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samseaaa · 3 months

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The Butterfly Effect chapter 3 excerpt - the plaster (band-aid whatever I’m not American)

It was darker on the way back home. It’d gone full night, and the gloom gave me a new take on the city as the lights illuminated the evening sky. I spaced, staring at the pretty lights while the old pop station played in the background. I was thankful that mine was the only car on the road back to my new home.

Unfortunately, I didn't account for things on the street that were not cars.

I was too busy marvelling at the massive neon cat sign for a sushi place that towered over the rooftops of neighbouring buildings to see the figure in dark clothing run out onto the road, even with him frantically waving his arms in the air. And then it all happened so quickly.

I peeled my eyes from the neon cat (it was just so cute!) when my stomach did that same strange tug, and I finally noticed the human illuminated by my headlights on the road right before me. I screamed, hit the break a smidge too late, and the person landed on the hood with a boyish yelp and a loud, metallic BONK.

I sat perfectly still in horror, staring as the person slowly stood back up from the bent hood, staggered like a drunk man, and then fell down onto his ass on the tarmac. I couldn't breathe. I heard a faint groan.

"Shit!" was the first thing I managed to yell in panic as I yanked my seatbelt off and stumbled out of the car. He sat on the road with a dazed look in his eyes. "I'm so sorry! I didn't see you - god, are you okay? Are you alive?!"

"Part of me wishes I weren't," the figure on the ground dryly chuckled.

"Don't be dead, god, please don't be dead!" I gasped. "I'm too young and scared for jail-!"

I cut myself off when he held up a hand. I sucked in my lips with wide eyes.

"A little less shouting, please," the masked figure murmured. He cradled his head with a grimace.

I knelt beside him, hands nervously fretting and unsure whether to reach out or not, and that was when I noticed his unusual, dark clothing, embossed with green. More prominently - the mask. My eyes widened.

It was my turn for my ass to fall back onto the tarmac. I had only just gotten my breath back, and it was stolen once more.

"You're..."

"Not dead," he said sarcastically. "Yes, well done."

"You're the Green Ninja," I breathed, ignoring his slight snark due to being too engrossed in the fact that the infamous Green Ninja, the person all of social media was in love with, the quote-un-quote 'leader of the hottest boyband but not only boys and also not a band' was in front of me.

"The one and only," he answered, still sat in the pooling illumination of my headlights.

"I just ran into you with my car," I stressed.

"Oh, I'm aware."

"I hit the Green Ninja with my car," I whispered in horror as it settled in.

"That you did," he said tiredly. The Green Ninja pulled his hand away from his head and blinked comically, still seeming to be stunned. My throat was dry when I nervously swallowed.

"Uh- um-!" I stammered as I launched myself back into my car to grab a box of plasters from the glovebox. I knelt before him once more and held out the worn down cardboard. "Do you need a plaster?"

"I think-"

"They have Star Wars characters on them."

The Green Ninja's brows raised in amused bewilderment - they were a light brown, I noted - before his eyes finally met mine.

They were green - and I mean, really green. A vibrant green, one that couldn't possibly be a real eye colour. They were ringed by an even darker green and they almost seemed to shift shades and gleam a muted pine in the shadows. They were pretty.

The Green Ninja seemed to be equally as frozen as he stared at me, and for a brief second I thought that he really hated Star Wars, which was ridiculous, because Stars Wars was a cinematic masterpiece so how could someone ever hate Star Wars let alone Star Wars plasters, but then I realised that I was being silly and-

God, he was still staring at me.

I didn't hit him that hard, did I? It was only a little bowl; a mere tap, even, but the dent at the front of the hood told me otherwise. I wilted with shame.

Two concussions administered in one day. Well done, Y/n. And to the Green Ninja, too! I should have a warning tattooed to my forehead.

I held out the box again, just to break this weird, silent tangent that had settled over us.

"Plaster?" I offered. He slowly pulled one out of the old box, still eyeing me oddly.

"Thanks..."

"Who'd you get?" I quietly asked before I could stop myself. The Green Ninja pulled open the plaster's packet before showing it to me.

"Chewbacca."

"Oh, nice," I said with a stiff nod. I threw the box back into the car and winced at the sound of it hitting the dashboard and falling to the floor. "I like Chewbacca."

Though the Green Ninja was still staring at me as if I'd grown a second head, he humoured me.

"I'm more of a Luke Skywalker guy myself."

Green Ninja likes Luke Skywalker. Figures.

Read the full thing here!

#tbe ninjago #ninjago #lloyd garmadon x reader #lloyd garmadon #ninjago fanfiction #the butterfly effect #ao3 fanfic #green ninja #does it count as a meet cute if you accidentally run into your future boyfriend with your car? yes. yes it does #damn yn how come you get to have two meet cutes with the SAME GUY

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soft-girl-musings · 2 months

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WIP Wednesday

gosh, feels like it's been ages since i've done one of these

still trucking away at MK Bingo, still brainstorming for Dieter, still working on some other things. f i n a l l y started on the next chapter of PPP and we're a long way from finishing but we are making progress babey!!

from Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps chapter 5 (Something's Gotta Give):

Maybe years from now, society adopts stricter rules for how soon you should call on a lady. Even today, some would advise against showing your hand too early. Some men wouldn’t want to seem too eager, too desperate. But Jake Lockley is not a liar. If “desperate” is the word for the incessant drumming in his chest each time you come to mind; if it’s what has him cutting corners and driving recklessly, ushering customers along at double the pace so his thoughts can return to you; if it’s why his palms sweat and nerves ache at the memory of your face that night, that morning… then Jake Lockley is desperate. It’s hardly been a day and a half since he left your apartment cold and injured. The suit stitched him back together in seconds; the only ache that remained was at the thought of you. You, who scooped him off the pavement and took pity on him. Who stained your hands with his blood to make it stop. You, who set his skin on fire with the smallest touch and had him convinced he would burn with or without it. Screw the three day rule. He has to see you.

...needless to say, i'm excited.

#the panic at realizing i write a lot of meet cutes and established relationships but never explore intimacy growing over time #girl (gn) does this count as slow burn #how quickly do things burn these days what's the exchange rate #anyway #my works #my wip #wip wednesday #moon knight #jake lockley #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley x fem!reader #jake lockley x woc!reader #noir!jake lockley

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sheltershock · 10 months

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just thought about Milla talking to Sasha about something he likes (aliens and whatnot) and Sasha just starts hard core stimming. He's just standing there shaking violently and jazz hand-ing and smiling and he's so excited he can't stop stimming.

Also i think Sasha has very particular stims, like he'll do jazz hands, or he'll start shaking when excited (I do that) or he'll crack his knuckles or he'll shake his hands like you do when your hands are wet. he has so many stims. all of the stims. he's the stimmer of all time

he has this one stim where he'd squeeze the nearest thing to his hand.

one time that was milla's hand.

Milla still thinks about it every day it makes her very happy

I typically like aligning my headcanons with canon in some sort of way, but that’s just a personal preference. Sasha stimming headcanons actually land in this strange area for me because I don’t really bring up stimming for him specifically very often(in posts, in my personal headcanon doc, etc.), and I actually don’t see a lot of people being up stimming for him either. And I think there’s a very important reason for that: Sasha’s stims are really subtle.

Think about it. Throughout the games, Sasha is standing relatively still throughout. His arms don’t move really wildly like the “extreme high level autism” stereotype. And for a little while I thought that he just didn’t stim in the games. But I think he actually does.

In RoR he has that smiling and looking around animation. And compared to how stiff his movement typically is to how wide his upper body is moving, I think that motion could count as stimming. Plus, the context of that animation is that he’s in a really cool space-alien (imitation) aircraft and is naturally super excited about it.

I could only really think of two examples of stimming in PN2, in Loboto’s Labyrinth and in the plane on the way to the casino mission. When Raz meets up with Sasha after the construct starts to collapse he’s already lit a cigarette, and waving it around, due to the chaos. Though his tone of voice and general demeanor seems calm and collected, he’s actually internally freaking the fuck out. Everything he built for the mission is literally falling apart into a sensory nightmare of moist flesh, saliva and hardened calcium. Interesting note about this level, Sasha is for the only time in the games not wearing gloves. Later in the trap room, he’s just pacing around the exterior of the room aloof and unaware of his surroundings(“Sasha, how long as that golden door been there?”). Along with the pacing, Sasha actually repeatedly flexing his wrist while holding a cigarette appears several times throughout PN2. And that definitely feels like a stim to me.

The second example I have, in the plane on the way to the Lady Lucktopus, is also pretty subtle. It’s the animation when Sasha says “It’s crucial that we find out what these Deluginists are up to at the casino. With [Hollis] handling tactical command I’d say our probability of mission success has risen 35%.” While talking he’s fiddling with the room keys found on Nicks body, rattling it, waving it back and forth, at one point flicking it up and catch it… This is actually the first instance watching it happen where I said “this is just straight up stimming.” I mean it’s in the center of the screen and everything.

Headcanon-wise I typically follow patterns presented in canon, so stretches or walking around and repetitive wrist/hand movements. Stuff like absentmindedly clicking a pen, adjusting the cuffs on his outfit, cracking his knuckles(like you said), flicking his hand(like you said), maybe removing and putting his gloves back on again? But yeah, something in that range. I wouldn’t necessarily agree that “he’s the stimmer of all time,” I mean I frequently bounce/flex my legs and I couldn’t really see Sasha doing that.

I do think that he’d have a cute/sassy response if anyone saw him randomly just do a stim and question what the fuck was that. Like someone saying something stupid/redundant in a meeting, Sasha coincidentally flicking his hand, being prompted about it, and him just not skipping a beat going “sorry, that suggestion was so terrible I had to physically distance myself from that idea.”

I like the hand squeezing idea though! Like Sasha just grabbing something nearby to fiddle with in his hands, and accidentally grabbing Milla’s hand? That’s really cute. Them both getting flustered over it, and Sasha apologizing, Milla interrupting the apology to say that it’s alright, but then Sasha continuing to apologize anyway saying “the subconscious works in strange, unexpected ways to the waking mind,” and then Milla blushing in response. Really adorable.

Along with Sasha increasing the frequency of stims when he’s describing something he really likes to Milla. And she’s enjoying that she’s never sees him this animated before and can’t help but smile.

Thanks for the…ask? Was there a question…?

#psychonauts #psychonauts 2 #sasha nein #milla vodello #heacanons #along with full body stims I could also count lunchtime yoga. Innuendo or not it’s a cute idea that they do yoga together #because you KNOW that milla is the one that dragged sasha into it and not the other way around #milla’s constantly sitting down meditating or sitting in a meeting or doing work and does yoga to actually exercise and move her body #Sasha walks in on her doing yoga and gets invited to join in because he’s frequently sitting/standing too #and now it’s their thing to do yoga together at lunch #shelti answers #?

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princeofhags · 2 days

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i just finished reading about iraestra so wand of twilight for her as well!

Wand of Twilight. Iraestra conjures a spirit from the land of the dead to speak to them.

FANTASY PROMPTS | @foxboyclit

Smoke floods the altar in fragrant plumes, the familiar taste of myrrh coating the back of Iraestra's throat uncomfortably. Her steps, purposefully measured and slow, sound monstrous in the cavernous wings of the ceremonial chamber. The peace is further broken by the occasional murmur of an invocation or rustling cloth. There has been no order given for silence, but the trepidation hanging heavy in the air as the incense enforces the command. They all wait in the lurch of a breathless hush, an animal instinct to a known threat. Still, so that the hunter is not enthralled by your fleeing. Anticipation before the blow.

Does their visitor scent the fear he instills in the air, like a hound? Does the chorus of thrumming hearts beckon to him like the call of war drums? Bodies, so many bodies for him to open and bleed.

Itaestra does not doubt that he often relishes it. Bhaalspawn are such curious, depraved half-beasts.

Prince of the Blood. A self-given title, perhaps, but she has heard the reverence Bhaal's faithful pour at his feet like wine libations. Their honored guest is heir to a butcher's legacy. She thinks him little more than a glorified killer draped in the dressings of grandeur.

Iraestra does not cower or draw back from him, but there is still an instinctual unease at the thought of a Bhaalspawn being familiar with her. The Dread Lord’s wicked heirs do not know friends, only warm bodies to bite with steel. The world to them is already dead, merely waiting to be torn asunder to show its truest color: the crimson of fresh spilt blood.

A hedonistic dogma. She holds her tongue due to the respect granted to Bhaal by her own unholy master.

She observes the preparations for the ritual with only half an eye, attention commanded by the ophidian silhouette haunting the edge of the room. What a disquieting picture he paints. His height causes him to loom terribly, heads and shoulders above the flock of mortal meat. He need not even draw his weapon to kill half the room should he wish it. Each finger is tipped with a talon that catches the candlelight with each of his clenching hand. When he had spoken, his teeth had stood out vividly against the stone-black gleam of his scales. The dried gore on his scales embrace him as intimately as any lover.

The wicked length of a barbed tail flickers in what may be a sign of agitation in his people, or merely a quirk of the extra limb. His attention is riveted on the altar. She half expects it to catch aflame.

She attempts not to concern herself with his growing impatience. Any fool can cast a spell to converse with the departed; a Myrkulite only does so at the behest of another and the blessings of the Bone Lord. She will not disregard the tenants of her faith even for this Prince.

"You're eager," she observes. The dragonborn has not left the corpse's side since it was brought to her. Curious. He must be thoroughly invested in the secrets it would spill. "It was good that you preserved the jaw. A wasted trip had you not," she stops by the head, only the breadth of a few steps between her and the Prince.

At that, he finally regards her. Even in his initial instructions he had been short with her. "What of a tongue?

"Is this a theoretical or practical query?" Short of the patience to wait for an answer, Iraestra snaps at one of the attendants. "Bone Talker, check the mouth."

Questing fingers find only half of the appendage still intact. If removed before death, exsanguination is as likely a cause as any.

"It will do," she decides. "I am ready to begin." Her attendants step back as one.

The body has been prepared as best they can given its mangled state. This man, who can be no older than twenty, bares the marks of a slow death. The skull, partially caved, rests unevenly on the cloth. He does not even look peaceful now, as the victims of violence rarely do.

She steps forward, hands rising from her sides. Iraestra readies herself to speak the ancient words.

"Alone," the Prince's clipped voice rings out clearly. Not a request. Demand.

Iraestra hisses her frustration. Better vexation, than dread. She knows the vestments of anger well, slips into them like a second skin. Her mouth twists, her shoulders draw tight. Her hands are half-formed claws in the air. She hears the pound of her own heart in her ears.

What is so important that it cannot be witnessed by the others? What is to be done with her, who will attend to the questioning herself?

"Mistress?" Every cowled head in the room turns to look at her. They hear the call for her death as vividly as she. One of the fools is brave enough to step towards her, as if they could truly do anything to intervene. She admires them for their stupidity.

The Prince watches her, well aware of what he asks for. Trust or faith or maybe both. Clearly, he is looking for a reaction. Will she falter, will she balk? Could he make a bouquet of the stench of her unease? He regards her with a snake's stare, eyes cold licks of fire. He does not blink.

If he thinks he can subdue her so easily, then he is sorely mistaken. She is drow. She is Oblodra. Her own mother's hands were the first to ever try to take her life. He will find no easy marks here today. Let him slake his thirsts elsewhere. There are other, weaker creatures for him to gorge himself on.

"Leave us," Iraestra does not take her eyes from the Prince. She does not speak or move again until the door clicks shut behind the last attendant. How awfully similar it sounds to the closing stone of a tomb.

She rounds on him, irritation clear. "Why did you ask for me?"

The Prince is the first to look away, back to her hands and then the body. Iraestra does not feel like she has won anything of merit. It is impossible to tell if he is pleased. "The Banite confides in you. I thought to do the same."

He does not give a name, nor does she ask for it. She wonders at what the Prince knows of her talks with the other Chosen.

"And what if his confidence is misplaced?" A theoretical. Her loyalty is not often brought into question. It is rare that she pledges it at all.

"Then I will kill you," the Prince simply states.

She laughs. That intention is only the natural conclusion of the dance. There is no greater aim for those of his depraved bent. "So you say. Did you not plan to do so already?"

His head tilts in a particularly reptilian gesture. His glittering eyes have found the pulse in her throat, her bare wrists. She cares not for his study. It feels too much like a physical caress, high beneath dress and robe. One hunger is not too different from another, and she supposes they may be frighteningly the same for him. Both indulgences of the flesh, in the end. "Do not tempt me. Your blood would spill sweetly on this floor."

Iraestra sneers. "Cast your fetid gaze elsewhere, brute. You will not find easy prey in me."

He chuckles darkly. "Of that I am sure. I would savor the challenge as much as anything else."

"I was under the impression that there were more pressing matters at hand, given your early insistence on haste."

"Time can always be afforded for pleasure, sorceress. Consider the feel of silk on the skin. The burst of fruit between teeth and the rush of the juice down your chin, the clench of a lover tight around you as they sob your name. That final, shuddering breath that flutters out of the throat at death. Do you not feel the drum of the heart in your own chest? Do you not wish to dance to it? If you are so indifferent to it, I could show you how to listen to it once more. To feel it." How reverently he speaks, as if he is at the shrine of his own father-god. His lids have nearly closed in rapture.

There's smoke in the dragonborn's mouth and anticipation in his words, thick enough to choke on. He whispers with the tongue of a snake, words dripping from the depravities he utters.

As mad as his sister, the shape-changer, Iraestra decides with disdain. The seed of Bhaal is truly cursed with madness, complete and true. It was preferable when he was barely acknowledging her presence despite demanding it in the first place.

"You have nothing that I desire." Were she younger, still a fool turned by a pretty face, she may have once allowed herself to be seduced by the offer. She ignores the answering hook of arousal low in her gut, focusing once more on the misshapen head on the pillow. Reminds herself of whose hands exactly have crushed it. There is much to do before she is ready for the grave. "Now, if you will allow me to get on with this, we may be each rid of the other before long."

“A pity that you deny yourself,” but he nods. “Perform your rites. Regretfully, I cannot linger for long.”

Iraestra does not regret that. She is exhausted and enthralled by him in equal measure. Let this be the first and last time she suffers his company.

She begins her prayer to the dead.

#oc: balam #oc: iraestra #princeofhags writes #foxboyclit #lord that only took me forever #i was tired of this sitting in my drafts and i feel like the abrupt ending to their interactions shows this but alas #glad to have it out in the world and I hope you like it!#the two of them and their dynamic is very fun to write although I feel like it's clear where I picked it back up again oop #context for anyone else reading is that iraestra is an oblodra - one of the last of a powerful drow psionic line - and now a myruklite #got all involved in chosen shenanigans due to her psionics and knowledge of illithids and helped w tadpole research #def has a weird on and off again with gort #balam is my durge and he's batshit and his whole thing is Hedonistic Pleasures? Hedonistic Pleasures tonight queen???#while also being a lean mean scaled killing machine. he has multitudes. and those are 'fuck' and 'bleed it out'.#usually both in whatever order he pleases #but durgetash is also canon in my writing soooooooo #here is 2/3 of the weirdest most toxic polycule #does this count as a meet cute??#realize there was very little of actually talking to the dead in this. or. not at all. but my brain is fried friend #warnings for typical necromancer and bhaalspawn shenanigans and just lots of weird talking #nothing much happens of consequence but i had fun

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painaltar · 1 year

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Sharpe's Revenge (1997)

#funnily enough this isn't the thing he wanted revenge for!#whump #whumpedit #whump gif #sharpe's revenge #richard sharpe #sean bean #pain #injury #blood #shot #painposting #does this count as a meet cute for lucille and sharpe

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phykios · 1 year

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Enchanted to Meet You, part one [read on ao3]

Frederick Chase, graduate student, only has a few things on his mind: finishing his dissertation, finding a teaching job, and forgetting his past. Unfortunately, Fate, as it usually does, decides to throw a wrench into the works, in the form of a goddess. 🦉🖊️🛵

Frederick only realized his problem as he sat down at his carroll in the Harvard Library on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, cracking open the book which had taken two months to arrive through interlibrary loan. This book, this critical, important book, the one which his advisor strongly recommended he read in order to get a more thorough understanding of lingering imperialist sentiment in the democracies of western Europe in the twentieth century… was written entirely in French.

Frederick did not speak French. Not well, anyway. He had studied French in elementary school, but that had quickly been supplanted by German and Greek. His French was rough at best, and entirely forgotten at worst.

He closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose. Okay. Well. He had the book. He could get a dictionary. And he was due for a meeting on his draft on Thursday. So this book, French or not, had to be read.

Twisting in his seat, he rolled his shoulders, moving his head from side to side. Only twenty-eight, and yet he could feel the strain of his muscles in his neck and back from hours hunched over at this very desk, poring over impenetrable books. He cracked his wrists for good measure, too, trying not to wince too hard at the audible snap. Sometime in the near future, he needed to re-learn how to hold a pencil, unless he wanted to end up with a debilitating case of carpal tunnel syndrome a few months before his dissertation was due.

But as he stood up to go and seek out a French dictionary, he could feel that familiar flutter of anticipation in his stomach: the quiet thrill of the hunt, the little hope that this book would hold the answer to his questions, or that that article would provide the key to all his problems. Somewhere in this library, or in a library halfway across the world, there was some combination of texts that held the secrets of the universe.

History was great like that. Every answer to every question ever asked was written down, somewhere. The trick was finding it.

So, armed with his pencil, a French dictionary, and the knowledge that, despite all the frustrations and difficulties of working on a PhD, he had brought this on himself because, at the end of the day, it was something he did actually genuinely enjoy, Frederick Chase began to take notes.

It took an hour or so, but his French began to come back to him, slowly, then ramping up, like a plane taking off of tarmac. Plus, by now, Frederick had mastered the art of skimming academic texts for the relevant information. Even in French.

He labored over the book for hours, scribbling down notes, cross-referencing words in his dictionary, and slowly, the author’s thesis came together. It was a deeply engaging book, and probably extremely well-written in the original language. Plus, he found that he could skip chapters three and four entirely, which was an enormous weight off his shoulders.

Chapter five was another story.

He read that one carefully, double- and triple-checking his grammar at every opportunity. It was an absolutely fascinating chapter; the author had decided to jump back to the medieval period, introducing the early Holy Roman Empire and examining the parallel philosophies the state held, just over a thousand years apart. It was good stuff.

Too good.

By the time he realized he was starving, twilight had by far already set in. His already quiet corner of the library was dead silent.

But his notebook was full, and his mind was racing.

Humming tunelessly, he quickly organized his carroll, jotting down a short summary of his progress today to jog his memory when he came back tomorrow, slipping the note between the pages of French, and trotted out into the warm Cambridge evening, unseasonable for October, but welcome all the same.

Shifting his book bag to the opposite shoulder, he checked his watch. If he booked it, he could probably make it to Paddy’s by 8PM. Frederick and his fellow cohort members had an unofficial standing appointment at the bar on Tuesdays, the only day that any of them had any kind of free time, to relax and unwind, bitch about the undergrads, and drink too much before stumbling home to get some kind of rest before morning lectures.

Well, Frederick didn’t drink much. But he enjoyed the company. And his apartment was nearby, anyway.

“My man!” crowed Ian Szymanowski, one of his classmates, as Frederick stepped into the bar, waving him over, easily visible even in the dim light. “Took you long enough!”

“Sorry,” he said, sheepish, slipping into his usual seat in the booth next to the door. The dark green vinyl crinkled and squeaked in a delightfully familiar pattern, and Frederick felt his whole body relax. “I was in the library and time just–”

“Got away from you?” Rebecca Shapiro, a fourth year grad student, grinned at him. “That’s so unlike you.”

He laughed. “Guilty as charged.”

“Has someone ever told you you work too much?”

“Probably.”

“And you’ll hear it again!” Ian stood as he gestured, grandly, and just a little bit wobbly. “But in the meantime, I’m going for another drink–Frederick, your usual?”

Frederick nodded, fishing for his wallet. “Just the one though,” he said, handing over the cash. “I’ve got class in the morning.”

“Aren’t you ABD?” Anne cocked her head. “Shouldn’t you be done with coursework by now?”

“Teaching,” Rebecca chimed in. “Frederick, somehow, actually enjoys it.” He nodded in agreement.

Anne Randall, being a second year candidate still deeply enmeshed in her coursework, blinked at him as though he were an alien.

“What’s your lecture on tomorrow?”

“Co-existence of heathenry and Christianity in the Viking age,” he recited, relaxing further into the booth.

Rebecca ooh-ed, resting her head on her hand, leaning in towards him. As a religious history specialist, he figured she would be especially interested. “That sounds really fascinating.”

“It is,” he acquiesced, shrugging a shoulder.

Anne raised her eyebrows. “Not really your area?”

“No, no, I’m fairly confident in my ability to teach a class on the Vikings. It’s just…”

Teaching a class on Viking history hadn’t been his first choice (or second or third or any choice) but as a grad student, he was stuck firmly at the bottom of the totem pole in terms of class preferences. He hadn’t even known he was going to be teaching it until earlier that August, when Professor Thurman in the Slavic studies department had suddenly announced that she was taking a year off to do archaeological research in Reykjavik–and thus, Frederick was left with the short, cross-posted straw.

There was no possible way that the history department at Harvard could know about Frederick’s… relationship… with Norse mythology. No way they could have known about his brother and sister, and the way that they had, essentially, disowned him. Somehow, though, it still felt like fate. Like he could never escape his past, no matter how hard he tried to shake it off.

He sighed. “It’s fine. I was just hoping I’d get to do something more closely related to my research.”

Thankfully, he was saved from having to do more Viking talk by Ian coming back with their drinks. He handed them out with all the panache and pizzazz of a former bartender, and, gratefully, Frederick drank his beer.

The night proceeded fairly normally after that. Anne complained endlessly about her advisor who had apparently made it his mission to “avoid her like the plague,” Ian provided biting commentary about the undergrads he TA’d for in his US History course who seemed incapable of following directions, and Rebecca excitedly expounded on her research progress, her dark eyes bright as she walked him through her latest draft. If pressed, Frederick would have to admit that he was only half-listening–the other half was mentally reviewing the structure of his lecture tomorrow–but he would never deny that he enjoyed hearing about Rebecca’s work. She was obviously deeply intelligent, and her research on the history of Jewish-Arab relations was both fresh and relevant. He didn’t even mind that he had heard most of this from her already.

As for him, he was just content to sit back and listen, submerging himself in the warm atmosphere and the presence of his friends. Plus, his head was still swimming from all that French. And possibly also from the shot that Ian had cajoled him into.

“Cheers!” Anne had called, a smile on her normally stony face. When the four of them had clinked their shot glasses together, Frederick had met Rebecca’s eyes, her lips curving when he hadn’t looked away.

Around 10:30 or so, however, he could feel the day’s work start to catch up with him, sensing that he was only an hour or so away from crashing.

“I’ll walk you out,” said Rebecca, standing, after Frederick had made his excuses to leave.

There wasn’t much walking out to be done, since they were so close to the door, but he held the door for her anyway, their bodies brushing as she passed through the narrow entryway.

“Oof, when did it get so cold?” she laughed, shoving her hands under sleeves as they stepped outside. “It felt like summer earlier.”

Frederick didn’t think it was that cold, but then again, he did have a sweater on. Poor girl only had a thin, long-sleeved shirt. “It’s only going to get colder from here on out,” he grinned. “Autumn in Boston does not last for too long.”

“Yeah, the heat in my apartment was terrible last year,” she said. Then she took a step towards him. “I might need to get a roommate, just to share some body heat.”

Frederick frowned. “What’s your rent like? I can ask around at the next grad student representative meeting if you want.”

But she only smirked at him. “What’s your rent like?”

He blinked. “Fine, I guess.” North Cambridge wasn’t exactly what Frederick would call a student housing neighborhood, but with his stipend, he managed well enough. “I only have a studio, though. It’d be pretty cramped.”

And then she put her hand on his arm. “I don’t mind,” she murmured, looking up at him from under dark lashes.

…Ah.

He knew, on some kind of intellectual level, that Rebecca was very pretty. She eschewed makeup and flashy clothes, preferring a more professional, academic look, but Frederick would never say that she was frumpy or dowdy. She had a wonderfully strong nose, thick, curly, luxurious dark hair which shone beneath the street lamp, and a wide, genuine smile. And she was brilliant: well-spoken, well-written. He knew that they could talk for hours and hours, discussing history and Hegel and Hepburn (both Audrey and Katherine) without skipping a beat.

And yet.

“I… don’t think you’d be very comfortable there,” he said after a moment, with a rueful twist of his mouth. “Sorry.”

She held his gaze for a few heartbeats, her soft, brown eyes searching beneath thick, furrowed brows. Whatever she was looking for, she apparently found it, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly.

Frederick swallowed another apology.

“Guess I’ll have to stock up on blankets this winter, then,” she offered, her joke not quite enough to hide her disappointment.

“Hey,” he said, patting her shoulder–a friendly pat, he hoped. “You’re… I’m sure you’re a great roommate! You’ll have no problem finding someone to–to split the rent with you.”

Rolling her eyes, she smiled anyway, then reached in for a hug. Frederick couldn’t tell if it felt any different than any of the hugs she’d given him before. (And then he felt like a right idiot. Way to miss the million signals she was sending!) Then, she kissed his cheek, quickly and gently, before pulling away. “Good night,” she said, softly, turning back to Paddy’s.

“Night.” He watched her walk back up the stoop, and just as she reached the threshold of the bar, he gathered the wherewithal to blurt, ““I’ll see you around?”

Rebecca only waved at him from over her shoulder, before disappearing back into the bar.

He lingered just a moment, contemplating going back inside, before he turned away, and began walking home, in the opposite direction.

The temperature had dropped significantly by the time he got to his apartment building about twenty minutes later, and he jogged up the stairs to the third floor to try and get some warmth back into his fingers. Guiltily, he suddenly recalled that Janet, his downstairs neighbor and landlady, was a very light sleeper, and probably would not appreciate Frederick making a racket on her staircase in the middle of the night, despite the fact that it was barely eleven.

Closing his door behind him, he slipped off his shoes, draping his sweater over the arm of his gray, lumpy, third-hand couch, and flipped the light switch in the kitchen. After a second, it flickered to life, illuminating the pile of dirty dishes in his sink in a harsh, sickly, yellow light.

Maybe he should get a roommate, he mused. It might motivate him to keep his apartment clean, at the very least.

Sighing, he crossed over to his pantry, and took out a cup noodle. His teaching fellowship gave him enough money for real groceries, but he wanted to build up at least some semblance of savings before he embarked on the brutal job market. He certainly wouldn’t be getting help from anywhere else.

In a few minutes, he was settled on his couch, enjoying a hot meal, and listening to The Joshua Tree on his old stereo, the volume turned down as low as it could possibly go. He really was more of a ska fan, if he ever listened to music at all, but U2 was one of Natalie’s favorites, and he was feeling oddly nostalgic tonight. Or maybe he was just indulging in a brief bout of audible self-harm.

“But I still, haven’t found, what I’m looking for,” Bono sang as Frederick looked out at the dark silhouette of the trees through his window.

“And I still, haven’t found, what I’m looking for,” Frederick repeated, warming his fingers against the styrofoam cup. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the back of the couch, and let the music carry him away.

***

“...So, as you can see,” Frederick was saying, stepping back from the chalkboard, “the Nordic peoples had early contact with Christianity through these three main points of cultural contact: through trade with the Byzantine empire via Constantinople, or as the Vikings called it, Miklagard.” He paused for effect. The students blinked down at him from their scattered seats in the lecture hall.

A 9:30 AM lecture wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but Frederick didn’t mind. Sure, sometimes it took a little bit of time for his students to wake up. Or for Frederick to wake up. But he was killing it today, in his humble opinion.

“And also through raids on monasteries in the British isles, and through missionary activity mostly stemming from the Frankish and Saxon lands, but from England as well.” He walked back over to his podium, trying not to look too obvious as he spared a glance towards the clock, and breathing a sigh of relief when he saw that he still had roughly twenty minutes left. “Now, with all that in mind,” he said, “let’s turn to page eight in your handout, where you will see several examples of religious objects from this time period. Please take a moment to examine them.”

There was a flurry of rustling paper as the students dutifully flipped through their notes. Frederick used the noise as a cover to discreetly take a sip of water.

“Can anyone tell me,” he continued after the appropriate amount of time, “if they recognize any artistic or architectural motifs in these artifacts?”

Dead silence. That was fine. He knew the kids knew the answer. They just needed a little push sometimes.

“How about example sixteen?” he said. “What artistic motifs can you see?”

A beat, and then a girl in the front row raised her hand. Frederick gestured at her to speak. “Um,” she started, “it looks like… tendrils? Around the figure’s arm?”

He nodded. “Good; and? What stylistic era does it belong to?”

“The…” She quickly flipped back to a previous page in her handout. “The Mammen style.”

“Excellent.” The student grinned to herself, quickly scribbling something down on the page, and Frederick had to resist his own smile. “Now, let’s take a closer look at the figure in the runestone. We can clearly see that his arms are outstretched,” and he stretched out his own arms, just to make a point, “and that there is a halo behind his head. Given that King Bluetooth, who raised this monument stone in memory of his deceased parents, was a Christian convert, we can safely assume that the figure on the stone is…?”

The same girl from earlier spoke without prompting. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yes; a representation of Christ–not on a crucifix, but in a classic crucifixion positioning.” He went back to the chalkboard, quickly scribbling out a word in the right hand corner. “Some of you may be familiar with this term, particularly if you have ever taken a classics course before…” And he circled the word with a flourish. “Can anyone define ‘syncretism’ for me?”

Another boy a few rows back raised his hand. “Merging two different religions, right?”

This was kind of getting into the weeds, but they had some time left in the lecture, and Frederick figured that his students would be able to handle it. “Right. Outside of the Norse contexts, one of the most well-known examples of syncretism can be found in Roman Britain, in the settlement of Aquae Sulis–now Bath–where the Roman officials took the local Celtic deity, Sulis, and identified her with the goddess Minerva–who, herself, can be argued to be syncretic with the Greek goddess Athena.”

As soon as the name passed his lips, his arms erupted into goosebumps. His heart began to beat faster. The very air in the lecture hall seemed to buzz. All of a sudden, he could feel the intense weight of someone’s eyes on him. He looked up into the back of the hall, where he thought the gaze was coming from, but saw nothing except the figures of students slumped in their seats–and one who was paying deep attention.

For a split second, he had the incredibly odd urge to run. Hide himself from that heavy, heavy gaze. From whoever–whatever–was so intently focused on him. Every nerve in his body was telling him to pack his stuff, gather his papers and leave.

But he didn’t run. He couldn’t. His feet may as well have been rooted to the floor. For a split second, he imagined he was a butterfly, pinned to a display for observation.

Frederick blinked, and the weight disappeared.

But not the attention.

“Um, anyway,” he stammered, “it’s not a perfect comparison–the Romans, on the whole, were less concerned with conversion than they were with governance through assimilation, while the Christian missionaries were almost expressly concerned with conversion.” He turned back to the chalkboard, suddenly flustered, and erased the word to make room for more notes. “But Christianity’s influence on Norse paganism might go deeper than we think; there’s growing evidence to suggest that even things commonly believed to be integral to Norse paganism–such as the very concept of Ragnarök–could stem from the Book of Revelations.”

When he looked back at the students, he was once again met with a set of blank stares.

Save for that person in the back, whose focus was still very much placed on him.

Hopefully it wasn’t someone who would be very cross with him claiming that Ragnarök was a Christian invention.

Get it together, he furiously berated himself. It was just a student. The attention wasn’t even threatening–just curious. Deeply, deeply curious. Hungry to learn.

And, well, he was here to teach, wasn’t he?

“Anyway,” he started again. “Let’s continue by taking a look at the Urnes Stave Church…”

A blessed twenty minutes later, class had ended, the students had all filed out of the lecture hall, and Frederick had dropped his head against the podium, breathing deeply.

What on Earth had happened there? That–that presence had been so… so powerful, so piercing. He hadn’t felt anything like that since…

He shivered, involuntarily.

From above him, he heard a woman’s voice, soft and smooth, but strong. “I very much enjoyed your lecture, Professor.”

He rolled his head, squinting up into the lights. On the other side of the podium was a woman, tall, with braided brown hair draped over her shoulder. She stood soldier-straight, dressed in a perfectly tailored gray business suit, with an olive-toned blouse beneath the expensive-looking jacket. Her face was impassively stony, but her eyes–gray, he noticed, like steel–betrayed a kind of amusement, he thought. She was… well, Frederick wouldn’t mince words: she was probably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.

And she was talking to him.

While Frederick had his head on the podium.

“Ah–” He quickly straightened up, hands flying to his notes, just to give them something to do. “I–well–sorry, that was…” There was no way to subtly check to see if he had paper stuck to his face, but he tried anyway. Fortunately, nothing was there.

Unfortunately, there was no way this woman hadn’t seen that.

“...Sorry,” he said again, sheepish.

She shook her head, gracefully. “It is fine. You thought you were alone.”

He had. And then this woman appeared out of nowhere. A certain alarm in his head began ringing. “I… I’m so sorry, are you one of my students?”

The corner of her mouth turned upwards. Maybe. It was hard to tell. She gave almost nothing away. “No.”

Helpful. “...Are you another graduate student here?”

Elegantly, she tilted her head ever so slightly, appraising him. Those keen, gray eyes didn’t waver from his for a single second. Frederick swallowed.

“I am an… independent researcher, so to speak,” she said, finally. “I was hoping to speak to Dr. Thurman about a… project of mine.”

“Oh. Well,” Frederick had to tear his eyes away, going to shuffle his papers into a more portable form. She was almost too beautiful to look at. Like staring into the sun. “Unfortunately, Dr. Thurman is on sabbatical this year. She’s doing research in Iceland.”

“Yes. I know.”

Right. She had probably figured that out when she stopped at Dr. Thurman’s office and saw Frederick’s name on her door. He resisted the urge to clear his throat. “If you’d like, I can maybe give you her mailing address, but…” Idiot. She was in Iceland. That would not be helpful right now. “Or I can put you in touch with one of the other professors in the Slavic studies department. They might be able to help you with… uh, whatever it is that you’re doing,” he said, chancing a glance back at her face.

What he saw made his heart stop.

There was a perfectly curved frown on her face, her thick brows furrowed above her eyes, which were no longer laser-focused on him, but still flashed with a strong, striking emotion.

She was disappointed. Not in him, he knew, but in the circumstances which had led her here. Whatever information she was seeking, she had encountered an unexpected block, and she was unhappy about it. In all likelihood, she could find the answer elsewhere, but he knew firsthand just how frustrated and demoralizing a dead end could be. “Sorry,” he croaked.

The woman sighed, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly. Or, no, she didn’t slump–her posture was as straight as a spear–but there was an air of… despondency around her, he thought. Her proud bearing and regal posture were diminished, somehow, replaced with a distinct, uncanny discomfort.

And Frederick felt his heart lurch.

Thinking absurdly of the French dictionary he had left in his carroll, he opened his mouth, almost without him realizing, and asked her, “Is there something I might be able to help you with?”

Her eyes snapped back to his, and a spark went through his whole body. “Is there?” she replied. A test and a challenge all at once.

Any rational man would be terrified. Any rational man with his specific family background would be terrified, if he knew what was good for him.

But Frederick didn’t feel so rational right now.

“I can certainly try.”

She held his gaze, and he felt those eyes deep in his whole body, like a knife between plates of armor. His blood tingled, heart racing, and he managed to catch himself before he prayed that she would say yes.

The woman did smile, this time, spreading across her face, and those gray eyes twinkled–like lightning in the clouds. “Then let us try,” she said. “Are you free for a brief discussion, Professor?”

“Oh, I’m not a professor,” he said, his cheeks heating up. “I’m just a student here.” There was a pause, and he realized he hadn’t actually given her his name. “I’m Frederick. Frederick Chase. Call me Frederick.” He stuck his hand out, elbow locking into place.

She dipped her head, that beautiful smile still gracing her features, and took his hand, like a queen greeting a subject. “Call me Athena. It is lovely to meet you, Frederick.”

#my fic #pjo fic #frederick chase #the fredthena meet cute!#does it still count as a meetcute if it ends terribly?#lmk if you want to be tagged in updates

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sunlessea · 1 year

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in the history of london, or perhaps the entirety of every city that has ever sunk at the behest of fate's cruel design, there is almost one thing he is auspiciously certain of ... its people have never quite seemed someone as mad as he. an unreachable feat when wrapped in the throes of a world that has never seen sanity, he's sure, but what else is there to say about him, when the entirety of its citizenry may as well have frozen in place to stare at him, eyes wide in abject horror and shock alike. he is not deterred and that, alone, is almost hilariously insane. like steel, he stands his ground, not a single anxious flick of his tail behind him, but all his power is shown in the determination with which he blocks mr irons' path, claw pointed directly at @londonfallen's chest. he's going to die, he thinks its workers are whispering.

"you." all it had taken, then, a mere chance at catching its eyes 'neath its hood. even now, its face tucked away where he cannot possibly read its reaction to a londoner so brazen as to forcibly halt its rampage 'gainst its workers, the pull in his own heart is still there. it races so fast he can feel it beating in his head. "i'm going to marry you." he does not quite think it scandalous, necessarily, but the deathly silent panic that falls over the populace almost makes him think it should be. "mr irons! i declare now before you and london both — you are going to fall in love with me, and lost in the depths of your affection, you will propose to me."

#meet threads are not my thing but these two are fucking UNHINGED #does ironegg count as a meet cute oh my god #londonfallen #` ✞ irons & elysium. ⁞ like a gift from the false stars‚ it was easy to tell‚ it was love from below that could save me from heaven.

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practically-an-x-man · 3 months

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Nightmares (Nikoletta x Abner)

Summary: Nikoletta wakes up from a nightmare to find someone else has done the same

Tags: angst, dark themes, depictions of nightmares, mention of needles

Word Count: 2.6k

____

For the thousandth time, she saw the lab. She watched the needles plunge into her skin in a dozen places, saw the shadows sink into her flesh. She heard the sound of her own screams, echoing in her mind. And she heard the words of the doctors, false comforts and appeasements as they watched from behind a pane of thick glass.

She hated that glass. She'd always hated that glass. It represented everything that had brought her life to this, the split between worlds she'd always experienced. Rich tourists came and taunted her, dropped their pennies for a so-called "voodoo telling" and laughed, heedless to the way their few dollars meant the difference between life and death. Doctors wearing white coats and blank expressions experimented on her, spending millions on their machines but claiming they could barely scrounge up enough cash to feed her.

In reality, she'd spent about a month at the lab before they released her. In the dream, it felt like years. Doctors came and went in an endless flood. Needles sank into her flesh, deposited their liquid shadows, only the shadows never left.

Darkness pooled in her, chilling her to the bone. It was colder than she'd ever felt, so much ice in her veins that she thought she'd freeze to death on the spot. In the real world, she'd made it out alive. But here, here in this nightmare, it seemed endless. She'd waste her life away in this sea of doctors and machines, with the shadows filling her to the brim, with a cold so profound she couldn't-

Nikoletta Bordeaux sat bolt upright in her cot.

Her whole body was trembling uncontrollably, and she wrapped her arms around herself to try and siphon some warmth back into her chest. The cold never left. She'd gotten used to it over time, but it never left. It wasn't only the shadows that gave her a death-touch. She had no warmth. She felt like death. That alone chased people away almost as much as the shadows themselves.

She wrapped her blanket, a thin square of scratchy, stained cotton, around her shoulders. It helped a little. Not much. Nothing ever did. Sometimes she wondered if she needed organic warmth, a living body pressed up against her own, and that might make a difference.

But that was something she couldn't have. All she could do was wonder.

She didn't know what time it was. There was no clock in her cell. But the prison was dark around her, and Nikoletta could hear a chorus of snores from the neighboring cells. She had hours before any of them would be up.

Sighing, she sank into the shadows of her cell and reappeared on the other side.

It wouldn't do well for the other prisoners to see her like this. She was the Queen of Belle Reve, after all. She had a reputation to maintain. The safest place for weakness was inside her cell, where the others couldn't catch as much as a glimpse.

But she couldn't do with any more captivity right now.

Nikoletta wandered the halls, her steps near-silent even in the echoing expanse of the prison. That much wasn't innate. It was one of the first things she'd taught herself when she reached Belle Reve.

Finally she found the cafeteria, lit only by a few spare bulbs, and practically fell into a seat at one of the dining tables. There was nobody around, no neighboring cells to look in. And it was one of the wider rooms in the prison. It helped her feel a little less captive.

Not that she was ever really captive here. She could slip away in a heartbeat. There was no way to truly remove all shadows from the world. She was little more than a ghost here. But Belle Reve granted her power the outside world didn't, so she stayed. For now.

She was lost in her thoughts for a long time, slumped over the table with her head in her hands. Time was irrelevant. Memories still sparked like firecrackers in her head.

The room was cold. Nikoletta was only dimly aware of it - a distant observation, not a concern. She could hardly feel it anyway, when her skin was already so chilled. Some nights were better than others. Some nights she felt almost normal.

This was not one of those nights.

Shadows. Needles. White coats and steel machines. Screams echoing from down the hall, almost identical to her own. She still didn't know how many they'd taken, or what experiments they'd run. She didn't know if any of the others had made it out alive. The screams - or sometimes, the way the screams finally stopped - told her they hadn't.

For a moment, she wondered if one of the new arrivals had power over memories or nightmares. She hadn't dealt with a night so bad, so vivid, in a long time. She'd managed to bury most of those memories. Her past was not something she let herself dwell on for long.

Cold. Utter cold. Shadows trailing her touch. Her clothing - cotton and wool and leather - stained black. Her books damaged until they were illegible. A brush of the hand across a counter in the coffeeshop- marked. Forever. She'd learned to be careful quickly. She'd learned to avoid all contact with others.

Something hit the table beside her, and she was so lost in her thoughts that she jumped. It was... a coffee cup. Filled with dark, steaming liquid. Nikoletta blinked.

"I, uh... I don't know if you drink coffee or not." a soft voice greeted her, and a dark-haired man took the seat across the table, "And I couldn't find sugar or... or anything like that. But I thought it might help?"

She didn't know when he'd come in. Usually she was a little more observant than this. But she was too tired to let her shock linger. Besides, there were far too many shadows in this dark room for him to hurt her.

"Oh- thank you," she said, folding the coffee cup into her hands but not taking a sip. The cup was paper, and shadows spread under her touch. Nikoletta winced, fumbling in her pocket for her gloves.

When she had her gloves on, she found herself taking a second look at the man. She recognized him. He was the one she'd rescued, back in his first day in Belle Reve. The quiet one, with the dark eyes and darker hair and the power dampener locked around his neck. There were deep hollows under his eyes, like he hadn't slept in a while.

She knew who he was. She decided not to ask about the rest.

"Nightmare?" he mumbled, ducking her eyes, "I, uh, I get them too."

Nikoletta ignored the question.

"How'd you get out of your cell?" she asked, trying to force a confidence she didn't truly feel into her voice. It still wavered, despite her best efforts.

"They don't lock it at night." he replied, with the same soft and hesitant tone of voice, "I don't like small spaces. I think they're afraid that I'll... break something."

"They don't care if you trash your cell. They'll just make you live in it like that."

"No, I..." he trailed off, but glanced down at his hands, "I mean really break something. That they- uh, can't fix."

He wrung his fingers together, still refusing to meet her eyes. Nikoletta pressed her lips together, managing to connect the dots. He had power. Enough power that they worried even that heavy power dampener wouldn't be enough to hold him. Not if he were... motivated. And terror was a very good motivator.

"How'd you get out?"

"Shadows. They can't hold me anywhere." Nikoletta responded, idly lifting her coffee cup to her lips and taking a sip. It didn't replace the warmth she'd lost, but... it was a start.

The man was silent - not like he thought the conversation was over, but like he had no idea how to continue it. From what she'd seen of him these past few weeks, he was more than a little antisocial. Didn't talk to other inmates, barely even spoke to the guards or employees, avoided any social interaction he could manage to weasel his way out of. He'd been keeping his head down, like she'd told him to.

"You're Abner, right?" she found herself asking, though her voice wasn't much louder than his own. His eyes snapped up to hers in surprise.

"You remembered?" There was a bit of hope in the words, and it made her heart ache. Definitely a loner. Perhaps not entirely by choice.

"Of course. I know everyone in this place," Nikoletta replied, "I'm the queen."

"Why do you-"

"You made it out of STAR Labs, didn't you?" she cut him off, avoiding another question she didn't want to answer, "How'd you take that shithole down?"

Abner opened his mouth to answer, then shook his head. He was fiddling with his hands again. Nikoletta lifted her coffee cup to her lips for another sip. It was tepid, watery, but better than nothing.

"I came from that place too," she found herself admitting, though she wasn't entirely sure why, "That's what made me like this."

"Cold?"

That made her pause, half-formed words dying on her lips. Nikoletta frowned. It was her turn to wring her hands together. Even through her gloves, her fingers felt chilly. But that wasn't what he meant. That couldn't be what he meant, because he'd never touched her. Nobody had. Not really. Not if they wanted to live.

"Yeah," she muttered, voice rough as she pulled her coffee cup a little closer, "Cold."

Nikoletta sighed and moved to slide out of her seat. This wasn't helping her. If anything, it was making her feel worse. She hadn't improved her life since she left that damn lab. If anything, she'd made it worse. Not only for herself, but for everyone around her.

She could have kept her head down. She could have lived a semi-normal life if she tried. But... she didn't try. She'd built herself up into this untouchable persona, constructed walls so sturdy even she herself couldn't crack them. Because that was safer.

At least for a while.

"Thanks for the coffee." she mumbled, drawing back.

"Wait- hang on, I didn't-" Abner stammered, standing up from his own seat like he wanted to follow.

Nikoletta ignored him. What difference did it make? She knew he wouldn't last long in a place like this. There were corners of Belle Reve that weren't under her protection, and his shifting eyes and the dampener around his neck painted him as a target to anyone who wanted to knock somebody around for a while. She'd seen that from his very first day. It was hardly worth protecting him at all, let alone getting close.

Slender fingers closed around her wrist. Her whole body went still.

"Please wait."

Her gloves. Her sleeves. He was safe- for the moment.

"Don't touch me." Nikoletta muttered, though the words came out far too hoarse to be a threat, "You'll regret it."

His fingers released their grip, and he slowly drew his arm back to his side. Nikoletta didn't move.

"What's your name?" Abner asked, that hesitance creeping back into his voice. Even in the near-silent cafeteria, she could barely hear him. "Your- your real name, I mean. Does anyone here know it?"

"Of course people know it." she hissed, "What kind of a question is that?"

Waller knew. Flag knew. Adrian knew. Blackguard had overhead Waller say it once, and tried calling her "Boredom" for a while. That didn't last long. But her name wasn't hidden.

"I don't know it," Abner said. He was almost whispering now. It was a little strange, she thought. He didn't stammer quite like most people did. He knew what he wanted to say, he just... got quiet like this. Like he wasn't used to being allowed a voice. Something about that made her heart hurt.

"Nikoletta." she answered, forcing a casual shrug, "People used to call me Nikki. Not so much in here."

His face brightened considerably. It was charming, in a way - like a dog overhearing the word "treat", excitement that came out of the blue with just a word. He gestured at himself, moving with more zeal than she'd seen from him in the three weeks he'd been here.

"I'm Abner," he said, though she already knew. There was almost a smile on his face. Not quite there, but... almost. "I've never really had a nickname. Kind of hard to make something out of that."

"I like it as it is." Nikoletta found herself saying, unsure of where these words were coming from, "It's unique."

That drew a bit more of a smile from him- still faint, still hesitant, but a little more. It even drew an answering smile from her.

When was the last time she'd smiled? When was the last time someone had talked to her like this - like she was real, tangible, the human being behind the persona?

Abner cleared his throat, summoning his courage with a visible effort. Then he held out a hand to her. Nikoletta just stared at it.

"It's nice to meet you," he said, dark eyes flicking from her face to his extended hand, "Nikoletta."

"You shouldn't." she said, looking at his hand like it was something foreign to her. In a way, it was. Even when she wore her gloves, covered her skin, people here shied away from her touch like it was the plague. In Belle Reve, it might as well have been.

"I'm not afraid." he said. His voice had gotten low again, but she could hear truth in it. He was afraid of something, yes, she could hear it in every word he spoke. But that something wasn't her, and it wasn't her shadows.

How strange.

"We're the same." Abner insisted, keeping his hand still extended to her, "If you're not afraid of me, I'm not afraid of you."

She couldn't see how she could be frightened of him. He was so... quiet. And even behind the fear she could see in his movements, there was something gentle about him. If it weren't for the power dampener around his neck, a clear sign of something dangerous that lay within him, she'd never have been able to reconcile this man with the destruction of STAR Labs. He looked more like he belonged in the corner of a bookstore somewhere, poring over pages of English poetry.

Nikoletta reached out and shook his hand, just three quick pumps. She pulled back too fast, almost like the touch had burned her. It hadn't, but he was... warm. She could feel it even through her gloves. Were all people this warm? Had she just forgotten?

She found herself taking a step back, pulling herself away from all this strangeness. She held her hand clutched against her chest, savoring the lingering warmth as it sank into her skin. Abner watched her in silence for a long time, a curious expression on his face. She couldn't quite make it out.

"I burned it down." he finally whispered.

"What?"

"STAR Labs. You- um, you asked," he explained, "I burned it down. There's nothing left. It's gone."

No more doctors, her brain supplied, No more needles. No more experiments. You're free. They're all free.

"Thank you." she managed, her voice hardly more than a rough whisper. Her eyes stung, and for a moment she thought she might cry. Abner shifted on his feet, looking vaguely uncomfortable with the unexpected display of emotion.

For the briefest moment, he lifted his arms as if offering her a hug.

Then Nikoletta vanished into the shadows.

#my writing #my ocs #nikoletta bordeaux #oneshot #ficlet #angst #tw nightmares #tw needles #does this count as a meet-cute? i'm not sure #the suicide squad #abner krill #polka dot man #oc x canon

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faeriecap · 2 years

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nat’s friendship with steve in the mcu is so sweet and also like the only ACTUAL friendship we see between two og avengers besides like idk clintasha which was originally written as a romance so does it even count??

#i know everyone in 2012 loved to write all the avengers who barely interacted on screen as hashtag besties but like SHE AND STEVE ACTUALLY C #CARE ABOUT EACH OTHER #she understands steve!!!!! no one else does!!! no one else even tried to understand him!!! but natasha does and keeps trying #and i LOVE THAT but it wasn’t like. actual #‘hes my friend’ ‘so was i’ bestie you two were barely amicable coworkers #like did they EVER interact help #and i mean i GUESS thorbruce but only bc taika is god and gave us the “YESSSSSSS HES A FRIEND GROM WORK” sk i guess it’s canon they’re frien #samsteve doesn’t count as an avengers friendship for the poptart era #mostly bc they were post poptart when sam became an avenger #he was part of the cap trio/quartet then instead #rhodey and tony don’t count for the same reasons yoo #this is not me dissing samsteve #also they were a meet cute first and friends second aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa #oh god i’m scared to post this but i must i must #anyways i miss them so bad #i speak #steeb #nat <3 #marvel #mcu #captain america #black widow #marvel cinematic universe #steve rogers #natasha romanoff

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caitkaminski · 1 year

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Just casually bumping into my favourite fictional man and battling sparkly Pokémon together 🥰

(And yes, Pokémon is the whole reason I have gone silent, sorry about that 😭)

#just girly things #power couple #does this count as a meet-cute??#and my bestest breaded dog #love island the game #bruno kaminski #litg bruno

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sysig · 2 years

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Those good old confusions (Patreon)

#Doodles #SCII #The Captain #ZEX #Tiny silly things #I was out and about for the first one so I didn’t have my red pen so the spacing is weird for the three head bumps haha #Still a cute face tho ♥#I still really enjoy making the head tendrils all the same thickness - tiny tiny tinyyyy taper towards the end but only a very little bit #It's very cute :3 #The second one was my warmup for that day so it turned out a little weird lol #I guess on a technical level ZEX counts as a blorbo?? He's an optional sidequest NPC from behind enemy lines #That's decently obscure like you don't even have to meet him in a playthrough #I mean - I have to but that's because my first exposure to him was all the everything and the whole reason I want to play to begin with lol #It's very important #But all the same blorbo doesn't really feel sophisticated enough for ZEX haha #He's both too proper and too scandalous for such a silly title ♪ Although he can also be very silly haha #It is funny to think about him looking up human terminology and asking the Captain about it tho lol #''My Captain what does flossing have to do with moving ones legs? I thought it was to do with your strange hard mouth bones?'' ''Oh boy''#Pfft

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onepilogues · 2 years

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( @eidetic187 )

Iridescence descends into decadence— the courtyard rich in a bright ambience, a myriad of savory scents wafting from nearby vendors. The sun is blinding, a hot wash on the back of his neck, smoothing it’s beams down between his shoulders, and still, Wesley is lucid, not so overwhelmed by the bustle of a crowd that might normally send his head spinning and his lungs flood a contagious ecstasy. A wide grin had fixed to his lips, dipping in an out of quaint, colorful little shops adorning the streets along the parades parameter. Later, dusk will peek over the horizon, even the cicadas throttling out a mantra of nightfall, but the heat is expected to last well into the evening, and for now, he is dripping daylight. Daylight and well, fountain water.

Right. He’s up to his knees in it now, pawing through the water refracting his reflection back up at him. He’d abandoned his collection of impulse purchases along the sidewalk, a neat stack of secondhand books: an Anthology of Lesbian Literature from the Seventeenth Century to Present, Oral Tradition and Written Record in Classical Athens, and The Etymology and Usage of Peirar in Early Greek Poetry, as well as a paper carton of fresh berries, no doubt turning to jam under the blister of the sun.

Of course, it didn’t dawn on him that he might look a bit absurd, sorting through fistfuls of change for his transmitter, clad in a muscle tee and shorts that left little to the imagination, courtesy of Melchior’s inventive mind, and where had his friends headed off to anyhow? With a disgruntled sigh he drops his weight in surrender until he’s sitting fully in the fountain now, his weight rested up against the cool marble of one of the statues, a siren like water bearer, indefinitely emptying her vase back into the pool, spraying through his mop of hair. The heavy fringe of his lashes drips steadily, painting over his freckles, a rich bloom under the heat of the summer.

#eidetic187 #[Your mind is a nightmare that has been eating you: now eat your mind.]—WESLEY #Does this count as a pride parade meet cute?

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altruisticalastor · 3 months

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↳˗ˏˋAlastor x Readerˊˎ˗ ↴

☒ Summary: The Radio Demon proves to be quite a doting husband as he and his doe expierence many firsts together. Exploring his softer sides, may bring out a more posessive side of Alastor in the process.

☒ Warnings: fem!reader, she/her pronouns used, doe!reader, the reader is shorter than al, implied size difference, soft!alastor, posessive!alastor, lots of tooth rotting fluff, sexual themes but i wouldn't consider this smut, first times, alastor in a rut, knotting, breeding, pregnacy, many domestic moments between reader and alastor

☒ Word Count: 2,337

Alastor was drawn to you the moment you crossed paths. The spotted ears planted atop your head, heart-shaped antlers, and a plush tail to match were striking. The Radio Demon hadn't ever seen a fellow deer hybrid in hell until you. But Alastor just knew that he had to have you all to himself.

Since your first meeting, the two of you were inseparable. It didn't take long until you wed, and anyone who dared to try and cozy up to The Radio Demon's darling doe joined his next broadcast. Alastor was insanely possessive of you. He always had you tucked underneath his arm, crimson eyes following your every move. The only time they weren't on you, was when The Radio Demon was busy... taking care of business.

You were timid and pure. Alastor had no clue how you even ended up in hell. Surely, the gods were mistaken by not taking you. But alas, that softness you carried only made The Radio Demon's obsession for you all the more extreme. You were his weak spot, his darling wife. The love of his afterlife.

You adored waking up next to Alastor each morning. He didn't rest often but snuggled into you each night to appease you. Which just made your heart flutter with delight. The only time you awoke to an empty bed, was when your husband slipped away to make breakfast for you.

For the most part, you would sleepily wobble into the kitchen. Wrapping your arms around Alastor's waist from behind while he cooked his heart out. Alastor would hum a soft tune while he finished making your breakfast. Reveling in the warmth his cute wife emitted.

The Radio Demon would often spin on his heel. Encircling his large palms around your waist. He loved lifting you, so the tips of your toes planted flat against the top of his shoes as he spun you around the kitchen. Your laughter and his singing filled the sacred space you shared. You may have been in hell, but anywhere you were with Alastor was heavenly.

Alastor never failed to notice how flustered you got as you gazed up at him. The man was over seven feet tall, so typically, he was taller than most. However, you were adorably short in comparison. His hands blanketed yours entirely. Alastor absolutely loved to bend down before you. Treasuring how your ears tipped back coyly as he met you at eye level. You were so easy to read. You couldn't hide anything from your husband. Even if you tried.

You came to notice that physical touch wasn't something Alastor particularly liked. Except when it came to you. Your husband was constantly all over you. Holding your hand, wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you into his lap anytime he sat down. You name it. Knowing that you were the only exception made you feel special.

But even still, you never pushed the matter. If anything, you waited for Alastor to initiate the physical intimacy, which happened more frequently than one might think- considering The Radio Demon's reputation.

Sex wasn't something you discussed much at the beginning of your relationship. Alastor briefly mentioned that he never desired such things when he was alive. But once he became a demon, a deer hybrid at that- he started experiencing ruts. He explained that he would usually tuck away from the world until his rut passed, but that was as far as the conversation went. Relief washed over you, knowing that you weren't alone in that aspect. Your periods of estrus always made you feel shameful but, most of all... unbearably needy.

Alastor prided himself on knowing that he was a man of great composure. However, when his routine rut hit after you both had tied the knot- he expected to be able to control his urges. But that proved to be impossible for The Radio Demon. At the start of his rut, he kept his distance. Avoiding all physical contact with you. Naturally, you understood and tried to support him the best you could from afar.

But it didn't take long for Alastor's poise to completely crumble. Your scent was all over your shared home, and any glimpse of you had him throbbing in his pants.

Before you knew it, your husband was on you. Nipping and kissing up the expanse of your throat. Grumbling and groaning against your neck, begging you to help in through his heat. Your body trembled with need as Alastor's hands roamed along your frame in a way he never had before.

His touches were prompt, frantic, and perverse. You wouldn't dream of denying your darling husband during his time of need. Knowing that Alastor would be your first and last lover; as you would be his, sent your heart pounding against your ribcage.

As desperate as your husband was for release, his touch was undoubtedly gentle. Alastor was slow to undress you, laying you flat atop your shared bed. He placed chaste kisses on every square inch of your skin, making your ears twitch with delight. Your husband whispered sweet nothings into your skin as he worked a finger into your tight heat for the very first time.

Alastor's deft digit stretched you out slowly. The copious amount of slick dripping down your thighs made it easy for him to add another finger. You were on cloud nine being touched by your darling husband in such a way. You could feel the need he had for you, and it only added to the pleasure.

Your husband was a bit hesitant the first time he pushed himself inside your welcoming walls. His hands were trembling around your waist as he buried himself to the hilt inside you. You could tell he was unfamiliar with such things; it was endearing. Alastor's face loomed over yours as he beckoned into you slowly. He gazed down at you with so much adoration as he succumbed to pleasure.

You didn't fail to notice the tears of merriment trickling down Alastor's flush cheeks as his pace quickened. Carefully, you wiped them away. Moaning in pure ecstasy as you and your husband reveled in the unforgettable moment you shared. A gasp escaped you as you felt him begin to swell from deep within you.

From the look on Alastor's face, you could tell he was just as perplexed as you were. The base of your lover's length swelled so much, that he could hardly pull back. You were quite literally stuck together. It didn't take long for you to understand what had happened once Alastor released his seed deep inside you.

The feeling of your husband being so close, enveloping and marking you as his, pushed you over the edge. Once Alastor's knot deflated inside you, finally allowing him to slip out of your heat, his eyes averted from yours. He was uncharacteristically quiet as he attempted to regain his composure.

Slowly, he explained that he had no clue that he was capable of knotting until only moments ago. You couldn't help but flush as you admitted to liking it more than you probably should have. Your confession unlocked something from deep inside your husband's psyche. Safe to say that you both shared a long night of exploring one another's pleasures and eccentricities.

Your husband began craving you sexually even when he wasn't in a rut after your first night together. Alastor seemed to have developed a fixation with breeding you, which you weren't opposed to. The thought of starting a family with your doting husband plagued your mind often.

So it wasn't a massive surprise to you when you discovered you were pregnant only a couple months later. When you broke the news to Alastor, he was elated. Your husband lifted you in his arms, spinning you around the kitchen as you both grinned brightly. Alastor wasted no time pitching name ideas for your fawn, melting your heart entirely.

You were about seven months along when your husband informed you of his next prospect at the Hazbin Hotel. Happily, you joined your husband in his endeavor. At first, the people you met who resided at the hotel didn't believe you were Alastor's spouse. For crying out loud, he was the infamous Radio Demon. The ruthless overlord that moved up the ranks faster than ever before.

But to you, he was simply the doting husband that took pride in loving you. Who rubbed your feet from how much they swelled during your pregnancy. The man who hummed his favorite tunes to you as you dozed off each night, caressing your ears lovingly in the process.

It took a good while but over time you developed a good relationship with the residents. Charlie was so caring and helpful. She did tons of research on pregnancy to be able to aid you. The Princess of Hell loved rubbing your belly, feeling the little kicks, and humming happy songs to your little fawn.

Vaggie was overly protective of you. Not to Alastor's level- but certainly up there. She acted like your bodyguard at times, even in the safety of your and Alastor's room. It made you giggle, but you appreciated it nonetheless.

Angel was a hoot. At first, he would ask you indecent questions about your and Alastor's sex life. But Husk always put him in his place at times like that. Eventually, Angel became somewhat of a brother to you. He and Fat Nuggets would sit on your bed with you late at night while Alastor worked in his radio tower. Angel would put on all the best rom-com movies, laughing and crying alongside you.

You knew Husk beforehand, having a civil relationship for the most part. But as more time passed at the hotel, he began to warm up to you. If anything, Husk feared for you. He didn't like Alastor in the slightest- and he didn't want you to get caught in The Radio Demon's crossfire. So he kept a watchful gaze on you, especially now that you were pregnant.

A small smile etched into your features as you heard the bedroom door swing open. Alastor was home early, something that didn't happen often. You sunk lower into your bubble bath, letting a soft sigh escape you as your husband's footsteps got louder. A moment later, the bathroom door swung open. Revealing the one and only; Alastor.

"How is my darling doe and fawn doing on this wonderful evening?" Alastor boomed, approaching the tub swiftly. Wasting no time kneeling beside the tub. You giggled as your husband slipped his gloves off, dunking his palms beneath the water to caress your plump belly.

"Hmm, better now that you're here," You whispered. Rubbing your palms over the back of his hands. Alastor craned his neck, giving you a chaste kiss. You couldn't help but smile against your lover's lips as your little fawn kicked right at that very moment. "See! Our little one is happy too, now that daddy's here."

Alastor gazed at you with much adoration as he felt another kick, further solidifying your words. "Well, in that case! I suppose I should strive to get home earlier from now on, hm?" Your husband remarked, slowly pulling his hands from the tub. Alastor didn't miss a beat as he grabbed a washcloth. Lathering it up with your favorite soap before dipping his hands below the water once more.

"Miss falling asleep next to you, Al," You sighed, eyes fluttering shut as your husband washed you. Alastor was so gentle as he scrubbed you clean. Making sure to massage your sore muscles in the process. "I know, my dear, I know." He cooed. Humming a gentle tune as he slid behind you from outside the tub. Working the knots out of your tense shoulders.

"Our little fawn will be here soon... you nervous?" You asked softly, letting out a pleasant hum as Alastor massaged your back. His lips ghosted along the shell of your ear as he whispered, "Quite the contrary, my darling! I'm over the moon with excitement. I simply cannot wait to meet our little one."

Alastor's words caused your heart to flutter against your ribcage. You were the nervous one. You just hoped your child would be happy and healthy. "Don't worry your pretty little head, my dear! Our fawn is in good hands. Don't you see how much the patrons here adore you and our unborn child?"

Your husband always knew when you were nervous. It was as if he could read your mind. The sound of the soapy water sinking down the drain caused your eyes to flutter open. Alastor now stood with a towel outstretched in his arms. He beckoned you toward him, wrapping you in his arms as you stepped out of the tub. Your tail wagged with joy as your husband dried you off.

"You're right... thanks for reminding me, my love," You smiled, tilting your face up against your husband's chest. Alastor took the hint, craning his neck to press his lips against yours. The kiss was warm and loving. Making you feel safe in his embrace. "No need to thank me, my dear! Come now, let's get you tucked in."

You squealed as your husband scooped you in his arms. Carrying you bridal style toward your shared bed. Alastor softly placed you under the duvet, wasting no time getting you warm and cozy in one of his button-up shirts. It smelled just like him, your favorite scent. Your husband stealthily removed his overcoat and shoes before making himself comfortable beneath the sheets.

Alastor cuddled up into your backside, wrapping his slender arms around your waist. He caressed your tummy lovingly as he kissed the top of your head, pulling your back flush against his chest. "There, now my darlings are ready to rest!" Your husband quipped, allowing his droopy eyelids to flutter shut. All you could do was hum in agreement as sleep overtook you. "Night, Al... love you..."

"I love you more, my dear."

tags; @danveration @celestial-vomit @jyoongim

comment if you're intrested in being added to the taglist^^

#hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel smut #alastor smut #alastor x you #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel x y/n #hazbin hotel imagine #alastor imagine #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x y/n #hazbin hotel fluff #alastor fluff #alastor the radio demon

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