#cat boys have plagued my mind for the past week

[umbracirrus]

WIP Wednesday 💛

So, in spite of the absolute disaster that has been my life over the past few days, I've finally today been able to keep myself together enough to get words written down for the start of Chapter 16 of The Perfect Storm.

I've been tagged by @oblivions-dawn and @thequeenofthewinter, but I'm not going to tag anyone back at this point though do feel free to tag me in any WIPs... I love to read them! 💛

The pursuit of relaxation was becoming harder and harder for Elyse – no matter where she went and what she did, something would always need to be done or crop up at the most inconvenient of times, just like the recent events at the Honningbrew Meadery.

She was contemplating seeing whether she could just lock herself away in Breezehome for a while just for some peace, but a weird feeling of melancholy settled in when she thought of her home – she had only been in Dragonsreach for a few weeks, a few months at best, but it almost didn't feel like hers any longer. Almost none of her belongings were there from when she helped Lydia tidy after the roof repairs, and it felt more like her housecarl's home than her own afterwards. But Dragonsreach was not her home either. Her existence there was temporary, even if for the long-term, and that thought lingered persistently at the back of her mind. And that wasn't even getting started on the mess which was Lakeview.

Instead of choosing to venture out to wind down though, she instead decided to stay within her temporary home of Dragonsreach to see what more there was to do there. Before long, she found herself sat in the main hall in a table tucked away in a corner, with a few select books she had picked up from the nearby shelves.

She did had to admit though... watching things unfold as Balgruuf handled his daily audiences had their moments on the occasions where they managed to catch her attention.

Some were enough to tug at the corners of her lips because they were quite silly and handled incredibly well by him – including a hunter who had dragged in her 'proof of killing sabre cats which were plaguing the hold', saying that he had put a bounty out for it… just for him to ask Proventus when the last time he had put out a bounty with regard to the creatures, and it turning out to be five years prior and long-since completed. She had overheard the woman grumbling about having to get a refund as she was escorted out by guards.

Other times though… she would wince, because they were just painful to listen to. There were a few occasions where somebody would come in and yell at Balgruuf for not picking a side in the war, where she could see him trying to keep a straight face and a sympathetic ear depending on the circumstances of their need to shout at him, but ultimately having to dismiss each of them because he had no intentions of dragging Whiterun into war until the time came that there would be no other option.

It was during one of the latter scenarios, when she was silently listening as somebody tried to persuade the Jarl of the importance of siding with the Empire, that she ended up with company. She didn't actually notice until a quiet voice piped up from beside her.

"He likes to brag about that sometimes. It's probably because he feels pathetic in comparison."

Body tensing up, Elyse quickly turned her head to the side before letting out a small sigh. Nelkir was glowering at the book in her hands, huffing quietly as she tried to process what he had just said. "I- I'm sorry, what…?" She closed the book, and glanced at the cover for a moment. Olaf and the Dragon. "Who likes to brag about what, exactly? Owning a history book?"

The boy already seemed exasperated at her response. "My father, obviously. He likes to brag that we are descendants of Olaf, and that Dragonsreach is all important… But he's just a foolish old man who can't make decisions except stupid ones, and uses the past to feel all high and mighty."

#meg has done some writing #dragonborn oc elyse #balgruuf x dragonborn #fic - the perfect storm #skyrim fanfiction #skyrim fanfic #nelkir is here to try and stir the pot - and plot - but little does he know what this is going to lead to :3

[dck-without-the-i]

voltron is resurgent on tik tok???

i’ve been on a klance kick as of recently anyways, so please enjoy this rec list…

klance

Cross My Path by: wittyy_name

black cat witch keith is everything to me. there is a smut scene in here and it does include keith with some feline features, so if that bothers you then this is not for you. or you can just skip the smut

EXPLICIT

“Lance owns a witch themed cat cafe that rescues black cats. Each one has a unique collar and color coded name to help tell them apart. He's not supposed to play favorites, but he's already adopted his favorite, Red, as his own. Cold and distant to everyone, Red is extremely affectionate to Lance. Needy. Clingy. Protective. But Lance doesn't mind. He makes Lance's home a little less lonely. He's a little weird, but aren't all cats? He loves his baby boy, and he's eternally grateful for the day that little black fluff ball crossed his path.

Lance doesn't think twice about Red's odd quirks. That is, until he wakes up with a naked stranger in his bed.

And hey! Turns out Red is actually a witch named Keith who's been cursed to be a cat for twenty years. A really hot witch who's still very affectionate towards Lance.”

Save a Lion, Ride a Cowboy by: Bang Bang Beef Keef

this is one of my favorite klance fics!! i can’t even remember how many times i have read this one. it is so good!

EXPLICIT

“Lance is sexually frustrated. Luckily Keith is here to help...

Excerpt:

“You’re suggesting…” Lance gulped at that lump again. “… I try being slutty right now?”

“If you want to feel satisfied,” said Keith, running that hand from his hair down to his neck. His jacket was slipping off both shoulders now. It’s not like Keith was showing any skin, but something about that jacket refusing to stay put, the mere suggestion that Keith’s clothes were removable… Lance was fairly certain his blood flow was no longer heading up towards his brain. He wasn’t going to think his way out of this one. Did he even want out of this one? He hadn’t agreed to be in this one.”

In the Closet by: speaks

EXPLICIT

“‘I gotta say,’ Lance droned, swishing his nearly empty glass, “I was a little bummed that you never texted me. Then I was kinda pissed when I first saw you again tonight. But after some major reflection and several drinks, I’ve decided to take your rejection as a challenge.”

“I lost it,” Keith blurted.

Lance paused, jaw hanging open slightly with its next half-formed word.

“I lost your number,” Keith emphasized. “Like, almost immediately, on the subway ride home that day.”

“O-oh.” Lance faltered, like his entire plan had hinged around Keith being resistant, and now he was lost for words. And Keith was just drunk enough to roll with that.”

I’m Burnin’ For You by: melancholymango

this fic is another one of my favorites! i also have read it numerous times

EXPLICIT

“Lance has been avoiding Keith like the plague for weeks now, even going so far as to fake sleep or duck around corners to avoid looking at him. He knows that Keith is getting concerned at this point, past the initial annoyance and headed straight into worry. He wants to tell Keith, really, but he loses his head the moment they're face-to-face every single time. Why did he have to develop feelings for his sorta-rival? How long could he avoid addressing it before it blew up in his face?

Until they were both confined to a hot, dark enclosed space for the unforeseeable future, apparently.”

#voltron #voltron legendary defender #voltron legendary queerbait #klance #keith #lance #keith kogane #lance mcclain #keith and lance #lance and keith #fan fiction #fanfic #fanfiction #ficrecs #fics #fan fic rec #fan fiction blog #fan fic blog #lance x keith #keith x lance

[arjaandsimoni]

The Devil and the Magician

A long, long time ago, but then not anymore…

Years go past, then decades, then centuries. The creature remembers being a Fae Lord once in the distant past, then a God after that, but now… it was always the same. Revenge? HAH! It was a lie. He found that out early on. They weren’t in conflict. The shining god and the great adversary? They were just two sides of an eons-long con… and now he was just a part of that.

His life became long stretches of being hidden away in a world of darkness, pain, and agony punctuated with short bouts of sharing a body with a mortal, then returning to the dark place with their soul upon their inevitable death. Sometimes days, sometimes weeks, rarely more than a month, maybe two.

It was always the same old story every time too.

They accused my wife of witchcraft and burned her at the stake! I’ll show them what a witch looks like!

Their defenses are too strong, but a plague knows no walls. I would gladly sacrifice my soul for the cause.

They won’t listen no matter what I tell them. I’ll MAKE them listen…

Those… filthy creatures… are squatting there where we want to build. They protect themselves with magicks, so we’ll use magicks to drive them out.

Then every time it ended… they found out just what it’d cost them. The initial realization, the screams of horror, and then centuries of suffering at the hands of Hell.

Then, several years ago, in Cincinnati Ohio…

You who have summoned me, speak your reasons for calling me from the Pit.

They killed my friend. Killed him for being different, and they got away with it because their leader’s dad is some bigshot politician. The police won’t do dick. I want revenge dammit!

You… you are a Fullmoon are you not? You know the price for the aid of one such as myself… Why would you do this?

I want them to SUFFER. They tortured him to death, chained him to the back of their truck and dragged him until there was nothing left. I want to see them withering away in a hospital bed for years with bodies that are just prisons for them.

… you’re quite a wrathful one yourself Fullmoon… very well, take your blade and carve the sigil into your hands… and our pact is sealed. Remember, when you die, whether in a week or years, your soul belongs to Merihim of the Court of Wrath.

Agreed. Lets raise some hell demon.

A sharp pain, screams, blood everywhere, and then a voice in his mind that never went away… and a burning rage…

Then two days later, across the river in rural Kentucky…

I said I wanted them to suffer! I didn’t want them DEAD! What the hell did you do?!

You sold your soul to allow me in, you of all my hosts should have known better. I’m a demon. You wanted those two dead, I could feel your fury against them. All I did was use that anger to take it the rest of the way.

Not like this! I-I didn’t want…

Didn’t you? You’re a terrible liar Nelen, be glad that the injuries I gave them couldn’t have come from a human weapon. At least the mortal police won’t be after you. No human could have done this, and they’ll write off what those two say as insane hallucinations from my plague.

No, but there’s no way my grandfather won’t know. I’ll have hunters on my ass for the rest of my life!

Best start running then, you know what it means if they catch you…

I’ll die… and…

Thats riiiiiiight...

And so he ran. He ran from his family, from his former friends, from his entire life, because to return to it was death followed by eternal suffering and pain…

New Orleans, Present Day

The six of them walked down the street together, well five walked and one rode on the shoulder of another. Arja and Simoni were clearly enjoying the warm air in Louisiana, the girls dressed in a red tee-shirt and shorts for Arja and a green tank top and denim skirt for Simoni, Dusk riding on her shoulder and grinning like the cat that ate the parrot.

Next to them were Stephy and Sammi, the fae boys not looking as happy as they were. Stephy was wearing a long white summery dress and fanning himself with a large straw hat. “Seriously! How is it THIS hot here in February?!” he gasped out, “Its Winter, Christmas was just a little over a month ago…” he sighed.

Tex gave his shoulder a gentle pat, “It’s a scorcher to be sure darlin’, but we’ll grab some ice cream inna bit.” he replied, the young boy just wearing a white tee-shirt, blue jeans, and a pair of sturdy leather boots today, the pocket on his shirt showing a small square where the Very Useful Deck sat.

Sammi huffed, “Ice cream, snow-cones, gelato, something to stave off this wretched oven-like climate… By Oak and Ash and Thorn why do humans settle in horrible places like this?” he grumped. Sammi was dressed to the nines as always, a shining white silk shirt and silvery trousers with heeled boots that had drawn more than a few looks from both girls and boys their age… He was tempted, but not tempted enough to risk annoying his allies.

Arja smirked at them, “Oh calm down guys. Hopefully we’ll be back in India soon. I think we’re due for some cooler weather there, might even go down to… oh… low nineties, with humidity.” she teased.

Tex snorted, “Arja, c’mon…” he chuckled.

“I dunno Arja, maybe we could all go back to France again… I liked France a lot last time we were there.” replied the fae princess with a smirk.

Arja huffed, “Nope, nope nope nope. No more visiting Alice’s family unless its very decidedly summertime.” she nodded.

Sammi rolled his eyes, “Everyone could you please try to pay attention for our quarry? We’re trying to find out the source of the Hyde that turned that mortal into a bloodthirsty ogre. I swear I…” he stumbled to a stop, shuddering, “Oh… oh dear… yes, yes, I sense something… strong envious feelings, wrath like a burning sun… everyone get ready! I believe we’re about to encounter…” he began.

Then he got cut off as a shop door opened and a rather frustrated looking thirty-something woman hauled out a chubby three-year-old with an ice cream-stained mouth. The child was screaming at the top of his lungs and smashing a toy SpongeBob SquarePants into her leg while shrieking “I WANT IT I WANT IT I WANT IT I WAAAAAAAAAAANT IIIIIIIIIIIT!” loud enough to not only break glass but clean it first.

Dusk hissed and folded his ears back at the racket as Sammi deflated, his eye twitching in annoyance, “… a very spoiled mortal suburbanite child.” he finished. “Oh, BUGGER AND BLAST IT ALL! We’ve been out here for hours!” he scowled, throwing up his arms in frustration.

Arja sighed and shook her head as Simoni tutted at the kid as he was dragged past, “You think we’d run into something by now, maybe word got around about the side effects? I mean getting transformed into something like that would definitely scare away potential users.”

Arja huffed, “We should be so lucky. I have a feeling that if that ‘Al’ guy really is behind all this that he wouldn’t give up easy. Even if the junkies start turning him down, he might just force them to use it. We need a lead, bad.” she nodded. Al’s deadline was only a couple weeks away now… time was running out.

Tex folded his arms over his chest, nodding as he looked up thoughtfully, “Yeah, can’t imagine somethin’ that can do that shit is easy to make… if we could just find out where…”

Stephy paused then, the fae princess glancing down a nearby alleyway, “Hum? I sense…” he squinted. There were four people down there, two tall ones, one small, and one hunched over… but to his eyes… “Hey guys. They might know something.” he suggested, pointing down the path.

Sammi looked, then grinned, “Oho, yes if nothing else… one of our own would certainly recognize the stench of Hyde about them.” he nodded, walking towards them, “Begging your pardon, but if we could have a moment of your time?” he tried.

The three taller ones started, moving to stand between them and their smaller companion… and then one spoke.

“RRRGH! WHO’RE YOU!” he said, though it came out more as a bark. He was a hobo in filthy clothes with a torn scarf and a sock hat shoved down over his head, but to the fae members of the group he had large drooping jowls and sharp fangs instead of teeth, his nose black and wet. He crouched down on all fours, growling like an angry mongrel, looking to all the world like someone had a child with a basset hound. “Don’t like yeh, DON’T LIKE YEH! YEH SMELL LIKE THEM!” he snarled.

The next was a girl, dressed in a long sundress in a spray of psychedelic colors with a pair of dark John Lennon style sunglasses on her face… but instead of hair she had long swaying vines that blooms were growing throughout. “B-bailey calm down, they’re just changelings like us!” she said.

The third however actually looked rather like Sammi, just older and much more scholarly. He wore a button-down shirt and pressed slacks held up by suspenders. He also had a bowtie on and sensible shoes, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows against the heat. He looked mostly human, but his hair had a strange luster to it and his ears were pointed. “Changelings we do not know my dear, no names.” he warned.

But then a pair of small hands reached out from between the two, “Wait! Everyone wait! I know them!” came a young girls voice as a child squeezed through the group and Stephy gasped in surprise!

She was wearing a patchwork dress like a big colorful quilt, stitched together out of gods only knew how many teeshirts and other swatches of material along with a pair of mismatched tennis shoes. Her long black hair shined like a rainbow when the light hit it, and she had a pink bandana wrapped around one wrist, tied in a knot. “Its you guys! You saved me from my keeper back in Houston!” she grinned, “I never got a chance to thank you!”

“Yeah! I remember you! You were there when we ran into Is-…” Stephy began to say, but Sammi’s hand clamped tightly over his mouth and he gave him a stern look as the girl eeped and took a step back.

“Names have power, my dear sibling. You never know what may be listening…” he warned.

Stephy blushed at her, “… s-sorry… when we ran into your keeper. We never found out what happened to you.” he replied.

At that the girl sighed sadly, “I found where I’d lived as a mortal, but my parents divorced and took off after I was taken, my house was empty. That’s when I met these three!” she smiled, giving the flower-girl’s hand a squeeze, “They’re my family now!”

The flower girl smiled and stroked her hair in a sisterly way, the fussy bookish man nodding, “Right, well… if they were bold enough to fight back one of the Others I think we can safely assume they mean us no ill… Introductions then!” he snapped, “As my loose lipped friend stated, our canine companion here is known as Basset Bailey. My flower-child friend is Lavender, and my actual child friend here we call ‘The Rainbow Child,’ or Rain for short. You may refer to me as the Blonde Professor, or simply Professor.” he replied. “Now, what do we call you?” he asked.

“Oh, um… I’m Stephy and this is my… sorta-brother Samuel, or Sammi.” he nodded as Sammi made a ‘tch’ sound, still annoyed at the more casual name. “This is my boyfriend Tex, and these three are our friends Arja, Simoni, and Dusk.”

“Heyo!” smiled the Cheshire kitten, waving a paw, to which Basset Bailey barked a few times until Lavender shushed him.

Stephy nodded, then frowned, “But… why are you guys in New Orleans? We were in Houston when we last saw you…” he replied.

At that the Professor’s face darkened, “… it would appear that Rain’s keeper was not one to let her playmates go easily…” he replied. “About a month after Rain joined our merry band, she came back for her…” he scowled.

Rain whimpered, looking down at her feet.

Houston Texas, five months ago, late at night

“GET TO THE TRUCK! ALL OF YOU! MOVE!” shouted the Blonde Professor as he ran, carrying as many of his tomes as he could, his hair mussed and his bowtie missing.

Bailey snarled from the cab of the pickup, barking like an angry hound as the sound of stomping feet filled the air, the streetlights reflecting off the plastic heads of the toy soldiers as they advanced.

“Ohgodsohgods…” whimpered Lavender, “Um… um… My friends! HELP US!” she cried out, her words laced with the power of the Wyrd.

As one the flowers burst into bloom and lashed out at the nearest soldiers with long ropey vines, but then a voice laughed over the marching army.

“You think they’re your friends?” taunted a young girl’s voice, “YOU ALL SERVE ME! AS ROSES BLOOM ONLY BY MY LEAVE, SO BLOOM YOU ALL! NOW LET MY TOYS GO!” she snapped, her voice echoing ominously.

The flowers cringed, and they slowly released the toy soldiers.

Sorry Lavvy!

So sorry… we cannot disobey…

The Everblooming Rose commands us… we do not want to wilt…

Run quickly! Run fast!

Rain whined loudly, clinging to Bailey’s bulk in the back of the truck. “No no no no please no please no not that I don’t wanna go back no no no…” she gasped out, her eyes wide with terror.

The professor threw his books into the back, then turned and watched as the toy soldiers crossed into what, at first glance, looked like a large puddle of water. Then he took a cigarette lighter out of his pocket, lit it, and threw it as hard as he could into the center.

There was a loud WOOSH and the gasoline he’d drained out of the gas can for the truck ignited in one go, creating a wall of flames between them and the soldiers as the ones already in the puddle began to melt from the intense heat! “Get in NOW! We have to go!” he shouted to Lavender, climbing into the driver’s seat, and gunning the engine.

“HEY! THAT’S CHEATING! YOU COME BACK HERE WITH MY BESTIE RIGHT NOW!” shireked Isolde’s voice as four of her massive teddy bear minions ambled into view carrying a throne upon which she was sitting. She was slamming her fists onto the armrests, her mouth full of thorn-like fangs as her fury burned away her innocent childlike guise.

“YOU’RE NOT MY BEST FRIEND! YOU’RE NOT MY FRIEND AT ALL! I DON’T WANT TO GO BACK!” screamed Rain as the truck’s tires squealed. She almost fell out of the back before Bailey grabbed her and pushed back towards the window as the vehicle roared into motion and raced off towards the nearest interstate onramp.

"CHEATERS! I’LL FIND YOU BESTIE! NO MATTER WHERE THEY TAKE YOU, I’LL COME FOR YOU!” she screamed as rose vines erupted from any dirt patches along the path before, they made it to the concrete of the highway where artificial stone prevented any plants from blooming and barreled away from the chaos.

New Orleans, Present Day

Rain sniffled at the horrible memory as Lavender knelt beside her, pulling her into a hug, “… we kept moving until we reached New Orleans, and the local changelings told us about the DeLane family. They offered us protection incase my keeper came back… and we’ve been part of the freehold here ever since.” explained the childlike changeling.

Stephy stared at her, nodding slowly, “… guys, we need to stop giving Nelen grief about Merihim…” he said in a soft voice, remembering how Rain’s fate was almost his own.

Simoni shuffled her feet awkwardly, remembering how horrifying it had been to see Nelen invoke the Infernal Storm back in Kentucky… but seeing someone who had gone through that fate… being a changeling had worked out for Stephy given who he wound up with, but who knew what fate would have befallen him as one of Isolde’s playthings.

“Well…” started Arja, “You’re safe now right? I mean, if the DeLanes have your back…” she started.

Rain nodded, “Yeah, for now…” she replied.

Sammi frowned, “As distressing as your situation is, we are experiencing one that may be much worse. There are some Hyde-users abroad in New Orleans and we’ve been told unless we find their supplier by the end of the month a terrible fate may befall the city.” he said, stepping forward.

At this the four changelings looked up, “Hyde users?” asked Lavender.

The Professor adjusted his glasses, “Hyde, a supernatural drug. Modified version of the serum invented by Dr. Henry Jekyll to transform himself into the infamous Mr. Hyde. The imbiber loses all self-control and will give into their most base desires, whatever it may be… what of it though? I’d imagine it might upset some of the local churches but…”

Arja nodded, “Well yeah, that what it normally does… but there’s some enhanced version of it. The other night we fought some guy who was all hopped up on it and exploding in what our changeling friends said was ‘envy’ and, well, when we caught back up to him later that night he’d transformed into some gigantic monster!” she explained.

At this, Rain’s head jerked up. “… wait… glowing eyes, big sores, fangs?” she asked.

Simoni nodded, “YES! Have you seen one?” she replied eagerly.

The Professor frowned, “… not us no… but our fellows at the Freehold did. They encountered a man who was practically brimming with wrathful emotions and drank their fill… then saw him transform and retreated while he tore apart a Dairy Queen before he expired, quite violently I might add.” he replied. “After they returned to the Freehold all of them fell ill and began to sicken as if badly poisoned. That was about a week ago and they’re still bedridden.”

Simoni frowned, thinking, “So there were more of them… but where are they getting the Hyde?” she asked, “We think a demon might be behind it, we only know him as ‘Al,’ but… I mean, I don’t think a demon can make this stuff alone, he has to have supplies, right?” she tried.

At this the four shared a worried glance.

“… um… Professor… what if she’s helping him? You know… her?” she tried.

The Blonde Professor frowned deeply, “If she is helping them, then we should pack up and leave New Orleans before the terrible fate that boy mentioned comes to pass.”

Arja stepped forward, “Sorry, who’s… she?” she asked.

The four glanced around anxiously. Lavender began to open her mouth, but the Professor shushed her immediately.

“… I’m not bloody telling them, and neither should you!” hissed the Blonde Professor, Basset Bailey whimpering and hiding behind him.

Lavender looked around, then shook her head, her vine-y hair rustling. “I-I can’t just let them go off unprepared! Go! Wait at the end of the alleyway then!” she pointed, “That way if she finds out only I face her wrath!” she nodded.

The Blonde Professor sighed, shaking his head, “Lavender…” he began, then frowned, “Very well, on your own head be it.” he replied, leading Rain and Bailey away, the former looking back at Lavender anxiously.

Lavender waited until she was sure they were out of earshot, then turned around and said low, “Okay… so that Dairy Queen the Hyde-guy tore apart… its at the outskirts of New Orleans, and that’s near Ghost Swamp, out by the ninth ward. The woman there… she’s one of the Gentry, an exiled one. We call her Old Maggoty.” she paused then, looking around frantically, and wringing her hands as if half expecting her to manifest right then and there… though Sammi did put his hand to his sword’s hilt and glanced around as well. To mundanes it was either invisible or, to the more sensitive, akin to a stage prop or toy but it was faerie metal and very sharp.

“She’s a terrible wicked fae, makes the worst kinds of potions and curses… she’d know how to make Hyde do that and gods only know what else…” she was breathing heavily now, her face going pale as she continued, “Um… um… e-every once in a while one of the knights at the freehold goes out to try to find her and put an end to her… and…” she giggled a bit, and it wasn’t a good giggle, her eyes starting to water… and both Stephy and Sammi tasted the acrid acidic tang of fear, “… w-well… w-we were only here for the last time one of them did that, but… when we find whats left of them we always give them a good funeral… whole freehold pitches in… if we find them…” she giggled more, biting her lip and running her hands along her vine like hair compulsively.

Stephy walked forward, “Lavender… I…” he began.

She stepped back a bit, shivering as if she could feel the snow and ice of his homeland in Arcadia, “I-I’m OKAY! I’m okay… I’m okay… I’m… I’m okay…” she giggled again, colorful nectar-like tears running down her cheeks as she pulled one of the flowers from her hair and began to idly tear the petals off one by one, “P-pluck from the vine… all will be fine… pluck from the vine… a-all will be f-fine…” she repeated over and over, like a mantra.

As she did the Professor came back and shook his head, “I bloody warned you…” he muttered, “She’ll be alright, thinking about fae like… that one… reminds her of her own keeper, and he was one of the worst kind. We’ll get her back to the Freehold and let her sit in the conservatory with her plants.” he nodded, “Good hunting to you children… and… you have our thanks for saving Rain, but better you than us against her.” he frowned, leading Lavender away. “Come now dear, we’ll make you some lovely herbal tea when we get back, you love your tea remember?”

Lavender was alternating between giggling and sobbing now, “Pluck from the vine… all will be fine… pluck from the vine… all will be fine…” she muttered over and over, shredding another flower clumsily as she was guided away, her rhyme slowly fading into meaningless muttering to them.

Arja stared, “… wow…” she whispered, “That’s what Arcadia does to some people?” she asked.

Tex frowned, “See why I’m so nervous ‘bout Stephy goin’ back?” he asked.

Stephy stared at the retreating group of changelings, “Yeah… I mean Mom is okay now… still gotta remind her sometimes… but… jeez…” he shook his head, “If they’re this scared, this woman must be a higher fae. Even outside of Arcadia, she’ll be bad…” he nodded. “Guys… we’re gonna need help.”

Ghost Swamp, several hours later

An airboat slid across the water, carrying Nelen, Dawn, the fae children, Arja, Simoni, Tex, and Nessa. Alice had stayed behind as Drusilla was complaining she wasn’t feeling well, and Loren stated she’d wait until they confirmed where Al was and then come charging in to raise some hell.

“So, I checked online and there is a place deep in the swamp known for disappearances.” said Nelen.

Stephy shuddered as they got deeper in however, Sammi narrowing his eyes, “Yes, I imagine it would be. I can sense her from here…” he warned, “But…” he narrowed his eyes, “Something is strange…” he added.

Nelen nodded, “Tex, you have those cold iron rounds loaded into your gun?” he asked.

Tex nodded, ‘Yeah, but…” he glanced at Stephy, then at Sammi, but moreso at Stephy.

Nelen nodded, “Sam, Stephy, just keep behind Tex if bullets start flying. Make sure he has a clear line of sight if he needs it.”

The Texan boy nodded, licking his lips anxiously. This was getting dangerously serious… he remembered Isolde, and if this was a higher fae then it was likely more powerful than her.

Stephy had explained it to him before. The Lower Fae were more human like, but also weaker because of it… while the Higher Fae were the true nightmares of Arcadia, and very powerful. Even in exile, Old Maggoty promised to be very dangerous.

This gave the boy pause. Isolde had been one of the lower fae, and she had threatened them several times now.

Eventually they drew close to a house held up on large sturdy poles, standing in the middle of the bayou. Skulls decorated the fence posts, many of them human. Some of them were from changelings… “Right, remember guys. She doesn’t know we’re coming. We do this quick, bum rush her and take her down before she knows what the hell.” he nodded, climbing out onto the porch and tying up the boat… then walking to the door.

As he touched the handle however, Dawn’s nostrils flared. “Velvet and brimstone… NELEN WAIT!” she shouted in warning!

Nelen looked back at her, “Wha-…” he began, but the door collapsed right off its hinges… and they saw inside.

Old Maggoty was a monstrous woman, a huge crone with mossy green skin, black beady eyes, jagged fang-like teeth, long cracked and rough claws, and wearing a filthy shift dress. She stank like nothing they’d ever smelled and had long black hair hanging lank around her head.

… she was also, very clearly, dead.

She had been crucified to the wall by cold iron spikes and standing next to her was a man in a green velvet suit, wearing smoked glasses, and a top hat.

“AH! Apprentice! So good of you to join me… do come in, I was just finishing.” grinned Al.

Nelen backpedaled so hard he almost fell off the wooden platform into the swamp, but Al gestured, and an invisible hand grabbed his shirt, yanking him inside in a single motion. “Oh, come now! We haven’t seen each other in years! No word of hello for your teacher?” he chuckled.

Simoni gasped and Arja growled, transforming into her vanara form as Tex swore and fired… but as he did Al’s arm moved in a blur and he caught the bullet with his cane, deflecting it into the ceiling. “Hello to you too, young man.” he frowned at Tex.

Sammi stared, looking between the demon and the dead faerie… and then he saw it.

Old Maggoty’s chest had been ripped open and resting on Al’s hand was a green pulsating object glowing with corrupted glamour… her heart.

“Oak and Ash… you’re not working with Maggoty… you’re using faerie hearts to enhance the Hyde!” he gasped, his eyes widening in shock as he drew his sword.

“Ah! A clever one! Yes yes, very good! Quite elegant don’t you think? The heart is the seat of all emotion, glamour IS emotion, and the powerful among the faerie have hearts fit to burst with the stuff!” he grinned, “Bring them with me when I have my pet necromancer call up a wrath or a specter to soak up the ambient emotional energies and we’re in business!”

Al turned to them, resting one hand on his cane, the head shaped like a goat cast in silver. “Yes, I would have let Old Maggoty enjoy the chaos I’m preparing to unleash but… well… ran low on ingredients and needed just a little bit more to finish my pet project. I heard there was an exile of Arcadia squatting in Ghost Swamp and thought it would be prudent to pay her a visit.” he smiled, “Poor dear thought she could defeat me…” he shook his head, tsking and pursing his lips, “Well, she learned the hard way.”

Tex’s gun was leveled at him, his eyes wild. “W-why! Why ya’ll doin’ this?! What does Hell get out of it?” he demanded.

Al raised his eyebrow, looking to Nelen, “Merihim didn’t tell you? Usually, he loves talking about that little fact, poor little drippy boy thinks it might free him from what we did after he signed on with us.” he chuckled. “Merihim. I know you can hear me. Come out.” he commanded.

Nelen gasped, bending double as the veins on his skin suddenly bulged and glowed red, Arja swearing and pushing Simoni behind her as the faerie boys backpedaled and Tex stood near them, his gun still at the ready. Only Dawn stood by him as Nessa stepped back to join Arja and Simoni, her scalpel already drawn and her glove coming off.

“… No no, that won’t do at all… I said come out. NOW.” he spoke again, his voice sounding deeper, stronger than before.

Nelen gasped in pain and clutched at his head, then slowly stood up, his eyes red as he jammed his hands deep into his pockets. “… Al.” nodded Merihim.

“Ah, there you are. You really didn’t tell them about what’s wrong with old Yahweh?” he grinned, “Oh do go ahead. It may be rather Bond Villain of me… but all of you combined couldn’t have hoped to touch Maggoty, never mind me, so why not?”

Tex looked between the two demons… “W-what do ya’ll mean ‘wrong?’”

Merihim scowled at Al, like a teenager sulking before an authority figure. “Yahweh, the God of Christianity, is going insane. He’s probably dying too. Look, y’know how at first it was just one Church? Then it split into two, then three, and so on?” he asked, “Well, every time it does that Yahweh splits too. Each sect gets their own version of Him. Its not such a big deal if its, say, Elohim… his Hebrew counterpart. There’re only ten sects of Judaism… but…”

Al grinned, “Forty thousand sects of Christianity last I looked, and that was some time ago. The old grey God just ain’t what he used to be…” he chuckled, “He’s fading, fast. No God in history has ever split themselves so many times, it’s becoming impossible for him to maintain his power. That’s why there’s no real miracles anymore, no burning bushes, no parting of seas, no divine plagues, and nobody but lunatics like Patrick Robertson saying they hear him.” he nodded, then chuckled as if enjoying a private joke, “Oh, and he is hearing a voice, but its not Yahweh…” he smirked, “But yes, Yahweh is too splintered to do anything. The Heavenly Host has to manage every aspect of that sort of thing now and the angels just can’t keep up.”

Merihim scowled, “You always did like to talk…”

Al smirked, waggling a finger. “I’m a teacher boy, I teach. Now pay attention, this will be on the test.” he teased.

Nessa looked at Al, tilting her head as she fingered her obsidian scalpel, “So… why do you care? You’re a demon. Aren’t Heaven and Hell enemies? Yahweh dying should be good for you!”

Al threw back his head and chortled, there really wasn’t any other word for it, and even Merihim suppressed a snort. “OH THAT! I do love that old joke. Heaven and Hell are just opposite sides of the game board girl, our goal is to keep the game going as long as we can! Don’t believe that junk about the end times either. John just had a bad stomach virus and wrote down his fever dreams.” he shook his head, “But yes, getting back to my point. Yahweh is doing badly, to the point where most people don’t truly believe anymore. Oh, they go to their churches, which in this wonderful mess of a country may as well be going to the dentist, and they sing their songs, but its mostly old habits. There’s no real faith, they just do it because they’ve always done so, and they’re worried about looking silly if they stop.”

Tex kept his gun leveled at Al, “So… how does that involve monster drugs then? What good does it do God if ya’ll turn people into snarlin’ giants?” he asked.

Al grinned, “Oh, I can’t take credit for that one. That was actually Raphael who had that idea. Said we needed a big ‘hey everyone, Christianity is the real deal’ event, something to get the fire back in people’s bellies and really get them believing again… so why not a classic?” he held up the heart, which was still beating weakly.

“We’re going to put our Hyde in the water supply for New Orleans. It’ll be heavily diluted of course, not enough to make monsters of people, but it will infect the entire city with sin. People will give into their base urges in a way that’ll make Mardi Gras look like a Mormon luncheon, and once the entire city is good and saturated in decadence the Seraphim will descend and…” he slammed his cane down on the floor, the boards cracking under it, “BOOM! Wipe the city of sinners off the face of the Earth! A modern-day Sodom! THAT will get people to sit up and take notice!” he cackled.

Merihim scowled, “So that idiotic idea Raph had is going through?” he snorted, “It won’t work.”

Al grinned, “Oh but that’s just phase ONE! Once that happens, we need to… trim the fat as it were. Get rid of all these extra sects that are clogging up the works. Heaven will put a few messengers out, tell a few different church leaders that only their sect is the real one and that the others are, at best, misguided and, at worst, led by us down below… and then we sit back and watch the Crusades, Round Two!” he cackled, “A few million human sacrifices in the name of God ought to put some spring into his step, wouldn’t you agree? Not to mention it’ll cut down on the extras hogging his essence.”

Nessa actually smirked at that, “Sacrifices? Oh, I know about blood sacrifices demon. My ancestors shed blood willingly for the gods. There was no trickery, they knew what they were doing. Do you really think a knock-off Sodom and The Purge will work?”

Al shrugged, “It’ll get the ball rolling. Yahweh will take decades to get back up to his old power, but this will start things.” he explained, “Point is, if we don’t fix this, he’ll be joining the other forgotten gods in Shadow’s Fall soon… assuming he doesn’t just come apart. If that happens who knows what’ll become of Heaven and Hell.” he grinned wickedly, “And besides, even if it doesn’t work, I get to drive an entire city to sin and then watch it get blown straight to Hell for us to keep playing with! Very definition of win-win.”

Merihim glared, looking at his hand, “So… that fae heart is how you’re gonna supercharge the Hyde? The one you ripped out of that faerie you crucified back there?” he asked.

Al sighed, “Yes yes, it is, I said that already…” he replied, taking a tone akin to a teacher trying to explain something to a rather slow student.

Merihim grinned, “And its not like exiled fae are a dime a dozen…” he added.

Al raised his eyebrow, “What? You’re thinking of tampering with it? Well WELL! When did you grow back your balls?” he laughed, “What exactly would you do? If you try to reach for it, I’ll have you on the floor with your arm off.”

Tex looked between them, then remembered his gun was loaded with cold iron bullets. “Stephy…” he whispered, “The cane…” he glanced down.

Stephy looked at it, then grinned and nodded. He knelt and whistled softly… and then Tex took aim and fired!

Al’s head snapped around and he scowled, moving to swing his cane, only to find it wouldn’t move! It was frozen to the floor! Before he could react, the bullet hit home, tearing into Old Maggoty’s heart!

The faerie blood reacted to the presence of cold iron with extreme violence! Maggoty was a higher fae after all, and their weaknesses are stronger just as their strengths are! It didn't just burn, the heart exploded!

Chunks of scorched meat and muscle flew in all directions as Al’s face twisted in fury, “YOU LITTLE CANICULA!” he shouted, and Tex was suddenly blasted against the far wall by an invisible force, “You… do you know how hard those are to find in the Mundane World?!” he roared, looking at the rest of the group, then turning to Sam and Stephy. “Changelings… your hearts aren’t worth PISS!” he spat, “But I’ll carve them out anyways!” he growled, pulling on his cane as a blade came free from it.

This wasn’t the forged cold iron blade Alice used, nor was it the faeblessed moonsilver of Claiomh Solias… this metal steamed in the air, and glowing red symbols were etched along it that hurt to look at.

Tex stepped between Al and Stephy, “Ya’ll wanna touch my lil’ filly, ya’ll gotta go through ME!” he shouted, leveling his gun. “We may not be able ta kill ya’ll, but we can make ya’ll bleed…” he growled.

Al narrowed his eyes, “Is that a fact…” he asked, then he slashed with his sword and the cabin flew apart as the team was sent flying against what remained of the walls! Maggoty’s corpse landed in several pieces in the swamp with loud wet plops and nearby all wildlife fled, the alligators fighting each other to get away!

“Now then… I am going to take my time killing you but I will leave you for last boy, so I can make you watch as I tear your faerie friend’s heart from his chest…” he sneered, and as he did the water of the swamp began to boil in response to his anger.

Tex grabbed the Very Useful Deck out of his pocket and shuffled so fast that his hands were a blur, and in a flash of glamour he held a very solid looking shotgun… he leveled it at Al, and it roared like a wounded beast, a gout of glowing buckshot flying at the demon.

It didn’t even muss his hair, and the demon shot forward and backhanded him across the jaw, sending him sprawling.

“You demons… you never understand what my ancestors learned when the world was young. Blood willingly given is always better than blood gained by lies and trickery!” shouted Nessa, slashing her palm and aiming it at Al, the dark green flames of Xibalba bursting free from her flesh and flying towards him.

Al waved a hand and the flames were blown out like a birthday candle.

“Stronger, yes… but I don’t give a damn.” he replied, “None of you will be able to stop me. This is like being attacked by angry mice.” he snorted, then stepped to the side as several blasts of fire and wind just missed him. Simoni and Arja shot up into the air, already transformed and preparing another attack!

Al snorted, raised his sword as a burst of darkness formed at the tip… and as it lanced out the two of them suddenly vanished and reappeared several yards away. Dusk peeked his head out from behind Arja’s, grinning.

“… okay, very annoying mice… but still mice.” He frowned, then snapped his fingers. There was a tremendous buzzing and clicking and then the sky was suddenly alive with gnats, mosquitos, and all manner of biting and stinging insects! Simoni shrieked as she tried to fly through the cloud, Dusk yowling and hissing as Arja growled and tried to burn as many as she could, but soon the trio were forced to land or risk crashing!

As he did this however there was a sudden blast of chill air and the insects grew sluggish, then one by one began to fall into the swamp as they froze to death.

Sammi stood nearby, having given into his fae aspect again. He stood as the Prince of the Icebound Heart in all his otherworldly glory, a statue carved from living ice with a red beating heart in his chest. “Demon, you will do no more wickedness here today. As heir to the throne of the Icebound Heart I, Samuel, will see your end!” he declared. As he did however Arja scrambled to her feet, unhinged her jaw and blasted Al with all the fire she could manage.

It didn’t even singe his suit.

Al looked at her, raising his eyebrow, “Hi. Demon, from Hell. Ever been? Rather hot.” he said in an annoyed tone, then turned to Sammi and raised his sword, “Very well then… ‘heir to the Icebound Heart,’ on your guard.” he smirked, adopting a fencing pose as he dove towards him.

Faerie moonsilver met Hell forged metal with a tremendous crash, and Sammi was pushed back as Al slammed his sword into Sammi’s repeatedly, the fae prince pushed back as sweat began to form on his forehead. He couldn’t keep up his transformation for long in hot climates! “Using ice and snow against the fires of Hell itself? You’ve courage boy, I’ll grant you that!” sneered the demon.

As he did however Arja and Nessa attacked, the former raking her claws across Al’s back, the latter driving a burning green spear into his spine.

Al grunted, then glanced over his shoulder, “I really liked this suit you know…” he frowned, then flexed and gigantic bony spikes burst out from his spine to impale the girls! They fell back as Al kicked Sammi away. “Really now, this is getting extremely irritating.” he sighed. “Fine fine, I wanted to have a LITTLE fun with you, but if I must…” he stood near the water, then knelt down and thrust his sword into it. Seconds later the swamp began to boil like a massive cauldron! The heat began to rise, and the trees nearby started to scorch! The air was becoming too hot to breathe! “Magic or not, you’re living beings. If I boil your lungs, you die.”

“AL!” came Nelen’s voice suddenly, “Its almost ready!”

Al looked up, “What?” he asked, then sighed, “Oh you are not going to pull that stunt.”

Nelen was standing there, holding Tex’s handgun, but it wasn’t aimed at the demon… it was pressed against his own temple. “Days, hell it could be tomorrow. If I die due to your actions, the contract is broken, and you face the backlash. I did some research after I left the Nightside…” he smirked. “Stop fighting them and leave, NOW, or else I pull the trigger.”

Al growled, “… you always were too clever for your own good Fullmoon…”

Arja stared between them, “What the hell is going on?” she asked.

“Boilerplate contract between a demon and a mortal. If a price is agreed upon then the mortal dies because of the demon’s actions before the payment is made, the demon has broken the contract and their powers are severely diminished." explained Nelen, glaring at the demon. "Al, if you don’t leave, I’m going to commit suicide.”

Al growled, then stood and sheathed his sword. “Hellfire, look at my suit. You know how hard it is to find a good tailor in this day and age? I’ll have to go to the Nightside to fix this mess…” he sighed as Arja growled at him, the others preparing to attack again.

He rolled his eyes behind his glasses, “Oh don’t bother! Your warlock has me over a barrel. I can’t let the contract go into breach on my account or else I face the consequences, and without the heart of one of the Gentry the Hyde is useless to me.” he frowned, “Go on then… but… one thing first…”

Al grinned then, looking at Nelen, “… Fullmoon… tell them what exactly you’re talking about. What happens in ‘days, maybe even tomorrow?’” he asked.

Nelen glared, sweat beading on his head, as Dawn whimpered, her tail wrapped around her leg in fear. “… the payment I owe you for teaching me how to seal Merihim should be ready…” he replied.

Al’s grin widened, “Very good Fullmoon, and that payment is…” he added, waving his hand in a beckoning gesture.

Nelen hesitated, looking around at his companions, his trigger finger twitching.

Al smirked, “Say it. Tell them what their dear friend and ally offered Hell.”

Nelen sighed deeply, “… my firstborn child.” he said miserably.

Simoni gasped, her hands going to her mouth as Arja stared at him, “No… that… you can’t mean… Drusilla’s baby?!” she shouted.

Stephy shook his head, “He’s lying, he has to be… Nelen wouldn’t… he couldn’t ever…”

Dawn winced, looking away, but one look at her face told them all… Al wasn’t lying. Nelen, their friend, who had stood by them time and time again, had sold his child to a demon.

Al cackled, “Oh gods bless the desperate and the naïve! He did, it’s written into the contract he signed when his apprenticeship with me began.” he sneered, “I hear the offspring will be that of a Fullmoon and a cyclops of all things! Ought to make a delightful agent after it’s been raised up in the pit with a proper infernal education! Well, I’ll leave you to sort this out among yourselves, then pop over once that little bun is out of the oven. Ta!” he tipped his top hat, then vanished in a woosh of hellfire.

Nelen sagged, his arms falling to his sides as he looked around at the rest of them, “I… it was years ago, the contract was so convoluted I didn’t even know I’d done it at first… and I… I didn’t think I’d actually ever…” he tried, then hung his head as he fell silent.

Arja shook her head, “Nelen, I can’t believe this… does Drusilla know?” she asked with a horrified voice.

Nelen looked away, “Not… exactly no…” he said, “I mean… how the FUCK do I tell her when I was young and trying desperately to fix the massive fuckup of letting a demon live inside my body, I told an even stronger demon he could have my first kid if he agreed to teach me how to keep Merihim from tearing apart anyone we met?! I didn’t think I’d even live this long! Warlocks usually have lifespans measured in months! I thought that the contract would wind up null and void because some monster tore my head off and… then…” he sank onto the floor of the ruined shack, his head in his hands, “… then Drusilla happened…” he groaned miserably.

Tex shook his head, “Oh damn… she’s gonna give ya’ll the same treatment she gave mah filly’s dad…” he whistled.

Nelen frowned, “She should. I’d be a crap father.” he replied, getting to his feet slowly. “Dawn. Teleport us to the edge of the swamp.” he said to her. “I’ll meet you kids back in town.” he nodded… and then the pair of them vanished.

Simoni stared at where he’d been, “… Nelen kept saying he was an idiot when he was younger, but I thought he just meant that stuff with Merihim… but…” she shook her head, “I can’t believe he’d do something like this… its…”

Arja sighed, “I mean, I get it… he probably didn’t see much of a future at the time… still, I don’t wanna be in that hotel when he tells Drusilla... lets go back.” she nodded.

A Hotel Near Aiger’s Point, about one hour later

Simoni pushed open the hotel room door, “Loren? Alice? We’re ba-…” she began, then suddenly Loren ran infront of them, her eyes wide and frantic.

“WHERE THE FECK HAVE YA BEEN?!” she demanded, grabbing everyone one after the other and tossing them into the room. “YOU! FIRE MONKEY!” she shouted at Arja, “GET SOME WATER IN THE SINK ‘N GET IT GOOD ‘N HOT! I MEAN BLOODY BOILIN’ HERE!”

“YOU TWO! FAERIES!” she pointed at Sammi and Stephy, “TOWELS! LOTS OF ‘EM! STEAL THE BLOODY THINGS IF YA HAFTA! GO!” she demanded.

She shook herself, then started pacing, “Okay okay, ah did me time in th’ infirmary… lotsa towels… boil water… feck what else… bugger me ah’m too sober for this!” she cursed.

Arja stared at her, “Loren whats…” she started, then a loud roar came from the next room… Drusilla’s room… “… oh shit, Drusilla is having her baby…” she whispered.

Loren turned on her, “AYE! Either th’ lass pissed ‘erself an hour ago or her water broke! MOVE IT DAMMIT! AH AIN’T PANICKIN’ ON ME OWN!” she shouted, “AND WHERE THE FUCK IS THAT IDIOT COUS OF MINE?!” she demanded.

Tex moved next to her, “Loren! I can help! I’ve helped cows give birth on th’ ranch afore, ‘n one mammal is pretty much like another…”

But Simoni pushed him to the side, “Wait… Nelen isn’t here?” she asked. “He and Dawn were supposed to meet us here…” she said in a worried tone.

Arja looked around, “… no, he isn’t…” she began.

And then there was a faint thunderclap and Dawn was leaning against the wall, scowling, “Yeah, he ain’t. He sent me back, told me I had to at least make sure you guys knew in case he blows it. He’s going after Al, alone. He only pulled that stunt in the swamp so Al wouldn’t kill you guys.” she growled, her tail thrashing angrily.

Arja stared at her, then shook her head, “Like HELL he is! Where’s Al’s hideout Dawn?! We’re not letting him do this alone!”

Dawn hissed angrily, “I DON’T KNOW!” she shouted, “He made me come back on my own as soon as we were too far away for you guys to see!” she shook her head, clawing at her mane of orange hair. “Ugh, he said Al’s contract was void if he died because of Al’s actions, even if Al didn’t directly kill him. I think he’s going to try to bait Al into killing him so he loses his claim on Drusilla’s baby!” she shouted.

At this, the room next to theirs fell silent.

Dawn froze, her eyes going wide as she glanced over towards the door that connected the two rooms. “… uh, guys? I know cyclops have great eyesight… how good are their ears?” she asked, folding her own back as her eyes widened.

A moment later the door burst open, and Drusilla stood there, her hair disheveled and her face red, “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?!” she roared.

Dawn stared at the cyclops, then picked Dusk up off Simoni’s shoulder. “You guys explain it. Cheshires out.” she said, and they vanished with a faint thunderclap.

Simoni whimpered at Drusilla, “So… Nelen made a horrible mistake when he was younger… and… y-you’re really not going to like this…” she stammered.

Arja frowned, folding her arms over her chest, “Yanno how some stuff has costs to learn magic-wise? Nelen was tricked into promising Al his firstborn, and… well…” she glanced at Drusilla’s swollen belly, “… and that’s your kid… and now Nelen is probably out there trying to get himself killed because if Al kills him the deal is void, and I think a demon like Al would know just how much punishment he can take without it killing him…”

Stephy came in with a load of towels at this moment, took in the scene, then dropped them on the floor, turned around and walked back out. “Nope.”

Drusilla snarled, flexing her hands, then Loren slammed into her and knocked her into the bed in the room, “ALRIGHT BLINKY! ‘OLD STILL! That babe be comin’ outta ye one way or another and yer not goin’ anywhere till it does!” she shouted, pinning her to the bed. She was a Fullmoon warrior and, given Drusilla’s exhaustion from going into labor, she could probably match her at this moment.

The cyclops however roared in fury, “LET ME UP DAMMIT! NELEN HAS TO BE HERE FOR THIS!”

At this point however, Stephy returned to the room, very quickly, in reverse. “Guys?! GUYS!? We got company!” he squeaked as a huge demon stepped into the room. Even taller than Drusilla, a mass of hellish muscle with two long curling horns.

The demon looked around, “Lets see… Too young, too boy, too many eyes… AHA! You’re the one!” he grinned, pointing at Drusilla. “Master Al wants to keep you near so he can collect his prize. You’re coming with me.”

Drusilla glared at him, growling in fury, “Then ‘Master Al’ can come take it himself if he dares! If I see him in this room I’ll tear his head from his shoulders and SMASH IT IN MY FISTS!” she snarled, pushing against Loren’s arms.

The demon laughed at her, “Oh? And YOU’RE going to stop me? A bunch of little girls and… uh…” he looked at the redhead holding Drusilla down, “… are… are you Loren Fullmoon?” he asked, suddenly sounding uncertain.

Loren grinned, “Ah, heard o’ me eh?” she asked, cracking her knuckles and standing up.

“… oh fu-…” is as far as the demon got before Loren drove her fist into his throat with a loud wet sound, grabbing him by the neck and wrapping her hands around it! “NO NO NO NO NO! WAIT! WAIT!” the demon screamed as he clawed frantically at her hands!

“Lets see… should be about… HAH!” grinned Loren, squeezing, and then there was a loud pop, and a loud WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE like a balloon getting its air let out as the demon wailed, its body deflating before their eyes! Within a few seconds the demon was barely two-feet-tall and spindle thin, kicking and wriggling in Loren’s grasp. “HAH! Thought so! Sloth demon! Weakest o’ th’ courts! They have ta rely on trickery 'n intimidation 'cause they’re total shite in a real fight!” she laughed.

Drusilla growled, then waved Loren over. She grabbed the demon’s face and made it look at her. “Sloth… that means you’re lazy right? You don’t like to work? Well fine. I’ll make this easy. Tell us where Al is, and I kill you fast. Try to be brave… and I take you apart piece… by… piece…” she glared. “Which is easier demon?”

The demon squealed in pain, it’s legs a blur as it kicked, “Owowowowow! That huuuuuuuuuurts!” it squeaked, sounding more like a demonic version of Alvin the Chipmunk now. “Y’know you can’t really ‘kill’ me right, I’ll just be banished back to H- OW FUCK THAT WAS MY FINGER OW! Okay okay! Outside of the city there’s an old Coke-a-Cola bottling plant! Been abandoned since they stopped using glass bottles! That’s where they are! You’re too late though! Nelen is already there! It’ll either be him or whatever comes out of you that Al gets now!” it hissed, clawing at Drusilla’s hand with little needle-like claws.

Drusilla growled, then squeezed hard and the demon’s body jerked, then went still as she crushed its head. Then she began to stand, “C’mon! We’re going to go get Many-scars before he gets killed! If he did something this stupid I wanna be the one to beat his face in!” she growled.

Loren however shoved her back into the bed by her shoulder, “OH NO YE DON’T LASS! Yer stayin’ right here until the wee ‘un comes outta ye!” she nodded firmly, holding Drusilla down as she cursed loudly and threatened her. “OI! Monkey! Round up th’ others ‘n go find ‘em! I’ll take care o’ this!” she shouted as Drusilla let out a loud roar, a contraction hitting her. “AND HURRY IT THE FECK UP! I wanna give Nelen a good smackin’ fer pullin’ this meself!” she shouted.

Arja nodded to her, “Right. Alice, Aisha, Stephy, Sammi, Simoni, you’re all with me. Everyone else hunker down here. Al might send others to fetch Drusilla and I bet he has more than sloth demons.” she nodded.

“Drusilla…” started Arja, looking at her, “We’ll get him back… he, you, your baby… we’ll make this right.” she said with a worried look.

Drusilla just roared again as she struggled against Loren’s arms, but despite the cyclops’ incredible strength giving birth was taking its toll on her.

Simoni nodded, looking up the location on her phone, then running out into the hall. “I found it! Its on the northern outskirts of the city! Lets go!” she shouted.

An Old Factory on the outskirts of New Orleans

Nelen coughed, spitting out something that clattered across the dust covered ground of the factory. It was a tooth. All around him were blank-faced corpses, several of which had his… well, not ‘blood’ per se but… you know… on their knuckles.

Al smiled, walking across the floor, his shoes clicking with each step against the concrete. “That makes… what… three teeth?” he asked, pointing to the molar. “You were from Kentucky originally. I suppose the look fits you.”

He sighed, looking around at the huge brewing vats that had once held the ingredients for soft drinks. “All this Hyde… totally worthless now. I could just pump you full of it, but Merihim would keep it from doing anything, wouldn’t he?” he sighed, then paused and glanced southwards. “… Quzgup failed?” he muttered, “Should have known… well, it hardly matters. Once that baby is born, I’ll pick it up myself.” he grinned.

Nelen snarled and tried to charge forward, but six of the zombies were holding him firm by the arms. “YOU BASTARD! I’LL KILL YOU!” he roared, his eyes flashing red.

Al shook his head, “Really now Fullmoon… As per the terms of our contract I can’t kill you… but that doesn’t mean I can’t discipline an errant student, or at least have my minions do it for me.” he smirked, glancing to the necromancer next to him. The hood was down now, revealing a pale skinned and thin teenage girl with short spiky blonde hair. “Do it.” he commanded.

She frowned, then gestured, and three of the zombies punched Nelen in the stomach in unison. He cried out in pain as they hit the bruise that was already there, gasping and vomiting onto the floor.

Al chuckled, then looked up and pursed his lips. “Hm? Well well! Seems company is coming! I should go fix us some tea and biscuits…”

Nelen coughed again, then a look of horror crossed his face, “NO! DAMMIT!” he struggled harder, “AL YOU SON OF A DEMON WHORE! IF YOU HURT THEM I’LL…” he started, but Al nodded to the girl, and she gestured, and the zombies all fell on him at once.

For Nelen Fullmoon, everything went black.

Next Story

Previous Story

#supernatural adventures #fiction #modern fantasy #lgbtq

[o-mellowy]

💜cat kitty cat-cat kitty cat-cat

#cat boys have plagued my mind for the past week #this is the first in a series of multiple cat boy transformers #shockwave my beloved #AWOOGA #shockwave idw #shockwave #transformers #transformers animated #transformers prime #optimus prime #megatron #decepticons #autobots #idw #cat boy #cat ears #artist #digital art #ohmellow #more than meets the eye #mtmte #the lost light

[bumbleklee]

Honey (Kaeya x M!Reader)

CONTENT WARNING: Internalized homophobia, cursing, alcohol/drunkenness, fist fight scene and mentions of blood

Before Reading: this one-shot uses the f-slur a few times but please keep in mind that I am a lesbian who has been called this word many times in the past so I am reclaiming it through writing. like in the content warning, this story is basically all internalized homophobia so if this subject makes you wary - please don’t read! story is under the cut for sensitive topics

You remember your first love dearly. It was Jean and you were thirteen. She was your best friend and you loved her beauty more than anything in the world. She was kind to you even when you were cruel to her to impress your male friends. It was hard not to fall in love with how she loved you.

When you were sixteen, you dated Jean. Your first kiss was with her, you found comfort in her. You even imagined spending the rest of your life in Mondstadt married to her. Unknowing to you at the time, Jean became your shield. You paraded her around to shut down rumors and broke her heart to save yours. You aren’t expecting her sigh of relief when you begin to question if she was the one for you.

You break up with Jean when you’re eighteen. She was tired and you knew she deserves someone better. You never stopped loving Jean.

When the rumors swirl again, you try to play them off. People wondered why you and Jean had broken up - were you hurting her? Was she cheating on you? Were you cheating on her?

Of course not.

Were you gay?

You didn’t understand what it meant to be gay, so you couldn’t be gay. 

Kaeya is open about love. He says he loves anyone - boys and girls and every other gender. He was proud yet you still didn’t understand. How could someone love so many different people when there were rules? You want to help Kaeya realize this - help him realize he’s only supposed to love girls.

For the next year, you examine Kaeya closely. You accompany him to bars after work and watch him leave with a plethora of different people. One night, he finds solace at the table with a male knight whose name you couldn’t remember. You can only watch their lips press against each other for a moment before retreating to the bar.

“How insensitive,” You mumble, catching the eye of Diluc. He finishes drying a glass and fills it with wine, pressing it towards you gently.

“Are you jealous?”

Your eyes snap up and you let out a breath of shaky laughter. “Jealous? Your brother is sick in the head - he needs to convert before it’s too late.”

Diluc is tight-lipped. To him, you look sick in the head. His relationship with his brother may not have been the best but never would Diluc resort to such hateful thoughts. Kaeya was, well, Kaeya. You stare at him, waiting for him to say something - say anything.

“I can’t believe you’re defending that faggot.”

With a quick movement, Diluc pulls your drink away and it’s hastily thrown in your face. The alcohol drips into your eyes and you seethe.

“Leave. And don’t come back.”

“Gladly.”

He just didn’t understand.

You expect Kaeya to avoid you like the plague after your outburst at the tavern yet the next morning he’s glued to your side at work. His demeanor is off but when you look at him, he smiles.

Anytime you try to bring up your concerns about Kaeya’s sexuality to him, he simply laughs and tells you how funny you are. You get angrier each day and start to spend free time in the church praying to Lord Barbatos to please help Kaeya.

You speak to your parents about your actions and they’re proud of you. Especially your old man. He’s withering away by the day but is still conscious enough to tell you your hair is getting too long - too femine - and you need to cut it. You appreciate him.

Jean is still your rock. She knows more about you than you do.

When you realize how pretty Kaeya looks during the Windblume Festival, Jean is the first person you tell. You’re panicking, scared you’ve come down with a fever and are having hallucinations. Jean just rubs your back and tells you you’re fine.

“You like him,” She says.

“No, I don’t. I can’t.”

Her smile falters and she makes you look at her in the eyes, “It’s okay to like him.”

You pull away from Jean, angry you might say something you don’t mean. You stay far away from Kaeya and Jean for the rest of the festival, denying the frazzled thoughts that are swarming your mind. When Amber confesses to you at the end of the festival, you pull her into a storage closet and kiss her until you can see clearly again.

“We’re in love,” You tell Jean days later. She looks up from the paperwork on her desk.

“It’s been a week.”

She thinks you’re joking. “We’re soulmates,” You continue and Jean’s soft laughter stops. You wait for her to deny it, to protest against your newfound relationship, but she never does. She just sighs and waves you back to Amber.

On a particularly bad day at work, Jean surprises the knights with food and drinks from The Cat’s Tail. You drink so much that you forget you’re there with Amber and by the time you remember, she’s stormed off to find someone else. Instead, you stay near Kaeya as the taller man tells you a story about an adventure.

It’s fine until his arm loops around your waist and your senses overwhelm you again. You shove Kaeya away and his back hits the bar counter. The tavern grows quiet and Kaeya quickly makes a loud joke about how horrible you were at dancing. You pretend you don’t see the hurt in his eye.

All you can hear is the blood pounding in your ears.

You retreat to the table Jean is sitting at and Kaeya pulls Albedo towards him. The chief alchemist, for once, looks excited. Your chest tightens and you stare at the pair with a heavy gaze.

“Albedo is a fag, too,” You start causing Jean to sigh sadly, “He’s a fag and he’s all over my -”

You stop abruptly. What were you going to say? The word that lingers in your mind makes you feel sick to your stomach. As soon as you got home, you were going to repent for even thinking of it. Jean touches your arm lightly, “Y/N…”

You pull your arm away, “Nothing. Nevermind.”

Three months later, Kaeya kisses you.

It’s short and sweet and you’re rambling about how you think him and Jean would make a cute couple. His lips are soft and taste like honey and you feel like you’re flying.

Soaring through the wind until suddenly you’re not.

You hit the ground.

It hurts.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You scream, trying to wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. This was horrible - it was all wrong.

“Please,” Kaeya begs, “Shut up.”

You run from him. Your feet take you far into the Whispering Woods and your hands press on your temple with so much force you think you’re going to break. Everything you knew, everything you believed in, was flying out the door and you couldn’t grab onto it. You’re sick - you have to be. There’s no other reason why the only want in your head is Kaeya’s lips on yours again.

You scratch at your skin, curl into yourself and scream.

Kaeya avoids you and you avoid him. You thought this would solve everything - if Kaeya wasn’t around you, he wouldn’t be able to taint you. Yet anytime you looked into his office and saw emptiness, your tongue ached for that sweet taste of honey.

You miss him so much and one day, your emotions get the better of you. You wait for him to stumble out of the tavern and when he does, you grab him. Your mouth gaps like a fish out of water, trying to formulate the right words to say to him.

“What?” His voice is cold, venomous, “Going to call me a faggot again and run away?”

Your heart breaks, “We can get through this together -”

Kaeya snaps his arms away, “You still don’t fucking get it! There’s nothing to get through, Y/N! I’m who I am and I am so fucking tired of waiting around for you to realize who you are!”

“I hate you.”

The words tumble from your lips and Kaeya’s fist collides with your cheek. You try to fight back but Kaeya is stronger. He shoves you down, straddling your hips and clenching your shirt in his hair. His eye is filled with bitter tears and he lands another punch to your face.

“I’m sorry that you were taught to hate love,” Kaeya continues, “I’m sorry you can’t accept that I love myself and you hate yourself!”

Your hands claw at Kaeya’s face, managing to tear off his eyepatch and reveal his blinded eye. Kaeya lifts you by the hold on your shirt only to slam you back down into the concrete. By now, there’s a small crowd of drunken knights surrounding you both.

“You’re mental!” You cry out, “You need serious help or you’re going to go to Hell! I don’t want you to go to Hell, Kaeya!”

Kaeya gives you one last punch, this one to your nose, and gets off your. You feel warm blood trickle past your lips and your head is pounding. He looks at you with an expression that makes you start crying yourself.

“I’ll go to Hell if it’ll save me from you.”

It takes you twenty minutes to get up and finally tread home. Your parents are already asleep and when you look in the mirror, you see the dried blood covering your lips and chin. Your nose hurt to the touch.

You fall into a deeper hole than you ever thought you would. You stay in bed for three days straight, blaming it on a cold, until Jean shows up at your door to drag you back into the sunlight.

You don’t feel worthy to be seen by the sun.

She takes you on a walk through Spingvale and you sit in front of the lake. You feel embarrassed, your hands folding on top of each other.

“We have to talk about what happened.”

You don’t look at Jean. Your shoulders tremble and you lean in closer to your knees. “I’ve been trying to push...it...away for so long,” You start. Your voice is a hushed whisper and you hardly recognize it. “But it’s like there’s this flashing light that keeps reminding me.”

“It’s because it’s who you are.”

“That’s the problem.”

Jean is quiet for a moment before reaching over and placing her hand over yours.

“My parents told me growing up that love was between a man and a woman and that Lord Barbatos would punish the souls who didn’t obey that. I don’t...don’t want to get punished, Jean.”

Your hands are shaking. Jean rubs your thumb, “Lord Barbatos would never punish anyone for being in love.” You feel shameful again. “But you don’t love Amber.”

You didn’t. You truly didn’t. In fact, you had forgotten about her during your depressive episode. You felt horrible - you had hurt so many people just to hide from the truth. Tears well in your eyes again and you don’t know what to do.

“Listen,” Jean says comfortingly. You finally look up to meet her tired eyes - the same eyes from back when you were eighteen. “I’ll talk to Amber for you. I think you owe someone else a visit.”

Without another word, you took off. You hoped Kaeya was around and not on a commission because if you didn’t say what you needed to say now, you never would. Thankfully, you find him sitting at his desk at the Headquarters. You stand in the doorway and clutch at your sleeves, your heart pounding.

In that moment you realized you couldn’t do it alone - you couldn’t be yourself alone.

Without someone guiding you through this, you would fall into old habits and never progress. If you continued to shove your truth far, far away then you would lose Kaeya forever.

“Are you just going to stare at me?” Kaeya finally asks. His voice is much kinder than days prior.

“I love you.”

Time freezes and you stare at each other. The words linger in the air but you know there’s no taking them back. Kaeya was expecting another half-assed biblical chant about how you could change him. He was never expecting a love confession.

You realize you’ve been moving closer to Kaeya when his hand reaches out to touch your cheek. He rises from his desk and leans in, pressing his lips to yours ever so slightly. As soon as you taste honey, you feel sparks fly.

You lived in a world of hatred and darkness, waiting for the light at the end of the tunnel to arise. And Kaeya was that light.

#genshin #genshin impact #genshin writing #genshin oneshot #kaeya #kaeya alberich #kaeya x reader #kaeya x male reader #genshin x reader

[sambvcks]

crawl home to her, b.b. x reader

chapter four // three days on drunken sin

summary: bucky decides to rifle through those boxes and finds the will to make the first move.

warnings: food/eating, nothing too bad this time!

word count: 1.7k

author’s note: how are we feeling about this week’s episode?? we’re getting closer to the start of tfatws with this chapter!! hope i don’t break your heart too much with the boxes :)

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The boxes taunted him for three days.

Three stacks of two boxes each cluttered his entranceway, each with that familiar scrawl of Steve’s God-awful handwriting.

‘BUCKY’

All caps, in black Sharpie, underlined three times just for good measure. Steve was always good at getting his message across.

He didn’t want to know what was in them, he told himself. But Steve was gone, and this was all he had left. These, that stupid notebook he still hadn’t found the will to write in, and the shield that was kicking around Sam’s apartment somewhere.

He wanted to toss them in his building’s dumpster, to push these aside like he did with everything else in his life. Out of sight, out of mind. That week, he didn’t tell his therapist about the boxes, or Sam’s unexpected visit, or his neighbor that he was now avoiding like the plague. Thankfully, she chalked his silence up to Steve and tried to fill in the conversational lulls with suggestions of amends and lists and he just wanted to go back to sleep.

Like always, sleep never came.

He knew the single night in his bed was a fluke, but he kept trying at least. He’d untuck his flat sheet from under hit mattress, fluff his pillow, and tuck himself in. Within five minutes, he was back on the hardwood floor of his living room, the lamplights illuminating his window and casting a perfect shadow on those stupid boxes. Finally, on the third night, he huffed a sigh and sat up, his arm whirring at the sudden movement. He wasn’t accomplishing anything letting them sit and gather dust.

Bucky reached under the cushions of his couch, fishing for the knife he had stashed away and got to work slicing through the clear packing tape securing each one.

The first five boxes were files. Mission reports, everything Steve could get his hands on about The Winter Soldier. The translations were rough, the descriptions weren’t as vivid as he remembered them now, and it wasn’t even close to everything. Why Steve kept them when Bucky was working to erase every trace of this from the universe, he would never understand. Steve was sentimental, even with the bad stuff. Bucky glanced over the files scattered across his entranceway, which maybe amounted to a year of his missions. If Zemo had looked in some suburb in upstate New York, he would have found everything he needed.

The dumpster behind his building was starting to feel more and more enticing.

The last box felt different. Significantly lighter and smaller, the items rolling and clanking as he dragged it towards him. He braced himself for more files, more reminders of what he had done as though they didn’t exist in his mind every second of the day.

The first thing he recognized was his mother’s handwriting. ‘Recipes’, scrawled so perfectly on a yellowing label.

The tin box was tinted with age, dented after so many years. He laughed and could remember it tucked away on the top shelf of the cabinet by the fridge, just out of Rebecca’s reach, even when she’d stand on her tiptoes in search of it. His Ma rarely fished it out, other than to let his little sister read over the ingredients with sticky hands as she helped stir pots and peel potatoes. She had them memorized by the time she was a teenager, having transcribed her own mother’s recipes onto these little cards. He was sure Rebecca did, too.

Next was the worn fabric of his Ma’s favorite apron. Yellow embroidered flowers scattered the crimped edge, strings falling loose. He recognized some of the stains, from spaghetti night and cake batter that she let dry on the cloth for too long.

Finally, a worn silver chain was buried at the bottom of the box.

JAMES B BARNES 32557038 T42 A

Of course, Steve with all his connections and know-it-all attitude and ‘I can do this all day’ would find some way to find his dog tags, probably tucked away in some ancient Hydra file. His flesh fingers ran over the indentation of his name, pressed into metal like millions of other boys had, off to fight a war that had nothing to do with them. Everything to lose, nothing to gain.

When he was most alone, settled into muddy trenches with wet socks and a stiff military jacket, he would recite those numbers out into the night sky. He’d map constellations over his head, wondering if it would be his last night and all there would be left of him would be those stupid discs of metal clanking around his neck and the letter tucked away in his jacket breast pocket, addressed to his mother.

His mother was long gone, he knew that. But to a fully conscious James Buchanan Barnes – not the Winter Soldier - he had only seen her a few years ago when he shipped off.

After a moment, he pulled the chain of his dog tags over his head, settling them under his shirt. His ears rung with the sound of footsteps in the hallway. The sound of dragging feet and the jangle of your keychain signaled your return from class.

His family was gone, Steve included. The only people he has left are halfway across the world, or off on some death-defying mission wearing metal bird wings. Except you, who still leaves bags of cookies on his front door mat, despite the silent treatment from his end. His maybe too friendly neighbor who poured over lists of albums for him to find taped to his door in barely legible handwriting when you should have been studying.

His mother’s recipe box was calling his name.

-

The knock on your door startled you from your nap. Well, if you can call dozing off at your desk using a law book as a makeshift pillow a nap. You stalled in your desk chair, eyes bleary as you squinted at your front door, then at the top corner of your computer.

2:36 AM

You nuzzled back into your book, content to chalk it up to your sleep deprived brain making things up.

The second knock was much more insistent and was certainly coming from your door. You rushed out of your chair, sock-clad feet dragging the blanket draped across your shoulders as you shuffled over, the knocking never ceasing. You blinked the sleep from your eyes, peering out your peephole into the dark hallway.

Bucky, with slumped shoulders and a bowed head, trying with all of his might to make himself as small as possible still took up so much of the doorway with his broad shoulders.

You should be mad at him.

You should go to bed, ignore him like he’d been ignoring you for the past few weeks. Like you hadn’t shared late nights and he hadn’t sat in your kitchen, licking your spoons clean or tucked into your couch just to watch you study, a new record playing gently. Your forehead pressed to the door, vile building in your throat as seething words collected on your tongue.

“I know you’re there.” His voice was muffled through the wooden door, feeling so close but sounding so far away. “We should work on you dragging your feet, doll.”

If you had taken another peek, you would have seen him pressing his forehead to the other side.

“You ignored me, Bucky.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere, even through the door. “Some family stuff came up. But it’s no excuse, I shouldn’t have pushed you away.”

It’s so stupid, letting yourself get so attached to the first guy to bat his eyelashes and read to you. It’s idiotic to want him to seep into your days and nights, to never leave like he had left you, after only knowing each other for a month.

It’s so foolish to open the door. But you do it anyways.

He swallows as he stands straight, and the widening of his eyes tells you that he wasn’t expecting you to give him a second chance.

“I, uh, here. Thought I’d finally return the favor.”” Bucky shoves forward a plate of cookies, misshapen and unevenly cooked. His eyes finally found yours. “My mom’s recipe.”

Family stuff, you remembered. The weight of the plate felt heavy in your hands, almost as heavy as his gaze on you as you lifted one of the lesser burnt cookies to your mouth and took a timid bite.

Bucky, you’ve come to learn, gives his love in silent acts of approval. He shines when you tell him his singing isn’t totally awful or that he makes a great sous chef, eyes crinkling when you approve of his music choice for the night or compliment the voices he picks when reading from his books. As he watched you, you felt that this cookie meant more to him then just flour and eggs.

He was reaching out, terrified of your rejection.

“You made these?”

“Alright, I’m not totally helpless.”

“They’re amazing, Bucky. Your mom should be proud.”

He returned your smile, knowing that she wouldn’t be. How could she, after all that his hands have done? Hands that should’ve been home, hoisting his sisters onto his shoulders. Hands that should have been helping set the table and at work so they had something to eat in the first place.

He looked so timid in your hallway, unsure of the next move. You rolled your eyes, moving to clear your doorway, despite his hesitation.

“Come on.” You spoke, like ushering in a stray cat with the promise of food and love.

He took the first step forward, shoulder to shoulder, head tilted down to catch your playful gaze with his serious one. Your mouth opened to make some sort of quip to ease the tension, but the words died in your throat as he pressed his forehead against yours for just a second.

His eyes closed as he drew in a single serene breath through his nose.

He was gone as quickly as he had come, moving further into your apartment and directly to your shelves of records, gloved fingers grazing over the sleeves in contemplation for his first choice of the night. As you finally collected yourself enough to close the door, you wondered how many people in the world had ever loved Bucky Barnes enough to give him a second chance.

taglist: @tisthedamninez @wcndamaxcmoff @freyagallileaevans @bibliophilewednesday @justtoreblogfics @teti-menchon0604 @l-adysansa @heart-eyes-horan @thiswasnevermylifefromtony @rexorangecouny @dilfvision @urafakebetch @comphersjost @am-tired-bois @spid3rgwen @beautyandthebleh @euphoricaaaa @inadquacy @mackycat11 @withyoutilltheendofthismess @motherofallthesmallthings @victoriabaker112213 @macrillez @stvalentiness @nova10711 @tailsoflightning @okiegirl24 @qhbr2013 @beachbabe925 @weenersoldierr @venusinart @marvel-mistress @orthellqs @phasma-trash @beni-angie @infinitely-yellow @riverlethe1

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #tfatws #tfatws imagine #sab writes #crawl home to her

[seokiie]

𝙲𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚎 (𝙼)

+ 𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘏𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘰𝘬 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

+𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 4𝘬+

+ 𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: 𝘏𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘰𝘬/𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

+ 𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: 𝘷𝘪𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘯!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘢 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘵, 𝘢 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘶𝘯𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘦, 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘴𝘦𝘹

On AO3

One of Hoseok's favorite parts of the day was coming home and taking a shower after a long day at the dance studio. His other favorite part of the day was dancing at the dance studio, and of course, he also loved spending time with his six roommates... plus you.

You.

The way you became friends with the seven guys was surprisingly very dull. You met around a year ago at a local restaurant you worked at. Upon the first meeting, the seven guys noted how quiet you were for a waitress. Your eyes were always pointed down and you never stayed long enough to respond to their advances. You just didn't seem to fit your profession. (Like who has ever heard of a shy waitress?) The contrast between you and your job only intrigued them more. It took a few months of routinely visiting the restaurant and talking you up till they slowly broke you out of your shell. Hoseok to this day still thinks about how you progressively opened up to them, laughing at their jokes and finally calling them friends. Cute.

Hoseok turns the shower off and grabs a clean white towel from the shelf right outside the bath. He shouldn't be thinking of you while he's in the shower, even if his thoughts are completely chaste.

"He has a way better fashion sense than me, does he really need my opinion?" You mumble to yourself looking down at your phone. Taehyung had texted you to come to his room so you can check out some of the outfits he bought. He always did this, texting you even though you were in the dorm with him. At some point, you just figured that's the type of person he is. It would be a lie to say you weren't like that, too.

You walk into the hallway with all the bedrooms. Past Jungkook's room, past Hoseok and Jimin's room and after the bathroom should be Taehyung's-

"Oh, shit!" What you hadn't expected was for the bathroom door to spring open as soon as you were about to walk past it. You nearly fall to the ground in shock.

"Jesus, y/n... almost scared me. Are you okay?" It's Hoseok, that's the first thing you notice. The second thing you notice is the droplets of water rolling down his chest and biceps. Was it just you or was he flexing? You also notice the way his towel is hanging low, revealing his soft v-line and a trail leading to somewhere lower.

You don't even know you're checking him out until Hoseok snaps his fingers at you.

"Yah! Eye's are up here, jagi." You can feel yourself redden, your body hot with embarrassment and a knowing smile on Hoseok's face.

"Where are you off to?" Hoseok figures this isn't exactly the best place to make small talk but something in him is telling him to tease you more. He's fixated on the way you can't stand still. You're either shifting your weight between legs or playing with the sleeve of your sweater. He loves it.

"Uh.. was off- was going to Taehyungs... Taehyungs room.." Okay, yeah. Hoseok's a dancer but you never expected him to look so good. Half of you wants to lick up his abs and the other half is mentally punishing yourself for having those thoughts.

"Really? What does Taehyung want with you in his bedroom?" If it was even any more possible, you feel yourself redden even more at Hoseok's words. His eyes are so innocent and you feel a little dumb reading to much into his question.

"No, uh, nothing. He just wants me to look at his clothes. That's all." Hoseok's eyes lock you in place and you start to wonder if he'll ever release you from his spell.

"I shouldn't hold you up then. Go on, now." You stand still as Hoseok lays a reassuring hand on your shoulder, squeezing lightly and maybe letting it linger a little longer than he should before walking to his room right across the bathroom.

When Hoseok shuts his bedroom door, he lets his back hit the door, a satisfied grin on his face.

"What's with you? Did you beat off in the shower again? I thought Namjoon said to stop doing that." Jimin's lying in bed scrolling through his phone and Hoseok almost forgot he shared his room with someone.

"What I do in the shower is none of your business, Jiminahh." Hoseok tosses his towel at Jimin and lets out an evil laugh when the younger flinches and whines. - You've been at the forefront of Hoseok's thoughts for the past week and it's seriously affecting his work. At first, he's not sure why you keep popping up in his mind. I mean, of course he thinks about you, it's hard not to when you're at the dorm half the time he's there. But he's having a lot more... risqué thoughts. Thoughts that shouldn't be acceptable for someone as pure as you.

Hoseok figures he'll do something about that.

It really doesn't take much to get you flustered, all cute and red with your eyes pointing down. The more he teases you the harder it gets for him to not go farther, to not just hike your skirt up and fuck you against the nearest surface.

He wonders when you'll catch on to the way he purposely presses against you when he walks past you, almost as if he was trying to squeeze through a tight space and you were in the way. He puts both his hands on your waist, subtly moving you aside as if you weigh nothing. The feeling of pressing up against that beautiful ass of yours, god, even if it's for just a second... he could only describe it as euphoric. The best part is after his hands leave your waist and he keeps walking, he can feel your eyes on his back. He doesn't have to see your face to know you look like a deer caught in headlights, sputtering like an idiot.

Hoseok can't help but wonder if you'll make that same expression when he takes out his cock and shoves it down your throat. Would you get all wide and glossy-eyed? Or would your eyes get droopy, looking up at him with so much lust as he forced you to take more of his length?

"Are you okay, hyung?" Hoseok flinches when he sees how close Jungkook is to his face and the maknae laughs in response. "This hyung gets scared so easily, are you sure you're older than me?"

"Yah! I might be a scaredy-cat but that doesn't mean I don't have the guts to kill you. Go sit, now." Jungkook laughs again before returning to the other living room couch. When Hoseok finally has some space he looks down, under the blanket over his lap and yep, just as he suspected.

He's hard.

The boys were holding a movie night tonight and it was going to start in a few. If there was one thing Hoseok was not about to do, it was sitting through a 2-hour long movie with an awkward boner.

"Kookie, I'm gonna take a shower real quick. Don't start without me." Hoseok is so lucky the light isn't on. He's sure the maknae wouldn't let it go if he saw Hoseok waddling off to his room with a boner.

"Be quick. Seokjinnie and Namjoonie-hyung are gonna be home soon." Hoseok gives a sound of approval before speeding into his room, grabbing a towel, then leaving before shutting himself in the bathroom. Jimin, whos laying down on his phone again, has learned not to question it.

Hoseok doesn't really like jerking off in the shower, but when you live in a house with six other men, you learn to make do. He lets his forehead rest on the shower wall as his soapy hands run over his body. The water beating against his back feels so good, almost like a massage. It makes him think about you.

He knows your hands aren't that big but he's heard Jimin talk about how good your massages are, how good you are with your hands.

See, this is the terrifying thing about you. You're such an innocent person. God, you're so innocent. When the guys make the dirtiest jokes, you never understand but you laugh along anyway, awkward and endearing. He wonders if he's a terrible person for wanting to ruin that innocence.

Shamelessly letting his hand wrap around his cock, he wonders if you're still a virgin. Somehow that turns him on even more, the thought of being your first. The thought of being the first and best guy you'll ever be with.

"Shit..." Precum is starting to bead at the tip of his cock but the water washes it away. Shutting his eyes, he thinks about how good he could fuck you, how good he could treat you if you just gave him the chance.

He lets out a growl, squeezing his hand into a fist around his length and fucking into his hand. He pretends his hand is the tightness of your aching pussy. Behind his eyelids, he sees your fucked out face as he's on top of you. Maybe you'd cry from how good it feels. If you did he thinks he'd wipe your tears away with his thumb and give you the most mind-numbing kiss.

Your lips. Hoseok thinks your lips are a different kind of sexy. He never really sees you in lipstick, rather he always watches when you apply brandless chapstick to those precious lips of yours. And it never failed to turn him on when only minutes later you'd start chewing at your bottom lip. It must've been a bad habit but god was he thankful for it.

It doesn't take much more to push Hoseok over the edge. He's been pent up all day, his brain plagued with thoughts of you. Just like that, his finger brushing against the tip of his cock, he comes into his hand. He fucks himself through his orgasm squeezing out every last drop of himself that he can with an airy moan.

When he enters his bedroom, Jimin rolls his eyes at him.

"Don't! Say it!"

-

Hoseok and the rest of the members are relaxing in the living room when Seokjin and Namjoon finally come home. The maknae's give a chorus of woo's when they see the bags of snacks they're holding.

"Ah, kids, stop yelling and- damn it- and help us!" Seokjin whines as a couple of bags of chips fall from the white plastic bag, he really had his hands full. Hoseok's about to get up and give Jin and Joon a hand when he sees you walk in behind the two. He freezes momentarily, watching as you rushingly place the two plastic bags on the kitchen counter before helping pick up some of the dropped sacks.

"Oh, Hoseok, you don't have to." You offer him a smile before turning around as if that'd stop him from being a decent human being. He kneels to help you pick up what's fallen but he finds himself admiring the view instead.

You in a skirt. You bending over in a skirt to pick up a can of soda. Your skirt hiking up slightly when you bend over and was he the only one seeing this? You're not wearing fancy laced panties, they're a simple light blue and black plaid design and he loves the way your ass looks in them. It's almost like the display is meant only for him. Hoseok bites his lip so he doesn't let out an audible moan at the sight. When you stand up, one of your hands smoothes over the back of your skirt while the other holds Doritos and a sprite. His eyes follow as you walk deeper into the kitchen and he's left on the floor. You literally existed in front of him and it made him hard.

"Hoseokie-hyung, why are you on the floor? We're about to play Mario Kart." Jungkook calls from over the couch and he's holding a controller in his hand.

"I'm coming, I'm coming." Hoseok sits between you and Yoongi and while watching Taehyung absolutely destroy Namjoon in Mario Kart, he comes to the conclusion that he needs to turn you into his personal cock slut and it's gonna happen tonight, no matter what. Although, he's not sure if it was his brain or his dick who came to that conclusion.

All night, Hoseok keeps you close. Even when his hand is resting on your thigh just barely under your skirt, you regard it as Hoseok being his usual touchy self.

"That reminds me. While Jimin was in Japan he brought back those limited edition KitKats." His voice is lower in your ear, you assume it's because he doesn't want the others to hear.

"Really? The really delicious strawberry white chocolate flavor?" Hoseok loves the way you light up at his lie. Well, it wasn't completely a lie. If you complied, he'd reward you with those KitKats you loved so much... and maybe something else. His bones itch with the need to corrupt you.

"Yeah, I think so. They're in our bedroom. If you come with me I can steal some without him knowing."  The way you look up at him with excited eyes, nodding enthusiastically has his cock throbbing in his shorts. Ideally, in a few minutes, you'll be looking up at him with that same face except you'll be on your knees begging for him to paint your face with his cum.

No one bats an eye as Hoseok grabs your wrist and you both rush off to his and Jimin's shared room. They're all too focused on the screen, well except Yoongi and Namjoon. They're both too busy sleeping.

You and Hoseok are alone in his bedroom. The door is closed and the light orange of the sunset is spilling into the room, it sets a weird mood you've never really felt before. Feeling kind of awkward, you stand near the door playing with the hem of your skirt.

Hoseok is on his knees searching under Jimins bed for the KitKats and you take the time he's turned away to place a hand on your chest, trying to calm your racing heart.

"Ah, I found them. He's not very good at hiding things." He pulls out a pink box with little hearts and Japanese characters. You let out a little nervous laugh as he walks towards you with it.

You meet his eyes when he's in front of you and is he supposed to stand this close? You feel so small as he practically towers over you. You look down again before you can see the smirk on his face.

"Has anyone told you how cute you are?" Hoseok tosses the box onto his bed, some of the chocolate inside falling out. The action has you confused but what's even more confusing is the look in his eyes.

"How cute and absolutely fuckable you are?" Your face reddens and a wave of heat spreads throughout your body.

"Hoseok! You- you can't-" You cover your eyes with both your hands, embarrassed. Hoseok seemed to do this to you a lot lately. Was teasing you really that fun?

"Can't what? Fuck the innocence out of you? Jesus, you're so small, y/n. I really don't think I can handle it any longer." His hands wrap around your wrists, not tight enough to hurt but tight enough for you to know what he needs. Part of you really wants to give it to him but part of you won't let him.

"Don't... don't say things like that, it makes me feel-" You try to cover your eyes again but Hoseok uses his hold on your wrist to bring your hands above your head, you can't help stumbling backward into the wall at the force.

"Does it turn you on? When I talk to you like that? Does it turn you on when I tell you how bad I wanna tear those cute little panties off you and make you come all over my tongue?" Hoseok's body is pressed so tightly against yours, you can feel the way he twitches in his pants against your abdomen. You whimper at the feeling. That whimper is where Hoseok draws the line.

You try to open your mouth again, probably to utter out some useless excuse as to why you two shouldn't do this, but as soon as your mouth is open Hoseok his pressing his lips to yours. The kiss is hot and heavy and moving dangerously fast into a heated makeout session. You're not sure what to do with your mouth but your inexperience doesn't phase him, he loves having control over you.

Hoseok's other hand runs up your bare thigh before bringing your leg up to wrap around his waist, his other hand keeps your wrists pinned above your head. You pant into the kiss, desperate for air but Hoseok simply uses the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth.

"Ah- mm-" You helplessly rut your hips against his as he devours your mouth, you can hear the way he growls at your actions.

"God, you're so- fuck- you're so needy and all I did was kiss you." Hoseok relishes in the taste of your chapstick as he pulls away, a string of saliva connecting you two before snapping and attaching to your chin. Hoseok almost cums when your tongue darts out to lick it away.

"Put your hands here, baby," Hoseok instructs you to rest your arms on his shoulders as he let's go of your wrists. You follow his directions immediately.

You're not sure exactly what he has planned until he's using his last free hand to grab your other thigh and bring your other leg around his waist, the only thing supporting you now was him and the wall you were pressed against.

The new position almost makes you see stars. You can't help stifling a moan into Hoseok's neck with the way he's poking you through your skirt.

"Such a sensitive little girl, hm? Is that all it takes to make you feel good? I could grind you into the wall and you'd come right in your panties, right?" Hoseok voice is deep and raspy in your ear and it's getting harder to form a coherent thought.

"I've wanted you for so long. Can't work because all I think about is you, your cute face, your cute body, your cute ass. Fuck, I wanna break you so bad. Let me ruin you, y/n, please?"

You're not sure how to respond, actually, you don't think you can. Anxiety tightens your throat and all you can give him is a quick excited nod.

"I need more than a nod, baby. Cause when I start I don't know if I'll be able to stop. C'mon, talk to me." His thumbs smooth over your cheeks and the gesture helps your body calm down. Hoseok was always such a good caretaker.

"I want you but- I don't- I've never..." You shove your face back into Hoseok's neck, flustered. You're scared if he knows you're a virgin he won't want to do this anymore.

"You've never had sex?" Hoseok grabs you by the nape of your neck, carefully bringing your head up so you were looking him in the eye again. You shake your head in response.

"That's fine, I'll take care of you. Just let me make you feel good." Hoseok brings your lips to his, a kiss that has you relaxing against him even further. His hands move from your nape down to his shorts, they're loose-fitting and come down in one easy motion. You can't see because your skirts in the way but you feel the way Hoseok isn't wearing anything under those shorts. You bite your lip to suppress the moan crawling out of your throat when you feel the tip of his cock press against the thin material of your panties.

"That's a good girl. This feel good? You like having my cock like this? I can feel how wet you are through your panties." Hoseok's dirty words having you reeling and for the first time in your life you can't find it in yourself to care how loud you are, how fucked out you look.

You grind down against Hoseok's straining cock and you can feel it twitch and throb against your lips. Hoseok has to put one hand on the wall behind you to stop his legs from giving out.

"F-fuck." He watches as you move your hips against his, needy and wanton. "Look at you using me like I'm your toy. Are you sure you're a virgin?"

"Hoseokie, please..." You moan into Hoseok's neck and for the first time, you feel an ache inside you, something hot and on the verge of boiling over. Only Hoseok can fix that ache.

As soon as a whimpering 'please' leaves your mouth Hoseok is pushing your panties aside from under your skirt and pressing the head of his cock against your weeping cunt. You immediately clench at the feeling of something trying to pierce through you.

"So tight, y/n. When's the last time you fingered yourself, baby?" Hoseok's voice is light, pleasure evident in his voice as he pushes only his tip inside.

"I don't- ahhng-" This time your moan isn't muffled by anything and if Hoseok wasn't shoving his whole cock inside of you right now you'd be scared the other members could hear you.

"Hoseok-ahhaa, it hurts-" So good. You don't know how else to describe the feeling of him stretching you open. It stings as he splits you open farther than you could've ever imagined but it sends waves of pleasure throughout your body.

"You're too tight, y/n. Fuck, relax, baby. Trust me." Hoseok gasps in your ear and it was taking every fiber of his being to not pound you into the wall. He's not sure if he's ever exercised this much self-control in his life.

You try to listen and calm your body down a bit and when you finally loosen up a bit Hoseok bottoms out.

"Feels like your pussy was made for me, just for me." At first, his thrusts start off slow, easing in and out of you to help you get used to the feeling. Somewhere along the line, though, Hoseoks reserve wore thin and he finds himself fucking you into the wall, hard enough to the point where you slid up the wall every time he pistoned inside you.

"I'm so happy I'm your first. And I'm gonna be your- ah... I'm gonna be your last. I'm gonna ruin sex for you..." Hoseok gasps against your neck and runs a hand through your hair, damp with sweat. He pulls your hair back just enough so your head is tilted back and your neck is exposed. Hoseok really can't help biting the pretty untouched skin there. At that, you let out a moan that can only be described as pornographic. You don't know how to describe the feeling then, but you were starting to see stars. Hoseok was hitting something inside you, you didn't know what but it was making it difficult to keep your eyes open. Helpless cries of pleasure and Hoseok's name spill uncontrollably from your lips as your nails dig into his back

"Gonna- 'm gonna, It feels-" Hoseok thinks your face alone is enough to push him to the edge, eyes completely fucked out and clouded with lust, saliva running down your chin as you babble incoherent curses and whines of his name. With his hand still gripping your hair back, he watches as you come undone around him. Your legs squeeze tighter around his waist, causing him to somehow plunge deeper inside you and that does it for Hoseok.

Having your breathless whimpers in his ear along with the way you clench around him has Hoseok reeling towards orgasm, fucking you through your own. Despite having jerked off maybe two hours before, Hoseok thinks this is the hardest he's ever came.

He takes his time before pulling out, holding you close and letting you rest your head on his shoulder so you can catch your breath. When your feet finally touch the hardwood you think your legs might give out but Hoseok's hands keep your grounded.

"Are you okay? I didn't hurt you right?" Hoseok uses his thumb to clean the saliva on your chin before pressing a kiss to your lips then to your forehead. You can't help a giggle at that point.

"Don't laugh! I know I said I'd break you but I need to keep you intact for next time." Hoseok pulls his shorts up and runs a hand through his messy hair, only managing to reveal his forehead. Your eyes follow the movement.

"Next time?" You press your thighs together. Something was dripping down your leg.

"What do you mean 'next time'? What do I look like letting such a pretty little thing slip from my grasp?" Hoseok pats your already messy hair and you shrink away like you usually do, whining.

"Now, if you're ready, let's go back. I wanna show you off." Hoseok's hand intertwines with yours but he stops in his tracks when you don't move.

"Or not. We could just lay in bed together?" His expression looks slightly worried but you're thinking of something else entirely.

"Hoseok, there's stuff running down my thigh. It feels weird." Your mouth turns into a ^ and Hoseok wants to kiss the look off your face.

"That's my cum. If it feels weird dripping down your leg I can finger it back inside you and make sure it stays inside that cute little pussy of yours."

★━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━★

[© seokiie]

[I do not allow any translating, editing, reposting, or use of any my work!!]

#bts #jung hoseok #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook #min yoongi #hoseok smut #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #bts reactions #kpop reactions #bts smut #jhope smut #kpop imagines #bts imagines #jhope x reader #network bangtan #jhopenet #bangtan boys #bts fanfic #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #rude #hoseok x you #armynet #bts jimin #bts v #bts ff #bts ot7

[fandom-scatteredthoughtsonpaper]

Hi hi! i think you said asks were open in your newest post? If not feel free to ignore this lol

I would love to see headcannons of an MC who, though acting brave, gets very scared of the brothers

example after lucifer and the grimoire and such? like MC slowly becomes MORE scared of them, and tries to hide it, but it's getting obvious that theyre scared if that makes sense lol 💖

Ahhhhh, sorry this took longer than it necessarily should have! I feel like I was much closer to what you wanted with this request than the other, so hopefully you'll enjoy it too ❤️

GN MC THAT PROGRESSIVELY FEARS THE BROTHERS

Living with demons is hard, especially when they're the rulers of hell, err, the Devildom.

Sure, there's the implication they're not supposed to hurt or do anything harmful to you, as you have the safety of being an exchange student, but that veil of ignorance was quickly lifted before even the two week mark of living with these brothers.

You've tried getting along with them, and for the most part you've been successful, but a few circumstances have arisen that have reminded you that these boys are dangerous demons... and you're the human that keeps poking the three-headed dog while it sleeps.

Mammon:

You're not so much scared of what Mammon could physically do, but you're paranoid that he goes into your room and rummages in your belongings and personal keepsakes. Your room is the only thing you have that you can claim as your own, and it's your sanctuary, despite it being in the brothers' house.

Of course, the brothers will periodically just barge in without alerting you by asking or knocking, but you've grown okay with that. You're at least in your room and able to see what they do in there. There are a few occasions Levi or Satan might mention going into your bedroom to retrieve a video game or book they had loaned you, but you make sure to put their item on the dresser by the entrance, so they don't have to venture too far in. You're okay with that.

You're not okay, however, with Mammon when he goes into your room unannounced. Hell, you're not totally comfortable with him being in your room unattended if he does give you a heads-up.

You know how kleptomaniac Mammon can be. You've heard enough complaints and stories to know how relentless Mammon can be in his search for anything that could give him a few Grimm from his brothers. You've talked with this greedy demon about items he's stolen, witnessed thefts a few times too.

So, you feel something akin to victimized when Mammon goes into your room without your permission or you being there. Your room emits this vibe of disturbance, and it bothers you because you don't know what might be missing or "borrowed". It troubles you more because now your room feels foreign again, like the atmosphere was plagued by essences that you know aren't yours. Your anxiety swells with paranoia, fear, and mistrust again.

Leviathan:

Oh, for the most part, you don't have much conflict with Levi anymore. Once you made a pact with the otaku demon he relaxed a lot more and invited you to hang out in his room to play games or fuss about animation qualities in animes or gush about his favorite manga characters.

It's just that after that contest of who was the bigger TSL fan and Levi, enveloped by jealousy and fury, came at you with the intent to seriously harm you, you've had this overly-suspicious fear in the back of your mind, itching your paranoia that it could happen again.

You've learned that Levi's demon form is easily triggered by extreme feelings, rather that's excitement, irritability, or the emotion he avatars over, and you can't help be irritationally cautious when that happens. It's a reflex from the panic that engraved itself into your psyche for self-preservation.

If you weren't so anxious about another envy-fueled incident involving your life you might find Levi's excitement for the stuff he loves more endearing and cute.

Beelzebub:

If you hadn't seen how destructive Beel's tantrums over food firsthand could be you might find it hard to believe this relaxed and mostly uninvolved brother would have such a temper... but you did experience it, so you do believe it.

It was a custard! They're so easy to get more of, but Beel immediately flew off the handle and wouldn't see reasoning, lashing out and destroying the kitchen. If Mammon hadn't pulled you down with him to the floor as Beel started his outraged tantrum you're positive you would have been collateral damage too, like your poor room that was unfortunately placed on the other side of the kitchen wall.

It was a terrifying sight to behold, seeing the kitchen torn asunder and reduced to broken walls, obliterated cabinets, and smashed counters, with kitchen utensils and ruined cookware being sent into flight and raining down, razor-sharp and shattered into broken edges that could easily pierce flesh.

That moment of destruction lingers, along with the intense emotion of fright, triggered whenever Beel complains about being hungry or when he meets your gaze at the table during times to eat. You immediately offer your unfinished plate to him, which he happily accepts and consumes in seconds, to appease the Avatar of Gluttony's temper.

Asmodeus:

Asmo's promiscuity and salaciousness are what unnerve you the most. He's the Avatar of Lust, so obviously you were already on your defense, but you've seen glimpses beyond the surface level to what Asmo can be like. That's what intrigues you about him, and you try to focus on those bits that slip past his perfectionistic lifestyle and narcissistic personality. At the same time, however, this is the cause of your near downfalls when Asmo tries to allure you with his physical prowess.

He's tried a few times to charm you, and you feel this invasive power trying to persuade you to give into your raw and sexual temptations, or this tugging sensation that tries to attract you beyond what you feel is comfortable. The repulsed response is usually what repels you from the power Asmo tries to flaunt over you.

He usually huffs after his failed attempt but quickly rebounds by placing his hands around you and trying to embrace you himself, which Mammon, prompted by his denied feelings and jealousy, usually intercepts in your honor.

There's a few times you've worried yourself nauseous Asmo will corner you, and you won't be able to save yourself from his lustful persuasion. There's also the couple of times he's mentioned eating your heart, so that's also worrisome.

Satan:

There's no questions that you secretly fear Satan, more specifically his wrath. You slighted him once before, and the threat he imposed upon you while you were trapped between his demonic form and an over-stuffed bookcase was enough to brand itself to your soul as a reminder.

As docile as Satan may appear with his affection for cats, deep interest for detective shows, and shared affinity of books he could and, possibly, would rip you apart and lavish in the blood that wept from your lacerated flesh and tension of your bones rebelling before snapping satisfactory in halves and thirds.

Other than that, Satan is much easier to hang out with compared to his brothers, except when he gets that cruel temperament to torment Lucifer, which you exempt yourself from if the pranks are too excessive.

Belphegor:

Terror has never seeped into your soul like this before. Your anxiety spikes to levels you've never experienced before when Belphie plops down next to you on the couch or tries to start up a conversation. Your fight, flight, freeze, or fawn system goes haywire, and you become petrified, unable to respond properly.

You either stay away from Belphie altogether or stay glued to one of the other brothers, Mammon or Beel preferably. Just in case.

Just in case Belphie's lament arises again in the form of murderous hate, gleeful contempt clouding his eyes, as his hands find their way to your neck that remembers the tight embrace his fingers engraved into the nerves of your throat, the ghostly suffocating that chokes you up sometimes if you become too immersed in the memory of a body that hadn't belonged to you.

You're also sure you remember an aching in your ribs and spine that causes you to shiver sometimes, but you're not sure if you experienced that in a dream or illusion of the timeline merging. It still bothers you all the same.

For such a sweet face and quiet voice, Belphie is a demon that decieves, and you're better off staying away from him until you're over your PTSD. If that's possible.

Lucifer:

How many times has he almost killed you? Twice or three times? Enough to be too many and to penetrate your core with panic and trepidation whenever you see that sly smile that forms on his lips. It doesn't have to be directed at you, but it's enough to launch you into a panic attack that you barely keep under control.

That safety guard of being a representative from the human world and exchange student mean nothing when you test it by being a busybody in affairs that definitely don't involve you over and over again, especially when it's the pride and dignity of Lucifer being tested.

You hear your lesson but never learn, and unconsciously you must be masochistic for how many times you've brushed death with Lucifer's anger, but you keep pushing the limits.

You can't help going to Mammon's defense when you feel Lucifer is only targeting him for personal reasons or standing up to his ego when you feel he's going over his limits. Your bravery is stupidity though, and you feel your courageous backbone turn into a central nerve system of adrenaline and fear. You're just too stubborn and self-righteous to let Lucifer do as he pleases, but that doesn't mean you're not scared out of your wits.

You've gained an intuition for when Lucifer is approaching or silently comes up from behind you, and it sends a shiver down your back almost every time you're alone together.

If you have any headcanons that you want me to write, please send them my way! I enjoy writing these out. NSFW is okay, but please know I might not do it if I don’t like it. ❤️

#obey me #obey me mammon #obey me lucifer #obey me asmo #obey me asmodeus #obey me beel #obey me belphegor #obey me belphie #obey me levi #obey me leviathan #obey me beelzebub #obey me satan #obey me headcanons #things from the inbox #jess writes #obey me requests #simpfortheseven

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

In My Dreams Tonight

for @chaotic-bard who asked me for some fluff!

have a soulmates that dream about each other au featuring both a modern au and the canon universe!

brought to you by “Dreams Tonite” by Alvvays

---

“You’re nothing but trouble, bard,” the tall man glared from atop his horse. He always seemed to be glaring or glowering or huffing, the man in Jaskier’s dreams. The familiar stranger wore his long white hair pulled halfway back and he had golden eyes, the pupils of which were slit up the center like a cat’s. His name, Jaskier had learned after the third straight week of seeing him every night, was Geralt of Rivia. A Witcher, apparently, whose job it was to hunt down monsters.

“Ah, but what a lovely piece of trouble I am!” Jaskier replies. And he’s rather sassy himself in these dreams. Far more clever and ready to fight than he is when he’s awake. “You would miss me if I left, wouldn’t you, Geralt?”

“Hmm.”

The stranger hums a lot. He glares and he hums. Jaskier’s heart stutters frightfully in his chest whenever the man smiles, though. The sight is rare. Geralt has smiled perhaps three times in the past two months.

“Where are we going today?”

“Werewolf outside of town. You’re staying at the inn, where I know you can’t get into… nevermind. You can get into trouble anywhere.”

There’s a lightly teasing tone to the stranger’s voice that Jaskier hasn’t really heard before. He likes it. He craves more of it. He tosses and turns in his sleep, his skin damp with sweat. The dream goes on.

“Geralt, please,” he whines, “I can’t write ballads about monsters I haven’t seen! Or fights I did not attend! That’s lying to my audience, Geralt, and I simply won’t do it. I must go with you.”

“Drop it, Jaskier,” the man snarls. Jaskier feels sad. Incredibly sad.

Rejected?

“Gera-”

“I said drop it, bard.”

Jaskier wakes up feeling a little heartbroken and he yearns to be held. His pillow holds the fading scents of leather and wood-smoke. The sight of a pine sapling at the dog park makes him tear up.

He starts to wear the color yellow out of nowhere and his taste in jewelry switches from gold to silver. 

When his best friend asks him about the recent changes, he cannot answer.

---

Geralt pours himself a mug of tea and shakes his hair out of his face. He’s been having odd dreams lately, things that feel familiar but manage to stay just out of his conscious grasp. Someone important is waiting for him. Someone he love and cares about and needs. 

Geralt doesn’t really buy into the concept of soulmates, but he does understand instinct. He knows to trust his gut. He knows to listen and start paying attention when the same haunting blue eyes creep into his dreams every night for six months, plaguing him in the waking hours by refusing to give up their owners’ identity. 

He wipes a hand down his face and sighs loudly into the otherwise empty studio apartment. “Fuck me, I gotta figure this shit out. I gotta talk to Yen.”

Talking to himself has always helped him calm down. He does it again, just to hear his own low voice scraping through the silence. 

“I gotta see what’s going on with my head. These dreams are… getting to be a bit much, even for me.”

He nods to no one in particular and goes to text his best friend and coworker.

---

Jaskier hops off the bus and carries his guitar case down to the coffee shop on the corner. Finally, he’s managed to get a gig that wasn’t through the university.

He sets up his stuff in the tiny alcove the shop treats as a stage and watches as a few customers stroll around near the counter, waiting for their drinks or reading through the menu, hovering just far away enough from the line to keep others from growing confused.

He loves people watching. 

Once everything is ready to go and the light outside the window has dimmed a bit, indicating early evening has finally arrived, he pulls his guitar onto his lap and strums through a few quick chords.

“Rode here on the bus,

Now you're one of us.

It was magic hour,

Counting motorbikes on the turnpike;

One of Eisenhower's.”

 “Live your life on a merry-go-round;

Who starts a fire just to let it go out?”

He watches a particularly handsome man with broad shoulders and a vintage denim jacket approach the counter. Jaskier adds a haunting, well-practiced lilt to his voice as he goes into the chorus, hoping to get his attention:

“If I saw you on the street,

Would I have you in my dreams tonight?

If I saw you on the street,

Would I have you in my dreams tonight, tonight?”

An equally beautiful woman with long, curly black hair approaches the denim-clad angel and whisks him towards a table nearby. She settles with her back to Jaskier, leaving him with a decent view of the man’s sharp, lightly stubbled jaw, glittering eyes, and severe white ponytail. He’s gorgeous.

He’s also uncomfortably familiar.

Jaskier continues to perform, trying to identify his attractive mystery man the whole time and failing miserably.

---

“He’s everywhere, Yen. I feel like I could identify him by scent if I got close enough. I can’t remember his name, though. Or the color of his hair. I don’t know his face, only his eyes. It’s driving me crazy.”

“Have you talked to Dr. deStael about it?”

“Yeah, but she said this kind of thing is normal. Recurring dreams often help us sort out our trauma or something like that. I don’t know. I don’t feel traumatized by this guy I feel… protective of him. Maybe even like I love him?”

“Hmm.”

“Hey, that’s my line.”

“Shut up for a minute, this live music actually slaps and I want to listen to it. Then we can discuss your weird possessive tendencies towards your dream boyfriend.”

Geralt takes a slow sip of his coffee and glances up at the singer off to their left, perched on a barstool with his guitar held carefully on his lap. His voice is soft but somehow bright. Geralt finds himself utterly entranced.

“On the weird guitar;

Said you'd go to work

In the waking hour.

In fluorescent light,

Antisocialites watch a wilting flower.”

 “Live your life on a merry-go-round;

Who builds a wall just to let it fall down?”

The lyrics are strange and hold a dream-like quality to them. They draw a picture in Geralt’s head, something dark and heavy and oddly hollow. He has another sip of coffee and tries to ignore the feeling of panic welling up inside him. He glances at Yennefer to see if she’s picked up on his mood, but her violet eyes are focused on the singer and his nimble fingers as he continues to play and sing.

When he glances up towards their table and their eyes meet, Geralt loses the ability to breathe.

That shade of cornflower blue was…

Couldn’t be…

Had to be…

The gorgeous, feathery tenor continues to fill the air, whirling pleasant notes past his ears and deep into his subconscious. Geralt knows that voice. He’s heard this man laugh and sing and cry and scream a thousand different times. Through a handful of different lives. Geralt knows that face, those hands, those strong legs and long arms and blue fucking eyes. He’s held this singer in his arms every night for centuries, feeling his breathing as they both drift off to sleep.

He has protected this man and been protected by him in return. He has kissed and been kissed, caressed and been caressed. The two men sitting across from each other in the coffee shop physically embody an endless cycle of love. It has been bound up in the souls of two no-longer strangers. Geralt knows that he knows this man. 

He knows Jaskier.

Petal pink lips continue to form soft words and slender hands keep plucking at vibrating guitar strings:

“Don't sit by the phone for me,

Wait at home for me, all alone for me.

Your face was supposed to be

Hanging over me, like a rosary.”

Geralt stands suddenly, startling Yennefer but not the performer, even though he’s clearly just as shocked as Geralt about this recent development.

Their mutual realization.

“So morose for me,

Seeing ghosts of me,

Writing oaths to me,

Is it so naïve to wonder…”

Geralt crosses the room to the edge of the stage in three quick strides. Yennefer is close behind him, her latte just as abandoned as his coffee at their table. She grabs her friend’s arm as if to stop him from doing something violent, but when he doesn’t struggle against her grip she lets it go again easily. 

“Geralt?” the musician asks.

“Jaskier?” Geralt replies. The guitar is placed quickly to the side and a pair of incredibly familiar arms are thrown around the taller man’s neck. Geralt hugs back just as firmly, his arms flung low around the brunette’s waist. Geralt knows that this is Jaskier’s favorite way to be embraced; he doesn’t know how he’s aware of that fact, but it comes to the front of his mind clear as day. 

“Holy shit,” Jaskier breathes, leaning back to stare Geralt in the face. One of his string-calloused fingers traces down over Geralt’s eyelid and cheek and he cocks his head to the side. “No scar?”

“No,” Geralt shakes his head. “Not this lifetime, I guess.”

“Were we? Are we- are we, you know...?”

“Yeah,” Yen beams, adding her two cents from the sidelines. “I think so. Congrats, boys. This is one of those one in a million chances and you’ve gone and done it.”

“Done what?” Geralt asks. Jaskier tosses his head back and laughs. His happiness rings out through the cafe like a struck bell and Geralt’s heart stutters frantically. He really does love this man already. Wholeheartedly and without fear. “What have we done, Yen?”

“As obtuse now as you were then,” Jaskier chides affectionately. “Soulmates, my love. We’ve been bound by the red string of fate and ta-da! Here we are. Again, apparently.”

“Yes, okay,” Geralt breathes, nosing his way along Jaskier’s jaw with giddy determination. He presses a quick and wholly welcome kiss to the bard’s lips. “That makes sense.”

 “Do you... do you want me again? This time around?” Jaskier asks, fingers fiddling with one of the ties on Geralt’s hoodie. A pair of chapped lips press against his again and he sighs into it, melting against his no-longer-Witcher. 

“Yes. And the next one, as well.”

#bouncey's sappy hours #geraskier #geraskier fluff #yen #yennefer #yenerference kinda #getting together #soulmate au #prophetic dreams #geraskier soulmate au #geraskier soulmates #shared dreams #modern au #geraskier modern au #kissing #first kiss #magically getting together #prompt fill

[sabraeal]

The Most Perverse Creature in the World, Chapter 11

[Read on AO3]

You had been concerned this evening-- no, that was too mild a description to contain how you waited outside the castle gate, alone and shrouded beneath the anonymity of your black lacquer. It had been anxiety that plagued you, every inch of skin alive and shivering with your nerves. You trusted Obi implicitly-- he had given you no reason to not these past weeks. Despite the reputation that recommended him for this business--whatever it was-- his behavior at the bawd house reminded you less of an unrepentant rake and more of a small boy made to sit and do sums in the summer.

But even so, your ladies had placed their trust in you. They had little choice; a woman of ill repute would be laughed out of the council, branded a greedy whore, but you--

Well, you were a widow above reproach. A countess in your own right, no matter what scandal brought you the title. Where their words would sink like oil in water, yours would rise as air, right into the upper echelons of the court, perhaps even into the king’s ears themselves. That didn’t mean that they’d listen to them, but yours at least had opportunity, whereas theirs--

Theirs would be laughed at, ridiculed for daring to speak above their station. You held their hopes in your hands, and to ask them to trust a new man, sight unseen, vetted only by the prince’s messenger felt like a favor too far.

It was good then, that as large as this Sir Lowen might be, he had all the gentleness of a princess from the pages of a storybook; the sort that might see animals eating out of his cupped palms, should he offer them. The instant he squeezed into your carriage, an apologetic dark shadow, your fears had eased, steady with the knowledge that the girls would be like kittens in his hands.

Your instincts were correct; hardly a breath has passed since he entered the boudoir, and already your ladies are eating out of them. Or perhaps, more accurately, trying to entice him to eat out of theirs.

Tsubaki may have spoken first, but it’s Himawari who stands closest. She uses every inch of leverage it gives her as she saunters closer, raking Sir Lowen with a speculative gaze that leaves no doubt as to what she’s measuring.

“Sorry, petal,” Himawari purrs, placing a finger right on his sternum. “But I’ll be handling this one.”

“That’s not fair,” Tsubaki whines. “Kikyo, tell her that’s not fair.”

“I...” Kikyo’s mouth works, and she tears her gaze off the prince’s aide with a flush. “I don’t think milady brought him here for any of that business.”

“Aw, come on now.” Himawari’s wide mouth breaks out into a wider smile, the sort canaries might see before they flew to the great coop in the sky. “It’d be a pity to waste milady’s coin.”

If skin could burn then Sir Lowen would be a bonfire. “P-please, ladies, I’m not here for anything like that!”

“I changed my mind.” Himawari turns a hard, thoughtful look on him. “I’d let this one handle me.”

“Well,” Obi drawls, having entirely too much fun, “now there’s some high praise.”

Sir Lowen shoots him a dubious glare. “Is it?”

“Well, none of them have ever offered to handle me on milady’s dime,” Obi informs him, mouth twitching at the corner. “You must have a certain...I don’t know what.”

“A third leg?” Tsubaki offers, quickly shushed by Kikyo.

“Please,” Himawari snorts. “Milady couldn’t pay me enough to put up with you.”

Obi presses a hand to his chest, scandalized. “I’ll have you know I’m a very generous--”

“You’re a pain in the ass,” she informs him. “You say you want to be handled, but there’s not a pair here you’d trust to do it. You couldn’t take a direction if it was dipped in gold and had your name carved in it.”

At once, the shy maiden melts away from Sir Lowen, replaced with a grin so satisfied and familiar you wonder which face it came from first-- Obi, or this man.

“Why, Obi,” he says, deceptively friendly. “I didn’t know you were taking me to a palm reader.”

Obi huffs, chin tilting up and arms folding tight across his chest. “I don’t think she’s interested in your palms, mister.”

Himawari’s brow tics, speculative. “Depends on where he plans on putting them.”

“I wasn’t--” Sir Lowen’s high ground turns to quicksand beneath his feet-- “I only meant--”

“If you are all quite finished bothering Sir Lowen,” you inform them, ignoring Himawari’s gleeful ‘hardly’-- “we have very little time left if we do not wish to squander the opportunity his name has afforded us.”

Kikyo bounces to her feet, leaving an empty space on the bed. “Ah, right. Sir Lowen, if you wouldn’t mind...”

He coughs, the red on his skin appearing uniquely painful. “I couldn’t...not...ah...”

“Oh!” Her fingers flicker in the air, all nerves. “Ah, then, perhaps this chair? If that would suit?”

“It would,” he allows graciously, the tension in his shoulders finally deflating. “I’ll just...stay here for the evening. I guess.”

“Don’t feel like you have to, sir,” Tsubaki purrs, rolling onto her back. “There’s plenty of room here on the bed.”

“There certainly will be, when I kick you off of it,” Himawari replied, leaping over to tweak the girl’s cheek. “No room for little girls while the adults are, hmm, talking.”

“The chair is fine!” he yelps, availing himself of it pointedly. “There! Hardly...hardly any different than a night in the palace!”

Obi’s lips give a dangerous twitch. “Well, I’m sure these ladies could change that if you only--”

“Obi.” You may not have had any child of your body, but you have raised a boy just the same; you know the precise octave in which one may raise their voice and insinuate trouble. He jolts at the sound of it, eyes rounding to innocence. “If you would...”

“Ah, right.” His shoulders hunch as he slinks toward you, a cat scolded but entirely unrepentant. “Well, mister, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Sir Lowen’s head snaps up, eyes wide and white as he catches the open door. “Obi! You can’t--”

A large hand presses to your spine, scurrying you through it. Obi leans back, head poking through the gap. “Enjoy yourselves, ladies.”

“Obi--!” The door snicks shut behind him.

You frown, glancing at the door behind him. “Are you sure you two are friends?”

“The most bosom companions.” His teeth flash white in the hall’s dim. “Now let’s go see to your entertainment for the evening, my lady.”

You have never had reason to stray long in the brothel’s halls; Obi usually sees to it that your trip involves only the briefest stint through the back stairs, quickly and quietly depositing you in a room within moments of your arrival. So as your eyes adjust to the bare light, you cannot help but stare.

“Stripes?” Your fingers rise to trace the paper. It’s hard to make out their color in the dim, but you squint anyway, shuffling close enough for your slippers to brush the wainscoting. “Green stripes?”

“Well, not everything can be hand-painted cocks and balls.”

You nearly laugh, only tamping down when you see how his eyes have bulged, how stiffly he’s standing before you. Obi hadn’t meant to let that gem slip from his lips.

“Of course not,” you say, deceptively mild. Behind your veil, Obi can’t see your lips twitch. “I’d expect there to be quite a few cunts as well.”

You may restrain your laugh, but Obi doesn’t, a wheeze bursting from his lips. “My lady...”

It’s not until his shoulders ease, body hanging with its usual boneless grace, that you realize how tense he’s been. After that little scene in Tsubaki’s chamber, you half expected him to be prancing through the halls, giddy as a schoolboy he hung yet another of his bosom companions out to twist in the wind. But instead he’s...nervous.

“Obi.” His name hoists itself through the air with the heft of a feather, but he flinches nonetheless. “Is something wrong?”

His mouth opens, but closes just as quick, mouth curving in a rueful grin. “I wonder...”

You nearly call out to him again, his name right at the edge of your lips, but Obi’s voice startles you instead. “Come on, my lady, it’s this way.”

The door he stops at must be the one-- who else would have delicate violets painted in clusters along the jamb?-- and he hesitates once more, hand poised just above the knotless wood.

Gold eyes cast you one last long look, but you cannot read the message in it. There is too much regret, too much pity, too much of everything, and you would ask, you would take your gloved hand and hold him back, but--

You’re too late. His knuckles fall, a sharp rap, and suddenly he’s the Obi you expected to see once more, grin spread too wide on his angular face, the shadows clinging to him as if he might disappear if you took your eyes from him.

“Custom’s here,” he calls out gruffly, the perfect imitation of one of the brothel’s bouncers. Quieter, he turns to you, door creaking open as he says, “Good luck, my lady.”

You shore yourself up, becoming the implacable widow behind a facade of bombazine. “Let’s hope I don’t need it.”

This is not what you expect from a prostitute’s boudoir.

Gauzy rose curtains flutter between whitewashed posts, stirred by the door’s closing. They match the ones over the windows, a massive bank of glass settled over a seat meant to sit two, buried in pink striped cushions. The knobs on the vanity gleam golden, matching the subtly shimmering vines on the wallpaper, interrupted only by sprays of violets and roses.

It’s a child’s room; the very same you might see for a beloved daughter among your set. Save for the flowers, it could quite practically have been your own before you left it for your marriage bed.

Your hands clench where they hang knitted before you. Perhaps that is...part of the fantasy. Just as Himawari’s room is done in dark woods and deep hues to match the tastes of her clients, this might be much the same. A girl who catered to the illicitness of making love in a lover’s childhood room-- or, you cannot help but think, one that might be bound to do a man’s bidding, like a child might.

“Oh sir.” A pale shadow moves behind the curtain, as delicate as the voice that  slips through the gauze. It’s a soft one, high-pitched and sweet, a part played to the hilt. “I’ve been so excited to meet you.”

You startle, heels bumping back into the door. You’d braced for confrontation, not seduction; even if this Sumire has never once seen a glimpse of Sir Lowen, there is no conceivable way that she could mistake a window in her weeds as the prince’s foremost aide. But thin as these curtains are, she can see just as much of you as you can see her-- nothing above a vague impression of color and shape.

It is not to last. Slender fingers slide through the seams, pushing the cloth aside. “I do hope you’ll take care of--”

A sweet face peers out between the curtains, chestnut hair pinned back and curled just like a little girl’s-- because that’s what she is. By her size, her proportions-- if she’s had her courses, she can count them but months, not years. Fourteen, at the most. At the least--

Your mind refuses to speculate. How can it, when all that fills it is an angry buzz, as harsh as the cicadas in summer. You had thought Tsubaki young, but this, this...

Her full mouth crumples into a child’s pout. “You aren’t Sir Lowen at all.”

And a good thing, too. Gentle as that man may be, you doubt he would take this with any sort of subtlety. “No. You may call me Countess Bederin.”

Those large eyes go wide, rounding until you can see white around the iris. “B-bederin?”

Your mouth curls. “I see my reputation precedes me. I suspect the girls have spoken about me.”

The girl-- Sumire, the madam’s favorite flower, sniffs, her coltish limbs folding over her. “They don’t need to tell me anything. I know all about you.”

It has been years since you’ve had a child in your home, but you recognize the prideful hook of that mouth. Less they don’t need to tell me anything, then, and more they wouldn’t tell me anything, even if I asked.

She settles back on her heels, eyeing you askance. “You’re the widow that comes around here to talk about, ah...?”

“Taxes, mostly,” you admit. “Working conditions as well. May I have a seat?”

With all the primness and pretension of a lord’s daughter, Sumire draws her spine straight, seating herself at the edge of the bed with ankles crossed. She would look every inch a girl born to it if it weren’t for her sullen pout-- or her negligee, one strap slowly slipping down her shoulder. “If you must.”

“I don’t,” you assure her. You’re not so old that standing for the duration of this conversation would harm you. “I would prefer to be invited, rather than impose.”

Her eyes widen before she drops them down, giving a begrudging nod. “Fine then. Over there. But you should know I don’t have any complaints.”

Her hand juts out; you follow its line to an overstuffed chair tucked in a corner. It’s pink as well, though not striped, its velvet worn bald in places. Your nurse had a similar one-- no, you had a similar one in your old room, a big wing-backed monument you’d climbed as a small thing, right into her lap until you got too big for it, then up the back itself. That is, until you’d fallen from the top and knocked the wind clean out of your chest. You’d taken your stories from the floor, after that, leaning your head against her knee as her finger stroked through your hair.

Your jaw sets as you sink into its cushioned depths. This furniture might share a shape, but you doubt Sumire has experienced the same sweet memories.

“Of course,” you manage through your teeth, “but that is valuable information as well. I am looking for as complete a picture as I can create when I make my recommendation to His Majesty.”

It’s an overstatement of your power to be sure-- the only time His Majesty would hear your opinions would be shortly before they were torn to shreds by the teeth of the council-- but it has the desired effect. Sumire’s small chest puffs, chin tilting up, eyes sparkling. You’ve made her important. No, you’ve made her words important.

“I should tell the madam you’re here,” she says, words crisp, threat idle. “So she can throw you right out for...for...ah...sedition.”

That would require the brothel to be a country and the madam its head of state-- a metaphor that might work if it did not require you to also live within it as well. Still, it was a poor point to quibble with a child, not when a girl like her could never afford to spurn a lady who has a king’s ear. At least, not when she could dream of putting herself in his bed. This was all a bit of theater, a way for her to cast the illusion of an equal field.

It is ground you can afford to cede. “You might. Or you might allow me to have your ear first, before you decide. The choice is yours.”

Sumire’s small feet still against the footboard, her body stiff and still with a hungry kind of wariness. You doubt she has ever been given such a choice before, paltry as it is.

“Very well.” Her voice takes on the clipped cadence of the upper crust; an affectation to your ear, but a good one. She’s been trained, at least, the streets scrubbed clean from her vowels. “Though there’s not a thing you could offer me that the madam won’t give if I ask.”

Besides a childhood, you don’t say.

“I’m not here to make any offer,” you tell her, as gentle as you are able. “Only to be a listening ear.”

Her head cocks, a sparrow offered seeds from a strange hand. “What do you mean?”

You stifle a smile; even if she cannot see it through the veil, she’ll hear it in your voice. Still-- she’s taken the bait, even if she hasn’t hopped up into your fingers. “My purpose is not to propose, but to listen. There is a proposal among the lords that would require all those engaging in acts considered...superfluous to the point of procreation for money to pay a certain extra consideration to the crown.”

Sumire blinks. “What’s that all mean?”

“They want to tax you for every act of sexual congress that does not involve, ah--” you flounder for the words; she may be a professional, but she is also a child, and oh, Obi might have teased you for asking, but he’d certainly have ideas-- “the insertion of a man’s member into your, hm...”

Secret garden, your nurse would have said, but that seems too pale, too flowery--

“Cunt?” she offers, so innocent, as if there were no other word.

“Yes.” Were the madam to stand before you now, you could choke the very life from her and feel no guilt. “Quite.”

Her small face rumples, wrinkled up in thought. “So if I let a john take me on hands and knees, would that cost extra too? Or only if he’s got his cock outside my--”

“Ah!” It had been too much to hear this from Tsubaki’s mouth, but an actual child’s is far, far worse. “Yes. I am afraid that anything that is not with a man top and a woman beneath--”

“But I am--”

“-- And, ah, facing him,” you add, hurriedly. “Any of it would be considered a...lewd act, subject to the tax.”

Sumire doesn’t speak, not at first; instead she merely sits with the knowledge, shadows rolling across her face in intervals.

“Well,” she decides, finally. “The madam handles all that for me. So I need not worry about any of this business.”

Frustration could grind your teeth to stubs, but you take in a breath, let it out. She would hardly be the first woman to place her trust in fiscal matters where it did not belong. Too many of your own acquaintance would say the same of their accounts; what use was it to balance books or be money-minded when their fathers, their brothers, their husbands all took care of such things. As long as there was enough credit to draw at the modiste, a woman needed no notion of how it came to be.

That had not been the education your father gave you-- you and your brothers alike learned to keep ledgers. It had been your cramped hand that wrote in Bederin’s, yours that tallied columns that no longer came to sums you could account for.

You cannot blame a woman for wanting to keep herself innocent of the things men might do, when they only amounted to numbers in the end.

“May I ask,” you begin, sliding your pencil from its place in your notebook’s binding. “What is the percentage the madam takes from your earnings?”

Sumire stares. “What do you mean?”

“The madam takes a cut of your earnings, does she not?” Your fingers tighten painfully around your pencil; it takes effort to ease it. “Part of your keep. For room and board and her private business. Do you know how much it is?”

She was always a child, but suddenly Sumire seems quite small indeed. “No, the madam...handles all my money.”

The lead pauses on your page. “Do you see any of it?”

“I...” Her brow furrows, doubt seeping into the shadows of her face. “She gives me pocket money. From my accounts. She says she puts it all away for me until I’m older.”

You have known plenty of young ladies with the same story. Your father had been of the old school where a woman took care of a manor’s accounts while its lord saw to its improvement-- but that philosophy was unpopular among men of the court. A good, obedient wife never handled any of their allowance; they merely took what their lord husband gave them for pin-money and never questioned its amount. That is, of course, until their creditors came. Even a title could only protect so far.

“Do you know the amount she takes from the other girls?” you ask, knowing full well the answer. “Perhaps we can extrapolate from there. Make an estimate,” you clarify, seeing confusion cloud her face.

“No,” she sniffs. “They don’t tell me anything. They’re jealous.”

There is some truth to that perhaps; Tsubaki certainly acts as though they are rivals for a mother’s love even if she hates the parent in question, and Himawari has made no secret that she doesn’t appreciate the pomp and circumstance around the search for Sumire’s custom. But still, it’s not the whole of it, though to say so would certainly fall upon deaf ears.

“You know,” you hum, setting your pencil back in its binding. “We want to have a larger meeting. One where the girls voice all their ideas. Where we can begin to see what needs should be met, should I bring a counter proposal before the council.”

Her mouth curves into a frown. “The madam won’t like that. She won’t let you do it.”

Your heart flutters in your chest, an anxious tattoo that rattles in your ears as you say, “That’s why we don’t plan to tell her.”

Sumire’s face takes on a petulant cast. “What if I did? Then you all couldn’t. Madam would like that.”

“You could,” you admit. “But if you came to it, perhaps you might know better what the madam keeps for you.”

From you, you mean, but you doubt she’s ready for that conversation. Not right now, when the idea of betrayal is so new.

The temptation is clear on her face, but curiosity shutters tight behind pride. “No one would want me there. They don’t like me.”

“I would want you there.” You set aside your notebook, letting nothing come between you but your veil. “I think you have important things to contribute.”

Her eyes widen, but only for a moment. The next she shakes her head, tossing her curls proudly. “I could still tell the madam, even if I go.”

“I trust you.” You want to at least, but she’s so young, and the madam is her world. Her protector and abuser both.

“The others won’t.”

“That may be,” you agree, “but it only takes one to convince others. I’ll be the first.”

Sumire eyes you warily, both dubious and hopeful, and you wish there was some way you could prove it, some way you could give her the assurance every child deserves. You drop your eyes to your lap, veil pooling on your hands--

And you do. Your fingers trace the lace edge, and it’s with an exaggerated motion that you lift it, the breeze from the widow caressing your bare cheeks.

Sumire’s jaw falls slack. “Why...” It closes as she leans closer, surprise etched in every plane of her face. “You aren’t ugly at all, miss.”

That’s not quite the reaction you expected. “Ah...thank you. I suppose.”

She hesitates, then gives you a quick, pained nod. “I’ll come. But I don’t promise I’ll keep quiet after.”

“I could expect no less,” you murmur, veiling your smile once more. “We all have to do what’s best, don’t we?”

You leave the room more troubled than you entered, but lighter somehow still.

“Did what needs doing?” Obi asks, levering himself out of the shadows.

“Not yet.” Your mouth stretches into a determined line. “But I’ll see it’s done.”

#haruka x reader #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #AT LAST I AM THROUGH THIS PORTION #next chapter should actually see the return of Haruka #and BELLIGERENT FLIRTING #ball is in your court now joanna >:3c

[hatterstan-shameblog]

For the headcanon thing

I think Hatter likes to watch bad movies. Like the really bad ones. The ones that make you roll your eyes/laugh/cry at every single thing about it, doesn't matter if it's plot or acting. But you know what he loves more than watching those awful movies alone?

Watching them with someone else.

"hey, Mori, wanna watch a movie?"

"...no."

"c'mon, you'll like this one."

"no, I won't."

"...no, you won't. But I will enjoy your presence. C'mon bro, do it for the sake of bonding time."

"*sigh* fine..."

(inspired by real life events)

💕 Sleepover 💕

Rating: PG13 for language and alcohol consumption

Relationship: Takeru (Hatter)/Aguni

Tags: banter, friendly insults, Just Guys Being Dudes, drinking, swearing, love confessions (sort of), They Talk A Big Game But The Love Is There

Bangbangbangbangbang!

“Mori!”

Bangbangbangbangbang!

“Moooooori, let me iiiiiiiiiin!”

Clunk!

Click!

Creeeeeeaaaaaak!

Aguni opens his apartment door, wincing at the slap of summer heat that greets him as he does.

“C’mon man,” an overheated and impatient Takeru implores, “it’s miserable out here!”

“You bring me samosas,” Aguni asks, crossing his arms across his chest, “Because I’m not letting you in without my samosas.”

Takeru’s face twists into a look of shocked indignation.

“Would you really leave me—your best friend on this beautiful green Earth—to swelter and die on your doorstep in this blazing summer heat…all because I forgot the samosas?”

Aguni considers.

“No. I’d ask you to swelter and die in the parking lot. Neighbors’ll kick up a fuss if you block the stairwell.”

“Well it’s a good thing I got two orders this time,” Takeru shakes the bag enticingly, “so we don’t even have to share.”

“Someone’s splashing out,” Aguni murmurs, taking the bag from Takeru’s outstretched hand and standing aside so the man can enter his home, “Don’t suppose there’s a reason for all this…”

“Maybe I just wanted to be nice,” Takeru says flippantly, toeing off his shoes, “a little ‘thank you’ for welcoming me into your home.”

Aguni carries the bag of food over to his coffee table and sets it down, being careful not to disturb the place settings he had so thoughtfully arranged. Two plates, two spoons, two glasses of water—all neatly placed in the center of his new, sage-green placemats.

Hopefully nobody spills curry on them.

“You brought one of your weird movies again, didn’t you?”

Takeru rolls his eyes. Shoving his arm into his messenger bag, he rummages around its contents for a moment before yanking a dark, thin rectangle and holding it up for Aguni to examine.

“The 1977 horror classic, House,” he explains with an edge of exasperation, “is a critically-acclaimed work of art that has been inspiring both film fanatics and the average man for nearly half a century.”

“Straight from the back of the box,” Aguni mumbles, opening the stapled-shut paper bag and peeking at the containers inside, “Anyways, I thought you didn’t like scary movies.”

Takeru scoffs.

“Not sure what gave you that idea,” Takeru says, shoving his feet into his slippers—yes, his slippers, black velvet with red-and-gold dragons embroidered on the front because ‘I’m here enough to warrant my own damn slippers’ and ‘these are fucking awesome,’ “We saw Hereditary in the theater!”

“And you were scared the whole time,” Aguni points out, gingerly lifting their food out of the bag and arranging the containers on their respective plates, “You had to sleep with the lights on for a week. Screwed up your cat’s sleep schedule and everything.”

Takeru swans his way over to Aguni’s refrigerator and opens it, more or less sticking his whole head inside to examine its (admittedly meager) offerings.

“It’s not my fault that Ziggy is such a smart, beautiful boy who knows what ‘lights out’ means. And besides,” Takeru says while examining the bottle of white wine Aguni had put in to chill, “I’ll be staying here tonight, so it won’t be an issue.”

“So the cat gets to sleep, but I don’t?”

“You, my dear, get a evening of my company, complete with scintillating conversation, cultural enrichment, and—as we have already established—your very own order of samosas,” Takeru calls out from the kitchen, rummaging for a suitable pair of wine glasses, “And besides, I plan on sleeping deeply and comfortably knowing that any and all monsters would no doubt eat you first, giving me ample opportunity to flee the scene…”

Aguni lifts the lid off his curry, admiring the rich yellow hue and inhaling its bold spices. There are even a few extra chilis lying on top, which is a lovely surprise.

Takeru arrives at the table, glasses in one hand and wine in the other. He gives the spread a discerning once-over and then a nod of apparent approval.

“Anyways,” Takeru says, twisting off the top of the wine bottle (not without giving Aguni a look of distaste as he does it), “I’m a bit disappointed in you, Mori-chan. I thought you’d fight me more on this one…”

“It’s a losing battle,” Aguni concedes, sitting himself down in his usual spot and turning on the television, “I have too many brain cells and not enough patience to go through the usual theatrics.”

Takeru hands him a generously-full wine glass—not as full as his own, of course, but still more than what the average person might pour.

“This’ll help the brain cell problem,” he says with an over-enthusiastic smile, “probably the patience, too. Wine makes you sentimental.”

“Hmph.”

“See? It’s already working.”

“Yeah, well,” Aguni grumbles, taking a small sip of his beverage, “better get the movie started before I change my mind.”

Takeru begins his usual indignant grumbling as he fumbles with the DVD player. Aguni could help him, but, frankly, it’s entertaining to watch his friend struggle with the simple electronic setup.

When Takeru manages to get the tray open, he gives a small cheer of victory. Aguni stifles a smirk.

Hopefully the movie is this much fun.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

“Mori. Hey, Mori-chan.”

Aguni rolls his eyes, and then himself onto his side to face Takeru.

“What,” he grumbles, squinting in the dark as he tries to make out the other mans’ shape, “piano thing still got you upset?”

“It ate her fingers, Mori,” Takeru whisper-shouts, “and then it got the rest of her too! That’s enough to upset anyone!”

“It wasn’t even that scary,” Aguni mentions, shimmying his shoulders in order to find a more comfortable spot on his futon, “besides, you don’t even play piano, so you don’t have to worry.”

Takeru is silent for a moment—a blessed, beautiful moment.

“I guess you’re right,” he says after his brief contemplation, “but that’s not the only thing on my mind.”

“I’m guessing ‘sleep’ isn’t one of ‘em?”

Takeru scoffs. There’s a shuffling and fluttering sound from his neighboring futon as he turns to face his disgruntled companion.

“In due time,” Takeru says, “what plagues me now is more of a philosophical question.”

Aguni sighs.

“Remember the part where that guy got turned into a pile of bananas?”

“Yeah,” Aguni responds, “that was weird.”

“What if that happened to me,” Takeru asks, sounding genuinely concerned, “would I turn into a pile of bananas, or would I be a different kind of fruit?”

Oh, you’re different alright, Aguni thinks to himself, but he knows better than to say that out loud. Takeru’s using his ‘this is going to keep me up all night unless you give me a good answer’ voice, so Aguni starts thinking about how best to answer.

“I think you’d be melons,” Takeru concludes, “yeah…definitely melons.”

“Because of my round head and lack of hair?”

“No,” Takeru snaps, “well, that wasn’t my original thinking.”

Aguni subtly checks his phone—half-past one o’clock in the morning, too late to send Takeru home on a train to ask his cat these burning questions instead of him.

“Why,” Aguni asks, “do you think I’d be melons?”

“Well, like you, melons are strong and tough on the outside. Make a nice thud sound when you smack ‘em.”

“So do I,” Aguni mentions, “if you get the right spot. But I also hit back, so that’s not very melon-y, is it?”

“Hm. I suppose not. But,” Takeru says, “where you really start to resemble the melon is on the inside.”

“Inside, huh?”

“Yeah,” Takeru considers for a moment, “underneath all that tough rind, melons are soft. Sweet, too. Nothing fancy, they’re not trying to prove anything, they’re just…good. Like you.”

Aguni hadn’t been expecting something so…sentimental. It’s a touching departure from their usual quips and playful jabs, and it makes something warm and kind of familiar bubble up in Aguni’s heart.

“And also,” Takeru tacks on, “they’re green. And green is your favorite color! So it’s perfect.”

“I think you’d be a strawberry,” Aguni says after a beat.

“A strawberry? You mean only one?”

“Only one,” Aguni confirms, “but one of those fancy designer ones, the kind they grow in those hydroponic farms and sell in department stores for thousands of yen.”

“I heard about a guy who got murdered at one of those places,” Takeru says, “some yakuza guy who was selling weed on the side, someone put a hit out on him and used the body for fertilizer.”

“That’s…disturbing,” Aguni replies, “but that’s beside the point. Don’t you want to know why I think you’d be a single strawberry?”

“Is it because they’re red?”

“Sort of,” Aguni says, “Got a lot of seeds, too. Get stuck in your teeth pretty easily, if you’re not careful.”

“I am rather tenacious.”

“You are.”

Aguni considers his next words carefully. His relationship with Takeru is…complicated, and uncertain, and if anyone ever asked him what they ‘are’ he wouldn’t know how to answer.

“Strawberries are sweet. They’re sour, too. You’d know the flavor anywhere. And you…”

He pauses. Takeru, for once, doesn’t try to fill the silence with his own voice.

“…Well, those designer strawberries are all one-of-a-kind, just like you. So that’s why there’s one one,” he says slowly, “and I like strawberries. Might even, uh…love ‘em.”

“Oh, Mori…”

Something flops onto Aguni’s blanket—once, twice, and ah, it’s Takeru’s hand, and he’s looking for something. Aguni slips his arm from under the covers and covers Takeru’s hand with his own. This is apparently what Takeru had been searching for, because he pulls Aguni’s hand closer to himself.

“You know,” Takeru says, “now that you mention it, I think I might love melon, too.”

Aguni feels lips against the back of his hand—a soft kiss, gentle, a reassurance as much as an act of affection—and he’s glad for the dark of night that hides the blush of his cheeks.

“I feel better now,” Takeru announces, giving Aguni’s hand a light squeeze, “In fact, I think I’m falling asleep as we speak…”

“Hmm,” Aguni hums in agreement.

He’s still holding Takeru’s hand, and Takeru, his—neither seem too keen on letting go, at least, not for now.

#alice in borderland #hatter #danma takeru #alice in borderland netflix #imawa no kuni no alice #imawa no kuni no arisu #writings and such #aguni morizono #hatter/aguni #I didn’t go with ‘bad’ movie per se but like…..if you’ve seen it you know #‘house’ is a FUN movie and I like it very much #I tried not to spoil too much in case you wanna watch it yourself!!! #we need more of them being cute together

[sprnklersplashes]

stars around my scars

or, the tatto artist!robin au that no-one asked for but everyone gets (ao3)

Ever since he was 11, Theo has wanted a tattoo. He still remembers the day he first asked, if only because of his dad’s expression. He had hurried across the schoolyard, with a cardigan that was slightly too big for him and his backpack hanging off one shoulder, thrown himself into the car, and proudly rolled up his sleeve to show his dad the ‘tattoo’ Sabrina had given him during homeroom. It was simple really, a sword and shield adorned with his initials. His dad had chuckled at it fondly, the way any parent would chuckle at their child’s antics, and started to pull out of the parking space when Theo asked, “so when can I get a real tattoo?”.

He very nearly crashed the truck.

His answer was simply “when you’re older”, and being 11, that felt an age away to Theo, and he felt his chest sink at the idea of waiting for so long.

In the run up to his fourteenth birthday, he tried again, responding with “a tattoo” when his dad asked what he wanted. He sits cross legged on his bed and pretends he cares less than he does, all the while watching his dad out of the corner of his eye. Either he must look sadder than he thinks he does, or he should look out the window and check for flying pigs, because his dad sighs, but then his face softens and he does the impossible; he relents, just a little.

“Maybe when you’re 18,” he says.

His sophomore year of high school is when things start to get really rough. Nearly every day he comes home with bruises and cuts and his dad is less convinced by his excuses each time. He wakes up every morning and wonders what it’ll be; stuffed in a locker, shirt pulled up, pushed down the stairs. Words are used like weapons and hurt just as much, whether they’re spat in his face or written across a locker. Getting up is a constant battle and some days it just feels impossible. The school parking lot feels like No-Man’s Land at the best of times. His dad brings up the idea of transferring to him at dinner one night, but he just raised his chin and reminded him that he’s a Putnam. And Putnam’s don’t run away.

His dad had smiled at that.

There was some good mixed in with the bad though. He found answers to questions that had plagued him for years. He chose a new name, after the greatest woman he never knew, and found the courage to tell his dad who he really is. It hadn’t been easy, he hadn’t expected it to be, but when his dad drove him down to the Greendale barber that day, it had meant more to him than his dad might have understood.

His friends were amazing, which should go without saying. Of course they would be. And he feels good, in some ways he feels better than he’s ever felt about himself. Like he’s stepping into a new part of his life and while he doesn’t know what’s in front of him, he’s excited to see where it goes.

But as happy as he was, not everyone felt the same. Teachers and students alike struggled with his transition, some at least attempting to feign politeness, others not so much. The cruel words don’t stop just because he uses different pronouns now and he still comes home with the occasional bruised knuckles or bloodied nose.

Add on a few stressful long-distance calls with his mother and his high school experience thus far can only be described the same way his English essays are-“Could Be Better”.

Maybe that’s why, a week before his sixteenth birthday, his dad pops his head around his bedroom door and asks him “Do you still want that tattoo?”.

He looks up from his book, almost sure he’d imagined it. His dad may have changed his stance slightly, but if there’s one trait they share more than anything it’s that intense stubbornness. He was prepared to just ride it out and wait until he’s 18, or maybe even until he moves away to college altogether. But no, here he is, age 15, his dad looking at him expectantly.

“Really?” is all he can reply with.

“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, it’s clearly something you want a lot. And I know you’re sensible enough not to get one of those crazy ones that go all the way across your face.” He giggles at that. “And you’ve waited long enough so I figure… why not just let you?”

His mouth falls open and he blinks, waiting for the catch, only for his father to simply shrug at him, a teasing smile playing on his lips.

“Well if you don’t want to-”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence, because Theo jumps and hugs him before he can.

He enlists Harvey’s help with the design. His drawing skills aren’t bad, but they’re not the best either and if this is going on his body, permanently, he needs to get it right. So he slides up to Harvey on Monday with wide eyes and a smile that’s just the right amount of cute. And if that doesn’t work, he has money in one pocket and a comic book that Harvey really wants in the other.

The other boy looks up with a raised eyebrow and Theo’s glad he brought the back-ups.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Why do you think there is something?” he asks. “Can’t I just be happy to see you? My best friend? My trusted companion I have known since-”

“Oh my God, what did you break?” Sabrina asks. She’s sitting on the desk behind them and her eyes have doubled in size. “Harvey, whatever you do, do not take the fall for him!”

“That was one time, Brina!” he replies. Sabrina bites back a giggle, a twinkle in her eye as she exchanges a look with Roz, and Theo exhales slowly. His cheeks warm, just a little, but he ignores it. Or at least he tries. Same with the nervous prickle of sweat running down his back “Harvey, what I was going to ask was… well, my dad finally said I can get a tattoo, and I was just wondering if maybe you could draw it for me?” His voice gets smaller and smaller as the sentence goes on, and the last word practically limps past his lips. He holds his breath, fingers twitching to grab his two back up plans. But as it turns out, he doesn’t need to, because Harvey bursts into a grin that warms his heart and undoes the knot in his chest.

“Of course I will,” he tells him. “That’s what you were so worried about?”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs. Whatever words he had die on his tongue, and they laugh it off as Sabrina pats the space next to her. He jumps up next to her, their feet bumping against each other, and they take advantage of the few precious moments they have before class begins.

Harvey hunches over his desk, his hands moving as swiftly and carefully as only an artist’s can. It’s kind of amazing watching him, watching him lose himself in his work the same way Theo loses himself on the basketball court. No, it’s not the same and Theo knows it. He’s nevertheless fascinated by Harvey’s process and that’s why he’s hovering the way he is.

No other reason.

The nail chewing is also completely irrelevant. He does this all the time and it’s perfectly normal.

As is the pacing.

Eventually, Harvey just sights and pulls a chair up beside him and lets him sit. He only moves slightly, but Theo takes the hint and sits back, willing his heart to slow down. He does everything he can to pass time; jumps through social media apps on his phone, flips through Harvey’s stack of comics, even doodles something on a spare page. All the time waiting with baited breath and one eye on Harvey’s hand.

“Okay.” Harvey leans back in his chair, his fingers slightly greyed with lead. “I’m done.”

Theo leans forward and immediately a smile forms on his face. It’s exactly what he had in mind, the outline of a small bird sitting on a branch, poised to take flight, but Harvey’s drawing is more carefully and painstakingly structured than he could have hoped to make it. All his attempts somehow look flat, boring, but Harvey’s looks alive and it reminds him why he wants this particular picture on his body.

“Thank you.” He leans against him, cheek smushed against Harvey’s shoulder, and wraps his arms around him. He sings his words a little, bringing a smile to both their faces. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Harvey plays it down, but he hugs him back just as tightly.

Unfortunately, there are no tattoo places in Greenedale. Theo wonders how, in all his fifteen going on sixteen years of living in this town, he never once picked up on this. Especially since he spent most of that time wanting a tattoo. But no, here he is, the White Pages open on his lap and him staring intensely at the page as if the words tattoo parlour are going to magically appear on the page.

He sighs deeply and scratches his cat behind the ears.

“Well, Lila,” he tells her. “Time to go look beyond Greenedale.” Lila lets out a groan, her little ears flopping down as she rests her head against him, and he takes that as her saying she’s with him. He kisses her head, her fur tickling his nose. “Love you too, baby.”

He finds one close enough, in Woodvale, the next town over. It’s pretty decent money-wise, and while it looks pretty small on the Facebook page, it’s close, and more importantly, his dad goes there for business at least twice a month. He tells him that night he has some errands to run there next week, in fact.

“You can go in, get your tattoo done, then maybe we can go for lunch after,” he says. He shrugs awkwardly, wiping his hand on a tea towel. “You know, if you want. Unless you have plans or something.”

“I don’t have any plans, Dad,” he tells him. “I’d love that.”

He doesn’t miss his dad’s bright smile at his answer.

That night, Lila is sitting around his shoulders as he copies the phone number off the Facebook page. Her tail flicks him in the face and he sighs and adjusts her on his shoulders so she’s more comfortable. His dad sometimes calls her The Queen, and for good reason. That damn cat is more pampered than anything he’s ever known. Even if he does love her and thinks she deserves it.

“Don’t suppose you want to take this phone call for me, do you?” he asks her. She meows back at him, which he takes to mean no you weirdo, make your own appointments, you’re an adult now. She’s right, he doesn’t like it, but she’s right, so he kisses her nose and hits the call button.

“Um, hi, Midsummer Night’s, how can I help?”

Theo clears his throat, glad he had the foresight to chug water right before making the call. Social skills aren’t his best in general and they somehow get worse on the phone. Especially with this kind of appointment-booking stuff. He’s made progress, at least. By that he means he doesn’t feel the need to ask his dad any more. Baby steps.

“Hi,” he replies. “I’d like to book a tattoo. For next Saturday?”

“Next Saturday���” Their voice trails off, the sound of stuff being shoved and moved around filling the silence instead. “Sorry, just bear with me for one second.”

“It’s fine.” He turns on his heel and walks the length of his room again, Lila flicking her tail. It takes him a while to recognise the song playing in the background; Kansas. Carry On My Wayward Son. He’s a little embarrassed; he didn’t spend all that time watching Supernatural to not recognise this song instantly.

He catches himself humming just as the second verse hits.

“Okay, here we go,” the other voice says. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” he replies, as though a pink blush isn't colouring his cheeks.

“So that’s next Saturday… what time were you thinking?”

“Is around ten am okay?” he asks. “Sorry, I know it’s like right when you open, but my dad has some business around town that he can’t move and-”

“No, ten’s fine,” they tell him. “And what’s the name?”

“Putnam,” he says, perhaps a little too quickly. “Theo Putnam.”

“Okay, Putnam, Theo Putnam.” It’s a terrible joke, a dad-level terrible joke, but he laughs all the same. “That’s you booked in. I’ll see you Saturday.”

“See you on Saturday,” he replies, and the flutter of excitement in his chest leaves him breathless.

*****

Midsummer Nights' turns out to be a relatively small shop nestled on a street corner, looking only slightly out of place with its dark blue paint job, contrasting with the more pastel colour palette for the rest of the street, and indeed, the rest of the town. He likes it, and he especially likes the shooting stars painted around the door and windows. Twinkling in the mid-morning sun and outlined in thin black lines, trails of gold and silver shooting out from behind them. They’re tiny and probably there as an afterthought, a way to fill space, but Theo is far more enchanted by them than he is the larger pictures of fairies and mermaids that adorn the walls. The care taken alone leaves him breathless. The bigger pictures are impressive, sure, but the care with which the stars have been painted almost takes his breath away. Whoever did them must have the patience of a saint. He’s never really been one for patience, nor for taking his time, instead always running from one thing to the next. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from this person, whoever they are.

“Woah, calm down there,” he tells himself as he turns the handle. “It’s a painting, not a therapy session.”

Inside isn’t entirely what he expected. Well, he’s not completely sure what he expected. Maybe a bunch of hairy biker types, the faint stench of alcohol in the air and a deer head mounted in the wall for good measure. But no, instead he finds white walls decorated with painted trees and vines and as he looks closer, tiny fairies and gnomes poking their heads around them. A smile tugs on his lips as he looks at it. It’s almost magical; a new creature appearing before his eyes the longer he looks. The space is bright, mostly thanks to the large windows, and someone plays folk music softly in the background.

He approaches the front desk, which in actuality looks more like a glorified coffee table and is manned by a girl with blue strands of her hair. She looks up from her book as he approaches and slips a bookmark in without looking. He takes an instant liking to her, or rather she seems like the kind of person he could like.

“Hey,” she greets nonchalantly. “You have an appointment or are you a walk-in?”

“Uh, an appointment,” he replies, scratching behind his ear. “It’s uh-Theo Putnam.”

“Okay, one second.” She flips open a spiral notebook, twiddling a pen between her fingers. Theo takes the opportunity to have another look around, his eyes once again drawn to the walls. He looks up at them, more than happy to wait. There’s something almost tangible yet so surreal about it; like he believes he could find himself here, just not in this reality. And as he cranes his neck, he spies right where the wall meets the ceiling; the stars from the outside.

“Sorry about that,” the girl says, snapping him back to reality. “So yeah, you’re all booked in, if you just want to go down to the back, Robin will take care of you.” Theo nods, a ‘thank you’ on his lips, but before he can say it, the girl turns her head and screams “ROBIN YOUR PERSON’S HERE!”. Theo stumbles backwards, blown away by and also amazed that all the windows are still intact. She simply turns back, her smile sweet, and opens her book again. “He’ll be down in just a second.”

He can’t decide if he likes her more or less after that.

“Jesus Christ Moth, I’m coming,” someone, he presumes Robin, calls from above them, the voice faint. Theo grins as he realises that he probably wasn’t meant to hear that. He wanders past the front desk, but not before catching the small shit-eating grin on Moth’s face.

He likes her.

Robin (he assumes it’s him anyway) emerges on the bottom step, shooting an annoyed look at Moth that disappears immediately once he sees Theo, instead morphing into an apologetic half-smile.

“I’m sorry about her,” he says. “She’s under the impression that she’s cute. And she’s also a middle child.”

“Ah that explains a lot,” Theo chuckles. “Well, it’s fine. I mean, it seemed to be effective anyway.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. Theo’s breath catches in his throat and he can’t work out why. Robin is pretty, but he’s never been the type to lose his words over pretty boys. He’s tall, way taller than Theo, and his short-sleeved black shirt doesn’t leave much to the imagination. His dark hair is streaked with green and falls forwards into dark eyes, causing him to toss his head to push it back. Normally he’d find that kind of look douchey, but it’s not, not on him, it’s actually kind of cute in a punk-rock slash edgy poet kind of way and suddenly he’s aware how neither one of them have said anything yet.

“I’m Theo. We uh, we spoke on the phone.” It comes out as more of a question than a statement, at least in his mind.

“Yeah, I remember,” he says. “Putnam, Theo Putnam.”

“Yep, that’s me,” he replies, caught between laughing and cringing at himself. If he had known it was going to be like this, he’d have tried to make that phone call way less awkward. Robin doesn’t seem to mind though, instead tapping his arm lightly and gesturing with his head.

“Why don’t you come through with me and we can get started?”

“That’s definitely what I came here to do,” he says, and when Robin smiles, his heart melts and he curses silently.

Dimples. Of course he has dimples. The asshole.

He sits up on a leather chair, his backpack and jacket discarded on the floor and his sleeve rolled up. His feet dangle just above the floor and he’s deliberately not looking at the very pointy needles. It’s not like he’s got a phobia or anything, and he definitely knew this would be part of the process. It’s just a little unnerving.

“You got a design?” Robin asks.

“Uh, yeah here.” He holds the paper out to him. “My friend Harvey drew it. He’s really great at the art stuff. But-but the idea was mine and I… dictated it to him.”

“Cool,” he replies. “And where do you want it?” Theo pulls his sleeve up, his fingers gesturing to just below his shoulder. Robin nods, and his eyes darken slightly, as if his focus is shifting entirely to the tattoo and nothing else. He positions himself as close to him as possible, and they sit in silence as he carefully transfers the design onto tattoo paper.

Then Robin’s hand is against his skin, and the needle is barely an inch from it, and goosebumps prickle along there.

He must look as nervous as he feels, because Robin’s grip on his shoulder softens slightly, as does his face, and his voice comes in a careful whisper.

“Hey,” he tells him. “It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt that much. And I promise I’m careful.” Theo nods, even if his nails are digging into the leather beneath him. “Besides, it’s only the first one that really hurts. After that everything’s fine.”

“That’s what she said.” His voice is far weaker than he’d like it, the joke even more so, but Robin busts out laughing and so does he, and he barely realises that he started.

He was right though; while the pain doesn’t necessarily lessen, he gets used to it. If one could ever get used to the feeling of a needle jabbing one’s skin over and over. It kind of helps that he’s got plenty to distract him with the art on the walls and even if he didn’t; Robin is surprisingly easy to talk to.

“So you’re not from around here, are you?” he asks casually. “Sorry, it’s just… here you get to know people pretty quickly. And I’ve never seen you around here.”

“It’s fine,” he replies. He relates of course; small towns are small towns. “I’m from Greenedale. Ever been there?” Robin frowns slightly, his mouth falling half-open as he thinks.

“I think I drove through it once or twice,” he says. “Isn’t that the place that’s obsessed with witches and stuff?”

“That’s the one,” he says. “They’ve got all the spooky sights but unfortunately no tattoo parlours.” He goes to shrug but then remembers one arm is currently being used. “So I had to take a little trip out here.”

“You know when I was driving through I distinctly remember the lack of tattoo parlours,” Robin jokes. “Still. It’s a nice place.”

“I guess,” Theo mumbles. “I was always so focussed on the leaving.” He kicks the ground.  “I’ve never looked around properly.” Greenedale hasn’t exactly been kind to him either. He may love his friends dearly, and it’s not like his memories are all bad, but there are days when the familiar streets are less comforting and more maddening, and the town line feels more like a prison wall. It’s not every day he feels like this, but enough for him to have taken notice.

Robin chuckles beside him, and it’s then he suddenly remembers where he is, and that there is in fact a person beside him. A person he barely knows. And while a blush does creep over his cheeks, he doesn’t feel nearly as embarrassed as he should.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Kind of dumping my tragic backstory on you there.”

“Trust me, you’re not the first,” Robin tells him. “Guess there’s something about a person having a needle shoved into their skin repeatedly that puts them in a sharing mood.” He flips his head, tossing his bangs out of his face. “So what’s the deal with the witch thing?”

“Basically a lot of witches came over from Europe and settled over there,” he explains. “And when it came to picking a town personality trait, it was between either witches or thinly-veiled bigotry.” He goes to shrug, but then remembers the needle against his arm. “I guess ‘we’ll put a spell on you’ is a more catchy slogan than ‘we’re all raging assholes’.”

“Well, that may be true,” Robin says. “Though I’d admire any town with the balls to admit that they’re all assholes.” Theo chuckles again, swinging his feet slightly. Robin must be right; there must be something about getting a tattoo that makes you pretty chatty. That or Robin’s just… easy to talk to. He hasn’t met someone like in a while, not since Sabrina and Roz and Harvey. Something flutters in his chest and he doesn’t quite recognise it. He likes it, though. Even if in the back of his mind he wonders if he should be scared by it.

“Yo.” Moth appears in the doorway, hanging off the wall by her fingertips. She looks over at Theo’s arm, where Robin’s needle is, and a faint smile forms on her lips. “Not bad, Robin.”

“Thanks,” he replies, his eyebrow raised, and he looks up at Theo. “For her ‘not bad’ is possibly the highest praise you can get.”

“Not true. There’s at least two more levels, you just haven’t unlocked them yet,” she adds. “Anywho, I’m going on the coffee run, what do you want?”

“You know my order,” he replies, focussing more on his work than on her.

“So that’s an iced salted caramel latte, then,” she says. Robin’s cheeks turn pink suddenly, his hand slowing but not faltering. Judging by the look on Moth’s face-which can only be described as a shit-eating grin-that was the goal. “Do you want me to ask for whipped cream like last time?”

“No, thank you, Moth,” he mumbles, rolling his eyes. The gesture is equal parts exasperated and fondness, like Moth has been a pain in his ass for so long, and he likes it that way. Theo relates.

“He always pulls that ‘you know my order’ crap when a customer’s here,” she explains. “He’s embarrassed ‘cause his actual order isn’t very macho. Plus he thinks the cool and mysterious vibe impresses clients. Especially around the ones he thinks are cute. Anyway, you want anything?”

Theo freezes, his response-whatever it would be-caught in his throat. Moth seems unaffected, checking her nails like nothing is wrong. Maybe nothing is wrong, and he’s just overthinking. Or misheard her and she didn’t actually imply that Robin might find him cute. Either way, there’s probably no reason his cheeks should be as pink as they are now.

“N-no I’m okay thanks,” he says.

“You sure?” she asks. “No extra charge, just give us a good review.”

“It’s fine,” he says. He clears his throat and hopes his voice doesn’t actually sound that high. “I’m going out with my dad after this anyway.”

“Mm. Suit yourself.” She turns on her heel and flounces off, the sound of jangling keys and her boots on the floor growing fainter. Theo doesn’t dare breathe until she’s gone though-the closing door releasing the tie around his chest. When he turns to Robin, the other boy seems far calmer than he is, already back to work with a bemused grin on his face. His eyes meet Theo’s and he shakes his head lightly, his hair falling in front of his eyes.

“Don’t worry about Moth,” he tells him. “She’s taken it upon herself to try to set me up with every guy that comes in.” He shifts himself slightly. “Trust me, it was nothing.”

“Oh… okay.” The small tug of disappointment comes at a surprise to him, and he searches for a way out. “But was she right about your coffee order though?” Robin chuckles.

“Maybe.”

“Well, you don’t need to worry,” he tells him. “I personally think iced lattes are very macho. Of course we should ask ourselves ‘what is macho’ and then that takes us on a whole lovely journey that you probably don’t want to go through right now.”

“Eh, I might do,” he says. Theo turns to him, and his eyes are the exact mixture of teasing and serious, and the grin on his face widens. “But we can agree that salted caramel lattes rock, right?”

“Absolutely,” he says, and he realises in that moment he really likes this guy.

Which way he likes him though is a question he leaves unanswered.

In what feels like no time at all, Robin is slowly finishing up, an empty coffee cup at his side. At some point, Moth came in and started work on another client, casually talking to Robin above the hum of the tattoo needles. Robin doesn’t stop chatting to him though and they move through things like school (where he learns Robin’s favourite subject is English), music (where Robin actually has to stop and write down Theo’s music recommendations) and pets, where Theo goes on a ten minute rant about Lila and how she’s simultaneously the love of his life and the bane of his existence.

“Your cat sounds amazing,” he says. “Next time you’re in town you should bring her in so I can meet her.”

“You could always come over to Greendale,” he says. It’s so casual he didn’t even think about it before he said it, and he might have freaked himself out. If Robin feels the same, he doesn’t show it, only nodding and saying he might take him up on that.

They turn to talking about Midsummer Nights’ itself; how Robin started working there one summer as a teenager, how only last year he graduated from sweeping floors to taking clients, and how just a few months ago he and Moth (“mostly me,” he added, just loud enough so she could hear) redecorated the entire place, including the outside.

“I did those little stars on the wall outside,” he remarks. “Don’t know if anyone notices them, but they’re my crown jewel as far as I’m concerned.”

“I noticed,” Theo tells him. “I like them.” He doesn’t tell him how entranced he was by his work, but he does notice the softness in Robin’s smile, the pink hue in his cheeks. It makes sense, somehow, that Robin painted those stars. He barely knows him, but he feels like it makes sense.

For the last few minutes, the conversation drops away, and silence falls as all Robin’s focus shifts to his work. It’s a look he recognises from Harvey, an artist’s expression, but it feels deeper with Robin. His movements are so precise, so deliberate, that Theo feels he should hold his breath lest he break his concentration. He imagines him months ago, the same expression on his face as he paints the stars outside, and he’s almost sad he wasn’t there to see it.

Robin groans as he leans back, pushing his hair away from his face, and his eyes light up.

“We’re done,” he says. “You want to see it before we put the bandages on it?”

“Hell yeah I do.” He jumps off the seat and follows Robin, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he goes. Robin leads him to a mirror, his face shining with anxious pride, and Theo gives him a small smile before he turns and his breath is taken away.

“It’s perfect,” he breathes. Perfect as anything could be, really. Clean cut, careful, delicate. There’s so much life in it, even though it’s only ink. The little bird sits perched on its branch, determination strong on its small face. He couldn’t have asked for a better job. It’s everything he dreamed when he was younger, now a physical reality. He takes a deep breath, trying not to be the kind of person that cries after their first tattoo. “Thank you, Robin.”

“No problem,” he says softly and when Theo looks up, he finds Robin’s eyes lingering on him. “Putnam, Theo Putnam.”

                                                                        *****

He and his dad find a little cafe in the middle of town and sit outside, taking advantage of the good weather.

“So was it worth waiting for?” his dad asks. “The tattoo?”

“Yes, it was,” he replies. “Thank you, Dad.” His dad waves his hand dismissively, as though the back-and-forth between them never happened.

“No problem kid,” he says. “It was what you wanted. And the place was good?”

“Yeah.” He pops another French fry in his mouth. “It was really, really good. They were uh… good at their jobs.” His hand moves to where the bandage sits on his arm, the tattoo perfectly preserved beneath it, and yet that’s not what he’s thinking about. Instead his mind drifts back to Robin, with his hair falling into his eyes and his laugh and those damn dimples. He takes a drink just as he feels the heat rush to his cheeks, and his dad eyes him curiously. He sets the glass down, even though his mouth is still dry. “It was great.”

A knowing smile spreads across his dad’s face and he curses under his breath. This is what he gets for having a close relationship with his father. Stupid strong father-son bond.

Theo puts his hand in his pocket and his fingers close around empty fabric, rather than plastic. He hurriedly checks the other pocket, then his jeans, his panic rising each time. His dad turns when he realises Theo is no longer beside him, his feet rooted to the sidewalk instead, and his eyes widen, reflecting Theo’s own alarm back at him.

“Theo?” he asks. “What happened?”

“I-I can’t find my phone!” he sighs. He pulls items out of his pockets one by one, his wallet, his keys, loose change… no phone. He taps every pocket again to make sure, as if it was going to magically appear if he willed it hard enough. No such luck. He mumbles under his breath, a stream of ‘oh shit’ and ‘oh no’ as he tries to fight off the rising panic. He tries to retrace his steps, to remember the last place he had it out, to think of wherever the hell his phone could be in this town-

“Theo!”

Or maybe he doesn’t need to.

“Theo!”

He turns around to see Robin running down the street, skidding to a half just in front of him. His face is bright red, not from teasing his time, his chest heaves and his hair sticks to his face. They look at each other, breathless, and just as Theo opens his mouth to ask what he’s doing, he holds his hand out.

“My phone!” he squeaks.

“Yeah you… you left it in… with me,” he says between gasps. “I was really hoping I’d be able to catch you before you left.”

“Oh God I’m sorry,” he says, taking another look over Robin. The tattoo parlour is far enough from here, and the streets here twist and turn around as they please. And Robin ran through them. For him. In jeans. “Thank you so much, Robin. I-how did you know it was mine?”

“The picture on the lockscreen,” he explains, pointing vaguely. “It was you.” He pushes his hair away from his face. “And… your boyfriend?”

“My boyfriend?” he asks. For a second his mind goes blank, then he realises and it nearly knocks the wind out of him. “Oh God no, Harvey’s…. he’s just my friend. No, no I…” He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes meeting Robin’s and he can’t work out if the hopeful look on his face is real or his imagination. Either way, he ends up saying “I’m completely single.”

“Oh,” he says, about ten times higher than usual. He clears his throat, his hand sliding into his back pocket. “Uh… me too.”

“Seriously? What the whole jacked as hell, dyed hair tattoo artist thing doesn’t attract anyone?”

“Not around here it doesn’t, apparently,” he says, implying that the reason he’s single is beyond no-one wanting to date a tattoo artist. There’s a pause, a brief moment of silence, and Theo goes to say goodbye, to run before it gets awkward, but Robin holds out a small piece of paper.

“What’s this?” he asks as he takes it. Robin ducks his head, his bangs falling in front of his face.

“I hope it’s not too forward,” he begins. “But it-it’s my number.” He shrugs and pushes his hair back. "Just in case you ever want to call me sometime."

“Oh,” he replies. It’s a short, quick word. It hardly means anything. Certainly doesn’t reflect how his stomach as dropped out from under him, or how his brain is vibrating at an insane frequency, or how the unending cry of ‘HE GAVE ME HIS NUMBER’ blasts around his head like a fire alarm. And all the while he just stands there, the paper in his hand, blinking up at Robin like he hasn’t a care in the world. “Um… thanks.”

“Sorry,” he says immediately, his face scrunched up. “I-it was too forward, I didn’t mean like that.”

“No,” Theo says, just as Robin’s hand twitches. He slides the paper into his back pocket with a shaky hand and gives him a small smile. “It’s not… like that at all.” It’s really not. It’s not… He’s not sure what it is. All he knows is that Robin’s not at fault. “It’s okay, really.”

He turns slightly and sees his dad standing at the truck, pretending to be interested in a receipt he pulled out of his pocket. His dad hasn’t pressed and knowing him, he’s probably fully intending on giving the two of them as long as they need to work out… whatever it is they’re working out. Anxiety clutches his chest and he backs up suddenly, his hand still slid into his pocket. He needs time all right, but not here.

“I should go,” he says. “But I’ll...” His voice trails off, his fingers fidgeting in mid-air. The piece of paper burns like a small star in his pocket. “Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome,” Robin says. He tosses his hair again and damn, he should not find that as cute as it is. “Look us up if you’re ever back in town.”

“I will.” He gives a wave to Robin, who responds with a wave, and Theo responds to that with a small finger gun and screams at himself the minute he turns around. He climbs into the truck beside his dad, who already rolled the windows down. Thank God, Theo thinks, because he feels fit to explode. He leans out as his dad pulls away from the curb, closing his eyes as the air tickles his skin.

“So you made a friend?” his dad asks. He doesn’t need to turn around to see the bemused smile on his face.

“He was the guy who did my tattoo,” is his reply. His dad nods, a soft chuckle escaping him, and goosebumps prickle on his skin.

“He gave you his number,” he points out. “Are you gonna call him?”

Theo sighs, his fingers tracing over the paper in his back pocket.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t call him. At least, not right away. Who he does call is Harvey, Roz and Sabrina, who all stand around his bed with him, the offending phone number sitting in the centre. He filled them in as best he could, although with all his energy being focussed on the decision, he’s only really been able to give them ‘I met a guy, he gave me his number’. And now they’ve been standing there, minutes passing in silence, while Theo stares at it with enough intensity to light it on fire.

“I think you should call him,” Roz says eventually.

“Why?”

“Because he gave you his number for that very purpose,” she tells him slowly. Theo pulls a face at her, but it only lasts for a second because… she’s right. She has an infuriating habit of being right. If she wasn’t so cute and supportive and lovely he’d have stopped hanging out with her long ago for that very reason.

“So why haven’t you?” Sabrina asks. “Called him. I mean his number’s right there. What’s stopping you?”

“What isn’t stopping me?” he mumbles, just loud enough for them to hear, and the three friends share an understanding nod. His experience with romance is extremely limited-his first and only “relationship” was the Valentine’s card that appeared in his backpack in third grade. He never chased them up, and that was the end of it. All other knowledge either comes from his friends or movies. At this moment, he feels like he’s on the edge of the deep end, nothing to help him, and he’s not sure he won’t drown when he jumps.

“Hey.” Sabrina appears at his side, her shoulder bumping against his. “I still think you should do it.” He raises his eyebrow at her. She simply shrugs in response, her eyes flitting over to Harvey as she speaks. “I mean… I know it’s a cliche, but you’ll never know until you try.”

“Yeah,” Harvey adds. “I mean what’s the worst that could happen?”

“So many things,” Theo sighs, raking a hand through his hair. He’s not blessed with what Harvey and Sabrina have-a sweet little romance that’s been blossoming since childhood-nor does he have his pick of suitors like Roz does. As far as he knows, this Robin’s his one chance. He shakes his head, his fingers drumming on his arm. “Maybe I just shouldn’t.”

“I disagree,” Roz pipes up. “I think very hot boys giving you their numbers doesn’t just happen every day and since the universe has presented you with this opportunity, I for one think you’d be an idiot to pass it up.” She delivers everything so quickly that it takes a few seconds for him to register it, and then she comes round to his side and slings her arm around his shoulders, all warm smiles and warm eyes, and he rests her head on her shoulder. “Besides, I know you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

She’s not wrong. Again. If there’s one idea that scares him more than it not going well, it’s never even happening at all.

“And in the event it goes horribly wrong, we’ll all buy ice cream and we can have a good cry session,” she promises, and the other two nod in agreement. Theo closes his eyes and buries his face in Roz’s shoulder so they won’t see his blush.

God damn it, he loves his friends.

It takes a week for him to call him, even with those assurances. One day he feels braver than usual; he chalks it up to a good day at school and an even better one at practice, and so he sits on his bed and punches Robin’s number into his phone, the note sitting on his pillow. Because yes, he kept the note instead of writing it down. Nothing wrong with that.

“Hello?” Robin picks up too suddenly, and Theo bites back a squeak. He jumps off the bed and pulls on his shirt for some reason.

One chance he reminds himself. One chance.

“Hi, Robin?” he asks. “It’s uh, it’s Theo. Theo from Greenedale? You did my tattoo last week.”

“Oh, Theo, hey,” he replies. “Um, hi. H-how’s it turned out? The tattoo I mean?”

“Perfect,” he confesses. “It’s a hit with the guys on my basketball team. You should be expecting an influx of jocks coming round soon.”

“I’ll let Moth know, we’ll stock up on Gatorade.” Theo chuckles and sits on the edge of his bed, the beating of his heart slowing slightly. Maybe this could work. Maybe, if the stars are right, this won’t fall apart.

“Robin,” he begins quietly. “The reason I called was… em… I wanted to ask you-” The words stick in his throat like grains of sand against rocks. So many questions overlap in his head, each drowning the other out and turning into static. He closes his eyes, takes deep breath in, and back out. No need to overthink it, he tells himself. Just jump.

“Do you have plans on Saturday?” he asks.

“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” he replies. “Why do you ask?”

Theo throws himself on the bed, his legs in the air, and is amazed at just how easy this actually is.

                                                                          *****

They have their first date in Greenedale, seeing a movie at the Paramount, followed by a personalised tour. Robin gives Theo his jacket at some point, the sleeves falling past his hands, and Theo’s heart flutters.

They have their first kiss by the Welcome To Greenedale sign, Robin’s hand caressing his arm, right above where his tattoo is.

A year later, he’s laying in Robin’s bed, his boyfriend’s fingers gently caressing his newest tattoo-free of charge this time around. Theo kisses his bare shoulder before Robin goes to sit up, reminding him that he has to be at work in half an hour. Theo just pouts, grabs his arm, and tries to see if he can get five more minutes out of him.

Yeah, life is good.

#caos #caos fic #goodnam #theo x robin #theo putnam #robin goodfellow #throbin #caos ff #goodnam ff #me: hoe don't do it #me: writes a long-ass for a tiny ass fandom #me: oh my god

[criticalintellect]

UGH alright let's try this, hopefully I'll be coherent. So I've had my twitter account for about a year now(?) and every month or so, for about a week, just outta nowhere people suddenly feel like shitting on Lovecraft. The last two times it makes sense how it came about since we had gotten news that a new Call of Cthulhu "sequel" was getting made. The premise we were given was goddamn horrendous, but it's popped up again because it's creator felt like being a cunt on Twitter for some reason: Call of Cthulhu: Death May Die. Shelving the fact that sounds like a Devil May Cry parody, I won't focus too much on the game, though I will say it's NOTHING like the Terminator ripoff we were told it was gonna be (I could be mistaking DMD with another boardgame abortion using H.P.'s work) and the wording in the game synopsis I found is completely contrary to cosmic horror; talking about fighting the Old Ones and "shoot[ing] it in the face". Eric Lang is the man of the hour; he's had quite a bit of experience in boardgames and even video games, working on Duelyst (which I really did like). So to see this man in search of a personality put on his most psychotic stare, trim his pubic hair wig, and stand in front of a cardboard cutout of H.P. Lovecraft and give it the finger, all to post it on twitter and say he hates this man and his work...while at the same time profiting from his work DIRECTLY. I'm a little...perturbed. These retard fests always come in at least 3 flavors: Lovecraft was a racist, dO yOu KnOw WhAt He NaMeD hIs CaT?!?!?!, and Lovecraft didn't contribute anything and all his fans are racist. No to all 3.

Now maybe I'm hanging on semantics, but from my reckoning I would say HPL was more xenophobic than racist. He didn't hate other people or races. Yes he did believe that certain people had "superior" genetics, but never in his notes have I seen him go on tirades about how those of "lesser" genes need to be culled or anything. He literally just wanted them to leave him and his neighborhood alone. He wanted them to live, just not near him. Again, maybe semantics, I leave the distinction to greater intellects. But of greater importance, something these Lovecraft detractors refuse to comprehend, was that we have written proof that HPL RENOUNCED his xenophobic views towards the end of his life. Thanks to the friends he made, his moving to New York, and being exposed to other people he saw the error of his ways. And he recanted. And the people shitting on his grave do not care, saying that it didn't matter. It's cancel culture at it's finest, but since they can't cancel a dead man all they can do is destroy his works. Or at least attempt to, fruitlessly. The plus side of having 100 year old works of fiction is that they've been in circulation for so long is that plenty of people know the fiction and know when someone has made a shit interpretation of it.

Now, about that cat. See it wasn't Howard that named that cat, but rather his father. The cat was adopted by and named by him. And then his father was committed to an asylum and the cat passed into his son's and wife's care. And yes, the cat was called Niggerman, shocker. It was the 1880s.

"Lovecraft had no impact on anything". Stephen King, Gullermo del Toro, Ridley Scott, Neil Gaiman, Junji Ito, Kentaro Miura, Clive Barker, John Carpenter, Mike Mignola and H.R. Giger. All of these artists were influenced by Lovecraft and his horror. But sometimes his touch was a little less obvious, as he was friends with Robert E. Howard, the creator of Conan the Barbarian and Solomon Cane. He was a man who would very openly share ideas he had for his own work, but not having a great opinion of said work would pass it onto authors he believed could better implement his ideas. He was never a man to jealously protect his property and openly allowed ANYONE to add onto the mythos he unwittingly created. And that's a major reason how his mythos has engrossed so much of our culture over the last century, even when the property wasn't directly connected to the Cthulhu mythos. As to the assertion that we're all racists: even if I agreed Howard Philips Lovecraft was racist and even if it wasn't public knowledge that he became a better person late in life, I am capable of separating a creator from his work. I can read Shadow Over Innsmouth and Call of Cthulhu and The Dunwich Horror and agree that if you look deep enough there's some skeevy themes, but if you put that aside there's some damn good suspense and horror. For as fucked up as K-Pop is I don't see any of their stans calling out the industry while admitting they still like the music, it's just blanket denial. Yet shitheads with that kinda mindset wanna come after a man's legacy like he enslaved all of Africa all on his lonesome?

At the end of it all, Lovecraft's works will endure all of this mind numbing clout chasing. Eric Lang can do cringey, performative wokeness while being a massive hypocrite all he wants, Lovecraft will endure. But it will always bother me the amount of frothing, myopic hatred HPL gets. The fans have told these people how he reformed, how he shared his works with people of all walks of life, how he MARRIED A JEWISH WOMAN (and yes he had distasteful opinions of Jews too), but it's never enough. If Daryl Davis can change the minds of 200+ KKK members, then why can't we give people from the past the benefit of the doubt. Then again these are also the type of people that called Davis a racist and other assorted idiocy so...I dunno. Lovecraft was a flawed man, plagued by nightmares, coddled by a mother who slowly lost her mind over time and ended up in the same asylum as her husband (the one he died in too). And even through all of that he found a way to be a better man. He shared his works, he found a way to intimately connect with a woman (even though it sounds like it was very difficult for both of them), and towards the end of his life he admitted his ideas of genetic superiority were downright abhorrent. If we can't give even this man the benefit of the doubt, then your only hope of being accepted by the hate mob is if you're born a literal son of God.

And if you dont like HPL then fuck right off out of my fandom because we do not care about your lukewarm take about him being a racist and we need to rewrite his works. Piss off

Edit: Hoo boy this has gotten around and about, further than I thought it would've. I know it's a bit strange, but thank you to everyone for showing support. Didn't think anyone would read one of my long-winded rants, let alone think it worth of sharing. At first I was just a casual fan of Lovecraft like most people; Cthulhu here, "hey I get that"; a shoggoth there, "ah neato." But after seeing him get so much hatred it started to feel wrong. Then learning what a tragic man he was and seeing Twitter attempt to eviscerate this man...I had to put my thoughts somewhere and this was the only place I had a chance to get it out there and people actually see it. So thank ye kindly strange sea of friends

#long goddamn post #H.P. Lovecraft #fuckin rant

[katsukikitten]

Hewwo! I was wondering if you could do a Bakugou x Fem Athlete reader? I use to be a wrestler and when I watch bnha and see their workouts/training, it brings me back to the good times where i use to slam ppl into the floor lol (im soft i swear-). Maybe reader goes to a boot camp and doesn't see bakugo for awhile and they come back hella buffed up and can even lift Bakugou with ease, maybe they're a weightlifter?? Idk but i wanna see bakugo shook at his strong gf lol

I hope you like this my dear.

You were what most people called a behemoth.

A thick woman with muscle on an athletic build instead of thick hips. Your shoulders were broad, strong and could carry the weight of the world.

And often times it did.

It used to bother you that you were not as femme as other girls. As cutesy and petite until one day you came to the realization that you'd never look like the women on the front of magazines.

And that was a o fucking kay. And everyday since then you fought with yourself and your self image.

Because bitch you were a queen.

And being a confident cut throat queen added to your muscular stature had most *boys* avoiding you like the plague.

But that was fine because you were looking for a M! A! N!

Although you didn't know you'd find him so soon and in such an odd package.

It took one deadly smirk aimed at you for you to fall head over heels.

And it took one knockout punch for him.

Depsite the mutual feelings the two of you only ever interact or text to spar. You too worried that you're reading into his excitement too much. Thoroughly convinced he only sees you as a bro he can actually go all out with.

While he is too fucking oblivious to even realize he had feelings for you. Paying you compliments and even bragging on you in class with simple songs of praises such as "Tch. Y/LN would break your puney fucking arm in a wrestling match Kirishima!"

The doting ash blonde would eye you then, smiling proudly daring anyone to test your strength.

And double daring anyone to comment on that powerfully beautiful body of yours.

If he heard a single off colored comment or joke about you, whether you were there to defend yourself or not he would step in. Hands popping with unkempt rage as a shit eating grin erupted on his kissable lips.

The thought of him defending your honor had your cheeks burning with blush as you waltz through the thick doors of the gym, exactly where Kirishima said you could find him. Silently thankful that he is wearing headphones with music loud enough that he does not hear the door shut as you spy his damp, sculpted back pull his body upward as he counts with barely a grunt.

Well into the upper thousands as your heart flutters, body heating to the point that your kneecaps melt. Struggling to stand you turn on your heel, losing the nerve to tell him goodbye although you will only be gone for a short month. Still you wonder if you should send a text, thumbs hovering over the lit keyboard debating if he would even want to read a stupid message from a lousy extra like you.

And it wasn't like you'd get a reply while you were gone and even if you did where you were going your phone would be no better than a glorified iPod touch with the lack of signal out in bumfuck nowhereville.

You decide against it sliding your phone into your leggings pocket as you tighten the straps on your book bag setting out for what will hopefully push you in the right direction.

Camp is hard as you knew it would be. You were training with the best strength oriented quirk pro heros in the game! Sending you through grueling obstacle courses with semi truck tires and endless pits of sand and mud.

Not to mention you were pushed to the point of puking more often than not. Still you somehow made friends in between the exhausting training and gnarly cafeteria food. Laughing, helping one another and even exchanging numbers with promises to text when a mythical bar of service was found.

Cool water drips form your hair as you plop down on the bottom bunk with a sigh, your bed mate pokes her head out to look down at you. Meanwhile you stare at the last text your friend Mina had sent you for the umpteenth time this week. A photo of you and Bakugo sharing a rare laugh during training both of your cheeks flushed and hair clinging to sweating foreheads over a joke long forgotten. But the feeling would never fade.

You damn her silently for being so sneaky and sneaky enough to catch both you AND Bakugo off guard.

"You've been sighing like you're s/o is away at war!" She chides, "So who are you staring at?"

This gains the attention of the other two girls in the bunks across the way, eyes gleaming at the thought of sharing crushes. Heat flushes your skin bright pink as you attempt to lock your phone but swift hands above snatch it from your normally steely grip.

"Oh." Is all she says as she looks closely at the photo, Bakugo shirtless with, dripping with sweat and wearing his best smile as you're three quarters to the camera cheesing hard as hell.

"Well shit I'd be sighing too. Your man is hot as hell! Does he train with you?"

"A..ah he's um not.." Fear grips your windpipe as you try not to sound creepy as fuck for looking at a picture of what is only your classmate. You clear your throat, "We're just sparring partners."

"What?!" She zooms in on his face before showing it to the other girls and yourself as best she can out of your reach, "My sparring partner never smiles. Make him your man!"

"I'm not his type, Kimi!" You rush out, embarrassment having you cover your face. Shit you'd never be his type.

You couldn't imagine anything more than a petite fiery or even just plain shy girl who wore dresses and heels. A woman with all the right curves that would dangle from his arm as he showed her off. Not some brute who could practically snap any man in half.

Your heart sinks into your gut, tears threatening to spill.

"Then what's his type?" She asks dryly above you. Mind racing as you think of how Bakugo looks at the opposite sex, hell even the same sex in your class and you come up with the same face each time. He wears his ever agitated snarl and that's if he even glances their way. Scarlet eyes narrowed into slits save when the look at you. They are narrowed only from the effects of his upturned lips.

"I reckon he ain't got a type then?" She says staring down at you from over her mattress. You avoid eye contact as you speak.

"I...I just can't see him with me. I'm all bulky and burly like." You flex your banded arms for emphasis before pointing at your bunk mate above, "While you're more toned and that of a fitness magazine model."

"So what? So fucking what! Haven't you seen me oogling you all week? Or the other women who would kill to have your gains! We see it sis, we see it and stan it. You carry muscle where most women DREAM to!" She jumps from the top bunk lifting your shirt up to your sports bra," Abs bitch, you've got washboard abs! Meanwhile my stomach can barely become flat. And your back! Ugh don't get me started how you're stronger than super girl with that toned back and beautifully rounded ass. Why are you selling yourself short?"

Your lack of answer is met with a harsh slap on your stomach before the timed lights in the cabin die out.

"The first thing I want you to text me about is how you asked that hottie blonde out." She threatens before jumping to the top bunk like an agile cat.

The month ends with tight hugs and a long ride home. You welcome the scenery of the winding roads and mountains as the train speeds past, muscles screaming from the month before.

And stomach growling wanting nothing more than a home cooked meal. If you did the math right on the chore wheel. You'd be coming back to Katsuki's cooking. You slip in and out of conciousness dreaming of spicy grilled chicken.

A surprise waits for you as you get off at your stop for the train. The platform crowded with familar bodies of class 3A

as you dismount from the steps.

"WELCOME HOME Y/N!" They shout in unison as Mina and Urarka rush in for a hug. You pull away laughing before your eyes scan for a blonde and when they come up empty your stomach twists for a moment. Mina pulls your thoughts away as slips her pink arms through yours guiding you towards the exit of the train station. She fills you in on the things you'd missed that fun summer month.

Swimming, fireworks, watermelon.

All activities that they planned to do again of course, espeically now that you were back. Not to mention her now boyfriend, Kirishima who, always the gentleman, took your bags to carry on your soon to be journey down six blocks back to UA, to home.

Still you wish Bakugo would have come to greet you too, you pull out your phone for a moment. Ready to text Kimi how you were gonna be forever alone, instead you lock your phone angrily shoving it into your bag.

With each step closer towards the dorms your body becomes heavier, weighted down with your mood drop that you brush off as "I'm just tired Mina-chan" endlessly until you reach the dorms.

The class floods into the their third year dorms as the smell of food wafts over your senses, causing mixed feelings to fist fight in your stomach.

"I'm just gonna get some sparring in before dinner." You smile at Mina, as you head out clad in your ever present athleisure wear, short black shorts and a tanktop.

The outdoor punching bag takes the brunt of your anger, of your disappointment and mostly your own self loathing over being upset over your training buddy not coming to greet you.

Still it stings to know he didn't even bother to show up. Hell he didn't even greet you at the damn door to the dorms!

Arching your fist you slam it into the bag that bursts open as the chain snaps, soaring into the treeline behind the dorms. You huff, back turned before your stomach growls, begging to be fed.

You collect yourself as you hear the sliding door to the living room open.

"Oi! Y/N!" His voice comes out biting as he approaches. You look to the source damning your heart for fluttering at just the sight of him. You notice his skull shirt seems a bit tighter than when you last saw him, muscled arms flexing as he keeps his calloused hands in his pockets. Harsh eyes look you up and down. Roving over your body making you feel naked beneath their intensity as he silently assess your thick frame. Scarlet lingering on exposed soft thighs that he may or may not imagine himself between sometimes. It took the entire month of his "sparring" partner gone to realize she may have been more than just that.

He fights the blush on his cheeks before a devilish grin overtakes his normal snarl.

"Atta girl, coming back stronger than ever. Bet you kicked some ass at camp huh?" His praises has your heart soaring as your body moves on it's own. Anger melting into warmth as you scoop up the muscled man into a bone crushing hug, giggling as you swing him in a circle. That is before you realize your giddy action could make him seem weak, something Bakugo loathes. You set him down with several rushed "Sorry"s before he grips your wrist tightly. Eyes boring into yours as he struggles to keep his breathing even.

"No I should be the one who's sorry." He growls.

"For what?" He answers as he pulls you closer to him until your lips crash into his. Hands roving up your toned arms before strong fingers pull at the hair at the nape of your neck deepening the kiss while you turn into putty in popping hands. After a few moments he breaks free, looking over your stunning features.

"For not fucking doing that sooner. For not fucking realizing that I admire more than just your strength." He looks away slipping his hand into yours as he pulls you back to the dorms, "Come on! I didn't make my girl's favorite just so it could get cold damn it!"

He drags you into the house as you watch after him before you snap a photo sending it to Kimi with a caption underneath.

"He beat me to the punch."

#bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakougo katsuki x reader #bnha katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki x reader #bnha au #bnha ask #bnha ask prompt #bnha asks #bnha x reader

[little-miss-dumpsterfire]

I think I made you up in my head - chapter two

Ah, yes, here it is. Part two of the total drama horror anthology no-one asked for. This chapter has already been posted on Wattpad (as have two others) but fuck it, I like it here. 

Fair warning, it does get pretty deep pretty quickly. So, let’s get into it. 

Chapter Two - I stared at my mirror; the mirror stared back

Trigger warning - eating disorders, self-harm (mentioned briefly) and blood/gore.

If you're not comfortable, please skip. 💛

******************************************

Axel's complexion lightened as his eyes bulged from his head. His head was spinning, and the confined basement he was in was not making the situation any better.

"Someone... someone else's turn? What are you going to do to me? Fuck, I didn't tell anyone I was coming out here. Oh god, oh god. No-one's gonna find me..." Axel panted, his body aflame with anxiety as he felt his heart pounding in his head. The slight weight of a dainty hand on his shoulder broke his haze and brought him back into reality. He shook her hand off, backing away from Izzy slowly with his hands held up in surrender.

"Don't touch me! Please... wha- what do you mean? What do you want from me?!" he pleaded, his earlier arrogant façade cracking to reveal a vulnerable, scared young man.

Izzy looked at him, the flicker of the flame reflected brightly in her dull green eyes. She sighed before backing up to the brick wall, sliding down before falling in a lump on the cold floor. Her thin index finger traced over the scars on her wrist she had hidden behind her jacket and whimpered.

Izzy spoke softly, barely audible to her frightened guest. "They never stop screaming. I try to close all the doors in my brain to silence them but they still haunt me. Slowly creeping... like a dense cloud blocking out the sun. Nothing will stop them, at least nothing I do will stop them."

She raised her head again, eyes obscured by dishevelled strands of copper hair. Axel stared at her quizzically as if he had wandered into the psych ward accidentally. Clearly, he was standing in the basement of a schizophrenic hoarder who couldn't let the past die, and he wasn't going to stand for it.

"Listen, lady," he started, regaining his air of arrogance, "I've about had it up to here. I make a podcast about cursed movies and conspiracies to earn money, not to end up in a knock-off Warren's Occult Museum."

"You don't understand. You don't feel the darkness we felt," Izzy replied, staring over at the shelves. "The paranoia, the pain, the conviction that we lived in a sick man's simulation. But everything in here was bathed in the depravity of Total Drama, and like a cancerous tumour it infected us all."

Their eyes met - soulless against suspicious - and Axel took a step towards Izzy, crushing a fragment of broken glass in his wake. Kneeling to her level, he roughly took her chin in his hands and raised her face to look at him.

"You killed them," he accused Izzy, malice dripping from his voice.

Weakly, she responded, her voice getting caught in her throat. "N-no. I didn't. But I know what did."

She lifted her slim arm and gestured towards the shelves. "Those relics are tombstones. Go and pick your poison, if you really want to know what happened."

Axel stood up, wiping the glass fragments from his knees and cautiously wandered over to the winding labyrinth of shelves. His fingertips barely grazed the aged wood of the shelves, tracing the grooves and divots with his index finger. In the corner of his eye, a dark shadow passed him by, and he quickly whipped his head around to investigate. Turning to the shelf in front of him is when he saw the imposing dark figure: himself. Situated in his eye line was a sparkly pink hand mirror intricately embellished with golden sculpted roses. He leant in closer to the mirror; his reflection was a shell of himself, with black pits for eyes and a pitiful smile.

"You ought to be careful with that one, kid," Izzy warned him, rising to her feet and dusting the grime from her pants. "If you look too long, the darkness grows eyes. This I know all too well now."

Izzy walked up to Axel, slightly caressing the edge of the mirror. She sighed deeply.

"We all knew she was the prettiest from the moment she stepped onto that dock... But in a world of lions, you didn't want to be fresh meat."

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

It was no secret to anyone that Chris didn't cast Lindsay for her personality. The shark had smelt blood when he saw her audition tape. Looking back on it now, her fate was sealed in those fleeting seconds.

Lindsay sat atop her bed cross-legged, her dog perched in her lap. Her hair had been brushed to be its silkiest, and the photos on her dresser cemented the point she was making.

"I have bikinis for every season, even the ones not listed on the calendar," she chirped, reflecting her archetype of the dumb blonde.

She was the dream girl for any man: honey blonde and curvy. Her 'assets' warranted attention from creeps shrouded in anonymity behind their computer screens and TV executives alike. Unsolicited strokes and caresses were handed to her regularly, and she lavished in the attention that her looks had bestowed onto her. The early bloomer with the IQ of a thumbtack was a thirst trap for the reality TV crowd, yet the elephant in the room was never addressed.

No one seemed to care that she was sixteen.

For those of us in her different teams, we witnessed these infidelities and stood idly by, our mouths wired shut by clauses, contracts and never-ending fine print. Lindsay may not have been the brightest bulb in the bunch, but the correlation between her body and the positive attention she was receiving was crystal clear to her. She felt the pressure of public scrutiny if she gained weight, had a pimple or even covered up her chest. It was during Action that the red flags appeared... I'd give anything to go back and change it all.

Half-empty bottles of lip gloss were scattered on the bunk bed as Lindsay struggled to find a colour that brought out the highlights in her hair. In her left hand, firmly grasped, was an antique hand mirror that she had repainted herself to match her personality. She applied a liberal layer of rosy-pink gloss onto her lips and puckered them together, staring at the shine in the mirror. A sharp gasp escaped from her lips as her blue eyes widened like saucers. Her gaze was transfixed on her mirror as she moved it around, attempting to shake what she saw away.

"Um, guys..." Lindsay started, a slight panic present in her voice. "There's someone in my mirror."

A bald girl scoffed and rolled her eyes, resettling her focus onto her nails. "No shit, Sherlock. It's supposed to be there. That's a reflection."

A faint, obnoxious voice could be heard from out the open window of the trailer.

"Actually, the presence of a reflection is due to photons coming off of an object to strike the smooth surface of the mirror, which subsequently causes them to bounce back at the same angle, ergo creating a person's reflection." Harold corrected from afar.

"Shut it, dweeb!" Heather called out, throwing a hairbrush at the boy.

"That hurt, GOSH!"

Lindsay became visibly more and more terrified by what she was seeing. Small tears began to pool in the outer corner of her eyes as her lips trembled fiercely. The mirror slipped between her fingers and landed with a muted thud on the orange carpeted floor as the blonde held onto her face protectively. A hairline fracture snaked its way across the glass, briefly eclipsing a dark smudge that quickly disappeared.

None of us girls took Lindsay's claims to heart. She always said that someone was looking at her through her mirror; hardly a surprise from the girl who couldn't remember her boyfriend's name. Something in Lindsay changed that day, and all of us were in the dark. She still fell victim to the paedophilic adoration of Chris McLean and his lackeys - submitting to every squeeze and fondle - but something in her eyes showed that her comfort in her own skin had dwindled.

The water tap squeaked as a thin stream of water dripped out, moistening her toothbrush. She brushed violently, minty foam spilling from her mouth as she desperately washed the taste away. It had consumed her waking thoughts; her mind constantly flashing back to what she had seen. Fear enveloped her in its heavy blackness, picking at her deepest insecurities. Her throat burned from the acid and the bitterness of the bile seemed to stain her tongue.

She stared at her mirror and shook her head, lightly tracing the crack on its surface.

"I can't become fat like Hannah. I'll never win my trip to Paris that way."

In the mirror, her reflection began to warp and distort, but Lindsay placed it back on the counter face down. Her hand wavered over the handle for what seemed like hours, and when she tentatively picked it up again, etched in what looked like blood spelt out an ominous message: EYE OF THE BEHOLDER.

In the weeks following Action's conclusion, images of Lindsay in her Wonder Woman costume were plastered on every tabloid site, every fan page and in every pervert's special photo folder. Her next two seasons played out very much the same, with sideways glances from the production crew eye-raping her on every occasion and her appearance being flaunted for more ratings. Gone was the girl with the backbone of steel who had stood up against Heather in a passionate act of defiance. In her place was an airhead overcome with fear and self resentment.

The click-clacking of her boots against the pavement was all Lindsay could focus on as the world went by around her. Wolf-whistles and cat-calls plagued her at every corner she walked past. She would usually stare into every shop window she passed by, gazing dreamily at purses on sale or new makeup products, but nowadays she scarcely looked twice. Not because she wasn't still obsessed with fashion, as she would always be. She never looked at her reflection because 'it' would be there. Every mirror, every window stared back at her.

She sat anxiously in the waiting room, fiddling with the hem of her skirt as she avoided the stares from the man next to her who was blatantly looking down her top. Her chest, whilst still well endowed, had shrunk, as had the rest of her body and it was starting to become obvious to those closest to her.

"Lindsay Marriott?"

Lindsay rose from her chair silently and followed, being lead down a short hallway into a room. Posters of the food pyramid and anatomical models were plastered on the walls as the strong scent of sanitiser attacked her nostrils. She sat down lightly, blonde hair cascading over her shoulders and forehead. The usual small talk took place before the woman placed the cold diaphragm of the stethoscope onto Lindsay's back. Her vertebrae were prominent through her skin, sticking up tall like mountain peaks. The doctor breathed out a small sigh before sitting down across from her.

"Lindsay, would you mind standing on the scale for me?"

She timidly nodded her head, rising and walking towards the scale. Lindsay removed her shoes and stepped onto the scales, the doctor over her shoulder writing down the number. Settling back into their seats, the doctor stared into the eyes of her patient and how their bright blue hue was a stark contrast to her fatigued, gaunt face.

"Honey, you've lost five kilograms since your last visit. You're bordering on becoming dangerously underweight. I think it's time we seek psychological intervention. When was the last time you ate a proper meal without purging?" the doctor asked, an air of concern apparent in her voice.

Tears began to drip down Lindsay's cheeks as she spoke between sobs. "Months... I can't eat... it won't let me eat."

"Who won't let you eat?" the doctor looked quizzically at the young girl who was averting her eyes now.

"The person in my mirror," Lindsay answered matter-of-factly before lifting her head. Behind the doctor's head was a wall-mounted mirror, where she could visibly see herself and the back of the physician. A slow ripping sound filled Lindsay's head as the back of the doctor's shirt split into letters written by an unknown force.

"Lindsay, are you okay? You've gone quite pale. I'll take your blood pressure."

As the doctor turned around, red, pointed letters were emblazoned on the doctor's back.

EYE OF THE BEHOLDER.

Lindsay jumped from her chair with a yelp and ran for the exit, bypassing the crowd of people in the waiting area.

That was the last anyone saw of Lindsay in public before... well... it's hard to put a word to what happened. Text messages to her phone went unread as she slowly slipped into her own self-imposed isolation. Her sister Paula would visit weekly and give us updates, but they were never anything to ignite our hopes or positive outlooks. On her last visit, she recalled that the stench of vomit would follow you around as plates of fly-blown, half-eaten meals were stacked up on the benches. Any mirrors in the apartment had been covered with blankets or covered with masking tape and the windows were blacked out with newspapers. Something had gotten its claws into Lindsay's head, and it was not going to let go.

The porcelain was cold against Lindsay's exposed thighs as she sat on the edge of her bathtub. Her pink mirror sat just within reach on the edge of the counter. The abyss. She had been holding in her hands the view into the abyss. Slowly, her skeletal fingers reached for the mirror, clumsily grabbing it before raising it to her face. Time seemingly stopped as she stared into the mirror, analysing her face; the sunken eyes and teeth slowly yellowing and corroding from the years she had spent purging. Before her eyes, the mirror once again warped until it showed what years ago her peers thought she had falsely identified as her own reflection.

Staring back at her was a decrepit woman with a face as bloated and waxy as a waterlogged corpse. Brown matted hair was plastered onto its face, slightly obscuring its eyes. Two large white orbs with pinpoint black pupils bore into Lindsay's soul as a grotesque smile crept upon its face, stretching its width from ear to ear. A silent scream left Lindsay's lips as black liquid began to seep from its eyes, nose and mouth, pooling at the base of its chin. In front of her was the shadow that had haunted her since she was sixteen, staring at her endlessly in every reflection, punctuating how ugly she perceived herself to be. Edging closer and closer towards the mirror, Lindsay couldn't tear her eyes away, paralysed in terror as faint whines wafted from under her bathroom door.

Paula found her three days later. The poor thing, I don't think the sight has ever left her, and in God's graces, I don't think it ever will. There's not enough therapy on this fucking planet that can erase that from the human psyche.

Paula walked into the apartment, distracted by a low buzzing sound. As she walked towards her sister's bedroom, calling out her name, the sound began to crescendo and a singular fly flew past her head. A distinct smell of rot and decomposition filled the air as she advanced slowly to the closed door of the bathroom. Her perfectly manicured hand gripped the knob strongly as she turned it, opening the door slightly. A swarm of flies buzzed through the open door, obscuring Paula's vision in a haze of black. As her eyes settled, they landed on what the flies had been inhabiting: Lindsay's corpse. Paula tried and failed to suppress gags as she saw her sister's dead body, eyes gouged out by her own hand in an attempt to stop what she had seen. A tacky layer of old blood surrounded Lindsay's head as hundreds of squirming bugs wriggled around in her empty eye sockets. Laying ornamentally atop the pink hand mirror were two eyeballs; their blue sparkle dulled and glazed over.

Scrawled in lipstick all over the walls of the room was one simple phrase.

EYE OF THE BEHOLDER. EYE OF THE BEHOLDER. EYE OF THE BEHOLDER.

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

"In my head, Lindsay didn't fall victim to herself," Izzy concluded, staring at her appalled guest, "she fell victim to the industry. The sharks in suits who groomed her and fed her insecurities until the societal norms of beauty ate her from the inside."

Axel stepped wearily away from the shelf, in way over his head now. What had started as a cash-grab to use as a clickbait-eqsue podcast had now escalated to a trip to hell... and once you're in hell, only the devil can help you out.

#total drama #td lindsay #sorry it got a bit deep

[normal-thoughts-official]

I think both Magnus and Alec have a big part of their lifes that have nothing to do with eachother. Okey, they are happily married and the live together but anyway... What about their hobbies? What about their own personal projects? Friends/queerplatonic relationships? I want to know who they are, besides of great politic leaders or someone's husband

i mean, i agree. i hate it when ppl reduce magnus and alec to malec or just generally care more about the romantic relationships than the other ones, nevermind bothering to develop other aspects of their lives that are just... theirs

to be fair i feel like we got a reasonable amount of that for them (for shadowhunter’s standarts of giving us content anyway). i mean, less for alec but that kinda makes sense considering that he’s spent most of his life avoiding any kind of close relationships that weren’t with his siblings like the plague and generally being, like, raised in a military based society with the weight of the world on his shoulders and also gay. but i totally agree that we should have gotten more of him getting out of his shell and finding hobbies and friends beyond just a romantic relationship. and for magnus, well, we know that he likes physics and science and studying magic as a whole, and dancing, and we know about his friends aka catarina and ragnor and raphael and dot, we know about his found family and his club and that he likes parties and good food and drinks, travelling, and meeting new people and cultures. you know?

but anyway, other headcanons with little things about their lives:

alec is totally the workout gay who likes fucking, idk jogging every morning and shit, and for some reason i can see him being into mountain climbing???? and magnus is like No Thank You. I Will Do Literally Anything Else because yikes the amount of effort and sweat and it’s just generally unpleasant. magnus is far from being sedentary, but also, no. yikes

he’s more into taking long walks in nice places and admiring the view and shit like that and he’s all like “isn’t it great? :)” and alec is like “haha yeah how far are we” because he’s just... goal-oriented and when he’s doing sports he likes to have a clear goal, something to achieve, or to push himself to his limits and all that bullcrap. while magnus likes to do it for the sake of doing it and enjoying himself and getting in contact with his own body & mind & soul and shit. they find some sort of enjoyment in it with the way alec always makes magnus laugh with his grumpiness + inability to truly understand what this whole thing is about + just general himboness, but as a whole, magnus likes to take his walks alone, so he can get that space for himself. and he’s definitely not joining in when alec is doing his weird sportsman training gimmick whatever-thing, either

same with tai-chi! magnus tried to get alec into it (altho somewhat awkwardly since magnus does magical tai chi and alec very much does not have magic) but it just, didn’t work out. one second into it and alec was already making that painfully concentrated face and he’s stiff as a board and it’s the opposite of what it’s supposed to be and magnus breaks down laughing and alec is all offended and they just can’t get past a few seconds and end up giving up. alec is the bitch who sits down to medidate and is immediately like BOY I AM GONNA GET IN TOUCH WITH MY INNER SELF SO FAST AND HARD FUCKING WATCH ME I’M GONNA BE THE BEST MEDIDATOR THIS SIDE OF THE PACIFIC FUCKING OOHMMM BITCH. introspective arts are just not for him

i like to think that alec gets closer to aline, and i can see him and helen hitting it off, too. like seriously guys let alec have friends who aren’t just magnus’ friends (and let magnus have friends that are HIS friends, too)

i know underhill is implied to become his friend but also, like..... he’s so boring i just can’t have any hcs for them as friends daoijsdaiouja i think they have more of a solidarity, nodding when walking past each other in the halls thing than actual friendship you know

obviously there’s alec’s siblings as he will always be the one izzy loves the most and she will always be one of the most important people for him, and even as magnus and izzy totally are friends too, she is still alec’s sister and they make it a point to see each other, just the two of them, at least once a week. izzy always smiles and loops her arm through his and alec’s immediately huffing but he loves it and she knows that he loves it. she was like, his only source of physical contact for so long, and god he really needed it and he loved her for giving it to him even as he pretended it was something he hated. neither of them want to shake that habit, so it stays

but there’s also a particular brand of friendship magnus has with her that alec doesn’t. like when they get all weird about dead bodies or go shopping? alec’s out 

magnus does a lot of studying (mostly languages, physics, and chemistry, as well as magic) so he has his own study room (plus the apothecary) that’s a whole damn mess filled with books and notes scattered around and shit and alec is not allowed in because he always wants to organize it and GOD FUCKING DAMN IT IT’S NOT DISORGANIZED I KNOW WHERE EVERYTHING’S SUPPOSED TO BE and if alec moves a single pen, magnus Will Know About It

in exchange he always keeps the door closed or spelled so alec doesn’t have to look at it

obviously there’s archery, which is something alec loves to do and practice, especially as he starts to get more into the bureaucratic parts of shadowhunting. he needs his bow and arrow to feel connected to himself and his body and safe, and he also has his own practicing room. magnus can do archery fine, but it’s not really among his interests

magnus of course has his regular meetings with the immortal squad and his breakfasts with raphael :) not that raphael isn’t part of the immortal squad but they also enjoy having a time just for the two of them. they are father and son after all, and besides, they lived together for quite a while, and the dynamics of them versus them + ragnor + cat are different

while magnus loves taking alec with him in his trips and to art galleries and out to eat in great restaurants and shit, they both know it’s something that alec, while very curious to know about, does not appreciate the same way that he does. not more or less, just, differently. if they go to an art gallery, magnus is gonna be looking at every piece and musing and maybe talking about the painters of x and y movement that he knew, and analyzing the technique or whatever. alec is less interested in the paintings themselves and more in the artists, what their life was like, what the period/place they lived in was like, how that shaped their art, you know? like he’s just not a very visual person haha me projecting never so what interests him is more outside of the paintings than inside. so even when they go to these places together, they’re just having completely different experiences? and a lot of the time they end up straying and meeting each other later, where they’ll chat and generally be ridiculous. but the both of them also enjoy going to those on their own or with their friends who Get It, you know? because again just completely different rhythms and interests and stuff

i feel like they both enjoy trashy television, but like, in completely different ways? like magnus loves him a terrible sitcom even if he’ll never admit it, where alec is more into like..... really bad and dramatic mystery shows

they both enjoy watching reality shows though. magnus wasn’t that huge on it before, but with alec? man, that’s a riot. he’ll judge absolutely everyone and make faces and just generally be fucking hilarious

ok i know that i’m talking about things they do together but my goal here is to talk about like... who they are and what their interests are individually, even if they are together, you know? and not like, As An Unit

magnus loves music and recitals and dance shows of all kinds. also, street art! i feel like that’s something him, cat, and maia have in common

speaking of cat; there are always His Cats. like sure they like alec fine but as soon as magnus is home they all immediately flock to him. it’s like alec never existed. goodbye, tall person

tbh i feel like raphael is totally an animals person and soon the dumort kind of turns into like, a sort of animal shelter? like magnus gives him the idea and all the vampires are naturally drawn to the idea of the dumort becoming a place for the strays of the world, especially if it means they get some company.... and maybe warm cuddles. anyway, my point is, magnus loves to visit the dumort and play with the cats and dogs that are there from time to time and he’s so proud of raphael and what he’s doing with the place and i just aaa :’) 

i feel like alec would have an interest in technology? like he’d be that bitch who Knows tech (probably started because of his job, but soon he found that he like, actually has an interest in it?) and who cleans his keyboard every day and only gets licensed programmes and takes care of his laptop like those guys who are weird about cars

lmao for some reason i can totally picture him and aline bonding over that? 

oh man alec would be into PUZZLES. word puzzles, jigsaw puzzles, the whole grandpa shit. he doesn’t do it often but when he does, he’s just At It. him and madzie can play with jigsaw puzzles for hours and wouldn’t remember to eat. she visits one day and is like I Got A 3D Puzzle and alec is just like neat! and they just sit down and do it until they have to be forced to bed or something. then at like precisely 6AM their eyes snap open like It’s A New Day, Puzzle Time and it just keeps being like this until they’re done

also there’s magnus’ morning routine, of course, especially since he doesn’t really have a schedule, and as sociable as he is he does enjoy some alone time to make himself some breakfast, do some tai chi, maybe read a book or comic, and all that. alec is just snoring the whole time completely passed out when it’s not a work day, tbh

okay that’s all i have actually doasdiad i hope it isn’t too much or disappointing or whatever. also, if anyone else wants to add their own headcanons for alec’s and magnus’ hobbies, feel free to do so :)

#sh #shadowhunters #alec lightwood #magnus bane #malec #ask #anonymous #long post #q