#I worry that they just kind of had an idea for a generic slick criminal 'villain on a leash'type character and put loki in the slot

[iamnmbr3]

I know this once again seems nitpicky. but. why does loki even know how to tie a tie? I mean. they don’t wear them on Asgard. and loki can use magic to change or remove his clothing. and he’s a prince who grew up with servants. 

just another way the show feels off. 

#yeah sure he could've learned for some reason. but it just feels like they didn't put that much thought into things #or into understanding Loki's uniqueness. #I worry that they just kind of had an idea for a generic slick criminal 'villain on a leash'type character and put loki in the slot #rather than actually trying to write loki realistically in that world or bothering to think about the ways his past informs his character #but I dearly dearly hope I am wrong. I want the show to be good and I want to enjoy it. #I'd rather have a bad trailer and a great show then a great trailer that gets my hopes up only for the show to be bad #loki tv series #loki series negativity #Marvel #MCU #Marvel ridiculousness #random musings

[ransomedrogue]

Tales of Woe - Scenes from S1

well... this was taking forever so just gonna leave it here and say it’s done? as always, it ended up longer than intended, then I wasn’t going to include all the scenes then I thought well it’s all written anyhow so, may as well...

1.18

It seemed like ages until the scene was secure and documented; there was so much to deal with between the dead art thief and his house full of stolen treasures.

As usual, Weller was running the show so Jane had little to do except keep an eye on the irritating criminal who had gotten them all involved in the unlikely scheme. Which was enough of a task in itself, as Rich had started jabbering again, once he'd gotten over the shock of seeing the damaged painting.

"That was a pretty slick move you guys pulled off back there, even if it did almost destroy a priceless piece of art," he commented.

"All that silent communication, interpreting body language, talking with the eyes stuff, if you will. That is 100% my jam."

"Especially in the heat of the moment, with lives on the line. You two must have worked together a long time to read each other that well."

Jane flashed Rich the fiercest glare she could manage, while simultaneously checking around to see if Allie was within earshot. Although she knew he was just trying to rile them all up by getting underneath their skin, it was hard not to feel tense whenever he opened his mouth.

Even when she kind of liked what he was saying.

Jane shook her head mentally as she felt her stomach swim with conflicted emotions. She wanted what was best for Kurt, and Allie seemed to be a perfect fit. No matter how much it hurt to see another woman in his life, she knew it couldn't be her place. Not with everything she was hiding from him; all that she really was.

And yet she hadn't entirely hated Rich's commentary, said just loudly enough that she and Allie could overhear him at the doorway.

Tell me again why you're with Allie? When Jane's the one you look to first whenever anything goes wrong, or goes right for that matter?

Weller hadn't even denied it, and that was another thing altogether.

"You realize you do it too, right?"

Jane snapped out of her reverie and turned her head back towards Rich, doing her best to appear uninterested in whatever he was about to say.

"You're always watching him, checking in. Like he's your responsibility."

"I mean, I get it. You're like partners and all. That intense bond between cops, that's actually one of my fetishes, unlikely as it might seem…"

"Shut up, Rich," Jane growled, unwilling to let him go any further into his thought.

Of course she didn't bother to tell him that they weren't partners in any sense of the word and had not been working together for long at all. Especially not when they'd first encountered the mouthy criminal, when they'd supposedly had so much chemistry.

It was true though. No matter how much she'd tried to shrug it off, she'd felt it. The way he touched her; even back then. It had seemed so easy, and right. Just like how they did look to each other first, whenever something happened.

She'd never even questioned it, the way in which she and Weller worked so perfectly in sync. It had just always been the way between them, even way back at the start when he'd trusted in her abilities more than she did.

"Okay, okay, sorry, I just thought it'd be a good chance to put it out there, seeing as how you're definitely not pining over Stubbles, and we have some chemistry too. I mean not like the way it is between you two of course. But if he's not willing to see what he has, then…"

"Rich!"

Allie was walking by and gave him a solid death stare before closing her eyes tiredly and striding away. Jane exhaled irritably in Rich's ear, hoping it would at least keep him quiet until the Marshal was out of earshot again.

"She looks like she has a headache," Rich mused. "She should probably get that checked out; you should see the studies on concussions coming out these days. I mean I'd be pretty worried if my girlfriend got knocked out like that."

Jane frowned, both in concern at Allie's head and at Rich's implication. Weller had checked on Allie right away, as soon as he could. But then she thought about the conversation that had followed, where Allie had said she was seeing two of him.

At the time Jane had just assumed it was mostly a joke, a way to shrug off the injury. It was something she would do herself, in an attempt to throw off Weller's overprotectiveness.

But then Kurt had taken Allie at her word and had gotten right back to work. He hadn't even demanded that she get checked out by a doctor, or tried to tell her to rest while he dealt with the scene.

Jane couldn't help but remember all the times she'd been forced into the medical room by him, after taking much smaller hits than the one that had left Allie unconscious. Maybe Weller just felt he couldn't tell Allie what to do because she worked for another agency and wasn't under his command. And yet she knew that wasn't it.

"I'm sure Allie's fine," Jane said, scowling in an attempt to deter any more comments.

Rich nodded sagely, as if agreeing with her. But of course he still didn't shut up.

"I'm sure she is," he mused. "I mean, Weller's her man and he doesn't seem worried at all."

Of course both Weller and Allie came within hearing range at that moment, making Jane close her eyes in dismay. No matter what she did, Rich's non-stop commentary wouldn't stop.

"I'm sure he'd be just the same if you were showing obvious signs of brain trauma."

Jane groaned inwardly as Kurt stepped closer and frowned at Rich's words, before turning towards her and looking into her eyes carefully.

"Did you take a hit I didn't see?" he asked.

"No, I'm fine," Jane sighed. "He's just going on about nothing again."

But of course Rich nudged her with his elbow and raised his eyebrows suggestively as Allie stepped up beside them. And still Kurt's eyes remained on Jane for a long pause before finally accepting that she really was okay.

"Let's get back to the NYO," Weller finally said, sounding annoyed at the situation in general.

"We need to figure out what to do about the damaged painting"

Jane exhaled in relief, glad to get away from the irritation of babysitting Rich. He seemed determined to screw with their heads, and their hearts. And, despite the little twinge of joy she got from hearing the mouthy criminal go on about how she and Kurt should be together, Jane knew that it was wrong. She hated the idea of breaking up Weller's relationship, especially because Oscar had tasked her with just that. Kurt deserved to have someone that was as great as Allie seemed to be; someone who could make him happy.

She had to find a way to tell him.

Even if it ended up being as awkward as it played out in her head.

###

Allie Knight walked out of the conference room at the NYO, fuming on so many levels. Getting played by Rich Dotcom after agreeing to his wild scheme and dealing with his 'insightful' comments all day was already making her a little crazy. And then there was Kurt.

He'd been pissing her off since that morning. The worst part was he was completely oblivious to it; had no idea he'd done anything wrong.

Which in turn made her even more mad. And maybe a little bit sad.

It had been going so well, or so she had thought. He'd even invited her to meet his dad, an unbelievable occurrence in more than one way.

But you knew, Allie told herself. You asked and he answered.

What's the deal between you and Jane?

That is not what this is about.

But obviously it was, even if he somehow couldn't see it.

She couldn't even be pissed off at Jane, who seemed to be doing everything she could to stay out of their relationship. Surprisingly, Allie actually kind of liked the other woman, despite her obvious effect on Kurt.

But the way he looked at her and acted around her. That wasn't the Kurt Weller Allie knew. That was some other man, full of emotion and a softness she didn't recognize at all.

Their relationship was still mostly based on mental and physical release; which was why the invitation to family dinner had seemed like a big step. But even though she'd come over and met his dad, Allie had always had the sense that she'd never really know all of him. Weller would always be that guy with her; good-hearted and fun but emotionally guarded. Yet it was obvious that he wasn't like that with Jane.

She could feel him walking out of the room just behind her and knew it was time to make a choice. He'd shown his hand, with far too many tells.

When she'd walked in on them that morning, it wasn't so much that Jane was hugging him. It was that Kurt had let himself be so emotionally vulnerable in front of her; crying while letting himself be held. And it had been pretty clear that they would have been there for awhile if she hadn't interrupted.

If she'd hugged him, of course he would have accepted it too. But a little stiffly and definitely with dry eyes; as if trying not to take too much comfort from it. He would have been her Kurt, so desperate to remain in control of his feelings that he buried them deep and pretended they weren't there.

Allie sighed, knowing what she had to do and yet still a little reluctant to let go. It had already been a shit day, right from that awkward moment in the locker room onwards. Goddamned Rich and his stupid escapades and his never-ending spiel of comments.

She was pissed at herself for letting him win, both in his plot and in his head games. But Allie had to admit he'd really only vocalized what had been itching at her the entire time. Kurt did look to Jane first, and worry about her more than anyone else. It was impossible not to see when around them.

"All right, so we gonna wash the day away with some nice scotch?" Weller asked.

Allie turned and swallowed back the last of her regret.

"I think I'm gonna pass," she replied.

"Why?" Kurt asked, reaching out for her.

"Hang on."

Allie sighed internally as she stopped and faced him. He really had no idea.

"Because of what Rich said on the roof?" Weller asked.

"He was just trying to throw us all off balance."

"It's not about what he said, all right. It's about what I saw," Allie retorted, feeling all of her annoyance ball up in her throat.

"And what'd you see?"

Did he really not understand how it looked from the outside? Especially to the people who knew him the best. Or even to the criminal who'd only met them twice.

"That there's something between you and Jane, okay?" Allie stated.

"I don't know what it is, and I don't know if you know what it is. But don't make me feel crazy by pretending it's not there."

To his credit, Weller didn't try and argue. Just stood there dumbstruck as Allie declared that she needed some space and strode off before the sadness kicked in.

Walking away, she felt both lighter and heavier all at once.

Even if he didn't know it, she'd confirmed that day what she'd always suspected - that she'd never have all of his heart. It was entirely possible he was lying to himself about how he felt; she knew those Kurt Weller walls and his ability to burrow behind them. But she couldn't lie to herself anymore.

So she wasn't going to let him hide behind her anymore, use her as a way to avoid the truth that they all could see. He was in love with Jane and couldn't keep his eyes off of her. Even if he couldn't admit it to himself.

It stung a little but not as much as Allie thought. Every step forward in their relationship had been a struggle, and now she understood why. Seeing him with Jane was like being around a different man.

Now it was just time for both of them to accept it and move on.

###

"I don't know what it is, and I don't know if you know what it is. But don't make me feel crazy by pretending it's not there."

He hadn't denied it because she was right of course. Well, and also because he'd been a bit stunned; somehow hadn't seen it coming at all. Even after dealing Rich's comments all day, Weller thought Allie's skin would have been thicker. But then her words sank in and he forced himself to actually look at his behaviour.

What Kurt realized was he'd been doing his best to pretend that none of it existed. All the ways Jane made him feel, every time he looked to her first. After he'd declared her off limits in his own mind, he'd tried so hard to treat her the same as everyone else. And obviously failed miserably at it, as pointed out by the annoyingly observant Rich Dotcom.

So Weller hadn't examined what it was, or put words to it. But, then again, it wasn't like he didn't know. Jane made him feel things that were entirely new, all the time. The emotions he'd gone through in the relatively short while that she'd been in his life were so intense, sometimes he was completely overwhelmed by them.

Kurt watched Allie walk away, feeling bad about the situation in various ways. He thought he'd been successfully avoiding the mistakes of the past with her. But he knew she was right too. He wasn't being honest with himself or with her.

Weller walked down the hall in a daze, angry and sad and everything in between. They'd gotten played by a smart-mouthed crook and then he'd gotten dumped. Oh, and his dad was dying.

He really needed that scotch.

"Hey, are you okay?"

His neck tingled at the sound of her voice and his head snapped up to meet concerned eyes.

"Fine," Weller deflected, feeling his heart rate start to amp up. She'd caused him so much stress that day and yet none of it was her fault at all.

"Um, I'm sorry about today," Jane said, a bit timidly. "I wish he would have just shut up."

He shook his head, having had the same thought the entire mission. He would have given anything to close the whole thing down and send the mouthy criminal back to maximum security. But he also couldn't get Rich's words out of his head.

"Tell me again why you're not with Jane?"

"Some would say it means that you're more worried/excited about her."

"Life's too short, Jane. Follow your heart. Tell Weller how you feel."

Now though, the irritation at having a criminal comment far too astutely on his love life had mostly seeped out. But that meant Kurt was just left standing there with the obvious truth in Rich's words still ringing in his mind; all while Jane was standing in front of him looking too worried for his liking.

How did she feel?

And why did his heart thump even harder just at the thought?

"He was just trying to mess with us," Weller said. "Don't worry about it."

"None of this is your fault."

Jane's expression lost a little of that guilty edge, and she offered him a small smile, as if she was trying her best to believe him.

He wanted to deflect her attention from that line of thought, trying to put it out of his own head too. Searching for another topic to focus on, his mind traitorously turned back to that morning, where he'd broken down in front of her and found himself crying in her arms.

The comfort he'd found within them had been immediate and somehow familiar; even though he normally felt awkward accepting hugs. Even now he was somehow okay with how much emotion he'd shown her and how soothing it had felt to be held by her.

He wanted that comfort right now too, for her to hold him and tell him everything was going to be okay. Of course he didn't give in to that inclination but it gave him an inspiration; a way to distract both of them from the day they'd just had.

"Hey, I'm about to head to the hospital to see my dad. Do you want to come?"

Jane's eyes lit up at the idea, like she was so happy to be able to do something for him. And Weller couldn't deny how it felt in his chest, seeing a shy hopeful grin tug at her lips as she nodded eagerly.

He hated that Rich was right. He did look to her first.

And it seemed like the entire world already knew why.

###

The entire day had been so incredibly awkward. Yet slipping her hand into his and tucking their fingers together felt so normal and comforting. And when Weller returned her tentative squeeze with a more forceful one, Jane finally remembered to breathe.

For a long moment they just stood there silently, and Jane could see that Kurt was doing his best to contain his emotions but they continued to spill out. He'd been so thankful to her for visiting his dad, which felt good in a way. But then there was the lie.

She felt so guilty. And yet, the little lie had made him so happy. The look on his face when she said she'd remembered. It broke her heart.

So there she was, standing there with his hand in hers, wishing she never had to let go. That he could be hers.

Tell Weller how you feel.

There was so much she wanted to tell him that she couldn't. Especially now, when he was with Allie and his dad was dying. What would she tell him anyways? That she had plotted all this, planted herself in his life and had known it for weeks now but not told him. Oh and I'm in love with you, that too.

She'd tried to tell him just the opposite, in the most awkward way she could come up with. She still cringed thinking about it.

So Jane just stayed silent until Kurt let go and started to set up an emotional wall.

"I should take you home," he said, staring at his feet.

"You can stay, I can make my own way back," she said, sensing he was on the verge of something he didn't want to share.

"No, I don't want…" he stammered.

"It's hard to be here alone and he's going to be out for awhile now."

She wanted to reach for him again but held back. He wasn't hers, she had to remember that.

"Okay, let's go then," Jane said.

Weller was distant, a little lost looking on the way back to the car. She wondered what he was thinking about, if he wanted to talk about it.

He isn't yours she reminded herself again. He had someone to talk to if he needed to.

And yet when they sat in the car and he was still so quiet, it was all she could do not to physically reach for him. He kept glancing over but didn't say anything, and she couldn't think of anything that didn't sound trite.

When they got to her safe house, he insisted on seeing her in even though she told him it wasn't necessary. At the door, she turned and he was giving her an undefinable look.

"Are you going to be okay?"

Weller turned his head quickly, wearing that same sad frown that made him look so vulnerable. But then he reshaped his features, attempting a small smile but not quite succeeding.

"Yeah, it's just been a long day, and not a very good one," he muttered.

"I know… I'm sorry," she started, feeling the need to apologize for everything going so wrong at the penthouse party.

"No, you did everything you could," he said. "We should have never let him set any of this up."

He shook his head and looked so weary.

"It's just been hard. I messed it all up. I should… I need… "

Weller sputtered a bit, losing his words again. And just the same as that morning, Jane instinctively reached for him, wrapping her arms around him.

He was shuddering a little and she pulled him close, wishing she really could tell him how she felt. Instead, she was just offering him some comfort, for whatever his unspoken need might be.

After awhile she realized he was crying into her shoulder, at about the same time he came to that realization as well.

"Shit, I'm sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean to…"

"Shhh, it's okay," she soothed. "You can let it out, I won't tell anyone."

He laughed against her, then cried some more. And Jane had to admit she wanted nothing else than to keep on holding him, telling him everything was alright.

So for that moment at least, she did.

I love you Kurt Weller, she thought. And I want to hold onto you forever.

That's what Rich would want me to say.

#blindspot #blindspot fanfic #blindspot rewatch #s1fic #i wrote this

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Hopelessness of Wanting [Part 4]

<- Part 3

Frederick Chilton x Reader 

Warnings: NSFW. 18+ only! Suicidal thoughts. Nonconsensual blowjob, dubcon smut with reader (gender-neutral). None of the smut in this chapter is healthy! Two messed up people falling in love, only one is a lot more abusive than the other (Chilton. It’s Chilton). Reader is not in the healthiest of mind states to interpret their relationship. Everyone more or less gets what they deserve by the end.

6,400 words

Red morning light flooded into the bedroom through expansive panoramic windows that gave a spectacular view over the bay. Dr. Chilton—no, Frederick—was still beside you, rolled onto his back, snoring lightly. The bed was warm and smelled like him. A spicy, timeless fragrance. Expensive and a little off-putting at first whiff, until it melted into something complex and beautiful.

You felt hollow. Numb. Like you could float away or sink to the bottom of the ocean and never claw your way back out again. But calmer, at least. The impulse to hurt yourself was gone.

The negativity that had been devouring you from within had been washed away by a flood of tears and joy—crying until your eyes burned and your throat was hoarse, fucking your boss, going home with him, and then falling asleep crying again while he held you.

This morning, you had nothing left except static.

And there was Frederick Chilton, asleep beside you like a dreaming titan—the silhouette of his body beautiful and ominous. You resisted the urge to cuddle up next to him. He reacted badly to being touched without warning, and besides, you dreaded waking him up. What if he wasn’t happy? What if everything from last night was a mistake?

It all seemed surreal. That he had wanted you all along was too good to be true. Now that he had you, you were certain to be a disappointment. Your chest heaved unexpectedly, and you bit back a fresh sob. Suddenly your face was wet again.

Your nerves were so raw.

The peaceful static buzzing through your mind was fragile. Any sudden movement or loud thought might set you spiraling back down that hole again. You’re just going to screw this up, just like you screw everything up. Maybe it would have been better if you’d just gone through with it—saved everyone the inevitable heartache.

But if you had gone through with it, you never would have found out that Frederick returned your feelings. That knowledge—that something wonderful happened after your planned date of expiration—was reason enough not to try again. Sometimes good things happened. Things could change. Things could get better, and you could be happy again. You had to believe that.

So you moved slowly, and thought quietly. You listened to Frederick’s breathing in and out, and remained wrapped in the warm cocoon of blankets.

***

On the spectrum of touch aversion, Frederick Chilton was hardly a dramatic case. There was a Mr. Walton in his custody at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane who was imprisoned for murdering his four-year-old daughter because she would not stop hugging his calves as he walked by. Restraining the man for treatment required four muscular orderlies prepared for him to kick and bite at the slightest grazing of his skin.

That was touch aversion. Dr. Chilton considered himself perfectly normal by comparison.

He was able to shake hands with an acquaintance, hug a close friend or relative when social normalcy dictated he offer one, and even engage in sexual intercourse when his libido overrode his discomfort. As a man with a very high libido and next to no dating life, sex won out at every opportunity.

Yesterday, the hasty, frantic encounter with you in the medicine storage closet had been almost fully clothed. His hands explored your body as he rutted into you, but yours were braced against the tile wall, passive.

It was impersonal, and he was in control.

This morning, he awoke wrapped in the warmth of your body heat after you spent the night in his bed. In his home. He fell asleep watching you and awoke to you watching him thrashing out of a nightmare, your eyes full of so much emasculating pity that he lunged forward at once to kiss the look off your face.

Fuck—he did not know what he was thinking. A muffled noise of surprise escaped your crushed lips and then melted into a moan as you reciprocated. You opened compliantly to allow his tongue entrance. He meant to bully away your perception of his weakness with the aggressive kiss—he had not expected you to coil your fingers deep into his hair and pull him closer. Your leg pushed between his, and as he pulled back, panting, you quickly closed the gap and kissed him again.

Your bright floral scent was everywhere, surrounding him, invading the familiarity of his sheets. Your hands were pulling at him, softly caressing up and down his back.

It was intimate.

And he was terrified.

You saw him freezing up, and your hands stopped grabbing at him. Some of his tension evaporated as soon as you gave him space. A worried smile thinned your lips.

“Sorry. I forgot,” you murmured. “Is this better?”

You remembered. This was usually where his bedmate would call him too cold, or roll their eyes in annoyance. There was the usual guilt trip: if he was attracted to them, he would want to be crowded with physical affection. But you asked if he wanted to stop—asked him what he needed. No one had ever done that for him before.

“I am fine,” he swore to your skeptical frown, and it almost wasn’t a lie.

Knowing that you would stop put him at ease. The sunny persona you used at work may have been a forgery, but your gentle kindness was not. With you, he almost was fine.

He kissed you again, this time as tenderly as he had while you were sleeping. Felt you breathe in as his lips met yours, and then melt into him as you breathed out. He caressed your hair, and when your eyes opened again, taking him in, his heart felt full.

***

As a general rule of thumb, it is not a good idea to fuck your boss. This rule goes double when you are in the middle of a mental health crisis, and increases geometrically when said crisis was precipitated by your boss’s callous, condescending, cruel behavior in the first place. Or—that is to say—when your boss is Dr. Frederick Chilton.

But when you wake up in your boss’s bed having already fucked him, he pushes his tongue into your mouth, and the twitching of his erection against your thigh makes you feel alive again, you might as well accept you’re in too deep and go for it.

Dr. Chilton’s cock was already slipping through the open fly of his pajamas, and your hand helped it the rest of the way out. You licked your lips, imagining the weight of him on your tongue, his salty taste filling your mouth. Bracing a hand on one of his thighs, you lowered yourself to the pink dome.

“N-no,” Frederick stammered. “You do not have to do that.”

“I want to,” you hummed, a seductive rumble to your voice.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward once in appreciation for your willingness, but his eyes kept a haunted dullness that told you there was more behind his refusal than politeness. There was a story there, and you knew better than to push it.

You couldn’t have known it was his conscience intruding.

Taking control, he pushed you back down onto the mattress. The sound of lube squeezing from a bottle shortly preceded a cold slickness spread between your legs. You reached for him instinctively, trying to make it romantic, but he pinned your hands down by your side. The crown of his cock pushed against your tight entrance, which burned at the penetration it was unprepared for. It was cold, rushed—but as he canted his hips forward, his fingers laced through yours.

“Oh god,” he moaned as if he were kneeling in prayer, whispering his sins in confession—guttural, yet barely a breath.

You grit your teeth to cage the pained cry that leaped in your throat, stifling it into what passed for a whimper of pleasure. The stretch of his unceremonious insertion was the punishment you deserved for being so dramatic and causing so much trouble yesterday. For making him bring you home, worry about you, feel like he had to take care of you. For being weak. For all the incompetent mistakes. You didn’t complain that your body screamed in protest at being forced open too fast by such a large implement. It wasn’t that bad, and the sensation was mixed with pleasure. Satisfaction of seeing the handsome doctor’s face contorting with lust warmed your stomach, and soon your body relaxed around his cock, warmth pooling and coiling in your lower back.

Chilton’s first thrusts were controlled, experimental, rocking forward by slow inches and then retreating until the crest of his cockhead was barely hanging on to the tight rim of your opening. Then he rocked forward again while his analytical green eyes studied your reaction.

After a few of these slow strokes, the pain was gone. Perhaps he had been cognizant of it, waiting until you were letting out soft moans, your pelvis tilting to meet his, before continuing. Then his leg muscles tightened, and his next thrust slammed his hips into yours, filling you completely. You cried out in unison—his a satisfied growl, and yours a wail like you’d been punched in the gut but got off on it.

He lost his thin facade of control after that, rutting into you with force, pressing sloppy wet kisses over your mouth, down your neck. Your fingers clenched his tightly, your knuckles turning white, and he gripped back just as hard. He only slowed to arch his back so he could tease your nipples into hardened peaks with his tongue, releasing new yelps and whimpers from your throat. A possessive bite drew a more resounding cry of pleasure and a dark bruise.

The only thing restrained about his performance was his voice. After his first shout of pleasure, he grew silent except for a few strained noises that told you how hard he was working to strangle back the others. You wondered what wild howls Dr. Chilton hid within him.

“I want to hear you,” you panted.

His face was a mask of effort, already covered in a sheen of sweat that betrayed his poor physical shape. He stared down at you like an enemy soldier in a trench—a spy picking at his weaknesses—and gave no reply.

A strange sort of bravery born of lust came over you. “I want to hear it when you come inside me,” you challenged.

The rhythmic motion of his hips stuttered, and a moan slipped past his defenses as if by your command.

“That’s good,” you purred. “That’s a good boy.”

Something shifted in his suspicious eyes at your praise. A wall came down. “Yes,” he rasped. “You want to hear it—” his voice was punctuated by a powerful snap of his hips and a wet sound of flesh “—when I fill you with my seed.”

“Fuck—yes. Please. Fill me, come inside me!” your voice shook as you moaned your assent. You were so hollow. You needed him—needed him to fill that emptiness inside. Needed his thick cock splitting you open, punishing you, claiming you.

“When I make you mine.” His eyes were wild, almost frightening in their focus upon you—perfect green tunnels into a soul as volatile as yours. He pounded into you deeper.

And he was loud. He had been loud yesterday when he took you fast and hard against the wall, but that encounter was a blur in your memory. Now his voice was the only music filling your head, replacing the static. He spoke continually in filthy promises and eloquent details of what he wanted to do to you, but his words were punctuated by inarticulate grunts and moans. An aching need built with each primal noise that was so unlike the repressed, cynical Dr. Chilton you knew at work.

Every trembling declaration of your name, every prayer to god that passed his lips sent a shock of arousal to your core, and when he half-begged, half-demanded, “Mine… you are mine,” you couldn’t help but agree.

“Yours!”

You were close, all of your senses lost to an overwhelming need. Chilton released one of your hands and slipped between your legs. Every nerve in your body came alive as he stroked you. Your back arched as you went rigid beneath him, crying out.

His head fell against your shoulder, hips bucking wildly, and he sobbed, “Oh god… yes… yes. Mine… mine… mmm—!”

He shuddered as his warmth flooded you. Though his hand became lazy as his own climax overtook him, you eked out an orgasm from the friction between your bodies. It was enough. Enough to leave a slippery mess on his bedsheets, and enough for the resulting crash.

Your emotional high popped like a soap bubble and left you just as hollow—somehow emptier than before—even with Dr. Chilton’s cock still inside you and his seed filling you. You felt wrong. Guilt churned in the place arousal had been occupying. You almost started to weep as he pulled out of you.

Chilton didn’t seem to notice, glowing with the opposite effect of his completion. He ducked between your legs, grabbed your thighs, and began sucking your overstimulated flesh with renewed enthusiasm.

“Ah! W-wait,” you squirmed in his grasp, but it was firm. “What are you doing? I-I already came!”

The sloppy wet noises paused. His chin was soaked and he took sadistic delight in your distraught whimpers. “Therapy,” he smirked. “I have a theory you have another one in you, and that it will benefit your health.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Be a good little subject for me and try,” he answered, “or we shall be here a long time.” Then he buried his face between your thighs.

It felt sickening at first, like swallowing a cup of sugar—too much of something good that becomes painful. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes as his tongue worked mercilessly. Then his fingers pumped inside you, his slick cum serving as a lubricant, and that aching need began to return. Choked cries of misery dissolved into ones of pleasure. He didn’t stop until you came again in his mouth, legs quivering and bruised under his grip. This one was more powerful than the first—you could feel it through your entire body, in every limb, and when it finally passed and his mouth popped wetly off of you, your body was too leaden to move.

Chilton smiled, quite satisfied with himself, licking your release off his lips.

***

Work was less stressful when you returned to it on Monday. Dr. Chilton was suddenly understanding of your mistakes. Though you were terrified he would decide he was wrong about you—you were too much of an idiot and failure for a relationship—things at least improved to the point that you could pretend to be cheerful again. Fake it until you make it was your mantra.

Everyone could tell something had changed.

Shifts were rationed out fairly without the express aim of frustrating employees. Patients received actual treatment. Dr. Chilton’s mood was so much less spiteful that a new hire unironically called him nice.

“He must be getting laid,” was the rumor around the hospital, though no one could decide who in their right mind would sleep with him. Your grin dropped at an orderly’s suggestion it was a prostitute.

You were gathering up your keys and jacket from your personal locker in the staff room when the sound of expensive leather shoes clicking on the stone floor signaled the doctor’s approach. It no longer made you flinch.

Chilton glanced in from the hallway and, seeing you were not alone, politely said, “Good work today,” and continued on, his step lighter than usual.

“You didn’t,” Nurse Clerval said flatly.

“What?”

“You didn’t,” they repeated. A raised eyebrow caused worry wrinkles to erupt beneath a hairline steadily turning grey.

“Of course not!”

“Then what is all this about?”

Your entire body was shifted in the direction Dr. Chilton had gone as if straining to follow, and a tell-tale smile shaped your lips into a fawning curve. Oh, you were so busted.

“We happened to talk the other day, that’s all. In private.”

“How private?” Another brow raise.

Your cheeks burned. “It’s not like that! He’s shy. When we talked one-on-one, it turns out we get along. He apologized for always singling me out, and he’s just trying to be more supportive. As a management style.”

Clerval stared at you hard. Your chest puffed out, really proud of that lie. The older nurse had seen enough within the hospital walls to know the administrator suddenly adopting a kinder, gentler management style was horseshit. But their jaded heart had not lost all compassion. A young nurse caught fucking the boss would get ripped to pieces by the gossip mill in this vicious place.

“OK. Fine,” they surrendered. “Just don’t go around making googly eyes, or people will get the wrong idea.”

***

A timid knock sounded on Dr. Chilton’s door, although it was still open from his last meeting—a junior psychiatrist who hurried out fuming and near tears. Perhaps that was why the next appointment was hesitant to come in.

He looked up from his computer, and the crankiness entrenched in his bones shook off at the sight of your face. You were his eighth performance evaluation that day, somewhere in the middle of the pack, and he’d lost track. Now his demeanor shifted, and he did something he hadn’t done for the others by rising from his desk to greet you.

“Close the door, if you would,” he said before you got too far into the room.

The latch clicked shut.

You were nervous. Though you had been dating for months, you remained distant during the workweek to avoid scandal—if news of a relationship got back to the board, you might be transferred to another hospital. Alone in his office, it was unclear whether Dr. Chilton was your boss or your boyfriend. Letting you dangle in suspense sent a thrill of excitement up his spine.

“Take a seat. Let’s get started, shall we?” he said, sitting back down behind his computer.

His massive desk was known as “the moat” by his staff, and it created an impersonal distance between you. He eyeballed you from across the moat, tapping his fingers together as he sank into his tall-backed leather chair. You sat on a small wooden chair, feeling very much like a specimen, and focused on the space between his eyes.

“You have been late five times this year and had to have an ID card replaced,” he said in clipped syllables, launching right into the review with one “needs improvement” after another.

Your stomach twisted into a familiar knot, but you managed not to spiral into an attack of self-loathing and anxiety. If you were going to cry, you could hold it until later.

Talking to someone helped.

Even Chilton admitted it was unethical for your boyfriend to be your therapist, and recommended you to someone with more expertise. You had been seeing Dr. Bloom for three months, and the dark fog was slowly receding. She taught you how to beat it back. Finding another job, for example, was not an outrageous, impossible idea if your current one was making you miserable. And most of your mistakes were no worse than the mistakes of your coworkers whom you very much wanted to keep living. She started you on a bupropion prescription that helped stabilize your moods, and you found yourself able to focus better because of it, too.

It also helped not being bullied at work every day.

The more your self-esteem improved over the months, the more you came to resent the shameful way Frederick used to treat you. Yet, as those same months went by, his actions drifted further into the territory of Past Frederick. That man was a stranger now—you could hardly hold Present Frederick accountable for his actions. Present Frederick was attentive and warm, always surprising you with lavish meals from Baltimore’s finest restaurants, spa days, and quiet nights at home. And as your boss, he was aloof but polite whenever he had cause to speak with you.

Why was he acting so cold now?

Dr. Chilton’s green eyes bore into you over the top his computer screen. “Tsk tsk… I am afraid your performance has not been exceptional, nurse. Perhaps there is something you can do to improve what goes into my report…” A thin lecherous smile spread over his lips.

You weren’t sure what he meant until he beckoned you to his side of the moat, and his hand slid under your shirt.

“What are you willing to do for a better evaluation, my little pet?” He winked mischievously, a hint of playfulness lighting his eyes, though his desire was deadly serious.

“We said never at work.”

“Yes, but now we have reason to be locked in my office, alone. Nothing that would raise suspicion. You are all mine for the next twenty minutes.”

A gasp rushed from your lips as his fingers expertly found a nipple and pinched. Your skin prickled with need.

“In that case, doctor… what will it take? I’ll do anything!” You added a desperate tremble to your voice as you got into the role he wanted you to play.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to bend you over this desk?” Frederick growled with lust, his breath hot in your ear as he grabbed your arms and spun you to face it. It had been a fantasy for far longer than you had been dating. His erection pressed against your ass.

You twisted your neck to catch the side of his mouth in a sloppy kiss. He smirked against your tongue before shoving you down.

The flat of his hand trailed up your back, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades to push your cheek into the polished mahogany.

“Good… very good,” he said. His breath shook with excitement.

Pulling your scrubs down, he rubbed the thickness of his cock over your opening. You shuddered at the cold sensation of lubricant and moaned as he reached between your thighs to stroke you.

“You are always ready for me to take you whenever I want it. To do anything I ask. It is my favorite thing about you—did you know that, my needy little pet?”

His hips rocked, the blunt head of his cock circling, pushing at your tightness. You let out a strangled whimper that almost sounded like a, “Yes, Doctor Chilton.”

“Be quiet now, remember,” he chided as his strong fingers dug into your hips and drew them against his in one fluid motion.

A gasp erupted from your throat—you fought to comply as he stretched you open, biting down on your fist. You were so tight around his cock, but it was the rush of power that drove him into a frenzy. He felt so in control, gripping your hips as he pounded you against his large desk. The desk was his own furnishing, and he was proud of how substantial it was—too heavy to scrape across the floor even as he fucked you. No creaking to indicate cheap construction. The height of refinement. Silent. No one would know what was happening just behind the closed door of his office—his domain. He had control here. It was something he was desperate for after two near-fatal attacks left him weakened and helpless, and his office was one of the few places he could exert his will absolutely. His office was his safety. And you. You completed it.

“You’re mine,” he grunted. “So submissive for me, bent over… God, yes—”

The one thing Dr. Chilton desired in life more than control was to be adored, and you adored him. The most pleasant ray of sunshine to grace the BSHCI was secretly broken like him. Was secretly his. All his. He had everything he wanted—your obedience, your affection, your strangled cries as you fought to stay quiet, your body writhing in pleasure beneath him—

He shuddered and came.

He finished sooner than he intended, and awareness of being old and weak came flooding back as his release dripped out around his cock and dribbled down your thighs. Fuck. He fucked it all up. But you turned and wrapped your arms around him anyway, kissed him like you weren’t even disappointed, and made him forget he wasn’t good enough. God, he could get lost in you.

Every day, he was a little less self-conscious. More comfortable having you close. He learned to trust you.

After a life of suffering, you were his happy ending.

***

“I love you.”

You hadn’t said it yet, but you were going to today.

Frederick Chilton’s hand was always in yours wherever you went—under the dinner table, on your thigh in the car, on the couch while the other hand typed away on a laptop. Soon he wouldn’t be able to hide his affection at work. You already caught him nearly slipping up and calling you “pet” in front of another nurse. It wouldn’t be long before it all came out. And it would be alright.

You were already looking at jobs at other hospitals in Baltimore. Most even came with a pay increase. Then when your relationship went public, there would be no scandal, no dating your boss, just the two of you together. A real couple. He was going to invite you to move in with him so you could still see each other every day—you were sure of it. The thought sent thrills of goosebumps tingling up your arms.

For once, when you looked to the future, you saw something bright.

“Hey Clerval, have you seen Dr. Chilton? I tried his office, but…”

The old nurse sighed heavily. Swinging their feet off the breakroom table, they set aside the yogurt cup they were halfway through and gave you a tired look. You hadn’t exactly told Clerval about your secret relationship, but they knew, and so far, no one else did. Not that they approved. In fact, you had never seen Clerval so worn down as when the topic of you and Dr. Chilton came up.

“His schedule says he’s in his office, which means he’s probably in one of his ‘unorthodox therapy’ sessions.”

Your head cocked. “His what?”

Clerval pinched the bridge of their nose, giving yet another sigh at your naivety. (At this rate, they were going to run out of air.) “Experimental procedures. Things the good doctor doesn’t want on record.”

There was a bitter bite to their words, yet at the same time, resignation. This hospital sucked the soul out of everyone who entered it, and Henry Clerval had been a nurse here longer than anyone. Longer than Frederick Chilton had been a doctor.

“Oh,” you said. “Well,” you scuffed the white rubber sole of your sneaker on the stone floor. “I’m sure he has a good reason.”

“I always see those hypnotherapy lights flashing around Ward A when no one is scheduled for therapy. Try there,” Clerval suggested with defeat.

“Thank you!” you called, sneakers already running down the hall in the direction of the women’s ward.

“Are you sure you want to interrupt his session?”

“I want to surprise him! I’ve got something important to say!”

***

If anyone had been outside women’s wing cell 4B on any Wednesday around noon, they would have heard a wet choking sound, but the staff was too jaded to care. If the guards had any idea what was happening, they got off on it, and didn’t try to stop it.

“Am I good girl, daddy?”

“Yes… yes,” Dr. Chilton hissed between his teeth, biting his lower lip to keep his breath from exploding out in a tortured moan. “A good girl.”

It was an accident the first time a hypnotherapy session regressed Julianne back to a sexually abusive childhood. She grabbed for his belt, and he froze. He almost yelped out in terror and called for a guard, but then she had his cock in her warm, wet mouth, sucking it to fullness, and moaning for him (or rather, for the memory of the father and brother she eventually murdered).

This wasn’t therapy.

When you became a soft part of his life, he stopped trying to justify his actions as anything other than more exploitation in her long life of being exploited. He let it happen because he was lonely, and he continued doing it because he did not care who else got hurt. There were no possible therapeutic benefits for the patient. He himself noted an exacerbation of dissociative symptoms, if there was ever any doubt that he was not thinking of her care. He only wanted a warm mouth to service him, even if it was not the one he longed for.

Then you became more than a daydream, and he recognized how deeply he hated himself. Because he had you—not only your body, but your heart.

But he never stopped.

Every week, like clockwork, he continued the hypnotherapy sessions and left Julianne confused with the bitter taste of his ejaculation in her throat.

You could have been his happy ending.

It wasn’t too late. You filled his lonesome days with affection and understanding he never thought possible. You taught him that he wasn’t too old and broken to love. In forty-five miserable years, he hadn’t ruined things so badly he could never find happiness.

You could have been his epilogue if he only loved you as well as you loved him.

It was not your fault what happened next.

But of course, of all the nurses and orderlies, doctors and guards in the BSHCI, you were the only one kind enough to want to surprise him with lunch. The only one who would have a sinking feeling about the rhythmic squelching coming from cell 4B. Anyone else would have said it was someone else’s business and walked away before seeing something that might obligate them to fill out paperwork.

You were too kind for this place. Too kind for the scarred doctor whose heart died a long time ago.

He watched your eyes widen from the other side of the bars. Saw your face turn from confused to nauseous, then crumple into tears as an involuntary groan escaped his lips—Julianne kept sucking at an unwelcome, now painful pace.

Then you turned and ran.

Julianne never stopped until he finished, though he was no longer in the mood. He never touched her, but he tried to back up, wanted to run after you. She stayed with him. This time he broke his rule and placed a hand to her forehead to push her away. Grasping his thighs, she hollowed her cheeks and sucked harder. Blood hammered in his ears. If he ripped her away, she could become violent or wake from the hypnosis, and he did not know how much was she aware was real. What her reaction might be. She was surprisingly strong as she held on, teeth grazing threateningly along his shaft the more he struggled.

She never stopped until he finished.

He was trapped.

He whimpered, cock going soft even as she bobbed faster. He tried to close his eyes and think about you, but that was ruined. You were gone forever. There was nothing he could say to explain himself, unless he drugged you with the right cocktail of psychotropics to make you suggestible, your memory malleable…

Solutions he knew would never work raced through his mind as the throbbing between his legs became an agonizing burn devoid of pleasure.

Panic rose and tightened his chest.

***

An anonymous call was made to the board of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. The subsequent investigation found “no conclusive evidence” of Dr. Chilton’s alleged breach of ethics, owing not to the lack of such evidence existing, but the board’s desire to sweep the incident under the rug. He was, however, summarily fired and replaced by Dr. Alana Bloom. A forward-thinking move—if the truth ever came out, the hospital would have a friendly feminist face for public relations.

He never went to jail. Never got what he deserved.

Within a month, his book Hannibal the Cannibal became a national best-seller, and he was on tour, raking in wealth and acclaim. He probably would have left his position at the hospital anyway.

There was only one thing he lost, and he used much of the book’s royalties hiring a private investigator to keep tabs on you. It was the only way he could be sure you were safe when you would not return any of his calls.

As much as he was terrified of you becoming suicidal again, the truth hurt more.

You were doing well.

You resigned from BSHCI. Within a month, you had a new job as a graphic designer of all things. He never knew you were an artist. There were so many things about you he never asked, and now he never would.

Every so often, he would drive by your house and slow down, trying to catch a glimpse of you. He imagined seeing you hanging a rope, and rescuing you just in time. A thousand versions of the confrontation played in his mind—you screaming, “Stay away from me!” with disgust. Tears streaming from your puffy red eyes. Him pleading, “Do not hurt yourself because of my mistake.” The bark of your sardonic laugh at the realization that he cared.

In a few, precious few, of these fantasies, you would throw yourself into his arms and forgive him.

But he never saw you in danger, and he rarely indulged dreams as unlikely as reconciliation.

Eventually, he didn’t even get to hear your voice directing him to leave a message—only an automated recording that the number has been disconnected. Sometimes, however, you were sitting on the couch in your living room near the window, and it was enough to justify the forty-minute detour through your neighborhood.

One day, your silhouette was not alone.

***

Nurse Clerval quit two days after you left.

They couldn’t forget the shock on your face when you burst into the breakroom and nearly collapsed. It was the most heartbreaking thing to see someone so innocent crushed.

“Ch-Chilton… he—”

Sobbing and stuttering, you told them what happened, and Clerval took care of it. You were in no state to get on the phone, be put on hold, and fill out the miles of paperwork that went with everything in a government-funded hospital. It was a pain in the ass, and nothing would get done anyway, which was why no one ever bothered… but they couldn’t ignore the look on your face.

“You’re going to get through this,” the nurse said when you hadn’t moved for a long time. “Just breathe. It’s going to be bad for awhile, but you just keep breathing, keep surviving, and one day you’ll wake up, and… you’ll be through it.”

You rubbed the tears from your eyes to look up at Clerval with new appreciation. The jaded nurse had been haunting these halls for too long and it hardened them, but they were always watching out for you.

When you tried to throw yourself at them, desperate for stability, they turned you down, patting your head like a child. “You’re not in a clear mental state.”

***

A brown paper takeout bag sat on your kitchen counter. You’d missed your own “congratulations on the new job” party, and Clerval got worried, hiding their relief when you answered the door. Your eyes were lifeless.

“I couldn’t face everyone. If any of them knew I was… seeing him”—you shuddered and avoided saying his name—“they wouldn’t be caught dead with me. How could I be so stupid?”

A calloused thumb wiped a tear from your cheek. “I miss your smile.”

They gave you a small, sad smile of their own. It was the first time you’d seen Clerval smile. Their face looked like it was made to smile, you decided—like it used to a long time ago, but forgot how.

“When you were dating Dr. Chilton... fuck that bastard, but you were happy. I loved coming to work and seeing you smile like that. It brightened up the gloom. I’d like to see you smile like that again someday.”

“I’m sorry,” you choked. “I don’t know if I can anymore.”

Suddenly you were wrapped in a hug, with a comforting voice in your ear. “You can. You will.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Shut up, I’m clair-fucking-voyant, and I goddamned know you will. Now go on and live your life like you believe it too. Don’t you dare turn into an old cynic like me.”

***

Frederick Chilton thought his lungs would burn through his ribcage—that his throat would close up, and he would die. Seeing you with someone else was more than he could stand, and he drove home with a death wish, gas pedal to the floor. He would rather be wrapped around a telephone pole than make it back to his empty, too-large house.

But the universe does not dole out fair consequences.

He deserved to die in a jealous rage. To be arrested. You should have thrown wine in his face in a dramatic public confrontation. Screamed at him. But you never did.

There was no satisfying comeuppance or divine punishment.

There was only the memory of your heart breaking, and knowing three things in that moment: You loved him. It was over. And it was his fault. There was a time in his life when he was happy. When he had you to hold in his arms, kiss away his nightmares, and fill his days with love.

And then he didn’t.

All he had left was the smell of you on his sheets and a hoodie you had forgotten. He laid it out on a pillow beside him and inhaled until even your scent was gone.

Years later, lying in his own charred remains inside an oxygen chamber, he wondered if you would visit and start to cry at the sight of him. Forgive him.

He never saw you again.

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

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#Frederick Chilton x reader #darkfic #angst #gender-neutral reader

[pizzaboat]

Lumity

Luz asks Amity to help her bake a cake for Willow's birthday. Chaos ensues.

Wh‐what!?"

Luz smiled angelically at her, leaning closer which made Amity's heart skip a beat.

"I said, do you wanna help me bake a birthday day cake for Willow's party?" 

"Yes!–I mean, sure y-yeah," Amity stammered out, "but didn't she already have her birthday?"

"I mean yeah, but she was sick that day," Luz said, "I don't really get alot of the illnesses that you guys have, but I do know being sick in general sucks Hooty egg's.. this way she'll get to celebrate her birthday properly with her friends!"

Oh titan her heart, this girl would be the death of her;

"Wow, that's really kind of you Luz, does Willow know what kind of cake she wants?" 

"Well you see that's the thing," The human said lowering her voice, "it's a surprise, We have to keep it on the down low."

"Got it," Amity said, nodding, "alright I'll help."

Luz beamed grabbing her hand's, "Thanks Amity, you're the best!"

Before she knew what was happening she was being pulled into one of the girl's signature, crushing hugs. All logic and reason left her for a moment until Luz pulled back and started saying something else. Amity mentally shook herself and tried to focus on anything but the fact Luz was now holding her hand's again.

"–I'll share the juicy details with you later, ok?" The other teen was saying now, "this is gonna be great!"

Before she could respond Luz was already sprinting off down the school corridors to her next class. Amity stood there dumbfounded for a moment trying to process what just happened. 

"Amity, why arn't you in class right now?" Principal Bump said, walking by and breaking her from her trance.

"Oh, sorry!"

––––

Luz knew her friend had arrived the moment she heard shrill screams from the front of the house. She thundered down the stairs and rushed to Hooty's door, but before she got there, it slammed open and Amity was revealed on the other side, a murderous glint in her eye's and a pink fame in her hand.

Hooty noticed her then;

"LUZ SAVE ME, YOURE FRIEND IS CRAZY!!" He screeched. Some of his feathers were singed.

Amity winced and went to finish the job. Uh-oh.

Luz darted to her, grabbing her wrist. The physical contact seem to rile the girl up further.

"I warned that thing never to talk to me again." She growled, trying to break free.

Hooty squaked in fear.

Luz wrapped an arm around her, half comforting and half restraining, guiding the other kid inside, "It's OK, it's over now."

"I just said hi!" Hooty cried and they both ignored him.

The door shut on his voice, and the two girls were alone then. Amity calmed down after a moment or two.

"Sorry about that..," The witch said, "he's just so.." She shuddered then.

"Don't worry about it," Luz said sympathetically, "I still sometimes freak out when I see him. Not everything on the Isles is charmingly weird."

She eventually led her friend into the kitchen.

They took stock of what they need from an old cook book, Luz had found rooting around the house. This particular book was previously being used as a table leg for a random desk.. She'd put it back later.

"OK," Amity said,"what do we do?"

"Um.. I thought you'd know," Luz said sheepishly.

"Wait, why would I know how to bake a cake?" Her friend frowned.

"I don't know, you're smart!" Luz exclaimed, "..I thought you'd y'know, know how.. that's why I asked you."

She didn't miss the blush amity gave at that. Well she does like people recognising her ability..  it must be that.

"Alright," Amity said then, "where's the Owl Lady, maybe she knows what to do?"

Luz shook her head, "Eda's at the market. She won't be back for hours.."

" ..Well I guess we'll just have to make do with what we know," she continued, "and really, how hard can it be for the two of us to bake a cake?"

Her cooking partner frowned at that, "I'd imagine it's difficult when you don't know what you're doing Luz."

"Pshh, we've eaten cake before! We know what good food tastes like, it's all we need!" The teen said trying to hype her friend up;

"we've got a cook book, we've got our wit's and we've got the power of friendship–"

–Nothing can go wrong!" Luz declared.

––––

Everything was going wrong.

"Is it supposed to look like that?" Amity asked her partner.

Luz tried to whipe flour from her face, only smudging it further, she then turned to consult the cook book;

"well it says the mixture should be be kind of a liquid.."

Amity watched the mixture wave at them.

"Does the book mention the batter growing sentience?" Amity said frowning.

"No.." luz sighed.

"We should start over," Amity told her.

"You're probably right." The Luz agreed.

The batter agreed too.

––––

1 hour later.

"I don't really know what's edible in here," Luz admitted, after Amity thoroughly burnt the previous mixture when it tried to eat them.

The smell of smoke still hung in the kitchen, and the fourteen year old opened a window.

"You'd think most foods in a kitchen would be." Amity grunted.

"Well my cooking buddy, I guess we're just gonna have to continue with the process of elimination!" Luz told her.

Amity groaned and luz took out another carton of spider eggs.

––––

3 hours later.

Luz ran a batter covered hand through her dark hair, slicking it back with a white clump of goo. Amity honestly had to say; this is the only time her crush has looked ridiculous to her.

"I think we've got it this time, this is the perfect batter that won't try and talk philosophical nonsense with us, unlike the last three batches." The brown eyed teen sighed in relief.

"I think you're right," Amity agreed, "let's just pour it into a cake tin and be done with this."

Luz nodded, and went to pour the batter into their chosen tin;

"For willow," She said weakly.

"For willow, Amity returned with as much enthusiasm.

––––

15 minutes later.

"WHAT IN TITANS NAME WHERE YOU TWO DOING!?"

Her mentor's sister, had rushed Into the house at the smell of smoke. apparently she'd thought the house was on fire.

Luz and Amity now stood with their head's down covered in soot, abomination sludge and cake mix, completely mortified as the adult infront of them continued to berate them;

"I have never seen anything like this in all my life!"  Lilith said, "and I've seen some serious incompetence in my time, but never something like this!"

Neither girl dared to say a word.

"I expected this from my sister's apprentice, but Amity Blight, I expected more from you." She continued crossing her arms.

Luz watched her friend's cheek's flush in shame.

"I mean what we're you thinking?" Lilith said, "an all out brawl with a cake demon in the kitchen? You almost burnt the house down, how am I supposed to explain this to Edalyn?"

She had an idea then;

" Explain this to Edalyn.. what do you mean by that?"

"Well, she left me encharge, while she went to the mar–oh no, I know that look. It's the same one Edalyn makes."

Luz grinned at her.

"I won't be blackmailed human." Lilith warned.

"So this is technically your fault," Luz said smugly, "your not gonna tell Eda about this, because you need this place."

"This is extortion!" Lilith growled.

"Nah, it's revenge." The teen quipped.

"Luz what you doing?" Amity hissed, voice hushed while pulling her aside and giving her a disproving look.

"Its for Willow," Luz pleaded," plus you don't wanna see Eda when she's mad, she made Me, Willow and Gus clean the entire house top to bottom after we animated it. plus this is Lilith. trust me on this."

Her friend looked conflicted for a moment, Luz could see her weighing up the morality of it behind her golden eyes;

"Fine, do what you need to do," She eventually conceded.

Luz gave a nod and turned back to the disgruntled woman.

"Eda doesn't need to know about this, we can all win here," They said.

Lilith scoffed, "How so?"

"We just have to clean up this mess, and you have to bake us a birthday cake."

The witch's eyebrows shot up at that, "That's a strange demand, why a birthday cake?"

"It's  for a friend," Luz said.

"Fabulous, well I don't cook, and I certainly don't bake cakes for your snot nosed little friend's." Lilith sneered.

"You don't have a choice here," Amity pressed joining in now.

Lilith looked to her with mild shock; She seemed to realise there was no real way out of this.

"Fine." She growled, "five minutes with my Sister and you've both turned into criminals."

––––

Willow's surprise party had gone off without a hitch. Gus had provided the intertainment and Luz and Amity had carted out Lilith's cake.

"Aw guys," Willow had said, "you didn't have to do this!"

"You're our friend," Luz had said, "no amount of monster fighting and black mail is too much for you."

Amity had silently agreed.

Willow and Gus had looked confused then, but Luz and Amity knew the truth, and as they'd both dozed off, head's on each others shoulder's in the middle of the party, they knew they'd be haunted by their actions forever.

#the owl house #luz noceda #toh #amity blight #lumity #toh lumity #the owl house fanfic #toh fic #toh luz #toh amity

[brooklynislandgirl]

@mynameisanakin {{xx}}

He knows.  Just doesn’t want to admit to it, and that she absolutely understands. There is something absolutely terrifying about bearing your deeper truths, whether its sex or fears or things you aren’t exactly proud of. Which is essentially why she asked the question. She wasn’t trying to make him jump out of his skin, but more to see how he handled something so out of left field, but she now has to admit the look on his face makes her curious. The struggle between unvarnished truth and a comfortable lie doesn’t sit well on him. There’s also...it isn’t a blatant fear but something that shadows the arches of his cheeks, takes the depths of his eyes and makes them more pronounced until she’s reminded of nothing so much as twin blue flames inside the eye sockets of a skull. Entrancing is a word but not the one she’s searching for. It’s maybe...maybe he gives her too much credit. She could put him at ease and explain she hasn’t got Mind, that she can’t pry a portal into his head and draw out his secrets. That was never her forte` although maybe she could go about it a slightly different way. Carefully balance his serotonin and dopamine levels and...

And she feels guilty before he’s said more than two words, because wow. That’s taking things a little too far. She makes herself trail from his face to his hands. Watches the tapered fingers as if that’s any better, there was a reason she’d looked away from them before. It’s distracting bordering on criminal. Even she has to admit, and noticed from the get-go, that he has beautiful hands. Painfully so. Hands that should belong to a surgeon or a musician or a specific kind of model. Especially when she’s got a bottle of Live Love Polish upstairs in this gorgeous electric blue and holographic glitter that she has not a single trouble imagining on him. But before she can get too far down that rabbit hole ~and not imagine a spa day shared between them~ he finally starts talking and she blinks once, twice, and makes a bee-line for his lips, to catch the words carefully. Thankfully Anakin doesn’t talk very fast. And at first she thinks she mishears him but no, out of his angelic face... those two words that...oh. dear. And then...he explains it. Because he can’t quite put her in the realm of knowing such things, or maybe he thinks she’s a little dumb, which she’s used to. She is grateful to the very universe itself that she didn’t have a mouthful of wine right then...or it would be all over the rug, the upholstery, even all over Anakin. She brings her hand up quickly to cup over her mouth just in case she’s mistaken, but no...nothing comes out.

Its a slow creep effect. Snail and moss slow. Enveloping with horror when it finally does occur to her that he shouldn’t know a thing about this. He should be worried about getting the weekend off and taking his person on a date. He should be worried about making the dean’s list ~Anakin is so very far from stupid, he’d be any college’s dream if he applied himself~ and suddenly she can hear a thousand generations of her ancestors rolling their eyes and so she slowly nods not knowing if she wants to beg him to stop, or keep going. Anakin, fortunately, bears no witness to this, and opts for the later.

A tick develops at the back of her eye because that quiet surface belied quite deep waters, it seems. And it’s increasingly disturbing because she can’t quite tell if he’s talking fantasies or actual history of his...ah...exploits? She doesn’t like that word. It feels...dirty. Wrong. Almost worse than what she’s hearing. The tip of her tongue darts out and slicks over suddenly dry lips, and she doesn’t realise it’s because her mouth was already parted and she had dragged in a lungful of air. She almost regrets asking. Not because the darkness that slithers around him, drawing light from the room itself, dimming the already faint gleam of lamps and candles, but people don’t come this way, not usually and the insight she is getting is as excruciating as the lack of any characteristics in his voice, how he puts himself on this kind of display. He is comfortable with these thoughts, too familiar with them so that they don’t really...

She can feel it.

Ghostly brushes of those fingers she was a moment ago admiring fluttering around the delicate ridges of her collar bones so close to the surface of her skin. Tracing their edges, thumb dipping into the tiny space between them and she doesn’t realise she sighs softly. The way the whorls and loops slide along her skin until his nails unmanicured and just this side of ragged ~is he a biter~ gaze the back of her neck. The slightest, slowest increase of pressure that she has to admit makes little flutters below her belly.  Then...tighter. And tighter. Pinprick motes of light dancing in front of her eyes, the pressure as she can’t take another breath. A whisper of panic, something that is remarkably close to fear... the urge to kick. Struggle. Flail until she is free. Pain from capillaries bursting in her eyes. Sensations of dizziness or falling and she can’t tell if its that terrible. If she can just let.... She shakes her head to dislodge the phantom sensations, bringing up every ounce of willpower to bear because...he didn’t mean it. Reliving those moments inside his head, something he must connect to so powerfully that she felt the writhe and twist of his avatar, the magick making itself manifest and honestly she’s absolutely stunned. The taste of power sits like salt and lime on the back of her tongue. She can’t simply just sit there though, and shifts in her spot, drawing her knees up to her chest, and settling her feet on the cushion, leaving only her toes exposed by the hem of her skirt on the edge of her chair. And yet. She doesn’t stop him. Not because she has a ghoulish need to hear the rest of what he has to say, but because like a wound, he needs to expose it to sunlight and air if he has any chance of recovering from any of this.

She takes a sip of her wine when he falls silent, not wanting to seem pushy, though, thinking maybe this was the extent of it. And she’s absolutely wrong, isn’t she?

What he tells her next is far different. Lacking those details that he’s removed himself from, put distance between, gives her far more room to imagine without complicating things with a lashing out even subconsciously of his magick. No, the effect on her is purely psychological on her end and the guilt of that wends its way up her spine following the heat that spreads out through her limbs. Her toes curl on the edge of her seat

As is common for most of her Tradition, Beth has a high thresh hold as far as pain is concerned, is equally blessed a spark of life so tenacious that wounds and illness are practically strangers to her, particularly the kind that are self inflicted. And she might just have a fondness for blades that exceeds what is normally accepted by societal standards. But what did anyone expect from a barefoot heathen, a child of earth and wood and sea, with the blood of sharks in her ancestry? Anakin can’t possibly know any of this or how the idea of shallow lacework across her skin enthralls her, the red smear and heat. The coppery tang and sharpness on the tongue. How she can feel her body respond wantonly especially when she can physically recall the sensations of Marion’s breath hot on the soft flesh of her thigh just before the creature’s teeth sink in. Tear greedy chunks of muscle from her bones until it’s hunger is sated. Her writhes, the screaming seems to feed the rougarou too, though she doesn’t know how or why, and the exhaustion afterwards usually provides some of the best sleep Beth has gotten since....

Since moving here.

When her eyes struggle to catch his, she isn’t aware of the faint sheen on the exposed skin of her throat and modest decolletage, or that her eyes have darkened considerably. That she would blame the wine for a new floridness to her complexion.  “I...ah.” She uncurls her limbs, long for her small stature, the hem of her skirt whispering louder than her voice as it settles around her ankles. She prowls behind around behind him, settles her hands on either side of his shoulders. Leans in so that her lips are close to his ears, and her tone as well as her breath is a little ragged. “Mahalo, Anakin. But I t’ink...I t’ink is time...I show ya some kine. Only question is....jus’ how far ya willin’ t’ go?”

#Mahalo!Anakin <333 #Like A Sad Hallucination|Anakin Skywalker #Like A Memory in Motion|Anakin and Beth #The Trunk You Kept Your Life In|Mage The Ascension #Crescent City Blues|Nola AU #tw: choking #tw: blood #tw: cannibalism #Sort of. #tw: mental health

[ughyoongis]

We Both Know Hearts Can Change

a slytherin!calum au

chapter 1

dedicated to the #1 slytherin!calum stan @notoriouslyhood

A/N: I tried to make this a one shot but it's gonna be a multi-shot

word count: 8.3k (grab a snack & relax lol)

warnings: mentions of violence

The first years of Valerie's life were spent side by side with her family, and even more than that, her best friend Calum. A boy with a lisp and big brown eyes and crooked teeth who taught her nearly everything she could possibly know about quidditch and muggles. They were inseparable. Their parents laughed and praised the bond they had formed, swore they were the cutest little kids to roam the wizarding world.

She remembers when they were finally given letters to attend Hogwarts, how she heard him burst through the door out of breath and climb up the stairs and then heave his way into her cluttered room.  

"I've got one!" He exclaimed, waving the letter triumphantly. Valerie peered up from the book in her hands and felt the blood in her veins pump faster and faster, she threw the covers off of her body and jumped across the room, feeling like she was on cloud nine, and plucked her letter off of the dresser she kept it on.

"Me too!" Her eyes lit up at the idea of going to Hogwarts with her best friend, giddily jumping up and down as he flung his weight onto her mattress to exclaim for the whole house to hear.

"It's gonna be terrific." He pumped a fist into the air, and Valerie felt her grin widen some more (if that was even possible).

They had giddily spoke all day, in hushed, childish whispers behind her closed door. The excitement in the room was palpable, and they had a week to exult it before they get to 9 and 3/4, then it's off to classes every day.

"I wanna be a gryffindor." She had daydreamed out loud, "Mama thinks I'll be one. What about you?"

She can remember the intensity of his locked gaze, wide, naive eyes that were so uncanny to his mothers it should be criminal. The uncanny resemblance of his parents at such a young age made it hard to not tell who he is. The Hood household, known for their unstoppable generations of fierce, determined-

"Slytherin, for sure." Calum whispered, fingers going to trace the quilted patterns on Valerie's duvet. He had no doubt in his mind his family's long line of green and silver would justifiably suit him.

Valerie was only eleven at the time, but she could see the resilience prodding through his tone, he had a lovely family, but she knew for a fact he would be different from them. Slytherin, yes, but not the kind that can still keep civil around others. He was austere, already, and he hadn't even enrolled yet.

There was also another worry in her mind, something unspoken between them that needed to be discussed.

"What if we're not in the same house?" Her eyes trained on his finger still tracing the delicate stitchings of her covers. Watching his fingertip dance across the outline of an owl.

"We'll still be friends." He answered within a heartbeat.

"Good." She had hoped he would say that, and her worries vanished just like that. They had stayed up late once he was given the right to sleepover, their adolescent imaginations running haywire as they created lists of supplies they'd need and drew out what wands they hoped to get. Valerie even let him take the good pillow that night, having to keep fluffing her own to try and get comfy. He slept right beside her, passed out and snoring as she lied on her side, gazing out her cracked open window. The subtle breeze fluttering the curtains as the stars twinkled behind wisps of clouds.

That was their last night spent together as friends.

The second they had boarded the Hogwarts Express Valerie was ditched for two boys and found herself her own cubby to retreat to. Alone in solitude, spare for her cat, Dinah, who curled up in her lap for the ride ahead. She had felt betrayed, scoffing to herself at how he jumped so feverishly at the opportunity to make new, better friends. Was she that embarrassing?

"Is this seat taken?" A girl had entered bashfully, owl in it's cage practically covering half of her figure. Her faint greyish blue eyes were inviting and near enchanting, wavy auburn hair unlike Valerie's chestnut brown. Voice meek but showed her nerves of the day ahead, Valerie liked her. Thought of her as, honestly, a potential friend.

"No." She smiled softly, a gentle curve of her lips.

The girl got herself situated after a minute or two and huffed when she sat across from her.

"I'm Josephine," She introduces herself with an outstretched hand. Valerie jolts hers into it. "You can call me Josie."

"I'm Valerie." Her eyes glance across to let the girl sink into her memory, knowing this won't be the last time they speak. "Val, for short."

Things with the trip to Hogwarts were as nervewracking yet adrenaline pumping as one may expect. An uneasiness brought upon her as she waved her family goodbye through the window, as did Josie, and the reality of it all sunk in. There would be no more goodnight kisses, let alone her favorite dinners of homemade soup and biscuits.

She had nervously twirled her aspen-wood, white-river-monster-spine-cored wand as they approached the glorious school, tall towers and intricate architecture in the afternoon sun that shone down upon the castle like a blinding spotlight. She had never been there before, and the descriptions of it did not do it justice in the slightest. That was when the anxiety had bubbled into excitement.

Josie had walked beside her the entire time they were entering the school, each student lugging suitcases and creatures in cages, she had just nearly forgotten about Calum until the school's opening banquet had begun. The four houses all sat at their designated tables as first year students huddled up for the sorting ceremony. It was beyond riveting to see strangers get sorted, and as she heard a familiar name, she grew all too interested at the results.

"Calum Hood," Dumbledore had called out, and up the boy went, the sorting hat placed upon his head of unruly, raven brown curls, it had spoke softly to itself for a moment. And in that split second of a pause, time stood still, and Valerie even stiller.

"Slytherin!" It had chosen, nay declared, and the table erupted into whoops and hollers as he trotted his way over to take a seat.

She spent the rest of the ceremony digging her nails into the palms of her hands, the fists she had balled them into formed crescents into her skin. Hiding her disapproval in a pity smile he shot her way when passing by, she merely twirled a strand of her brown hair and pretended not to notice.

"Valerie Scott." Her name echoed down the grand hall and she made her way up to the center with a bashful grin, two excited thumbs up from Josephine, who sat as a new, proud Ravenclaw.

She took a glance at Calum, who was already befriended by an upperclassman, not even looking at her. And the hat on her head had been placed, murmuring wickedly.

"I'm sensing some apprehension against a house- Slytherin?"

She had burned red in the cheeks, praying nobody could hear the hat speak.

"Perhaps it's because of the cowardice you radiate. Or the lack of, hm, ill intentions." The gruff voice mutters before taking a moment to gather it's thoughts.

Valerie's heart was pounding in her chest, watching the way Calum looked up at her, silently apologizing in advance, because they both know she isn't a slytherin.

"Ravenclaw!" The hat announced at the same time Josie bounced out of her seat to victoriously celebrate her placement. And her eyes shifted off of Calum and to her new table, her new life, no longer attached at the hip to Calum Hood.

-

That was six years ago, from where Valerie currently resides. Comfortably relaxing in her shared dorm with Josie. They have books open on their desks, abandoned for now, as they find themselves reminiscing on their many years at this school, now in their final one.

They cut the discussion short and head down to lunch for the third time this school year, only in their first week of classes. All too giddy to be the eldest of their class. Eighteen years old and now superior to the lower class kids.

Not that they're barbaric enough to tease those underneath them, unlike others they've seen.

"First quidditch match tomorrow, you excited?" Josie peeps her head up from the plate in front of her. The blue eyes she has are still shining bright, and her red hair is slicked back in two tight french braids.

"Maybe if our house was playing I would be." Valerie quirks her lips into an unamused expression. Her eyebrows furrowing as her pout falls at the remembrance of who's playing. she absentmindedly stirs her hot cocoa.

"Yeah, but Gryffindor versus Slytherin is as legendary as one could expect, you can't miss it."

"I won't, I won't." Her words soothe the girl across from her, extinguishing any doubt in her mind that she'd stay in her room rather than miss something so revolutionary. Two head to head rival houses.

"Not to mention Luke requested me to be there." Josie grinned childishly, a little shimmy in her seat as the thought of that doofus makes her heart swoop and soar.

Valerie adores Josie, she's her closest friend, but she does not approve of the fling she has going on with Luke Hemmings. A fairly new concept, only a month or two, but they keep things strictly private due to her being muggle-born and his parents being strictly pureblood. Not to mention this school's blatant judgment for odd couples such as that.

Not that Josie can't choose who to be with, but the fact she had chosen someone who's very close to Calum- practically clings to him- is a little agitating. Josie runs off every now and then to sneak kisses with the blonde boy, then burrows under her covers late that night gushing to a half asleep Val about how cute yet sexy the blue eyed boy can be. It's kind of sickening, how in love she is.

"Luke, huh?" She has no other words to say. Just skims the premises around her to find the Slytherin table beside them, to the right. Her view near exact with Luke's posse of certified jocks. There's Michael Clifford, an astonishingly ignorant and loud character to say the least, who finds joy in messing with the younger students and some of the gullible instructors. Luke Hemmings himself, star keeper with criminally blue eyes and all too charming features that he uses to his advantage when need be.

And last, but certainly not least, Calum Hood.

A much, much different Calum from who she once knew.  His dark curls once a mop on top of his pudgy face have been shaved on the underside and styled on the top in a messy fashion. His bone structure somehow sharper and sharper with each passing year, jaw set in a permanent chiseled position, cheekbones defined and drop dead gorgeous. Calum's eyes are devilish and so, so cunning. They bring most girls to their knees, without him even caring, since he spends most of his time either on the quidditch field as a seeker, or hiding out somewhere unbeknownst to others. He's private, isolated, but purposely keeps himself hidden despite all the attention he gets from those around him. He is infamous, enigmatic, and unfairly handsome.

Valerie doesn't recognize him from the boy she once knew. He's a proper man now, with stoic features and a persona unlike any other. He's a mystery that many people fail to solve, and he walks these halls like the champion he truly is.

"Who are you staring at?" Josie turns around entirely to try and pinpoint who she's been ogling for the past minute or two. Her lips part in a silent gasp, hands flying across the table to grab Valerie by the wrists. "Are you staring at Calum Hood?"

"No, I just- I zoned out." Lie. Just one fat lie to try and act like she wasn't viewing the guy across from her as the sexiest man alive. His body is slouched but tense as he talks to his friends in low, but elated, conversation.

"Merlin's beard, you were looking at him." She shrieks, all too excited to hear her friend fancies a boy for once instead of slumping in the library.

"I can tell Luke to talk to him about you, he'd do it, you know."

"Please don't." Valerie huffs, standing with a new proposition in mind, "I'm gonna go study, I'm not that hungry."

She wasn't staring at Calum in a way that was obvious, or so she hopes, because when her body rose from her seat she could have sworn he lifted his head up to look at her. Even if that was for a split second, she felt goosebumps prickle at her skin and a sharp chill run up her spine.

"You're going to that game tomorrow, Val, whether you want to or not."

The words resonate with her the rest of her stroll out of the dining hall, busying herself with the urge to scream at what just happened. Out of nowhere Calum seems to be all her mind can focus on. Maybe it's the fact they actually share most classes this year, or possibly the newfound buzz of popularity he has in these halls after carrying the quidditch team all last year. He's the man to be, the one girls swoon over, and she's not blind- she can see why they all fall for him- his charm and laidback 'I don't care' reputation is as accurate as it gets. Not to mention how easy he is on the eyes.

Valerie catches herself in the tangent of Calum Hood and huffs out loud, the corridor she's in is empty, thank Merlin, but she feels paranoid that people might see her going so insane. Over a boy, too.

A boy who left her in the dust after ten years of camaraderie, they had been best friends, and now he's taken a different path of life full of social celebrations and sports, and she's a bookworm with a heart of gold.

Sometimes she wonders what would've happened if she was put in Slytherin, if he had stuck by her side, if he would've ever befriended Luke and Michael instead. She knows she wasn't unimportant to him, but she felt used, like a stepping stone to get to where he is now.

"Hey," A voice speaks up alongside her, and she nearly jumps out of her skin at the sight of Michael Clifford, holding something out to her. "You dropped this in the cafeteria."

She trails her gaze away from his emerald eyes and pale features, all the way down to his palm that grasps her wand.  

The breath she didn't realize she was holding in falls out in a sigh, "Oh, thanks."

"You're Josephine's friend, yeah?"

Great, more conversation, she groans internally. Her eyes set on the wand she's taking from his hand oh so delicately. As if touching him will result in a curse of some sort.

"Mhm." She decides to bite, "Why?"

"Just, uh, heard a lot about you." He gives a tight lipped smile, his eyes flicker away from her to the left and juts his chin out to point at something. His subtle actions worry her, and when her gaze follows his, she feels her throat grow dry and nearly collapse on the spot.

Calum. He pointed out Calum. Who leans against the entrance of the cafeteria, one hand loosening his school's uniformed tie, the green and silver glimmering against the chandelier above him. His eyebrows thread together in frustration as he rolls his eyes at what Luke can't stop babbling on about.

"Oh," Her voice is a whisper, and she didn't mean to sound so feeble but her eyes are glued on the raven haired boy across the corridor, seemingly miles away as her blood runs cold. He talks about her? Good things or bad things? How often? She should've never found out this information because now it will drive her mad.

"Valerie, right?"

"Yeah." She feels frozen. Despair in her tone as he drops his hand at his side, robes flowing with his motions.

He swings his body sideways and shrugs, "I'll, uh, see you in potions class."

"O-Okay." She utters, now in disbelief.

Because she never noticed him in potions class, she didn't even go there today. So, why did he notice her on the first day?

Michael strides away with his hands in his pockets, and she stands dumbfounded, wand clutched in her clammy hand as Calum stares up at her for the faintest of moments. His brow arches up, and his lips purse in deep thought, almost studies her from afar. Then he does something so infinitesimal, yet so overwhelming she wants to scream.

His right eye falls, and he winks at her before turning back to his friends with a smug, knowing look on his stupidly handsome face.

-

Valerie finds Michael in her potions class the next morning, and she's not surprised to see him in the far back, half asleep as the book on his desk lies untouched. A guy partnered with him, Ashton Irwin, seems a little too awake to be in school, he's nice, from what she can remember from their few limited encounters.

And it seems that suddenly, her days are filled with signs of Calum, whether it's hearing girls whisper and giggle about him in the halls, or just the occasional glance she gets of him walking past her in the halls. It's as if, out of the blue, Calum's silence the past six years has erupted into a deafening uproar.

"It's gonna be cold, wear some layers." Josie tosses a Ravenclaw scarf to her friend across the room, letting her borrow it for tonights game. Her body bundled up for the cold autumnal afternoon ahead, she walks side by side with her trusty sidekick, their blue and silver attire mixes with the other students in their house, everyone bustling out to the field to sit in their designated seating area for the game.

Her hands clutch a styrofoam cup of hot chocolate, sips from it every now and then to keep herself warm.

She never hated the sport, despite Josie's obvious taunting, she just doesn't quite understand the significance of these games. Why do students go nuts at such a barbaric sport? Why do girls find the Slytherin seeker attractive despite his blatant egotistical tendencies and shameless flirting he does with any girl? Ugh.

So yeah, quidditch is a bore to her. Not exactly what she wants to spend her afternoon doing. She'd much rather be under her covers with Dinah curled up on her lap while she eats some candy and writes letters to her family back home.

So it's no surprise she zones out a good ten minutes into the game, quidditch players zoom by on their broomsticks and nearly give her a nosebleed when one ventures far too close for her liking, and then she's in her own little world.

Josie jumps up and down whenever Luke breathes, and it's cute at first, and she watches her best friend fondly, but by the fifth swoon she's at the brink of losing her mind.

That's why she decides to focus on something else– or someone else.

He's focused and intent, only takes a break to search for the golden snitch before taking off again with a determined look on his stoic face. Brown eyes near black with focus as he whirs through other players, dodges any hits, and takes down opponents in the process.

Her eyes can only follow him for so long before she feels dizzy, he's fast, definitely too fast for Gryffindor. She smiles a little bit, remembering how he used to idolize star quidditch players when they were young, he always wanted to be a quidditch player, and now he's one of the best at Hogwarts. She wouldn't be surprised if he set school records.

"Close your mouth, or you'll catch flies." Josie teases, and snaps her back into reality, eyes rolling back at her friends antics. She's just interested in the game, that's all. She wasn't drooling over Calum, just waiting to see if he'll catch the golden snitch.

Right as she stares at Josie there's a strong wave of wind that surges them back, her gaze dead set on the broomstick a few feet from her face as a Slytherin player leans over the field to meet Josie's awestruck expression.

Luke. She watches in utter surprise. The blonde's golden curls ruffling through the breeze as he tilts a gloved hand under Josie's wind-bitten rosy cheek and brings his lips to hers in an Earth shattering kiss.

"Lu," She whispers, startled at his PDA, especially because their relationship was strictly private.

He smirks, "See you after the game."

He goes back to the main purpose of the game and plays with ease, almost too casual about the spectacle he just caused. Josie still sits, fingertips grazing her lips in shock, reminiscing in the tingle she feels across them.

Valerie sits beside her, mouth agape, as she lets what just happened sink in. The crowd around them is already bombarding Josie with rapid fire questions on what that was and what it means. She knows. Luke just put their relationship in the public eye. The whole school will know by morning, and she's still red in the face at the mere thought.

"Wow." Is all Valerie can say.

"Yeah." Josie mutters back, speechless.

The game around them feels underwhelming after that, but Luke is as much of a star as before, scoring some points, meanwhile his other teammates seem just as flustered and confused at what they saw him do. Since when was he with a ravenclaw?

The only person who's unfazed by this is Calum, who uses this spectacle to his advantage and relentlessly chases the snitch now that the Gryffindor seeker is backtracking.

"Slytherin's seeker, Calum Hood, has caught the golden snitch!" The young announcer exclaims as the man being praised with roaring applause and celebratory whoops and hollers sends a victorious fist in the arm that holds the snitch in all it's glory. His fellow teammates swarm around him and do the same, some send encouraging back pats his way, others ruffle his curly hair.

"Come on," Josie pulls Valerie out of her seat once the game is officially over, and races her down the stairs until they reach the side of the field.

"Why are we-"

"Lu!" Josie shrieks when the boy comes walking out of the stadium with his broom in hand, now in his regular school uniform of a robe, button down, sweater, and tie. She latches onto his front in a hug that lasts far too long.

"You did great out there." Valerie tenses at the awkwardness in her voice, feeling uncomfortable at the blatant PDA these two are in the midst of. Kissing each other with silly giggles and whispers in between, she feels like she's intruding.

Luke eventually pulls away, a goofy, crooked smile on his lips. "Thanks, didn't think you'd actually show up."

She burns vermillion, her lips in a tight line as she hugs her own body for warmth. The sun is a sliver on the horizon as the subtle warmth of the day decreases and is replaced by cool winds. She really wants to go back to her room.

"Gonna join us for the celebration? The lads and I wanna have a bottle or two."

"No, I'm good. Tired." She takes a few slow steps back, "I have homework to do, classes to study for and-"

She stops her sentence when her back juts into something behind her, a low humph falling from her lips as she spins around in surprise. A very unimpressed Calum stands in her wake, taller than she remembers, eyes giving a quick skim of her body before assessing who she is. Her heart that thuds with chagrin only amplifies. She bets others can hear it if they listen closely.

"Y'alright?" His voice. She never really heard it, not since year one when he actually spoke up in classes. Not since they were actual comrades. Not since he actually acknowledged her existence. It's darker, full of a thick rasp and yet still smooth like honey. She drinks in the sight of his jawline, how his adam's apple bobs when he asks her if she's alright. Y'alright? That's what he has to say after years of silence?

"Yeah," She whispers, a little too meek in her tone, feet wobbling as she steps back and tries to fix her appearance, wants to drown in the knitted scarf that feels like it's suffocating her neck all of a sudden. "I'm great, actually."

He piques an amused brow to question her not-so believing tone, but doesn't say anything about how polar opposite her words are to her actual physical expression. Something in between terrified and ashamed.

"Congrats on the win." She stammers out in one hearty breath, slowly gaining her composure. Still captivated on the way he seems so unfazed with his victory.

She despises the way her heart turns and twists at the sound of him humming to reply. Hates the way she missed the brown in his eyes.

"Not my best game, to be fair, I was kind of distracted."

At that she's confused. He seemed pretty focused, if not entirely focused on the snitch the whole game. Not that she watched him like a hawk or anything.

"Oh?" She inquired for more explaining. "Why's that?"

"Nice joke, Val."

She feels herself bristle at the nickname. She never gave him the right to call her that, he can't just waltz his way back into her life as if the past six years haven't happened. As if he didn't leave her in the dust– and for what? A group of mediocre idiots who find nothing better to do other than mess around in class and in the halls. He used to have so much more potential before them.

"Am I supposed to know what's bothering you?" She muses, a little smug in her sarcasm, hands hugging her torso as another especially harsh wind blows by and tosses her waves of brown hair around.

He gives her a look, concerned, eyes falling to hers to try and read if she's joking or not. "You really don't know?"

She shakes her head, because as much as she hates him, she wouldn't bother herself with his life in her spare time. When girls giggled about him in the halls she zoned out and focused on the book in her hands or the test she's about to take, never bat an eyelash at the boy who somehow sat in her classes, always to the far left of her, back corner if not assigned somewhere else. She refused to take a minute to think of how he might be doing. Since he never bothered to do the same with her.

Luke and Josie burst through their space, breaking them apart as the blonde tugs Calum away from her. "C'mon, they'll be pissed if we aren't there soon."

She wants to stay here, even though it's windy and cold, but she needs to find out what Calum's talking about. What has him distracted? Is it bad? Good? Anything to do with her? She knows it's not the last one but she can't help but worry he has an issue with her.

"I'll see you around, alright?" Calum doesn't turn around to look her way as they wander back to the school halls. Her eyes longingly watch him leave her in the dust, anticipating an explanation that will never come.

"But what's wrong?" She asks, desperate to talk to him.

Now he looks over his shoulder, eyes dropping to her for a split second before he shakes his head.

"I can't tell you." His voice is low, "Not right now."

And what the actual hell is she supposed to do until he can tell her? After giving her something to stress about, one would think he should resolve her worries as soon as possible.

-

He doesn't even associate himself with her for the next four days, avoids her stare in the hallway, busies himself in the dining hall by constantly reading the same chapter on potions making. She feels tempted enough to cast the legilimency spell to read his mind, to delve into his thoughts and just get the answers herself, but knows she'd get caught for using it outside of the classroom. Besides, she's not that skilled in legilimens. She probably wouldn't be able to pull it off.

It takes all the strength within her to confide in Josie for help. Sitting criss cross on her bed as Josie lies on her stomach beside her, the two of them are studying together.

"Do you know anything about Calum?" Her eyes refuse to stare at her, glued on the pages of the book, as if Herbology is the most interesting subject in the world. Her lips mouth the words to herself as Josie's stare burns holes into her skin.

"Not much, why?"

"He just–" Merlin's sake, she despises boy talk yet here she is. "He's confusing."

"What else is new?"

"No, but, he and I were talking after the game and he said he was distracted during it then got all offended when I asked why– as if I should know. Now he won't even look at me but said he'd tell me later."

"And you think I know anything about the most mysterious man in Hogwarts?" Josie smirks, "I mean, I'd say ask Luke, but you don't like him."

Valerie tilts her head, "I never said I don't like him." They just have absolutely nothing and common therefore fall short on every conversation, ending it on simple farewells and forced smiles. She doesn't understand how Josie and him somehow have chemistry.

"He thinks you do, so,"

Now with another burden on her shoulders, her newfound tension with Luke, she huffs. This conversation is just tiptoeing around what she wants to her. Who is Calum Hood? Why won't he talk to her in public? Or glance at her, as a matter of fact, why does he act like he's better than anyone else when he's just an enigma wrapped up in a stone cold personality?

"I like him, he's nice." She can't say much else, only ever talks about the weather with him, or to ask him where Josie is. Now that she thinks of it, her and Luke have only conversed a handful of times.

"We can go ask him then, they're friends. He'll know what's going on with Calum more than anyone else."

Which, yeah, that makes sense. But wouldn't it be a betrayal of trust if someone tells her without Calum's permission. He said he'd tell her, he wouldn't lie to her. Maybe he's waiting for a specific time to stop her in the hall and ask her if they can talk. Maybe he wants to make sure she's alone when he says it. Or maybe he's just toying with her in some sort of sick game. Either way she's annoyed.

"Let's go. I know where he is." Josie throws her legs over the bed and tightens her auburn ponytail.

They're outside. After curfew. Having snuck through corridors in order to slip through the doors and into the quidditch field where distant conversation grows closer with each nervous, slow step. She can feel paranoia claw at the nape of her neck, keeps whipping her head over her shoulder to check that nobody is following them. But each time it's just the foggy gloom that circles the school and dewy grass below their stumbling feet. She's a decent student, she doesn't sneak out, hasn't done it since year three when she nearly got caught. Scared her straight, and now she's repeating old tricks.

Josie swishes her wand to the quidditch stadium gate, taps the lock, and proudly states, "Alohomora."

There's a subtle click before she grips the handle and opens the door for Valerie to enter first. She declines, pointing for Josie.

"You go first." Valerie insists, hushed in a whisper.

"You're the one who needs to talk to Luke."

"You're the one dating him." Her words make Josie relentlessly sigh, done with their childish antics and enters the stadium so Valerie can follow.

The quidditch field feels bigger when it's empty, the stadium seats abandoned, the flags for each house wave ever so slightly, almost lifeless. In the center of the field, Luke sits. One leg propped up, the other straight out as he uses his knee to rest his arm on. Michael is lying on his back beside him, casting harmless charms to amuse himself as he sips from a beer every minute or so. It's just them, and she thanks Merlin that Calum's not here.

"Look who decided to show up," Luke smirks, twirling his wand in between his fingers nonchalantly. He has a curl to his lips, effortless and charming. His robes abandoned to sit in jeans and his button down. The tie is loose, buttons undone. He seems so relaxed compared to the cold, shuddering Valerie who stomps in.

"I've brought Val, if that's alright, she's just got a question for you."

"I've got an answer." He coolly replies. His bright blue eyes drink in the sight of Josie and pats his thigh when she approaches. Let's her accompany him on her lap.

"I need to know more about Calum." She stands, too anxious to sit down and stay awhile. She just wants an explanation and then she can leave.

Luke barks out a laugh, shoulders bouncing as he glances to Michael. Almost to say 'do you hear this?' like she just asked him to kill someone for her.

"I get it. I sound crazy." She crosses her arms, "I'm just worried about him."

"Should be." Michael voices his opinion, swirling fire on the end of his wand, watches it flutter in the air before flicking his wand and extinguishing it. She pretends she's not impressed at his ability to cast spells without reciting an incantation. Now is not the time to applaud him. "Guy's getting into some bad shit."

"Like what?"

Michael hesitates. Even looks to Luke to see if it's okay to say it, the blonde shrugs. They both seem worried.

"I won't tell anyone, I swear." She has no one to tell, only Josie, who's here right now.

That seems to open Michael up a bit more, he heaves his body up to sit, knees bent as he cracks his neck then continues.

"He's he put his name in the Goblet of Fire to enter the Triwizard tournament."

Her blood runs cold, stills all of a sudden. She never went to that assembly, she was bedridden in the nurse's quarters trying to recover from a stomach bug.

"He said he talked his parents into letting him." Michael frowns, sighs as if there's nothing they can do about it. He can only hope things don't end horribly.

"Fuck." Josie breathes out, the silence too still for their liking. They stand there for what feels like hours but is only mere seconds, Luke's eyes peer up at Valerie and instantly worries they've said too much. Her eyes drill into Michael.

"Why didn't you try to stop him?" Her voice is stern, the ravenclaw within her jumps at the opportunity to be right. She could've prevented it, she knows for a fact she could've sat him down and told him it's not meant for him. He's intelligent but the tournament is deadly. "He's your friend, you can't just- he can't do that. He could die."

Valerie can't wrap her mind around the mere idea of it– Calum's not one to throw himself in the spotlight, but he does love a good competition. He's strong and hench, he has tons of support from friends and just about any girl with eyes, maybe he wants the attention.

"He could win, too." Luke mutters under his breath in spite of her concern.

Valerie finds feeling in her legs again, then turns around, "I'm gonna be sick." Her head spins, and she bolts to leave, clutching her stomach as she feels the ground turn underneath her heavy feet. She doesn't know why she sprints into the corridors, can't fathom the rational choice of quietly tiptoeing back to her room. Because this isn't good. Far from it. Why would he put himself in something that could end with him dead? What is he supposed to gain from this other than pride? His parents would never let him put his life on the line for a trophy.

She hears heels click down a hallway near her, her feet pick up their pace, moving in time to the frantic thud of her heart. Her hands clam up, her robe flies behind her as the dim halls provide barely any light to guide her. She feels like she's going in circles, because since when did it take this long to find her dorm?

"Hey, you there!"

She's about to turn around and face the consequences when she feels a hand grasp her wrist and pull her into a pitch black room. Valerie yelps at the feeling of a body being smushed up against her chest. She can hear their irregular breathing, feels it fan across her forehead. It's a guy, she can tell, the strong chest up against hers and the broadness of their body helps her decide.

The clicking comes closer and she squeezes her eyes shut when it nears the door, holds her breath, and prays she doesn't get caught.

When the clicking fades in the distance, her hands unclench from the fists she hadn't even realized they formed.

There's silence, and then he utters.

"Lumos."

A ball of light glows in between them. Her frantic eyes peel open and trail down the wand to find a hand, then the classic uniform robes, all the way up to their face. She's stunned into an inaudible gasp. Calum.

"Why are you shaking?" He whispers, low and concerned. His hand finds the back of hers but she flinches at the contact. A little startled to see him here, after just talking about him and his issues.

"Are you insane?" She barks out, still speaking in a whisper, but presses her hand to his chest so he moves back. Her bitter tone only proves how mad she is, but her face is pouty and her eyebrows are strung together while whisper-yelling to him. "Don't sneak up on me like that."

She tries to assess where they are, and it seems like they've crammed themselves into a storage closet full of potion bottles and old cauldrons, they must be near the potions class.

It's one thing to find her obvious fear concerning, it's another to watch his worries morph into amusement at the way the color washed away from her face and a pout formed on her lips. Calum brings his wand to her face and smirks.

"Stop acting like I just threatened to kill you." He laughs, quiet and low, he sounds even hotter when he's murmuring to not get caught. She feels her skin flush at the thought. "Why are you roaming the halls after curfew?"

"I could say the same to you." The wand between them illuminates and reflects in his dark brown eyes, makes them glow a sweet caramel color instead. Softer than his usual burning stare. She interrogates him with her glimmering green eyes.

He smells like pine and mint, his lips full as he bites down on his bottom lip to rack up a legitimate answer.

"Couldn't sleep." He answers, "Needed some fresh air."

"And you'd risk getting caught for some fresh air?" She grins a little, happy to find a flaw in his stance as her hand goes to the doorknob. "I need to go, so excuse me."

She flings the door open with a huff, ready to head back to bed and just sleep. Her eyes are only met with Professor McGonagall, her glasses on the brim of her nose, her wand held up for possible defense only to jut out to the side with a stern, professional tone.

"You two are in big trouble." She gestures for Valerie and Calum to step out and when they do she clicks her tongue in disapproval. "These halls are not a vacation spot, once curfew strikes you are meant to stay in your rooms until classes the next morning. Although, I can tell you two are old enough to know the rules around here."

Calum doesn't speak, just cringes as he tries to ruffle a hand through his hair out of embarrassment.

"Mr. Hood, I'll be notifying Professor Snape of your antics with this girl of yours."

"We're not-"

"Don't make excuses." She quips up, leading them down to his common room, the click of heels and pursed lips as she comes to a conclusion. "I believe we'll be deducting points for each of your houses."

She gives Valerie an especially pointed look, checks the color of her robes then tsks. "Miss Norwood, I find it hard to believe you are such a delinquent."

Calum approaches the Slytherin common room and gives Valerie one last glance before he heads to bed, an unspoken farewell on his lips as he sluggishly makes his way back to his dorm for an even more restless night.

She feels a little guilty, having caused this, but McGonagall is nice to Valerie, she respects her professors and Calum's not exactly the best at speaking to them with inferiority as opposed to his usual laidback, snarky responses. She just has intelligence and poise here, and professors seem to admire that in her.

They walk down the halls alone, a quiet night in the castle, and Professor McGonagall sighs. "Boys like him will only get you in trouble, dear."

"We're just friends, promise." She hopes that can clear the air for gossip that will surely rise with sun in the morning.

Besides, saying they're friends is already a long shot. No one would be stupid enough to believe they were fooling around in the potions closet.

-

"Does he kiss like a God?" A girl squeezed her way through the halls to nearly tackle Valerie in a spine crushing hold of her shoulders. The girl had to be a year five or four, too young to be in her classes. Her hufflepuff robes shine as bright as the naïveté in her eyes.

"What?"

"Calum Hood," She giggles, "You two snogged in the potions closet."

Valerie laughs hysterically, suddenly unable to feel any bit normal when the girl stares at her wounded, confused. She can't help herself and brushes the girl aside to carry on with her day.

"Snogged in the potions closet..." She giggles to herself. "As if." Her feet rush through the corridors as her mind runs wild. Who could've said anything? Nobody else was there.

Her body weaves through the crowded corridors and tries to find Josephine for the ceremony about to take place. Her eyes skim from student to student and once she catches a glimpse of deep red hair she grins.

And then that grin falls upon seeing the hoard of slytherin boys around her with laughter bubbling out as she entertains them with a story. Calum Hood stands amongst the group, attracting attention from most as his broad posture with his arms across his chest cast a spotlight through the many lackluster students. He's far from mundane, he stands out in crowds like this. Despite the uniforms, he manages to catch anyone’s eye once they walk into the room.

Does he know his magnetic pull is so strong?

Valerie slips into the circle with her eyes trained on anything besides the brown eyed boy.

"-trying to write an essay while this idiot," Josie points to Luke, "Is throwing things across the room to prevent me from getting my actual work done. And not just crumpled up pieces of papers, no he managed to levitate a book and nearly hit me right in the head." She exclaims, as Michael bursts into laughter and Luke shrugs while she smiles. She may be irritated while ranting, but she knows Luke's just bored whenever they try to study together.

Valerie feels goosebumps rise over her skin, and a chill trails up her spine ever so slowly when someone decides to lean into her ear.

"Can I steal you for a second?"

The other three have been laughing too much to notice the fact Calum just invaded her personal bubble with no care in the world. She jumps a little at the warmth of his body, how his cologne invades her senses, the once cold room now flooded with heat.

She nods, softly, and follows him out of the dining hall, a few paces behind as her feet stumble down the corridors where every student walks in the opposite direction, sending odd glances her way. She ignores it, focuses on settling the nerves that unravel in the pit of her stomach at the conversation ahead. She knows exactly what this is about. And still the knowledge of what's to come does not soothe her rampant mind.

He finds an empty hall to discuss important matters in. Although, this doesn't ensure much privacy since people can still walk down and stumble upon this mess.

"Y'gonna explain yourself?" He starts.

"Me?" Valerie gapes. "I was gonna ask you the same thing."

"That's funny, Val. Cut the bullshit." He waves a nonchalant hand away, his eyes land on her for the first time. Dark, unwavering. She challenges his look with a just as intense, fiery stare.

"You're the one who said we snogged in the potions closet." Her finger juts into his chest, "That's sick, Calum. Why would you make up something so preposterous? Does it fuel your ego, huh? Get you some 'cred' in the halls with the guys?"

"Snogging, huh? That's what people said we did?" He chuckles, lowly, worrying her a little bit. "That's far better than what people said to me."

Her eyes widen, less powerful, but maintains her composure through a tense jaw, "What did you hear?"

"Apparently we did far more than kiss, sweetheart." His tone is sickening, clearly upset with the rumors spreading like wildfire throughout the castle. This school can turn into such a dingy place when students open their mouths and say such insulting things.

Valerie grimaces in disgust, eyes rolling back as the anger residing in her starts to settle at a rather peculiar sight. His hands. And the very prominent redness to his raw knuckles.

"You hit someone, who?" Her gaze flickers to his within seconds of asking, strictness in her tone as she jumps at him for doing for something so juvenile. His brown eyes merely observe the concern in her wary expression.

"Doesn't matter."

"When?" She picks up his hand without thinking, feels him flinch at the contact and retract his hand immediately. Her heart sinks at the look of confusion on his face, she just wanted to check his fingers, they could get infected if he leaves them split open like that.

"After practice." He mumbles, dismissing her from treating any of his cuts. "M'fine, you don't have to-"

"Just let me look, okay?" She holds an upturned palm out, a part of her wants to slap him for being so irresponsible. Another part of her cares about his wellbeing for some unknown reason.

He scans her, like he can read her true motives through her expression, and when he finally deems her as safe, his right hand lands on top of hers.

It's warm to the touch, yet calloused. He even rolls his eyes to show how dumb he thinks this is, he always has to be the ignorant one in every situation.

She brings his hand closer, studies the raw splits in each knuckle, the deep purple and mossy green bruises that creep around the wounds.

"Did you get in trouble?" She whispers, because who knows who's listening right now. The paranoia creeps around the corner at the thought of last nights events repeating.

"No, he swore not to tell after I threatened to knock his teeth out."

And now it's her turn to roll her eyes in disapproval.

"I know a spell, if you want them healed now. That way no one will know." She already slips her wand from the inside of her robe, let's the delicate wood land in her hand and points it his bruised hand.

"Go for it." Is all he mutters.

Her wand strikes down on the back of his hand, "Episkey." Her voice stays diligent, strong as ever. He envies her confidence in spell-casting, but would never admit it.

His hand flushes with heat all of a sudden, then turns cold just as fast. He flexes his hand to test it, splays his fingers out before clenching a fist, there's no pang of pain anymore.

"Thanks." His eyes trail to her hand, still delicately holding his wrist, she hasn't let go yet. Calum can feel her thumb run along his skin. Part of him doesn't want her to let go.

"Don't do this again," She releases her grip, then turns around to find Josie. They have classes to go to and things to discuss. Before she can turn the corner, she pivots to look at Calum. "Beat someone up to defend me, I mean."

The dumbfounded look on his face, the way his eyes widen a little bit but relax soon after. His hands that smooth his robe and run through his curls, that's answer enough. 

A/N: pop into my ask or message me to be put on the taglist for this or any of my other fics! xx

#my writing #calum #calum 5sos #5sos #calum au #calum hood #calum fic #calum hood fic #ashton 5sos #Michael 5sos #luke 5sos #hogwarts!au #5sos Hogwarts au #calum hood au

[wearemystic]

Pulse (2 / 2)

Character(s): Reader, Mystic, Eddie Brock, Venom

Rating: E

Warning(s): N/S/F/W, breathplay, blood kink (if you squint)

You shudder underneath the watchful gaze of Venom, Eddie and Mystic, suddenly aware of the weight of their stares. It’s… not an unpleasant sensation, per se, but it still has you feeling like your skin is trying to crawl away without your skeleton and nervous system. The attention is too much.

Thanks, I hate it.

“don’t be such a big baby,” Mystic scolds you, stroking the side of your face. “she’s nervous.”

“Don’t be nervous, babe,” Eddie says. He looks like he wants to reach out and touch you but then he’s glancing at Mystic, probably remembering the only rule she’d set down. No touching. “Is-is it because of Vee and me? I know it’s kind of weird—”

You blink, alarmed that he would even think that. “What? No, no! It’s, um, it’s just in my head. I’m being a dumb. Don’t worry about it.”

Eddie frowns, but he drops the subject. Venom is watching you pensively, tendrils reaching out for your hand. Mystic meets him halfway, lavender merging with black. You gasp as something other worms it’s way into your consciousness. Mystic slithers up your spine and puts pressure on the parts of your brain that control the release of dopamine, the middle areas that don’t get stimulated nearly as much as they should. You suck in a breath as a rolling wave of calm-happy-safe seeps through your blood, but your heart still pounds against your ribs because something that isn’t Mystic is in your head.

“Uh, guys? What-what’s going on?” A general idea begins to form in your head as you look at Venom and Mystic’s intertwined tendrils, and you’re not entirely sure if you like it or not. "Venom? Are you - are you in my head?" Your voice trembles, and Eddie's eyes flash white in your peripheral vision.

"Yes." He wraps around Eddie's skull, coming into view as the Venom that criminals and nightlife scum fear in the streets. "You are… afraid, of us?"

"No! No, I'm not afraid of you, I - I just — " You trail off, frustrated with your lack of words. "I'm just, fuck. I haven't done this sort of thing before, you know, with two - three? - other people before. I'm afraid that I won't be good enough at it for you, I guess? I don't know, I'm being silly."

"You are being silly," Eddie says as Venom pulls back, both from Mystic and his face. It's unnerving to hear Venom and Eddie as one speaker while the symbiote retracts. "I - we - don't care about how it is for us. We want you to have fun, too, you know."

You think back on the expressions Venom had drawn out of Eddie, cheeks pricking with heat. "I've been having fun this entire time. Mystic has, too."

Eddie snaps his fingers. "Well, there you go, ki — shit, sorry, forgot about that. There you go, then. You're having fun, I'm having a blast, now can I — we — please see you? We wanna know what makes you moan and writhe and come."

Mystic rolls you onto your side so that you're facing Eddie as she moves to your back, much like how Venom was positioned with Eddie. She pulls at the hem of your old t-shirt slowly, revealing your belly and ribs and chest in a way that can only be described as teasing. Venom reappears on Eddie's shoulder, and they both watch her closely. You blink, flushing under their rapt attention. Eddie bites his bottom lip.

"'S not fair," you mutter.

"what's not fair, brat?" Mystic's movements pause, and she looks at you with narrowed eyes.

"He's so pretty!" Jerking your head at Eddie, you pout. "I wish my mouth was that pretty."

Eddie's face looks like the apples in your kitchen — bright red and the tiniest bit shiny.

"He is pretty," Venom agrees. "He is also very talented with his mouth."

Your breath catches, and a image of Eddie looking up at you from between your legs, lower face dripping with slick, flashes through your mind. "Oh, fuck. Wish I could test that out for myself."

Venom hums in consideration, but the symbiote ultimately says nothing else on the suggestion because Mystic has said nothing relating to it as she pulls your shirt over your head. The neck catches on your chin for a moment. You groan in mock despair, prompting a laugh from Eddie. Mystic pinches your hip.

"don't whine, brat."

"But it was covering my face," you say as it goes over your mouth and nose. "I was going to suffocate and die."

"that's a you problem."

"... Bitch."

"brat."

Eddie clears his throat. "Ladies, no need to fight. You're both pretty."

Both you and Mystic turn towards him, identical looks of irritation written on your faces. Yours is obscured by your shirt, ruining the effect, but Mystic looks fearsome enough for the two of you, you think. Eddie grins, holding up his hands in surrender. Venom flicks his tongue over Eddie's belly, licking up the cooling cum. You make a soft, frustrated noise in the back of your throat — you can hear it, but you can't see it. Mystic finishes pulling your shirt off of you.

Your nipples pebble in the cool air of your bedroom. Eddie makes a strained sound when Mystic drags a tendril over your side, curling around your left breast and giving it an affectionate squeeze. His pupils dilate again, black engulfing the grey. You rub your thighs together.

It's not fair, you think again, that anyone should be so pretty and so strong all at once.

Mystic wraps a tentacle around your waist, a comfortingly heavy weight on your hip.

You're just as strong as he is, lamb. You just show it in other ways.

Purple biomatter spreads warm and smooth down your back as Mystic moves towards your pants. You let out a sigh of relief when Mystic undoes the buttons of your jeans. The denim scratches against your skin as you wriggle to get out of them faster.  Jeans have always been your least favorite type of pants. You run a hand down your thigh. You wish you had thought to shave earlier. Oh, well.

"why is that such a big deal, anyways?" Mystic's eyes blink in a slow consecutive pattern, starting with the uppermost pair.

"B-because," you stumble over your own tongue as Mystic slides a tentacle beneath the band of your panties, "some people find a lack of body hair to be beautiful. It's just a weird h-human thing."

"well, it's stupid," Mystic hums in response, dragging her tongue over your pulse point and pressing down on it. You can feel your blood pushing against the pressure. You must make some sort of sound, because Eddie huffs out a laugh, palming his cock as he watches Mystic pull your panties down. Venom spreads over Eddie's shoulder and down his arm, coating his skin with black biomatter. You watch him chub back up through hooded eyes.

He really does have a pretty cock.

Mystic laughs, breath hot and wet against the skin of your ear. The vibrations go straight through Mystic, all the way down to where she ends and you being. She is almost, almost to your clit, and you whine. Eddie perks up, a questioning look on his face. "What's up?"

"she thinks your cock is pretty, eddie. we both do."

Your friend blushes something fierce, choking briefly on his own spit. Venom's mouth spreads wide in a toothy smile and you feel yourself grow wet upon seeing it. Desire spikes in your belly. Mystic growls low and jealous before cupping your face and pulling you in for a kiss. You tilt your head to the side, slotting your mouth against hers like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

She tastes like chocolate and — faintly — meat.

As she kisses you, her tongue slides into your mouth. You've kissed with tongue before, but that was years ago, with a boy who didn't know what he was doing. Mystic seems to know exactly what she's doing as she traces the inside of your teeth with her tongue, paying particular attention to the tiny points of your canines.

so cute.

I'm not cute, you think indignantly. I'm sexy.

you're cute and sexy, brat.

... That works, you decide, swallowing as Mystic's tongue slides farther back into your mouth, down your throat. Your eyes flicker open when Eddie jostles your mattress. He's sitting cross-legged with his other at his back, both hands lashed together and held up above his head by Venom. The symbiote has a tendril wrapped across Eddie’s lower belly and another wrapped around the base of his cock, much like before.

He looks painfully hard.

Mystic strokes down the inside of your thighs, starting at the point where your belly meets your hips and sliding down from there. The speckles on her biomatter shimmer as you moan, then sigh, when she brushes against your clit. You bite down on your lip, hard enough to cause blood to well up and dribble down your chin. The scent of wet iron fills the air.

Venom's growl rumbles in your ears. Mystic drags her tongue over the wound, sealing it with a caress. Eddie is focused in on the blood shining on your chin.

Your lip still feels swollen.

Mystic strokes your clit again, sinking lower to gather some of your slick on the tip of her tendril and rising to rub it all over the sensitive bundle of nerves. You tense, knees locking as you begin to feel that crest of pleasure. To your disappointment, Mystic pulls away, tsking.

"not yet, ducky," she leans in, whispering in your ear. "let's give them a show, hmm?"

"Y-yes, oh, yes, let's," you reply breathlessly. Turning so that you're looking at Eddie and Vee from between your legs, you spread them wide, flaunting the shining flesh and damp pubic hair. Eddie's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.

"Oh, f-fuck. You're so, so wet. How...?"

You laugh and your other hums against your throat. "We get wet real easy, Eddie," you and Mystic drawl in unison. "Makes a mess, but it's always worth the clean up afterwards."

Your friend groans. Mystic divvies herself so that you sit between two thick swathes of her, sort of like if you sat on the ground between the legs of someone on the couch. She's warm around you, and you sink into that warmth like a bath. Mystic pulls your legs further apart, up and out of the way of Venom and Eddie's eyes. You can feel her excitement at the prospect of showing you off.

The air conditioner kicks on, and you jump a little before laughing at yourself. Eddie snorts, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Jumpy, much?"

"Fuck off, it's loud." You try and fail to frown at him.

"Sure, baby, sure," he laughs. He stretches his legs out, nudging your hand with his toes. You smack at his foot; his skin is cold.

"no touchy, remember, edward?" Eddie's lip curls at Mystic's use of his given name, and he rolls his eyes.

"Fi-ine. Don't call me Edward, though."

"consider it payback for you calling us kid nonstop." Mystic sticks her tongue out at him. He rolls his eyes again. You purse your lips. You can't but feel responsible for your symbiote's misbehavior. You mumble an apology to your friend, voice catching as tiny tentacles begin to explore your pussy. Eddie waves you off, saying that he knows what Klyntar can be like. His eyes don't leave your fluttering cunt.

"Oh, shit," he says softly. "Fuck, I-I'd love to fill you up, baby. You look so warm and soft and wet; I bet I could just slide right in, no prep needed."

Your hips jump at his words. "Warn a girl next time you start dirty-talking, Eddie, Jesus."

Eddie just laughs and turns to look at his other when Venom joins in. "Nah, I don't think I will."

"We really won't."

"Can you imagine it, Vee? Stuffing her full and having her take us both at the same time?" Venom rumbles in response, rubbing the head of Eddie's cock. Eddie twitches, catching his lower lip between his teeth.

While Eddie is talking, Mystic — the sneaky bitch — slides her primary tentacle into your cunt. You whine low and raspy in your throat as she fills you up. Her teeth scrape your jugular as she thickens inside of you.

“Fu-uck, Myst, Myst, doll, please.” Eddie and Vee turn back to you in time to see you throw your head back against Mystic’s chest. You can only imagine what a picture you must make. You’re pretty sure that your face will be this red for the rest of your life. (Since you’ve bonded with Mystic, it is a definite possibility.)

“that’s it, brat, take it in,” she hums in your ear. “you do so well for us, looking so pretty like this.”

When she starts to pump into you, you lose all sense of self; there’s no way to tell where you cease to be and become her. There’s just we and that’s more than okay with you. In some far corner of your brain, you recognize the slick sound of Eddie stroking himself. Whatever — it doesn’t matter when your whole world is made up of Mystic and the things she does to you. You arch under her touch as she presses down on your clit.

She knows your body better than you do.

Heat curls in your belly, molten gold singing in your blood. You flex your lower muscles as you lift your hips, meeting Mystic thrust for thrust. You feel deliciously full. Your attention turns back to your breasts, groping them and pinching your nipples between your thumb and forefinger. Eddie moans when you duck your head and lick a line across the silky skin. You shiver when the unit-cooled air hits your saliva.

Mystic twists inside of you, pressing harder, deeper, than she ever has before. You hiss when she brushes against your cervix. “A-ah! Not that deep, doll. That’s too sensitive.”

Your symbiote hums an apology in your ear, stroking the swell of your belly as she presses upwards inside of you. Eyes wide, your breath catches when you see the skin rise up in the shape of Mystic’s tentacle. Holy motherfucking shit. That’s so hot. Why is that so hot? I didn’t know that would actually be possible?

“Holy shit.” Eddie’s words echo your thoughts and his expression is just as surprised as yours. His hand stutters in its movement. Venom picks up the slack, causing Eddie’s hips to jump involuntarily. “Hnn, fu-uck, that’s literally the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You snort, biting your lip. “I don’t know, man, I’m pretty sure it would be hotter if it was us in you.” His eyes slip shut and his breathing picks up. “But you know what would be even hotter, though?”

Eddie hums in response. “What would be hotter than you inside me?”

“Us inside you while you’re in us — in me.” You’re pleased when Eddie moans loudly. “God, and then Venom could be inside my — our — ass. Me and you, we’d be so full, Eddie. I bet it would feel amazing.”

Eddie groans.

Mystic flicks at your clit. It hurts, just a little, but it sends the heat in your gut spiraling upwards. You whine. “Oh, god, Mystic, please.”

“please what, lamb?”

“Fuck, fuck, please let me come, I need to come.” You roll your hips in an attempt to get more friction against your clit. Your other presses down on your hips, holding you still.

“eddie. should she be allowed to come?” Mystic looks over at Eddie for input, slowing her thrusts into your pussy. An indignant sound leaves your throat. Mystic stretches out a tentacle and pushes it past your lips, silencing you — for now. You drag your teeth over her in retaliation.

Eddie breathes heavily through his nose, opening his eyes to look at you, and god, it’s an amazing sight. You're all spread out before him, legs parted and pussy facing he and Venom. They have a perfect view of Mystic fucking into you, a perfect view of your cunt shining with juices that Eddie wants very badly to taste. Venom slides a black tendril over the head of his — their — cock. It's almost too much and he barely holds back the orgasm building inside of him.

You give Eddie a pleading look, cheeks pink and saliva dripping shiny down your chin.

He wants to know what your mouth would feel like on his dick.

"Y-yeah, let her come."

"We want to see her face as she comes undone, Mystic," Venom adds. Mystic considers this and then pulls out of your mouth, moving the tentacle to wrap around your throat instead.

Eddie can see your pulse jump. He really, really wants to bite it and leave a mark that'll stay as a reminder of tonight. Venom picks up on this thought, rumbling in agreement. "She would look very nice all marked up by us, Eddie."

Your eyes go wide. You would like that. You would like that a lot.

"later, pet," Mystic says. "right now is for us." She wraps a tendril around your clit as she begins fucking you in earnest, pulling and lightly pinching as she does so.

Your orgasm hits you like a brick wall and you wail. Everything goes totally white, and the only thing you can really hear is the blood in your ears and Mystic’s ecstatic hisses. You clench down hard on her, pushing your feet against the mattress. Despite Mystic’s hold on your hips, you manage to lift them up, meeting your other as she fucks you through the fluttering pulse and ragged breathing that always comes after. Sweat drips down the back of your legs. You lay there on your back, heart pounding against your ribs. Mystic strokes your clit once more for good measure, and you twitch.

“You, uh, you good?” Eddie’s talking to you, but it feels like your head is full of cotton. You make a noncommittal noise, flexing your fingers against the sheets.

It feels like forever before you can see again. Mystic wraps around you, gentle as anything, pulling you into a sitting position. She’s warm against your rapidly cooling skin.

Thank you, doll.

wouldn’t be right to not care for you afterwards.

I know. Thank you.

you’re welcome.

“So, uh, how are you, Eddie? Venom?” It feels like your throat’s been scraped raw.

“I — uh, we — are amazing. Ho-ly fuck. Can we do this again, sometime?”

You snort, nodding. “Definitely. Maybe next time we can really take care of you.”

Eddie makes an agreeable noise in the back of his throat. Venom appears over Eddie’s shoulder and nods in agreement. “That would be good, wouldn’t it, Eddie?”

“Hell yeah, it would.”

#oc x reader #reader x oc #reader insert #reader x symbiote #symbiote x reader #eddie brock #venom x reader #reader x eddie brock #reader x mystic #mystic x reader #eddie brock x reader #reader x venom #original symbiote character(s) #original symbiote #mystic #mystic symbiote #pulse #smut

[aquaminwrites]

Skin Deep: 03

Pairing: Yoongi x Tattoo Artist!Reader (M/F) Genre: Friends to lovers, slow burn. Eventual smut. Rating: 18+  Warnings: None Word Count: 5.5K

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has read the first two instalments of this story! Feedback is always appreciated, I would love to hear what you think so far!

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 (links removed due to tumblr issue)

Yoongi can’t sit still. He’s seated at a table by the window of the coffee shop, one a few blocks away from your studio. He’s fidgeting with whatever he can get his hands on—the sugar and sweetener packets in the tiny bowl beside the stir sticks, the hem of his black turtle neck that somehow managed to trap stray pieces of white lint, and his phone, which he can’t stop picking up and putting back down.

He tugs at his leather jacket for the hundredth time, wondering if keeping it on would be better, or if taking it off would make him look a little more casual. Yoongi is just about to take it off when he spots you entering the cafe, wearing an oversized maroon sweater that hangs off one shoulder, hair down, and a pair of jeans that look like they’ve been painted onto your legs.

He gulps. And decides to keep the jacket on.

You peer around the cafe before spotting him. You send him a small wave before pointing at the menu above the counter, signalling that you’re going to quickly order your drink before joining him. He nods in return and focuses back on his own cup, already half drained. His leg bounces under the table at an irregular beat that he can’t control.

After a few minutes, you make your way over and sit across from him at the table. He notices the way you approach with a slight edge of caution, as if you don’t really know what to say to him.

You settle on, “Hi.”

Yoongi notices the slight bounce of your knee under the table as well.

“Hi,” he replies quietly, offering up the tiniest of smiles. You return it, looking down at your mug as the steam rises past the ceramic. It’s quiet for a beat before Yoongi can’t take it anymore. “Look,” he begins. “I’m really sorry for how I acted the other day. It wasn’t fair.”

You nod, your thumb caressing the rim of the cup. You’re not looking at him, not yet, as you gather your thoughts.

“Do you know why it wasn’t fair?” You ask softly. Yoongi doesn’t respond, just waits for you to continue. You finally lift your head, gaze bearing into his. “You not only disrespected me as a person, but you disrespected me as an artist. I don’t give a shit about what people say about my appearance. I got over that a long time ago. But my art is important to me, and what I do is important to me. And you had no right to belittle me in that way.”

“I know, I understand,” Yoongi responds earnestly. “I just…” He swallows. “You make me nervous.”

You fold your arms over your chest, tilting your head to the side. “I make you nervous?” You repeat, a little stunned. “Why?”

Yoongi scratches at the back of his head, then tugs lightly on the top of his ear. It’s a habit he developed as a child whenever he was being reprimanded that he never seemed to be able to shake.

“I’ve never met anyone like you before,” he admits. “And not just because you’re a tattoo artist or because you have tattoos. You just…I don’t know. You seem so sure of yourself, and so confident all the time. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but when I get nervous, I tend to put my foot in my mouth a lot.”

The corner of your lips twitch up into a smile. “I hadn’t.”

“Ha,” he deadpans, and you each take sips of your coffee. “But honestly. I’m just…a little more old-fashioned when it comes to stuff like this, you know?”

“I know, and I get it,” you tell him, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture exposes a little more of the peony on your neck, and Yoongi’s eyes trace over it briefly before settling back on your face. “I’m not asking you to change your mind. I’m just asking that you be ten percent less judgmental when it comes to the actual human beings underneath the ink.”

“I’m going to try,” he promises. “I can be kind of dense about this shit sometimes, so it won’t happen overnight. But I’m going to try, I really will.”

You shoot him a thankful smile. “You know, you say you’re scared of people with tattoos, that they’re thugs and criminals. But if I’m being honest, I’m more afraid of people in suits and slicked back hair, the ones that control big companies and entire countries. They’re the ones who do damage on a national—and international—scale.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow with a grin. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re an anarchist or something?”

“Not an anarchist,” you hum. “Just critical of the people who claim to be in charge.”

Yoongi huffs out a laugh, a tiny croaky noise that’s barely audible, though his shoulders shake slightly. You send him a strange look, tilting your head to the side in a silent question. Amusement glints in your eyes, and he says, “I’m just realizing now that I don’t really know anything about you.”

Your smile widens, revealing rows of perfect, white teeth. “Would you like to?”

He quirks a brow. “What do you mean?”

You pull out your phone, tapping away until you show him an article on the screen. It reads Deep Questions to Ask A New Friend.

You lower your voice and grin. “Do you want to play a game?”

Yoongi can’t help but roll his eyes. “Alright, big nerd. Noted.”

“Hey!” You reach over and lightly smack his arm. “Come on, Mr. Music Producer. Indulge me. You might be surprised, because I want to get to know you, too.”

Yoongi lets out a snort, but tries to cover it up with a cough. It doesn’t go unnoticed by you, who raises an eyebrow at him, almost like a challenge. “Why don’t we just play Truth or Dare, then?” He’s joking, but the glint in your eyes tells him that you’re about two seconds away from taking him up on that offer. So instead, he dials back and says, “Deep questions, then. Okay. Ask away.”

“Alright,” you clap, a smile spreading across your face and lighting up your eyes. “I’ll ask, then you answer. And then I’ll give my answer after.”

Yoongi nods. “Rules seem pretty simple.”

You clear your throat and read out the first question. “What is your idea of a perfect day?”

Yoongi opens his mouth to respond, then debates if he should tell you the truth, or something that makes him seem edgy or exciting. His internal debate lasts maybe ten whole seconds—he’s already wearing his leather jacket, so maybe that would take care of the ‘edginess’ factor he was worried about earlier—before he settles on the truth. He figures that you’d appreciate it more.

“Honestly,” he sheepishly scratches at the back of his head, tugging on his ear gently. “One where I could stay inside and work on music. Without distractions. And maybe a nap or two thrown in there for good measure.”

“Ah, classic workaholic,” you affirm. “I’m like that too, don’t worry. I definitely prefer staying in than going out. Bars and stuff are okay, but clubs are—”

“Way too loud,” Yoongi agrees. “Too many people.”

“How are you supposed to hear anyone talk!” You exclaim, tossing your hands in the air for dramatic effect. “I mean, good for the people that want to dance and get wild, but I have too many lower back problems and I’m too awkward for clubbing. Plus, I can’t dance.”

“So…” Yoongi takes a sip from his coffee, sounding bemused and also just the tiniest bit hopeful. “Next time we hang out, you want to go clubbing, is that what you’re saying?”

You shoot him a playful glare. “Ha, ha,” you tease. “Very funny. Who knew that Mr. Serious could joke? And let’s just get through the rest of these questions first, before you get ahead of yourself and assume we’re going to hang out again.”

Yoongi straightens in his seat, prepared for the next one. Your tone is light and joking, maybe even a hint of flirtatiousness intermixed, but he still doesn’t want to screw anything up. He’s also pretty sure he’s imagining the flirtatious part, too.

You read the next question aloud. “When was the last time you cried?”

He has to pause to think. Yoongi isn’t good at emotions, processing them or reading them on other people. He also doesn’t cry very often—chalk it up to toxic masculinity or just his general aloofness when it comes to that part of his brain. But the emotion he feels more strongly when he’s upset is anger, not sadness.

“It’s been a while,” he admits. “Maybe…two or three months ago?”

You gape at him. “That long?”

He shrugs, eyes scanning over your face nervously. “I mean, yeah. Why, when did you cry last?”

Your face falls as you carefully fold your hands in your lap and look anywhere but him. In a quiet voice, you admit, “Last week. After I got home from the bar.”

Yoongi feels his heart shattering into a thousand pieces, each shard sinking to the pit of his stomach and haemorrhaging along the way. “Y/N, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, it’s okay,” you brush past it. “We talked about it already, it’s fine. I didn’t mean to get back into all that again, that wasn’t my intention. I’m not good at emotional stuff, if I’m being honest. I was in therapy for a while, and my therapist told me that I need to express my emotions more. But that…” You shake your head, forcing a smile back on your face. “It doesn’t matter. Next question…”

The two of you go back and forth for the better part of two hours as you go through the list. Some of them are morbid, asking about life after death and the idea of reincarnation, and some are a little more lighthearted, like your weirdest habit and fondest childhood memory.

Yoongi finds himself sinking into the conversation, losing track of time as he leans forward on his elbows. He is completely engrossed in you, hanging off every word you say. He’s never met someone who seems so sure of themselves, so willing to be open and honest without much apprehension. And yet, he senses trepidation still, masked so carefully under the façade of self-assurance that he probably wouldn’t have been able to spot it if the two of you hadn’t been delving into such difficult topics.

“Here’s an interesting question,” You say, scrolling down on your phone. Yoongi raises an eyebrow as he sips his now lukewarm coffee, but you continue. “How did you fall in love for the first time?”

He nearly chokes, sputtering as he attempts to bring the air back into his lungs. “W-what kind of question is that?”

You pretend to act noncommittal, but he can tell that you are rapt with attention. “Just a question.”

“I…”

Yoongi isn’t sure how to answer, if he’s being honest. He was never good with his emotions growing up, and a lot of that translated into a stunted ability to have romantic relationships. He’s been with his fair share of girls, but none of them ever stuck around. They were mostly good for a night, enough to scratch an itch. Maybe one or two of them made him think that a steady relationship was possible, but there hasn’t been anyone he’s wanted to try it out with before.

“I’ve never been in love,” he confesses.

Your face softens into something somewhat sad. “Really? Never?”

“No,” Yoongi shakes his head. “I mean, it sounds nice. And maybe one day I will be. But…no. Never felt that way about anyone before.”

You let out a derisive laugh. For a second, Yoongi thinks you’re laughing at him, but when he glances up he sees that you’re staring absentmindedly out the window. “Probably better off that way,” you admit quietly. “Easier than dealing with heartbreak.”

Yoongi suddenly feels really awkward, unsure of what to do. So he just sits in silence with you for a beat longer, as your eyes grow more and more distant. He sees the hurt etched in your features, and he longs to take it away. To soothe it with a balm, to make sure you never get that look in your eyes again. It’s a foreign feeling that he tries to suppress. He hates how you shrink into your seat, how your shoulders round inward at the memories of the past.

Still, he has to ask. “I take it you’ve been in love, then?”

“Yeah,” you respond, barely above a whisper. He notices the rasp in your voice, how it seems thick like you’re holding back tears. “Once.” You see that he’s eyeing you with caution, looking at you how everyone else does when they find out. You try to divert it by adding, “It’s not all bad, though, you know? Love is beautiful. I’m glad I got to experience it at least once.”

You sigh, tugging at the ends of your hair.

“Sorry for being a bummer. I didn’t mean to put a damper on things. And before you ask, I’m fine, I promise. I meant it, love is beautiful. I hope you get to experience it one day, Yoongi.”

He hesitates, but decides to be bold and ask anyway. “How will I know if I’m in love?”

You suddenly look nostalgic, playing with your fingers a little. “Trust me. You’ll just know. One day it’ll hit you and you won’t be able to imagine who you were before you met them. It’s like falling asleep—slowly, and then all at once.”

Yoongi nods, settling back into the quiet that has made itself comfortable between the two of you. He notices that you’re glancing back at him every few seconds, like you have something to say on the tip of your tongue but don’t know exactly how to phrase it.

“Can I ask you something?”

Yoongi is surprised. “Haven’t you been asking me things all afternoon?”

You swat at him genially and then quietly ask, “Why were you so mean to me at the bar that night?”

When Yoongi doesn’t answer immediately, you keep going.

“We’ve been talking for a while now, and I actually think you’re really nice. A little guarded, but you’re not a bad person. So why did you come at me like what the other week when were at the bar?”

“I…” He begins, but everything he comes up with in his head sounds like a shitty excuse. He filters through the reasoning in his mind, sorting through the muck of that night to try and reach some sort of conclusion that won’t have you throwing your coffee in his face and walking away. “I can be an asshole when I drink,” Yoongi confesses. “And…I don’t know. We’d already gotten off on the wrong foot, and I was in a shitty mood that day to begin with, and then Hoseok—”

He screws his mouth shut before he can say something incriminating.

You look at Yoongi skeptically. “Hoseok? What does this have to do with him?”

“Nothing.” Except he and Jungkook are both suspicious that I might possible have the teensy, tiniest crush on you. Which is still unproven.

“Really?” You repeat, arms crossed over your chest. “Nothing?”

“Hobi can just be a lot,” Yoongi lies. “He was just doing a lot that day, and I was in a bad mood. And the drinking didn’t help. I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to be such an ass, I swear. I have a bad habit of fucking things up. And…” His voice gets quieter, as he gets more shy. “I don’t want to fuck things up with you.”

You smile at him gratefully. “At least you’re able to apologize, yeah? I think that’s a good thing. And for the record, I’m sorry too.”

Yoongi can’t help the way his eyebrows fly up into his fringe. Of all the things you could have said, an apology was not what he was expecting. “You’re sorry? What for?”

“I didn’t mean to belittle you like that in front of your friends,” You explain. “I goaded you. And then I kind of…made my point, did a mic drop, threw down double what the bill would be and left.” Sighing, you add, “Jungkook was supposed to have paid that bill. The runt still owes me drinks.”

“If it’s any consolation, he thinks you’re his queen now. That move might have gained you at least one worshipper if you ever decide to start a cult or something.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Sweet kid. But honestly, it was a power move, and I shouldn’t have done it. I should have actually tried to have a conversation with you instead of making you feel like an idiot, especially in front of your friends. It was wrong of me, and I’m sorry.”

Yoongi is stunned. He sits there, gaping like a fish out of water for the umpteenth time today, before he closes it and holds out his hand for you to shake.

“Let’s start over, huh? I’m Min Yoongi, music producer, lamb skewer aficionado, professional napper, and whiskey enthusiast.”

You bite your lip to hold back your grin before taking his hand in yours. The skin of his palm is warm, but not clammy, and his large grip envelopes your hand as you shake it firmly.

“I’m Y/N, tattoo artist, plant mom, bad dancer, and working my way up to becoming a professional napper.”

Yoongi beams at you, his gummy smile making an appearance that you can’t help but find endearing. “We already have so much in common.”

You still haven’t let go of his hand. “Yeah, we do.”

You swear for a second you can feel his thumb gently running across the ridges of your knuckles, but before you can really process it, he’s withdrawing and shifting in his seat as if he’s about to stand.

“Hey,” he asks, nodding his head to the door. “Do you wanna get out of here?

You rise to your feet, gathering your purse. “Where do you have in mind?”

__

After a little wandering, the two of you find yourselves closer to the downtown core. Pedestrians and cars bustles around you as the start of rush hour begins to descend upon the city, and you can’t help but feel thankful that as the cold ebbs away, days grow longer and the sun decides to grace you with its presence for a few hours more.

“We’re here,” Yoongi declares, pointing to a bright fluorescent sign that reads HopeWorld Dance Studio. “Hoseok usually teaches classes in the early afternoon, but he does his own thing after work once the students clear out,” he rambles. “And he’s working on something pretty fun right now for an upcoming showcase. I texted him earlier to see if we could drop by. You seemed interested when Hobi mentioned that he was a dancer, so I just figured—”

You turn to look up at Yoongi, beaming from ear to ear. “Thank you.”

The two of you enter the studio, greeted by the receptionist. He’s seated behind the front desk, tapping away at the computer when he hears the bell on the door chime as it opens. His hair, dyed a light strawberry blond, is pushed back away from his forehead, and he glances up as you walk in. His full lips spread into a wide smile, his eyes turning into crescent moons. It’s so infectious, you can’t help but smile back.

“Yoongi-hyung!” He cheers, rising to his feet and rounding the counter to give Yoongi a hug. He’s shorter than him, just barely, but you can see by the way he moves that underneath his loose t-shirt is a solid, toned dancer’s body. “Hobi-hyung said you would come by! And you must be Y/N,” he greets, turning to you to envelope you in a hug.

Must be a dancer thing, you muse to yourself.

“I’m Jimin,” he introduces, his voice melodic and light. You instantly feel a sort of unabashed affection for the boy, almost akin to how you feel when introduced to a new puppy. “I work the desk while Hobi teaches the classes, but then after hours we mostly mess around and practice.”

“That sounds fun,” you grin. “We’re not interrupting, are we? I don’t want to bother Hoseok if he’s in the middle of teaching a class.”

“He just wrapped up, actually,” Jimin notes, glancing at his watch. “Last class ended about fifteen minutes ago. My guess is that he’s sorting out his music and stretching. Jungkookie is back there too, he was helping with the junior hip hop class today. I just finished closing, follow me!”

The lobby of the studio itself reminds you almost of the way your shop is set up. The front desk has different pamphlets for different types of dance classes ranging from hip hop, jazz, contemporary, and street dance. There is a wall behind the desk that has a splashy mural painted on it with an airplane hovering over a melting cartoon landscape. Bursts of bright colours swim across your vision as you admire the tiny details—the peace signs, tiny plants, a ladder than leads to nowhere. It’s quirky and bright, and is a perfect reflection of Hoseok’s personality.

To the left of the front is a small retail area with silk-screened t-shirts with the HopeWorld logo across the front in varying colours, as well as some enamel pins and HopeWorld baseball hats.

Beyond the wall is a hallway that leads to change rooms—there are three separate ones from what you can see, one for men, one for women, and an all-genders one that makes you smile. There’s a frosted glass door that leads to the actual studio space that seems decently soundproofed, and is confirmed when Jimin pulls open the door and loud EDM assaults your ears.

The room itself is quite large, one wall being entirely composed of mirrors. The caramel-coloured hardwood floor is a little scuffed and has tape marks in certain areas, no doubt to mark off the dancers’ positions for larger choreographed numbers. The walls are white, and a water cooler is placed in the corner, where a yawning Jungkook is fetching himself a drink.

Hoseok sees the three of you in the mirror’s reflection as he stretches his quads, his smile rivalling the sun.

“Y/N! Yoongi-hyung!” He greets enthusiastically, rising to his full height. “Welcome to HopeWorld!”

“Hoseok, your studio is amazing,” you marvel, rushing over to give him a hug. “It’s really gorgeous. Remind me to buy a shirt before I go.”

Hoseok tuts and squeezes you tight. Yoongi tries his best not to scowl, and also reminds himself that he was the one who brought you here. “First off, call me Hobi. Second, you can just grab a shirt, you don’t have to pay. I don’t charge friends and family for merchandise.”

“Hoseok—”

“Hobi,” he corrects.

“Hobi,” you relent with a smile and a shake of your head. “I can’t, that’s not right. I’ll pay, I really don’t mind.”

“Oh,” Jungkook saunters over, wearing a thin white t-shirt, baggy sweats and Timberland boots. His hair is disheveled and pushed away from his forehead, and you think to yourself that if he was maybe five years older, you would consider it less weird to find him so objectively handsome. “You mean like how you didn’t make me pay for my tattoo?”

You open your mouth to protest when Jungkook wraps his arms around you in a bear hug and lifts you clear off the floor. You yelp in surprise and crane your neck over to Yoongi, silently pleading for help. He just shrugs, looking amused, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket.

“Okay, okay, we get it, you’re strong,” you wheeze, tapping on his arm weakly. “Let me down before I puke all over you.”

Jungkook sets you down and you straighten out your sweater that had ridden up slightly when the maknae picked you up. Yoongi tries his hardest not to let his eyes linger on the lines of the tattoo on your back that dip just below the waist of your jeans.

“Did you come to watch us dance?” Jungkook asks excitedly as Hoseok scrolls through the music on his phone. “We have a showcase coming up this summer at the performing arts centre uptown with some other dance companies in the city. You should definitely come!”

“I would love to,” you beam as Jimin plops on the ground to stretch out his legs.

“Y/N-noona, do you dance?” Jimin asks innocently, his eyelashes batting as you peer at him suspiciously.

You take a subconscious step closer to Yoongi, caution lacing your tone. “You don’t have to call me noona. And no…why do you ask?”

Jimin shrugs, his infectious smile looking more mischievous than ever. “Would you ever want to learn? I teach here too, part-time, if you ever want a private lesson.”

“Jimin,” Yoongi warns, shooting the younger man a glare that he blatantly ignores.

“Okay, okay,” Hoseok pipes up, having settled on a song. “Let’s just go for a little while longer today. I’m pretty beat. Let’s just run through the choreo a few more times, okay? Yoongi-hyung, Y/N, you can have a seat if you want, we have folding chairs over there by the water cooler.”

Yoongi politely tells you to wait there as he goes to get chairs for the two of you, while Hoseok, Jimin and Jungkook enter their starting formation. The music swells, some melodic hip-hop song you’ve never heard before. They get into their starting poses as you and Yoongi take a seat. He may or may not have positioned the chairs so that they are flush to each other, your knee nearly grazing his as you both sit down.

And then they start to dance.

You’d heard from Junghyun that Jungkook was a great dancer—the elder Jeon had humble-bragged enough about his younger sibling when he’d gotten into a prestigious dance program in high school, but seeing him and the others in their element is something truly awe-inspiring.

Hoseok moves like water, fluid as he dances in perfect step with his two friends. He winks at you in the mirror as he hits an eight-count that involves some heavy hip thrusting, and you might have swooned if you were any weaker of a woman. The three of them switch positions every so often so that each of them can have a moment in the spotlight, and you can’t help but notice how perfectly in sync they are with one another. Jimin’s movements are smooth and have almost an emotional weight to them, and you can’t help but wonder if he studied contemporary dance.

“They’re good, huh?” Yoongi’s voice drifts into your ear as he leans in to whisper to you.

You turn to face him, and he’s closer than you expect. But you don’t pull away. “They’re incredible,” you breathe, unable to stop yourself from beaming ear to ear. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

Yoongi nudges your shoulder with a grin in reply and the two of you go back to watching your friends finesse their way through their routine. Once the music stops, you bounce up onto your feet to give them a standing ovation.

“That was so amazing!” You can’t help but gush as the three boys bow to you. “Watching you guys makes me really wish I could dance.”

“Those private lessons are still up for grabs,” Jimin winks as he runs a hand through his sweaty hair. You know that he’s trying to flirt with you, but you catch the same vibe from him as you do with Hoseok—flirting comes as easy to him as the intake of oxygen, and you’re completely unbothered.

Shaking your head with a laugh, you respond, “Sorry, love. I’ve got two left feet and a man waiting for me at home.”

Those words nearly make Yoongi’s heart stop. Jungkook catches the shift in his demeanour, and before Yoongi can do something stupid like put his foot in his mouth again or storm off in a huff, he quickly states, “Noona, I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

“I don’t,” you clarify immediately. “Sorry, that was misleading. I’m cat-sitting for my neighbour right now. Her little fluff ball, Merlin, is staying with me for a few days.”

Yoongi’s tense shoulders immediately relax, and it seems as if everyone in the room notices except for you.

“Besides,” you add, crossing your arms with a sigh. “I don’t date anyway.”

The tension in Yoongi’s shoulders returns with a vengeance, and he swears he can taste bile at the back of his throat. You launch into an explanation about why that is, something about focusing on your career and not having time to invest in another person, but he barely registers your words. It’s like he’s underwater and your voice is muffled above the surface. He’s drowning, but he doesn’t understand why.

Jungkook and Hoseok share a knowing look.

The five of you linger in the dance studio a while longer, conversation flowing easily as Jimin and Jungkook take teasing jabs at each other. Hoseok shows you some more of his dance moves, specifically his street dancing, as Jungkook attempts to twerk. Jimin somehow finds himself sprawled out with his head on your lap as you sit on the ground. You absentmindedly stroke his hair as if he’s a cat, attempting to braid the longer pieces of his bangs to no avail. Yoongi tries his best not to scowl.

“Oh shit, is that the time?” You suddenly notice how late it is as you look up at the clock on the wall. Jimin whines as you gently nudge him away. “I have to go back and feed Merlin before he pees on my shoes.” Everyone stands up as you gather your things. Turning to the dancers, you give a small bow and say, “Thank you for showing me your dance routine, it was amazing!”

You then turn to Yoongi, who still looks a little out of it. He notices that you’re staring at him, and he blinks hard a few times, eyes focused on you.

“Thank you for today,” you say quietly, and you step forward to wrap your arms around his neck in a loose hug. You figure Yoongi isn’t one for physical affection, so you keep the hug brief before scurrying over to the others to bid them farewell in a similar manner. You say your goodbyes, and then you’re out the door.

The four boys stand in the middle of the practice studio, Yoongi’s eyes trained on the now closed door. The other three blatantly gawk at him until Jimin pipes up.

“Yoongi-hyung’s got it bad.”

“No I don’t,” he says in a rush, ruffling his bangs so that they cover more of his eyes. “Y/N and I are just friends. And barely, at that. We just went for coffee today, that’s it.”

“I don’t know,” Jimin replies pensively. “You did seem pretty upset when she was playing with my hair.”

Yoongi growls. “That’s because you were basically eye-fucking her, Jimin. It was uncomfortable for everyone.”

“You really think everyone is out here eye-fucking your non-girlfriend, huh,” Hoseok jokes. “It’s okay to admit that you like her, hyung. She’s nice, she’s pretty, and she seems to like you back. I don’t see the issue.”

“There’s no issue, because I don’t like her,” Yoongi insists, choosing to ignore the last part of Hoseok’s statement. There’s a pregnant pause that settles between them, and then meekly, he adds, “Besides, even if I was—and I’m not—she just said she doesn’t date. So…there. It’s out of the question.”

“No offence, hyung,” Jungkook declares, flopping onto the ground and spreading his limbs out in a starfish formation, “but both of you are fucking dumb.”

“Shut the fuck up, Jeon,” Yoongi glowers. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Jungkook bats his long eyelashes up at his friend, placing his hands under his head as a makeshift pillow. “Don’t I?” He muses, letting out another yawn. “Maybe it’s you who doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”

Yoongi doesn’t reply. He’s too busy trying to ignore Jungkook’s words, as well as the way his heart rate picks up slightly at the very mention of your name.

#min yoongi #yoongi #suga #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fanfiction #suga fanfic #suga fanfiction #bts #bts au #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #jeon jungkook #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #jung hoseok #park jimin #kim taehyung #rm #v #jin #jhope

[melypeira]

“Cold Zone Lovers”

An illustrated fanfic by lilacmel

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Summary:

"Friends will take your silence and your hurts, Sharing and trading passions and joys, Even naughty pranks and flirts, But careful of green eyed beasts it annoys. Specially when dealing with oblivious blondies."

An illustrated fanfic, for an idea I had in my mind for a while. End game was disappointing and not enough gay, so this is my contribution for pride month ;3

Fic also on AO3 (easier to read, but I needed an place to image host).

archiveofourown.org/works/19376977/

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“This human called Jim is a simpleton.”  Says one.

“You just don’t appreciate his effort trying to win over a lady.”  Speaks two.

“Surely, that woman is arrogant and vain.” Replies back the haughty one.

“Like you, you mean.” Sassed in return the mellow other.

A serious man walks quietly thinking to himself, while searching for someone. Said man has a strong silhouette, one so popular in North America that couldn’t possibly be unrecognizable. Well, except maybe with a hat and glasses. Our dear Captain America, with dark blond hair and the shapes Kim Kardashian would be jealous of, according to Tony/IronMan, AKA also known as Steve Rogers, could not believe what he was hearing, much less seeing. Walking over to the ‘Big ol’ Popcorn Mess Hall’, name courtesy of the host, he saw the most unimaginable view he could possibly think of in his long but short years of life.

Two branded criminals, the notorious Winter Soldier, Hydra’s soldier with a mechanical arm - very sought after by certain woodland creatures - and notorious frost giant, norse god of mischief and all around “pain-in-the-ass” for the avengers. Together, in a sofa, eating popcorn, sat Bucky and Loki, talking and watching – the shock- a comedy movie. Stunned still by this in the hallway, our American hero retires, forgetting entirely what he wanted with his traumatized friend.

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“Thor, we need to take action, I don’t mind Loki returning anymore, but I don't care where they're from, I don't enjoy bullies” Steve Rogers declares out loud. His mighty friend is sometimes an excellent judge and leader, but he can be overprotective, thinks the golden haired norse god. Master of lightning, ale and, now, of a slightly round belly - blame the later - Thor Odinson doesn’t see the point the captain is making against his brother’s associations. He is generally is just glad to have gotten Loki back, with all his little mischievous acts and fake-deaths, after all.

“Loki is free to do what he wants, meaning all things which will not hurt the midgardians or the sanity of the avengers, such is the trust my brother and I have made” claims the Asgardian king, stroking his fashionable braided beard while whetting his axe. Maybe the other blonde should spend his time caring for the borrowed Mjölnir instead of spying on his frost friend, muses Thor.

“You don’t understand, Loki manipulates minds, with or without the stones. Bucky has been far too much brainwashed by those blasted octopus loving bastards” May those days never come again for his dear friend; the young aged soul contemplates. He doesn’t want the other going back to such harsh settings as freezing, to heal in Wakanda, away from him.

“My brother has a powerful silver-tongue, indeed, but comrade Bucky is a fierce warrior, he can fend for himself in such matters”. Thor says while putting his axe in its weapon stand, leaving his comfy armchair.

“Then let’s prove that conviction. Come with me”. Rogers declares, turning and opening the door. He finds Tony outside, who clearly had listened in through his cameras and came to “gossip the juicy bits, Steve”.  Both the Son of Odin and the soldier ignore him. “I don’t see why the worries, I am kinda shipping this WinterFrost happening in my sofa” they can still hear nearing the end of the hallway near the elevator.

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“Hell, they are on the sequel today!” “How would you…nevermind, must be that little leatherless book of yours” Both blondes whisper to each other in the hallway, not very hidden as they think they are. Thor knew what Steve was saying, but watching was another thing altogether. It hit him hard how much he missed his comraderies with his brother, laughing and being “bitchy” as he heard Hawkeye saying. Seeing happening with the arm-armored brunette was jealousy-inducing.

Worse times were still to come, because this friendship became evident to other avengers, even the Wakandan people heard about it. The only ones not amused by the situation were still America's Golden Boy and now the Thunder God.

The interactions were everywhere, joking and pranks and even once in a while you could see Falcon/Sam joining with beers on the TV and Wanda sharing some wine and conversations on the bar with the two. That was only the eye of the storm, trouble was arriving at the horizon.

Then, flirting began. It was inevitable, Bucky has always been charming, Steve somewhat suspected gender didn’t matter to his friend - likewise for him - but why Loki of all of them was a mistery, even Wanda made more sense, seeing his usual type in the day. Thor meanwhile knew his brother enjoyed both the attention and the actual chasing game, often seducing and changing appearances for the sake of ‘a bit of fun’. He wondered what exactly in the scenario was bothering him, was it he missed his friends? Maybe Jane? The Snake-like sibling’s full attention. Or was it vanity, the feeling of being undesirable as he now is, missing his toned body looking at the brunette soldier.

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“Bucky, I know nobody is perfect, but the ‘safest hands are still our own’. So why are you playing right into Loki’s hands?" Calmly Rogers says, thought noticing his little slip, maybe Bucky didn’t even notice.

“Whadya mean pal? I wasn’t aware I was playing into something Steve, except maybe my games with Birdie Man” Bucky replies, somewhat confused but amused by his friend.

"I’m glad you’re back at the headquarters, and as much as I don’t like the idea of you isolating from others because of the past, I don’t think that bonding with Loki will help you at all. We all need family, I get it, but the Avengers could be yours, maybe more so than mine. They won’t judge you for your past” More fiercely, Steve declares.

“Wait a minute, hell Steve! Are you actually coming to me after all this mess, with we haven’t talked much about by the way, we are busy, I get it, to ‘order’ my friendships?? ‘Cause I might be unstable and lonely?” Finally understanding and somewhat angry, Bucky replies with a slightly raised voice.

“I never said that, but it’s for your own good. Loki is Thor’s brother but also a horrible being; in his mind we are all ‘dumb magic-less midgardians’ for him to play with” Harshly states the America Man.

“Are you sure? Have you asked or interacted with him? Besides the past? I was horrible to Tony’s parents too, wasn’t I?” Bucky unveils. “It’s different!!!” Struck back God's Righteous Man “Is it?”. With a somber look reminding of his Ghost days, whispers deadly the Winter Wolf, ready to pounce for flesh.

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Meanwhile, in a similar situation is the light blonde bearded god, with his frost sibling, on the rarely used garden.

“Mother would be disappointed in such an orchard” articulates the dark haired one, seeing his approaching sibling.

“Indeed” Concurs the peace invader. Silence reigns for a short while, the kind that is rare in this turbulent world. Still, even stillness needs to be broken eventually.

“Brother…I don’t know what scheme you…” “I don’t know what you are talking about Thor” “…but you need to stop it.” Urges strongly the slightly older one.

“May I remind you I am not a mind reader, much less know your mental monologue” Spats the younger adopted sibling.

“This obsession with the midgardian frozen warrior, I have seen it before. With Jane and many others” Claims the Asgard Golden child.  “Obsession? Please! Why so worried, do you fancy him? Should I go tell Jane?” Scoffs the slick haired one.

“I don’t, but you are playing with him” The raging thunder is burning inside Thor’s veins now, with the theatrical antics of his fraternal old playmate. “I honestly thought it was quite mutual. Shame, woe is me.  Tell me…do you enjoy spying on us Thor? Stealthy, you certainly are not.” The obsidian hair male talked as if in a play, long periods and sudden words, ending in a short haughty statement.

Giving no time for replies, he ignores the other’s angry sputtering and continues “Am I not allowed to have friends? Acquaintances? Relationships? You came here to stay with yours, to fight your silly battles with them, instead of staying with our kin-” Thor is momentarily happy to hear that part, but quickly gets angry again ”- and ruling, as you were supposed to be, as I am meant to be with you! Even leaving the invisible throne for Valkyrie to sit!!”

“I saw you smiling and I know…!” the axe-wielder loses his conviction midway, enough for Loki to take possession again of the discussion. The curly braided male should have known that in a battle of the tongues, the serpent hisses fast and non-stop. ‘Silence is golden’ indeed, ironically.

“OH, only mighty Thor can be happy!  With his little annoying friends! OH NO, not his brother, that one should stay miserable and, in the shadows and shackles, were he belongs" Loki pacing around the room, with a flourish in his limbs, mocking and hissing. “‘Brother everything's gonna work out fine in Earth’ ’Brother, we will fight side by side forever’ indeed, how fickle you are” Loki rants, each time louder with more articulation and acerbic words.

“ENOUGH! It’s because I wish it was with me!!!” Already regretting what came out his mouth, Thor closes it suddenly and contains his mortification.

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Muahahaha cliffhanger.

If you enjoyed please give a like here or there or share this around. I may keep doing this depending on feedback.

#thorki #stucky #fanfic #artists on tumblr #fanart #digitalart #thor #thor odinson #loki #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #Steve Rogers #Steve Grant Rogers #art #Bucky Barnes #Bucky Buchanan Barnes #mine #lilacmel #from:adecentartist to:worstwriter #lilacmel writes

[tum-blr-end-mya-cco-unt-blog]

Cupid’s Arrow 2019

@celestialcomets

I’m sorry. I didn’t give you the respect you deserve, and now I’m posting my submission two days late at four in the morning. I’m on twelve hours of sleep in two days. I should have been on time, but I wasn’t, and I’m so, so sorry.

I can’t think of anything else to say besides good choice in husbandos. Oh, yeah, you’ve never heard of me.

Just call me Zero. (You’ll find me soon on a new account, and I will make a post about it when it’s created.)

Anyway, here’s my piece. I hope you enjoy~!

*~*

Here at the Order of Heroes, love isn't often in the air. Why? Maybe it's because there are no parents here to arrange marriages for their children. Maybe it's because no one here is interested in that kind of thing, or that we're fighting a war and that has to have all our attention. Maybe it's because at any moment one of us could die, and the risk of being crushed from a crush's death just isn't worth it.

"I, um, was wondering if you wanted to come over this afternoon and, uh, play shogi or somethin'?"

Why, then, has love, the only force that can make the keenest and toughest warriors quake in their boots and stutter on their words, the only force that procures honesty and gentleness without fail from even hardened criminals, proclaimed me worthy? Don't get me wrong, of course I appreciate Takumi, both as a force on the battlefield and a friend off of it, but I never could understand why he was so kind, so protective, so caring toward me...until now.

Cupid's aim is trained on me, and if he's as good a shot as Takumi is, I've got no chance. There's no doubt anymore that he likes me...

But that's okay. I like him too.

***

Where are we? Why, at my quarters. Are we playing shogi? No, he's playing shogi and I'm trying to learn how to play and not lose at the same time. Is today the aforementioned late afternoon? No, the sun is already down.

Snap.

"Do you have to snap the pieces down like that?"

"It's just a traditional thing," he answers, "but it calls attention to your moves as a courtesy thing. I've never not done it... Should I stop?"

"N-no, it's fine," I respond, moving my own piece. This is totally not how I envisioned my evening going.

"Would you like to take that back?"

"What? I mean..." I've moved a piece in the wrong direction. "Oops."

"Most players actually declare that they've won and the game is over when their opponent makes an illegal move. Did you know that?"

"How realistic. Just like a false move on the battlefield can cost the battle."

"Exactly," Takumi smiles, taking a turn. "That's why my father praised it so much as a training tool for aspiring generals.

"How so?"

"No risk of death."

I chuckle. "What's more," I lift up another piece, "the opportunity to learn," I pause dramatically as I snap my lance onto his general, capturing it, "from your mistakes. ...Check."

Takumi frowns. "Clever," he nods approvingly, returning the favor with a pawn. "The lances are not expendable, though. You may wish you hadn't done that later."

Suddenly thunder booms outside, and I jump in surprise. "It's storming."

"Could be a magic accident gone wrong," Takumi proposes, perhaps in jest.

I shake my head. "Not likely." I sit in silence, pondering my move for a few seconds. Rain begins to patter onto the roof. "See?"

Takumi seems downcast. "I ought to leave, or I'll be here all night. Riding in heavy rain, thunder and darkness isn't a good idea."

"You could stay if you'd like. It's already too late anyway."

"...you're probably right," he admits. "Where should I sleep?"

"I've got another bed you could use," I offer.

Takumi smiles. "That'll do. Thanks."

"No problem. We ought to get some sleep anyway."

"I don't feel like it."

I raise my eyebrow. "How could you not feel like it? It's so...late..." I pause to yawn. "Even the night owls have all turned in already."

"I...I have nightmares, that's all."

"Oh. Well...I'm going to bed now. You should too, sooner rather than later."

"I will," Takumi assures me. "Goodnight, (F/N.)"

I slip behind the curtain that conceals two beds opposite each other, sitting down on one of them to undress. "Goodnight, Takumi. Get some sleep."

*~*

"Takumi?" I whisper, but I can hardly hear myself; not sure how he'd hear me. He's writhing violently under the bedclothes and panting like a dog, too. Is this one of those nightmares he said he has? I slip off my bed and approach him cautiously. His eyes are squeezed shut, his skin slick with sweat. Even the sheets are damp. "Takumi," I repeat out loud, peering over his face. Should I wake him?

Suddenly a platinum pineapple very damn nearly takes my head off as Takumi awakes with a gasp. He glances across himself, me, and the room, struggling to catch his breath. Just as his eyes are starting to come to rest on his hands, he slaps himself across the cheek. Hard.

"Takumi?" I ask, more confused than concerned. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, I guess," he answes right away.

"Why'd you slap yourself?" No, (F/N), you should be worried about him. You can ask the meaningless questions later.

"...Sometimes, I'll escape from one nightmare," Takumi admits, "only to wake into another one."

Oh. "Do you...wanna talk about it?"

Takumi shoots a wounding glare far more potent than a simple slap would be, but then...his gaze softens. His eyes fall, then his eyelids. "..." Even as his mouth opens, words are still pulling themselves together in his spinning head. "I... I killed everyone."

"Everyone?" I echo.

"The Order. I...destroyed them."

Well, I'm never going to hear "the stuff of your nightmares" the same again.

"I shot most of them...and broke my bows over the heads of the rest." He talks almost casually and without pause, as if to describe a pretty sunset, or the tender mochi he'd enjoyed with me yesterday, not a mass murder he'd just committed. "And, I broke into your quarters... I had blood on my hands... I just told you, right to your face...that's about when I woke up."

Well... "Not what I expected when you said 'nightmares.'"

Takumi shrugs. "Nothing surprises me anymore...at least, in my dreams."

"...Why is that?"

Takumi leans against the wall and sighs. "I just feel like I'm not doing enough here, you know? Like I'm...just not worth it to have around. Not like I'd lose my mind just from that, though, but...if I could just do something to make me significant, something...important..."

"What do you mean?"

"To prove myself!" he nearly shouts, then flushes hard as his hand claps to his mouth; it is still the middle of the night. "To prove to the Order - to you - that I'm worth it. That...that I shouldn't have my ass shipped back to Hoshido," he blurts. "...But maybe, maybe I should. I've seen you send real soldiers home, (F/N). Damn good ones. ...Something I wonder if I'm next."

Takumi's pleading eyes meet my own tentatively. He swallows a lump in his throat. "Am I?"

Of course not.

A single tear rolls down his face. "Am I?" he chokes.

"Of course not. You're the best archer in the Order."

"I was," he retorts. "Then you summoned-"

"You," I repeat slowly, "are the best archer in the Order." Silence draws my next words, "Besides, even if you weren't, you're too fun not to have around."

Takumi fights a chuckle and nearly wins, but a smile peeks out for just a moment. "I wish I could honestly say I feel better now," he confesses, "but thanks." He sighs softly, seeming at peace, and lays back down. His eyelids flutter shut...and I take my chance.

Slowly and carefully, I peel the bed covers, one by one, from his body. Not too far, of course, just to make barely enough space for me to squeeze in next to him. I pause for a moment, surveying the mattress, wondering just how to slip onto it without rousing Takumi again. It's so quiet my heartbeat is nearly drowning out his breathing. Or maybe I'm just nervous. One leg, then the other. I carefully pull the covers over myself, and as I'm nestling in next to Takumi, my head comes to rest opposite his.

He's wide awake.

"...You could have just asked, (F/N)," Takumi shakes his head. He's smirking a little. The nerve of this man...

"...You noticed?" I stammer. "I-I'm sorry, I thought you were-"

Takumi's arm snakes around me and pulls me in close. "Get some sleep, (F/N)."

*~*

That was the best he'd ever slept, he told me.

Here in the Order, love isn't always in the air. But when it is, everyone knows. Maybe it's because it's just what all the talkers (and there are a lot of them) want to talk about, because no one really wants to talk about the war. Maybe we just want to take it, shut it up in the back of our heads, and forget about it. I know I do sometimes.

But look at me, I've no reason to be a downer. After all, I've got the love of my life at my side.

"If you were aiming for my heart, you've struck true. This was...meant to be."

Maybe good news just travels fast...

This is totally not how I envisioned my love life going. Who would've thought - even dreamed - that Cupid would strike, now of all times, when my guard was down because the war had brought it up? My back was turned, my defenses lowered, just for a moment, and now a man's in love with me.

But that's okay. I love him too.

Fin

#cupid's arrow #i'm so sorry #i hope you can forgive me #he's a good boy #sorry eth #sorry syd #i want so badly to let this ferment for twelve more hours #but i have to post it #takumi #fire emblem #fire emblem fates #fire emblem imagines #imagines #platinum pineapple boy #he's a very good boy

[hysterialevi]

Where the Demons Sleep pt. 6 (Cobblebats)

From Oswald’s POV

Slipping the boxing gloves onto my fists, I prepared myself for the next fight as the crowd outside gathered, filling up the entire building with busy chatter. The audience today seemed much larger than the one from the last match, and I even recognized a few faces scattered among the sea of people. It looked like word was getting around about me, and I could see a some fans avidly searching around for me. I only hoped they would be generous enough to leave a few pounds behind. After all, I didn’t have many options on how to give William the money I owed, and this plan with capturing Brannigan wasn’t exactly the most solid idea. If I wanted their money in my pockets, I’d have to give them the performance of a lifetime.

“Oi, Cobblepot!” I heard Braxton call out from my side as he entered the back room. He firmly patted me on the back. “The crowd’s gettin’ rather giddy. If you don’t get in the ring soon, I’m afraid they’ll start takin’ hostages. You ready for today’s fight?”

I nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Not that I have a choice. People don’t pay to see me lose.”

He let out a soft chuckle, puffing out a cloud of smoke with it. 

“Tough as nails, this one. Just try not to get hurt too badly, yeah?”

I smirked, stretching my arms. “Who says I’m gonna get hurt?”

Braxton pointed at my smile, glowering in a joking manner. “With a grin as smug as that, someone’s bound to try and twat you in the face someday. It’ll probably be me.”

I gently placed a dramatic hand over my chest. “You would harm me? Your closest friend? Why, Hugh, I am absolutely dismayed. Since when did you become so barbaric?”

Braxton’s stern expression only appeared to stiffen further. “Keep sassing me. I’ll show you ‘barbaric.”

The two of us snickered amongst ourselves for a few, pleasant moments, simply enjoying each other’s company as the other boxers geared up around us, completely oblivious to our conversation. 

I missed being able to talk with Hugh like this. It felt like it had been so long since we could just sit down and be friends, and not have to constantly worry about William or his men. I honestly found it slightly depressing that the majority of our interactions these days were all about business, and it...kind of reminded me of my friendship with Bruce. 

Nineteen years ago, my everyday life consisted of nothing but getting up in the morning, going to school, and spending some time with him. As kids, Bruce and I thought we’d be together forever. We always came up with these crazy plans about abandoning our lives in Gotham, traveling the world, and doing whatever we wanted -- but those days were long gone. Now, I was just some lowly criminal barely scraping by in the gutter, whilst my old friend lived like a king on his father’s throne. I just hoped I would be able to reclaim mine someday.

“Hey, Oz.”

Snapping back to reality, I found Braxton peering at me from under his hat’s rim as his gentle, blue eyes examined my face, focusing almost as if he were trying to read my thoughts.

“...what?” I replied, somewhat taken off-guard. “Are my devilishly good looks distracting you?” The older man crossed his arms.

“Look,” he removed the cigarette from his lips for a second, “as much as I love your commitment to sarcasm, I can also tell when you’re using it as a cloak.” He quirked his brow. “So? What is it? What’s botherin’ you? And don’t gimme that ‘I’m fine’ bullshit. I’ve known you for too long to fall for that anymore.”

Leaning back against a nearby wall, I sighed in defeat as my gaze fell to the floor, and that photograph of Brannigan popped up again in my mind.

“Those documents you sent me,” I explained, “I looked through ‘em last night.”

He urged me on. “And?”

“There was this photo of Brannigan that I saw. He was standing with some of his accomplices, and...well, according to Rosie, one of them was...Bruce Wayne.”

Braxton paused. “...wait, what? What are you on about? Bruce Wayne? Are we thinkin’ of the same one?”

I nodded. “Yeah. The one from Gotham. The one Alfred works for. I saw him standing next to Albert.”

Hugh shook his head. “...no, no, that can’t be right. I mean, he lives halfway across the bloody world, for fuck’s sake. What interest would he have in a gang war all the way in England?”

I shrugged. “That’s what I’m tryin’ to find out.”

He thought for a moment. “Hmm. I don’t like that a Wayne is involved in this, Oz. I understand that you used to be friends with Bruce, but...considering the type of man his father was...well, can’t be too careful. Just tread lightly, all right?”

“Of course.”

With a final glance a the crowd outside, Braxton patted me on the back again, slightly pushing me in the direction of the door. 

“Well, anyways, I’ve kept you long enough. Get on out there and give ‘em a show. Also try to knock a few teeth out while you’re at it. Maybe we can pay William with the gold ones.”

I laughed. “I’ll do my best.”

Before I could take a single step out the door however, someone else had already come storming in like an angry bull, blocking my path and nearly swatting me aside like a fly. It was none other than Richie Kane, William’s son.

Richie was a colossal man, to put it simply. He may have been the younger child, but his height would’ve convinced anyone otherwise. Even at a distance, his figure towered over me, and the fact that he was mostly muscle certainly didn’t help matters. Sometimes, I wondered how the hell he even fit through the doors here.

Regaining my composure, I took a better look at him as he prowled into the room, adorning his signature, pissed expression. As always, his dark hair had been neatly slicked back, and the absence of any facial hair revealed the long, deep scar right underneath his cheekbone. He was wearing a navy-blue suit that matched his eyes, and in his hand, I saw a loaded pistol. Shit.

“Err, hey, Richie,” I greeted, trying not to provoke him. “What are you doin’ here?” The taller man approached me.

“There you are,” Richie said, irritated. He had obviously been looking for me for a while. “Follow me. My father wants to see you.”

Hugh jumped in. “And why is that?”

Richie turned to him. “None of your business, Braxton.”

“On the contrary,” he fired back, “Cobblepot technically still works for me, in case you forgot. His business is my business.”

Richie fell into silence for a minute, glancing back and forth from me to Braxton before finally complying.

“My father wouldn’t tell me the details, but...something happened last night involving my sister and Cobblepot, and he’s not happy about it. At all. He said he wants to see him immediately.”

I froze. “Your sister? You mean Rosie? Is she okay?”

Richie glared at me. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

I stuttered for a moment, unsure of how to react. “Listen, I dunno what William thinks I’ve done, but Rosie’s fine. At least, she was last I saw her.”

The giant gangster closed the distance between us. “For your sake, she better be. Now shut up, and follow me.”

I gestured to the ring. “But what ‘bout the match? I can’t just leave all those people out there.”

He obviously didn’t give a shit. “My sister’s safety is more important than your little cat fights. You can box later. Now, for the last time, just. Follow. Me.”

As Richie made his way out of the room, I simply stood there and exchanged looks with Braxton, both of us dumbfounded. I had no idea what Richie was talking about, and as far as I was concerned, Rosie was in no danger. I supposed I would find out soon.

“We better see what William wants,” Hugh recommended, heading for the exit. “Jesus, that prick really likes to stir things up, don’t he? Nags us non-stop for a mountain of cash, then robs us of our opportunity to earn it. This match could’ve won you a decent portion of the money we owe. Unbelievable.”

I took off my gloves and pulled a shirt back on, following Braxton out the door as the crowd began to grow somewhat rowdy. 

“It’s all right, Hugh,” I reassured. “I can handle William. I just gotta figure out what he wants first.”

The other man scoffed. “Well, good fuckin’ luck with that. Sometimes, I’m not even sure if he knows what he wants. Not the best personality trait for a leader. Though, I suppose that’d require a personality in the first place, wouldn’t it?”

I chuckled. “You might be the most bitter person I know.”

Braxton grinned at me with pride, adjusting his hat as he made his way outside. 

“Why, thank you.”

WILLIAM’S OFFICE

After a few minutes of trailing behind Richie’s massive figure, the three of us finally reached the ominous double-doors which led to William’s office as low, muffled voices barely slipped past the sturdy material, murmuring in hushed tones. I could’ve sworn that the temperature had dropped by ten degrees, and the closer I got to the entrance, the more I wanted to run. What was going on? Was Rosie okay? What did William think I’d done?

“He’s inside,” Richie said, gesturing for me to go in. “I’d...be careful about what you say to him. When my father gets angry, fists often get thrown around.”

I furrowed my brow in concern. “I hope this ain’t coming from personal experience.” 

Richie frowned, looking away from me.

“He does what he has to. Anyways, c’mon. The sooner we get this over with, the better.”

Pushing the doors open, Richie allowed me and Braxton into the dark office as he stepped off to the side, locking us in and unveiling the disturbing scene in front of us.

In one of the corners of the room, I saw Rosie sitting on the floor, crying, with her head lowered in shame as her shoulders shook. There were lines of mascara dribbling down her cheeks, her hair had been ruffled up, and parts of her skin appeared bruised. What the hell happened to her?

As for William, the crime-boss was standing in the center of the office with his back facing us, and even with his hands shoved in his pockets, I could still see hints of red staining his knuckles. Did he...?

“Ah, Cobblepot,”  William said, his voice as calm as ever. “About time. We have much to discuss,” he threw a glare towards Braxton. “What’s he doing here?”

“He insisted on coming,” Richie hastily explained. “Said that Cobblepot’s business was his as well.”

William let out a disapproving “hmph,” nearly piercing through Braxton with his gaze.

“Very well. I suppose I can’t argue with that.” He slowly approached me. “Tell me, Oz...do you know why you’re here?”

I continued to stare at Rosie, unable to take my eyes off her. She was still pretending not to see me, and with every passing second, I felt more and more invisible due to the lack of acknowledgement. That was, until William wandered into my line of sight, blocking my view.

“I asked you a question, Cobblepot,” he almost growled. “I expect an answer.”

I did my best to appear unwavering. “...No. I don’t. An explanation would be nice.”

William gave me a warning look. “Careful, Oz. After all, your life isn’t the only one at risk here.” 

He returned to the center of the office, tracing a finger along the edge of his desk. “The reason you’re here...is because a certain someone told me that they saw Rosie paying you a visit last night. Alone. In your own room, no less. The whole thing was rather secretive, from what I hear. Almost like the two of you didn’t want to be seen.”

I glanced at Braxton in confusion, uncertain of how to respond. “Erm, what are you...” my eyes sprung open with sudden realization.

“Wait -- you think that we...”

In a matter of seconds, William was up in my face again, backing me against a wall.

“I’ve made it extremely clear that you are not to get anywhere near my daughter. And yet, you have the audacity to approach her behind my back, using her for your own satisfaction like a common whore.”

I stumbled over my own words, beginning to panic a little. “Kane, listen, I swear to you -- I didn’t lay a single finger on her. Nothing happened between us.”

William didn’t look convinced. “Oh? Is that so? That’s not what she told me.”

I froze, peering over at Rosie. “What?”

She wiped some tears from her eyes, barely able to make eye contact with me. I saw her mouth the words, “I’m sorry.” I could hear William’s signature, low chuckle.

“Unlike you, Cobblepot, my people know to be honest. They understand what happens if they’re not. Perhaps you’d like to see for yourself?”

Before I even had a chance to react, Richie had kicked me to the ground from behind, and restrained my arms, preventing me from making any sort of movement. Meanwhile, Braxton was trying to break free from some of William’s other men who had blocked him, and was about ready to throw himself between me and Richie. I saw the crime-boss himself walking up to me with a newfound aggressiveness.

“You’ve been a nuisance for long enough,” William cracked his knuckles. “It’s time you learned some respect.”

Snatching me by the collar, he tightened his fist and prepared to land the first punch until, out of nowhere, Braxton suddenly intervened.

“Wait!” He exclaimed, snagging William’s attention away from me. “Just...wait. This is my fault. All right? I’m the one who sent Rosie to him. Oz is innocent here. And besides, he’s one of my men. I take responsibility for his actions.”

I stared at Braxton in bewilderment. What the fuck was he doing?

William paraded over to him. “You’re the one behind this, Hugh? Is that true?”

He nodded. Though, it didn’t come off as obedient as maybe William was hoping. “Yes. It’s true.”

The crime-boss sneered. He obviously didn’t completely believe Braxton’s claim, but considering that it was either me or him who would get beat, I doubted William cared who received the punishment. And so he played along.

“Well, in that case,” William shoved Braxton to the floor, just like he did to me, “you are either the bravest or the dumbest man I’ve ever known. I’ll let the devil decide.”

Still stuck in Richie’s grasp, I desperately tried to wrestle free as the crime-boss got closer to Hugh, getting ready to beat him to hell whilst Rosie remained motionless in her corner, crying even more than before. She was almost covering her face out of guilt at this point, and she could scarcely watch what was happening. If I survived this day, she and I were definitely going to have a talk.

At the sound of a bone-shattering thud, I saw William slam his fist across Braxton’s face with a fearsome amount of strength, nearly hurling the man’s entire body onto the floor, and coaxing a squeak out of Rosie.

“D-don’t...don’t hurt him!” She pleaded. “He’s --”

Braxton cut her off before she could say more. “--Don’t stick your neck out for me, love,” he slurred out through bloody teeth, somehow still conscious. “...You’ve done quite enough.”

Falling back into silence, Rosie practically zipped her mouth shut and averted her gaze from the violent scene, hiding in the shadows of the office as William resumed his current task. Part of me wanted to run over and comfort her, and tell her everything would be all right, but part of me also wanted to relentlessly rebuke her for putting Braxton in this position. What the hell was going on in her head? What did she expect would happen?

Well, whatever the case was -- none of that mattered now. 

At the moment, the only thing I could focus on was the expanding puddle of Braxton’s blood growing on the ornate rug beneath us, spreading with every hit William sent smashing across his face. He didn’t hold anything back in his assault, and even when I tried to look away, the pained grunts ringing in my ears only made the image more vibrant in my head.

I had no idea how he was doing it, but Hugh simply refused to collapse. Even when his body threatened to break, Braxton managed to keep his head up and look William dead in the eye, almost as if he were telling him, “come get me.” It made me grateful that I wasn’t the one being hit, but at the same time, I was also worried sick about Braxton’s physical condition. Despite his brick wall temperament, he was still just a human -- and everyone had their limits.

I heard William laugh in a sinister manner, wiping his hands clean. His attention was back on me.

“Look at you,” he mocked, crouching down to my level. “Oswald Cobblepot...the so-called champion of the ring. Brought to his knees when no one’s even attacking him. Pathetic. You’re nothing but a penguin hidden among eagles. You can try to fit in all you like, but everyone knows you can’t really fly.”

I clenched my jaw in anger, gritting my teeth and doing my best to bottle up the rage.

“I don’t know what Rosie ever saw in you -- but she certainly won’t be seeing you again.” William stood up and turned to his men. “I’m done here. Take them down to the cellar.”

Hauling me off the floor, Richie aggressively shoved me out of the office along with a half-dead Braxton while Rosie stayed behind, left to face her father’s wrath all alone. Normally, I would’ve felt bad for her, and I couldn’t deny that I was somewhat concerned, but half of me found it hard to sympathize with her at the moment, considering what we just went through. I only hoped Hugh would be okay.

As I was shown off through the building for everyone to see, I felt my face grow hot with humiliation as onlookers nailed their curiosity onto me, immediately recognizing my face even though my head was down. It was beyond embarrassing to be at such a low position, especially after being praised as one of William’s best fighters, and there was no doubt I would be disappointing a lot of fans who had been counting on me. Being dragged around made me feel like a dog on a leash, and I wanted nothing more than to bury myself in a hole for the rest of my life. Though, I supposed that was exactly what was happening, wasn’t it?

“I wish he hadn’t done that.” Richie suddenly commented. Despite the apathetic tone to his voice, he actually sounded sincere. “...I’m sorry.”

I sighed in frustration, shaking my head. “Well, it’s done now, isn’t it? Can’t really change the past.”

Richie loosened his grip on me slightly. “No, but you can change how it affects you. Whether you grow or crumble from today’s hardships...that’s all up to you. No one else can make that decision.”

A bit surprised at the sentiment, I simply gaped at the brutish man for a moment, unsure of what to say.

“...erm, thanks...Richie. I appreciate the thought.”

His expression stayed serious. “I’m sure you’d appreciate a way out more.” He leaned in towards my ear. “I didn’t tell you this, but my father’s got someone else locked up in the cellars. Someone by the name ‘Aiden King.’ He’s not exactly the most cautious bloke -- in fact, he’s kind of a fuckin’ idiot -- but he could definitely help you escape. It’s something to consider.”

I nodded in thought. “I’ll keep an eye out for him. Thanks for the info, mate.”

Richie cracked a smile. “You’ll find a way out. Penguins are known to be slippery, after all.”

I smirked. “They also walk weird and try to fly.”

Richie scoffed. “Give a man enough alcohol and he’ll do the same. You may not be an eagle, Oz, but wings are pretty useless when you’re locked in a cellar. I know you’ll think of another way to escape.”

I let out a breath, looking over at Hugh. “I just hope Braxton’ll be all right.”

Richie didn’t seem as worried. “I’ve seen him in action before. I’ve also seen how much he cares about you. Trust me,” he put a hand on my shoulder, “as long as you’re breathin’, your friend ain’t going anywhere soon.”

#cobblebats #telltale games #telltale batman #bruce wayne #oswald cobblepot #fanfic #story

[hellzyeahthewebwieldingavenger]

15) THE COSTUME

  “The original Spider-Man costume is one of the all-time greats when it comes to superhero get-ups. Nobody’s arguing that. It’s barely changed since Steve Ditko first drew it back in 1962. Besides some tweaks to the under-arm webbing and the eyes on the mask, and besides a glowing spider on the chest here or a brief flirtation with a different color scheme there, nobody’s looking to go all “Project Runway” on it. It’s perfect. It doesn’t need to be redone. Which is also one of Peter’s weaknesses.”

 Peter’s weaknesses include guilt, trying to do too much and a certain wholesome naiveté. Not changing his costume isn’t a weakness.

  “Is it not getting a little dull to be still clad in the same costume after nearly half a century?”

 Couldn’t we say the same thing about Miles’ costume if he was in it for half a century too?

 And couldn’t we say the same thing of virtually ALL superheros? Apart from tweaks how significantly different is Superman or Batman’s costumes from when they began? Not much, they are variants on the same look.

 When a costume is a great design and utterly iconic it doesn’t need to change.

 But you know let’s pretend for a moment the statement was right and it is a ‘weakness’ that Spider-Mans costume hasn’t changed much in 50 years...what the fuck does the author think that black and white suit he wore on and off from 1984-1988 and then again in 2007 was?

 What the fuck does the author think all of the variant costumes Slott has placed on Spider-Man to sell more action figures are?

 If we want to expand our definition to include characters who are in some way shape or form like Peter Parker in the 616 universe and have occupied the space of being the main character of the main Spider-Man comic book title what the fuck does the author think Ben Reilly and Superior Spider-Man’s costumes were if not obviously different?

 “Miles’s uniform, by contrast, is a modern marvel (pardon the pun.)”

 If by modern Marvel you mean stale and generic because like half of Batman’s friends wear red and black and black being ‘kewl and slick’ is utterly cliché then sure it’s a modern marvel.

 And it’s so unique compared to Spider-Man’s 1980s black costume (you know back when making a black and dark costume for a superhero wasn’t a cliché at all) because unlike that mostly black costume with some minimalist design elements Miles costume is mostly black with some minimalist design elements that are RED!

 “More than a simple palette swap of the original, it inverts the color scheme while adding some more contemporary design elements, the red piping redolent of sportswear or stylish sneakers, the darker aesthetic suiting his stealthier approach. It works way better on a t-shirt, too, if that can be admitted as evidence in the case.”

 If he can turn invisible why does he even need a costume that’s literally darker? And how does that even help him much if he fights someone out in the daylight? The costume would under those conditions be no more stealthier than Peter’s which already seems to work fine for stealth anyways.

 Also his costume doesn’t ‘invert the colours’. If it did there would be some blue in the costume.

 14) A MORE COMPELLING ORIGIN

  “As with the costume, one of the most iconic things about Spider-Man lies way back at his inception: that origin story. “With great power comes great responsibility” is a phrase which has entered mainstream usage. The story of how an initially arrogant and self-serving Peter Parker dedicates himself to fighting crime after his lack of intervention leads directly to the murder of his Uncle Ben is nigh Shakespearean in how well-known it is. And that’s just the problem.”

 First of all surely having a compelling origin and motivation shouldn’t be the second to last thing on a list making any character good.

 Second of all having a Shakespearan origin story and motivation for a superhero can never be a bad thing if they aren’t otherwise a gag character.

 “Similar to Batman’s patricide-fueled motivation, it seems like Peter should probably have found some closure at this point.”

Jesus....so much to unpack here.

 First of all...Batman’s motivation hasn’t got anything to do with patricide. I mean...Jesus Christ that should be obvious to anyone who

 a)    Knows what patricide means and

b)    Has event eh smallest idea about Batman’s origin which is pop cultural osmosis by this point

Batman is motivated by the death of his father AND mother so it cannot be specified to any single gender like male/father. More importantly Batman didn’t HIMSELF kill his father or his mother. Patricide is when someone kills their father. Read a dictionary.

 But back to Spider-Man...what?

 Peter Parker should have found some closure on the fact that his actions widowed his mother and killed his Dad who was the nicest guy in the world?

 This is typical arm chair psychology spoken by someone who hasn’t got the first clue. People don’t just find closure after enough time passes. They have to work towards it but even then that is dependant if they could ever obtain closure.

 If YOU basically killed your own parent when you were a kid YOU aren’t ever going to get over it either. It doesn’t matter how old you get you will always carry that pain and guilt inside you. You can live with it, thrive and be happy but it will always be there. And it being there is a constant source of drama, drive and sympathy for the character which if you know anything about good writing (which the author obviously does not) are GOOD things for your story.

 Not to mention the author is being both hypocritical and misinterpreting the characters in question.

 Peter isn’t MOTIVATED by guilt, he feels guilty because he realizes it was his responsibility to use his powers to stop the burglar who went on to kill his uncle. His motivation is his sense of responsibility which the author is criticizing the character for...not getting over.

 This is idiotic because one shouldn’t get over that. It’s an important life lesson Peter took to heart and carried with him defining his life in a positive way by helping people. It’s a universal human moral message that helps Spider-Man relate to and inspire countless people across the world.

 But more importantly the author is saying Peter Parker should by now find closure on killing his Dad but Miles is better because...he hasn’t found closure on his motivation. His motivation stemming from basically

 a)    Not trying to help Peter Parker when he was being killed and

b)    Trying to live up to Peter’s legacy

 Not only is it hypocritical for said author to basically put Peter down in favour of Miles when in their view Miles hasn’t got closure on his own motives but Miles SHOULD have closure on those motives already!

 Miles has WAY less just cause to hold himself responsible for Peter Parker’s death. He had no training or experience as a superhero, let alone compared to Peter, and he had no way of knowing if his intervention could’ve done anything to help avert Ultimate Peter Parker’s death. In contrast Peter 100% KNOWS if he’d not been an asshole Uncle Ben would not have been murdered.

 Between Ganke, Miles’ Dad, Nick Fury, Ultimate Jessica Drew, Mary Jane, Aunt May, Gwen Stacy and just about everyone else who personally knew Peter and has detailed knowledge of what happened the night he died Miles absolutely shouldn’t feel guilty about it.

 Even his argument that he didn’t try to use his powers when he first got them so he could have been better trained and able to intervene and do something to avert Peter’s death is incredibly flimsy and doesn’t hold up to scrutiny because of how incredibly hypothetical it was. Miles’ third issue even acknowledges that by having Ganke tell Miles that things could’ve gone exactly the same or worse. The comic arguably implies in that issue that he even believes that when Ganke follows that up by saying maybe Miles was meant to have his powers in order to replace Peter.

 So basically Miles feels kind of guilty but for way less compelling reasons which actually lend less gravitas and tragedy to his character because there really is no clear cut proof he could’ve prevented someone from dying at all. But there is with Peter’s Twilight Zone/Aesop’s Fable style origin.

 Even if you don’t think that Miles would have any closure over Peter’s death by this point er...hello PETER PARKER CAME BACK!

 There was literally an entire arc detailing Peter Parker coming back to life.

 And along with the 616 Peter Parker, Aunt May, Gwen Stacy, Mary Jane and other characters they all gave Miles their blessing and stamp of approval as Spider-Man.

 So...literally everything from his origin was resolved.

 He doesn’t live in Peter’s shadow. He doesn’t have to worry about filling his shoes. He doesn’t have to feel guilty anymore.

 So the author’s statements about closure are bullshit.

 Especially from a writing point of view. Why would you want there to be closure on something like that unless it is THE last ever story about the character? I mean what is the point of Miles’ origin to his character now anyway beyond granting him powers and getting the ball rolling on his being a superhero?

 “There’s also not a great deal of complexity within that motivation, is there? Compare that to Miles, whose powers are the result of a spider stolen by his criminal uncle, who his more straight-laced father has all but disowned. ”

 This is confusing complexity of character with complexity of plot.

 Miles origin has more moving parts to it sure.

 But at best this doesn’t make his origin inherently better, just different.

 At worst his origin really isn’t AS compelling or as complex or elegant as Peter’s.

 Peter’s origin is a universal human story for the ages. It’s simple yet packed with emotion, universal human morality messages and is slef-contained. There is a reason it’s regarded as one of the best Spider-Man stories of all time beyond merely kicking off the character.

 You can explain Peter’s story in a few sentences and hit the emotional and moral idea of the character just like that.

 It renders him as beautifully human yet at the same time a larger than life mythic figure.

 His story renders a character who is inherently more realistic than Miles because he seeks to capitalize upon his powers selfishly like most people if we’re being honest would. This was utterly revolutionary for a superhero at the time and is even today still not exactly standard.

 Its a story which presents us with a kid who’s got a life which sucks, who isn’t a million miles away from becoming a villain or nasty piece of work, who indulges in his gifts selfishly before paying a terrible price and learning an invaluable lesson and changing his ways, dedicating himself to loftier altruistic goals.

 Miles?

 Miles starts off as a nice kid, who early on uses his powers in an altruistic way when he tries to rescue someone from a burning building, something MOST people wouldn’t attempt to do, let alone a kid who’s only just hit puberty. Then he’s freaked out and hides his powers because he thinks his Dad would reject him otherwise and this all happened because of his criminal uncle whom his Dad doesn’t like.

 It’s not that it doesn’t make sense or that there isn’t a lot of moving parts but absolutely none of that makes Miles half as rich or complex as a character as Peter’s origin.

 Peter’s origin showcases him as simultaneously a nice kid who loves his family and has things nice there, but like many people is ostracized and outsider mocked by his school peers and feeling resentful. Then he becomes an asshole albeit one you don’t entirely dislike because he’s been mistreated by the previously mentioned peers. Finally life reprimands him for his selfish irresponsible actions, he has an immense burden of guilt and learns a powerful life lesson.

 On a metatextual level this is even more brilliant because it’s Stan Lee writing a character who’s the same age as the target demographic of most superhero comics, having him act the way MOST of them would realistically and then making the whole story a hard lesson about how they really should strive to be more like the most famous superhero ever Superman. Because that’s what Great power=great responsibility is. It’s basically ‘be a superhero for the same reasons Superman is one’. Peter Parker just had to learn it the hard way through a huge personal loss.

 When an origin story is simultaneously, simple, succinct, elegant, relatively realistic, self-contained yet also powerful, has a universal human message, and generates a character with a lot of complexity and a lot of potential for future stories how the hell is it bad?

 How the Hell is it not brilliant?

 How the Hell can it actually be worse in any way than Miles’ origin which creates a character with complexities but not nearly as many nor as compelling. See above what I said about how Miles’ feelings of guilt aren’t half as potent as Peter Parker’s. See above about what I said about Miles using his powers heroically without needing a lesson instructing him to do so just because he’s just that heroic of a guy I guess.

 There are flaws to him for sure, but not nearly as noticeable or as difficult to address as Peter Parker’s.

 You could even argue Miles’ origin doesn’t even really teach him the lesson about great power and great responsibility, or at least not nearly as well as it does in Peter’s story.

 And really why the Hell should Miles’ origin get praised above Peter’s when it is the origin of yet another teenager who’s really smart who gets accidentally bitten by another super science spider which then also gives him spider powers which he also chooses not to use altruistically and consequently somebody else who’s revered as another highly moralistic person tragically dies and the protagonist of this story also feels guilty about that death and decides to dress up in another webbed spandex costume to also fight crime?

 I’m not saying it’s a beat for beat rip off of Peter’s origin but it is extremely derivative nevertheless, which grossly undermines any praise you could heap onto Miles’ origin creatively speaking. At least compared to the character he’s being copied from to a large extent.

 “His early adventures as Spider-Man lead to the death of his actual mother, cementing his ambiguity about becoming a full-time vigilante.”

 Yeah and Peter’s FIRST adventure lead to the death of his father. His most iconic story which ended the Silver Age resulted in the death of his first love which is something other stories and writers (like Bendis with the references story) replicated thereby turning into a mostly bad, cliché and to many people sexist trope.

 And what the fuck is ‘cementing his ambiguity about becoming a full-time vigilante’ even mean?

 He still acted as a vigilante AFTER his mother died and his mother isn’t even dead anymore, he might not even remember her being dead rendering the above point of praise entirely redundant if it ever made sense to begin with.

  “It’s a far richer base which has begat far richer stories.”

 HOW is it richer?

 Because he’s got tension with his uncle and his Dad?

 Maybe that’s true.

 But that again is not really looking at the characters who are the subjects of said origins in the first place. Peter walked out of his origin story an intrinsically richer and more complex character than Miles did. Miles just had a better road map on where to go next.

 But here is the thing if you bother to look beyond their origins...Peter’s stories are egregiously richer. Jameson, Flash Thompson and all those iconic villains gifted Peter early on with decent enough characters to be used in more stories.

 If we are talking about casting our net farther though the idea that Miles’ origin has led to stories that are ‘far richer’ than:

 The Master Planner Trilogy

 Spider-Man No More

  The Drug Trilogy

 The Death of Gwen Stacy

 The 1970s Clone Saga

 Amazing Spider-Man #200

 The Kid Who Collected Spider-Man

 Nothing Can Stop the Juggernaut

 The Hobgoblin Saga

 Mary Jane’s origin

 The Harry Osborn Saga

 Parallel Lives

 Kraven’s Last Hunt

 The Conversation

 And so many more I could list is...words fail me.

 There is no way I could articulate the raw ignorance inherent in that statement.

 Many times articles like this talk a lot about how great Miles’ stories are, or yeah say things like they are better than Peter’s.

 Here is a challenge for anyone reading this.

 Name some?

 Name some Miles stories which are better or if you like ‘richer’ than the best Peter Parker stories have to offer and then explain to me exactly why when one compares and contrasts them they are somehow better?

 I’ll be waiting over here.

  Moving on I notice that the author mentions how compelling and richer Miles’ origin is than Peter’s by citing his father and his Uncle. Really that’s just a compelling situation not a compelling character and even putting that aside it’s not recognizing that Ultimate Peter Parker’s origin invented plenty of characters and subplots to lay the foundation of future series too.

 Sure that might not be admissible as evidence in this argument because it isn’t 616 Spider-Man, but shit the previous point was citing how kewl Miles costume looked on sportswear.

 Also whilst 616 Peter’s origin maybe didn’t invent anything that at face value lent itself for future stories context is important, the character wasn’t a surething for an ongoing series so being self-contained made more sense and frankly a superhero’s origin SHOULD be self contained.

 It should a distillation of their essence and the essence of the series, something that is perennial and relevant to the character(s) going forward at every step of their story.

 You can’t say that of Miles.

 Miles’ origin has been severely undermined and invalidated by virtue of Peter’s resurrection, by his stamp of approval as Spider-Man from people to whom it matters and now by being shunted into another universe where the events of his origin never even happened.

#miles morales #spider-man #Peter Parker #CBR #Comic Book Resources #Batman #Bruce Wayne #Superior Spider-Man #Ben Reilly #Spider-Ben #Scarlet Spider #Ultimate Spider-Man