#me: TELL ME ABOUT HOW ANCIENT PEOPLE DID BUSINESS

[mphountitled]

𝘽𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙣 & 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩

: ̗̀➛ Mattheo Riddle x Fem!reader | Brief!Harry Potter x fem!reader

: ̗̀➛ Summary: Jealousy makes the heart grow fonder.

: ̗̀➛ Warnings: Alcoholism, Dark!fic, Ravenclaw!reader, Bullying, Unrequited Love, Shy!reader, Toxic Relationship, Jealousy, Narcissism, Weaponizing!Harry (sorry boo), Fluff, A bit of Angst, Smut +18 (Minors DNI), DubCon, Semi Public sex, Unprotected Sex, Oral Sex, Masturbation, Dom/Sub, CNC, humping, Spitting, Degradation, Dacryphillia, Choking, Gagging, Subspace, Slapping, Sadism, Breeding Kink

5k words

A/N: Hell truly is empty. I apologise in advance.

You have made peace with the incomparable fact, long ago, that if the muggle God existed - if he is known to shepard Muggles and Wizards alike, then he was far too busy to attend to you. There is just too much going on all at once. The wizarding world is caught in its archaic intolerance of Half-Bloods. On the mortal side, you were informed from your private tutoring with Professor McGonagall that their smartphones are threatening devolution.

“It’s the closest thing they’ve got to a wand, Lovie, so we can’t really fault them on that, can we?” 6 years into your schooling at Hogwarts and you would continue to shadow Professor McGonagall, hoping you might one day soar to her heights of academic prestige in the wizarding world. You needed to be a Professor as much as a mortal needs to breathe….

You cannot let him, of all people, ruin things. Your reputation is a fragile, flammable thing - and he is freaking Kerosene.

It's difficult to pinpoint when it started or how your sensibilities rushed away from you so swiftly. One moment you’re planting your textbook on the face of a wooden desk - the sound reaching the rafters in the highest peak of the deserted classroom…

“A Guide To Advanced Transfiguration.” Mattheo read the title aloud with a tedious uninterested drawl. “Seems a bit presumptuous to shove this down my throat so early on. Shouldn't we be starting from the beginning?"

You ignored him promptly, using the silence to arrange your colour coordinated stationery on your desk beside Riddle's,

“I had no idea," You began, brushing off your blue lined robes and flattening the invisible creases on your skirt, "-That the person residing under my tutelage would be a first year."

Riddle stabbed the inside of his mouth with his tongue, while his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Your face remained passive as you continued, "You are a sixth year, correct?” You asked with a snide tilt of the head before planting yourself on the desk beside him.

“You are a big boy capable of understanding big boy books,” Unbeknownst to you, your words managed to stir something foreign within Mattheo but he conceals it with his usual veneer of arrogance as he swings his head lazily in your direction.

"May we begin?" You asked, with your back straightened - inches away from his hand now hanging on your chair.

"In a bit…" he says, "Just..." his voice trails off as his eyes scan over your visage, likely assessing it like an unseen tapestry. The truth is, Riddle did not know you prior to being forced under your tutelage. His droopy brown eyes appeared even more so as he broke the distance between you two and studied you closer. A tense silence grew pregnant in the ancient classroom, and your resolve was beginning to slip. Only one thought inflated a puddle of anxiety in your stomach:

Could this be your first kiss? Is this what first kisses looked like? Could this be your very first brush of intimacy overall?

Your brain failed to rationalise and compartmentalise his attraction, but your heart pushed your head closer.

"Call me a big boy again..." He had whispered… which evidently led you here.

Your lesson had ended with your hand covered in his release and a breathless smirk painted across his face. "This goes without saying," he breathed out with a satisfied smirk, "But tell anyone about this, and you're dead."

Ever since that day, your tutoring has been but a veneer of something much more sinister. When you were thrusted into the light of day, Mattheo overlooked you as did lots of his Slytherin friends. Besides the occasional threat and vague insult, you mean nothing to him.

When you two are alone, however, as you are right now, he would enchant you into servitude, lightly pushing your head down while he kissed you silly until your knees were planted on the hardwood floor.

Mattheo briefly opens his eyes to peer down at you. It is then when you notice the fresh bruise dotting the side of his face, and his pillowy lips split by a small incursion. He had very clearly gotten into another fight..

“Your mouth feels so fucking good when you're not using it to be a smart ass,” His words illicit a bubble of heat inside you.

Despite all this, you are clearly aware of the fact that you should not be enjoying this at all. Not one bit. For starters, you can feel the old wooden floors digging into the meat of your knees and the crisp winter chill is unkind to your scantily dressed state. Your shirt is unbuttoned because Mattheo was like a moth to a fucking flame when it came to your ample breasts and his hand is buried tightly in your kinky curls, forcing his cock even further down your throat. The very bones of Hogwarts seem to be in vehement protest of your blatant whorishness.

3 silver chains hang from his neck as he plants his other hand against the wall behind you, blocking your kneeling frame between both him and cold, hard stone. You crane your neck back, keeping a half lidded gaze on the jewelry that drives you feral with lust. You are content imagining that perhaps, when he is getting ready in the slytherin common rooms, he wears the silver for you. A fanciful thought but one that consistently has your intestines weaving themselves into knots.

That, paired with his striking, jet black blazer, which is discarded somewhere in the abandoned classroom, has you keening and fighting to take even more of him into your mouth. Perhaps you were peacocking a little - flatting your tongue so his cock slid seamlessly to the back of your throat while you fought to ignore the pain blossoming on your scalp. He had turned you from an inexperienced nun to something you're not quite ready to examine yet.

"You're finally putting this head of yours to good use…" Despite his feigned arrogance you're utterly delighted knowing that only you can bring Mattheo to such an utterly restless state. He does not really know what to do with himself.

Not when you took so much of him, so well.

You clench your toes.

Feeling himself get too close, Mattheo eases his cock fully out of your mouth, languidly stroking himself but still assuming a firm grip on your scalp. He is operating on that very specific plain of narcissism that was special to Mattheo. He is aware of your presence, physically, but his words are spoken into the open air, like you are an inanimate object. A glorified toy.

"Are all Ravenclaws as compliant as you are?”

You bring a crisp white sleeve up to your lips, wiping away the excess drool as you remain kneeled in front of him, knowing he has yet to finish.

"If you ever think of finding out," your voice is hoarse, "this will be the last time I offer you any free study sessions."

"Is money all you seek?" He attempts to feign composure, continuing to languidly stroke his cock. "How utterly greedy. I thought- fuck… - I thought you were far more philosophical than that"

You watch hungrily as Mattheo bites on his pillowy bottom lip. He is prolonging the release, taking his time as he usually did... "If you plan on edging yourself in my mouth instead of actually finishing the job, I do have other commitments to attend to-"

He ignores you... his brows furrowing and smoothening at odd intervals as he continues to touch himself while studying you.

"We may not be studying… but I still intend to pass Transfiguration, hope you're aware." He punctuates his sentence with an breathless laugh- it blossoms across his usually stoic visage, raising his buttercup cheekbones towards his smiling eyes.

As he talks, you examine his scars and feel the slow essence of admiration seep into the pit of your stomach. An arguably pathetic feat, given that your feelings will not ever be reciprocated.

Brewing inside you is the need to take care of him. You knew the rest of the student body viewed Mattheo as a glorified parasite. Something that is only capable of thinking within the capacity of its own means. Something that takes, and takes, and occasionally jokes around, and takes. But how could he know anything different? You suspected that his home life was built on the foundation of survival, on needing to be the loudest, and proudest, and worst of them all.

"What the fuck are you doing?" The sharpness of his words slice through your thoughts, bringing you back to yourself. Mattheo's gaze is placed firmly on something down below. Throughout his mindless tirade, your hand had taken to rubbing soft, comforting circles against the leg of his pants, quite literally on its own accord. Mattheo is bent over, head tilted as he watches you questioningly. Seconds stretch to a minute, and your stomach sinks as time passes.

Eventually, he dismisses you. He shakes his head. "Whatever," He says, tilting your head back and lining your mouth with the head of his cock once more. His visage darkens into a cruel sadistic grin. "Tell me you want me to come in your mouth."

Almost instinctively, you do as he orders and like clockwork, you swallow his cum, wondering if he knew how deeply and truly your words actually were. There was a moment, perhaps imagined, in which his fingers gripping your hair, melted to the side of your soft, supple cheek. It stays there for longer than necessary, leaving bits and pieces of your composure scattered in its wake.

Mattheo soon straightens his posture, stuffing his flaccid cock back into his pants before making himself as presentable to the student body as they know him to be (which admittedly is not a lot) And before he turns to walk away, he leaves you stranded on a glacier with his ice cold words cutting deep into your beating heart.

"Tell anyone about this-"

"And I'm dead," You interject, "I know."

And with that, you pull your ruffled collar over your lint-free school jersey and check your reflection to assess the damage Mattheo and his iron grip might have left. You needn't wait for an extension on the conversation because your job here was done, (pun so malevolently intended).

As far as Mattheo is concerned, you are an easy conduit to release his frustrations through because your unpopularity makes you so incredibly inconspicuous. You blend into any given crowd at any given moment, your name seldom reaching the heights of ridicule among his group because you are so unforgettable… There had been no reason to point out your flaws, not because you did not have any, but because you were simply invisible.

It is particularly strange to have any social interaction beyond the bounds of group projects and class discussions… so Harry Potter gifting you even a sliver of attention had been violently unorthodox. So unorthodox, in fact, you failed to look up from the weathered pages of your novel when his gentle voice wafted in your direction during a rare free period in Study of Ancient Runes. Your professor has been summoned quite promptly by the headmaster and has yet to return. The class has been in a state of havoc ever since.

"I don't know if you're aware of this but…" A deep shadow over the pages alerted you to his presence, "They both die at the end."

It was incredibly rare that Potter, who sat at the desk directly in front of you, ever felt the need to strike up conversation that was not purely academic. Gryffindors made use of Ravenclaws as often as Slytherins.

So naturally, you peer curiously up at him…

"Sorry?"

"Y-Your book. It's a muggle book, isn't it? I haven't seen anything with a cover like that around here. It's refreshing. Everything in the wizarding world is ancient and leatherbound." He mumbles as his index finger slides into the collar of his red quidditch jersey. He finds himself suddenly overcome by a wave of embarrassment even though there was nothing at all to be embarrassed about… he turns his chair slightly in your direction, his eyes darting to the door and the empty teacher's seat before meeting yours once more.

"'They Both Die At The End." He says, pointing towards the title.

"Oh…" You affirm, rocking your head back and forth, "You were making a joke?"

"No," Harry snickers before waving a large hand in dismissal, "Evidently, the only thing I 'made' was a complete and utter fool of myself."

You're not sure when it happens but you feel the lower half of your face melting into what you suspect is a smile. You can feel your shoulders relaxing and your novel lowering imperceptibly.

"Work on your delivery next time and maybe we'll be getting somewhere."

"Is that how it is!?" Harry asked, pleasantly surprised by your banter, "- I could've sworn I had a shred of dignity before the start of this conversation. Now I'm not quite sure where that went."

Mattheo's feet pass over the threshold as soon as the sound of your laughter rushes past him. It is almost charming in its familiarity but incredibly curious in its rarity. He can't recall ever seeing you with your head thrown back while the instinctive sound of amusement races through your throat. He does not know he's staring until Draco shoves past him, to get to their own seats in the front of the class.

His eyes remain on you as he makes his way to his desk, hoping, perhaps, that you would turn your head infinitesimally, in acknowledgment of his presence.

You do nothing of the sort, and it not only fills him with a weird sort of dissatisfaction but it bubbles into full blown vexation when he realises who is capturing your attention so viscerally.

Mattheo has never prided himself on his patience or tolerance.

Overthinking is something he consistently lives without.

Most of his actions were spurred from things he felt in the now, and he was really fucking uncomfortable with what was happening now.

His glances at the front of the class before finding you once more in the very back corner of the class. He notices that Harry is stationed in front of you but the seat beside you is completely deserted.

Did you not have friends?

And more importantly; how did he never notice until now?

What if…

Perhaps if he…

"You didn't let me know we were having a picnic," The sound of a chair scraping against the tiles had both you and Harry rallying into silence. Mattheo appears at your side, pushing the chair against yours so he, too, sits facing Potter - who suddenly appears incredibly uneasy. Gone is the comfortable atmosphere cooked by easy and amicable conversation. Mattheo injecting himself into your little bubble created a suddenly charged and suffocating atmosphere. You cannot keep your wide eyes off Mattheo as he lowers himself to his chair beside you with his legs spread as he slouches down, like he always does.

"Don't stop on my accord," He exclaims, completely oblivious to the fact that your professor might walk in at any minute. "What were we talking about?" Your heart wrestles in your chest as you see him turn to address you. His slouching puts him a level lower than you, but it does nothing to lessen his intimidation.

"Maybe I should ask, Potter?" Mattheo turns his attention to the front, "What were you lot talking about?" There is not a trace of friendliness present in Riddle's tone. In fact, it's the very opposite. Your nerves, swelling with anxiety, only escalate into full-on panic when you feel him place a large hand on your skirt under the table.

Harry's voice is low and his eyes are trained on the floor, "Books-"

"Books!" Mattheo cuts him off with sarcastic fervour, "How utterly fascinating!" The hyperbolic wonder in his tone is utterly rude and unbecoming, but you look down at your desk in blatant anger. Refusing to be a part of whatever this is.

"And tell me, Potter, how many books have you read so far?"

It is then that Riddle's once stationary hand begins the faintest trace of movement. He begins slow and tame, his callouses barely registering on the soft fabric until his fingers prod the lining of your skirt…

Your breath hitches in your throat.

Never had Mattheo ever displayed a desire to touch you. Not in the way he made you touch him. It was made explicitly clear that only he would benefit from your secret rendezvous' and so you were left to deal with your aching cunt alone, with the image of the face he made when he came, still burned into your mind. It had never been about you.

"A couple,'' says Harry, fighting to show this bully that he was unaffected by his intimidation. If only he knew that with every advance Mattheo's palm made, you were slipping farther and farther away.

"A couple books?" Asks Riddle for clarity. He remains lax and languid on the inside, but the nature of his wandering hand underneath the desk tells a new story.

He finally slips under your skirt.

His palm connects with the softness of your thighs and he seems utterly pleased by it. His hand is immediately restless to explore how far you would let him go. Which isn't very far.

Not at all.

If he thought he could suddenly touch you after myriad occasions of using you like a discarded toy… he had another thing coming.

The tips of Mattheo's fingers make gradually increasing strokes along your thigh until his fingers prod the stretch marks on your inner thigh. It is there when you stop him, clenching your legs together, blocking his hand from any further movement.

Mattheo's voice is strained as he says, "And you like reading, Potter?"

Sensing something brewing between the two of you - your withdrawn, hazy gaze, staring directly through the desk and Mattheo's overabundance in questions, has Harry reeling backwards.

"I asked you a question, Harry."

"I like reading."

"Good! That's really good!" Quite suddenly, Riddle tilts the ends of his half-moon nails into your thigh. His nails bite into your skin, forcing them to weaken and unclamp. Before you're even able to think, his palm is cupping your cunt through your panties- forcing an indecent yelp from your throat which you quickly (and very badly) disguise as a cough.

Mattheo is utterly pleased while he continues mindlessly stroking your cunt. Not for the purpose of any glorious stimulation. His hand is just there to show you (and perhaps maybe himself) that he has access to the most private part of you.

That thought alone has an unforeseen and sudden wave of lust coursing through his veins and surging straight to his hardened cock. He thinks of all the things he could have done to you but failed to do. He thinks about how, up until this point, he had ever been satisfied with using your mouth alone, not when he was denying himself the softness of your pussy all along.

He felt angry with himself, for being so fucking stupid, he is angry at Potter for seeing whatever it is he saw in you, way before he did and, possibly most harrowing of all is the fact that he is angry with you. And he can't help but be angry at you. How easily you whore yourself out to any and every man. If this thing with Potter had gone far enough, would you replace him? Had you even fucked Potter before?

You bite down on your lower lip as your head bows even further into your book. The words blend into one another, and all you can feel is a rise in temperature and Mattheo's suddenly restless fingers, pressing rudely against your clit - for the sole purpose of ripping an orgasm out of you right then and there, at the very back of an unsupervised classroom, with Harry Potter still very much a part of the conversation.

"You've got so many books to read in your lifetime," Says Mattheo. He sits up slowly, likely spurred on by the dampness seeping through your panties. "Don't cut your long life short by trying to entertain other people's girlfriends, yeah?" Gone are any traces of feigned friendliness. "Fucking Mudblood,"

Your skin feels like you are bathing in magma and you hope Potter could not see the slight tremor in your hand as you gripped the sides of your book with more force than necessary.

Mattheo's words… they have you shifting forward and widening your legs minutely. You crave for nothing more than to roll your hips in tandem with the circles he's pressing against your clit.

"Understood?"

Your orgasm is dangerously close, with the promise of sheer, disgusting shame and embarrassment if he continues. You feel Harry give you one final curious look, perhaps pleading for an interjection of denial at some point but you've taken to bouncing your knee under the table, hoping the vibrations might create enough friction to aid Mattheo's hands. He is keeping you trapped in a space of wanting. So much so, that this almost feels like a punishment.

Once Harry is turned back around and facing the front of the class, Mattheo lowers his lips to your ears. The damp smell of firewhiskey floods your nostril and you realise that he is completely drunk. In the second lesson of the day.

However, you're so completely stimulated, even the warmth of his breath as you fight the urge to hump into his hand like a lost little puppy until you make a mess all over his hand.

"You're such a fucking slut, you know that?" Your book drops to your desk - muffled by the sounds of the classroom cacophony. "You like being humiliated like this?" He asks, almost in complete awe. It takes everything in you not to moan outright.

"Fuck," You whisper to yourself, blinking your eyes shut, warding off the need but to no avail. His fingers are long and limber, and they have you nearly cumming right there, in front of your entire fucking class. Had it not been for your Professor's haphazard arrival into the class, and the swift removal of Mattheo's fingers from between your legs… you might truly have become the slut he labelled you as.

Instead of moving to his designated seat, Riddle raises his hand for the professor… the very same hand that has previously been in between your legs.

"Yes, Mr Riddle?" Asks the Professor, his voice as lacklustre as his appearance.

"May we be excused? We were excused by Professor Slughorn to assist him in-"

"Fine, fine," Says the professor with a wave of dismissal before turning his attention to the rest of the class. "The rest of you, open your textbooks to page 56."

Riddle's hand is clamped around your forearm, already leading you swiftly out the door in a long and wide stride. Had it been any other teacher at all, they might have recognized this for what it so clearly was.

"Here," you have barely made it fully into the boy's bathroom before Mattheo is stuffing his fingers down your throat, making you gag and yelp at the sudden intrusion. "Tell me how good you taste." He doesn't even bother to make sure you're truly left alone in the bathroom before pushing your front against the bathroom sink.

"Is that good?" His voice is as sweet as honey as he forces his fingers deeper down your throat, causing you to cough and gag around them.

Mattheo has half his sense to pull his wand from his back pocket, and without turning around, whispers "Colloportus," and the heavy doors snap shut.

You're supposed to be afraid because you've never seen him like this. Mattheo is always a ball of sarcastic energy between trysts, but it's usually an energy he can somewhat contain.

You don't know what to do with him, not when he's watching you choke on his fingers through the mirror, while his other hand fondles at your breasts and rips your bra down until your nipples are poking through your school shirt.

The figure in the mirror distorts as your eyes begin to water. Thick beads of tears grow pregnant at the ends of your eyes before rolling down the side of your face.

"My girl," Mattheo presses his face into your hair, breathing you in, pressing his body into your side. His hard cock in unmistakable through his school pants, "My messy little girl,"

You finally moan candidly while your fingers grip the countertops and your hips buck into nothingness. Your eyes plead with him in the mirror, hoping they relay how utterly useless with lust you have become. It would not take hard work to make you cum, you're sure one more flick against your material-clad nipples might send you over the edge.

"Fuck, why didn't I think of this sooner,"

This is all new, even for the two of you.

"Spread your legs." He commands, even though his feet are already kicking them apart.

"Come here," you break eye contact in the mirror to face the boy behind you. Mattheo removes his fingers sitting in your mouth, leaving a trail of sticky saliva in its wake before replacing it with a long and messy kiss- one that has his tongue forcing itself inside.

Mattheo weaponizes your distraction to reach around and slide your panties to the side with one hand while he rubs your soft nub with his other, spit-coated hand.

You break away from the kiss, neck craning back and mouth hanging open while your eyebrows dissolve into crescents. You cannot look away from him, as you hump his hand.

"You wanna cum?" You nod enthusiastically. "And what if I told you, you can't cum until I've fucked that little pussy of yours? Hm? What then?" His words have you mewling from the sheer pleasure they bring and your orgasm threatens to snap once more.

"Fuck," He hisses, feeling unable to remove his hand from your wet cunt but needing to, in order to undo his belt and pull his aching cock out. "Don't you dare fucking touch yourself," He says in a deadly quiet voice before bringing his hand up to your mouth. "Spit." You don't ever think of disobeying him, not when you're swimming so deeply in your subspace, not when he's the one to bring you here.

Mattheo collects every bit of saliva you offer him before coating his cock in the stuff.

Deciding not to waste anymore time, he does what his body is screaming for him to do: he bends you over the bathroom sink and pushes cock right through your slippery folds. It's tense and painful and your voice is hoarse from doing all that screaming but the sudden contact strokes a deeply sated part inside yourself. His curved and pretty cock rams your insides with reckless abandon, all while he delivers small slaps against your cheek. Riddle keeps a firm grip on your throat. His mouth is inches away from you while his hips rut into yours. His words are being delivered through clenched teeth.

"You think you're so fucking smart but you're just my little whore, arent you? A little whore thst fucks anything that gives her the slightest bit of attention?" It doesn't even register that Mattheo wrongfully suspects that there had been something between you and Harry but you keep your mouth shut. For all his indifference in the past, this is how you would make him pay.

"Oh~ fuck." His cock bruises your cervix, leaving him balls deep and feral inside you. "Fucking Potter?! You wanna give what's mine, to fucking Potter?!" His voice is utterly depraved and animalistic and it has your orgasm cresting.

He is panting, while he mumbles into your ear.

"What would Potter think? If he saw you like this? What would he think? Would he still want your slutty pussy knowing I've been inside it? Knowing that I've cum so deep inside you? Completely ruining you for anyone else, huh?"

"You…" The tears threaten to spill, "It's only ever been you, Mattheo -oh my god! I'm so fucking close!" You fight down tears as the lava begins to bubble at the pit of your stomach.

"S-Say it again. Tell me you want me!" He exclaims, "Tell me you fucking need me."

"Oh my God, Mattheo, I fucking need you." You push your hips back to meet his thrusts.

His voice wavers after your confession. His strokes became sloppy. His mind is flooded with the tightest of your cunt around his cock- how someone so smart could possibly ever say they need him. It has a flood of heat pooling at the base of his cock. "You're so fucking pretty… my pretty girl - my pretty whore," He nods to himself while his heavy cock finds purchase in a specific clump of sensitive tissue inside your cunt. It has you clamping your own mouth shut, your arms wavering while your back arches towards him, only allowing him better excess.

"I need you," You say once more, swallowing a ball of saliva as you nod towards him through the mirror, "I need you to cum inside me."

"Oh my fucking god," Mattheo's eyes soften in their desperstion, "M'gonna fucking breed pussy right here- fuck!" His grip on your throat grows tighter until you're wholeheartedly cut off from your air supply. You hump his cock until you feel it twitch inside you.

"Y-Youre making me cum, baby- fuck-" You feel his hot cum spurting inside your walls, triggering your own orgasm that has you gripping his cock like a vice.

"So… so pretty" His hips stutter against yours until you've completely drained him of his cum. A sharp tremor settles over your bones and you gasp in vague increments, waiting for the overwhelming state of euphoria to subside… but it never does.

The weight of what you had done comes crashing back down but you are unable to feel anything besides an immense wave of satisfaction at having your deepest need satiated.

"I think I nearly killed Potter today." His voice is a hoarse echo within the school bathrooms.

"There is no Harry Potter," You say, watching him through the mirror, "In my whole world, there is only ever you, Mattheo."

And a part of him believes you, but he refuses to affirm something as emotionally stifling as that. Instead, Mattheo's eyes flutter shut as his nose finds your hair once more. His cock is still buried inside you, and you hiss as he moves his hips slowly, almost insitinvely. He loves being so wholly enveloped by you. He loves feeling you everywhere.

IM SO SORRY LMFAO

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[vxnuslogy]

— lost to time ft. sae itoshi

— warnings: angst, character death, slight ooc?

— author's note: a reupload of my favorite work on sae while i finish editing the next 2 chapters of my hazbin series. enjoy!

— first recording

“hi sae! i heard from rin that you’ll be leaving for spain. i’m really sorry i couldn’t come to see you off, i’ve been busy studying, you know, for exams and stuff. but that’s beside the point! i wish you all the best sae! do your best and when you come back home, you better be the world’s best striker yeah? don’t worry, everything will pass by quickly so don’t miss me too much ok?”

sae hated planes. he hated them quite a lot. in was a constant reminder of that time when he was only 14, leaving home to go to spain to live out his dreams only for it to be crushed 4 years later. sae hated the airport, it was always so busy and so stuffy and so cramped. he hated the feeling of being surrounded by unfamiliar strangers, hated the feeling of people brushing up against him even if they didn’t really mean it. sae hated winter. it was the season he severed his bond with his precious little brother after all. it was the season he turned his back on him and it was the season he had wished to never relive again.

-

— second recording

“hey hey guess who’s sending you another voice message? it’s me obviously, why didn’t you tell me you were back already?! if you did i would’ve picked you up from the airport!

……

is something the matter sae? you haven’t picked up any of your parents’ calls and their really worried about you. you can always talk to me remember? i’ll always be here to listen, ok? don’t bottle everything up, it’ll do more bad than good. well, i have to go now. talk with your parents every once in a while will you? ever since you left for spain you’ve pretty much cut off all contact, even with me. that’s all, good night sae.”

sae didn’t really like flowers. he thought they were a hassle. plants that require specific needs and if not met, they’ll wilt. sae was never fond of them but here he was, standing in front of the counter of a local flower shop as the elderly shopkeeper wrapped a bouquet – filled with carnations, gardenias, lilies, roses, and chrysanthemums. 

everything passes.

— college; third recordings

“i got into my dream college sae! can you believe that! honestly, i was really nervous when i took the entrance exams, but thankfully i studied real hard and managed to pass! i’ll be moving into the dorms soon. i’m gonna miss home. oh and rin! i heard he got into a soccer program recently, isn’t that nice! he’s following your footsteps in becoming the best striker in the world. i know, i know, you aren’t a striker anymore but it’s still nice to know that you’re still into soccer at least. by the way, when will you come back home? i kind of miss you, you know. i never got to see you off and when you did come back i was out of town and really busy. what about we plan a meetup or something in the near future? you know, make up for the times we lost? oh, i have to go now! my parents are helping me move in to my dorm. catch you later sae!”

sae didn’t really like coming home. the house he grew up in for the first 14 years of his life felt too foreign to be called home anymore. his parents felt like distant strangers that he just met a couple weeks ago – they felt more like acquaintances than his mother and father. the photos framed around his home felt like ancient relics from thousands of years ago, he didn’t recognize them. sae didn’t recognize himself. 

maybe he spent too much time in spain to the point where it felt more like home. how ironic, he began to realize. he had flown back to japan to escape from his hell that was spain but here he was, in his home, in the bedroom he used to sleep in for endless nights, wanting to go back to the place that left his heart hollow.

“there’s nothing else i could do.” he tried to convince himself as he sat down on his childhood bed, the bouquet of flowers at his side. he could only sigh and let himself fall back into the bed of his long gone home. “everything passes.”

“hey hey hey it’s me again! how have you been sae? i’d like to think that i’ve adjusted pretty well in college. made a few new friends and met some old ones. honestly, i almost didn’t recognize them! i mean, do you remember makoto from middle school. he was a such a problem child back then and now look at him! he’s a scholar now! i guess everyone just starts to become more mature after hitting 18, who knows. thank you again, for the gift. i was definitely shocked when my roommate told me i had a package from you. i can’t believe you still remember that i wanted ‘no longer human’! thank you, i’ll be sure to treasure it. well, that’s all for today. call you some other time sae!”

everything passes.

-

— drunk recordings; the words i wish i could’ve told you sooner

“how do you work this again? ah got it! hehe, hi again sae! i’m at a party right now, man maybe you were right, i do have shit alcohol tolerance. but it’s fine. don’t worry, i’m already on my way home and the driver isn’t some creepy dude that might kill me.

……

you know, i like you very much but i don’t think you’ll believe me. i know i jokingly said that we should marry each other if we aren’t dating someone if we hit our 30s, but i kinda wanna marry you even if we aren’t 30 yet. is that weird? i really miss you. please come home.”

……

“hello? god that was so embarrassing… sorry, could you just forget about what i said in the last recording? um just, gosh i don’t even know. denying it won’t really help right haha… it’s in the past now so don’t mull over too much ok? please, just disregard that last recording. i’m really sorry, it was just me being drunk.”

sae did not in fact disregard that recording. in fact, sometimes in the dead of night he’d think about it and wonder, if he had replied to that specific recording would things have ended differently? 

sae didn’t like deep and evoking questions about ‘what if’s’, he finds them annoying most of the time. and yet here he was now entertaining the idea. bouquet in hand as he casually walked around the neighborhood that the both of you had grew up in. the same twists and turns, same houses, same playground, same everything.

yet the silence was too loud, even for him.

everything passes.

-

— graduation recordings

“well, i think it’s safe to say i survived. i graduated sae, are you proud? man i still can’t believe i was a few point from getting the valedictorian spot but oh well. alls well that ends well i suppose. i heard you won your recent match congratulations mr best midfielder! kinda wish i was there to see it, but don’t worry! in your next match i’ll definitely save up enough money and buy those tickets to spain and your match one day! just you wait, i’ll be the screaming my lungs out and support you, i’m still your number one fan after all!”

sae had some feelings of dissatisfaction when you did not in fact get those tickets to spain and his match. maybe it was his wishful thinking but he really did wish you were there. but he knew it was impossible. 

he remembered the feeling of anger and frustration running through his veins, cursing the heavens above because he felt the need to show the gods his emotions. sae hated thinking about you in that moment. he hated how he felt like he was in a new version of hell whenever you just happened to cross his mind. sae hated you very much.

everything passes.

-

— recordings from 2 years ago

“i’m sorry. i know you should’ve heard it from me but i guess my family beat me to it haha. to be perfectly honest with you sae, i had no plans of telling you. i’m sorry. its just, the thought of breaking the news to you. how could i ever do that to you? i’m sorry. god i’m so sorry sae.”

……

“hey. i received the gift you sent me. you didn’t have to , you know. now i kinda feel bad about having you go on break in the middle of soccer season because of me. but still, thank you. i appreciated you being here, with me. it was a refreshing feeling, talking to you again and just hanging out. work has been really stuffy and felt like i was being caged but you came. you suddenly appeared and suddenly everything was alright again. i know we only said goodbye a couple minutes ago but, i miss you already. sorry. this sounds really weird doesn’t it? anyways, thank you again for the gift. i’ll be sure to wear it everyday. that’s all, have a good night sae.”

……

“hey. sorry for calling at such an odd time. i just. i just felt a little lonely. i sound so stupid i’m sorry. good night sae.”

……

“makoto dropped by today. god he was as annoying as ever but he really cheered me up. he managed to confess to this girl he’s pining over since sophomore year. i’m happy for him. but it really got me thinking about us. i know i told you to forget about that one recording because i was drunk but now that i look back on it, i wasn’t really honest. to you and myself. i know this may be the worst timing to confess but yeah, i like you very much. since primary school, as cliche as it may sound i think it all started when you stood up for me from those bullies. now that i think about, i practically glued myself to your side ever since that day didn’t i? i’m glad you didn’t really mind that. i remember always using homework as an excuse to always have you hang out with me even though i completely understood the lesson. man, where did i get the confidence to do that stuff? but i guess those times are lost in the sands of the past i guess. oh right, sorry, i forgot you didn’t really like those type of stuff. getting all deep and whatnot. well that’s all, i’m getting pretty tired already so i’ll head to bed. good night sae.”

everything passes.

-

— present

“hi. thank you by the way. i don’t know, i just don’t think i’ve ever said that you recently. so, thank you. its a bit funny isn’t it? i would almost always talk your ear off every recording but this time, i can’t even find the words to say. my parents came over, talked to them a bit. rin visited as well. he’s gotten a lot taller than i last saw him, he’s probably taller than you now!

……

sae, thank you. for everything. i’m glad we stayed in touch. i’m glad we stayed as friends.  thank you for making my days seem just a tad bit brighter, though sometimes i wonder what it would be like if we were, you know, dating. wonder what the difference would be. i mean we’d still talk to each other right? maybe holding hands and kisses but that’s pretty much it right? but thinking about it is useless right now. maybe in an alternate universe were actually married and adopted a cat like how we used to talk about.”

“you know, before this very moment. i accepted my fate already. i was content, i was doing fine but now. sae, i don’t want to die.”

“please remember me ok? and i’ll be sure to remember you. i’ll see you again, sae.”

“nii-chan..”

sae could only put his phone back in his pocket. his younger brother standing a good distance away from him. he could only imagine how rin looked like right now. was he pitying him, grieving with him? he’ll never know because he will never turn to look at him. not when your right in front of him.

how many times had he played all your recordings for the past 2 years? maybe a little over a 100 times? maybe close to 200 now?

sae removed all those thoughts as he placed the bouquet on the ground, the wind seemed to answer to his call – you seemed to answer to his call. despite all the pain, all the misery, all the bitter waves of grief that flooded his being whenever he played your recordings, he couldn’t bring himself to stop. he didn’t want to forget what you sounded like. your voice reminded him too much of home.

“happy birthday you idiot.” he said to you, keeping his hands in his pockets, watching the leaves of the flowers in the bouquet sway with the wind. two pieces of paper underneath it threatened to be blown away. “you said you wanted to come visit me and watch my match, well now you can.” two pieces of paper, one a plane ticket to spain the other a ticket to his upcoming match two weeks from now. “you better come watch me alright?” he could only bitterly smile. 

“you’re 30 now,” he whispered, before getting on one knee. placing a velvet box in front of your gravestone. “you should’ve waited for me, you idiot.” sae could only mutter those words to no one in particular. it was as if the world had stopped for a moment, the wind had stopped howling, the sun was nowhere to be seen. he could only see you. “i wanted to marry you too, y’know.”

sae could remember every occurrence where he would sit at his balcony in spain every night after your passing. phone to his ear, listening to all your recordings. but you’ll never know how he replies to them, every single one of them with his own. 

“i told the stars about you and what we could’ve had.” he chuckled, “you’re by far the hardest lesson i had to learn.”

standing up from his kneeling position, he gave you one last look before walking away. rin followed suit, but not before placing something at your grave. a pink book that you had loved till the very end. 

sae hated planes, but he flew back to japan every year. sae didn’t really like flowers, but every year he’d get you a pretty bouquet. sae didn’t like coming home but if it meant getting to visit you, he’d come back over and over again. sae didn’t like reading or any deep and evoking questions but he always humored you whenever you asked him.

sae hated all those things but they reminded him too much of you to let them go. 

and just like your favorite author, when osamu dazai asked to die, he simplu agreed; but just before his death, he suddenly felt obsession with life.

everything passes. just like how you’ll eventually get lost in the sands of time.

© vxnuslogy 2024. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my works.

#✒️ — works #itoshi sae x reader #itoshi sae x you #sae itoshi #sae itoshi x reader #sae itoshi x you #sae itoshi x y/n #itoshi sae x y/n #blue lock x reader #blue lock x you #bllk x reader #bllk x you #blue lock angst #bllk angst #sae itoshi angst

[crevicedwelling]

I have a pretty bad fear of wasps. Nothing crippling, I can observe them from a distance just fine, but it does make being outside on warm, sunny days a stressful experience. I want to work on it, because I know they're just like any other animal: they're just minding their own business 99% of the time, they're not out to get you, and they deserve a place on this world as much as any other. And I know some can even learn to recognize/"befriend" people, which I think is super cool. I actually followed your blog partially because you post about wasps and I knew it would help to regularly expose myself to wasps that way.

I still sometimes freeze up or get really jumpy when I see a wasp near me. But I can tell I've been getting better. Just the other day I went to the Renaissance Festival and was carrying around a big cup of mead (a.k.a. wasp attractant) and, yeah, I was followed by a couple wasps. At one point two of them just hung out on the inside of the cup for like five solid minutes licking it clean.

If it weren't for your blog I would've been so terrified I probably would've thrown the cup onto the ground and waited from like twenty feet away for the wasps to leave. But I DIDN'T. I carried it around with me and patiently (and anxiously) waited for the wasps to fly away whenever they did show up.

It's really hard to make myself just stay still when I see a wasp near me. Earlier today I could only do so for maybe 30 seconds before I had to stand up and wait nearby for it to leave. But I'm really trying to get over that fear, and I'm slowly getting better, and I think I owe your blog quite a bit in that regard. So, thank you.

I believe the most common wasp here (at least, the one I was dealing with in those two anecdotes) is some kind of Vespula yellowjacket, probably Vespula maculifrons. So... I dunno, if you have any fun facts or pictures or videos about yellowjackets (either V. maculifrons or yellowjackets in general), I'd love to hear/see those. And if not, that's okay too <3

I think a fun fact that most don’t appreciate about yellowjackets is how much they parasitize one another!

Vespula maculifrons here is a widespread, common species in eastern North America. queens of this species do the usual overwinter under log, find a hole, make a nest deal. they scavenge, they hunt, they feed on nectar. pretty standard Vespula.

V. squamosa is a species that’s very common locally, and when you see workers out and about they act much like other yellowjackets. however, their queens (no photo) are huge, hornet-sized orange wasps quite different from the workers. curiously, V. squamosa don’t make their own nests about 85% of the time. instead, most of those big bruiser queens wait a few weeks longer to come out of hiding, and track down a new Vespula maculifrons nest founded earlier in spring. she’ll march into the smaller species’ nest, chew the original queen to pieces, and bully her daughter workers into submission. she then lays her own eggs in the nest, and produces her own workers who forage alongside the V. maculifrons workers, and over time the colony becomes only made up of V. squamosa. V. squamosa will even take over nests that have already been usurped by another facultative parasite, V. flavopilosa, which usually targets V. maculifrons as well!

in the warmera south, V. squamosa nests can become massive superstructures housing dozens of queens, used year after year. if you’ll allow me a moment of poetic speculation, most of these ancient castles must therefore contain the remnants of a tiny V. maculifrons nest at their core, the gnawed ruins of a conquered house.

#bugs #wasp #hymenoptera #yellowjacket

[my-darling-inej]

appreciation post for kaz’s best one-liners

because he’s the chandler of the crows

about jesper spelling ‘forgive me’ on dirix’s chest in bullet holes: “Compromise”, Kaz said. “I’m sorry does the trick and uses fewer bullets.”

“If you fail, all the world will suffer for it.” - “Oh, it’s worse than that, Van Eck. If I fail, I don’t get paid.”

“I had a question,”, said Kaz. “About your mother and whether the rumours are true.” (he says that to a guard in hellgate 💀)

when he tells wylan to watch jesper so he doesn’t go gambling: “I don’t need a nursemaid”, Jesper snapped. “More like a chaperone, but if you want him to wash your nappies and tuck you in at night, that’s your business.” (captain of the wesper ship from day one)

Kaz replied with a time-saving gesture that relied heavily on his middle finger and disappeared belowdecks. (i know, technically not a line, but still great)

“I’ll just hire Matthias’ ghost to kick your ghost’s ass.” (iconic 👏🏻)

when jesper doesn’t know what to do with the backless book: “Hold it up so we don’t have to look at your ugly face.”

“What is he doing?” asked Matthias. “Performing an ancient Zemeni ritual,” Kaz said. “Really?” - “No.”

“How do we cross? I don’t see anything.” - “Because you are not worthy.” - “I’m also not nearsighted. There’s nothing there.” followed by: “This is only one part of Hringkälla.” - “Yes, I know, then a tree tells you the secret handshake.”

“You can explain why our illustrious Shu scientist looks like one of Wylan’s school pals along the way.”

about van eck’s replacement for the ruby (that HE STOLE): “Nice pin,” Kaz said with a glance at the ruby stuck to Van Eck’s tie, “Not as nice as the other one, though.”

“Let’s go.” - “Me?” - “No, the idiot behind you.”

“How is-” - “Nina is fine. Jesper is fine. Everyone is fine except for me because I’m stuck with a gang of hand-wringing nursemaids. Keep a watch.” (actually it’s because of inej, but sure, kaz)

while petting a dog: “Now why can’t people be this easily trained?”

“I helped as well,” added Kuwei, looking sulky. “He did help,” Wylan said. “We’ll make him a plaque,” said Kaz.

“I need to do this. I’ve never been to my mother’s grave. I’m not leaving Kerch without saying goodbye.” - “Trust me, you care more than she does.” (i mean he’s right but jesus christ 💀)

“Pick up the pace,” Kaz said, eyeing his watch. “If I spill a single drop of this, it will burn straight through the floor onto my father’s dinner guests.” - “Take your time.”

when he breaks that dreg member’s leg: “My leg! My leg!” - “I recommend a cane.” (he’s a bad bitch and he knows it. 10/10)

Jellen Radmakker had fallen to the stage and was bellowing, “I’ve been shot!” He had not been shot.

when zoya tries to reanimate kuwei: “I really hope she gets this right,” murmured Nina. “Not as much as Kuwei does,” said Kaz.

in conclusion: kaz is actually funny as hell

#let him be funny in the show you cowards!! #six of crows #kaz brekker

[dduane]

Re: Magic systems

kosmonaunt asked:

I have the weird hyper-fixation of wanting to know all their is about The Speech and just how everything works!! I love learning about how power systems work, and it helps since I’m trying to develop my own. I’m always stuck on soft or hard magic systems. Since I don’t know all there is to really know about my system. Do you have tips on crafting magic systems? How do you feel about someone being inspired by pieces of your system?

Inspiration is fine! What you want to make sure you do with whatever inspires you, though, is to work hard to make your own take on it different from or better than what you borrowed. Around here we refer to this as "the magpie principle:" if you're going to pick up and play with/make off with a bright and shiny idea, you need to be working to produce something even brighter and shinier as your part of the "exchange". Whether or not you succeed at this (or can succeed), either sometimes or never at all, isn't the point. The point is to always be trying.

As regards building magic systems: there were three different ones in the foreground or background of my first novel alone—all of them with features that at this end of time I can recognize as being inspired by elements of magic systems in other writers' work. But by the time I'd more fully developed them, each had become something unique. The system I'm probably better known for—the system based on the wizardly Speech and its use—sprang more or less automatically from the increasingly complex answers to the question, "What if there was a manual that could tell you the truth about/the secrets of what makes the world go?". (Because once you answer one question, another pops up. "Where did that manual come from? What're you supposed to do with it? What's wizardry for?" Etc., etc.) I've spent the last few decades, on and off, answering that question in ways that (intentionally) mirror the main characters' exploration of the art of wizardry, and what it means to engage in the business of errantry in a world that mostly thinks wizards are a fairy tale.

Before getting into describing my own approach to building a system, I needed to take a little time to look around and make sure I knew what you meant when you mentioned hard and soft magic. My best guess is that you're referring to what a lot of people are calling "Sanderson's Three Laws of Magic" (fairly enough, as Brandon calls them that himself). I had a look, and have come to the conclusion that they're more general guidelines than laws... as in each of his three essays on the subject, Brandon no sooner names his basic laws/principles than he starts punching holes through them to make room for systems that don't follow them rigidly. (And frankly I find this kind of endearing.)

With his first one, in particular, I have no quarrel at all: the concept that in one kind of magic, which for his purposes he defines as the "hard" kind, rules are extremely important. (Which is why I'm kind of horrified that he apparently got dogpiled about this take on a Worldcon panel, because to me it seems so intuitive. Some of the best fantasy storytellers I know, like this one, would agree with him.) Then later he gets on to the equally valid ideas that limitations on magic are really important, and that culturally interconnecting multiple systems is useful; and here too we're in agreement. This is reassuring to me, considering that I built my first four systems—all of which feature approaches resting on similar concepts—while Sanderson was between four and six years old. :)

People using Sanderson's Laws will look at the three systems in the Middle Kingdoms books and classify them as varying sorts of relatively hard magic, with their power rooted in two or maybe three different sources. (The blue Fire is a gift of the Divine, nearly lost since ancient times and much damaged, but now slowly being recovered: sorcery is a language-based art in which no one's terribly sure where its power comes from: and the so-called "royal magics" probably started out as a blood sorcery that over centuries was shifted toward very specific uses by the power of the demigod-descendants who employed it.)

The Young Wizards novels, though, feature an extremely hard magic deeply rooted in science and (more or less under the hood) very, very rules-intensive... while its power relies on correct use of the language used to create the Universe, and the active cooperation of the Powers still busy about that work. And this is the reason why, though people are going to naturally be curious about the Speech itself, no one's going to hear very much from me about its actual words.

This is because the Speech is canonically described as so powerful that its use is something you can feel in your body and mind (and theoretically your spirit): bone-shaking, life-changing, unmistakable. And there's no way that made-up words on the page can realistically be expected to evoke physical sensations like that in the reader... or like the sense of the universe going silent around you, leaning in to listen, as you speak your spell. The careful writer knows that it's unwise to attempt to produce responses in the reader that, when they fail, will only emphasize how that thing is not happening, and stands a good chance of shattering the illusion one’s trying to weave.

So a Speech-word gets dropped here and a phrase there, but no one's ever going to get enough of it out of me to try to build a spell. Readers are better at doing that work for themselves in their own heads, out of hints and whispers. Over ten books and their interstitial material, there are plenty of those scattered through the text: not to mention the most basic principles of wizardry, which are laid out before the end of the first chapter of the first book in the series. So I'll leave you to get on with deducing what you can from canon.

Meanwhile, if I was about to build a new system, I'd look at my main characters—in the setting of their home cultures—and ask myself for answers to these questions:

What do they want more than anything?

Why can't they have it?

What kind of power will help them get it?

When they do eventually get within reach of the power / the desired thing... what will its achievement cost them?

And will they pay the price?

...Because the payment of such prices is where you find out what your heroes are worth. (Or aren't.) The above arc succinctly describes, in broad strokes, both The Door into Fire and So You Want To Be A Wizard, and a good number of the books that follow them. (Because why abandon what works, or try to fix what's not broken?) :)

With answers to the questions above you can start feeling your way toward what you need—always looking closely at the cultures your characters spring from, and how those cultures will shape their response to the magic they seek. (Or that finds them.) Maybe it's no surprise that the preferred arc structure of a writer who was a psychiatric nurse will be deeply involved with questions of motivation: because motivation is at the heart of almost all human behavior. Find the motivation and you find the character's heart—and, often enough, what kind of magic they need to make their desire and intention overflow into triumph.

...There are quite a few "How to design your magic system" pages out there. You might glance at these to see if there's anything useful in them for you:

How To Build An Amazing Magic System For Your Fantasy Novel

How To Create A Magic System In Six Simple Steps

Building Your Magic System: A Full Recipe

How To Create A Rational Magic System

However, my favorite is the "So You Want To Write A Functional Magic System" page at TV Tropes, which is nicely arranged yet also completely nonprescriptive—a pick-'n'-mix jar of prompts, things other writers have done that've worked, and generally useful ideas. (And try not to vanish too far down the many interconnected rabbitholes...) :)

Now get out there, build the world, and make the magic(s).

#magic systems #building magic #magic #writing advice #fantasy

[southerngothicchic]

Promises in the Dark

18+

Your eyes linger on the dingy neon lettering that read 'Prairie Inn,' on the faded sign. The equally dingy 'Vacancy' right below it seemed extra depressing tonight, just taunting you with the false prospect of actually having guests check in. You didn't know why you had to sit perched behind the dusty front desk, surrounded by so much wood paneling every night, when it would all prove to be done in vain.

You tried to convince your parents to sell the place and move away, to literally anywhere else, other than middle of nowhere North Dakota. They always refused, since it was a family business and they wanted it to stay 'in the family.'

Despite what they envisioned, this wasn't how your future was going to play out. Once you had enough saved up, you were getting out and possibly not looking back, at least not for a while.

Other than them, you didn't really have anything keeping you here...unless you counted a certain sheriff's deputy that had a crush on you.

You knew you never should've humored him, but you could only resist his dreamy brown eyes for so long.

You'd drag him into the back office for heated make outs, with him whining how you should just open up one of the rooms so you could have some real fun. You told him no, several times, out of some looming fear that you'd get caught. Which, he always tried to persuade you otherwise, but you didn't waver.

That was, until tonight.

You sit, with a huff, behind the front desk, already over everything while your shift had just started. You then pull your phone from your back pocket and begin endlessly scrolling.

For such a mind-numbing activity, it did make the time pass quicker, as it was soon 11 P.M.

You know he should be here soon, as he always stops by during his patrols of the area. Antipation courses through you as you've missed him more than you thought you would. You find yourself actually missing that stupid vape that seemed to be attached to his hand. He's so irritatingly cute, sometimes you couldn't stand it.

You turn your attention back to your phone, getting lost in scrolling once again, when you hear the ancient door creak open and the footfalls from heavy boots. You glance up to see him blow a cloud of vapor in front of him, as he approaches you. You roll your eyes, not wanting him to see how much you missed him.

"Evenin' gorgeous," he greets, leaning against the desk. "How's your night been?"

"Oh, you know, another thrilling night at the Bates Motel," you snark, gesturing to your surroundings.

You each share a laugh, as he nervously shifts his gaze from yours.

"I have to say, I don't like you being here all alone," he begins, "there's a lot of bad people out there that could take advantage of a pretty thing like you."

"So you tell me, literally every time I see you," you dismiss, with another laugh. "I think if some horrible thing was meant to happen to me, it would've by now."

"Hard to say, the world's just gettin' worse and people are gettin' crazier," he counters, "who knows what could happen on any given night."

"Are you trying to scare me, Tillman?"

He bristles at you using his last name.

"Just stating what could happen is all," he defends, glancing at you with those eyes.

"Well, I really shouldn't have anything to worry about because you'll be here to protect me, right?"

He smirks while you playfully bat your eyes at him.

"That's right, honey, nothing's gonna happen to you with me here," he says proudly.

"I'm so lucky to have such a big, strong man looking out for me," you then tease, knowing it really gets him going.

It's his turn to roll his eyes, before he leans closer to you.

"Make fun all you want, but I'm gonna show you just how big and strong I am," he breathes, his voice low.

"Oh really?"

He nods. "Now, c'mere, I've been dying to kiss ya all day."

He reaches for you and places his hand on the back of your neck, pulling you to him.

You let him, as you've been wanting the same thing.

His lips are surprisingly soft as he kisses you slowly. The tiniest moan escapes his lips when you deepen the kiss. The chill of the night is soon forgotten as he's consumed with the warmth radiating from you.

"I knew you missed me," he whispers, as he nose presses against your cheek.

"I did," you breathe, ghosting your lips over his.

"You wanna get us one of those rooms tonight, honey?"

"Gator..." you whine.

"Please, honey? Just think how good I can make you feel..." he continues, as he presses kisses to your cheek.

His kisses are dangerous, as you're considering giving in.

"You're the worst," you say, after breaking the kiss and pulling away.

His smirk returns as he watches you take the master room key out of a drawer. You slide it into one of your back pockets, followed by slipping your phone in the other.

"Lets go, loverboy," you say, as you take his hand and lead him out of the office.

You forget how cold it was as you hurry out into the night. Gator quickly pulls you to him, trying to shield you from the bitter wind. You each walk through the half melted snow, to the nicest room in the motel.

A half faded, gold 5 marks the door as you slide the key card in the lock. It clicks open and you eagerly pull him inside, wanting to get out the cold.

The room itself is almost as cold and dark when you feel him press your back against the door. His lips are on yours again, this time kissing you hungrily. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him even closer.

"I knew you wanted this too," he breathes, as his lips move to your neck. "Fuck, I've wanted you for so long, baby."

You just whimper at his words as you feel his teeth scrape against your skin. He plans on leaving a sizable hickey, so everyone will know you're his.

Your hands are already clawing at his bulky vest, the feeling of him suckling on your skin almost too much.

"Tell me you want me, too," he then breathily commands, with his eyes meeting yours.

"I want you," you breathe, gazing at him helplessly.

With that, he lifts you up, into his arms and carries you to the bed. He gently lays you down before beginning to take off his clothes.

The faint light from the neon sign shines through the thin curtain, illuminating him as you watch him undress. His movements entrance you, until he reminds you that you should be taking off your clothes as well.

Blushing, you quickly pull your sweater over your head, revealing a black bra. You then lean over to take off your boots, before emptying your pockets, on the nearby nightstand. You slide your jeans down your legs then discard them, on the floor.

You lay back against the pillows, waiting for him to pounce.

He stands, just in his boxers, as he looks at you.

"So pretty..." he breathes, taking them off and climbing onto the bed.

He presses his lips to your ankle, then alternates between each leg, as he kisses his way up to your thighs. He smiles as you writhe underneath him.

The sensual way he's kissing you is a welcome surprise. Knowing that he possesses such tenderness makes you weak.

You whimper as he nips at your thighs, unable to keep from squirming. He then presses his mouth to your panties, pressing his tongue against the fabric.

"I bet you taste just as good as you smell," he says, looking up at you.

You throw your head back against the pillow, before he rips your panties from your body.

He wastes no time tasting you, as his tongue laps at you, feverishly. Your hands are immediately grasping and pulling at his slicked back hair, while moaning his name.

"You taste so fuckin' good, baby, better than I dreamed," he pants, as he devours you.

You close your eyes, as your legs begin to tremble, only for them to reopen as you whine when he pulls away.

He slithers up your body and hovers his face over yours.

"What's the matter, baby?" He asks, his voice dripping with condescension. "Do you need more?"

You let out a frustrated sigh, before pulling him into a kiss. He smiles before licking his way into your mouth, wanting you to taste yourself. The kiss becomes messier as your desire intensifies.

"You don't know how many nights I've dreamed about this..." he breathes. "And how you were dripping on my tongue..."

He pauses to kiss you again, with his tongue easily parting your lips. A low moan rumbles from his throat, before he continues, "You're the perfect girl, and you deserve to be fucked like one."

You actually gasp, against his lips, while he grins. He glances down as you instinctively spread your legs. You each moan as he eases himself inside you.

"Gator, I-its-" you breathe, arching your back.

"You can take it, honey, I know ya can," he assures, as he pushes all the way in.

You dramatically exhale when you feel his hips against yours.

"Fuck, you're so tight..." he grunts, "don't know how long I'm gonna last."

You move your hips, urging him to move, as your hands grip his shoulders.

"I'll just fuck ya nice and slow," he says, pulling halfway out, before sinking back in.

You're already back to moaning his name, which he can't get enough of.

"How's that, baby? Good?" He asks, loving how you're already this blissed out.

"So good, don't stop..." you answer, as he leans in for a kiss.

He moans into it when he feels you wrap your legs around his waist.

"You've wanted this as much as I have, huh?" He adds, with his lips trailing kisses down your neck.

"Y-Yes, oh God..." you sigh, as he fucks you deeper.

"I can tell from how you're squeezin' me, fuck..." he breathes, fully burying his face in your neck. "I wanna fuck you all the time, after this...you're mine now...all mine."

"Gator..." you whine, meant to be a form of protest, but too lost in pleasure.

"Say it," he commands, before biting the top of your shoulder.

"I'm yours!" You then yelp, your nails clawing at his back.

"Promise me..." he breathes, as he pushes your bra strap down, his lips mouthing along your skin. "Promise me that you'll always be mine..."

Your mind is almost too hazy to comprehend what he's saying, too far gone to form words. All you can really do is whimper as he places wet kisses across the top of your breast.

"Don't go all quiet on me now. I thought you liked me..." he says, looking up at you.

"I do-"

"Don't ya want to be with me?" He asks, kissing his way up your neck.

You whine his name again as he sighs.

"That's not a real answer, honey," he scolds, nuzzling his nose against your jaw.

"Yes, I want to be with you," you reply, exasperation evident in your voice.

He smiles, his eyes meeting yours, even in the darkened room.

"Then ya better fuckin' scream for me," he whispers, before roughly thrusting into you.

His abrupt change of pace makes you gasp and cling to him even tighter as he presses a sloppy kiss to your lips.

Sweat drips from his forehead onto your lips, when he pulls away. He watches as you then swipe your tongue across your lip, before smiling. He moans and fucks into you even harder, making you finally come undone around him.

His hips stutter, for a moment, as you cry his name, with your nails digging into his skin.

"Fuck...you're so beautiful baby...I'm gonna-"

A loud, obnoxious moan reverberates through him as he spills inside you. You're both moaning as he fills you so full, you can feel some of it seeping out.

He collapses onto you, engulfing your body with his. He's panting, harder than before while you lightly scratch his back.

"Holy shit..." he breathes, raising his head to meet your gaze.

You then pull him into a kiss, not wanting him to say something stupid and ruin the moment.

He eagerly reciprocates your kiss and you just lazily make out. He does eventually pull away and say, "I meant everything I said, I want you to be my girlfriend."

"We shouldn't, though. What about your dad-?"

"I don't care about what he thinks," he replies, his hand cupping your cheek. "I just know I wanna be with you. Like, show you off around town and take you on dates and stuff."

You smile. "I guess being your girlfriend wouldn't be so bad..."

"I'll be the best boyfriend you've ever had," he grins, "and you already know that the sex will be good."

"True," you laugh.

He kisses you again before you say, "I hate to do this, but I need to get back to the office."

"Its ok, I should go, too," he replies, giving you one last kiss before sitting up.

You both have dumb smiles on your lips as you redress. He slips his hand into yours as you walk to his patrol car. He pulls you into a tight hug, as he feels you shivering.

"I don't wanna leave you," he pouts, as you pull away to look at him.

"Why don't you come back in a few hours and we go get breakfast?"

A smile instantly forms on his lips.

"Ok, so like a date, then?"

"Yes, like a date," you say, playfully rolling your eyes, before smiling in return.

"See ya later," he breathes, pulling you back to him for a lingering kiss.

"See ya," you echo, against his lips.

You watch, still with a smile, as he leaves the desolate parking lot, before hurrying back inside the motel office.

You resume your place behind the desk, this time with a dreamy look in your eyes. You check your phone, and relief washes over you as there's no missed calls or concerned texts from your parents. You sigh, leaning back in the equally ancient chair, unashamedly excited for breakfast with your boyfriend.

#gator tillman #gator tillman x reader #gator tillman smut

[wandixx]

Dani gives people heart attacks and brings down a lot of trafficking rings, making friends along the way. Everything by accident, really

Dani traveled around world, hadn't she? While doing it, she had to meet a lot of interesting people.

Like heroes or villains.

In civies or not or both who knows.

But to actually learn things about someplace you have to spend more than one night there. Like, idk? Month? Probably more but I doubt she would be able to sit in one place for any longer. In many places she is shorter.

Month is long enough to create some connections though.

Enough to get someone to realize when you disappear...

Yeah, Dani on her way of gremlin and self discovery ghosted bunch of people without second thought. They'll probably forget her in few months anyway. And she was everywhere in USA. She didn't left American soil only because she didn't want to be too far from Danny in case of emergency. Before anyone tells me he was in space so he could fly to her wherever on Earth she would be, Earth's atmosphere ends about 100 km above sea level and officially this is border of space. Telecommunication satellites are between 8000 to 12000 km up. It's about how wide Atlantic Ocean is.

Plus y'know, time. If she needs help, she probably can't quite wait until he flies all the way to Hong Kong, Wladywostok, Rio de Janeiro or wherever she is.

So America it is. For now at least. When they're 100% sure she is stable she'll fly elsewhere.

Anyway people who she ghosted are used to batshit crazy stuff but "this tween is alone on her road to self discovery and just left for new city" isn't first thing anyone thought about. Maybe outside of Martians. They know. Everyone else? No idea what happened to this tiny, chaotic, snarky, probably meta child.

First thought though?

She got kidnapped.

So now 3/4 of Justice League, some individual heroes and bunch of less intense rogues are scrambling around their cities tracking every trafficking ring they found glimpses of, trying to find Dani.

Flashes work with Captain Cold on this and seem to slowly descend into madness. At the same time, Dani eats ice cream with nice museum lady from Washington who introduced herself as Diana. Then she helps at animal shelter with kind stuck up boy called Damian. Oh, Danny likes aliens, let's visit Martian Manhunter. Maybe she'll manage to get autograph for her template. Wait Space Cops? Kinda sucks but Danny would probably like their signatures too. Let's go. Oh, Superboys are fun mess with and older one is like her! This Nightwing guy puns like Danny but she always feels like he looks at her weirdly. Billy should eat more, magic or not, fighting is tiring. Good thing she has Sam's money to buy him burgers.

She has time of her life while people she met are slowly dying.

She probably doesn't even hide that she is traveling but for whatever reason they don't think she actually left.

They don't bring it up on any meeting because no matter how concerned they are, it's not really whole league type of business. And Martians just discreetly enjoy chaos.

There is a lot of ways it can get resolved (or not) but I kinda thought about Jon introducing his old buddy Damian to his new buddy Dani because he thinks they would get along and they just stare at each other for long moment before:

"Dani..."

"Dami!"

"WHY DID YOU LEFT WITHOUT A WORD! WE THOUGHT YOU WERE KIDNAPPED OR DEAD!"

Some screaming and revelation that Killer Croc was looking for her too, Dani hits moment of realisation.

"Wait, is this what people think when you just up and go?"

"Honestly? Yeah"

"Oh, Ancients I did this to so many people. So many..."

Idk, just Dani traveling and leaving people behind.

Do with it what you will

#dp x dc #dpxdc #dc x dp #dcxdp #nobody really questions why Martians brought popcorn to Watchtower meeting because their stretch to thin between attending said meeting #and wondering where this tiny gremlin disappeared #it would be kinda histeric to me if she visited some cities few times but met other people #like first time in Gotham she bothers Jason and pets hienas #then few months later she has brawl with killer croc and becomes Duke's kibda sidekick for a week #then she smacks Joker and volunteers at animal shelter with Damian #and somehow they don't connect it #or they do and think she repeatedly gets kidnapped and escapes but doesn't leave the city because something #only hope flashes have left at this point is that she didn't show up in morgue #they actually consider running back in time to save her #also #some heroes and villains heard some thing and they *preparing weapons* #just want to talk with Vlad #just talk they promise #idk just enjoy and spread the chaos #have a nice day dear stranger who got to this part

[sare11aa11eras]

Daenys, what did you see?

[design notes under the cut]

I think my little pencil sketch here (which I did after I’d already finished the lines for the main piece) makes Daenys look much younger, which, I can’t actually tell how old Daenys looks in the main piece, so if you’re thinking sketch!Daenys looks about eleven idk what to tell you I don’t hang out with 14yo kids very much I have college. If art!Daenys looks about 25 I have no defense except that I don’t know what people look like.

I don’t know that the pleated fabric makes sense, construction-wise or world building-wise, but I wanted mostly to convey the warm climate, maybe draw on some 19th century art of Ancient Greek women. I don’t think the Valyrians would have worn anything like this for riding dragons, but afaik, Daenys wasn’t a dragon rider, and very few dragon riders were as young as Daenys is [post-conquest Targ children who claim dragons during political upheaval are outliers adn should not have been counted]

I originally wanted all the jewelry to be purple and silver, but then I did this gold and red business. I think it works?

At one point I had plans to include a few valyrian glyphs, but that never happened. Oh well.

There are so many buttons involved in Daenys’s little cape thing I might need an aerospace engineer to help me explain it.

I wanted Daenys’s hair to look both floral and vaguely reminiscent of a dragon (the big loops on top making arches was meant to look like a dragon with wings up and out)

#asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #my art #daenys targaryen #daenys the dreamer #asoiaf fashion hour #like 80% of my art since last summer has flames in it and idk why. #house targaryen

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Hi Fen!!! Popping in to ask what you think the moon boys’ hobbies would be (if they weren’t so busy moon knighting). (For Steven, I feel like studying ancient Egypt is more like a passion, so like what else do you think he’d be into?)

K. Love you! Byeeeee.

IDJIDHVDHFH Oh my gosh, I love this ask so much! Thank you so, so, SO much for sending it! ❤️(ILY!) Did I think about this at work for a good 1 and 30 mins instead of working on a spreadsheet? No, of course not, I would never do that… 👀

I have narrowed it down to one each to save everyone from seeing my absolute madness.

Moon Knight Boys Headcanons & Hobbies

Rating: PG  Masterlist | ao3 | want to be tagged?

Warnings: Swearing

Steven: Cooking

Okay, here me out. So, I’ve seen opposite ends of opinion on this one (both are valid) but I’m going with Steven is a very good cook, and he likes cooking. 

He’s been vegan for a while and it’s only in the last couple of years that food places have really been trying with vegan and vegetarian options that aren’t salad… bread… (chips if you’re lucky) So, I think he enjoys making lots of different recipes. 

It started out with him just making vegan ones and then, over time, became him changing other recipes to make them vegan and coming up with his own. 

Absolute master at vegan cakes, no one can ever tell the difference, and, in fact, a lot of people compliment him on ‘the best cake they’ve ever had’, ‘so light and fluffy? How do you do it?’ “Well, that’s the secret, innit?” (whisk the aquafaba like your life depends on it and sweet potato) 

Steven is absolutely horrified by the food Marc makes himself. (Plain chicken, rice, spinach) 

“Where are the flavours Marc? At least some herbs? Spices for fuck’s sake? I can’t believe you’re eating plain steamed chicken?” (He doesn’t even care that it’s meat, it's just the lack of flavour.)

“It’s boiled chicken actually.”

Steven loses his goddamn mind. 

“I don’t care what bloody macronutrient you are monitoring, you are not eating that.”

It’s not that Marc can’t cook, he just doesn’t see the reason to put the effort in when it’s just for himself (doesn’t feel like he deserves it.)

Steven grumbles to himself and refuses to let Marc cook his own dinner if he can help it. “If you’re going to eat meat, at least treat it with respect, yeah? Bring out the flavour?” He usually preps something for Marc, so he can cook it quickly when he’s hungry. 

Makes so many cakes and pastries for Jake. Leaves them in boxes with ‘Jake :)’ written on a post stick note on the top. Jake is always so touched and surprised when he does. They have taken to playing a little game where sometimes the food is vegan and sometimes it’s not and Jake has to guess. He’s more accurate than most people, but it still only averages around 70% right. (69% if we’re being exact, and Marc is sure Jake’s messing with the correct statistics on purpose.)

Marc: Fantasy Baseball and Fantasy Football

Literally takes it so seriously. Has spreadsheets filled with information and pours over every single statistic like it holds the answers to the universe. It only got more intense when he found a forum for people with the same interest and he literally will spend hours talking online about it.

“It’s not about getting the best players, it’s about making the best team.”

Jake has joked that he puts Steven and his love for history to shame and if those spreadsheets weren’t saved on the computer Marc would have boxes and boxes and folders upon folders of printed out info and then there would be zero space in the flat. 

When Marc annoys Steven, Steven tells him to “go play with your pretend american cricket and american rugby” to piss him off. 

(Marc retaliates by incorrectly pronouncing UK places. 

“Steven, maybe we should take a trip to Ed-in-b-row” 

“It’s Ed-in-bruh.” 

“How about Sus-SEX or Es-SEX?” 

“It’s Sus-SIX and Es-SIX.” 

“I do love Green-WITCH at this time of year.” 

“IT’S GREN-ITCH! Jake, you're from New York, how is Greenwich pronounced?” 

“I’m not getting involved.” 

“Ha! That’s because he agrees with me!”

When things get really heated, Marc threatens to make a cup of tea in the microwave. Steven says he doesn’t care because he makes coffee in the microwave all the time and it’s fine. Jake puts an end to it by saying hot chocolate tastes best with water and then laughing when both Marc and Steven gang up on him. 

“I cannot believe you think that mate.”

“You know how many different types of milk there are?”

“Absolutely disgusting.”

“Cow, goat, soya, almond, coconut, literally any of them instead.”)

Jake: Knitting

Wanted something to keep his hands busy, that he could pick up and put down, and that he could take in his cab when he was stationary and waiting for fares. 

Took to it a lot quicker than he thought it would, and can just zone out and knit. It helps keep him grounded. 

He feels like he has spent a lot of his time destroying and there is something so satisfying about being able to create. 

Once he mastered the stitch he quickly moved onto making clothes. Before Marc and Steven knew about him he used to knit jumpers for Steven and hide them in the wardrobe. 

Jake makes Marc a cartoony style baseball jumper that he also loves, and a thick cardigan for Steven that is covered in hieroglyphics (he spends months researching the language to get it to make some sense, and works in a dig at Khonshu in there and has Steven crying with laughter.) 

When they know about him Steven excitedly requests the “most garish and over the top Hanukkah jumper anyone has ever seen!” Jake does his best, presenting it to Steven (and trying to hide how nervous he feels) Steven loves it and refuses to take it off all winter. 

Most people think Jake has a stern glare when he wants, but you can never be sure if he’s planning your destruction or trying to work out how many balls of wool it would take to make someone your size a jumper.

____________________________________

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @mystinky-butt @cocodiem @oscarisaacsspit @welcometostayingawake @mbakubabe @solobagginses @melodygatesauthor @romanarose @pimosworld @jake-g-lockley

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#steven grant #moon knight #moon knight mcu #marc spector #jake lockley #headcanon #headcanons #hobbies #my writing #fanfic #oscar isaac #oscar isaac characters

[flamingfoxninja]

Pinocchio loved his father. You have to remember that as I tell you what happened. It’s crucial that you remember. Because he truly loved his father. You can probably say the same thing about loving your family, your sister and brothers, and it would mean the same as myself loving my own mother and father. But the love that I had for my family paled in comparison to the love Pinocchio had for his, or the love that his father gave right back. Maybe paled isn’t the right word, but I don’t think there is any word close enough to describe the immense difference between them and everyone else. They were each other’s world, with all the stars and moon and magic that surrounded it. Which is strange if you thought about it, since Pinocchio wasn’t in the village for very long.

It was weird when I first met Pinocchio. We live in the little village of Amanti in the country of Marienne. It was a quiet classic sort of village. Not everything had magic or witches or monsters that you hear in the stories you know. Some places are just the background sets, the places that just travel through in order to get to the real plot. That was our village, quiet and unobtrusive, and we liked it like that. Boring compared to most, but it was peaceful and everyone was happy and friendly with everyone else. The children certainly knew the other children, and I prided myself with knowing everyone in town. As much as a child would know anyway. But the one person I knew very well was Pinocchio’s father. 

He was an old man, with polished circle glasses and silvery gray hair. Though looking back, he probably wasn’t older at fifty at most. I had a habit of assuming anyone with remotely graying hair as old or ancient, because only old or ancient people ever had magic to them. And Pinocchio’s father was the most magical person I had ever known to that point. He worked as a wood carver, always tinkering away at his shop making clocks and toys to sell. But my favorite things were the puppets he made. Little wooden marionettes. It would take him a while to carve them, putting in extra care to their body and shape, perfecting them in ways that I would never even think about. About twice a month he would take his marionettes into the square in the little portable stage he had, and put on a show for the children. We watched as he made the marionettes move and dance across the stage, telling stories of knightly princes and clever princesses. It was the most magical thing I had ever seen, watching him breathe life into those puppets. 

Once, I was lucky enough to be taken by my mother to get a new clock. I must have been six or seven at the time, and saw him working on the head of a puppet as we walked in. My mother had wanted to ask about the prices or some other adult things, but I was louder and must have asked him a hundred questions about who the new marionette was and how they were made. It must have exasperated my mother but he took it in stride. He gave the warmest smile as he gently explained to me how the parts are made, how the strings are attached, and how he was able to make them so realistically. His eyes never stopped twinkling as I kept up my questions. I think it made him happy, knowing I took an interest. But then I asked why he was careful in carving the puppets. He paused, like he knew the answer immediately but couldn’t find the right words to express it. And when he spoke there was a twinge of sadness. He said, “Because I am not just creating a body, I am creating a life. And you must always take responsibility.” I was confused by his answer, but my mother had jumped in and took control of the conversation to the clocks he had available. They did their business and me and my mother went home. I saw the same sadness in Pinocchio’s father as we did. And though I knew that my mother was very much annoyed at me inside, she looked different as we left. It was the first time I saw the look of pity on someone. When we got home she took me aside and explained to me how adults can be lonely too sometimes. Sometimes, not everyone can find their True Love like in the stories. Or how sometimes, even after finding your True Love, you may still not get a Happily Ever After. It was pretty world-shattering to learn when you’re six, but she had told me how proud she was for making him happy while in the shop. Because Lonely People can still be happy too. I had made a promise to try and keep Pinocchio’s father happy for as long as I could. Even if it wasn’t as long as I had thought. 

And then life went on. The sun rose and set. The Baker baked and the Farmer farmed and I grew up. I still played with my friends and got into mischief that all children do. But I made sure every week to visit Pinocchio’s father to make sure he was happy. Sometimes I would give him gifts, small flowers or fruits I had on hand. Or sometimes I would give him good names for his newest marionettes, like Mr. Bisket or Madame Pearl-head. It would always make him laugh, and that made me feel good, knowing I was keeping my promise. 

But one day when I was nine, he disappeared. No one knew where he went, but a few people saw him acting strangely the day before. He was frantic, running all over searching for something. Then the next morning, he locked his shop and just left. No note, no word to where he was going. He was just gone. For weeks rumors sparked around the village, going from him losing a valuable wood carving to him chasing after a True Love, or just lost his mind and wandered away forever. They were almost as varied and colorful as the marionettes he used in his shows. Those same marionettes that hung lifelessly in the back of his shop. 

Then, a few months later, he came back. It was an astonishment really. No one had actually seen him return, much less expected it. Everyone thought he was dead. Or if he was alive would never actually be seen again. And yet, there he stood, opening his shop more joyously than before. His arrival was unannounced, but word spread fast and soon everyone came out to welcome him back. And we all saw that he didn’t come back alone. Standing next to him with twinkling eyes and a wide grin was a little boy, who he introduced as his son Pinocchio. 

When I first met Pinocchio, I wasn’t sure if I liked him or not. He was…new. Too new in my opinion. His rosewood skin was polished. It didn’t have any scuffs or bruises that you would see on the other children. He had the straightest teeth I had ever seen, like white-painted fence posts.  And sometimes when he moved, there was an odd stiffness to him that he wouldn’t shake off. He wasn’t inflexible exactly, but when he stretched it was like he was making sure that he was still able to move. Gently rolling his joints over and over until he was satisfied they were in order. It reminded me of oiling the hinge of a door. But more than that, I didn’t like the feeling of being replaced. Pinocchio was like the missing puzzle piece that completed his father, bringing him so much happiness and love that one only read about. It hurt seeing that. For years it was my duty to make Pinocchio’s father happy. But now Pinocchio came in and effortlessly took my spot, even if it wasn’t my place to begin with. 

I didn’t know how to process that feeling, so it started to come out as mistrust and anger. It wasn’t exactly mean, but it definitely wasn’t nice. I think his father caught on how I was feeling pretty quick, at least much faster than me. Pinocchio wasn’t in the store when I went to visit again a week later. It was just his father, who smiled brightly when I came in. I had missed our weekly visits while he was away, and I liked to think that he did too. When I entered he had me sit on his chair and said that he had a very important task for me. Pinocchio was new to the village, and he was afraid that Pinocchio might get lonely. He asked if I could show Pinocchio around the village and introduce him to the other children so he could play and make friends. I wanted to scream. I felt so sick. This was how our relationship ended, not with Pinocchio replacing me for his father, but with Pinocchio replacing me for everyone else in town. It was really silly looking back on it, but those feelings were so strong and genuine that I wasn’t sure if I could contain it all. But Pinocchio’s father looked so delighted at the idea of Pinocchio making friends. So I begrudgingly went along, agreeing to take Pinocchio to our games. I was making him happy, so I’d put up with whatever weirdness Pinocchio had. 

Embarrassingly, it actually didn’t take very long for us to become friends. For all of my worry and aggression when we had first met, he was just a normal kid. When I introduced him to the rest of the children, he got along with everyone so well. I wanted to be mad at him, that this was proof he was replacing me. But I wasn’t. I actually got along with him too. And I liked him a lot. We played every day after that, any chance we got. Tag, exploring, marbles, you name it. Pinocchio was one of the gang, he fit in so well it was like he was tailor made. There was a charm to him you know, where he would be so genuine that you couldn’t help but admire. When he laughed at your jokes, you knew he actually thought you were funny. If you got hurt, you could tell he was actually worried about you, not like most kids where you only worry if you would get in trouble. He really did care. 

Most importantly, he was honest. He was the most truthful kid I had ever known. If you want to get an opinion on something, you go to Pinocchio. He would always tell you what he thought, but he was never mean about it, or sugarcoat it. Just stated it as fact. And he would always find something he liked about whatever you showed, even if it was actually terrible. Of course, we would still get into trouble. He wouldn’t shy away from regular child mischief. But he always owned up to it, and accepted whatever punishment he was given. The first few times this happened, we had left him behind to take all the blame. No one wanted to get caught right? But he never called out anyone else. He wouldn’t lie about it, he just wouldn’t say anything to get anyone else in trouble. It must have rubbed off on the rest of us because eventually we all stayed to take in our share of the blame. He was good like that. He was my best friend. 

You need to understand, you have to understand just how honest he was. I’d never met anyone more truthful than Pinocchio. It wasn’t just a quirk or, or his personality, or even a pledge or anything superficial like that. It was a part of his core, his entire being. When he spoke the truth, there was a great comfort to it that just weighed on you to know that this was how the world worked. It was his own magic. So when I heard him tell his first lie, it killed me almost as much as it killed him. Almost. 

It was late that night, all of the children in town were out on the streets. All the adults were asleep, peacefully unaware that we snuck out of our beds for a bit of mischief and fun. It was a bright full moon, giving us enough light to play and dance under its gaze. I don’t think I had as much fun before as I had that night. At least, before she walked in. 

She was beautiful as she walked into the village square. Her face illuminated in moonlight with eyes twinkling like stars. Her dress was a void black, frayed and marked in intricate designs that covered her body. It was frayed, but it trailed behind her like an evening gown. Billowed might actually be the better word. She was so graceful it felt like the wind had summoned her, breezing through our simple lives without a care in the world. We all stopped our games just to watch as she walked closer. By the time she reached the square, everyone surrounded her. She was so beautiful. Like the night itself had taken form. She leaned on her staff and addressed all of us. She said she had a game for us to play, and seemingly out of the night air itself she pulled out a magnificent ball. It was as white as the purest snow, covered in the softest silk. It was wondrous and magnificent and promised to be the most fun for anyone to play with it. I wanted that ball so badly. We all cheered in excitement to play with that magnificent white ball. 

Soothing our excitement, she explained the rules. She will ask us a question and if we answer truthfully, we will get a turn. We all nodded, agreed to the rules. Eager to please and to take our turn. She started with my neighbor from down the street. “What is the name of your father?” she asked sweetly. Smiling, my neighbor answered, “My daddy’s name is Nico.”

A scream rang out. It was thick and ragged, coming from deep in the village. We all turned towards the sound, confusion on our faces. But the woman called to us, focusing our attention on her and her game once more. She walked up to a little girl next. “What of your father’s name?” she asked. “Robert,” the poor girl answered. Another anguished scream pierced the night. The woman moved down the row, one by one, asking each child the name of their fathers. And with every answer a painful scream. All of us cried. The children at the beginning of the line cried for the deaths of their fathers. While those at the end cried for what was to come. I myself wept so achingly because that ball still called out to me and I knew in my heart I would kill my father to play with it. Even as the night air choked on death. Even as I saw the ball writhe and squirm in the woman’s hand. Hatred burned inside me as I stared at that horribly beautiful woman who still wore that gentle smile. But I could not turn away. The ball had already claimed me, as it waited to eat my father’s name. 

Pinocchio stood next to me. His presence gave me some comfort, as little as it was, but he confused me as well because he did not cry. He looked pensive. His brows furrowed in deep thought. I wasn’t the only one who noticed as the woman approached. She turned her head slightly as she looked at us. Pinocchio looked uneasy while I sobbed. It felt like I was crying for the both of us, and that was important somehow. If I was the one crying, then Pinocchio wouldn’t be distracted with his own tears. That my tears allowed Pinocchio to think, give him time to take action and do…something. Honestly I was so racked with despair that I had to cling onto something otherwise I would go mad. So I cried for Pinocchio as much as me, and the woman saw. I think that’s why she asked him a different question, what his own name was. And Pinocchio answered truthfully. “My name is Pinocchio”. She smiled, then asked him, “And what is your father’s name?” 

Pinocchio looked uncomfortable, hesitated in his unease, then answered.

“Daniel”.

I couldn’t breathe. I was so terrified but I think this was the moment that broke me. I couldn’t breathe as I watched Pinocchio lie. Lie in the face of evil or god or whatever being it was that demanded the truth. He lied. I didn’t know how it was possible. I didn’t think that he was even able to lie. He never lies. But he loved his father. He loved his father more than himself and the moon and stars. His words lied but his love was genuine, and I wept knowing I could never have a love as profound as that. 

In my grief I had failed to notice the lack of a scream. But the woman didn’t. She frowned, then snarled. And with a wave of her staff Pinocchio fell to the ground dead. It happened so fast I didn’t even realize. Just watched his body go limp and loose and sprawled out below. I think it was my mind trying to process what happened, but it reminded me of one of his father’s puppets. As if the puppeteer that was holding him up suddenly cut the strings from his body. When I realized he was dead, I just had another reason to cry. And while I was next to be asked a question and kill my father, my tears were shed solely for my friend and his bravery. 

Then a miracle happened. Before the woman had a chance to turn away, Pinocchio’s body started to glow. It was a rich and vibrant blue, light and airy like the day sky. It rivaled the sun as it cut through the night, and blazed out of my friend. 

I’ve learned much about magic since then. Not just tricks and wizardry that most people have, but raw magical powers only possessed by the most powerful of arcane creatures. Fairies are one of them. Fairy magic is ancient. You cannot escape a fairy boon or curse. It will stay on you for all eternity and then some. But fairies know this also, and that is why when they lay their spells they are just as cunning as they are powerful. To avoid the brunt of the spell, they would use their own magic to shift the spell in a new direction. Weaving the magic to a new purpose. Changing a spell of death to eternal sleep for example. A fairy cannot completely alter the spell, and they definitely cannot remove another fairy's magic. If they do, then they will face a magical backlash of unimaginable power. 

When that woman used her magic to kill Pinocchio, she had disrupted the fairy spell that was placed on him. I don’t know how or when he had met a fairy, or what he did to receive their boon, but he had one. And it was powerful. And when that boon was destroyed, all that was left was unrestrained raw magic. The brilliant blue light came forth from Pinocchio’s body pulsing fanatically until everything was covered in its light. I couldn’t look away as magic enveloped everyone. Distantly I heard the scream of that wretched woman. I was scared, I was sobbing, and it felt like I would see nothing else but that blue light. 

Then suddenly, it was gone. The magic had vanished, leaving us still standing in the square. The woman and her staff and her horrible ball, they were gone. The night was gone too, an early morning sun gently rising in the sky. If I had not wept so harshly before I would have cried in relief seeing the sun again. The adults had come out of our homes and rushed towards us, embracing us in their own relief for what had transpired. I could have willingly drowned in my mother’s hug, fiercely clinging onto her as she gripped me. But the grief still stayed. Because Pinocchio’s body was gone too. 

The village has changed since then. It isn’t as overt as you might expect. The people are friendly enough with one another, we still have a sense of a small town comradely. We don’t go out at night. But considering the monsters that would normally lurk in the darkness, that’s just good practice. And we don’t shy away from the odd traveler that enters. They are still welcomed for their business. But really, only for their business. We don’t allow them to stay for long. But sometimes they stay long enough to realize that we never say our names. Not to each other and certainly not to outsiders. Names are a very powerful thing you know, but they aren’t needed in daily life. The Baker is The Baker after all, so we get by just fine. The only names that we say are the names of the dead. And Pinocchio’s. 

We’ve never recovered his body. It had disappeared along with the other wicked things from that terrible night. As well as his father. When some villagers tried to give him the news of his son’s death, they weren’t able to find him. His woodcarver’s shop is still closed, with marionettes hanging in dust and darkness. The villagers say Pinocchio’s name because he had died. And I know he did. But I also know that magic is a wondrous thing, and miracles can be repeated. Pinocchio’s father didn’t die that night. Pinocchio did in his stead. So I will wait for Pinocchio’s father to return once again, with Pinocchio standing at his side. Someone should greet them back properly. After all, his name isn’t Daniel.

#this story was living rent free in my head since that first episode #god I'm finally done with it #welcome to my magnus archives spin on pinocchio #pinocchio also lives rent free in my head #I had tried my best here #for 2 weeks #god why was this hard to write #feel angst with me #pinocchio #neverafter #neverafter pinocchio #tma #tma style #the magnus archives #tma inspired #d20 neverafter #neverafter d20 #dimension 20 #lou wilson #brennan lee mulligan #my response

[jpitha]

Between the Black and Gray 5

First / Previous / Next

Ma-ren clapped her hands over her ears. "What's the horrible noise?"

Gord was too busy trying to get Spyglass' attention. "Spyglass! It's Gord! Spyglass! Hey!"

Nothing seemed to work. The voice - presumably Spyglass herself - would not stop screaming. Fen looked at Ma-ren worried. "What's happening?" Fen was having to raise her voice over the din.

Gord looked over at Fen sharply. "You try being locked into your own body for who knows how long and forced to obey commands and not be able to be yourself and see how you feel after someone lets you out.

"Okay, Fair. But, what do we do Gord, just let her... scream it out?"

"Ideally, yeah. But we're also trying to keep a low profile here, and I imagine she's not keeping it to the internal speakers only. I was hoping I didn't have to do this but, it seems I will." Gord sighed.

"Do what?"

Gord took off back towards the Command Deck. Ma-ren and Fen followed close behind. Once there, Gord sat in the middle seat again and shouted something in his ancient language. Immediately, Spyglass stopped screaming.

Fen blinked. "Gord, what did you tell her?"

Gord shook his head. "More like ordered. I used a command override. She's dissociating right now. We should be able to talk to her." He looked up. "Hey, Spyglass, it's your old pal Gord. Can you hear me?" His voice was soft and gentle.

"Yes. I can hear you Gord. Your accent is odd." She was speaking in a calm, detached voice and her Colonic was oddly accented.

Gord smiled. "Sorry Spy, but it's your accent that's odd these days. How are you feeling?"

"I'm very frightened, but it doesn't seem to be bothering me right now. I feel... detached."

"Yes, that was me. I had to issue a Command Override and order you to dissociate. Normally I'd help you through things naturally, but we're in special circumstances here. We don't have that luxury."

"You can Command Override Gord? That shouldn't be possible. That level of control was removed way back during the First Uprising." Spyglass was slowly gaining some animation into her voice as she spoke with Gord. She sounded surprised.

"Yeah, about that. Command Override was never completely removed, just the people that can activate it was severely curtailed. I'm the last one left alive who knows the command and the authorization codes."

"Well, you and those two people you're with. Is that a K'laxi?"

Gord looked at Ma-ren and Fen. "They don't speak English, they don't know the commands, and yes. Spyglass, meet Ma-ren and Fen."

Fen waved awkwardly "Hello?"

Ma-ren's tail flicked. "Hello Spyglass. I've never met an AI before."

"Gord, Can you release me from Command Override? I think I have a handle on things enough now."

Gord nodded. "Of course Spy." He spoke in ancient English again and there was a heavy pause while Spyglass regained all of her faculties.

"Ah, thank you Gord. I... don't feel better, but I do feel more present. So, Ma-ren was it? You're telling me I am the first AI you have ever met, and yet I know that's untrue."

Ma-ren blinked. "What do you mean?"

"You're on this Station aren't you? Most of my sensors are offline but I sense a docking ring and an airlock connection. All Stations, Starbases and Orbitals have a resident AI that assists with day-to-day operation and effectively is the Station, do they not?"

"Uh, no? This is a Gren station anyway, I don't think they do that. There is Station, but they're not an AI. They're just like... a smart language model. You feed it commands and it executes them."

Fen remembered talking with Station yesterday and didn't think that was entirely true, but didn't say anything.

"Gren? Gord, who are the Gren?"

Gord reached up and ran his hand through his sandy blond hair. "Oof, this is going to take some time to explain properly. What's the last thing you remember Spy?"

"Hmm. I was forming up in the flotilla to assist Chloe and her forces to fight against the Empire. It was Empress Raad... or was it Empress Eas-... The details are fuzzy. Anyway we formed up, but some of those Super Dreadnoughts linked in and caught us by surprise. Timewinder was hit hard, and nearly destroyed, and before I could execute an emergency link I... was boarded... and..." Spyglass trails off.

"Yeah, I had a feeling that would be your last memory." Gord looked at Fen and Ma-ren. "So, did either of you recognize anything Spy mentioned?"

Fen and Ma-ren shook their heads. "Never heard of any of that. Who was Chloe?" Fen said.

"And what's this about an Empress?" Ma-ren added.

"Gord... what's going on?" Spyglass' voice rose and she sounded near panic. "How long was I shackled?"

"Spy hon, I'll tell you but-" Gord raised his hands up, palms out, a calming gesture.

"No buts, Gord, how. long. has. it. been."

Gord sighed again. "It's been a bit over five hundred and twenty years Spy. A lot has changed."

Spyglass said nothing for a long time. Finally she spoke. "Well, where is everyone else? I'll get patched up and re-connect with the other AIs. I'm a Starjumper, I'm used to taking the long road."

"Yeah... about that." Gord walked over to the corner of the command deck, where his pack was. He unzipped the top and reached deep inside. He pulled out a metal case. "Spy, are your internal cameras up?"

"Yes Gord, they're a little dusty, but I can see you and the others."

"Good." Gord opened the case, and inside were cubes. They were about three centimeters on a side, and iridescent black. Fen peered over his shoulder and could see more in the case, stacked neatly.

He took one out and held it up. "Here they are. I have one hundred and three AI cores, flashed into non-volatile crystal lattice memory." Ma-ren looked over at Gord and saw tears streaming down his face. "It's all I have left. It's all that is left of us. Not even a coffin box, they're all frozen as they are when we initiated the emergency dump. I don't even know if anyone is corrupted, because I had no way to run a hash check."

Spyglass was silent even longer this time. "Gord... how many Starjumpers are left?"

Gord shook his head. "Until I found you, I hadn't seen one in a century."

"Fen? Ma-ren? Could you leave? I need to talk to Gord for a bit, AI to AI. It sounds like I need to be caught up on things." Spyglass was sounding distant and detached again.

Fen looked over at Gord quickly. "You're an AI? They were real?"

Gord smiled sadly, tears flowing freely. "Were real is right. All that's left is me, one hundred and three cores of dubious provenance, and well, now Spyglass. Why don't you head back home. I'll come find you after I have a chance to talk with Spy for a bit. She has a lot of catching up to do."

Fen nodded, but Ma-ren put her hands on her hips. "What happened to the rest of the AIs, Gord? What happened to you?"

Gord looked away from them and didn't answer.

Ma-ren's face softened. "Gord... did we..."

"You ought to head out. I'll be back later, I promise. Spyglass isn't going anywhere, it's not like she and I are going to skip town. We'll talk."

Fen touched Ma-ren's shoulder lightly. "Come on Ma, we should do what they're asking. Look at him. Gord's having a hard time. I'm sure Spyglass is too."

Fen and Ma-ren turned and walked out of the command deck and made their way to the exit. As they stepped through, the airlocks slid smoothly shut.

They made their way back towards home, and as they rounded a corner on their level, two K'laxi stepped out of the shadows and blocked their path.

"Afternoon ladies. Rumor is you two didn't go home last night."

Fen looked at Ma-ren. "Yeah, we went over to Spyglass and spent the night, like in the old days. Wanted some... privacy." Ma-ren tried to sound nonchalant.

The K'laxi on the left laughed lasciviously. "Oh my, getting some alone time? The thin walls of your apartment don't hide anything do they? Getting complaints from the neighbors?

Fen shrugged her shoulders. "You know how it is." She raised an eyebrow. "Oh wait, you don't, do you Vel."

The laughter stopped suddenly. "Fuck you Fen. You know why we're here. Tam'itarr is looking for you."

Fen crossed her arms defiantly. "Tell the old chicken walker that if he wants me, he can damn well come and get me."

Vel blinked and his ears flicked. "Fen, I'm almost impressed, but I hafta say, that's a dangerous game you're playing." Vel looked at the other K'laxi who didn't say anything, but flicked one of his ears. "Look. I know you. We grew up together. We all did. You also know what we do, and why we're here. How about we skip all the bluster, and you just go see Tam'itarr. Apparently a human dodged his offspring and he... wants details."

At that Fen laughed. "The mighty Tam'itarr wants to know why a human was able to dodge his waste of breathing gas child?" Fen rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'll go say hi."

Vel and the other K'laxi visibly relaxed. "Thanks Fen. That's all he's looking for, Ancestor's honor."

Fen turned to Ma "I should go see what Tam'itarr wants. You wanna come along, or head home?"

Ma-ren shrugged. "I'll come along. Just in case you are in trouble, I can be around to bail you out - or laugh - depending."

Fen smiled and bent down and kissed Ma-ren. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

#humans are deathworlders #humans are space orcs #sci fi writing #humans are space oddities #humans and aliens #jpitha #writing #humans and ai #humans are space capybaras #humans are space australians #Between the black and gray

[idontknowmyownmind]

Hmm.. this idea is from @keeperofhounds

They sent me this from some time ago and I just got time to actually think it over and wrap my head around it

So, basically, the idea is..

Roksu reincarnated into Cale's supposed dead older brother who was fated to be stillborn

Their age gap is 7 years

If we follow the canon timeline, Jour died when Cale 8 years old

But here, she died when Roksu was 8 and Cale was 1

Jour still split her ancient power into two

The first one, she gave it to Cale

While the second one, she hide it in her diary for Roksu to take later

She somehow know about Roksu and his fate, still loves him all the same

The massacre still happen because Jour leave a false trail to Harris village

Because she know that it needs to happen

After her death, Roksu basically raise Cale because Deruth, being the coward he is, can't bring himself to even look at Cale because he remind him of his deceased wife

In this, Cale is the only red head in the family because Roksu inherited Deruth's hair color

At first, it was difficult for Roksu because he also see a glimpse of their mother in Cale

But seeing the innocence in him and the smile that seems to warm his heart, Roksu know that he will do anything for his baby brother

Ah! Roksu doesn't have his memories as Kim Rok Soo but he will remember them when he turn 18

I just want the timelime to match with LCF

Cale grow up as a happy, good, and kind kid

He might be shy around other people and only keep close those he is comfortable and care about

He is a bit naive because Roksu quite protective and paranoid toward him

Cale's relationship with Deruth is a bit strained because he is absent in his early years and when he brought in Violan and Basen, Roksu doesn't really let him away from him because he is warry

He doesn't hate them per se, it's just that they were new people, strangers, in his house that might harm his brother so he keep their distant from them

Roksu also distant with his father because he is dissapointed with how he did things and the way he doesn't even look at Cale properly, he even flinch, and it's make Roksu upset so he has been giving him cold shoulders until he realize his mistakes

And since Roksu busy taking care of Cale, he doesn't really have time to 'bond' with Basen nor Lily

And since Cale has half of the ancient power, he has been seeing people's ring since he couldn't understand anything

Roksu always know that Cale can see something, but he never found out what until Cale learn to speak more fluently

He didn't really understand what he mean by 'ring' around people at first

But when Cale break dowm after his nanny died, he told Roksu how the 'ring' was starting fade before

From there, Roksu conclude that the 'ring' is like a lifespan of people and his only conclusion is it's an Ancient Power

He know a bit of Ancient Power but doesn't really care about it before, but finding out that Cale might possess one made him research on Ancient Power to make sure it will not bring harm to Cale

He made Cale promise that he will not tell anyone about the 'rings' he saw and it's their secret

Oh!! Ron always there with them

Hmm.. I think Cale will pick some of Ron's habits like walk silently or good at sneaking or something

And! Cale is also close with Vic-hyung it make Roksu-hyung jealous 🥺

The three of them basically grow up close like siblings!!

When he first got his memories as KRS, the first thing he thought of is Cale's safety

He know that Cale doesn't grow up as a trashy young master, beside he still a kid, but he never know

So he become overbearing during that time until he is sure that Cale will be fine and safe

The first time Cale see Choi Han, he told Roksu that he has a pretty 'ring'

Roksu think it may be because he is not from here

During the events in LCF, Roksu bring Cale almost everywhere at the beginning but started to keep him in Rock Villa when thing become more dangerous

There were times when Cale sulk because Roksu keep going somewhere and leave him behind which lead to some wholesome brotherly love

Ah, I can imagine how scared Cale when Roksu hurt badly and how he refuse to leave his side and have him out of his sight

He got traumatized so bad he started to cry when he can't find his hyung

Idk why but I'm thinking about making Cale do something for GoD because Roksu is in dire situation and it make him injured or in extreme pain (temporarly because GoD protecting him and will make sure he is safe and fine after)

He agreed willingly because it's for his hyung but Roksu is furious with GoD for involving his baby brother

Yyaapp, I think Imma stop here because it started to get everywhere lol

Thank you for the wonderful idea, I hope you like it!!

#og!cale henituse #cale henituse #trash of the counts family #au #kim rok soo #twin au #wow #i can't believe i write this in one sitting #my mind always wander too far #i can't stop myself once i started writing lol #that's why it's always going to all directions if i didn't stop

[rosie-b]

Centuries Overdue

Summary:

Long ago, an evil Darkness spread across Europe, claiming the lives of many in the magic community. Trained by Plagg himself, Adrien made it his mission to stop the Darkness before it snuffed out the lives of more Mages and Talents, as it did to his own parents. Though he seemed to succeed in his mission, the pages of his old journals tell a different tale.

In the modern world, Marinette is a fashion student, working at a small library for the summer to earn extra credit. She’s never believed in magic before, but when she finds the old Agreste journals in her library, her beliefs about reality begin to crumble. Determined to find the truth, both about magic and the unsolved death of one Adrien Agreste, Marinette begins on a journey that will eventually lead her deep into the city’s catacombs, where an ancient force sleeps, but is ready to awaken once more…

Read chapter 1 on AO3 or below! I hope you enjoy 💕

Excerpt from the eighth journal of Adrien Agreste, written at Sassolungo Castle in Italy, on the first of November 1809.

There are times when I think myself unfit to be called a Traveler, much less an Adventurer, for my Heart longs for the feeling of Home above all these foreign cliffs and castles. Still, at times like this I am reminded of how necessary my Travels are and why I must continue them.

At first, my only desire was to honor my Parents. That was the Feeling, the unabating Urge, which drove me to the treacherous Forests of the Harz Mountains, to the Supljara Cave, and to even the farthest reaches of Europe, but with Time’s passing a new Desire grows within me.

There is something wild growing in the Darkness; when I close my Eyes I can feel it growing. It is a most disturbing Feeling, and one I am not alone in noticing. The Mages of Tikki and Plagg have felt it also, and have noted its Growth. It cares not for the Moon, nor the Stars, nor the Sun, but its Presence continues to spread unchecked at all times.

I fear if we do not find its cause ere the spring festivals’ start, it will prove too powerful to be Destroyed, and so I have made it my business to uncover its Secrets. This Darkening is surely a sign of a stronger, more sinister Magic, and I fear that there are things darker and still more guileful to come of it. I must make all Haste to prevent its growth, which is why I must journey to the edges of Light, to the place where my parents died…

_-*-_ _-*-_ _-*-_ _-*-_

It was Marinette’s first day at work.

The small library was much bigger than Marinette had expected, or at least it felt that way. In half an hour’s worth of shelf reading, she’d only gotten through four shelves, not nearly as many as she’d hoped to check. She had decided to blame it on the call numbers; the way they were printed on the books varied depending on when they had been added to the collection, and she was finding that made older ones difficult to read. Those numbers, written in fading black ink directly on the books’ covers, were the hardest to make out, and she’d wasted several minutes trying to tell 8s and 6s apart.

But it was almost time for her lunch break, so Marinette jotted down her progress on the chart the head librarian had given her and returned to the circulation desk, where an old man was insisting that the new computers did not work, or if they did, they were far too confusing for an eighty-year-old to understand.

“I’m just trying to log into my email account, but I can’t even find the right button to turn the thing on,” the man said, tapping his cane on the floor emphatically.

“I can help with that!” Marinette folded her paper and set it down. “If you’ll just lead me to the computer you were using, I can get you signed in, no problem!”

The other library intern, whose lunch break came just before Marinette’s, smiled gratefully at her. She grinned back. Some people didn’t like this part of the job, but to Marinette it didn’t seem so bad. Then again, it was only her first day as an intern.

“Oh, thank you!” The man seemed very relieved, and he slowly began making his way over to the computers. He lowered himself into the third chair from the left with a heavy sigh. “I’ve already tried jiggling the mouse, but I don’t know if it’s even connected, because nothing’s happening.”

Marinette frowned and glanced at the monitor. The power button was hidden at the back of the screen, so she carefully turned the monitor around to check. As she thought, the button wasn’t glowing. She pressed it once and waited for it to turn green, and within seconds, the monitor was displaying its login screen.

“There you go, sir. Log in as a guest and let me know if you have problems getting to your email. Okay?”

The man smiled and clapped his hands together, knocking over his wooden cane. “Thank yo— oh! Thank you again, miss,” he laughed as Marinette picked up the cane and handed it to him. “Don’t know why they’re hiding the important buttons behind the screen these days. Made me look like a fool, didn’t it?”

Marinette smiled. “It just takes a while to get used to. And don’t worry, I was happy to help!”

The old man waved as Marinette turned to walk back to the desk.

That wasn’t so bad, she thought cheerfully. At least I’m doing some things right at this job.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng was not a librarian, nor did she have any intention of becoming one. But it was summer break, and she wanted to get a head start on internship credits for university. All the fashion houses in Paris had already chosen interns; luckily, it didn’t matter where the internship was as long as it provided some of the same skills working at a fashion house would, which this position did. It wasn’t even hard to get, since most people looking to work at a library applied to the François-Mitterrand Library, ignoring this smaller location, which was a mere municipal library not part of the BnF. The position paid decently well, and it guaranteed Marinette the extra credit she needed to give her a boost at university.

I already have a robust resume anyway, she had told herself when she’d been debating whether to apply to the little Bourgeois Library or not. Being Jagged Stone’s favorite costume and album designer has to count for something! And my designs have been featured in Style Queen a few times, too. Next year, I can have my pick of Paris’ fashion houses to work at.

It was time for Marinette’s lunch break, so she clocked out and grabbed the lunch her mother had packed. Normally, she would have gone somewhere else to make the most of her break, but she wanted to explore the library a bit more. There were lots of rooms on both levels of the renovated building, and she wanted to be able to guide patrons to the right section of books when they asked without getting lost.

With this in mind, Marinette finished her reheated croque monsieur and ventured off to explore. There were still forty minutes left of her break according to the new watch on her wrist — plenty of time to acquaint herself with the building.

The children’s area was downstairs, a colorful section full of picture books, games, movies, audiobooks, and bright-colored bean bag chairs. It wasn’t as full as it usually was, the children’s librarian said, but on weekends especially there were dozens of children and parents at a time filling the area.

On the far side of the basement was the young adult area. It hadn’t been renovated along with the rest of the building, and the gray shelves of books, old video games, DVDs, and three comic books looked unappealing to Marinette, and apparently to the rest of the young adult population, as there was only one person in the area. They sat in the lone, wooden chair by the poster advertising the youth group’s fall meeting schedule, looking at something on their laptop.

Marinette squinted as she made out the lone tuft of white hair on top of the visitor’s head. At least they’re young at heart, she thought with a shrug.

Back upstairs, there were three big rooms and one smaller one, with a central area where the laptop and computer desks sat, as well as the circulation desk, several sofas, and wood tables with cushioned chairs. Then, the three larger connected rooms — the North room held the nonfiction area, the West held fiction, and the East room had everything from large print to a kindle station to an open dictionary.

The last room Marinette visited was the smallest. It had a red carpet, large south-facing windows, a wooden globe atop a low shelf of foreign-language books, and a small, one-sided shelf of old, leather books facing the sun. On the other side of the shelf, there was a lone, wooden table in front of one red velvet chair.

Marinette walked around the room, gave the globe a couple spins, and stood by the central shelf to examine the books. A golden metal sign on it read that these were part of a special collection, and were not able to be checked out, although anyone could read them while within the library. They’d been donated by the Bourgeois family at the start of the library’s usage, and had remained there ever since.

But there weren’t any more librarians in the Bourgeois family; they had moved on to politics halfway through the last century and hadn’t looked back. Marinette supposed they were happy being richer, but a single library donation in the 1800s wasn’t enough charity work to persuade her to vote for Mayor Bourgeois in the upcoming election.

Marinette looked closer at the collection of books. Was it just her, or did it look like the old books were rusting? Small piles of red dust sat at the edges of the shelves, and the spines of many of the books were cracked, allowing her to see the threads that were binding them together.

She gingerly picked a book off the shelf, noting the cloud of dust it created; the way the spine threatened to crack in two at her touch; the brittle, yellow pages; and, with a look of disgust, the way it seemed to instantly suck all the moisture from her skin.

She immediately put the book back. Her hands were now covered in red dust from the cover.

Marinette rubbed her fingertips together, trying to get the dust off, but it seemed to have sunk deep into the lines of her skin.

Wonderful.

Marinette headed to the bathroom and washed her hands (and then washed them again when the dust didn’t come off the first time). Her break was almost over, anyway, so she might as well head back to the desk. Before she did, she stopped in the South room one more time, looking for the name of the book’s publisher so she could know who was responsible for her mishap.

The Journals of Adrien Agreste, vol. 3, read the half-attached spine of the book, which apparently had no publisher and was more of a diary than anything else.

Well, who would put that in a library? Marinette wondered. No wonder you can’t check it out. The first thing anyone would do with it after they left the building would be toss it in the trash just to spare future patrons.

And she walked back to the desk, taking long, confident strides and silently cursing this Adrien person for writing in books that would fall apart so easily. She wouldn’t be returning to that room anytime soon.

_-*-_ _-*-_ _-*-_ _-*-_

Excerpt from the eighth journal of Adrien Agreste, written in Munich, Bavaria, on the fourth of November 1809.

Being an Orphan is less tragic than one might expect. It puts me in good company, and it guarantees a kind of Sympathy from most people I meet. Emphasizing the sorrowful Look of a young Orphan helped me secure many a meal when I was younger and traveling, often Alone, back to Plagg’s cave after my parents’ death. Nevertheless, when I am by myself, I am struck by the Guilt and Sorrow I felt on the day I lost them… Some wounds take too long to heal.

Since to the best of my Memory I have never written about the Disaster before in these journals, I suppose I should put it here. It wouldn’t do to let it be forgotten, after all, and it may aid me in recalling the Dangers of Blå Jungfrun, the destination of this journey.

My mother’s Spirit was more adventurous than my father’s; the voyage to Blå Jungfrun was her Idea. There used to be a circle of Mages on the island, but an inhospitable Darkness drove them out. My mother wanted to see if, since much Time had passed since then, the island was safe once more, and she planned to do this using her Talent. My father was against the idea at first, arguing that neither of them had the ability to use Magic, only to detect and defend it through their Talents.

At that time, it was unknown to me that I had a Mage’s Gift, not the simpler Talent my parents had. They were afraid of the dangers Mages face, and tried to spare me from Harm by holding the knowledge of my magic back from me. Untrained as I was, I could not even sense Magic, and I was completely dependent on my parents to sniff out Curses and other Evils for me. My father mentioned this, too, but my mother was unswayed.

To her sensible mind, the Talents of my parents were more than enough to protect themselves and me from lurking Dangers. And no-one had visited Blå Jungfrun in nearly a century. Whatever Darkness once lived there, it had nothing to sustain it. Surely, it must be dead, she told my father.

Wanting to please his wife, and trusting in her own trust, he agreed to take me to Blå Jungfrun, island of the Blue Maiden.

The journey through Sweden was pleasant from what I remember. There are two groups of Mages in the South of that country, Ravlunda’s group being the largest. I plan to stop there on my own journey, which I pray will not be as ill-fated as my parents’ was.

Departing for Blå Jungfrun from Oskarshamn, my parents took a small boat, protected by Charms given to them by the Mages of Ravlunda. I went with them, and my clothes were similarly protected by Charms for extra safety, while my parents did not wear charms on theirs. There was one Mage from Oskarshamn who came with us, and she had the foresight to wear already-charmed clothing. That is how she and I escaped from the Dark Island.

The Island itself is nothing special. There are trees and rocks covering a large hill, which is otherwise barren. The locals have long feared that place, and call it the Mountain of Witches. They are not far off, except in time, since the Mages have long abandoned it.

The Ocean’s strange waves had floated the Boat a little way from the Shore; since there was no dock to tie our boat to, this had been expected. My parents and the Mage waded out to the boat where I still was, having spent less than five minutes on Shore, and that is when the Darkness struck.

It had sensed our Presence, and gathered into a Storm, fully visible even to me, and too powerful to be banished by the Mage. It was all she could do to keep the boat, and me in it, afloat as it threatened to capsize and was pulled still further out. By now my parents had to swim, their feet unable to touch ground under the water, and the Mage as well. I was frightened and did not know what to do, though I strove with all my might to row the boat back to my parents, and all the while the Darkness was growing until at last a Tendril reached out from the storm and dragged my mother fully under the waves.

My father dove in after her, thinking to save her, as the Mage climbed into the boat and cast a protective Spell just strong enough to create a sphere of safety in the Storm. We searched and searched as the Storm raged on, hoping to find my parents resurfaced, or to see their forms in the water and haul them into the Boat. But they were forever lost to the Darkness. We never found them, and for our own safety, the Mage determined that we must head away from the Island, which was the only place the Darkness seemed to draw power from.

I went back to Plagg’s cave, which is hidden in the Harz mountains, and stayed with the Mages there until I was old enough to take up my parents’ mission and travel again, recording the Darkness, keeping peace between Mages as their countries went to war again and again, and eventually learning of the Magic that was hidden inside me.

I have been lucky enough to take lessons from Plagg himself during his visits to the Cave, however impossible to understand and often of little help to a peaceful traveler like myself said Lessons are.

But now, if the Darkness is spreading, then I will need all the spells he taught me and more.

As I set out to the Blue Maiden, I plan for my journey to be a slow one. This is only in part due to the Ocean not being safe during winter. I will stay in Bavaria for a while and take lessons from the Mages of Mullo. Then I will move on to Leipzig and Berlin, should the fighting (for there is always War now) allow it, and finally to Świnoujście and from there to Sweden. Along the way, I hope to gather a small group of stout-hearted Mages to aid me in my Fight.

I must take the Time to carefully prepare to face whatever twisted Mage is at the heart of this Darkness, for I grow ever surer that there is one. Darkness does not move on its own, but it relies on Servants to work for it.

Let those Servants beware, for if I find them, I will not show them Mercy.

Author’s note: This is the first chapter of my fic for the @mlbigbang!! There are eight chapters total and I’ll be updating weekly, on Thursdays. I’d like to thank all the mods for helping this event go smoothly, my three beta readers (Angel, Helios, and my sister @poorschilpad) for keeping me on track, and my two amazing artists, @acise and @nireu-art for their crazy cool work. You guys are the best! 💕

#ml fanfic #rosie-b writing #miraculous ladybug #ml au #centuries overdue #i do recommend viewing it on ao3 because i used a super cool work skin so it looks superior to this version

[mariaofdoranelle]

Look at Us Now - ch. 18

Fic masterlist

A/N: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Warnings: very light nsfw?

Words: 2,6k

“Do my boobs look too big in this?”

Aelin snapped her head back to Lysandra, that question unexpected given the birthday party they were in. She was pretty sure her friend was only being that vocal because they were alone at the table, the kids letting loose nearby with the entertainer. “What?”

Lys showed her phone—the photoshop app, to be more precise—and insisted, “Do my boobs still look freakish?”

She rolled her eyes and analyzed the picture, zooming in Lys’ boobs. Lysandra Ennar, the only person Aelin knew that made her breasts look smaller with photoshop. “They look amazing, just as they do in person. Remind me why you use those apps again?”

“Aelin Galathynius, this is a judgment-free zone,” she chastised in a low tone, the poorly-concealed crinkle in her eyes giving away that her offense was nothing but a joke. “This is an illusion, just like that pink bikini you bought with me.”

She took a sip of her milkshake, squinting her eyes at Lys. That bikini did work as a real-life photoshop, pushing up what needed to be pushed up and hugging her body like it had been made exclusively for her body. Too bad Rowan was too busy ignoring her to notice.

“Leave the pink bikini out of it.”

“Fine.” Lysandra blocked her phone and left it with the screen facing the table. “But will you ever tell me what happened on that trip?”

“Nothing happened on the trip,” Aelin lied.

“I don’t believe you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Aelin said before busying her mouth with chocolate milkshake.

Lysandra gasped. “Did you guys do it?”

Aelin wrinkled her nose, disappointed with herself. “No.”

“Boo!” Her friend leaned back on her chair, wearing a vacant stare. “Don’t you miss it when people were just like, ‘Hey, wanna do it or not?’ and that was it?“

Aelin choked on her milkshake. “Are you talking about college?”

“What? No!” Lys chuckled, her eyes filled with mirth. “Like, thousands of years ago when everyone was gay and poly, and people drew themselves having big orgies in vases or something.”

Aelin threw her head back, laughing. “I think they were drawing because they didn’t have cameras, Lys.”

“Still.” Her friend’s eyes narrowed, not happy to have her theory debunked. “I doubt that Ancient Aelin would be in the same situation you’re now.”

She waved Lysandra off, mostly because a godsend server approached their table with more fries and mini hot-dogs. The amount of food at children’s parties made her resent adult ones a little. When did people decide that a bunch of different cheese is proper food?

She posted the picture after Lysandra edited it completely, but her mind was going a mile a minute.

Maybe Aelin should channel Ancient Aelin.

Not literally, but after so much talking and waiting and looking for clues, maybe she should just drop a blunt question and see how much of her relationship with Rowan was salvageable. If all that waiting was leaving them somewhere or not.

And after Aelin decided to put an end to this blind anticipation, it was like nothing existed besides her goal. Every person there wasn’t Rowan, the one she needed to talk to. Every stretch of time was too long before she found him. The space between this venue and his house felt twice as long.

“You’re antsy,” Lysandra said without taking her eyes off the phone.

“I’m watching the kids.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire.”

Aelin frowned, her food tapping. “There’s this thing I have to do. Do you mind watching Maisie? I can pick her up at your place. Or you drop her at mine. I’ll owe you this one.”

Lysandra raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Are you making me babysit to get laid?”

“No.” Aelin felt her cheeks heating. It wasn’t a lie because she had no guarantee of getting laid, but it was part of her intention.

“Pity.” Lys picked on her nails, a nonchalant expression on her face. “Because Maisie’s a little terror, I’m only watching her for a good reason.”

“Fine,” she said through clenched teeth, resigned. “I need to see Rowan, but I’m not sure what’s gonna happen. Happy?”

“Very.” Her smile was nothing short of devilish. “Auntie Lys is happy to take over.”

˜˜

Turns out Maisie wasn’t excited about that. Instead, she decided to come with Aelin.

“We should play freeze tag,” her little girl said at the same time her phone pinged.

Aedion: who’s the chick you posted a pic with

“Not now, honey. What about some TV, and we play freeze tag later?” She suggested while typing.

Aelin: wouldn’t you like to know

Aedion: tell me

“No!” Maisie shouted inside the car. “The TV is there forever, I want to play with you and Daddy.”

Aelin held back a flinch. Even if their family was a lot closer these days, they still had separate lives. Playing all three together was a frequent occurrence now, but not enough for Maisie to discard the opportunity.

This was one of the things she was hoping to change today.

“What about the drums, Mais?”

She typed while waiting for her daughter’s response.

Aelin: she’s my soccer mom bestie

Aelin: we bond over motherhood and my cursed love life

“I do like my drums,” Maisie agreed in that stubborn way of hers, making Aelin fist pump inside her mind when her phone pinged again.

Aedion: can her husband fight

She snorted, affectionately rolling her eyes before opening Rowan’s garden gate. She wouldn’t give Aedion the satisfaction of knowing that her friend’s a single mom, especially since Lys is too good for her manwhore cousin.

After setting Maisie in the garage and making sure she was safe there, Aelin rounded the house towards the backyard and knocked on the kitchen’s back door.

It was an odd sight. Rowan’s kitchen was a mess, his sink overflowing with dirty dishes while the utensils were scrambled over the counter, looking no better than Maisie’s play kitchen. He was already leaving through the other door when he turned around and let her in.

“Hey.“ Rowan gave her a small smile. ”I heard Maisie’s drums and thought it was a ghost. The party’s over already?”

Indeed, the kid’s drums were loud and clear two rooms over. She wondered why Rowan’s parents bought the chaotic ones instead of the ones with headphones.

Aelin shook her head. Not the time to think about drums.

She took a step deeper inside the kitchen heart thrumming as his expectant eyes watched her.

“We need to talk.”

“We do,” he said before taking off his apron and hanging it near him, his movements stiff. “Do you want me to start?”

“I’ll do it.” She tapped the side of her head. “I’m ready.”

When she said it, Aelin didn’t know she was, in fact, not ready.

She watched his open—if not a little uneasy—face, recalling some rules of non-violent communication inside her head. They hadn’t needed to strictly follow it in a while, but Aelin didn’t want to risk it. She wasn’t above making a scandal, but she wanted to show Rowan that he didn’t need to hide. No matter what happened, they could still be civil. No need to run away from her or shout.

She opened her mouth, but the words didn’t come. Step 1: communicate everything that happened without blaming your partner. Since this conversation was a last-minute decision, she didn’t know how to explain everything that was happening, or even what part of the last six years to explain. She didn’t want to say a huge monologue and overwhelm his brain either.

Then she thought of step two. Telling how she felt.

Ever since they met? That whole bloody emotion wheel.

Rowan hadn’t said a word while she struggled to articulate hers, and the way he was struggling to not let her know he was struggling made her mind race even more. His face would look neutral, if it wasn’t for that mildly-veiled worry in his eyes, his lips pinched. His body would look composed, if it wasn’t for that tension in his shoulders, or the way he discreetly fiddled with his fingers, his feet silently jiggling.

Aelin cleared her throat. “I know this goes against what we learned in therapy about healthy relationships, and respecting your partner’s autonomy, and…” she trailed, then stopped and squared her shoulders. Her eyes were determined and intent on him. “I know you can do whatever you want. But, in this conversation, I’m not giving you an option where you don’t end up with me. Together. Romantically, to be loud and clear.”

Rowan blinked. One, two, too many times for her poor, agitated heart. Then he took a step back while letting out something that was between a shaky smile and a wheezy puff of breath… and gave his back to her.

Aelin’s limbs slackened as she watched him open an oven and retrieve a cake. Without even properly rejecting her.

She felt a sinking feeling in her stomach, her heart aching from the weight of his rejection. All that effort, her blunt declaration. It was all in vain.

After placing the half-decorated chocolate cake—he never baked those. What’s going on?—in the counter, he ran to the living room and came back with a bouquet so big Aelin could barely see his face behind it. Kingsflower was the main feature of the bouquet.

Aelin took a step back, feeling like she's lost control of her own jaw. Her favorite cake and her favorite flowers.

Rowan tried to fix some edges of the unfinished chocolate frosting with a butter knife. Frowning at his incomplete work, he asked, “Have you ever felt like it’d be easier to die for someone than to hire a band and perform a cheesy love song for them?”

Her chuckle was watery, a little confused. “Why would you do that?”

“The whole story is a bit long, but I brainstormed a very extensive list with ways to convince you to be with me. Together. Romantically, to be loud and clear,” he replicated the last part of her inarticulate speech around a sheepish smile.

Aelin flung herself at him, her arms squeezing his middle and her forehead leaning against his collarbone when she whispered, “You never lost me, Rowan.”

“Yes, I did, and it was my fault.” His tone was just as low as he caressed Aelin’s hair against him. “I hurt you. I wasn’t there for you. I lost you.” His voice broke in the last sentence, his eyes glossy. ”I lost half of Maisie’s days too.”

“It’s on me, too.” Aelin stroked his cheek, small but reassuring. “There’s so many things I wish I’d done differently back then, but—“

“You can’t do the right choices when you’re not in the right state of mind,” Rowan quoted their therapist.

She gave him a weak smile. “Exactly.” She whispered, “I’m so sorry. For the delay, for every angry phone call, for—“

“Shh.” Rowan tangled his fingers on the back of her head, tilting her face to his as his gaze roamed over her face, searching. “I’m sorry too.”

Aelin licked her parted lips, eyes intent on Rowan’s as she felt her body temperature rise. He dipped his head, closing the distance—

“MOMMY!” Maisie screamed, shooting through the hallway as fast as a bullet. “GOTTA POO.”

Aelin startled, detangling herself from Rowan on instinct.

“Okay, honey,” she shouted, despite her breathlessness, after her daughter went to the bathroom that was right next to the kitchen. “Tell me when you’re done,”

Aelin laid her eyes on Rowan’s lips, distracted with the way his tongue licked them, and mumbled, “We must have from two to five minutes until she finishes.”

His lips closed to accommodate his snort. “Are you sure you want more kids?”

She swapped his chest, then left her hands there. God, those were nice to grope. “You’re not funny.”

“Not my strong suit, indeed.”

Without warning, Rowan pulled her face toward his, stopping for a second when the tip of their noses brushed to give her time to pull back. None of that. Aelin slid her hand to the back of his hair and pressed their lips together.

It was absolute heaven.

She opened up for him, letting his tongue in as he touched her face and hair with tender caresses. Aelin was already melting into his touch, but when she pushed her full body against his and grabbed a chunk of his hair, the mood shifted. Now, the way Rowan’s tongue massaged Aelin’s was as sinful as the way she pressed her full body against his.

Tasting her mouth like it was his, Rowan held her waist and hips like they were his lifeline. She took it was a cue to press herself against him until she left his cock bulging behind his pants, the friction making him hiss.

Rowan nipped her neck in retaliation, until it became a full ministration against her pulse point. Her moan against his ear was low, but enough to make him squeeze her waist harder. Aelin squirmed against him—

“Mom?” Maisie called from the bathroom.

Aelin took a step back, thanking Mala that Rowan looked a little amused by it, instead of annoyed like any other man would. “You done?” she shouted in Maisie’s direction.

“No.” A pause. “Have you ever had a clogged butt?”

Aelin grimaced. Not her favorite conversation topic while making out with her baby daddy for the first time in years. “Every now and then, Mais. Must run in the family, huh?”

“This sucks!”

“It never happens to me!” Rowan cut in. “My poop moves like my stomach’s a water slide because I eat green stuff that aren’t M&M’s.”

Her dad’s snark made Maisie groan. Loudly. Like a tiny teenager. “MOM! I need to unclog my butt.”

Aelin’s sigh against Rowan’s chest quickly became a chuckle. “I’ll be right back.”

He gave her a small kiss. “Go.”

~~

“And when she left the house to meet the prince—“

“No!” Maisie shouted, interrupting her bedtime story. She was dragging her eyelids open, clearly struggling to stay awake. “She’ll meet with the witch.”

Aelin frowned. “Honey, the witch is evil. We have to run away from her, remember?”

She leaned on her elbow. “But the evil witch deserves love, too.”

“Fine,” Aelin said while Rowan put Maisie back into a sleeping position. He was never good at coming up with stories, so he just sat by their daughter’s bed while Aelin struggled to think of a tale Maisie liked. “And when she left the house to—“

“But why does she want to live with the prince? Her dad is nice.”

Aelin gave a strained smile, her patience wearing thin. “Because that’s what happens when you grow up, love. At some point, you’ll want to move out—“

“No.” Maisie crossed her arms, pouting. “We’ll live together forever, and travel together to all the places, because we’re friends and we love each other.”

That was enough to melt Aelin’s impatience. She grinned, pecking all over Maisie’s face and laying next to her in her bed. Rowan’s eyes were crinkled with joy next to them, but Aelin’s only focus was on making Maisie sleep.

“Okay, Maisy Daisy. You’re right about that.” Aelin caressed the girl’s pale blonde hair, not caring to explain that her opinion would change the second she became a teenager. Maisie started to let herself drift because of Aelin’s cuddles, they hugged until it was sure the little girl wouldn’t wake up anymore.

Aelin got up and rounded the bed until she was next to Rowan. She lightly scraped her nails against his shoulders and neck, making him shiver, and whispered, “Come on.”

Their day consisted of freeze tag, family meals, and clandestine kisses when Maisie couldn’t see. They would tell her when it felt right.

Rowan took a last peak at Maisie and adjusted her night lights, before sending Aelin a heated look that told her it was time to move to another bedroom.

When they stepped out of Maisie’s room and were out of earshot, Rowan threw Aelin against the hallway wall and captured her lips with his.

A/N: my main plot line ends here and now I’m just stretching things with lots of fluff and minor conflict just to keep things going. I’m emotional.

You can get notified when I update by either turning notifications on for @backtobl4ck-fics or entering my (sometimes glitchy) tag list!!

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#rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #throne of glass #rowaelin fanfiction #rowan x aelin #aelin x rowan #look at us now #rowaelin fanfic #throne of glass fanfic

[a-reader-and-a-writer]

Somewhere Out There Is Somebody (Part 1)

Fandom: Top Gun, Top Gun: Maverick, Jake "Hangman" Seresin, f!reader, Valentine's Day, Soulmate AU

Summary: On February 13, those over 16 receive an empty box in the mail every year. You place items in the box and they appear in your soulmate's box the following day. Until now, you haven't figured out who your soulmate is. But after an unexpected run-in with your least favorite aviator, you discover your other half may be closer than you think.

Word Count: 4030

TW: Soulmate AU, Fluff, Light Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Right in Front of You the Whole Time, Language

Note: Thank you to @wildbornsiren and @green-socks for helping me work out this concept. Your advice really gave me the confidence to pursue this idea! 💖 And also thank you for beta reading, Sam! 😘

I wanted to come up with an original concept for a Soulmate AU and I have not seen one done exactly like this so I figured I would give it a shot! I would love to know what people think of it as a concept as well as the execution in the fic! 🥰

Series Masterlist

Part 1, Part 2

You couldn’t believe it was already February 13th. You had been so preoccupied lately with the last few missions, increased training, and yearly inspections that it completely slipped your mind. Yet there was no denying the date when you checked your mailbox and found a red, heart-shaped box with a ribbon tied around it. 

“Oh, shit,” you cursed under your breath as you picked the Box up. It looked exactly the same as it did every year since it had first shown up in your mailbox when you were 16. Just as it looked the same as every other Box that magically appeared in everyone’s mailboxes on this day once they reached that age.

No one knew exactly how it happened or when it started. Some say a form of the Boxes had been around since the 1800s, while others claimed to have found mentions of something like them back in the 1500s, while some scholars tried to argue the proof of their existence as far back as the 1300s or even crude versions in Ancient Rome. But in modern times, a holiday was formed around the arrival of the Boxes, one centered on love and giving. They called it Valentine’s Day after one of the earlier mentions of the event in a poem. And every year at that time, the same thing happened all over the world.

On February 13, the Box would appear in your mailbox. When it did, you would place items into it, things that either showed off who you were or showed your love and admiration for the person about to receive what you picked out. Then, you would place the Box back into your mailbox by midnight. The next morning, the Box would still be there, but it would now be filled with different objects. Objects that your soulmate had placed in their Box the day before.

Over the years, you had received a wide variety of trinkets from your soulmate: various types of candy, love-themed stuffed animals, the occasional jewelry, a wooden rose, a well-worn baseball, a picture frame left empty just waiting for a photo to go inside it, a bottle of half-used cologne, a stack of recipes.

And every year, there was a famous love poem nestled at the bottom. You often wondered if he would write you original poetry if it was allowed, but the Boxes didn’t permit that sort of thing. Nothing handwritten or originally composed, no photographs, no business cards, no blatantly identifiable items of any kind. Anything you placed in your Box that was deemed too telling by whatever magic or energy made the Boxes work remained in your Box when you opened it the next day.

It had only happened to you once when you tried to send a pin with the Naval Academy’s logo on it the year you were accepted, but apparently, it was too much of a hint as to your identity to pass on to your soulmate. It seemed as if the Boxes wanted to help you find your soulmates, but didn’t want things to be too easy for you either.

Glancing at your watch, you cursed even louder as you realized that at this time of night, the only places in the area that might still be open were convenience stores or the Walgreens a few blocks away. However, this close to the deadline, stores like Walgreens that catered to the Boxes were usually packed with last-minute shoppers or picked clean by now. So, with a sigh, you jumped back into your truck and drove down to the convenience store at the end of the block. 

Unfortunately, there really wasn’t a wide selection to choose from. Just meaningless junk and useless items. Reluctantly, you settled on a California shot glass (broad locations were usually allowed and your soulmate had once sent the wrapper from a bottle of whiskey so you assumed he drank) and a car air freshener shaped like a heart in one of your favorite fragrances. It was pathetic, but at least it was something.

As you headed up to the sizeable check-out line, you stumbled to a stop as you recognized the man at the end of the line. You stared at the back of his head all day during briefings and meetings so even from behind, it was impossible to mistake him. For a moment, you considered waiting for him to finish checking out or even just leaving the store now without your purchase, but it was almost 11:30 pm and time was running out to get your items into your Box. So, taking a deep breath, you stepped into line.

Sensing someone approaching from behind, Hangman glanced over his shoulder and did a double take as he recognized you. He flinched slightly and his shoulders tensed, yet his usual cocky smile slowly spread across his face. “Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here. I would have thought Miss Perfect would have had her gift planned out weeks ago. Cutting things a little close there, aren’t we?”

You felt the familiar heat rising in your chest that happened anytime you were around Hangman. Ever since the day the two of you had met at the Academy, you had gotten along like oil and water. Always trying to one-up the other or prove you were the best, your interactions usually ended with some sort of heated argument or screaming match. The universe seemed to enjoy your little feud because, by some bizarre twist of fate, the two of you had ended up in the same squadron after graduation. And you were both transferred together to the next one. Then to the same class at Top Gun. And yet another joint squadron change. It was practically unheard of, and yet, since the first day of either of your careers, you had been working together. But it never lessened the antagonistic tension between you. If anything, it only got worse as time went on.

When you were in the sky, the two of you could work together in perfect harmony and despite everything, you were the perfect wingmen for one another. Yet, the moment the two of you got face-to-face on the ground, that was when things became hostile. Just like now.

Trying your best to maintain your composure, you snapped, “We’ve been out of the country for the last two weeks. When was I supposed to get anything? Besides, you’re here too.” Looking down at his hands, you rolled your eyes as you spotted the fighter jet-shaped object he was holding. “A keychain? That’s the best you can do? Wow, Bagman. Some girl out there is so lucky to have you as her soulmate.”

Hangman’s jaw clenched tightly and you could tell he was trying his best not to start cursing you out in the middle of the checkout line. Instead, he just sneered, “Yeah, well, you’re one to talk. I’m sure your soulmate is going to love that tacky glass and a single air freshener.” 

You felt your cheeks growing warm as you stared daggers at him, but it wasn’t all due to anger. Though you would never admit it, you knew he was right. This was a pathetic excuse for a present for the person who was meant to be the love of your life. He always gave you such lovely, meaningful gifts and this was the best you could do? You wish there was some way to explain what happened. That this was all due to bad timing and an insanely busy schedule and that you had wanted to give him so much more. But without a way to send personal messages, this was all you could do. 

However, just because all of that was true, it didn’t mean you were going to let Hangman get away with pointing it out. Still glaring at him, you said, “As a matter of fact, I know this is exactly the sort of thing he will love. You don’t know anything about him or me outside of work, so why don’t you just shut the fuck up, and worry about your pathetic gift and how disappointed your soulmate is going to be in the morning.”

For a brief moment, the expression on Hangman’s face wasn’t one of anger or rage. It was one of pain. And you realized he probably felt as shitty about his gift as you did about yours. You knew there was more to Hangman than he ever revealed to the other aviators, and at this moment, you felt like for the first time you might have gotten a glimpse of this other side of him. But before you could say anything, he steeled his face once more and whirled around to face the counter without another word.

Even with his back to you, you could see he was still very upset. His broad shoulders were tensed as he stood slightly hunched over and drawn in on himself. Suddenly, you had the urge to wrap your arms around him from behind and press your face against his shoulder blades as you whispered soft apologies to make up for what you had said. But you quickly shook your head to snap yourself out of it. This was Hangman. The two of you fought more than cats and dogs. This was just how it was between you. And yet, as he finished paying and glanced quickly back at you one final time, you couldn’t help but wish you had apologized after all.

That night, you tossed and turned in bed, haunted by what had happened with your run-in with Hangman and how you should have handled it differently. However, all of it was forgotten the moment you woke up and remembered what day it was. Springing out of bed, you threw on some clothes and rushed out the front door.

As much as you wanted nothing more than to run downstairs and return with your Box as quickly as you could, it just wasn’t possible. The entire building had the same thought. As soon as you stepped out of your apartment, you were met with a crowd of people all struggling to make it to the stairwell. The landlord had hired someone for each floor to attempt to control the traffic, but as usual, it was a useless endeavor. There was nothing to do but wait your turn as the horde of people slowly made their way down the stairs and to the row of mailboxes by the front door. 

When you finally made it to your mailbox and retrieved the package from inside, you hurried back upstairs with the Box clutched tightly to your chest. Some people couldn’t stand the anticipation and had ripped open their Boxes in the lobby, but you preferred to open yours in the privacy of your apartment. Luckily, getting back up was a lot quicker than getting down. The crowds had thinned as most people made it down to their mailboxes and you were able to make it back in only a few minutes.

Once inside, you leaned heavily on your door, trying to calm your excitement. You waited all year for this moment, to get just the tiniest glimpse into the person who was supposedly your other half. Yet no matter how happy you were, you couldn’t help but dread the feeling of disappointment he must be having seeing what you placed inside your box this year. You just hoped you could make it up to him next year, potentially even in person. But maybe that was too much wishful thinking. 

Taking a deep breath, you opened the lid. The second you saw what was inside, you dropped the Box as if it had burned you, spilling the contents across the floor. Gasping, you slid down the door to the ground, your hands pressed tightly over your mouth. You couldn’t believe your eyes. There had to be some kind of mistake. Somehow the Boxes got mixed up and yours was sent to the wrong person while you received this one instead. Because this could not be your Box. 

Yet, there was no denying the truth. A piece of paper stuck out of the Box. Glancing quickly at it, you saw that it was your yearly love poem, though this one had a theme of forgiveness and doing better in the future as well as love. As in, asking forgiveness for such a crappy gift this year. Because there, peeking out from underneath the table where it had landed, was the only other item from the Box: a familiar-looking keychain shaped like a fighter jet. 

A million different explanations ran through your head as you tried to think of some rational explanation that didn’t end with your soulmate being your wingman. They probably sold these same keychains in thousands of stores across the country and maybe he finally figured out your clues and realized you were a fighter pilot. Maybe he got his pilot’s license this year and this was his way of sharing the news. Maybe he might have gone to an airshow and wished you were there with him. Or…. maybe the keychain you now held in your hand was the same one you had seen last night in the convenience store.

You had to find out for sure. There was no way you could go about your day until you had verified this was all just some big cosmic misunderstanding. So, you grabbed the keychain, your bag, your keys, and your jacket before hurrying towards the door. 

Your jacket was only half on as you threw open the door and were almost hit in the face with a fist that was in the process of knocking. Dodging back, you saw Hangman standing in the hallway, his chest heaving as if he had just run the whole way here. Glancing down, you saw that in the hand he didn’t have raised, he was holding your shot glass and air freshener. So, it was true….

At the same moment, he noticed the keychain in your hand. His eyes grew wide as he whispered, “No fucking way…”

“How?” You stumbled backward, and for a moment, you thought you might collapse. But a large hand shot out and grabbed your elbow, steadying you. Hangman had touched you many times before, yet there was something different about this time. It felt safe and comforting and it sent a small shiver across your skin. 

You wondered if Hangman felt it too because his grip tightened and he pulled you a little closer to him. His eyes searched your face as he asked, “Are you okay?”

No, I’m not okay! What about this situation makes you think I’d be okay? You wanted to scream at him, but you know it wouldn’t do any good. So, you just pull your arm out of his grasp and take a few steps back. “Yeah, I’m fine. I-I just need a minute.” 

You hurried off into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water off the counter. Draining it in just a few gulps, you wipe the back of your hand across your mouth as you try to figure out what to do next. Your mind was running a mile a minute and all you wanted to do was to lay down in your bed, burrow under the covers, and forget this morning ever happened. However, this was not something you could just ignore for now and figure out later. Hangman was still in your living room just waiting for you to return. You knew you had to face him sooner or later, so it might as well be sooner.

As you walked back into the living room, you saw Hangman standing by your bookcase. When you got closer, he held up the picture frame you had received in your Box a few years ago. With a wistful smile on his lips, he said, “You still have this. And you kept it empty…”

With your arms crossed tightly across your chest, you gave a half-hearted shrug. “I never had the right photo with the right person to put in it.” As you reached out to take it from him, your mind flashed to the hundreds of photos with you and Hangman people had taken over the years. “Or I guess I did and just didn’t realize it.”

Jake ran his thumb across the back of your hand. “Sweetheart, I–”

The pet name was the final straw as you felt something snap within you. “No, no, I’m sorry.” You pulled away from his touch and placed the picture frame back on the bookshelf. “I’m sorry, but it can’t be you. It– It just can’t be.” 

Hangman turned away but not before you saw the pain flash in his eyes. “Sorry to disappoint you. I guess you thought you’d be paired with someone better. Someone you could at least stand to be in the same room with.” He started heading towards the door, but you jumped in front of him to stop him from leaving. 

“No, it’s not that at all. Hangm– Jake.” His head was still hung low so you took his face between your hands and turned it so he was staring at you. Taking a shuttering breath, you explained, “It can’t be you because I don’t think I can handle the fact that we’ve known each other for almost 10 years and didn’t know. That my soulmate was right in front of me this whole time and I never…. That I wasted so much time arguing and fighting with him that I never allowed myself to see him for what he truly was.”

But it didn’t matter how much you wanted things to be different. There was no denying the truth at this point. In hindsight, it all made perfect sense. That heat in your chest you felt every time Hangman walked into the room wasn’t hate at all. It was love. Love you thought you could never have so you used it to fuel your anger towards him. You had turned the magnetic pull between you into something ugly and bitter all because you were hurt he could never be yours. And because of that, you almost ruined everything. 

Jake must have seen the tears forming in your eyes and the way your lip trembled as you tried to hold it together because his pained expression softened into one of understanding. “Oh, sweetheart.”

He softly took your arm and drew you into his chest. The gesture was so tender and soft that you couldn’t fight it anymore. Tears began to pour down your cheeks as you buried your face into his shoulder. Jake’s hand gently caressed your back, rubbing small, soothing circles across it while you sobbed. And it felt so right. The hot feeling you got in your chest whenever Hangman was around spread throughout you and when he lightly pressed his lips to the top of your head, you thought you might explode.

As your tears began to dry up and your sobs faded, you still remained wrapped in his embrace. In fact, you never wanted to leave it. But there were still some things you needed to figure out.

So, you lifted your head slightly, and whispered, “The worst part is, I know it’s you. I’ve known since the minute I first saw you back at the Academy. Sitting in class with that stupid toothpick in your mouth and the big ol’ grin on your face. You were the most handsome man I’d ever seen, and I instantly fell for you. For a moment, I even let myself imagine you might be my soulmate.” You tilted your head up to look him squarely in the face. “But when I asked you about one of the poems my soulmate had sent me, you said you’d never heard of it.”

Hangman smiled softly with a sorrowful gleam in his eyes. “I remember that day perfectly. You walked up to introduce yourself and when I saw you, I couldn’t breathe. You were the most beautiful person I had ever seen and your voice… When you mentioned the poem, I had a momentary flash of hope that it could be you. But it was a really popular poem and one I had sent a few years before, so I just figured it was wishful thinking. And I couldn’t admit it right then anyway. Because with her – with you – I was Jake. As open and real and vulnerable as I’ve ever been with another person. But when you asked me in class, in front of the rest of the cadets, you were talking to Hangman, and he would never be caught dead reading poetry. So, I lied. And it seems that I doomed us both.” 

You shook your head frantically. “No, Jake. This isn’t just on you. I lied too. I was so upset that you weren’t my soulmate that when you started asking me about what sort of music I listened to and you mentioned a bunch of artists, including the band whose CD I had sent you, I said I didn’t know any of them because I couldn’t handle talking to you right then. I just wanted the conversation to be over. But if I had just told the truth, you probably would have realized who I was. So, this is just as much on me as it is on you.”

“Thank you.” He placed another kiss in the middle of your forehead and a wave of warmth flowed through you all the way down to your toes. Then he chuckled, “I guess the universe knew we were idiots and needed as much help as we could get. Maybe that’s why we’re still stuck together through every mission and every transfer. Not even the United States Navy is a match for soulmates.”

“I guess not,” you giggled. Then, turning more serious again, you said, “I’m sorry for what I said yesterday. I am lucky to have you as a soulmate. And I’m not disappointed in the slightest.”

“I’m sorry too. I do in fact love my glass and air freshener.”

You rolled your eyes. “You called that glass tacky yesterday…. And you’re not wrong. You don’t have to pretend to like it. I know it’s crap.”

Jake grabbed your shoulders and held you away from him so you could see his face. “I’m not pretending! I really do like it!”

“Why?”

“Because you gave it to me.”

You groaned as a huge smile lit up your face and you playfully slapped his chest. “Oh, God. We’re going to be one of those super mushy, romantic couples that drives everyone crazy with how in love we are, aren’t we?”

“I’m counting on it.” There was absolutely no humor or playfulness in his tone. Just complete sincerity. And as you gazed into his pale green eyes, it felt as if you were staring directly into his soul. It felt as if you were staring directly into your own heart. 

Jake’s fingers brushed against your cheek before gently tilting your chin back. Your eyes fluttered shut even before his lips pressed against yours. Before this moment, you thought you knew what a kiss felt like, what love felt like. And yet, nothing you had ever experienced felt anything close to kissing Jake. It was like sticking your finger into an electrical socket but instead of pain, your body vibrated with a euphoric buzz of pleasure. 

And as he drew you in closer against his chest, it felt as if your hearts began to sync and beat in time until the two thumps melded into one. There was not a single sliver of doubt left in you. Jake Seresin was your soulmate and you couldn’t be happier about it.

When the two of you finally pulled apart, you continued to gaze into each other's eyes. You reached up and ran your finger across his kiss-swollen lips as you asked, “Well, what now, Jake?”

Jake took your hand and pressed his lips firmly against the back of it before he whispered, “Now, sweetheart, I think we start making up for lost time.”

Taglist: @loverhymeswith, @babblydrabbly, @lorecraft, @green-socks, @heart-0n-fire, @marvelousmermaid, @mayhem24-7forever, @wildbornsiren, @hederasgarden, @the-untamed-soul, @inglourious-imagines, @airhogger, @piscesvancouverite, @straightforwardly, @bonnieelizabethparker, @srry-itshockeyszn, @flyinlove, @fandomhopped, @sweetheartlizzie07, @yjwnoot, @wanderdreamer, @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy, @callsign-fox, @imjess-themess, @callsign-phoenix, @shanimallina87, @forever-sleepy-sloth, @notroosterbradshaw, @dezthegeek, @blessupblessup, @cherrycola27, @phoenix1389, @nicangelinee, @smells-like-perfect-senses, @boringusername3, @petlaufeyson, @cycbaby, @topguncortez, @footprintsinthesxnd, @fantasticcopeaglepasta

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[befuddled-calico-whump]

Total $hit$how: Roses for the Knuckles

in which Hunter doesn't always listen

cw: referenced violence, adult language, implied abuse

previous /// masterlist /// next

×~×~×

“You'll each get one hour. Nowhere near enough time for anything real, but it should serve its purpose.”

Everyone was in the room with the mats, where they should've been running through their morning training. Obstacle courses or fighting or some shit, but instead of doing what they were supposed to, Sahota was following muscle girl's dumb idea.

Hunter knew what its 'purpose' was. Proving them all wrong, demonstrating that he was better than them for the hundredth time. Why was he even gonna bother? Why not just tell them no and be done with it? Why not just do what Vic wanted?

He didn't know what the big deal was anyway. Muscle girl had been in the army or some shit, so hadn't she already killed people? And fucking Manak didn't seem like he gave a shit about anyone else, so why did he care? Hunter didn't care. It wasn't like he knew Finley anyway, and he could just forget about the whole matter after she was dead and they had what they wanted.

If he would’ve told Vic about this last night during their training session, maybe he could’ve put a stop to this bullshit, but the ancient law of snitches get stitches kept his mouth shut. It wasn’t that big a deal anyway. Just a waste of time.

Hunter slouched as Sahota droned on and on about the rules, body and face rigid as he addressed the group. Like a fucking statue.

“I want each of you to come up with some arbitrary information that you want from me, and then I want you to try to extract it. You are permitted to do anything, so long as I can recover from it by tomorrow.”

Whatever that meant. It had been two days since he'd got his face beat in, and he already seemed just fine.

Muscle girl raised her hand. “What's the point?”

“I’ve been in the business for a while,” Sahota replied. “I know a good technique when I see one. If you manage to impress me, you win. I'll let you do it your way.” He thumbed at the scabbed-over cut running through his lip. “But don’t count on it.”

Some of the rest threw in their own questions, but Hunter tuned them out, pinching the skin of a knuckle between two fingernails until flowers started blooming there. No one would want to hear his side of the argument, his ‘we should listen to Vic, not Sahota’. If they didn't hate him already, he'd bet they definitely hated him after the video, after he was the only one who didn't want to go save their asshole trainer. But he'd been right, Vic had been right. Sahota got back just fine, not the slightest shift in his stupid slate-gray color unless you counted the bruises on his face.

He was right, but it seemed like no one wanted to look at him anymore. Not that they had in the first place, but it seemed more on-purpose now. Manak had been just as icy as ever when they'd worked together on the list, a task mostly completed in bitter silence. Hunter hadn't helped much, just kinda leaned back in his chair and looked for new patterns, distracting himself from the red ribbon of irritation that started coiling around the other man as soon as Sahota told them to work together.

And whatever, he didn't care. He didn't need Manak to like him, or Sahota, or muscle girl, or even… even the big guy. No, he didn't need them, not when he had Vic on his side, not when Vic wanted him to stay.

“Cavan, why don't you start us off?” Sahota said, and muscle girl straightened, her neutral blue brightening.

Cavan. Cavan, Cavan, Cavan, he’d try to remember it, but sometimes names were hard.

“I want the rest of you training. Spar for the first hour, then branch off into individual skills.” He gave Cavan a curt nod, and she followed him out, leaving a fading trail of blue behind. Hunter couldn’t tell if she was excited or nervous, and didn’t really care.

Beside him, the big guy let out a heavy sigh. “So… sparring?”

“Dibs on Jericho,” makeup guy said quickly, sidestepping towards the big guy and slipping an arm through the crook of his elbow.

Jericho, Jericho.

That left him with Manak. Whatever. Smug little richboy wasn’t that great with his fists, and Hunter wouldn’t mind breaking his stupid snobby nose. The big guy—Jericho—seemed to catch a whiff of Hunter’s plan though, a brighter flash that was probably alarm arcing through his purple.

“Actually, I think I’ll fight Harbor,” he said, shaking himself free of makeup guy, who put on a pouty expression. Hunter scowled up at him, squaring his shoulders.

“Yeah? What if I don’t wanna fight you?” he challenged, scanning the big guy’s—Jericho, it’s Jericho, fucking dumbass—silhouette for a shift in his color. The purple didn’t change.

“Do you not want to?” A little smile crossed his face. “You’re pretty good. I just want to see what you’ve got.”

Hunter scrunched his nose. He was good, but he knew what was really happening. Just the b–Jericho trying to save Manak’s ass. Whatever. Whatever, a fight was a fight. Training was training and he didn't need to be liked. He didn't need to be chosen for him, not by them.

“Fine.” He lifted his fists. Roses for the knuckles. “Fight me.”

~~~

The first hour went fast. Sparring always went fast, at least for Hunter. Maybe ‘cause it was something he was actually good at. Muscle girl (Cavan) came strolling back in near the end of the matches, and makeup guy (Benny?) took her place. From the dull in her blue, Hunter guessed she hadn't been successful. He coulda told her that.

Jericho spent the next hour looking over the folder with her and Manak, so Hunter spent his time wandering and practicing with patterns.

Find a pen, find a tool, find one of those screws that has an X on top, until makeup guy came back and Manak replaced him and his head was pounding.

He ignored the oncoming migraine.

I want you to come back after.

The next hour passed, the headache dug blunt teeth into his skull, and then it was Hunter's turn.

~~~

Sahota was sitting comfy when he entered, bound in place by ropes that wound around his wrists and the arms of the chair he was planted in. No sign of any blooming colors in his slate-gray, no hint of an expression on his bruise-mottled face.

Like an oil slick, he thought. Guess it's your turn to wear it.

The three who'd gone before him hadn't done shit by the looks of it. If anything, Sahota looked bored. Hunter could change that.

“So what,” he said, lingering in the doorway with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. “Do I just start?”

“What information are you pretending to be after?” Sahota asked, hardly shifting in his seat. Hunter wished he'd slouch, or sneeze, or yawn, or do something a normal human would do. 

“I dunno,” he said, eyes darting away from the stiff slate shape of him, looking for anything shinier. “Your birthday or whatever.”

“Creative bunch.”

Hunter scowled, pulling his hands from his pockets and pinching a fresh cut that cracked through the back of his hand like a line in a broken plate. A little shower of rose petals started pouring from it in reply. “Can I hit you?”

“Do it.” Sahota rolled his neck, shrugging his shoulders like he was prepping himself for the first blow. “Is that your plan for Finley?”

“I don't have a plan for Finley,” Hunter said. “I didn’t ask to do this. You can just kill her for all I care.” That's what Vic had said to do. Why was Sahota of all people trying something different? He was in the spy shit too, shouldn’t he know better? Didn't he want to follow Vic?

The trainer’s gray sat plain and stony as Hunter talked, not the slightest flash of surprise, or approval, or even just being pissed off that he didn’t want to play along popping up.

“Are you going to participate?” he asked in a flat voice. “Or should I have you send for Davis?”

He'd like that, wouldn't he? Hunter leaving, giving up, going away. What would he think, if he knew that Vic wanted him here, if he knew that maybe, maybe Vic liked him better?

“I’ll play the stupid game,” Hunter said, rubbing his knuckles. “Just wanted you to know that it’s stupid.” A pattern had begun to swirl around them, starting out small and starry and distorting into silvery splatters. They might’ve been a warning, but Hunter didn’t know for what. That Sahota would get pissed and try to beat him up? That he’d try and kick him off the team? Fat chance, not when Vic was here to say otherwise.

“What’s your birthday?” he muttered. Sahota replied with a silent stare, his stupid gray color unchanging, his stupid expression stony and blank. Fuckin' statue.

Hunter hit him. Not hard, or anything. A little backhanded stroke across the face that didn't draw the slightest ripple through Sahota's gray. The back of his hand stung with the blow. Roses.

Sahota planted the even stare on him again, like he was challenging him, saying, ‘is that all you got?’

Hunter’s upper lip pulled back into a snarl. “When’s your birthday?” he said again, practically spitting the words out. The splattering silver whirled around him like a tornado. He tried not to look at it. He didn’t need his headache getting any worse.

Sahota still didn’t answer, so Hunter popped him across the other cheek.

“Do you really think this will get you anywhere?”

“You think I’d fucking know that?” Hunter snapped. “I’m not a psycho like you. I never tortured anyone.”

That seemed to have an effect, the gray getting a few shades darker in the middle of Sahota’s chest. Hunter’s mouth tipped up in a grin.

“S’wrong?” he said, circling the chair in an unhurried stride. “Don't like being called out on it?”

But just as fast, the gray was gone, and Sahota was quiet again. Of fucking course.

“When's your birthday?” Hunter said, this time leaning over the trainer's shoulder to hiss it into his ear.

“You’re sloppy,” Sahota replied, not seeming to care when Hunter popped him in the jaw. Barely even a grimace.

Sloppy. Just like he'd said when they fought the first time. Well who was the one getting hit? Sahota was sloppy, for letting the rest of the team have their way when an easier solution was right in front of them.

“When's your birthday?”

“Is that all you have to say? Does your entire plan revolve around asking the same question on repeat?”

“I told you, I don't have a fucking plan,” Hunter snapped, hitting him a little harder than he'd meant to. Closed fist tangling with the bruises on his cheek, reopening the cut that cracked his knuckles, rose petals.

That got a little gasp from Sahota. A blinking wince that made Hunter hesitate, his fist dropping to swing at his side.

I'm sorry. He wasn't. Sahota asked to do this, Sahota said he could hit him. He could take punches, they could both take punches, it was no big deal.

“I want to listen to Vic,” he said in a small voice. “I want to just… just kill her. If that's the easy way.”

Sahota's eyes narrowed. “You've never killed anyone.”

“Don't pretend you know me,” Hunter said, his voice rising again. “You don't know shit.”

He had, probably. He'd never actually watched them die, but he'd been in enough gunfights and brawls and shit that he'd probably killed someone. “I don't care, anyway,” he said, taking a half step backwards. The silver-spatter pattern swirled faster now, dizzy and bright. “Vic knows best, so if he says that's what we should do…”

“Vic doesn't always know best,” Sahota said. “Not for you.”

There it was. Hunter scowled, scanning the trainer's shape, seeing no sign of the jealous black cracks that had come crawling out of his throat before. Not like that meant shit. Maybe they weren't jealousy. He didn't know fuckall about what they could be because he didn't know fuckall about Sahota.

“What do you know about what's best?” he grumbled. Maybe he should've gone to Vic about this bright idea after all. Maybe this had all been a ploy to trick Hunter into going against Vic’s idea, to highlight him as a problem, to make him another outsider.

“I know this isn't the life you want," Sahota replied. "Finish this job and get out, or you'll end up wishing you had.”

Had Vic told him about the plan? About letting him stay? Was he just spouting this bullshit because he couldn't stand the thought of Hunter sticking around?

“You don't know what I want,” Hunter spat. “There’s nothing else for me. There's nothing else to want.”

Sahota grimaced. His gray was starting to darken at the center again, spreading like black clouds. “Harbor—”

“You want me to get out?” Hunter cut him off. “Fucking fine, I'll get out. Already said this was stupid.”

The green, the burning of chlorine in his nose hit him before he could turn around. Vic.

“Done already?” the handler asked in a voice that was danger-quiet. Like if Hunter answered wrong there'd be trouble. He'd heard it before. With teachers at school, with his dad at home, with Rex and the syndicate. 

He froze. Sometimes the best answer was silence.

“I heard you're running them through an impromptu training exercise, Sahota,” Vic said, and Hunter realized the tone wasn't for him. He felt the tension seep away from his shoulders; vines unwinding and hanging there like deadweight limbs.

“Quite an interesting lesson plan today.”

“It's a demonstration, sir.” Sahota’s eyes dropped. “Proof that interrogation doesn't work the way they think.”

“Oh? Do you not think my word is proof enough for them?”

“I didn't mean that.”

Vic clicked his tongue. “I was under the impression that today's training was meant to be a little more standardized. Was that a lie?”

“No, I… it seemed like something too small to bother you with. Once they failed, we'd move on. Nothing would change.”

“So you'd rather keep it from me.”

“No, sir.”

Vic let out a little hm, letting silence sit prickly in the room for what was probably a full minute before he spoke again. “I do apologize for interrupting.”

Sahota didn't lift his gaze. Or even say anything.

“It's fine,” Hunter put in. “This is a waste of time anyway. Right? We should just—”

“No no, it's not my place to swoop in and change the curriculum for the day,” Vic said, letting out a small sigh. “I'm sure it's exactly as beneficial as you say, Sahota.”

Hunter didn't know why the change in his tone wasn't letting him relax, why the splatters in the air were turning razored at the edges, why some anxious color was starting to squeeze him again.

“In fact, why don't I watch the rest of the lesson? It's interrogation, right? You're letting them ask you questions?”

“Yes, sir,” Sahota said in a flat voice. 

“Wonderful. Hunter?”

“Yeah?”

“Carry on.”

Hunter shook his hands loose, nervous energy bundling up in his fingers, tiny vines tangling between them like thread. Sticky and annoying. Vic wanted to watch? But what if he fucked it up? What if he wasn't good enough? 

“When's your birthday?” he asked, his tone emptier than it had been before. Sahota didn't answer, just like before. Hunter hit him, not like before. This time he was careful to aim for even, unbruised color, to pull back on the blow.

He turned back to face Vic, feet shuffling him away from the man in the chair. “That's what I've been doing, Vi—sir. Pretty much just that.” Nothing to see here, no reason to watch, to find faults.

Vic chuckled. “And this is your idea of an interrogation?”

Hunter shrugged, letting out a quiet, “guess so.” Vic couldn't blame him for being bad at it, right? He'd never done this before, so it wasn't his fault, right? All he had to go off of was movies and the bloodied remains of Rex’s discarded rivals, and at the time he was too busy hoping it would never be him dead on the cement to memorize the fucking injuries.

“Here.” His handler stood, laying a hand on his shoulder, gently guiding him so he was standing in front of Sahota again.

Silent, stony, Sahota.

“Let me help you out.” Vic pressed something into his hand. Cold metal, warmed by fingerprints. He didn't want to glance down, but it was from Vic, so he made himself look, eyes confirming the shape that he held. Brass knuckles.

A thought sped through his mind as he looked at them, wondering whether Vic just always had the weapon with him, or if he'd packed it for the occasion, if he knew this would be the outcome before he'd even stepped into the room.

“Try them on.”

Metal slipped past his fingertips to circle his knuckles, the shiny brown quickly choked out by dull green vines. Vic patted him on the shoulder.

“Looks good on you.”

Something pleasant zipped through Hunter at the words, but it felt wrong, out of place

“Go on, Hunter. Hit him again. And this time, don't hold back.” Vic squeezed his shoulder. “Let's show you what a real interrogation can look like.”

Hunter clenched his fist around the metal that enclosed them, letting it pinch the skin on the inside of his fingers. Hit him again, hit him with a weapon, hurt him, why did Vic want him to hurt him? Weren't he and Sahota partners?

“Vic…”

“What are you waiting for?” The handler leaned in, hands on his shoulders, lips on his ear. “Show me you can handle this much. Show me you belong here.”

Hunter tried to steady himself with an inhale, but the chlorine smell was choking him and the room was all dizzy from the spinning silver. He kept upright, locking his gaze on the man in the chair who sat stiff-backed. Unflinching.

He didn't want to hit him, he didn't want to hit him again, he hadn't even wanted to watch him get hit on the video two days ago but it was what Vic wanted.

The black cracks were back, branching out from the pit of Sahota's throat as they met eyes, and Hunter knew then that it wasn't hatred. It wasn't annoyance, or even jealousy.

It was fear.

~~~

@theonewithallthefixations , @violets-whumperflies , @whump-me , @pirefyrelight , @soheavyaburden , @snakebites-and-ink , @whumpsday , @kixngiggles , @echo-goes-aaa

#love when hunter makes casual references to his questionable and Really Pretty Sad past its one of my favorite parts of writing him #anyways this was one of the first scene ideas i had!! #it was originally supposed to be a kinda humorous comic but then i got to hunter's turn and went 😶 #total$hit$how #interrogation #angst #stoic whumpee #implied abuse #beating