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desireangel · 5 months

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Misguided | Coriolanus Snow

Summary: sometimes, Coriolanus gets lost in the thought of what may have been had he made different decisions. The thought of his life being so different had any detail of his experiences changed is a harrowing one and he wonders whether the choices he has made had been misguided. But here you are, always ready to remind him that every decision has been a perfect one if it has meant that he can have you.

Word count: 1,186

Warnings: slight reference to sex maybe possibly (you may fr need a magnifying glass to spot it ??), super super introspective moment right here. lots of thinking thoughts. if I've missed anything pls lmk and I can fix this up real quick for the future!

Author's note: this is me making a comeback to writing on here with a clean slate blog. forgive me for this brain dump word dump thing that my fingers have birthed. Hope you guys enjoy, feedback is always welcome and I hope this somewhat makes sense :D it is also not properly edited oops and my first time writing narrative again in about two years ? :D

Sometimes Coriolanus let his mind wander to all that could have been and all that could be had he only made his decisions differently. He seldom felt regret - never felt as if he would change the things that have led him to the path of greatness he was on. But what if’s and the memory of failures are as stubborn as a newborn plague and Coriolanus was just as vulnerable to illness as those whom he revered and those whom he detested.

It was warm under the light of the setting sun, a kiss on his skin as Coriolanus rested against the balcony railing and watched over the city he longed to have for himself. If things had been different, at any time and any place, where would he be now?

The thought of living his life in the districts sickened him but it lingered at the back of his mind. Had certain moments taken a different turn, would he still be in District 12 laying on the warm grass with Lucy Gray? Coriolanus swallowed at the thought. Lucy Gray and District 12 were forever conjoined in his mind, forever one.

A memory of District 12 was a memory of Lucy Gray and the thought of Lucy Gray was the thought of District 12. And Coriolanus would never be at peace with the feelings that the notion flared inside of him.

Feelings of failure, feelings of defeat, feelings of fear and feelings of humiliation.

Coriolanus understood more about that time in his life; a time that felt so much like a dream that sometimes he found himself questioning whether it had ever been a reality. Maybe he was not in love with Lucy Gray - maybe he was in love with the idea of what she symbolised for him. No, not maybe. Corialanus was sure of it now that he had experienced the truth of love.

Back then, loving Lucy Gray meant having Lucy Gray. Having Lucy Gray meant controlling Lucy Gray. And because she and her District were one and the same as far as Coriolanus was concerned, controlling Lucy Gray meant controlling District 12.

Even after meeting you, and understanding that loving you meant different things - things he wasn’t familiar with, things he wasn’t sure he was capable of becoming familiar with - the lingering thought of what if was all consuming.

Coriolanus could hear you coming seconds before you were by his side. He was thankful you stood by his side, silently and wordlessly as your eyes dragged across his face, analysing what you could of his thoughts from his perfectly emotionless expression. Moments like this, where Coriolanus got lost in his memories grew fewer after the first six months after his return had passed.

But here you both were, two years down the line, silently in each other’s company. Coriolanus was a passionate lover. But he was a cold and imperfect partner. And some of the times where he retreated into himself, although he had rarely lost control of himself in your presence, left him frustrated at your presence.

Because to Coriolanus, you were perfect. Frustrating at times but that was often the fault of his own lack of patience. You were, at the end of the day, too perfect. He saw your compassion, your empathy, your kindness. And he saw your strength, your wit, your fearsome loyalty.

And here he was, unable to even regret the times he acted without all of those perfect things.

You let your fingers graze along the sleeve of his blazer, your light touch burning into his skin through the fabric. He closed his eyes and kept them closed for minutes of silence that felt like hours to you.

Coriolanus’ voice was as hard as ever. “I’ve done bad things.”

“I know,” you breathed out. “Would you be here today if you hadn’t done those things?”

“No, you don’t know. You don’t understand. I don’t care that I’ve done those things. I should care, right?”

Releasing a long sigh, you shifted on your feet. Coriolanus knew that you were different to him. You didn’t agree with what he had done but you knew there was nothing you could do except to be there when he needed you. It had taken time to realise you couldn’t change the way he thought, the way he felt - you weren’t sure if you truly, deeply wanted to.

As Coriolanus grew more honest with you, you had come to realise that when it came down to it he was not a good man. But he was good to you and while Coriolanus saw your strength, you knew you were weak when it came to him. Loyalty and love for him burned painfully in your chest no matter his imperfections and you never bothered to try to justify it.

“Maybe if I chose differently, somewhere,” Coriolanus’ words were rushed. He would curse himself tomorrow for his moment of weakness but he couldn’t ignore the pit in his stomach. “Then I wouldn’t be like this.”

You stared at him for a moment. His expression was of ice and had you not known him the way that you do, then you would never have noticed the confliction in his eyes. “There’s no point-”

“I know there’s no point in thinking about what if’s, I know.” Coriolanus spat.

“Okay,” you paused. “But you will never know what could have changed. You made your decisions, you were the author of your own fate, Coriolanus. That’s the way things go - we have to face it. What difference would it make if things could have been different? You can’t undo what you’ve done now.”

Coriolanus’ jaw ticked and he moved so that his arm hung at your waist. You briefly glanced back inside at the Avox who prepared your nightly cup of tea at your bedside. Coriolanus seldom made a show of your relationship when you weren’t entirely alone. Nevertheless, you didn’t let your mind linger on that fact.

He gazed down at you, his ocean-strong eyes never failing to make your breath hitch and goosebumps to rise on your skin. You were relieved that he seemed to agree with your words. Coriolanus’ shoulders had lost much of the tension they held and the sweet smile that was shared only with you played on his lips.

He had to try hard to believe what you had told him. Because here you were, no matter what he did and no matter his lack of conviction, at his side and wrapped around his finger. Coriolanus was not an emotional man but he knew that he had love for you and your endless, boundless support to share with you the world that will one day be at his feet.

“I’ll share your bed tonight, missy. And that’ll serve as all the reminder I need to know that none of my decisions were misguided.” Coriolanus’ words were as always they always have been; smooth with honey but laced with venomous promises. You bit back a smile as he pulled you inside, addicted to whatever venom dripped from his words, from his eyes, from him.

#i was initially going to write out some full ass smut but I'm sleepy so not tonight :))#coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow #young coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x you #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #writing: coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #tbosas #tom blyth #tom blyth x reader #📝

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waklman · 11 months

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fake it is my bread and butter I’m in love thank u. I feel like reader is going to start pulling away. OMG WHAT IF jake kissed the reader in front of a bunch of people when he was beyond drunk or did something that made the reader embarrassed and uncomfortable so she isn’t talking to him and jake pleads for her forgiveness and it’s angsty and fluffy

note: okay i don't really know what this was but i'm just happy i was able to finally write something honestly, anyways here is more jake and princess until i pull myself together to work on the next chapter </3

warnings: mentions of drinking, insecurities.

If you were merely a book, you’d be a forgotten composition of bounded paper, quietly collecting dust on the unreachable bay of a shelf inside a fading bookstore—barely visited by anyone but the owners themselves.

And Jake would be the first person to ever be drawn in by you, setting off the soft chime of the entrance, walking right up to the shelf you sat on, extending himself to gently pluck you from the rotting oak that previously held you upright, and take you home with him.

When it’s finally just you two surrounded by the shrouding walls of his bedroom, Jake would slowly run his calloused finger down your uncracked leathered spine to ease you open, gaining your trust. Eventually, your pages would unfurl themselves to him—revealing stories that breathed life into your biggest aspirations and smallest insecurities, laid bare for his naked eyes to see.

And Jake would read those inked lines, over and over again until he could recite your contents in his sleep, until his heart filled with fondness when he thought of you, until you became his favorite piece of literature.

That’s how you’d like to think of your relationship with Jake, anyway. You were something that existed solely for his mind to study, for him to understand. No one else.

Jake would never return you back to that shop, Jake would never make you feel a semblance of regret for opening up to him, Jake would never laugh at things that would wear down your stitched pages.

Oh, but he did, right in your face too.

The moment Jake’s drunk laugh spilled out his chest at Jeremy Duncan’s sloppy joke about you being so quiet he forgot you were there—it was like you entrusted a stranger to hold your red solo cup.

The same lips that read over your fear about feeling invisible, were the same ones that curled into a smile when a jab was made at you.

Rather than facing that reality head on, you glued back shut, reverting back to that lonely collection of narratives that you didn’t let anyone read. But this time, you couldn’t go running back to that high shelf that hid you away—all you could do was slowly withdraw from the person who took you off of it.

Jake knew you needed solitude at times, and he respected that, it was how you recharged your energy after any social event.

So, for the last few days he let you do just that. He let you wordlessly walk past him when he tried to reach out for you to join him on the couch. He let you say less and less to him when he just wanted to hear your voice over dinner, afraid he might forget how it sounded. He let you sneak out earlier each day, just so you could avoid walking to class with him.

He let you do all of that, suppressing his slight worry—until he picked up on how you would nervously stand outside his door at random points in the night, only to eventually go back to your own room. And to make matters worse, if Jake hadn’t been staying up late, racking his brain about you rather than sleeping, he wouldn’t have even noticed that you started to do that.

Jake knew you needed solitude at times, but he also knew that something was wrong.

So, that’s when he decided to stop letting you walk away from him, because it was starting to plague him with concern at this point.

But, when Jake weakly trailed past your door frame, and kneeled at your seated figure at the corner of your bed, you flinched when he instinctively extended his hands to hold yours.

Refusing to meet his stare, you miss the subtle traces of disappointment that flit across his features.

“You..don’t want me touching you?” Jake’s quiet voice is colored by hurt, hands cautiously dropping to fiddle with the cuffs of your loose sweatpants instead. You at least let him do that, because it keeps him at a distance, because the fabric he’s gently playing with acts as a safeguard between you and him.

Gaze casted down into your lap, you reverently shake your head. “No, Jake,” you refuse him, your own strained voice mirroring his own.

If you were merely a book, he’d laugh at the way you awkwardly sat, he’d playfully bump shoulders with the same people who looked through you like you weren’t there.

With that, he feels an unsettling guilt well up inside his stomach, rising up to his throat like bile. “Okay, I see. Will you tell me what I did wrong then?” Jake sucks in deep breath, only releasing it when he sees you let out a somewhat steady breath for yourself.

Even when a burn spreads through his lungs for what feels like a full minute, he still doesn’t feel deserving when he goes to cool it, not when you probably don’t think he’s deserving of it either.

“No, Jake,” you reinforce, shoulders beginning to tremble from the pressure of refusing him, from the pressure of closing yourself back up.

If you were merely a book, you wouldn’t let him take you into his careful hands, he’d only read your unshared secrets to the world.

For Jake, it feels almost sinful to hold himself back from soothing his palms over your shaking body. His fingers clutch the ankles of your pants tighter, a desperate bid for solace. “Please, talk to me princess,” he helplessly begs, not knowing what else to do with himself. “You won’t even come into my room.”

“No, Jake,” you repeat, unaware of the tear that glides down your cheek. “You laughed, when Jeremy said I was practically invisible. You laughed at me.” The crack of your spine urges you to stay resilient like you did before, but the crack of your spine can’t help how much it aches for him to gently coax it again.

Jake stills as realization washes down on him, chest unwinding at your explanation.

If you were merely a book, you would want to be perched on that shelving unit. You don’t need Jake to be drawn in by what your pages held, you don’t need him to not feel put off by the plain cover that held you together. You don’t need—

Without a warning, Jake scoops you up from where you’re sitting, forcing you to encircle your legs around his middle as he leads you into the threshold of his room.

“I laughed because I thought it was the stupidest shit I ever heard,” he carefully explains, keeping you in lap as he goes to sit on his sheets. “You’re funny if you think I didn’t tell him off the morning after,” he continues, recounting the string of threats that fell off his tongue when found Jeremy after class.

When you finally look at him, cheeks sticky from streaky tears and waterlogged lashes fluttering at him, Jake feels his heart swell in his chest. Naturally, he goes to playfully tousle your hair, gently, mindful of the migraine that tends to follow after your crying.

If you were merely a book, he would have corners of the most important pages gently folded in, ingraining each word and punctuation mark that made you vulnerable into his memory.

“Jake, what would you do if I was a book?” You ask through a weak smile, heart gently throbbing as you notice the tenderness reflected in his eyes.

Smoothing down the hair he’s ruffled with both hands, Jake gives your question some thought. “Is this one of those, would you love me if I was a worm kinda questions?”

Clutching the hems of his shirt between your hands for solace, you nod at him, waiting for one of those lighthearted responses he always gives you.

But sensing that you’d want a genuine answer instead, Jake gives you just that.

“If you were a book,” he starts, brushing strands of hair behind your ears. “I would never get sick of reading you princess. Think you’d be my favorite,” and he means it.

#ears open #fake it #jake seresin blurb

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proosh · 9 days

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what was that about gil having dreams about the future? (no pressure!)

Oh anon my beloved thank you so much; I dropped that little tidbit into that post hoping someone would ask about it

The truth is that while it is a strongly held headcanon of mine, it’s something of half a historical in-joke, and half a metanarrative indulgence. I’ll cover both of these respectively, in case you want just the historical reasoning and not so much my deranged meta-analysis on nations, narrative, and metanarrative. With this in mind;

Prussia as Cassandra, A Meta

A brief historical overview

The Old Prussians practiced omen-reading and regarded seers with high regard, which was acknowledged as valid by the Teutonic Knights (when the omens predicted victory in battle, at least) and was practised by both men and women

White Ladies are supposedly ghosts of women who haunt the Hohenzollern family as omens of misfortune and especially as messengers of coming death. Notably, Queen Sophia Louise was once afflicted by a bout of madness in 1709 and dressed only in her white nightgown and having cut herself on some broken glass and screamed at King Frederick I (grandfather of Fritz) that "the plague would devour the king of Babylon". In part due to the White Lady folklore, he took this with serious regard and proceeded to prepare Berlin against the upcoming plague (which very much devastated wide swathes of both Prussia and the rest of Northern Europe)

Bismarck very probably never actually said the famous "damned foolish thing in the Balkans" quote that people like to trot out about the inevitability of World War 1 so I hesitate to include it here as historical fact, but for the purposes of elaborating on the "historical in-joke" half of this meta I will gesture to it as a vague suggestion of an ironic future-vision that, as I will discuss shortly, I think makes a certain degree of narrative sense.

Now, moving on to the narrative background and arguably the meat of this meta:

Narrative analysis

Entire books could and have been written about the depiction of history, and the fictionalisation of history for the purposes of narrative storytelling, especially in regards to the personification of abstract concepts like nation-states and their associated concepts. Unfortunately I cannot afford to go to university so you are getting this post instead.

For the purposes of this discussion strict literal academic historicity is not our goal, but rather HWS Prussia as a narrative construct within the sandbox of Hetalia as a story that involves and adapts history but is not necessarily directly representative of it.

Within this frame of analysis, Prussia as a character is a distinctly weird choice for Himaruya to make: To establish him as an ongoing, extant entity in the modern day is definitely A Narrative Choice to make, and honestly not really one I could personally imagine making. Perhaps it's a lingering result of questionable initial research, perhaps there's some meat to chew on in regards to this.

Prussia's design is one that stands out, compared to the rest of the mostly-naturalistic cast. We have the initial design concept for him depicting him as an older, rugged man, and we also have his very early canon design that depicts him with blond hair and blue eyes. However, the decision was made at some point relatively early on to change his design to be distinctly and notably Not Natural: Some debate has been made about to what degree is he actually albino, but the design is still notable for being distinctly 'set apart' from the other nations.

From there, we have to start asking questions about why this decision was made. My personal first thought was perhaps it was inherently tied to his creation as an "unnatural" state in the form of the Teutonic Knights. Voltaire's popular quote about Prussia not being a nation with an army, but rather an army with a nation might come to mind. However, we have been provided with the designs of the other Orders and they don't share his design traits in favour of their own design language, meaning that line of question falls short.

From there, I think it's not unreasonable to suggest that Prussia was designed - in his final, canon form - with his dissolution in mind. It sets him apart visibly from the rest of the established nations, and fundamentally Others him from the rest of the cast - a similar design concept used with Russia, who is within the canon framework of Hetalia, heavily associated with the sinister supernatural as signaled by his unnaturally coloured eyes.

Therefore, on a narrative level, Prussia's appearance foreshadows his own death, and his death was inevitable from the very beginning.

(Turns out the Calvinists were right, huh?)

With all that in mind, I don't find it unreasonable to take that dramatic narrative irony and apply that inherent 'friction' to the rest of Prussia's story: His narrative is haunted by his own death.

By virtue of his creation and his design (and within the framework of the text, his existence) he is doomed to die, and that singular event ripples back through his narrative almost like a psychic shockwave. Everything he Is points towards The End.

When that End comes, it 'releases' a good deal of that narrative tension. Himaruya has said that he designed Prussia to be something of a villainous character and the dissolution provides the suitable narrative endpoint in that regard. However.

The narrative framework of Hetalia continues, as the history it adapts tends to do, which begins to create a new form of narrative tension due to The Decision to have Prussia continue existing into the 'modern' setting. Himaruya has been incredibly cagey about this and besides the ongoing mystery of The HRE Situation the topic of Prussia's ongoing existence is something he's been noticeably coy about in his discussions and implications of East Germany and the following Reunification, but that's an entirely separate essay from what this one is about.

Fundamentally, I think that Prussia - as a narrative construct - is inherently and on a foundational level tied to his own eventual nonexistence, and the dramatic tension of What Comes After. I think he knows, on some primal, unfathomable level, and rages against it right up until it comes for him and he has to learn how to pick up the pieces of himself, his legacy, and his own narrative.

With that intrinsic narrative irony in mind, I don’t think it is too out there to suggest that he possibly (unintentionally, unconsciously) channels the future-sight that keeps cropping up in Prussian history, as noted above. At least in some form, I think he resonates with the coming End in a way that he cannot fully comprehend or articulate and like the Cassandra of myth there is nothing he can do to warn about or avert the doom that he sees and senses.

Troy could not be saved, and neither can he.

But that's just a theory. A game theor—

If you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! This really got away from me and I really do hope that it's at least somewhat comprehensible.

#hws prussia #hetalia meta #mine #my writing #from the askbox

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sorcerous-caress · 5 days

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Aglaya and Artemy are so smitten with each other oh my god. A doomed romance neither of them expected to blossom amidst the war and plague.

How she desperately tried to protect Artemy at each corner and turn, only wanted the best for him and put in so much effort to understand the kin in such a short notice despite her busy schedule and death knocking on her door.

HE DOESN'T EVEN HESITATE BEFORE CALLING HER HIS WIFE WHEN THE LITERAL ARMY CORNERS THEM. Fleeing together and choosing their own path! Choosing their love over the town and all the people in it! In Artemy's view, that might as well have been their wedding vows.

She's such a powerful woman who instils fear into everyone she crosses. The infamous inquisitor who broke the mind of everyone she has called into questioning so far, who had the Bachelor thinking that she'll order his execution. Who had the kains shaking in terror, crumbling down the three old powerhouses of the town in a couple of days.

Mansplain Girlboss x Himbo Malewife fr fr

I always felt like their relationship progressed a little too fast in P2, but when I played P1 I completely understood why. it's expanded upon so much more and you get to see exactly how they slowly fall in love, how much their trust in each other multiples by the day.

How everyone around them can see it clearly.

MY WIFE <3333 M Y WIFE I AM IN HEAVEN.

There are just so many golden lines between these two. There are so many adorable moments of them being silly and weird, and so so in love like:

Aglaya makes her interest in Artemy as a person very clear. She recites us peotry upon first meeting him, saying he will learn the meaning in the future.

Yet she compares his mind to that of a poet later on.

Saying how much she respects him, how she incoperates a steppe term into a beautiful flirtatious line when she thinks it's time to say goodbye. When she thinks we won't return her feelings.

And yet despite her feelings burning with the intensity of a thousand suns, she never allows it to mix with her job, even telling him not to get roped into politics because he's on the path of priesthood while she acknowledges the manipulators she works for.

All to protect him, to protect you.

She is very sweet and thoughtful, calculated yet sincere in her feelings for Artemy. She never once acts like how others claim she would. She never walks anyone else's path of expectations.

All of her infatuation stems from the fact that Artemy answered her lifelong question so simply. Because he loved this town he grew up in and wanted to protect it.

Because he proved that having free-will makes very little difference in the grand nothingness of the universe. Even if other people interpret his actions or use it to benefit their schemes, Artemy will walk a path of his own making and follow his own heart to know what's right or wrong.

He showed her that she has always been free, not the puppet she thought she was. That constantly trying to spite greater forces isn't a way to live your life. Rather, actually living that life how you want is true freedom.

That finding your own happiness and looking out for the people you love is the best revenge you could deliver.

Even if everyone was a puppet and their entire reality has been nothing but a game, even then it wouldn't make a single difference to Artemy.

Because his love was real, his feelings were real enough. Puppet or not, he loved his father. He loves this town, which nursed him young. And he will deliver that love back when it's in need, when the kids he swore to protect are in danger.

And yet, I have a theory. I think it's the player she is in love with, too, rather than just Artemy.

It's because technically, only the player has free will. Only the player gets to escape the narrative.

Only the player is the full fledged human being that she fell in love with.

But I might be wrong, I need to play the Bachelor's route to confirm this, I've only done the Haruspex in P1 and P2 so far.

So far she is indifferent towards him, at least in Artemy's route, she views the Bachelor as a useful tool, a means to an end. Maybe it changes in his route and she falls for the player again? or maybe it's exclusive to Artemy because while she likes the player, she still loves Artemy himself on his own, even without the free will.

Or maybe you need a combination of both to results in Aglaya taking notice of you. The Bachelor is bound to Maria, who's trying to become Nina, and Aglaya loathes the kains and seeks revenge against them.

While Artemy walks free, he isn't bound to anyone she despies. Not to mention how fascinated she is by Steppe culture and the natural miracles, how excited she is when she finds the town is alive, how much invested she is in Artemy fullfilling his father's inheritance.

I wish there was a timelife where she lives. It seems that it doesn't matter what you do, she will always perish.

A doomed romance, she finally found something in this life worth caring about, someone worth calling her own.

And just when you think you've outsmarted the system and escaped hades, the game steals her away from you and humilates you by making you walk all the way back.

"You really thought it would be this easy?"

"You should've seen this coming"

"What did you ever expect? a happily ever after?"

"That's what you get for attempting to ruin the play, now get back inside."

So you reload an earlier savefile with a bitter taste in your mouth.

You play by their rules this time around.

Do whatever you can to appease the powers that be, keep showing up every day to deliver the best possible performance.

Willingly let yourself become a puppet and never go against the strings pulling you along.

The most painful part, however, is having to reject Aglayas' proposal to run together.

She doesn't understand. She is desperate trying to get you to see her point of view, like you effortlessly did so many times before.

She is confused, why are you suddenly rejecting her ideas, why did your trust in her vanish overnight? Did she do something wrong? Please listen to her. She loves you and wants to live with you.

Please just listen, I'm not lying i swear.

Please come with me.

I love you.

And I can't go on without you.

You have to sit there and deny her request, time after time after time, each more painful than the last. She explains herself, but you won't listen. You can't listen.

Because if you listen, she will die.

You know the future. You're trying to protect her like she has protected you so much before. She can't understand, so she gets hurt. You're whispering sorry to a screen like a fool.

...

She still dies.

You've hurt her for nothing. She loved you, and in her final moments, you broke her heart.

For nothing.

All of your work and effort, your dignity and pride reduced to mud in which you've rolled through to appease two stupid kids from taking your wife away from you.

Because she still fucking dies the next day.

To rub salt into the wound, her demise is off-screen this time. Like one of the nameless npcs in the number counter of deaths we see at the start of each day.

One of them was Aglaya. Reduced to just a number on a counter, like the thousands before her.

Doomed if you do.

Doomed if you don't.

Used and discarded like an old toy.

A mother's beloved childhood doll.

Was worthy of love afterall.

#♡otherfandoms #♡pathologic #artemy burakh #aglaya lilich #Artemy x Aglaya #Aglaya x Artemy #pathologic 2 #pathologic classic hd #pathologic #the haruspex #the inquisitor

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fantasy-mixtapes · 1 month

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Fig Faeth Junior Year Playlist: Side A

It's no surprise that Fig Faeth's playlist is the one that I actually listen to the most. It's just a very good vibe and I love her. Took extra time to Song descriptions and thoughts down below. Spoilers for Episodes 1-10.

Genres included: Pop-punk, Punk, Alternative

1. hair out, Stand Atlantic

Am I fuckin' up my life? I'm just tryna make improvements Slowly givin' up the fight But I gotta cover up the bruise That I get from all the Expectations give me vertigo Wasting away to the pressure The pressure, The pressure, oh

This song is such an earworm, scratching a specific itch in my brain. Love the fact that both Kristen and Fig (the failing girlies) start with a Stand Atlantic song, and it works with the way that Fig is coming at this season. From the jump, she is one of the most visibly and audibly burnt out, specifically from the pressure of the "sophomore album" that was supposed to come out months ago. This song is definitely about the pressures of a songwriter as well as the pressures of life in general so it fits sooooo perfectly. Especially with the "I can already here people hating the song" outro *chefs kiss*

2. Who The Hell Am I?, NOBRO

God, I'm tired of being like this I can change, but in a minute Always looking for the back door, on the run Always at the party, never quite having fun Play with fire, and you're gonna get burned I'm on fire, and you know it hurts I was always on the outside looking in Maybe it's me 'cause I never wanna fit in

Fig's class struggles, her conversation with Mazey, I can't take it. I feel like we've all been there. I really love how the narrative with her has progressed, like last season was deconstructing her need to mold herself into other people (or into an idealized version of herself) now she's trying to figure out who she is at her core without all the disguises.

3. 7 Years Bad Luck, Glasseater

Something strange seems to be plaguing me Everything I touch falls apart I've lost it all, losing all my luck Suffering 7 years bad luck

I don't particularly love this song, a little too unintentionally underproduced, but it deserves a spot on this playlist. I feel like I would be Fig in the curse situation. It took me a literal year to deal with debilitating stomach problems, and I, too, waited until my friends noticed to actually do something about it. Either way, can't wait to learn more about the weird Galier Pride curse, love the representation for my stomach problem girlies

4. Where the Heart Is, Sweet Pill

Get this My mind's been in a million places but my body hasn't moved an inch And I feel like I'm missing out again Ignoring my plans Wondering how they went Feeling bad about it If I could just take a chance I wouldn't feel so bad To see past myself I wouldn't feel so bad

This is Fig's final decision to try Paladin after doing so well with Warlock. She knows the priorities in her gut don't match with what anyone else says, but she's discovering her loyalty. She's figuring out her actual drive... following her heart <3

5. Impostor Syndrome, Sidney Gish

Unfortunately, I am My own dog, my own fur companion My own old lady on a forum Who types in glittery decorum Unfortunately, I take Myself out walking every day and I had my legs to the feet and I give my head to the leash

Making Fantasy High playlists is like making a ven diagram of which dog-themed songs are Tracker-coded and which are Fig-coded. This one, to me at least, is Fig-coded. (yes, I do have a tracker playlist, and yes, every song in it is dog/wolf specific, BUT THEY'RE GOOD OK). We love our Oath/Pact of the German Shepard.

6. You Owe Me Nothing In Return, Alanis Morissette

I'll give you countless amounts of outright Acceptance if you want it I will give you encouragement to chose The path you want if you need it You can speak of anger and doubts Your fears and freak outs And I'll hold it

So I know that we're gearing up for Fig's Warlock/Paladin agreement post "mooner yulenear," but this is my interpretation of what it's going to look like. She cares about her friends, and she would do anything for them! And though I know this song came out in 2002, Alanis Morissette is a 90's icon and perfect for the grungy riot grrrl vibe I see for her

#dimension 20 #fantasy high #fantasy high junior year #d20 #d20 fhsy #spotify #fantasy mixtapes #fig faeth #d20 fig #fhjy spoilers #d20 spoilers #emily axford #Spotify

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simpingforstardew · 10 days

Text

muse

pairing: sdv elliot x reader

synopsis: elliot is struggling with severe writers block; if only he had a muse...

note: a while ago i talked about having a derivative idea for an elliot x reader fic; here is that fic !! the premise is completely unoriginal, but i'll leave the references at the end of the fic to avoid spoilers hehe

warnings: i don't even know for this one gang, wholesome w/ an ending that could be read as spooky? let's call it a doomed romance !! tw/ relationships that are doomed by the narrative !!

word count: 1.5k

Adronitis

A heart so damaged; tender; sore—

You ever-blooming sycamore,

Through hunger pangs; my deliriousness,

I mourn my mortal catoptric tristesse.

With starving dreams, your warmth I crave—

I worship you, I must embrave,

Indulge me, lay your fear ahind.

Our sanctuary; your piece of mind.

My amorous famine demands more […more what?],

So I feast on your smile […] petrichor.

i am just writing this right niw so it

looks lije i am being pro ductive oh Yoba

andnow leahs comin g over this

is alll shit im jist going to star t overrr

“How’s the writing going, El’?” Leah peers down at Elliot with a smile, wiping the sweat from her brow. “We’ve been at it for a while without a break, you know?”

“Oh, Leah! It’s going splendidly, and yes, it seems we have…” Elliot coughs, avoiding eye contact while tearing the paper from his typewriter. “Why don’t we call it for today then?”

“Without showing me what you’ve done? C’mon,” she whines, “What do you have?”

Elliot and Leah had decided, sometime early last Spring, to meet in Cindersnap forest every Wednesday to work on their current projects. ‘Parallel play for artists,’ Penny once called it when walking Jas back to Marnie’s ranch. For Leah, this weekly rendezvous has (so far) allowed her to complete 2 clay sculptures, 3 wood sculptures, 23 drawings, and 8 paintings; for Elliot, the last few months has allowed him to create…

“Nothing,” Elliot sighs, packing his typewriter’s case with a frown. “I have, somehow, written nothing! I mean, I wanted to craft a Petrarchan sonnet, inspired by Poe’s romantic, yet macabre sensibilities. I ended up with trash I couldn’t even make hendecasyllabic. It’s embarrassingly Shakespearian and—”

“Whoa, whoa, buddy, that’s okay. That’s fine. I’m not sure what any of that means, but…” Leah scrunches her freckled nose, hoping to find the right words to calm Elliot down, “It seems like you’re expecting perfection from a first draft. Maybe we should call it for today, and you could revisit your poem tomorrow?”

“Yes, you are right,” the authors scowl softens; after a moment of meditation—feeling the summer breeze tangle in his hair—he looks towards Leah with a smile. “I will see you next week, Miss Faraday.”

Elliot didn’t return to his typewriter until later that week, deciding instead to bask in the sun’s warmth on the beach. The author sits on the pier with a contented sigh, the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the shore providing a soothing backdrop to his afternoon reverie.

Even still, despite the Elysium that he has found himself in, Elliot cannot shake his frustrations; his linguistic discouragement plagued his every thought.

“Ahoy there, my boy! Perfect weather for fishing don’t ya reckon?” Willy smiles, closing the front door to the Fish Shop behind him. Elliot

“Ah, hello Mr. Tucker,” Elliot waves as the fisherman sits beside him, attaching a small blue tackle onto an impressively shiny rod, “I suppose it is, although I fear I don’t have my fishing gear with me today.”

“What’d I tell you about calling me that? No need to be so formal, son,” Willy chuckles, casting a line into the vast depths of the saltwater, “Say, aren’t ya usually off in town around this time? Feel like I never see you this early on a Wednesday.”

Elliot still had to adjust to the predictive routine of a small town, and the horrifying consequences of straying from said routine: becoming the topic of mid-afternoon gossip.

“Yes, well, I um—,” Elliot sighs, looking into the deep blue below as if the ocean concealed the antidote to writers block, “I have been, writing with Leah every Wednesday and… actually can I ask for some advice?”

“O’ Course ya can, my boy.” Willy nods.

“I have been… struggling lately,” The taller man slumps as he runs a hand through his auburn hair, his voice heavy with uncertainty, “I feel as if I have lost my spark, my… capacité artistique. I cannot, for the life of me, write anything of quality! I just… I feel broken, Mr. William.”

Willy takes a moment to think, slowly breathing in the salty air, “Hmm, I see your problem, lad— but it’s important to know yer not broken. Aye, nothin’ about ya is broken.”

A fish tugs at Willy’s fishing line: desperately; hopelessly.

“It’s like if yer pal Willy couldn’t fish anymore… I’d sooner swallow a sea urchin than lose my ability to do what I love,” Willy pulls the rod towards him, putting up a fight with whatever poor creature is on the other end of the line, “but sometimes it’s tricky doing what ya love 24/7, son! You got to remind yerself to take breaks, and…”

The creature is hurled out of the ocean, flapping helplessly as the fisherman releases it from his tackle. Willy holds the freshly-caught octopus up to Elliot.

“Remind yerself why ya love it!” Willy chuckles, before mumbling to himself about throwing his newest catch in a tank lest he ‘gets inked’.

As Elliot sits in contemplative silence, the ocean offering solace: the rushing winds, the distant cry of seagulls, even the smell of salty air. Over the last year and a half, he has grown to love it all.

As he rises to his feet, Elliot considers his friends’ advice. He certainly didn’t want to remain in this slump forever; so he needs to find a reminder of why he loves writing; a source of reinvigorating inspiration.

He needs to find a muse.

A muse in a village with a population of 27.

‘Well,’ Elliot thinks, slamming his cabin’s door shut behind him as he slides onto his desk chair. He sets up his Olympia SM 9 for the second time today. ‘If I can’t find my muse in life, I will simply create my muse in art.’

For a moment, the black page loaded into the typewriter stares back at Elliot, mockingly. Then, as suddenly as the crash of thunder that bellows from above, the author began to write.

Elliot bursts into the Fish Shop, his manuscript clutched tightly in hand, a triumphant gleam in his eye. “Willy, my friend, you’re incredible!” he cheered, his excitement palpable. “I truly could not have done this without your support.”

Willy grins, offering a sincere thumbs-up. “Glad to hear it, lad! So what was your reminder, eh? What got you back on track?”

Elliot coughs, a flush creeping up his freckled cheeks. “Well, you see… I made it up.”

Willy arches an eyebrow, bemused,“Ya made up yer reminder for why you love writing? Now, son…”

“No, no,” Elliot hastens to explain, “My love for writing is genuine. But my muse, my darling muse, is not.”

“I’m not following, my boy.”

“I have spent all night crafting the narrative of a completely fabricated person, it’s all here,” Elliot elaborates, “They’re genuinely kind, talented and hard-working, despite never being appreciated. They have the most charming mole on their neck, and they’re delightfully witty! After their grandfather passed away, they—”

“Son,” Willy interrupted gently, his tone tinged with amusement, “Yer a peculiar one, ya know that? How is this going to help with yer writing?”

“It does sound ridiculous, but dedicating my sonnets to this idealised character… thinking of them as I work on my novel… It has been phenomenally motivating!” Elliot laughs, re-reading through the pages before stopping in his tracks, “Oh, I do apologise old friend, I barged into your shop like a man possessed.”

It had been months since Elliot had felt such a fervent desire to write; his unbridled excitement was contagious; a smirk spreads across Willy’s face, crinkling the corners of his dark green eyes.

“If it were anyone else instead of you, I’d be furious, lad,” Willy chuckles, reaching into his mini fridge, “‘Ere, I whipped up too many crab cakes last night, and I know they’re yer favourite— consider it a gift.”

As Elliot arrives back at his cabin, writing snacks in tow, the muffled playing of his piano greets him. He chuckles softly, before preparing to shoo Harvey out of his home so he could resume his day of writing.

“Sincerest apologies, I—,”

“Oh! Honey, you’re back so soon.” Turning away from the piano, your eyes catch Elliot’s with a familiar warmth. You admire the way your boyfriend’s hair always forms delicate waves when exposed to the sea spray.

The author was struck speechless, his heart pounding as he stared at you with more focus than you have ever been subject to.

It couldn’t be real. And yet there you are. You. The muse Elliot had crafted— who's entire life was written mere hours prior on the pages that were now strewn about the floor— was standing before him in flesh and blood.

Every flawless detail exactly as he had imagined.

“Elliot, darling, are you okay?” Your smile becomes wry; nervous as to why your lover was acting so peculiar, his pale skin was now a ghastly white. “Would you like me to pour some wine? We can—”

Before your suggestion was made, Elliot was gone; the door slamming shut behind him.

note #2: okay if you didn't catch it, my inspiration was the 1960 episode of the Twilight Zone: 'A World of His Own', and (more relevantly) the 2012 psychological horror romcom Ruby Sparks !! if you check out either that episode or movie, pleasepleaseplease lmk what you think <33

#bad fic is bad but this was more for the concept ok !!! we're getting conceptual up in here #sdv elliot #sdv x reader #sdv elliot x reader #sdv elliot x farmer #sdv elliot x you #sdv elliot x y/n #stardew valley #sdv #sdv fanfic #stardew valley x reader #stardew valley fanfic #stardew valley elliot #stardew valley elliot x reader #x reader #ao3 writer

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arcielee · 10 months

Text

Farewell Wanderlust

Warnings: As always, MDNI, 18+ SA mentioned in passing/implied, abuse implied, death mentioned in passing, sexual inexperience, prostitution, oral (f receiving), p in v. Pairing: Osferth x OFC Word Count: 5075 Summary: Torn from her home country, Keavy finds herself trying to survive across the Irish sea. She happens across Uhtred and his motley crew, and finds herself befriending a monk who is determined to become a warrior. Author’s Note: Still very much a hybrid of the show and the books, with me adding flare as needed to fit the narrative. We have 2 more chapters to go! Anyway, enjoy. 💜 Thank you @annikin-im-panicin for being my beta reader and my muse! 💜 Please let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist! Dividers are by @saradika Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @sylas-the-grim @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @tssf-imagines @triscy @assortedseaglass @whoknows333 @shesjustanothergeek @heavenly1927 @greenowlfactif @larlarle @babyblue711 @fangirlninja67 @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauftivy @vintageypanwitch @heimtathurs (Bold means it would not allow me to tag you!)

Chapter 5

Keavy did her best to keep busy, as her mind now seemed plagued to relive that failed intimate moment with Osferth before he had left for Beamfleot.

She thought of the warmth that bloomed from him that evening in the barracks, and how it prickled beneath her palms while her hands skimmed across his scalp. Her eyes appreciated the sharp angles of his face, admiring his defined jawline, his pointed profile of his nose to the natural curl of his pink lips. She noticed how his eyes were clenched, his knuckles white with the hold on his lap, and she allowed her fingers to skirt his jaw, cupping his face; only then did he open his eyes to look at her.

Keavy remembered the plume of crimson that washed over his cheeks as he lifted his hand to cover her own, and he turned his face to press the mouth she was just admiring against her palm, his lips soft. It was cold with his release and her arms fell boneless to her sides, watching as he stood up and pressing closer towards her.

She struggled to breath as his large palms moved to rest on her hips, and she was certain she was vibrating with the way her heart fluttered within, but Osferth did not seem to notice. Instead, he just asked her, “May I kiss you?”

It had to be her curse, her misfortune, that the damn Irishman chose that moment to barge through the door without thought, wearing a knowing smirk that played underneath his beard when he saw how they recoiled from one another. After Finan left them, she watched Osferth grab for his scabbard and she felt desperate for his touch, to kiss him, the tingle of his lips on her palm thrumming with the thought to capture his mouth with her own.

Somewhat emboldened, she had reached for him but only managed to catch his sleeve. She balked under his brilliant blue eyes and could only manage to say, “Return to me, Osferth.”

And she could feel the blood rush to her face from the small smile he hinted, from how careful he was to take her hand and the touch of his soft lips to her knuckles, with a gentleness that caused her heart to bruise against her chest bone.

I will, Keavy. I promise.

It was the echo of his words that fed a passion that fermented within her; she wished she would have kissed him and that intrusive thought repeated itself, filling the quiet. So Keavy was determined to stay busy, attentive to Gisela, to the children, to any task needed to be done as she waited for Osferth and the others to return.

“Regret is a useless, poisonous emotion,” Gisela had warned her but with her honeyed tone.

Keavy found there was only so much that could be done in a day before the quiet would come, accompanying the orange and purple hues of dusk, bringing along an unease that settled over like a heavy fog.

That evening, after the children were already abed, Keavy seated with Hild and Gisela at the table for a shared supper with a second round of the bitter ale; it was to help the time pass, but mostly she swirled the last bit at the bottom without taking a sip.

Gisela was mending a tunic, her focus on her stitching. “They will come back.” She did not look up from her hands but her voice was soothing, like she was stating a fact. “Uhtred always comes back,” and only then did she peer up at Keavy, wearing her sly smile. “Besides, did not Osferth promise he would return?”

Keavy burned with the direct question, her focus on the wood grain table as she ignored the soft laughter that fluttered between them. It was then that the door of the great hall creaked open, and the head of Edwin bobbed in excitedly. “Lady, they returned!”

The return of the Lord of Coccham reawakened the village with a roar of celebration. Bundles of sticks were brought and bonfires lit, creating pillars of warmth that spread throughout the growing night’s cool air. The doors to the hall were propped open, with the music of a lute, a vielle, and shawm reverberating throughout. The table was filled with cold cuts, cheeses, fruits, and mugs were passed around, the same bitter ale served for all in attendance; it was easy to be swept away, but Keavy pushed through with a determination to her steps.

She spotted Uhtred seated with Gisela pulled onto his lap; she glowed with laughter, with her felicity that her husband was back, and he seemed happy, mostly, but sorrow was pendent amongst the warriors returned. Keavy noted missing faces, Rypere and Clapa, unmistakingly gone, and soon there were toasts to confirm, cheers for those who were lost and now in Valhalla.

Keavy fell back against a wall, allowing her eyes to sweep over the faces in search of one in particular. It was Finan who brought her attention, with his loud bellow to cheer the champion of Beamfleot, and that is when she saw him.

Osferth cut through the crowd, a beacon with his broad smile that lined his cheeks with his dimples, the bloom of red blotches that peeked through his pale complexion. His eyes met with hers and she saw the crinkle that framed the corners before he broke away, weaving through the crowd and reaching for her hand.

Keavy took it, as she understood she always would for as long as it was offered. She followed as he pushed through, pulling her out front and away from the noise; the festivities seemed muted within the hall, though the music still spilled through the open doors and dissipated into the night.

They walked towards one of the bonfires and he stopped to face her, a golden hue of color from the flames that washed over him, giving him an almost kingly glow.

And Keavy felt the same desire bloom in her lower abdomen, the flutter of her heart with the realization that he was now close enough to touch, to reach for him, to press onto her tiptoes and press her lips against his own.

“You came back,” she said instead, burning from her intrusive thoughts. She could not stop her smile, so bold that she felt the ache of her scar with the gesture.

“I told you I would,” his tone was solemn, but she saw how his lips curled upwards with his words. Osferth exhaled and then reached to pull something from his waist, a large blade with a handle of leather bindings about the width of a wrist.

Her stomach lurched with recognition and her eyes met with his, wide and searching. “He is dead?” her voice was almost too quiet to be heard.

But he always seemed to be listening. “I killed Sigefriend, “ he confirmed as he placed it in her outstretched hands. “This is for you.”

The steel was cool against her palm and the blood sticky around the base, but she recognized it all the same, even without the detailed scabbard Sigefrid had worn over it. Its weight was an anchor, rooting her to the spot as she processed his words.

That Osferth had killed Sigefrid, how he brought her the blade of the man who once tormented her, and with it so much more.

It was another moment that passed before the men called out for Osferth, their blotto cryouts echoing into the night and beckoning him to come back. Keavy watched Osferth and how he brightened with the newfound comradery that battle always seemed to bring.

He looked back at her, almost pained to stay. She knew this was the acceptance he craved, his place knitted amongst Uhtred and his men; as much as she wished to reach for him, to press against his chest and capture his mouth, she instead softened her smile. “Go,” she encouraged. “Enjoy your night, champion of Beamfleot.”

There was a flush of color to his features, or perhaps it was the warm tones of the fire they stood by. Osferth bowed his head and left her poised, her hands sticky with the blood stained leather she gripped before she finally returned to her room.

Only when she was behind the closed door did she allow her tears to freely flow, an overwhelming relief to know Osferth was safe, that Sigefrid was dead, but an ache that still seemed to haunt her.

She looked down at the dagger that was no longer attached to that Dane, as he was no longer alive in this world. Keavy had sought Osferth for a kiss and instead, whether intentional or not, he had given her control of her life, of her destiny once again.

With this gift, Osferth showed that blood of a warrior that was interwoven with the royal ichor in his veins and Keavy thought to the last night with her maim, her last words spoken–you are far too pretty to survive across the sea, and it seemed that curse followed across the Irish sea with her.

She knew, in time, that Osferth would find a beautiful woman better suited for the status he was creating. Nonetheless, she swore her devotion to him, in whatever capacity that he would have her; Keavy knew she would be content to be a part of it, all the same.

+ + + +

Love is a powerful thing, the priest Pyrlig once said.

For Keavy, the emotion was cradled next to the vengeance rekindled by the gift of the blade Osferth brought her. She awoke early the next day and found Hild, determined to prepare as a warrior; the nun said nothing, but accompanied her to the blacksmith where she requested the steel to be forged into a seax.

They returned to find the chainmail that Hild gifted her and she smiled when she saw Keavy with it on. “You are a bit taller than me. It suits you better,” and Gisela agreed.

Stiorra watched them, her eyes wide with the sight before she announced that when she was grown, that she would also become a warrior. Gisela picked her up with a kiss to her cheek. “You have time to train until then, little one.”

And so with her secondhand armor, her seax and dagger, Keavy would accompany Uhtred and his men when they traveled the shores of the Temes, clearing out Danes and slavers. She was quick with her smaller blades and always welcomed any tidbits offered from Finan or Sihtric; she also enjoyed the intimacies she would share with Osferth, from how he rode alongside with her, to how they would stay up late around the fire.

When they were called to action, to fight, she found a sense of satisfaction with the bloodshed, with how it would soak into the earth while one miserable soul was chosen to return with a heeded warning.

Uhtred towered over, the tip of Serpent-Breath pressing into the throat of the chosen survivor. “You will go back to your rats’ nest and tell anyone who cares to listen,'' his tone would warn, “beyond Lunden the River Temes belongs to King Alfred and it is guarded by Uhtred of Bebbanburg.”

For the longer campaigns, Keavy would remain in Coccham. Time seemed stagnant, the only hint of its passing was the change in the weather, from the summer rains to the large autumn leaves that blanketed the ground, and always a crisp chill that perpetually hung in the night’s air.

Life would always bloom with their return, whether for a day, a month, or longer, and Keavy cherished the time she was allowed with Osferth. He would return unannounced, a welcomed shadow as he watched over her care of the children.

He would step in to help with their studies, as Oswald developed a passion for the written word and Osferth hummed his pride. “A scholar at heart,” he said, tapping him on his nose and the boy blushed, giggling.

“What will Uhtred say,” Keavy was smiling as she braided back Stiorra’s hair–the girl no longer had the taste of patience for flowers to be woven, adamant that a warrior would not have the time. “What will he think when he finds out that his only son wishes to learn and his only daughter has a growing bloodlust?”

“I will remind him that knowledge is a weapon as well,” and there was a dust of pink across his cheeks with his returned smile, “and that I will do my diligence so his children are formidably armed.”

Keavy admired how the years matured Osferth, how his face had leaned and his sharp features hardened, but that same kindness complemented the cerulean blue of his eyes still. He was lean, but his shoulders broadened and were toned from his years of wielding a sword; he’d grown apt behind the blade in a way that Uhtred boasted.

Always unchanging was the comfort she felt within his proximity, and how she remained ever-present whenever he was in Coccham. She was elated with their return in time for the blōt month celebration; cattle were slaughtered and there was ale by the tun so no tankard was ever empty, while the instruments were freshly strung and ballads twanged into the night, accompanied with heorisms regaled both bold and loud.

Keavy found her way to his side, as she always had, and he seemed anxious to pull her away, off into the night, by a fire as if they were back on the shores of the Temes. The glow of the flames caused shadows to dance across his features, his same severity with his furrowed brow.

Her own quirked with his demeanor. “What’s the matter, Osferth?”

“What am I to you?” His voice was soft with his question.

It was unexpected and she felt her cheeks burned, watching him carefully before she realized the quiet beneath the stars and the roared celebration that spilled from the great hall. “What am I to you, Keavy?” he repeated, his arms folding behind and resting on his lower back.

It was a moment before she could find the words. “You are everything to me, Osferth,” she began, truthfully, as her tongue unstuck from the roof of her mouth. She willed herself to close the space between them, but found she was rooted to the earth. “You awoke a warrior within me that I was not sure even existed, and allowed me to take control of my life, my destiny,” her eyes finally looked to him and his lips drew into a thin line, “I owe you everything and even then it cannot compare to what you have given me.”

Osferth looked away, unaware of how her hand fell to the hilt of her seax when she finished. He was quiet and she then stepped forward, pressing to the balls of her feet and pressing her lips to his cheek. He turned to look as she pulled back, the ghost of a kiss across his lips.

Keavy paused a moment, her hand still resting on his chest and her tongue wet her lips to taste him, before she pulled away. She meant to return to the barracks, but instead her feet pulled her outside the gates and towards the docks.

Only then could she finally breathe, and her exaggerated exhale caught the attention of a familiar shadowed embrace: Uhtred standing behind Gisela, his arms wrapped around her growing belly. Even though it was early in the pregnancy, Gisela told her she was confident it was another boy.

She faltered, deciding to leave and allow them their privacy when she heard Uhtred call to her. “Keavy!” And she shyly made her way forward, grateful how the night hid the warmth she felt in her cheeks.

“You are hiding from someone,” Gisela smiled with her words.

“I am,” she admitted.

Gisela looked to her husband and they both turned to face her, allowing the light of the stars and the moon to highlight them. “And who might be bothering you?”

“No one, lady,” Keavy was quick to correct, then paused before she added, “I feel I am the one who is bothering him.”

Her smirk remained. “Well, then, who is it you are bothering?”

“Osferth, lady.”

And there was a look that was shared between husband and wife, something Keavy was both aware and unaware with their silent exchange. Gisela pressed a kiss to the underside of Uhtred’s jaw and she smiled as she whispered in his ear.

“Keavy,” Uhtred exhaled. “You could not bother him, as the man is hopelessly smitten with you.”

The warmth in her cheeks now burned. “Lord?”

“Osferth,” he clarified and Keavy looked to see how Gisela smiled at her, the mixture of her excitement and her smugness. “He is besotted with you, Keavy, and has been for years. You should go to him, as I fear he will never make the first move.”

His words echoed in her head and she looked again to Gisela. “I told you, fate has brought you here for a reason,” she reminded Keavy. “But you must allow yourself a chance.”

And with those words, she rushed back.

+ + + +

For Osferth, it began with the constant jesting from Finan and Sihtric, how they teased him about what they said was only an infatuation, but he knew otherwise. He agreed with the priest, that love was a powerful thing but it was also maddening.

In truth, he was unsure how to approach the subject, to recreate that moment spoiled, and instead swore a silent devotion with its partnered torment. Osferth could not help but adore Keavy, with the wit she carried and her smile that remained with him when he was away from Coccham. Though he did not care for the risk, he respected her natural tenacity with her smaller blades, and a warmth curled in his chest when she showed him the seax crafted.

“I carry it with me, always,” she had told him.

When she joined them, he made sure to keep at her side. When he paced his horse with her own, he would remember how well she had fit in front of him, his cheeks burning with their conversations; Keavy would give updates of Oswald, how the boy asked for him, how Stiorra been given a wooden sword and sulked because she wished for steel.

At night when they camped and the men curled around the fire for whatever warmth they could get, it was Keavy and Osferth who were the last to fall asleep with their soft murmuring that fluttered between them. With the autumn months, there was a beginning frost that covered the ground and with it a threat of snowfall that hovered heavy, chilling in the air. But for Osferth, it was excuse enough.

“If it is too cold…” and he balked for his words, watching the smile that curled on her face.

“May I move closer to you, Osferth?” she finished for him and he nodded mutely as she moved her mat and furs, cuddling close to him in a way that almost felt sinful. She nestled against his chest, an enveloped warmth, and his heart beat until his bones rattled, but soon her soft breathing lulled him to sleep.

When morning came, he woke with a shadow that spread over and saw how Sihtric watched, his bicolor gaze steady and his brow lifted. Osferth appreciated the Dane’s discretion, a silence as they broke down the camp and returned to Coccham; not a word was spoken until they were back on the road again.

“Osferth,” Finan sounded pained. “Fuck her already, I’m begging ya,” and Osferth reddened from the bold words, “or fuck someone. To get over one woman, you can get underneath another, but this pining is insufferable.”

“Traitor,” Osferth breathed and Sihtric only grinned.

They eventually stopped in a city on the skirts of the kingdoms, a place where Finan and Sihtric pooled their silver and bought a woman for Osferth. She was lovely, with vivid blue eyes that peered from under dark lashes, bold against the auburn shade of her hair that was glossy and held a floral scent. Her smile was framed with full lips, her hand slipping into his own and beckoning him to follow her to her bed.

In the privacy of her quarters, she was incredulous with his request. “You only wish… to learn?”

“Yes, lady,” and he pursed his lips, his drawn expression decorated with the bloom of red blotches.

“And that is all, truly?”

Osferth only nodded.

“Oh, my,” and her realization glowed, warming her painted features. “You are in love?”

He could not answer her but his silence was confirmation enough; with the silver already paid, she disrobed and pulled him towards the mattress with her pitied gaze. She was kind, patient with him, with her soft guidance of his hands to explore the anatomy of a woman with his fingertips. He had enough intuition to follow in tandem to her soft pants and gasps, a glow of pride watching the bloom of her climax flutter over and the clench around his digits that confirmed her release.

She was flushed and laid against the pillows, her heart thrumming underneath the sweat sheen glow of her bare skin. “May I see what you have to offer?” her curiosity had the best of her when she finally regained her breath.

Osferth obediently disrobed and she felt her thighs clench at the sight of him. “My lord,” she breathed, a lusty haze over her half-lidded eyes. “Are you certain that you do not want to lay with me?”

He did not, but thanked her for the services rendered. The following day, as they made their way back to Coccham, did Osferth relive those intimate moments, his mind flitting over the instructions of the whore while also shamefully wondering what sweet sounds Keavy capable of, and how he wished to find out.

“It is hopeless, lord,” the bawdy tone of the Irishman brought him back to the present moment, atop his horse with the crisp air licking his face. Osferth peered towards the men and their smiles exchanged. Uhtred did not look back, but he saw how the corners of his eyes crinkled as well. “We thought the whore would clean his mind of her, but here he is…”

“Helplessly besotted?” Uhtred offered and only then did his head turn, a kind glimmer in the blue of his eyes. “Osferth, what do you intend to do about this? Allow this pining to accompany you across Northumbria?”

He still was not sure.

“A woman has telltale signs–”

“He is oblivious of them, lord!” Finan cut in.

Uhtred continued over the low chortle from the rest of the men. “There will be a moment presented and you will only need to respond to it.”

Coccham was already thrumming with celebration for the blood month when they returned. Osferth cleaned and changed, weaving throughout the crowds and its combination of music playing and laughter, the rich spices of cooked meat and spilled ale heavy in the air.

Osferth was determined to find her and Keavy followed him, without question, without hesitation, and they came to the outskirts of the festivities, distant enough to allow some privacy. The golden amber of the fire made her glow, a warmth to her features, accentuating the gold ring that complemented her green eyes and her smile exaggerating the dimple from the scarring on her cheekbone.

She has suffered so much, it reminded him. Uncertainty settled over him and came out in the question. “What am I to you?”

And her answer was lyrical, painting him in a light he did not feel was earned. He felt morose, as though there was a debt owed, so lost in that thought that he only caught the end of the kiss; he tried to catch her arm, to bring her close.

Instead, he allowed her to walk away.

Osferth remained rooted to the spot, his eyes looking over the flames that licked the logs and he heard the bawdy tone, once again, of the Irishman. “Don’t let my pet name rot your brain, baby monk,” and he looked to see his mug raised towards him. “You are still a man.”

His words sparked and Osferth left with a renewed vitality to his steps as he made his way towards the barracks, his knuckles rapping with urgency against her door. Moments ticked away before he realized its vacancy, and felt the returned uncertainty that smothered his fire to find her. Instead, he slipped into his room, lighting a candle and sinking into the mattress, his head heavy in his hands.

There was a soft tap on his closed door and he did not look up, just a muffled call out. “Come in,” knowing already it would be Sihtric, or Finan perhaps, coming to tease him still.

But it was a quiet entrance, accompanied with the familiar scent of rosemary and thyme, with the hint of rose petals. He looked up to see Keavy close the door behind her, leaning against flushed with the pink hues that spilled from her cheeks to her chest, that rose and fell with her silent breaths.

Osferth was quick to push himself to stand, a step towards her. “Keavy, earlier, what I meant to ask you–”

His question was stilled on his tongue as she moved to press her lips against his, the welcomed warmth as she melded against his chest. It was chaste and when she shifted, his arms moved to wrap around the small of her waist, pulling her flush against him. With his soft moan, her tongue was hesitant to taste but he reciprocated, meeting with the languid pace she set.

Her touch was shy and his fingers flitted over, taking their turns to remove layers until they were both bare. He noted her trepidation, the solemn expression that robbed him of her sweet smile that he always carried with him. Osferth cupped her face and she leaned into his touch, his thumb careful to trail the scar along her jawbone.

“I would never hurt you,” he whispered with a kiss, a promise. “I will only go as far as you allow.”

His heart pulled with the curl of her lips, the glimmer of gold halo from the candle lit reflecting in her eyes. “I know,” and Keavy kissed him again.

Osferth combed his fingers through her soft curls, the smell of roses now lingering with his touch, and he pulled her closer, walking her towards the bed. She moved to lay back against the mattress and his pupils swallowed the blue of his eyes at the sight of her, with how the rose coloring flushed her in the most enticing way.

Keavy pushed back up to her elbows and his gaze watched the natural slope of her breasts, the soft folds of her curves. “Osferth,” her words were both bashful and bold. “Come here.”

And he obliged, kneeling between her like before an altar, his lips touching the inside of her knee with a trail of open-mouthed kisses towards her center, hot against the silk of her thighs and each carefully placed to savor, to bask in a scent that was so intimately her own.

The sweet sounds that spilled from her kiss-swollen lips caused his cock to twitch. “Osferth,” she breathed, her back arching with his touch, taking handfuls of his dirty blonde locks, pulling him closer.

His palms molded into the inside of her thighs, a gentle squeeze so she was aware as he moved towards her center, his fingers flitting through her dark curls over her silken folds. His tongue was tentative, gentle to begin, and listening for the unmistakable gasp that left her lips, fueled from the passion that was curling at the base of her spine and pinning her to the bed. Oferth hummed against her cunt and her thighs tightened around his face, but he pressed forward with the curl of one finger, and then another, pushing within her velvet walls until she melted with his touch.

“Osferth,” tears brimmed her eyes, her words, and her hands grasped at the bedsheets. “Please, don’t stop.”

He hummed again and its vibration, in tandem with the ministrations of his fingers, his mouth, tipped her over the edge. Her ecstasy spilled, flushing throughout her body, a ripple of gooseflesh and her nipples peaked with her pleasure as he continued throughout its entirety, and before he pulled his fingers from her, he placed a gentle kiss to the bloom above her entrance.

As he cleaned his fingers, she reached to pull him towards her, capturing his mouth with a hungry rapture, enjoying her taste on his lips. His kisses and caresses renewed, with an unadulterated adoration for every inch of her skin bared.

“Osferth,” she begged between pants, “I need you.”

Osferth burned with her words and was careful to shift his weight, a genial glide as he sheathed inside her cunt. He paused, burying his face into her neck so she was unable to see his pained expression from how she clenched, steadying his breath as she feathered kisses along his jaw, to the soft divot underneath.

This is how it is meant to be, was the sweet thought that waltzed across her mind as he turned to capture her mouth. Keavy hummed against his lips, “Osferth, please,” she repeated and only then did he begin to rock against her hips.

The slow motion of his hips rekindled a prurient pleasure that coiled within her, her nails biting against his pale skin and leaving crescent marks on his shoulders. Osferth panted between his fevered kisses against the curve of her neck and she mewled pitifully with the crash of her second release, with a clenching desperation for his own peak and he groaned, with a low rumble from the back of his throat as he followed after.

She settled against his chest, curled in the bedsheets and their bare limbs entangled, with nothing but the soft exchange of their breaths. In the quiet, there was a burning curiosity and she dared to ask him. “How long have you felt this, Osferth?”

And she felt his rumbled hum vibrate throughout his chest before he answered. “Always,” and then he placed a gentle kiss on her hairline.

previous | Chapter 6 | masterlist

#the last kingdom #the last kingdom fanfic #the last kingdom fanfiction #osferth #osferth fanfic #osferth fanfiction #osferth x ofc #osferth x keavy #we need more osferth fanfic #slow burn #farewell wanderlust

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red-hibiscus · 2 months

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An imperfect, but still interesting ending to a rather good show

I don't consider the ending to be perfect by any means, but I think I'm far more ok with the ending than some people are. My mind is seeing this with the thought of it being some chaotic tragedy thriller.

I think it's primarily bc most (but not all!) of the things that people are frustrated with don't bother me as much. I'm ok with New and White dying. Am I upset? Oh yeah. Especially with White. That was hard to watch because I could see where it was going and I did not like it. He did not deserve to die.

At the same time, him surviving is the most obvious choice? It's satisfying. The good people live. That's how it should be. But you know who was good and died? Non. So in a way this just parallels the tragedy of Non dying. In a typical story White would live, but I guess they didn't want this to be a typical story and I respect that.

New dying and having Phee, Jin, and Tee "survive" means his revenge failed. Frustrating for the revenge enthusiasts. On that side I was never for or against it. I'm just here for the thrill of the ride, and a thrill it was. So him dying is kind of a "well that's an interesting choice" for me @ the writers. He did take people down with him in the process, so thats a positive. Tragic brothers I guess. Though New is far less innocent.

However, was it all really a failure? The ending directly states there's a strong possibility that they never actually survived for real. They don't remember escaping. So just like Non's script, nobody escapes. So at this point, it doesn't matter who "lives". They're all victims of the narrative here.

Also with the open ending.... Yeah I'm actually 100% fine with having an open ending. It's not the way I saw an open ending be portrayed (and honestly I got scared when I saw the time skip), but ok, I guess I can work with it. It leaves a lot of questions, which... isn't necessarily a bad thing, for me. Some may want closure, but I'm ok with not really knowing what happened to them.

Now for the people who survived... Tee I'm ironically the most ok with cause I predicted he'd live. For the sake of him being haunted by his regret. I originally thought it'd be more Non dying regret since all the emotions would resurface. But him stabbing his own bf to death... yeah that works ig. That's close. Probably still plagued with Non regret too, but I get White would be at the forefront of his mind.

Phee and Jin... So if this was a typical bl they'd be alive purely for shipping sake so they'd have an endgame ship. But DFF is not a typical bl, it's barely a true bl at all. They're questionably survivors. So is it about them being endgame??? I'm not sure. Is it about them bonding over realizing how they both hurt non and so they get to be aware of non haunting them. Maybe idk. Not sure what to think about them living honestly. I kinda put them as a 50/50 on surviving.

I get the frustration though. Half of me is sad my favs died. The other half is happy at seeing chaos. The two sides are fighting and I have decided to choose that enjoyed it more.

#as a chaos and death enthusiast I'm chilling rn honestly #bl series #lgbt #gay #thai bl #dead friend forever #asian lgbtq dramas #dff #dff the series #dead friend forever the series

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lolabangtan · 1 year

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A N G E L | scripture

An angel dreams of you. The fall was foreseen, it was written on your fingertips. With a call, flesh and skin wrap around his spirit, ready to be born again.

Pairing: Namjoon x reader

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings: smut, profanity, body horror, blood.

# diplomat!Namjoon, stalking, feverish dreams, sub!Joonie, handjob, marking kink, madam kink, rough cockhandling, oral (female receiving), hair pulling, corruption kink, restraints (chains), choking, unprotected vaginal sex.

A/N: so, I’m trying new stuff here, different story writing and styles, hope it’s not disappointing in the sense that it’s not a regular fic, the chapters are fairly short, and the narrative it’s a bit confusing, meaning that it’s not setup-confrontation-resolution, but what can I say, I’m feeling adventurous these days :)

It pumps blood up his freshly made veins; the whispers, the caresses, the lips, the nails, he feels breathless, and he feels his lungs engorged and heavy with air at the same time.

A sneaky pair of hands circles Namjoon’s waist, a hot pair of lips kissing down his spine. There is a breathtaking, painful sort of adoration in each of them that sends shivers down to the pit of his stomach. His skin gets goosebumps at the contact.

“My angel,” the voice whispers again, this time to his ear.

He lets out a quiet gasp when he feels teeth biting into his hipbones. “P-please, I’m— I’m going crazy…”

The other bodies writhing around don’t matter, not at all. All that is important to him right now is how these hands touch down his thighs, kneading and stroking his flesh.

Humans letting out their foggy breaths, smoke snaking towards the ceiling in twisted shapes. There are red lights burning, reflecting off their unfamiliar faces like hungry creatures caught in the dark. They stare at him with devouring eyes.

“You ripped them off for me, didn’t you?”

When Namjoon feels your hands on his bare back, his chin tilts to the side. He wants to see you, see your face – the face of the creature who called him down to this fatal fall.

“I did,” he gasps.

You chuckle next to his ear, and your hand finally moves to his chest, indulging in the soft skin. “You fell for me, didn’t you?”

“I— I did.”

“And you had to drag them all down with you.”

The crimson lights focus on their faces – the faces of his brothers, of those innocent souls he ruined, burned, soiled with sin. All because of you, all because of these thoughts of you that plagued his mind and soul until he could no longer resist them. Their crowning halos are tinged with red; they melt and drip down their foreheads like streaks of blood. Soulless eyes shedding ruby tears.

“But it’s not my fault,” you let out in a moan, pressing against his back. Namjoon falls to his knees, and you follow, stroking his shoulders. “You know it’s not. He always gave you free will, didn’t he? You chose to let me ruin you.”

Finally, your lips connect with his neck, biting hard. The sting brings him a jolt of pleasure and a feeling of deserved punishment.

“A sinner, that’s what you are. Selfish, wicked, filthy – and all mine.” Your grunts fade once you suck the skin of his neck into your mouth again, leaving reddish marks blossoming into half-crescent moons. “Will you let me take you away from them? I’ll heal your bleeding heart.”

“I— fuck! I-I,” he tries to babble, but your hands around his leaking cock feel too good, take up all of his mind. “Please, p-please, ma’am, take me, you c-can—”

Another groan slips pasts Namjoon’s lips when your hand squeezes the head of his cock, feeling it hard and hot. His body is so reactive, so nubile and new to all sorts of human touches, and unhuman too. The perfect doll to toy with.

Your hands are tingling with excitement.

Squeezing harder, it must hurt, but you want him to curse. You want him to cuss at the heavens, at all the filthy Holy beings pestering the clouds. Pumping it faster, precum leaks from his slit, it helps you rub the sensitive skin as it drips down to his balls. Such a slut, a whore for your hands, would do anything for you to make him cum all over himself.

And then he feels your hands back on his shoulders, and you circle him like a tempting snake.

Finally, after what feels like a millennium, Namjoon looks at your eyes – red and sultry irises, slit pupils staring up at him. Your lips transform into a deprived grin.

You are the embodiment of his sin.

That is until you go down on your knees, sitting on the floor and lying back, eyes never leaving him. You part your legs to bare yourself to him, and it’s almost as if you were pulling on a leash; Namjoon bends down, finds room between your legs, his breath bated and erratic.

As always, your lips find their way to his in a hard kiss. “I want your mouth first. Show me what you can do with a real cunt.”

To him, your wishes are his orders, and so he finds room between your thighs. Ecstasy tingles from his toes all the way to his scalp, leaves his body trembling as his hands hold your soft flesh, his mouth watering at the view; nothing, either heavenly or otherwise ripped from the guts of hell, could have ever prepared him for the taste of your wetness against his tongue as he parts your folds with his lips.

Namjoon groans when he delves into your core, nostrils filled with the sweet scent of your arousal. It creeps up into his mind like poison ivy, tempting him, making him dizzy with sinful lust.

“That’s it, angel,” you sigh.

In appreciation for the praise, he cups your buttocks to lift your hips, and the new angle allows him to shove his face deeper, harder, fucking you with his tongue.

“Look at you…” You arch your back and let out a moan, a pleased smile on your face. Your breasts bounce back at the movement under his careful watch. “So hungry for cunt, my beautiful angel. Want it dripping for your cock, do you not? To fuck into it and fill it up with your cum until it leaks out, see my womb swollen.”

The image crosses his mind for an instant; you, lying on the ground while he’s between your legs, cock buried deep in between your walls. Reacting to his touch, fluttering around him, clenching, waiting for his seed.

Namjoon’s mouth starts lapping and sucking faster on your clit. It’s pebbled in his mind, making you climax.

He’s lost already – in your touch, in your warmth, in your very core. With your whole being wrapped around him like a spider surrounds its prey, it’s time you feast. You’re getting closer to your release, and you want him to savour it as much as you. He’ll be yours, then, totally yours; yours to play and toy with. A reminder of your power over every living creature.

Even those who were sworn to pureness.

When Namjoon flicks at your clit one more time, suddenly you’re climaxing against his tongue. A languid, content mewl escapes your lips, and you smile as he eats you out through it.

“Do you want me?” you ask in a low voice, staring down at him as you bend down for a sweet kiss. “I asked, do you want me, Namjoon?”

He manages to nod. “Oh, God—”

You smile, a salacious smirk it is, and finally slide his cock inside you. Your walls flutter and clench around him, adjusting to his graceful size, the sting oh-so-worth it. Then you roll your hips down as you work thigh muscles, and his mouth takes the shape of an O.

“I’m going to rip any purity left in you and turn it into filth,” you grunt.

Your hands snake up his chest, up his arms, and tighten around his wrists, where a pair of chains bind him to the ground. Fallen and unable to rise. Namjoon writhes in an attempt to free himself from the restraints, but he’s at your mercy now, with no way out. Should’ve thought about it before he claimed your sin.

This is why, according to the National Institute of Ethics of Terrena, heresy among youngsters is becoming an increasing problem in schools. Both parents and ministers blame celebrities, influencers, and other moguls for—

The large living room sinks into silence as he turns the TV off. A small humming lingers afterwards, rather in his brain than the air, but it’s still buzzing and pestering.

“Your meeting with the minister has been rescheduled to tomorrow morning, sir, just as you requested.” He nods at his secretary as he slides his arms through the sleeves of his suit jacket. “Should I call for the car? It’s not six yet, but Mr Lee is already down.”

Namjoon stares at his reflection in the mirror instead.

He dreamed of you again. It hadn’t happened since the days after he fell, the day he lost his brothers and turned into a soulless human. That day he had to learn how to breathe, how to bleed, and how to live with the guilt. Evil had felt weaker in his veins than he thought – there was no power, no greatness in falling for a sin.

“Wait a moment.”

As his assistant nods, a bit puzzled, Namjoon excuses himself and walks out into his home office; pristine and minimalistic, this is also the place where he keeps his only precious belonging.

The ring is wide, a bit wider than his head. Made of a blood-coloured crystal entangled with what feels like long-rotten, fossilised dark flesh, it shines under the sickly white light hanging from the ceiling. Like every time he holds it, your image flashes through his mind. If only he could remember his brothers as clearly, he would have found them already. But your countenance has been his only companion for this past century, and the nightmares you bring along.

He’s always wondered what this ring could be. It’s broken in the middle, resembling a jointed pair of horns rather than a rim. The pointed ends have made him bleed often.

When he holds it, it always happens – he remembers your touch.

How naïve he was, how foolish and innocent, to think that there was any tender intention behind it. Namjoon did not know a word about love, and yet he believed each and every one of your lies.

What he does remember is that you were an arcane creature. Night personified, the original darkness. The nothingness before anything ever existed. After such a long time on this damned, mortal land, Namjoon still shivers at your memory.

And that’s what he despises the most.

The demon pestered you in your dreams again.

You are naked when you wake up, covered in sweat and with your heart beating through your chest. A tingling feeling between your legs catches your attention, and you realise you’re aroused again.

Slumping back on your bed, you decide to focus on the birds as they chirp through the open window.

It’s always like this when you dream of any of them. They all have handsome faces and pitiful grimaces, like you were the one to make them miserable. But they all writhe and pant and howl their demonic chants of pleasure when you dream them beneath you, between your legs, inside of you. The nuns say it’s just because of the deal, but you find it a bit annoying.

Blood dripping down their foreheads in the shape of crimson halos, ruby tears breaking and forming horrifying horns. You can help but find it morbidly arousing.

A soft knock on your door comes through. “Good morning.”

“Come in.”

Sister Jubilee walks in with a thin robe in her arms as another nun follows her holding a tray. It’s your breakfast, but you don’t feel hungry at all. The women look at each other with a gesture of pity and turn back to you.

“I’ll eat later, I’m not hungry,” you insist with a weak voice.

“Did you dream again, my lady?” Sister Jubilee asks, gently. You nod. “Oh, that means they are looking for you,” she says with a soft smile. “The day is coming.”

Right after your birth, your blessed parents brought you to this convent to be raised by the nuns. Mother Abbess was no longer here, but she made sure that you knew your mission before she left: to end the mortal lives of seven criminals broken from hell.

They have some sort of connection with you, a curse or a blessing. Every night, you dream of them, of their handsome faces. Surely, they must be outrageous now that they have fallen. Those poor creatures— roaming the earth in search of a bit of peace, or most likely, wandering in search of any kind of thing that they can set on fire. Heartless, soulless, wicked. Determined to sully your superior spirit.

The nuns say that those wicked dreams that you keep having are because they are looking for you, and with their endeavour, they creep into your mind.

You remember their touch, or at least the dreamy memory of it; how your skin shivered under it, raising goosebumps, hungry for more. Some sweet, some tender, some passionate. Their eyes, full of wonder as they explore your body. Your hands, filled with lust as you strip their skins of all sorts of decency, the invisible wrap removed. Pristine souls, but you can’t exactly recognise which one is tainting the other. Your breasts in their hands, your lips on their necks, desperate, furious, restless. You are invaded with the feeling of being filled up, lapped at, devoured, and consumed.

There was a favourite, a predilected lover. Who, you are no longer able to discern it in the dreamy haze; but his golden skin nourishes and yet leaves you hungry, consumes even the gaze of your memories. Strong, sweet, so pure. A treat to the senses, a taste so sweet, a touch so gentle, the lips so eager, the eyes in a frenetic search of yours even through the haze.

“How will I know the day has come?” you ask in a murmur.

Sister Jubilee pats your head with tenderness. “You will know, my child – you will feel it in your bones.”

You stare down at your palms.

In your bones, she says—? Perhaps there really is not anything else besides that. Perhaps this feeling is that of your bones getting ready, and your dreams are just that – silly dreams not to pay any attention to.

“What are the dangers of those devils?” you insist.

As she folds the towel and puts the tray away, the nun smiles, helping you into the robe.

“Oh, they are… beautiful, wicked things,” she says. “Cunning and ambitious souls, too, my sweet girl, fallen from grace. Foolish and so, so lost— you owe them not a single one of your thoughts.”

You sigh. “Poor things.”

Whose are those eyes you’re seeing through? Who was evil enough to grab them and pluck them out of the sky? Whose perverse deeds torment you with their sweetness in your dreams? Whose is this lust, this craving, this memory of fatal attraction – and why are they yours now?

Don’t hesitate to like, reblog, and leave some feedback if you liked it! It’s always good and encouraging to know what you think <3

#sub!namjoon #namjoon smut #namjoon fanfiction #namjoon x reader #sub!bts #sub namjoon #bts dom reader #sub!rm #namjoon x you #demon namjoon #bts angel

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faela404 · 1 year

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☆ The Library ☆

kazuha x gn! reader

prompt: - you and kazuha attend the same university, him being a english lit major and you being a person in stem😎 your paths never crossed until that day in the library…

*this is an smau so please do expect a lot of twitter posts and messages to read, there will be proper writing too but, it will mostly be that!!*

warning! this is written from a narrative perspective as opposed to one of the characters like always, angst to fluff :)

masterlist - prev | next

☆ the library. ☆

the vibrations of the large oak door resounded throughout the old building. it was late, quiet, not even a soul to whisper.

aside from our two lovers, our twin flames, roaming the darkened halls in hopes of finding their missing half.

one, lacking of hope

the other, hopeful

how can two beings so different be so perfect for one another?

his white locks glistened against the focused light of the lanterns strung up across the building, he was a man on a mission. a man looking for them.

sniffle

it was a faint disturbance in the otherwise quiet atmosphere of the halls. how could he ignore it? he listened closer, holding his breath, anything to figure out who or what it was

sniffle

there it was again.

crying.

he began to move closer towards the noise, aiming to find the source.

and luckily, or maybe even sadly, he did.

for in the corner of the raggedy old library, sat the person he was looking for, curled up upon themselves, crying into their own knees.

his heart felt as though it had shattered into a million pieces, for what could be worse than finding the one you love, crying, because of you.

“y/n?” he whispers towards their shaking body.

it stops. everything stops. nothing moves. almost as if the whole world is at a standstill, waiting for their reply.

“hi” it’s quiet, a bit hoarse, but there. they’ve replied.

slowly, the young man crouched done towards his old friend, taking a seat next to their frail form.

“can we talk about it please?”

one sentence. one sentence that could both ruin and fix this all, depending on their answer.

a few beats of silence followed the lingering question.

one beat

two beats

three beats

before finally, the crying figure, offered a response.

“i suppose”

finally, after all this time apart, after all this waiting, he could finally hear their voice again, perhaps even hear the laugh that made his heart soar.

“but first” they continued, and he listened.

“where were you? we was meant to meet out there, you was late.” it seemed as though they were holding back from saying something.

perhaps they shouldn’t have held back.

“i was held back by my professor” the young man replied.

“i was unfocused in class, i-“ he stopped, should he really continue his sentence. would they really want to hear this?

well he can’t make if any worse.

“i was too busy thinking about you. what i should say to you, how i can ever apologise for the wrong i have caused you” he whispered ever so slightly, reaching out his hands towards his love.

after all, they need to know what it is they do to him.

“you mean so much to me, y/n” he continued

“more than i’m sure you could ever even imagine, i think of you all day and all night, at all corners and ever second, i am thinking of you. i am thinking of your smile, of your laugh, your voice, and the beautiful words you speak to me. i think of your humour and how you may think, of questions i would like to ask you, things i need to know about you, you plague my every thought, y/n. and i wouldn’t change it for the world”

his friend stares up towards their hope, towards the man they fell for. their eyes travelling down towards his lips, wondering how they may taste against their own, how he may hold them. but, one thought plays through their mind on a loop.

one that started this all.

they pull their hands from his grasp before averting their eyes towards the ground. they wipe a few stray tears from their cheeks, before whispering.

“what about your girlfriend?”

silence fills the room once more. though y/n cannot sit in silence, for y/n knows that silence can only ever be bad

“i don’t think she’d appreciate you telling another person that”

his breath hitched. confusion coursed through his veins, though he knew that he alone would not figure this out, and the longer he waited to answer, the more skittish his love got.

so he replied with the one thought that was consistent in his mind.

“who?”

now it was their turn to be confused. their head shot up in shock, how could he forget his own girlfriend.

“that girl you was with outside the science block a while back, you kept implying you wanted me to meet her, your girlfriend. i was hurt that you felt as though you couldn’t even mention that you had one, after all-“ they stopped.

they’re already digging themselves a hole, whats the harm in making it a little bigger

“i thought we were close, i thought we had something” their eyes drifted back to the ground as fresh tears blocked their line of sight

they didn’t want to hear his answer, to them, it could only be bad news.

he faltered but, quickly recovered.

“you mean kokomi?”

so that’s her name huh?

wait.

they recognise that name, kazuha has spoken that name to them before. but, when?

“she’s my roommate, y/n. she’s been gone for the term, so i figured i’d finally introduce you two, after all, she was who i turned to when i needed to talk to someone about you.”

that’s where they’ve heard it. at the beginning of the term, during their movie date in kazuha’s dorm. he told her all about kokomi.

“are your roommates okay with me being here right now?” i turned to him at he led me towards the living area

“oh they’re fine with it, i mean gorou and kokomi aren’t even here today”

as they had sat on the sofa, they had questioned who kokomi may be, and that was when they realised just how wrong they were.

“kokomi is gorou’s girlfriend, i swear that man follows her around like a lost puppy”

their eyes drift back up to the young man.

“kokomi, as in gorou’s girlfriend?” they asked, they had to make sure they were remembering correctly.

“yeah, that’s the one” he confirmed

their whole world came crashing down, all this time, all this time they had been jealous and upset, over a small misunderstanding? over something that would’ve been fixed had they just answered kazuha the first time he asked for them to meet kokomi?

“kazuha, i am so sor-“ they began, but was quickly cut off, by none other, than the man they was trying to apologise too.

“don’t apologise, y/n” he collected their hands back into his own.

“i would’ve been upset too if i had thought what you did” he pulled himself closer to their form, cautiously raising a hand towards their cheek. wiping away their tears.

“we are close, y/n. we do have something” he confirmed for his love, their face beginning to redden.

“i would like to show you, just how close we are, my dear” his eyes flickered down to their lips, “if you will let me?”

a/n - PFFT- i’m nice but, i aint that nice. ya’ll got the fluff that you wanted back, but, if you wanna see what lover boy over there means, you gotta wait a week, sorryyyyy :P

i’m kidding, i love you guys but i did have to end it there so that i acc had something to write in the next chapter-

taglist - OPEN! @kazuhaprnt @ryhie @scaraapologist @thissoulisnotok @kazuhalvrr @rifran @sleepyhamster1001 @mccnstruck @micahmxi @whipped-for-fictionals @sashiette @kozumieee @lazy-sanns @mangobee @lez-zuha @kaoyamamegami @hedonesstuff @oliver-s-worlds @phoenix-eclipses @lisaslittle-helper @serafinaspost @richxelle @ansaturn @neigesprincess @atlaincorrect @ilovekazuha271 @obeythehemmings @4leyn3 @giggles8899 @samyayaya @zomzomb1e @duckyyyx @luminescent-light @scarletttcroww @jasxiao2317 @kanaqwqbear @floating-inthevoid @forget-artemis @fishformaira @hangecanweholdhands @eurekatanya @tamikahoshiko @jan-penakulu @anon-who-cried

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#faela404~🍓🍰writes #faela404~ 📕🍰the library #genshin fluff #genshin impact #kazuha x reader #genshin imagines #genshin au #kazuha #smau #genshin smau #genshin kaedahara kazuha #genshin kaedehara #kaedehara x reader #kaedehara kazuha #kaedehara x you #genshin kazuha #kazuha x reader fluff #kazuha x you #kazuha x gn reader

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theproverbialpen · 15 days

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Musings from a Hazbin Fan and Hotel Employee

Yeah, that's right—I'm posting to this blog for the first time in years because I got into Hazbin Hotel of all things. Not only did I get into this cursed fandom, I'm writing fan fiction for it. Fan fiction. I think the last time I wrote fanfiction was...2012? 2013? And I only ever told 3 people about that one. Now here I am posting on main. The brainrot truly is unquantifiable.

If you're one of the few people that survived the purge of those I know IRL, congratulations. Please don't judge me lol. Anyways, actual musings are below the cut!

So I’m writing a fun little fanfic on AO3 and after someone left a comment (if you’re reading this, still genuinely one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me about my craft), it occured to me—as a Hazbin Hotel enjoyer, I have a pretty unique perspective on the series as an IRL hospitality professional. So! Thought it would be some cute bonus content to talk a little bit more about my life at an actual hotel and how it’s impacted my experience with Vivziepop’s hit series.

Please note: this is written purely for shits and giggles. I don’t actually have any issues with the setting of Vivzie’s narrative or how it plays into the stories she and her team want to tell. I fucking love this show, to a potentially unhealthy degree, and I haven’t had this much fun with a series since like…okay well my hyperfixations change like every few months, but still. Point is, this isn’t actually critique, or satire, or anything with negative or critical intentions. TLDR; this post is for funsies, get off my dick.

So Who TF Am I, Anyways?

A little background on myself, for context. I’ve been employed at my hotel for almost a year now, and it’s my first hospitality job. I work in the Sales and Events department and I’ve come to learn that Group Business is actually integral for keeping a hotel up and running. When your average person (read: me before this job) thinks about hotels and traveling, you’d think it’s all about the families, bloggers, and individual travelers when it comes to guests and revenue. But in actuality, most of a hotel’s revenue—at least in the market I work in—will come from contracted room blocks and events.

That’s where folks in my department come in. We work with clients to negotiate contracts and secure occupants for our hotel year round. Simply put, if we don’t do our jobs well, then no one else gets hours. So as much as the anti-capitalist in me will sometimes hate being a cog in the machine, it is really fulfilling to be able to help clients meet their needs while also making sure my coworkers are able to put food on the table.

Speaking of being a cog in the machine, because of my role in Sales, this means that whenever I travel or think about hotels, I’m always thinking about the revenue side of things. I also work more with the Events team, so operations are also on the forefront of my mind. Which leads me to my principal quandary for this little blog post:

How in the Hell does the Hazbin Operate?

I have a laundry list of questions. A laundry list that’s almost as big as the actual pile of dirty laundry that is currently plaguing my bedroom floor. I will summarize (which is a generous word given how fucking verbose I can be) below:

Issue #1: Revenue Generation

Okay listen, I know Charlie is the Princess of Hell. I know she probably has unlimited capital, whatever that looks like in the HelluVerse. And I know the Hazbin is literally there to help rehabilitate people so charging them to stay would be counterproductive.

But my dude…do you understand how much money would be needed to run an operation of this scale?

At the end of Season 1, the new Hazbin is huge. Like it easily looks as big, if not bigger, than the hotel I work at which has nearly 500 rooms. Do you know how much revenue our team has to generate to keep this place running? Do you know how many millions our target goal is set at for each quarter? How many hundreds of thousands my coworkers’ individual quotas are set to? And sunshine in a bottle over here doesn’t charge her residents anything?????

How does she get all those decorations? How does she order food or inventory? We know Hell has an economy, like Angel literally says he needs to save money for drugs in his first appearance. Is she…does she even pay her staff???

It is utterly appalling that Charlie is able to operate a hotel of this scale, both because of how it doesn’t make sense from a business perspective and because there are IRL billionaires that could probably do the same thing and solve homelessness overnight.

Speaking of scale:

Issue #2: The Hazbin’s Systems, Or Lack Thereof

Okay so, yes, there’s only like…one official resident of the hotel, maybe two if Cherri moves in and doesn’t become a staff member (RIP Pentious, you would have loved living with Cherri Bomb). With the staff the way it is, that’s a solid 5:1 ratio, which is beyond ideal. But—and I touch on this in the fic—I feel I must reiterate: the new Hazbin is fucking massive. And you know what that means? It’s going to be able to hold a lot of guests. Guests that will need staff to take care of them. Let’s review:

Charlie is the owner and mostly teaches classes. Vaggie is the co-owner and kind of acts as the Executive Assistant to Charlie’s General Manager. I guess Alastor is the Hotel Manager? I’m gonna be honest, I have no idea what he does, but generally speaking he’s supposed to be the jack of all trades and manage the rest of the staff. Niffty handles Housekeeping and I guess would be the director of that. Husk is the bartender but like canonically only really eats pub food so he definitely can’t be the Food & Beverage head.

Let’s say we scrap the Sales and Revenue Departments because clearly they don’t need income, but we keep a Marketing position so that Charlie can get the word out about the hotel. That leaves us with the need for Engineering, Front Desk, Rooms, and F&B staff. And like, not just one person—that would fucking suck—but proper staff. And given their track record of organization and managing the hotel…let’s just say, I would not be applying to the Hazbin Hotel anytime soon. Honestly, it sounds like that job would qualify to be the new tenth circle of Hell.

What Does the Hazbin Get Right About IRL Hospitality?

So yes, clearly the world of the Hazbin Hotel leans towards the more fanciful—it is a story about Hell after all. However, there have been some moments that have made me chuckle as a hotel employee, things that are relatable for us in the hospitality world. Allow me to highlight them for you below:

Everyone is Bat Shit Crazy

Hospitality professionals are weird. So weird. Before I started my job, I was terrified of the level of professionality I would need to have. When I first got hired, I was given a whole packet on dress code and appropriate conduct. As you can probably tell from my writing style, this was concerning: I can be professional when I need to be, but I cannot maintain that guise for extended periods of time. Call it my toxic trait.

I also already had this impression of poised and put-together hotel staff from my previous experiences with travel. All the Front Desk agents would be in these clean and wrinkle-free clothes with kind yet business-forward attitudes, office workers would be walking around in full suits, and occasionally you’d see the hotel management on the floor if you were looking. Let me tell you now—it is a facade. An act. An incredible stage production unfolding in real time where all the staff do their absolute damndest to make you feel like you are in an organized and professional institution. Not unlike a certain hit animated musical.

My direct supervisor, the literal Director of Catering and Events, once told me that being a liiiiiittle crazy was a prerequisite for working in our department during the hiring process for a new Sales Manager. She was wrong—the prerequisite is not “a little” crazy. The prerequisite is being bat shit insane. And it’s not just our department, oh noooOoooOo, it is every department. Downstairs in our little basement dungeon, we make out of pocket comments, scream at random intervals, and swear way more than we should (that one might be my fault…according to my partner I swear more at work than at home and apparently it’s rubbing off on my colleagues), but that behavior is in no way restricted to just the Sales Team.

I process the checks that are sent to our property and our Director of Rooms makes me say “can I get a WITNESSSS” before she signs off on the drop log (Charlie-core). If I don’t say it high pitched enough or with enough vigor, she makes me do it again. I once watched a guy in Engineering climb a tall step ladder balanced with two legs on a platform and a third leg balanced on a wooden plank his coworker was holding steady. The fourth leg was over the open air. Let me reiterate: the open. Fucking. Air. Tell me you can’t see Angel Dust and Cherri doing that shit.

Speaking of Engineering, you wanna know what dumbass thing happened just this morning? The Regional Director of the department—regional meaning he manages teams all across our area, like top level type shit—told us about this cursed ass Instagram trend he found where allegedly, putting ketchup on a Kit Kat tasted like fudge. So right there and then, him, myself, and two other coworkers decided ‘why the fuck not?’:

I would never seek it out willingly again, but I honestly didn’t hate it.

The point of all of this is to say—the antics the Hazbin crew get up to? Totally realistic. I could see my coworker Robert throwing me into an active battlefield against my will. We have deadass done the role playing thing Angel and Pentious did during our trainings, and it was just as unhinged. Every day some shit happens at this hotel and I’m just like, “Yup. That could happen in Hazbin.”

“Call Now! Or Don’t! I Don’t Care! We Still Don’t Have a Working Phone!”

I would like to preface this section by saying: if you happen to be a Front Desk associate, I’m sorry. This is not directed at you, this is directed at your managers and their communication skills that may or may not exist. If you are somehow a manager reading this, uh—first of all, cringe. Second of all, I hope these next few paragraphs don’t apply to you. If they do and you’re offended: that’s a certified you-problem, babes.

There are three certainties in this life: death, taxes, and miscommunication from your fucking managers. Tell me why in this past week alone I have been in 5 different email threads regarding fuck-ups and complaints from guests about things that we had clearly communicated. Tell me why in these email threads, people were attempting to throw me under the bus or shift the blame to my team. Tell me why I have gone to every single individual office in my department complaining about this. Tell me why this isn’t the first time this has happened.

Another hotel tidbit: across the board, Q1 (Jan-Mar) is supposed to be slow, for all of hospitality. It’s the time to get the metaphorical phone lines working, ya know? Our Q1 was stupidly busy, so I get it, people were slammed and short staffed. But like… we had time. Time to iron out our communication, time to create systems and processes that would ensure we’d be all set when things got busier. Yet here I am at the start of Q2 with an entire fist shoved up my ass being puppeted around to fix other people’s mistakes.

It’s times like these when I go back to rewatch Hazbin for the like 26th time and I watch Charlie and Alastor run the hotel and I’m just like “whyyYyYyYyYyYy”. Like I KNOW Vaggie has had days where she’s like, “what…what am I supposed to be doing right now? Like what is my job, what… What?”

It’s not just Front Desk either. It’s every department, even my own bosses. Like the call is coming from inside the house, sweetie, why did you tell this Sales Manager that I was taking care of all her commissions but you didn’t tell me this. Why am I blocking a room for an Orientation the following Monday at fucking 5:45 PM on a Friday. Why am I JUST finding out about a VIP guest when I have been asking you if you had any notes for me for the whole week.

I touch on it in my fic as well but like…pretty sure Charlie just, decides to host her classes day of. And that drives me insane. Like I…there are processes. Things that need to be done so that everyone is on the same page. You don’t just wing this shit, that’s how you end up with Susan calling your Director to tell her that you’re a useless waste of space not even deserving of the air in your lungs because you didn’t give her her fucking breakfast voucher.

As a character, I love Alastor. If I were ever in the same room as him, I’d probably hate him. But if there’s anything relatable about that Geneva Convention Violation on Legs it’s his absolutely done attitude in Episode 1’s opening commercial.

Charlie Loves Helping People, and So Do We!

Alright, I’ve complained for enough paragraphs, let’s be positive for a second. The thing that is by far the most true to life in Hazbin Hotel is how much joy Charlie gets from taking care of her guests. Like…that’s our bread and butter in the hospitality world. Well, maybe just the butter; we need that bread in the form of cold hard cash (or direct deposits, whatever works best). But as much as I will bitch and moan about the difficulties of working in a hotel, there’s nothing quite as fulfilling as a guest telling you that you made their entire trip better. The butterflies I get reading reviews where my coworkers are mentioned by name and a guest writes about how we completely turned around their bad day are an absolute delight. It just means the world knowing that you can have that kind of impact on someone, even if it’s just in the little things.

In Episode 2, when Charlie and the crew are welcoming Sir Pentious and she just starts vibrating with excitement is exactly how I feel when I get to meet a client that we’ve been working with for months and finally welcome them to our property. When they sing “It Starts With Sorry” and just get to have a moment of empathy and compassion together, it reminds me of the clients and the phone calls I take where I get to ask them about their goals and help them feel like they’re supported and heard. In the grand scheme of things, is a nice phone call or interaction with some hotel employee going to change your life? Probably not. But for those few moments when their burdens seem lighter is why I love my job.

This goes for guests, and for my fellow coworkers. I’ve been very blessed to start my hospitality career in an unusually supportive work culture. Yeah, we can be some right petty bitches sometimes, but overall everyone is so encouraging and so quick to help lighten each other’s loads. Like in Episode 5 (best episode btw, for obvious reasons) when all the Hazbin Crew are working together to prepare the hotel for Lucifer’s arrival, that shit made me so giddy cause like- that’s us! Look at us go! We workin together so hard, we’re so cute! Like when Niffty and Pentious are baking and she looks up at him all excited n’ shit—that’s literally been me working with our Director of Restaurants on new food menus or promotional material.

There’s something about being in an occupation where your whole purpose is to take care of people that really brings out the selflessness in you, and I think that’s what makes the hotel such a great setting for Charlie’s mission of redemption. I didn’t realize that until writing this paragraph tbh, but yeah, it just kinda…works. When your job is to make sure other people have a good time and feel supported and you’re surrounded by people that make you feel the same way, it’s a lot easier to want to choose to do good, to do right by the people around you. So as much as I have some silly little nitpicks…yeah, I can admit—I love that this show is about the Hazbin Hotel specifically.

Anyways, if you made it this far, thanks for reading! Next update for Life is In Redemption will be out in the days to come, just thought this would be a fun addition while I work on some of the content with my friends. This upcoming chapter is going to have a co-author, so get hyyyyyped :)

#hazbin hotel #blog post #text #charlie morningstar #alastor #vaggie #angel dust #cherri bomb #sir pentious #hazbin hotel husk #lucifer morningstar #hazbin lucifer #personal post #life is in redemption #bonus content

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