#girl this was a hard prompt for me how to not make it too flippant and still have them be vampires thanks for the practice!

[garglyswoof]

🦇 klaroline + per my last email

“Oh my god did they even READ??? What part of ‘Rooms are booked at the Aman Venice’ is difficult to comprehend?” Caroline yelled at her screen, leaning over the keyboard as she began exaggeratedly typing a reply. She was already irritated by Kol singing loudly in Italian somewhere downstairs - some opera that he claimed he had starred in in the 16th century. Honestly, at this point she was sick of this city and its thin veneer of charm holding back the rot.

“Per my last email, signora” She bit out, throwing up her hands. “Gahh!!” A muffled laugh behind her spun her in her chair, Klaus on the leather chaise smiling way too patronizingly at her for her own liking. “What?”

“Does that work for you?” At her confused expression, he continued. “Being passive aggressive? What do you think that will accomplish?”

“It will make her realize she’s stupid and she should apologize for being unable to comprehend basic sentences?”

“You believe that? Or will it just irritate her and worse yet, she’ll ignore it and learn nothing?”

Caroline stared at him. There was a logic to his words and she was having none of it. “Excuse me, but I’ve arranged the entire vampire consortium because your diplomacy skills range from death threats to stuffing people in boxes when they piss you off, so forgive me if I don’t take your advice on my emails being passive aggressive.” The last part came out in a hiss that she’d not be proud of tomorrow but for now it was effective. She watched Klaus’ face grow mulish, obstinate, and wondered if he’d pick a fight. Her eyes flashed because frankly? Bring it. She was surprised when he stood up, posture stiff with hurt, and walked out of the room, trailing a sentence in his wake.

“I’ll just get out of your hair then, shall I? Since I’m so clearly a nuisance.”

Caroline sighed as he left, his footsteps receding down the stairs. Kol’s performance cut off mid-word in a choked gurgle, Klaus’ voice a low tremor of rage as a door slammed so hard she could feel the displacement of air in the room. She hadn’t meant to snap at him, but honestly was she wrong?

She had little time to think about it, as Kol quickly transitioned from his operatic reprise to crunching obscenely loudly on an apple while staring into her office, and Caroline rubbed her temples. Vampires didn’t get headaches - unless they were witch induced, of course - but that didn’t prevent muscle memory kicking in from exasperation.

“What, Kol?” She bit out, waiting for the inevitable punch line.

“Just letting you know I’m headed back to the States.”

Caroline lifted her head, eyes bright with surprise. “Wait what? We’re in Venice for the consortium and you’re just jetting? I thought you were at least having fun annoying the hell out of Klaus?”

“Well that’s just it, darling. It’s been fun feeding into the chaos, but I’d much rather start it. He’s too easy a mark when you’ve upset him.” Crunch. He leaned up against the wall, and that casual pose belied a head full of mischief, she knew well. What was his deal this time?

“What do you mean?”

Kol pushed off the wall, tossing the apple core, and Caroline watched it curve in a perfect arc into the bin. 

“Klaus is less fun with you around.”

Her brows knitted. “Excuse me? I'll have you know, Klaus is way more fun with me around.”

“Yeah you really don’t get it, do you?” Kol’s expression flickered, and for a moment the jester was gone, replaced with something almost serious, there and gone in a flash. “Everything he does. Even when he’s mad and stomping about the streets of Venice, you’re there. In his head,” He clarified, his hand waving about dismissively but doing nothing to lessen the gravity of his words. “All of it. Everything he’s thinking. It’s for you. So I can feed off that, use it, make fun of it endlessly, but after a while it gets old. Too -” He paused then, searching for the words as Caroline’s heart flipped. 

He shrugged then, whatever he was going to say was lost in a decision made. “So I figured since it’s almost time for my semi-annual Jeremy torture I’d head back ‘cross the pond.”

Taken aback by the abrupt subject change, Caroline could do nothing but sputter. “Gilbert?”

“Of course. He killed me and all, feels wrong to just let that lie.”

Caroline spun the chair around, the email forgotten. “We may not be friends anymore but I’m not sure I can support torturing Jeremy.”

“Oh don’t worry, I don’t kill him. Hunter’s curse and all, been there done that, watched Nik get the T-shirt. No thanks. I just…mess around with him. Move things around in his apartment, seduce his girlfriend, give him explosive diarrhea at work. Enough small things to drive him absolutely bat shit crazy, which is usually when I leave. The paranoia is a gift that keeps on giving.”

Caroline was struggling not to laugh, knew that Kol saw it and that it was not only what he was looking for but needed, at least for now. She wondered at what he had almost said, something in her heart called out to it, and knew she would look at Kol differently now, behind the mummer’s mask. 

He saw it in her face and closed off his own, began a refrain of the operetta as he spun out the door in full pointe, vampire’s grace a counterpoint to the calculated silliness. Caroline stared after him, thoughtful, his words sifting in her brain. Downstairs the main door opened and closed with the exaggerated creak of faulty jambs in this ever-sinking city. She turned back to the computer, the afternoon dimmed enough by clouds for the monitor’s glow to light the room. The cursor lay waiting. 

She erased it all, wrote a quick note re-explaining the details. Clicked send, angrily still, one part hanging on to the feeling, one part over it, a whole entire rest of herself thinking about Klaus. 

A few hours later she heard the door open, smelled the faint scent of blood. She hoped it was a least a tourist that had paid the blood price, this city was dying on its own without vampiric help. There was a moment of guilt, sharp and bright, as she knew whomever died was because of her. It's all for you - she heard Klaus say, Kol say, their voices blending together in words that spanned decades, and she got up and headed downstairs as her throat closed over her own words.

He was facing the fireplace, a glass of grappa that she just couldn't get the taste for in his hand, and he stood with the alert grace of his dual predators, waiting.

"Hey," she said softly, and his face turned in surprise. Her heart ached with his expression, guarded but searching.

"You were right." Three words to watch the light dawn across a face, his brow clearing, confusion to suspicion to delight as he saw the truth in her eyes.

Caroline held a hand up. "About the email. Not about threatening people. Just so we're clear."

"So Signora Rossini is not receiving an angry 'per my last email?'"

"Nope. Oh and," Caroline slid her arms around Klaus's neck, pulled him in close. "Kol's left for the states, so I guess we have this old building all to ourselves this evening."

The smile built slow and cut a dimple deep into his cheek, a hand circling to rest on the small of her back, the other sliding across a hip, her breath catching at the feel of it and the scent of blood that lingered on his lips. "Oh do we love, tell me, whatever shall we do with this extra time?"

She answered him with a kiss, the house quiet now, water lapping at its foundations, the sound of oars sluicing through the water mingling with the languages of a half-dozen countries. She kissed him and she thought of all she had ever wanted in this vampire life and before, and her lips curved in a satisfied grin.

-----

From my halloween extravaganza - send me a prompt or tell me something fun!

#klaroline #klaroline fanfiction #girl this was a hard prompt for me how to not make it too flippant and still have them be vampires thanks for the practice!

[simplyclockwork]

I see you have a backlog of prompts. I certainly don’t mind waiting. It’s lovely if you to do them. One of my favourite scenes is where is in TRF John is looking out the window waiting for the police to arrive and they are talking about Sherlock being the real deal. I’d love for you to write the internal monologue for one of them; anticipating what was coming next and their concern for the other. Sherlock is so stoic when he prepares for being arrested and I find it very affecting. I am over 18.

Hey, anon! Thanks so much for being patient with this fill. I know you only asked for one POV, but I just had to write both. Hope that's okay and hope you are well! You can read your prompt here on Ao3 or below the page break. Thank you so much for sending the prompt and please feel free to send more in the future if you are so inclined :)

---------------

John

John knew this was coming. The moment they’d walked into that interview room, and the little girl screamed at the sight of Sherlock… John knew then. He’d felt it in his bones, felt the certainty that this wouldn’t be allowed to slide. There would be ramifications for the trap Moriarty had set for Sherlock. No matter how innocent Sherlock was, Moriarty had taken pains to ensure that Sherlock would suffer for daring to stand against him.

Back in their cluttered flat, John looks out the window and waits for the sirens and the flashing lights that will paint Baker Street in splashes of blue and red. He watched Lestrade and Sally leave after Sherlock refused to accompany them back to the station, and now he waits for the other shoe to drop. John waits for the next piece of the puzzle that Moriarty has set up just for Sherlock to reveal itself.

He can already feel it. There will be a reckoning.

“They’ll be deciding.” Sherlock’s low voice breaks into John’s musing.

Still looking out the window, John asks, “Deciding?”

Sherlock’s voice is empty of emotion. He talks like all of this is nothing, like he isn’t currently caught in the eye of a storm of Moriarty’s making. “Whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me.”

John turns from the window and looks at Sherlock, sitting in front of a laptop at the table. The same table they've sat at so often, where they've eaten breakfast, worked cases, struggled to read the clues. Where they have shared countless mornings, Sherlock ignoring his eggs, focused on the latest news while John chugged coffee and tried not to fall asleep after yet another night with too little rest.

He shakes his head, forcing the memories away as he refocuses. “You think?”

Sherlock doesn’t look up from the laptop. “Standard procedure,” he says, almost under his breath, still flat, like all of this is happening to someone else. Like it’s not happening to him. Like his life, John’s life, their lives, aren’t about to be turned upside down by the aftermath of one terrified little girl’s scream.

“Should have gone with him,” John says, watching Sherlock for a reaction. For anything, even a flicker, because John is struggling to keep himself together. To keep his voice calm, maintain a tone as flippant as Sherlock’s. It is ripping him apart, this blank facade, and Sherlock seems entirely unbothered. Maybe Sherlock feels the same. And, yet, there is still nothing from Sherlock. No shift in the mask. John tries a different tact, needing a reaction. Needing to know what Sherlock is feeling, needing to know if he is as terrified as John. “People’ll think—” He doesn’t get the rest out, Sherlock speaking over him.

“I don’t care what people think,” Sherlock says, finally showing a hint of emotion. Disdain, sharp and biting even through the facade.

“You’d care,” John says, placing emphasis on the word, “if they thought you were stupid. Or wrong.” And it’s true. He knows this the way he knows the smell of Sherlock’s hair product, lemon and pine and sage. John knows that this is Sherlock’s biggest fear, that people will doubt him even with all the hard work he has put in to become the man he is today. To make a name for himself. And Moriarty is about to tear all of that down by turning Sherlock’s few allies against him.

John can’t bear to watch it happen. But he will, and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

Sherlock scoffs, saying, in that same dull tone, “No, that would just make them stupid or wrong.” There it is again, that mask. The walls, coming up between them and deeply hated by John because there shouldn’t be any walls, not between them. They are in this together, and John is starting to wonder whether or not Sherlock realizes that.

Angry now, he turns away from the window. His jaw clenches, frustration flaring, his voice raised as John snaps, “Sherlock, I don’t want the world believing you’re…” But Sherlock looks at him, and something in his expression, some questioning look in his eyes, has John’s words dying in his throat. They stare at one another for a second, just the space of a breath, but John sees it. He sees that Sherlock isn’t sure of him. After all that Moriarty has done to make everyone doubt him, he is afraid John has been taken in like all the rest.

“That I am what?” Sherlock asks in a soft, steady voice. His eyes are unblinking, his gaze locked with John’s. He waits, silent, expectant. Like he is daring John to say it.

His throat gone tight, John stares back at him. He swallows, knowing he has to get through this. That he has to show Sherlock that he never stopped believing in him. He blinks and sighs and says, like confession, “A fraud.”

Sherlock stares at him a second longer before looking away, his eyes rolling as disbelief flashes over his face. John hides his wince, standing strong under that look.

Sitting back in his seat, glancing at the laptop, Sherlock says, “You’re worried they’re right.” He looks at John, waiting for him to validate the accusation.

Even though John expected this, even though he feared this was what Sherlock thought, it still hurts to hear it. “What?”

Sherlock’s eyes skate away again before dropping to the laptop. It’s a brief flicker of vulnerability, but it is there, and John can’t ignore it.“You’re worried they’re right about me.”

“No,” John says at once, shaking his head and staring at the man across from him. The man who doubts him. The man John has killed for and would kill for again. The man who saved him, and who John would do anything for if he would just ask.

God, he wants Sherlock to ask.

Sherlock goes on as if John never spoke. “That’s why you’re so upset. You can’t even entertain the possibility that they might be right.” John lets the words wash over him, still shaking his head as he looks out the window again. He can’t look at Sherlock, not with that doubt on his face.

Doubt for John.

“You’re afraid that you’ve been taken in as well,” Sherlock finishes, and John can feel those eyes on him again.

Still shaking his head, John stares out at the street without seeing it. “No, I’m not,” he says, feeling nothing but certainty. There is no doubt in him that Sherlock is the man he has always said he was. And he can go ahead and doubt John all he wants. It won’t change anything for John. It won’t change a second of the time they’ve shared. Sherlock is the real deal, and no one can convince John of anything different.

John sees Sherlock leaning toward him over the laptop from the corner of his eye. His eyes are huge and wild, his pale face strained by tension.

“Moriarty is playing with your mind, too.” Sherlock’s face twists, a fierce scowl drawing his eyebrows together. His hand strikes the table without warning, making John tense his muscles to keep from jumping. “Can’t you see what is going on?” Sherlock snarls the words, throwing them like weapons. He speaks like John is a moron. Like he is someone deserving of his anger. It is misplaced fear. John knows that. He’s seen it before, witnessed it in the men and women he served with. John has seen and felt it within himself. The last-ditch effort of an animal backed into a corner, lashing out without caring who it hurts.

John has been that animal. Sherlock is that animal now.

For a beat of silence, John just looks at Sherlock. He looks at him and wills Sherlock to see that John trusts him. That he doesn’t believe any of it, that he refuses to believe the man who saved his life is a fraud. It’s just not true.

Swallowing, John looks out the window again. “No, I know you for real,” he says softly.

“A hundred percent?” Sherlock challenges, scathing and exhausted, his focus back on the laptop. He sounds weary like that brief outburst took every last remnant of his flagging strength.

The sound of that, the defeat edging into Sherlock’s voice, makes John’s chest ache. They are going round and round in circles and getting nowhere. It won’t be long now: if Lestrade plans to arrest Sherlock, he won’t dawdle at the station. He’ll have his orders to follow. Their time together is fast dwindling down to nothing, reduced to minutes and seconds instead of hours and years, and John can’t let it happen like this. He might not be able to stop it from happening, but he’ll be damned if he lets Sherlock leave on a sour note.

Tearing his gaze away from the window, forcing his pain under the surface, John says, “Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time.” Those words aren’t the ones he wants to say. They are not even close. But they are what he has to say. One last attempt at dark humour in the face of the storm coming to tear apart the revered, if somewhat unorthodox, life they’ve built together here at Baker Street.

Whatever happens now, it is out of John’s hands. But he can’t help the fear he feels. The concern, the desire to protest Sherlock from the shadow poised over them both.

Sherlock’s eyes are on John again, their gazes locked. John stares back, waiting to see what Sherlock will do. If he will explode in another outburst or laugh or scoff or order John out of the room. Every possibility hits John like a physical blow, and his throat grows tight again.

Sherlock does none of those things. To John’s shock and relief, his mouth twitches in the faintest hint of a smile. It is like nothing has changed between them for a second, only a second. Like they are the way they have always been, just the two of them, laughing at the darkest parts of the world, uncaring what the rest of that world thought. John stares at that flicker of a smile, searing it into his brain, clutching it to himself like a precious thing. No matter what happens next, he will have this. They won’t part on a sour note, not between them, at least.

It isn’t much, not really, but to John, it is everything.

The wail of sirens rises in the distance. The moment ends, shattered by the silent knowledge shared between them. Here it is. The storm has found them at last, and there is nowhere left for them to hide.

John looks away from Sherlock’s anguished eyes and stares out the window, waiting for the lights and sirens to reach them.

Sherlock

Lestrade feels bad enough about the whole situation to call John and give them both a heads up. Small miracles. Now, standing in the sitting room of the flat they share, Sherlock stares at a burnt ginger man. Clutched in John’s hand, delivered by Mrs Hudson in this, the eleventh hour, the denouncing of everything Sherlock has worked for.

I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you.

Moriarty’s words, playing through his head with perfect recall. And here it is, the most perfect, heavy-handed metaphor imaginable. A burnt gingerbread man, as blackened and ruined as Sherlock himself is about to be.

All that’s missing is his own blood-red smile.

“Burnt to a crisp,” Sherlock says, staring at the cookie in John’s hand with its red face and sooty dough. He can hear multiple vehicles pulling up outside, the sound of sirens fading, replaced by slamming doors and raised voices.

John, still holding that ridiculous metaphor in his hand, looks at the cookie and asks, “What does it mean?” The doorbell rings, and someone pounds on the front door. John looks over his shoulder at the window reflecting the blue flash of the police lights on the street.

“Police!” someone shouts outside, summoning Mrs Hudson to the first floor. The voices grow louder, more agitated once she opens the door.

“Don’t just barge in!” she cries, angry.

They are here.

Sherlock follows John’s gaze, looking at the window as well, his face expressionless. Outwardly, he is careful not to show even a flicker of reaction. Through sheer willpower alone, he keeps the mask in place, his features giving away nothing. But beneath, inside, Sherlock feels the strain. Here it is, the burning that Moriarty promised. The fall, the final problem. The answer to all their problems and the downfall of Sherlock Holmes.

Earlier, Sherlock tried to turn John away. Wanted to make him believe what all the others already believe: that he is a fraud. But John refused to take the bait. Even with the storm bearing down on them both, John stood firm. Now, as John sets the gingerbread aside and heads for the stairs, Sherlock is caught between gratitude and regret. Because this will tarnish John. Perhaps not in the same way it will tarnish Sherlock, but John will not escape this unscathed. None of them will, Sherlock least of all.

Footsteps hammering on the stairs drown out the rest of Mrs Hudson’s protests. Still wearing that blank expression, forcing that calm facade to remain on his face, Sherlock reaches for his scarf. He pulls it around his neck, his fingers slow and his hands numb before turning at the sound of John’s voice.

“Have you got a warrant?” The sharp edge of steel that makes John a soldier even after the fact rings true in his hard voice. “Have you?”

John Watson, loyal to the bitter end. It is hardly John’s fault that he hitched his wagon to the wrong horse. Try as he has, Sherlock has failed to protect John. He couldn’t avoid Moriarty’s trap, and he will be damned if he lets John be dragged through the muck with him. Sherlock will go calmly if only to retain what little dignity Moriarty has left him with.

If only to keep John out of it.

“Leave it, John,” Lestrade says. In the background, Mrs Hudson is still scolding the officers that have barged into the flat. Her voice is shrill with emotion, and Sherlock closes his eyes. He has failed her, too. All her kindness, her concern, her sharp tongue. She has always been family, and Sherlock wishes she didn’t have to see any of this.

Swallowing, he pulls on his coat. Sherlock thinks of John, thinks of leaving him behind, and reminds himself that he is doing this for John. He keeps quiet for John, standing firm even as his hands begin to shake. Sherlock fumbles with the coat, almost losing his grip on the facade as he looks around the flat, taking it in for what might be the last time. This is a good place where he has come to feel safe. A home, built-in odd little ways by both himself and John. Now, that has been taken from him.

John will be okay. Here, in the home they’ve made, he will be safe. He first came to Sherlock broken, and they’re both still broken in their own ways. They’ve broken one another in new ways, too. But John will be alright. Even with Sherlock gone, he will still have this, the flat they made a home. John will still have Baker Street, even after Sherlock’s name has been dragged through the mud and when John finally turns his back on him like everyone else before him.

Sherlock hears Lestrade’s familiar tread on the stairs and holds out his arm. He hopes it won’t be Lestrade who does this and is granted that tiny bit of dignity when an unfamiliar uniformed officer steps forward instead. The cuffs are cold and hard, closing about his offered wrist with a sharp click. Sherlock stares at the table where he and John have sat together more times than he can remember and lets it happen without protest.

Lestrade steps around him, blocking Sherlock’s view of the table. Sherlock forces himself to meet Lestrade’s gaze, hoping his face won’t betray how terrified he is. Lestrade’s eyes are shadowed, his expression bleak as he says, “Sherlock Holmes, I’m arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping.”

He hasn’t even finished speaking when John says, “He’s not resisting.” He gestures to Sherlock, his eyes as desperate as Lestrade’s are shadowed. John sounds like he is at his wit’s end like he can’t fathom why Sherlock is being handled this way. But he knows. They all know that this is the fall of Sherlock Holmes. The moment many have waited and hoped for. Nothing John says now will change anything, but Sherlock can’t help but love him for trying.

Love. There is a word that he will never share with John. Not now. Not with the cuffs around his wrists, not with the officer pulling Sherlock’s other arm behind his back, locking it tightly with the first.

“He’s not resisting,” John repeats, his voice firmer now. He sounds lost underneath all that bravado.

“It’s all right, John,” Sherlock says, unable to keep from glancing at him. He needs to see John’s face, even if he shouldn’t. John’s expression is stiff with anger, his mouth tight, his eyes desolate and fierce. He hurts to look at with all that pain written through him, written there by Sherlock and the lies spun by Moriarty.

Sherlock tears his eyes away, looking back at Lestrade as John snaps, “No, it’s not alright. This is ridiculous.”

Loyalty, thy name is John Watson.

Lestrade glances at John, then looks back at Sherlock, turning away from the angry ex-soldier on his right. He looks guilty. Just for a second, there and gone, as he schools his expression back to something hard. “Get him downstairs,” he says in a rough voice to the officer standing behind Sherlock. Lestrade ignores John’s protests, still hanging in the air.

The officer tugs Sherlock around with a hard jerk, spinning him toward the stairs. Behind him, Sherlock can hear John protesting again.

“You know you don’t have to—”

Lestrade cuts John off, his voice sharp, rising, “Don’t try to interfere, or I shall arrest you too.”

Sherlock doesn’t hear the rest as he is led down the stairs. Frog-marched out of his flat, cold metal cuffs biting his skin, too tight but nowhere near as uncomfortable as this betrayal. Lestrade has known him for years. He has seen Sherlock at his worst, at his lowest. Still, he’d trusted him through all of that, only to turn his back on Sherlock now when Sherlock needs his trust the most.

But not John. John is standing to his word, defending Sherlock to the last, even when Sherlock has given up.

As the officer pushes him through his own front door, out into the cold night, Sherlock wishes he’d taken the chance and told John how he felt. He wishes that, instead of trying to make John turn away from him, he’d told John the truth. Wishes he had told him just what John means to him. Now, Sherlock might never have the chance. Now that Moriarty has made his move, he knows what path he will have to take. Sherlock has already worked it out with Mycroft, and there is no going back. Not now.

Not even for John.

With metal rubbing his wrists raw, Sherlock holds his head high and braces himself for the next move in the game.

#ask #prompt #johnlock #sherlock #the reichenbach fall #prompt fill #internal dialogue #simplyclockwork

[fairytsuk1]

i was all over her (a)

part of the autumn experiences collection.

pairing: yandere!tomura shigaraki x reader

genre: angst

words: 2.5k

summary: you never learn.

prompt: visitor

warnings: noncon mentions/intentions, stalking, pervertedness, this is a yandere fic

    The rain was quickly soaking through his cotton shirt, chilling Tomura to the bone with a grumble threatening to work it’s way up his throat. He hadn’t brought an umbrella in protest of Kurogiri’s suggestion, he was sure it wouldn’t rain as he walked his normal path. But, he was wrong, it was fucking downpouring and his chuck-taylors were hardly holding up.

    Your frog umbrella flashed in and out of the streetlights, the rhythmic step of rain boots clicking and splashing in the puddles that littered the sidewalk. Brown, muddy water rushed in the crook of the street so fast he was briefly reminded of the times he and his family used to look at fish in the nearby rivers. That was a long time ago, no need to make room for old broken memories that would soon cease to exist as he aged further in life.

    What he wanted, was you. Your cute little feet stuffed into rainboots far too big for you, they were a gift from your father. That man was too flippant of your desires and needs that he didn’t even know his own child’s shoe size, a sorry excuse for a man if he were to be honest. The umbrella was a gift from your sister, adamant on you having something to keep you sheltered in this shitty ass neighborhood. You didn’t deserve to live here, he could imagine you in a perfectly manicured house with polished nails and frilly sundresses. The sun would sparkle on your skin and you’d smell flowery with a twinge of cinnamon, leaving men desperate and eager to flip up your skirt with the intent to breed you. You’d look so good, he mused. Cum filling your cunt as you squealed underneath him, pleading for more from your dearest, Tomura.

“Mmph!”

    Your shoe caught onto a crack in the sidewalk, nearly sending you face first into the mess that was the gravelly street. He imagined you’d make such lovely whimpers and moans as he rammed his cock into you, greedily taking you from behind...or maybe the front? He’d like to cum inside you to mark you and maybe, if he was really desperate, your mouth.

    He was working himself up, your apartment was near and the excitement was practically eating him alive with the thought that he’d be able to have you if he was just patient. It would be far too easy for you to get away and cause a scene if he grabbed you by the hair and tugged you into his arms, though, would anyone come for you? Your sister was right, this rough place that you called home was no home at all, they didn’t care about your wellbeing. They didn’t even care about basic necessities, like moving the trash bins so it would be easier for you to keep clean. They were selfish and it made him sick to think of them hurting you, taking you, and doing whatever these fucking creeps could think of. They didn’t care about you like he did.

    “Hey! You live in this apartment?”

    Shigaraki ducks into a nearby alleyway, back crashing against the wall as he shakes water out of his face like a wet dog. Soft pants fall from his chapped lips as water dribbles down his ears and neck. There’s a tightness in his pants and his heart is racing, a usual occurrence when he followed you home.

“Hm? Oh...yes, I do! It’s nice to meet you!” You tell him your name, why would you even think that would be a good idea? “Is there something wrong? I’m new to the area!”

     The man chuckles and your stalkers red eyes peer out from behind the wall, noting your neighbors large frame practically swallowing you up. He almost couldn’t see you considering this man was huddling you into the corner and looking down at you like a piece of meat.

    “You’re new? No shit, I’ve never seen a pretty thing like you before.”

    You can’t even help yourself, cheeks lifting as you pull your keys out of your pocket. Must be the neglect from your parents, you’ll let just anyone in between your legs huh?

     No.

    He can’t think like that, you’re different. You wouldn’t, you can hardly touch yourself correctly. He’d form you into the perfect girl, perfect housewife who made him meals and let him bend you over any countertop.

“Ah, well thank you sir.”

    You’ve got manners too, he likes that. He wants to hear his name-not Shigaraki-but Tomura as it rolls off your tongue, it’d be syrupy and sweet just like you.

    Clunky boots step into your apartment and a creaky door is locked closed, bet that makes you feel safe huh? Like no one’s gonna hurt you? Well, under his eye they won’t. But the only thing it won’t stop is Shigaraki; climbing the white rickety stairs to follow and a copy of your key to match.

    Waiting takes a long time, but it’s worth it to keep this little habit up. The water drips from his hair to his chin and neck, leaving a trail that would no doubt make him smell as disgusting as he felt. His hand reaches up to insert the key before the bulbous man from before is grunting out words that he couldn’t care to listen to. Though, the dude is utterly unrelenting and questions him, “what the hell are you doing?”

“What?”

    “Are you...who the fuck are you? I thought she was single.”

    Shigaraki scans him, unimpressed with the way he’d come to confront him when the two of them had the same goal in mind.

“It’s none of your business.”

     The man reaches for his wrist, looking small in the meat of his palm as Shigaraki lets him play hero for the time being.

     “I’m calling a hero! I have a cousin who works with Endeavor, you know! Stay here!”

“Let go of me.”

     The grip is starting to hurt but the man keeps squeezing, even adding a bit more strength when the wiry man expresses resistance. Doesn’t matter, he’ll just get rid of him while he can. Can’t go around harassing women if you’re just a pile of dust, right?

    Isn’t that what you do, Tomura? Stalk and harass future fucktoys? Or rather...as you like to call them, potential housewives?

    Sometimes, he might blanch when those thoughts resurface, bothering him and making him feel ashamed of who he is. How could someone like him, a successor to fucking All for One feel shame? That frustration or perhaps disturbance due to the intrusive thoughts lets his anger unleash, cracking like whips in the form of crumbling the man to dust. His wife beater, something he was sure he was (though he doubted anyone would want to marry this fuck), crumbled on top of the ashes and grew soaked under the downpour.

“I told you to let go of me. Now look at you.”

    What once used to be a living, breathing person, is now kicked to the drain below. Fingers itching the delicate skin near his jaw, he enters the apartment. He feels hungry, but not for food. He just wants to eat you right up. Yeah, that sounds right. Take you all for himself.

    You’d discarded the boots in the alcove near your door, the frogs smiling with pink cheeks as Shigaraki’s childish shoes squash them in his path of destruction. You lie drowsily in bed, pink fluffy pajamas comforting your soft skin and a duvet pulled up to your nose. You’d normally be asleep if it weren’t for the constant nagging in your gut. It felt as though something had gone horribly wrong. The anxiety causes you to lay still in your bed as if something was watching your every breath.

    It was eerily similar to the way you’d cower from your closet at night with the idea planted in your head that monsters were coming to eat you. This was only different in the way that you didn’t know what monster was coming. Not only that, you had no idea what he would do to you.

    You’d call yourself crazy during times like these, but you’d been right when the door to your bedroom opens.

    “I know you’re awake. You always sleep on your back, not your side.”

    It’s quiet and still. There’s tension thickening in the air like gravy on the stove and you briefly wonder if this was another bout of sleep paralysis. You thought you’d been in this position before, someone or something watching you. It had never felt like this, you’d never felt so terrified in your life.

    “Not up for talking, huh? A bit ungrateful considering I helped rid your little ‘home’ of that greasy pig next door.”

    The footsteps grow closer and against all instincts to play dead or even just move away, you sit up and face the man. His red eyes stare down at you, face bony and cracked...he looked like something straight out of a nightmare. Most people you knew were delicate and kind; they looked like regular people. Shigaraki though...you thought that Shigaraki might eat you alive and tear you apart limb by limp. A whimper exits your mouth as you sit paralyzed whilst he simply gets closer and closer.

    His eyes trace the neckline of your sleeping shirt, a scoop neck that showed the smattering of beauty marks adorning your skin. You were so beautiful, he grinned and planted his bottom at the edge of your bed. You shook, the water logged clothes easily soaking through to you and making your heart sink deeper in your chest. You held a confused look, like a deer in headlights or maybe a puppy with twitching ears.

“I’m...I’m sorry…”

    “Why are you apologizing? Aren’t I the one who broke in?”

    Cry for me. You’d look so good and I’d commit it to memory, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

    “You’re such a pushover, how’d you let this happen? Hm?”

     The tears build at your lash line until finally falling in fat droplets down your cheeks. Your hands turn to fists like a child as you rub your eyes, no defenses in place other than to cry like a submissive brat. Your breaths were uneven as you attempted to wipe away tears until a quick hand caught your wrist, pinky lifted.

    “Look at me, when you cry. Gets me off,” he giggles before leaning so close your lips could almost touch, “did you know that? Everytime you sobbed in your pillow, I had a hard time choosing whether or not I should cuddle you or jerk off.”

    A broken wail escapes you as your body finally makes the move to get away, your feet kick in the tangled sheets and you attempt to wrangle your wrist away from him, thrashing and beating on his chest desperately. He almost felt a bit sad, sure, he was a bit mean with the teasing. But...you had to have known that someday someone was going to come for you like this, right?

     It’s easy to intercept your punches, holding both wrists at your head as he leaned over you. His hair framed the two of you, leaving you completely caged in this man. His lithe body scooched up yours, hips resting at yours for a moment.

     “I’m gonna make you mine, well, more like you already are mine. Tomura Shigaraki's little wife. Okay? So you’re gonna come with me to the base without complaints, yeah?”

     A brave scream tore through your mouth as you arched your back, trying for a second escape attempt. His left hand detached from your arm to grab your throat, cries quickly dying out as you thrashed wildly.

     “If my pinky touches this vein right here, you’ll turn into a pile of dirt. If that happens, I’ll move onto someone else. So come on; do you really want to be the cause of someone’s future suffering? Give up, daddy taught you better than to fight.”

“How…?”

     He laughed heartily, your throat clenching under his grip before he loosened to let you get a whoosh of air.

     “Seriously? It’s so obvious you’re a daddy’s girl, take the stupid little gifts, listen to his every command, and wait for the day he decides to acknowledge you. It’s practically...practically predictable! You’re predictable and sad.”

     His words feel like venom as you cry, the lack of oxygen making fuzzy black spots dot your vision. He might kill you in this moment, your lungs squeezed and he finally let go. You sputtered, body confused with it’s sudden freedom as you looked up at him with glassy eyes and snot dripping down past your lips to your chin.

     “You look tired, I’ll take you home okay?”

     You’re dazed, you almost don’t recognize the way he peels back the covers and grazes his hands up your thighs, exposing every inch of skin as if you were a present meant to be savoured.

“I’m a virgin! Please don’t…”

     A look flashes in his eyes as he peers at you from his lashes.

     “Perfect, just makes you even sweeter.”

     You hadn’t thought you could cry more, but every word that came out of his predatory lips made a new wave of heartache resurface, was this really who you were? A weak girl who could let herself be lifted into the arms of a man she didn’t know, fingers digging into the plump flesh of her bottom as she weakly clung on?

      A memory flashes in your mind as you let yourself be taken care of...well no, be kidnapped from your bedroom. It was the one with the high school boys, the way they’d flipped up your skirt and prodded at your weakest, most sensitive places. You’d cried for them to stop, told your father what the sickening boys had done to you. They’d practically defiled you, maybe would have gone so far to take you in that empty classroom had you not kicked one of them square in the shin.

     Your father’s words ring in your ears.

     “Well, you must have done something for that to happen. Don’t wear such short skirts next time.”

     A hand comes to caress the top of your head. Tomura’s, he had you right where he wanted you. Vulnerable and weak to his advances, you were tired too. This was just going to make things easier.

     The rain has slowed to a drizzle, you shivered in his arms and prayed to God for forgiveness as you buried yourself closer to him, the warmth comforting and soothing for your soul. Your bare feet swung limply as he kept you pressed to his front, walking on a seemingly practiced path. He was all over you.

      If he could apologize, Tomura didn’t think he would. He had to be all over you. Consume your soul like the evillest of demons.

      “Cheer up, maybe if you’d been a bit more vigilant, this would have never happened.”

     Your bottom lip trembled, maybe love was not destined for you. After all, you must have been asking for this.

     “And by the way...you know I love you right?”

     You’d heard it a million times before.

#bnha #bnha x reader #yandere bnha #yandere bnha x reader #tomura imagine #tomura x y/n #tomura x reader #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x y/n #yandere shigaraki #yandere tomura

[merryfortune]

Sweet Dreams Under the Sea

Written for 100ships on Dreamwidth

Prompt #40 Ocean

Main Ship: Chongire/Numeri 

Other Notable Relationships: Chongire & Elda, Elda & Numeri

Fandom: Tropical Rouge PreCure

Word Count: 1,634

Rating: G

Warnings: No Warnings Apply

Tags: Fluff, Bittersweet Ending, Domestic, Found Family

   “Excuse me, Elda, but it is past your bedtime.” Butler said, peering in closer to the girl, his eyes unnerving but Elda was unrelenting. “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a girl healthy, pretty, and wise.”

   “I don’t wanna.” Elda pouted, her arms flailed as she held tightly onto her dolls.

  Chongire who had been walking past the hallway overheard and decided to, “I don’t see any harm in letting her stay up. Imagination play is good for kids or something like that.” 

   Butler sighed and shook his head.

   Numeri, who had been following along with Chongire, giggled, “I’m sorry, Chongire, but I’m with Butler on this one,” she said, she placed her hands on Chongire’s back, unsettling him as he could feel her snail slime seep in past his clothes and was cold, “it would be better for Elda if she went to bed early.”

   “I don’t want to!” Elda continued to resist.

   Butler looked pleadingly to Numeri, “You are better at handling this child than I am.” he said.

   Numeri slithered into the room and put her hands on her hips. Elda stared her down and Numeri knew if it was going to be a battle of wills, Elda would win. She had more youth and energy, after all. She could throw a tantrum until the Fool’s Casket was full and never tire. Get hungry, perhaps, but not tired.

   “Elda, why don’t Chongire and I take you to your room. We’ll put you to bed with sea cow milk and seashell cookies. We can even tell you a bedtime story. That way, you can still stay up a little bit late but not too late like Butler feels.” Numeri negotiated in a pleasantly sweet and gentle voice.

   Elda paused to consider the offer. She hummed in thought and tapped her chin before shrugging. She set down her dolls and said, “Alright.”

   “That’s a good girl.” Numeri praised her.

   “You spoil her too much.” Chongire whispered to Numeri and she just giggled again.

   Butler shook his head but the bargain worked. Elda popped herself off the top of the table she was so comfortably lying on and swam over to Numeri and Chongire. Numeri gave Butler a wave good night as it was unlikely to see him afterwards as it was his usual bedtime, too but Chongire rolled his eyes. 

   Numeri and Elda began to shuffle off and Chongire gruffly piped up, “Good night, Butler.”

   “Good night Chongire, good night Numeri, and good night Elda. I will see you all in the morning, ready to report for breakfast.” Butler bade them and that was that.

   Chongire huffed and though he had been going one way - leaving the kitchen - it was time to go the other way - back to the kitchen. He was just as bas as spoiling Elda, quite clearly, otherwise he wouldn’t go through the effort of fetching the snacks that Numeri had suggested. One cold, frothy drink of sea cow milk and seashell cookies coming up. It wouldn’t take that long, thankfully.

   So, once Chongire had done that, he scuttled along to catch up to Numeri and Elda and it looked like he had made it back just in time. Elda was throwing a tantrum. She swam swiftly around her room, literally banging off the walls and following the ricochet and all whilst incessantly screaming for her snack. Poor Numeri, shuddering at the shrillness of Elda’s voice, in the middle of it.

   “Good grief…” Chongire muttered to himself and he lifted up his claws slightly, to show off the tray that he had brought out. “Here you go, little girl.”

   Elda stopped mid-paddled and was completely still, she beamed, “Well why didn’t ya say so sooner?” she asked as she very civilly swam over to Chongire, her little tail wagging and her antennae twitching excitedly. “You always make the best snacks, Chongire.”

   “Thanks, kid.” Chongire replied, half a smile on his hard face.

   Elda grinned greedily, reaching for the sea cow milk with one hand and with the other, she was snatching up the seashell cookies that Chongire had made. Elda was munching them down, getting crumbs everywhere but she did it with an earnest excitement that was endearing. Even Numeri slyly sneaked a biscuit or two. It made Chongire smile, even if it was a gruff and somewhat hidden smile. He put a lot of effort into this pain in the neck cooking thing, it was nice to see it appreciated for once. He wasn’t going to get such gusto from the Witch of Delays any time soon so he did savour Elda’s gluttony and even Numeri’s as well.

   “Ah,” Elda exclaimed, smacking her lips together, “that was the good stuff.”

   “Ready to brush your teeth and go to bed then, hm, Elda?” Numeri prompted her.

   “I suppose.” Elda breathily sighed. “I’ll be quick as.”

   “No, you won’t. Two minutes.” Numeri told her.

   “Fiiiine.” Elda sighed loudly again.

   Chongire smiled to himself. Perhaps Numeri could be strict with Elda once in a while.

   Elda swam off to her ensuite and kept the door open. From the doorframe, she showed off how she could brush her teeth like a big girl and to complete Numeri’s order of at least two minutes. It was horrible. It was such an inconvenience, but Elda did it and then returned once she had wiped her mouth.

   Her little, fat tail wagged as she dived on her bed. She had a nice cosy little nest of a four poster bed in the corner. She got under the covers, wriggling down, and yawned, a little bit fakely. She patted her mouth and beckoned her two carers closer.

   Numeri very happily slithered closer, putting an arm around Elda, half in her own bed whilst Chongire hovered, a little distant, a little awkward. He crossed his arms but he sat down. Numeri smiled softly and she played with Elda’s hair, undoing her pigtails and straightening them out.

   “Is that better? Easier to sleep on?” she asked.

   “A little… yeah…” Elda murmured as she settled and then took a big breath. “But I want a bedtime story! You promised me a bedtime story!”

   Numeri giggled, “That I did, that I did…” she murmured. “Hm, let’s see… How about the story of Finderella.”

   “Ooh,” Elda’s eyes shone, “that’s my favourite.”

   “Glad to hear it,” Numeri said and then she glanced at Chongire, “what about you?”

   “It’s not bad.” Chongire replied with a flippant gesture of his gauntlet.

   “Well, you can do the prince’s voice.” Numeri said impishly.

   “I’ll try.” Chongire grumbled, he didn’t think he was going to be very good at it.

   Not like Numeri. She was a natural. Her tone of narration as she reeled off the story of the mermaid named Finderella was beautiful. Elda smiled, her eyes slowly closing, as she listened to Numeri’s fairy tale and by the end of it, Elda was snuggly and cosy in the bed. Numeri smiled gently and kissed Elda’s forehead.

   “And Finderella lived happily ever after…” she murmured, “Good night, Elda, sweet dreams, we’ll see you in the morning.

   “Okay,” Elda yawned, half-asleep, “night, night, Mama… g’night, Papa.”

   Numeri giggled, a scant blush of blue to her purplish face. She glanced at Chongire who was completely embarrassed.

   “Aww,” she whispered, “not yet ready to be a daddy?” she teased him.

   “N-No, it's not like that, argh, darn kids these days… I’m not that old.” Chongire grumbled.

   Numeri slowly edged away from the side of Elda’s bed and slithered towards Chongire. She slipped her arms around his huge, shelled forearms and snuggled in.

   “Speak for yourself,” Numeri murmured, “my biological clock is ticking.”

   Chongire grumbled but nothing coherent.

   “I think it's sweet that Elda considers us parental figures.” Numeri said and Chongire opened the door for them.

   Chongire’s guarded expression softened, “Yeah, it is,” Chongire murmured, “I guess I just wish…”

   “Wish it didn’t have to be so?” Numeri finished Chongire’s sentence for him.

   He nodded gravely as they continued down the halls. It was pretty lonely and very tough to grow up in the bottom of the ocean. Down an abyss where no one wanted them, except to use them like with the Witch of Delays. Cast out from the Grand Ocean, where light did penetrate the layers upon layers of water, where song and dance were commonplace. Where it was vibrant with energy and motivation and for reasons unknown, even to the adults that they were now, they had been forbidden it. Parents had abandoned them, or maybe they just came out of the squishy egg shell alone with only their instincts. Him, Numeri, and even little Elda. That was all the beats of their story - and it wasn’t exactly a fairy tale nor was it to be on the villains’ side.

 “C’mon, let’s go to bed, we’re too old to stay up late, don’t you think, Papa?” Numeri teased him even after that lull of unspoken, melancholic reverie.

   “Whatever you say, marm.” Chongire teased her back.

   “Well, I'm the doctor and doctors always know best.” Numeri said and she stretched herself up, her sea cucumber tail wiggling unsightly, just so she could get a chance at pecking the side of Chongire’s face.

   He smiled back at her, “Thanks and good night, Numeri, don’t sleep in again or we’ll all get in trouble.”

   “You better take your own advice as well then,” Numeri said and there was a bittersweet hesitance to how her hands slowly receded back to herself, the slimy pads of her fingertips skating over Chongire’s exoskeleton, “good night, Chongire.”

   With that, they parted and returned to their own quarters but for some reason, they both had the lingering feeling of not wanting to leave each other’s side. The heart could be very bothersome at times.

#100ships challenge #tropical rouge precure #precure #tropical rouge #numeri precure #chongire precure #elda precure #butler precure #chongire x numeri #numeri x chongire #writing tag #god i love villainous found family!!!! #also happy precure day

[sirtwentyofhousegoodmen]

Arcturus/Melania for a prompt?

April 3rd, 1923

Arcturus Black scowled at the sight before him.

There were dozens of them—from Hogwarts students who'd barely finished their O.W.L.'s to the despaired over daughters yet unwed and rapidly approaching the number deemed the end of an unattached pureblood woman's use (30), All the available pureblood girls (along with some rather bold, uppity half-bloods) were currently flooding the ballroom at Noire House, each about as desirable as the option that came before them.

As always, thoughts of Cedrella made his lip curl even further.

The sound of Abraxas's hiss of distaste brought the young heir to the House of Black out of what his sister would call his sulking, and he pinned down the young Malfoy heir with a questioning gaze.

"Wilhemina Selwyn is wearing the most ghastly gown I've ever seen in my life," He uttered, shuddering theatrically.

"It's not the dress that's at fault," came the smirking voice of Alexander Rowle. "It's the fact that it shows off those repugnant, veiny arms of hers."

"The gown, the veins—I care not, I'm blaming whatever's remotely involved with forcing me to witness that."

"Boys!"

Arcturus turned his head languidly at the unmistakeably deep voice of his younger brother Regulus—that somehow he still managed to make sound effeminate—and gave his brother a curt nod that the younger Black could glean the meaning off a mile away.

Arcturus was having a miserable time.

"Well, don't tell me you've started without me."

"We would never dare," Abraxas raised his glass, mockingly. "What fun is the game without the best player?"

‘The game’ being the snide comments each of them delighted in making about all the other party guests.

"Now, Archie—I know when my older brother's in a snit," Regulus smiled to himself at the eye-roll this elicited from his brother, then theatrically lowered his voice. "Tell me, which of them was it and where did they touch you?"

Arcturus's face turned bright red while Malfoy and Rowle tried—poorly—to hide their sniggers behind their goblets.

"Careful with your brother, Black," Rowle said, stamping down the last vestiges of his laughter. "The Macmillans pounced on him with their eldest twenty minutes ago and he's been in a state since."

Regulus furrowed his brow and scrunched up his nose in distaste. "Mildred Macmillan? Oh, Archie, you poor dear. Thoroughly repellant woman."

Arcturus huffed in agreement. "Too lippy by half."

"Believe me when I say I share in your misery, Arcturus." Regulus took a light sip from his sidecar. "The Crabbes just downright assaulted me with that Aligherian creature they call a daughter."

Abraxas snorted. "Aren't they speaking with your uncle about Pollux?"

"Yes, but why settle for the third-in-line when you can get the second?" He shrugged, perfectly flippant in that way only Regulus could be. "Not that it makes any difference for them, I'm afraid. Irma isn’t to my taste, ghastly personality aside.”

The others shifted their feet uncomfortably while Arcturus ground his teeth to dust. Regulus's...preferences were bad enough, but to have it alluded to in such a way! Still, Regulus' unflappable manner and his overly sharp tongue—owed to a childhood of reading everything there was in the library—tended to amuse the pureblood men in their set enough to engender a tentative kinship. If nothing else, he was a novelty—and, above all else, a Black.

"Either way, I'd still say my evening has been less miserable than yours, Arcturus. After all, you were the one this whole soireé was thrown for."

Arcturus grimaced. "I haven't forgotten. I can hardly go to the restroom without being accosted by some impudent hoyden with designs above her station. That little jape you made wasn't too far off, I'll have you know."

Regulus laughed, gaily. "I trust nothing as bad as your Hogwarts Graduation party happened yet, has it?"

Arcturus grimaced at the memory of a very drunk, very indecent Caroline Greengrass hiding underneath his bedsheets in some pie-eyed notion to make herself Mrs. Black.

"No, Thank God. Aside from the Fawleys practically throwing their plain daughter at me."

"Eugenie?" Alexander scoffed. "Quiet as a mouse and about as attractive as one to boot."

"What do you expect?" Malfoy scoffed. "She is a Fawley after all—no wonder they decided to send that sister of hers to France. Those debauched cheesemongers will take anything as long as it's got legs."

"Regardless," Arcturus said, over Rowle's chuckling and Regulus's poorly hidden laugh. "I will need to pick one by the end of the night. Won't do for my uncle to waste all this gold for nothing."

"Oh, be still my beating heart," Regulus quipped.

"What do you want from me, Regulus?" Arcturus asked, patience worn thinner than his Uncle Cygnus's hair. "This is a cattle show with ballgowns, nothing more."

Regulus lifted up his hands in mock surrender. "Down, Archie. It's only a jape—you're no fun at all tonight. Normally we all have a delightful time bullying these unfortunates and you're stewing like a...stew? Bah, I can't think of anything clever to say anymore, this sidecar really does pack a punch."

The MacMillans appeared to have caught sight of him if the matriarch—a Goyle from a secondary branch that was far too ambitious for her own good—pointing wildly in Arcturus's direction to her long-suffering husband was any sign.

"If you'll excuse me—I need to leave before that woman tears me to pieces."

Without another word in his companions' direction, he bolted from the pillar they had been hiding behind for the last half-hour, and left through the first open door for the gardens he could find. Thankfully, Arcturus neither saw nor heard any witches or wizards upon his arrival outside, and he breathed out a sigh of immense relief.

He stayed there a few seconds, fixed to the marble flooring as if it were some rendezvous point, then shook off any odd feelings and set about a brisk walk around the gardens to gather his bearings.

As always, however, God had not seen fit to make his dreadful day any easier and after a few minutes of nothing but blessed solitude, he saw a petite girl at the entrance of the greenhouse.

Arcturus frowned. Brown hair, brown eyes—similar enough in looks but less beautiful than her elder sister. Yes, it was most certainly the younger Macmillan girl—she was in Regulus’s year, if he recalled correctly.

As if he hadn’t had enough of that lot today.

“Miss Macmillan, is it?”

The slip of a girl jumped, letting out a slight yelp in surprise.

“Oh, my—Mr—Sir, I, forgive me, I was only—“

“Settle down, Miss Macmillan. I mean no harm.” Arcturus walked toward her, grateful that she seemed to calm slightly at his approach. He had no patience for dealing with a ditzy, skittish schoolgirl tonight on top of everything else.

“Arcturus Black,” He nodded at her, rather less curt than he usually did, much to his own confusion. “We met earlier, I believe.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Black. What an unexpected pleasure.”

He snorted lightly, but didn’t comment. “Have you an interest in botany?” He nodded toward the venomous tentacula plant she’d been studying before his entrance.

The girl nodded, enthusiastic. “Herbology is my best subject at Hogwarts. We haven’t taken our N.E.W.T.’s yet, but I’m sure I’ll do well.”

“Seventh year?”

The girl nodded once, tucking an errant brown curl that had slipped out of her pinned updo behind her ear.

“The last year tends to be more...difficult for some,” Arcturus said, in an attempt at conversation—not that he knew how it felt for those who were sentimental about leaving hogwarts.

The headmaster during his own years there was his very own grandfather, after all.

She seemed to hesitate, biting her lip lightly. Looking at her in this light, he thought perhaps his judgement of her beauty was rather unfair—she wasn’t as pretty as her sister, but she was the farthest thing from plain. “It’s hard to believe it’s all over in three months. I’m rather glad I have more time to garden, however. Aside from Herbology, school was never much of an interest for me. I’ll leave all those books to my husband when I marry, I’m sure.” Arcturus nodded in approval at that, the beginnings of an idea forming in his mind. “And you?”

He gave her a dry look. “I’m afraid the only thing I know about plants is how to kill them.”

She smiled shyly at the jest, and bizarrely he found himself returning it. “I’m sure you’re not as bad as all that. I hear you’ve an interest in horseflesh—one needs to be somewhat proficient in herbology if they intend to keep their horses in good health.”

Arcturus blinked, rendered mute upon the first thoughtful words he’d heard anyone say all evening. “Quite,” he nodded. “Are you knowledgeable in horseflesh, Miss?”

“I’d like to think so,” She said, fiddling with her gloves. “My grandfather keeps a stable at our house in Kintyre. I’ve been riding them since I was seven.”

“Side-saddle?” Arcturus asked, probingly.

She looked slightly offended. “Of course, Mr. Black—I could hardly ride astride, it’s unseemly for a woman.”

Arcturus felt a feline grin make its way onto his face. “I quite agree, I hope I didn’t cause any offence. Please, call me Arcturus.”

She blinked, then had the grace to blush—as if his choice hadn’t already been made obvious to him, that only solidified it further. “Of course, Arcturus, none was taken. You may call me Melania, then—or Melly, if it pleases you—that’s what everyone calls me,” she supplied, holding out her hand almost hesitatingly. Arcturus, just as all pureblood men were taught, dropped a kiss to the back of it, keeping eye contact all the way through.

Modest? Demure? Beautiful, but not so much it made her unbearably impudent and overly entitled?

The only downside was having that Goyle harpy as a mother-in-law. Then again, if all the men in his family had taught him anything, it’s that every man hates his mother-in-law. Either way, at least this dreadful affair could finally come to an end—as well as the incessant stream of grasping trollops his bachelorhood brought with it.

Silver linings and all that.

#arcturus black #melania macmillan black #prompts #ask #anon #noble and most ancient house of black #harry potter #the black sheep dog #ozymandias #abraxas malfoy #regulus black

[written-on-the-trees]

Silver Linings In Winter Clouds - Machine Gun Kelly Fan Fiction

Prompt: Nativity Play (very, very loosely)

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2100 words (I know, okay, it got away from me)

Summary: High-school AU. Colson is almost one-hundred per-cent sure that there was no punishment worse than having to join the drama club for their Christmas play, even one of the other members is possibly the cutest girl he's ever seen...

Colson had thought he had experienced the worst of his school’s punishments for bad behavior, having been in detention almost every week since he could remember, but he had been wrong.

   So, so wrong.

   He stared in horror at the carnage unfolding in front of him, and wondered if the punishment for bailing on this punishment could really be any worse than what he was currently facing.

 Sure, he might get suspended or something…but he wasn’t really sure that was any worse than being forced to take part on the drama club’s Christmas play. His dad would absolutely flip his shit, but he’d be able to pick up some extra shifts at work, and he’d get out of the fucking nightmare that was this drama club bullshit.

 Colson was more than ready to take his chances, when Mr. Greene, the drama teacher, saw him frozen in the doorway to the practice room, and cheerfully called out to him:

   “Mr. Baker! So glad you could make it.”

   Too late to escape now.

   Unwilling to lose face by running (or even walking) away now everyone was looking at him, Colson curled his lip in disdain and stepped further into the room.

 He wasn’t a coward.

 Disgusted by all this theatre shit, but not a coward.

 It was exactly the kind of attitude they were expecting from him, so it wasn’t long before they were all going back to focusing on that they had been doing before Mr. Greene had drawn everyone’s attention to him. Knowing Greene, it was probably a deliberate way of irritating Colson - the guy was just like that - but unfortunately that didn’t mean Colson could avoid him. Greene was the only one who could sign off on Colson’s report that documented him actually being here…and he was also the only one who could give Colson a job to do, because Colson sure as hell wasn’t taking any initiative with this shit.

 The less effort he could put in, the better. It was bad enough that people were going to think he was one of the drama nerds (albeit unwillingly), he refused to give anyone even an inkling that he was enjoying or being proactive about being part of this.

 As it was, Greene sent him over to work with the group of kids working on the scenery, muttering something about putting his height to good use. Colson had never been so grateful to be a lanky motherfucker as he was right then, walking over to where four girls and two guys were leant over various bits of paper, arguing between themselves.

   “Hey…apparently I’m meant to be helping out over here.” Colson announced to get their attention, watching as all six of them looked up from the paper and had six different reactions.

   Brendan, always the drama queen, threw his hands up and stormed away while muttering about not wanting to deal with ‘the white trash kid in detention’. His twin sister, Ellie, smiled apologetically and went after him to calm him down. Willow looked a little nervous, which was understandable since the last time she’d seen him he had been kicking the shit out of her older brother. Cameron beamed friendlily and welcomed him to the team. Darren just smiled.

 And then there was Belle.

 Colson had to stop himself from staring as she smiled at him, the soft, somehow glowing expression one he’d never had directed at him before.

 She looked so gorgeous, standing there in her black denim dungarees and white t-shirt with the small splotch of pink paint on the shoulder and with the paint and ink stains on her hands, Colson felt like he almost swallowed his own tongue. She just looked so…soft, so sweet, like some kind of paint-stained Christmas angel.

 He was instantly in love with her.

   I’m so screwed…

      Being in regular contact with Belle was doing nothing to stop Colson feeling like he was doomed – because if their first meeting had been difficult, with Colson feeling like he was tripping over his words every time he spoke to her (although thankfully she seemed not to have notices his sudden incompetence when it came to speech), then the second was basically excruciating.

 The thing was, Belle was nice.

 Genuinely, altruistically, nice.

 Unlike Brendan, who sneered at Colson every time he spoke, or Willow and Darren who were still a bit jumpy around him, Belle always took time to not just say hello when he showed up, but actually ask how his day had been and then listen when he responded - however flippant his responses were.

 She laughed at his jokes, and shut Darren up when Colson saw a bit of scenery design so blatantly stupid he had to suggest it be changed - because even if he was going to be part of this fiasco, he wasn’t going to have his name associated with anything so dumb as the fake graffiti Brendan had drawn on the plans.

 Modern take on the Christmas Nativity scene or not, there was no need for that bullshit.

   Colson hadn’t really expected anyone to take his side, even when he explained why he didn’t like it, but then Belle had nodded and said: “That’s a fair point - what would you suggest we do instead?”

 “Like, speak to someone who maybe knows how to do that graffiti shit?” Colson asked.

 “I’m sure you have a whole list of degenerate friends to recommend - ” Brendan sneered, but Belle cut him off:

 “Great idea, Colson. I know exactly who to ask.”

      On the day of their third meeting, Belle walked into the room five minutes later than Colson, with a familiar face trailing after her.

 Dom was a kind-of friend of Colson’s in the same way he was a kind-of friend with everyone in this school; he just had one of those personalities. He went to the same parties as Colson and his friends, wrote stories that had him in good standing with the English Lit kids, and apparently spent a lot of his art classes working next to Belle.

 He also was well known for creating various pieces of artwork all over any walls he got get to without being seen. His fingers were constantly stained with spray paint.

   Colson was a little bit surprised to see him, but still happy to chat while the others were distracted: “Hey man, I didn’t know you got involved with this shit.”

 “I don’t, normally. Mr. Greene hates me.” Dom laughed loudly - and drawing a furious expression out of Greene: “But Belle’s sound, and she asked me to ‘consult’, so here I am.”

   Colson shouldn’t be surprised that other people thought Belle was a good person - or ‘sound’ as Dom put it - and, when he thought about it, he wasn’t.

 He just surprised at how in love he was with her after just two meetings.

   I’m so unbelievably screwed…

      After a week of planning sessions, Belle took Colson to the art cupboard to help her gather supplies for painting the scenery Willow and Cameron were currently drawing out back on the stage of the school theatre.

 He wasn’t much use; standing outside with a big cardboard box in his arms while Belle actually found everything they had been sent out to go and get, but Belle didn’t seem to mind all that much…

   “I’m just so glad I don’t have to lug it all back by myself, or with Darren.” she confided in him while putting some pots of brightly coloured paint in the box he was holding: “Don’t tell him I said it, but you’ve got a lot more muscles than he does.”

 Colson knew she was only being friendly…but that didn’t stop him from winking at her: “Thanks, I worked hard for them.”

 “And they’re very nice, too.” Belle laughed, clearly taking his response as a joke…but Colson didn’t mind her missing him flirting with her.

   He’d seen her looking at his arms.

 She hadn’t just been teasing.

 Colson wasn’t the only one

      On opening night, Colson was hanging out backstage, leaning against a wall and waiting for his cue to help move the scenery about on stage. They had to keep it down, as to not be heard over ‘Marine’ and ‘Joey’ dramatically bemoaning that there was no room at the inn – in rhyming couplets (Colson was seriously glad he hadn’t been put with the kids writing the script for this punishment, he might have actually punched someone), but it was still…alright.

 Brendan was still a dick, obviously, but Willow had warmed up enough to offer him some sour patch kids from the bag she, Ellie, Belle, and Cameron were sharing (which was more than she’d offered Brendan - which Colson was taking as a major win), and Belle was leaning against the wall next to him, dressed in a pair of black slacks and a black button-down shirt like the rest of them, with her chocolate-coloured hair smoothed into a sleek twist, and her skin free of paint.

 Honestly, Colson kind of missed the paint stains…but he had to admit he wasn’t ungrateful to be seeing the smokey eyeshadow and deep red lipstick she’d put on for when they went out on stage to take their bow after the play was over.

 After a month of spending anywhere between one and three hours a day with her, Colson could safely say he’d never wanted anyone more than he wanted Belle.

 She was…indescribable. Literally; he didn’t have all the words to describe her properly, and Colson prided himself on being eloquent. He adored everything about her: from the fact she was constantly sketching in a notebook just as he always had scraps of paper to write down anything he thought might sound good in a song, the way she was quick to laugh and even quicker to smile, and the fact that she was always willing to give someone a chance, no matter how disdainful they were when she met them.

 Yeah, he was talking about himself.

 Belle had been nice to him, even when he didn’t deserve it. Even when, to make sure everyone knew he was no coward, he’d acted like a dick.

 Well, Colson still wasn’t a coward…so tonight, after they’d all taken their bow and shit, he was going to ask Belle if she wanted to go out with him at some point over the Christmas break. Just the thought was terrifying, but if she noticed anything, she was kind enough not to mention it as they waited around backstage, or as they moved scenery as required, or when they went out and took their bow with the script writers, the kid who’d done the lighting and sound effects, the kids who’d make the costumes.

 She just…carried on making normal conversation, and didn’t seem to mind when Colson’s responses were a little halting and disjointed. She didn’t even say anything when they were heading out of the back of the auditorium after most of the audience had left, and Colson was trailing after her, feeling a little like a lost puppy…

 He felt like an idiot, so when she paused just before she was about to say goodbye, Colson blurted out:

   “Hey, Belle, I know we probably won’t be seeing each other much now my detention in theatre club is over, since if I stick around I might get kicked out for finally punching Brendan like he deserves, but I was wondering if…maybe you wanted to go out over winter break? Like, on a date?”

 Belle looked surprised for a few seconds, and Colson’s heart dropped…but then she grinned, fishing a pen out of her pocket and scrawling her number on the back of his hand, before leaning up to press her lips against his cheek: “I’d love to. Text me to work something out?”

 “I’d love to…” Colson echoed, feeling a little dazed from the kiss…but still overjoyed.

   Belle laughed gently, before ducking out when someone called for her.

 Colson waited a few seconds in the room, probably smiling like an idiot, before heading out too.

   Slim and Rook were waiting for him just outside the doors, the grins on the faces confirming that they had heard everything Colson and Belle had said, with Slim greeting Colson with a congratulatory grin: “So, bro, how do we sign up next year? I’m thinking I need a way to find me a hot girl…”

#The Trees' Christmas 2020 Writing Collection #The Trees Writes #Machine Gun Kelly imagine #Machine Gun Kelly fanfic #Machine Gun Kelly fan fic #Machine Gun Kelly fan fiction #MGK imagine #MGK fanfic #MGK fan fic #MGK fan fiction #Colson Baker imagine #Colson Baker fanfic #colson baker fan fic #Colson Baker fan fiction

[someonefantastic]

For the Greater Good

Wow day 9! Almost at double digits, wild. Wanted to do something fun with early shules and this prompt worked out very nicely. Enjoy! Summary: Shawn gets himself taken hostage and Juliet feels a lot of ways about it. Warnings: hostage situation, guns, slight acts of violence also on ao3 ___

Things on Juliet O’Hara’s to-do list: 1) Deposit check 2) Bring Carlton his favorite coffee 3) Rent the Dark Knight 4) Finish the paperwork on the Zarski case

Things not on Juliet O’Hara’s to-do list: 1) Be trapped with Shawn in a hostage situation at the bank

And yet here she was.

Seeing Shawn at the bank hadn’t been planned. Frankly, she had been surprised when he greeted her with his normal outgoing tone. She wasn’t aware he had an account at her same bank. Regardless, she didn’t mind the company and the two had struck up a conversation while waiting in line.

He had just been in the middle of an elaborate story where Gus used his left shoe as collateral for not cleaning the sink when four masked men burst through the front door. Waving their guns around, they ordered everyone to get down on the ground.

Shawn quickly grabbed her arm, pulling her out of sight beside the receptionist's desk. She briefly considered chiding him for having bad luck with banks but settled for a simple ‘thank you’ instead.

The two of them watched with bated breath as the men emptied the safes and deposit boxes. Even with her cop training and pistol and his psychic abilities, it would be very hard to go up against them. She crossed her fingers, hoping the tellers had tripped the silent alarm and that backup would be arriving shortly.

Soon backup did arrive, though it didn’t have the effect she was hoping for. Instead, the robbers started hauling civilians to their feet, lining them up in a sort of human shield formation.

Silently cursing their luck, she turned to Shawn ready to devise a plan to take down the men or at least give back up an opening. To her shock and annoyance, he patted her knee and got to his feet, stepping out into the open.

Her eyes went wide. He really was an idiot sometimes.

“Guys, come on. It’s a little overkill to take multiple hostages.” He spoke up, hands in the air as the gunmen focused their weapons on him. “If you ask me, you really need just one.”

“Yeah?” The tallest one, clearly in charge, sneered, “And who do you suggest? This one?”

He reached down and dragged a young brunette- probably in college judging by the newer Santa Barbara University sweatshirt she wore- to her feet. The girl’s eyes were wide and frantic and Juliet’s fingers twitched towards her gun. If an innocent civilian got hurt because of Shawn’s antics, she was going to kill him.

He remained calm, though she noticed the subtle clench of his jaw. Guess he wasn’t expecting that either. “Wow, you guys really aren’t that smart. Obviously I meant me.”

The leader laughed, “Aw trying to play hero. What makes you so special?”

Shawn grinned, clearly waiting for that question, “Cause I’m a psychic, jack. I’m really good, I’ve solved tons of cases for the SBPD. Trust me, I’m much better collateral than some random person.”

The gunmen all exchanged glances. “Prove it.”

His grin turned cocky as he raised a finger to his head. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Leave it to him to show off in the middle of a hostage situation.

“Well for starters, beefy over here,” He gestured to the strongest looking guy, “has been using steroids. That makes me think either bodybuilder or in some sort of sports.”

The guy growled and took a step forward. Juliet’s fingers tightened around her gun, ready to act.

“Actually, I’m getting a reading here that you all are in somewhat lower-income jobs and all have a history with drugs am I right?”

She could see their eyes narrow through the slits in their masks and she silently urged Shawn to stop talking.

Apparently, though psychics don’t pick up on urgent messages sent out by well-meaning cops/friends.

“Wow, tough crowd. Not a nod or anything.” He shrugged. “Well how about you my good sir,” He pointed at the leader, “I’m getting a nice foreman vibe off of you huh? You work construction?”

She slapped her hands over her mouth as a fist slammed into his face, knocking him off balance.

There was a chorus of laughter as one of the guys grabbed his arms. “You’re going to regret playing hero, psychic.”

Juliet caught the flash of fear in Shawn’s eyes and knew she had to act. She couldn’t let them take him. He was still a civilian. If he got hurt, she’d never be able to forgive herself. They were friends, he made her laugh, brought her coffee occasionally, and was a big help on cases. He never failed to make her day better, practically lit up the room the moment he walked in. Underneath his flippant facade, he was caring and kind and also easy on the eyes. She didn’t mind watching him flit around the room so long as she got a good view-

She shook her head, now was not the time for intrusive thoughts. Shawn was her friend and she would feel this way if any of her friends foolishly got themselves taken hostage by bank robbers.

“Get it together O’Hara.” She whispered, eyes still fixed on the psychic.

The other men were now wrestling him towards the backdoor, not caring too much if they slammed him into a wall or a counter. He kept trying to speak up, not seeming to understand that when he did, he’d get hurt again.

In a few seconds, they’d be out the door and he’d be gone. She had to act now.

Her hands shook slightly and she smoothed down imaginary wrinkles on her pantsuit to try and calm them. Taking a deep breath, she set her gun down on the floor.

“Wait.” Her voice was deceptively calm as she stood, hard stare fixed on the robbers, “Take me instead.”

She could practically see the eye roll through the black slits in their masks.

“What girlie, you want to play hero too? We’re kinda running out of time here so unless you have something better than a psychic who works for the police department, I’d advise you to get down before you get shot.”

She avoided Shawn’s eyes, knowing that if she looked into them, he could somehow talk her out of this whole thing.

“How about a Police Detective?”

The men’s eyes turned cold, immediately fixing their guns on her.

Shawn struggled in their grasps. “Don’t listen to her! She’s lying.”

“No. I’m not.” She shot back. “Detective Juliet O’Hara with the SBPD and you can put your guns down, I’m unarmed.”

They didn’t relent. “What are you trying to pull Detective?”

“Nothing. Just take me instead. He’s still a civilian so if you take him, you’ll have the police right on your tails. But if you take me… well I’m expendable. I signed up for this and they know it. Their focus will be on making sure the civilians are safe, not on a detective.” She bit the inside of her lip, hoping they’d take the bait.

They glared at her as if trying to make sure she was telling the truth. She stared back just as hard, urging them to trust her.

The leader grabbed Shawn, shoving him to the front. For a brief second blue met hazel, hundreds of unreadable emotions flashing in his eyes. Then, a loud crack as the butt of a gun hit his skull and he fell forward.

Her jaw clenched, resisting the urge to either grab her gun and light this place up or run to his side. Instead, she let the men take her, fingers jabbing into her arms as they hauled her away.

Casting a glance back, her eyes lingered on Shawn one last time. At least he was safe. This was all for the greater good.

#whumptober2020 #no. 9 #for the greater good #take me instead #psych #juliet o'hara #shawn spencer #shules #gun tw #hostage situation tw #shawn whump #angst #skipps writes #psych fanfic

[cynicalrainbows]

Prompt: Anne is disbelieved by the other queens, Part 2.

Another prompt asked for Aragon/Boleyn hurt/comfort so I’m trying to work that in here too. I feel like the strength of Aragon and Boleyn’s friendship would be the fact that they really DO have a lot of history together- they’ve seen the best and worst of one another, and that MUST create a bit of a bond.

Thank you all for the lovely feedback- do let me know if you have thoughts or opinions please!

She takes a perverse pleasure in the fact that it takes a good two hours more before she’s on the doorstep, even though it means her feet are painful- sore and bleeding- by the time she’s home.

She’s hoping she’ll be able to sneak up to her room unobserved but of course she isn’t so lucky- for one thing, she manages to trip over the edge of the doormat (she never pretended to be overly graceful) and for another, Aragon is waiting for her in the living room.

Damn.

‘Anne?’

She’s too busy rubbing her banged knee to bother to answer.

‘Where have you been? We were so worried!’

‘What do you care?’

It’s surprisingly easy to talk freely to Aragon, but then, they’ve always been able to understand one another, even when they haven’t actually liked one another all that much. (She suspects it comes from the fact that really, despite everything, they do share some similarities, stubbornness- or tenacity, depending on whether you ask Jane or Cathy- being one.)

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘What do you think?’

There’s a relief in talking to someone she knows, without duty or obligation. Aragon and Jane are the only ones she knows from back then, but even Jane she only knew briefly (not that she had wanted to really but even if she had, it would have been tricky, the girl ever surrounded three deep by cousins, brothers, uncles, all desperate to steer her towards the King).

‘I’m not playing games here, Anne.’

Aragon though she has known both as a mistress and friend (back when she was just another maid in waiting, back when court was frightening and the King was a distant golden young man), and as a rival: they have lived closely together, seen bitterness and jealousy and pettiness and anger in one another. 

‘Well good. Neither am I.’

‘You’re being ridiculous!’

She has never felt the need to obfuscate with Aragon- she knows the woman can take anything she might throw at her, she knows nothing will surprise or shock her. She doesn’t feel the need to protect her, like she does with Kitty, nor does she need to worry overmuch how Aragon perceives her (like she does with Anna, Jane and Cathy). 

‘Well, you’re driving me to it- as if it matters where I was, for gods sake!’

Aragon has seen her, all of her, even the parts of her life she is least proud of, so she doesn;t need to hold back. She can be honest. (For once.)

‘What do you mean by that?’

And so can Aragon, it seems. She wonders if the woman in front of her feels the same relief at the fact that she can be just as annoyed in front of Anne as she wants to be- no need to soften herself so as not to scare Kitty or to protect Cathy’s possibly slightly idealised view of the godmother she never knew in her first life.

‘Well it’s not like you’ll believe me if I tell you, right?’

‘You’re such a child sometimes! Did you not think how much it would affect Katherine, you just leaving like that? She’s convinced you hate her.’

She feels, simultaneously, a twist of guilt deep in her stomach, but also, a little flame of anger.

‘Well did it occur to-’ She bites off the ‘her’ that’s about to come out, she’s not just angry at Kitty. Although she is angry- angry and hurt- with all of them. ‘-to all of you that it perhaps wasn’t the most fun for me to have you all against me like that? That maybe I didn’t want to stick around for any more accusations?’

‘Over a phone message Anne, for goodness sake-’

‘It doesn’t matter what it was- if it wasn’t important, why did I have you all confront me over it at once? So don’t you dare pretend I’m overreacting now!’

‘Anne-’

‘And none of you even considered that I might be telling the truth’ She wants it to sound more forceful but it just comes out tired. She’s weary of defending herself, she’s weary of trying to prove herself to people who have already made up their minds. ‘Why would you even be worried about me anyway? Can’t love someone who can’t even be trusted, right?’

‘Anne-’ Aragon’s brow furrows, as if she’s genuinely confused by this. ‘We- obviously, we still care about you. Even if-’

‘Even if you all think I’m a lying whore?’

Aragon flinches. ‘God. No. What are you even talking about?’

The words had sounded funny in her head, flippant, but they’d landed with more weight than she’d intended. 

‘Well-’

‘Look.’ Aragon rubs her face tiredly. ‘I’m sorry, ok? You’re…..absolutely right. We didn’t believe you. But it wasn’t fair of us to all to refuse to give you the benefit of the doubt. And we were worried- honestly.’

‘Right.’

‘Really. Anna and I went out for a bit to see if we could find where you’d gone.’ Anne’s head lifts a bit. ‘Cathy was in charge of trying to call your phone, from all our numbers, to see if you’d pick up.’

‘...Didn’t take my phone.’

‘Ah. Well, that’ll explain why it didn’t work then. Cathy thought you were just ignoring her. Jane-’ Aragon pauses. ‘Well, Jane was honestly mostly focused with trying to calm Kitty down and reassure her that you weren’t going to get killed. But she was worried too.’

‘Fair enough.’

She says it nonchalantly but she does feel a bit bad too. (She’s glad, in spite of everything, that Kitty has Jane to take care of her when she isn’t around.) But it still isn’t enough to make everything ok- she feels guilty, but it doesn’t take away the hurt.

She keeps flashing back to their blank, hard faces- all of them against her, all of them believing her guilty. Just like before.

‘Should be proud really- all that fuss for a witch, people are usually glad when they leave the town in peace-’

It’s like she can’t quite keep back the barbed little jokes, even though she knows they’re not really...appropriate. She should accept Aragon’s apology, she should go to bed- but she can’t.

‘-or get burnt at the stake. Whatever it takes to get rid of harlot, right?’

She’s always been honest with Aragon, is the problem- too honest, usually. It’s hard to have a filter.

‘Obviously I came back though…. It’s like they say, whores are like syphilis-’

‘Anne!’

Aragon is looking at her almost angrily- her grip on Anne’s shoulders is fiercely strong.

‘Just….stop. Ok? Stop.’

#sixfix #six #six the musical #six the musical fanfiction #six the musical headcanons

[frangipanidownunder]

Fox Mulder’s Guide to Building a Pool: part 2

Read Part 1

A/N This is in answer to an anon prompt: Mulder builds a pool in the yard. It ran away from me so I’ll post it in two parts.

This is set post IWTB and assumes Season 10 didn’t happen. Because it shouldn’t have, am I right? Angsty to start with.

Winter

November rushed headlong into house and yard with blizzards and ice storms and squealing winds under the doors. The pool project remained as frozen as the ground but his brain was always planning. Winter was the end of things, yet, even as he scraped freezing condensation from the inside of the windows, he felt a kind of resurgence. Like his bare, unadorned spirit had rested enough to begin anew. It helped that he spoke to Scully often, random phone calls, text messages with links to articles she’d found on cryptid sightings or arcane deaths. Her emoji use was spot on. Aliens and foxes and ghosts and a solitary blue heart.

Christmas Eve and she sent him a message about a sighting of a ‘gargantuan, hirsute humanoid’ in a Florida forest and after reading it with a sense of comforting familiarity and relieved distance, he googled the meaning of the blue heart. Trust, harmony, peace and loyalty. Reading into emojis had to rank right up there on the Fox Mulder Chart of Weirdness but the idea of it, that she had carefully researched this colour and chosen it as the one to close off her messages to him, took root in his own heart and he felt a burst of that same restless energy that had plagued him for months.

He walked to the back door, chancing a look out. A smirry rain fell, leaving the bare branches oily in the low light. Further around, the pool, sunk below the hard, cold earth was a gaping dark mouth, the concrete bearing the marks of months of bad weather. In one corner, debris from the yard had collected, twigs and small stones, plastic wrapping floating in the grimy pool of melted snow that covered the base.

The sound of her voice as she picked up the call pulled a smile to his lips. She sounded pleased to hear from him. Excited almost.

“Hey.” It was an extended version of her usual greeting. A stretching of the word into something more. His heart skipped. “I know you don’t celebrate, but Happy Christmas, Mulder.”

It would have been typical for him to make some flippant remark about stockings or mistletoe but instead, he raked up the trash in the pool as he wished her season’s greetings and listened to her stories of wrapping gifts for the kids at work and the terribly formal staff dinner where the turkey was overcooked and the hasselbacks were rubbery and she left early so she could pull on her pyjamas and robe and watch It’s a Wonderful Life and then, after a breathy pause, added, that it wasn’t the same on her own.

“What’s that noise?” she asked.

He could have said it was the sound of his heart breaking free of his ribcage but he shook his head at himself and took a deep breath. “Would you believe me if I said I was cleaning the pool?” She laughed and he burst right through her green light. “Did you want to come over, Scully?”

She would very much love to, she said, and he held the phone to his chest while he scraped out the detritus against the side wall one-handed. The first flake of snow landed and he looked up to the silver heavens and whispered a thank-you.

Guilt crept in when he saw a parcel in her hand. “I didn’t get you anything, Scully.” He took her coat, the bag of groceries and the gift and she said she’d forgive him and he grinned at her as he rattled the box until she tutted and snatched it back from him.

“I’ll put it under the tree,” she said but the living room was empty of seasonal decor and she looked down at the gift and her feet and he wondered if he could pull out all the boxes in the attic to retrieve the decorations but she shook her head and laughed through her nose. “Don’t worry about it.” She could still read him like a book.

The intensity of the storm took them by surprise, heaping snow against the window sills and the door and Scully’s car until everything was silent-white and glistening. He poured brandy over ice and she sank into the couch next to him wrapped in a blanket and wearing a resigned smile.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I’m not due at mom’s until New Year. I was going to be working but that changed, so I have no plans.” She squeezed his knee and there was a glint in her eye that had him almost believing that she’d engineered the weather, just like that Holman guy from years before, but Dana Scully MD was no lovelorn meteorologist. She was the sender of blue heart emojis, the bringer of turkey steaks and farmer’s market vegetables, she was the best present ever, the three wise men and more.

She was also a little tipsy, he thought, eyeing her reddened cheeks and the way she shucked off her boots to tuck her ankles under her ass. He hadn’t seen her so loose for years. He’d spent too long ignoring her that by the time she left she was coiled like wire rope and just as cool to touch.

“If this storm keeps up maybe we can skate on your pool,” she said and giggled, pressing her fingers under her nose.

“You want to rush me to ER with multiple fractures on Christmas morning, Scully?” He swallowed the liquor.

Her face straightened and she cleared her throat. “It will be strange, won’t it, being here tomorrow? Waking up on Christmas morning together. It’s not something we’ve done for…”

“Three years,” he said and let that settle between them before adding, “but I’m looking forward to it.”

“Because it feels like we’ve moved past…all that?”

All that. All that rage and disappointment. All that bitterness and rancour. All that unsaid. Too much said. “Because it feels fated,” he said. And she pulled a face. “Preordained, inexorable.”

“Destined,” she said, leaning forward. “Portentous?”

He chuckled. “That has a negative connotation, like foreshadowed. It’s more ominous than auspicious.”

“I’m going to have to take back that Thesaurus and buy you something else, Mulder.” She nodded to the present on the table.

“I used to be poor,” he said and she quirked her eyebrow. “Then my partner bought me a thesaurus and now I’m impecunious.”

Her snort was half-laugh, half-surprise. “We’re not…”

“I know.”

The next morning dawned clear and Mulder was already awake. Had hardly slept. Like a child at Christmas, he thought wryly, impatient for his gift. Scully wasn’t for unwrapping though. At this stage, he was lucky she was here to decorate his living room. The brightest star. An angel.

She was dressed in his old anorak he’d used years before to clear the yard when they first moved in. It surrounded her like a canoe, pointed hood above her head and falling to almost her ankles. She was dragging something behind her, leaving a thick trail through the snow. Mulder opened the door and she huffed through, revealing her treasure – a small pine tree, dripping melting snow in grey piles on the floor.

He found a box of decorations behind a wall of old books, dusted them off and climbed back down the ladder. She’d made cocoa and found marshmallows from that Mary Poppins bag of hers. She added a dash of brandy with a hair of the dog wink and they made the tree pretty.

Flipping pancakes, he watched her as she sat in the chair near the window, wrapped now in one of his sweaters, pink-stockinged feet crossed. “If you squint through these blinds, Mulder, and use your imagination, of which you received a wild and overly large share, it looks like there’s a snow monster in the pool.”

“Are you still drunk, Scully?” He bent beside her, close enough to see the dark skin on the mole above her lip.

“I am not, look! There. See it? It’s got shifty eyes and a long nose.”

He rubbed at his own features and she jabbed his hand away.

“It’s there. I swear. Come on, I’ll show you.” She shot up and dragged him outside where the cold shrunk his skin around his bones. The sky threatened to unload again and she shivered despite her layers. He slunk an arm around her shoulders and she swayed into him. “There. Look. See?” Her finger pointed but he couldn’t have seen a thing beyond the fact that she was there, right next to him in the dead of winter, gesticulating to a lump of frozen water.

“At least when Frosty the Snowmonster dies, the pool will be quarter full,” he said, holding open the door for her. She dipped under his arm and it felt like old times.

Spring

Blossom hugged the ends of branches, pom-poms of pink dipping on the breeze. The sun was watery-warm and birdsong amplified the hope of the season. He’d tiled the pool himself, enjoying he exact nature of the work. The water delivery contractor was late but the from his vantage point on the front deck, Mulder couldn’t care less. Just for an hour or so, he could afford to do nothing. He told himself he deserved it. He let his eyes slip shut.

“Can’t a girl get a fanfare any more?” Scully was standing at the foot of the steps, casual in blue jeans and a fitted mint-green tee, her hair was pulled back in a scruffy ponytail that usually signified she was about to get messy.

He made trumpet noises and she bowed when she reached the deck. From her tote she took out a bag of pastries. He liked this version of Scully. He liked her very much. This soft, coquettish variety gave him hope like the spring and made him feel lighter.

“I’ll make coffee,” he said and ushered her through with a theatrical wave.

The truck arrived two hours late but that was two hours passed with Scully who spent her time asking questions about the pump and the pool fence requirements and whether he was going to plant a garden and how much she loved the mosaic tile design on the bottom and whether he’d considered a shade sail. She wrinkled her nose and her freckles danced. He had a vision of her sunburnt and cranky.

“I’ll order one before the heat hits,” he said, solemnly.

“Don’t do it just for me,” she said, over the din of the hose being unravelled from the truck.

As though he would do anything for anyone else. He’d spent much of the time since the Father Joe case doing things only for himself. He couldn’t see it then, but his focus had narrowed beyond the scope of voiceless victims, beyond the purview of his domestic responsibilities and from his refreshed perspective, he could see now how Scully had been cut out of his orbit.

“Did you imagine this when we first moved in here?”

“You designing and constructing a pool, sundeck and safety fence? Mulder, when we first moved here you couldn’t have built a house of cards. Remember when the screen door fell off the hinges and you tried to fix it but ended up breaking the drill. You were so angry, a wounded animal fighting off any help. I thought…” she covered her eyes with her hand to watch the water running over the bottom of the pool, steadily rising, filling the void. “I should have left sooner. Maybe you would have rediscovered this…this spirit of yours earlier.”

“You think your leaving prompted me to do all this?”

“Didn’t it?”

“It took more than three years of you not…”

She sucked in a breath and it dawned on him that she was still hurting too. Would it ever stop? Or was the pain destined to be a constant companion to remind them of their failings? Was building a pool really just a diversion from the agony of Scully being gone? Was her position at the hospital just her version of a building project? She was building herself a better life and he was building a pool.

“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching for his hand and squeezing gently. “For not trying harder.”

The drone of the truck’s motor stuttered to a halt and he looked down at her. She was gazing at the water as it slapped at the sides, settling. “You have nothing to apologise for, Scully. I closed off, shut down, kept you out and then got mad at you when you made a new life.”

“We were both pretty closed off, Mulder. Talking for hours but never saying enough. Remember how we used to spend days on the road and never have to say a thing. We could go for miles in silence. It didn’t bother us then, so when did that change?”

“I think the truth of it is that we were both just talking at each other, trying to get our voices heard, but we didn’t care to listen for fear of actually hearing.”

She raised those brows of hers and smiled. “That’s very deep and heartfelt.”

The truck reversed and he looked down at the water and the moving outline of the blue love heart he’d tiled at the bottom of the pool. “Just like my pool.”

The first time she came over for a swim, she presented him with a new beach towel. It had a fox face on it and she was so proud of herself. She let him splash her and she bombed him and he didn’t want her to leave but he watched her drive away and sat on the verandah for hours after the sun went down.

She phoned to say she was coming over again and that gave him an idea. After all, he owed her two gifts now. So he went online and shopped.

Taking the parcel, she dipped her head in gratitude. “This better not be a beach towel with Big Blue on it, Mulder, or I swear to God…” She ripped the package open scattering paper everywhere. She held it up. It was a one-piece swimsuit the colour of those Caribbean island beaches, azure, the colour of her eyes. She pulled a face, whispering a wow and telling him he shouldn’t have because people might talk.

“Let them talk,” he called out, as she slipped into the house to change. “What else could they say about us that we haven’t heard already, Mrs Spooky.”

When she returned, she was wearing the bathing suit and a knee-length cream sarong. She pulled a wide-brimmed hat out of her bag and went to put it on but he stopped her.

“Just one more thing,” he said, finding the smaller parcel. “This is a very late birthday or really early Christmas present. Take your pick.”

“Another gift? You already got me this suit and I’m wondering if I should really spend the afternoon with a man who buys lingerie for a single woman…”

“It’s lingerie?” His voice was high-pitched because he was genuinely curious and a little sorry about her use of the word single which seemed unnecessary but she grinned wickedly and he breathed out in relief. “Damn. If I’d have known that I would have bought that red lace number…”

“Don’t push your luck, Mulder.”

The small gift was wrapped in silver frosted paper decorated with a gold bow. She opened this one with much more care and when she lifted the lid and saw the silver chain with the blue topaz heart pendant, her eyes filled with tears. “It’s beautiful, Mulder. You shouldn’t have. It’s too much.”

“Trust, harmony, peace and loyalty. Blue hearts. That’s what they mean.”

“Uh-huh.” She turned and he clipped the necklace under the hair. “You’re reading a lot into an emoji.” Was he? Maybe. Did he care? Not much. She turned to face him, stood on tiptoe and kissed him, softly, gently, with love. “But you’ve always looked beyond the obvious. And that’s why I love you.”

Love. Not loved. He took her hand and walked her to the edge. “Ready?”

She didn’t answer but tugged at his wrist and pulled him forward so they both plunged into the deep blue, going down and down.

#txf fanfic #my fanfiction #fictober #msr angst and love #fox mulder's guide to building a pool

[amazingmsme]

Music So Sweet

AN: Me writing an actual prompt instead of my own ideas no one asked for? It’s more likely than you think. Great Comet is way underappreciated, so I hope you enjoy!

Pierre sat at the bar nursing his glass of vodka. Across the club, he watched as Anatole wooed a couple of women by serenading them with his violin. As much as the young man got on his nerves, he had to hand it to him; the kid could play. And as much as he hated to admit it, they were family. Dolokhov leant against the wall rolling his eyes looking extremely bored. His eyes scanned over the room before casting his gaze downward to stare at his drink. He swirled it in his hand, glancing back up towards his friend. Anatole had promised him a night on the town in celebration of yet another duel he'd won, but instead shrugged him off for some random women.

He always did this to him, and quite frankly it was pissing Dolokhov off. He met eyes with Pierre and pointed at Anatole before making a choking motion. The man simply chuckled and shook his head.

He turned his head to the side watching the girls lean against the counter and look at the musician with dreamy eyes. It made him sick. Of course he would've been fine if he had a pretty girl himself, but Anatole had easily whisked both of them away and dazzled them with his skill. Anything he tried to do to impress them now would surely fall flat in comparison. 

Dolokhov smirked as he formed an evil idea, and he reached forward, tweaking his friend's sides. Anatole jumped with a squeal, the bow striking a particularly sour note on the violin. He whipped around and fixed him with a hard glare.

"Excuse me, do you mind? I'm with company," he said, willing a blush off his face. Dolokhov snorted.

"Indeed you are. Might I remind you with whom you came?" he said, pointing at himself.

"Don't need reminding, I just found better company," he winked at him and slapped his shoulder. Dolokhov's mouth hung open as Anatole turned his back on him and back to the ladies.

"I'm sorry, where were we?" He went back to playing, pulling the bow across the strings in a beautiful song. Dolokhov looked at Pierre in bewilderment. The older man shrugged his shoulders, unable to suppress the chuckles escaping his mouth. Granted, it wouldn't be as funny without the alcohol in his system. He mouthed, "Try again." And so he did. Just as Anatole raised his bow again, he lurched out and shoved his elbow, forcing him to mess up once more. The girls seemed slightly amused, if not a little annoyed that the song had been interrupted.

"Pardon me ladies," the blonde excused himself and grabbed Dolokhov by the arm and ushered him away. "Just what is your problem?" he snapped. He bit his lip to conceal his grin, doing a poor job of it.

"Nothing. I'm just surprised you even acknowledged me at all," he snarked. Realization washed over Anatole's face and he laughed.

"Dolokhov you never cease to amuse me. I assure you that we'll have as much fun and as many drinks as we want as soon as I'm done with these fine ladies. I'm sure you can find one yourself to keep you busy," he brushed his friend off as easy as sand on dry skin.

Dolokhov sneered, "No I think I'm fine right here." With those words he planted himself, knowing he wouldn't move from this spot just to spite Anatole. Said man rolled his eyes at the dramatics and spun around to face the two women. He picked up his playing and smooth talking seamlessly, smiling as they soon became putty in his hands.

Pierre was intrigued in where this would go. To an outsider it was obvious just how thin Dolokhov's patience was growing, and even Anatole could only be so oblivious. He sipped from his glass and watched the scene.

Dolokhov waited for the right moment and reached out with his leg, delivering a decisive kick to the back of his knee. His legs buckled and he nearly dropped his instrument, but managed to catch it in a fumble. This seemed to be the last straw for the blonde as he faced the larger man who sported an amused grin.

"Seriously, what's your deal? You should be celebrating your win not ruining my chances in bed," Anatole scolded. His friend merely smirked, "Messing with you is as good as any celebration I could possibly have." To prove his point, he reached out and poked his side. He twitched away with a slight giggle.

"Alright you had your fun, now let me have mine," he tried to turn away, but a strong hand on his shoulder prevented him from doing so. He was twirled back around, suddenly feeling very much trapped.

"Trust me, this will be fun," Dolokhov promised with a wink before wrapping an arm around his slender frame and used his hand to dig into his waist. Anatole tried to hold back his laughter, but only lasted all of about three seconds before the damn burst. The ladies watched on in amusement, giggling at his reactions.

Anatole's cheeks couldn't possibly be any redder. He was unsure of whether to push his friend away or to use his hands to hide his blush. In the end he did neither and instead flailed his arms around uselessly. He came close to elbowing Dolokhov in the face.

"Stohohop! Please!" he pleaded. Anatole saw himself as too good for most things, but he was certainly not above begging. His friend tilted his head teasingly.

"Why? If I'm going to stop, I'll need a good reason."

"Ihihit's embarrassihihing! And it tihihickles!" he complained amidst his mirth. Dolokhov chuckled and shook his head fondly.

"Well I'd hope so! That was my point after all," he teased, working his fingers up his sides. By now the ladies had moved on, leaving the men at their play. With the loss of their company, they gained that of another as Pierre walked up. The older, often somber man had an unusual pep in his step as he wandered closer. What was really odd was the abnormally playful smirk he sported, a gleam of mischief lit up his eyes that hadn't been there for years. Upon seeing his brother in law, Anatole thought he was saved and cried out for his help.

"Pierre help me!"

The smile on his face only grew as he leant against the wall and Anatole realized he was not there on his behalf.

"Bold of you to assume I think you deserve my help," he said, taking a swig from his glass. Dolokhov barked out a triumphant laugh.

"See? Pierre agrees with me, you only brought this on yourself." He ignored his indignant cries through his squeals.

"Whahat did Ihihi do?" he asked, still oblivious to his flippant and borderline rude behavior. Dolokhov snorted, shocked that his friend could be so dumb. Wait no, he takes that back, this is to be expected.

"This is what you get for ignoring me all night while we were supposed to be celebrating!" He shifted his hand to skitter between Anatole's shoulder blades and a loud scream of laughter filled the air. He gestured for Pierre to help him out. "Mind giving me a hand here?"

The older man glanced around the club, shaking his head. "Nah, too many people staring. I'll let you have your fun."

"Oh come on, you know you want to wreck the little shit for everything he's done, live a little," Dolokhov encouraged. He did have a point, there were many times in which Pierre wished he could put the arrogant ass in his place.

Anatole looked up at him with mirthful teary eyes, struggling to fight off his friend's hands. "Plehehease dohohon't," he pleaded. Pierre had to bite his lip to keep from grinning so wide as he set his drink down. That was all it took for the blonde to know he was utterly screwed. His squirming increased and he weakly shoved at Dolokhov's hands. Pierre stood before the trapped and giggling man, making a show of cracking his knuckles. His laughter and squirming only increased once he saw this.

Pierre added his hands into the mix of the wonderful torment and it wasn't long until Anatole's knees buckled. He leaned back against his supposed best friend for support, mouth hanging open in loud laughter. Dolokhov smirked and bent down, sweeping his legs out from under him so that he was holding him bridal style. Anatole shrieked at the sudden movement and his face flushed at the position he was in. He smacked at his chest, "Put me down!"

"Sorry, no can do. You looked like you were about to faint, and I can't let that happen."

Anatole rolled his eyes, "You wouldn't have to worry about that if you hadn't tortured me."

Pierre spoke up, "Oh it wasn't so bad. And between us, it'll do you some good to get knocked off your high horse every once in a while."

"You're always mean to me, dear brother."

Pierre simply hummed, neither confirming nor denying the statement, but acknowledging it nonetheless. With that, he patted his shoulder, picking his drink back up and tilting it their way in a subtle goodbye. "Maybe next time you'll think twice before ignoring your friend."

"Yeah," Dolokhov interjected as he set him back on his feet. "Now, what do you say we continue my celebration with another round of drinks?"

"I'd say lead the way." And he did. 

#anatole kuragin #fedya dolokhov #pierre bezukhov #npatgco1812 #great comet #great comet fic #great comet tickle fic #ticklish!anatole

[grifalinas]

Holly’s friends:

Gets a bit long so I’ll put it under a cut. (Since I’m just ripping these out of the old fanfic, I’ve already put a lot of work into developing them, hence why I have so many details ready to go.)

Leon Highcourt, a boy from a marginally wealthy family and a privileged upbringing who, while not cruel, has a mean streak and no concept of personal space or boundaries. He saw Holly’s Trickster giveaway the day they met, prompting her to teleport to escape his scrutiny; after that, he became obsessed with her and sought her out on the ride to school. Initially, Leon sees Holly as a puzzle, a question to answer, but in time he comes to appreciate her as a person.

Evan Calahan, a rather more ordinary boy who first joined Holly on the ride to school their first day. He initially had no interest in Holly beyond being a friendly new classmate, but after seeing the way Leon treated her this brought out his protective streak. His relationship with Holly is very protective (and at times possessive), though like Leon, he comes to appreciate her in her own right over time.

Leon and Evan start out hating each other, only tolerating each other for Holly’s sake (and doing quite a lot of arguing and outright fighting as a result), but over time they develop an understanding. The few times the pair agree are usually for Holly’s sake, as their worry for her overrides their dislike of each other. This is just author speculation, but I feel like around their third or fourth year they’ll finally settle down and Holly will get about five minute’s peace before they start fighting again for an altogether different reason. (-stage whisper- I mean ust reasons.)

Jake Jonas, scion of an important family and son of the magical realm’s most famous adventurer, Jake seems determined to surpass his father’s reputation at a mere ten years old. Jake is always on the lookout for his next big “heist” (his word for any sort of trouble he gets into) and is always eager to bring anyone else into the fold if he thinks they’ll be useful. While initially rather reckless and unconcerned with potential danger, after nearly getting Holly killed when he goes too far, he settles down a little. He’s the only one to know about Holly’s lineage before the big reveal, and for awhile the pair have a mutual crush that will eventually fizzle out without coming to fruition, because they’re ten and it’s possible to have crush storylines that don’t lead anywhere.

Molly Meadows, a playfully adventurous girl who bores easily in the face of structure and order. Cousins with Jake (and Cass, who we’ll meet in a second), Molly has decided that not sharing the Jonas name means she has no obligations to the Jonas legacy, and as such has decided she has nothing to live up to but her own expectations. Molly tries to look out for Holly given how much of a pushover she is, but she can occasionally be more flippant than she realizes when she gets bored with Holly’s neatness.

Cassius Cross, the third of the Jonas cousins (alliterative names are a family tradition). Like Jake, Cass feels pressure to live up to his family’s legacy; unlike Jake, he tends to hold back in fear of failure, often hesitating to even try something that his parents might have done well at. Cass starts off as Jake’s go-to as heist partner, but as Jake befriends other students more willing to join him, he tends to find himself left alone more readily. Cass doesn’t really have a close relationship with Holly; he’s only listed because of his importance to Jake and Molly’s characters.

The Jonas cousins are the children of a brother and two sisters who came through the school a generation prior, and are varying levels of well-known in the magical realm.

Ranger Dara, a surly, ill-tempered, often scowling boy with a legacy of his own. Due to his family’s past and his connection to the name Dara, Ranger is an outcast at the school, with even the most die-hard of bad seeds considering him too much for them. Unwilling to see anyone outcast for their family’s sins, Holly tries several times to be nice to him, but her pity just makes him angrier and he pushes her away. After she’s outed as a Trickster, he stands up for her, and the mutual understanding this gives them softens him enough that he’s more willing to allow her friendship.

Talia Harrison, an even tempered girl whose laid-back nonchalance hides a mischievous streak. Talia is happy to move with the currents, and manages to keep her grades acceptably good but not great, as the effort to pull them higher is beyond her interest. She does, however, have a sliver of intensity when she does get into something, and may be hiding some secrets of her own behind her carefree facade. She’s one of three other girls who shares Holly’s dorm, and is often the first to seek her out if she seems overwhelmed.

Nina Warbuck, a pushier sort of girl beside Talia’s laid-back approach. Nina has high ambitions and thus pushes both herself and her classmates to do well in their classes, often to their dismay when there are things they’d rather be doing instead, like literally anything whatsoever. Nina is the second of Holly’s three dormmates.

I don’t have a third dormmate yet sorry. When I was writing this as a fanfiction I had a list of student names I used in the Sorting and sprinkled them into each of the houses, then let the characters develop themselves as they came across Holly. Since I can’t remember the name of the third dormmate, I can only assume she didn’t make much impact on me. Whoops!

Other names of interest: 

Clarice Blackwood, Leon’s childhood friend. She ends up in a different class-group than Holly and Leon, so the two build different social circles, but they’re still fairly close in the grand scheme of things.

Wickett and Godwin, two of Clarice’s classmates. Godwin is the year’s academic overachiever, and Wickett, her best friend, often seems like he’s about to fall asleep any moment.

Jack, a boy from the mundane realm who, through an odd set of circumstances, is also a childhood friend of the Jonas cousins and godnephew to one of the school’s teachers.

#i need a title or at least a tag for this story #hmmm #holly flint tag

[collapsingintojupiter]

How about 54 and 59? Like cue r/entitledparents who think they can assault parent and kid, take their stuff, threaten them, tell them how to raise their kid, etc. Perhaps salty Analogical parents with toddler Pat/ Pat playing with a doll or toy associated w/ girls and EP's kid wants it? Idk something fun like that maybe? 💙💙 support your work it's so amazing

“They’re not your kids, back the f*ck off.”

“I could punch you right now.”

***

More Analogical and baby Pat, this makes me so happy eeeee.

Characters: Virgil, Logan, Baby Patton.

Pairings: Analogical

Warnings: Some homophobia and cursing.

***

"I think he wants that one, Virgil."

"Yeah, he does seem to like it." Virgil knelt down so that they were closer to the toy Patton was reaching for with his little arms, letting him grab it off the shelf. It was a little pink bunny with blue button eyes and a little smile stitched onto its mouth in red. "You like this one, Sunshine?" He asked. Patton laughed and shook it in his hands. 

"Babbit!" He squealed, the box with the doll shaka-shaka-shakaing in his hands as he swung it excitedly around.

"I think that's a yes," Logan stated, a small smile creeping onto his face as he watched his son. Patton was positively elated when his dads let him carry the box with the bunny to the checkout counter all by himself, where Logan paid for it before leading his husband back outside. He had a bag of groceries gripped in each hand and Patton toddled along behind him, holding Virgil's hand in one tiny fist while the other clutched the bag with his bunny in it. Once they got into the car Patton quickly yanked the bag off and hugged the box to his chest, refusing to let go of it when Virgil tried to take it.

"Patton, you have to let me see the box if I'm going to get the bunny out for you." Virgil tried and failed to coax Patton to put his new toy down for even a second, only succeeding in getting the little boy to wrap his arms even more protectively around it. Eventually he gave up and leaned back in his seat with a sigh, contenting himself to just hold the child in his arms. Logan looked between the two, brows furrowed like he was thinking.

"Here wait, let me try something," he said suddenly, reaching into his pocket with one hand. He pulled out the car keys, letting them jangle and shake enticingly within Patton's reach. The child looked up and his eyes widened, before he dropped the box and reached for them. 

"Virgil, quick!"

His husband didn't need to be told twice. Virgil quickly flicked out his pocket knife and expertly opened the box with it, pulling the bunny out and putting the pocket knife back in record time. He nudged the box onto the car floor, then carefully set the doll on Patton's lap. The little boy giggled and dropped the keys, grabbing the bunny and hugging it to his chest. Logan snatched the keys back, hiding a smile as he slid them into the ignition.

"Nice job there," Virgil commented. Logan nodded, looking between Patton and the parking lot as he started the car.

"It's a nice day outside, we should go to the park. You need sun, Virgil. And exercise. Spending too much time inside isn't healthy for you at all, in fact--"

"I get it, Logan. Let's go to the park." Virgil shook his head; he loved Logan to death but his lectures were unbearable, especially when the lecture happened to be about Virgil's questionable habits in regards to his health. As far as he was concerned he was doing just fine, thank you. Screw science.

Logan huffed but he didn't continue--thank God, Virgil thought--pulling out of the parking lot and starting down the road towards the park. He had been right about one thing--it was a beautiful day outside, and the blazing sun reminded him again of Patton's nickname. Sunshine. A perfectly fitting name for such a sweet and happy child.

They arrived at the park a few minutes later. Logan climbed out of the car first, slinging a small bag over his shoulder and coming over to Virgil's side, where he opened the door and gathered Patton into his arms so that his husband could get out. Virgil didn't seem to know what to do with his hands now that he wasn't holding Patton, awkwardly stuffing them into his pockets and following Logan towards a nice patch of grass near the shade of a large tree. Logan gently set Patton down and the little boy laughed delightedly, playing with his little pink bunny while Virgil sat down cross-legged across from him and next to Logan. The blue-tied one glanced at him and reached into the bag he'd brought, pulling out a small container of sunscreen. 

"Too much exposure to the sun can cause skin cancer," he explained. "We need to be careful about Patton getting too much of it."

"First you're telling me I need to be in the sun more, and now you're telling me it'll give me cancer?" Virgil threw his hands up. "There is no winning here!"

"It's all about balance, Virgil," Logan answered calmly in his teacher voice, reaching for Patton. "Help me get some sunscreen on his face, please."

Virgil huffed and reached begrudgingly for the blue bottle, carefully squirting a little sunscreen into his palm and trying to keep it out of the eternally-squirming Patton's eyes as he rubbed it all over the boy's face. 

"This should be an Olympic sport," he muttered. Logan actually laughed at that one, and before he knew it Virgil was grinning too. 

"There. No cancer for you," he said a few minutes later, setting the sunscreen aside and watching as Logan released Patton once more to play with his bunny in the grass.

"Virgil, we must talk about your bedside manner sometime."

"Sure thing, teach." Logan sighed, leaning back and watching Virgil play with their son. They were so cute together, and when he was sure that Virgil wasn't paying attention Logan pulled his phone out and snapped a few pictures for later. His husband hated to get his picture taken but...oh well. That moment was too sweet to let go.

"Wow, are you two like, trying to make your kid gay or something? Get him a proper toy you freak, he's not a girl!"

Oh no.

Virgil stood up instantly, placing himself between his son and the cocky blonde woman who was looking at him over the rim of her sunglasses like you might a primate at the zoo. 

"Do you have a problem?" He hissed at her through gritted teeth. Logan quickly leaned forward and picked Patton up before he could go over to Virgil, standing up so that he was behind his husband but still there if needed. 

"Whoah, defensive much? You need to chill out, dude. I'm just saying, this world has too many of you queers in it as it is." The woman's voice was flippant, arrogant, infuriating. Virgil's hands slowly curled into fists, and his shoulders shook.

"He's not your kid, how about you back the fuck off," he snarled at her. The blonde woman looked offended.

"Get a life, you gay loser!" She snapped, the ice in her coffee clinking as she angrily shook it.

"You know I could punch you right now. You fucking--" 

"Virgil, that's enough." Logan's voice was low and warning. "After all, it is pointless to make arguments with such useless contributions to society. Most of this breed isn't smart enough to tell their head from their ass, as you can see for yourself right here. You're better than that."

"Why you--you--!" The woman fumed at him, unable to even finish her sentence before spinning around and marching back the way she'd come. Virgil watched her go with fiercely narrowed eyes, his entire body tensed like a cat about to pounce. Logan knew that look; remembered it from many years ago when the two had only just met, and it worried him more than the woman ever had. Virgil needed to calm down before he made things worse for himself.

"Virgil." Logan called his husband again, his voice softer than before. Virgil slowly and deliberately unclenched his fists, then turned around.

"What?" His voice was hard and angry; he looked about as upset as Logan felt internally about the whole exchange. He couldn't show that and upset Patton, though.

"Ignore her stupidity," he told Virgil instead. "Sunshine is okay. He's here with us, he's happy, and that's all that matters."

Virgil blinked when Logan used their son's nickname and his gaze slowly shifted down to Patton, who was holding his bunny in one hand and reaching out towards him. 

"Papa!" He cried, wiggling his fingers and struggling to get out of Logan's arms. He looked like he was about to cry.

That did it. Virgil melted, his expression immediately softening into one of gentle concern. He came closer and Logan allowed him to take Patton into his arms, where he gently rocked the little boy back and forth.

"Hey, it's alright, Sunshine." He whispered. "The bad lady went away, it's okay..." Patton gradually settled into Virgil's arms as he talked to him, hugging his bunny to his chest. "That's it, that's better." Virgil smiled at his son. "Don't worry Sunshine, I'll protect you. I won't let them hurt you."

Logan looked at him proudly. Well done, Virgil. Well done.

***

If you want me to write something, feel free to send me prompts! My inbox is always open and the chances are I'll be happy to write whatever it is for you. Most of the prompts I've received so far are from this challenge right here, feel free to send me these or use your own!

Also! I'm going to start a taglist for anybody who'd like to see my future fics. Please send me a message if you'd like to be put on it. :)

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #virgil sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #baby patton #fanfiction #long post

[mlovesstories]

You Know What You’re Doing Part 1

@spndeanbingo prompt: Danneel Ackles 

Thanks to @sbcamp08 for the amazing beta! Love youuuu! 

Words 2,000

Summary: Foster child, YN, finds herself in the custody of Jensen and Danneel. 

Warnings: abuse, cussing, fighting 

Tag List- #spndeanbingo and masterlist

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“Asshole! Don’t effing touch me!” YN was yanked out of the room by the Dallas Police Department away from her latest foster parents. “I’m gonna haunt you!” She screamed at her foster dad as her caseworker met her at the door.

“Hey, YN,” she calmly addressed the teen. “Come here, we got you. It’s okay. They’re not worth this fight. We’re getting you out of here.” Sarah offered a weak smile.

“When the hell are you going to find me a foster family that doesn’t want to hurt me, huh?” Sarah froze at the venom spewing from YN as she was guided to Sarah’s car by a police officer.

“This isn’t my fault. I’m doing the best I can. She is a child reacting to her environment. This is the nature of the job” Sarah told herself.

“YN!” The sweet older couple from across the street frantically ran over to the child. “You okay?”

YN stood from the seat and let herself be enveloped in their arms, wrapping her arms around them both. The two had become like doting grandparents checking on her, making sure she was well fed and saw some familial love in her life.

“Mimi! They’re moving me again! That man is evil,” she said, referencing her former foster parent.

“Here, can I have a pen and paper, please?” The older women looked at Sarah. The caseworker tore off a page from her notebook and retrieved a pen from her bag. “This is my cell phone number. Call us if you need anything - I mean ANYTHING, okay?” The couple offered one more hug and watery smiles.

“Thanks. I’ll miss y’all.”  

——-

The caseworker pulled up to a large house in a gated community. YN had never seen, let alone visited, anywhere this nice. Sarah watched as the tightness in YN’s face relaxed in awe of her surroundings, a moment of fear flashing across her eyes before they turned stoic and blank. The corner of her lips twitched, quirking down then pressing together in a sour expression.

“You ready, kiddo?” She asked..

“Whatever,” rolling her eyes, the fourteen year old’s face settled into her usual mask of hardened, begrudging, acceptance. “This place is way too nice for fosters. Probably just some rich jerks looking for a charity case.”

“Stop, YN. Give them a chance.”

“Not like I have a freaking choice, do I, Sarah?” YN growled at her caseworker. Sarah took a calming breath.

“You’ll be okay. They are a nice couple. You might actually know them.”

“What!? I don’t know anybody who lives in a mansion.”

“It’s not a mansion, now come on.” Sarah got out of the car and walked to the passenger side to escort the girl to the door.

YN fidgeted with the tattered cuffs on her sleeves as the caseworker knocked on the massive front door. When the door opened, YN’s eyes widened into giant saucers, brows jumping to her hairline as her jaw dropped at who was before her.

“Dean?” She whispered. “From Supernatural?”

The man chuckled, nodding. “That would be me.“ A blush creeped up his cheeks as his face dipped, eyes lifting to meet hers, “You must be YN. I’m Jensen. Would you like to come in?” His eyes dropped back to the floor before he pivoted to open the door wider, lifting his free arm and nodding his head in towards the house in invitation. “Come on in, then. Hi, Sarah, nice to meet you again.”

“You too, Mr. Ackles.”

Snagging YN’s duffel bag off of her shoulder as she walked passed him, he grunted. “You got rocks in here or somethin’?” Jensen laughed. YN reflexively tensed at the sudden movement, but she smiled tightly and offered a thankful nod as her shoulders slowly dropped.

Jensen plopped her bag inside the door before turning fully to introduce Danneel. YN lifted her chin slightly and pursed her lips in acknowledgment but did not respond verbally.

“YN...” Sarah prompted, nudging the girl lightly.

“Hi, Mrs. Ackles. It’s nice to meet you.”  YN said coldly with a mocking smile. A perfectly flippant affectation of a warm greeting.

“Would you like something to drink? Water? Sweet tea?” Danneel offered.

“Please,” YN whispered, eyes sparking in interest at the mention of sweet tea.

“Coming right up, dear.” Danneel smiled warmly.

“Go have a seat on the couch, YN. I need to talk to Mr. Ackles for a moment,” Sarah commanded, directing her towards the sunken family room.

“Fine.” YN huffed as she walked over to the living room and flopped onto the couch.

Danneel giggled at the exaggerated display of ever-suffering teenager-dom as she brought YN a cold glass of sweet tea and another warm smile before leaving her to meet with Jensen and Sarah.

“S’comfy.” YN grouched to herself.

“She is very resistant to change. YN is really a sweet kid at her core, but she puts on a front. Don’t give up on her too quickly. Please. You need to give her time to warm up to you, and it may seem painstakingly slow, but I swear she’s a good kid and she’s worth it.” Sarah frontloaded Jensen. “Ready to sign some paperwork?”

“Absolutely. Let’s go into the kitchen so that we can sit at the table.”

YN sat up sharply as she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.

“Hi! I’m JJ! I’m five!” A precocious little girl ran up to her. YN relaxed back into the couch, rolling her eyes with a grimace at the intrusion.

“Hi,” YN responded tersely.

“What’s your name?” JJ bounced closer on the balls of her feet.

“YN.”

JJ jumped onto the couch, sitting on her knees facing YN, still wiggling with excitement.

“How old is you?” She asked, scooching closer until her knees were against YN’s hip.

“I’m fourteen, can you go away?” YN griped and tried to scoot away as the small child leaned up and into her face.

“YN!” Sarah reprimanded, dropping onto the couch next to YN for a final chat.. “JJ, can you go see your mommy and daddy for a minute?”

“Okay,” she ran off to the kitchen.

“Don’t, Sarah. It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like they’re going to care about me. They’re just like everyone else.” YN said, crossing her arms with a resigned sigh.

“I have a feeling that they may will take whatever your crap that you dish out and give it right back to ya, hun. Now shape up so that I can leave with you behaving.” Sarah stood with a sarcastically put-upon sigh, followed by a small giggle and caring smile for YN.

“Fine.” YN responded in kind, sighing with an epic eye-roll before the corner of her lips quirked up in a small smile.

———

Over the next few weeks, Jensen and Danneel stayed nearby but didn’t intrude on YN’s privacy.

Danneel looked up and smiled, spotting YN as she walked down the stairs for breakfast, as she perched against the kitchen island with Zeppelin on her hip. “Good morning, YN. Want some eggs?”

“Yes, please,” she responded. YN  spotted Arrow off to the side of the kitchen, just as she tripped over a toy and started crying. YN looked at to Danneel in concern for the toddler, but realized that her hands were full of breakfast ingredients and Zep.

“I’m coming baby.” Danneel soothed, sighing a defeated breath as she tried to empty her hands quickly without dropping or breaking anything.

“I can get her. Ya know, if you need a hand.”   YN offered with a shrug.

“You are an angel, thank you!” Danneel offered her appreciation, relief evident in her whole posture as she put the last of the food next to the stove.

“Come here, baby,” YN cooed.

“Well that’s new…”, Danneel thought.

Arrow crawled to YN, and the older one scooped her up. “You’re okay, sweetness.” YN smiled as she wiped away Arrow’s tears.

“Impressive! You’re really good at that,” Danneel praised, gesturing toward Arrow.

“Lots of practice,” YN returned. “I was the oldest at the my first foster home”

“Did you like taking care of the little ones?” Danneel broached cautiously.

“Well, yeah. But it’s not like I had a choice. They made me take care of all of the kids, so I couldn’t really do my own thing, y’know?”

“I’m sorry, sweetie. I appreciate the your help though.”

“These guys are pretty easy,” YN shrugged smiled.

“Then I need lessons from you, because I am exhausted,” Danneel chuckled, leaning onto the kitchen island towards YN.

“Nah, you’re doing okay. Come on, Arrow. Let’s give Mommy some time with Zep.” YN smiled down at the little girl on her hip as she twirled and started towards the family room.

“Thanks, YN!”

Arrow and YN played in the living room while Danneel finished cooking. Jensen called YN via FaceTime while she was holding Arrow.

“Hey, YN! Oh, hey, Rowey!”

“Hi, Jensen. Arrow had tripped and got a booboo, so we are making her feel better now. Right, girly?” YN smiled.

“What? Is she okay?” He demanded.

“Umm…” YN shut down from his tone and change in attitude.

“She’s fine, Jay. Stop acting like a brute and being rude,” Danneel hollered from the kitchen behind YN.

“Oh, okay. Good. Sorry. Thank you, YN for helping her. Anyway, how have you been?”

“Fine.” YN shortly responded, more abrupt and distant than before.

“How’s school?” Jensen continued prodding, hoping for more than one word answers without realizing the lasting impact of his tone earlier.

“Good.” YN shrugged into the camera.

“Do you ever answer in full sentences?” He growled, frustrated.

“JENSEN!” Danneel scolded him as she ran to YN and tore the phone out of her hand. “Can you please take the twins outside for a minute, YN?”

“Sure.” YN grumbled as she led Zeppelin and Arrow out onto the porch.

“WHAT in the HELL is wrong with you?” Danneel bit out through gritted her teeth, seething.

“She doesn’t talk! I was just trying to have a conversation with her.” Jensen argued defensively.

“Do you know how hard I have worked to get her to open up to me? She has been offering up a lot more of herself lately, but you push her and gripe about how she isn’t talking enough for your liking. Why should she? You’re acting like an oaf!” Danneel groaned. “If you don’t have anything constructive to say to her, then shut up, ya hear me?”

“Babe-“

“I’m serious. Promise me.”

“Fine. Okay, Dee. Work your magic. But she can’t just open up to you... We’re a team and a family. I want to be a part of it, too.”

————-

“You don’t know what you’re doing! Get in the freakin’ car, YN,” Jensen yelled at his foster daughter. YN froze, shying her body away from the angry adult submissively holding her breath, and glancing at him out of the corner of her eye to gauge his intentions. “I have had enough of the lollygagging.  Stop being so mopey and get in the car.” Jensen could not believe her. On his one of only two days that he has off this month, he chose to spend the day with only her. Yet she was not responding at all to what he was telling her to do. She just would not listen!

YN quietly skirted into the SUV, curled into herself on the seat, and stilled. “Ya know, I spend a whole day with you and all you keep doing is slow down and not even say thank you. You’ve barely spoken, and you were rude to the employees in that girly store I took you to. I love you, YN, but we gotta make these days count. I’ve got stuff to do at the brewery tonight, and I’m not around a lot to take care of it.”

“Right, of course, sorry.” she conceded, holding back tears.

“Finally. Thank you,” he growled. 

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[docholligay]

New Save

@amberlilly asked me for “The Senshi react to Bioshock Infinite!” A lot of times these “X reacts to Y” prompts can be really difficult, because they can so often descend into really TV-style “Oh that was cool” type stuff and that’s not really what makes me feel proud and happy, so this took me a while, but I think the end result is really interesting stuff! Please let me know if you enjoy! This, as always, includes MY TAKE on the SIlMil, so if “Angel Noble Moon Kingdom” is your thing this may not be for you. 

Mina didn’t take anything seriously. Everyone knew that, because that was what she wanted everyone to know. Mina laughed and she made jokes and she was flippant and she never thought about anything too overly much, and that was the way she liked it. That was the way she liked it to be known. 

Games were just a fiction, everyone knew that, and that wasn’t any less true, she supposed, as she watched the band of crows fly out of a man’s hands, and she elbowed Rei in the ribs, telling her she only wishes she had that sort of power. The water tentacles were Haruka’s wet dream, weren’t they, she laughed. Haruka scowled, and Mina didn’t take anything seriously. 

What could she possibly feel, about a man who knew there were horrors in his past, that he had done things that made him a monster, even if that Booker no longer existed in this timeline? 

Booker ran through the rebellions he put down of men the same as him that he was told were lesser, and he served and he put his bootheel through babies’ skulls, and remembers, oh how he remembers. 

She looked over to Mako, who almost certainly did not remember when the planet of Mercury gave their underpowered rebellion, when Jupiter and Venus and Mars crushed those bookish weaklings with little thought to the matter. When Mars set their libraries on fire and laughed at the flame. When Jupiter grinned as she tossed a flaming book crashing through the stained glass of a university building. 

When Venus put the survivors of the protest to the sword. 

When she made Sailor Mercury kill her sister for her participation.

But this was all a fiction, a fiction of a man from a faraway time in a place that never existed, and the other Senshi hooted and hollered as they passed the controller around, and drank potions that made this man into the things they used to be. The elements, abridged, and Mina could always sniff out a liar. 

Oh to have been Mars with her fire, or Neptune with the crash of her own sea. The rest of them had powers that were destructive in all those easy ways that were like a game in themselves, ways they could wish for even still. But not Venus. No, Venus, as Mina, needed no element but her own ferocity on the battlefield, and so she had been gifted the gifts of the human mind, of memory. Venus could see them, and plant them, and with a touch, call up the most painful moment of your life. 

Mina could not do that, but she could see and do enough. She was not a Seer, but she was not completely removed, either, and she existed as her own island. 

But she didn’t take it seriously. 

What could she possibly take seriously, about a game where a man knew the past was there, just at the edge of his memory, and that something had been lost, something he had to find, something he had to make better? 

Booker found Elizabeth and determined to be what she needed him to be. We aren’t trapped in what we were, are we? What something in another ripple of time might have been? He saved her from the Prophet, because prophecy is all about ruin, and sometimes you need to fight to free someone. Sometimes you have to kill, to protect. 

You could reject prophecy. The proof of that was in Haruka, shoving a sandwich into her mouth and yelling at the screen, and in Michiru, sipping her wine, the matching scars on their chests the only symbol of a death that was meant to be. 

And so that she could hear Queen Serenity, with her dying breaths mirrored in Venus’ own, seaking of the Moon Kingdom to come, and that Venus would lead her daughter to a new order that would cover the Sol System, that would bring this System to order once more. This was prophecy, and for this she ripped the shards of power from their bodies and sent them, like eggs, to wait on earth. 

Why she’d been so fond of what would become Tokyo, Mina wasn’t really sure. You’d think she’d diversify her portfolio a little. 

And there was Mina, joking again. The game was a joke, yelling at Elizabeth, a source of immense power, to get her shit together before she got killed, there was nothing but jokes to be seen in that. Being the instrument of something you can’t understand, something you were dropped into, who could understand that? 

The room was filled with laughter and chatter, and Mina laughed too. 

What could she feel about being haunted by a feral ghost?

Lady Comstock became a memory and a lie and a legend, and those things can still strike, her shrieking fight against the will to change the future, the desire to bring forth the truth in all its ugliness and inconvenience. Preserved under glass, the story being told against and again about those terrible Vox Populi, and how they killed her, and how terrible is it? 

The Vox Populi didn’t kill her, but maybe they should have. Maybe the people should rise and defeat those that would keep them down. Maybe Venus and the others weren’t heroes but with footsoldiers in the oppression that the Moon Kingdom meted out, in the name of peace. 

“There was never a bad peace.” Mina could still hear her, with Venus’ ears, as these words echoed off the cold crystal walls. She smiled. The Queen always smiled when she said these things. 

Even in death, Serenity had written the story, and when the kingdom of the moon was brought to Mina, Pluto told her of a beautiful kingdom, with a princess, and there was peace, and the people of Earth disrupted it, because Beryl was evil, because love between the Earth and the moon was forbidden. 

Poor, sweet Pluto. She had been lied to more than any of them, kept so far from the kingdom, watching its destruction through a sad mirror at the gate, clinging to those instructions from her beloved queen. Raise these girls, and make them fighters. Raise this kingdom, again, for Princess Serenity. For me. 

She looked to Pluto, who whose eyes were on the screen with that face that knew so much, and so little. Did she think often, on her deception? As both deceiver and deceived? Mina could think of little else, as the silver Lady burst through doors and windows, screaming out the hatred of this interloper, bringing violence and death. 

That same scream had filled her mind, as she Remembered. Not those memories suggested to her, by Pluto, by the shard itself, by that sweet whispering voice that said how she loved her wayward daughter. No, Serenity had made a mistake with that shard, in that those powers were bound to memory, and she could not erase that, not all of it. Not for all of them. 

Haruka did not remember that Uranus was a coward, and so she was brave. Mako did not remember that Jupiter was a destroyer, and so she grew beauty. 

But Mina remembered Venus was a commander, and that she was hard and cruel and regimented, and those memories dug into her brain stem. Sometimes Venus’ voice slid out of her mouth, and she gagged on it like a poison slug. Neptune was an assassin, and she slithered that knife into the King’s back from the shadows. Did Michiru know she was born from the seed of a traitor? Did she feel that same pricking heat in her chest as Mina did, knowing the thing might escape? 

Their eyes met over the bouncing heads of the others, but Michiru’s eyes were as inscrutable as always, one of the few hidden corners Mina knew in all the Senshi. 

Mina joked as they wound around lighthouse after lighthouse, each one leading them to a false home, a new place where things were changed and yet always, always the same. All they could do was try another lighthouse. Go through another tear, and be born again. 

She let her eyes wander around the room as she fed that perfect knowledge that Mina took nothing seriously, that she was light and flippant and for all the world a perfect goof. Serenity wasn’t the only one who could create a story, and cast herself as she wanted it to be. 

Venus had made her girls into soldiers. She had beaten them and praised them and brought them to heel and made them into the most terrifying force in the Sol System. She had done this with efficiency and power and a certain violent grace. 

But Mina loved hers. She wanted Haruka to stop trying to give her life. She wanted Rei to forgive herself her mistakes. She wanted Michiru to feel she was part of a team. She wanted Ami to feel heard. 

Mina wanted all these things, against what was foretold. Against what Venus whispered. She wanted to love them as Venus had ruled them. But that wasn’t supposed to be part of the game. 

What could she feel about this man, whose only way to save what he loved was to die?

#scribbling under a bare light bulb

[antagonisms]

BASICS

Name: Evan Czarnecki

Gender & pronouns: cis male, he/him

Species: werewolf

Age: 27. Jokes about being 63, because he was a wolf for 6 years, which is 42 dog years + those 21 normal human years. Either way, age is a really weird concept now.

PERSONALITY

Traits: Pretends to be flippant to put the world at a distance. Vulgar as a means of distancing himself from genuine vulnerability. Perceptive, but won’t let you know that. More self-aware than he lets on. Self-absorbed. Self-destructive. Loves being seen, hates being known.

Moral alignment / MBTI / enneagram: Chaotic neutral. INTP-A. 5w6.

Values: In other people, he likes independence, open-mindedness, the ability to dress well, a lack of tolerance for bullshit, genuine altruism, and resilience.

Flaws: Judgmental. Narcissistic as a defense mechanism. Occasionally rude, but mostly just cheeky. Not a team player. Reckless. Hedonistic. The brokest bitch in Blackrock.

HISTORY 

( shorter version is in the app. i just like details. trigger warnings for child abuse and sex as self harm.)

1) CHILDHOOD

You had a family, once. Your mother’s a piano teacher and your father is — you don’t know, really, but he’s got enough old money to buy nice things even if he’s stingy on principle. He’s polite, and she’s funny, and your fellow patrons at Sunday Mass love all three of you because you’re down-to-earth, surface-level beautiful — a perfect American family.

But they don’t know what happens inside the too-big house at the foot of the mountain. Your mother’s a pessimist, and your father’s a sniveling piece of shit who copes with his worthlessness by making everybody feel small. He’s kinda good at it. They’re both as loud as they are erratic and it’s all a matter of bracing yourself for when the floor inevitably falls through. You make do, mostly. You hide in your room. You lock the door. You put your ears behind headphones. You drown out their screaming matches and your too-loud mind. 

It all falls apart when Mommy decides she hates Daddy more than she loves you. No goodbye. No explanation. She just leaves. 

Her departure plants a lesson you will later find impossible to uproot: love is earned, Evan, you’re not working hard enough. At least your father stayed. At least he sometimes loved you. At least, you think so. He might have loved you when he took you fishing, or gave you that book you really liked, or when he buys you clothes that look really nice. You flip through your mother’s old sheet music and fumble through the piano keys, and you think he might love you when he watches you fill this house with her memory without saying anything.

But mostly, he’s not very kind. You don’t want to think about it anymore.

2) ADOLESCENCE

You inherit your mother’s cynicism and your father’s stingy heart. The skill you develop is as much a sense of humor as it is a safety net. If life’s a joke, beat it to the punchline. By the time you’re fifteen, you can no longer pretend that your world is worth saving. You keep it at arm’s length. Your mind makes a mockery of the darkness to keep its jaws at a distance, because if you couldn’t do that, your pitch-black pessimism would swallow you whole.

Growing up feels less like maturing and more like mutating. By the time you’re sixteen, you stop feigning perfection to earn the affection of a father who’s heart is colder than your Blackrock winter. Popular misconception claims control is a word you never learned, but that’s just what you let everyone think. The truth is: control is a lesson you pried out of your body when the need for acceptance evolved into a need to rebel. You’re an embarrassment, Evan. Adolescence meant insurrection. You’re a failure of a son. Pills and booze and boys and girls biting the hand that hit him. Your heart is a bullet and your mouth is a shotgun and you will make yourself repulsive if the alternative is admitting that — Evan, I wish you knew how difficult it is to love you.

You only apply yourself when it matters. You get into Stanford. You take a loan. You don’t let your father pay for tuition, because you’re not letting him control your life anymore. You leave your tar pit town the way your mother did, and it’s only a matter of time before your goodbye is permanent. 

It gets better as much as it gets worse. You leave home, but home doesn’t really leave you, and you don’t recognize your body when it’s not in pain. You’re beautiful, though. People see you and want to make you theirs. You let it happen. Too-rough hands salve the ghosts of bruises your father left you. This is the ugliest way of putting it: you feel damaged. Every person you kiss has too-sharp teeth, and maybe that’s exactly how you want it, because if this body doesn’t feel like it belongs to you, then offer it up in a way that feels good.

You always leave first. You love much how it tears them apart. This is your inheritance: your Momma’s love of leaving, and your Daddy’s stingy, stingy heart.

3) THE BITE

Unlike your mother, you tried to come back. Your father called one night, asking if you wanted to return for Christmas, and the small, stupid flicker of hope that your pessimism couldn’t kill begged that you give him a chance.

He didn’t change. He argues about the degree you’re taking with the money you don’t have and insists on carving a future for you, his way. He doesn’t like your independence. He doesn’t like your protests. Your fights are explosive until they aren’t, until a raised fist reminds you exactly what violence he’s capable of.

At least he sometimes loves you. Maybe he loved you when he picked your wounded body up, carried you out of the woods, and bandaged up bite on your side. Maybe he loved you when he brought medicine to your room, and maybe he loved you when made you chicken soup just the way you liked it, even when you didn’t ask. Maybe he loved you when he sat by the side of your bed, and talked about his father, and his father’s father, and how none of them really knew how to grow up without making their sons feel small.

But the fever is strange. A new kind of anger tears out whatever capacity for forgiveness you might have had. Your bones are changing. Something wretched twists and grows inside you, and with a hot flash of pain, you’re something new entirely.

You have one last coherent thought before the wild takes your mind completely.

I have to kill him. So you do. 

3.5) THE THINGS YOU DON’T KNOW

The news of your father’s death spreads like wildfire in Blackrock. It’s not your father’s mangled body that causes intrigue, it’s your disappearance. Wolf attacks, while uncommon, aren’t exactly rare, and everyone’s heard the folktales. Neighbors assure that you were there during the evidence, but the police find no evidence of carnage, not a pound of flesh nor drop of blood to support the fearful need to conclude that there’s nothing supernatural about this. You can’t prove the Czarnecki kid isn’t a werewolf, the gossipers say. Nobody can even prove that he’s dead.

4) WOLF-HOOD

You don’t know what strange circumstance landed you in your new body, but maybe you don’t care. Maybe the bite and the fever killed you, and the Buddhists were right. You don’t really know if you earned enough good karma to deserve this reincarnated form, but either way, you’re never letting it go. You hunt deer. You roll around in the snow. You snarl at any predator that dares to get near, and bite the ones that move into your space without permission. Sometimes you walk into the backyards of strangers and wait for children who aren’t afraid to try and approach you. You don’t eat them, because just because you’re a monster now doesn’t mean you don’t have principles.

You lie down. You let them rub your belly.

It’s a really nice life.

5) NOW

Six years after you thought you died, a woman drags you out of the woods you back into your body. Even a lifetime of pain couldn’t prepare you for the shift back. New bones tear your animal flesh apart, piercing your skin open to make room for your wretched old body. It aches in too many ways. The people — the wolves — the ones who did this to you, they tell you this is your home now.

So it wasn’t Buddhism. Maybe it’s the Catholics who’re right; eternal damnation does await the unrepentant sinner, and it looks like this: you’re here, trapped in a frat house for furries, without a  cellphone, a car, or clothes of your own, or money to pay a doctor to confirm whether or not you’d acquired a tapeworm.

You realize you owe Stanford 213,000 dollars.

You are a very tired wolf.

TLDR:

Evan has a bad childhood. He becomes a wolf. He kills his father. He mistakes lycanthropy for reincarnation and lives in wolf-nirvana for six whole years. You drag him out of nirvana. The realization that he didn’t actually die puts him in a terrible mood. 

CONNECTIONS 

( So uhhh I wrote up possible prompts for the existing werewolf skeletons before I knew what anyone was like and I think they can be good jumping points! If you don’t feel this fits your character, or if you want a different sort of dynamic, just message me! )

1) WOLVES (AND BITTEN HUMAN)

ALDER: You’ve seen him at his ugliest — a small, scared creature writhing on the floor, that horrific cross between a howl and a screech leaving his shifting throat. Now there’s a flare of red-hot resentment in his eyes whenever he looks at you, and it makes you wonder if he’s more monstrous as a human than he is a beast. You saved him from death. You realize you cannot save him from life. He’ll never forgive you for that.

HEMLOCK: You are a bootlicker and he does not like you.

HICKORY: It’s not your job to keep the feral wolf in line, but your brother seems to resent whatever circumstance it was that landed him the role of mongrel babysitter. Consider picking up the slack. The guy’s only half-terrible — sullen and strange but mostly manageable, and maybe earning his trust is only a matter of affording him the patience that nobody else wants to offer. If it’s an opportunity to prove this pack your worth, try taking it.

MAPLE: You’ve worked too hard to protect this pack, to earn your position. Now your lot has dragged some feral creature out of the woods, offered him their home, their humanity, and still, he has the nerve to be ungrateful. He makes it clear that he doesn’t trust you. He makes it even clearer that you cannot trust him. Maybe the demons in your head are concussed, but the new demon in your home now insists on giving you a migraine. 

PINE: You are a mirror of lost days. You are the young flighty creature he once was and can never become again. Home is a word you might have both forgotten, but circumstance has offered you both a new roof over your heads, and a family to go with it. Maybe these similarities should draw you closer, but there’s a glimmer of resentment in his eyes whenever he looks at you. You don’t know why it’s there. It could be pity. It might be envy. It must be grief. 

OAK: He had a father, once, and that shit didn’t end well. For some reason, he sees it fit to pass some unearned blame on you, and now years of buried resentment are yours to bear. Family’s a broken word, he seems to think, but you cannot let him break yours. Still, it’s evident that he lacks the capacity to be as self-sufficient as he’d like, and as long as that’s true, it’s your thumb he’ll be under. You know he needs you. Offer an open hand, or pull the leash tighter. The choice is yours.

REDCEDAR: He shows up at the bookstore to read a new title of Animorphs every other day and you don’t know how that makes you feel.

WILLOW: He might take more kindly to you than he does the others. You’re both new to a home you’re not sure will ever welcome you, and more importantly, you both wanted this. The bite. This beastliness. The difference is that he’s certain. Your condition is a new part of yourself that you have yet to fully love, but he seems to think he can teach you. Man and beast are equally monstrous, he tries to convince you. So let’s be the kind with bigger teeth.

2) OPEN CONNECTIONS

( Open to humans ) has taken an interest in the Czarnecki Werewolf Conspiracy. They’re familiar with the incident — a dead father, a missing son, and the wolf that allegedly kill them both. All the facts line up too neatly, and when somebody who looks to be the ghost of one Evan Czarnecki returns to haunt the streets of Blackrock, they think it’s finally time they get some answers.

( Open to humans ) once knew Evan. Yeah, the kid who always got straight A’s and played piano for Catholic mass? What the actual shit happened to him? They’re watched Evan go from familiar face to murder case overnight, but now, the town recluses have found a new adoptee — and he’s the splitting image of the boy they once knew. Maybe it’s time to reconnect.

3) VAGUE CONCEPTS

he uhhhh (spins wheel) flirted with ( open ) at last drop for free drinks and then realized that spending six years as a wolf made him de-acquire the taste of liquor and now he’s having a crisis

( open ) tells him he needs therapy. evan laughs

this is actually very hard he’s so unsociable

jsut message me... we’ll think of something

#shipper. #about.

[sunsetsover]

What do you think Ben feels for Callum? I love your metas, you get our boys so well! 🖤🖤🖤

first of all thank you so much 🥺🥺 i love trying to dissect characters and storylines and stuff but this is the first time i’ve ever really posted them online for other people to see and so the fact that people are reading them and enjoying them and interacting w them and think i’m doing a good job w them is really just so!!! amazing to me so thank you 💖💖💖

but in regards to ben’s feelings for callum, i think they’re pretty complicated. and i doubt that right now even he has a full grasp on what they are, so trying to understand them from an outsiders perspective is hard, but i’ll try.

i mean obviously there’s the physical aspect to it. i think it’s been obvious since day one that ben has been physically attracted to callum (’looks and a sense of humour’ - i know he was trying to flog that van at the time, but given everything that came after i think it’s safe to say it wasn’t all just him blowing smoke up callum’s ass lmao) even before he knew callum was gay. i don’t think anyone is unable to see that part of it - i think even jay has/had his suspicions.

but emotionally? it’s like trying to untie a tangled piece of string. 

i don’t think ben ever intended on catching feelings for callum, let me say that. we’ve seen he’s someone who’s had plenty of one night stands w no emotions getting involved, so it’s not a matter of him just being someone who gets overly attached too fast. so what’s so special about callum?

well proximity is one thing - always seeing callum around the square, in the pub, around jay in the undertakes (where his ex and his grandparents worked, and callum lives in their old flat - this alone could have churned up some feelings he thought were settled. it could have crossed some wires in his head, seeing callum walking out of that flat where he’s used to seeing paul. it could be that some emotions have got a bit misplaced and confused, like the things he used to feel for paul he’s now projecting onto callum, though i don’t think that accounts for all of it tbh) so it’s harder to just ignore what happened between them and move on like he’s used to doing when callum’s always just there.

and i think how much ben sees himself in callum is another part of it. that whole ‘i see you, but you see me too’ thing wasn’t just him bullshitting, he meant it. bc ben has been there - struggling to come out, desperately clinging onto a woman in order to maintain his ‘straight’ life? he gets it. like he really, really gets it. and so i think once ben started to realize just how much callum is struggling with it all, his feelings change. he stops being so flippant about outing him, stops teasing him as much, is generally a lot kinder and more understanding. bc i think there’s a lot of pity for callum in ben, and a lot of empathy. and i think, probably more than anything else, romantic or otherwise, he just wants to help callum. ben needed someone (which was paul) to show him that kindness and compassion and to help him and support him in the face of everything, so he knows callum is going to need someone too. and who will it be, if not ben? no one else even knew callum was gay. ben wants to be that person for him, to help him through this. bc there’s a lot of good in ben, underneath it all. and also he probably sees it as a little bit of redemption for himself - he knows he’s done a lot of bad, but this is something almost selflessly good he can do to make up for it.

and then there’s the romantic aspect of it, which has kind of always been there, but has only really come to the forefront recently imo. and as sad as it sounds, i think it’s started bc callum has been showing him kindness. like, everyone has been mad at ben. everyone hated him for a hot minute. and yet callum - even once he knew (some of) what had happened w phil, even when he kinda got to see just how bad ben can be - was still there for him. still supported him, still helped him look for louise, still had a pint with him in the pub. and for no real reason - callum didn’t owe him anything, so he must have been there bc he wanted to be there. and he didn’t even reprimand ben, didn’t blame him or have a go. if anything, he gave ben the benefit of the doubt. and when, do you think, is the last time someone gave ben that? at least to his face? so i think that whole thing was kind of an oh moment for ben. like it was kinda there before that, in a like ‘i like him but it’s not the end of the world’ way, but i think that was like a ‘fuck, actually this is becoming a bit of a problem now’ moment for him. bc since then he’s seemed way more invested and cut up about the whole situation than he ever did before (which, to be fair, was probably helped along w the approach of the wedding too. he probably had a realization that they couldn’t say in this weird ‘this is something but i’m not sure what’ limbo they’ve been in for much longer, that callum was getting married, and was unexpectedly sad about it. realized he actually liked callum more than he thought he did. that he had got more involved than he had intended to. which probably prompted the sad ‘she’s a lucky girl, mate’.)

so yeah, that’s my take on it rn. there’s probably more to it that i’m missing, but we’re not being given that much in terms of ben’s feelings, beyond his actions and his face. until ben verbalizes these things himself (if he ever does) we won’t know for sure, will we? but i hope this answer satisfies you anyway!! 💖💖

#ballum #eastenders #sorry it took me so long to reply!! #anon #question