#*backs away from this concept post haste*

[2kmps]

BOUNTY

hot outlaw x engineer!reader | 2.8k

story summary; shortly following the death of your mother, you come to learn that you're the illegitimate offspring of a railroad tycoon with insurmountable wealth and power meant to inherit it all. after a hasty departure from home to begin your journey across the continent of san-am, your train is stopped and boarded by a mysterious man in black tatters who claims to be there kill you.

story warnings; mentions of death, mention of bodily fluids and excrement, heavy worldbuilding, mentions of conspiracy to murder, kidnapping, neo-western setting, old-west slang used, usage of unique slang, not really proofread or edited, concept piece for a much larger project.

if you enjoyed, please interact & reblog this post!! ❣️

Mother died a week before the lawyer showed up on your doorstep with an inheritance letter and half-hearted condolences for your absentee father’s poor prognosis. A day after that, your life was stowed into a pair of suitcases and a heavier hard case that you barely justified bringing aboard the train. In three weeks and three layovers, you would be across the continent in St. Corpus, the industrial heart of San-Am, where your father awaited you on his deathbed.

Horace Grissom had fathered a new age of industry and outward expansion in lands once believed to be sprawling metropolises centuries long gone. They had been left behind as skeletons of steel and rust from a time of global war, reclaimed in totality by the roots of elder trees, the decay of salt and sea, the precarious will of mountains, and the great sinkholes and corrosion of sand and time.

Traces of that old world had survived thanks in part to the rigorous efforts of archaeologists and conservationists at the University of San-Am in Grimerise. With each new discovery, opportunistic vultures like your father blotted their pens to their tongues to their pocketbooks and readied themselves to own the patent of it like history had a price and could only belong to them. Indeed, anything could be bought, because with those fragments of history, he built the San-Am Continental Railroad which crossed through each of the five territories and was considered the premier way to travel. 

You were never allowed to ask questions about Horace under Mother’s roof as the very mention of his name would set her ablaze in some pettish, garrulous tantrum that, oftentimes, ended with you going to bed before dusk without dinner until the next day. She loved that bitterness up until the very moment she died, clawing your clothes, your skin, her nightgown, her own throat because she couldn't breathe and there was nothing you could do to save her from succumbing.

“Go in peace, Mother.” you said, kissing the back of her sun-speckled hand even as she tried digging her nails into your face. “I love you.”

She did not waste peacefully, nor did she end by staring up rapturously at the ceiling as though something else waited for her beyond it. Mother passed in blood, vomit, excrement, and all her hatred while you bade her farewell and considered who was best to call to have her body carted away to burn with all the others that had also succumbed that day. You made sure to label that as the cause of death on the official paperwork.

After that, you had made quick work of piling all of her things into boxes to be incinerated as well, certified the house was safe and in a liveable state (besides her old mattress, which was the first thing you disposed of because of the smell) for another family to move into. 

Once all of that had been finished and you gained the time to rest, you got a knock at your door, a bald, sinewy man with a round hat claiming to be Joseph Whitwald—estate planning lawyer, he made sure to specify more than once—and that you needed to leave post haste to your father's estate in St. Corpus before he perished.

“You have significant placement in his will, illegitimate or not. This is what he wanted, this is what shall be done,” said Whitwald assuredly as he rooted through the pockets of his pants and white suit vest for something. He found it and made a sound and a flourish, revealing to you a red ticket. “Take this. It's for one of the elite cabins in first class. Your father wanted you to have the best amenities that the San-Am Continental has to offer.”

Even with such luxuries available to you with the sound of a bell on string, you eventually found yourself exchanging tickets with a young woman traveling solo for the first time. She went red in the eyes, asserted her appreciation, and scooped you into a hug before taking the ticket and her belongings to the first car. 

The passenger car was considerably noisier with children running amok, drunks and musicians belting tunes while dancing in the center aisle—doing poorly to keep their balance as the train navigated the terrain beneath the rails, and ladies in bustles and fashionable blouses screaming like hens over fresh gossip. The stewards were frustrated that they couldn't get their trolleys through all the bodies, whereas some passengers let their stomachs roar through their mouths as they assailed anyone nearby (especially the poor lads just trying to deliver food) with complaints.

You liked everything happening around you; it was a good distraction from the way life had twisted your arm behind your back. The cacophony of laughter and anger felt like home, a comfortable companion to sit there with you on the empty, thinly padded benches while you stared uselessly at the inheritance papers—uncomprehending.

A gasp shot up your throat and made you bite your tongue as you were launched forward onto the adjacent bench (also empty) when the train suddenly began to slow—brakes engaged with such quickness that the wood beams under your feet vibrated up through your soles into your bones and teeth and skull until you became lightheaded and collapsed back into your seat. 

The squeal and grind of steel worsened your confusion, turned the fuzz in your head into dull drumming—aches that pulsed to a beat you couldn't figure out, but it deadened the screams all around you and bodies hitting the floorboards in thunderous heaps. 

And then, there was silence. 

The other passengers kept their voices low as they climbed back into their seats, children were smothered deep into their mother’s bosoms as they wept, and no one dared to investigate what had brought the train to such a violent stop.

“Mummy, what's happening?” asked a girl from the benches behind you. She couldn't have been older than ten, from the sound of her. “Mummy, why—”

“Lottie!” the mother hissed at her daughter, “Shhh! Say nothing else, child.”  

From a few seats away, closer to the front, you recognized the gruff, muddled voice from one of the drunkards who had been dancing in the aisle a while ago. Now, he had a bloody nose and a nasty knot growing on his forehead.

“What the hell is the big idea of them scarin’ the piss outta us like this? Do you see my face? They gonna do somethin’ to fix it?” he complained, then swigged liquor from a flask he had smuggled on. “I should go up there and give ‘em a piece of my mind. Bastards.”

“Peace, friend,” soothed a musician with an unfamiliar accent and stringed instrument. “Don't be hasty. I'm sure there’s a good reason why they had to stop. Let them find a solution, we’re just here for the ride.”

Just as the chatter was rising up again, commotion from the first class car stifled it hard, prompting some folks to abandon their seats near the door separating the cars to crowd into the rear. You were tempted to flee with them, join their pack so if they were going to find a way off the train, you'd be mixed up in their stampede and have a better chance to get away.

Except, you simply packed away your inheritance paperwork and sat there with your chin tucked to the collarbone, the visor of your baseball cap pulled lower over your sunglasses to seem as nondescript as possible. Meanwhile, the sounds from first class grew intense; glass shattered, passengers screamed and shuffled around, something you knew to be true because you felt the floor rumble under your feet again.

And then, the passenger car door slid open without the ferocity you had expected. The door scraped along its metal rail, allowing the body to pass through in heavy, languid steps. You paced your breaths to hear it all; the boots and clinking spurs striking wood with dull thuds, a baritone hum that you were convinced you could feel reverberate in your own chest as it came closer, the scuff of thick fabric and creaking leather. 

You waited for it all to pass, to move on like a slow-moving rain cloud amidst a humid summer day, but it stopped at you instead. The tips of the man's boots were within view, as were slithers of tattered, black fabric from a long duster that fell short of his shins. 

And then, there was the barrel of a gun. The breaths you had been holding shivered out of you, cold dread sank deep into your stomach and bones as the gun flicked upward a few times.

You obeyed and raised your head up to look at the man—tall, broad-shouldered, a rugged face with dark features mostly obscured by the shadow of his wide rim. 

He tilted his head, gun higher as he flicked it down and you understood that to mean to take off your sunglasses. When you did so, offering him a full view of your face, his lips lifted crookedly into a half-smile.

“Well then,” he took the bench adjacent to you before holding something up to your head, seemingly a piece of paper, and shifted his gaze between you and it just twice. “Aren't you something special? Found you, darlin’.”

“What?” you frowned. “Found me?”

“Yeah, the resemblance is uncanny. You're definitely his kid. It's all in the eyes, really.” He said, turning the paper around to reveal a photograph of a man who you did share an eerie likeness to. It was the sameness in the eyes—the color and shape and emotion they evoked through a simple still image. “Horace Grissom had an illegitimate kid a long time ago. Turns out, not everyone is so pleased for that to become public knowledge. Turns out, someone wants you to bite the ground.”

“I've done nothing wrong!” you bristled.

He settled on the bench and hiked an arm up across the back of it. “That's usually how it goes, hun. Puttin’ holes in types like you really ain't my favorite thing to do. You'd be surprised how many people get put in your exact situation. Well, eh, not quite. ‘Cause not everyone is Horace Grissom’s kid.”

“Who hired you?” you demanded. 

His lopsided smile remained. “Can't tell you that, darlin’. Confidentiality an’ all that.”

“So, then, you're a bounty hunter?” At this point, you weren't sure if you were trying to stave off an inevitability, or he had just riled you up that badly. “How much are you getting?”

“Enough to live the high-life for quite a while, I'd say.” He continued, “but I ain't no bounty hunter. Them folks gotta play by rulebooks an’ a bunch of codes and whatever. Not my thing.” 

“A criminal, then,” you said. “An outlaw.”

He shifted the rim of his hat away from his eyes and leaned towards a pillar of golden, midmorning sunlight that came in through the window. “Sure, if that's what'll make you feel better about this entire thing.”

You could actually see him now—the contrast between the ambery hue in his rich complexion and pale green of his eyes. His skin had some weather to it, enough to prove that he had seen the worst of every season for years on end without it wearing him thin, along with thoroughly kempt hair on his face and loose waves that draped slightly beyond his shoulders. 

“I…” the longer he stared at you, the less you were able to think. That was ridiculous considering you had survived the soul-crushing burden of engineering school and all of the personalities therein. “I can offer you something better than what you were hired for.”

He did a fast sweep of the colossal heaps of fabric hanging from your frame, a style you preferred to keep eyes off of you on the best and worst of days. It didn't do much to deter him as it did others. 

“Oh, yeah? Whaddya got, hun?” 

You lifted your shoulders and stacked your bones right. “I've got a vast inheritance that I'm not interested in. Horace is dying and I’m in his will to receive half his properties, along with his shares in the San-Am Continental Railway and Subsidiaries. If you can get me to St. Corpus, you can have the inheritance—every last gris.”

A shrill whistle echoed around your head, tuneful and mocking. The sound of it whittled your confidence back down to nothing, filling the space of your throat with a vise that you couldn't seem to swallow around. That same great unease you had felt before weaseled around in your chest, coiled your ribs and then plunged straight down into your gut. 

“Good offer, but it ain't on the table.” The way he spoke was easy and slow, a thick drawl that suited every bit of him up to even now. He acted as though he weren't essentially holding a gun to your head, threatening your life in the name of money—or something else. “Gris is always good to have lyin’ around, but, honey, it don't really mean a lot to a man like me. Why, then, d’ya think I take on work like this? Why do ya think I trek halfway across the five territories time and time again? What really keeps a man goin’ out here in this godforsaken place?”

You felt yourself shrink in your seat as he leaned forward over his thighs, coming closer still like he had a secret to keep. “It's for the thrill. The hunt. The challenge of it all. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't actively seek out men to shoot or… nice types like you, but part of the fun is trackin’ down, the other part is just havin’ a chat—just like this.”

Then, he had the picture of Horace held out to you between two fingers. “Tell ya what, I see that hard case you brought aboard. I know what it is, but I want you to offer me somethin’ more interesting than a bunch of gris.”

You scrunched the photograph against your palm once you had it, hoping the sweat off your skin would ruin his face and make the ink run, but looked to the aforementioned hard case instead. 

It was made of a hard plastic shell with strips of rubber outlining the odd shape of the thing. Inside was your handheld welding gun—one of many—that you had decided to bring along for little reason besides thinking it could be of use at some point during your time away. It wouldn't be enough to handle larger jobs such as the ones you were accustomed to in the workshop back in Grimerise, but it could fix a wagon or two, glue some pipes together, and do some damage if need be.

“C’mon, darlin’, sell yourself to me.” he pressed, gesturing his impatience with winding fingers. “What do you do for a living, huh?”

“I'm an engineer,” you continued hastily, “I-I can solder, weld, braze, cut, and saw. I can do anything if I have the right equipment.”

In turn, he asked, “Does that mean you can cut open a safe?”  

“If you give me what I need, I can do anything.” you said. 

A new sort of look overcame his features, one of great fondness and admiration that made the green of his eyes take on the milky luster of jade. You had the hope that this unique softness would gain you freedom from a shallow, empty death; a chance to go forward to seize the assets sworn to you by a man you'd never known.

His hands came forward to take your wrists, the weight of them first heavy and then cold as a pair of handcuffs were locked around you, knocking bone when you lunged back into your seat and fought against them. 

“I've got myself quite boon!” In the next moment, he had hauled you up across his shoulder, retrieved both your suitcases, and called one of the stewards to carry your welding gun after him. “Time to go. Gotta introduce you to the crew and get ya settled in.”

“Wait, I don't even know your name!” you shouted and thrashed from shoulder.

He grinned. “Jericho, darlin’.”

a/n: so, this is a concept piece to a very large neo-western project I'm currently in the process of outlining and fleshing out. most things mentioned in this little oneshot will not be present in the final piece, the quality will, of course, be substantially better.

jericho is an outlaw with an extremely complex background story and will definitely be one of the more interesting characters I've ever written. he's not necessarily the sort of man you want entangled in your life, but he's loyal to a fault once you have his trust. his personality tends to revolve around "taking things as they come", which is a great nuisance to those around him. he likes a good challenge, strong liquor, and good medicine.

here's a brief glossary if you're interested:

san-am: the continent where events take place. no one knows what it used to be called because most historical documents have been lost. it's divided into five territories with a "capital".

grimerise: the central hub of commerce, home of the governing bodies. it's a large city dead center of the other four territories. mc was born and raised there. the university of san-am is also here.

st. corpus: the industrial heart of san-am, found down south near the seaboard. mc's father lives there.

"gris": currency in this world. its components are coins and bank notes. it is a relatively new thing to come about because the bartering system is still the preferred method of trading.

#outlaw x reader #outlaw x you #outlaw x y/n #cowboy x reader #cowboy x you #cowboy x y/n #romance #neo-western #neo western #oc x reader #oc x you #oc x y/n #2k writes #original fiction #original fic #original story #original writing #writing #western romance #cyborg x reader #reader insert #reader imagine #reader interactive

[nellyofthevalley]

wedding dress

astarion x fem!tav rating: explicit content: wedding night, marriage/domestic living, sad and sweet, stupidly soft tailor astarion, smut but it's not the focus (cunnilingus, fingering, piv), death. summary: astarion makes tav's wedding dress and looks back on their life together. i don't want to say too much, just read it :)

Hand-making a wedding dress was hard work, but he loved it. He would lose himself in it and insisted that he be the one to craft it because he couldn’t trust anyone else with the task. No other dress could do his love’s beauty justice, but he’d spent years perfecting the arts of tailoring and studying her—he knew better than anyone what was worthy of being draped on her body.

based on this post by @spacebarbarianweird! i hope i did the concept justice. it was a joy and a challenge to write.

i really hated writing the vows lmao don't laugh

read it on ao3 or below the cut

i'll be here

Astarion spent months and months in his study sewing away at the white fabric. All day, all night; the hours passed without notice. Not until Tav would softly knock and enter and put her arms around his neck and shoulders and ask him to retire to their room with a heavy yawn, taking care to avert her eyes from his project.

Hand-making a wedding dress was hard work, but he loved it. He would lose himself in it and insisted that he must be the one to craft it because he couldn’t trust anyone else with the task. No other dress could do his love’s beauty justice, but he’d spent years perfecting the arts of tailoring and studying her—he knew better than anyone what was worthy of being draped on her body.

“Come to bed, love,” she’d say, and he thinks of it often. He remembers exactly how she said it; he remembers her tone, her voice, the way she’d kiss his ear and down his neck to entice him on the nights he was particularly engrossed in his work.

He remembers one evening he’d been in his study since the minute they woke and shared ‘good morning’s, so close to finishing the skirt; she entered quietly and startled him, trailing her hands from his neck down the front of his shirt, begging for him to come to bed with a whispered ‘please’ that he couldn’t say no to.

He finished the line of stitching he was on and set the dress aside, turning his head to look at her and steal a kiss from her plush lips, just as eager to kiss her as he was in the beginnings of their relationship. The passion and desire never faded in the slightest, not after so many decades, and not even when they fought and yelled and cried.

Astarion kissed her over and over again with haste, cupping her cheek; he could hear the blood course through her body and feel the warmth rush to her face, a lovely, irresistible display of her own desire. He rose to his feet and picked her up, her legs draped over his arm and hers around his neck as he carried her to their bedroom.

“Darling, you’ve interrupted my very important work,” he said as he laid her down to the bed and crawled on top of her, trapping her under his weight. “I have a deadline to meet, you know.”

It was only a few weeks until their wedding night. The whole thing was a formality really, they’d been living as if they were married for years—rings and all, but Tav insisted on it. She dreamt of walking down the aisle as a little girl, she said, and Astarion relented despite his protests. But after a few weeks, after he’d started working on the dress, he was just as hellbent on it as she was.

“You’ve been working so hard,” she replied, fingers impatiently tugging at the collar of his shirt.

“For you,” he reminded her. “But now, I’ve lost my focus.”

She managed to unbutton half his shirt before he bent forward to press his mouth to her neck, giving her tender kisses down to her collarbone. He lifted her nightdress, pulling it over her arms and head and continued kissing down her front, slow and damn near torturous, relishing in how her heart raced for him; true power, he thought, was the power to make her plead for more.

“My sweet love,” he purred, finally tugging at the sides of her underwear and guiding them over her legs. “I’m afraid I can’t return to my work until I’ve tasted all of you.”

Never had Astarion felt more alive than on their wedding night.

A very quaint, private affair in the woods with the friends that could make it: Shadowheart, Wyll, Halsin, and a few friends they’d made in the city attended. Gale, honored by Tav’s request, officiated and he’d never seen Astarion looking so… elated, and so regal; the nobility in him blossoming in his white and gold attire, a fine suit and eccentric jabot. Astarion certainly softened during their journey, but here, he was far more than that: he bore a beaming smile that not even a God could wipe from his face and when Tav finally came out with her dress, the dress that he worked on days and nights for months, he watched her, thoroughly enraptured by her, as if the world around them had simply dissipated.

“Beautiful,” he whispered as she approached.

All he saw was her. Gale, the guests, the arch blanketed in flowers and strands of magicked lights were little more than a blur in his peripherals. Astarion lifted a hand to her face and delicately ran his fingertips across her cheek—the touch of her warm glow never lost its appeal—and brushed her lips with his in a modest, affectionate kiss.

“Usually, we save that for the end,” Gale joked.

“No chance in the Hells I’m waiting that long,” Astarion retorted, blithely aware the ordeal would last a mere few minutes. “And where did you find such a perfect, magnificent, finely crafted dress, love?”

It was his best work, and he was sure he’d never set his eyes on anything sweeter than her wearing it.

The bodice top of the dress hugged her waist exquisitely and donned a sweetheart neckline covered in detailed floral embroidery. The skirt was long and composed of layers of netted fabric with more scattered, intricately sewn flowers; it had an almost ethereal, softened look about it as it flowed when she walked. He’d spent weeks alone searching for the finest material with a cost difficult to swallow, but worth every last coin.

She was the embodiment of grace and elegance in it—like royalty, a beauty beyond the imagination.

How they gazed at one another while Gale officiated went unnoticed by not a single person; the vibrancy of their love and devotion radiated off from them as it breathed life into the air, and captivated every guest—every friend.

Astarion hadn’t cried since he killed his master, but a tear gathered at the edge of his eyes as he recited his vows.

You’ve given me something to care for. I choose you. I give you my hand, my love, my soul, and with you, I live again. I’ll always be here, my love.

Tav didn’t share his same composure, she couldn’t stop crying; she wept as she made hers, and through every word, he held her face gently in his palms and wiped them away.

Where you go, I’ll go. Where you stay, I’ll stay.  I give you all my love, my passion, my heart; it beats for you, belongs to you, for eternity.

“Careful not to let your makeup run onto that dress, dear,” he smirked. 

She managed to hold her tears as they exchanged rings—old but new; not the ones they’d been wearing for years as she expected to see, but ones Astarion had saved ever since they found them in the shadow-cursed lands. Tav extended her fingers and looked at hers, a cute little cute little alexandrite gem on a simple golden band.

There was something enticingly dangerous and bittersweet about them with their magical warding bond and tragic tale of the couple who once possessed them.

Astarion insisted she wear the ring of embrace, reminding her of his enhanced healing abilities since being freed of the tadpole and arguing, “My life has flourished with you, now let me protect you with it.”

“You may kiss the bride,” announced Gale, taking a deep breath before continuing, “again.”

Astarion reeled her in with one arm behind her waist and his free palm took one of hers, intertwining their fingers; he brushed his lips against hers, remarkably subdued as he taunted her with a little peck and gentle nip on her bottom lip before sweeping her into a deeper, heated kiss.

When he pulled away and lowered the hand on her back, she heard a sniffle coming from Gale.

“Are you… crying?” Tav asked with a laugh, still resisting her own cry, but when Astarion was the one to walk up to Gale and wipe his tears away, she couldn’t keep from weeping any longer.

They rented a lavish room in the Upper City and joked about becoming part of the snobbish high society for a night on the walk there, drunk on their new life, her new name. It must’ve only been two seconds they were in their room before Astarion swept her into his embrace, taking her by the waist and gently pushing her to the closed door.

“Astarion, wait,” Tav said, giggling as he removed the space between them and pressed his body flush against hers. 

“Darling, I’ve been so patient already,” he argued, his hands meticulously removing the ties and pins keeping her hair perfectly in place. “I’ve been waiting ever since I set my eyes on you in this dress.”

She turned her head and tried to shy away as Astarion kissed the tip of her nose, her cheek, and beside her ear; he continued, “It’s been utterly distracting.”

His cold kisses spread goose flesh through her arms and raised all the tiny hairs at the back of her neck. No matter how many times it’d been, he could always incite her fierce need for him, crumbling her into dust with his carefully crafted words and sweet touch…

“Don’t you know how hard it was for me to focus on reciting my vows for you, when all I could think of was tearing the dress from your body and making you cry for me?”

Astarion knelt and lifted the front of her dress, draping it over his back and disappearing beneath. He hummed with satisfaction in the way Tav’s breath caught when he slipped his fingers under her underwear and kissed her over the dampening fabric. 

“Seems it was hard for you too, wasn’t it?” he teased as he slid the garment down her legs. 

“Oh, shut—ah.”

She wished she could see him—his face on her cunt, wearing that devilish look he had when she glanced down at him, every time, well trained in picking up on every small thing that made her weak between the thighs—but he loved to toy with her and slapped her hands away when she tried to raise her dress with a tsk.

Tav‘s palms tightened against the wall and her legs quivered while Astarion lapped at her cunt like it was every bit as delectable as her blood. He worshiped her with his tongue, tasting every part of her he could reach—and when she started to truly unravel, legs shaking and weak and her mouth unable to keep its quiet, he gripped her hips firmly and swept the very tip of his tongue across her clit. 

“Astarion, I’ll—”

Ah, her protests only encouraged him. Two fingers slowly pushed into her cunt, coated in her fluids; she pawed at the wall like she was trying to rip through it as Astarion licked and sucked and curved his fingers inward. His pace hurried, curling and nudging her inside between thrusts until at last, she threw her head back and cried his name, a sound that paralleled no other, a sound he’d remember for the rest of his life, even thousands of years from now if he survived that long; no one said his name like her, and she said it best when he was on his knees. 

He withdrew his fingers as she clenched and writhed around him, but he refused to waver and set her free, absolutely not, liking to push her and drown himself loving her until she nearly went rabid trying to get him off. He kept his hands firm on her hips, lapping up every last fucking drop of her come and circling her clit until—

“Gods, Astarion, please!”

She hastily lifted her dress and dug her hands and nails into his hair and scalp, clawing at him and pulling him away. 

Astarion just stared at her with a smirk and her come shining all over his face, thoroughly pleased. She was panting, recovering, and she looked like a mess with her hair tousled and her face red and sweaty and it was fucking beautiful. 

“You, my love, my wife,” he started to speak, kindly kissing her thighs before he rose to his feet again, “are divine.”

Before Tav could respond, he cupped her face in both hands and pushed his lips to hers, sharing with her a little taste of the divinity she’d granted him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he broke the kiss, seizing the opportunity to tuck a limb under her knees and pick her up, into his arms.

Astarion carried her to the bed, laying her down carefully and climbing on top of her; she looked so lovely, so perfectly messy with her hair sprawled across the pillow after looking so pristine in its updo. She reached up to remove his jabot as he shrugged off the jacket and quickly worked at the buttons of his shirt, tossing it aside in a hurry; tasting her wasn’t enough, he had to have more, needed to love her in every way he could—it was their wedding night!

He could hardly believe that this day had come at last, that he was married, after centuries of serving his master and being taught how unworthy he was of any sort of kindness, let alone love, something he’d long lost belief in…

The wedding had been her idea from the start, but over time she started to think, though she’d never vocalize it, that he wanted it more than she ever had. It showed, in his excitement when they looked for places to host it, in the countless hours he spent perfecting her dress—he tailored his own attire as well of course, and it came out wonderfully, but he seemed to get through it far sooner and paid more attention to the dress, not a single stitch out of place.

Tav sat up and reached behind her to undo the clasps at the back of the dress, but Astarion grabbed the sides and pulled violently, ripping it at the back and guiding it down, down her stomach and legs and sending it to the floor with his shirt.

“Have you lost your mind? I love that dress! And you spent so much time on it!”

“Darling, every minute I spent working on that dress, I thought of how you’d look on it on this day and how much I’d love tearing it from your body. It suited you perfectly, my love,” he replied, lifting her leg over his shoulder. He showered her with featherlight pecks at her ankle, and continued down, ending with a bruising kiss on her inner thigh that made her squirm. “I could’ve died the moment I saw you in it and lived a happy, satisfied life—it served its purpose, I promise you.”

A few months into their life as newlyweds, after a couple nights tucked away in his study working on another project, Astarion found Tav brushing her hair at the vanity and set a neatly wrapped pink-and-white gift box in front of her.

“Oh? What’s the occasion?” she asked.

“Just open it dear, you’ll see.”

He sat behind her on the stool, legs around hers and pressing his body to her back. As she tugged at the ribbon and unwrapped the box, he wrapped his arms around her and nestled his head into her shoulder, looking ahead to the mirror and attentively watching for her reaction. Tav opened it to find a nightgown, white with familiar embroidery around the edges, short and tight around the waist.

“Is this my wedding dress?”

“Of course it is.”

“You kept it all this time?”

Astarion saw her eyes light up as she held it and turned it over in her hands, admiring how perfectly he’d recreated every thread—the gown looked brand new, as if he’d gotten all new fabric and thread or spent a fortune at a luxury attire shop in the Upper City.

“Much as I enjoyed ripping it apart to unwrap you, I did put a lot of work into it,” he said.

“It’s beautiful, Astarion, just like the first time I saw it.”

Tav sounded like she had to hold back tears just from seeing it, like she’d expected it to be lost forever; he found delight in her surprise, as if he’d gotten away with a crime with how she somehow never noticed or suspected what he was working on in his study.

“Get changed,” he ordered quietly, lips to her ear. “I’ll tear it off you again and again, starting with tonight.”

His hands lingered on her body as she stood and stepped aside, then his gaze remained set on her as she undressed and pulled the gown over her head. He studied how it draped over her breasts and hugged her waist and fuck, he didn’t want to wait another fucking moment; he reached out and pulled her right back, into his lap and into hungry kisses on her neck.

“Astarion,” she murmured, already succumbing to his touch, “you didn’t even allow me a minute to see myself in it…”

“One minute then, love,” he said, and he meant it—one minute.

He lifted her by the waist, standing and pushing her forward until her palms rested on the vanity and she could see her reflection, unseen fingers raising the gown’s hem at her thighs. Tav rotated what little she could in his grasp, carefully pulling at it and observing how well it complemented her figure.

Astarion ran his hands softly along the sides of her hips, her waist, then leaned forward, pressing his hardening length to her backside. In the mirror, he saw how her face flushed, how the thin fabric appeared to magically rise from her body from his hand cupping her breast, how her head tilted back to where his would be as his other clenched around her throat.

“Look at you, I’ve hardly even touched you yet,” he teased, her swallow budging against his grip.

“I thought about this all day,” she choked out, an alluring confession that made it difficult for him to keep what little patience he had left.

“Did you?”

His hand to her neck loosened and let her free as he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside, his feet shuffling and then deftly slipping off his shoes and socks, too. Every sound and every movement, the rustling of fabric and his cock pushing into her all taunted her as arousal grew from within and yearned for what she’d been fantasizing of, now barely out of reach—

“I was waiting for you,” she said quietly, pushing her ass back into him, desperate to feel all his cock against her skin, bare, frustrated at the paltry pieces of fabric still separating them. “For you to be done in your study.”

“Did you see me between your legs?” Astarion whispered, nipping at her ear. “Or did you think of us like this—me bending you over this vanity, fucking you so well that you can’t walk tomorrow?”

Gods, she couldn’t fucking take it anymore, how he dragged it out until she could think of nothing else—then, he lowered the straps and kissed her from shoulder to shoulder before grabbing at the neckline and pulling, throwing the gown down to her feet in one violent motion; a demand, a fervent need to have her. 

“Astarion! Be kinder to it this time,” she warned, but her threats carried little weight as he knew he held her in his hand, wound tightly around his slender fingers for him to contort.

“Absolutely not,” he argued. “My dear, you forget I’ve mastered this craft. I’ll fix it right up, every time.” 

Tav whimpered, grieving the presence of his cock when he stepped back and began unfastening his pants. She turned to face him, guiding him backwards until he met the bed and sat, her following and hovering over him, easing him further back. She finished undressing him, fingers dipping under the waistband of his pants and underwear and sliding them over each limb before crawling forward and taking her seat in his lap.

“Good,” Astarion said as Tav ground her hips against his and slid her cunt along his aching cock, drowning it in the slick dripping between her thighs, and drawing a low growl from his mouth amid his words. “I want to see your face.”

Her palms on his shoulders tensed, nails prodding at his skin and threatening to break it as she adjusted, aligning her body with his and, in disciplined motions made to boil his blood with the rising heat of his impatience, taking in only the head of his cock. The tension among them almost caught flame—each provoking the other until someone broke.

Astarion slid his arms behind her back and covered her mouth with his in a ravenous, needy kiss, tongue laving over the outline of her upper lip—and when she finally lowered and sat, impaling herself on his terribly hard cock that throbbed for her attention, he groaned and bit at her lip just enough to draw blood and coax a hushed yelp from her throat.

“Ah, you—”

“I know,” he acknowledged, tongue swiping across her bloodied lip. “Mm. Saccharine, sweet like honey. Move, my love, let me watch your pretty face come undone for me.”

He kept his arms on her back, tenderly running up and down with a soothing touch that encouraged her as she gathered her strength and rose, hitting a steady rhythm; he kissed her lips, her cheek, the edges of her jaw, anywhere he could—little marks of encouragement, physical expressions of his love, how well she was doing, how good she was for him.

Tav’s thighs tensed as she fucked herself on him, bouncing on his cock with all she had to give while he watched it disappear inside her, transfixed by the sight. He kissed along her collarbone, down her breast, fangs grazing her supple skin. She gasped and braced herself for his bite, but it never came; he garnished her with harsher kisses, promises of bruises in the morning—little blemishes that marked her as his.

He was wholly enveloped by her, body and mind; her tight, wet heat consuming his cock, the view of her parted mouth and half-shut eyes even more ambrosian than he imagined, and he needed more of it, more of her—Gods, just holding back  slightly and allowing her control was testing his limits, he wanted to take her and fucking ruin her.

When her movements slowed and breaths strained, stamina running dry, Astarion trailed his fingers down with a feathery touch down her back, along the curve of her ass, then settled on her hips. His languid movements that of admiration, like she admired the dress—the little dimples in her back, her hip bones poking out, a scar she’d earned from battle that he vividly remembers tending to.

“Give me all of you,” he said, holding tightly and guiding her up to hover at the tip of his cock, eager and beyond pleased to take the lead and fuck her until she couldn’t walk as he vowed earlier. “Your body, your mind—all mine.”

“Astarion, please…”

“Please,” he started, a moan escaping as he harshly brought her body down to his, the slap of her ass on his thighs ringing through his ears, “what, love? Use your words.”

But she threw her head and voiced filthy cries for him instead, incapable of using her words, reduced to a sweaty, whimpering mess from what he was giving her—just his hands on her hips wasn’t enough; he bent his knees for leverage and pushed into her with rough, starving thrusts chasing release. The heavy pants mixed with lascivious moans pouring from her mouth and the scent of their sex and sweat in the air antagonized him, made him thrust into her harder until he couldn’t go any faster or deeper and—

“Don’t—don’t stop,” Tav whined, wet walls of her cunt devouring his cock as she neared the precipice and pulled at his hair and finished, “please, take me, come with me.”

Astarion sank his teeth deep into her neck the instant she said it and drank—she yanked hard on his hair and dug into his skin, her other hand scratching desperately at his back. He was close, so fucking close, he could feel it in her too as her cunt swallowed his cock and he could almost taste it in them both, sucking at her wounds and drawing out more and more blood, rich and thick and rushing past his tongue, then hot and sweet down his famished, dry throat.

He had to force himself to pull away from her neck, exhaling heavily, mourning it; he thrusted up into her once, twice before he broke, release rippling through him—overwhelming every sense, wringing him tight as he held her hips to him and filled her past the brim with come. Tav took his face and tilted upward, smothering him with messy, feral kisses as she came, too, her body writhing over his and constricting around his cock, drawing out all he had until it overflowed and seeped from her slit, dampening the bed below.

“Shit,” she cursed, pushing Astarion—weak and light-headed, as if all the blood he’d taken had simply evaporated—back to the bed and lying on top of him, his spend trickling down her thighs as they uncoupled.

Pale arms wrapped around her and he ran his fingers through her hair with delicate, adoring strokes, kissing the tip of her nose.

As promised, he mended her nightgown the very next day.

After years of blissful domestic living, the pair packed light and set off to travel; see new sights, adventure, reminisce on the journey that brought them together in the first place. The intent was to spend a few years on the road, but outside of the rare trips back home for a short stay, they traveled for decades, caught up in beautiful scenery, mercenary work, and the hope that they might find a cure for the sun or Astarion’s vampirism altogether. 

On one visit home, Tav saw herself in the mirror and decided to stay longer than their typical few days or week long breaks. Surrounded by their things and memories of their younger years, her reflection was a harsh confrontation with the reality of her own mortality.

“I miss home,” she said. “And I love seeing the world with you, I do, but I want to stay here for a while.”

Astarion agreed, and they decided to spend a few years in their home in the city before heading back on the road for a final trip. He returned to tailoring in the evenings and she picked up new hobbies: painting, sketching, gardening, whatever she could get her antsy hands on.

A few years turned into more years and then another decade, and Tav no longer craved adventure again, so they remained at home, back to blissful domestic living. Astarion and Tav both missed the thrills and the pretty views many people would never have the chance to behold, but that time had passed.

“I’m too old for that now,” she said.

She grew vegetables and fruit to cook and bake with and took pride in it, and Astarion wished he could sit with her at the table with a full plate of her handmade food in front of him, too. He started cooking more, asking for her help and seizing these small moments of time together that he’d lose one day.

Tav started to leave the house less and spent more time sitting in the living room sketching, or tucked away in a little corner of Astarion’s study she’d made her own with an easel and paints. She drew and painted his face so many times over that he stopped looking in mirrors hoping that would be the time he finally saw his face; he saw it already, and he saw it through her eyes—he couldn’t ask for more.

Mirrors aren’t much use, but being reflected in someone else’s eyes? Well, I could do worse.

No matter how hard he tried, Astarion couldn’t escape the truth of her mortality. He constantly attempted to push the signs, the symptoms away, and convinced himself they’d find a way.

It was easy to brush off, at first. They started following a more humanlike schedule, awake during the day and asleep during the night. He found himself surprisingly accepting of house confinement; by then, the idea of outings were long forgone—the decades they spent out were enough to satiate his own wanderlust, though if Tav were capable and interested in traveling again, he would’ve done it in an instant.

He would’ve done anything she wanted, without question.

At nights, she made herself tea before bed to help her sleep.  When she started to retire to their room early without tea, citing exhaustion too fierce to want to stand at the stove beside the kettle for so long, Astarion started making it for her.

And he knew something was very, very wrong.

“Love, you’ve been in that bath for hours, I swear,” he said on one rainy evening after returning home and finding her right where he’d left her.

The dark clouds and early sunset permitted him safety beyond the curtains, and he took advantage, walking a few streets over to pick up a hot meal from her favorite restaurant. Tav turned over in the bath to look at him in the doorway; she smiled and lifted her hands from the water, observing her wrinkly, pruned fingers and giggling. 

“I was feeling a bit sore, is all,” she answered. “Don’t you want to get in with me?”

He knelt beside the tub and folded his arms over the rim, meeting her eyes and taking in the sight of her. Tired eyes, tired body, an expression that tried to look happy but something was so clearly missing from it.

“I’m soaked enough from the rain, dear,” he answered. “I brought you dinner, so let’s get you up and dressed, alright? I can bring it to you in bed.”

Astarion helped her out, dressed her and led her to their bed and she looked at him with melancholic eyes that he had to pretend didn’t rend at his heart and soul. After that night, he spent every night helping her with her bath, cooking her dinner (on occasion, picking up dinner from her favorite place again), making her tea, and delivering it all to her in bed on a tray. 

He waited on her hand and foot, in every way he knew how. Tav hated asking for help, always trying to do things on her own, and Astarion had to learn how to offer his aid without troubling her—observe silently and learn what she struggled with or what could grant her another stretch of relaxation.

What hurt most was how much she wanted to spend time in the garden on the sunniest days and he felt useless, unable to help. He took her out when possible, when the clouds covered the sun or sunset started and he could don a heavy, dark cloak, but he was never able to take her out on the brightest, happiest days. As an unspoken rule, Tav never went outside when he couldn’t, at least not farther than a few steps—the few that he could take, if need be.

As her condition worsened, Astarion looked for doctors, healers, anyone; he sought out Halsin and Shadowheart and wrote to Gale all for naught. Nothing helped, and she started to fight him on it.

“Please just stay home,” she requested one time, when he’d come to see her in the study with her journal, telling her he’d found yet another healer only a few days travel away that might be able to help. “I’m done with this. I’ve accepted it, and you should, too.”

Accept this? It was awful enough to accept that she wouldn’t live in immortality with him—but to accept that she’d be gone even earlier than he ever anticipated?

The first time Tav stayed in bed a full day was the most harrowing experience of them all. She hadn’t budged; the fatigue piled on more and more each passing day and those feelings of self-loathing and worthlessness bubbled up until she couldn’t feign the happiness anymore and felt like nothing more than a massive, life-sucking burden.

  Astarion came to their room with her nightly tea and when she heard him walk in, she yelled at him to stay out.

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” she said.

“Don’t say that. Please,” he begged. “I can’t miss a single moment with you.”

He stayed home at her request; he stopped seeking out help and any hope of a cure, and the tradeoff for that was spending every possible fucking second beside her whether she liked it or not.

Tav said nothing, but her face said enough; she refused to look at him, lips quivering and eyes fluttering holding back tears, and it only made it hurt all the more how she despised him seeing her tired and weak.

Astarion knew this day would come, of course he did, but he didn’t expect it to happen so fast. It all happened so fast! They spent decades on the road and even through all the trials and discomforts of mercenary work and harsh nights sleeping in the cold in forests and fields, wherever they could find, she didn’t seem to age a day.

After they returned home for that short stay that turned into an indefinite stay, the years started to feel like days. He didn’t have to look in a mirror to see and feel how he’d not aged—he felt just as young and spry as he did when they met, but every single fucking day, he looked at her and saw how the time wore on her. She was still beautiful, perfect to him, but he saw the light slowly fade from her and it hurt.

Tav resented that it was her choice to come and remain at home. The shame ate at her, constantly creeping on the edge of her mind, telling her that it was her fault they were trapped here in this little house in the city, that maybe if they’d not come back things would be different, or they could have settled somewhere else, somewhere new, or perhaps, if nothing else, she could’ve died more valiantly.

Astarion laid down with her despite her protests, cradling her and brushing off the tears she finally cried until she had none left to cry, and he thought about how she wept as she read her vows on their wedding night.

“I love you,” he swore. “Now and forever.”

with you,

The little house in the city was always their home, even during the decades they spent abroad adventuring, but after she was gone, he couldn’t stand to live in it anymore. He wouldn’t sell it, either; he couldn’t imagine never again having the option to walk in and envision her cooking in the kitchen or painting in her corner of the study. He simply abandoned it and decided to travel the lands once more, alone. 

He went to places they’d already been, remembering things they’d done at each stop—the days they spent huddled in inns or camp, the nights out exploring or heading to their next destination, the battles that almost incited a strange nostalgia for their tadpoled days. Tav adapted to life in the darkness; they still did what they could during the daytime, though options were limited. A cloak worked once sunset was near, but still too dangerous midday. They searched far and wide for remedies, temporary or permanent, and nothing proved fruitful. Even Gale researched when he could. 

Astarion visited him first at his tower in Waterdeep.

Seeing him was a sharp punch in the gut. Of course Tav had aged, but it was gradual, it happened so slowly and yet so quickly; her sickness was the true brutal awakening. But Gale—he hadn’t seen Gale in decades and it was almost a shock, even though he knew better, to see the wizard so… old, so wrinkled.

“Gods, you’ve seen better days,” he said.

“And you’re still seeing your best ones,” Gale replied, but he had it wrong.

Astarion was seeing his worst days, and he questioned whether it was the right time to leave, whether he should’ve stayed behind and waited in their home until he’d worked through it all. But he wasn’t sure when that would be, and he couldn’t tolerate living there anymore with her things on the wall, on the shelves, in their room, all constant little reminders of how he’d never see her again.

It was an endless torment that trailed close behind him on his travels, because as much as Astarion hated seeing all these pieces of her, he didn’t want to let go, either. He left behind much of his own stuff, but carried around that nightgown he’d sewn from her wedding dress.

Gale kept him for a couple weeks until he was ready to move on. It was nice to see a familiar face. That first night, they sat at the table and reminisced of old times for hours and the sweet outweighed the bitter.

Gale didn’t ask about Tav, not until Astarion mentioned her. Perhaps he already knew.

“I buried her,” Astarion said unprompted. “A few weeks ago.”

“She was good for you.”

“Too good, in fact. I never deserved—”

“Stop right there,” Gale interrupted, raising his palm. “She loved you more than anything.”

There was a long pause, a heavy silence in the air as Astarion carefully considered what to say next, as images of their life together ran through his mind like a slideshow. Gods, would he ever escape them?

“I don’t know how to move on.”

“You’ll learn, I assure you. You must. For her sake and yours.”

Months later, he settled at an inn and when he unpacked and came across her nightgown again, he looked it over in his hands and something about it this time was different. Instead of the pain, he saw her wearing the dress at their wedding under the flowered arch and then splayed across their bed in the gown, watching him closely and waiting for him to join her. 

He hardly tranced and spent sunrise to sunset tearing at the seams and separating the fabric. The next day, he drew up new patterns. For the next week, he spent the days in a chair by the fireplace sewing it back together. He pulled extra fabric and thread he saved from when he transformed it into a nightgown, having held on to every single piece of it from the start, and he used nothing new at all, yet the resulting clothing didn’t resemble the dress or the gown one bit, except in color. 

Astarion held it up in the air once he’d finished stitching and to anyone else it must’ve looked like a simple, white shirt—albeit a bit eccentric—but when he held it close to his face, he swore he could smell her again.

For months, he’d searched far and wide for the perfect fabric for the dress, and for more months, he sat in his study and cut and sewed, dreaming of the day he’d finally see her wear it and Gods, when he saw her walk that aisle it was even more beautiful than he ever anticipated.

He was proud of it. More proud than he’d ever been of anything, possibly. 

He thought of how he tore it off her body that night, literally tore it apart at the seams—and then, he remembered the time he pieced it back together into a nightgown and she chastised him for ripping it yet again, but he sewed it back together the next day; he tore it from her countless times and fixed it in the mornings every time, all because she loved it so much.

He wore the shirt everyday. He continued traveling with it and washed it far more carefully than he ever handled any other garment, and eventually, when he was no longer sure where he’d like to go next, he stopped by Gale’s again to stay a few weeks, knowing it might be the last time they met. 

When he told Gale the history of the shirt and received a warm smile of understanding in return, Astarion thought he might be ready to go back home.

always.

Astarion finds their home how he left it, though with a thick layer of dust coating their furniture and possessions. He heads to their room first to unpack his bags. On her nightstand lies an old, dusty book; her journal. He avoided it for so long. 

He wipes off the cover and turns the pages. Scribbles, notes, even quick sketches—of animals, of scenes from the city, of him. He flips through the book until his eyes settle on a page covered in her writing. 

I’m scared. Any healer we speak to says it can’t be cured. That I’ll 

He stops reading and skips to the end, the last page. Shaky, imperfect writing that’s a harsh contrast to the page he just read, but unmistakably hers. Written in her final days, when she became too weak to keep drawing and filling pages with her thoughts and spent the majority of her days in bed.

Love lasts forever, even if the body does not. I’ll always be here, my love.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion x tav #tav x astarion #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #my fanfic #bg3 smut #astarion x f!tav

[rendy-a]

Could I request a self aware twst au with like the first years :D?

I want to thank all the people who interacted with that post earlier today. It gave me enough motivation to go out and finish this piece.

While trying to think up concepts for this work, it occured to me that all the first years (except Ortho) were in sports clubs. That means there is one event perfect for you to bond with your first year friends.

Ace kicks a pile of canvas laying in a heap at his feet, “This is ridiculous!  What if something happens while we’re gone!”  His mouth twists into an unpleasant grimace.  He looks to his basketball club members for backup, but no one will meet his eye.  So, he turns to where he knows he’ll find support.  “Oi, Sebek!”  The green haired fae is distractedly pounding away at a tent stake nearby but it is easy to see from his expression that his heart isn’t in it.  “What happens if someone tries to kidnap the Player when we aren’t there to protect them?  You know how famous they are!”  Sebek stops hammering and slowly looks up, tears forming in his eyes. 

“SILVER! SILVER!” he shouts to his clubmate, “What if I’m not there to protect the Player!  Forget this event, we must return to the school with ALL HASTE!”  He looks to his fellows for support but again, none of the senior students stop what they are doing.  Ace, however, is fast to abandon his own camping site and join Sebek.  “Right, right?” he eagerly urges Sebek on, “What does this even matter if our Player isn’t here to see it?” 

“Stop it,” the sturdy voice of Jack growls, “It doesn’t pay to get worked up over it.  This is in the story, so we have to do it.  That’s just how it is.”  Sebek stares at the wolf beastman silently, tears falling from his eyes.  “Maybe we can tell them about it later!” Deuce tries to cheer his fellow freshman up, “I’m sure they’d like to hear about it.  They always listened to my card stories before…well before it happened.  I think they’d like to hear about this too!”  At that Sebek seemed mightily cheered and returned to setting up his tent with gusto, muttering about what he’d tell the Player about later.  Ace scoffs, sensing his defeat and returns bitterly to his own site. 

Epel wanders over and observes Ace silently.  “You finished?” Ace asks in surprise.  “Yeah, Leona is a great leader and took charge of getting us set up right away!” Epel informs him, “I had time to put up my tent and help Ruggie set up one for Leona too!”  Then he looks down and kicks Ace’s sad abandoned tent as well, “I just wish the Player was here to see it.  I bet they’d have been really impressed with how fast I finished.”  Ace frowns and complains, “But they aren’t here.  They are back at school with the Arts Clubs.”  This causes Epel to scowl deeply, “Dagnabit!  I didn’t need a reminder of that!  I can just picture those frou-frou artsy types trying to suck up to the Player.  Trying to get them to talk different, eat different, just…” He doesn’t finish the thought but the way he grinds his teeth shows how he feels about the idea.

The sound of pounding tent stakes and shifting canvas is diminished when the booming voice of Coach Vargas booms out, “Listen up, young campers!  Now, I know you don’t need any additional motivation to showcase your strength and fortitude here after I’ve done an AMAZING job setting up this EXCITING AND ENTERTAINING EVENT!”  Here he pauses and casts a quick look over his shoulder before straightening up again.  “But if you do!”  Then he smiles a beaming smile and sets his hands on his hips.  That’s when you pop out from behind him, “Hey guys!  Guess who’s here to do their memory keeper duties!” 

Ace jumps over his canvas pile in a rush to get to your side and stumbles over it.  “Woah, calm down,” you admonish him cheerily, “I’ll be here all weekend.”  Epel asks in an innocent sounding voice, “You will?  You really will?”  You pat the two boys on the shoulder and search out your other first year friends in the crowd.  Sebek is sobbing quietly in front of his tent and Deuce is waving excitedly from the distant track club area.  Jack gives you a small nod before turning back to his area as though he is unaffected by your appearance, but the cloud of dust kicked up by his wagging tail says otherwise. 

You turn toward Vargas and look expectantly.  He looks blankly back at you until you awkwardly say, “Go on.”  He looks at you a moment before clearing his throat, “Ah yes, yes.  Harumph!  Anyway, tents are up!  Get over here and listen up for your next task!”  Then he looks at you as though seeking your approval to hand out the task.  You shrug and then nod as though to say, ‘Sure, go for it.’  Vargas gives you a toothy smile and then proceeds to hand out a familiar sounding explanation about the tasks to be assigned to the clubs.  You wave lightly before heading back to the cabin to get your own things sorted out.  The eagerness of the students fades as fast as your departure.

“So…,” Deuce begins carefully, “We are going to try now?  Right?”  He looks at Ace for confirmation.  Jack snorts behind him, “I was always going to try.”  Then he makes a fist and puts on an eager smile, “I’m going to knock this challenge out so fast that the Player can’t help but notice me!”  Deuce turns away from Ace to join Jack instead.  The two Track Club members fire each other up over their plans to dominate the camp tasks and stand out to the Player.  Deuce quickly becomes so distracted by this that he forgets Ace entirely.  This is just the chance Ace has been waiting for to quietly slip away.

“So, Prefect,” Ace begins as he appears at your side.  You yelp and drop your backpack, catching it before it hits the ground and damages your precious ghost camera.  “Ace!” you shout, “What are you doing here?  This isn’t in the event!”  He looks at you quietly and you quickly backtrack, “I…I mean, shouldn’t you be with the Basketball Club doing…something?”  Ace smiles, happy to have avoided an awkward situation.  “Nah, I’m not going to mess around in the woods.  It’s a team effort, so as long as those other guys do the grunt work, I’ll be fine.”  You roll your eyes at his attitude.  “Plus, why would I want to be anywhere but with my best buddy, eh Prefect?” 

You consider this carefully before slyly narrowing your eyes and gesturing to your unbuilt tent.  “Sure, thing, Pal.  Why don’t you hang out and help me build my tent.”  Ace grimaces, not wanting to do the work but mostly afraid you’ll pick up on his lack of tent-building expertise.  The odd standoff is concluded when you hear Coach Vargus bellow, “Nonsense!  That won’t do for either of you!  I can hardly deprive the Prefect of the chance to enjoy this stimulating muscle-building activity and as for you Ace, well, you are just slacking off.”  Ace starts to stammer as you just stand there cringing.  Coach Vargus calmly approaches Ace and lifts him up by his collar.  It reminds you of how you lift a misbehaving Grim by the scruff of his neck.  You wave awkwardly at the departing Ace as he looks imploringly at you from the Coach’s grasp.  ‘Oh well, you reap what you sow,’ you think.

A tiring amount of time later, you brush your hands off on your thighs and declare, “There, done!”  Then you slowly head over to grab your pack holding the Ghost Camera, among other supplies.  The sun is barely at its peak, but you are already sweating with exertion from putting up the tent.  You wonder how your more athletic friends among the first-year students are handling it.  You know they are more used to the effort, but you hope they are taking necessary precautions.  Perhaps you’d just remind them and see if they need to borrow some sunscreen.

You know realize that sunscreen was the least of your safety concerns.  You watch in disbelief as Sebek continues to scale a sheer cliff in search of a lantern blossom flower.  The reaction of the nearby students was mixed.  Silver seemed remarkably unconcerned as he spoke to Riddle nearby.  Meanwhile, you and several NPC characters were more nervous.  “He is going to fall, isn’t he?” you ask the nearby Scarabia A.  He looks at you for a long moment and then shrugs his shoulders.  You are not reassured at all. 

You turn instead to Ignihyde C and gesture, “This game doesn’t have a mature rating, so he can’t die.  Right? Right?”  The surprised student looks at you with his mouth falling open before he stammers, “R.right.”  Then he looks up at the precarious position of the green haired fae and mumbles, “But maybe you should cheer him on anyway.”  You look more intently at the NPC and demand, “Do you think that would help?”  He answers you in a fluster, “W..well, if my oshi…I mean friend…if my friend cheered me on, I think it would really help me do my best!” 

Right.  That is just the sort of thing friends do.  “HEY SEBEK!” you shout.  The fae somehow hears you shout and looks arrogantly over his shoulder at the spectators but when his eye catches your form, he shakes, and you fear he will tumble from the cliff.  “HOLD ON SEBEK, YOU CAN DO IT!  I BELIEVE IN YOU!”  From even the great distance between you, the image of determination that crosses his expression can be seen.  He sets off with a renewed vigor, making daring transitions and finding ways to make speedy progress.  With several movements that make you gasp and hold your breath; he reaches the lantern blossom and plucks it from the ground. 

Much faster than the ascent, Sebek’s return to the ground was accomplished quite shortly.  He was still a considerable distance up when he leaps from the cliff edge to race to your side and show off his prize.  He eagerly holds out the glowing lantern blossom for you to view.  “Its so pretty,” you comment politely, “I wish I had one.”  He gasps and grabs hold of your hand, forcing the poor battered flower into it.  “THEN YOU MUST HAVE THIS ONE!”  You give him a shocked look, “No really, that is unnecessary.  I’ll get one some other day.”  He smiles at you smugly, “No need Prefect.  Any time you need a lantern blossom, I will fetch one for you.”  You guiltily hold out the flower to one student after another, but no member of the Horseback Riding Club will take it from you.  “Prefect,” Riddle finally says in a commanding voice, “Its rude to return a gift.  We are more than capable of retrieving another lantern blossom.”  Sebek and Silver nod in agreement, backing up the Dorm Leader.  You think it’s time to go before you cause this club any more trouble.  You make your excuses and dash off to the lake.

As you part a pair of branches and emerge from the forest at the lake’s edge, you catch sight of some members of the Spelldrive Club nearby.  Ruggie seems to be fishing up a storm while your first-year friend Epel watches from nearby with his own pole.  “See,” Ruggie tells his underclassman, “That’s how its done.  Now in return for that free lesson, how about you show me what you learned by catching enough fish for the rest of the club! Shishishi!”  You roll your eyes at the obvious attempt to foist the work off onto Epel but are surprised with your friend shouts “YES SIR!” with enthusiasm.  You catch Ruggie’s eye and give him a quiet tsk tsk which only earns you a mischievous wink before the hyena beastman set’s off toward camp.

You slowly saunter over to Epel, who is fully engaged in his fishing.  “So, got a plan?” you asked over his shoulder.  “Eh!?” he gasps and drops his pole, “Player!  I..I mean Prefect!  It’s you! Ya’ had me surprised outta my skin there!”  You give him an apologetic smile.  Epel stoops down to retrieve his pole and shyly replies, “My plan is just to catch the fish.  I’m not going to give up until I’ve caught at least a dozen!”  Then he holds up his arm and bends it at the elbow, giving you a little flex to show off his determination.  You hold in a laugh, “Well, if you are that fired up, why stop at only one dozen?” 

Epel’s eyes go wide for a moment and then he gets a maniacal grin.  “Yeah! You’re right!  I’m going to catch you at least two dozen fish!  Or maybe three or four!”  You know Epel is not the type to break his word, so you quickly interrupt to calm down his ambitions, “One dozen is enough!  I was just joking.”  You wave your hands toward the ground as though to say, let’s lower our expectations.  Epel frowns and mutters under his breath, “That isn’t going to impress anyone.” Then he looks at you determined, “Just wait and see!  I’ll catch plenty of fish so don’t go eat’n with any other club!  When tha fish are in tha bag, I’ll make ya Gram’s special fish stew!” 

As Epel gets to work, casting his line and reeling in the lure, you sit beside him on a rock.  When the time seems right, you snap a picture of him eagerly lifting a small fish from the lake on his line.  “There you go!  One down!” you say as you transfer the ghost camera to your elbow and give him a small clap of encouragement.  He preens a short second before frowning down at the small fish.  “Tha’ next ‘un will be twice as big!” he shouts in determination before casting his line again. 

True to his prediction, soon Epel gets a tremendous tug on his pole.  You both shout and leap to your feet at the strength of the fish that appears to be on the line.  “WOAH!” Epel shouts.  You lean over the edge of the lake, trying to see the monster fish Epel has snagged.  Epel too seems interested in his opponent and plans one foot firmly while leaning forward to stare intently where his line entered the lake.  With a sudden flash, a scaled hand emerges from the lake to grab the tip of Epel’s rod and tugs Epel, pole and all, into the lake.  You quickly slide back as far more of Floyd emerges from the lake.  He gives you a toothy smile before his trademark laugh emerges and he returns to the lake.  Epel does not immediately surface, and you are concerned for a moment before you spot him further down the shore.  Though he has concealed himself behind a log, you can tell his ears are flushed with embarrassment.  You kindly decide to give him his space.

Halfway to camp, your stomach begins to growl.  You thought sadly about Gran’s special fish stew, now beyond your reach.  You hoped that you’d manage to sweet talk some fish off someone.  They were your friends, so someone is bound to share, right? 

The size of Deuce’s eyes when you asked him sweetly if he’d share his food with you rivaled that of the empty plate you held out to him.  “Please?” you finish your plea for lunch.  Deuce flushes and quickly removes his pack from his shoulder, pulling out a fairly large fish.  “No problem, Prefect, I’ve got enough for two here!”  You make a little gesture to celebrate your victory and compliment him, “Yeah!  Great job catching such a big fish.  It looks so huge, I bet its even enough for three people!”  Immediately Deuce denies this, “NO!  NO, IT’S NOT!”  When you pull back in surprise, Deuce continues in a softer voice, “I…I mean this one is just perfect for two.  It…its just meant for us.  To share.  Together.” 

You hold up your hands and agree, “Sure, sure.  Just you and me.  I get you.”  Deuce seems so very pleased by your response that you decide to just let his strange response slide.  Plus, you need him to cook that fish.  “So…what are you making?  You know, just for us to share?” you ask as you saddle up to his side?  Deuce looks back and forth between you and the fish, “I sure know how to cook this.  Yup, I really do.”  Your mouth falls into a little O and then you glare at him suspiciously, “Deuce, do you know how to cook fish?”  He doesn’t meet your eye but assures you that Trey taught him some recipes.  You still have your suspicious but figure if it was a Trey recipe, it would be alright.

“So, what do we do?” you ask Deuce.  He looks at you with a dreamy expression, “We?  You’re going to cook with me?”  You shrug your shoulders, “I mean yeah, that’s how Trey’s recipes are, right?”  Then you lean in close and whisper, “Like…Like in the game when we made that chestnut tart together.  Right?”  Deuce quickly agrees, “Right!  Together!  You and me!  Just…you and me… Ahem!”  He finishes with a cough and then, to your relief, sends you to the forest to collect some herbs. 

You had a handful of samples and a general area to search for more.  Apparently, Jack had scented some out while setting up camp and taken cuttings so his clubmates could retrieve more later.  You smiled at the foresight of the first-year student.  You weren’t sure exactly what Deuce needed, so you gathered a few handfuls of each type.  You walk back to the camp and set your bounty on the table next to the fish Deuce has prepared.  It looks like he’s used the time you were away to fillet the fish and make a simple dough.  Seeing the dough gives you confidence that this really is a Trey recipe. 

“So, what now?” you ask him.  “Chop up the herbs and mix them into a paste with water,” Deuce directs.  “Sure,” you say while gesturing to the pile, “but which ones?”  Deuce pauses and looks at the large pile of greens you have sitting there.  “Oh…um…All of them!”  Now your doubts are back.  “Are you sure about that?” you ask him carefully.  “Yeah!” Deuce replies confidently, “Just like Trey says, the more the merrier!”  You carefully take two sprigs of herbs and chop them up and then, while Deuce is preoccupied with the dough, give them a taste.  Honestly, the combination of the two isn’t bad.  ‘Well,’ you think, ‘what to I know about cooking in a magical world anyway?’  So, you chop the entire pile of greens and mix it all into a thick paste.  Deuce combines your herb paste with the fish and puts it into a small pie shell he has formed with the dough.  Then, you pack the ‘pie’ into the hot rocks of the fire to roast. 

While the pie bakes, you sit side by side on a log and chat about normal things.  Or maybe it was more like you chatted and Deuce listened.  You didn’t mind, he was good company even if he seemed preoccupied.  You were telling him about Grim’s latest antics when you felt something on your hand.  You give a small yelp and tug your hand into your lap.  “Ah!” you examine your hand as you brush it off, “Was that a bug?”  Deuce, who you suddenly realize had gotten far closer to you than you’d noticed, nervously remarked, “Oh yeah, that…was probably it.  Ha ha.”  Finally, you ask, “Are you cold?  I bet we could find you a seat closer to the fire if you are.  You can be as cozy as our pie.”  Deuce seems embarrassed for a moment before suddenly becoming alarmed, “THE PIE!”  He jumps up and fishes the pie from the fire. 

He brings it to you nervously, “I think it is fine…”  The pie has a small amount of char around the edge that was directly in the fire.  If it hadn’t been made by your good friend, you’d probably have refused it but, since it was made by Deuce, you don’t have the heart to refuse.  “Oh yeah, looks fine.  I guess…lets try it?” you say trying to convince both yourself and Deuce of the pie’s editability.  Deuce lets out a happy sigh and breaks the pie in half, handing you the slice with fewer burnt edges.  He makes no move to eat the pie himself but seems to hold his breath, waiting for you to try it.  “Well, here it goes?” you say in a worried tone.  You take a bite; it’s terrible.  You force your mouth into a wide smile, “mmm…” you mutter for him in pity.  You decide to use the same method for the pie as you used the last time you were forced to eat Lilia’s cooking.  You cram the pie down in three huge bites, trying to finish it off while tasting it as little as possible. 

For a moment, Deuce seems greatly pleased with the gusto in which you eat before the look of alarm sets on his face and he tilts his head to the side.  Or maybe he is tilting his whole body?  Oh, no.  It’s you that is falling.  Then the blackness takes you as Deuce’s frightened shouts fade out, “HELP, I think…I’ve poisoned…the player…”

You wake up groggy.  If that was all, you’d have considered yourself lucky, but it also appears you’ve been tied to a tree.  You are confused for a moment until you recall the storyline of the Camp Vargus event.  Right, Coach is probably out tormenting students right now while anyone captured is tied up.  Great, just great.  You look up when you hear a long howl echoing through the forest.  ‘Is that Jack?’ you think to yourself.  If Jack is already in his wolf form, then this camp is nearly over.  You sigh and lean back into the tree, waiting for someone to come along and release you.

It isn’t longer than an hour before a very tired but eager Jack arrives to untie you.  “Guess you are the hero of the day, huh?” you jibe at him.  He flushes as he rubs the back of his head, “Oh, you heard about that.”  He tries to pretend indifference but moments later he is asking for more details, “So what did you hear?”  Well, this is a challenge to answer since you hadn’t actually heard anything about it.  You just remembered it from when it was a game plot.  “Well…didn’t Floyd change into his mer form?  That was probably cool to see.” 

A look of incredulousness passes over his face, “Yeah well, other guys probably looked cool too.”  You nod knowingly, “Yeah, I heard you got to Sebek use his training to lure the monster into the bog.  Who knew there would be a chance for him to show off his skills out here.”  Jack huffs, “Yeah but he wasn’t the only one using his skills out there.”  Now you smile, feeling a bit mischievous yourself, “Oh, for sure.  I mean what would we have done without our MVP from Savanahclaw.”  Jack lets out a relieved sigh and smiles.  “Yes, Ruggie sure did pull though.  I don’t normally approve of his sneaky habits, but you have to admit he really came through today.” 

Jack’s eyes widen and he stands there in a silent shock.  “Well, let’s get going.  Are you hungry?  I could sure go for something right about now.”  Then you dust off your knees and start heading toward camp.  After a moment, you decide you’ve tortured him enough and pause, waiving your hand to signal him to join you.  When he reaches your side, you give his uniform sleeve a tug.  He bends down and you use this opportunity to give him a pat on the head and then rub his soft ears.  “You did good, Jack,” you praise him softly.  Then you thread your arm through his own and tug him along to camp.  “Now, let’s go get some grub.  Just don’t take anything Deuce gives you, ok?”  Jack smiles and follows you along, tail wagging all the way.

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #self aware au #ace trappola #yandere ace trappola #yandere deuce spade #deuce spade #yandere epel felmier #epel felmier #sekek zigvolt #yandere sebek zigvolt #twst first years #yandere first years #tw: yandere

[thevirginwitch]

Weather Witchcraft & Correspondences Notes

This post was released early for subscribers over on my Patreon! If you like my work, and would love to check out some pretty sweet rewards, you can support me on Patreon for as little as $2/month!

Rain

second changes, renewal, cleansing

emotions, intuition, connecting with your inner self

Activities

Meditate in the rain: imagine the water washing away your worries

Snow

representative of the macrocosm/microcosm (think of the way each snowflake is unique, yet snowflakes pile on and on until they create huge blankets of snow)

concealment, hidden magic

purity, freshness, innocence (this has less to do with color magic [that old concept of black vs. white magic] and more to do with the way fresh snow looks)

revelation, awareness

cooperation, unity

Activities

Find an area covered in snow and, using your finger or a stick, write a wish in the snow. Watch the open spaces fill back in as the snow falls, and imagine your wish is being carried out by the universe.

Hail

haste, speed, action

power, motivation

strength

Activities

When you  hear hail, close your eyes and focus your energy on something you've been avoiding. Using the energy of the hail, write out a plan to tackle the problem at hand. When the hail ends, you will have gained the strength you need to carry out these tasks - don't be afraid to ask for help from others if necessary!

Thunderstorm

power, amplification

contains power of all four elements: earth=thunder, fire=lightning, air, and water

Activities

Count the seconds between lightning and thunder as the storm approaches. When the storm is at its peak (there's no delay between the lightning and thunder), focus on your current magical workings. Feel your energy pour into the storm as the storm fills you with strength and power. Imagine the storm continue to pour strength into you and your magical workings as it fades away.

High Sun (Hot Days)

strength, endurance

intense

projective

analytical, objective

Activities

Take a yellow, orange, or red stone and let it charge under the sun for a few hours on a hot day (be sure to double-check that your stone/crystal is sun-safe). Place the stone on your altar, desk, or area of your preference. Pull out the stone and call on its energy when you need a boost of strength or endurance. 

Sources:

Weather or Not: Two Books About the Magic of Timing & the Timing of Magic by Katrina Rasbold Stormy dividers are from @firefly-graphics

#weather witch #weather magic #witchcraft #witchy #witchblr #witch #thevirginwitch #storms #thunderstorms #storm witch #correspondences #witches of tumblr #grimoire #witchery

[illusioninteractions]

Love Never Discussed

This is my first ever one-shot, but I'm quite proud of it, so I thought I'd post it and feed those Venti simps. Please enjoy! :D

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Venti x Gn! Traveler! Reader ~Angst, Fluff, and things along those lines. WARNINGS: Suicidal ideations and thoughts, sh scars... please do not read if any of those concepts trigger you, and for those reading who deal with this, please know that you are loved, even when it may not feel like it. Word Count: 2,2k

You've grown tired of the way things are. Traveling non-stop takes its toll, but it's surprising how well you hid it from everyone, including the floating emergency food who spoke to you every waking moment. Eventually, taking care of yourself, alongside all these other people, became a chore, so you walked on until you pushed yourself just a bit too far. Luckily, you were found by the one person you had only wished to see again.

-----

Night had slowly fallen as you trekked along what felt like a never-ending road, yet you thought you didn't deserve to rest. There were still people to help, to rescue, to find. Of course, Paimon was chatting your ear off the whole way, not even taking in the fact that you weren't responding. As you walked along the shore near Stormbearer Point, the very place where you met Paimon, the fatigue began to take its toll, but you kept moving. Little did you know, a familiar face was keeping an eye on you as you sluggishly walked the beach towards the forest, headed straight for Mondstadt. Then, rain began to fall, it started with a light drip, and quickly it moved on to a pour. Nothing was even concerning you at this point, you couldn't really remember if you did anything for yourself today. Did you even eat? Drink?

Your vision grew blurry to that thought, but you didn't mind. The cold rain pounded your skin as Paimon ran off under a tree and called you to her. Instead, you didn't listen, you let it happen, not a concern or worry that you didn't know what would happen next. "It was bound to happen," You thought as no part of you feared the afterlife. You thought this was it.

Just as your body fell numb onto the wet and hard sand, your vision was finally gone. Paimon screamed for you, floating over to you in haste as she completely forgot about the heavy condensation. She called your name multiple times, shaking your body back and forth. She looked for help, turning her head left and right.

Within the blink of an eye, the person who kept you in their sights came sprinting over, stowing away the bow he carried over his shoulder. Paimon sighed with relief at the sight of him as he knelt by your side, dirtying his white tights and placing a hand on your back, calling for you.

"Traveler!" Your corrupted mind made out, which caused a bit of force to your eyes as you wanted to see the face of the voice you recognized. He saw your attempt and moved his hand to your shoulder to gently roll you over.

As his hand touched your skin, he felt how cold you were due to this heavy rain. The wind didn't help, but the more he panicked, the more nature was stirred up as well. He snapped out of whatever worry he had dug into and put his other arm under your head so that he could roll you onto your other side without possibly injuring your neck. He could finally carry you out of there, using the wind to help glide him straight towards the city he used to rule.

It was the dead of night, not a soul was outside of their home in the city of freedom. Maybe it was because it was so late, or maybe the rain was too strong, but Venti had one thought and one thought alone: to help you. He was quick to find what he thought he needed as Paimon was barely able to catch up with the Archon.

Though this was his city, he didn't live in one place. He doesn't own a home, so even he was somewhat lost. Moments after he had grabbed a blanket from a nearby vendor, placing what money he could on the counter before taking his time to wrap you in it as best as he could, he found himself breathing hard as he looked around vigorously. He searched for a safe place to put you, but to no avail.

"Venti?" Jean's voice echoed through the empty city as the rain had finally stopped, the night sky clearing up. She held an umbrella in one hand and a lantern in the other, a confused look worn upon her face.

The god had slowly come down, the wind blowing around him coming to a halt the moment his feet touched the ground, "Master Jean... please, I need your help." He asked as he showed your face to the Acting Grand Master, Paimon nodding her head in a quickened pace.

"The Honorary Knight..!" Jean gasped as she quickly turned her gaze back to Venti. "Follow me."

The two ran through the streets of Mondstadt, as Paimon floated alongside them until they reached the Knights of Favonius headquarters. The instant the group reached the indoors, Venti felt relief knowing you would be safe there. Jean led them inside her office and suggested laying you down on the couch.

Replacing the now wet blanket, you once wore, with a new one, Venti pulled up a chair to stay by your side for a moment as he caught his breath.

"What happened?" Jean's concern was not one to be reckoned with, and Venti understood that. He knew he had to speak up on the issue, though he might not have known every detail.

"Paimon was just talking with the traveler until it suddenly started raining and-!" Paimon's high-pitched voice rang out and loud as she was still grasping the situation herself.

"Paimon, why don't you go take a breather and find Miss Lisa in the library. It isn't all that late for her, she should still be up and about." Jean suggested, though cutting off the floating person, Paimon nodded calmly and flew out the door.

"Thank you." The boy with black to blue braids nervously chuckled as he looked at Jean for only a brief moment before turning his focus back onto you.

"My question goes for you, too, Venti..." Jean continued on as she leaned forward in the chair she sat on. "If you know what happened, that is."

"To be honest, I don't really have much of a clue. I knew the traveler was coming back to Mondstadt today, the wind told me, but I never expected this. They looked tired, not only physically, but mentally as well. The sight of them broke my heart, I worry they never focus on themself. Going from nation to nation is beyond draining, even I couldn't bear it sometimes, but to also be traveling and searching for someone so dear, then getting dragged into defending ones so near. They could have barely just met, but the traveler would help them solve their issues. This is all too much for one human to hold and never let go of. Even so, they don't dare utter a word of regret or sadness. If I had to say, that is probably the problem they're facing." Venti had rushed some parts, emphasizing most as he had a gut feeling he knew what was going on while the traveler was away. "Being wind-borne is great in its ways, but as the gusts flow in, it may toss you straight into a maze."

"A maze they struggle to find the exit to..." Jean sighed, knowing the feeling. "I'll leave you two alone for a minute. I'm just going to grab the traveler some water."

Venti nodded his head, as he reached out for your hand, holding onto it as he softly ran circles with his thumb. The god's head slumped down as he heard the door shut, resting no weight into the palm of your hand. The feelings he held for you were so strong, yet he has never forced it onto you and sticks to his flirtatious ways. He wants nothing more than to express the way he feels for you but has never found the time. That's why he awaited your arrival back to Mondstadt... and why he kept a close eye on you as soon as he found you, looking for the perfect moment to swoop in and greet you. Never did he expect it to end the way it did.

As a piece of the blanket gently fell from your arm, Venti looked up only to see you still unconscious, but the scars on your arms had caught his attention. At first, he assumed they were all battle scars, yet after taking a closer look, some looked almost too organized. "Why are they doing this to themself?" His thoughts quickened and his eyes worriedly looked over every single scar as he could only hope it had never gotten too much farther than this. He thought, "If Paimon knew about it, she would've told someone, right? So does anybody even know?" He felt guilty for even looking at them, but now he knew that his guess was correct, though he never wished for it to be.

Eventually, Jean came back, to which Venti grabbed the part of the blanket that fell and calmly tucked your arm back inside while Jean placed a glass of water down on her desk before unfolding a hand cloth to use.

Venti scooted his chair back as Jean came over and knelt down by the couch to get closer to you in order to help you drink the water she offered. Of course, you had no clue... only hoped that you wouldn't wake up.

Was that completely true, though? You had heard the voice of someone you cared for, more than most, in what you thought was your last waking moments. Would it be fair to leave him?

As quickly as the night had fallen, time had gone by and shortly revealed the sun. Everyone in their city was just awakening from their sweet slumber, unlike Venti who hadn't slept at all. He was too worried about you to worry about his sleep, and although Jean tried to talk him into rest, it didn't work. Venti had witnessed the sun fall and rise, all while watching your face closely.

With a sudden sigh escaping his lips, he took hold of a lyre he so carefully strapped to his waist and began playing a tune, one which he played for you many times. He hummed the words, instead of singing them, strumming the strings to the beautiful instrument you know only he would play. The soft song had lulled you back to your senses as a smile grew on your still-sleeping face. Venti gave a soft giggle as he noticed your now peaceful expression, and to it, he started to quietly sing the words. Soon enough, your eyes fluttered open and you felt the smile on your face when you realized the melody being played right beside you. Turning your head slightly, you saw Venti, his eyes gently closed as the sun shined an orange tint inside the room and welcomed you into a new day.

The song had sadly come to an end, and as the boy began to pocket his Lyre, he noticed you completely conscious and staring right at him.

"Who knew waking up to such a pretty song would be so enchanting." You managed to say as you sat up slightly, your smile only growing bigger.

Venti said nothing, he just hugged you at your waist, his head planted softly on the blanket on top of your torso. You, surprised at first, sunk into the sudden hug, happy to be there, his arms wrapped around you.

"Are you hungry?!" Venti sat up within a split second, his eyes hastily moving from one of your eyes to another to find your answer. "Please... be honest with me."

"I- uhm..." You stuttered initially, nervous to say what you knew or what you felt. "Yeah, I am."

"Great, I'll go get something for you-!" To the sudden tug of his arm, he didn't even get the chance to stand fully before this new found confidence of yours took control.

Though you only wanted to hug him again, where this ended up going wasn't so bad either. Your faces were inches away from each other, his other hand on the couch cushion beside you as the one you held had moved to the arm of the couch. You were practically underneath him, and his face was in shock, but it gave you a clear view of his reddened cheeks. He broke the eye contact the two of you were having as he nervously chuckled and looked away, but you continued to look at him. You studied him, the way his smile curved nervously on his face as he seemed conflicted between what he wanted to do and what he should do. The way his eyes looked around, moving quicker with every thought he had. Your hand reached the side of his face with a gentle touch, guiding his gaze back towards you where your eyes met once more.

"Uhm... Traveler?" Venti questioned softly, genuinely confused.

You didn't fail to notice the way his eyes moved from your eyes to your lips in such fast and brief moments. He thought he was getting away with it, but he wasn't, he was only making it more obvious by the second, so you sat up ever so slowly until your lips hesitantly but finally made contact. The tender kiss lasted but a moment, but it felt like an eternity after having waited so long for this honest and passionate kiss between love never discussed.

#venti x reader #venti x you #genshin impact venti #genshin venti #oneshot #angst #fluff #gn reader #venti the bard #genshin barbatos #venti genshin impact #jean genshin impact #paimon #genshin impact #genshin traveler

[oblonger]

My birthday gift from me, to myself:

Another (mostly) Trevailshipping Fic :3

Based on that one post I saw a while back about a similar concept.

@sincerely-sofie I truely can't get enough of them being mushy and cute. I am quietly and kindly but passionately asking you to make more if you can.

Ark Is being haunted.

Ark is being haunted by nightmares.

Not literally of course, he isn't capable of falling asleep naturally after all.

But he is nonetheless being haunted.

By himself.

Or rather, by Darkrai.

For a few months now, he's been seeing a transparent version of himself wherever he is. Berating him. Telling him just how much of a failure he is.

Ark hears Darkrai yelling at him while he spends time with Opal. Telling him that he actually wants nothing more than to level her with the dust.

There have been times where he nearly launched an attack towards where Twig was, to defend her from Darkrai while he attempted to slit her throat.

Ark can't go anywhere or talk to anyone without feeling like he's putting on an act.

But the worst part is that only Ark can see and hear him.

It's tortuous, he feels like his family are in constant danger. Ark feels like he can't leave any of them alone in a room.

Ark knows that Darkrai is incapable of doing anything, but it's maddening hearing and seeing someone so brazenly make threats towards the people he loves, while knowing there isn't a thing he can do about it.

All he can do is just wait for him to dissappear.

~~~~~~~

One morning, Ark noticed that Twig hadn't awoke when she normally does. He gently opened the door to her room to see her clenching her head. Ark gently asked what was wrong.

"You are the cause of her pain." Darkrai whispered.

Twig groaned in pain. "Migraine." She mumbled. Ark made silent haste to get painkillers for her.

Some time after taking them, Ark never leaving her side, Twig sat up, still rubbing her eyes.

"Are you aware of the pain's origin?" Ark quietly questioned.

"Kinda." Twig mumbled.

"It's because of you." Darkrai said, rising from the ground behind her.

Ark paid him no mind. Not even looking at him. Everything he's uttered has been lies.

"I think it was a nightmare."

"See? It's your fault." Darkrai viciously whispered, slowly running a claw across Twig's neck.

Ark commanded his heart to stop speeding up.

"Was it a memory?"

Twig groaned in pain, the effort of thinking making her head hurt. "I don't remember any of it. I just know it was bad... I think it involved Darkrai in some way though."

Ark's hackles raised as Darkrai laughed with a sadistic mirth.

"Don't you understand? Your very presence is causing her harm. You are blind to the suffering you cause."

Ark had to ask himself if Darkrai is slowly gaining back power.

"You alright man?" Twig asked. Ark hadn't even realized he'd been glaring at Darkrai. To her, he must have seemed really angry at that wall.

Ark glanced away from her, which probably looked much more suspicious. "I am well."

Twig tilted her head. "Are you sure? You looked really mad."

Ark deeply sighed to give himself a few more seconds to think of an excuse.

"I am. I'm simply concerned for your well-being Twig..." Ark paused

"You aren't, you selfish fool." Darkrai growled.

Ark looked at Twig. "If it would make you feel safe, then I will-"

Twig shot a hand up. "Stop." She interrupted. Twig looked at him with loving concern, grabbing his hands and holding them in hers.

"I don't want you to leave or whatever dude. I had a nightmare about Darkrai. Not you. I swear I feel nothing but safe around you Ark."

Ark struggled to find any way to respond. Goodness, he loves her so much.

Darkrai moved his head down right next to Twig's, staring directly into Ark.

"She's always been such a terrible liar."

Ark had to suppress the urge to scream at Darkrai. His anger at this specter was unmatched.

Every. Time.

Every time she's said something nice to him over these last months, he claims it's a lie. Born from pity, or some life debt, or that she is plotting to end his life.

He knows it isn't true...

He constantly reminds himself that it isn't true...

He knows in his heart that all of these are lies...

SO THEN WHY DOES HE STILL FEEL DOUBT!?

"So." Twig continued. "Can you please tell me what's bothering you?"

Ark searched for what he can say. He can't tell her what's happening. He can't tell her that Darkrai might be returning. He cannot tell her that he sometimes questions the intention behind her kind words.

Ark sighed. "It's simply that I feel angry for how I treated you in the past." It wasn't a complete lie.

"You don't regret it." Darkrai whispered.

"Dude." Twig gently nudged his shoulder with her fist. "Haven't I told you to quit worrying about that?" She said, giving him a fond smile.

"I already told you. I've forgiven you for what you did."

"No she has not."

"You aren't the same person you were back then Ark."

"Yes you are."

"It's in the past. Things have changed."

"We are proof that is false."

"So, do me a favor and quit beating yourself up about it." Twig gave him a warm grin that he would die for. "I'll beat you up for you, if you screw up. 'Kay?"

Darkrai positioned himself next to Twig so he could look Ark in the eye.

"She has outright admitted her plans to bring harm upon you. If you were wise you would finish it."

Ark nodded to Twig. Both him and Darkrai lying. She beamed even brighter as a response, her tail gently wagging.

"Thanks man." She said as she leaned forward to press her forehead against his, an action that Ark reciprocated while Darkrai whispered vile things that Ark tried to tune out.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Ark couldn't tell if he was paranoid or if Darkrai really was growing in power. He feels like the amount of nightmares that Opal and Twig have been getting has increased. He's hidden a journal with a chart, keeping track of what days either of them have had a nightmare.

He realized that he truly was exhausted when he caught himself crossing out sections that Darkrai had said were inaccurate.

Ark felt trapped. He didn't know what to do. Twig was visibly becoming more concerned about him, and Opal is avoiding spending time with him. Wait, no. Opal isn't avoiding him. Darkrai told him that she was and he believed him.

He believed him.

Or did he say that and he didnt believe him, but he was right? And if he was right about this then what other things is he right about?

It was becoming too much for him. Ark didnt know how much longer he can keep up this facade. If he's believing these things, then how long will it take before he commits one of the actions that Darkrai has been telling him to do?

Ark needed to talk to someone. But who? He can't talk to Twig, even imagining the way she would look at him filled him with dread. He can't tell anyone from the 'future trio', they wouldnt understand. Gardevoir would hate him if she found out what he did. There was no way in heck he was going to confide in Skuntank. Ark was completely alone. There was nobody he could...

...

Oh.

There was one person that he could talk to.

He hated the fact that he's been brought to this point, but he was completely out of options.

Ark deeply sighed as he used his powers to reach out to Cresselia.

~~~

Ark slowly approached the clearing that he'd requested Cresselia to meet him in. The moonlight gently shining over everything. Being told that this would be the perfect time to begin again his plan to cover the world in darkness.

Darkrai suddenly froze once Cresselia was able to be seen. Being silent in a way that Ark had been longing for.

Ark and Cresselia both stood there in silence, staring at each other while Darkrai screamed at Ark. Some incoherently hateful nonsense that Ark had believed in the past.

Ark feared that on some level, he still does.

"You requested my assistance?" Cresselia broke the silence, nervously wringing her hands together.

Darkrai's wrath towards him almost seemed to pale in comparison to how Ark felt towards the world so long ago.

Ark slowly recounted what had been happening to him. Carefully considering each word he said, so as to not repeat something that Darkrai was yelling at him.

Cresselia stood there in attentive silence the entire time. Listening to everything he'd said.

"I see..." Cresselia muttered once Ark finished his story.

That's it?

That's all she has to say!?

No. Stop. Give her time to think.

Cresselia stared at the ground.

"So... you believe that you are reverting back to who you once were..." Cresselia confirmed.

"There is no reverting to be done, because you never changed in-"

Cresselia looked up at Ark with a determined expression. "I don't believe you."

Both Ark and Darkrai flinched. Memories of Cresselia saying similar things to him came flooding back.

For a brief moment, he considered heeding Darkrai's suggestions.

Cresselia's expression changed from one of determination to sadness when she registered Ark's.

"I- No! That came out wrong!" She held her face in her hands. "I meant to say that I don't believe that will happen to you."

Ark's expression fell from wrath, to confusion, to sadness. Darkrai noticed.

"SHE'S LYING!!!" He roared.

Cresselia looked up at Ark. "I... I don't fear that you will try and accomplish what you had attempted back then."

"SHE'S LYING!!!" Darkrai repeated.

"I don't expect you to ever forgive me for what I wrought upon you. And Im not ever going to be able to forgive myself either."

Ark felt shocked at what she said, and just how similar it felt to what he said to Twig.

Darkrai seemed stunned at what she said, before repeating once more what he said previously.

"But the anger you felt, that plan you created..." Ark could see tears welling in Cresselia's eyes. "Please don't blame yourself for that. The blame falls upon me alone."

Ark couldn't hear the things Darkrai was yelling at him. He could tell that he still was, but it sounded muffled.

"These last several years have made it crystal clear that I have nothing to be cautious of..."

Ark felt like his chest would cave in.

Cresselia looked at him with tears streaming down her face.

"You aren't who you once were." She choked out. Echoing the words which Twig had said.

Ark didn't know how to react. That letter Cresselia had given him made all of this already known to him. But hearing her say this all aloud to him...

Ark stared at the ground, trying to piece together the emotions he was feeling. He felt like running away. He felt like crying. He felt like embracing her. He felt like ripping his own heart out.

Ark stood there trying to find the words to say when he realized something.

He couldn't hear or see Darkrai.

Yes, he was still having those vile, hateful thoughts, but it didn't feel like he had been chained down anymore. He felt like a clarity he'd been deprived of had fallen upon him. He finally felt like he could distinguish his intentions from his thoughts.

Ark struggled for a long time to figure out how best to express his gratitude towards Cresselia. He never did hug her, but she seemed so incredibly relieved, when he finally managed to.

Ark took note of how conflicted she looked when he made it know that he doesn't hate her anymore.

~~

Ark silently opened the door to his home, careful not to wake Twig or Opal.

His heart skipped a beat when he saw that Twig was sitting on the couch, looking at him with intense worry and relief.

"Ark!" She practically lept from her seat to hug him.

"Twig? Why are you still awake?"

"I was worried dude!" She looked at him with a loving irritation. "I can tell when you leave the house. I... You can't just leave without saying anything! Not after how you've been acting!"

Right. He never did tell her what had been happening to him.

Ark took in a shaky breath. "I owe you an explanation for my lapse in behavior."

He and Twig sat on the couch. Twig holding his hand in hers as she leaned against him. He explained what had been happening to him.

All of his thoughts, the way he doubted her, the way he'd thought that his intentions were to hurt her. The hatred he felt towards himself when he thought he was considering hurting her.

Everything.

His thoughts of how much he wanted to end her only arose a few times as quiet, intrusive thoughts. Compared to how constant they were before.

Twig never once moved away from him. She never let go of his hand. At no point did she look at him with the disgust he had thought she would express.

He knew for certain now, that everything will be okay.

#i really like 'shaky breaths' dont I huh. #the present is a gift au #pmd eos #fanfic of a fanfic #trevailshipping #i was halfway through writing this when i realized how similar this sounded to the experiences- #-you've expressed having had with Schizophrenia Sofie #and seeing as how i dont actually struggle with anything close to that #i am actually pretty scared that this might come across as insensitive or inaccurate #im especially fearful of that being applied to how it's resolved in a relatively quick way #hopefully if it is; it isnt too too bad. #please let me know if it is though

[chronosdawn]

don't be shy, you can rewrite the howl's plot while still making the crossover 💞💞 (the feral dynamic between howl reader and wotw scara would be so funny (tired exasperated reader vs jaded simpering brat scara lmao)

In reference to this post.

You get it anon, you get the dynamic I'm going for.

Sadly I don't think I can commit to rewriting the whole plot of the movie because that would be a fairly tremendous undertaking (especially when I already have quite a few WIPs that I'm slowly chipping away at). However, because I really love this concept and as a thank you for being my first ask, I have written a little drabble for you anon. I hope you enjoy it!

I'm also open to taking asks about this AU and may write some more drabbles for it in the future so keep your eyes peeled!

A lone figure stood at the mouth of the alleyway leading to the main square, the dark colors of his outfit at odds with the cheerful banners and fluttering flags adorning the nearby buildings. His countenance too, did not match that of the other parade-goers, for if one were to peer into the shadow cast by his wide-brimmed hat, they would find his features twisted in bitter fury—his eyes trained not on the merry townsfolk, but the two figures soaring high above them, one with their arm wrapped around the other.

The figure sank his teeth into the skin of his lip. Even though he’d been working at pursuing you for some time now, he hadn’t expected you to make a trip into town today, not with all the soldiers and crowds. It had been so long since he’d been this close to you that it’d made him desperate, acting with far too much haste and not enough forethought to keep you from getting away. It hurt more, somehow, to have come so close only to have you slip right through his fingers. 

Again.

A faint noise like that of shifting fabric alerted the figure to a presence behind him and Scaramouche, the Wizard of the Waste, turned to face one of his poor excuses for a servant. 

The creature made of writhing shadows bowed deeply, arm held over its chest where its heart had once been before the wizard had carved it out and replaced it with his own dark magic.

“My apologies, my Lord,” the thing rasped, “the sorcerer has escaped.”

Scaramouche’s expression twisted further in distaste as he hissed through his teeth, “yes, I could see that much.” He turned back to where your retreating figure still hung in the sky, his fingers twitching at his sides as though he might reach out and pluck you from it. “At least tell me you’re still following them.”

“The others are trailing them from the ground, my Lord. Once they descend, we shall inform you of their whereabouts immediately and attempt to seize the sorcerer—”

“No,” Scaramouche interrupted, keeping his gaze trained on you. “By the time you catch up to them, they’ll be long gone. Follow the other one, the peasant looking fellow they have with them. Find out where he lives and report it to me immediately.” 

“As you wish my Lord.” The creature’s form started to disperse, the shadows that made up its body slithering away into the dark nooks and crannies of the crumbling alleyway stonework.

“One last thing before you go.” Scaramouche raised a hand, black-purple smoke curling around his pale fingers. A hiss of pain came from behind him as the magic making up the creature’s body began to constrict, distorting its shape even further from anything that could have once been called human. “I’ll be lenient on this occasion, but the next time you disappoint me, well,” his tone dropped, turning deadly, “I have no need for useless things, do I?”

“No, m—my Lord,” the thing stammered out, the tearing vocal cords in its throat rendering the sound akin to nails being scrapped across a chalkboard. 

“Go on then.” All at once the magic at the wizard’s fingertips vanished, and the creature wasted no time in making its exit, leaving Scaramouche alone in the alleyway.

You were so far away now it was difficult to make out the shape of your form—where you ended and the irksome worm pressed against your side began. He couldn’t stand it, the thought of someone else at your side—a place that used to belong to him. No, a place that still belonged to him, and would continue to, regardless of your feelings on the matter. 

But no matter how irritating it was to see someone else touching you, he’d have been a fool not to see it for the opportunity it was. 

Scaramouche knew you, knew that no matter how much you liked to run and hide away from your problems, there was a kindness in you that you’d never quite managed to truly ignore. If some unfortunate soul, particularly one you’d already shown a hint of favor to, were to turn up at your door, cursed and bereft of other options, you’d surely allow them into your home.  And if that cursed individual just so happened to be carrying a talisman upon their person that contained enough of a wizard's magic to break past the infernal seal you kept on the door of your so-called castle, they would be able to lead said wizard right to you.

How fortunate then, Scaramouche thought, that he now had someone he wanted to curse with every fiber of his being.

And once the fool allowed him access to your residence, all he had to do was find where you were keeping your heart hidden away and take it for himself.

#personally I'm still undecided on who should take Sophie's role so imagine whoever you want here #I'm half-tempted to have it be Childe simply because I think it would be funny but as for whether he actually works in that role... hm... #ask #Howl's moving castle AU #Yandere!Scaramouche #Scaramouche x reader #GN!reader #TW: yandere #genshin x reader #my writing #drabble

[dollarbin]

Shakey Sundays #14:

Stills-Young Band's Long May You Run

I've gone all soft on Stephen Stills of late. After seven straight months and 50+ posts spent excoriating Neil Young's nemesis/buddy/paste-eating boyband classmate I've given Stills a break in March. He had no business interrupting my vital appreciations of Karl Wallinger, Kris Kristofferson and Sandy Denny. There was barely room for him in my far less vital ruminations on Neil Young's Life or Peace Trail.

But your play time is over young Stephen. It's time to pack away your blocks, crayons and wah wah peddle and face my puritanical, yet objective, judgment regarding a core phase in your suckiness: that's right, it's time for me to actually listen to all of Long May You Run.

It took me a few years to find this relatively common-place Dollar Bin record way back when in the 90's. That's because all my usual haunts dumped their fairly worthless copies of Long May You Run in the never-of-any-interest-to-anyone-with-a-decent-sense-of-ethics-and-self-respect Stills, Stephen section instead of in Young, Neil.

But I knew the album's title track from Decade and from what remains my most prized Neil Young record: a bootleg copy of his 74 Honey Slides Bottom Line Show (note: the bootleg is better than Neil's recent official release of the show in that every rambling, humble word and harmonica fumble remains intact). That bootleg was so expensive at a very sketchy shop on the Santa Monica Promenade (the place also sold Star Wars ephemera and water pipes) that I convinced three of my buddies to chip in $5 each in exchange for my commitment to have it transferred to tape for each of them post haste.

Every moment of the show is rich and fulsome, including the premier of the song Long May You Run, which Neil introduces as a song he wrote for his new bus because he can no longer deal with flying airplanes, a detail that goes a long way to understanding the concept behind one of his most complicated records, Landing on Water.

And so I am still never prepared to hear the original album mix of this song. Young ditched not just Zuma-era Crazy Horse but also his savant producer David Briggs to make the entire coked-up record; out of an equal mix of savvy and bitterness Briggs then remixed Stephen Stills almost entirely out of the song on Decade. He also chucked the most Briggs-like event in that original version, a what-the-hell-just-include-it errant harmonica blast before the song gets started. "No sloppy sounds are allowed, Neil" Briggs boomed from his captain's chair. "Not unless I'm around to approve them!"

The song is a Young classic, sure, but it's never been one of my favorites. Too pretty; too earnest. Yes, the verses include a good sex joke (we found things to do in stormy weather) and some juicy Beach Boys non sequitors, but Young is too wasted to land his own jokes.

Neil has a dozen or more different ways to sing while wasted. There's his terrific tequila stagger (just about everything on Tonight's the Night), the terrifying "someone, please someone, pull me out of my dumpster of sorrow" vibe on songs like Pardon my Heart and Borrowed Tune, not to mention his, "Hey, everybody look! I'm so high I'm a flapping penguin" vocals on Vampire Blues or Cripple Creek Ferry.

I could go on; Neil is a connoisseur of making art while altered. The only time Neil sounds unappealingly stoned is whenever Stills's percussionist/vocalist/dealer Joe Lala is around, cutting lines of coke for everyone on his handheld mirrors. Here are Lala and Young together during his Trans tour. Neil is inquiring where he went wrong; Lala is indicating that it all goes back to hiring him to play bongos.

Throughout Long May You Run, it sounds like Neil keeps catching glimpses of himself in Lala's chop glass, and every time Stills and Joe are there grinning over both his shoulders; you can hear the dull, self-loathing result in Long May You Run's vocals.

The same thing happens, only worse, on Young's potentially best song on the record, Let It Shine. I first came to the song via driving and soaring cuts from 76 Japan bootlegs (catch my details on that vital tour here).

But on the record Young sings Let It Shine with self-hatred and a layer of very unattractive menace. There's nothing funny here; it's just ugly. And the guitars sound like they too are supplied from Joe Lala's terrible stash.

I've never done cocaine. The reasons are many: too scary, too expensive, too many lives ruined by the drug trade, and did I mention, too scary? But I've never really needed to think twice about the drug because I've heard this song once a year, or so, for the past 25+ years. If this is what coke does, I want nothing to do with it.

Neil shakes all this weighty failure off a few times on the record. He sounds appealing silly on Ocean Girl, helps the band make a Bee Gees audition tape on Midnight on the Bay (Joe Freakin' Lala passed the test; I imagine Stayin' Alive is the best song he ever performed on) and earnestly asks us about some complex nonsense on the Florida-based, wave riding precursor to Surfer Joe and Moe the Sleaze, Fountainbleau.

For the record: I do not know who put the palm over your blond, Neil. Nor do I know who's been moving everything to where it last was seen. But I do know that Joe Freakin' Lala does everything he can to wreck this otherwise groovy track with his terrible, whoops-I-dropped-my-bong-on-my-bongos-again percussion.

I only play this record when I've got the chance to sit beside the turntable. That's because there are four Stephen Stills tracks littering up the mix, each of them unlistenable. But I will now make myself listen to them anyway.

Here goes:

Make Love to You is ugly terror. Stills thinks he's Ray Manzarek meets Neil Diamond. He gathers the band around him to buff and polish both his nails and his lizard skin pants. The song was recorded 48 years ago but the "girl" in question is probably still in hiding after hearing Stephen the bar crawling man monster bust out his bluesiest warble to announce that he wanted to make love to her and that it was gonna take all night.

There's a flute driven bridge planted in the middle of this harrowing track like a Trump Flag at a pro wrestling event; someone get me the hell out of here before Stills wants to make love to me too.

Black Coral is a soundtrack for my nightmares. The piano riff is fevered and gross, Joe Lala thinks he's getting paid per beat, and Stills has shanghaied us 200 feet down underwater (with Jesus of Nazareth apparently in attendance, I guess? Maybe he forgot how to walk on water?). Stills has no coherent plan other than reminding us to take care: turns out he's more than a terrible musician, he's also the world's worst scuba instructor. There's more flute here too. The drummer, Joe Vital, is responsible. He probably figured, I played a mean flute in elementary school so, what the hell? How could a song like this get any worse?

12/8 Blues is actually worth listening to, once, so as to hear Neil's tiny, I'm a mouse and I'm trapped, backing vocals and his fairly killer guitar. But the riff is toxic and so are the lyrics. Stills tells he's dying, but don't get your hopes up. He wants us to know that he's "got the music" and he grunts like he knows how to pump iron while Neil tries to make something worthwhile out of it all.

The album closes with Guardian Angel, which somehow manages to be boring and nauseating all once. Lala shows off his touch typing skills throughout. Curses upon him. Stills' guardian angel demanded reassignment the moment they heard this song.

Neil has a guitar solo towards the end of Guardian Angel that's mixed to sound like he's in another state; which of course he was, as he literally told them all to eat a peach and went back to Crazy Horse at his first sober and available moment.

And that's exactly what I'm going to do now too: leave the Stills-Young band solidly in my rear-view mirror, listen to Zuma and recover.

#stephen stills sucks #neil young #joe freakin' lala #shakey sundays #honey slides

[akallia]

the fluidity of concrete, part 1

Hello, all! I'm back. Nothing much here but there will be important notes at the end. This is a cross-post from AO3, and there will be a link to it at the end if you want to read it there. Happy reading!

Pairing: Albedo x Fem!Reader, Kaeya x Fem!Reader if you squint

Word count: 4k

Concept: Albedo, son of a renowned German architect, finds himself in small-town America as his mother slips into a coma. You, an employee of your local library and resident architecture nerd, form an unlikely relationship with the foreigner with the platinum blonde hair.

CW: smoking, language, substance abuse, death, abusive parents

Most people would never get to see true stasis. Stasis, a state or period of inactivity or equilibrium. The best place to find stasis is a home owned by someone important which was turned into a museum after their passing. That is where stasis is in its purest form. Where else would you experience a state of such stillness? It feels so wrong - either the original owners should come back and inhabit their home, or the tourists should occupy it. Regardless, the stasis of an empty, culturally significant home possesses an arresting emptiness to it. It is… stasis. Stasis implies that there will be change, soon. It is a home. Homes are for living. Where are all the people? 

The home in question: mid century modern, hidden away behind rows of thick symmetrical hedges, a sprawling lawn behind it stamped with a checkered mowing pattern, dotted with willow trees. A bright conversation pit in the center of the living room with a baby grand Steinway adjacent, immaculately dusted and wanting. Low, flat ceilings, floor to ceiling built in bookshelves decorated in antique clocks and obscure coffee table books on art. A wall of glass behind the conversation pit that faded into a short concrete porch. 

Gold stood there with her hands clasped thoughtfully behind her back, a large, ugly hat on her head as she surveyed the lifeless lawn and its perfectly cut grass. Just her, and her “translator” on the phone in the kitchen, making sure she didn’t wander off. She tended to use her old age to her advantage these days, meandering wherever she pleased in the name of “allowing an old woman her pleasures.” 

—

Again, Gold and her omnipresent companion, now at one of the churches and preschools downtown. Mona, her translator, always on the phone, balancing herself on one hip with all her weight on a dangerous-looking black stiletto heel and impeccably dressed with her innate balance of tasteful and expensive. She jabbered on in German… 

“Was du gesagt hast, klingt für mich so, als ob…” She gave a quick glance at Gold, who had picked up one of their discarded umbrellas and was meandering. “Ach nee!” She said rudely. 

The courtyard of the church was a strange one. The church itself was large and imposing, a compound occupying an entire city block. A large L-shaped rectangle formed the main structure, and in the crook of the L it sank down to an open courtyard an entire story into the ground, a sort of hamster tunnel up above from the preschool to the church proper providing the only shelter from the elements. White concrete contrasted against the green summer grass that housed a small fenced-in playground. The concrete proudly exhibited its popularity with wheel tracks from skateboards and roller skates. 

Gold collapsed in a heap on the concrete as the clouds opened and rain fell on her old body. 

Mona dropped her bag and flung her heels off and ran, dialing 911 as she went. 

--

It was your mid-afternoon smoke break. You wished books weren’t so delicate. If they weren’t, you might be able to smoke in the library instead of outside. It was so fucking hot outside, in the June midwestern heat. You hated it. But the view of downtown was nice, and you got to stare at the church, the library, and the Ragnvindr house. You didn’t mind that much. It might have been a less miserable smoke break if Kaeya was there to keep you company. He was good at distracting you with intellectual bullshit. 

You stared thoughtfully at the large gray-green sculpture that the kids aptly called Dinosaur Bone. The architect had designed it such that when you looked through it from the right angle, the clocktower of the L-shaped church across the street was framed perfectly inside of it. You leaned against the wrought-iron fence of the Ragnvindr house that bordered the library, observing the clocktower, which was in desperate need of renovation. It was interesting that something only a few decades old could rot like that. But it didn’t surprise you. Rot was everywhere, no matter the age. 

While you pondered, you ran over the script in your head, rattling off lines about the church. You hoped the historical society would accept your job application for a tour guide. You knew your stuff, but the thought of staring at strangers, with their expectant eyes intently gazing back at you, and having to recite something from memory gave you heart palpitations. Another drag from your cigarette. You clenched the clear red gas station Bic lighter for dear life. 

“Fuck,” you whispered. You stepped on your cigarette, and went back inside to clock in for the rest of your shift at the library. 

Inside, you were in the zone as you called it. It was easy to get lost in yourself working here. The library was always occupied, but never busy. The ceilings were impossibly high and waffled with concrete, lights inset in every adjacent square like checkers. The rows and rows of wood shelves complemented the red brick walls and dated blue carpet, and the lazy midsummer light pouring in from the monstrously large sections of glass between the brick pillars made you feel cozy.

A half hour of stocking the shelves with returned books came and went, and you had made it to the back of the adult fiction section. There, on the floor leaning against the stacks, was your coworker Kaeya. His thick raven hair was pulled back in a signature low bun, and he wore the same vans, black jeans, and button-down that he wore almost every day, a getup which you affectionately dubbed The Kaeya. He was holding a book open in his tanned hands, brows furrowed in concentration. 

“Reading anything good?” You took a seat on the floor next to him. It was getting close to closing, and you were sure that nobody desperately needed a third copy of Crime and Punishment at this hour.

“Not sure,” he responded, not looking up at you. “Might just be grad school gibberish.” 

“If you need help with something, let me know,” you offered. 

“Yeah…” he trailed off, still engrossed. He suddenly shut the book with one hand and met your eyes thoughtfully. “Do you wanna… see a movie tonight?” 

You were taken aback. Kaeya was your work best friend and nothing more. You bit your lip, wondering how to handle the situation, though you couldn’t deny you found him attractive. In all honesty, it was a bit shocking he wasn’t taken. The two of you did live in the middle of nowhere, after all. Specimens like Kaeya were snatched up fast. 

You kept your expression guarded so you could gauge the situation. “I… can’t. I’m getting dinner with a friend tonight," you lied.

 “Like a date?” He looked a bit disheartened, but maybe your mind was playing tricks on you. Kaeya wasn’t the type to mope about stuff like that, you didn’t think. He was a bit of a ladies’ man. 

“No, no, just a school friend.” You tucked an errant strand of hair behind your ear, messing with the hem of your shirt. “Nothing like that.” 

He met your avoidant eyes with an even, contemplative look. You could almost fall for him like this, you think. His eyes were deep, dark pools of blue. “Yeah, sure, whatever.” He opened the book again. You wished he would tease you. Normally he would’ve teased you over something like that. 

“Do you have your master’s?” You asked, changing the subject. This was getting uncomfortable. If Kaeya really was interested in you, you certainly had a lot to think about. 

Thankfully, Kaeya was a smart guy, and he seemed to catch your drift. “Yeah, unfortunately.” 

“Was it hard to get?” 

“Depends on your definition of ‘hard.’ Why do you ask?” He flipped through the book, his long, dark fingers occasionally grazing over something. The movements of his arm turning the pages constantly messed with his nametag, and it bothered the living hell out of you. 

You paused. “I was just talking to Lisa, and she told me that as a rule they only give full time positions to Masters of Library Science grads.” 

Kaeya didn’t miss a beat. “That’s not completely true. Rosaria doesn’t have one.” 

“She doesn’t?” A flicker of hope blazed in your chest. If there was a possibility that you could land a decent-paying job without the burden of paying for school - which you most definitely could not afford - then there was hope. 

“She has a Ph.D. in Lit.” 

“Great.” Your heart sank and you thought you might burst into tears. 

Kaeya chuckled lightly to himself in self-pity. “Yeah, whatever you do, don’t get a masters in library science. It was recently declared the worst master’s degree for a job.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” he replied, still not making eye contact. He was honestly starting to bother you a bit. 

“And yet you have a job,” you jabbed, irritated. 

“I’m an exception.” Another page turn, his nametag flipping around again. “Anyway,” he said, finally looking at you. “You don’t want to be a librarian.” 

“I might.” You weren’t sure if his words were laced with condescension or not. Regardless, a small thorn of spite lodged itself in your heart at his tone.

Kaeya sighed dramatically. “No, you don’t. What about Deborah Berke? You’d be crazy to pass that up.” 

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen,” you laughed softly. Would your future never stop haunting you? You wished you could shut your brain off and never think ever again. 

“Why not?” Kaeya challenged, an indignant look crossing over his face before melting into something less severe. The book in his lap, opened again as he shifted his attention away from you once again, ruffled with the breeze of the AC unit above. 

“It’s just not,” you replied, a bit of a bite to it. “You wouldn’t understand.” You leaned back on your wrists to stare at the waffled ceilings again. 

“Yes, I would.” 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” 

– 

It was cloudy again. Summers in the midwest were always hot and humid, but this particular June was stifling. The humidity soared with every inch of rainwater that threatened to flood the river. 

You internally bemoaned these facts as you scooped vegetables into a tupperware container to save for later. Your mother still wasn’t home from work yet, and you wanted the vegetables for dinner to be at least semi-fresh for the meal. You checked your watch - 5:30 and she still wasn’t home. Her shift ended at four. 

You felt a tightness in your chest. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t know how you were feeling. But at the same time, she had to understand how hard this was. How hard it was to pretend. The sporadic absences, the overworking, the lack of communication, the trying–God, the trying. It weighed on you. Your house felt so empty without another person in it. 

–

You were back at the bank again. Your beat-up Civic rattled to a halt in front of the building you’d visited a thousand times in the past six years. You got out of your relic of a car and sat on the hood, staring at the four squares of greenish fluorescent lights that covered the concrete overhang for the drive-thru teller stations. 

It was nighttime, and the temperature had dropped to a bearable 85 degrees despite the ever-rising humidity. You deemed this appropriate weather for crying. You stared and stared and stared at the lights and let the paradox of your existence consume you inside and out, silently crying as you always ended up doing when you went to this unremarkable bank that had become something so meaningful to you. 

Most teenagers had a “spot.” For some people, it was the watertower on the west side of town with its suspiciously unlocked ladder. For others, it was the roof of the highschool on the north side. Another group might frequent the soccer fields with its soft grass and border of blue firs. For you, it had been this old mid century drive-thru bank downtown. You hadn’t had many friends in school, so nobody minded that your go-to hangout spot was a fucking bank. 

9:30. Your mom wasn’t picking up her phone. 

–

10:30. You were crying, this time in front of the hospital. The second shift was leaving while a well-dressed man with platinum hair dressed smartly in a navy and tan suit was exiting a taxi. He gave you a passing glance as he pulled an expensive looking matching suitcase and duffel bag behind him before disappearing into the lobby. You gave him a small smile for moral support, wondering why he was there. Maybe he was a doctor or something. If he was, you felt stupid for smiling. Doctors know what they’re doing. 

There she was. Your mom, the last of the group of cleaners leaving. You walked back to the car in awkward silence as you shot down each of her attempts at conversation. You both resigned yourselves to an uncomfortable quiet on the ride home with only the rumble of the engine to fill the void of words. 

–

Albedo found his way to the third floor of the hospital with no difficulties save for the obnoxious distraction of one squeaky wheel of his suitcase. Mona was waiting in the hallway for him, arms crossed and tapping her foot like a cartoon character. Her dark hair was wound in a low, tight bun that made her soft facial features look more severe than they actually were. Albedo didn’t like it on her. It made her look older. He missed the days when she was younger and happier. But then again he hardly remembered those days anymore. 

The receptionist gave him a barely perceptible nod and Mona finally saw him. Her anxious body relaxed a bit at the sight of him, and he let go of his suitcase to catch her as she barreled into his arms, squeezing more tightly than he would have liked. 

After what felt like forever, she finally pulled away. “Come on. Let’s go see her first,” she muttered. Albedo really didn’t want to. 

–

Albedo checked into his room at the Ragnvindr house, a stately old home which had at some point been converted into a bed and breakfast. It was regal, meticulously maintained, and blessedly empty. His suite was large and tastefully decorated with rich oak walls, double hung windows, and heavy velvet curtains. His room boasted a small sitting room of eclectic vintage furniture; a massive, ancient-looking wardrobe, a beat-up desk, and a sumptuous king-sized bed on an ornately carved mahogany frame.

He dropped his expensive luggage unceremoniously on the floor and took a turn about the room he had found himself in. As he rifled through the many scraps of paper and open books still on the desk, he realized he would most likely be staying here for an undetermined amount of time. 

He felt sick remembering that this was his mother’s room. 

Albedo picked up one of the empty notebooks. It was black with a red fabric binding. He flipped through it, pacing the room as he looked at her scribblings and half-legible German. When he felt truly sick to his stomach reading her notes, he threw the notebook on the bed and opened the wardrobe, looking for something more tangible than the abstract, half-cooked drawings. 

Inside the behemoth wardrobe was a singular cropped vest and an ugly green hat. Thankfully, his phone rang and broke him from the reverie of his mother’s hideous fashion sense. 

“Ja?” He picked up. “...Nein. Rufen Sie mich später an, bitte…. Ja. Tschuss.” 

He sighed heavily and laid down on the bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. 

–

“I can’t believe how old you are. You look just the same,” Mona said, crossing her legs delicately at the ankle. She daintily took a sip of her wine, a small, faraway smile crossing over her lips. 

Albedo sat next to her at the bar nursing a beer. He hadn’t bothered to change out of his suit despite feeling disgusting from traveling for so long. “That’s not true, but thank you.” 

“You do!” Mona insisted, attempting to inject some energy into the clearly-deflated Albedo.

A beat passed before he scrounged up the mental capacity to grind out, “You’re sweet.” 

They both took another drink before Mona kept the conversation going, her body angling towards him. “So,” she drew out the ‘o’ for too long. Albedo never understood her. She was far too friendly to be German. Did she talk to strangers like this? “How do you like being in Berlin?” 

“It’s okay,” Albedo replied softly. He looked anywhere but at her, somewhat unsettled by her undivided attention. He observed the dim bronze lights hanging from the curved ceiling, and glanced at the other patrons. It was a nice, refined place, reminiscent of a chic subway tunnel. Mona certainly had good taste. 

“What are you doing there?” She asked, her accent hardening the ‘w’ a bit. 

“I got a job at a lab there. Science… stuff.” Albedo felt absolutely sick to his stomach thinking about work.

“That sounds interesting.” Her voice was encouraging, like she wanted him to talk. He did not want to talk. 

“It is… not.” For a brief moment he considered whether or not to dump all his troubles onto her, but then decided against it. He kept a lid on it, intentionally air-tight, just for that reason. “It’s pretty painful, actually. Um, I’ve got projects still ongoing. I just got off the phone with them before we met here.” 

Mona looked offended. “They don’t expect you to work while you’re here, do they?” 

“I think they do. You know,” Albedo began, taking another sip for courage, “it’s that… that thing: ‘We’re sorry, family is important… but really work is the most important… so you’d better fucking finish your project or we’ll lose the grant…’” He trailed off, eyes glazed over. 

“That can’t be true.” 

“We’ll see.” His words held a finality to them. “I wish you were staying another day.” He didn’t wish that at all, but he felt like he should humor her and perhaps honor their history. 

“I know… but I was supposed to be in Chicago a few days ago with your mother. And I have my work…” She trailed off dejectedly, tapping her fingers on the counter. 

“I know,” he almost whispered. “You’ve already done so much.” He stared at the wall of wine bottles.

“I can’t believe this happened…” Mona had a haunted look in her pretty blue-gray eyes. “She was doing fine and then just… I’m sorry.” Albedo was taken aback at her change in demeanor. She hiccuped a bit and placed the back of her hand on her mouth to force back the tears. “I just… I owe her so much. Your mother means everything to me.” 

The bartender tactlessly interrupted the obviously intimate moment. “Is there anything else I can get you guys?” 

Mona beat Albedo to the punch. “No, I think we’re ready for the…” 

“Can I get another beer?” Albedo interjected. 

“Definitely. Another glass of wine for the lady?” He smiled a picture-perfect customer service smile that Albedo knew all too well. 

“No thanks.” 

A moment of unsure silence passed before Albedo spoke up. “She didn’t even tell me she was coming on this trip. Did she tell you that?” 

“No…” 

“That’s about right. Did she mention me at all?” He asked, somewhat desperate. Normally he could keep it under control, lock them away, keep them hidden, but Mona’s presence and the stress of traveling internationally and seeing his mother’s failing body and being in a foreign country was just too much. The lid was slowly popping off and he was terrified he wouldn’t be able to get it back on. 

“We talked a little,” Mona said defensively, eyes darting around like a cornered animal. 

He pressed her further, heart pumping. The rage, God, the rage! He gritted his teeth, spitting out the words, “What did she say?” 

“Albedo…” Mona was on the verge of tears again. Albedo felt a small pang of guilt for it, but she couldn’t pretend to be blind to Gold’s problems forever, no matter how much Mona owed her. He wondered how she would feel when she found out the truth about Gold. 

“Did she tell you that we haven’t spoken in over a year?” His voice lowered dangerously. The lid was slipping.

Mona looked absolutely devastated. “You’re all she has.” 

“That has never been the case,” Albedo said in a deadly calm. His hands tightened under the bar counter, small crescent moons forming in his palms. He knew his mother didn’t care for him. She raised him, if you could call her parenting raising a child, and cast him aside like he was some sort of creature. Like a pet she didn’t have use for anymore. “She has her students… her work,” Albedo spat. His tone was so venomous he was sure the acidity of them could've bled through the bar.

“You’re her son!” Her voice was pleading. It revolted him to his stone cold core. 

“You’ve been watching too much TV” is all he said. The lid was safely back in place.

Mona peeked at him out of the corner of her eye before waving down the bartender, clearly done with the conversation. “Can we get the check?” She sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her thumb and pointer finger. “I have to leave early in the morning. I should go to bed.” 

Albedo tried to salvage the situation, adrenaline petering out. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up.” And he really was sorry. It was so painfully awkward he wished he hadn’t brought her up. 

“The Ragnvindr Inn knows about the situation,” Mona explained, disregarding him. She did this sometimes. Business as usual. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised by the quick construction of the facade; she was practically raised by Gold as well. “You should be able to stay in her room as long as you need.” 

They parted ways. 

–

Back in the suite, Albedo stood in the ensuite bathroom wearing a white t-shirt and sweatpants,  arms braced on either side of the mirror. He glared at himself. The gravity of the situation weighed on him. In that moment he believed he might just be Atlas.

“Shit.” 

-

You were peeling vegetables again. This time, a daikon root from the backyard. You’d decided to take on gardening to pass the time, and your mother needed good healthy foods to recover. You dedicated yourself completely to your task, rinsing the root in the sink. You absentmindedly stared out the window as you grabbed the next one, watching your mother smoking under the carport. She was too young to look this old; she was truly 45 going on 60. Your heart twisted violently. 

You ate your meal together in comfortable silence this time, your mother commenting on how much better your cooking had gotten. After you cleaned up, you sat together on the couch and watched Jeopardy, the blue glow of the board and Alex Trebek’s familiar voice enveloping the otherwise black darkness and silence of your tired living room. 

“Do you know what you’re doing on Sunday?” She asked suddenly. 

“No, I’ll just drop you off in the morning and then take it over to Wagner’s,” you replied with a mouthful of ice cream. 

“It’ll cost us more if it breaks down on us…” she said with a twinge of worry. Her long, skinny arm reached across you to take a sip of water. 

“Ugh, I hate cars,” you complained. 

“Me too.”

--------

Author's Note

Heyyyyy! Not sure if anyone will read this but I am back from my little hiatus. I am planning on writing some other pics, maybe Link or Scaramouche, not too sure yet (and maybe even some Levi depending on when the fuck season 4 part 3 is dropped).

Housekeeping stuff:

this is not my original work. this is from a movie called Columbus. I thought the story was really interesting and I wanted to stretch my writing ability and see if I could adapt a really complex, visually-heavy, story-light screenplay into text

I am part German, though my German isn't perfect. sorry if there are mistakes, I'd say I'm only about half fluent, and it's mostly German/English I speak with my family. as such, grammar isn't very strong

reader is about 25 here, albedo is around 27 or 28

for clarity again, this movie takes place in a real town called Columbus, Indiana. for reference, it is in the middle of nowhere, but it is considered a bit of an architectural hub. so if it seems weird that there are important architects with buildings here, that is why

this is already finished on AO3 if you want to read it completed there, but it is NOT edited. it needs a lot more fleshing out, so if you want a better story and a better representation of my writing ability, I'd recommend waiting it out here

this is a 7 chapter story, but I will be narrowing it down to 3-5 on Tumblr. I think longform works better with this story since the "chapters" are so fragmented

Thanks for reading! Have a lovely day <3

#albedo kreideprinz #albedo genshin #genshin impact #albedo fanfic #albedo x reader #albedo x fem!reader #German albedo #mona genshin #gold genshin #rhinedottir #rosaria genshin #albedo x oc #kaeya alberich #kaeya x reader #kaeya x fem!reader #kaeya fanfic #kaeya genshin #kaeya genshin x reader

[hypaalicious]

EPISODE IGNIS: the babadook keeps trying to seduce ignis with varying rates of success.

See, now I’m just obsessed with the idea of Ardyn mindfucking Ignis until he breaks all through episode Ignis

Where Ardyn keeps asking Ignis to join him until he finally gives in because he thinks it’s the only way he can see Noct again

Then once he does, Ardyn!Noct appears to roughly fuck Ignis into full submission. Ignis ain’t dumb, he knows it ain’t really Noct but at that point he doesn’t care because he’ll feel like he deserves getting railed brutally by his-not King

And then Ignis is just a tattered mess of a man who only exists to be used by Ardyn

And then the real Noct is going nuts looking for Ignis and doesn’t find him until 10 years later

And it’s at that point where Noct is facing Ardyn sitting on the throne that Ardyn pulls on a leash and drags Ignis out into the open that Noct knows what happened

ULTRA DRAMATIC SCENE

… k wait what was the question again I got carried away

#crap I guess ima just start sailing a fucked up Ardynis ship #or is it Ignyn #fuck this ship name stuff it’s as fucked up as this pairing LMFAO #not like I want Ignis to suffer more but #I kinda wanna write this now #... no plz I can’t I can’t even finish the shut I’m supposed to write #GODDAMNIT #*backs away from this concept post haste* #not so anon ask

[lunar-wandering]

“this house is a frickin’ nightmare”

so i. decided to write something for the ‘Sitcom’ AU, which is basically just the concept that post-canon, everyone lives in the same house.... its Fun.

Word Count: 2.7k

Read on Ao3

-

"Monkey King, get down from the fridge."

"No."

This exchange is what drew MK's attention to the fact that something was happening in the kitchen.

In MK's opinion, it was far too early for something to be happening in the kitchen.

"Wukong, I swear, if you don't get down from there-"

"What- you gonna stab me? Pigsy, you know full well that method is ineffective."

"What is going on?" MK asked, entering the kitchen and, well, seeing exactly what he had expected; Wukong crouched on top of the fridge, staring down at Pigsy, who was glaring up at him.

Still though. Just because he'd expected to see it didn't explain why it was happening.

"Oh hey, kid." Wukong said, taking notice of him. "Everything's fine, you can go back to your room, breakfast will be ready soon."

"It would be done already if you hadn't burned it." Pigsy said, gesturing to the charred remains of what supposedly had been breakfast. "Seriously, can't you follow simple instructions?? Now we've gotta start all over."

"It's not my fault I'm a visual learner." Wukong said, his tail swinging back and forth.

"It was three steps-"

"What's going on?"

MK barely kept himself from startling at the new voice behind him, turning around to see a very tired looking Red Son.

"Breakfast burned." MK said, catching Red Son up on the situation. Red Son hummed in contemplation, walking into the kitchen, picking up a piece of the unrecognizable charred food, and, ignoring the other's growing horror, he ate it.

"...Tastes fine to me." He said, going so far as to grab and nibble on another piece as he turned and left, presumably heading back to his room. The remaining three watched him go in shocked silence.

"....This house is a frickin' nightmare." Wukong deadpanned. Pigsy nodded in agreement.

"Aptly put. Now get off of the fridge."

"No."

MK decided to go back to bed.

-

It was commonly known, within the household, that somehow, Tang and Wukong continuously managed to get out of doing their fair share of the chores. No one was quite sure how they did it, as the two of them kept coming up with new methods every day.

Today's method was..... interesting, to say the least.

Somehow, someway, they had managed to remove their names from the Chore Roulette Wheel, without leaving any trace that their names had ever even been there. Which was, in fact, rather impressive, considering that the roulette wheel was literally a giant wooden roulette wheel, built by Sandy, and there were no empty spaces were their names used to be, they were just. Gone.

To be honest, MK would've never noticed if Mei hadn't pointed it out.

Now, there was a house-wide search for the two chore-shirkers.

"Found 'em yet?" MK yelled down the stairs into the basement. A few seconds passed, then a unanimous call of "No!" came. MK sighed. If the Spider-gang couldn't find Tang and Wukong down there, then they probably weren't there. (.....Probably. Wukong did have a lot of tricks up his sleeves, and MK didn't put it pass his mentor to use them for something like this.)

That checked off the majority of the house.... which only left-

An enraged scream (courtesy of Mei) from upstairs confirmed what MK had concluded.

They were on the roof.

MK rushed to the stairs, running up them-

Only to pause as he heard a yelp, and a flash of gold fell past the window, followed by a loud thud. MK leaned on the windowsill to look outside, just in time to see Tang fall past it. Wukong, a few branches and grass in his fur from his rough landing, summoned his cloud to catch Tang, before zooming away.

As MK would later find out, in the haste to escape Mei's wrath, Tang had actually pushed Wukong off the roof. Wukong, in return, had unceremoniously dropped Tang on the ground the first chance he got.

Both of their names were back on the roulette wheel by the next morning.

....They still managed to get out of doing their chores though.

-

"Oh, hey Macaque." MK mumbled, tiredly rubbing his eyes, and Macaque, mid-way through stealing a snack out of the fridge, froze like a deer in the headlights.

"Uh.....hey, bud." He said, slowly closing the fridge door, glancing at MK, who was obviously very tired, then looking at the clock on the wall.

2:43 AM. Okay, he could work with this.

"What are you doing up so late?" Macaque asked, leaning casually against the fridge in an attempt to hide his nervousness. If MK had been more awake, he would've noticed and called him out on it, but as it was....

"Just woke up.... wanted to get a snack." MK said, and Macaque quickly opened a nearby cupboard.

"Here, have this." He said, putting a cookie in MK's hands, before grabbing him by the shoulders, turning him around, and gently shoving him back towards his room. "Now go back to bed."

"G'night, Macaque." MK said, nibbling on his cookie.

"Goodnight, MK." Macaque sighed, waiting until he heard MK's bedroom door click closed again before melting back into the shadows.

The next morning, MK thought he had dreamt the whole thing. After all, Macaque had vehemently denied the invitation to live in the house with everyone else, surely if he had changed his mind and started to live with them, someone would've noticed.

....Right?

-

"Monkey King?"

"Yeah?"

"Why do you always sleep on the roof?" Red Son asked, "I mean, you do have a room after all, why don't you use it?"

"I just like watching the stars." Wukong said, reclining on his cloud. Suddenly, Mei and MK also appeared beside Red Son, with their arms crossed, looking unimpressed.

"You told me that beds were uncomfortable." Mei said.

"And you told me that you liked the breeze." MK added. Wukong's tail bristled a little, but he still didn't look over at them.

"Well, I mean, all of those are true." Wukong said, "Figured I would just... switch my answers up from time to time, keep things entertaining you know?"

"That doesn't explain why you slept out there in the pouring rain." Mei said, "In fact, the only time we've seen you sleep inside is when we have blanket fort night."

"...The rain was nice?" Wukong said, sounding uncertain. The trio narrowed their eyes.

"Is there something wrong with your room?" Red Son asked, and Wukong flinched.

"No." He said, finally sitting up and looking at them. "Really, my room's perfectly fine, I don't know where you're getting the idea that something's wrong-"

"You're doing that nervous smile again." MK said, and Wukong slammed a hand over his mouth in an attempt to hide what the trio had already seen.

There was a moment of silence, and in that moment, each member of the traffic light trio came to a shared conclusion.

No matter the cost, they would get into Wukong's room.

Almost as though they had actually planned it, the trio took off towards the staircase, ignoring Wukong's yells for them to stop. Hurriedly, Wukong summoned two clones, then rushed after the trio.

Red on got caught on the stairs, the clone grabbing hold of the edge of his coat and dragging him down. It wouldn't be able to hold him for long of course, his fire could quickly burn the clone away, but it would still manage to slow him down.

Mei was captured in the hallway, the clone pushing off the wall to tackle her, accidentally knocking her right into Yin and Jin's room, pining her to the ground as the twins yelped in shock.

...Which just left MK.

Having trained with the Monkey King, MK found himself easily dodging Wukong's attempts to catch him. Slightly out of breath, he skidded to a stop in front of Wukong's door, turned the knob, and opened it.

"I don't really see what the problem is, the room looks fine to me-" MK said, stepping into the room.

"Kid, wait-" Wukong started to say, but it was too late.

MK tripped, tumbling into the room, dispelling the illusion Wukong had carefully crafted and placed over it.

Wukong's room was a mess, to put things lightly. There was stuff everywhere- books, clothes, antiques, food, you named it, it was probably there. It was to the point where there was no place to sleep, the bed being covered in stuff. Which, well, that explained the whole 'sleeping on the roof' thing, but still.

Wukong nervously shifted from foot to foot in the doorway. Red Son and Mei, who had succeeded in freeing themselves, as well as Yin and Jin, who had gotten curious from all the commotion, stared over Wukong's shoulders, taking in the state of the room.

MK sat there for a moment, looking at the mess (and sure, MK's room was messy too, but this-), before slowly turning around to look at his mentor, a serious expression on his face.

"Wukong." MK said, and Wukong stiffened, his nervous smile growing wider at the sound of MK saying his name instead of his title.

"...Yeah?" Wukong said, chuckling nervously as MK's look darkened.

"...I'm getting Sandy."

"Wait, no no no-"

The rest of the day was spent cleaning up Wukong's room, sorting through the piles upon piles of stuff.

Wukong, in a bout of spite, still slept on the roof anyways.

-

Yin and Jin stared in shock at the scene in front of them.

Everyone in the house knew that Wukong and Tang adamantly avoided doing their share of the chores. (The roof-pushing incident was still fresh in everyone's minds, after all).

So that's why seeing Wukong doing the laundry was very out of place.

"...What are you two staring at?" Wukong asked, snapping the twins out of their shocked reverie.

"It's just....weird to see you doing the laundry, that's all." Yin said, and that-

Well, surprisingly enough, that made Wukong actually pause.

"It is?" He asked, slowly setting the laundry basket down on the ground, subtly nudging it under a nearby table so that it was now out of view.

"Well, I mean, with how you and Mr. Tang utilize every method possible to avoid doing the chores, we never thought we'd actually see you doing one." Jin said.

"...I see." Wukong said, quietly. "Well, in that case. You two saw nothing."

"Wha-"

Not giving them a chance to respond, Wukong flashed a peace sign, then vanished, leaving the twins to sputter in disbelief.

(Later, Macaque returned to the laundry room to pick up the clothes he'd left behind.)

-

Syntax paused as he stared at the sight before him.

"...What is this?" He ased, drawing the attention of the occupants in the living room.

"A braid train!" MK replied, and honestly, that's what it was. MK sat on the floor, braiding Bai He's hair, Bai He braiding Red Son's, who was braiding Mei's hair. Mei pulled one hand out of Spider Queen's hair to give Syntax a little wave before returning to braiding the queen's hair. Spider Queen gently weaved Huntsman's hair into a braid that looked above professional level. Huntsman was twisted at an odd angle in order to put some braids in Sandy's beard. And Sandy carefully created some tiny braids in Wukong's fur."

"I....see." Syntax said, holding up his phone and taking a quick picture before any of the braid train participants could notice.

"Do you wanna join?" MK asked, "You can either braid my hair or get yours braided by Monkey King. Your choice."

Syntax took a moment to think about it.

He ended up braiding MK's hair.

-

There was someone in the shower.

Now, usually, this wouldn't be such a mind-boggling thing, but-

All of the house's occupants stared at the bathroom door in trepidation.

"You sure Wukong didn't just accidentally leave the shower on again?" Princess Iron Fan asked, prompting some indignant sputtering from Wukong, who was sitting on Demon Bull King's shoulder. MK shook his head in the negative.

"No, I'm sure I heard someone moving in there." He said, crossing his arms.

"Why don't you or Monkey King just use your true sight and get this whole mystery over with?" Jin asked.

"Yeah, we've already been waiting for like, 20 minutes." Yin said.

"They're in the shower." MK said, "I'm not just gonna invade their privacy like that, regardless of who they are."

The shower turned off, and everyone turned to stare at the door again, in silence. There was some rustling around, and then the door opened.

Macaque. It was Macaque. Who, upon realizing that literally the entire household was standing in front of him, froze.

And then immediately tried to turn and run.

"Oh no you don't." Wukong said, jumping off of Demon Bull King's shoulder, and outright tackling the other monkey to the ground. "What are you doing here?"

"Uh, I live here?" Macaque said, sitting up and shoving Wukong off of him.

"You turned down the invitation to come and live with us though...." Wukong said, slowly standing back up. ".....How long have you been here?"

"Two weeks."

"Two weeks?!" Everyone went into various states of shock.

"How could we not have noticed you?" MK asked.

"You- you did notice me though." Macaque said, "Like, we had a whole conversation in the kitchen at around 3 AM."

"You think I remember what happens at 3 am?!" MK said, holding his head in his hands, and Red Son comfortingly patted him on the back.

"What happens at 3 AM stays at 3 AM." Red Son said, sounding like he was saying some ancient wisdom despite the actual sentence being utter nonsense. Yin and Jin snapped their fingers as a look of realization appeared on their faces. 

"That's why we saw Wukong doing the laundry the other day." Yin said, "It was Macaque in disguise!"

"....Yeah, I figured you'd notice if I didn't do some chores, just to clean up after myself." Macaque sighed, and Pigsy turned to glare at Wukong and Tang.

"See? Even the ex-villain does more chores than you two." He said, and Wukong and Tang purposefully looked away, whistling innocently.

"Wait." Mei said, "If you've been here for two weeks, and we haven't seen you use any of the bedrooms... then where have you been sleeping?"

As it turned out, Macaque had been spending his nights in the storage closet, curled up in the darkest corner of the room with nothing other than a blanket and a small pillow. The others, of course, deemed this as unacceptable, and pretty much near shoved him into one of the leftover bed rooms.

...Which he didn't even end up using that night, as it ended up being a night where everyone ended up falling asleep in the living room, blankets and pillows strewn about everywhere.

The next morning, Macaque wasn't there when the others woke up, and there was a brief moment of panic over the monkey's whereabouts-

And then said monkey walked back into the room, using the shadows to help him carry some trays with breakfast on it.

He paused when he registered that everyone was staring at him.

"....What?" He asked, "I woke up first, that means I had breakfast duty, right?"

"I mean.....yeah." MK said, graciously accepting his plate of food. "But, to be honest. I kinda expected you to burn it like Monkey King did."

"Hey, I did that on purpose. For Red Son." Wukong said, "Cause, y'know. He likes charred food. Apparently."

"You did not do that on purpose and we all know it." Pigsy said, "You were just as unaware of Red Son's dietary habits as the rest of us."

"...I literally just woke up and I'm kinda feeling attacked." Red Son mumbled, sitting up. "Should I feel like I'm being attacked?"

"No, you're fine, we're just calling out Wukong again." Spider Queen whispered to him, and Red Son hummed before rolling back over, clearly intending on getting a few more minutes of rest despite the argument starting to occur in the room. Macaque, for his part, remained standing frozen, with MK standing beside him, nibbling at the food on his plate.

"....Should I be concerned about this?" Macaque asked, staring at the fight taking place. MK shrugged.

"Nah." He said, "This is just the same shit as always."

#Monkie Kid #'Sitcom' AU #my writing

[mego42]

a birthday rec post!

for @foxmagpie​’s birthday i’m celebrating her beautiful brain with five of my fav of her fics. If you haven’t checked them out i highkey recommend you fix your lives post-haste bc like my taste in people, my taste in fic is impeccable (though i am open to counterarguments if you guys have others you want to add on).

Snapshots: Photobooth

gOD this fic is so cUTE

i say fic but it’s tech an anthology of delinquents future snippets and this is just one chapter and while i’m here i heartily rec all of it

truly a galaxy brain concept on megan’s part, she’s tormenting us with a(n exquisite) slow burn in delinquents but also giving us the goods so we know what to look forward to

i love having my cake and eating it too, is what i’m saying

especially when the cake is as sweet and delightful as this one

look it’s a really neat trick to be able to write rio as a giddy sap of a teenage!! person and still have it feel totally in line with his adult canon self somehow idk how she does it but i’m so glad she does

Subjunctive

i’m gonna start us off by promising you guys i think about this fic an extremely normal amount

i also want to disclaim that i know beth gaming a douchebag named parker in a bar isn’t an homage to buffy bc megan’s refusal to watch is a source of endless torment BUT no one can stop me from taking it as one

anyway

i think one of the things that gets me with this fic is how neatly and efficiently it weaves in beth and rio’s (brief) history with the exact right amount of pining that i’m fully on board and rooting for them to get together not just hook up but it doesn’t take away from the bouncy, light, fun feel of the fic

plus oh my goD is it sexy

now elizabeth

who gave you the right????????????

Missed Call

the way this fic stresses me out

weird opening to a rec, i know but hear me out: the mounting tension is a perfectly paced build that sets up the culmination to hit like a hammer

it’s also a really excellent study in how isolating fear and stress can be and how even the most well-intentioned comfort can be the least comforting thing in the world and idk maybe that’s a weird thing to rec about it too but i think that’s so real and messy and i love how the discordant note of it plays into the tension

i know it’s not meant to be but it plays as an excellent counterpart to back to our cocoon which is only not on this list bc i made the stupid ass decision to stick to five but you should def consider that recced as well

I Will Collect and Capture You

look if you haven’t read this fic yet idk what to tell you

i really wanted to stick with stuff i hadn’t recced a bunch before but i love this one too much to leave it off but since i’ve yelled about it a bunch already i’ll be brief

while it is technically a wip, each chapter feels like a complete standalone arc so if you’ve been sitting on this one, stop making bad choices

features peak brio mess and jealousy and a metric fuckton of angst, but also weaves in some tenderness and humor and a hefty amount of god tier smut

truly this fic has it all

Crush

THE WAY I LOVE THIS FIC

look, i am not usually an OC person when it comes to fic, i’m here for what i’m here for, you know? but mar and elena are apparently the exception to that rule

it’s also a testament to how rich and in-depth the delinquents verse is that it can support such a built out, fully realized side-quest style fic for two characters who, while fairly close to the central plot, aren’t remotely the focus of it

also i know this fic is all about mar and elena getting together and do not get me wrong, they are the absolute cutest and everything about their story makes me scream, the part of this fic that really makes my heart go haywire is the mar and rio of it all

idk precisely why but i am ridiculously invested in rio having bffs on ruby and annie’s level and gOD does the relationship with mar megan’s crafted deliver on that like whoa

everything about their relationship from the literal reality of it to the way that rio’s an indelible part of mar’s mental landscape is pitch perfect and so, so precious to me

(and LOOK i KNOW that is not LITERALLY THE YEARBOOK DRAWING i am AWARE it should be a DUGOUT i TRIED MY BEST)

ily babe, i hope you have an amazing day 💖

#THE HAPPIEST!!!!!!! OF BIRTHDAYS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! #you deserve all the best things in the world and i hope your year is full of them #brio fic #fic recs #nbc good girls #FOR THE RECORD i am still writing you a fic #it's just taking longer than i meant it too #idk it's going wonky on me and i can't tell if it's a balloon or reroute situation yet #BUT #there's gonna be FIVE pizzas and they're gonna be HUGE #idk why i said that no one's gonna get that reference and that's probs for the best

[savagetrickster]

Smirk Upon Me.

Mirio Togata (NSFW) | BNHA

Request: Hi! I saw your bingo event and I would like to give you a suggestion for the prompt “Stolen kisses”. How about Pro Hero Deku, or Mirio, x Vigilante! Reader (NSFW possibly)

anime | character:  bnha   |   mirio togata 

word count: 1.3k+

prompt: stolen kisses

themes/warnings: 18+, Pro-Hero!Mirio x Vigilante!Reader, sex on the street,  public sex, wall sex, vaginal penetration, unprotected sex

a/n: I haven’t been writing nsfw pieces for a while so I’m a little nervous about this one. I’ve made it less explicit but still retained the spiciness (I think) ‘cause writing this made me quite…fired up. I hope reading would make you so too ;) pardon me for any errors i failed to catch; this is not beta-ed. 

special mentions: this idea concept was inspired by the many nsfw bnha fics that carried this ‘hit by libido quirk’ concept i.e. one of them was @/shoutodoki’s Libido

Taglist: the bottom of this post :D (if you’d like to be added, just drop me an ask.)

Mirio had never felt this aroused in his life before. 

Like any other man, “Lemillion” the Pro-hero had his own moment of needs, but this burst of lust right now was too much even for him. 

He won a victorious battle against that perverted villain but the libido quirk of hers still hadn’t let up one bit. 

Fortunately, he was lucky to be in a rather secluded resident area where most houses were already dark and quiet with slumber, and the streets still with occasional passing vehicles. 

The last thing he needed was civilians to see Lemillion struggling to tame the massive erection bulging through his skin-tight hero costume. 

The merciless ache to release the urge gripping him had crippled his ability to think straight.

It was apparent that all rationale thoughts had been wiped clean of his mind when he jumped at your offer.

Life as a vigilante was never boring. You’d dealt with many interesting cases. 

But nothing could be more amusing than bumping into the all-famous ‘Lemillion’ battling, no, more like struggling against his libido evident in the not-so-subtle tent stiff in his suit on your way home.

You’ve never liked Pro-Heroes; they’ve always come across to you as a bunch of narcissists who only did ‘hero’ work to validate their own existences and inflate their egos. That doesn’t mean you liked villains either, of course. Hence, you were a vigilante partly due to Stain’s idea of a hero. 

Lemillion was one of the Pro-Heroes who didn’t irked you, and honestly, you’ve been harboring an attraction toward this man ever since you ‘accidentally’ ended up fighting alongside him months ago in a villain attack.

So you had no qualms helping him with his problem.

Besides, you were familiar enough with this libido quirk to know that the victims of this quirk wouldn’t be able to muster thoughts properly until the libido effect faded off by itself, which could take hours. Or the victims released it with sexual intercourse.

And of course, you wouldn’t want to give the latter with Lemillion a miss. The sight of Lemillion and his erected cock bobbing at you in his tight suit was enough to make you soak through your panties.

You were reminded once again about the other effect the libido quirk had on its victim, or rather a related effect from not being able to muster proper thoughts when he urgently pushed you up against the wall right there and then, in the middle of the goddamn street. 

The sexual frustration pent up from trying to suppress his lust was enough to make Lemillion toss what remaining traces of reasoning he possessed out the window.

He got naked fast, and the splatters of pre-cum flung into the cool night air brought your eyes down to watch his cock spring stiff before him. Slippery fluid of his pre-cum cascaded from its flushed head, coating the slightly curled, generous length in dribbles.  It should not be surprising to find a cock of such thickness and length on a man like Mirio Togata, but nevertheless it took you by surprise.

Theorizing about this man’s girth from the way it bulged under his suit and seeing it in flesh was worlds apart. 

Shoving your dress up and yanking down your soaked panties, a satisfied groan escaped Mirio the moment he pushed his aching cock into your drenched fold in a needy haste. The guttural groan dragging through his throat ended with a strained comment of how tight you felt around him as your velvet walls stretched to wrap around his sheathing cock. 

You couldn’t help chorusing after him at how well he stretched you, fitting between your heated walls perfectly. He was so big and hard; you could feel every bit of his arousal pulsing in the stiffness of his cock.

The man didn’t spend a second more to think about the possibility of being caught thrusting himself into you by any peeking eyes from the windows nearby. 

Going at it with the Lemillion on the street was far too thrilling for you to care either. 

Legs spread apart by the crooks of his elbows, you bit into your bottom lips as you watched him hammer himself into you like a starved man. 

Your moans mingled with his as you savored the pleasure scrunching up his face and the feral way he pistoned his thrusts between your legs. 

Every thrust left a blazing trail of pleasure in your clenching wall. The ruts he plummeted into you were with fervor and deep — deep enough for his swollen tip to graze your womb every single time.

Your hands draped over his broad shoulders slid down his back, clutching onto him like he was your lifeline as white, hot flashes began to blind you in the building heat between your intermingling fluid. 

The tight, clenching muscles ridged across his back as his cock delved desperately into you, its bulging girth pushing apart your sopping folds in a frenzied speed. The wet, squelches slapped violently in the silence of the quiet street as he arched his back with his hips in a emphasizing angle, as if dedicating all his willpower and absolute strength into his thrusts. 

Like he was a man on a mission as he pounded his cock into you.

Breathy groans from you were accompanied by low growls rumbling in his chest as you stared at the dark houses behind him between weakly fluttering eyelids and lips hanging open in a euphoric daze.

One particular brutal prod of his engorged cock against your womb hit the spot, prompting the heat curling in your core to snap.

A sinful moan slipped feverishly from your lips as a hot burst of pleasure surged through you, lighting every nerve in an electrifying euphoria. 

High on the orgasmic thrill convulsing inside you, you felt your clenching walls grip his cock in a choking hold and heard him drag a broken groan through his throat at the peak of his own orgasm.

Mirio couldn’t help the delirious sigh sifting giddily through his lips, relishing the relief he desperately sought earlier engulfing him as his twitching cock released its bulging load in spurts of white, thick ropes onto your walls.

The moan from your high withered to a whimper as he rocked his pelvis languorously against yours, jutting his cock into you over and over until there was nothing left to ejaculate. 

You were surprised no one woke up despite how vocal and raunchy you two sounded.

The carnal heat between was quickly dissipating in the cool air as quivering, ragged breathing heaved and fell with your joined bodies.

“…Did I say you could cum inside me, Mr. Lemillion?” You teased between your harsh pants. You could feel his seeds pouring between your legs, leaving you in warm trails of trickles down your thighs.

Amusement tugged a side of your lips, carving a playful smirk as you felt his body stiffen under you. You heard him curse just as you were leaning away from his shoulders.

“M-My bad, I’ll take responsibility if anything happens. I swear I will—” 

You pressed your lips into his and your tongue slyly darted into his opened mouth mid-sentence, sensually sucking on his. 

Your lips quirked into a smirk once more against his as you drank in the delicious moan you felt rumble from the depth of his chest.

The brush of his hand against your cheek made you break away before he could do anything more. 

The smirk never left you as you gazed down at his flustered face.

“Just kidding, I’m on the pill.” You tilted your head haughtily at him.

You laughed and pushed yourself off him, walking away in the direction of your house, but paused partway.

“Oh yeah, feel free to steal back a kiss anytime, Mr. Lemillion.” 

You threw him a wink over your shoulder.

”You know where to find me.” A curt gesture at a certain house ahead, you turned to go.

“The name’s Mirio Togata!”

You heard him call after you, and your lips curled. 

tags:@shoutodoki​, @princessbunnie666, @glaringlights​, @platinumbelle​, @shamelessyouthqueen​, @lowermoons​, @xaki​, @shippingangel​, @itachianddazai, @khemz1312​, @kageybee​, @toothirsty4main​

#mirio x reader #mirio smut #bnha mirio #bnha smut #mirio togata #mha smut #mha x reader #mha imagines #anime smut

[thenamesblurrito]

OC dump-

hi i’m trying not to think about something so have some self indulgence as an attempt at distraction. not all this art is finished but whatever

i think i forgot to post this TFA version of Buzzard (they/them) and their minicon companion Gremlin (he/him). i just keep giving them redesigns smh. it’s fun though! their TFA version is created when two Allspark shards activate in a plane museum and bring them to life. they fall in with Wreck-gar and go their merry way around collecting anything shiny or interesting. their special ability is snatching anything they want for their magpie hoard, even if it means sneaking a hand into somebody’s internals to pry out a fuel pump! they can do this lightning fast with excellent precision, so oftentimes they’ve already got their new shiny tucked away before anyone even realizes what happened. the concept of stealing needs to be introduced to them gradually. Gremlin helps by having incredible bite strength and an unbreakable jaw, so if Buzzard can’t quite reach something, they can hold him up to whatever they want and have him chomp it. granted, Buzzard is about as tall as Cyclonus, so it isn’t too often there’s something they can’t reach!

have a See-saw (she/they). she knows you’re here. she knows you’re watching her. unfortunately, she is also aware there’s nothing she can do about it, and is thus anxious. that’s their special ability actually, a play on their name, since they “see/saw” the story they’re part of. they have meta information about the universe they live in and what’s going on around them, so she comes across as paranoid, cowardly, and the most intense conspiracy theorist in the world. given that she’s a TFA OC who is an Autobot intel agent, working under Longarm Prime... yeah they know exactly who they’re working for and are properly afraid. nobody is aware of her meta knowledge, so they just assume her uncannily on-point guesses is a sign of being excellent at her job. most people assume their incredibly perfect balance is their special ability, which is the reason they were named See-saw to begin with.

my first Transformers OC, Mantis, and some freakin old art for her too. she started as a Bayverse OC, a deliberate mary sue, because i wanted to explore what being a mary sue would do to a person’s psyche. (the answer is, nothing good) she’s a gentle person with a little too much compassion, sometimes willing to let people take advantage of her because she wants to be kind. but she’s got two younger siblings of her same frametype, Seraph and Quetzal, and she’d move mountains for them. a nice mom friend. her alt mode is a hovercraft, by the way, those circles are large wheels containing rotors.

if you thought i could resist getting accidentally attached to this trio of jokingly-named darlings, you were wrong, which is why i’ve actually made art for them. a trio of contentious sisters, Post Haste, Lambaste, and Toothpaste are all just worker bots. Post Haste delivers mail because she’s pretty fast! even when she delivers it to the wrong person she’s fast enough to go back and correct her mistake with a smile without losing time on her route. Lambaste works alongside people twice her size because of her incredible strength, but oftentimes ends up using that strength to punch people out because they picked a fight with her. she’s got a semi-permanent glower on her, and the only people who are exempt from having a permanent grudge held against them are her siblings (only bc holding two grudges against the ppl she’s related to gets exhausting when you love them too). Toothpaste (yes i actually did name her toothpaste, i wanted their names to rhyme) is very careful with the details of her work, which means the spaces she cleans always end up looking absolutely spotless. usually she’s polite and demure and kind, but if you ruin her hard work (like a certain person who appears below) she will get Toweringly Mad. prepare to be chewed out by the personality equivalent of a furious kitten. each of them are variants on an alt mode inspired by that autonomous car up there. Post Haste is the basic version, Lambaste has a truck bed and a hitch, and Toothpaste has street cleaner attachments, with the big brush forming a skirt.

aaaaaand the most recent OC made out of spite/joke and once again i got too attached. Hot Dog (he/they) only exists because my phone for some reason keeps autocorrecting hot dog to be capitalized. clearly this is my phone trying to give me an OC. he’s a country boy, a buff giant, and a rough-and-tumble boyish neighborhood “no girls allowed”-type rascal, tracking mud and leaves everywhere he goes. also i don’t know how this works but he’s somehow Hot Rod’s cousin. i didn’t know what to do with him until i thought about what he’d be like interacting with other OCs and was promptly slapped in the face with the enemies-to-lovers vibe of prim and proper Toothpaste/annoyed farmboy Hot Dog

#tfoc #buzzard #gremlin #see-saw #mantis #post haste #lambaste #toothpaste #hot dog #transformers #macaddam #wip #i thought about trying to finish these before posting but i have so little art energy rn. gatoraider was a miracle #u can ask about them if u want! they aren't in snap and i dont rly have a super developed story in mind for them but #talking about them is better than being sad yknow!!!!! #long post

[route22ny]

By CALVIN WOODWARD, ELLEN KNICKMEYER and DAVID RISING

September 10, 2021 GMT

In the ghastly rubble of ground zero’s fallen towers 20 years ago, Hour Zero arrived, a chance to start anew.

World affairs reordered abruptly on that morning of blue skies, black ash, fire and death.

In Iran, chants of “death to America” quickly gave way to candlelight vigils to mourn the American dead. Vladimir Putin weighed in with substantive help as the U.S. prepared to go to war in Russia’s region of influence.

Libya’s Moammar Gadhafi, a murderous dictator with a poetic streak, spoke of the “human duty” to be with Americans after “these horrifying and awesome events, which are bound to awaken human conscience.”

From the first terrible moments, America’s longstanding allies were joined by longtime enemies in that singularly galvanizing instant. No nation with global standing was cheering the stateless terrorists vowing to conquer capitalism and democracy. How rare is that?

Too rare to last, it turned out.

___

Civilizations have their allegories for rebirth in times of devastation. A global favorite is that of the phoenix, a magical and magnificent bird, rising from ashes. In the hellscape of Germany at the end of World War II, it was the concept of Hour Zero, or Stunde Null, that offered the opportunity to start anew.

For the U.S., the zero hour of Sept. 11, 2001, meant a chance to reshape its place in the post-Cold War world from a high perch of influence and goodwill as it entered the new millennium. This was only a decade after the collapse of the Soviet Union left America with both the moral authority and the financial and military muscle to be unquestionably the lone superpower.

Those advantages were soon squandered. Instead of a new order, 9/11 fueled 20 years of war abroad. In the U.S., it gave rise to the angry, aggrieved, self-proclaimed patriot, and heightened surveillance and suspicion in the name of common defense.

It opened an era of deference to the armed forces as lawmakers pulled back on oversight and let presidents give primacy to the military over law enforcement in the fight against terrorism. And it sparked anti-immigrant sentiment, primarily directed at Muslim countries, that lingers today.

A war of necessity — in the eyes of most of the world — in Afghanistan was followed two years later by a war of choice as the U.S. invaded Iraq on false claims that Saddam Hussein was hiding weapons of mass destruction. President George W. Bush labeled Iran, Iraq and North Korea an “axis of evil.”

Thus opened the deep, deadly mineshaft of “forever wars.” There were convulsions throughout the Middle East, and U.S. foreign policy — for half a century a force for ballast — instead gave way to a head-snapping change in approaches in foreign policy from Bush to Obama to Trump. With that came waning trust in America’s leadership and reliability.

Other parts of the world were not immune. Far-right populist movements coursed through Europe. Britain voted to break away from the European Union. And China steadily ascended in the global pecking order.

President Joe Biden is trying to restore trust in the belief of a steady hand from the U.S. but there is no easy path. He is ending war, but what comes next?

In Afghanistan in August, the Taliban seized control with menacing swiftness as the Afghan government and security forces that the United States and its allies had spent two decades trying to build collapsed. No steady hand was evident from the U.S. in the harried, disorganized evacuation of Afghans desperately trying to flee the country in the first weeks of the Taliban’s re-established rule.

Allies whose troops had fought and died in the U.S-led war in Afghanistan expressed dismay at Biden’s management of the U.S. withdrawal, under a deal President Donald Trump had struck with the Taliban.

THE ‘HOMELAND’

In the United States, the Sept. 11 attacks set loose a torrent of rage.

In shock from the assault, a swath of American society embraced the us vs. them binary outlook articulated by Bush — “Either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists” — and has never let go of it.

You could hear it in the country songs and talk radio, and during presidential campaigns, offering the balm of a bloodlust cry for revenge. “We’ll put a boot in your ass, it’s the American way,” Toby Keith promised America’s enemies in one of the most popular of those songs in 2002.

Americans stuck flags in yards and on the back of trucks. Factionalism hardened inside America, in school board fights, on Facebook posts, and in national politics, so that opposing views were treated as propaganda from mortal enemies. The concept of enemy also evolved, from not simply the terrorist but also to the immigrant, or the conflation of the terrorist as immigrant trying to cross the border.

The patriot under threat became a personal and political identity in the United States. Fifteen years later, Trump harnessed it to help him win the presidency.

THE OTHERING

In the week after the attacks, Bush demanded of Americans that they know “Islam is peace” and that the attacks were a perversion of that religion. He told the country that American Muslims are us, not them, even as mosques came under surveillance and Arabs coming to the U.S. to take their kids to Disneyland or go to school risked being detained for questioning.

For Trump, in contrast, everything was always about them, the outsiders.

In the birther lie Trump promoted before his presidency, Barack Obama was an outsider. In Trump’s campaigns and administration, Muslims and immigrants were outsiders. The “China virus” was a foreign interloper, too.

Overseas, deadly attacks by Islamic extremists, like the 2004 bombing of Madrid trains that killed nearly 200 people and the 2005 attack on London’s transportation system that killed more than 50, hardened attitudes in Europe as well.

By 2015, as the Islamic State group captured wide areas of Iraq and pushed deep into Syria, the number of refugees increased dramatically, with more than 1 million migrants, primarily from Syria, Afghanistan and Iraq, entering Europe that year alone.

The year was bracketed by attacks in France on the Charlie Hebdo magazine staff in January after it published cartoons of the Prophet Muhammad, and on the Bataclan theater and other Paris locations in November, reinforcing the angst then gripping the continent.

Already growing in support, far-right parties were able to capitalize on the fears to establish themselves as part of the European mainstream. They remain represented in many European parliaments, even as the flow of immigrants has slowed dramatically and most concerns have proved unfounded.

THE UNRAVELING

Dozens of countries joined or endorsed the NATO coalition fighting in Afghanistan. Russia acquiesced to NATO troops in Central Asia for the first time and provided logistical support. Never before had NATO invoked Article 5 of its charter that an attack against one member was an attack against all.

But in 2003, the U.S. and Britain were practically alone in prosecuting the Iraq war. This time, millions worldwide marched in protest in the run-up to the invasion. World opinion of the United States turned sharply negative.

In June 2003, after the invasion had swiftly ousted Saddam and dismantled the Iraqi army and security forces, a Pew Research poll found a widening rift between Americans and Western Europeans and reported that “the bottom has fallen out of support for America in most of the Muslim world.” Most South Koreans, half of Brazilians and plenty more people outside the Islamic world agreed.

And this was when the war was going well, before the world saw cruel images from Abu Ghraib prison, learned all that it knows now about CIA black op sites, waterboarding, years of Guantanamo Bay detention without charges or trials — and before the rise of the brutal Islamic State.

By 2007, when the U.S. set up the Africa Command to counter terrorism and the rising influence of China and Russia on the continent, African countries did not want to host it. It operates from Stuttgart, Germany.

THE SUCCESSES

Over the two decades, a succession of U.S. presidents scored important achievements in shoring up security, and so far U.S. territory has remained safe from more international terrorism anywhere on the scale of 9/11.

Globally, U.S.-led forces weakened al-Qaida, which has failed to launch a major attack on the West since 2005. The Iraq invasion rid that country and region of a murderous dictator in Saddam.

Yet strategically, eliminating him did just what Arab leaders warned Bush it would do: It strengthened Saddam’s main rival, Iran, threatening U.S. objectives and partners.

Deadly chaos soon followed in Iraq. The Bush administration, in its nation-building haste, failed to plan for keeping order, leaving Islamist extremists and rival militias to fight for dominance in the security vacuum.

The overthrow of Saddam served both to inspire and limit public support for Arab Spring uprisings a few years later. For if the U.S. showed people in the Middle East that strongmen can be toppled, the insurgency demonstrated that what comes next may not be a season of renewal.

Authoritarian regimes in the Middle East pointed to the post-Saddam era as an argument for their own survival.

The U.S.-led wars in Afghanistan and Iraq killed more than 7,000 American military men and women, more than 1,000 from the allied forces, many tens of thousands of members of Afghan and Iraqi security forces, and many hundreds of thousands of civilians, according to Brown University’s Costs of War project. Costs, including tending the wars’ unusually high number of disabled vets, are expected to top $6 trillion.

For the U.S., the presidencies since Bush’s wars have been marked by an effort — not always consistent, not always successful — to pull back the military from the conflicts of the Middle East and Central Asia.

The perception of a U.S. retreat has allowed Russia and China to gain influence in the regions, and left U.S. allies struggling to understand Washington’s place in the world. The notion that 9/11 would create an enduring unity of interest to combat terrorism collided with rising nationalism and a U.S. president, Trump, who spoke disdainfully of the NATO allies that in 2001 had rallied to America’s cause.

Even before Trump, Obama surprised allies and enemies alike when he stepped back abruptly from the U.S. role of world cop. Obama geared up for, then called off, a strike on Syrian President Bashar Assad for using chemical weapons against his people.

“Terrible things happen across the globe, and it is beyond our means to right every wrong,” Obama said on Sept. 11, 2013.

THE NEWISH ORDER

The legacies of 9/11 ripple both in obvious and unusual ways.

Most directly, millions of people in the U.S. and Europe go about their public business under the constant gaze of security cameras while other surveillance tools scoop up private communications. The government layered post-9/11 bureaucracies on to law enforcement to support the expansive security apparatus.

Militarization is more evident now, from large cities to small towns that now own military vehicles and weapons that seem well out of proportion to any terrorist threat. Government offices have become fortifications and airports a security maze.

But as profound an event as 9/11 was, its immediate effect on how the world has been ordered was temporary and largely undone by domestic political forces, a global economic downturn and now a lethal pandemic.

The awakening of human conscience predicted by Gadhafi didn’t last. Gadhafi didn’t last.

Osama bin Laden has been dead for a decade. Saddam was hanged in 2006. The forever wars — the Afghanistan one being the longest in U.S. history — now are over or ending. The days of Russia tactically enabling the U.S., and China not standing in the way, petered out. Only the phoenix lasts.

___

Rising reported from Bangkok; Knickmeyer and Woodward from Washington. AP National Security Writer Robert Burns contributed to this report.

https://apnews.com/article/911-20-years-world-affairs-cc497f11743fcbd48b0b3e0c3ed2da5f

#vladimir putin #two decades after 9/11 #new world order #historical turning point

[gellavonhamster]

cold weapons

Suicide Squad (2016) || Captain Boomerang/Katana || post-canon

ao3 link eng || this was first written and published on ao3 in Russian in 2017 but I didn't attempt to translate it into English back then.  

“So, what do you think of them?” Colonel Flag asks.

Tatsu puts the folder containing the rap sheet of Waylon Jones, better known as Killer Croc, on top of three other folders.

“They’re complicated,” she replies after giving it some thought.

The materials in these folders could have formed her first impression about the members of Task Force X – or, as Lawton has aptly put it, the Suicide Squad. Could have, but did not, because they were given their first task earlier than expected. Which is why she doesn’t say “villains” or “scoundrels” or “worst team imaginable” – her first impression of them was formed in combat, and then in an empty bar in Midway City where they all drank together thinking it may be the last drink in their lives. She remembers all of this and says ‘complicated’.  

“Very tactful of you,” the colonel chuckles. Then again, what kind of colonel is he now – an unwashed shirt, black circles under the eyes. Just another guy struggling with a deluge of work, a hard-hearted boss, and a troubled relationship with his girlfriend. “But yeah, they definitely aren’t simple,” continues Rick Flag, one of her few friends in the country that will never become her home, and Tatsu cannot suppress a tired smile.  

“You like them.”

“They’re… tolerable,” Rick admits, and takes another sip of coffee. Lately he seems to be living only on coffee and whiskey and the verb “must” and (so Tatsu supposes, although they don’t talk about that) the hope that June Moone, who still hasn’t fully recovered from all the horrors she’s been through, will be all right – and will stop isolating herself and avoiding him. These means for not letting yourself just fall down and never get up are far from being reliable, but Tatsu herself lives mostly on revenge and duty and, for that matter, whiskey as well, to a certain degree, so it’s not for her to judge. “Most of them, at least. All of them minus the Australian.”

��At least he’s a good fighter,” Tatsu points out. This is the only good thing she can say about Captain Boomerang with full confidence.  

“He’s not cut out for teamwork.”

“When we were fighting the Enchantress, it didn’t look to me like that.”

She does not put much meaning into these words. It’s just that at some point Captain Boomerang saved her, and she saved him – and good thing they’re even, because the last thing she needs is to owe a favour to someone so incompatible with the very concept of duty. She could have said much about the man who tried to escape at the very beginning of the mission and got a teammate killed (and for some reason stood up for El Diablo when Harley Quinn lashed out at him at the bar, and for some reason came back before the battle after trying to desert), but the only thing she’s sure of is that he’s a fine weapon; she can confirm that, being a weapon herself. At the end of the day, that is all that’s required from him.      

At the end of the day, that is all that’s required from her, too.

 ***

 It is possible that what she said about Digger Harkness sticks in Rick’s memory, because when the need to comb the area arises during the next mission, he sends the two of them to search through the same building.

“If he gets up to something, do whatever you want to him. No one’s gonna weep for him,” he flings off. This is in the heat of the moment, of course – Boomerang almost got into a fight with Killer Croc on the helicopter over some nonsense. Or rather, it was Croc that almost got into a fight with Boomerang after the latter provoked him. Complicated.  

“You heard that, darl?” Boomerang addresses her with a smile so wide as if he hasn’t heard the last remark. “I’m all yours.”

Tatsu looks the other way and pointedly takes her sword out of its sheath – not completely, just a little. No further comments follow, and they part company – Deadshot with Croc, Flag with his team of spec ops, Tatsu with Boomerang – and go on a recce.  

In the basement, they discover something that looks like a laboratory – if a place so far from being sanitary may even be called one. All their hopes to move without making a sound crumble as soon as they enter the room: the floor is covered with broken glass. Those who ran the place must have escaped in haste and couldn’t take the entire stock of the serum with them, so they opted to destroy most of it. Tatsu’s attention is immediately drawn to the object on the table in the middle of the room – a metal container with tubes going from it to several smaller vessels. She heads straight for the table, shards crunching underfoot. Boomerang follows her, apparently kicking the largest shards on purpose so that they fly in all directions.      

“Looks like a hooch still,” he comments, having come closer, and gives a whistle. “Whoa, fuck, is that blood?”

Compared to the first task of their squad, this one looks almost effortless. Two gangs, the members of one of which possess the formula of the serum that grants superpowers to those who take it. A gun battle, collateral damage, the entire district on lockdown. If a few people weren’t noticed literally floating through the sky, the police would have been handling this. But this is an emergency, which is why they’re here, and the flying gangsters aren’t flying anymore, for Lawton is an exceptionally good shot.    

As it turns out, the serum that sparked the conflict is based on metahuman blood – hardly donated voluntarily.

“I’ll contact Colonel Flag,” says Tatsu, eyes locked on the bloodied tubes, and then someone grabs her by the neck.

For the first time in her life, she really has to fight blindly – because her enemy is invisible.  

Later, when the dead bodies gradually become visible on the floor like an eerie animated movie, it turns out there were four of them. Before that, Tatsu manages to lose her sword, recapture it, almost choke when an invisible hand squeezes her neck, slash one of the attackers in half, and plunge the blade into another’s stomach. Boomerang takes care of the other two, knocking over the container in the process.    

Tatsu is listening to the silence that came after the fight, wondering if any other invisible foes are lurking around the corner, when she feels that something is wrong. Something is wrong with her – she just can't figure out what. Sometimes it happens that one feels unwell but cannot determine what exactly the problem is – she is experiencing something similar now. Until she realizes: the mask. Until she looks up and makes eye contact with Captain Boomerang, who is staring at her and grinning.  

“You lost anything, doll?” Harkness inquires innocently, with an emphasis on the last word, and his smile grows even wider and cockier.  

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. The invisible man she fought hand to hand tore off her mask, and she didn’t even notice. But her partner, blast him, did – and picked it up.  

“Give it back,” Tatsu demands, hand outstretched. She feels naked. In combat, during the mission, she is Katana, a single whole with her sword. A cold weapon. No one needs to see her face. Truly, if she was wearing only the mask and nothing else, she would have felt less exposed – all right, this is an overstatement, and she doesn’t even want to imagine such a situation. Meanwhile, Boomerang is in no hurry to return the mask.      

“What did ya call me when that fucker was about to stab me?” he asks. Tatsu clenches the sword hilt. There is no telling how many enemies drunk on the magic serum are hiding in this house, and he’s dawdling. “You said…”

Damn it, what did she say? She saw one of the invisibles creeping up on him while he was fighting another – a bloodstain was floating through the air. She shouted…

“I said ‘George’”. Isn’t your name George Harkness?”

“You bet it is. It’s just weird. Most people don’t call me George, y’know.”  

“How do they call you then?”

“Digger. Boomerang. Boomer. That Prick. All sorts of things, but never George. But you,” he winks, “can call me whatever ya want. I liked the way you say my name.”

“Give. Me. The mask.”

“And the magic word?”

“I will chop your hand off,” as a proof of her intentions, she puts the blade against his extended hand that is holding her mask. In fact, she would face no consequences for doing so. No one’s gonna weep for him.      

Harkness makes a helpless gesture and hands her the mask.

“Can’t say no to you, luv.”

The mask helps her conceal her identity, but what is more important is that it helps her conceal needless emotions. Tatsu really hopes that her facial expression isn’t giving away that she’s ill at ease now. This is a weakness; weaknesses are not to be demonstrated. She feels deeply relieved when she puts the mask back on.  

“Let’s get out of here,” she commands, turns around, and heads for the exit. Harkness trails behind.

“It ain’t fair, by the way. You know my real name, but I don’t know yours,” he muses. “Care to introduce yourself, eh?”  

He asks the same question at least three times more before they return to Belle Reve, and each time she ignores him.

 ***

 A week later, he still doesn’t know her name – but he learns something else.

They do away with the last members of the recent gang on the outskirts of the city. Both wretches have overused the unfortunate serum, in keeping with the best traditions of the clichéd movies about superheroes and supervillains that Hollywood keeps producing for some reason, even though it is more and more often possible to see nearly the same thing on the news. As a result, one of them got puffed up almost to the size of the creature that Superman died fighting, and the other couldn’t control the flames bursting from his mouth. He burned half of the shopping centre with customers, retail workers, and guards. With teenagers in the bowling alley on the second floor and children in the playroom on the first.    

Santana… wouldn’t have approved.

Both problems eliminated, they leave: the firefighters and the cops will take it from here. Flag’s spec ops stay behind, because officially it is their victory; the general public shouldn’t know about the existence of Task Force X. Through backyards, they retreat in the direction of the abandoned construction site on the other side of the street; a car has been sent to pick them up there.  

There is a workers’ trailer still standing by the construction pit. The door is not locked, and Rick, Deadshot, Croc, and Boomerang go inside. Jones’s arm is broken: his inhuman strength notwithstanding, he still was no match for his enemy – not the fire-breather, but the other one. Tatsu leaves them to figure out how to make a temporary sling, and wanders away. Not far from the trailer, a piece of tarpaulin stretched over the fence has come off, and she can see the building across the street. Tatsu sits down on the ground, puts her arms around her knees, and stares at the dandelions growing by the fence.  

In her head, flames are raging.

She doesn’t look up, neither when she hears the footsteps approaching, nor when Harkness – and it is him, no one else in the Squad reeks of the mixture of booze and cologne like that – sits down next to her and cracks open a can of beer.  

“You want some?” he nudges her. What extraordinary generosity. It is, however, perfectly possible that if she says yes, he’ll reply along the lines of “Well, then go and buy yourself some.”  

“No,” Tatsu replies without looking and, after a short pause, adds, “Thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

With a sigh, she accepts the can from his hands, and takes a sip.

“This is disgusting,” she whispers, and takes another.  

Harkness just snorts and opens another one. For a little while, they sit side by side in silence, drinking each from their own can, and study the wall opposite through the mesh of the fence – like out of a prison window. Old advertisements that are half torn off, graffiti, a writing proclaiming that life fucks us all – plenty of things to stare at to avoid looking the person next to you in the eye.  

“So what the hell happened to ya?” Boomerang asks, and suddenly she could do with some serum for invisibility or, better yet, disappearing completely. Naturally, it is a fleeting impulse; she has no right to disappear. She has obligations – towards Flag, towards Waller. Towards herself.    

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? You zoned out, Flag shouted himself hoarse before you heard him. Like you were someplace else. Didn’t ya?”  

Why do you need to know? Tatsu thinks. If she almost rushed headlong into the fire, it’s her own business. If it only seemed to her that someone was there, it’s her own business. If she’s going to see things that aren’t there for the rest of her life, it’s her own business. He shouldn't have spoken. There is something comforting about being silent together.    

“Nah, you don’t have to say if you don’t wanna,” Boomerang assents, and takes another pull on his can. “I just thought that you, well. Might wanna talk to someone.”  

And they fall silent again. Yet now Tatsu feels awkward, which makes her angry at herself. She’s not obliged to pour out her heart to anyone who shows something that looks like care.    

This silence doesn’t make it any easier.

“I have… bad memories,” she finally says. Now it won’t be as awkward: she answered his question. It won’t be, right? “About a fire”.

Harkness nods, looking at her attentively.

“Someone you knew died, aye?”

“My children,” she hears herself say, and wishes to disappear again.

“Fuck,” Boomerang says, embarrassed, and – unbelievable – looks like he actually feels bad about starting this conversation. “I’m sorry, I… well, uh, I had no idea.”  

“It’s okay,” Tatsu says mechanically. Nothing is okay: she can still see Yuki’s tear-stained face, still hear Reiko’s voice, she is still watching the flames run up the curtains that she and Maseo picked together, she is still breathing in the smoke and still cannot believe she deserves a gulp of fresh air. She should have saved them. All of them.  

Boomerang looks at her incredulously but doesn’t say anything, and bit by bit, the silence that she doesn’t want to run from returns – the kind of silence in which one is not alone.    

Then there are footsteps again, and Flag approaches them.

“There you are,” he says with relief as soon as he sees her. Rick does not let himself overstep the limits of formality – they’re on a mission, after all – but he has obviously been worried. At the sight of Harkness, he frowns warily. “You! Quit getting on her nerves.”

“Who’s gettin’ on her nerves, Colonel? I was just tryin’ to help,” Harkness protests. It appears Rick’s words have wounded him a little.  

“He was,” Tatsu says. “It’s all under control, Colonel Flag.”  

Flag shifts his gaze to her and then to Boomerang again, and nods.

“Okay. In any case… follow me. We’re leaving.”

Tatsu gives her unfinished beer to Boomerang.

“Don’t talk about this to anyone,” she tells him. This might be an order or a request; she doesn’t really know.

He nods, and she thinks absentmindedly: who would have thought this man knows how to make a solemn face.

“Thank you,” she says again, hoping that he understands that this is not just about the beer or his promise to keep his mouth shut.

***

 After a few days, Tatsu comes to visit him. In prison.

Actually, she comes to visit all of them, of course. Not more than fifteen minutes alone with each of them – Waller wouldn’t allow more. This request seems to have surprised her, but Tatsu is certain that Waller is already picturing the new threads she can use to manipulate her special operations puppets. So it is possible that one day this decision will blow up in Tatsu’s face – or in the faces of all of them. But she cannot shake off the feeling that she must do this – so that someone except Rick, who is already dealing with a lot these days, would notice in time if the inmates are treated with undeserved cruelty. So that she knows what’s on their minds, because it is safer to fight side by side with the people whose line of thought she can understand at least roughly. So that there is some kind of variety in their lives between the missions.  

This is why she visits all three of them. Killer Croc, who looks like he’s not surprised to see her in the slightest and doesn’t really seems to care that she came, but doesn’t have any issue with that either. Deadshot, who looks like he is surprised, but doesn’t seem to mind answering her questions when she notices a stack of letters in the corner and asks him how his daughter is doing. And Captain Boomerang, who, when she enters his cell, looks like he can’t figure out if he’s dreaming.

“Katana?” he frowns perplexedly. He’s stripped to his waist, so she can see a couple of fresh scars he brought back from the last mission, and he’s got a black eye – when Tatsu saw him last, he had not. Must have quarrelled with the guards again. “What are you doing here?”  

“I came to see you.”

For a moment he seems not to understand what she just said. Then he breaks into a smile – or rather a grin, wide and pleased. Very pleased.  

“Aha! Knew it would end up like this,” he pronounces in triumph.

“Like this?”

“You,” he looks like he’s just proven a theorem of immense complexity, “missed me.”  

“I haven’t missed you, Captain.”

A very, very pleased grin.

“And still you’re here.”

“I visited Deadshot and Killer Croc earlier,” Tatsu says, and sees his facial expression change instantly. Not for long: the grin is quick to return, and she wouldn’t be able to tell right away that he’s disappointed.    

“Did ya now? And how are our fellas doing? Better than me, I reckon?”

“So it would seem. Did you fight the guards?”

“Why do you care, gorgeous?”

Indeed, why does she? Most likely, he picked a fight himself – and got his just deserts.  

“Make up your mind,” Tatsu says, “if you think that I missed you or that I don’t care.”

Harkness chuckles and really seems to ponder over this for a while.

“Beats me,” he concludes at last. “Care to throw some light on it?”  

No, Tatsu thinks, I don’t get it myself and I’m not sure I want to.

Instead of answering, she comes closer to him – so close that she can smell his sweat – and studies his face. She has to look up to be able to do that, which must look comical. Then again, he’s hardly stupid enough to laugh at her height or anything else about her, especially when she’s armed and he is not.  

“You lost a tooth. What happened?”

“Didn’t get along with one of the Wall’s watchdogs.”

“You could have tried not to look for trouble for a change,” all of a sudden, Tatsu realizes that she’s mad. Really mad at him. They might get dragged to another mission this instant; whether they like it or not, they have to be in good enough shape to protect the society that the most of them have to atone before at least partially. They shouldn’t spend their energy and health on nonsense. Black eyes and knocked-out teeth are nothing, but it mustn’t come to any of them being out of action when all of them are needed. All their powers, all their skills. All the anger they should rather aim at something other than the people who can just press a certain button at any point – and dispose of the wilful weapon.

Boomerang bares his teeth – not like Croc, of course, but still threateningly. He looks dangerous now – big, sturdy, more than a head taller than her. But he still isn’t more dangerous than her – and both of them are aware of that.  

“And they could have tried,” he speaks through his teeth, “not to talk shit about my mother for a change. They wanna talk shit about me, they can knock themselves out. I’ve heard enough ‘bout myself, I don’t give a flying fuck about what else they gonna say. But they’d better leave my mother out of it.”

So that’s what it is. They have found a quick and easy way to infuriate the man who has “MUM” tattooed on his chest. In uneven letters, like a child's handwriting. Tatsu noticed that tattoo as soon as she came in but didn’t look too closely at it. Now she feels like she has the right to look, to let her gaze slip lower, at the ridiculous writing that heaves with each furious breath of his, and then to avert her eyes at once.    

“They have power, and you have nothing,” she says. “Do you enjoy being their plaything?”

“Oh, so I’m a plaything, darl? And do I have much choice who to be now? In these four walls, and,” Boomerang points at his neck, at the place where a bomb is implanted under his skin, “with this crap in my neck?”  

Tatsu looks up again, right him in the eye.

“You already know who you are,” she tells him. “You’re a weapon. Broken weapons get discarded. And you’re letting them break you.”  

He stays silent, just looks at her in an odd manner, as if she’s speaking another language but he has a vague understanding of what she’s saying and doesn’t like what he just heard – because it is the truth.

Tatsu still doesn’t understand why she cares, and with each passing minute she has less and less desire to learn why.  

“Also,” she continues, “if you call me ‘darl’ or ‘gorgeous’ one more time, you’re going to regret opening your mouth.”

“Yeah? And how should I call ya?”

“Katana.”

“What, and that’s all? Nah, we might be weapons,” and she probably ought to remind him that there is no ‘we’, but in this particular case he’s right. Perhaps that is why Tatsu feels drawn to all of them: they’re cut from the same cloth, “but we’re alive as well. So far. Seriously, what’s yer real name? You know mine.”  

“I should not disclose that.”  

“Oh, come on. Listen,” he breaks into a pleased grin again. Another theorem proven. “How about a deal? You tell me yer name, and I will try to keep my temper if anyone else decides to stir me up. What do ya think?”    

“As if you’re going to keep your word.”

Boomerang makes a show of putting his hand over his heart.

“For you, ma’am… anything.”

For you. All at once, she recalls Rick’s words: do whatever you want to him. How many minutes of the visit she has already spent on this predictably fruitless conversation?    

“My name is Tatsu Yamashiro,” she says, tired, and then he smiles – not the way he did before, but in a calmer and more sincere manner. Gratefully.

“George Harkness,” he offers her his hand with an earnest air. “Nice to meet ya.”  

Tatsu hesitantly offers him hers. Her hand looks very small and fragile against his huge paw, and he must be thinking the same because the handshake comes out very careful. He could easily break her wrist. She could easily kill him with one hand afterwards. But he holds her hand gently in his warm, pleasantly calloused palm, and Tatsu hastens to take her hand away, because this is a mistake of an even worse kind than the time he saw her without the mask.  

“So you promise not to fights the guards.”

“I promise to try,” Harkness assures, but he’s keeping one hand behind his back.

“Don’t cross your fingers,” Tatsu says sternly. Real mature.

With a sigh, Boomerang repeats his promise, this time holding his hands within her view.

“But I ain’t promisin’ not to call you gorgeous,” he declares in the end.

“You know my name now.”

“But you’re still gorgeous.”

“Time’s up!” shouts the guard outside the door, and Tatsu cannot help feeling relieved that she has to go. She doesn’t regret visiting him, but all of this is too strange and awkward, and both of them might be weapons, but her position is different from his, and it is better not to forget that.    

“Can I do anything for you?” she asks him on parting.  

“Well,” Boomerang smirks. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“With something I would actually agree to do?”

“Come again. Will ya?” This time he isn’t flirting; this time she can feel his insecurity, even shyness. As if he doesn’t like to admit to himself that what she answers is really important to him.  

“I’ll try,” she says cautiously. She’s not going to make any promises: she asked Waller about one time only. She doubts if she’ll be allowed to visit them again – to visit him again.  

“Try,” Harkness repeats, as if weighing the word on his tongue. “This means no.”

“This means I’ll try,” Tatsu says firmly.

And she comes again in a week. And the week after next. And a week after that.  

 ***

 “Why didn’t you walk away in Midway City?” Tatsu asks him once. “When Rick broke the control panel. You left then; why did you return?”  

A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since the time Captain Boomerang dared to smart off Amanda Waller. Several successful missions, slightly more respectful attitude on his part – and his cell already bears a passing resemblance to a place for living, even if for living quite miserably. Now there is even a table, and a chair that she gets to sit on as guest privilege. Harkness is sitting on the floor opposite her. The question seems to catch him unawares, but only for a moment.    

“Huh? Why did I return? Gotta live up to my name, that’s why. Have you ever thrown a boomerang, luv?”

I’m going to throw you somewhere one day, Tatsu thinks, yet without much irritation.

“And jokes aside?”

Boomerang attempts to feign an offended sigh.

“How do ya think? Plenty of options, all right. You gonna try to guess which one?”

Tatsu frowns.

“Is this a psychoanalysis session? Were you bitten by Harley Quinn?”

“Nah, Blondie didn’t bite me, I would’ve remembered. So don’t be jealous,” his voice gets playful again, and Tatsu stifles the urge to roll her eyes. “Lookie here… suppose I suddenly realized that I can’t leave you guys! ‘Cause you’re my mates. One for all, and so on. Don’t believe me?”

“You said something about plenty of options. What are the rest of them?”

He scratches his chin thoughtfully.

“We-e-ell… the second, ‘course, is that I wanted to save the world. Not that the world smiles upon me every bloody day, but I still wanna live! And for everyone an’ their mother to know that the bastards like us can also be heroes. Don’t you like being one of the good guys, eh, Tatsu?”

“I’m not ‘one of the good guys’”, Tatsu protests. “And it’s not me that we’re talking about. Any other options?”

“There was no point in leaving. That was still gonna be the end of the world, aye? So I’d rather meet it in battle and in good company than on the run. All the same it’ll be the end. There you go.”  

He stops talking, and in the silence that falls Tatsu can hear the footsteps of the guards in the corridor. Once again she wonders what the duty attendants that monitor everything through the surveillance cameras think of their conversations. They must make for the strangest and most pointless reality show ever.  

“The third one,” she says.

Boomerang looks a bit disappointed.

“Why?”

“Not the first one, because none of us meant anything to you then. You had just met us. And it didn’t seem like you were upset about letting Slipknot down,” Tatsu explains. She doesn’t intend to offend him – she’s just saying the truth. Once, he claimed it himself that they understand each other – here’s some understanding, he’s welcome. “Not the second one either, because you’re not stupid – no, stop smiling. You never believed that if people like us stop the Enchantress, someone would learn about that. Only the third option remains.”  

Harkness nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and his eyes turn pensive, abstracted, as if he is there again, in the night city frozen in anticipation of the apocalypse. As if he sees himself – and makes a choice once again. “And that’s what happened in the end, didn’t it?”

“So the third option, then?”

“So it is.”

But something in his face makes Tatsu think that he was hoping for a different answer.

***

 Time flies; weeks and months go by. Tatsu spends them fighting, spilling someone else’s blood, occasionally drinking with Flag at a bar or in his apartment – a bachelor’s home again; reading books – most of the plots seem too naïve and unimaginative compared to what goes on in her life, and that is even for the best, and visiting the members of the Suicide Squad in Belle Reve. Some people go clubbing Friday evenings, and she goes to prison Friday afternoons.  

“Don’t get attached to them,” Rick scolds her.

“That is rich coming from you,” Tatsu replies, and he has enough self-awareness not to argue. Lest he gets offended, she chooses not to tell him that sometimes she and Lawton talk a little about him good-naturedly behind his back.

During one of her visits, Harkness raises a topic she has totally forgotten about.

“Hey, come to think of it, we never had that drink,” he points out. Tatsu doesn’t understand what he’s talking about, and it must be written all over her face, because he continues. “Remember I asked you out for a drink? In Midway City, before we fought the witch.”  

Tatsu has to make an effort to remember: indeed, he said something of the sort, but it never occurred to her to take those words seriously.

“We had a drink,” she counters. “When… when you shared your beer with me.”  

He shakes his head, dissatisfied.

“At the construction site? That’s bollocks. I’m talking a proper bar… nah, a restaurant! With crystal glasses an’ candles an’ shit… Like normal people.”  

“Candles,” Tatsu mumbles. She tries to imagine the two of them at the table at a restaurant; the picture turns out pretty absurd. On the other hand, a lot of what has happened in her life during the past few years can be deemed absurd.

“Yeah. Candles,” echoes Harkness, and continues with a crooked smile, “well, that’s me jokin’ around. In the near future,” he gestures in the direction of the small barred window of his cell, “I won’t be able to take you even to a fucking McDonald’s.”  

They don’t talk about the hypothetical dinners at a restaurant anymore, but the absurd picture stays with Tatsu, who still feels somehow indebted to Boomerang – for no reason, as she keeps telling herself – for that conversation at the construction site. She doesn’t like to feel the weight of unpaid debts on her shoulders – yes, that’s what it is about.

One day, she finds a way to pay that debt back.

 ***

 She waits for him in the car outside the prison gate. She hears him first; she cannot make out what exactly he is yelling at the guards, but that surely isn’t ‘good evening’. Then the door of the jeep is open, and someone must have kicked him in the rear because he literally falls into the car. Tatsu shrinks back on instinct.  

Then Harkness looks up – and notices her.

“Katana?.. Hey, what the hell’s going on? They didn’t let me take the boomerangs, didn’t let me take anything…”

“Close the door,” Tatsu tells him, and when he, still confused, obeys, tells the driver, “Let’s go.”

The car pulls away.

“I still don’t get what’s happening,” Harkness reminds her. “Sure, I’m happy to see ya, but… you weren’t ordered to take me to the woods and finish me off under the radar, huh?”  

“If Waller wanted to get rid of you, she would have had you killed in your own cell, and that’s all.”

“Wow, thanks for honesty. So where are we going?”

“To a restaurant,” Tatsu says, and turns away. Yet again it crosses her mind that it is a terrible idea.

“A restaurant?” Harkness drawls quizzically.

“As far as I recall, you said that the beer at the construction site is ‘bollocks’.”  

She should turn back to him, of course. The problem is that Tatsu is ninety-nine per cent sure that if she meets his eye now, she will blush. And she is by no means going to give him any sign that might be interpreted as taking an interest… of a certain kind. She has already blundered more than a few times.  

Therefore she stubbornly keeps looking out of the window. Then again, she doesn’t even need to look to picture how his facial expression is changing now; she’s seen this rakish grin enough times.  

“Holy cow. Tatsu, are you serious? We’re really just going to a restaurant? We’re getting outta this shithole where they only give us porridge with rat crap to gorge ourselves on lobsters and drink wine? Oh, fuck me sideways,” in the end, she turns to him and sees him throw back his head and burst into laughter, narrowing his eyes happily. “I’ll be damned! Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming. Pinch me.”    

“I can assure you you’re not,” Tatsu says, and realizes that she is also starting to smile despite herself. She has visited him and the others in Belle Reve often enough to know that porridge with rat crap, unfortunately, is far from being just a figure of speech. After such a diet, a meal at a restaurant must seem like the pinnacle of happiness.    

Boomerang shakes his head, apparently still unable to believe her.

“Holy fucking shit. How did you do that? How do you even do all that? I’ve told ya you’re unreal, have I?”

“Yes, you have,” Tatsu confirms patiently. And more than once – too often for her to attach great importance to it, too fervently for it not to please her at all. “Let’s put it that way: this is Waller paying me for a… favour.”  

“A favour, then. I take it a lot of some poor suckers died?”

“No,” she shakes her head. And it is true – but there still was a lot of blood. Both the man Waller indicated and his bodyguards turned out to be worthy adversaries. The whole thing went not as smoothly as she wanted it to – not that she wanted to; not that she would kill another person she knows nothing about if she could help it. Nothing to assure her: this one deserves it. Everything turned out rather… nasty. She had to burn the bodies. Then she got home in a haze, tended to a couple of fresh wounds – or rather, just scratches. And then she went to the bathroom and spent a long time soaping herself, as if the invisible filth that bothered her the most could be washed off with shower gel.    

Afterwards, she rummaged through her modest wardrobe and dug out the only dress she has about in America. Nothing special: wine red, below the knee length, sleeveless but with a pretty high neckline – very demure. The first and so far the last dress she bought after… after. If she and Rick didn’t have to accompany Amanda Waller to some event once, she wouldn’t have bought this one either. She put it on, combed her hair, still wet after the shower, with her fingers, looked at herself in the mirror – and flew into a rage, pulled off the dress, and could barely stop herself from tearing it to shreds. Restaurant or not, what does it matter? The last thing she needs is for him to think she dressed up for him.      

So the situation might be a little less absurd than it could have been. Both of them look like they’re going on another mission with the others, only she isn’t wearing her mask – he has already seen her face anyway – and he isn’t wearing his ever-present coat. It is no wonder he wasn’t allowed to take it – Waller wasn’t going to let him out of Belle Reve armed, and to let him wear his coat would probably be as unwise as to hand him all his boomerangs. Tatsu has no doubt that everyone and their dog have already searched through the personal belongings of the Squad, but she wouldn’t be surprised to learn that somewhere in his inside pockets Harkness has as many boomerangs as he is listed as having officially. She witnessed this man produce from his bosom at least four different lighters, a massive stack of dollars, a pocket knife, small binoculars, flat-nose pliers, and a toy unicorn. She has to admit: sometimes she doesn’t understand how he even does all that either.    

It appears that the thoughts of Captain Boomerang also turn to the contents of his pockets.

“Hey, how the hell are we affording this, though? Make no mistake, I’d stand treat, but my stash is in the coat, and these assholes didn’t let me take it, y’know.”    

“Don’t worry about that. Waller is paying for everything,” she explains, unable to suppress a grin, because this part, possibly the most unbelievable part of the entire affair, gives her a sort of silly, spiteful joy. Task Force X is a comparatively recent project, but they’ve already cleaned up so much mess for Amanda Waller that Heracles and his labours don’t even come close. A dinner at a restaurant is the least thing she could offer them. So when Boomerang explodes with laughter and gives her a conspiratorial wink, she looks him right in the eye and smiles. Another mistake. Then again, this is not the first time they share a secret.

He puts his hand on her knee, and she shakes it off immediately; this is way too far.

“I see you took your sword with ya,” Harkness observes, not giving any sign that something didn’t go the way he wanted.

“I am to keep an eye on you.”

“Yeah. How about…” he leans in closer, and the smell of cologne blasts up Tatsu’s nose. She can only hope it is due to external use only, “we chop off his head,” he nods at the driver, “and drive the fuck away from this? Huh?”    

The driver, who can definitely hear everything, doesn’t turn, but Tatsu notices him tense up.

“You’re kidding,” she says dryly. He may be, or he may be not – with Digger Harkness, one cannot always tell.

“Why kidding, doll? Zip, and done. There’s no way you enjoy working for Waller.”  

“I do not. But if you pull some stunt,” Tatsu feels for the sword hilt, and Boomerang sees that – very well, it is good for him to see that, “I will chop your head off. I really hope it won’t come to that.”  

“And what’s it to you? Scared of me? But I’m unarmed,” he claps himself on the chest demonstratively, implying that he has no weapons on him. “Why do you care if it does?”  

“I just wouldn’t like to do that,” she says firmly, and it’s true. It works well; he doesn’t even mention running away for the remainder of the day.

 This might be the strangest evening in her life.

Waller’s man drives them to a French restaurant whose name she cannot read but is almost sure that the phrase was chosen solely because it sounds impressive. They are let in through the back door, so no one among the other guests, who are sporting evening dresses and suits, pays any attention to her crop top and sword or to his… appearance in general. Their table is one of those located in alcoves, away from prying eyes, but Tatsu feels they are being watched. Which means Waller doesn’t trust her too much – well, she can understand that. She is part of a special team composed of deranged madmen, and she must admit she likes these deranged madmen more than she likes certain normal people known to her. Of course, she is Flag’s right-hand woman, but it is most likely that Waller doesn’t trust Flag either. It is doubtful whether there are any people in this world that she trusts at all.          

Waller is rich. Their little feast will not shatter her wealth, all the more so since the restaurant she sent them to is not the most luxurious. But they still have a field day ordering loads of food and a bottle of the most expensive wine on the menu.    

“To honour among thieves?” she suggests, when they raise their glasses for the first time.

“Didn’t ya say yer not a thief?”

“That is true,” she admits, and adds inwardly, I’m a killer.  

In the end, they drink to the Suicide Squad. Then to Lawton and Jones, currently languishing in their cells. Then to Zoe Lawton, who is acting in a school play next week. To a lot of things. He asks her about her life here, in America. At some point she finds herself trying to explain to him what taiyaki is, and him telling her about banana sandwiches, and she can’t remember why they started talking about this at all. The bottle becomes empty, and another appears as if by itself.      

They don’t talk about the past. They don’t talk about the future, because there might be no future at all – they can’t know for sure, what with their way of life. That evening, Tatsu laughs and thinks: good thing I’m drunk – it almost gets easier for a while.  

When it’s time to leave, Harkness gets pig-headed.

“Whoa, no, no, no. Already? It’s too early, are you kiddin’ me?” he booms out when they exit the restaurant. He protests, but she drags him by the hand and he stumbles along after all, treading heavily like a dancing bear. “Let’s go someplace else, luv. Look at the pretty stars.”  

“We are already late. And you… you have to go back to jail,” Tatsu tells him. The stars are pretty indeed, but she regrets looking up at them, because her head begins to spin. Thankfully, she isn’t wearing high heels. Thankfully, she doesn’t have any high-heeled shoes at all, or she could have been possessed to wear them. “Sorry,” she adds when they get into the car and set off. “There is no other way.”  

“Back to jail,” Boomerang repeats with disgust. Sprawling on the seat, he unzips his hoodie, and Tatsu is swept over by the smell of cologne again. Weirdly, it doesn’t annoy her as much as at the beginning of the evening. “I’m a fucking Cinderella. I’m not back by midnight, they turn me into a pumpkin.”  

“Cinderella,” Tatsu echoes, and giggles: everything is way funnier now. The driver makes a sudden turn, and she is literally thrown at Boomerang. Her cheek presses to his chest – and stays there. Tatsu feels drunk and sated and drunk again, and sleepy too, and he makes for a decent pillow, and she can’t make herself move away.  

“Oh, you think it’s funny,” Harkness mutters with mock offence in his voice. It seems he’s about to fall asleep too. “Well, go on, laugh.”

They drive back in silence, and through the drowse Tatsu feels the warm arm around her waist and thinks: good thing I’m drunk, I can pretend I’m asleep.  

The road to Belle Reve is long, but it still feels like they reach it too quickly.

“Inmate,” calls one of the guards, “get out.”  

Harkness, his eyes still closed, moans with discontent.

“Captain Boomerang,” Tatsu says softly, freeing herself from his embrace. “It’s time.”

There is nothing to be done. He’s already about to step out of the jeep, when he suddenly moves closer to her again.

“Hey, darlin’,” he says, looking her right in the eye. “Aren’t ya forgetting something?”

It takes her some time to realize what he means: he must be expecting her to kiss him. All at once she remembers everything that has happened this evening, and awful shame washes over her: it is no wonder he’s expecting that to happen.  

“Inmate, get out!”

She shrinks back.

“Good night, Captain,” she tells him as dryly as she can. He looks wounded but says nothing, and almost obediently lets the guards escort him back to his cell. Tatsu closes her eyes and rubs her temples wearily. Tomorrow she is going to regret drinking so much. She already does – and that’s not the only thing she regrets.

She has to stop seeing him.

 ***

 At first, she even succeeds. Next Friday Tatsu, as always, goes to Belle Reve to see the Squad – all of them save for Harkness. She feels sick at heart because if she did promise him anything, it was to visit him, and now she’s going back on her word because of her own stupid weakness. But there is no other way.  

“He asked about you,” Waylon tells her a week later, when she brings him the latest issue of Playboy. Tatsu almost doesn’t feel weird anymore when buying it, and doesn’t try to imagine anymore what the news stand clerks think when she pays them for it. Such periodicals cause her a feeling of light disgust, but Croc, who gets let out of jail only to be thrown into another trouble spot, deserves at least some small joys.  

“Who?”

Waylon, no doubt observant like all the quiet ones tend to be, bares his impressive teeth.  

“You know who.”

It seems a logical solution to give up on these visits at all – but in that case she would betray all of them. Perhaps this little tradition is much more important to her than it is to the prisoners, but Tatsu is almost sure that it means something to them as well. She has no right to deprive the rest of them of this bit of understanding, companionship, normalcy because she wasn’t smart enough to stop the game she and Boomerang started before it became too late.

At home – not that the apartment she’s renting here deserves to be called ‘home’ – she, unable to fall asleep, unsheathes the sword and runs the tips of her fingers along the cool blade. A tender, habitual movement – like touching the cheek of a loved one.

“I’ve lost my way, Maseo,” whispers Tatsu. The place where the souls of the people struck down by this blade are trapped is still a mystery to her, but she knows that Maseo will come as soon as she calls him – as a voice from afar, as nebulous shapes in the swirls of smoke, as the peace and safety granted by the presence of someone dear. “I’m afraid of my own heart.”    

I know your heart, Tatsu. You have nothing to be afraid of.

“It makes me act rashly. Makes me succumb to false feelings.”  

I know your heart, Tatsu, and it incapable of falsehood.  

Only the ones that are already far away can speak so vaguely and with such unrelenting honesty at the same time.  

“I will always love you,” she whispers ardently. Not because she doesn’t want him to think it is not so; not because she herself feels like it is not so anymore either. She knows for sure that she is always going to love him, for she loved him as a lover, as a husband, as the father of her children, as the only thing she had left after all her life fell apart, burned in that damned fire. He will stay in her heart until her last breath – even if she has to close her heart to the rest of the world. Once she used to think that after all she’s been through, it isn’t going to be an issue.

And I will always love you, her husband replies, and Tatsu blinks back tears with a deep sigh.

“I just wish you were alive,” she tells him for what must be the hundredth, or maybe a thousandth time.

If he was with her – not as smoke or a voice, but as flesh and blood – he probably would have kissed her gently on the nape of her neck, as he often used to do.  

I just wish, says her husband – no, the soul of her husband, which is already rushing away, deep into the world she shouldn’t hurry to go to if she doesn’t want this sword to fall into wrong hands, that you were happy.

***

 Literally the next day there is a message from Metropolis that some giant snake-like beast is terrorizing the city and devouring people. The monster was last seen crawling into the building of the opera – which is where their squad heads to after reaching the city.  

“Look at that freak,” Harkness comments in a low voice. The creature is curled up slumbering on stage, and they are watching it from the catwalks above. “Not a family of yours by any chance, eh, ‘gator?’    

Waylon steps towards him, and the planks creak under his feet, threatening to break.

“Say that again,” he growls.

Tatsu bares her sword and wedges herself between them. Waylon backs off reluctantly.

“Knock it off,” she tells Boomerang. It feels like everything has come full circle – the day Harkness picked up her mask, he also had a run-in with Jones. The day they were sent to fight the Enchantress, she also put the blade of her sword under his chin. Why did she even think something would change?

“Oh, so you’re talking to me after all?”

“Enough,” Tatsu hisses. She really wants to try to explain everything to him. Maybe if she tries to put her feelings into words, many things will become clear to her, too. But if he thinks they are going to discuss this now, he is mistaken.

On the neighbouring catwalk, Rick is looking at them in a rage, gesturing both of them to shut up. Harkness steps closer; now the blade of the Soultaker is within a hair’s breadth away from his neck. A single careless movement, and blood will be spilled. A wild idea crosses her mind: it looks as if he’s into this. Tatsu licks her lips.

“Y’know,” Boomerang begins, lowering his head a little so that it is easier for him to look her in the eye, “I think you’re scared of me. Or of yourself, hell if I know. Am I right?”  

A loud rustle comes from beneath, and the next instant the monster bites through the middle of the catwalk they’re standing on, and both of them are falling down. Tatsu manages to grab some rope, but when she tries to climb it, her hands slip, and she comes tumbling down.

The fall is far from being soft, even though she falls on the tatters of the curtain, which the snake must have torn earlier. She is lucky not to hurt her head, but her left leg and hip are aching. Only the awareness that there is no time to lie around makes her summon up all her strength and get up. Her sword is nowhere to be seen, and Tatsu is overwhelmed by fury: now she is useless.

The snake roars and shakes its head, trying to shake off Croc, who is trying to bite through its scales. Rick is shooting at the monster from above, and Deadshot, who is already on stage somehow, is doing the same from below, dodging the blows of its tail. Tatsu sweeps her eyes weakly over the stage and suddenly notices a hole broken in it. At the very edge of the hole, the hilt of her sword is sticking out of the floor. Moving as quickly as it is possible to do that with a limp, Tatsu hurries there.

The moment she pulls the sword out of the stage, Harkness’s head pokes out of the hole. Not waiting for him to ask for help, Tatsu helps him get out.

“Are you…” both of them begin in unison and drop it immediately, because the snake has managed to shake off the bothersome little crocodile – who is hopefully just somewhere on the floor and not in its belly – and is moving towards them, slower than before but still pretty speedily. They scatter, and Tatsu charges at the monster with her sword drawn. Harkness throws a boomerang at the creature, aiming at its eye, but it dodges at the last second.        

Eventually, with joint forces they manage to kill the beast. To be on the safe side, Lawton fires a round into its open jaws. The long body shudders one last time and falls still. For some time, the five of them stand there looking at it.

“Where could this thing even come from?” Rick mutters.

“Remember what the Wicked Witch of the West said when she tried to get us to join her? The world is changing, the time of magic has come, blah, blah, blah,” Lawton reminds him. Rick nods absentmindedly; these are not happy memories.

Jones kicks the dead snake.

“Maybe it meant no harm,” he points out in his deep voice.

“Croc,” Rick says wearily, “it ate people.”

“So did I.”

“But at least you didn’t chew the curtain at the opera like a disgraced diva?” Lawton asks, struggling not to grin.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Well, then it’s okay.”

Rick titters nervously, and the next instant all of them are shaking with laughter.

 Tatsu is drinking water straight from the tap in the restroom, when Harkness comes in.

“This is a ladies’ room,” she says reflexively.

“Hey, I just wanna wash my face, is all.”

Without waiting for her to answer, he comes closer and starts washing at the neighbouring sink. Tatsu casts a sidelong look at him and notices that the water is turning red.  

“Show me your face,” she orders.

“It’s not a bad face, what’s yer problem?”

“I’m serious.”

He rolls his eyes, but stands still while she examines his face, only wincing when she dabs at the cut on his forehead with a paper towel.

“Just a scratch,” he assures at once.

“Just a scratch,” Tatsu agrees. She scrunches up the towel and throws it into the sink. She would like to keep her hand on his face, pretending that she’s still wiping off the blood, but she’s done pretending.

“How about you?” Boomerang asks quietly.

“Fine. A couple of bruises. You were lucky today,” she says just as quietly, and takes off her mask. Tomorrow they might not be as lucky. “I’m happy for you.”

“And I’m happy you got out alive… darl.”

For a moment she wants him to ruin everything. To reply with a jibe, to crack another dirty joke, to try to grab and kiss her only to get smacked. Not to stand motionless in front of her like he’s afraid to scare her off. It occurred to her once that from the outside their relationship might look like an attempt to tame a wild animal. Perhaps this is a mutual process.

Do whatever you want to him.

She stands up on tiptoes and kisses him.

For an instant, Harkness freezes – possibly trying to figure out again if he’s dreaming – and then pulls her closer and kisses back. Drinks her hungrily, like this is both the first time and the last. Bearing in mind what their lives are like, it really might be the last.

Tatsu doesn’t immediately realize why she suddenly doesn’t need to stand on tiptoes anymore.

“Put me down–” she starts, but gives up and wraps her legs around his waist. Boomerang grunts with satisfaction and switches from her lips to her neck. His beard, fortunately, is softer than could have been expected.  

“Stop drinking so much,” Tatsu breathes out, now that no one is trying to shut her mouth. “You taste like…” all English words slip her mind, “like… a beer cask.”  

It tickles her when he laughs into her neck.

Someone simply must enter now – Rick, Floyd, Amanda Waller, the president of the United  States, but no, no one is trying to stop him from squeezing her hips, to stop her from running her fingers through his hair. Weapon to weapon, blade to blade. Red-hot metal to red-hot metal. Melting until something new is forged – without fear, without regret, without the past, without the future.

Clearly, Maseo wants too much: she remembers what happiness is, and she is sure she’ll never ever be happy again.

But she can take a shot at being alive.

#suicide squad #katana #captain boomerang #tatsu yamashiro #digger harkness #kaboom #captain boomerang x katana #boomerang x katana #dc #my fic #gella talks skwad #talk talk talk #my magnum opus lmao #amazed i managed to translate this. i am not a woman i'm a god indeed #once again i still know nothing about the geography of the dceu!united states #and whether a city like metropolis could have an opera house