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zephyrchama · 10 days

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"What did Mammon do now?"

The greedy demon was in his underwear, hanging upside down from a rafter in the hallway. He tried to coerce you into letting him down as you walked by, but you knew better than to do so without consulting Lucifer.

"Gambling. The usual." Lucifer had a hand on his forehead, pushing his hair up while jotting something down at his desk.

"Mammon gambles every day," you pointed out. "What'd he really do?"

By the way Lucifer groaned, you knew it was something juicy. "I caught him pilfering one of my rarest records, a gift from Diavolo, to use as collateral in a bet. It's one-of-a-kind. I doubt he even knows what it is, but Mammon always has a knack for finding things of high value."

"His secret sixth sense," you agreed. "What'd you do with his clothes?"

"They make it harder to tie him up tightly. He has a slightly higher chance of wiggling free with clothes on, so I made him strip." Lucifer gestured, Mammon's clothes had been put on some kind of mannequin, tucked away in the space between two bookshelves.

You'd never seen it before. Your jaw dropped into the widest half-smile half-astonished expression possible. It had Mammon's hair and his goofy smile. Even a flashy golden earring. "What is that?"

You practically ran across the room to inspect it. It was dressed properly in Mammon's shirt and tie. There were a lot of seams, more than seemed necessary, perhaps from being repeatedly repaired over years of use. "Lucifer, this is adorable."

"It's a necessary tool for my sanity." He pushed the chair back, standing up to join you.

"What do you mean?"

"I'll give you a demonstration."

Lucifer comically wound up his closed fist. With ballistic force, he struck the figure right in its chest. It flopped back, then sprung back up wildly to receive a fistful of lighter blows from Lucifer.

"You made a Mammon punching bag? Really?" You didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Isn't that a bit much?"

"I didn't make it, Mammon did."

Surprise of the day number two. "Mammon made this? Himself?"

To stop the wobbling, Lucifer grabbed the punching bag's tie, pulling it tight and then smoothing it out. "Cute, right? He thought it might make me go easy on future punishments. It's a very thoughtful gift from my little brother."

"Yeah, I didn't know he could sew. Huh." The two of you stood to admire it before Lucifer returned to his desk. You followed him. "Kind of reminds me of the doll Levi made of me."

Lucifer smiled. "Leviathan made you a doll, did he? How very kind."

"No, he made a doll of me."

Lucifer froze to process this information, frowning.

You continued, "I don't know where he usually keeps it, but I saw it under his desk one time. It's pretty big and detailed. I mentioned it once and offered to lend him a shirt for it, but he got really embarrassed and pushed me out. He's gotta take more pride in his work, it was really impressive."

"I see." Lucifer gritted his teeth. "You know, something I have to do just came up. Let's finish this conversation later." He was quietly seething as he escorted you to the door. Along the way he gave punching-bag Mammon a soft whack to the head.

You realized you forgot to ask if you could untie the real Mammon, but Lucifer had already marched down the hall in the direction of Leviathan's room. Rather than trying to catch up, you decided to go see how the Avatar of Greed was doing.

#i bet satan has a lucifer punching bag #is this punching bag ever mentioned? where is the lore #obey me #obey me! swd #obey me scenarios #omswd #obey me headcanon #obey me shall we date #obey me swd #obey me lucifer #tw punching ? is that a thing? i don't know how to tag this for content warning hm.#obey me!#obey me drabble #obey me fanfic #I started a bunch of mini fics and got like 95% of the way done an Asmo one but I'm not liking it. feels oddly written so I have to fix it.#obey me mc #obey me x mc #does levi making a creepy unexplained doll of mc count as x mc? sure.

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theywhowriteandknowthings · 6 months

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Warning: Discourse incoming.

I told myself I’d never get involved in these kinds of discussion because I’m a firm believer in “You do you/No Kink shaming etc.” But this one is a fairly serious one. It’s long, I’m not putting a cut in there, but please just hear me out.

There’s a disturbing trend in some fic writing I’ve noticed lately, and I have to say something about it.

We all know I’m a sucker for dark fics, be it CNC, dubcon, even non-con and horror elements, so I’m not here trying to tone/content police people’s writing. I want to make it very clear that this is not about vilifying people who write dark stuff, or things I’m not into. Hell, if I don’t want to read something, I check the tags and warnings and nope out before I get the ick. (As everyone should, there’s no point getting yourself wound up or triggered by content you can just simply scroll by.)

However, this is where my current concern comes in.

I’ve seen lots of very prominent writers not giving adequate warnings or disclaimers about the content they write.

I’ve come across a lot of content where Joel (sorry buddy you’re the worst offender here, Ilu tho) is being labelled as a dom – and even more worryingly labelled as a soft dom – when the relationship is not about safe dom/sub relationships/kink.

If Joel is spanking you so hard you can’t sit down in lieu of “teaching you a lesson” when there’s clear lack of enthusiastic consent (or often any consent at all) this is not s/m, this is abuse.

If you’re having your readers receive physical or sexual punishment for actual life slip ups/non-role play scenarios, you’re glorifying abuse.

If you’re not labelling your fics correctly, you’re being negligent to your readers, and this should be a safe space for us all to read and create without being unduly triggered because we had inadequate or no forewarning.

For example:

Javi P kisses a girl, you make him pay for it in a way that is clearly pre-established (you have to spell it out people) as consensual in your relationship? Kink.

Joel spanking the shit out of you because a man flirted with you in a bar? Abuse.

Din edging you until you cry because you were competing in how much you could make the other jealous in a pre-agreed dynamic? Kink.

Joel denying you sex, or fucking you without prep/making you cum because you did something to annoy him/he doesn’t agree with and you aren’t enjoying yourself? Abuse.

I thought we were over this with the discourse that came about around 50 Shades, but clearly not. So please, tag your fics with appropriate/adequate warnings. As a survivor of sexual abuse and grooming, I need to know if your fic is going to contain and/or glorify these things. Again, I’m not saying don’t write these things, but it is your responsibility to tag adequately.

It’s a simple concept that I see applied across the board with age gaps and power dynamics, and most of the time people get it right. But when posts with 1k+ interactions are explicitly abusive, with no warnings other than S/M dynamics or “soft dom!Joel” when it’s anything but soft, aren’t just triggering to some, they’re harmful.

You can’t have a healthy relationship with Joel (again sorry buddy) if that relationship contains thinly veiled or brazen abusive elements.

If you don’t know the difference between coercive behaviour, sexual or physical abuse, and safe, consensual kink, you need to educate yourself for your own benefit, and that of your readers.

Feel free to reach out to chat with me about this, I’m not here to run and gun, but I will not tolerate any form of abuse or unkindness (on either side of the aisle) here.

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creativenicocorner · 5 months

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Chapter 7: "I Don't Know" (Part 1) Footsteps

Fic Summary: A strange case takes Reigen and Serizawa to a small (intimately so, a detail Reigen might be hesitant to comment on) village North in the mountains, where they quickly discover things are far stranger than they both realized. Not only that, but they might be more than just a little out of their depths.

Nature, the past, it all has a way of being heard - even to those reluctant to listen.

Reblogs, Kudos, and Comments are deeply appreciated ♡ (manga cap from Daisuke Igarashi's 'Little Forest')

#Trying a different posting style approach :3c this could have potential - I always thought it was neat when people added images to their #fic posts - adds a little charm #Serirei #Reigen Arataka #Serizawa Katsuya #mp100 #mob psycho 100 #please mind the tags #there's also further content warning within this chapter (click the triangle)#Glow Worms #Glow Worms or rather: In the Depths of the Safflower Hills #Nico Writes

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starryeyedjanai · 6 months

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what lurks beneath

kinktober prompt: double penetration in two holes lake monster eddie fic | explicit | 6k happy birthday @matchingbatbites!! 🥳

He's been dragged beneath the surface of the water once before.

Hanging out with his friends their first night back here, he felt something slither around his ankle and pull. He struggled under the water for a few moments before it let go and he swam back up.

It was pretty dark out, so he couldn't see anything under the water when he looked beneath him.

He'd been freaked out, but no one had seen anything or felt anything except for him. They thought he was making it up at first, but when he refused to get back in the water for the rest of the summer, they knew he had to have felt something.

Tommy tried to tell him it was a fish or seaweed, but Steve knows what he felt.

Something pulled him under.

He won't say it out loud to the rest of them, but he's afraid of going back in. There's something deep within him that says it's not safe.

So for the rest of the summer, he watches his friends splash around in the lake from the safety of the shore or the pier, stewing on it the entire time.

Because nothing happens to any of his friends when they're in the water.

So maybe he did overreact to something normal in the lake. Maybe he felt some seaweed on his ankle and just freaked out.

He's watched his friends for months now and nothing has happened since that night.

So it had to just be in his head, right?

That's what he's telling himself as he drives up to the lake alone, late at night, determined to prove to himself that it was nothing.

read the rest on ao3

#please read the tags/content warning in the notes on ao3!#steddie #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie fic #monsterfuckery #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #janai.doc

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teruthecreator · 11 months

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(tw for racism, pedophilia, transphobia, child impregnation mention)

yeah idk why y'all read this

i was originally going to just post this and have some tags with my reasonings, but i realized that opens me up to too much bullshit from people who may think i'm being unnecessarily mean or whatever. so i'm going to explain exactly why the screenshots above are something i hold issue with.

firstly, and i just want to get this out of the way, this post is not intended to be a hit piece against the creator. i've seen how she reacts to any mild-mannered or slightly joking criticism, so i know this post is probably going to not land well. but it isn't my intention to make her mad or anything--she's writing a piece of content for the internet, which means she is just as open to criticism as any other poster. and what i intend to go into in this post is criticism. i'm allowed to do this, as that is the nature of the internet. people are allowed to critique whatever they please, and if you don't want critique then you shouldn't post. simple as!

i am also making no attempts to posit myself as better than the creator. i'm not doing this for clout or moral superiority or any of that dumb shit. i simply want to discuss something that's been bothering me for a bit, while simultaneously warning people who haven't read this yet (who may be sensitive to the issues above) to steer clear. if things like casual racism or transphobia aren't properly tagged, then readers who are affected by such things run a risk reading this! same goes with people who are triggered by lewd content involving minors. i wanna make sure people are getting a more critical scope of this work than what has been hoisted up by others.

okay, now that i've gotten that out of the way, i'm going to get into my points.

firstly, the subtle and not-so-subtle racism throughout this fic, especially in relation to serizawa. i'm white, so there is only so much i can speak on without trampling over the words of other fans of color, but some of this feels so blatant it's odd it hasn't been noted earlier. it's important to note before i go into it that serizawa is specifically written as half-black half-japanese for this fic, in case the screenshots don't make it abundantly clear. but there are just too many moments of casual racism in this fic. i'm not talking about the plot point of serizawa being bullied as a kid for being mixed; i'm not mixed, so i can't speak on the accuracy there but it is well-known that black people face a lot of racism in japan. i'm talking about how it seems everyone else has these racist moments that aren't acknowledged by serizawa or the narration as being bad.

reigen hypothesizing over serizawa's exact ethnic background is just strange. yes he's a fairly observant guy (he has to be, with his job), but there is no canonical evidence to suggest he would immediately jump to theorizing whether serizawa is american or not. and the way it's posed in that first quote--"he has darker skin and the kind of hair texture that would likely indicate African ancestry"--is not great. that's an extremely inappropriate way to bring up someone's race. i don't think most people would stare at someone and be like "hmmm well your nose shape and hair texture would suggest you're of this race". it's racial essentialization that is only slightly covered up by the excuse of "oh he tweets in english". there are some other smaller moments of questionable wording, like calling serizawa's afro "sloppy" when it isnt (which btw there's another issue with the creator only referring to an afro as a "fro". it's a hairstyle; you're allowed to use the actual name of it). even if reigen cuts his hair in canon, he never states it's because serizawa's afro looks sloppy. (also there's something to be said about the casual racism baked into making your employee cut his natural hairstyle for a job, as that is a very real issue many black people face when wearing their natural hair or even protective styles in the workplace.)

i'm especially bothered by toichiro's very casual racist remarks. toichiro in this fic is a general bother of mine (most of which can be boiled down to "he would not fucking say that"), but the way she chooses to characterize him in relation to serizawa feels gross. calling a black man a slave should be a very obvious red flag, but also saying serizawa (again, as a black man) has a "brutal masculine appeal" is also extremely stereotypical and racist. and really there is just no need for it; toichiro's actions in canon prove how shitty of a guy he is without the need for him to be racist (along with other things i'll get to in a bit). as my girlfriend put it: he doesn't need to be a member of the fucking kkk to show he's a bad guy.

there's also, again, the very casual racist remark of calling serizawa a "dog". i don't care if that isn't the intent; when you are writing a character of color you need to be aware of your wording, even in insults (unless she intended to make tsuchiya racist, which i don't think she did).

secondly, the eugenics/child pregnancy bit. it is surreal to even have to write this, but i seriously do not understand the purpose of either of these bits in the story. they are so minor yet so jarring you can't help but wonder why they're there. once again, i do not think you need to have toichiro doing esper eugenics just to prove he is an evil guy. he has nuance, and by making him casually reference child pregnancy (like that isn't an INSANE thing to say) reduces that nuance to nothing. that's the only reason i could see why that bit was included: to make toichiro look worse. but, even still, the author is running the risk of potentially triggering victims of csa or people who don't want to see that by not properly tagging the mention of it (or, at the very least, warning readers in the intro notes). the only other explanation for it would maybe be shock factor??? but that's a pretty shitty thing to use for shock factor, if i'm honest. also the fact that the esper eugenics was referenced again in a more recent chapter just has me very disturbed and confused. there isn't a canonical explanation for why we see less espers who are women than espers who are men, but that doesn't mean we need to jump to fucking Eugenics. it's weird!

thirdly (and this is probably one of my biggest problems and the main reason i wanted to make this post), the weirdly lewd/sexual language shou uses constantly, along with referring to reigen as a pedo or a creep at several points. frankly, i think it's pretty fucking gross for someone in their near-40's to be writing a 12-year-old talking so casually about sex like that's normal. which, i'm sorry, but it's not. yes, teens know about sex and like to joke about lewd shit. but a 12-year-old is not about to make references to a grown man's virginity. 12-year-olds draw dicks on their desk bc they think it's funny. 12-year-olds say the word "buttfuck" because it has the words "butt" and "fuck" in it, and those are the two funniest words on earth to a kid that age. i literally do not understand the purpose of having shou be so lewd all the time. for one, it doesn't make sense for his character. shou is shown time and time again to be extremely mature for his age, but that maturity extends to shit like assembling a counter-terrorism unit and extending a hand to his father to allow him to try again. and even then he's still just as naive as any other kid his age! the omake where he's telling his guys to go to the "far right corner" based on ritsu’s advice proves that he still has plenty of blindspots that are indicative of his age. leaning into this raunchy, lewd version of shou is just weird. and, again, i think it is made a bit weirder given the author's age!!! not ageshaming or whatever--i'm 23 and i write fanfic, clearly i cannot judge there--but it is just extremely inappropriate in my opinion. also having shou be more versed in sextalk than serizawa is odd too and speaks to a larger issue of serizawa's infantilzation throughout this fic, but that's something i can get into in another post if people want an explanation.

also, the way she constantly calls reigen a creep and even has him being accused of being a pedophile during the twitter cancellation is extremely inappropriate when, again, there is NO CANONICAL BASIS FOR THIS! everyone just calls him a fraud and a scammer during separation arc; there is never a reference to reigen being seen as a pedophile in that arc. and, yes, while there are versions of mob psycho where reigen is very clearly written as a creep (looking very specifically at the netflix adaptation), that doesn't mean it's good. honestly, the creep mentions all just feel like really poor jokes that do not land in the slightest.

finally, the transphobia (aka WHY IS SHIMAZAKI A CHASER). i literally do not know what else to say other than: why? why is this a thing? why is he a chaser? what is the purpose of this? is it a joke? i feel like it's supposed to be, but seeing as the author is cis i don't think that's a joke she should really be making. it not only comes out of left field, but it's just kind of a weird thing to ascribe to a character for no reason. not to mention, it's uncomfortable! trans women deal with enough creepy antics from cis men in real life--why must they be accosted by this guy too? it's just weird and uncomfortable.

i wanna round out this post by saying, once again, that i'm not trying to attack anyone with this post. but i do hope people come away from this with a new perspective on this work, and maybe think twice before recommending it uncritically to someone. to the author specifically, i hope you can read my post without rage or indignance blinding you. i might be a little blunt or rude in parts, but it's only because i'm passionate and i don't mince my words when it comes to things i'm passionate about. to the readers, understand i am not judging you for reading this fic without noticing these things. your own life experiences will give you certain blindspots and there's nothing wrong with that. i have plenty of blindspots of my own! it's what makes us human.

there is more i could say, but this post is long enough. i ask that if you come to me in my inbox or in dms about this that you treat me with respect, as i will do that for you. writing something like this took a lot out of me, as i'm usually not so open about my opinion on shit like this.

have a good day :-)

#mp100 #side quest #yeah this is all from <- that fic btw #ive been sitting on this for about a week or so bc ive been nervous abt posting something like this #i dont want people to think im making a callout post just to call shit out #im doing this bc i dont want people to get triggered by this content and because i want fans to be more critical of the content they consum #media literacy is something A LOT of fandoms struggle with and it leads to things being praised uncritically #i simply want people to have perspective when going into a thing #anyways uh. goodbye <3 #edit: took the tw tags off bc tumblr was suppressing the post bc of it #so PLEASE heed the warning at the top if u have specific triggers and things

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rogueddie · 10 months

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Aspec Steddie Fics

Important: READ THE TAGS! Also, leave a comment and kudos! These fics are amazing and I love them and I hope y'all do too 💜💚

Ace of Hearts

buttered_toasty

It’s kind of always been there. A voice prowling the back of his head, growling and grumbling that this is what he’s supposed to do.

Steve is uncertain that he actually likes guys, because when you like someone you’re supposed to be sexually attracted to them, too, right?

Words : 2,533 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

Conversations About Love

MuseumGiftShopEraser

Steve gets his heart absolutely shattered in a bathroom at a random Halloween party. He storms off so no one can tell he’s on the verge of tears and finds Eddie Munson smoking a joint in the master bedroom.

Steve pours his heart out and tells Eddie that he just can’t get it to come naturally with Nancy. No matter how hard he tries so play at romance, he can’t love her the way he’s supposed to.

Eddie, who’s known he’s queer since middle school, sees something of himself in Steve. But as their friendship progresses into something more, Steve has to confront the fact that he might not be gay after all.

Words : 41,803 Chapters : 9/9 Rating : Mature

AO3 : x

Under the Light of the Evening Star

greenflower209

Eddie and Steve talk about sexuality and find a new sort of comfort in each other

Words : 1,153 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : General Audiences

AO3 : x

you are so magnetic

the_maybe

Steve and Eddie kiss. Eddie is not into it.

Words : 886 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Mature

AO3 : x

Amour Déroutant

aromanticsteddie

“I think I’m broken, Robs.”

Robin was half asleep, and Steve would have felt bad about disturbing her had he not been staring silently outside for hours upon hours. She shook her head above him, where his was resting on her chest. “No, you’re not, Stevie.” She made it sound so simple. If she thought it was, then it must be, right?

Words : 3,750 Chapters : 2/2 Rating : General Audiences

AO3 : x

mixing it up

Isabelle Hemlock (isabelle_hemlock)

Steve seemed to perk up when Eddie hadn’t outright declined the offer, but his brain was still catching up to the legitimacy of his words, utterly unprepared for the way Steve’s restrained smile now widened as he tipped his head to make his eyes look even more round and beautiful, “But if that’s your only hesitation then let’s move forward to the planning portion of a date.”

Date, Eddie’s mind repeated, sputtering back into motion, date that thing where people - “What - exactly would a date with you look like?”

Words : 7,369 Chapters : 3/3 Rating : Mature

AO3 : x

cw: ableist language

+ Bonus Stobin

Describing Colours

envyenvy

Two unknowingly closeted aromantics try to explain crushes to each other, it goes about as well as can be expected.

Words : 7,374 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #fic rec #ficrec #sorry if I've been missing little content warnings in other fics that haven't been tagged #it just stuck out to me in that one fic that wasn't tagged so #needed to add a lil note

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thesistersarcheron · 11 months

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Pairing: Feysand Word Count: ~2.8k Tags: AU - No Amarantha, Human Feyre Archeron x Fae Rhysand, Attempted Kidnapping, Dubious Consent - Dream Sex, Dreams and Nightmares Summary: Five times the High Lord of the Night Court tries to lure his human mate across the wall and the one time she hunts him instead. (Based on this prompt from deepwaterwritingprompts: Sometimes in the dead of night on the way to the kitchen for a glass of water, I see an extra door in the hallway, black and imposing.)

Read this fic on AO3!

It was hunger that woke her.

She became aware of it slowly—the low, rumbling growl of her belly, the dryness at the back of her throat, the acute emptiness that radiated upward from her gut until every limb ached with it. It was as if some ravenous beast had taken shelter in the vast pit of her belly and, unsatisfied with its sparse accommodations, took to shredding her insides in retaliation.

Brushing off the cobwebs of sleep from her mind, Feyre Archeron pushed back the threadbare quilt she huddled beneath and stood. She flinched away from the icy floorboards beneath her feet, stretching and yawning as she shuffled to the dresser at the foot of the bed for an extra pair of socks.

Still, even as she straightened, rubbing a bit of warmth into her arms, the grogginess lingered.

She pressed a hand to her aching stomach and swallowed hard.

The haze of hunger clouding her mind wasn’t a good sign. The pickled vegetables had run out weeks ago, and last night, her family had eaten the last of their bread and dried meat for dinner. The portions were pitiful, just a handful of bites each, and when Feyre went to count the coppers she kept tucked in her drawer to see if they might be able to afford another crust of bread from the village baker for breakfast, there had been none left.

A glance over her shoulder told her that both of her sisters slept undisturbed in the bed the three of them shared. Nesta’s puckered brow and the hand clutching the quilt over her stomach spoke to her own hunger, but sweet-tempered Elain simply sighed, curling deeper into the small pocket of warmth Feyre left behind.

Feyre meant to hunt in the morning. She needed to hunt, if they were to have any more meat for the table or hides to sell in the marketplace. Otherwise, they would starve. There were too many beggars in the village to compete for the rare coin thrown into their cups, and the other methods of earning some cash…

Well. Feyre wasn’t yet so desperate, and the men who could afford such a thing at this time of year were few and far between. She doubted they would take her up on it, anyway. Food may be scarce, but there were still plenty of women in the village whose ragged dresses strained at the bust and whose ribs couldn’t be counted as easily as hers.

But venturing into the frostbitten forest beyond their cottage would be too risky if she couldn’t fight back her hunger. If she didn’t fall asleep and lose fingers to the cold, then she would end up satisfying the appetite of the rangy pack of wolves she’d spotted stalking through her usual hunting grounds a week earlier.

There would be no outrunning them, even if the bone-deep chill didn’t lull her to sleep and make her easy prey; they were just as hungry as she, just as desperate, and far, far more vicious now that the deer and rabbits they both hunted had pulled back into the heart of the forest for the winter.

She took a deep breath, shuffling out of the small bedroom on a hunter’s silent feet.

Water. That’s what she needed. A glass of water would dull the worst of the hunger pangs, and then she could get a few more hours of sleep, at the very least.

She moved on nimble feet, dodging a crumbling floorboard and slipping through the door. After eight years, she could navigate the Archerons’ small, two-room cottage with her eyes closed—and so she did, pinching the bridge of her nose as the hunger pains migrated to her skull like claws scraping against the boundaries of her mind.

In the hearth to her left, the low embers of a fire crackled. Her father would be on a small cot in front of it; his breathing was just as steady as her sisters’. To her right, the painted dining table and dented, rusting iron range that served as their kitchen. There would be a pail of water at the opposite end beneath the small window, hauled from the well a half-mile away.

Feyre stretched out a hand, blindly seeking the edge of the table. As she made contact with it, following the familiar grooves and contours to the opposite end, the scent of the dried meat and stale bread wafted up to greet her.

Agonizing hope pounded against her breast.

She blinked her eyes open, squinting against the dim light searing into them.

Had she missed a bite? Was there something left to fill her belly—a molded crust or too-tough strip of jerky that made her sisters turn up their noses?

Anything. She would take anything.

But even before she saw the empty table and the barren shelves above it, she knew that hope was futile. No, if there had been even a single morsel left, she and Nesta would have fought over it viciously at dinnertime. There was never any food left after meals like this, not even a single crumb.

The scent seemed to grow even stronger in the wake of that thought, but it wasn’t salted venison or watery rabbit stew perfuming the air.

Feyre took a deep, ravenous breath.

Hot, fresh bread—that’s what it was.

She could picture it clearly. Warm and sweet and yeasty, still steaming, its crust a shining, golden dome. So unlike the flat, heavy loaves she was used to, made with more sawdust and chalk than grain.

Woven into ribbons of sweetness wafting off of the bread was the savory scent of roast chicken stuffed with fragrant herbs and fresh, summery vegetables swimming in melted butter, creamy and smooth.

And there, beneath it all—clean, zesty citrus.

Feyre breathed and breathed and breathed in the scent of that phantom meal.

Simple, elegant fare. Luxurious, but only to those who knew the true worth of each component of the meal.

She would have to sell a half-dozen hides to afford so much butter. Two dozen of her father’s whittled animals might equate to a small sack of flour for the bread. And how long would Nesta have to haggle down the price of a chicken in the marketplace before Elain swept in, blushing and batting her lashes, to all but steal it from beneath the butcher’s nose?

Feyre’s mouth watered, her tongue seeming to sting with the desire to eat.

When was the last time she had chicken? Two summers ago, perhaps, when her attempt to raise a hen for the eggs ended abruptly as it started when an intrepid fox took a bite out of the squawking bird.

She had gotten good money for that fox. She’d shot an arrow right through its eye, and one of the wealthier ladies in town had exclaimed over its orange fur and purchased it right there in the street when she went to sell it at the market. After feasting on what was left of the chicken, it felt indulgent to spend a bit of that money on a piece of tart penny candy, but she had anyway.

And the citrus she could smell now…

Lemon, perhaps.

Feyre remembered it well. How many afternoons had she spent in her father’s office before the world she knew crumbled, examining crates of exotic fruits from the continent? How many lemons had she held to her nose, greedily breathing in their sweet, sharp scent and wondering where they came from—and what it must be like to be surrounded by a grove of lemon trees full of that scent?

And how many times had her father caught her snooping and sliced open one of those lemons for her with a wink using the elegant penknife he always carried in his breast pocket, so she could dip one of the peppermint sticks he hid in the bottom drawer of his desk into it? How many sweltering afternoons were spent leaning out of a window of that seaside manor, savoring that cool, refreshing treat while her hair flew free in the salt wind?

Sea salt and citrus, forever the scent of perfect contentment.

She closed her eyes, breathing it in again as her heart stumbled. Sea salt and citrus and a fresh, warm meal…

It was a dream, all of it. It must be. She hadn’t felt such unblemished happiness since—

She couldn’t remember. That final summer before her mother died must have been ten years ago, maybe twelve.

Still, her stomach rumbled dangerously. If she were dreaming, and the food was real enough in her mind…

She looked at the table.

Empty, save for the fading flowers she had painted on its surface. The last of her hope gave way, crumbling.

But… Feyre bit her lip. Somehow, some way, chicken and vegetables and bread still scented the air, hanging heavy and delectable around her.

She turned, searching for its source.

And there, behind her: a door on an otherwise empty stretch of wall.

A door that, in her waking hours, did not exist.

It was made of heavy, polished oak, carved simply enough. Warm. Inviting. The wood was golden, practically glowing, welcoming her inside. The brass knob glimmered in the dying firelight, and buttery sunshine spilled out from the crack beneath the door.

It was such a beautiful door that, for a moment, she hesitated.

She ought to be wary. Traveling peddlers brought stories—more and more, lately—of other border towns reduced to smoking rubble by the uncautious village girls who invited handsome, bloodthirsty faeries into their homes. Strange folk, tall and graceful and shrouded in mist and shadow, searching for something they would not find below the wall that separated the human world from their own and driven into devastating rages when they were left wanting.

But her dream beckoned as a fresh wave of pain clenched her empty stomach in its fist.

She reached for the knob.

And strong, warm fingers wrapped around her wrist.

Feyre couldn’t stop the shriek that tore from her throat. Not a dream, not a dream!

That invisible hand pulled, dragging her to the threshold as the door swung open.

Feyre barely caught a glimpse of red stone and a long table as she skittered back, wrenching her wrist out of the shadows—shadows!—gripping it. They let go, disappearing as if they were nothing more than a wisp of steam curling off the platters she saw glistening beyond the doorway, and her hips clashed against the edge of her own table as she fell back with the full force of her panic.

Not a dream, not a dream, oh gods!

Her father’s soft snores cut off, replaced by grumbling. “What in the seven…” His cot creaked dangerously, “Elain?”

Feyre was dimly aware that she was shaking, her face buried in her hands, having collapsed to the floor after hitting the table. And though humans no longer had gods to pray to, her thoughts were reduced to a desperate litany.

Oh, gods. Oh, gods. Please no. No, no, no.

“Feyre?” Her father’s voice was louder, slurred with sleep.

“What?” In her ears, her own voice was shrill, terrified. Quavering.

She glanced back at the wall and found—

A hysterical sound bubbled up from her chest.

A wall.

Just a wall.

“Feyre?” Her father’s cane dragged against the floorboards, and the cot creaked again, louder this time. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing!” She scrambled to her feet, her attention locked on the wall. Not real, not real, please gods, no. She turned her head toward the hearth, but didn’t dare look away from the spot where the door had been. “Just a bad dream. I was getting a glass of water and tripped. Don’t get up.”

“Hmph.”

She listened to her father’s cane return to the floor beside the cot with a quiet clatter. His bedclothes shifted, and a low, pained groan rent the air as several stiff joints cracked and popped.

“You should be more careful in the dark, Feyre. These floors’re uneven.” His words were muffled, distant, muttered by a man already half-asleep beneath his blankets. “...shouldn’t stay so late. Twilight’s not good for maidens.”

Feyre’s head whipped to him—already sound asleep, wholly undisturbed. “What did you say?”

A soft snore answered her.

It didn’t matter. She knew the answer already, that fractured bit of verse dredged up from the tired mind of a tired man.

It was the sort of thing he might have said once with a conspiratorial grin. There had been so many nights when he’d caught Feyre up past her bedtime, slipping and sliding across the smooth, marble floors of their estate in her stocking feet in the pale moonlight.

Some small part of her still expected him to rise from the cot and sneak up on her from behind, to pinch her side and chase her back to her room, singing that hair-raising chant until she shrieked with laughter and woke her sisters. For a long moment, she waited, watching, as if he might wake and do just that…

But he didn’t. He wouldn’t. The warning was a rote thing, nothing more than a playful bedtime chant turned to habit sometime during the too-short years of her childhood.

Her shoulders slumped, and she turned back to the wall. To her relief, it was still an empty stretch of wall.

“Nevermind,” she murmured to herself. The word was bitter on her tongue. “Goodnight.”

She lifted a hand, testing the patchy wattle and daub wall beneath her fingers. Utterly normal, if one considered walls that crumbled under the slightest bit of pressure normal.

She heaved a sigh, squaring her shoulders. Her stomach protested against the movement with such force that Feyre ended up hunched in on herself for a moment, pressing a fist hard into the worst of the cramping in her middle.

Fear—real fear, deeper and more persistent than a split-second nightmare—clutched her, even as cool relief loosened her terror-stiff limbs. That’s all the door was. A hallucination brought on by hunger and exhaustion.

No. Not hunger.

Starvation.

The final, desperate act of the frenzied beast in her gut.

Heavy lead filled the pit of her belly. She had watched as other villagers succumbed to hunger before—at least a handful every winter. It was always the same, and the village was always a pitiless, starved audience forced to witness it.

First came the crying and begging brought on by the sheer pain and panic of that first, gut-shredding wave of hunger. Day by day, as she entered the marketplace to hawk her hides, Feyre noticed that the pleading slowed, melting into molasses-thick lethargy as round cheeks sunk and limbs withered.

By that point, most tended to lay down anywhere they could without being trampled at that point. Most never got up.

But a fair few did. They rose, calling out to forgotten gods and long-dead mothers for mercy, and then, without fail, a hunter—one of the older ones, a grizzled old man with dull, brown eyes—was called to put them down.

It wasn’t safe, the rag-tag council of old men who made up the village’s leaders said. Who could know what foul, bloodthirsty manner of faerie might hear them beckoning from death’s threshold and descend on them all, if they were allowed to live?

A chill dragged insidious fingers up Feyre’s spine.

She hastened to get a glass of water, blindly grabbing one of the dented pewter cups from their place on the window’s ledge. She needed something, anything, to stave off the worst of the pain. More sleep, too, and perhaps she would wake refreshed for once, and the door and the hand and the food would be nothing more than a distant nightmare.

The draft seeping through the window’s crooked sashing slammed into her, and she wrapped her arms around herself, conserving what little heat she could in her thin shift. The cheap panes were cloudy, so scratched that only a few small slivers of the world peered back at Feyre as she sipped from her glass.

Snow had fallen while she was asleep. A great, white blanket of it covered the barren earth of the small clearing beyond the cottage. The trees had long since shed their leaves, and they reached up into the sky like desperate penitents seeking mercy from the harsh cold that was bound to kill off several of their kin in the coming months. If not the cold, then the sheer weight of the snow would strangle and break them.

Feyre followed the line of those branches up and up and up, and there, high above her in the midnight sky, past that sparse canopy, two round clusters of stars twinkled down at her, looking for all the world like a pair of great, laughing eyes.

She stuck her tongue out at them.

Thanks for reading! I have several chapters of this fic fully written and the rest is thoroughly outlined, so I’m planning to post ~once per week. 💕

#feysand #feyre archeron #rhysand #a court of thorns and roses #acotar #a court of thorns and roses fic #my fics #atwfd #as the world falls down #please read the tags for content warnings!

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joyfuladorable · 1 year

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Sunshine in the Rain by Carnati0n_bl00m

“Wait, you don’t have a name? What about your parents, didn’t they give you one?”

The man simply raised his eyebrow, a small grin revealing pointed teeth.

“I do not truly have parents.”

“ What!? That’s insane!” Mickey had never been so - so -

Scandalized!

WOW OKAY!! This kinda gotta away from me cuz I wanted to TRY doing two (technically 3) scenes. THIS FIC, MAN!! It's got Mikey angst and hurt/comfort! It's got Bishop being an absolute bastard, and I wanna punt him to the moon and back!! It's got Mikey & Leatherhead becoming Besties!!! I read it right after watching the Rise Movie and OHHHH boy, it is GOOD!!!!

Concepts for Bishop and Leatherhead! Did not draw Bishop much at all, lol. Will probably use the ref for future stuff, though! Also, I took forever finishing these cuz LH's design started becoming Bleh to me, but I had to commit cuz I was most of the way through the naming scene. Will likely tweak the design later!

#tmnt #rottmnt #tmnt mikey #tmnt leatherhead #tmnt leo #tmnt raph #tmnt donnie #tmnt bishop #my art #fic fanart #my art show up in the search tags challenge #mind the tags and content warnings before you read the fic it's kinda intense!!#phew seriously this took forever to finish #and by forever I mean I literally started drawing it at the beginning of March #there's also the fact that I Just attended a con this past weekend and was busy with that #I think I gotta start reading more fluff and shit cuz wow I think I'm getting burnt out on the angst #also GAH I WANTED TO DRAW ALL THE HUGS #but I wanted to get this OUT so maybe I will doodle that later #however I do have a prior engagement with a 2k3 Mikey fic that I'm also drawing angsty fanart for #I should probably stick to just doodling single panel scenes but Goddammit making comics is FUN!!#anyways let's see if this shows up in the tags lol #if it doesn't I'm about to knock loudly at tumblr support's doors again

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wizardofgoodfortune · 4 months

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Rating: Mature Chapter: 10/? Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Slow Burn, Single Parents, POV Alternating, Dream is a sculptor, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Bullying, Descriptions of Violence, Hob Has Anger Management Issues, Smoking, Drinking

“Hey professor,” Rose said. She held out her phone. “So um, have you seen this?”

Hob glanced behind her. A few of the other students, instead of rushing out to their next class, hung back and watched. “What is this?” Hob asked, finally looking at her phone.

It was a photo of him and Morpheus looking up at a fountain. And it wasn’t just any fountain; it was the fountain Morpheus made, located at the park mere minutes from their house.

Hob’s hands stilled. That couldn’t have been the only photo.

(read on ao3)

#dreamling #*#*my fic #good times for a change fic #idk what to say about this one chief.#mind the tags especially now #i put in a new one: Hob Has Anger Management Issues #i included a more descriptive content warning at the start of the chapter in case the tag's too vague

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queerofthedagger · 1 year

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everyone write 100 lines of "'creator chose not to use archive warnings' is proper tagging no matter what else is in that fic and if you OPEN a fic tagged as such it's entirely on you whatever you find in there" before going back to any discourse on dark fic and antis i am BEGGING

#mona rambles #'you can write whatever content you want as long as you tag properly'#that's proper tagging. anything beyond that is a courtesy and people would do REALLY WELL to remember that #do I think more detailed tags are a good courtesy? do I like to extend it?? yes #am I happy when other authors do too cause it makes reading easier?? absolutely yes #but people are not entitled to tags #the only thing you're entitled to is that particular tag if there is something in the fic that should be warned for #sorry sorry ignore me just. this has been driving me up the wall for ages #i have a whole actually well-worded rant in my drafts but yk. bat. hornet's nest. etc etc

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waterblob-art · 11 months

Photo

some more assorted doodles. mostly ishdon again.

#limbus company #ishmael lcb #don quixote lcb #hong lu lcb #donmael #ishydon #little nightmares crossover anyone?#that don and hong lu doodle happened cause my friend was streaming their w corp drawing #and i played ln2 music to set the mood #and it fits ngl #also you ever wonder how certain identities deal with each other #do the n corp sinners froth at the mouth over ishy's antlers #the concept was introduced to me by a fic on ao3 actually #tho that one has n corp rodya instead #its called gavel and cervid btw #lotsa content warnings tho #aight tag rambling over

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coreene · 15 days

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WIP Wednesday Saturday

My apologies to everyone who tags me - I absolutely love it when you do but I know I am always super late with doing them. But, on the bright side, this way we can keep the circle going!

Thank you @thisaccountisagainstmywill and @fistfuloftarenths for the tags, I love WIP Wednesday!

I am tagging @my-favourite-zhent @bardic-inspo @beesht @justporo and @tellmeallaboutit as usual no presh and also share your wips even if you're not tagged!

My offering is a piece from chapter 42 of Lorelei's Journal where the gang finally meets Lorelei's mother. 👇✂️

We were walking when I spot someone familiar, walking towards the gates. I stopped in my steps suddenly and the rest of the group hit me in surprise.

"What's the matter?" Gale asked with confusion.

I instinctively walked closer to Astarion. I wanted to hide, I needed to run; I didn't want to see her.

"Eleyarus, what a surprise," my mother spoke in the fake nice tone she used all the goddamn time.

"Mother," was all I could say with how dry my mouth had gotten.

"You look... good." She said in a very obvious, I'm lying, tone in her voice. "Although, I would do something about that dry hair and you're in desperate need of a hair cut, so many split ends." I tried to brush my hair with my fingers after her words and looked at the tips.

"And what is it that you're wearing?" I looked down to my leathers. "At least someone had the good sense to embroider something on it. It couldn't be you though, all those lessons and yours always came out wonky, didn't it?"

I took a step back, towards Astarion. He placed his arm over my shoulder wrapped his hand protectively around my body.

My mother squinted her eyes to the display, her gaze darting from me to Astarion.

The split second when I wasn't under her mocking gaze, I spoke. "What are you doing here, mother? I've never seen you leave Upper City."

She returned her gaze to me with a condescending smile. And there was something wicked behind it. "Oh, your brother wanted to see the circus."

"Fen is here?" I asked with a hopeful tone. I was still mad at him for the way he left but I would be so happy to see him again. I've missed him.

"No, your little brother." She said and turned towards what looked like a nine or ten years old brat who was busy kicking pigeons. I would be mad if he was able to catch up to them but he didn't look very blessed in the athletics.

Suddenly I connected the dots in my head. The timing of the announcement in the paper, telling people I was dead, when she stopped looking for me. It all fit the time he was born.

"Now, we should be leaving. We spend enough time around plebs. Volan come." She said and turned towards the gate as the boy tried his best to catch up to her. He was very slow.

"Mother, leave the city, if you can. It's not going to be safe for a while." I called after her.

She looked at me over her shoulder. "Don't tell me what to do, girl. I know everything better than you do."

And she turned her back completely to us, with the brat following her and walked passed the Fist guarding the gate.

"I'd wish she'd turn into a mind flayer for not heeding your warning, but I don't know if that'll change much for her. She's as emotionless as the illithid." Astarion commented while the rest of us were still in shock.

"That is not how a mother should behave," I heard Gale mutter under his breath.

"I now understand why you ran away." Karlach commented.

I felt my shoulders slump in defeat. "It's fine. I'm used to her. Let's just go back to camp." And hope we never see her again. She could save herself for all I cared.

"No, you need a distraction." Karlach ran in front of us and stood near the stand for the circus. "Let's visit the circus, please."

I smiled at her enthusiasm and nodded. "Alright, I guess we can."

"And we're just in time for the clown show," Astarion spoke with a tired voice "how wonderful."

Karlach darted towards the circus gate, as we followed her in a leisurely pace, Gale was coming from a little behind us. Astarion's arm was still wrapped around me. He pulled me closer to himself and left a kiss to my temples. I cherished the feeling of his cool soft lips on my skin. I felt a headache coming up and it was helping.

"How are you, my love?" He whispered to my ear.

"I'm okay," I looked up at him "and grateful to have you."

He bent his head down for a soft kiss. I breathed him in when our lips touched. "You'll never have to face her alone, as long as I'm here."

For those that do not follow my longfic: Lorelei's mother is a high elf, older than Halsin, and including Volan, she has five children. Lorelei and Volan are the only ones who share a father. The other three all have different fathers and the eldest, Miraren, doesn't actually know hers. It is rumoured to be a star elf, though.

She calls Lorelei, Eleyarus, because that's the name her parents has given her. Lorelei changed it when she ran away.

I was making a family tree to show Lorelei's family but I still can't decide on a design I like so it's gonna be a while for that to see the light of the day.

#wip wednesday #tag games #bg3 oc Lorelei #oc: lorelei #bg3 tav #Astarion x Tav #tavstarion #Astarion x Female Tav #Astarion #BG3 Astarion #Astarion Ancunin #Baldur's Gate 3 Astarion #Bg3 #Bg3 Spoilers #Astarion Fanfic #Astarion Fic

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boundinparchment · 6 months

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Dream a Little Dream of Me - LI

Celestia had a cruel sense of humor. He knew this, even before his days as a student. But to be given a soulmate? Now, when he openly blasphemed against the cursed island in the sky? He would outlive you and the dreadful fated bond that haunted your shared dreams. There was little point in this. He could at least put a Vision to good use. People were nothing but disappointments. He had no use for you. Until you pulled the bow across your instrument and awoke a part of him long buried by self-hatred and arrogance. Soulmate AU; Il Dottore/Female reader w/ established personality and backstory. Slow burn. Lore and world speculation and interpretation within; follows canon story where possible. Content warning: This chapter contains references to abuse, physical abuse, sexual assault and the consequences thereof, power imbalances with figures of authority, etc. While previous chapters touched on these topics regarding the MC’s past, this is the one that will be tackling these events the deepest and in more detail. If you are uncomfortable, click the back button and come back for Chapter 52. Fic is rated explicit; MDNI. Mind the tags. Chapter also posted on AO3.

The sentiment captured you in a self-sufficient whirlwind, one you hadn’t felt since before Sumeru. It was lighter than the melancholy that gripped you when you first arrived at the Palace and sweeter than any decadent dessert you ever tasted.

You met the musicians, the conductor and manager, listened again when they didn’t know you were there. There was a quality amongst them unlike any you’d heard before and they were consistent in keeping said quality. When you said as much to the manager, they laughed as though it were a given.

They would be up to whatever challenge presented to them.

And when it came to creating said challenge…well…

You had ideas, certainly. You listened to spin-crystals you found in the Palace Library, picking up unique motifs and rhythms from Snezhnayan composers. Arrangement would matter just as much as the composition but you couldn’t arrange if you couldn’t write…

Nothing you put to paper sounded right. Felt right. You were so close.

All this energy and emotion and nowhere for it to go.

The memory sessions weren’t helping matters. In fact, they seemed to just make everything worse. You were irritable, prone to snapping more often, you felt hyperaware of when eyes were even glancing over you. If you weren’t making any progress on anything, surely everyone else was seeing it, too.

One morning, Zandik found you curled up in your chair as you used your pen to trace notes in the air. He took your chin between his thumb and forefinger as his crimson eyes examined you in the dim blue light of dawn. He then took your hand, pen and all, searching your joints as his eyes remained on your face. You winced; he frowned but opted for silence as he let you go and left your quarters.

A loquacious man such as your soulmate never skipped an opportunity to hear himself speak.

Which meant everything he had to say was so obvious that he was not about to waste his time nor breath repeating himself.

Enough light passed through the window in front of you to make it just barely reflective and you caught a glimpse of your visage. There would be no hiding the tell-tale signs beneath your eyes and your dry lips wouldn’t survive another escapade outside without bleeding. Your entire spine felt as if it needed to be pulled out of your body and cracked like a whip. Meanwhile, an entirely new hand wouldn’t be amiss. Your fingers were stiff and your tendons didn’t cooperate long enough to let your muscles do what they needed to.

You propped your elbows up on your desk and buried your faces into the heels of your palms, pressing just hard enough to see stars.

If you continued, you would fail.

You knew that.

The thought plagued you as your head grew heavier and your arms moved of their own accord, your head sinking with them to the cool surface of your desk. A little sleep wouldn’t harm anything.

“You cannot be serious.”

You stared groggily at the machines on your side of the bed from the doorway, across the room. Heart and EEG monitors. IV pole and dangling tubes. When the hell had he brought those up?

Had you napped so soundly or had Zandik simply relied on the veins of the world to close the distance?

Did it even matter?

“Your mind must process events in the order they occurred in to get to Omega’s next node. I additionally find myself wondering if the last place we left your unconscious mind is bleeding into your waking existence, holding you back,” Zandik replied.

He spoke of the memories of too much wine and lingering touches, blatant favoritism and doting gifts. Both of you knew the path ahead but only you would experience their pain again.

“You think I’m having trouble creating because I’m scared to succeed?” you spat, arms crossed and eyes burning. “I think I’ve been composing and playing just fine.”

“Up until the Tsaritsa presented this opportunity, I am inclined to agree. I believe it has less to do with your emotional response and more an instant connection that the second you succeed, or even get close to it, your own well-being is taken from you.” He didn’t give you a chance to counter. “Discussing my hypothesis will only do so much while you’re awake.”

You held his gaze across the expanse of the bed, skin crawling. He said it so easily, as if this were simply a recipe to follow. After all, he was watching your memories as one did a moving picture. It was your mind and body that experienced the physiological responses and the result of dredging up what you wished you could forget.

“I know what I’m asking of you, it’s why I thought here was far better than the lab so you’re comfortable,” Zandik said, his gaze drifting from you to the pillow and then back again. “You should know by now that I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t expect beneficial results.”

“Not because you’re curious, Zandik?”

Nothing stopped him from seeking knowledge and answers, ever. You knew that. This boundary was one the two of you skated around like children on a frozen lake; you never thought details were necessary when alluding to your patron’s behavior. Several Fontainian orphans were taken into the House of the Hearth under similar circumstances, or so you heard. And you were doubtful someone as clever as Zandik needed details spelled out for him.

“This is much for me as it is for you, lest you forget this entire process is meant to purge Omega from your memories and correct neural pathways. I am not so much intrigued by your past experiences as I am aware that some things must surface in order for the rest to settle. One’s past is precisely that: the past. It does not wholly define but rather shapes us, calls for change in how it molds and carves. And we must change, mustn’t we? Otherwise we give in to what is laid before us.”

In a world full of cyclical rebirths and stars deciding one’s fate, change seemed almost moot. You would have disagreed in part with him if presented with the notion when you first met; you changed your career but not your love of music, for no one could take that from you. But both of you were given a connection long after you expected none at all, a change both loathed and adored.

You rounded the bed slowly, eyes drifting from the pillows, to the machines, and then back to Zandik when you drew closer. Without missing a beat, you pressed your lips to the septum of his nose where it had broken more times than he wished to admit before you crawled under the covers to await the familiar sensation of falling.

The void was untouched, as it always was, the corridor expanding forever except for the pane through which you witnessed yourself.

You had worked through smaller memories since the last major session but nothing substantial. Those were simply trials to perfect your method and help Zandik understand everything, step by step.

The gap between your last destroyed memory (which you only recalled in terms of your fist meeting the surface and cracking it) and the next time you saw your soulmate was not as lengthy as it seemed. It felt like centuries but in truth, it was only a handful of years between the two lies Omega planted.

Time was strange in this portion of your life. When you looked back upon it in the waking world, it felt like it happened to someone else. You entered that house, beautiful and just as foreboding as it was promising, and left a completely different person, fully aware of the lies your nation painted upon its people.

Everyone endured a form of suffering under that roof. Even the house staff were not true allies despite treating guests well and bringing food or sneaking in medical assistance. One bad day was enough to send words flying and no one went unpunished.

A shudder ran down your metaphorical spine and you wondered if such a sensation reached your physical body.

It was behind you. It wouldn’t happen to you again.

Your memory banks knew precisely where to pick up from. Beautiful gifts of a bow with expensive strings, perfume, a new kind of typewriter that allowed you to type notes instead of write them. Balms for your hands. A private tutor so you wouldn’t stagnate.

For you could always be better, couldn’t you?

One specific memory flickered as it passed by. You didn’t need to watch it in full to remember the way the expensive plush rug felt beneath your knees. Your nose recalled the smell of him when he pushed himself deep into your mouth. Disappointment was warm, salty, and shoved down your throat instead of dinner.

You gagged and reached out to sort through faster. The spaces in-between were blurry, deemed unimportant by your subconscious. Your fingers hesitated as you caught sight of a bedroom not your own, opulent by comparison with a large poster bed with its own heavy curtains for privacy.

That first time had been full of praise, admiration, what you mistook for love. You hadn’t understood, not then. There were stories of performers and musicians finding their beloveds under patronage and class barriers being eroded. You were eager to please the one who gave you support to pursue your dream.

And he was eager to rob you of them as often as he could.

He took you from behind the next time when you messed up too often during a rehearsal he sat in on. The arm of the couch had pressed into your abdomen and between that and his harsh thrusts, you hadn’t been able to breathe.

And on it went.

Your cycle was late more than once and he was always careless. Relief washed over you every time at the sight of blood. Pain never felt as wonderful as it did then, for it meant you would be left alone.

Threats of broken fingers along with gentle caresses, soft brushes along your skin that made you feel sickeningly warm. Gowns that exposed more skin than you wanted to show, legs on display at dinner parties due to skirts with high slits and your shoulders and breasts exposed for all to see.

He was careful never to hit you or bite you the night before a party. At least nowhere visible.

You finally came upon the memory you were looking over. Omega stood before you, your hand in his as he pressed your knuckles to his lips, his white suit almost glowing in the candlelight of the salon.

His entire visage was outlined, superimposed over someone else. You reached out a finger and traced the seam, distinct now that you knew it was there, rough despite the sleekness of the flat crystalline surface. Someone had kissed your hand that night, you recalled when you focused, but it had not been Omega; it had not even been a Fatui diplomat. Your fingers picked away at Omega, shards plinking to the ground as you went and revealed an unremarkable face, one of many from such nights. The stranger had remarked about your playing, about how you needed to take breaks, and then given your patron a knowing look and smile.

Such arrangements in Fontaine were open secrets among those who considered themselves the cornerstones of the arts and entertainment world.

Once again, the memory recognized the holes and mended them, filling in the gaps where Omega used to be.

You experienced the party alone, mingling carefully to avoid too much attention (difficult to do when your dress was backless and bared your legs whenever you walked). Every time eyes settled on you, your patron managed to pull you into a conversation, hand lingering on the small of your back in a silent message of ownership.

Meanwhile, your hands were locking up and you almost dropped your glass at dinner. Holding your utensils was an arduous task you had to pretend was easy otherwise you would be left with no energy.

Knives shot through your forearms and into your fingers when you took your position after dinner and your skin prickled. Between your pain and the irritating material of the dress, you were a hair’s width away from asking to excuse yourself; a glare across a glass of wine made you think better of it. Playing that night felt as if your blood contained glass shards and every minute movement was searing agony.

It didn’t get better.

You were dragged from guest to guest, glued to your patron’s side, his hand never leaving your hip. He flaunted his playthings, his toys, and every inch where you could sense his presence, your skin burned. If you were paper, you would have long since turned to ash and you would have been grateful.

There was no flash of white tailcoats. No teal hair. No experimental touches to ease your tendons.

Instead, you felt bruises bloom across your flesh and the telltale warmth of blood from where nails dug into your skin. Your dress was taken off of you in harsh, frustrated tugs and the intrusion, while expected, had you wondering if you would, finally, be split in two.

The memory ended and for a moment, you could only stare at the dark panel, your reflection looking back at you. You frowned, the sensation that you had forgotten something sitting heavy in your mind as you raised a hand and flicked through future sequences.

Concealed applications and hidden compositions. Smuggling your cello in and out of the manor as you tried to keep track of your story and excuse for leaving the house. You endured what you had to all the while.

You paused the memories on the offer letter you received from the orchestra and your heart soared, just as it had back then. Waves lapped at your feet and you could still hear the guttural sounds of nearby Blubberbeasts as they lounged on the shore.

Free.

Golden Vision in your other hand.

A signature, a signet ring, the Stone clutched behind your back. Farewells were easy, for you couldn’t get out of the oppressive aura of the house quick enough.

The events, at least thus far, were the same as you knew them to be. Entirely unchanged. That made sense…

You sifted through images of playing for Lady Furina and Monsiuer Neuvillette. A starry night in Liyue among familiar faces. A summer in Mondstadt where the air was crisp and the wine was sweet. Music poured out of you, a professional saw to your hands and provided a regimen, and you could laugh without fear of repercussions. Sumeru’s greenery came into view, the loop finally closing.

There was no memory of your orchestra traveling to Snezhnaya. You never arrived here with anyone other than Zandik. No ball, no greenhouse, no near kiss. No secluded existence with Omega, no oozing purple ore.

All of that, nothing more than a fleeting dream.

Your eyes burned as you opened them, your vision watery and your senses tangled. It took you a second to move your toes, flex your muscles, your brain playing catch up as you focused on singular movements. Phantom pain danced on every nerve, although you couldn’t recall the actual pain such sensations were meant to mimic.

Tears seared your cheeks as you ran your hands over the cool, smooth sheets and tried to look around. This was real, you reminded yourself. The bed was real; the curtains near the window were real; the man with his gaze fixed on the outside world was real.

Air was stolen from you when the realization truly sank in and you could only open your mouth in a soundless scream. Your squeezed your eyes shut.

Zandik had never been there. Not once.

No one had been there.

You saved yourself. You’d had to.

A harsh beeping infiltrated your thoughts and you heard mutterings mingled with your own choking sobs. Your heart pounded as gloved hands pulled at sticky nodes along your chest and freed you of the sounds. Words were audible but never lingered. You caught careful reassurances and words in another language you didn’t understand from a voice that made your very being as light as a feather.

The same hands that removed the nodes moved the covers and shifted you as long legs brushed yours. You found yourself pressed against a hard chest, sandalwood and mint making your nose tingle as you gripped the blue fabric of a shirt.

The world fell away around you as you fell asleep to nature’s metronome, a steady heartbeat beneath your ear.

#dottore #il dottore #dottore x reader #il dottore x reader #fic: dream a little dream of me #dottore x female reader #soulmate au #il dottore x female reader #minors dni #mdni #tw: ptsd #tw: abuse #tw: dark content #tw: dark themes #read the tags and warnings everything is under a cut

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jellycreamjammedart · 3 days

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Just say you think cp is ok as long as the minors are fictional you fuckin pedophile

Normally I ignore hostile or pre-judgmental asks on the off chances I get them, but I'll make exception for this one because it seems like a good opportunity for some much needed nuance-- also because I get this person's disgust, I really do.

But you, my fella, must understand that this isn't about the morality or even lack thereof behind dark fictional content, at all. You must realize that wanting dark and taboo fictional content (yes including that one you mentioned) not being allowed to exist actually does nothing to improve or protect irl lives, much on the contrary actually. No, I don't think there's any possible moral reason behind fictional cp content (nor do I find it 'ok',) but once again, this isn't about morality.

Please take a moment to read this thread (it words this topic better than me) then think it over. Trust me, it's a better use of your time than annoying ppl online with words you can't even bother standing up for with your name/face.

#like yeah i get your kneejerk reaction n outrage #but you must not let your disgust alone call for morality esp with fictional content #believe me i dont like pedophiliac fiction and wouldnt want to engage or come across it personally #and i def dont think it should just be posted wherever without abandon without the proper trigger/content warnings filters tags #or outside the proper spaces #if the contrary happens the problem isnt the dark theme itself existing but an INDIVIDUAL problem of the author being forgetful at best #or an asshole at worst #but i understand this kind of content has to be safe to exist when properly handled even if i dont like it nor would look at it #bc if you allow censorship even the tiniest margin there it will never ever just stop or stay there #it will 100% of the time always try to spread and take more #you dont need to engage or like or even agree with dark content at all!#but you must understand that either even the darkest and most grotesque and disgusting type of fic is safe to exist #or NO forms of fiction are truly safe to exist at all #yes even the fictional content you'd deem pure and kid-friendly could be at risk then #anon #anonymous #jellycream answers #psa #idk what other tags should be here im drawing a blank srry

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soundwavemain · 1 year

Text

Hold Your Heart In My Hands

A JazzWave fic requested by @fanficmaniatic | @karday

General content warning for blood and tending to an injury.

In the surveillance room, Soundwave often found solace from his rowdy compatriots. No one bothered to step foot inside, not even his cassettes who were frankly too nosy for their own good. If anyone did accidentally enter the infamous surveillance room, they were subject to an interrogation from the Decepticon’s intimidating communications officer. Soundwave wasn’t stupid–he knew that not many aboard the Nemesis truly enjoyed his company. They were too put off by his stilted speech, his silent E.M. field, and his blank stare to attempt any friendly banter let alone stumble upon his secret sanctuary.

Of course, the surveillance room was the one place on the Nemesis that didn’t have any cameras monitoring it. Not even the hallway directly outside the door had a screen to display movement. With three vents leading to the room and how much time Soundwave spent inside it, it would be embarrassingly easy to off such an important member of Decepticon high command. Not that Soundwave was worried. He could handle almost anyone among their ranks and it wasn’t like the Autobots had enough gall to attack their vessel.

A tiny noise filtered through one of the vents. Soundwave stared at it as the sound of metal against metal slowly increased in volume until the vent cover popped off with a resounding slam! He sighed, covering his visor with his servo. Another clang echoed in the room as something much heavier than a vent cover landed on the floor. Soundwave dragged his servo across his faceplate. He should’ve erased the mech’s damn memory of this route. It would’ve been simple enough to restrain him, open up his helm, pick apart his processor to locate and lock the strain in his core files.

Instead, Soundwave snapped at the mech on his floor, “Jazz: not welcome here.”

Jazz smirked at Soundwave. He moved so his spinal strut rested against the wall. “C’mon, mech. You didn’t say that last time–”

“Jazz: desist,” Soundwave hissed to the spy’s amusement.

They both knew there would be no removing Jazz by physical means before he wanted to leave. Soundwave turned back to his wall of monitors. If Jazz insisted on staying, then Soundwave needed to do his best to ignore him. His optics followed the movements on the screens. Skywarp was testing her teleportation limits with Shockwave, Rumble and Frenzy were running from an oil-slicked Starscream, Shadow Striker raced through the halls, narrowly dodging mechs walking through the hallways, Hook removed a rogue missile from Vortex’s chassis–

A sharp tug at Soundwave’s processor nearly made him fall forward from the sudden abrasiveness of it. He managed to stay upright but his frame locked up. The pull dissipated to a weak pulse of energy. Soundwave had felt sensations much stronger than it many times outside the surveillance room. A damaged mech on the battlefield automatically requesting medical aid from a grievous injury, a cassette shot down while performing reconnaissance–they always released a distressing field to garner pity from nearby mechs.

Soundwave whipped around to stare down at Jazz who, while not under the Decepticon’s watchful gaze, had let his faceplate slip into a grimace. All at once, Soundwave realized Jazz’s E.M. field loosened from its tight shield held close to the mech’s plating and it was suddenly too difficult to ignore. The third in command moved without conscious thought, dropping to kneel beside the Autobot that had invaded the Nemesis time and time again.

“Jazz: injured?” Soundwave tried cautiously.

He had seen the other mech on the battlefield enough times to know that Jazz acted like a cybercat when hurt–he’d slink off when no one was paying attention to tend to his own wounds.

Once, in the aftermath of a particularly brutal battle, Soundwave went searching for a cassette that had gone missing in the fray. Instead, he had found Jazz splayed out on the ground with a giant chunk of his spinal strut sparking, incapable of movement. He could’ve terminated the mech–no one had ever caught the elusive Jazz with his guard down–but when Soundwave raised his blaster, Jazz merely tilted his helm back. As if the matter of deactivation was beyond him.

It irked him. It set off alarms across his HUD. Yet…

Soundwave had healed Jazz that day. Behind a cracked rock, Soundwave welded some wires closed–a butchered job at field medicine but it allowed the Autobot to crawl back to a real medic.

Now, Jazz winced, tilting his helm away. “Hope that offer’s still on the table. Even though we’re not… you know.”

Soundwave sighed in exasperation. Leave it to Jazz to use the worst words to describe their–don’t call it a relationship, it’s not a damned courtship–liaison. That was worse. He grabbed at Jazz’s arm, popping a piece of armor off to reveal the medical ports hidden beneath.

“Hey.” Jazz attempted to pull his arm back but his strength was waning. “Not even gonna offer a mech some energon first?”

Yes, Soundwave thought bitterly as he jammed one of his plugs into Jazz’s medical port, this was definitely worse. He ignored the other mech’s comments as he called upon the frame’s diagnostic data. His HUD lit up in an instant with notifications. He went through them, noting any concerning input before coming across a notice flashing red across his visor. A laceration in the upper chassis caused by rapid and continued movement jostling an embedded–

“You were shot?” Soundwave suddenly hissed, surprise overriding his vocalizer patch. He tried to look at Jazz in the optics but the spy kept avoiding his gaze. “Jazz: found by Decepticons?” His processor ran a mile a minute, formulating scenarios that would end in this exact outcome. He had never asked what brought the spy to his surveillance room that one fateful night, what kept him coming back for more, out of respect for both their sensitive jobs, but now Soundwave couldn’t help but wonder who among his ranks shot his–

“Not a Decepticon,” Jazz hissed. “An Autobot.”

“Oh.” That silenced Soundwave’s processor for a moment. Then it only piqued his interest. “Autobots: subject to insubordination?”

If the Autobots began attacking their own, they might be even easier to fell in a sweep led by Starscream should Megatron allow it…

A digit tapped Soundwave’s helm, bringing him back to the conversation. Right. Jazz was injured. And Soundwave was already planning the Autobots’ demise. He reset his vocalizer to ensure it didn’t needlessly glitch out on him again.

Before he had a chance to say anything, Jazz smirked at him and asked, “Soundwave: apologetic?”

The Decepticon couldn’t help the way his pauldrons hiked in his embarrassment. It was a far cry from a perfect mimicry of his voice but it didn’t need to be to get the point across. Instead of deigning Jazz with a proper response, he finally located the bullet wound and dug his digits in. Jazz hissed, batting at his arm.

“Easy, mech.”

“Jazz: not easy,” Soundwave mocked. He pressed his free servo against the other mech’s collar faring as his digits searched for the bullet.

It felt odd to be sticking his servo somewhere so close to Jazz’s spark, like an uncomfortable pinch to his sensornet’s common stimuli. This close, he couldn’t ignore the normally silent spy. Not just his words–Jazz’s entire frame seemed to work under the assumption that no one was authorized to listen to it. So the freed E.M. field, the frantic and nonsensical thought processes filtering through his audials, were… odd to say the least. He couldn’t mention it aloud, though. Knowing the intelligence officer, he’d scare the poor mech away by mentioning any of his internal functions.

Soundwave’s digits knocked against something. He checked Jazz’s faceplate and when he didn’t contort it any more than it already was, Soundwave grasped the object. It was small, solid–the bullet. As he began to remove it, Jazz’s servo covered his. He paused, staring at the Autobot’s blank visor. “Bullet: needs to be removed. Frame nanites cannot begin self-healing with alien object obstructing their–”

Jazz gritted his dentae to ignore the pain. “If that bullet comes out, you’re gonna have worse problems than a dead Autobot on your hands.”

“Earth slang,” Soundwave tutted.

At that, Jazz grinned. “This Earth slang got pretty far with you, didn’t it?”

Soundwave twisted his digits. “Desist,” he ordered.

“Scrap. I got the message, mech.” Jazz pushed at Soundwave’s arm. They were still attached. Somehow, that was more embarrassing than being servo-deep in the mech’s chassis. “‘s a tracking bullet.”

The Decepticon froze. An Autobot shot Jazz with a tracking bullet. An Autobot shot Jazz with a tracking bullet. Soundwave’s frame moved subconsciously, pressing the blaster he kept tucked away in his subspace against Jazz’s mandible. The barrel forced Jazz to tilt his helm back. He batted at Soundwave’s arm like he wasn’t being held at gunpoint. Like Soundwave wasn’t flinging his energon everywhere.

“Relax,” Jazz insisted, hissing low. “It won’t send a locator beacon.” He pushed at Soundwave’s arm–not the one aiming a gun at his helm. No. The one still forming a medical connection between the two mechs. “My security protocols deactivated my internal locator beacon millennia ago. Which means,” he drawled, visor flickering, “the bullet’s signal is blocked as long as it’s in my frame.”

It made sense, Soundwave reasoned with all of his processing that still argued to kill Jazz–annihilate the enemy, the threat to his cassettes. He shook his helm. Those logic strains were based on irrational emotions. It wouldn’t do him well to give them any credence. Still, his blaster remained where it was. “Jazz: true purpose for coming here. Answer now.”

Usually, anyone–Autobot and Decepticon–trembled at the rumble in Soundwave’s glyphs when he took on a threatening tone. Under normal circumstances, the Decepticon’s third in command could paint fear in the spark of any mech he spoke to.

Jazz was not an average mech.

His servo tugged at Soundwave’s, pulling it closer to his chassis. “Gonna make me say it, huh.” He wasn’t asking. He knew. Soundwave wasn’t the type of mech to do anything unless he was asked and he would make Jazz ask. “You’ve got those seismic waves, right? I’ve seen you use them on the battlefield. Destroyed everything in your path.” He pressed Soundwave’s servo flat against his wound. “Think you can focus that right here for me?”

Soundwaves were catastrophic weapons. They could deactivate an entire squadron of mechs in a matter of kliks. Soundwave only used the trick when under extreme stress, when he believed he had nothing left to lose. He attempted to separate himself from Jazz. “Seismic waves: incredibly damaging.”

But Jazz didn’t seem to comprehend the magnitude of his request. He pressed forward, clutching Soundwave’s servo. “When used by a random mech, sure. You’re not just anybody, Sounds.” His glyphs turned to a soft buzzing static as he said the Decepticon’s designation. It left Soundwave checking to see if the noise had knocked his gyros off kilter. “C’mon. You can focus that power here, can’t you?”

“Jazz: requires medical assistance,” Soundwave tried instead. He couldn’t escape Jazz’s iron-clad grip on his servo but knew that if Jazz persisted, it wouldn’t end well. He could deactivate him. “Soundwave: incapable of completing request.”

“Hey,” came Jazz’s gentle voice. Soundwave silently cursed how the tender intonation made it so his spark eased in its casing. The Autobot reached for his other servo, the one holding the blaster. It fell with a clatter as Jazz slid his digits across his palm and intertwined their digits. “Use that big, beautiful processor of yours. I know you’re still searching through our connection. You’ve gotta be able to see my spark readings. What do they say?”

Despite the uneasiness that continued to plague Soundwave’s field, he listened to Jazz. It was simple enough to pull the information from their link. His visor dimmed as the readings filled his HUD.

He froze.

Although Jazz was suffering from an injury, trapped under the stress from energon loss, his spark spun at an even pace. Soundwave’s visor brightened to the image of Jazz’s calm faceplate.

“I trust you, Soundwave.”

Oh.

And wasn’t that just a terrifying thing? Soundwave held his enemy’s life in his servos. He didn’t even want to take it–what kind of Decepticon was he? He stared at where his servo still covered Jazz’s wound, then at the rapidly dimming blue visor.

“Soundwave: will try,” he said slowly.

The smile Jazz threw his way sent his spark spinning again. He busied himself by building up seismic waves to the speed of his spark. A low, constant hum filled the surveillance room as the waves traveled through his arm. He increased the force, the hum turning into a deep, plating-rattling rumble. Multiple pop-ups filled his HUD. He cleared them before they could convince him to stop. The bullet was deteriorating from the collisions. Soundwave could do this. He could do this for Jazz. Red flashed across his optics as he doubled down. They only needed to hold out just a bit longer. He watched the last pieces of the tracking bullet evaporate, entering Jazz’s fuel lines to be discarded.

Soundwave did it.

He saved Jazz.

“Jazz–!”

The glyphs turned into a frenzied static as Soundwave finally looked at Jazz’s grey visor. All too suddenly, the sensation of the other mech’s limp grip registered to Soundwave’s overtaxed processor. An odd, warbled noise echoed in the surveillance room. It took him a moment to realize that the sound came from him.

“Jazz,” he whispered, leaning close to the other mech.

There wasn’t the comforting thrum of a spark easing into a normal spin rate, no readings going into the green as Jazz’s frame finally relaxed while its nanites worked to repair him–only silence.

“Jazz,” he tried again. “Jazz: respond.”

Nothing.

“Jazz,” his glyphs were basically static at that point, cracking from the force on his vocalizer, “respond.”

It felt like a cacophony of sensations–the hum of mechs speaking through the monitors, the constant buzz of the equipment, the erratic vents coming from Soundwave. He had to do something. But what? He was a communications officer. He managed surveillance. He couldn’t even perform basic field medicine, let alone reactivate a terminated mech.

“Jazz,” Soundwave sobbed.

His digits dug into the wound, energon already congealing at the opening. He hoped for a curse, a swat from the other mech’s servo for the harsh treatment. He searched through their medical link for any readings. The only reports that came up were the last spark notes, the speed of its spin, how it abruptly stopped–

Soundwave froze. He read the report, then read it again. Jazz’s spark skipped then skittered to a stop when Soundwave amped up his waves. Perhaps… he could use his waves to jumpstart Jazz’s spark.

It had to work.

It had to.

The release for Jazz’s chestplates was easy to find through their link. They opened with a hiss from the hydraulics already beginning to seize. Inside lay his spark–bright white, nearly blinding, but starting to dull by the klik. Soundwave pressed both his servos against it, wincing at the heat it gave off and the way Jazz’s arm came along with his. He released his seismic waves just as he had done before. His optics searched frantically for some sort of physical sign that it was working. When there was nothing, he searched through their connection. Jazz’s spark was stagnating–not brightening, not turning dull. Soundwave increased the power of his waves, ignoring the sound of their armor rattling against protoform.

And–

Frame reboot: successful.

Running diagnostics.

On instinct, Jazz dismissed the scans. His processor ached and the screenings usually didn’t tell him anything he couldn’t feel for himself.

Reinitializing diagnostic scans.

Now that was odd…

Jazz searched through his HUD for what was overriding his commands and found a basic connection formed between his medical ports and another mech. His processor lagged for a moment as it attempted to form the necessary logic strains to figure out what happened.

That’s when one hundred percent of the past however long hit him like a semi–Optimus had apologized for cycles after but, scrap, it still ached in his pelvic joints–

Jazz groaned. His helm fell back, clanging against the wall. “Pitslag. ‘s like Volcanicus stepped on me…” A firm weight shuffled in his lap. When he onlined his optics, he met Soundwave’s bright yellow gaze. “Hey, Sounds. I’m ‘nna guess everything went well.”

At first, Soundwave said nothing. Just kept his unwavering gaze set on Jazz’s faceplate. Then he raised a servo and pressed it against Jazz’s mandible, soft to start then firm once he realized Jazz wasn’t going to leave. A creaky, frail noise came from his vocalizer. All at once, he pressed forward, pulling Jazz closer.

“Jazz: functioning,” he whispered over and over again.

He pressed his mask to Jazz’s faceplate. It left the spy quite thrown for a loop. Jazz tried to turn and face Soundwave but was stopped by the Decepticon’s mouth on his–when’d he even lower his mask? His frame froze, hydraulics seizing with a whine. Soundwave was kissing him.

Soundwave was kissing him.

Since when–

Subconsciously, Jazz shook his helm. He wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth–earth slang–and offlined his optics. His arms came around Soundwave’s middle, his digits fitting into the grooves along the Decepticon’s spinal strut. The divide between his chassis and Soundwave’s was nonexistent, held together as they were. A ping came up on his HUD that he had finally reached an optimum internal temperature after rebooting. When Soundwave pulled away, Jazz felt dazed, confused. He didn’t bother to online his optics.

“You gotta tell me what happened.”

Soundwave slipped closer. “Request: later?”

“Later,” Jazz agreed. “Later.”

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