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its-me-im-coraline · 3 years

Text

Lucky Charm // Ethan Torchio

words // 1215

warning // / maybe some would find it a bit angsty but it is generally fluff

pairing // Ethan Torchio x GN!Reader

author's note // ok so I decided to do 3rd person point of view this time, let me know if you enjoy it or if you prefer the 1st person point of view like my other maneskin fics. It is a little different than what I suppose the person requesting thought but I still hope you enjoy this 💕 Also, I am starting to write longer fics which I am excited about lol, i hope you reading it are enjoying longer fics as well

request // yes, here, by @paiges0926

summary // Ethan is feeling a little off before a show with the band. He has been away from reader for a while and the distance is killing him. Here are their face time calls before the show.

It had been a rough while, every one could tell. Although the relationship has been going on for a couple years now, there had never been this long when the couple were apart. Usually, it was short periods of times, maybe a few weeks; sometimes it was just days, since they would decide tagging along the band was a good idea. This time though, it was around two months that Ethan and his lover had not being close, if anything to just hold each other to sleep when bad thoughts striked - and it was difficult to bare.

Ethan, even while not being the biggest fun of always touching someone, felt a certain comfort in the arms of his partner. Late at night, when anxious thoughts could potentially keep him awake, there was the love of his life, asleep, peaceful and lovely as ever, soft snores, maybe even a bit of drooling from time to time, put him in a state of euphoria; just by looking at them. He missed how the hugs felt, the kisses, all the jokes and giggles while being with each other… Some times his partner would be awake as well, catching him in deep thought or concentration on a book - he was not actually reading- understanding the situation within a second before jumping into comforting action.

As of right now, he didn’t want to worry his love but he was in dire need of some sense of comfort. The time was... late, and he knew that, he knew the up and coming concern he would create but he was in need of seeing Y/N's face and hearing their voice.

“Hey, dolce amore, che cosa è?” Y/N was clearly troubled. The clock read 02.54 am, beside the bed as they tried to turn on the lamp, and Ethan was also supposed to be asleep. (hey, sweet love, what is it?)

“I am sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to wake you, but-”

“But you are anxious,” Y/N interrupted, quickly catching onto the reason he was calling at such a time.

“Yeah.” His voice was soft and low, shame laced in the breathy exclamation as he looked everywhere but his lover’s face.

“It is ok, baby. What is troubling you at this hour?” They harbored a soft look on their face. It was not -just- because of the time, but they always held this expression when Ethan was troubled. A soft almost smile, eyes looking at him with so much love. Usually that was enough to put his worries to rest.

“I miss you. A lot. And we have this show tomorrow, we are performing Lividi sui Gomiti and I am afraid I haven’t rehearsed it enough, and this show is really important and I can not afford to fa-”

“Ethan, breath!” The sudden interjection slightly startled the man that, while rambling about his worries, had forgotten the most fundamental of actions; to breath.

“I am just worried about the show, that is all.” That was not all, and while not yet, Y/N would realize soon enough.

“It is ok, baby. Remember that you are doing this for you, forget other people for a second. You love to play your drums and you love the music you and the others make, right?” A slight hum from his line was the only response.

“Well, then remember that, and breath. Everything will be alright, I am sure of that. Yeah?”

“I am trying, amore, I really am, but man, it is hard right now.” His voice sounded almost like it was breaking, eyes slightly watery, still avoiding the camera of his phone.

“Is there something else going on, too?” Y/N could really read Ethan like an open book, even if it took a moment, they always understood what the drummer was trying to hide.

“I miss you, Y/N. A lot.” Although both knew the truth of his words, it was the first time he had admitted to it. “I just wish you were here touring with us.”

“I know, love, me too. But school/work is all over the place in the moment an-”

“I know, I know. I just miss you a lot...” The sorrowful look in his eyes broke Y/N’s heart whenever it was there. They thought that this man shall never feel anything negative; unfortunately that exceeded their control.

“I miss you too, Ethan. The house is empty when you are not here… Is there something I could do right now?”

“Can you teleport?”

With a breathy laugh and a sweet smile on their face, Y/N replied, “I wish I could, Ethan. I wish I could.”

“It’s late. You should go to sleep. You have that thing for school/work tomorrow. Oh my, I forgot! I am so sorry!” Oh, sweet, sweet, Ethan, even when struggling he is considering his person’s possible struggle - truly what has kept him from saying he misses them for so long.

“It is alright, love. Are you feeling any better now?”

“Yes. Lots.”

“Good, good. Now, why don’t both of us go to sleep now and we can talk again tomorrow.”

Just a simple face time call is all Ethan needed to calm his last minute nerves keeping him awake, going to sleep being far easier now, after the short conversation. The restful sleep did not last long and the morning arrived. Both of them were extremely busy for the am hours, the one with concert preparations and the other with different responsibilities they couldn’t ignore. But as they could not forget the responsibilities they could not fail to remember the little tradition they had with Ethan.

Although the Italian man is not full on superstition, believing in his and the band’s hard work far more than any “luck”, he found he performed better after chatting with his lover before a show. Thus they “lucky call” tradition was created - surely being turned into a “lucky kiss” if they were with each other.

Ethan could hear his phone ringing in his pocket during the chaos that is pre-performance. He was tempted to ignore it at first, not knowing who it is, but soon enough he changed his mind, seeing “mi amore” with the bold lettering of his phone, and responded to the video call.

“Hey, cucciolo, what’s up?” After a good night’s sleep and the swift encouragement of his lover, Ethan felt in high spirits, voice light like he’s floating. (apparently it means puppy which I think is so cute)

“Someone’s in a good mood!”

“Well someone spoke to a little birdy that told them they’ll do good today,” he smiled, the softest, most loving expression adorning his face.

“I am glad to be of service, good sir,” they joked,” but I wanted to reminded you of what I said last night. You will do great, good luck!”

“Why, thank you, dearie. I greatly appreciate it. How did work/school go?”

“It was alright, but, come on, this is your moment. I take it rehearsals went well?”

“Absolutamente, si! I was worrying about nothing!” His excitement was unbelievable. He called almost ready to cry the night before and now you wouldn’t be able to slap the smile of his face if you tried.

“Good to hear, love.”

“Well, you are my lucky charm, so I am not surprised at all.”

tag list: @bieberhoodforever @tabi-toast

#maneskin imagine #maneskin fanfiction #ethan torchio imagine #ethan torchio #måneskin #måneskin imagine #måneskin fanfic

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iceeckos12 · 3 years

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and he sees dawn before the rest of the world

or: a fucked up little au of 200. intended to be unsettling so just be warned warnings for: unreality (i think that’s the appropriate term? please lmk if not), implied self harm, fucked up relationship dynamics; lmk if i should tag anything else

Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Bzzzt!

“Ugh, five more minutes,” Martin hissed, throwing an arm across his face, as though he could stop the barrage of sound just by covering his eyes. His alarm was unsympathetic to his whinging, continuing to scream its daily mourning dirge, grieving the end of another period of blessed rest. “Fine, fine! I’m getting up, christ…”

He reached clumsily for the phone on his bedside table, only for his fingers to scrabble uselessly around the ghost of its presence. He was momentarily so stymied by the absence that it took him longer than it should’ve to remember that he’d moved it to his desk, to prevent him from giving into the temptation to hit the snooze button just one more time.

Letting out another slew of curses, Martin shuffled onto his other side and reached for

A jaw-cracking yawn near split Martin’s face in two as he hunched over the gleaming tea kettle, steam beginning to pour from the spout. He shuffled his feet, eyes meandering sightlessly over the cow-shaped mug drying on the counter, the cluster of crumbs that he must’ve missed when cleaning up after dinner last night.

He hated mornings. Maybe it was the preemptive dread he felt at the thought of going to work; maybe it was because he hated having to be upright this early in the morning. Either way, he felt strangely disconnected from his morning routine, each motion carried out with habitual, distant efficiency as his thoughts raced along like a hamster on a wheel just below the surface.

It...was a bit silly for him to be worried about work, though. The stuff he was doing was interesting, and he had the loveliest coworkers a guy could ask for. They’d even offered to teach him a thing or two about artifact restoration once they learned the truth about his CV.

He drew himself up to his full height and rolled his shoulders back, clouded sigh mingling with the fog from the boiling water. Things were going well. Hell, he was actually going to get top surgery sometime in the next year or so, which was amazing considering his teenage self would’ve laughed at the very idea of being out.

There was no reason to dread going to work.

Martin carefully poured the water into the mug, letting the tea steep before adding a splash of milk and sugar. When he picked the mug up, the heat from the tea had bled into the ceramic, so warm as to be uncomfortable against the delicate skin of his palms. He didn’t let go, just kept on gripping the mug, like trying to contain the last gasp of a dying star.

Martin stared around his kitchen. The waterstains on the inside of the cow mug slowly evaporating into the still air; the crumbs that had sat there for who knows how long. The empty, blank face of his fridge.

Martin lifted the mug, and steam collected on his glasses as his breath wafted over the surface of the tea. He drew away, waiting for the lenses to clear, before leaning in for another sip.

His reflection stared back at him, a monochrome facsimile of his face rimmed in white smoke, and he recoiled, the mug slipping from

Working nine to five, what a way to make a living…

Martin stared out the window, his hand pillowed in the palm of his hand as Dolly Parton crooned in his ears. Split second by split second, he let his eyes catch on a point in the darkened surroundings, only letting his vision blur into incoherence when that fixed point whipped out of sight. It was a game he sometimes played when he got bored of reading or playing cards on his phone.

The old woman across from him let out a quiet grunt and shuffled, drawing his attention back inside the train. She was a gnarled old thing, bowed by the gravity of grief and time and life, though Martin couldn’t say for certain whether it was one well-lived.

Barely getting by, it’s all taking and no giving...

That was the thing about people watching: Martin was never quite sure if it was disrespectful to make assumptions about a person’s life based on a passing glimpse. He could never be sure if the person with the grumpy expression had a foul attitude, or if they were just a kind person on the tail-end of a truly awful day.

The old woman was knitting though, and Martin generally found it safe to assume that knitters were nice people.

For a moment he thought about taking out his headphones and striking up a conversation; the pattern looked devilishly complicated, and as a beginning knitter, he always appreciated tips. There was an unfinished set of fingerless green gloves in the back of his closet; it was easy for hands to get cold in the Archives, and the color suited

“Alright, Martin?”

Martin startled, his pen clattering to the floor. He looked up to find Sasha perched on the edge of his desk, grinning like the cat who’d just eaten the canary. Or, he thought she was. His eyes kept skittering from one corner of her face to the other, like a smooth stone skipping across a lake.

“Uh…” Frowning slightly, he let his gaze travel over the shelves of books, the humming lights, his cluttered workstation. He removed his glasses so he could rub at his aching eyes, and let out a deep sigh. Probably just the stress. “Yeah—yeah! Sorry, I’ve been distracted all morning.”

Martin got the impression of Sasha’s grin being tempered with genuine concern. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is everything okay?”

“I think so. Just...work, and my mum…” he gave an expansive you know sort of gesture at life in general. “Thank god the weekend’s coming. Anyway, is there something I can help you with?”

“Well, I was going to ask if you wanted to come get drinks with Mel and Tim and I after work, but…” She cut him a meaningful glance, the bottomless holes where her eyes should be boring bright spotlights into the back of his skull. “We’d understand if you’re not feeling up to it.”

“Is Georgie coming?”

Sasha shrugged. “Probably. Mel didn’t say so, but they’ve been all over each other since they started dating.”

Martin laughed. “True.” Tried to gauge how he was feeling, whether or not he was up to a night of socializing. You should go, a strangely posh little voice murmured in the back of his head, and he found himself saying, “Actually yeah, I would like to come. I could use a night out.”

Sasha clapped him on the shoulder, and the impact rattled through him like a gong being struck. The echoes of it vibrated all the way down to his toes. “Excellent.”

Martin hesitated, and then, not entirely sure of what he was asking, “What about J

“Thanks for waiting with us,” Georgie said, smiling beatifically up at him. Passed out on her shoulder, Melanie let out a drunken snuffle and curled over, like she was thinking of climbing through the spaces of Georgie’s ribcage and sleeping in her chest cavity forever.

“Not a problem,” Martin replied, scratching the back of his neck.

To be honest, waiting with her was as much for his benefit as theirs. At first, he’d thought it was just stress; now, he was very sure that something was wrong. It wasn’t anything specific, or even bad; more like there was a sepia camera filter tinting the world dusty and nostalgic.

After his third drink, he’d looked into Tim’s laughing face and thought he might burst into tears. And he still didn’t know what Sasha was supposed to look like.

But he didn’t want to worry her, so he just bit his lip and rocked back and forth on his heels, even though the motion made his head spin that much worse.

(Maybe he needed to take a couple of days off. Have a lie-in. But that would—that would delay his work. The Institute’s work. Delays were bad; he felt strongly enough about that to carve it directly into his skin so that he’d never forget. He could roll down his sleeve and take a peek at it whenever his motivation slipped, like checking a watch for the time.)

For lack of anything else to say, he nodded toward Melanie. “She’s really out, huh?”

“She’s always been a lightweight.” Her tone was wry, but her eyes were soft and fond as she brushed Melanie’s bangs back from her face. “Never gets hungover though, the lucky bastard.”

“The nerve!” Martin said, affecting offense, which sent them right into another giggling fit.

Once he got his breath back, Martin mentioned offhand, “You know, considering how similar they are, I’m surprised that her and J̷̧̱̜͕͕̤͉̣̺̺̝͖̠̹̜͙̣͉̩̺̤̟͉͓̞̹̗́̆̂̋͆̊̎́͂̑͋̌͊͘̚͠ͅo̶̧̨͕̖͔̬̖̝̪͚̻̟̠̜̣̰̅n̶̥̉́̎͑̀͂͆̿̾͛̾̔̐͌́̅̂͂̒̆̐́͊̄̾̍̅̅͝

“Stop it!” Martin screamed, grabbing the mug from the counter and throwing it across the room. It shattered against the wall, scattering shards of ceramic across the floor. “I know

“What you’re doing,” Martin gripped the bathroom counter, ignoring the persistent ringing of his alarm, staring deeply into his reflection, “Stop it, stop it, nononon̴̡̡͚̮̠͙̻͔͎͈̜̓̈́̈́͜͜ͅǫ̸̯̠̱̖̲͙͍͎͒̇̑͒ṅ̶̨̩̳̩̝̹̳͎͈̬̦͆́̈́́͐̏̈́̕͝͝o̸̡̻̱̗̥̮̙̳̞͗̄͋̈́̀͝n̸̢̛̟͙̘̱̩͕̦̫̤̮͆͑̊͋́̂̽͜o̶̘̱̗̘̘͑̿͜ņ̶̥̞̠͕͓̠͔͚̮͈̬͕̀͗̄̓͑͑͛̕ͅő̸̮̫̓͌̾̌͋́̂̏̒̃̃̄̚n̵̗̫͕̺̻͔̭͖̉͒͗̀̈́̃̅o̴͓͉͉͗͋̎̕—”

“Shhh, it’s okay. I’m sorry, it’s okay—”

“No!” Martin shrieked, shoving Jon’s hands away, skittering backward across the broken and cracked stones of the Panopticon. Through the arched windows, the sky was a poisonous green and black, and multitudes of eyes orbited the room, watched his every movement with sickening fascination. “Just—stop.”

Luminous gaze weary and resigned, Jon did as he was bid, dropping back onto his heels.

Rubbing sweat and grime and tears from his face, breathing harshly through his mouth, Martin took a moment to remember where he was, why he was here. It always took a moment for everything to come back.

As though unable to keep silent any longer, Jon asked, “So what was it this time?”

“Don’t,” Martin hissed, dragging his hands through his greasy hair.

Though his expression went mulishly annoyed, Jon raised his hands placatingly, a silent, alright, you win. It was a familiar gesture, one that he’d done so many times while they were living in Scotland, while they were traveling the devastated landscape of the apocalypse. It made Martin ache for when things were simpler, when his heart didn’t just feel like one big bruise.

He gently set the thought aside, and turned a more assessing eye on the Panopticon. Normally the changes were insignificant, but something thick and red and black had started to coil around the windows, weaving in and out of the floor, cracking the stonework. Martin traced the strange things with his eyes, frowning—

“Christ, Jon,” he whispered in horrified realization. “Are...are those corpse roots?”

Jon bobbed his head. “They’ve long since overtaken the rest of London. It’s just us, now.”

Martin sucked in a long, frustrated breath through his teeth. There was no point trying to talk any sense into Jon, not after so long, and force would only result in immediately getting kicked back into that horrible dream world.

“And the others?”

Jon shrugged, tracing the cracks in the earth with his fingers. “Still alive, and living happily in the dream I made for them.” He didn’t say, unlike you, but the implication was so loud he might as well have screamed it.

“Shut up,” Martin muttered, pushing to his feet and limping to one of the windows.

Corpse roots, as far as the eye could see. They covered the city of London in a blanket of tangled black, so thick that it was impossible to see the buildings beneath.

“Was it worth it?” he asked, sagging against the side of the window, too tired to be angry.

When the silence persisted a second too long, Martin turned around to find Jon with his head tilted back, examining the corpse roots consuming what had once been the Beholding’s seat of power, expression distant and thoughtful. The eyes, ever-watching, never understanding, drifted closer, greedily drinking in the sight.

When Martin realized that Jon wasn’t planning on answering, he let out another sigh, ruffled his bangs away from his face, and said, “You’re never there.”

Jon’s gaze snapped to him with a laser-edged focus. “Sorry?”

“If you’re going to trap me in a dream,” Martin said, each syllable clipped and precise, “You could at least be there.”

Like it always did, Jon’s face crumpled, and he looked away. “...I don’t deserve it.”

“Oh, we’re well past that and you know it!” Martin shrieked, striking his fist against the stone. “You made your fucking decision to damn the world, to hell with whatever we thought, the least you could do is stop hiding behind your pointless guilt and act like this is what you actually want!”

It would’ve been better, if Jon had simply become drunk with power and was no longer listening to reason. The fact that he’d made this same decision every single day with clear, unclouded eyes and sound judgement—as Jon the human, rather than Jon the lynchpin of the apocalypse, pupil of the Eye—made Martin want to scream.

“I do want it!” Jon snapped back, then quieter, “I do.” He looked up at the corpse roots again, eyes going misty. “I just—I should witness every second of misery and pain that I’m causing. I don’t deserve to just...forget.”

Wind snapped and howled around them like a creature mad with rage, and Martin idly wondered what would happen to this world once Jon died. If it would all go back to the way it had been before, or if the shell of the apocalypse would remain until the end of time, a corpse husk of a reality warped beyond repair.

“You shouldn’t have to experience this alongside me though,” Jon continued, rallying. “So I would really appreciate it if you’d stop breaking your dreams.”

“Tough,” Martin snapped back, folding his arms obstinately over his chest.

“You could be happy!” Jon reiterated, stabbing his index finger into the palm of his hand. “You could just...live your life! Forget! There’s no point in being here.”

“It’s a deal, remember? Where you go, I go. Fuck you very much, but I don’t break my promises.”

Jon stared at him for one beat, then another—and then promptly burst out laughing, his whole body shaking with the force of it. Martin stared at him, utterly bewildered, as the laughing slowly began to dissolve into desperate, heaving sobs, as he began rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around himself in a mockery of comfort.

“I miss you,” Jon gasped out, half-crazed. “So much. I miss you every day even though you’re right in front of me. But I can’t go to you, because I don’t deserve to, not when I’m the one who trapped you here. I’m everything that’s wrong with the world. I always have been.”

“Jon,” Martin sighed, low and tired.

Jon buried his face into his knees. “No, you shouldn’t—you shouldn’t forgive me just because you pity me, that’s not what I—I don’t—”

“Who said anything about forgiveness?” Martin shook his head. “Fine. You’re an asshole, and I hate you. But it’s like I said.” He gestured toward the Panopticon, the roots, the poisonous sky. “When has deserving ever mattered?”

Jon lifted his face from his knees, though his gaze stayed rooted to the floor. “...I suppose.”

“Right,” Martin agreed. “I’ve accepted that you’re not going to change your mind, but...at the very least, I don’t want to die alone. So can you please just…”

There was a long, weighted pause.

They’d had arguments like this what felt like hundreds of times before. Martin begging for Jon to change his mind, Jon refusing with that same resigned, determined expression on his face, before sending Martin back into his dreams.

Maybe it was because Martin wasn’t asking him to change his mind this time. Maybe it was because they were so close to the end of all things, and soon they’d be the last two people on earth. Maybe it was because Jon was tired, had been for so, so long, and he had won anyway, so there was no point in fighting any longer.

“Alright,” Jon whispered.

…

...

Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Bzzzt!

“Ugh, five more minutes,” Martin hissed, throwing an arm across his face.

Somewhere in the far distance, the toilet flushed. A moment later, a pair of feet padded lightly into the room, hesitated at the edge of the bed, and then made their way over to the desk. The alarm abruptly went silent.

Martin uncovered his eyes and grinned up at Jon as he tentatively slid back between the covers, every movement careful and deliberate, like he was reading stage directions from a script.

“Look at Mr. Workaholic, having a lie-in,” Martin teased, pulling Jon into his arms and inhaling the scent of his coconut shampoo. “Must be the end of the world, or something.”

Jon stiffened for just a moment, before turning around and burying his face into Martin’s chest. “Or something.”

#iceeckos12 writes #my writing #tma #jonmartin but make it especially tragedy flavored

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missinghan · 3 years

Text

aria of an assassin ⤖ lee minho

❖ genre : assassin au; fluff; angst

❖ word count : 6,2k.

❖ warning : mentions of blood & violence, explicit language

❖ summary : minho hasn’t been fazed for decades throughout his bloodied career until the next target happens to be a black cat and he’s suddenly incapable of pulling the trigger.

❖ note : okay, so it’s been a year? this tiny, stupid blog is turning one year old today? yea I couldn’t believe it either. this is to all of my mutuals and readers out there, I don’t say it enough but I truly appreciate each and every one of you 🖤 I wish I could have written something longer but due to school, this random piece will have to do for now.

❖ the sequel : with felix is out!

one.

“Shit.”

Minho grits in a hushed tone although all that has been accompanying him is the pitiful moonlight and icy breeze dissolving into every fiber of his skin. Every minuscule movement suddenly becomes too irritating to his eardrums. The hustle and bustle life of the city at night. Terrible traffic. Even the sound of his own inhales and exhales.

What is that thing?

He thinks to himself, proceeding to expand his eyesight with the pair of scopes; confusion soon flares into curiosity, then faint anger and dead silence. He swears his heartbeat just paused awkwardly like a broken record for a split second there. Such strange, or odd targets are no stranger to him; nor do they stir something inside the coldness of his rib cage.

Not an easy kill, they say. And not easy it is.

Because whatever he’s watching with his very eyes is a cat. A goddamn cat with a coat as sleek pitch as the dark canvas upon his head and piercing golden eyes. The peculiar animal walks with its head held high like it’s lording over everyone else—such self-reassurance, such radiance some humans cease to possess.

It’s dangerous, they say. But it’s a fucking cat! Irritation bubbles up at the back of his throat, makes his skin crawl, and causes a bark of profanity to leave his lips once more. Has it not occurred to his client that he doesn’t kill children and animals? When it’s clearly been written on the contract? In bold, underlined, and everything?

They could have at least given him more details on what he’s getting himself to this time.

An exhale. He packs up his things, pulls his black cap down a little, and leaves the top of the building without looking back. If he did, he would have seen those starry eyes boring holes onto his back.

two.

The road Minho is walking through is more than familiar. For one, he takes the same path every day to grab a drink at his go-to place—a vending machine near an old, plain high school.

It’s fair to say he knows every corner of the neighborhood like the back of his hand—from the dark alley where bullies beat up their classmates to the small stall of lemonade of a middle school girl who waves at him every morning. He never reciprocates though; it doesn’t feel right. The amount of apathy in his heart isn’t enough for him to act normally when taking lives is what he does for a living.

For two, he used to have a part-time job at that particular high school for an old request. Due to his conscience, he did go out of his way to take the kill outside of the school—causing a catastrophe in such an environment makes him uncomfortable.

Just then, he stops. His brow raises. Isn’t that…

The black cat slinks through the crowd of nosy students in the direction of where he too is heading. It raises its nose and gives the air a rough sniff, making a face as though the general stagnant with exhaust fumes stench of the city disgusts the entirety of its existence.

Watching it take a slight dip to avoid being hit with someone’s bag, Minho holds back every urge to come running at the creature and wrap his arms around its small figure. He wonders how long it’d take for the cat to reach its final destination because it’s definitely taking some sweet ass time to stride through the front of the main gate like a supermodel. Meanwhile, he’s stressed to the core as if the harmless high school filled with teenagers is nothing less than a battlefield.

Is it testing him?

Something is oddly unsettling about an animal staring straight into his eyes. Paranoia fuels the forgotten irritation inside his chest, sets out to make him actually think those golden eyes are memorizing every inch of his feature. Then, they soften with what seems to be exhaustion, its tiny head turning and its tiny feet take it skipping gently away from the scene.

Minho finally acknowledges the knot inside his stomach and the breath he’s been holding. With a harsh gulp, he no longer takes notice of the fact if his cap is hung low enough or if he’s walking too quickly. For the first time in long, a rush of adrenaline hits him hard enough to make him speed walk through the herd of chatty teenagers.

Questions naturally pop up as his shoes kiss the ground, his shadow sprinting into a dark, though familiar alleyway. Was he hallucinating? But he’s been getting enough sleep and eating well. What makes him so certain that it was the same cat? Instincts or some sixth sense bullshit perhaps. If it was the cat that’s assigned to be killed off in a week, what’s so dangerous about it? And how long has he been running for? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? And to where?

“You.”

Half-way through trying to keep his thoughts off of his face, Minho stops himself when a rather feminine voice echoes through the narrow space. Unsure of whether the voice was reaching out to him, his legs stop moving while his eyes are peering through the dark. Much to his heart’s dismay, shivers run up his spine when something comes in contact with the warm flesh of his neck.

“What’s your name?”

Slowly, with his hands on the back of his head, he turns on his heels. “Excuse you?”

You retract your gun-shaped fingers into the pocket of your jacket, phlegmatic eyes gazing at him through the thickness of the night. “I want to know your name,” you try to make your point clear, utterly unfazed.

Minho stares you down for a good five seconds. Neatly dressed in the school uniform, an oversized jacket thrown over your body but no backpacks. There’s a name tag being embroidered onto the fabric in red “Shin Yuna - 1A”. Whoever you are, he’s certain that isn’t your name. That name doesn’t even suit you. That isn’t your uniform.

“What’s the point?” he questions, hands dropped to the sides in slight relief.

You tilt your head, expression neutral. “I have a habit of collecting names of people who tried or are trying to kill me. It’s quite relaxing to write it down on a list actually. You know, easier to keep track.”

He’s trying hard to not let any impulsive urges overthrow the rational side of his brain. Everything suddenly twitches in slow motion. His silence seems to bore you. Your eyes are more dead than angry, more done than irritated. Like you’ve been through this shit one too many times already to care.

“At least say why you’re sent to kill me.”

That, Minho can answer within a blink of an eye. “They sent me because I don’t exist.”

Your gaze glistens with a glaze of boredom. “Everyone said so.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock. Where’s your house, kid? I’ll walk you back. It’d be a pain in the ass if your parents found out how you’re wandering alone after school,” he brushes it off like you’re a slight nuisance (which you are). His heartbeat spikes up once at the mention of family, one that you’ve acknowledged with ease.

Your arms are folded over your chest now, to cover up the sudden stab of sympathy inside your chest. “There’s no need. I don’t have a place to go back to nor do I have parents who will nag me for staying out late.”

His mind automatically blackouts along with his senses, blurred with such peculiar feelings swirling at the pit of his stomach. You make it sound like it’s not that big of a deal like you’ve utterly been numb for so long. It’s tragic but understandable. This isn’t the first time he has witnessed a story like yours—your parents, dead or alive, he does not know; by the sound of it, you’re an orphan. Another unfortunate being to graze this planet like himself. This means you can’t afford school, so that uniform really doesn’t belong to you.

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

“It’s Lee Know. Call me Lee Know.”

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.”

You didn’t mean to expose anything about your life to a total stranger, or specifically an assassin. However, nothing matters when you most likely won’t meet him again nor will he succeed in taking your life. Even the fact that he chose not to give you his real name amplifies how much shit he does not give about you. You don’t expect anything more honestly.

“Alright, we’re done here,” you feign enthusiasm before clasping your hands together. “Go home. The sun is already going down.”

Strangely enough, Minho can only watch as your shadow shifts to the outline of a black cat before dipping into the depths of the starless night.

three.

To Minho it’s always just another day in the office. Except his office is a windy rooftop overlooking the mark’s exact location. His tools—rather than a computer—is a state-of-the-art rifle with a telescopic lens. A silencer isn’t very important since traffic and people are more than enough to drown out any suspicious noises. Most will mistake it for a back-firing van. He takes aim with no more qualms than one would gossip about a colleague, then pulls the trigger while thinking about what to order other than Chinese for lunch. When the work is done, he carefully packs everything up into an inconspicuous rucksack. And leaves the scene, like a phantom.

It’s always been the same boring, bloodied cycle.

Yet something’s changed since Minho met you.

He used to maintain a cool detachment to his targets. His conscience prefers not to think of them; whenever he does, it’s as if they’re already dead, mobile meat bags waiting to be laid on a cutting board. He doesn’t like to think merrily of his job, he doesn’t see it as helping them meet their destiny. None of that bullshit. To put it more nonchalantly, everyone will die one day. Minho considers it as a good way to go. Oblivious and in pain for one moment before completely gone the next.

Simple. Convenient. Much less agonizing than this brutal world.

Although that doesn’t mean he isn’t traumatized by the amount of blood that has stained his hands. On good days, he might get three to four hours of sleep. Bad days, few minutes to none at all. Terrifying nightmares gnaws at his soul every night, the ugly scar like a reminder of every single one of his sins. He can’t force himself to lose his sanity like any fools out there going down the same path.

“Shit…” Minho mutters, running a rough hand through his hair. He didn’t sleep well last night—like every other night; hence the bad temper and bitter taste at the back of his throat.

After a deep breath, he stares at his Hecate II with mischievous eyes—those of a hunter framed in the expressionless face of an executioner. His blunt hands are steady as they lift the shiny weapon over the concrete of a rooftop, drawing out a dry shot in his mind.

Through his scope, he watches as you’re crossing the road in your human form before stopping abruptly in front of a random tree. You then proceed to squint your eyes and look up in the opposite direction. Minho unknowingly holds his breath, waits for you to release your iron gaze, and move on with your life. But his expectations don’t prevail.

“What the fuck?”

Without much patience, he curses before shifting his scope to the same direction only to find another shadow creeping around on the balcony of a nearby building. No time to think of a rational solution—killing them is an ideal one—Minho feels his palms growing sweaty when a small, peculiar object comes flying toward his way. His head quickly moves away before the bullet pierces through his scope, shattering the glass completely.

“Son of a bitch,” he lets out a shaky breath. Crimson starts to drip down on the side of his cheekbone, but he can care less.

Because that’s the least of his problem right now.

Another subtle ‘bang’ can be heard in the distance, like a broken record scratching against his eardrums. Kid…! Minho’s heart collapses in realization.

four.

It’s not hard for Minho to do research on quite an amount of vital information about you. When he saw your body dropped to the ground lifelessly and an ambulance immediately drove by to pick up your body, he knew things weren’t going to end just like that.

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.”

He isn’t a believer, has never been one. Yet when he managed to take out your kidnappers in that ambulance, your weak breaths startled his heart and shook his mind into awareness of how serious the situation is. After that, he tracked down the hitman who delivered the hard blow, put a bullet through his brain, and found an USB full of detailed information about your existence. Which just makes things a whole lot more complicated to understand.

Apparently, you’ve been ‘killed’ one too many times before—there are photographs of your supposedly dead body in a bag, thrown into the deep, dark woods, other times into a nameless river. The thing about you is that you were once an experimental subject to your own biological parents who are sickeningly vile scientists. At the age of nine, you fell down the stairs and had a big gash on your head. They never knew because your wounds were quick to heal themselves. However, your whole life was flipped upside down when they saw you shapeshifting into a black cat while running around at the playground.

From then, your life became a living hell behind cold metal bars with needles stuck in your arms and strange pills being forced down your throat almost every day. Their sudden change only nourished resentment through time until you managed to cut down the laboratory’s power supply and fled from your own home.

You have no one to lean on. No place to go back to. No nothing. And you’re just a teenager.

Minho feels awful.

Usually, he isn’t the type to be empathetic nor does he have the energy to. It’s very out of character for him to let his emotions linger on a homeless kid with some supernatural abilities that will make his life that much more dangerous. Because to him, more often than not, people tend to give their condolences only to forget after brief moments of grieving. At the end of the day, it isn’t their own problem, it isn’t their own life. But now when it comes to you, Minho feels a strong sense of responsibility that if you end up dying, it’s on him.

It’s stupidly conflicted, it really is. His job—blowing people’s brains out—is the sole reason why he makes a six-digit amount of money for every job. Therefore, he isn’t sure what picking a random kid up from a fake ambulance and bringing her back to his shabby apartment is going to do him any good.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

You hate the fact that you can recognize that voice.

Just then, you wake as if it’s an emergency, as if sleeping has become a dangerous task. Your heart is pounding loudly inside your ears, the sound echoing listlessly to the pit of your rib cage. It’s always like this. It takes you some time to calm your nerves before gathering what exactly happened the moment you blacked out.

Right, you think to yourself, groaning slightly while pushing yourself up. You were shot right in the chest, and your body was probably discarded somewhere. After that, you’d grab a hitchhiker so they’ll drive you back into town. Like always. The only difference, this time though, is Minho placing your limp body on his bed with a blanket to warm you up.

His face appears within your eyesight when you’re done adjusting your vision to the bright room—you’re not used to this much light around. “You look calmer than I expected,” he mentions.

Minho grabs your face and scans it over. “Let me see. Did your wounds close up properly?”

The tender action, which has become weirdly natural to him although this is his first time, accidentally triggers something inside you. Your hand automatically slaps his away. It is an upfront refusal, but it doesn’t surprise him. He only offers you a comfortable moment of silence before placing a tray on the wooden nightstand.

“Eat up. I’m not going to feed you,” he cocks his head toward the bowl of porridge with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

You glare at him in suspicion. “Bringing me home. Giving me a bed to sleep on. And even food to eat. What are you trying to get at?”

“Nothing. I didn’t kill you only because you’re too young for my moral code,” he pretends to roll his eyes, voicing monotonously.

A frown adorns your tired features. “So you’re going to kill me when I get older then?”

“Probably,” Minho smirks faintly with a cock of his eyebrow. “That depends if you still remember my name, Y/N.”

One thing after another, this assassin only continues to baffle you. He was just going to shoot you the other day and now he’s giving you food? Preposterous! To put it simply, you’re unprepared for such kind actions, such gentleness from someone who takes lives for a living. You’re unprepared for dealing with people in general because they detest anyone who’s different from them—your kind, the kind with supernatural abilities and all. Hence, you’re left unwilling to befriend anyone and would rather be alone for the rest of your life.

Until such twisted moira pushes you to—what was his name again? Not his real name, the made-up one that he uses in the underworld.

You speak up softly after feeling safe enough to let your guards down, “Lee Know, was it?”

“It’s Lee Minho.”

“Pardon?”

He only smiles, “My real name. It’s Lee Minho.”

five.

“Y/N! A little help over here?”

“Coming.”

“Y/N, go check the fog machine!”

“Got you.”

“Y/N, can you put these boxes over there?”

“Alright.”

That’s all you’ve been doing for the entirety of your boring day. Getting yelled out at, having people ask for help nonstop, and responding with a two-word answer at max. You’re not complaining—they pay you well enough, the job is more on the down-low side because you’re nothing but a mere stage crew for an above-average theatre studio. So you simply hoist the three final plastic boxes into your arms with a jerk of your knees and place it where they asked you to. Thanks to your parents, their experiments along with skeptical-looking substances have efficiently enhanced your general strength and agility.

Another crew member perks up when you plop the heavy stack of cardboard boxes down with a loud thud. “Oh, can you carry those lights to stage left too?”

“Sure.” You could have pretended to pick up one box at a time and to drag your feet across the stage with difficulties to avoid being used. But you’re too lazy to repeat the same cycle two more times, so you really don’t have any other choice here.

Nevertheless, you suppose it’s not entirely bad to do all of this heavy handiwork. Because it keeps your mind off of unwanted things, such as Lee Minho for example. Lee Minho, the assassin, not the actor—you’d gladly fangirl over that certain celebrity rather than admit that you actually enjoy the hitman’s abrupt presence in your life.

The fact that you know he will find you even if it means traveling to the ends of the Earth and back doesn’t help to ease your insomnia. So for the past few days, you’ve been working extra hours along with picking up a job at a florist in hopes of not bumping into him. Stupid. You know it is. But how can you deal with a self-esteem crisis because the idea of being a burden just irks you so much?

It’s like you’re hopelessly proving that you don’t need anyone when you, in fact, want that kind of unconditional love that every other human yearns for.

After helping your colleagues out with the lighting, you simply sit behind those thick curtains until the show is over. Then, you head out, find a place to sleep, and head to an old lady’s place to pick up new clothes to change into for the next day. Since she’s been treating you with nothing but kindness, you’ve tried to pass by and helped her out at her son’s antique store too.

Your routine is supposed to go that way and stay that way. You won’t die because you don’t like overworking yourself. You’re doing just great.

“Hey, Y/N! Your brother is here to pick you up!”

Throwing your crewmate a blunt wave, you find your way out of the school’s theatre through a back door without shifting the expression on your face. You don’t have any siblings. And your colleagues don’t know anything about your family background either. So it, unfortunately, boils your guesses down to one.

Despite knowing who it is and why they show up, you open your mouth to speak, “How did you find me again?”

Minho shows up with a more casual version of his working attire—instead of the fully black, monochromatic outfit, he’s changing it up with a leather jacket, white t-shirt and jeans. He leans on his shiny motorcycle smugly like he knows something that you don’t, in which you very much dislike.

“Young lady, I’ll have you know that being an assassin helps me appear at places to do things I’m not supposed to do,” he ignores the fact that your question was purely rhetorical and chimes.

You attempt to throw him a glare which isn’t intimidating enough. “Call me ‘young lady’ one more time and I’ll put my foot where it’s not supposed to be.” Who are you kidding? He’s a hitman when you’re just a kid. Pigs would be flying by the time you managed to physically shoo him away.

“Am I supposed to guess where that is?”

“Enough. Go to work. Get out of here. Leave me alone.”

“I’m sorry, are you encouraging me to kill people?” Minho gasps, acting shocked and appalled. Clearly, he’s not good at it despite sharing a name with a well-known actor.

You can only retort harshly, “Don’t put words in my mouth, you ass.”

“Come on, kid. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“Why?”

His hand automatically reaches for your forearm. “Don’t people eat for pleasure? What’s wrong with you?”

Your heart leaps in, anger perhaps, pupils shaking when he closes in on you. Upon your reaction, Minho retracts his arm immediately. He should have thought better of it; you’re probably too traumatized to be dealing with him right now.

At that, your eyes round at the remorse on his face and you could have glared him off right then and there. But somehow, your basic human manners overcome your usual snappy self, letting you think that maybe he means no harm. Maybe he’s checking up on you one last time before going on about his life. You shouldn’t be too riled up about it just because he tried to kill you once.

Minho catches the familiar anxious gaze and sighs, “Okay, we don’t have to get something to eat. I’ll give you a ride back. Do you have somewhere to stay the night?”

It’s rotten work, whatever he’s trying to do. So you shake the harmless tingle inside your chest away before pushing past him. “No,” you answer dryly and leave.

six.

You go to work sick the day after because you couldn’t find a place to sleep in and had to make do with napping in front of a tattoo place. Yes, napping; because when you finally shifted into your cat form and allowed your eyes to rest, the sky started pouring waterfalls. The rain had soaked into your shiny black coat, making it frizzy and luring the sickness up your spine the moment you tried finding a different haven.

No one notices. No one.

Not even the mask, the extra layer of sweatshirt nor your hushed coughs every now and then. Despite downing the cold pills early in the morning, you’re only burning up harder by the second. Oh, you know! Maybe they just don’t care, that’s it. Because calling in off for work due to a minor cold isn’t a valid reason. However, you’re still shivering on the inside and burning on the outside. Enhanced genes or any of that bullshit isn’t enough to prevent you from getting sick like any other student. Perhaps something wasn’t complete, or they’d messed up somewhere. Perhaps that’s why they’re trying to get you back.

How foolish of you to think somewhere deep down, they still want you back. With a reason as blunt as you being their child.

Drowning in deep thoughts, you almost crash into a pile of boxes filled with equipment when your foot gets tangled to a random cable. Your eyes automatically screw shut as you wait for the impact but it never comes. Only a gentle pair of hands on your shoulders did. From that point on, you can’t hear or see properly. You don’t even have enough stamina to register who’s holding onto you so reassuringly. Whatever is happening gets hazier by the tick of a clock. It’s either you’re hallucinating or Minho is giving you that mirthful scowl of his.

Yep, you’re definitely hallucinating.

“Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“That’s a stupid fucking question.”

A frown adorns his perplexed features as his glassy eyes skim your face. He has a really pretty smile, he should smile more, you think. His hand latches onto your burning forehead, slides down on the side of your cheek with such grace as though he’s caressing you. A grumble leaves his lips at your dreadful state. This is why he should have never let you go in the first place.

“Come on, kid. Let me help you,” Minho says before giving your arm a light tug.

You don’t like what you just heard. “I don’t need your help.”

“You can barely walk.”

“Who said so-” As if on cue, he lets go of your arm bluntly. Caught off guard, your legs go weak without any remaining strength. You stumble and would have most likely fallen on your face if it weren’t for his grip on your arm. A gasp comes out inaudible when he hoists you upright, not planning to let go any time soon.

Minho scratches the tip of his nose with his ring finger, sniffing lightly. It seems like he’s arguing with a younger version of himself. He now knows how it felt like for those caretakers back then.

“You did,” he says with the same smirk when you woke up in his apartment for the first time.

seven.

That’s the only time you’ve ever allowed someone to help you with something. But Minho had to constantly check on you every two seconds, not wanting you to fall asleep on his bike while it’s speeding down the highway like a gust of wind. For a moment there, he really thought you would slip away into the night as he tried to find his keys because that’s just how you are.

Minho is no doctor, but he doesn’t go to one for a cold or a really bad fever. He can manage, he tries to convince himself.

After testing your temperature and giving you something new to change into, he slaps a cool gel patch onto your forehead before heading off to the kitchen to cook up something. You need to be full to be able to take your medicine anyway.

In the act of resting on his bed, you decide you can’t take staying in the same spot anymore so your body perks up in a sluggish manner. The aroma of home-cooked food wakes your senses almost immediately, causing you to look over at his busy figure by the marble counter. You think it’s endearing how he hasn’t bothered to change into something more comfortable. But he instead threw an apron over his working attire and dived right into the cooking process.

You have always felt like you were missing out on something whenever you looked at Minho. Perhaps it was how his striking eyes stared at you, whether mischievous or else. Perhaps it was how his lips were turning down most of the time with less than affectionate words.

Or it’s plainly how he has been trying to hide that he actually cares.

“Hungry?” He tilts his head to the side playfully once his sixth sense starts kicking in.

You can only nod. “Yeah.”

It takes Minho a lot of convincing yet you won’t let him feed you. Like hell, you would. Therefore, with helpless eyes, he watches you from across the table. He doesn’t laugh or get annoyed when your shaky hand drops the spoon and splatters the soup all over the table. His hand simply reaches for a piece of paper towel to clean up the mess, tossing it into the trash bin later. The same cycle repeats in comforting silence until you finish the entire bowl. The soup definitely wasn’t five-star worthy. But it’s enough to warm you up inside and out. Of course, Minho chooses to let the dishwasher do the job—his hatred for doing dishes is always at its finest.

Then, like the other night, he has already passed out on the table with a blanket draped over his body when you step out of the shower. Instead of plopping the weight of your exhaustion onto his bed this time, your legs stay frozen like cement on the floor while your eyes take in his reclined figure under the thin fabric. Minho is sleeping with his head buried in his arms, his glasses and messy files abandoned to the side. He’s definitely not a heavy sleeper because he doesn’t snore; only feather-like breaths can be heard through this endless beat of silence. The faintly blinking light from his laptop makes you feel exposed so you push yourself toward the balcony.

A hiss comes out hushed and quiet when your feet come into contact with the cold tile floor, bringing you across the studio apartment with small tiptoes. You peer over your shoulder, gazing at the only available source of light. Unconsciously, you ball your fists.

With a soft sigh, you slide open the glass door and step out to bathe yourself in the comfort of the moonlight. Despite the chilling air of the night, something warm fills up your lungs like an overflowed cup of wine. It suffocates you a little until the knots in your muscles and mind loosen; a sense of relief washes over you—you haven’t felt that in years.

Nothing makes sense.

A hitman hired by your parents shouldn’t be putting a roof over your head, tucking you into bed nor feeding you. Minho barely knows you; and your knowledge about him as a genuine person isn’t enough to convince you that this is reality. Because after years of wandering the streets, being tossed around like trash with plenty of a series of unfortunate events, you’ve made it a habit to sink into yourself.

So the longer you stay here, the more you’ll get attached to him. And the more you get attached, the more he takes away your default instincts to turn your back on everything.

Guilt wells up inside your chest as though it’s an old habit, a setting by default. If you ever try to go over the moderate line, you will break.

Holding back a croaked sob, you know that once you let it go, tears will only start flooding. With a push of your muscles, you effortlessly hoist yourself up the metal railings in one go. The wind combs through your hair like an empathetic hand but you ignore it, Minho’s sweater closing in on your skin.

You should leave, you try to urge yourself. You should jump off and dive into the depths of the night, let the allure cradle you in its emotionless arms.

Because after all, despite all those eyes on you out there, you’re ultimately alone within.

A foot dips out into thin air once the slump in your shoulders goes weightless. Immediately after, an incredible force pulls you by the ankle, and to the ground with a loud thud. Minho falls onto his back harshly, groaning slightly with you on top of him.

He knew what you were trying to do, he saw it the other night with his own eyes. Even under the knowledge of your capabilities, Minho still feels a rush of panic rising inside his chest. It’s only until his arms fully have a hold of you does his racing heartbeats slow down. Supernatural abilities or none, you’re still sick. And he’d be losing his mind if he woke up to an empty bed tomorrow morning.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he speaks with trembling vocal cords, in a tone you’ve never heard before. Strict but mellow. As though there’s a race inside his mind but he’s desperately trying to keep his cool. It’s fear. The moment he’s introduced to the idea of losing you—it’s genuine fear.

“Minho, I can’t die. Didn’t I tell you—“

His grip squeezes you in a breath tighter, cutting you off completely. “The fuck were you thinking? You can’t just jump off the balcony like that!”

“I already told you. I can’t die. Minho, I’ve done that plenty of times before,” you furrow your brows in a troubled manner, unsure of how to react.

Minho widens his eyes at you in sheer disbelief. Shock riddles his senses and gets the best of him. So now he’s fussing with his hands, incoherent profanity leaving his lips non-stop within the next thirty seconds or so. He’s usually very calm, collected, calculating, and cold. This is very unlike him. It makes you wonder why he’s acting this way. He knows that you can’t die from jumping off a building. So what’s there to worry about?

“You’re such an idiot! Try doing that again and I’ll kill you with my own-“

You truly don’t know how important you are to him. Frankly, he hasn’t even realized that yet.

“I’m sorry,” you say, pulling him closer. Since you’re bad at resolving any kind of conflict, you opt for the most rational solution—going with his flow until he’s calmed down. “I won’t do that again, promise.”

His lips fall agape at your words. He wasn’t expecting that. And even when you see how he’s reacting to your sudden change, you decide it’s no time to back down. This might be the only time you could show him that you’re at least grateful for everything he’s done.

He’s quieted down now. And when he manages to speak again without tripping over his own words, his voice comes out as a whisper. “Hey kid,” he looks down at you, wanting to stroke your hair but drops his hand in sheer defeat. “You didn’t answer my question earlier. Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“Who would do my job when I’m gone? Isn’t that irresponsible?” You exhale deeply before fluttering your eyes close, finding odd peace within the rhythm of his heart.

Minho says pointedly, “Well, you could have asked someone to help you with it.”

“No one would help me.”

“How’d you know? Have you tried asking them before?”

Your eyes shoot open and flicker around your surroundings, you’re at a loss for words for a split second there. Heat rushes to the apples of your cheeks in shame, your head hung terribly low. “I’m not used to asking for help. I’d hate to be a burden,” you confess.

Innocence glimmers in your eyes when you look up at him, waterlines threatening to break any second now. Your lashes are slightly damped and how lost you’re looking right now can physically draw crimson on his heart. At the end of the day, you’re just a kid. You had to grow up the hard way, with no one by your side telling you what’s right and what’s wrong, even simple things like how to react to non-verbal affection.

Don’t let her go, Minho. Not now. Not ever.

“Then fix it now.”

“What?” You pause.

“If you need help, ask for it. If things are hard, say it. I’ll be there to give you a hand.”

Tears well up in your eyes, croaked sobs shake your body, only prompting him to pull your closer. It’s warm. Damnit, why is it so warm? “I-I can’t sleep. Sing me something?”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Minho just knows that he would bleed with you even when the rain pours and the sky falls one day.

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doodledrawsthings · 4 years

Text

Oh The Humanity! AU Masterpost

Hi! Making a masterpost for this AHiT AU so y’all have one place to just find all the important bits that I and other folks in the fandom have done for this AU! Everything will be under the read more

AU Premise: Snatcher steals a time piece from Hat Kid and Bow Kid to mess with them. He tries to use it during one of the Death Wish fights, but turns out the particular time piece he stole was faulty/ something was up with it/ he broke it in a weird way that really messed it up. Because of this, when he broke the piece, instead of rewinding time back a few minutes, it sent his form back about 300 years, returning him to human form, but with all his present memories. Now, he’s stuck as a human as and has to wait for the Time Traveling Alien Kids to fix the time piece and return him to normal, while also being forced to confront his past.

You can find most of this in the tag #oth!au. I will also be updating this as new stuff gets added or if I find that I’ve missed something. Let me know if there’s something I missed that you’d like me to add, cuz boy howdy i didnt realize how much is stuffed into this AU, and I dont remember what I’ve already said and what I’m saving for future stuff:

Significant Events in the Main Timeline story (these are kind of in order and kind of not. There’s more to be added, just not yet):

this au has a bunch of different endings thanks to the lovely ahit fandom’s contributions.

This all happens sometime after This comic. So, by the time OTH!AU happens, Moon and Snatcher are at least on“awkward acquaintance” terms with eachother and snatcher is trying to be nicer to him. He’s still got his moments of being rude and snappy tho, but thats just because he’s snatcher.

The first actual post i made In regards to this AU+ @positive-polygons comic interpretation of the beginning of the AU. He breaks a weird time piece he stole and he reverse ages back to being alive again. : Link Link1 Link2 Link3

Snatcher asks moonjumper to watch over Subcon while he’s stuck like this Link

Bow takes him to Nyakuza Metro to get new clothes. He trashes the Prince get-up as soon as possible. Link

Arctic Cruise Arc Link1 Link2 Link3 Link4

Some comics, they learn his name is luka at some point

Moonjumper is taking care of Subcon. They do things way differently than snatcher but they’re trying their best.

Cooking Cat comes by to cook and help out. She’s very motherly to everyone. She’s taken Mu on as an apprentice, so she’s usually there with her whenever she drops by.

The birds are wrapping up a collab movie. The main cast are invited to the premier party, as Hat and Bow acted in the film. Snatcher gets to wear a nice suit and he has some interaction with the conductor and grooves. Link Link

at multiple points, MJ checks in with snatcher for status reports on how subcon is doing. This is usually where their bonding moments happen and they become less and less awkward with each interaction.

At some point around mid to late story, they find out that Subcon is starting to freeze over again. Snatcher was the only one who could melt the ice so this now gives them a time limit.

The Mirror incident Link Link second fic by @greentrickster

as snatcher gets along with the kids more, they remake his mailman hat so he can use badges and equip him with his own umbrella. Link Link

at some point snatcher realizes he doesn’t wanna go back to being a ghost.

Main-timeline ending is a Boss battle with Vanessa. Link

General Headcanons:

Almost everything you need to know about moonjumper and the prince and vanessa’s relationship Link

Snatcher and Vanessa have known eachother since they were kids. Their marriage was arranged, but they were good friends

OTH! Snatcher is aroace

about snatcher’s feelings on defeating vanessa (*human!/final boss vanessa ending) Link1 Link2

This fic has a really good interpretation of the horizon that I’ve pretty much adopted, myself. Link

regarding snatcher’s expression of empathy and emotion both as a human and as a ghost Link1

Snatcher gradually takes on a fatherly role towards the girls. He is constantly trying to deny it as he comes to realize it but eventually accepts it.

he’s actually pretty graceful with the umbrella Link Link

Hat kid’s a good leader, but she can often be reckless and stubborn. Significantly more chaotic of the two space gremlins. She’s a lot like snatcher in a lot of ways, and because of that they are constantly butting heads but they get along better as Snatcher both gets used to being human and grows fonder of the two girls. She’s a bit closer to Snatcher, having been the most adamant about being his friend (initially out of spite but yknow) and they have a lot in common.

People frequently mistake snatcher for being Hat Kid and Bow Kid’s visiting father. They usually comment on how much he looks like he could be HK’s biological dad. Both are in denial of this throughout the main timeline of this au. It’s a running gag. Link

snatcher is sometimes completely oblivious when he enters Dad Mode sometimes

Bow, on the other hand is generally a bit more shy and careful than hat kid is. She tends to take the passenger seat, taking on a more supportive role. She’s also way more polite. In this sense, she has more in common with moonjumper, and gets along with them quite well and she frequently goes to visit him the most often, on her own.

Her and snatcher’s relationship kind of parallels snatcher’s relationship with MJ. Snatcher, having once been a big jerk to these kids, is now trying to teach bow to take more of a leading role and be more confident.

as this au takes place not long after the Clearing Incident comic, Snatcher and MJ’s relationship is a bit awkward in the beginning. Over the course of the AU their relationship would build up to be more brotherly.

the subconites like moonjumper but they miss their boss. MJ spoils them tho, which they appreciate and occasionally take advantage of Link Link

moonjumper learns to stand up for himself, snatcher learns to be more vulnerable

moonjumper is the badgeseller. Only hat, bow, and snatcher know this.

snatcher very much enjoys feeling warm, its one of few saving graces he clings too in the stressful early part of the story.

snatcher doesnt like looking at himself in this AU. He’s very self-conscious about his “pathetic human body.” He doesn’t like being pitied and he doesnt like being seen as weak.

snatcher frequently has nightmares about his past.

after recieving the mailman hat, people start refering to him as The Mailman. Link

his voice frequently cracks a lot, especially in the beginning, since he keeps trying to use his Loud Ghost Voice, which can do a number on human vocal chords. Link

the kids bully him constantly Link Link Link

his arc is that he learns that it’s ok to be human and it’s ok to be vulnerable and to open up to people, and he learns to accept his past and who he used to be

the girls accidentally call him dad sometimes, which freaks him out at first, but he gets used to it eventually. Link

he adopts them, for sure, it just happens post- whatever ending.

beard. Link

Spin-off AUs, Alt Endings, and Fanfics, Oh My!:

That ending where habijob kills moonjumper Moonjumper goes to fight Vanessa, alone. In one version they win, and in another, they lose, and snatcher has to return to ghost form to retrieve them from the horizon. by @habijob Link Link Link

From The Horizon fic by @greentrickster Link

@lindendragon‘s hypothetical endings where snatcher is captured by vanessa Link Link

@fedoraspooky‘s spinoff au where the timepiece takes him back even further and turns him into a kid Link Link

@positive-polygons‘s Vanessa Spinoff Link

@doodleimprovement‘s Royal ending Link

@erekiosuncreativeideas‘s fanfic, Being Human, her version of the au’s story in chronological order starting from when he breaks the timepiece Link

@lemonadesoda’s Fanfic series, And I Don’t Think You Hate This As Much As You Wish You Did, fills in and expands upon the ideas in my comics for the AU Link

#a hat in time #ahit #the snatcher #the prince #bow kid #hat kid #moonjumper #ahit headcanons #oth!au #Oh the Humanity Au #oth!au masterpost #good lord i didnt realize how much this au had #but i think this is good for now #i'll add more as i go #i know for sure that theres more fics to add but i'll do that later i just wanna put this out #added some stuff

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lastwagontrainhopper · 3 years

Text

A guiding hand

Royai week day 2 - Serene (let’s collectively ignore how late I am posting this ok thaaaanks)

Summary: “She expected Roy to follow up with a flirty comment or joke; that was usually how this type of conversation went. Instead, after a moment, he let out a sight. When he spoke again, his voice had a melancholic tone to it.

"That right there is the one sight that I really miss. ” ”

---

The Colonel and his Lieutenant share a late-night conversation. (Blind!Roy)

Words: 2489

Tags: Blind Roy Mustang, Fluff and Angst, Late Night Conversations, Established Relationship, Canon Compliant

read on aot

“They had left their windows wide open, letting in a soft breeze to relieve them from the heavy summer heat. The curtains were rising and falling without a sound, fluttering in the air like ghosts. Even the streets around the house were quiet at that hour; the only thing that broke the stillness of the night was Riza's voice.

"As for Senator Harn's wife, she was wearing a very elegant apricot-colored dress. With her signature high hairdo, of course.”

Their blankets had long been kicked away to the bottom of the bed in a messy pile. Roy was lying on his back, facing to the ceiling, one hand playing idly with a lock of Riza's hair.

"Apricot?" His eyebrows furrowed slightly. "That's the yellow with a touch of pink, right?”

"That was pretty much it, yes." Riza was lying on her side, her head against her hand, elbow propped up on the pillow. The room was covered in shadows, but the flickering lights from the window on the street allowed her to see the outline of Roy's face.

"And you said Harn had a royal blue jacket...That must have made for an odd contrast.”

Riza smirked. "Yes, that's what several people seemed to think. It looked as if the General and his wife had not consulted with one another before coming to the gala.”

A sly smile spread across Roy’s face. "Ha! And you just know the rumors about their marriage are already flying high. It's sort of ironic, considering how Harn is constantly babbling to the Parliament about the “traditional family” and the “sanctity of marriage” and whatnot." His hand came to lightly circle Riza's wrist, his thumb tapping the back of her hand. "I’m sure you now understand how crucial fashion is in Central. It's not just a matter of taste: it's inherently political.”

"Sure," she answered, unconvinced. "Anyway. The Harns didn't capture the guests' attention that long, since the buffet was brought shortly after.”

Roy hummed appreciated. "And that was a good one. I've rarely tasted crab this delicious.”

"Yes, and they must have put as much effort into the presentation as in the cooking, because the set-up was magnificent. Everything was served on glittering silver plates, which reflected the glow of the chandeliers. On each table, the dishes were arranged in a sort of pyramid, culminating with the piece of meat or seafood. It looked extremely fragile, like...like some sort of house of cards, or crystal architecture, defying gravity - but they all stood the evening without crashing down. It was breathtaking.”

This had become the most constant part of their day. Almost every night, as they lay in bed before going to sleep, Riza would describe to Roy a long list of the things he hadn’t been able to see during the day. When they had first started this habit, as they were working on the the reconstruction of Ishval, Riza's descriptions had been much more pragmatic, like a mission report: which building seemed in need of repair? Which tribal leader looked unsatisfied during their morning meeting? She did her best to give him this information as the day went by, but there were always important details that she missed.

As the years had passed and the two had distanced themselves from the military, Riza's description had slowly become more lyrical. She began to tell him about beautiful sights that he was missing – a particularly colorful sunset, or the way the city lights looked at night. As time went by, she started to enjoy these conversations and more more, and they became increasingly long. It got to the point where, as Riza saw something pretty during the day, she found herself immediately thinking of the way she would describe it to Roy later at night.

"You should try to write a book," he had told her once. "You're so good at this - I can picture in my mind everything that you're telling me about like I was seeing it."

"It wouldn't be the same," she had answered, shaking her head. "I like hearing your reactions."

He had arched his eyebrows, smirking. "And yet you scold me every time I interrupt you.”

"Stop being overdramatic,” she had retorted. “Now let me continue." They had left it at that.

Sometimes Riza would rest her head on his chest as she went on with her stories. This was what Roy preferred. Ever since losing his eyesight, he had grown much fonder of physical contact, even casual, with her - after all, it was the surest way he could know that she was by his side. But Riza liked to remain slightly further, just next to him, so that she would be able to observe him during their late-night conversation. His face would take on such a special expression at those times, almost peaceful, or...serene.

Serene. That would have been the last word anyone would have chosen to describe Roy under normal circumstances. Despite his reputation as a slacker, he was a man that was constantly busy thinking about one thing or another, pondering, planning his next ploy – or his next date with a certain Lieutenant. His eyes in particular had always betrayed the constant working of his mind: they were restless, always darting around the room to study the people they were talking to, noticing details in their postures, noting suspicious movements out of the corner of his eye.

And, Riza knew it well, even the moments of rest didn’t bring Roy much serenity. More often than not, his sleep was plagued by violent nightmares that would wake him screaming in the middle of the night - or at least, that tensed and distorted his expression as he slept.

This had not changed since the Promised Day. But since Roy’s fight in the underground of Central, his blind eyes had lost their piercing look and had taken on a milky appearance. In the first few weeks, Riza had hated meeting that blank stare - it reminded her too much of what his eyes used to look like, as well as symbolizing her failure as a bodyguard.

But eventually, she had come to see a certain beauty in them, and in the calmness they brought to Roy's expression. He was still as expressive as ever, with his trademark crooked smile and taunting eyebrows. But in the evening, when they were alone together, his face truly relaxed. As Riza described the day's events to him, he would focus entirely on her voice, letting his mind recreate the image she was painting. His eyebrows would loosen and his forehead became smooth, free of its usual furrow; his mouth would fall half-open. At this particular moment, Roy took on a serene expression that Riza had never seen on him before, and she never got tired of looking at it.

"I need to tell you, unfortunately," Riza broke the silence that had settled, "that you were not the best-dressed man at the reception.”

Roy propped himself up on his elbows, frowning with surprise. So much for serenity.

"What? Who was?”

“You’re not going to be happy about this,” Riza said, trying to hide the small smile in her voice. "But Colonel Birks made quite an impression. He wore a rather daring suit, made of a black fabric from which red velvet patterns stood out.”

Roy huffed with indignation. "Velvet! Nonsense. He obviously can’t stop pushing the boundaries of extravagance – and of bad taste.”

"I don't know," Riza said evasively. “I thought it was pretty elegant…and I wasn't the only one.”

Roy ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it. "Outdressing the president should be considered insubordination," he muttered under his breath. "I'll call Ms. Zhao tomorrow. I need something more avant-garde for the next gala. Maybe with some silk mixed in with a cotton suit?”

He lay down again on the bed and raised his arm, inviting her to come closer. Riza moved to nestle up against him, putting her head on his shoulder, a hand on his chest. Roy wrapped an arm around her waist and buried his nose in her hair. Whenever he did that, his breaths would tickle Riza's neck, making her giggle; she would always pretend to be annoyed but it, but they both knew better.

After a moment, Roy tucked some of her hair away from her face. He brought his lips close to her ear. "Tell me again what you were wearing."

Riza felt a shiver go down her spine. That deep voice that Roy used when he whispered always got a reaction out of her, no matter what cliché or silly thing he would say.

A wry smile crossed her lips. "At this point, you know my wardrobe better than I do, Roy. ”

"I know," he answered, unabashed. "But I like hearing you describe it."

Riza chuckled. “Well,” she began, “I was wearing the flowy emerald green skirt that Rebecca got me for Christmas, a brown leather belt, and my white blouse. The one with the embroidery on the collar. ”

He hummed in appreciation. "With your golden high heels, I'm guessing."

"With my golden high heels," she nodded, "because even though my feet are killing by the end of the night when I wear them, they do really go well with that skirt." Her hand started to play with the ring that Roy wore as a necklace. "I didn't put much makeup on because of how humid the weather was. But I did wear my bright red lipstick."

She felt his cheeky smile even before he spoke. "I can recognize it by taste, now."

If they weren’t pressed so close together, she would have dug her elbow into his ribs. She rolled her eyes instead. "I also had my gold bracelet to go with the shoes, and the earrings you bought me to complete it all. What else...my hair was in a bun, and, of course, I had my necklace."

She expected Roy to follow up with a flirty comment or a joke; that was usually how this type of conversation went. Instead, after a moment, he let out a sight. When he spoke, his voice had a melancholic tone to it.

"That right there is the one sight that I really miss. ”

Riza felt her smile drop. A lump appeared in her throat. Roy rarely complained about his blindness; even in the months following the Promised Day, he had adapted to his new lifestyle with impressive resilience. At first, it seemed as if his disability had affected his Lieutenant, plagued by guilt, more than himself. Still, Riza knew that he must have carried a lot of silent regrets through the years. There was so much Roy had had to give up, so many compromises he had had to reluctantly accept on his plan to reform Amestris – and on his personal life.

Riza disentangled herself gently from his grasp and straighten up, half sitting, to observe him. One of his arms was folded under his head, and he still seemed to be looking at the ceiling - but of course, that was just an impression. She ran a hand through his hair, brushing them away from his face. He smiled slightly at her touch, but she didn't need to see the pupils of his eyes to know that his heart wasn't in it.

She didn't like seeing him like this. With thoses cloudy eyes, melancholy turned his serene expression into a confused one - like he was a child that got lost and couldn't look for his way home.

Riza laid down again and rested her head on the pillow, her face turned toward Roy. She started to gently stroke his arm. "At least, you can keep in your mind the image of what I – and you – looked like in the prime of our youth," she said after a moment in a playful tone, trying to comfort him. "You won't need to see us get all old and wrinkled.”

To her surprise, Roy's face saddened further.

"Don't say that. Beautiful women are like fine wine, they only get better with age - that's what Chris used to say. I always wanted to see how you would look as you grew old.”

Riza raised her eyebrow, surprised. "Really?" she answered in spite of herself.

He nodded. "Not everyone ages gracefully, of course. But I know that wrinkles would look flattering on you; you have such elegant features. And silvery hair never fails to give this distinguished look - at least on women," he added, running a hand through his hair, suddenly self-conscious. His eyebrows furrowed. "Do I already have grey hair?"

Riza felt her shoulders relax. "You're almost completely bald by now, Roy."

He winced. "Please don't joke with that. I don't know what I would do if this were to happen.

Riza simply smiled, and they fell back into a comfortable silence. She watched Roy’s chest rise and fall with his breathing, lulled by the calm rhythm.

"You know, I always wished I could see you grow old, also because it would have meant that we made it."

Riza felt her breath catch in her throat.

She reached up and placed her hand on his cheek, hoping her touch could tell him what her words couldn’t.

“We did make it, Roy.” Now of all time, she wished he could see her face.

"I know," he said. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a light kiss against her knuckles. "I know."

Riza propped herself up on her elbow. She close her fingers around his, and squeezed firmly.

"Listen. We'll just do like with everything else. When my hair turns grey, I'll describe it to you. And as for the wrinkles," she placed his hand on her face, "you can see that for yourself."

Roy made a small smile. For the first time, he turned to face her, placing the tip of his fingers on both sides of her face. That was something he never tired of doing. Before he had lost his sight, he had always been able to read her like a book, understanding the meaning behind even the most subtle of her facial expressions. Now, he could do it in a much more literal sense, by tracing the surface of her body, reading the lines on her skin as if they were words written in braille.

"And when my face is so wrinkled it's unrecognizable,” she continued, "you will know the story behind each one of them.” She injected a smile into her voice. “The ones I already have on my forehead, for example, come from the stress of having spent so many years asking you to do your paperwork.”

His fingers brushed her forehead, and he smiled, abashed. "And you're all the more beautiful for it, my dear." He reached toward her and, guided by his hands, placed a light kiss on her head. “I can’t wait to see the rest.” ”

#royaiweek21 #royai #blind roy #fma #fanfic

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zahara-fire · 3 years

Text

Long Post Discussing Dream TWT: Featuring Fan, Hate, and Trending Talks Mostly (Interaction Absolutely Encouraged)

(A lot of this can actually be applied to all fanbases but I chose the one relevant to my current interests and issues that were on my radar.)

I made a post previously that my love for mcyts (Specifically members of the Dream SMP) was dying because of nonstop Dream hate on Twitter. I felt like I couldn't safely look through a trending tag (which will be a separate discussion in this) without having to also see endless insults, attacks, and belittlement amongst people just trying to have fun with CCs. To make this understandable and easy for me to keep on theme I'm gonna break it down into the relevant topics also this is absolutely open for discussion as long as everyone is being respectful. Do not insult people and if they seem like a troll just leave them be.

Fans vs Stans:

So this, I think, is a center point for the Dream hate. It feels that anyone expressing interest in Dream and related CCs content is immediately targeted and made fun of because obviously you can't enjoy something without being an awful person to people who don't enjoy said thing. That last statement was sarcastic (just so its clear). People especially on Twitter will be relentless in preying on just basic fans for simply posting about a funny moment. They claim its because its annoying and nonstop and all of their fans are obviously brainwashed.

No. Just. No.

Enjoying something means you consume it. If you enjoy sports you watch the team play. No one says yeah this is my favorite team I watched one game once. That would be ridiculous. So it makes no sense to attack people for watching a person's content and knowing their content when they're a fan of said content.

That being said, yes people can get carried away and be rude to people for no reason. This however includes people hating on fans simply for being fans. You can't say you're disrespectful to all fans because one time a few were rude to you. Every fan base has rude people and at this point in the internet people WILL talk more about bad than good so please don't assume the worst because you heard a story or saw one wildly talked about incident where a small percentage of fans were involved and where other fans were actively telling the others to chill out.

Trending and Interaction:

This is the topic I sort of touched on in my last post. So to summarize, Dream and his friends trend A LOT. This isn't surprising as one, they're popular at the moment and two, they're streamers so when something happens a ton of people all know at once and will post at once. That's how trending works after all.

Here's where it gets annoying though, and no, not due to fans. Fans are allowed to post about content they enjoy and are allowed to joke and interact online with people who enjoy the same content. So you can't gatekeep the trending tab. It's literally impossible and just because its not enjoyable for you and not something you're interested in doesn't mean it shouldn't be trending.

This is where interaction comes in. Twitter and pretty much every social media ever tracks what you consume. This is why Twitter actually has multiple trending pages. The "For you" trending is what we'll mostly be discussing now though. The "For you" trending is the first page it opens up and will consist of things Twitter knows you interact with. So in other words, constantly viewing Dream and related content just to get angry and insult people? Guess what! You just ensured it will constantly be on your radar. Easy solution? Don't interact with content you don't enjoy. Yes you won't always be able to avoid it but this is true for everything. Just do your best and watch out for your own interests as best as possible (this statement applies to the actual trending page as well). Unless you're intentionally interacting just so you can continue bullying people its not that hard to avoid. And if you are doing that, I feel really sorry that you don't have something you actually enjoy to consume instead of just spreading hate (this is genuine not an attack).

CC Relationships:

A lot of Dream and related creator haters often state that the creators and fans have an unhealthy relationship. This is not a fair statement to the standard fan. People who actually show obsessive traits and attack people over their creators do have an unhealthy connection, but what is not unhealthy is-

Enjoying a creators content

Following their social media

Making posts and content about creators

These actions are literally the basis of being a fan of content. So no, posting about something a creator said or did is not creepy and obsessive just because its not funny or entertaining to you. Its like when your friend does something stupid and you will randomly bring it up whenever you can because it was a funny moment. Thats essentially what this is. No, we are not friends of the creators most of the time, but we do have a relationship to the creators. Most of the time with CCs their fan base consists of people with similar interests, senses of humor, and personalities. So we can relate to the things that happen with them and their friends and since they're broadcasting it we will find it funny when they find it funny. And that's okay and shouldn't be a hot take.

Also creators saying they love their fans is not a bad thing. Platonic love of people who share in your accomplishments, support you, and encourage your growth is not a bad thing. Thats what this type of relationship is and should be with CCs. They are where they are because people connected with them and they connected with those people. Let them express that admiration and gratitude.

Joking vs Attacking:

Final rant because this is already long and probably won't get attention anyways. A lot of Dream fans have tough skin after being a part of this sudden shift to mainstream and constant hate. This means that sometimes fans will make their own jokes about hating the fans even though they are one. However, this can sometimes be extremely misleading and damaging to see. No I'm not saying you can't make these jokes after all some are actually really funny! But try to make it clear that you aren't actually a part of the people who are actively trying to tear down a fanbase. Sometimes intentions don't come across well and insults can actually be, well, insulting when not phrased correctly. This is by no means an attempt at gatekeeping but rather just a general public announcement as a fan who often times saw something that actually added to the sadness of feeling constantly attacked and belittled only to see that the poster was also a fan.

That was long and probably a little all over the place so if you made it this far just know that I appreciate you and hope you're doing well in these times. 💕 I just really needed a place to get out these thoughts and figured hey Tumblr is significantly less mean than Twitter in my experience so let's attempt this.

Final statement! If you see this in a tag you think it shouldn't be in or know a tag you think I should add please let me know! I'm still new to posting my own content and don't want to cause problems where there need not be any.

#dream smp #dreamwastaken #georgenotfound #sapnap #quackity #tommyinnit #wilbur soot #philza #technoblade #badboyhalo #tubbo mcyt #fundy minecraft #ranboo #dream team #antfrost

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mandoalorian · 3 years

Text

Sugar and Spice [Maxwell Lord x Reader] - Prologue

Summary: When you are evicted from your apartment by your toxic ex boyfriend and have no place to go, who do you turn to? Alone in the city as the countdown to Christmas begins, you find yourself applying for a job as the assistant of the world’s biggest entrepreneur; Maxwell Lord. Little do you know, he has other intentions for you. No doubt about it, this Christmas will truly be like no other.

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: Eventual smut, mentions of a previous verbally abusive relationship, typical 80s misogyny (but very little of it), mentions of food and drink, alcohol consumption.

But in this chapter - themes of a sexual nature.

Author’s note: Everything in bold italics is a flashback. Yay! This is the first part of my sugar daddy/sugar baby Maxwell Lord x f!reader Christmas fic. If you want to be tagged in future parts please let me know! Enjoy x

MASTERLIST | SUBMIT REQUESTS

PREVIOUS - PROLOGUE - NEXT

It was an exciting day for the staff at Black Gold Cooperative, and exciting days at Black Gold Cooperative were often hard to come by. Every year Maxwell Lord would begrudgingly allow his staff to take a few hours out of their work schedule to help decorate his main headquarters in time for Christmas. Christmas music boomed throughout each floor as everyone from secretaries, associates, chefs and cleaners would help each other engage in festive decorating. It was so much fun, everyone was beaming and laughing. The staff made sure to enjoy every second of it because they knew by tomorrow it would all be over.

Brittany, one of Maxwell Lord’s three assistants, had designated her input to the main lobby as she ushered in loggers who had cut down the forest’s biggest Christmas tree. They were pushing it into the lobby but struggling to get it through the double doored main entrance. Fern and pine cones nudged off the tree and rolled along the red carpet in the entryway.

“What are you just standing there for? Go help them!” she commanded the doorman, Andreas, with a roll of her eyes. The tall and strong built doorman walked over to the loggers and asked them if they needed any help.

Brittany turned around when she saw the dazzling yellow gold fairy lights strung delicately along the grand staircase. Her heart stopped when she saw the man of her dreams walk down them. Her very own prince Charming. Maxwell Lord was in a daze as he looked around the lobby of his company’s headquarters. Christmas lights sparkle and shine all around him, tinsel and banners strung up over paintings and portraits. Maxwell would never involve himself with the Christmas decorating but he did have a duty to check that it wasn’t overly tacky each year.

His dark blonde hair glistened golden under the fairylights that surrounded him, and he looked so incredibly smart in his light blue suit jacket, lilac shirt and royal purple tie with matching pocket square. Of course he looked just as smart every day but it was always special when he chose to wear colour instead of just chiaroscuro. Brittany caught on to Maxwell’s confused expression when his eyes locked onto the struggling loggers and his doorman pushing a Christmas tree through the double door.

“What’s going on over there?” Maxwell asked as his other assistant, Stephanie, who handed him his go-to black coffee. Brittany approached him with a wide smile.

“They’re struggling because we decided to get a bigger Christmas tree this year. They’ve spent the past half an hour trying to push it through the door.” Brittany explained, scrunching her nose up in dismay.

“And who’s idea was it to get a bigger Christmas tree?” Maxwell asked, folding his arms against his chest. The loggers had finally pushed it through and were now trying to position it just by the left of the grand staircase. Maxwell huffed out an annoyed sigh as he saw the mess of fern that had trailed in behind the tree.

“Andreas’ idea.” Brittany pointed at the exhausted doorman who was now covered in dirt from trying to move the Christmas tree. That was a lie. It had been Brittany’s idea to get a bigger tree. Stephanie narrowed her eyes and shook her head at her colleague.

Maxwell Lord sauntered away from his assistant’s and to the shop that was located just by the main reception help desk. He’d go there everyday and purchase the same bar of chocolate and chat up the lady who he had working behind the counter.

Everyone continued with their decorating, humming the lyrics to Do They Know It’s Christmas by BandAid which had just been released that week. Seeing everyone so jolly lit a fire in Maxwell’s heart. It reminded him of his own childhood.

The only reason he kept up with the tradition of decorating Black Gold Cooperative for Christmas was because his father used to allow it too. And it was one of the only times of the year he got to spend with him. Maxwell remembered the way his father would lift him onto his shoulders and encourage Maxwell to put the star on the top of the tree. Once the young boy managed to do so, the whole of his father’s office would cheer and applaud for him. The pride was something that elated a young Maxwell and he loved the validation that he got from, not only his father’s inferiors, but most importantly, his own father.

Maxwell would accompany his father around the office and watch as he gave gifts to his employees. He was more than generous, handing things out such as expensive bottles of champagne and tickets to Santa’s grotto to those he knew had families.

“I want to go see Santa,” a young Maxwell wailed one year.

“And what could you possibly want to see Santa for?” Maxwell’s father laughed, pinching his son’s chubby cheeks. “You already have every single toy you could possibly want.”

Maxwell frowned, his chocolate brown eyes sparkling. “I want to meet Rudolph the red nosed reindeer.” the child admitted, folding his arms and puffing out his cheeks.

“I see.” Maxwell’s father chuckled before picking his son up and planting a kiss on his forehead. “You know daddy’s busy, but what if you ask mommy to take you?”

“Mommy never takes me anywhere.” Maxwell frowned sadly and his father nodded understandably, his arms tightening around his son as he hugged him. He knew his wife was an absent mother but there was so little he could do about it.

“Maybe next year, huh son? Would you like that? Daddy can try and get some time off work.” Maxwell nodded sadly as his father put him to the ground. “Now go to your playroom. I want you to finish writing your Christmas list so we can send it to Santa Claus.” His father encouraged. “Remember I want you to do your best cursive handwriting. Can you do that for me?”

Maxwell nodded happily before padding away to his playroom. Despite his father’s empty promises, he never got the chance to meet Santa Claus or speak to Rudolph the red nosed reindeer. He never got to experience the same things as other children his age did.

"Mr Lord, I was thinking we position the Christmas tree here. Decorate it with black and gold baubles, of course— oh, and tinsel too. What do you think?" Brittany asked, interrupting her boss’ thoughts. She twirled her finger in the air, gesturing for the logger’s to rotate the tall pine tree into a slightly new position. "That's much better. Now, Amanda wanted an angel on the top, bit I was thinking a gold glittered star would be much more fitting-"

The star at the top of the tree. Just like his childhood. Maxwell shook away the painful memories. He held his hand out, in a motion that would connote ‘stop’. Brittany listened. "I don't care." Maxwell said, looking up at the tree and shaking his head. Brittany’s grip tightened around her clipboard as she followed her boss to the grand staircase.

"Right, of course. My bad sir. But I was thinking how nice it may be, for you to have a Christmas tree in your own office?"

"And what purpose will that serve?" Maxwell asked with half a sigh before taking a sip of his espresso. His face soured at the bitter taste and he threw the practically full cup into the trash. He had forgotten how fast his hot drinks would turn cold during the incoming winter period. "What the fuck does it take to get a decent coffee around here?" He muttered to himself, but loud enough for Stephanie to hear. Stephanie scowled. No matter what she just couldn’t make a nice coffee.

"It would look nice," Brittany beamed. "Festive."

"No." Maxwell replied, checking the time on his gold wristwatch. Slightly alarmed, he turned away from the lit up staircase and he began to approach the elevator, Brittany continuing to follow quickly behind him.

"Sir, don't you like Christmas?" Brittany asked her boss curiously.

"No." Maxwell repeated, his voice just as monotone as before. He really didn’t want to talk about this.

"But why not?"

"Brittany do I pay you to ask me questions?" Maxwell snapped, spinning around on his heel and grabbing his assistant by her chin. She looked up at her boss, fluttering her dark eyelashes which framed her emerald coloured eyes.

"No sir." She replied innocently, biting her lower lip. Maxwell smirked, his grip tightening on her.

"What do I pay you for?" he growled quietly, his face just inches away from hers.

"You pay me to look pretty and be there whenever you may need any assistance." Brittany remembered his exact words from the day he hired her.

"Good girl," Maxwell praised. "I don't appreciate all these questions from you. You want to put your mouth to good use? I suggest you shut up and head to my office. Undress yourself. I'll be five minutes."

Brittany nodded with an eager smile spread across her face and bolted up the grand staircase. Once Maxwell had shared a few polite sentiments and signed a few autographs from the loggers who had come in with the Christmas tree, he took the elevator to the 22nd floor of his office.

Amanda, who was manning the desk outside of Maxwell’s personal office, rolled her eyes as she noticed Maxwell following Brittany in there just minutes after. Knowing what they’d both be up to, she continued filing her nails - trying to get the perfect shape when her colleague, Stephanie, practically fell out of the elevator when the door slid open to the 22nd floor of Black Gold Cooperative’s headquarters.

In shock, Amanda dropped her nail file on the floor and her head bolted upright, gaze following a heaving and panting Stephanie. Stephanie ran to the desk, grabbing the corners so hard her knuckles turned white, panic spread across her face.

"Stephanie, what's wrong?" Amanda asked, tilting her head slightly.

"She's here." Stephanie was gasping for breath, fear prevailing in her ice blue eyes. Stephanie didn’t have to say who exactly had entered the premises because her tone said it all.

"That's impossible." Amanda scoffed, rolling her eyes and picking her nail file up.

"I saw her," Stephanie continued. "Downstairs. In the lobby. I was trying to make Mr Lord a new and improved espresso and she just threw her fur jacket on me - like I was some kind of coat rack. She'll be up here any second now. Where is Brittany?"

That’s when the fear dawned on Amanda.

Now also panicked, Amanda looked at the large double doors at the end of the room which led into Maxwell Lord's personal and private office. Stephanie's gaze followed and her ruby red lips parted into a perfect ’o’ shape. "She's not… is she?" Stephanie shook her head in disbelief. Amanda nodded her head, agreeing to Stephanie’s insinuation. "What the hell do we do?!"

"Oh no oh no," Amanda began pacing around in circles behind the desk. "They don't train you for this!" She exclaimed, holding her head in her hands. "I think we better go tell them that she's here before she walks in on them."

"Are you kidding me?" Stephanie gasped, placing a hand on her hip. "Fine. You go. I do not want to be the one who interrupts Maxwell Lord IV when he's in the middle of you-know-what."

"He'll be grateful!" Amanda pointed out, urging Stephanie enter Maxwell's office. "Look, what sort of guy wants his mother to walk in on him going down on a random girl?"

Stephanie rolled her eyes. "Mr Lord doesn't go down on any of us."

"He goes down on me." Amanda smiled proudly.

"You're lying." Stephanie tutted.

"Am not!" Amanda argued.

Neither of the girls noticed Mrs Maxine Lord walking straight past them and into her son’s office. She froze at the door and a wicked smirk planted across her lips when she saw a disheveled Brittany wipe her face with a silk handkerchief, provided courtesy from her boss. Maxwell’s brown eyes widened as he saw his mother standing there with her hand on hip. Brittany was practically shaking in fear as she discarded the handkerchief and tightened the ponytail in her hair.

“Mrs Lord!” Brittany exclaimed with a teary eyed but polite smile. “How unexpected it is to see you. Can I get you anything?”

“You can leave.” Maxine said bitterly. Brittany nodded and ran out the office. Maxwell zipped his pants up and slouched into his chair as his mother took a seat opposite him. “Do you want a lawsuit?” she asked her son with a frown.

“What are you talking about?” Maxwell sighed, taking a comb and fixing his dark blonde hair.

“You keep fucking your assistants. One of them will rat you out and try suing. I just know it.” Maxine shook her head, placing her Chanel purse on her lap. “And Maxwell, I don’t want the future heir of Black Gold Cooperative to be the child of some no good under qualified assistant. Heaven forbid.”

“Mother, why did you come here unannounced?” Maxwell sighed, wanting to change the subject immediately. Maxine composed herself before forcing a grin.

“I spoke to president Reagan,” she beamed. “He said we can host this year’s Christmas gala at the White House.”

“Okay?” Maxwell rolled his eyes and took out a stack of papers from underneath his desk and began flicking through the pages. He figured if he looked busy, then maybe his mother would leave him alone.

“Maureen will be there.” she cooed, snatching away the papers that were in her son’s hand.

“And?” Maxwell sighed again, frustration building up inside of him as he looked at his fingers, thinking her abrupt action had given him a paper cut.

“Oh come on Maxwell!” his mother exclaimed, annoyance prevalent in her voice. “Think about it. Your future child’s grandfather could be president Ronald Reagan! And Maureen is quite the natural beauty. I mean - before she had all that work done. It would truly be great for the business. Can you imagine the publicity?”

“Do you hear yourself?” Maxwell shouted and stood to his feet. “I am not interested in Maureen, nor will I be attending this ridiculous Christmas gala. Jesus Christ - I don’t even support Reagan.”

“Yes you will attend the gala Maxwell, because I say so.” Maxine raised her voice just as loudly as her son, asserting her authority. “I think you’re forgetting your roots. Your father founded the annual Black Gold Cooperative Christmas gala. Now imagine how he’d feel if he knew you had no interest in showing up.” Maxwell’s heart stung and he dropped his head in shame. She was right. He would be disappointed. “I will page you the details,” Maxine promised. “In the meanwhile - I want you to sort this dirty business you have going on with your assistants. You want a whore? You could at least pay them for being your whore.” she spat in disgrace.

Maxwell knew his mother didn’t mean her words and the last thing she would want is her son frolicking around with someone who he paid for sex and sex only. She wanted him to find a suitor who was just as wealthy and well respected as him.

However it did strike him with an idea. What if he were to hire someone who could be there for him whenever he needed that release? His assistant’s were on thin ice and he understood that there was always the potential of an impending lawsuit. That would be more than damaging to his reputation.

He needed someone new. Someone who would be more than happy with satisfying his sexual desires. Someone he could easily come to a mutual agreement with him. He’d have his lawyer draft a contract. But it wouldn’t be easy. If it got out to the public - that Maxwell Lord was looking for a partner just to simply gratify his sexual needs - the tabloids would eat him up. Luckily, Maxwell Lord was cunning, scheming, and he had the perfect idea.

❆❆❆

Taglist: @100layersofdaddyissues @mrschiltoncat @honeymandos @thisisthe-way

#maxwell lord #maxwell lord x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #smut #max lord #max lord x reader #wonder woman 1984

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mascwhump · 3 years

Text

Chapter 11 - Scaredy Cat

TW: mild blood, beating, strangling, bound and gagged, noncon undressing (not sexual)

Tag list: @whatwasmyprevioususername @milk-carton-whump @whumpasaurus101 @whatwhumpcomments @mnmlover2002 @ashintheairlikesnow

Charlie furrowed his brow.

"Why?" He asked.

"Because I'm not going to leave you here just so you can attempt to escape again," Mallory said.

"What about Crow?"

"He'll remain here. Don't worry, he'll be well taken care of."

"Oh, fuck off," Charlie said, "I'm not going."

"It's really funny that you think I'm giving you a choice."

Mallory stood and walked into the kitchenette. He licked his fingers and pinched the wick of the candle to put it out. He opened a cabinet and retrieved a small black case before walking back to Charlie. He set it down on the table and flipped it open.

"Want this?" He said, pulling out a syringe of Q-179, "it's a long drive.”

Charlie nodded, looking at the syringe closely to make sure it was actually Q.

"Why are you giving it to me?" He asked.

"We're still testing it. I'm pretty sure you have a concussion, so I might as well see if it fixes that. God, would you stop asking so many questions and just be appreciative for once?"

Mallory moved Charlie's head to the side and stuck the needle in his neck. He cringed. He hated whenever he put it in his neck rather than his arm. He melted into the chair as the familiar warmth took away his pain. Mallory sat back down and watched Charlie's expression.

"Does it still feel as good as the first time?" He asked.

"Almost," Charlie breathed.

Mallory put the empty syringe back into the case and shut it. He waited until Charlie came down before he spoke again.

"We're leaving in twenty minutes," he said, checking his watch.

"What am I even going to do there?" Charlie queried.

"The same as you do here. You're going to stay in the basement and behave."

"Oh, great," Charlie mumbled.

"You didn't think I'd just let you roam about my home, did you? No. I'm simply taking you just to keep an eye on you, like I said."

He walked into the kitchen and turned on the sink. Charlie watched as he scrubbed a glass and dried it before putting it away. His eyes drifted toward the counter, where a half-drunk bottle of whiskey was placed.

"Do you remember the other night?" He asked.

He bit his tongue. He wasn't sure he really wanted to know the answer.

"Not really, no. Why do you ask?"

Charlie breathed a small sigh of relief.

"No reason. You were drunk and stopped by to say hi," he lied.

"Really? I don't remember that," Mallory said, "I just remember drinking and then waking up still dressed in my bed. My head hurt like hell."

Mallory walked into his bedroom out of sight for a minute. When he emerged, he was rolling luggage behind him. He put it near the door, then sat back down across from Charlie. He crossed his leg over the other, putting his arm on the table and resting his chin in his hand.

"I hope I'm not forgetting anything," he mumbled.

You did forget, Charlie thought.

"Um," Charlie cleared his throat, "Could I... bring my blanket?"

"No," Mallory laughed.

"Please?"

"I said no. Ask again and I'll burn it. In fact, if you ask another question in general, I'll burn it."

He checked his watch. "Let's get going."

He stood and grabbed his luggage. Charlie was slow to follow. Mallory snapped his fingers at him, then pointed to his watch. They walked out of the apartment and down, out of the building.

Charlie relished in the cool breeze. He hadn't been able to appreciate it when he was outside before. The sun on his skin was enough to make him crack a smile. They walked a short distance to a lot, where a few soldiers waited by a black Mercedes Benz.

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” Mallory spoke, “you’re not riding with me.”

The soldiers took hold of Charlie and forced him to the ground. He struggled as they wrapped a red cloth around his mouth, and another around his eyes. His ankles were tied together with a length of rope. Strong hands lifted him up and threw him down again with ease, and the trunk was slammed shut. Charlie felt around, but struggled to find anything to assist him as his hands were still cuffed. He heard two doors shut and the engine start.

“It’s a long drive.”

The cloth dug into the corners of his mouth. He did his best to contain the amount of drool that fell out, but with the position he was in, gravity wasn’t on his side. There wasn’t enough room to turn over. He was stuck like this until they arrived at... wherever it was Mallory lived.

Luckily, the drive wasn’t as long as he thought it would be. After two hours or so, he felt the car pull into a driveway. Soon after, the trunk was opened. Mallory slipped a knife between his ankles and cut the rope.

“Out,” he said.

He grabbed Charlie’s arms to help guide him out. Until then, Charlie never appreciated how nice it was to have leg room. He stretched the best he could, and Mallory held his arm to guide him into the house. He shoved the key in the lock and they stepped inside. Mallory opened a door near the entryway. He untied the blindfold and pointed to the stairs.

"Go downstairs," he said, "I'll be down in a second. Don't. Touch. Anything."

Charlie started down the steps and Mallory shut the door behind him. He hadn't expected the basement to be so... finished. The floors were a plush carpet, and a black leather sectional sat facing a large TV. There was a bar at one end of the room stocked with every type of alcohol. Two doors were open, and Charlie peaked in. One was a bathroom with a huge shower, and the other was a simple bedroom.

He stood awkwardly next to the couch as he waited for Mallory to meet him. Finally, after a few minutes, he came downstairs and removed the gag from his mouth. Charlie’s jaw clicked as he shut it.

"This is where you're staying. Don't touch the TV, don't touch the alcohol, and don't sit on the sofa," he said.

"What am I, a dog?"

"If I had a dog, it'd be allowed on the furniture. You can sleep on the floor. You're lucky I have carpet down here."

Charlie saw something fly down the stairs behind Mallory. He looked down and saw a cat.

"Sasha, I told you to stay upstairs, sweetheart," Mallory said, picking her up.

She was black with white markings, her eyes a bright yellow.

"You have... a cat?" Charlie asked in disbelief.

"Yes," Mallory said, "Don't touch her, either. She shouldn't come down here, because I'm keeping that door locked tight. But if she does, leave her alone."

Sasha purred as she rubbed her face against Mallory's chest. Mallory kissed her head and petted her softly.

"Okay, I won't touch anything. Especially the cat," Charlie said.

"Good. I'll bring you something to eat soon," Mallory said, starting back up the stairs with Sasha in his arms.

Charlie sat on the floor. He ran his fingers over the carpet. It was already a lot softer than his mat; maybe this wouldn't be so bad. He thought about Crow, hoping he was alright. With Mallory here, he would be safe from him, and the soldiers seemed to have some kind of "don't harm them unless I tell you to" order.

Mallory came back downstairs with food after an hour or so. He had a few Chinese takeout containers.

"Eat at the bar. If you spill anything on my carpet, I'll stab you again. Now, turn around and I’ll take those off,” he said.

Charlie let him remove the handcuffs and took a seat on one of the barstools. Mallory set the containers down in front of him. There was a box of white rice, and a box of sweet and sour chicken. Charlie ate carefully, trying his best not to spill anything. Mallory settled on the couch and scrolled on his phone.

Sasha came trotting down the stairs again.

"God dammit," Mallory sighed, "I'm really not used to shutting that door."

"Then keep it open," Charlie said.

"So you can wander around my house while I'm asleep? No."

Charlie finished eating and spun around on the stool. Sasha was standing on the back of the couch, looking at him.

"Hi, pretty kitty," he whispered.

Mallory shot him a glare. Sasha jumped off the couch and over to Charlie, rubbing up against his legs.

"What the hell is on your shirt?" Mallory asked.

Charlie looked down. "Oh," he said, "I think it's blueberry juice."

"Take it off," he said.

"You didn't notice it before?"

"No. Or maybe I did, but didn't care. Now that you're in my house, it's bothering me. Take your shirt off."

Charlie slipped his shirt over his head and Mallory walked over to grab it from him. Then he noticed the same stains on his sweatpants, too.

"What the fuck did you do to get this messy?"

"That asshole that threw the water at me threw the tray at me, too. Blame him."

"Well, you need to take those off as well."

"Yeah, not gonna happen."

Mallory took hold of his shoulders and threw him off the barstool and onto the floor. He gripped the bottom of the pant legs and tore them from his legs. Charlie got to his feet and Mallory forced him up against the wall.

"Have you forgotten what happens when you don't behave, or need I remind you?" He growled.

Charlie spit in his face.

Mallory stepped back slowly, wiping his face with his sleeve.

"Oh, you really should not have done that."

Charlie ran. He sprinted up the stairs, almost tripping as he missed a step, and flew out of the door. He turned left, then up the stairs to the second floor. Mallory was right behind him. He came to a door and opened it, slamming it behind him. He locked it before Mallory could get in.

"Open the door right now!” Mallory ordered from the other side.

Charlie backed away from it until his legs hit something. He felt backwards, landing on a bed. He looked around and realized he must have been in Mallory’s room. Footsteps lead away from the door and Charlie’s heart raced. Seconds later, Mallory was back, and he unlocked the door. He threw it open and ran at Charlie, jumping on top of him and wrapping his hands around his throat.

“How dare you?!” He yelled.

Charlie clawed at his hands, adding new scratches to the old, and kicked his legs, doing everything he could to make him let go. Mallory tightened his grip, and blackness surrounded the edges of Charlie’s vision. He stopped scratching, and moved his hands up to his face. Mallory let go with one hand to swat them away, then brought it back down with a smack to his cheek.

Finally, Mallory released his grip. Charlie gasped for air. Mallory threw his fist at his face, and it connected to his jaw. Charlie cried out, and was once again met with another hit. He reached up and grabbed Mallory’s arms, using all his strength to keep him from hitting him again.

“I’m sorry,” he cried, “I’m sorry, please-“

Mallory got an arm free and landed another punch. Blood began to trickle from Charlie’s nose, and Mallory threw him onto the floor before it could drip onto the white sheets. Charlie sprung up before Mallory could pin him again, and brought his hands up to defend himself. Mallory suddenly stopped. He was breathing heavily as he stared at Charlie with eyes like daggers.

Charlie made a break for it. He ran out of the room and back down the two sets of stairs, leaping off the last few steps into the basement. He looked for a place to hide as the footsteps slowly became closer. Mallory appeared at the bottom of the stairs before he could, but he didn’t look at Charlie. Instead, he walked to the bar.

Charlie wiped the blood from his nose and watched him. Mallory stepped behind the bar and grabbed a glass along with a decanter full of whiskey.

“Go take a shower,” he said, without looking up, “do it now before I change my mind.”

Charlie quickly moved into the bathroom. He shut and locked the door behind him before turning on the shower. He slipped out of his boxers and stepped in, the hot water washing away the blood. He was still breathing hard. His throat was tight, and he knew he’d have finger shaped bruises soon enough. He stayed in the shower for a long while, dreading the moment he’d have to go back out and face Mallory.

He finally shut off the water after a few minutes. He took his time drying off and getting redressed, finally taking a deep breath before he stepped out of the bathroom. Mallory was sitting with his back facing him. He had a glass of whiskey in one hand, and a cigar in the other.

Charlie stood awkwardly. Sasha was lying on the floor behind the couch, watching him.

“I just wanted tonight to be normal,” Mallory said, taking a drag from his cigar, “I just wanted you to behave so I could take a bath and sleep in my own bed without having to think about you. I’m tired. So tired. I shouldn’t have given you that shot earlier. Maybe you would be tired, too. I don’t know. God, you’re going to make me an alcoholic.”

“No one’s forcing you to think about me, and I’m not forcing you to drink,” Charlie replied.

Charlie dropped down on the carpet and sat with his back against the wall. He folded his arms over his knees and watched Mallory pour another glass. Sasha stretched as she got up, then she walked over to Charlie, purring.

Charlie slowly reached his hand out, and she rubbed her face against it. He watched to make sure Mallory wasn’t looking, and he started to gently stroke the fur on top of her head.

“I lied to you. I remember that night. I remember everything,” Mallory said.

“You do?” Charlie asked.

“You didn’t hate me that night,” Mallory said, “you spoke to me like a human being. Even after all that I’ve done.”

“I don’t hate anyone,” Charlie spoke softly after a moment.

“How is that possible?”

“I was raised to see the good in everything and everyone.”

#oc #whump oc #whump story #whump #easton’s unnamed story #whumpee #whumper

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wantaichi · 4 years

Text

karasuno as guy best friends

all platonic over here, folks.

[reuploading due to tagging problems grr]

SUGAWARA KOUSHI made you swoon the first you met him and no one could blame you - ‘hii i don’t think we’ve met, i’m suga :)’ cue hand shake and soft hand squeeze and pretty eyes staring right into you melting your insides.. he’s just naturally sweet towards everyone and you learn this eventually. loves giving head pats and asking about your day and telling you to ‘take care text me when you get home!’ you‘re always telling him whoever he’d end up with would be the luckiest person on earth and you’d never forgive them if they hurt him. the type of guy best friend who spams your profile pic with comments - ‘wHO IS SHE’, ‘ohhh she glowin!’ - and acts all surprised as if you hadn’t just asked him to choose that photo for you. has a sixth sense for you that’s always so on-point he could tell when you’re faking a smile and would drag you out of the room discreetly saying ‘c’mon lets talk’

DAICHI SAWAMURA acts as the parent/legal guardian throughout your friendship, always reminding you to drink your water and to drop instant noodles from your diet. he has your birthday penciled into his planner and phone calendar, remembers your hyper-specific coffee order from starbucks, and knows all your pet peeves - from slow walkers to being told to ‘chill’ because it invalidates your feelings. the best friend you can trust to do your yearbook write up for you because he knows all your best qualities and remembers all your achievements by heart. doesn’t seem to be aware of his own popularity - his mental age surpasses that of people his age - and couldn’t be bothered with anything concerning romance so you’re always trying to pimp him out set him up with friends and friends of friends who are dying to date him

ASAHI AZUMANE’s always seen as the understated friend in the group just quietly soaking up everyone’s stories in the background but actually has a comedic streak only you and few others know about. it’s easy to miss because he’s too shy to say his jokes out loud so he mumbles them to himself, and they’re so insanely corny - delivered with a straight face - it had you tearing up from laughter the first time you caught him. you love that his brand of funny is free from any kind of attention seeking and feel lucky to be one of the few to witness this side of him. his sense of humor shines best when innocently poking fun at his close friends like doing accurate re-enactments of suga smizing at his reflection or daichi holding his screen 10 inches from his face, or when you’re expressively telling a story and he goes “do that face again” so you do it and he’s like “one more” and idiot you does it again before realizing bitch is trolling you ugh

NISHINOYA YUU is your wild card friend - you never know when he’d show up to things, but when he does, everyone knows. the friend you wished upon a shooting star the way Lilo did and ended up getting a gremlin smh. he’s the spark plug for spontaneous action in your life - would randomly text blast everyone on a weekend to hangout and watch that rooster fight in his neighborhood or go feral at the batting cage downtown, and you’re like wtf...game. deep conversations aren’t really his thing but you’re always so down for anything, to ride along with all the shit he enjoys and listen to his ramblings and it’s that rawness he loves about your friendship. the best friend that has a tendency to go missing in action all of a sudden and no one knows where he is but will randomly hit you up at 10pm to grab ramen with him or those ghetto ass meals ($0.80 rice burgers ftw) on the sidewalk that give you both diarrhea

TANAKA RYUUNOSUKE tried to shoot his shot with you the first you met; now cringes whenever reminded about it because you’re a sausage to him now, as sausage everyone else on the team. the best friend who’s down to hang out literally from morning ‘til dawn, have friends over for a week, go out for late night visits or spontaneous road trips - really anything that serves an excuse to be with the bros (including you). you’d joke about growing sick of each other’s company but deep down you know he’s the one person you could never tire of and run out of fun things to do with. the best friend you could simply be drinking grapefruit shochu with or eating cup noodles and it’d still be one of the most memorable moments with him. the most reliable especially when you’ve gone through a messy break up or when it’s red season - will come over with a whole bag of instant ramen, some takoyaki and some ibuprofen (regardless of the situation)

you and HINATA SHOUYO hit it off within the first hour of meeting each other. you’ve screeched talked about everything there’s to know about the other - volleyball, school life, mutual friends, music taste, siblings, irrational fears and childhood traumas - added each other on facebook, followed each other’s instagram, made plans to watch that game in another school; all within an hour. there’s just something about him that makes it easy for you to open up about anything. the friend that gets you all flustered at the start because he’s so touchy and always poking and hugging you every chance he gets (turns out he’s an accidental flirt). he’s your number one fan and cheerleader and has a way with words that always lifts your spirit, but also definitely the best friend who always gets you sent out of class because your thumb wrestling match or game of tic tac toe got over competitive

KAGEYAMA TOBIO isn’t sure who or what exactly counts as a best friend but he knows which people to trust and which ones trust him back and accept him as he is. yours is a friendship where seeing and talking to each other might happen every few weeks (or even months) but knowing you can count on the other for support and encouragement. there’s never any pressure to be more expressive and he feels comfortable to just be his normal self around you; you’ve probably bonded over mutual interest like volleyball or just sports in general, something that made a lasting impression and led to keeping in touch. you can’t be there in all his games but you make sure to stay updated and send him a ‘congrats!’ or ‘you did your best!’ after matches. you’re sometimes mistaken for his s/o (with how comfortable he is with you), and though neither of you give a shit and even ride along with it sometimes, deep down you’re both thinking: ‘HARD PASS’

YAMAGUCHI TADASHI - timid and innocent, that’s the first impression he gives off to a lot of people. he seems hard to get to know at first but all it takes is a little kindness and authenticity for this boy to warm up to you. deep down he’s hemorrhaging with happiness whenever someone introduces themselves and welcomes him as a friend - he’s never really sure if people like him and he doesn’t like imposing on others. even on a best friend level you’ll learn that there’s so much more layers to him - that he’s loudest when nerding out on things like underdog athletes and comics and art, that he has an eye for aesthetic and beauty and is easily attracted to pretty faces and stylish dressers (but is blind to red flags sighh). he keeps you updated with the trendiest stuff like that milk tea store that just opened or that new release on netflix — always up to date with everything ugh

to TSUKISHIMA KEI, people are either strangers or friends. you could be talking or working together on a daily basis but he’d still consider your friendship superficial; inversely, you could be hanging out only once/twice a week but your conversations would always be interesting or challenging enough for him to keep you around. you’re most likely the louder one or always the one initiating conversations and asking to hang out with him; he’ll call you annoying but secretly appreciates your genuine interest in reaching out to him. you’ll know he acknowledges you as a friend when gives you song recs based on your music taste or asks for your opinion on things - should he get new headphones or that limited edition t-rex figurine? he’ll engage you in debate while studying, in talks about social issues and maybe some existential stuff and you’ll learn that the unforeseeable future led by your generation keeps him up at night

a/n: because my guy best friends started messaging out of nowhere and i’m missing them more than usual.

#karasuno #haikyuu #tsukishima kei #hq!!#haikyuu!!#kageyama tobio #hq headcanons #haikyuu headcanons #sugawara koushi #daichi sawamura #azumane asahi #nishinoya yuu #tanaka ryuunosuke #hinata shouyou #yamaguchi tadashi

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blackberry-gingham · 3 years

Note

Do you write headcannons? If you do how about one for soft teddy!beatles x reader

Yay, first request, thank you! But hm, I've never thought about headcannons, but I can try! Since this request is kinda open, I'm going to go for like, what the general relationship vibes are

George

Does anyone remember the like slam poetry club from a goofy movie?

Like I'm talking that, dark smokey room, chilling in an alley, cool cat, avant garde poet vibe

That's George

Of all the boys, he's the loner of the group

He's just got that dark and mysterious vibe, which is honestly what drew you to pursue him in the first place

You're chill in your own right tho and great at respecting his space, both of which he loves you for

The other boys are actually kinda surprised at how easily he opened up to you

You two can often be seen on the edge of the social gathering, either kissing or just vibing, away from all the noise

But what does he do when he's off in his own world, and takes time to himself?

Write music and lyrics of course!

He brings his work to you a lot, and even plays samples of his sheet music for you

"how's this sound love?" "I'm thinking it goes something like this... There, how's that?"

You're his number one fan, but he appreciates that you give genuine feedback too

He loves to write you cute little notes and sweet romantic poems

Although, he never straight hands them to you, you always just... Find them in places clearly meant for you to discover them

Your purse, your bookbag, the teeth of your hairbrush, the sleeve of your favorite record

He doesn't know this, but you hold onto every single one

Dates with George are kind of low key tbh

Like if you want to go out, that's fine! But usually you two just vibe and write lyrics, poems, and music together

He even teaches you some guitar!

To the boys, you're basically George part two lol

Meaning, they're happy to hangout and all, but typically they just respect you and your space like they do for George

You're just a mystery to them, and they're ok with that

John

The actual definition of "asshole to the world, sweetheart to his girl"

He gives you LOTS of pet names

"my bird" "love" "doll face" " she's a dime"

At first, you're kiiiiind of just his arm candy

He's just nervous to show his soft side, you know?

After all, his role in the teds is halfway between the leader and the muscle

Add that into the fact that he's secretly quite the anxious person, and you manage to let it go

But!!! Once you've been together for a while, he's fiercely protective of you in public and sweetly affectionate when he thinks no one's looking

Like when you're alone?

I'm talking head in your lap while you play with his hair, comes to you randomly and asks for hugs/cuddles, picks you up and spins you around, holds you close to slow dance even if there's no music, kind of affection

You just.... Soothe him

Like, maybe he doesn't need to be big bad John Lennon to show the world that he's strong and tough and worthy of love and affection

Now, when you're in public

He'll hold your hand if you ask and kiss you and all that, especially if he sees someone else eyeing you up

But if someone thinks they can catch him lacking and snatch you up?

WHOO BOY

Bottom line always is that you're his and he's yours, and anyone who can't respect that, or God forbid, can't respect you...

Let's just say, OOF

When it comes to dates this man is CLUELESS !!!

You basically have to do 80% of the planning, but luckily he's happy to do whatever you want!

The boys see you as a little sister of sorts, and they're all ready to stand up for you at a moment's notice!

However, that's often not necissary with John around lol

Paul

Paul is a bit like John in a way

He's loud, cocky, and rambunctious, but what sets him apart is he's charismatic enough to sell water to a drowning man and in tune enough with his emotions that he can express himself without growing frustrated or aggressive

1000000% chance that he's the one who approached you

Unfortunately for him, you're of the mindset to not associate with teddy riff raff like him and his friends

Paul's totally bewildered bc he's not use to being turned down flat like that

But that just makes him all the more eager to prove you wrong!

He's like a stray cat that takes a liking to you

Except instead of mice and birds, he brings you sweet little things like a bouquet of dandelions or some penny candy

After a while, he starts to grow on you

What if.... You were wrong about teds like Paul?

You guys get to talking and hanging out, and you even spend time with him and the boys! *Gasp*

Which is usually a trip, bc Paul looooves to show you off!

Like he's seriously your number one hype man

"there's my gorgeous girl!" "Don't you look lovely!" "Is that a new dress? It looks right capital on you!"

At first you were embarrassed by all the attention, but you soon grew to love it, especially considering how genuine he is with all his comments

Soon enough, you feel like you're on top of the world with a guy like him boosting your confidence!

Paul's dates are the most traditionally romantic of the boys

He takes you to dinner, drive in movies, accompanies you shopping, all that good stuff

As Paul's girl you're like the Queen to his King lol

Even tho John formed their little group, Paul feels the most like the leader with his silver tongue and all so you can always count on him and the other boys to have your back out there!

Ringo

Honestly the most square of all the teddy Beatles lol

That's ok tho bc as a square yourself, he's very approachable!

He's a little shy when you first meet him

It's just.... He's not cool and mysterious like George, or tough and strong like John, or even all that charming and charismatic like Paul

Sooooo... Why him?

Honestly at first you're not sure you could answer that question

But thankfully, it doesn't take you long at all to tease out his real personality, and by that point you feel like you could come up with a hundred reasons!

Of all your favorite things about him, your top three would definitely be that he's silly, fun, and the kind of boyfriend who's also your best friend!

Like really, he's always willing to lend an ear or a comforting shoulder, whatever you need!

He's like a puppy in a way, of all the boys he's most likely to be the one to go out if his way to please you and make you happy

On that note, he loves to make you laugh!

It's just the most magical sound to him and he doesn't understand at all why you hate the sound of it

"can't be worse then mine", he gawffs

Ringo isn't use to going very far from his friends, but when he meets you, he loves going on little dates together!

He's got a bad case of two left feet, but your favorite thing to do is go dancing

Your place, his place, the town square, it's always a good time to let loose and have fun!

His spontaneity takes you by surprise, honestly

You're just not use to letting go and having pure, genuine fun whenever and wherever

But with Ringo to show you the ropes, you embrace it quickly!

When you're not out cutting a rug, another hot spot for you two is the ice cream parlor

Of course you always get things to share, like a milkshake or a sundae

He always lets you choose

Surprisingly the boys don't pay you too much mind

They're happy for Ringo, and you too of course! But they mostly leave you both to your own devices

They look out for Ringo of course, but mostly Ringo is perfectly fine looking out for himself lol so they assume it'd be no different for his girl!

Which is fine by you guys, after all you're both more then happy to just tag along on the teds shenanigans and see where the road takes you!

#the beatles #beatles headcannons #beatles x reader #john lennon x reader #john lennon #paul maccartney #paul mccartney x reader #ringo starr x reader #ringo starr #george harrison x reader #george harrison #teddy!beatles #aaaaaaa so many tags!!!!

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thereluctantinquisitor · 3 years

Text

WIP Whenever

Thank you for the tag @captainsaku! At the moment, I’m still limping through the opening chapters of Stonebreaker, trying to get a feel for the story and work on strengthening my atrophied writing muscles. Anyway, I figured I’d share what I have so far of Adiran’s introductory chapter. It’s basically just an awkward, descriptive mess, but at least it’s something. At this point, I’ll count that as a win!

I also put a short glossary at the end in case some terms were confusing. <3

Chapter 3 - A Scene

Be present. Do not cause a scene.

They were simple enough requests, Adiran supposed, as he braced himself and drained his third flute of wine. He knew it was poor form to cringe after swallowing, but the dry white was about as pleasant as a mouthful of sand and only went down half as well. If he was the paranoid type, he’d think the servers were offering him the worst vintages on purpose.

Then again, the celebration had stretched into its ninth day, now. Even the royal cellars had a limit.

Despite overstaying its welcome, the event remained at a predictably lofty height of splendour. In the ballroom - Vetrose’s famed Silver Font - delicate rivulets of water, no wider than the span of a hand, curled their way across the marble floor, draining into a shallow pool at the base of the royal thrones. Above their heads, weavelight strings were draped elegantly between pillars and across wide arches, their glowing pinpricks joining the blazing chandelier to bathe the room a honey-gold.

Beneath that radiant light, the Talveran nobility moved like swans, jewellery glittering, ankle-length gowns and embroidered jackets flashing enough to catch the attention of nesting crows. Hundreds packed the Font that night - an entirely different crowd to the evening prior, and likely the one prior to that. Attending Talveran court, with its litany of demands and expectations, was an exhausting and expensive affair. Every evening demanded a new outfit. A new glittering showpiece. A new plan for navigating the treacherous waters of social interaction, careful not to show too much interest in any one person. One night was difficult enough to survive. Very few could afford to be present for an entire turn’s worth of celebration.

Unfortunately, Adiran had no choice in the matter. It just had to be his brother returning from the northern border. As if no one else had ever come back from that waste of a campaign.

Another mouthful. Another weary swallow of something half as strong as it needed to be. Honestly, he’d almost rather be swallowing sand. At least that meant he’d be in the arena, getting his ass kicked practicing for something that mattered, instead of wasting his time decorating the wall. Divider’s Own, Lorvain was meant to have arrived by the third day! Adiran might have been able to slip away if he had been around to soak up the attentions of the lords and ladies. But no. The beloved Crown Prince had probably stopped to fawn over milkmaids and shepherds at every town between here and Morgate. Really, they should have accounted for that before throwing such a ridiculous event...

A prince should want to know his people, Adiran. I thought you understood that?

Threading paths expertly between the nobility were almost three dozen servers dressed in vibrant Volise green. Silver trays were held aloft on the pads of their gloved fingers as they moved in rehearsed patterns around the room, making sure every hand that sought a glass found a delicate stem. It was a different sort of dance; the kind that typically went unnoticed, the same way a clock’s hands are appreciated more than the mechanism behind the face. They knew the position of every crack in the stone; every rivulet.

None of them ever looked down.

Speaking of timing, the only reason Adiran paid the servers any heed was to make sure he got his right. On cue, he finished his wine with a grimace and thrust it towards a well-groomed young woman, her dark hair braided and pinned neatly around her head. Without so much as an errant blink, she bobbed carefully at the knees, accepted the glass, and replaced it with a new one from her tray.

“Careful not to drop that,” Adiran said, taking the drink and giving it an experimental sniff. Sweeter. Thank the Divider for that.

The server hesitated. They always did. Every night. “Your Highness?” she asked, and her lilt was perfection. Just the right amount of simpering, blended with polite curiosity. Someone had taken her training seriously.

“Am I slurring already? What I’m saying is that if the Crown Prince finally shows up and you’re in the middle of mopping a puddle, the King will have your hide for saddle leather. So...” He extended one bored finger towards the tray, a smirk curling the corner of his lips. “Tread lightly.”

The server’s mouth opened, and for a moment no sound followed. For just one blissful, fleeting second, Adiran thought he’d finally done it. He’d finally won.

Then, like underappreciated clockwork, her lips shaped themselves into a beatific smile, and she dipped into a curtsy. The tray never even wobbled. “Thank you for your concern, Your Highness. On my word, I will remain diligent. I would not dare bring shame on our King’s house.”

Damn it. The smile Adiran flashed back - half a sneer - could cut glass. But the server had already completed her parting bob and returned to her dance, weaving and gliding among the gaggle of silver-bloods with her tray of weak wine. Expression turning brittle, Adiran huffed and leaned back against one of the massive marble pillars - just one of fifteen lining the room. He’d claimed it on the first evening, like a hound staking its territory. Most people knew better than to bother him once he’d found his haunt, but the serving staff simply didn’t have that luxury. He supposed it was probably unkind, to force them to speak to him. But Divider, he was just so bored...

Scowling, he took a long swallow of his new drink, the chilled, sweet liquid a welcome enough sensation as it ran down the back of his throat.

So he was unkind. So what?

“Are you finished losing to the servers for tonight, or should I come back later?”

A familiar voice, and right on time. Adiran gave no indication of surprise, barely even turning to acknowledge the man. After all, this was just another ritual for them; a way to take a knife to long hours of affluent, barely drunk loitering. “Yeah, I’m done. An earthquake couldn’t shake them.” His gaze finally cut across, delivering what he hoped was a scathing look as Riin settled against the pillar beside him. “Took you long enough. Get distracted by all the pretty gowns and pouting lips?”

Folding his arms across his broad chest, Riin chuckled softly, utterly immune to Adiran’s glare. “Could you blame me if I was? Everyone looks appealing under this light.”

“That’s generous of you.” Sniffing, Adiran glanced up. Even with the smoke-glass covers encasing each glowing orb, he still had to squint against the brightness of the weavelights. “Guess it could be worse. We looked more like corpses before the covers were put on.”

“Really? I’m glad I missed it.”

“Yeah. Being dead inside is more than enough.”

Riin laughed, and a faint smile curved Adiran’s lips. He quickly hid it behind his glass. Truthfully, the entire ‘weavelight saga’ had been ridiculous. The King and Queen had commissioned hundreds of them from Tel Shival, purely because no one else had ever done it. Even the wealthiest families only ever had a few per household, usually kept in a lantern or a sconce in the most frequented rooms. After two seasons of painstaking arrangement that nearly killed two of their staff, the Silver Font soon found itself bathed in a thematically violent silver light. It had been an exciting novelty, at first; nobility flooded in from all over Talvera just to bask in the glow of thousands of wasted sicets. But then they quickly realised that colours didn’t behave the same way. Their favourite jewellery didn’t catch the eye. Their skin didn’t appear as youthful and rosy. Instead, every flaw - every stray hair or unpolished button - was placed on stark display for the vultures to pick at.

The weavelights were as bleak and clinical as a physicker’s ward. They sucked the warmth out of everything they touched.

In Adiran’s mind, the wash of corpse-light over each soiree was a perfectly fitting thing. But, as was typical, no one else agreed. So, they decided to encase each of the weavelights in honey-tinted glass and returned the room to almost exactly how it looked before. Back when it was lit by oil and flame.

That was how things were in Talvera. Decisions were made, sicets were spent, and then everyone just wanted to go back to how things used to be. Like nothing had ever happened.

GLOSSARY

Weavelight - spheres of crystal or glass, with a light-bearing glyphstring engraved by a thaumist specialising in Weaving. Maintains a bright, steady silver light. Cannot be dimmed or turned off at will. Thaumist - a well-trained practitioner of the thaumic arts, capable of manipulating thaumic essence. Turn - ten days. Tel Shival - An independent, famously insular city dedicated to the training and cultivation of thaumists and thaumaturgical study. Sicet - Currency used in the Allied Kingdoms.

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Tagging: @frenchy-and-the-sea, @leothelionsaysgrrrr, @bladeverbena, @thefluffynug, @rufinagertrude, @arduyn, @anarchyduck, and anyone else who has a WIP they’d like to share!

#wip whenever #(because i always miss wednesday lol)#reluctant memes #stonebreaker series #adiran #riin #the more i read it the more i dont really like it but #just... gotta... MOVE ON....#hURGH #reluctant writes

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aspenflower17 · 3 years

Text

Finding You (Part 11 of ??)

Hey everybody! I am back with another update! This one’s a bit shorter, but with the holidays coming, my brain’s been a bit fried lately 😅

I also have two other wip’s that have been trying to grab my attention, so keep an eye out for those! I do want to say that the angel event never happened in this story. My Simeon, Michael and Diavolo never did that. That being said, I want to write something for the angel event to try to... finish it and explore it a bit more.

For people who might be stubbling across this here is the link for Part One.

Tags for le people: @simpingforsatan @naimena @hachimochi @wrathandgreed @magi-minminxiii @rensphilia @a-dream-at-night @chloelikesobeyme @getbehindme-satan @theuglypugling

Satan/F!Mc

Word Count: 1,390

Mc yawned, eyes zoning out as she stared at her scrambled phoenix eggs. She had stayed up way too late at the ball, and when she had finally been able to sleep, she had another dream about Satan, this one about helping him make dinner for all of his brothers. While it had been pleasant, she was still feeling a little melancholy from it.

Michael sighed, Luke rolling his eyes a bit before asking, “Michael, is everything okay?”

“Well, I’m trying to figure out how I offended Satan last night.”

Mc perked up a bit at the mention of his name as Luke continued, “What’d you say?”

“Well, someone pointed him out as the Satan, so I decided to go over and talk to him, and just wanted to confirm his identity, so I asked if he was Lucifer’s son.”

All sounds stopped at that point. Mc looked up to see everyone else in the room staring at Michael. Even Barbatos raised an eyebrow.

“And you’re still alive?”

Mc wasn’t sure who asked the question because no one had moved when she tried to figure out the source.

“Am I wrong about it?” Michael asked, genuinely confused.

“It’s… difficult to explain,” Diavolo said, looking a bit uncomfortable.

“Why?” Mc asked.

“Well, he was born from Lucifer’s wrath. Satan, from what the others have told me, feels like he owes his existence to Lucifer and Lucifer’s pride doesn’t allow him to say otherwise, which just irritates Satan even more. Whenever someone reminds Satan of that connection, he… Well, let’s just say that demon was in a coma for a month. So, we don’t bring it up here. I’m amazed we didn’t have a fight break out last night honestly.”

Michael’s eyes widened in understanding as Diavolo spoke, “Seems I was very fortunate last night,” then, after a moment, “Should I apologize to him?”

“I would probably suggest against it, unless you have a good opportunity to. It could come across as even more demeaning.”

“Seems I have a lot to learn about how to properly interact with demons,” Michael chuckled uncomfortably.

“Did you ever end up being about to speak with Lucifer?” Diavolo asked.

“No. He ended up evading me the whole night,” Michael sighed.

“Well, maybe I’ll have to invite the brothers over for dinner sometime,” Diavolo mused, then after thinking for a bit and pulling out his DDD, “Yes, I think I’ll do that. Though… Mc, would you be willing to play something for us? I know you’ve been working on that piano piece.”

“I will definitely for you all. It probably won’t be that piece since it’s not finished yet.”

“Whatever you can do should be fine. Sometimes I just need to give them a good incentive to come,” Diavolo smiled, typing away on his DDD.

A bit further into dinner, Diavolo’s DDD dinged, “I have a date set for dinner! We shall have it in three days!”

“Isn’t that a little soon?” Michael asked.

“Of course not! All that needs to be done on my side is make sure there’s enough food for everyone plus Beelzebub.”

“Ah, he still eats a lot does he?” Michael asked.

“Well, as the Avatar of Gluttony, I’d say he eats more than “a lot”,” Diavolo laughed.

“... How much does he eat now?” Michael asked, looking concerned.

“Well, let’s just say Lucifer and I have had serious discussions before about if the Devildom can sustain his level of hunger.”

“He always had an appetite in the Celestial Realm, but…” Michael sat back looking concerned.

“Don’t worry. Lucifer and I have a couple different plans on how to keep him and the rest of the Devildom fed,” Diavolo smiled.

“What about the others? How have they changed?”

“Well, you’re just going to have to find out in three days.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mc stared at the envelope on her desk. She was going to save the letter for later, not quite ready to read the contents yet. Her thoughts drifted back to part of her conversation with Mammon.

“I got ta go ta ya art show with Satan. I was really impressed with ya art. Satan was explainin’ a lot of it ta me since it was my first show.”

“He was?” Mc asked, the disappointment from their first meeting still fresh.

“Yeah. I know he’s really impressed by ya art, and all.”

“Ah. Good to know,” Mc said, tone noncommittal.

“Yeah. He’s actually a pretty good guy. Well, for a demon anyway. He just struggles a bit expression’ himself sometimes.”

“He does?”

“Yeah. I know he’s been havin’ a rough time lately with… everythin’ goin’ on.”

“Is that right?” Mc could feel some of the worry she’d been holding to dissipate with his words.

“MmmHmm,” Mammon smiled at her, but he blanched seeing something happening behind her, “Uhh, I’ll be back, ‘k? I gotta take care of somethin,” and with that he disappeared into the crowd for a bit.

Mc picked up the letter, and opened it:

Dear Jane,

I am so glad you decided to read my letter. I would like to apologize for my behavior the other day. Though there’s really no excuse for my rude behavior, I’ve been dealing with some personal issues lately, and I ended up making those your problem.

I wanted to tell you that I do remember you from before. I remember you called the fleeing demons a stampede. I remember you had a large leaf stuck in your hair. You also mentioned feeling very lonely sometimes. I don’t remember what I put in that letter, I wanted to let you know your thirst for knowledge really impressed me, and reminded me of myself. If I was able to help you on your quest for knowledge I will consider it a job well done. If it is not too much of an imposition on your time, I would love another chance to talk at length with you about art, literature, or anything really. Maybe over coffee sometime?

I will be looking forward to your answer,

Satan

Mc sat back, feeling most of her tension leave her body. He didn’t hate her and actually wanted to talk with her again. She smiled, and reached for a piece of paper to pen her response.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mc poured over the Devildom encyclopedia she had found. It had started as a way to figure out what kind of flower she had seen outside in the castle garden, and had just turned into learning all about the Devildom in general.

“What are you doing Sis?”

“Hmmm… Oh, hey Luke. Did you know the climate here is much like a high altitude desert in the human realm? Super cold in the winter, but really hot in the summer?”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“Also, most of the plants here grow from moonlight. Many of the weeds in the Devildom are those that metabolize the moonlight the fastest and most of are actually edible.”

“You found an encyclopedia, didn’t you?” Luke asked.

“Yup. There’s also a lot of reference books here, so everytime I find something I want to know more about, I just write it in my notebook.”

“How many pages so far?”

“Well, this notebook is new and it’s already halfway full…”

“How are you going to look up all of those?”

“I’ll figure it out. I’ve heard the InterWeb is useful, though I’m not great at using it yet. Oh, there’s also this little-”

“Okay, I think that’s enough research for one day,” Luke said, taking the encyclopedia.

“Hey!”

“You need to go outside or something.”

Mc huffed a bit, “I was outside already today. That’s what caused me to come back in. I had a question about a flower I saw.”

“Well, go eat something. You haven’t eaten since breakfast have you?”

Mc was about to argue when she realized she was actually very hungry, “That might be a good idea.”

“Come on silly. Let’s get you some food.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mc sighed, starting the song over. She hadn’t been able to get any further in her composition, not getting any inspiration. Despite telling Diavolo she wouldn’t be able to perform it, she had still tried to finish the piece. It really was lovely. She just wasn’t sure how to finish it.

She played up until the last note she had composed again, and sighed, lowering her hands from the keyboard.

“That was beautiful,” a deep voice called from behind her.

She turned around, “shocked, “Satan?!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, fun fact, I live in a high altitude desert, and if the climate here isn’t Hell, I don’t know what is 🙃

As always, likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated.

Chapter 12

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