were struck once more by the fact that he was incredibly warm, it was no wonder why he wasn’t bundled up like you were. It felt like he had struck a fever. 

Namjoon filled the silence between the two of you surprisingly well, telling you stories of the great beasts that roamed the woods, effectively scaring you and holding your attention. He had a way of speaking that drew people in, like a siren from the stories your father had read to you. 

It was easy to forget with him, easy to forget why you had been frightened in the first place, easy to sink into his side as his warmth seeped into your flesh, and easy to get lost in his voice. 

That was of course, until you felt him pulling you off of the path. 

You dug your heels into the snow, tugging at his hand violently. “Namjoon!”

“Yes?” He asked.

“What are you doing? Her cottage is this way, we stay on the path, we never leave the path.” You said, gesturing towards the dirt pathway beneath the two of you. 

That was a spoken rule in your village, never go off of the path. 

“That’s ridiculous,” He chuckled, “If we continue the way you were going, that doubles the time it takes to get there, it’s better we take the shortcut.”

“No.” You sternly said. 

“And why not?”

“Because, there’s predators out there! Mountain lions, bears, wolves!”

A mischievous smirk pulled at the corners of his lips, “Are you scared of wolves, little red?”

“I’m scared of anything that wants to eat me.” You replied with a dry tone. 

“Well you do smell very sweet-”

“Namjoon!”

He took a deep breath, his eyes darting between you and the shortcut. “I promise you, nothing will hurt you while I’m here. Besides, did you know some flowers bloom in the winter?”

“What? You can’t be serious.”

“I am, there’s a field of flowers this way, all different breeds that bloom in the dead of winter. Don’t you think your grandmother would enjoy those?” 

You chewed at your lip uneasily. He knew exactly what to say to make you question your own actions. You would be lying if you said you didn’t want to see what he was talking about, and you knew that yes, your grandmother would be elated by something so cheery in the bleak winter months. 

So, after a few moments of consideration, you agreed.

And Namjoon had not been lying. After a few minutes of trekking through the deep snow the two of you emerged into a clearing, and just like he said, it was filled with flowers of all different breeds. 

You found yourself crouching down into the field, your fingers trailing over each velvety petal that had somehow found a way to survive in the clutches of an icy death. Your favorites were the deep red roses. They were a dead match for your cloak, a beautiful color that was delicately dusted with soft flakes of snow. 

You couldn’t help but greedily pluck several blossoms from the foliage, slipping them into your basket. 

And, amidst your excitement, you hadn’t noticed just how close your companion had gotten until you felt him. That incredible warmth had returned as he crouched down behind you, and just like he had in the bakery, you felt him lightly nuzzling your head and breathing in your scent as he pressed himself closer to you, his arms winding around your body in an attempt to pull you even tighter to him. 

You froze, your finger mid pull on the rose’s stem causing you to slice the appendage on a stray thorn. You hissed in pain as you watched the blood drip from the tip of your finger before rolling down your wrist and carving a pool into the snow beneath you. 

And, without a thought, Namjoon’s hand encircled your wrist and yanked it up to his face. 

His once honey eyes appeared brighter than before, his long lashes fluttering as his warm breath misted over your skin. And before you could stop him, he licked a line up your wrist, collecting the blood, and pressed your finger to his lips swiping his tongue over the wound. 

You yelped in surprise, wrenching your hand free from his grip as your heart pounded violently. You rose to your feet and stumbled backwards through the snow. 

Namjoon remained where he was crouched, a sudden hunger evident in his honey gaze, a gaze that was not so unfamiliar. 

“We-we need to go!” You stuttered, turning on your heel and retreating from whatever had just happened. 

You held your hand close to your chest as you walked, frightened by what had just transpired. A part of you suddenly wished you had made your journey alone as you had previously intended.

But the harsh crunch of snow behind you reminded you of the choice you made, and the molten glare digging into your back exemplified it. 

~~~~~~~

The rest of your journey was made in complete silence, a new tension had settled between the two of you. And, true to Namjoon’s word, the way he had taken you was indeed a shortcut. So, you felt no remorse as you sprinted toward the cottage ahead of you and threw a weak thank you over your shoulder. 

You couldn’t stand the awkward tension anymore, you couldn’t stand being in his presence any longer than you needed to. 

As soon as you approached the front door, you threw it open and let it shut behind you. You leaned against the door for a moment to catch your breath before you shrugged the shotgun off of your shoulder and strung it up on the hook beside the front door. 

“Grandmother!” You called as you began to approach the kitchen door, “I’m here!”

And upon opening it, a blood curdling scream broke free from your lips. 

The sight before you could only be described as a massacre. Your hands desperately tried to cover your eyes, but the damage had already been done. There was blood, so much blood amongst other things laid out atop the counter. 

You fell backwards, your body sliding down the wall as hoarse screams raked through your throat. The unmistakable scent of blood was thick in the kitchen sending your stomach churning in your gut. You knew that scent, it was clear as day whatever had remained in that room had once been human. 

“Sweetheart?” A familiar voice called out to you. 

And upon opening your eyes, you saw your grandmother standing before you. The sudden feeling of elation surging through your body at the sight of her alive quickly died out. She wore a leather apron stained with blood, both fresh and old, and her hands were gloved. You quickly stood and began to back away from her, your sense of self preservation suddenly kicking in, your eyes zeroing in on the meat cleaver she held in her left hand. 

“Sweetheart, calm down.” She whispered softly, carefully setting the blade down on the counter beside the gorey mess. 

Your eyes were darting everywhere but her, panicked breaths leaving your parted lips. Your gaze finally settled in the corner of the room where a pile of clothing sat and a familiar axe. The lumberjack, she had murdered the lumberjack. 

“Why?” You cried, trembling as if you had been drenched to the bone. “Why did you do it?!” 

“I had too sweetie, I have to feed them.”

“Them? Who?” You asked, backing out of the kitchen as she followed your trail, her face soft with sympathy despite the flecks of blood that decorated her cheeks. 

“The wolves, of course. I made a deal with them long ago, if I fed them in the winter I could stay here.” She replied, her voice alarmingly calm. “The lumberjack was a sweet man but this winter was a rough one, not many travelers I’m afraid.”

“You’ve gone mad.” You whispered. 

“I know this is a lot to take in, but it’s best if you listen to me darling. Your grandfather was one of them, he courted me and then we had your father and your uncles. It’s always tricky with litters, you never know who is going to take after who. Your father though, he was the most human out of all of them. Poor thing couldn’t even shift.” She sighed, her eyes glazing over.

“You need help, you’re not well.” You tried again, doing your best to keep distance between the two of you.

“I know you’re a bit shaken up, but you need to listen to me, it’s in your best interest.” She sighed, untying the leather apron from around her waist. 

“That cloak you’re wearing, it’s a symbol that you’ve come of age and Namjoon has had every intention of courting you. He’s been rather obvious really, he’s becoming quite frustrated with you.” 

You suddenly became still, your mind flashing through every time Namjoon had ever touched the very item you were wearing. What she was saying, although deluded, had some semblance of truth. 

“I-I have to go.” You mumbled, your throat tightening from the copper scent and smell of flesh that hung heavily in the air. You needed to get home and far away from her before she killed you too. 

A deep sadness spread over her features as her head hung low, shaking from side to side. “Don’t run,” She breathed, “They find the chase seductive.”

All this time you had been slowly backing away from the person you loved the most, and now you had been stopped by the feeling of a solid form behind you. You quickly spun around, a shriek of horror escaping you as you met the bright, gold eyes of your escort, Namjoon. 

And, without thinking, you ran. 

Your cloak was fluttering behind you rapidly in the harsh, cold winds, the snow coming down thicker than it ever had before. And, to your absolute horror, a loud howl was echoing throughout the trees. 

You peered over your shoulder as you sprinted to the best of your ability through the snow drifts. The wolf that had sat outside your window days before had returned and was chasing you down. Now that there was nothing separating you from the creature you were terrified, it was massive and hunting you down. It had the clear advantage, you were inevitably going to die. You were never going home again, another child was going to be ripped from their mother. 

Tears were pouring down your cheeks like waterfalls as you blindly ran, unsure as to where you were going. You knew that you didn’t have time, four legs were faster than two and you were greatly impaired by the weather. 

With no goal in mind, no destination in sight, you ran in hopes you would be able to live for a little longer. You did your best to weave between the trees, slide down hills of snow, and keep running for your life. Your lungs burned and your legs ached but still you ran, even as you heard the loud steps of the wolf coming nearer and nearer.

And, just as you had lost all hope, an outcropping of rocks became visible at the base of a snowy hill. And with every intention to save your life, you recklessly threw yourself down the hill allowing gravity to take over for you. 

The second you felt yourself cease rolling, you rose to your unsteady legs and dizzily stumbled into the cluster of rocks, pulling yourself into the shelter away from the blizzard.

But your hope was fleeting as you came to a realization. The shelter was a den, one that had clearly been in use. It was littered with furs, blankets, books, and materials for a fire. The creature had been corralling you to this very location. 

You turned as another burst of adrenaline shot through your body only to be stunted by the sight of the silver wolf blocking the exit to the den. 

It’s bright eyes stared back at you with a gleam of satisfaction as it crouched down, shimming it’s way into the den and backing you up further into its depths. 

You watched, horrified, as the wolf began to whimper, it’s body shaking violently as the sound of bones beginning to snap and crunch echoed throughout the space, reforming and distorting themselves into vaguely familiar shapes as it’s fur began to melt away. 

Those bright golden eyes faded to a recognizable honey shade, and the silver fur disappeared and showed itself as ashen hair. On the floor of the den sat Namjoon in the place of where the powerful wolf had once stood. 

He carefully rolled his head from side to side, his neck cracking loudly in response as he rose to his feet. A mischievous smirk pulled at his lips, a triumphant gleam to his eyes as he confidently approached your trembling form. 

A broken cry escaped from your throat as you felt him press his forehead to your own, lightly nuzzling his head against yours. His strange behavior now made sense, he had been courting you in a way that was unfamiliar to you, but natural to him. 

All of the people that had gone missing were male’s your age, he had been wiping out the competition. 

And the bloody organ he had left outside of your window, had been a horrific present. A show of his dominance and his twisted affection. 

You were crying uncontrollably now, everything you had experienced suddenly crashing down on you. You flinched in terror as you felt his fingers grip your jaw, his lips just brushing against your own and he hummed happily.

“You have nowhere left to run, little red.” 

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