#if this spirals into a pearl follow i’ll. i’ll just quit

[kopfkino-o]

Daughter of the Summer Sea: Chapter One

Summary: They call them the Spear-Daughters of Summer and they are the fierce female warriors of the Summer Court known for their unshakeable bravery and the wicked three-pronged spears with which they fight. Having finally left the Library and more dedicated to her Valkyrie unit than ever, Gwyn finds herself charged with heading south to Adriata to learn from these infamous Spear-Daughters to expand both her fight knowledge and battle strategy, but to also seek out other Low Fae females interested in reclaiming their own power and fates by joining the Valkyrie ranks. But there is more than just sun and surf waiting for her amongst the bone-white streets of Adriata and, soon, Gwyn must ask herself: who does she want to be and where does her heart truly lay.

Pairing: Gwyn x Tarquin

Timeline: Post-ACOSF

Wordcount: 1628

Author’s Note: TARGWYN FIC LET’S GOOO! This is probably one of my most favorite crackships of all time and Adriata/Summer Court is probably my favorite Prythian setting outside of Velaris. I started working on this as a one-shot for @sjmcrackshipmonth​ but I have no self control and the story has since spiraled into something bigger. 

Updates will come as I finish each chapter. Like my other fic, I’ll be posting this to my AO3 account for those who want to follow the story over there! You can find me at @courtwritesalot 💙

Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading!

- Court

The bone-white walls of Adriata snaked along the rocky sea cliffs like the spine of a great slumbering beast. 

High seashell towers and turquoise-capped parapets and buildings hewn from glimmering coral and pearl adorned the foreign city set against the backdrop of an azure sea, the sheer beauty of the Summer Court's capital evident even at this distance. Even the crowded port bustling with trading galleys from every court and continent was beautiful in its own chaotic way, the rainbow of many colored sails sliding in on the evening tide a mesmerizing sight to behold.

It was, undeniably, unlike anything Gwyneth Berdara had ever seen.

Her chest was alive with fluttering nerves, her arrival on the white sand beaches of the Summer Court long since anticipated, her journey here having been planned months ago, and yet the sight before her somehow surpassed all expectations.

Gwyn had read countless books on the Summer Court and its capital city's splendor, had studied reports and travel logs and cultural assessments until her eyes bled, but nothing could have prepared her for this. The sun and sand, the sheer size of the Summerstone Palace on its high sea cliff, the sight of the Summer Court's gold and teal banners waving lazily in the sea-salt breeze. It was almost as if the Mother herself had bestowed these lands with a kernel of her own ethereal grace.

This is what you've been missing, a familiar voice murmured in the back of her mind, as it so often did. 

A stray tear slipped down Gwyn’s cheek, the lingering memory of her sister’s voice breaking the dam of emotions she’d been fighting to keep back all day. 

"Forgive me," She said, blinking away the tears and wiping her eyes dry before her High Lady could see. "I never expected to feel so overwhelmed by the sight of another city."

Feyre Archeron merely smiled, understanding filling the High Lady of the Night Court’s eyes, and gently patted Gwyn’s hand, her touch warm and steadying.

"I felt the same way the first time I saw the city, too," The High Lady said softly, blue eyes drifting out across the half-moon bay. "There is nowhere else in the world quite like Adriata. And no one half as kind as Cressida and Tarquin. They'll treat you like a treasured guest throughout your entire stay."

Gwyn could only manage a nod. There was so much to be grateful for on this day. Her freedom from the Library, the weight of her sword down her back, the gesture of friendship Feyre had shown her by taking the time to winnow her all the way here. And her closest friend by her side, here to see her off.

Her eyes slid sideways, daring to tear her gaze away from the sparkling city just long enough to study Nesta’s silent form. 

The General of the Valkyries had been quiet ever since Gwyn had arrived on the steps of the Riverhouse so Feyre might winnow her south. She was distant, contemplative, like there was something she wanted to say but didn’t know how.

But Gwyn didn’t need her friend to speak the words aloud for her to understand: it pained Nesta to see Gwyn go. It pained Gwyn too. 

The idea of leaving Velaris had been enough to nearly cripple her and keep her locked deep beneath the House of Wind amongst the dusty shelves and quiet serenity of the Library, but every night she lay down to sleep, every night she considered abandoning the journey altogether, she could hear her sister's voice softly urging her to go.

To the sea, sister, the ghost of Catrin’s voice would whisper, You must make it to the sea.

And so, if only for the honor of her memory, if only because Catrin would never get to see these azure waters, this bone-white city, Gwyn had gone. 

Feyre cleared her throat and toed the pristine white sand with the tip of a black leather boot. “There are some... friends I need to say hello to,” The High Lady said, eyes snagging on the surf crashing against the beach below. She gave Gwyn a parting smile before turning to Nesta and gently squeezing her sister’s shoulder. “Come find me when you’re ready, Nes.”

A heavy silence settled between Gwyn and Nesta as they watched the High Lady climb down the rocky face of the sea cliff, the soft murmur of the sea breeze and the distant cry of ship bells filling the space between them.

Gwyn closed her eyes and let the uncertain mix of emotions wash over her, a bittersweet taste of uncertainty and anticipation, fear and curious excitement. She would be gone from Velaris for three months, the longest stretch of time she’d ever been away from the Night Court. The only time she’d ever been away. 

It unsteadied her, the thought of the great distance and long stretch between her and her home, and yet,it set something strange inside her to shimmering too. 

“I’m going to miss you.” 

Gwyn turned sharply towards Nesta at the sound of the softly spoken words. Her friend, her sister, was still staring out across the sea, gaze fixed on the horizon as if she might find some sort of answer hidden within its vast expanse.

"I'm going to miss you too, Nesta." Gwyn replied softly, fighting the urge to let her voice break. “And Emerie. And Azriel and Cassian, and Deirdre and Rosalin too. Mother's blessing, but I think I might even miss Merrill."

Nesta chuckled, but the lightness of the sound did not quite reach her face. "I fear they're going to fall apart without your leadership." She said, still refusing to meet Gwyn’s eye.

"I'm sure Mor will keep them in line. She’s proving to be quite the addition to our ranks. The girls will listen to her council just fine.”

"But not as well as they’d listen to you."

Gwyn's heart swelled with pride and humility at Nesta's words. The Valkyries had grown exponentially this last year under the leadership they shared with Emerie. Not solely because of them, of course, but also because of the sheer grit and determination of the women who joined in their ranks each and every day. It was half the reason why she was here, so very far from home, in the first place.

"It's only three months," Gwyn said, reaching for Nesta's hand to give it a reassuring squeeze. “That's hardly even a blink over the course of our immortal lives. I'll be back in Velaris before you even know to miss me. Plus, the recruiting efforts here will be good for us. We need a unit of spears if we want to truly make the Illyrians blanche.”

Nesta's warm fingers squeezed her own, so tight Gwyn nearly saw stars. "Three months," She echoed then held up her free hand, the charm on the friendship bracelet she still wore even after all these months catching in the sunlight. "No matter how far the distance, no matter how great the cost."

Gwyn's heart strained at the word of the Valkyries’ official creed.

"No matter how far the distance, no matter how great the cost," She echoed, then added the final line of their creed. “We face the mountain together, for as long as I have my sisters, no battle shall be lost.”

Then Nesta embraced her and hugged Gwyn so tight she swore she could hear her bones sing. But she didn’t care. She hugged Nesta back, breathing in the winter mourning and steel scent of her and memorizing the feel of her sister’s arms around her as their sacred words settled in her chest like an ember.

When Nesta finally pulled away, Gwyn could have sworn silver lined her friend’s blue eyes but just as quickly as it appeared the softness was replaced with the hard determination of a warrior. 

A general. 

“You go out there and learn and show them how a Valkyrie wields a spear,” Nesta said, command and authority filling her voice. “Show them what we are building, what we have made ourselves into. Show them what they too could be.”

Gwyn lifted three fingers to her brow in salute. “On your orders, Lady General.” 

Nesta returned the gesture. “Mother guide you, Berdara.” 

“And you, Archeron.” 

Gwyn scooped up her pack and left her friend there on the sea cliff,  fighting the tears stinging in her eyes and the urge to look back at her friend one last time as she scrambled up the rocky terrain to the road that would lead her to the gates of Adriana. 

The tears came nonetheless, emotions flooding through her as she began to walk, and Gwyn began to curse herself for her insecurities one moment, then slid back into the pit of her old anxieties the next.

She had three months to learn the art of the three-pronged spear well enough to teach it to an entire unit of women. Three months to win over the Princess and Prince, bolstering not only further confidence in the fragile alliance between them and the Night Court, but also earning their permission to gather women from their court to bring into the Valkyrie ranks. The worries flowed and ebbed. She wasn’t sure she could do it. Wasn’t sure she was strong enough, wise enough, brave enough. She was one woman and a woman who’d spent most of her life hidden away from the world at that.

Then Gwyn rounded a soft bend on the Summer Road and all those worries, all those fears and uncertainties, died in her chest, a single thread unspooling as she beheld the massive golden gates of the city and Adriata waiting beyond.

To the sea, sister. 

#Daughter of the Summer Sea fic #DOTSS fic #targwyn #targwyn fanfic #gwyn x tarquin #gwyneth berdara #tarquin #acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #acotar crackship month #acotar crackship #gwyn acotar #tarquin acotar #summer court #adriata #gwyn berdara

[bananacreamphi]

Gonna ramble about an angsty Zisu-centric fanfic idea I’ll never write because I don’t have the energy to make it happen:

So basically it takes place shortly after the end of the main story, right after the protagonist comes back to the village. Zisu’s trying her best to act like nothing ever happened, but it secretly guilty about how she got swept up in the same suspicious bullshit as the rest of the village and essentially left a child to die. At some point she gets into an argument with the protag, Ingo, professor Laventon, their assistant or someone else, who correctly points out that as the leader of the security corps she could have done a lot more than just secretly assist the main character, and how she a) enabled Kamado by backing him up at the temple, and b) seemingly had no problem with potentially killing members of the Diamond and Pearl clans via a war under Kamado’s orders if they openly helped the protag.

Zisu, of course, responds by having the mother of all breakdowns. She goes on a self destructive spiral that lasts at least three days in which she doesn’t sleep or eat properly, gets extremely defensive, drinks a lot, neglects her duties, and fails to receive medical attention for wounds she maintains during her aggressive sparring/practice sessions, both with dummies and her pokemon. One of the vivid ideas I had was her punching some sort of wooden object, getting splinters in her hand, not going to pesselle right away because she’s FINE everything is FINE (she’s not fine), which results in it getting infected and her losing the hand/arm.

All along the way we get flashbacks to the period before she showed up in Hisui during the bloody times in Hoenn, with her growing up around/with violence at every turn, which resulted in her becoming aggressive in protecting people and fostered an intense loyalty to Kamado. So when she is forced to confront the fact that by following Kamado’s orders she arguably put far more people in danger than she protected she has to confront that whole mental break. Eventually it all ends with Kamado, Beni, Pesselle and/or Cyllene intervening and removing her as head of the security corps, much to her humiliation. Idk where it would go from there but there would probably be a whole arc of healing and trying to get back on her feet idk I’m tired I can’t talk that well 🤷

Oh before I forget: if Ingo’s not the one she had the initial argument with (if he was, he’d obviously want nothing to do with her for quite a while afterwards), he would probably try to intervene and talk her down, sensing something was wrong, only for her to intimidate or even outright threaten him. And probably make him cry. Good job Zisu 10/10 friendship skills you fucked up big time

#pokemon #pokemon legends arceus #zisu #angst #I love making my blorbos suffer #unhappy zisu au #hey look I finally gave it a name

[lunarblazes]

i want to die. her entire likes page is just fanart and analysis and then MY SIMP POST. I SAID I WANTED TO MARRY HER CHARACTER IN THE TAGS.

#I’VE POSTED ART IN HER TAG BEFORE WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE THIS POST #just. put me down. just end it. i cannot do this #the ONE TIME i forget that pearl looks through her tag and she does THIS #I MENTIONED HOSTILE STARS. that might have been the LEAST cc noticeable post ever actually. #‘pearl doesn’t even know you exist’ wrong now she knows i’m the one who’s simping for her sdv rp character and an axolotl goddess #i cant even explain this to anyone in my life. they would tjink i’m insane #i have two presentations and a test today. th. yeah #if this spirals into a pearl follow i’ll. i’ll just quit #god can you imagine. i don’t want to #now all of china knows you’re gay #sigh. sure. yeah. this is worse than me putting my pfp in office as a lesbian flag icon i drew #lunar winds

[courtlyharlequin]

Breathing Room

Warnings: fluff, no plot just brainrot,  lowkey horn knee, feral and angry Taku coming from nine o’clock because I squeezed too much of her favorite tropes into this

Summary: Humans are strange. Their hobbies and customs are bewildering, but nothing Jade couldn’t handle as he was quick to adapt. Sometimes, he might even partake in said activities. Case in point with hiking. And you, knowing Jade for a decent amount of time as his significant other, came to terms with the fact that he would decline a request to participate in something that didn’t pique his interest. So when you proposed that he play the pocky game with you, you were certain that he would decline. But he didn’t.

A/N: Happy birthday to the Jade simp, @takuyakistall​~! I’m so sorry that this was posted late but you’re already wary of that and thank you for supporting me through such a tough time. Ahhh life just doesn’t want me to simp for my hair wife! I tell you this a lot but I’ll say it again: I’m quite attached to you since you were my first tumblr friend. I didn’t have any in real life or online friends who like twst before meeting you so you mean a lot to me as my first. You always make me laugh whether it be bullying you or rotting over our mains together. Even when we get serious, I still love talking to you. You’re that amazing.  I hope you have an amazing day, one just as amazing as you are. Eat lots of cake and pocky. I love you ♡

“Jade,” you said, tugging at his sleeves.

He sighed through his strained smile as he set down a glass he was polishing. He tucked his hair behind his ear and dusted off his slacks as if he was brushing away invisible crumbs off the garment. It was an ungodly hour. He was working overtime for Mostro Lounge. Today was unusually busy. As vice prefect, Jade took it upon himself to bite off more than he could chew. And he could chew a lot actually. He was a moray eel with two sets of jaws and an immense appetite. In his human form, he only had one set of jaws yet the appetite remained.

The lounge was deserted. Students shuffled to the mirror chambers and headed to their respective dorms to retire for the night. Jade, on the other hand, was sitting on a barstool with an array of glasses and creased brows. You sat by his side, doing your assignments and engaging him in idle chatter here and there. He had promised to help you with your alchemy homework, but alas his duties called for him. In a way. You didn’t mind per se since he helped you understand the material within minutes during his short-lived breaks.

They were about three minutes long and Jade only took two breaks ever since his shift started. You weren’t an expert at reading people like he was, but even you could tell he could use some rest or a pick-me-up at least. Perhaps the latter. Jade was stubborn. He wasn’t going to head to his bedroom until he was done.

“Yes, (y/n)?”

You reached into your book bag and pulled out a small box of biscuits– pocky to be exact. You held it in front of his gaze. He cocked his head.

“Let’s play the pocky game.”

“Maybe later. We can play after I finish. Or tomorrow. It’s late so you should return to your living quarters and get some rest,” Jade said as he turned his attention to his task.

“Please? Think of it as a break. Your last one was about three hours ago.”

“Well, if you put it like that then I shall indulge you, my dear.”

Heat rose to your cheeks as he spun the barstool to make direct eye contact with you. You avoided his gaze as you opened the box, selecting a random stick of pocky and holding it in front of him. He took it and examined it with a perplexed expression.

“What is this?”

“Pocky.”

“Which is?”

“It’s like a cookie biscuit thing with a chocolate covering,” you said, getting yourself your own stick.

“I see. So this ‘pocky’ edible.”

“Yes,” you nodded, biting the pocky.

He mirrored your actions. You watched him chew it thoroughly. His eyes wandered around the ceiling of the lounge. You held your breath as he closed his eyes and exhaled.

“It’s delectable.”

Your shoulders relaxed and he chuckled under his breath. It would have been disappointing if Jade didn’t like pocky. That would mean you couldn’t persuade him to play the pocky game. You looked into his eyes lovingly while he nibbled on the remainder of the stick.

“And what is ‘the pocky game’?” Jade mused.

You took out another biscuit. His brows arched as you waited for him to swallow the last bit of his current pocky stick.

“The objective of the game is to be the last to hold onto the stick as we each take a bite and move closer to the center. Whoever is the last to pull away wins. You take one end and I’ll take the other. I’ll let you have the chocolate end because it’s your first time playing.”

“My, my how kind of you. I almost thought you were the headmaster. All you needed was to comment on your kindness.”

“Ha ha,” you deadpanned.

He brought his hand to chin. He feigned curiosity.

“Though… if you wanted to kiss me you could have just said, (y/n),” Jade gave you a toothy grin, ones he shot at the poor unfortunate freshmen souls that tried to escape the conditions of Octavinelle’s yearly exam contracts before chasing them down the hallways with his brother.

“I-I.. It would be more fun?”

“I jest, my pearl. There’s no shame in wanting to engage in intimacy. I shall indulge you. Though, I have a feeling that I will win every round– seeing as you get flustered even when I embrace you without warning fufu~”

There was not a shred of innocence in his voice. Jade knew where this was going. He was going to do everything in his power to win. He was good at that sort of thing, small ministrations that drove you wild.

When he found out that you were sensitive to neck kisses, chaste or not, he greeted you every morning outside of your first period threshold with a peck on the side of your neck. The first time he did that, you were reduced to a puddle of empty thoughts, a spasm of spiraling emotions and heated cheeks. The following incidents featured your hand instinctively shooting to the spot he kissed, cheeks still hot and bothered. When you had adapted to his rhythm, he kissed your neck in the halls, during lunch, and when he walked you back to your dorm. They were spontaneous and sporadic. They ceased when winter began and you wore a scarf around your neck all day, every day. Of course, that was months ago. The routine faded as your relationship developed. Jade had his share of teasing and came to understand that setting your nerves on fire on a daily basis despite your protests wasn’t exactly healthy. He also came to understand how people might get the wrong idea from neck kisses. He teased you for hours on end for being so lewd, but digressed when you were on the verge of tears due to embarrassment. That didn’t stop his other methods of teasing, but at least you were free from public surprise neck kisses.

Jade loved to tease. He was good at it too. He knew you and your ticks like the back of his hand. You were certainly going to lose this game, but it was better not to let your true feelings show and give him the upper hand.

You inserted the biscuit between Jade’s lips and took a deep breath before taking your end. It was more so a hybrid of a deep breath and a yawn. It was late after all.

Jade’s eyes widened and the stick broke in half. Your eyes widened as well.

“You’re supposed to hold onto the stick for a long as you can, silly.”

He closed his eyes: “Yes, my bad. Shall we try again?”

“One to zero,” you said as you slipped a biscuit into his lips.

“Did that count?”

“Of course it does.”

He pouted as you inhaled and exhaled deeply before taking your end of the pocky. It snapped immediately.

“Jade,” you whined, drawing out the last syllable of his name.

“Apologies, my dear. It seems to be instinctive for me to bite the stick.”

“You can bite. It’s just that the pocky keeps breaking in half whenever you bite it. Maybe try to be more gentle?”

“Two to zero.”

“You’re so cruel, (y/n).”

You giggled as you handed him the stick. He pursed his lips and held the stick out for you to take a bite from your end. You closed our eyes and opened your mouth to take a deep breath once more and the stick snapped before you knew it.

You looked up at Jade to see the pocky awkwardly sticking out of his hand which was covering his face. Mostro Lounge’s dim lights made it difficult to make out many details, but you were positive that Jade Leech was profusely blushing.

“Jade?”

“C-Could you not do that*?”

“Do what?”

What could have possibly reduced him to such an adorable state? He’s usually so composed. He was never this flustered. Out of all the times you tried to get him to break, he was resilient. And here you were, not having any idea as to what you did to make him blush.

“O-Open your mouth.”

“Pardon?”

A yawn escaped from your lips. Jade spun the bar stool around and stared at the glasses with sudden interest.

“Could you not do that?”

“Yawn?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

He mumbled something under his breath.  

“Jade?”

“(y/n), you should have just asked for a kiss.”

The eel stood up curtly from his seat. He towered over you and his eyes glowed in the dark lighting. He pulled out a pocky stick from the box in your petite hands and slipped it in between your lips. There was a small pause before he came crashing down. If he hadn’t been holding your shoulders so firmly, you might’ve fell over from the force that he exerted. He came barreling towards your lips. You weren’t sure if he had even bit the pocky. You felt it snap, but when you parted your mouth to allow his tongue to entangle with yours, you could not find a single trace of the biscuit. The flavor lingered in his mouth, but the pocky itself was nonexistent. Did he swallow it whole?

He did not leave your mind to wander too far from him. He kissed you hungrily and nipped at your lips. His sharp teeth grazed your flesh and you mewled into the kiss. You could hear him growl faintly as he held onto your waist. You wrapped your arms around his neck to deepen the kiss. He tiled your head for a better angle. You pushed him away. You needed to catch your breath.  A string of saliva fell from your lips.

“Jade,” you gasped as he nuzzled his head in the crook of your neck.

“It would be in your best interest if you don’t do that again, especially during mating season. I don’t think I’ll be able to control myself next time. I might break you in half, dearest.”

Your cheeks flushed as you nodded absentmindedly. Mating season?

He bit your neck.You yelped and wriggled out of his embrace.

“Jade!” you hissed, clutching your neck.

“Consider that a small price to pay,” he chuckled.

You huffed.

“I win this time,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah…”

He packed the glasses onto a shelf.

“You’re free to go now. I’ve finished here so you don’t have to keep me company anymore. Would you like me to escort you?”

“No, it’s fine,” you said, trying to stifle a yawn.

“Goodnight, (y/n).”

“Goodnight, Jade. See you tomorrow.”

Though you had agreed not to yawn, it escaped your lips. Luckily, your back was facing Jade as you exited the lounge so he didn’t see you yawn, but rather heard you yawn. You heard a distant bang on the counter as well as a faint “dammit” from a voice you knew all too well.

It took every fiber in your body to restrain yourself from turning around. You knew all too well that if you turned around, he would’ve rushed towards you and snapped you in half just like a pocky stick. It was best to give him a little breathing room even if you were hot and bothered yourself.

*Note: To initiate the mating process, moray eels open their mouths very wide at each other to signal the start of it. This trait carries over to when (y/n) yawns as Jade took it as a sign for his eel-y instincts.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland imagines #twst imagines #twisted wonderland oneshot #twst oneshot #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #jade leech #jade leech x reader

[e-milieeee]

hey cutea

Summary: In which Marinette brings Adrien to a bubble tea shop only to witness him order the most unappetizing flavour on the menu.

All’s well until Chat Noir does the exact same, and Ladybug makes an unsuspecting connection.

Tikki is also very unamused. If only they’d stop dancing around each other.

Notes: a month of procrastinating, the boba reveal,,, is finally here for day 1: cafe of @auyeahaugust! also for @buggachat because kelly started this with a drawing of an adrienette boba date and i spiralled :’) 

Word Count: 6.2k

AO3

The shop is called Thirstea, a pun which makes Adrien laugh for a whole thirty seconds as he stares at the storefront.

“Seriously,” Marinette is saying as he pushes the door open for her. “You’ve seriously never had boba? At all?”

Adrien shifts his backpack. He’s hit with the smell of something sweet—foreign, as well, but it’s pleasant enough—and the sight of a bustling interior. A small line has already formed, so Marinette tugs him aside and points at the large menu displayed on a colorful board behind the cashier.

“You can decide on which flavour you want,” she tells him.

Adrien peers up at the board. There’s so many to choose from—hundreds, even—from milk tea to fruit tea to mixed flavours and smoothies and…

His head is spinning when he turns back to Marinette. “Do you have any recommendations?” Because I have absolutely no clue. “What do you usually get?”

She tilts her head. “I have five go-tos. Roasted milk tea is a classic, but the honeydew milk tea is pretty good as well if I want something fruity. If I want something lighter, I’ll get a fruit tea—I like lychee black tea. Uh… there’s also the real fruit bobas, and I usually get taro. Oh! And the matcha latte is one of their best. And I usually get it with tapioca, but if you want to be healthier, grass jelly or aloe vera both taste pretty good. But I mean, it is your first time here and you should probably try getting tapioca just to see if you like it. And brown sugar milk tea, but they said they ran out today…”

The words go in one ear and out another, because Adrien is too busy staring at the way she talks: enthusiasm shining in her eyes, the way she waves her hands in the smallest, cutest gestures to make her point, and…

“Adrien?” Marinette tilts her head. “Um, have you decided? Or do you need more time? Because that’s completely alright too.”

In a panic, he nods and blurts, “I’ve decided!”

She nods sagely, and they enter the line. Adrien has not yet in fact decided.

He continues to stare at the menu from the corner of his eyes, going through all the categories until he settles on real fruit smoothie. Adrien goes through the list: watermelon, strawberry, mango, peach, blueberry, raspberry, winter melon—

“What would you like to order?”

Adrien snaps back into reality. He is not ready to order.

Oblivious to his conundrum, Marinette smiles at the cashier and fetches her wallet out of her backup. “I’m paying for us both!” she tells the girl cheerily. “I’ll have a peach green tea with half ice and thirty percent sugar. With tapioca.”

Adrien gawks at her order. She’d lost him after peach green tea—is he supposed to order like that too?

“Adrien?” Marinette prompts, now waiting for the order that he does not have.

He squints at the menu again, hoping his panic isn’t visible on his face. He scans them. Watermelon. Strawberry. Mango. Peach. Blueberry. Raspberry. Winter melon. Durian.

Durian.

“Durian,” he settles.

Marinette’s mouth quite literally drops open.

He’s not too certain what’s that surprising about his order—is it the wrong thing to order? Perhaps it doesn’t exist on the menu and he’d hallucinated it. A double-check later and the word is still clearly imprinted underneath winter melon. “Marinette?” Adrien asks carefully. “Um, I’m not too sure about the sugar and ice—which do you usually choose?”

She finally snaps her mouth shut.  “Durian?” Marinette echoes at last, ignoring his question.“Ah, are you certain about that?”

Adrien nods. “I can still add the pearls—the tapioca in, right?”

“Yeah,” she agrees absentmindedly, “but—durian?”

Adrien takes another peek at the menu. “The real fruit smoothie, right?”

“Have you… tried durian?” “When I was younger, once. Have you?”

Marinette swallows, and Adrien waits for her verdict, concerned. He’s honestly baffled why she’s so confused about his choice, but a moment later, Marinette squares her shoulders and gives the cashier a smile, this time slightly shaky. “And a durian smoothie with tapioca for him. Um, sugar and ice levels?”

Adrien has no clue what to ask for, so he tries, “The standard one for both...?”

Apparently that’s an acceptable answer because the cashier nods and jots down his order on a small notepad. Marinette pays, and they wait at the side for their order.

Marinette has gone quiet. She sorts through her bag for a little while, and Adrien waits in apprehensive silence. There’s quiet jazz music playing in the background and it makes him feel like he’s in an elevator. It’s becoming unbearably awkward.

Finally, Marinette lifts her eyes to look at him. “Sorry about that,” she apologizes. “I just… didn’t know you liked durian.”

“Oh.” He sounds equally awkward. “I liked the fruit the last time I had it which was about two years ago. Do you not like it?”

Her nose wrinkles. It’s cute. Wait, what?

“My mom really likes durian,” Marinette is explaining, and she motions with her hands again. “Apparently her hometown back in China had a dessert store that sold durian pastries and she had this brilliant idea of making them for Chinese New Year a couple months ago and the whole bakery reeked of durian and I could smell it all the way up into my room—” She clamps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. I forgot you liked it.”

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” he replies, flustered. Marinette has a habit of saying a lot in very little time and it doesn’t help that he gets easily distracted by her movements. “I didn’t realize durian was so… controversial. I hope it won’t make you uncomfortable or something with the smell.”

“I guess it’s not that popular here,” she replies with a shrug. “But my mom did say that people either hate or love durian. And the smell’s fine. I don’t like it, but once you spend a week with it stinking up your room, you kind of develop immunity.”

Just then, the waitress behind the counter sets down their two drinks. “For Marinette?” she calls.

Marinette takes the bag with a quick thank you, grabs two straws, and then returns to Adrien. She holds up their drinks.

Adrien takes the cup from her extended hand. The durian smoothie is a creamy white, and the black tapioca bubbles sit at the very bottom. He follows her movements as she shakes her cup then stabs a straw into it.

He can see Marinette eying him in his periphery as he raises the straw to his lips and takes a sip. The drink is cold and sweet and has a rich taste that explodes on his tongue in a plethora of flavours, and Adrien decides he likes it. He really likes it.

“So?” Marinette asks. Adrien wonders if she knows how skeptical her expression is. “Do you… like it?”

He chews on one of the pieces of tapioca. “Yes. Yeah, this is really great.”

The skepticism doesn’t disappear from her face, but she raises her boba to his. “Cheers,” Marinette says weakly.

***

On a good day, a cup of boba has two hundred fifty calories when the tapioca is replaced by grass jelly and the sugar level is brought to less than half. On a bad day, if her sweet tooth demands regular sweetness and tapioca, it can be driven up to seven hundred calories.

It’s why Marinette has begrudgingly limited herself—for the sake of her wallet and health—to only drink boba once a week.

And it’s why she and Chat Noir, decked in hoodies and track pants in an attempt to look normal, are lined up underneath the blazing sun at Thirstea.

Their disguises don’t do much, because a crowd has formed around them. First there are whispers of is that Ladybug and Chat Noir, then a girl summons up her courage to ask for a selfie, and finally, the press starts driving in. By the time that happens, they have luckily made it inside the shop, where the air-conditioning blasts out on the highest setting.

Another snap of the camera. Chat Noir is staring pensively at the menu when a thought hits Ladybug. “Have you ever had boba before?” she asks him.

He nods absentmindedly, still looking. Everyone in line is whispering or peering at them, and Ladybug sees a phone held up in the back, most likely recording.

They make it to the counter when Nadja Chamack and her team, armed with cameras and microphones, invades the shop. The girl at the register looks slightly overwhelmed and a little alarmed, but she doesn’t tell the press to leave.

“Ladybug!” Nadja calls. “You’ve been photographed once or twice coming to this shop in the past month—is this your favourite bubble tea shop?”

“Yup!” she replies.

“What’s your go-to order?”

“Depends on the day.” Ladybug turns back to the cashier, leaving Chat to deal with the press. He has the uncanny ability to drag on a brief topic for an unsolicitedly long amount of time. “I’ll have an original milk tea with tapioca,” she tells the cashier. “Regular ice and seventy percent sugar.”

The girl looks a little starstruck, but she jots down the order. With a tug on Chat’s tail, he turns around from entertaining the press to place his own order.

“One durian smoothie, please!” he chirps, chipper as always.

Ladybug chokes on air.

The girl taking their order also seems taken aback, but her recovery time is much quicker than Ladybug’s. Instead, offering him a quick, slightly strained smile, she jots his order down. “Is that all, then?”

Chat takes the chance to pay for both of their orders while she’s caught in her confusion. By the time Ladybug snaps back to her senses, it’s too late—Chat is already pulling aside to wait for their bobas to finish. Nadja and her crew take the chance to start their questions again.

“Chat Noir,” Nadja addresses when it’s clear Ladybug’s still out of commission. “If I heard you right, you chose a durian smoothie?”

He gives a nod so proud that Ladybug swears she dies a little inside.

“Could you tell us why? From what I know, durian is a well-debated fruit. Many people love it, but many also cannot stand the smell.”

Chat ponders the question thoughtfully. “The smell is rather funny,” he finally replies. “But I like the flavour! It has a very rich texture as well, and tastes pretty different from the smell, so it doesn’t actually taste bad.”

“Ladybug?” Nadja gestures for the cameras to face her. “What are your thoughts on durian?”

She’s too busy thinking about Adrien Agreste raising his cup of boba to bump against hers—a durian smoothie—and his casual enthusiasm for the fruit that Nadja’s words don’t even click in her brain. Who would’ve expected Chat Noir to have the same (terrible) taste as her crush? The coincidence leaves her feeling disjointed.

“Uh… Ladybug?” Chat waves his hand in front of her. “Are you okay?”

She finally snaps out of her reverie long enough to scramble for a response. Ladybug manages a sheepish smile in Nadja’s direction. “I’m doing fine, thank you.”

Chat frowns. “Ladybug, that wasn’t her question—”

Before either of them can say anything more, the girl making the drinks pops her head out from the counter. “Your drinks!” she says, then beams at both of them. “Here’s a buy-one-get-one free coupon! Please come by often!”

Chat’s eyes glimmer when he accepts his durian smoothie. Ladybug takes her own with much less enthusiasm. Focus is hard enough with the snap of Nadja’s cameras and the chaos all around them—the fact that an even larger crowd has gathered outside Thirstea in order to catch a glimpse of their favourite superheroes makes it worse. It’s all too much to take in, and Ladybug’s brain is still stuck on Adrien Agreste and Chat Noir and durian smoothies.

“We’re going to take off,” Chat tells Nadja, then waves at the camera. “See you guys around! Come on, LB.”

She allows him to drag her out of the store, then with a flick of his baton and a snap of her yo-yo they’re swinging off, bobas in hand and the rest of Paris watching them go.

But Ladybug isn’t thinking about them at all.

When they finally settle down somewhere secluded, Chat immediately stabs his straw through the top of his drink and takes an obnoxiously loud slurp. Ladybug can smell the scent of durian from where she’s sitting, and instinctively, she wrinkles her nose and shifts away. She pokes her straw into her own drink, still staring off at the distance.

A coincidence, yeah. Her crush and her partner both have awful taste in bubble tea flavours. It’s nothing but a coincidence.

“Are you going to drink yours?” Chat is asking, still slurping obliviously. “I wanna try your flavour.”

He makes a grab for her drink, and Ladybug ducks away. “Your breath smells like durian. You can’t drink from my straw.”

“Hey! Let me try!”

For a little while Chat wrestles for her drink, nearly spilling his own in the process. In the end he snatches out from her fingers, laughing raucously. Ladybug is giggling as well, forgetting about her predicament for the moment. This is what she’s used to; their routine of banter and playfulness that’s easy—it’s straightforward. Not confusing.

That snaps her right back to the problem. Chat sips her drink, smacking his lips in a purposefully annoying way, and makes his verdict. “Not bad. I like mine better. Wanna try?”

Ladybug shakes her head and reclaims her drink. As casually as possible, she asks, “Do you get boba often?”

“Mm, no. This is actually the second time I’ve gotten the drink.” He swirls his straw around. “Honestly, with all the percentages you give for the sugar and the ice, I’m not too sure what to say. My friend took me to get boba a little while ago, so…durian is actually the only flavour I’ve ever tried.”

A casual dump of information, information that really wouldn’t have meant anything. It’s vague enough that any other person wouldn’t have made any sort of connection; it’s the information they often share between each other.

Except for the fact that she—Ladybug, Marinette—might be the friend in question. And Chat Noir—Chat Noir is…

She stares across the building, where an ad of Adrien, the Fragrance is displayed.

No way.

“Um,” Ladybug stammers. “Your friend took you out for boba because you’ve never had it before?”

He’s painfully oblivious to her panic. “Yeah, about a week ago. You know, it’s pretty funny because she had a similar reaction to you when I ordered the durian smoothie. Apparently she hates the smell too.”

“Your friend?” Ladybug echoes.

“Yeah, my friend. Are you okay, m’lady?”

Can’t really breathe properly, so I’m not really okay, but youcan’tknowandIdon’treallyknowwhat’sgoingonrightnow—

“I, um, just realized I have something to do,” Ladybug stammers out, because it’s the only thing she can think of saying. She flails, but somehow manages to get to her feet. “Uh—uh, do you want my milk tea? I can’t swing around very well if I’m holding it because it might get on my suit and my hair—oh my God, my hair! I got ice cream once and tried to eat it while going around Paris on my yo-yo and it went so badly and honestly I feel like the bubble tea will do the same so you can drink mine too since I can just get another one by myself soon but I really gotta run—”

She all but shoves the cup into his confused hands. It’s a whole miracle Chat doesn’t drop it then and there, just like it’s a miracle Ladybug hasn’t screamed or slipped up or promptly tripped over air and simply… lay there crying.

“Ladybug–” she hears him call, but it’s interrupted by the zing of her yo-yo.

She takes off as fast as possible.

Marinette has never been so hasty in detransforming, but as she slips through the rooftop back into her room, she’s already calling Tikki out before she touches down onto her bed. She slams onto pillows and the soft mattress in her regular clothing, buries her face into the nearest cushion, and screams.

She really doesn’t deserve Tikki’s patience, but her kwami stays beside her and pats her with tiny paws until Marinette’s throat is hoarse and she has more or less yelled the remaining cinders of her panic and confusion into her pillow.

When Marinette finally raises her head to look at Tikki, her kwami has her hands on her hips. “Well?” she asks. “I didn’t want to interrupt your breakdown, but now that you’re through, can you tell me what it’s about?”

Marinette thinks about the cup of boba and the boy she’d left back on the roof. Then the one that sits in front of her in class, with the same shade of blonde hair and emerald eyes, both ordering durian boba.

“I think Chat Noir is Adrien Agreste,” she tells Tikki weakly.

Tikki has a scarily-good poker face. “Have you now,” she replies with calmness Marinette is incapable of. “And why do you think so?”

“Because—because—because they both like durian!” It comes out as a distressed wail.

Tikki ponders the question. Then replies, “I see.”

It’s such an awfully vague response that Marinette is tempted to bury her face into her pillow to scream some more. But she doesn’t, instead pulling out her notebook from the stand and a pencil. “I’m going to draw a venn diagram,” she announces with newfound determination. “I might just be jumping to a conclusion too quickly. And—and there was that one time when Chat was there but Adrien was too, right? When Gorizilla attacked?”

“Right,” Tikki agrees. “But you also did a similar trick with Multimouse and the fox Miraculous, so…”

“Chat didn’t have the fox or mouse Miraculous. Anyway… they both have blonde hair and green eyes.”

She puts that in the similar column. She thinks about it for a couple seconds more, and writes “composed” in Adrien’s column and “a mess” in Chat’s.

“Oh, come on.” Tikki flits closer. “You know very well Adrien isn’t as composed as you make him out to be. The only reason you don’t recognize it is because you’re even worse around him.”

Marinette stubbornly keeps those two where they are, even if she knows deep down that Tikki is right. For a while, she goes on making her list, with Tikki criticizing almost every decision she makes. Adrien Agreste has neat hair, a polite smile, the best grades in class and manners that would woo anyone’s parents. Chat Noir’s hair is messy and untamed, his smile is almost always accompanied with a raucous laugh and shutting up isn’t in his vocabulary. He steals food and drinks and everything he can from her whenever she brings it.

She scribbles and erases and thinks and stresses, getting a week’s worth of confusion down and then some.

“Marinette,” Tikki finally advises when Marinette has run out of ink. “Why don’t you just ask Adrien tomorrow at school subtly about it? If he didn’t mind telling Ladybug he went out for boba with Marinette, he probably wouldn't have qualms telling Marinette about getting boba with Ladybug. It’s not as if your identities need to remain a secret anymore.”

Ask Adrien.

Ask Adrien.

Sure, they’re on good terms now. They’re friends. Marinette’s crush has faded into a more manageable level, and she can talk to him without her voice rising an octave higher than its usual key. She hasn’t tripped and fallen on her face in front of him for at least two weeks.

But this—with the possibility that Adrien Agreste is Chat Noir? To think she’d waxed poetic about Chat Noir to Tikki every night for months? It’s unspeakably insane to think about, and she doesn’t have the courage and probably never will but Marinette thinks she’s genuinely going to die if she doesn’t get closure—

“Okay,” she agrees at last, because it’s the only logical answer.

***

Adrien is the one who comes to find Marinette before she can go find him.

“Hey!” he calls from behind her.

In a quite frankly astonishing display of improvement, Marinette doesn’t scream or fall on her face, even if she does freeze for a good couple seconds too long.

“Uh… Marinette?” Adrien taps her shoulder. “I wanted to return the physics notes to you. You gave me your notebook from last time because I missed the class. Here.”

She takes the notes from him, movements stiff. A million words to say come piling from her throat, but they stick to the top of her mouth drily and none make it past her lips.

Adrien Agreste. Chat Noir. They’re the same person? How can they be the same person? Is it just a huge coincidence? Who is Chat Noir? Who am I, even?

Before she can work herself into more of a panic, Marinette gives him a forced smile, hugging her notebook to her chest. “Thanks!” she shrieks. “I gotta—I gotta run. See you around!”

She trips over air on her way out, face beetroot.

***

“Listen,” Tikki whispers to her, munching on her cookie as Marinette locks herself in a stall of the girls’ washroom. “You gotta do it. Just… just don’t think that he’s Adrien Agreste. I heard imagining people as potatoes helps with stage fright?”

Marinette lets out a distressed noise. “Stage fright isn’t my problem, though!”

“Adrien fright? If you ask me, it’s pretty similar. Anyway, just ask him if he’s had bubble tea recently or something! You don’t know until you try. It won’t be that bad. What’s the worst case scenario?”

“That you-know-who turns out to be you-know-who!”

“We did not decide on these codenames.”

“Yeah, but what if someone hears—”

Tikki interrupts her by giving her a little pinch. “Calm down, Marinette! It’ll be fine. Besides, is it really that big of a problem if it’s true?”

No, it isn’t. Marinette has thought long and hard about it last night, lying awake on her bed, unable to sleep because of the heat and turbulent thoughts and theories all mixing together. Would it be a bad thing, if Chat turned out to be Adrien? No—she could think of a thousand more worse people for Chat to be, and if she were to be perfectly honest, no better person than Adrien. But at the same time, it’s overwhelming in the strangest way: the sort that sends her heartbeat spiking, thoughts scattering, stomach turning in a not-quite-unpleasant way.

Marinette really doesn’t know what to think about it, and that’s the scariest part.

“Okay.” Tikki interrupts her train of thought. “We should probably get going before you’re late for class. If you hurry, you can probably ask Adrien about it before the bell goes off.”

Marinette steels her back. “Okay,” she grinds out with wavering determination. “Okay, I’m gonna do it.”

Tikki lets out a squeak of Attagirl! before diving back into her purse. Marinette marches out of the stall, down the hallway, and into the classroom.

She really hates the way her throat still closes up when she scans the room and her eyes land on Adrien. All of a sudden, she’s reverted to herself months ago, when her crush on him had reached its peak; when she’d been a jumble of frayed nerves and blabbering and hand motions violent enough to whack any bystander that wandered too close.

No, Marinette tells herself firmly. No freaking out. No stuttering. I’m past that.

“Adrien,” she calls, and he turns away from his conversation with Nino.

“Hey!” his smile is a thousand watts too bright. “We were just talking about you. Nino said he’s never tried boba as well.”

The word boba nearly has her choking on spit. “Cool,” Marinette manages out. “That’s very… cool.”

Nino’s eyebrows furrow. “You okay?”

“Fine! Th-that’s great you want to introduce Nino to boba as well! I’m glad to hear you liked the drink.”

Marinette’s well aware that she sounds like a buffering tape-recorder right now. She marches to her desk, sits down just as stiffly, and pinches herself on the arm, out of Adrien and Nino’s sight. Alya has yet to arrive—it’s now or never, Marinette knows. The longer she waits, the more nervous she’ll make herself, and the harder it’ll be. So…

“Adrien!” she blurts out again, voice too loud. Even Rose and Juleka leave their conversation briefly to glance at her.

He’s good-natured as ever when he turns to her, and Marinette is struck with another wave of trepidation. It’s all too sudden. It’s all too much. She takes a deep breath, mind turning to absolute mush, and somehow stammers out, “Have you gotten boba since that one time?”

She really can’t blame him for looking so confused at her question, but to Adrien’s credit, he regains his composure rather quickly. The bewilderment on his face quickly shifts to mild curiosity.

“Yeah,” he replies. “I actually went yesterday with a friend. Thank you for introducing me! I’ll probably go more often now if I find the time.”

Marinette’s mouth is dry. Her hands are sweaty. Her head feels like it’s going to explode. Her heart has moved to her throat and she’s positive that it’s going to stop beating any moment now.

“Oh.” It’s the only noise Marinette feels mentally capable of forming. Sentences are hard. Speaking is impossible. “Um, yesterday?”

“Yeah, it was pretty hot yesterday. I went to Thirstea, actually!” He scratches the back of his neck. “I mean, it’s the only boba shop I know at the moment so it doesn’t really mean anything, but… my friend who I went with really liked it too, so I think I’ll stick to Thirstea for now. Until I try all the flavours I want.”

Amidst her own confusion, Marinette somehow manages to think, if you wanted to try all the flavours you wanted why did you get durian again yesterday? It’s second nature: if the boy in front of her is Chat Noir—a fact that, despite the inconclusive results given by her venn diagram, is becoming more and more clear—then Marinette can’t help but want to tease him back.

Except if Adrien Agreste is Chat Noir and Chat Noir is Adrien… God. She’s just going in circles and getting nowhere closer to the final destination.

It doesn’t even hit Marinette that she hasn’t responded to Adrien and that’s why he’s staring at her so apprehensively. The shrill ringing of the bell startles all the class back into their seats, Adrien included, who shoots her a small smile before turning back around.

The rest of the period finds Marinette unable to pay the slightest bit attention. Mme. Bustier’s words travel in one ear, out the other, all muted static compared to the main problem at hand.

And a problem it is. She looks at Adrien’s golden head in front of her, imagining the flicker of black ears. If she reached down and mussed his hair up, it would look like Chat’s. They’re the same height too, to think of it. All the differences she had listed on her venn diagram seem to melt away, until Marinette is faced with one terrible, wonderful, conclusion.

***

She doesn’t confront Adrien about anything after the first period ends, nor does she at lunch, nor after. It’s too overwhelming to think of, but it hardly seems fair to keep him in the dark. When she asks Tikki to confirm at lunch, the only thing her kwami does is shrug with an indecipherable expression on her face—Marinette takes it as a verification.

But it’s a different story after school. By then, Marinette has made up her mind.

Her first stop is Thirstea. It’s not as sweltering as it were the day before, even if she has to wipe the sweat from her forehead after waiting fifteen minutes outside. The store isn’t as bustling now that Ladybug and Chat Noir aren’t there, so Marinette takes advantage of the peace to calm her thoughts. They have patrol in thirty minutes; she has thirty minutes to gather her thoughts and figure out how she’s going to come through with this. But is thirty minutes really going to help? She’s had the whole day alone to her thoughts, and, like it or not, she’s barely gotten anywhere.

When she finally gets her order—a fruit tea for herself, a durian smoothie for Chat Noir—Adrien Agreste—there’s only twenty three minutes to go.

Marinette transforms into Ladybug, hidden in an alley, and goes to wait for her partner to show up on the rooftop they agreed to. Then, once she’s reached the rooftop, she calls off her transformation.

The boba is still cold in her bag, so she wraps her hand around them to fend off the blistering heat from the sun. It’s uncomfortable, waiting like this, but physical discomfort is still better than working up a storm in her own thoughts, which Marinette is trying to distance herself from. They come in waves of stress, anxiousness, uncertainty, and fear. But she has to do this.

Her mood must’ve been evident enough for Tikki to feel, even though her kwami has slipped inside her purse to give her thoughts some space. She pokes her head out.

“Marinette,” Tikki says, a hint of concern in her tone. “You don’t have to do this now if you’re not ready, you know. Chat Noir will understand.”

Marinette, having resorted to biting her nails—she must be really nervous, because that’s a habit she’d gotten rid of years ago—shakes her head. “I can’t keep pushing it back. It’s one thing not revealing each other’s identities, but now that I know… I can’t just… not tell him. It’s not possibly fair, not when he’s waited for so long.”

“...are you happy that it’s Adrien?” This question is more tentative, quieter.

Marinette props her chin in her hands and stares at the skyline. Is she happy that it’s Adrien?

“Yeah,” she replies. “Yeah, I am.”

***

Chat Noir vaults over onto the roof, and he’s six minutes early. Marinette sees him before he sees her; she watches him look around for a couple of seconds, slightly confused.

She takes a deep breath and steps out of the shade of the door. “Chat Noir!” she calls.

He jumps around. “M’lady, you—”

His voice trails off. “M-marinette? I—uh, hi! I wasn’t expecting to see you here. I was actually going to find Ladybug but I might’ve gotten the wrong building! What—what, uh, are you doing up here?”

After a day of planning out the words to say, it’s rather funny how she can’t even form a semblance of the sentences she’s thought up.

It’s also a miracle in and of itself that she doesn’t stutter, panic, or go absolutely speechless. Even if her script lays lost and forgotten in the back of her head, Marinette says in a surprisingly steady voice, “I was actually waiting for you.”

Chat Noir doesn’t move from where he’s standing, so she heads towards him. “Did… Ladybug tell you I was going to be here?”

“Uhmh,” is the noise that makes its way out of Marinette’s mouth. She clears her throat and tries again. “I brought you boba because it’s hot today,” she explains. “I also wanted to talk to you.”

She sees it behind his eyes; questions, confusion, but most importantly, the beginning notes of a realization.

“Wait.” He doesn’t budge from his spot, eying her cautiously. “What do you want to talk about?”

“About the fact that you’re probably Adrien Agreste?”

Even the air, laden with the heat of the day, seems to still between them. Marinette looks up at him, and his reaction is the only confirmation she needs that she is indeed right.

Chat Noir’s reaction is less loud than she had expected. It’s shock, probably, the stage that Marinette has been stuck in for the good part of the day, because he still remains frozen. Then, in a shaky uncertain voice, he asks, “Ladybug?”

Her next breath escapes her in the form of a huff, a half-choked laugh. “We’re idiots.”

His lips lift into a wavering smile. “What.”

And then Marinette is laughing, because it’s so stupid. All the pent-up emotions come tumbling out uncontrollably and she’s laughing and laughing, doubling over and clutching at her stomach and nearly dropping her bag of their boba drinks.

Through her own giggles, she hears Chat mumble, “Oh my God,” and the way he says it makes everything all the more hilarious.

When Marinette finally gathers herself enough to straighten, she’s wiping tears from her eyes. Chat Noir is watching her, although his expression has softened into something that looks suspiciously close to fondness.

“Is this why you asked me about boba this morning?” he questions. “If I’d gone to get it with a friend?”

Marinette gives her eyes one last wipe. “Yeah. I just—when you ordered durian boba yesterday and all that you said—it was too suspicious for me to ignore.”

“Oh.” He tugs his hands through his hair—messy golden hair, how hadn’t she noticed how similar Chat and Adrien always were?—and lets out another groan. “Oh. I’m dumb.”

“You could’ve been any other person if I hadn’t been, well, me,” Marinette points out. “Tikki told me it’s due time, anyway. But yes, you’re dumb. So am I.”

“My identity got exposed because I ordered a durian smoothie?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“Oh my God.”

She’s beginning to see why Tikki had found it endlessly amusing watching her panic. Instead of further antagonizing Chat, Marinette reaches into her bag to take out his durian smoothie. She stuffs it into his arms, and he’s too confused to do anything but accept the drink and the straw it comes with.

“Don’t worry,” she reassures him before she can stop herself. “I won’t tell anyone that number one model Adrien Agreste runs around Paris in a leather catsuit. My lips are sealed.”

The moment the words leave Marineette’s mouth, she feels her face heat up. It’s one thing to tease him before, now it feels like she’s treading on the edge of a cliff with a long, long drop. He’s still her partner, but there’s another aspect that they will figure out—with time, undoubtedly—and now is too soon to push it so much.

To her relief, Chat Noir’s face lights up, and a much wider smile slips across his face. “I’m still in shock, you know,” he tells her. If that’s his in-shock voice, then Marinette is thoroughly impressed. “But thank you. My father might have a bone to pick with this outfit if he ever found out.”

Relief is cool against the heat. “Your father won’t be the only one with the bone to pick with you,” she replies. “The bell is quite a… bold statement.”

He laughs once more. “I happen to like the bell the best, so I don’t know what your problem is.”

He has no business to smile so brightly like that, Marinette thinks to herself. In front of her is the boy she’s turned down countless times—the same one she would wax lyrical to Tikki every night before bed. God, what a coincidence. Or really, what a stroke of luck.

She’s jolted from her thoughts when Chat stabs his straw into his durian smoothie with a loud pop.

“Do you want to talk?” Marinette offers. “Somewhere shadier, that is? You probably have a lot of questions. I know I do.”

Chat nods. “Yeah. Yeah, that would work.”

She starts towards the small door on the rooftop, then stops when she realizes that Chat hasn’t been following her. Instead, his gaze is fixed thoughtfully on his drink, like he’s contemplating something important.

“Chat?” Marinette prompts. “Hey, are you okay?”

Then his face brightens. “I’m taro-bly sorry,” he says. “I just got distracted because you’re such a cu-tea.”

Marinette’s jaw drops open. It’s not that she’s particularly surprised by the pun, given his penchant for dropping them at the most terrible (taro-ble?) of moments, but she had half the mind to believe she’d permanently shocked the humour out of Chat Noir. Moreover, the fact that it’s Adrien Agreste saying these so casually is still new to her.

The grin he gives her is absolutely shit-eating, yet somehow, it works perfectly in her mind on Chat’s face as it does on Adrien’s. It also snaps her out of her reverie.

“Now my head is going to explode,” Marinette grumbles. “C’mon, cat-boy. We have a lot to discuss.”

He catches up with her with a quick jog, still slurping out of his boba. “I’m glad it’s you,” he tells her when they fall side-by-side. “In case you didn’t know.”

Marinette hides her grin behind her own drink, but she thinks Chat catches it nonetheless. “Me too,” she tells him. “Even if you have terrible taste in boba.”

“We wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have terrible taste,” he points out, and they both share a laugh. 

Notes: Here’s my fics masterlist! 

#miraculous ladybug #adrienette #ladynoir #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #ladybug #chat noir #this was ridiculously long holy crap #identity reveal #boba reveal #its been a while kids #mlb fic #my writing

[snitches-at-dawn]

draco fucking malfoy || d.m.

a/n: hi : ) i’m liza :) this is my first fic here and the first thing i’ve written in about a year apart from my uni assignments.

this is a soulmate!draco x reader, 1.6k words.

please please do give me any sort of criticism! it’s highly appreciated :) i hope you enjoy this fic!

find part 2 here and the alternative ending here

draco fucking malfoy. the bloody bastard.

you glared at him across the hall as he and his flunkies guffawed unattractively. what you wouldn't give to shove his wand up hi-

"(y/n)?" harry snapped his fingers in front of your face. you jerked out of your daydream of physically harming malfoy to the boy sitting besides you, "you're making it snow you git."

you blinked and looked above you to see soft snow flakes falling on your table. absentmindedly you brushed it off harry's hair.

"what were you thundering on about this time?" he asked.

you shook your head, "nothing important," but harry had seen your eyes on the slytherin with hair as white as the layer of snow on your shoulders. his eyes lit up mischievously, "nothing wouldn't happen to be snogging puggy parkinson would he?"

"he could pants her and fuck her in reverse on the ruddy table for all i care," you muttered as you refrained from looking at him to confirm harry's words, and reached for the coffee carafe to fill up a to-go mug.

"so you don't mind that you have to sit for potions with him in 20 minutes?" harry asked as you both got up to start your trek to the dungeons.

"not at all," you replied instantly, throwing a furtive glance at the slytherin table to ensure 'nothing' wasn't snogging anyone, "although i am quite excited to see what slughorn's like."

you and harry chattered with hermione and ron who had caught up with you all the way to the dungeons about the newest addition to the hogwart's staff. the four of you entered the room previously occupied by snape which somehow seemed less gloomy- coincidence? maybe.

as the rest of your class filled in, you noticed that there were only a dozen of you progressing to NEWT level. sadly, that included draco fucking malfoy. harry smiled at you comfortingly as she realised who you were glowering at. "it's okay," he mouthed at you as slughorn entered the room.

the round-bellied man introduced himself, directed harry and ron to the back of the room to pick up extra copies of the prescribed text, and carried on with his idea of an impressive first class.

he walked around the room questioning the class on the potions he had prepared, only being answered by hermione whose hand hit the air well before anyone else's. as he reached the third potion, you recognised it immediately as amortentia- you had read about it in a book about potion-making history and answered before hermione could.

"that's amortentia, sir, a love potion."

"indeed it is ms. ...?"

"(y/l/n), sir," you supplied for him.

"alright ms. (y/l/n), if you could step up and tell me two characteristics and what you smell?"

you walked over to the front of the class, "it's most recognisable by it's distinct mother of pearl sheen and steam rising in spirals, sir," you paused to take a sniff but were momentarily stumped. taking another sniff you said bewildered, "i can smell morning dew on grass, sir, but nothing else."

"no matter, m'girl, take five points for your answer, and five for you too ms. granger," slughorn said without missing a beat.

you turned around to see hermione in a sort of daze and snorted to yourself, then saw almost everyone in your class with the same hypnotised look.

everyone except draco fucking malfoy.

git was leaning back in his chair pretending to examine his fingernails as if you couldn't tell he was covertly watching you.

slughorn cleared his throat as you rammed your elbow into your best friend's side to drag him back to reality and away from his daydream which you supposed was about ginny. harry glared at you as the other students refocused on potions.

the rest of the class passed in a haze as you blindly followed harry and you thought on what you had smelt- morning dew on grass. not dean thomas, your current crush. not a new car. not the familiar smell of your dad's cologne or mum's perfume. not leather or the wood of broom or coffee or any smell that you associated with your favourite people. not even- draco?

you tried to cut your sopophorous bean which promptly flew across the room- right to where the slytherins were sitting, where draco fucking malfoy was sitting. you retrieved it, purposefully slowing down a tiny bit to try to get a whiff of the blonde, wondering if you had forgotten what he smelt like.

nope, still smelt like a git.

a git whose scent threw you back to that night on the astronomy tower where he unceremoniously ended your two year relationship the day before the year ended in your fifth year.

~throwback~

"i dunno, (y/n), it's just not feeling right anymore, you know?"

"no i bloody well do not. elaborate for me," you spat at him.

you could almost see his guards go up.

"there's no reason for you to snipe at me, (y/n)"

"i'll do what i want draco. you don't give me explanations, i won't give you an explanation."

draco's face hardened as he clenched his fists- you knew he was getting riled up. good. you wanted to piss him off right now.

he took a deep breath and walked towards you, lifting his hand as if to touch you somehow but you flared your nostrils and he shoved it in his pocket.

"i don't know what to say, (y/n), it's just feeling... off," he finished lamely.

you stared at him incredulously, "you didn't seem to be feeling off two days ago when we were shaggi-"

"because we were fine then!" he said quickly.

you crossed your arms over your chest and took a step towards him with your eyes narrowing, "so in forty-eight hours you did a full one-eighty about the past two years", your voice was dangerously soft and steady, not letting on how angry you felt.

he raked his hands through his silky soft hair and shrugged.

"nothing to say anymore? alright then, i'll talk. the yule ball. two years of birthdays, anniversaries and hogsmeade trips. the countless letters from home we dealt with. the-"

"is there a point to this?" draco asked coldly.

you laughed lowly, "the point is that you seem to have forgotten two years of memories, draco malfoy. if you had a solid reason for doing this, i might not have cared so much, but the fact that you can't even give me a reason makes me realise what a coward you are. the great draco fucking malfoy can't even dump his girlfriend properly," you stepped back and gave him a once over, "pathetic."

and you left him on the tower.

alone.

when you shook out of your stupor you were at your desk. you saw harry crush his bean and followed suit. ron coughed violently over his cauldron making you look at him- but someone else caught your eye. draco was watching you.

you casually flipped him off with your eyes trained on the textbook as you flipped to the next page with your other hand.

you somehow finished your potion ending up with a milky solution rather than the clear result you should have had. you peered into hermione's cauldron which was purple, the contents of rons' resembled cement but harry's was startlingly similar to the book's description.

the four of you walked out of class with harry gripping the vial of 'liquid luck' rather tightly.

at dinner that day, ron turned to you, "so are you excited to find out who your soulmate is?"

you snorted, "i'm more excited to turn seventeen so i'll be able to apparate. i'll be getting to and from classes like that," you snapped your fingers to emphasise your point.

hermione looked at you exasperated, "you can't app-"

"apparate inside hogwart's, yes, we know," you and the boys chorused, leaving her looking quite wounded.

"c'mon (y/n), you must be excited to know who your soulmate is, i'll have to wait till next july to know," harry said through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

"i suppose i am a bit, yes, but i wouldn't have minded getting some time to date dean. i know he fancies me too but if it isn't his name on my wrist, i don't see the point of dating him," you replied.

"well it's only a week now," ron piped up.

"can't wait," you muttered.

the following week flew by in a haze of potions, defence against the dark arts, charms, transfiguration and never ending rolls of parchment for homework.

the next thing you knew it was the night before your birthday and you found yourself feeling quite nervous. you had locked yourself in your dorm an hour before midnight, wanting to be alone for when you saw the boy's name. he would get to know at the same time as you did since you were older- the pair of soulmates would get the other's name on the older one's seventeenth birthday- and you had zero inkling of who the boy could be. was he even in your year? oh god what if he was in his second year? wasn't that a question of legality?

these sort of questions raced through your mind as you paced your room, redid your bed, refolded previously folded clothes and you watched the clock steadily tick to twelve.

the second your alarm went off, the scratching began on your left wrist.

you couldn't watch. you slapped your right hand over your eyes and waited till the feeling had stopped. slowly bringing your hand down you looked at the name.

your heart stopped.

your soulmate was draco fucking malfoy.

#draco malfoy #harry potter fanfiction #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x yn #draco malfoy x ravenclaw!reader #gryffindor #slytherin #ravenclaw #hufflepuff #hogwarts

[itsjustmyfantasyroom]

Via Text

The lovely @beccabarba requested a follow on from Via Email. Hope this hits the spot x

Thank you @detective-giggles for helping along the way.

Warnings: Bryan Kneef, I repeat Bryan Kneef. He is an ass-hole and slightly rough but reader feels safe. Thigh riding smut. Swearing. Use of Daddy, slut and whore.

WC:  1881

Enjoy x

You had just walked out of your 6th interview in 2 weeks since you had quite your job as Bryan’s assistant and personal sex toy. You had applied for multiple jobs and been to interviews with no luck, and you weren’t really sure why. You were up to date with all training and had more than enough experience but you hadn’t gotten an offer. You were lucky you didn’t have to cut into your savings to live just yet and your parents had told you they would help out as much as they could so you didn’t have to do that.

You walked out of the 6th interview feeling kind of flat, 6 interviews in 2 weeks and it actually hit you that maybe you might have to go back to school and start all over again. You hated yourself for sleeping with your boss and you hated yourself even more for letting him get under your skin. You walked passed a bar and thought ‘fuck it’, it was lunch time and you needed a drink. You walked in sitting at the bar and ordering a pink gin and lemonade and a serving of wedges when your phone buzzed with a new text. You rolled your eyes when you saw the number, and against your better judgement you clicked on it just to see what it said,

6 interviews in 2 weeks, you’ve been busy. Shame none of them have worked out. Let me know when you want your job back.

Bryan

“Prick” you muttered under your breath it all making sense why you hadn’t heard back from any jobs, you had put Bryan as your previous employee and clearly they had all contacted him.  

You sat there as your blood boiled, everything running through your head. You had two more drinks before you got down off your stool, throwing a tip on the bar walking out to get a cab. You got to the office building making your way inside, storming past work friends as they said hello actually not hearing them you were so filled with rage. The drinks that you had were enough to give you some courage and make your flitter slip slightly, but not enough that you were intoxicated to the point you didn’t know what you were doing.

You walked up the spiral stair case into your old office space, to Ruth sitting at your desk. Ruth was a floater, a lovely older lady that had been at the firm probably since before you were born,

“Y/N, how is your break dear? What brings you in, I thought you had another week off”

“Wait, what?” You frowned at Ruth.

“Mr Kneef said you were using some of your vacation days”

“Fucking asshole” you muttered “Where is Mr Kneef?”

“He has a meeting, should be done in 20 minutes. You can wait in his office if you like”

“Thanks Ruth”

You walked into Bryan’s office shrugging off your blazer to your navy, short sleeved, v necked aligned dress with a waist belt, black peep toed Mary Janes your hair pulled back in a low lose bun, throwing it over the arm chair followed by your bag and you walked straight over to his bar cart garbing a low ball glass and his best whiskey he hide behind everything else on the top shelf, pouring yourself a glass. You walked over to the large window, the window he pushed you up against too many times starring into the distance while you waited for him to come back. It wasn’t long after when you heard his voice barking orders at Ruth about the meeting,

“I’ll get that done for you straight away Mr Kneef. Y/N is waiting for you in your office.”

“Have you had lunch yet?” Bryan looked down at Ruth and she shook her head no “ Go now, take two hours today”

“But the paper work”

“Don’t worry about it. Two hours, go” he snapped.

Bryan didn’t come in straight away. You heard the main office door close and then you heard his office door close. You spun around on your heels, your cheeks burnt and your tummy filled with butterflies as you looked at him. His grey pinned stripped suit with white shirt and black tie, his hair in place and his salt and pepper beard making your knees weak, the smell of his cologne kicking in your core instantly. You looked at him over the rim of the glass as he made his way over to you with a straight face, shrugging off his jacket throwing it on his desk, rolling up his sleeves. You shot the rest of the amber liquid back slamming the glass down on his desk and his eyes narrowed at you and suddenly rage filled you again,

“You asshole” you snarled “You have been sabotaging my interviews”

“You don’t need a new job”

“The fuck I don’t”

“No Y/N you fucking don’t. I blocked your resignation letter and made it into a personal leave submission. You just needed to cool down”

You raised an eye brow at him, and the room fell silent as he walked to his bar cart poring himself a drink and then walking to his two seater couch sitting down resting one arm along the arm of the chair holding his glass, the other resting along the back and his legs spread open,

“Asshole” you snapped.

“How many did you have before that one?” Bryan said coolly tilting his head to look over at you.

“Excuse you?” you walked over to stand in front of him your face red from anger.

“You don’t talk like that unless you’ve been drinking” he raised his eye brow at you with a smirk “Clearly I sent the text at the right time, pushed the right button” he chuckled.

You scoffed, crossing your arms across your body leaning into your right hip tapping your left foot on the floor,

“What are you trying to achieve here Bryan?”

“I don’t say sorry and I never admit I was in the wrong” he raised both eye brows fast.

Your eyes locked with his, the way he looked deep into yours made you gasp and like a flash he put his glass down on the end table and he was in front of you, his body flush with yours, his body heat seeping through your cloths, one hand on your hip and the other on the side of your neck, you bit your bottom lip,

“You have one week of personal leave left, 3 weeks of full pay all together. You come back Monday and the whole week will be time and a half”

“No” you spat back. Bryan grinned as he ran his hand from your neck up into your hair threading it between your bun and your scalp, his hand balling into a fist tugging your hair and head to the side and he started to kiss the slope of your neck. You moaned as his beard ran along your skin, his lips wet from his drink and you grabbed onto his strong muscly arms, your finger nails digging into the material of his business shirt “I’ am not your whore Bryan”  

“No your Daddy’s little slut” Bryan said into your skin, the hand on your hip running down to your ass cheek giving it a slight spank. You whimpered and squeezed your thighs together for some relief.

Common sense kicked in and you pulled away from him, “I’ am not doing this, not while you’re seeing or fucking other people, I’ am no ones fool. And pigs will fly before I work for you again” You pushed your pointer finger into his chest “Don’t fuck up my next interview”

You went to walk away when you felt his long fingers warp around your wrist and he tugged you back roughly, pulling you to the couch, tugging you down to sitting and the down to lay on your back. You were taken aback by his actions, but you didn’t feel unsafe, quite the opposite, he had never turned you on this much before. You trusted Bryan and you knew in his weird asshole way he was trying to mend whatever this was.

Bryan grabbed both wrists pinning them above your head, his long fingers in a tight grip around them, his knee pushing between your legs and you spread them willingly. All common sense you just had was gone the moment he grabbed your wrist. Bryan lent over you, his free hand resting on the back of the couch, and he adjusted his leg so his thigh was resting on your centre and you gasped as he started to moved his leg over you in a fast pace, your back arching off couch from the feeling of your panties rubbing on your hardened pearl as Bryan run his thigh over you. His lips ghosting yours,

“You don’t need another interview because you have a job here” Bryan pushed his thigh deeper into you and you moaned “I’ am not fucking or dating anyone else anymore. Only you”

You could feel your coil winding tight and you started to roll your hips over Bryan’s thigh, he could feel your wet coming through his pants. His own need was straining against his zipper, but today wasn’t about him. Today was about getting you back in and out of work. Your body covered in sweat and you screamed his name breathless as you rode his thigh till you came down from your high. When you stopped moving your hips Bryan lent down his lips landing on yours kissing you deeply. His tongue darting into your mouth toying with your tongue. Bryan broke the kiss so you could catch your breath, sitting up on the couch for a moment and then standing up in front of Bryan, his hands going to your hips again,

“That’s your way of saying sorry?” you smiled.

“You’re complaining?” Bryan smirked with an eye brow raise.

“Of course not” you cupped Bryan’s cheeks running your thumb along his bottom lip, he pouting his lips to kiss the pad of it “Only me?”

“I don’t need to repeat myself Y/N” he looked firmly at you “No titles yet, we work up to that”    

“Ok” you smiled giving him a peak on the lips.

“I’ll come past when I’ am done and you can show me how sorry you are” Bryan grinned at you.  

“I have nothing to be sorry for” you sassed back, pulling away from him to walk away to get your jacket and bag, Bryan’s hand landing on your ass again with a spank before you were out of reach, you looked over your shoulder and winked “But by all means stop by later Daddy”  

 Tags: @thatesqcrush​​​​ @witches-unruly-heart​ @madamsnape921​​​​ @annabelleb49​​​​ @prurientpuddlejumper

#bryan kneef #bryan kneef x reader #bryan kneef smut #bryan kneef fic

[babyybitchhh]

Oh! You are taking requests! That’s awesome! ✨💫 I’d like to request a scenery where the reader lost her sister to Douma (she lacks proof... it’s an strong gut feeling?... she’s right tho) so, she get on his “good side” working in his cult to get a chance to avenge her sibling... her acting convincing and the “betrayal” amuses him to no end, so he decides to play with her before... eating/transforming her? Your choice! I’m a sucker for horror so it could be as dark as your heart allow it! 💜💃

Sorry this took so long cxnvldsnvoen and even though I tweaked the storyline just a wittle bit, I hope you like it! <3

Words: 2639

Rating: Explicit/R-18+

Warnings: Cunnilingus, involuntary urination, cannibalism (sort of, you know the drill with Douma), body horror? Sexual gore? Yandere?? I’ll be honest, I’m not entirely sure how to tag this one.

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24362824/chapters/66015442#workskin

♥♥♥♥

You were easily the most insincere person he’d ever had the pleasure of knowing.

The lie itself was written all across your face in bold, slashing brushstrokes for the whole world to see if only they’d look close enough but so few ever did. He alone was privy to your deceit. Only he saw that dishonest smile for what it was, always so placid and warm even though it just barely concealed the hissing viper within. The unwavering mask of false loyalty you greet him with and the rage waging war behind your eyes every time you look into his face. Everything was right there, completely out in the open as if you couldn’t be bothered with trying to hide it, and Douma loved that aspect of you perhaps most of all.

Just as any good figurehead should, he’d nurtured the darkness within you until it sprouted roots and festered, growing ever larger as your hate for him also grew. Welcomed you and your heavy burden with open arms. Encouraged it even. You were simply too fun to play with and he was ever so curious to see how far into depravity you would ultimately spiral because of him. In some ways it was sad. Pathetic even that you would devote what was left of your miserable life to being a duplicitous little bitch when there were so many alternatives that were far, far more pleasant. But it was also undeniably thrilling at the same time, almost intoxicatingly so.

To think that he had angered you to the point of not only chasing after him like a pitiable stray but to also go so far as joining his congregation just to get close … this was a uniquely exquisite indulgence he wouldn’t soon rush to squander. Particularly not when keeping you around afforded him so many plushy benefits.

“You’re trembling.” A dangerously sharp nail traces its path down the length of your twitching stomach. He pauses at your belly button, toys with the notion of jamming his finger right through it and into your guts, but ultimately decides to save it for another day. Humming faintly, Douma resumes his tauntingly slow descent south. “Are you cold?”

You refuse to look at him and instead push the side of your face deeper into the pillow. It was always like this no matter how often he opened up his chamber doors in welcome. You simply refused to stop playing your part even when he had you spread out like some shameless whore on his bed of silk and that would never cease to amuse him for as long as he allowed you to live. You’d have been quite the accomplished actress if only you hadn’t been going up against the head performer himself. That you were out of your league was, to him at least, painfully obvious but he didn’t have the heart to tell you that just yet. 

No, not yet. There was still more of you to savor.

Bending close, Douma presses a lingering kiss to the center of your stomach. He can taste you on his tongue, blooming notes of stale meat poisoned with bitter fury, and it elicits a quiet groan out of him. You were the finest decadence he’d had in his bed in a very long while.

“Poor thing, that just won’t do. Let me warm you up.”

You squirm against the sheets as he pecks his way lower, issuing expertly timed sighs at the appropriate intervals. He appreciates just how committed you are to the act. Wonders if you found some pathetic young sod to practice with before presenting yourself to him or if you were simply a brazen slut by nature. It’s hard to say which prospect delighted him more, though Douma hardly cares to know the answer, particularly when he presses two fingers to your outer labia and carefully spreads them open.

So soft and fleshy, the petal-like folds make his mouth water. He could imagine no greater joy than nibbling on those puffy little lips and taking nipping bites at the swollen pearl bud that peaks up at him even now until you were bordering on hysterics, fighting him tooth and nail to get away. Only then, only when you were a frenzied animal trying to escape his taloned clutches, would Douma allow himself to sink his teeth in at long last. He was certain your sweet cunt would give way under his jaw without much resistance, if any at all. It would be just like biting into a peach.

But you weren’t quite ripe enough yet. You were almost there -- so, so very close he could just about feel the meat of your womanhood being rendered and chewed between his molars -- but still not there. He would satiate his abominable hunger only when you were blackened, mind, body and soul with your hate.

Eagerly licking his lips, Douma leans down and swipes the tip of his tongue across your clit. The way the meaty nub clings to his taste buds, dragging against the salivating muscle until it pops back into place with a plump jiggle, delights him to no end. It was so swollen that even it’s protective hood did very little in the way of concealing your arousal. If he didn’t know any better, he’d almost think you’d had to go months on end without release. Evidently, though, your cunt just enjoyed being on the receiving end of his attention that much even when your brain was most assuredly in total disagreement with that sentiment.

He moans, very faintly, at the thought of your brain. The day of feast couldn’t come quick enough.

“Oh, sweet dove …” Douma coos, nuzzling into your clenching pussy as if he were a cat marking its territory. “Are you really so neglected? I’m not sure how you’ll ever forgive me for making you suffer like this.”

You choke down an unintelligible sound that’s half sob, half moan and bring your hand up to coquettishly hide your mouth from his line of sight. “Douma-sama … please …”

He can hear it in your voice. The lie. The obvious, blatant, belligerent lie and it goes straight to his cock.

Undeniably, you sold the performance with every aspect of your body language right down to the way you shyly spread your legs further apart for him but the lie was still there. It was simply too big to hide. Not the small, pardonable white lie a god could be swayed to forgive with the right offering but a massive, all encompassing falsehood that had long since swallowed up your ego like a gluttonous black hole. You weren’t a person any longer but a container merely housing the selfish urge for vengeance.

You were so damn close.

Nails digging into the plush swell of your thigh, Douma lays himself out flat between your legs and presses his mouth to your slit. For as brief as the gesture is, he still comes away with glistening wet lips and he greedily licks up the evidence just as a carnivore might lick its bloodied chops. Delicious.

“Don’t fret, my dear. I know exactly what you need.” A pause. Another playful kiss to your gushing cunt. The savory smacking of his lips is quickly followed by a dreamy, almost wistful sigh that makes you shudder, though it's impossible to say if that reaction was one of pleasure or abject disgust. Not that it really mattered either way to him. “Just relax. Let me take care of you and then you’ll be free to scurry off back to bed like a good little girl.”

You visibly tense under him and, smothering the cruel laughter that tries to claw its way up his throat, Douma glances at your face.

Still partially obscured by your clenched fist, you continue to hide from him as if you were an untouched maiden being ravaged against your will even though you’d spent countless nights with him in his room like this. Always, always playing your role. The tension in your neck, however, told a different story. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that you were biting your tongue and he derived a great deal of joy in the knowledge that you despised being talked down to so much. It just made him want to do it even more.

“Do you have any idea how good you taste? You’re like the sweetest forbidden fruit to me.” Tilting his head, Douma seals his lips around your pulsing clit and mouths at you. You arch, shoving your bare tits into the air with a quiet hiss but, still, you won’t look down at him. That suits him just fine though and he comes up off you a moment later with an obscenely loud, attention grabbing slurp that makes you twitch. “I could just eat you up, you know that?”

“D - Douma-sama --”

His tongue abruptly darts out, mercilessly lashing your clit.

You outright squeal, jolting at the sudden onslaught of stimulation before catching yourself and forcibly choking back any other sounds you may have been inclined to make. Douma is not so easily deterred though and he laps at you hungrily, attacking the engorged pleasure button from every possible angle until you’re a quaking mess underneath him. He could help himself to your sopping little cunt for hours if given the chance, high as a kite off the very real urge to consume you in the most literal sense, but it doesn’t take long at all to have you writhing uncontrollably. Although unfortunate, it was expected given just how needy and swollen you were -- and just for him at that. Who could have ever guessed?

“Oh, darling,” He pants, groans into the meat of your pussy. His eyes start to roll back in doped out bliss when your wild twisting drags those petal soft folds across his mouth as if you were intentionally teasing him now. Begging him to just take the plunge and take a bite out of you already.

It was almost enough to break his resolve. He wanted nothing more than to gorge himself on your delectably tainted body until he was too stuffed to move but the part of him that knows precisely how satisfying the payoff will be keeps him in check. It’s too soon -- still too soon to indulge -- and he has to make do with simply drooling all over your poor defenseless cunt while it creams around nothing except your hatred of him. Of all the meals Douma has enjoyed in his lifetime, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that you would be the one he’d relish the most.  

So caught up in the ecstasy inducing thought of finally eating you, truly eating you, he doesn’t notice you withdrawing a razor sharp pin from your hair until it’s right in his face. Blinking incandescent eyes at the foreign object, Douma allows himself another lazy lick at your still palpitating cunt and you seeth through gritted teeth, the glinting metal trembling in your hand.

“Get. Off.”

He acquiesces without a fuss.

You don’t even try to hide your surprise as you warily watch him sit up so that he’s kneeling on the futon between your spread legs. Clearly you’d expected a different reaction out of him and that makes Douma smile. You don’t seem to appreciate that though and you jerkily sit up straighter, jabbing the pin at him in warning.  

“Wipe that smirk off your face, demon!”

“Or what?” He asks sweetly. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Yes! I’m going to kill you and take revenge for my sister!”

Brows drawing up in affected pity, Douma pins you with a withering leer. “If you’re going to kill me anyway then I don’t see any reason why I should stop smiling.”

Balking, you sputter indignantly. “You - you horrid fiend --”

He moves too quick for you to react. His arm swings, slamming into your wrist with enough force to send the pin flying. You reel back with a haggard gasp but he grabs your forearm in a pinching grip and yanks you close again. Bringing his opposite hand up, Douma rams his palm into the underside of your outstretched limb. The resulting crack is instantaneous and horrible. Your face crumples in agony.

You scream.

“Now, now,” He purrs, letting your arm fall limp at your side. In a shell shocked panic, you try to reach for it as if to reset the bone yourself but he all too easily catches your shaking hand in his. Cradling it close to his chest just as one might do with a lover, Douma smiles at you as he effortlessly snaps your other arm just as he’d done the first. “Calm down. Everything will be alright.”

He can barely hear himself over your frenzied shrieking. It’s hard not to take pity on you when you’re like this, looking for all the world like nothing more than a wounded animal. Confused and so incredibly scared. Almost out of your mind with pain even as regret and terror flash at him through wide, glossy eyes.

It really was a shame too. You’d been so close to reaching full maturity but, well … this would probably do the trick just as well. Not right away, of course, because the only thing currently running through your mind were baser instincts that served no real purpose other than keeping you alive. You were in no mindset to humor your feelings of resentment and hate for him, or the loss of your sister for that matter.

Was that really what had prompted you to seek him out like this? Douma couldn’t exactly recall but it was a believable explanation. He was certainly willing to accept it, at least.

Deciding that the details didn’t really matter, he reaches out to grab your shoulders and shoves you back down on the bed. You wordlessly stare up at him in wild eyed terror as he rises above you like some sort of beautifully horrific wraith, preternaturally sharp teeth glinting in the low light when he grins at you. The shock must be starting to set in because your mouth moves but nothing comes out. Not so much as a peep, as though your voice box had been stolen.

He can’t help the deranged titter that bursts out of him. You were so damn cute .

“Don’t worry, darling. I won’t kill you. Not yet, anyway.” Contently sighing, Douma leans close to nuzzle his nose against yours in a mockingly affectionate gesture that only makes you shake harder. “You’ll stay here with me until you’re rotting from the inside out. I want you to despise me with every fiber of your being first and then, when you can’t even look at me without being consumed by rage, then I’ll finally eat you. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

You don’t respond - maybe you can’t - but he does feel the moment your bladder finally gives out and seeping wet warmth spreads across the front of his pants. A shudder of revulsion works its way down his spine and he clucks at you, letting his mouth tug into a disappointed frown.

“Such a high maintenance little girl … what should I do with you until then, hmm?” Douma thoughtfully puts his head to one side but quickly perks up at a sudden thought that has him smiling from ear to ear with nothing short of manic glee. “Oh, I know! Maybe I should break your legs too. Then you won’t be able to do anything at all without my help.”

An insignificant, fraying part of your conscience that had managed to cling to its humanity must register what he’d said because you begin shaking your head, still as silent as any mute, and that just makes his grin widen.

“I bet you’ll really start to hate me then, won’t you?”

#kimetsu no yaiba #KnY #douma x reader #Douma #kny douma #self insert bullshit #my writing

[cakeandpi]

Breanna!! major spoilers below

I love that Parker is trying and failing miserably at teaching thief skills because she doesn’t know how to teach this particular student yet.

Harry’s first Leverage-client meeting! And Parker upset that Sophie is taking back the lead, a role that Parker isn’t ready to entirely hand over to Sophie.

Also poor Breanna, she thought she did well on the ‘follow the money’ but came up waaaay short. It’s like showing up for the first class of college thinking it’s just going to go over the syllabus except per the professor’s email there’s already homework due.

Oooh, game of nose-goes? What’s the role that Harry’s going to play that the other’s didn’t want? It can’t just be to avoid playing Sophie’s fake-husband.

“I’ve lose track of the marraiges but I only had one husband.” Where’s my fanfic of all the women Sophie married in her past?

Hahahahaha Breanna managed to pickpocket Harry but she got pickpocketed by Parker. And I love the explanation of “I’m Parker”.

“Get him with a misdemeanor.” Oh Breanna Breanna Breanna. Those can be bribed out of. And oof, Harry’s a bit mean about the whole ‘they don’t care and bribe their way out of trouble’ bit, meanwhile Eliot is very matter of fact. I hope Brianna finds her footing pretty soon.

"I assume it’s rather difficult to rob a casino in general?”/“Eh, kinda.” LMAO PARKER. Also!! Did the Leverage writers finally get to write their casino heist story?

That ‘clothes in trashbags from couch to couch’ sounds like something’s Breanna’s done. Felt a little too throw-away-y for it to not be from her past.

“Hardison used to get me the job. And sometimes, a 401(k).” AMAZING. I love this detail.

Etouffee and jambalaya Brick&Basil truck! “The crescent city’s best local food truck” I love that little sign on the side.

“Huh. I couldn’t find the ‘Get Eliot a 401(k)’ section in the manual.” Omg the manual referenced earlier is for Leverage-thievery-stuff, not just hacking stuff. And of course Hardison would leave a (15 volume) manual for his little sister.

"You can’t plan a grift with a flow chart.” You can if you’re Parker and the flow chart is flexible enough.

“Parker, are you using a flow chart for all your interactions?” Oh no. But at the same time, a sideways callback to how Sophie was using grifting tricks on the team/Nate just because she could.

Parker does a great southern bell accent.

“Renegade. That’s what they used to call me on the job.” Amazing.

“I didn’t put police on your resume!” Oh Brianna, there’s all sorts of reasons someone would leave a job off a resume, he’s just gotta go with one that’s not “it was too long ago”

“Where were you stationed?” Hm, and this is for a casino job? Shreveport. Has to be.

I’M RIGHT

“I don’t miss.” You are going to miss, that’s definitely a Special Disc. And... he misses.

Chaudry’s an attractive looking bad guy.

Parker and cereal!

Oh and Breanna can’t stand the temptation. Also that pearl for whatever reason looks fake, though that might be because I’m more used to fake pearls.

I bet Old Cop’s spreadsheet is gonna be important later.

“I told you not to do it.”/“You would’ve.” Yeah but Parker would have waited, not gone for it right then and there. But Parker doesn’t feel the need to prove herself. Breanna does.

And Sophie keeps it from spiraling out of control by being very matter of fact - they’ve all messed up, but Breanna’s mess up makes her recognizable, so she’s off the front lines for the con.

Breanna leaves out of frustration, only none of the three others notice. Hm. Is she going to go get into some more trouble? Oh, no, she’s gone to be alone out in their hideout’s courtyard.

“Let me guess, you’ve come to make me feel better.”/“Oh, I think I’d be about the worst person in the world for that job.” At least Harry knows his strengths and comforting others is not one of them.

“Oh, poor baby, all you have is money and good looks and privilege and access.” Ah, this is not just about having to be sidelined for this con.

“And what about you, seems like you could do just about anything and all of its scary, what do you want?” And Breanna’s obviously feeling a bit down on herself, but rather than follow her into that mood Harry turns it around on her, pointing out that she is ridiculously talented and can do a lot of things, she just needs to decide what she wants to do with those skills. Does she just want to fool around and mess up and have fun? Does she want to work? Does she want to laze about? Does she want to improve on the skills she has? Does she want new skills? Because each one of those takes her on a different trajectory with Leverage and the team.

“I want the world to stop sucking. ... This team, it says it can make a difference. Okay, fine. I’ll give it a shot. Because I love my brother, and because I’m desperate, not because I believe in hope or something stupid like that.” I love her character motivation speech here.

I’m laughing at Parker getting frustrated because she can’t hide the money fast enough. And then she figures out a way, but they’ll have to make the dress bigger. (Oh, are they going to get the client involved with the dress design? That’d be cool!) And Parker and Sophie have a little talk about how Breanna wants to impress and that Parker’s going to have to teach her. And a reference to how the og team helped everyone on the team get better.

Now that is an amazingly poofy dress. I love it.

They did get the client involved with the dress alterations!! Yes!!

Eliot and Old Cop having cake together. And that’s gotta be some good cake with Eliot genuinely complimenting him.

Oh dear, Parker’s flowchart is getting caught because she’s sticking to it a little to hard, not letting it flow around her. It feels like she should be better at this though, with the 10-odd years that she’s had to do this without Sophie. But this might be more her falling back into old patterns, just like Sophie falling into patterns on leading the cons.

Ooh okay these guys are in on the con. Wait I should know these people?? I... don’t think so but maybe?

Flounce, flounce, kick

Oof. Too much money to carry out. Way too much. And Russian mob. (Is it a very distinctive tattoo Eliot?)

Okay the con’s gone off the rails, so it has to be rescued somehow. Breanna’s figured out a way (“did the math twice”) though everyone waits for Parker’s okay to go through with it. I don’t know exactly what it is - sink the vault into the river? Plant it on various gamblers? Make it seem like Chaundry was stealing from himself? But it rests on Breanna being right and not just showing off. But Parker’s seen that when Breanna’s under pressure - not fake 'practice’ pressure, the real stuff - she can perform, its just when she’s trying to impress that she fails.

“You cut your way through an ice cave. You escaped a gorilla enclosure. And you catered a wedding for the mob.”/“It wasn’t catering. It was a food sensory experience.” Is that a reference back to season one? If not, I really want to know more about that not-catering job!

Oh no!! Old Cop took a hit for Eliot. And as soon as the mafia goon is taken out, Eliot takes time to make sure Old Cop is all right. (If they mess up the con, the family loses the house but they can if needed con Chaundry again and get the house back. If Old Cop dies they can’t get him back.)

Okay Breanna at least has to know the baddies see real camera footage again, right? And Eliot seemed to almost deliberately not-quite look at the camera. They’ve got to be counting on the bad guys finding out and hitting the emergency lock.

All the money’s gone! But... how? Did Parker take Eliot with her into a vent? Fake wall?

Oh sir you are not good enough to accuse Sophie of having conned you without her turning it right back around on you. And she gets a one-person gloat too.

Lol and the pearl is gone.

Squish? Oho. They went through the floor and down the river.

Aww, Breanna’s joined Eliot on the ‘receiving end of Parker’s too-hard physical affection’.

“That was ... my cake, Parker! He made it special for me!” Methinks Eliot doth protest too much about him and Old Cop not being friends.

“I want to take on the bad guys. I have to learn everything.” ‘Have to’ is an interesting choice.

“Parker. My first memory is of 9/11.” Whereas that’s my.... 9th? 10th? grade math-class memory. Breanna's grown up in a very different world from Parker and Hardison - probably Eliot’s background is closest to hers.

And.... Parker how did you steal that pearl? Is this an exercise left to the viewers or a bit of ‘it’s tv, we’re having fun’? (Or both!)

#leverage redemption spoilers #leverage spoilers #spoilers #redemption 1x03

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] Also on AO3

Chapter 15: Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding his travels back in time through the domain of the Spiral.

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

(drained and weak) Let me…go grab a recorder.

MARTIN

Do you really need one?

ARCHIVIST

It would make me feel better about the whole thing. Makes it feel…

MARTIN

Real?

ARCHIVIST

…Important. It is important. To me. Even if…it doesn’t think so.

SASHA

Wait, do you hear something?

PAST ARCHIVIST

…Yes. Like a-a whirring sound?

TIM

Oh, goddammit.

[SOUND OF A TAPE RECORDER BEING SET DOWN ON A LEVEL SURFACE]

MARTIN

(heh) Guess it thinks it’s important, too.

ARCHIVIST

I guess so.

…

MARTIN

Are you gonna say it?

ARCHIVIST

Do you want me to?

MARTIN

I-I mean, I think you have to? If it’s recording…you have to do it the right way or it doesn’t…count. Right?

ARCHIVIST

…Right. You’re right.

Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding…his travels back in time through the domain of the Spiral. Recorded direct from subject, fourth May, 2016. Statement begins.

MARTIN (STATEMENT)

I think the first thing that struck me was the décor.

Silly, isn’t it? To think that the domain of something that literally thrives on disorientation and chaos would be remotely like I expected it to be? But I did, somehow. There were all the descriptions in all the statements we’ve heard, and then the time Tim and I were trapped in those halls, and I...I really thought they would still look like that.

But they didn’t. There was no patterned wallpaper, no carpet runner, no mirrors or photographs or anything like that. The walls were painted, and they were painted in—in jellybean colors. It’s the best way I can describe it. Really, really bright colors, gloss paint. The floors were...tiled, maybe? Linoleum? I wasn’t quite sure, but they were brightly-colored and kind of shiny, too. Even the ceiling. But none of them matched. When I first stepped through the door, I was standing in the hallway and the wall in front of me was a yellow so bright it almost hurt my eyes, but the floor was red, the same color as Melanie’s nail polish, and the ceiling was a really vibrant green. It was like standing in the middle of a traffic light.

I heard the door close behind me and sort of figured I was alone, but when I turned around, there was the Keeper, and he was taking something out of the door. I think it might have been a key? He put…whatever it was in his pocket and turned to me. I asked him which way to go.

“It doesn’t work that way, I’m afraid,��� he told me. “These halls don’t look the same to us. Just start walking. I’ll meet you when you get to the way out.”

And then he was just...gone. It wasn’t like he walked away, or went through a door or whatever. He was just…gone. Like, well, like he faded into fog.

So I started walking. I thought, well, trying to make any sense of this place was sort of going against the point of it, or leaning into the point of it, or something like that. I-I mean, it’s what the Spiral wants, is that increasing sense of panic and desperation as something that ought to be straightforward and logical, something that ought to take you in a straight line or to a particular place or whatever, keeps befuddling you and turning you around and whatnot. So I thought that if I just accepted that I wasn’t going to find any sense of direction, and that I couldn’t actually know where I was, let alone where I would end up, and just sort of wandered for a bit, I’d eventually get where I was going.

Only it didn’t work that way. The walls kept...changing. So did the floor and the ceiling. I’d know I was passing through another part of the corridors when I’d suddenly go from yellow walls to purple to orange, or the ceiling would go from green to pink to blue, or the floor would go from red to white to teal. I didn’t really pay attention to it, but then I realized I was back in the first part of the corridor. I’d have thought it was just a coincidence—I mean, there are only so many colors in the world and so many different combinations of them you can have—but there was the door, looking totally out of place in the bright, sterile lines of the corridor.

So then I started trying other options. I walked along with my eyes closed for a bit, wondering if maybe the colors were leading me astray, but when I opened them again, it was like I hadn’t moved. I tried heading in the other direction but still not thinking about my route. Same effect.

I was getting frustrated, and I was about to yell for the Keeper to just give it up already, to stop messing about with the hallways and lead me through. I was upset, actually. I mean, I knew it wasn’t really his domain, he probably wasn’t the one controlling it, but when you’re that worked up, you just want someone to blame, and he was handy, really. And I—I don’t like not knowing where I am, or where I’m going.

You know, I never really thought about it before, but...Mum used to...when I was younger, we’d be out somewhere, and she’d suddenly tell me there was something we had to do, and to keep up with her, and then she’d start walking really fast and threading through the crowds, and I’d be stumbling along trying to follow her. She wouldn’t hold my hand or anything, she’d just expect me to stay with her. And she’d never tell me where this “something” was, so any time I fell behind or lost sight of her for a second, I’d start panicking, because if I lost her, I wouldn’t know where to meet up with her. I did lose her a couple of times, and I’d just...start crying, and I never knew where to look for help. I felt like that again. Small. Weak. Helpless. Like I couldn’t do anything right, like I couldn’t do this one little thing she’d asked me to do, which was just...keep...up. And there wasn’t anyone there to help me figure out where the person who’d left me behind was, since I didn’t know where to meet up.

That’s when I thought...wait, I don’t know what route I’m supposed to take, but I do know where I’m going. I know what the end result is, just not how to get there. So I stopped thinking about wandering aimlessly and started thinking about wandering with a purpose. I focused on where—and when—we were trying to get. I even closed my eyes for a minute to make sure I was picturing it exactly right. And then I opened my eyes, and I started walking again.

After a while, the hallway started changing, which was how I guessed I was going the right way. The jellybean colors started fading, getting more...muted. Not really pastels, but just less vibrant. They started blending together, too, so they weren’t so weirdly different, like they were hues in a palette. And then they were all grey, featureless stone, like the—well, like the tunnels, only more regular. The grey got darker and darker until suddenly it was almost black. Then there was a carpet up the middle of the stone floor, blood red, and instead of electric lights the walls were lined with torches. I mean actual, fire-burning sticks jammed into wall sconces. I figured I was getting close.

And then...the hallway turned.

Look. I know how those...I know how the Spiral usually works, or at least the Distortion. You can’t see the turns, it looks like it just goes on and on in a straight line forever, because that’s what disorientates you. But this was an actual, L-shaped jog in the corridor. Part of me figured that the Spiral had decided, well, I knew enough to expect certain things, so it would have to throw me off by putting in things I wasn’t expecting—like actual, visible bends in the road. I didn’t doubt that if I tried to go around that corner I’d smack face-first into a wall. But I didn’t doubt for a minute that if I tried to go straight I’d hit a wall, too. You can’t try be logical with the Spiral. You’ll go mad. So I figured the only thing to do was try the corner.

I went around, and...it wasn’t just a hallway. It was more like a...gallery. There were pictures, or paintings, on every wall, in these big, ornate frames, and there was a neat little plaque next to each one with some writing on it. Seemed like it went on forever. I figured...well, it had to be the way through, didn’t it? There wasn’t any other way to go. I assumed there’d be an end eventually, or one of the paintings would be of the door out, or would be the door, or whatever, so I started in.

I looked at the first one, partly because I wondered if I’d recognize the door if I saw it and partly because...well, I was curious. It was very professional-looking. I couldn’t tell if it was a painting or a photograph, actually. It was of a woman, kind of a pretty one really, with her hair pulled up in a high ponytail, and a round face and glasses. She was standing in kind of a dark-ish room, but there was something behind her—a table, maybe? And there was a shadow over her, and she—she was screaming. I wondered who would paint something like that, what they would call it, so I looked at the plaque. It was formatted just like a sign at a museum, with the name of the piece, the name of the artist, and the date of the painting, you know?

But this one...it said, “I See You”, Sasha James, July 29, 2016.

I hadn’t realized what I was looking at, not at first, but when I looked again...it was the shirt that got me. Dupplin checks in shades of pink and purple. You remember—with the ruffled sleeves and the pearl-and-silver buttons. It was Sasha’s favorite, she wore it all the time. And the woman in the picture was wearing it. That’s when it hit me, all of a sudden, that this wasn’t a painting by Sasha, it was a painting of Sasha. I just hadn’t recognized her, and that was...upsetting.

I turned away from it and looked at the next painting, and I got a real shock when I realized it was a picture of Tim. He was smirking. I—I knew that look of his—it’s the one he always used to get when he was teasing someone, you know? That smile of his that seemed to say “I know you want to hit me but you won’t because I’m so funny”? Except...there was something odd about it. An edge, maybe. His eyes were narrowed and it was obvious that he knew whoever he was talking to didn’t find his joke funny, like it was only funny to him. And he—he had the scars. He didn’t tease anyone like that after the attack on the Institute, or if he did, it was...bitter, so I couldn’t figure out who or what he might have been teasing. So I looked at the plaque for that one.

“I Know”, Timothy Stoker, August 7, 2017.

The date. The date’s what hit me. That’s a date I won’t ever forget. I looked back at the picture, and I realized he was holding something in his hand, and the background was...well. There was smoke, and debris, and fire, and it was all starting to—to boil up around him.

I looked back at that first painting, and I saw...things I hadn’t noticed before. I saw that whatever was making the shadow was...reaching for the Sasha in the painting, and I saw...bits, flying around. I realized I was looking at the moment that Sasha saw what was in Artifact Storage with her, and the other picture was the moment between Tim pressing the detonator and—and what came after. I was looking at their deaths.

It was the next one that made me realize what was wrong about it. I mean...I mean, seeing these at all was wrong enough, right? We’re talking instants, split-seconds, something no one should have had time to paint or a good enough camera to photograph. They were almost like someone had flash-frozen the actual, physical moment and put it in a frame. That’s wrong enough, right? But...but it wasn’t until I got to Daisy’s that I actually realized it.

At first blush, it was exactly like the others. That...moment. The plaque. “Basira”, Detective Alice “Daisy” Tonner, date unknown. But...but this one I was there for. I remembered that instant. I might have been...a little distracted at the time, but I was looking when Basira emptied her gun into...into whatever Daisy had become. And I know it—she—was looking at Basira, and that she didn’t recognize anyone else.

But in the picture...she wasn’t looking at Basira. I mean, Basira wasn’t exactly in the picture, any more than the not-Sasha was actually in Sasha’s picture or Nikola was in Tim’s. But you could see where she was, where the bullets were coming from. And Daisy wasn’t looking in that direction. She was looking out, through the painting.

She was—she was looking at me. Directly at me. It was like I was back in that junkyard and she was right in front of me, and she saw me, and she knew me. And she was—she was scared, Jon. I could see it in her eyes. She was scared and she was pleading with me to help her, to save her. Maybe she was accusing me a little. Like she was saying I am dying and you are doing nothing to stop it.

And that’s when it hit me. I hadn’t thought about it before, because I w-wasn’t there for the others when they actually happened, but—but when I looked back at Tim and Sasha, they were looking at me, too. Sasha was scared and Tim was angry and it was clear that they both knew, whenever or—wherever they were, that I was looking at them and that they were dying and I wasn’t doing a damn thing about it.

I—I kept looking. I couldn’t stop. There were dozens—hundreds of them, all of them somebody I cared about, or knew, or—or knew of, at least. A lot of the people from the statements. My mother. My grandfather. Gertrude Robinson. Jurgen Leitner. All of them in the exact moments of their deaths, all of them looking at me with either pleading or accusation or both, and I couldn’t do anything about it.

The corridor went on forever, or that’s what it seemed like. It stretched in both directions and I couldn’t escape it. But there was a doorway, and I—I went through it. I don’t know if I thought it was the way I was supposed to go, or if I just wanted to get away from all the damn pictures, but I went through it. And as soon as I did, the door behind me disappeared, so I figured, okay, I’m going the right way. And it calmed me down, but only for a second.

It was a long, narrow room, maybe big enough for a single person to walk. And there were more framed pictures, evenly spaced, lining one side of the wall. The other side was completely bare. When I came in, I was facing the first picture, so I didn’t even have the option of not looking. So I looked.

At first, it didn’t seem too bad, you know? Nothing...deadly. Just a house, and two people. One of them was standing on the threshold of the house, the other on the path leading up to it. The door was open. The person on the path was a little boy, ten at the most, and he looked—terrified. Upset. It was like he wanted to cry or scream but didn’t know if he was allowed, and he was reaching a hand out desperately. The person on the porch was a young man, and he looked like something had caught him off-guard...and there were threads, thin silver strands, seeming to wrap around him, and something dark leaning out of the open door, like it was going to grab him.

For a moment, I was just relieved that neither of them was looking at me. Whatever was going on in the picture, whatever that poor man was involved in or that poor boy was witnessing, neither one of them blamed me for it. And then I realized I recognized something. The little boy’s face—his eyes. I knew those eyes, better than I knew my own.

My breath caught in my throat. I looked at the plaque. All it had was a title and a year. It Is Polite to Knock, 1996. That’s all it said...but I knew what it was. What I was looking at. And then, when I looked back at the painting, I could see it, very faintly. On the little boy’s outstretched hand was the lightest outline of a spider’s web.

I moved on to the next painting. I don’t think I could have stopped myself. And it was a man, sitting at his desk, a sheaf of papers in front of him and a tape recorder next to it. He had this...vacant look in his eyes, like he was only partly aware of what was in front of him, and he was wearing a cardigan. He had one hand on the papers, holding them up a little so he could read them, and the fingers on his other hand were tangled up in the cuff of the cardigan, like he was stretching it over his fingers and playing with it. The eyes were behind glasses now, but it was very obviously the same man as the little boy in the first picture. The plaque said Statement Begins, 2015. Just over the man’s shoulder was the faintest outline of an eye.

The third one was of the same man. Only this time, he was—he was in pain. His head was thrown back a-and he was screaming, I could almost hear it through the painting. There was another person behind him, another man, and he was screaming too, and standing over them was a woman, o-or what might have been a woman, once, but was honeycombed with white, grotesque worms. There were more of them, and they were—they were attacking the two men, but the one in the foreground, the one who’d been in the other paintings, he was already hurt, and I—I felt so guilty, like it was my fault, even without the man having to look at me and accuse me. He didn’t need to. I was already blaming myself. The plaque said—and it would have made me laugh if I hadn’t been so upset by the picture—it just said Ah, Shit, 2016. There wasn’t an outline of anything in that picture, just what was actually there, or at least actually visible.

I—I was having a bit of trouble breathing at this point. I knew what I was looking at, of course I did, but I couldn’t stop, I had to see all of them, so I looked at the fourth one. It was the same man, in the same office as the second picture, even wearing the same damned cardigan. Scars dotting his face and arms now, hair a little longer and with a bit more grey in it, but still the same man. He wasn’t alone, though. There was another...person there. He didn’t look right, like he’d been put together by someone who only had a partial idea of what a human being looked like. His hands—his fingers—looked like they had knives on the end of them instead of fingernails. He was...grinning, but it looked too big for his face. I think he might have been giggling. It looked like he was giggling. And he—he had one finger buried in the man’s side. The man was crying out in pain, but he also looked upset and scared. The plaque read There Has Never Been a Door There, 2016. There wasn’t a symbol in that one, either.

The fifth one. The same man again.  He was shaking hands with a woman. She was smirking, a really nasty smile, malicious delight. He was screaming, like seriously in agony. Where their hands were clasped, there was a faint wisp of smoke coming up, and I swear I could almost smell burning flesh from where I stood. The plaque read Just Shake My Hand, 2017. Still no symbol.

The sixth one. Same man, and another man. The other man had scars, too—Lichtenberg figures, you know? He looked bored. The first man was panicking. It looked like he was trying to scream, but you could sort of tell he wasn’t actually making any sound. And he was free-falling, they both were, but the other man looked...controlled, somehow? It was obvious only one of them was in any real danger, and it wasn’t the one who’d been struck by lightning. The plaque said You Need to Learn Some Respect, 2017. In the sky behind them was the impression of more lightning, but not actual lightning. Just another symbol.

Y—

[SOUNDS OF DISTRESS AND INTERNAL STRUGGLE AS MARTIN AUDIBLY TRIES TO KEEP HIMSELF FROM CONTINUING]

(in a shaking voice) The—the seventh one...oh, God, I almost lost it then and there. It was the same man as in all the other pictures. He was...standing in a clearing. It was dark, and there was—a woman with him. She looked—angry, but also triumphant somehow? She—oh, God, she had him by the throat, and she had a knife pressed against it. There was so much terror in his eyes, and I d-don’t blame him. I was terrified. I wanted to—but I couldn’t do anything. I forced myself to look away from it and look at the plaque. Stop...Asking...Questions, 2017. There was no symbol in that picture, but there didn’t need to be, did there?

The eighth one. The man was bound to a chair, in a dark...warehouse? I guess? It was...actually, if I hadn’t known what it was, and, you know, I hadn’t already been on the verge of a complete breakdown, I might’ve appreciated the painting as being kind of artistic. There were these shadowy figures all around him, but they weren’t people. They were...pretty obviously waxwork mannequins. In front of him was a woman, pretty, but...I don’t know how to explain it. I’m fairly certain she was another mannequin, but she seemed alive, too. She was giving him this...almost impish grin, holding a tape recorder up in front of him. He was gagged, pretty thoroughly, and you could see he was straining against his bindings, and his eyes were panicky. The plaque said I Thought You’d Make a Lovely Frock, 2017. The shadows overhead made up an outline that kind of looked like a mask, one of those blank, featureless ones.

The n-ninth...I think that’s when I started crying. Didn’t look like all that much really, not compared to the others, but it was the man, lying in a grey hospital bed. Perfectly still. All the monitors perfectly flat but one. The plaque read Make Your Choice, 2018. Over the man’s face was a shadow that was...kind of shaped like a scythe.

The tenth. Actually a bit of a relief after that one, although it shouldn’t have been. It was the man and two women. They were in...what looked like a makeshift bunker of sorts. There was a bloody sheet, and the leg on one woman was bleeding. Honestly, it was all kind of chaotic, but the—the focal point was the woman with the bleeding leg, holding something sharp in her hand, jamming it into the man’s shoulder. The plaque said Don’t Touch Me, 2018. It was back to there not being a symbol in the picture.

The eleventh...was bad. There was the man who’d been in all the other pictures, and there was...calling it a man would be charitable. It was a mountain of flesh with a face. Enormous and bulging and...gross. It had its hand in the man’s torso and seemed to be pulling out one of his ribs, which was not a pleasant sight at all, and something about the man’s expression...I don’t think the actual extraction was a surprise, but it was obvious he hadn’t expected it to hurt quite as much as it did. The plaque read Mine Now, 2018. No symbol in this one, either.

The twelfth. It was mostly dark. There was the man, and—and the woman from the seventh painting, the one who...but she was scared in this one. So was he. They were both...pressed under dirt and rocks, and they both looked like they might be struggling to breathe. They were gripping one another’s wrists, not really holding hands, just like they were trying to maintain that contact and not...lose one another. The man had a tape recorder in his other hand. The plaque said There Isn’t Even an Up, 2018. Just barely visible in the dirt above them was the faint outline of a coffin.

The thirteenth. Unlucky number thirteen, but actually, it was the most peaceful one out of all of them. The man was standing in front of an open door. Inside was...black, but it was the purest, richest black you’ve ever seen in your life. He had a look on his face, both awestruck and terrified. The plaque said It’s Beautiful, 2018. There was a symbol overhead—a curved line with four lines coming off of it, like a drawing of a closed eye.

The—the fourteenth. There was the man, standing in the middle of this thick, grey fog. It was swirling all around him. He was...the expression on his face…h-he was panicked and terrified and upset and...all of it. It looked like he might have been about to cry. His teeth were clenched and he was—he was looking around him. Like he was trying to—to find something. The plaque said I Did This to Him, 2018.

I don’t know if there was a symbol in that one. Maybe not. I couldn’t look hard enough, because that was when I broke.

I fell on my knees. I was sobbing and gasping for breath. I was...definitely having a full-on panic attack. There was another painting on the hall, I could feel it, but I was fighting the urge to get up and look at it. I wanted to, something was compelling me to, but I c-couldn’t, because I knew what it would be of. I knew I’d look at it and see the cabin, and the statement, and the look on the man’s face, and the world ending outside the window. I could hear that moment, the rushing of wind, the gathering storm. I swear I could hear the other paintings, too—the gasping and the screaming, worms squirming and crickets chirping, the crash of the ocean and the rush of the wind, beeps and creaks and static, so much static—and it was just...it was just so much.

I was just about to turn around and look, because I couldn’t not, when I heard a voice say, “Enough.”

The noises stopped. I hadn’t realized they were anywhere but in my own head until that moment, but all I could hear then was me. I looked up and...the room had changed. It was plain grey stone, just a small antechamber really. The wall in front of me was blank.

I was still struggling to catch my breath, and I know I was still crying, but I turned and saw the Keeper standing next to me. His arms were crossed over his chest and he was…he was furious.

“If I ever found out who did that, we’re going to have a little...chat,” he growled. “And they won’t like it.” He looked at me for a minute, and then his face kind of softened and he added, “On the other hand, they’ll like having a chat with me more than they’d like having a chat with the Archivist. If he finds them first, I want to be there to watch.”

He helped me up. I was still struggling to get myself back together. The Keeper hugged me for a minute, then turned me around and pointed to a picture on the wall behind me.

“Here,” he said. “Look at this one instead, until you feel better. There’s time.”

This picture...i-it was the same man as in the other pictures, but he looked...he was still tired, but calmer. He wasn’t afraid. Quite the opposite, actually. He was sitting on one end of a ratty old sofa, wearing a sweater that was way too big for him, hair pulled back out of his eyes. He was looking up at—he was looking directly at me, and he was smiling. He was reaching out his hands, one sort of turned under like he was going to be taking something.

I remembered that moment. I could feel it. That first night in the cabin, we’d just had dinner. You’d cooked, so I’d told you to go sit down in the other room while I cleaned up, and then I made tea and brought it out. You were lost in thought at first, but when I came in, you looked up at me and smiled, just like that, and I—I felt safe, for the first time in months.

(heh) That was the first time, wasn’t it? The first time you said the words? I tried to play it off, you looked so startled, but then you recovered and doubled down on it and...

It was a good memory.

I stood there for I don’t know how long, staring at that picture, that moment, letting it push all the other ones I’d seen out of my head. Letting myself remember how it felt. Taking that comfort. I could feel myself relaxing, feel myself starting to smile.

From behind me, I only just heard the Keeper say, “Keep looking, Wickie. Keep the picture in your mind. I’m sorry for this.”

A—and then there came the pain. I don’t know how to describe it. A sudden explosion of—pain, like a migraine on steroids. I felt like something—popped, inside my head, just behind my eyes. No...no, not behind them. Not behind.

I don’t think I screamed. I think I wanted to, but it hurt so bad I couldn’t. The world went white, and I could feel something—not tears, something thicker, more gelatinous—trickling, pouring down my cheeks. It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life—the worst physical pain, anyway.

And then everything went black. I guess I passed out. Next thing I knew, I heard a voice calling my name, teasing me about long nights and confusing my hours. I opened my eyes and asked what time it was, and Tim told me it was nine in the morning.

I’m just glad I realized what had happened before I said something stupid about the power being out.

ARCHIVIST

…

Statement ends.

I…

[TEN SECONDS OF UTTER SILENCE, SAVE THE WHIRRING OF THE RECORDER]

TIM

Fuck.

MARTIN

Jon, I’m sorry, I forgot it wouldn’t let me not—

ARCHIVIST

(overlapping) It wasn’t—

MARTIN

—let me skim on the details—

ARCHIVIST

No, it’s not—my God, Martin, I-I had no idea…

MARTIN

…Yeah, well, I told you it would keep you going for a bit.

PAST ARCHIVIST

I—

[RUSTLING, CREAKING NOISE OF SOMEONE GETTING OFF A SOFA WAY TOO FAST]

I—I need—I’ll be—

[RETREATING FOOTSTEPS]

PAST MARTIN

Jon, wait—

[SLIGHTLY DISTANT SOUND OF DOOR OPENING AND SHUTTING]

ARCHIVIST

I’ll go talk to him. Will you—?

MARTIN

We’ll be fine. Just be careful, okay?

ARCHIVIST

I promise.

[CLICK]

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall) #tma #the magnus archives #statements #mild eye horror (not graphic) #this was originally All the Million Hours if you're interested in the original version #this one works better imho #the formatting's better on AO3

[sagemoderocklee]

Hello! For the meta asks, would you do 1, 5, 8, and 17?

you did not come to play, lilac! thanks for all these questions! <3

1. Tell us about your current project(s)  –   what’s it about, how’s progress, what do you love most about it?

oh lord. that’s a... question. i have. so many current projects, i don’t even know where to start. this is gonna be long so please bear with me lol i’ll probably give more detail for some fics over others, and i’ll only go over fics I’ve got documents for because otherwise we’d be here forever.

The Art of Love: so this one is obvious because it’s been in progress for the last 2ish years? no i think it’s three now. I won’t go into detail with this because the fic is roughly halfway through, so there’s plenty of content for that up! I’d say the progress with that fic is actually going really well, though. Unlike Alliance, which took 8 years--five years of writing, three of editing--TAoL has been up for way less time, and is already about to hit the halfway mark! I really need to get back to it, tbh because it’s been way too long since my last update.

Honor Bound (sequel to Alliance): so this is.... kind of on pause. I’ve got the first three chapters written, but my focus has been more on TAoL when it comes to my more complicated, long running stories, so HB has taken a backseat. I think I won’t get back to working on the Allied Nations Saga until after TAoL is done, in all honesty.

Find Me: this is my HS AU, which has been on the back burner forever and I feel terrible because I think it may honestly be my most popular fic. Unfortunately, AUs/slice of life stuff is difficult for me because I’m more interested in politics, so I lost momentum on this fic. It is about halfway done. I have a good chunk of chapter six written, but not enough that I could say I’m close to finishing it.

It Eats Your Heart: obviously I just started this one, and it’s a horror fic. I’ve really gotta sit down and do some major plotting on it because I only have some very vague ideas currently.

Pearl-Filled Lungs: this is one of like three ningyo AUs I have--the other are pirate/ningyo AUs (and ones actually a selkie not a ningyo). I started it last year for the GaaLee fest, and it’s been sitting unfinished for far too long. I finally sat down recently and plotted the whole thing out, so I’m hoping to get back to working on it soon! It’s only 5 chapters in total, so I don’t think it’ll take me super long to get through once I sit down and do it.

Who Dares to Love Forever: This is a working title, and I may change it. This is a fic idea I’ve had for a couple years, inspired by the song Who Wants to Live Forever by Queen. This particular fic is a vehicle for my sage mode!rock lee headcanon, and explores just how effective Chiyo giving Gaara her life would have been given she was an old biddy. So the idea for this fic is that Gaara’s running out of time because Chiyo only had so much to offer.

Absolution: this is another fic that I’ve had on the back burner for years. it was initially inspired by art by @brianadoesotherjunk but quickly spiraled into something much bigger because of course it did. This particular fic is one I’m extremely excited about. I need to go back over the first part, because I feel like it’s not quite right, but I do technically have the first part done. This fic follows Gaara struggling with bouts of narcolepsy that trigger nightmares induced by trauma and guilt from his childhood. These nightmares are incredibly dangerous for obvious reasons, but even more so because Temari’s baby is on the way. Temari and Shikamaru are married, living in the Kazekage estate, and with their baby coming and both needing/wanting to get back to work, they also need a nanny. Unbeknownst to Gaara, the year prior to the events of the fic, Maito Gai died, succumbing to the 8th Gate finally, and Lee has since been spiraling. His depression has become so self-destructive that he’s been taken off active duty. Shikamaru, along with the rest of the Konoha 12 (minus Neji and Sasuke), get together and discuss what to do. Tenten believes that Lee being a nanny would be the perfect thing. And so Rock Lee is sent to Suna, hired by Shikamaru and Temari as their live-in nanny...

We Need Not Be Yellow Tulips in a Garden of Gardenia’s, Yet We Go the Way of the Red Camellia: true to form, I decided that a hanahaki fic was something I had to do, and I was not going to pass up the chance at being as Extra As Possible with the flowery language, ergo the ridiculous title. I’ve gotten part way through the first chapter of this fic, but the whole thing is roughly plotted out and each chapter title is just as extra as the whole fic’s title.

Thirteen Strokes: so this is a fic I have--once again--had on my mind for ages, and--once again, because I am nothing if not a caricature of myself--inspired by a Florence+the Machine song, All This and Heaven Too. I started writing this the other night, as I wanna use it for GaaLee bingo. It’ll be 13 chapters, as per the 13 strokes that it takes to make the character for love, ai, in Japanese. The fic is from Gaara’s PoV, and follows his journey with and his relationship to love, with lots of worldbuilding and politics because it wouldn’t be an Eeri Original without those things.

Scarification: this is another idea for bingo based around the prompt shinshoubyou, which is a fictional disease where your emotions cause physical marks on you

Fill in the [  ]: another bingo idea, based around the prompt bouaishoukoigun, the fictional disease where you forget the person you love if it’s unrequited.

The Eagle’s Augury: an idea that allows me to play around with more worldbuilding and focus on Karura. In this fic, the curse (mentioned briefly on the Naruto wikia) that has led to every single Kazekage being assassinated, is coming for Gaara, and Karura is trying to warn him from beyond the grave. At the same time, Temari and Shikamaru’s marriage is approaching, and their ceremony is being held in Suna, with all the fan fair a marriage for someone from the Kazekage line should see. Again, another fic inspired by Miss Florence+the Machine, the song is Mother

Pomegranate Sun: this is a fic that I am... so excited about. Another fic that was originally inspired by a Queen song, Under Pressure, and has of course taken on a life of its own. This fic, I am actually going to be writing with @ghoste-catte! It’s an arranged marriage trope, and I’m super pumped for it! We’ve only got a little bit started, and it has obviously not taken priority for either of us since we both have a lot of fics on our plates.

The Ballad of the Dragon and the Phoenix: this is a fic I’m really excited but is going to take a LOT of research to get off the ground. I had this idea sometime last year, I wanna say? This fic is another self-indulgent headcanon about Lee’s origins, his family, etc. This fic starts when Gaara shows up on Lee’s doorstep, asking him to accompany him to another country for reasons Lee cannot understand. Gaara has been in talks with Phoenix Kingdom, hoping to forge a new relationship only to find that the Emperor wants to use shinobi for militaristic purposes. Lee doesn’t understand what help he could possibly offer the Kazekage, but he can’t very well turn him down.

okay, i’m gonna stop there. these are the ones I have titles and documents for, and honestly that’s probably way more than you wanted to know about lol

5. What character that you’re writing do you most identify with? 

Despite the fact that most of my fics end up from Gaara’s PoV, I actually identify with Lee the most!

8. Is what you like to write the same as what you like to read?

Yes! Which is hard to find, tbh, because I am a sucker for political dramas with slow burn romances, but I don’t see a lot of that in the GaaLee fandom. I’m not as into like slice of life or short stories where the characters get together quick, I’m really not into established relationship fics unless it’s a sequel, so I tend to avoid those. I like AUs but it really depends on the AU, because I ultimately prefer the canon and I love seeing the way people write the shinobi world and all its rules and cultures and things. I’m just a big fan of worldbuilding, politics, and slow slow burns. Not this 25k SLOW BURN! crap because that is NOT a slow burn. I wanna see a fic that’s 200k words in and they still haven’t even figured out they’re in love! I like stories I can really sink my teeth into, ya know?

17. Do you think readers perceive your work - or you - differently to you? What do you think would surprise your readers about your writing or your motivations?

Oh gosh. I generally don’t think too much about it except like hoping people don’t think I’m like a stuck up asshole because of how I talk about my writing, writing in general, my hcs, etc. I mean, obviously I don’t expect everyone in this fandom to like me--and there are ppl I’ve gone out of my way to be vocally against because they do nasty shit--but largely I feel like I come across as too intense, so even the general population of GaaLee fans that I do want to interact with I’m always a lil nervous that people secretly don’t like me and basically are like “oh god this bitch again” when they see me in the tags. But I just get really excited and invested in my ideas, and honestly for the longest time this fandom was SO small and there weren’t a lot of people putting out content regularly so it was like a handful of us so I think it made me more emphatic about GaaLee lol I think I always like assume people aren’t as excited about my writing as I am or that people are like “too much politic, i need more romance”.

I’m always surprised when people really love my AUs, like Kado or Find Me have had such fantastic reception, and it’s like people just eat that shit up so much. And then I look at like Alliance or Art of Love and get kind of confused because I think by comparison those are more interesting and more developed than my AUs. I put a shit ton of work into everything I write, especially anything that requires research, so it’s not to say that I do less work per say, just that I feel like TAoL and things like it are more interesting and more developed, and the relationship feels.... somehow more to me there than in an AU.

a lot of my motivation really just comes from the lack of content this fandom had for so many years, and the fact that Naruto could have been a much more interesting series and I love worldbuilding so much. I think my motivation for each fic is different though. Like Alliance was started because I wanted to write something different from what was mainly in the fandom at the time because mind you I started that in 2010. But my motivation for TAoL is more wanting to tell a beautiful story with a complex narrative that looks at the failings of the shinobi world. Whereas like any slice of life fic is really just meant to be a fun break. And sometimes I write something literally just because I wanted to fulfill that trope for the GaaLee fandom--again, a lot of my ideas have been sitting for years and years and years (TAoL was an idea I had literally right after starting Alliance, but I didn’t get to it until 2017), so a lot of ideas that are old are because at the time that trope hadn’t been fulfilled yet in the fandom though that’s changing a lot with the recent GaaLee Renaissance of the last couple years.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Kissing Dead Pearls (Part 32)

They fight more often than not. Over the stupidest things. He invited her into his room again for some movies and story swapping. She makes the mistake of picking up one of his old, outgrown shirts and, with a laugh, asking if he really needs it still.

“Yes I need that!” He had snapped. He doesn’t think that it was his words but his tone. He can still vividly see her roughly tossing it into his laundry basket with a muttered, “you really don’t but fine.”

She didn’t leave and he didn’t ask her too but she was silent until he mustered up the courage to ask if she just wanted to get to the movie. She hesitated before saying yes. And then he makes a mistake of his own. He suggested one of the few movies they always watch. It was innocent enough when she suggested a movie that he had never heard of. A movie that came out during his absence. She mentioned that it was a popular one and that it would probably help to see it so he can jump into conversations about it. She added that she would show him a few new songs too. He was already too disgruntled to appreciate that she’d mentioned that they were reggaeton specifically. In retrospect it is a good idea. He should have taken the offer. It would have been logical and smart. Instead he complained. Complained and insisted on one of the old movies until she sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and left with a final comment, “let me know when you’re ready to move forward.”

He overheard a hasty exchange of goodbyes between she and his parents. He had asked Katara to talk to her for him when she had the opportunity.

That was the first fight, there were several more over things so mundane he can’t remember what they were. The fighting grew more intense when school resumed. This is no surprise to him, the first week of school leaves her grumpy like clockwork. It always had since he could remember.

Currently they sit on the patio of the Cod Shack. Soft gusts weave around tables and chairs. They are a bit too strong for his liking and he has to set his soda on his napkins and menu to keep them from blowing away. He watches the patio lights sway and looks to the clouds. They are still white but the forecasters have called for a light but steady rain.

“So did you pick out any colleges yet?”

He knows that her senior year has only just begun, but he also knows that she is always prepared leagues ahead of everyone else.

She hums in thought. “I did…”

“But?”

“I was going to try to surf professionally and get a higher education on the side. I have something else in mind now.”

“Which is?” He presses.

“A surprise.” She smirks.

“Oh come on!” He throws his hands up with a laugh. “Don’t I get a hint.”

She ponders it. “During my high seas adventure I unlocked a hidden talent.”

“Another one?”

“There will be more to come, don’t worry.” She pauses. “I already know where I want to go so I can help you re-apply to some of the colleges. I actually already have a few ideas for when you begin applying for scholarships. You have quite a story to tell and…”

He doesn’t mean to but he tunes her out, her voice lost beneath a rushing current of unease. She has already done the hard work for him and yet he still feels horribly overwhelmed. College? Scholarships? Letter? He just got back. He doesn’t want to think about scholarships. He doesn’t want to think about the future at all. And Azula keeps smacking him in the face with it. A new feeling mixes in his belly with the fear. It takes him a moment to process it as anger. No; mild agitation.   Why can’t she just let him be and stop hounding him? If he were thinking logically, he would remind himself of who he is talking to. Would remind himself that she would--that she already has treated herself the same way.

He heaves the itching irritation aside and changes the subject. “Have you made up with Jet yet?”

Azula sighs. He expects her to steer the conversation back on track. “No, he won’t talk to me. Unless it’s surf team related.” She pauses. “But it’s fine, I have you and pretty much everyone else. Helping father with AA and the lighthouse keeps me busy enough after school…”

Again he finds himself zoning out. He doesn’t know how she does it; plans for further education, attends surf practice, manages the lighthouse, and helps Ozai with AA, all while attending school. His eyes wander to the scars on her arm and chin; a subtle reminder that she probably is pushing herself too far. Farther than he could ever know. And what is he doing? Working one lax, family run job.

He rubs his hands over his face. For all he knows she has done much more. He remembers her mentioning that she helped repair and remodel La-bsters. She’d already confessed that she’d let her mother die to save Zuko instead. He knows that he shouldn’t but he does. Curiosity gets the better of him so he asks, “I guess you’ve had an eventful summer then?”

Azula nods. She leans in and whispers, “Jet and I snuck out and had a few drinks.”

“That’s your big news?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m talking about the kid I stole from father after he told me to throw them out for him.”

Sokka blinks. “Oooh, those kinds of drinks…”

She nods and in his head he checks off one more thing that she has done before him. “Did you get…”

“Drunk?” She thinks for a moment. “No, not quite.” She backtracks, “maybe a little.”

“Is it because you have so much going on right now?”

“I’m not my father, Sokka, I have more control than that.” She picks up an onion ring. “It was a one time thrill. I just wanted to see what it was like.”

Just a simple life experience…

Simple and yet suddenly it feels like she is much older than he. His stomach turns again.

.oOo.

Things are forced more often than not. He always seems so uncomfortable around her when she isn’t faking. He watches the same movies over and over again and the more she pushes for him to give a new release a try, the more furiously he pushes back.

Everything is ‘remember this, remember that?’ Everything is a nostalgia trip and she wants to leave the vehicle. She wants to move away from the remember’s but she doesn’t want to move away from Sokka. She doesn’t think that he will leave her a choice if she doesn’t play along with his childish antics. He gets moody and frustrated and she is probably one more, ‘Sokka, let’s try something new’ away from a breakup.

So she forces a smile and bares another trip to the Cod Shack while Zuko and Katara meet Aang and Toph at the new arcade. He is blabbering on and on about how good it is to be home; she doesn’t mind this, this is actually rather adorable. But then the ‘I’m happy to be home’ spiel spirals into how great it is that she is willing to stick to ‘the good stuff’ and not that ‘stupid new arcade.’

She doesn’t have the heart to tell him that she goes to the arcade with Zuko and Katara when he takes up his shifts at La-bsters.

He pushes in their chairs, “let’s walk along the beach, I was thinking that we could build sand castles like old times!” He holds up a pail and a blue plastic shovel.

“Sure, Sokka.”

“Are you okay?” He asks. “You seem unhappy.”

“I’m fine.”

“In other words, something’s bothering you. Is it your dad?”

“No, father has been great. He’s getting his life together and moving forward.” She is too slow to keep the emphasis on ‘moving forward’ out of her voice. “I’m fine Sokka, let’s go to the beach.”

Sokka’s expression brightens so much that she almost doesn’t mind the prospect of building sandcastles like children. But that charm only lasts until they are on the beach and she spies Chan, Ruon, and most of the surf team.

Chan gives her a wave that she returns with a fluttering stomach. She takes the shovel that Sokka extends to her.

“What brings the two of you to the beach?” Chan greets.

Azula’s phone buzzes and Zuko’s name flashes across the screen; he is bragging about finally beating Toph at one of several of her favorite arcade games.

“We were just going to build sand castles!” Sokka declares proudly.

“Like kiddie sand castles?” Ruon asks.

“That’s right.” He is much bolder than he ought to be and her cheeks grow gently pink on his behalf.

“Actually, Sokka, father just texted. I have to go home and help him make a repair to the lighthouse.” The look of disappointment on his face leaves her feeling rather horrible. And the drive home seeps with an atmosphere of letdown. It only grows as they get closer to the lighthouse. “Maybe tomorrow, Sokka? Would that be fine.”

“Yeah, tomorrow.” His smile is as forced as her enjoyment of their dates.

“Alright, I’ll see you after surf practice.” She leans in for a kiss. She feels no spark. She hates to think it, much less say it, but it feels like kissing a kid or a little brother.

.oOo.

Sokka flops down upon his head and puts the heels to his eyes. He is potently aware that he is blowing it! He knows his options; he can cling to the way things used to be and lose Azula or he can embrace the changes with her.

Still, he isn’t ready to leave his childhood behind. Not when it was so bright and so happy. He isn’t ready to take on the world and leave the shores that he loved. Not so soon after he has gotten back. Not ever.

He picks up one of several pictures of he and Azula. They are kids, they are looking at the camera and smiling. She holds a fishing pole with the smallest fish he has ever seen. He is holding a tackle box.

He swallows. Fishing had been a new experience at one point. La-bsters had been new at one point. Going from swimming at the eastern beach to the western beach had been a change… He swallows once more. He supposes that he wouldn't have met Azula at all if not for one simple and subtle change.

One simple and subtle change that made him feel so much happier for years to follow. He rubs his hands over his face. Tomorrow is going to be an awful day.

.oOo.

Azula takes a seat on the lighthouse patio and watches for Sokka’s car. She tries to prep herself for a night of silly activities and pretending to enjoy them. She wonders if she should skip the faking and feeling sparing and break things off. She has already broken Jet’s sensitive heart, she may as well continue her streak.

She spies his headlights and hears the pops and snaps of the gravel. Hears the car door slam and the sound of Sokka’s sneakers shuffling up the driveway. He gives a sheepish wave and a, “hey.” Maybe he knows what is coming.

“Hello, Sokka.” She pauses and opens her mouth to speak.

“Uh...so I left the pails and shovels at home.”

Her chest floods with relief. Though it quickly fades as she processes what that likely means. She guess that she will let him rip the bandaid. “Then what are we supposed to do?”

“I was hoping to maybe just go to the boardwalk or something. Or we can stay here. I just want to talk.”

She hears the door creak slightly ajar. “We can stay here and talk if father will give us some privacy.”  She hears the door shut once more. “He has been a little board without the bar.”

Sokka laughs. “He knows that he can go to the bar and order a soda or something, right?”

“He isn’t ready to be that close to the bar yet.” She shrugs. “Anyways, let's get this talk over with.”

He gnaws on his lip. “I’ve been gone for kind of a long time.”

“Yes. What of it.”

“So I missed a lot.”

“We’ve established this, yes.”

“And I was wondering, are you still willing to help catch me up?”

She thinks for a moment. “No.” She replies. His world seems to fall apart. “I’ll help you get ahead.”

He still tears up but she is certain that it is with relief and joy. “I looked up some of those movies that you mentioned. Or maybe you can show me some of the new restaurants on the boardwalk.”

“How about the arcade.”

“I don’t like arcade games.”

She rolls her eyes. “Let’s go see a movie. If you would like, we can rent one and watch it in your room like we usually do.”

#Avatar The Last Airbender #Azula #Sokka #Sokkla #Fanfiction

[lanajvmeson]

emerges frm a field of corn slinking in w a faux mink shrug dangling around my elbows n a strand of wheat between my teeth..... farmer eleganza.... hlo! my name’s nai. i am bt a humble ghoul arrived to haunt ur home. 23 n she/her pronouns n i live in manchester. fun fact my friend’s neighbour used to b harry styles PE teacher. i played delilah yrs ago as carlson young (n even cara delevingne at one point what the fk) which feels so weird n ancient to me nw bt i missed her a lot so decided to spruce her bk to life.... ANYWAY delilah’s pinterest is here n i’ll jst leap right into things without further ado

(NICOLA PELTZ, CIS-FEMALE) - Have you seen DELILAH ASTOR? LILAH is in HER JUNIOR year. The POLITICAL SCIENCE MAJOR is 21 years old & is a CAPRICORN. People say SHE is BEGUILING, BLUNT, CUNNING and APATHETIC. Rumors say they’re a member of CALLOWAY. I heard from the gossip blog that SHE WAS IN A REHABILITATION CENTRE IN SWITZERLAND INSTEAD OF DOING CHARITY WORK LIKE HER SOCIAL MEDIA CLAIMED.  (NAI. 23. GMT. SHE/HER.) 

HISTORY

their family is kind of modelled off the sedgwick family like old money n pretty dysfunctional bt all abt keeping up a seamless facade of perfection... with a pinch of the kennedy’s in there. her dad’s high up in politics n his dad before tht ws in politics n it’s just a long prestigious line of clones in expensive suits as far as delilah’s concerned. her dad i picture as like.... nate archibald’s grandfather in gossip girl.... personality wise.

for as long as she cn remember she’s found this cookie cutter white picket fence life boring. stifling. to delilah it’s like being hemmed in a stuffy room n forbidden frm opening a window. it’s all vry Rich People Problems i wnt lie bt <3 she feels everlastingly bored. All The Time. plus her family hs always been a focal point fr tabloids etc which doesn’t help this feeling of not rly Living but just being the focus of a spectator sport. they’re lowkey a bit of a household name so they get a bunch of scrutiny n......... well. new bullet point alert! cue a powerpoint transition

(self harm & depression tw) frm being young delilah always knew there ws sort of. a white noise inside her where everyone else saw a technicolour movie screen. it rly hit her at like 12 i’d say as she was jst coasting towards adolescence. it ws pretty obvious frm her behaviour i’d say bt her parents only became Aware it ws a problem when she stuck a fork into a socket n short circuited the power in the house. she got shocked unconscious n when she woke up she told the in house dr they’d called (to keep it under wraps frm outsiders) tht she just.... couldn’t feel anything. she’d been reading frankenstein (she’s always liked gothic literature) n thought it’d zap her to life like the monster

her parents got her on medication n figured that wld fix everything. they didn’t like to talk abt things and that was that. it wasn’t to be mentioned again

delilah’s parents r just very.... sterile. family is abt appearances. they’ll be all smiles n flowing conversation when ppl are around bt it feels like being an actress n reading frm a script. being a toy in a dollhouse

she had two siblings: an older sister named clara & a younger brother named elijah. clara ws always like.... the Dream daughter. did everything right. amazing grades. america’s sweetheart. LOVED by the press. did sm charity work. elijah was fine/kind of a slacker compared bt coasted by on athletic prowess (captain of the rowing team). delilah hs very much always been the anomaly in this idyllic line-up. middle child effect! altho having said tht she’s always ran w the popular crowd of her age group bc Rich + Pretty = Status. it’s all quite superficial n delilah’s attitude on the matter can b summed up w this photoset. having said tht there was Some merit in constantly being paraded around as “such a pretty thing” bc a few modelling agencies attempted to scout her bt delilah found that boring. she wants to b called brilliant not beautiful. her mother called this her “not playing to the advantages that god gave her”. with a tight-lipped smile and a “god forbid i use my brain”, delilah only disappointed her further <3

(drugs & ed tw) delilah gt pretty heavy into partying fr the sake of trying to Feel something. intense on the drugs front (coke n prescription pills). rarely eating. she got a silver broach of a swan tht she pins to most of her clothes n u can unscrew the swan’s neck n pull it out to reveal a little powder spoon. still wears this today. clara n delilah were always super close n clara wld cover fr her a bunch. making up lies n jst having her back to their parents if they ever asked where she was / she ws in trouble n needed to keep it under wraps. when delilah hd an article in a tabloid pretty mch like this one clara talked their parents dwn frm sending her to a rehabilitation centre in switzerland. they gt it pretty much scorched frm existence bt delilah kept a clipping bc honestly she thought it was funny hw pale her mother went abt it

(car accident & drunk driving & death tw) at a fancy benefit the astors were all attending among 4857925974 uppity families delilah wound up heading off w some of the rich kids n one thing lead to another n a couple of them gt arrested fr a coke scandal. delilah used her phone call to contact clara n fr once clara hd let loose a little n hd something to drink bt still drove to the station to bail delilah out n try n fix her mess bt.... skipped a red light n crashed. she died upon impact.

(hospitalisation & drugs & addiction tw) this made delilah spiral massively obviously.... she clung on by the skin of her teeth fr a while bt she rly was just getting quite out of control doing an extremely excessive amt of coke to get by at this point so her parents actually did.... end up shipping her off to switzerland for rehabilitation. they didn’t tell anyone this tho n as far as ppl were/are aware she was doing charity work with habitat for humanity in trinidad. her parents literally........... hired ppl to take photos of things there n a social media team posted them to her instagram account jst. the most elaborate lie.... it’s a lot.

delilah jst pretty much went along w whatever they said at the facility bt didn’t absorb any of it too much.... she did get sober there bt it was vry much bc she had no other choice rather than a want to......... she even pretended to “find god” while she ws there n memorised bible lines to recite w a coolly detached smile. in her head she ws probably thinking abt hw her mandated therapist cld gladly eat shit and she’d be happy to watch. it was just like.... everyone there was RLY hideously overpaid bt did they actually Care abt their work or patients? debatable. wasn’t the most healing experience thru delilah’s eyes bt... maybe it’d work better if she’d actually opened her mind to it bt anyway...... <3 cornelius fudge voice: she’s back. the dark lord.....

PERSONALITY:

nw tht her history is out of the way i’ll leap like a flea off a shaggy dog’s back into personality! aesthetically she almost ALWAYS wears white/cream. reminds me of the woman in white frm sharp objects. rarely she’ll dabble in silver or gold or like..... vry pale green bt.... always muted tones. usually white or cream. big white sunhats. white sunglasses. white pussybow blouses w a little white skirt n a pearl barrette in her hair. she even smokes white sobranie cigs tht r imports like it’s a lot she’s truly committed to the aesthetic.... paired w like. classic patent mary janes.... she tends to flutter around the place like a silk moth. likes lace too. hs a very put together image n even demeanour like she’s very lithe n graceful n drifts like a ghost which kind of contrasts w... who she is at her core bt in the astor family it’s all abt appearances <3 the only deviation from this is she sometimes wears dark blue mascara once in a blue moon n if ppl comment on this she’s like. idk what ur talking abt? glides away like a ghost in a haunted mansion n is never seen again.

very perceptive. incredibly observant. yrs of early life media training n being born frm politicians means she’s an excellent liar. she knows ppl n knows what makes them tick bt she’ll only use this when necessary. she isn’t a terrible person bt she knows how to b Very mean n will equip this as a weapon shd a situation call fr it. also more prone to lashing out since her sister......... she hs sometimes played chess games socially fr kicks

dark n biting sense of humour. rather frank abt things. VERY ruthless when scorned bt she isn’t particularly?? emotive abt it??? her bf cheated on her once n when he told her she slapped him rly hard in front of sm ppl he knew n then jst walked away. blocked him on literally everything. removed him frm the face of the earth as far as she ws concerned. had him blacklisted frm every event n told ppl they’d be cut too if they continued to associate w him. goodbye sir <3 u are the weakest link <3 needless to say he regretted it <3

very loyal to u until she isn’t. finds it very easy to cut ties if need be. once her trust is broken it is gooooone baby goone.... the trust is Gone. selective in who she cares abt

vry cavalier abt sex. she doesn’t sleep around hugely i dnt think??? bt when she does it isn’t often tht emotionally invested she’ll jst out of the blue very nonchalantly blow out a wisp of smoke n b like. so u want to fuck me then? cool. proceeds to get up as if she’s walking to leave n then looks bk n is like what do ur legs not work? follow me. n leads them somewhere

nothing rly.... moves her particularly. she isn’t very animated. it’s like she jst finds the entire world thoroughly unimpressive. it’s difficult to stimulate excitement from her. it’s like that hugh laurie quote where he realised he had depression bc “boredom is not an appropriate response to exploding cars”.

has a pet swan bk at home she’s named lilith inspired by satan’s offspring. lilith bites ppl if they get close n is honestly an abomination of a bird. delilah finds her funny n throws her bits of croissants sometimes bt even she isn’t immune to her pecks. in some ways they’re similar...... hv a graceful surface appearance / aesthetic bt a darker attitude beneath the surface

WANTED CONNECTIONS:

exes: the ex bf tht cheated on her n she got blacklisted from 94872347 social events cld be a fun thing to explore..... delilah wld be EXTREMELY cold towards him n honestly want him dead. wouldn’t show any shred of caring abt him at all she’s very gd at stoning her emotions n keeping them inside. hasn’t cried since her sister died as an example of how..... withdrawn she is from confessing her innermost thoughts n desires. maybe an ex bf before tht that she rly didn’t take seriously at all..... typically she just isn’t interested/invested in romance she’s vry apathetic abt it all

party friends: those tht run in similar rich kid circles tht she would have smuggled off with at fancy events so they could let loose.......... ppl tht r completely her opposite who she finds interesting bc they represent everything she always wanted outside the oppression of her strict regiment family....... mutual bad influences tht are heavy into drugs n always enable each other...... u name it!

hook-ups: she doesn’t have a HUGE amt of these bt.... maybe a select handful.... some she wld have hooked up w once n never again n just been like >_> if they implied they shd as if it was preposterous n she was thoroughly over it.... some maybe she’d find interesting enough to extend beyond tht...... none she’d invest in if she cld help it altho? maybe someone as an exception to tht rule cld be fun

friends of her sister: (death tw) clara was universally well liked for being rly sweet n well intentioned n she attended yates only two yrs delilah’s senior so she might have some connections here still somehow??? cld be angsty to work with

i won’t lie i’m rly hungry as i write up these wcs so my brain’s going blank n i’m gna have to sprint to get some toast bt <3 roommates, enemies, competitive friendships, resentments, angst, chaos, drama, strife, u name it n i am dwn!!!! hits post n takes off galloping dwnstairs

#yatesintro #drugs tw #ed tw #depression tw #death tw #grief tw #car accident tw #drunk driving tw #addiction tw #cowabunga chim chimmeny cheroo it's a tw extravaganza <3 #hmu fr plots go crazy go stupid

[incoherentbabblings]

Take Back the Cake, Burn the Shoes, and Boil the Rice (11/11)

Within two months there have been two murders of Gotham newlyweds moments after the ceremony. The only connecting factor was both brides wore the same designer’s work. Needing to establish who exactly is behind the crimes, Bruce enlists Tim and Stephanie to have the biggest wedding Gotham high society has seen in decades, putting a target on their heads not just for the killer, but Gotham society too. It goes about as well as you’d expect. Ao3 Link Here!

In lists of depressing moments, having to dismiss a wedding reception before it had even begun was surely high-ranking in placement. As soon as the family and the Titans returned to the manor, Stephanie ran upstairs, dress in tatters, wanting nothing more to rip off the outfit and return to sweatpants and a jumper.

Kara went to follow her, but Cassandra asked her to wait.

“Let her have a minute.”

Kara did not look pleased but listened. Bart, distracted as always, said,

“She has, like, loads of scars up her back…”

Conner nudged Bart to make him shut up, and they watched as Tim, eyes wet, tugged off his jacket and tie. Alfred suggested that everyone sit in the drawing room and wait for Bruce to return home. He reassuringly rubbed Tim’s back.

“I will take care of everything wedding related now Master Tim. Don’t you and Miss Stephanie worry about anything, just each other.”

Tim smiled and everyone piled into the room. The caterers had insisted on leaving behind the food, and Alfred offered to take them to assorted shelters across the city later the next day. Soon enough everyone was sat with a plate of very nice looking nibbles, but no appetite to eat. Even Bart seemed reluctant, sensing the morose mood of the room.

The wedding cake, the lovely beautiful lemon cake – the only thing Stephanie and Tim had been pleased with – never made an appearance. It was hidden away in the kitchen, and Tim had no energy to go looking for it.

The quiet stretched on, Stephanie and Bruce not returning, until finally Tim’s temper snapped, and he carelessly threw down his plate, got up, and stormed out the room.

“Wait Tim –”

“Go home Conner!” He turned back to his friends. “This whole thing was always going to be a misery, so we were trying to spare you the idiocy of it all. You weren’t invited, and you pushed in anyway. Well you got your spectacle, alright? Go home.”

He slammed the door shut, uncaring about anyone else’s mood, and stomped upstairs.

Collapsed in a stained white heap at the end of the corridor was Stephanie, and knelt next to her, was Bruce. Returned from patrol, he had quickly changed into a simple black t-shirt and pair of trousers.

Tim’s temper faded, and he slowly approached the pair. When he reached them, he slid down the wall next to Stephanie, and was grateful when she took his hand. Her eyes were dry, but she looked exhausted and a little cheesed off. Bruce had the decency to look somewhat sorry for how the day had gone.

They sat in silence for a moment longer, when Steph took a steadying breath, and asked, “Was the point of making this such a giant mess to give us a viable reason to split as a couple? To keep us in the dark like that, so that the chaos would be more authentic?”

“It was humiliating was what it was.” Tim cut in. Bruce looked at him sharply, and Stephanie just closed her eyes, emotionally drained and uninterested in getting into an argument. Not now.

“Neither of you were hurt?” Bruce asked the pair. They shook their heads. Bruce sighed, then rocked back on his heels, resting more comfortably. “It was another one of my misguided ideas… I suppose.”

“So is that lecture we spoke of last night oncoming or…”

“No lecture. But… feel free to ask questions now.”

Tim immediately launched into an interrogation.

“Was it a crazy-ex?”

Stephanie scolded Tim with a look. Don’t downplay it, she implied.

“Not the one in prison we spoke of. This man, Anthony Saville… well. Self-taught in harming others. Can’t stand the thought of his girlfriend having outside interests and a career. The relationship had moved quickly and violently. Rebecca saw it as making a choice between her life or her job.”

“Not the lives of those poor people?”

“She was very frightened.”

“But… she helped him murder those people. There were other ways…” Stephanie nudged off her shoes, feet sore from wearing such high heels the past few days and thumped her head against the wood panelling of the corridor. “I wish she had felt she could have gotten help before this spiralled. Before she thought being with him was her only option.”

Bruce looked at Stephanie, whilst Tim shut his eyes. Not for the first time, the idea that she was just too good of a person for Gotham returned.

“Wayne Enterprises has some initiatives with shelters and resources for those men and women who need help. I can take a closer look at how they’re getting on, see what more we can do.”

“Can I help?” She asked. “When everything’s cooled down. It’s nearly summer and I won’t have much work at the library in the meantime.”

“I’ll look into it, Stephanie.”

“Thank you.”

He inspected her once more in her gown, and watched as a sudden thought came to her, and she flushed with shame. “Bruce… the veil, and the earrings…” She took off the pearls, abruptly very nervous and apologetic. Shaking, she held them out for Bruce, who carefully allowed her to drop them into his palm. “Alfred has the veil, but it’s ruined, everyone stepped on it and tore it and…”

“It’s alright.” Bruce interrupted. “It’s just a thing. Didn’t have much sentimental value. These on the other hand…” He shook his closed fist that held the pearls. “…do. And you brought them back home.”

“Now what?”

“Alfred will take care of the logistics of a cancelled wedding. The two of you just need to figure out what your relationship is to be in the aftermath of all this.” Bruce looked to Stephanie. “Did you not tell me yesterday you weren’t going to wipe your hands of the whole thing?”

Stephanie managed to smirk. “Oh sure. For better for worse.”

She gave Bruce a pointed look as Tim’s head fell to rest on her shoulder. She hoped, if nothing else, Bruce would read the unspoken message she was trying to convey. She didn’t want to take part in this ongoing conflict between Bruce or Tim, but she hoped that by now she had certified where she stood. Bruce wasn’t going to get anything from her that acted against Tim. Not anymore.

She nuzzled Tim’s head, unashamed, and Bruce stood up. He didn’t look upset, only a little amused and smug.

“That’s fine Stephanie. We can discuss more after dinner.”

“Wait.” Tim pushed. “What was the reason? For this whole…endeavour. For all the hidden facts and secrets?”

“Stephanie is many things, but she is not a particularly good liar.”

“Hey… My mom didn’t—”

“To be fair Steph,” Tim cut in, “Your mom spent most of your adolescence at work or baked. She didn’t even know you went missing that one time for like three days.”

“…Harsh.”

Bruce took control of the conversation once more, “Tell me that if you knew Rebecca was involved, either of you, that you would have been okay with her making your dress. You in particular,” Bruce nodded at Tim, “You wouldn’t have let it alone. I wanted to do it my way. I needed that damning piece of evidence for her and I needed to catch him in the act. No questions to be made of their guilt. I told you both at the start. Leave the investigation to me. And you did just that.”

Tim’s eyes widened.

“This wasn’t a goddamned test was it?” He said, tone very flat. Bruce’s next words had to be chosen carefully, or a fight would ensue.

“I knew this would be an emotionally difficult job. The rest of the family are like gossiping hens. I just wanted you two to focus on each other. It wasn’t a test, it was an opportunity.”

Slowly Stephanie heard the unspoken confession.

“One more question. If I had said no, all those weeks ago. If I refused to play this game with Tim, would you have found another way to arrest Andrews and Saville?”

“You were the only two I wanted for this mission. I just wish it had run a little bit more smoothly for you both.”

Oh. This was Bruce’s demented method of making Tim and Steph make up. Take a mission and have them play house until it became real. Stephanie laughed, incredulous. Seven dead but one happy couple, as if that were an equal trade. Bruce would offer no more information, and she could not find the willpower to argue. Bruce Wayne was using pre-existing cases to play goddamn matchmaker with. Somehow this was on a whole other level of controlling concerning the three of them, even for Bruce.

Tim scoffed, and returned to his perch on Stephanie’s shoulder. “Whatever,” He muttered. “You’re welcome, then. Again.”

Tim’s dismissal was better than his anger, and Stephanie stared across the way at a chest of drawers. She doubted there was anything in it, rich people liked to have things to fill the space, but she just wanted Bruce to leave. There was nothing to be gained from this conversation. They would forgive him for meddling, as they always did. At least it came from a genuine desire to help. It’s what she told herself repeatedly. Tim, she thought, might just be one step closer to putting his foot out the door, and she worried about those consequences more than any paper headline tomorrow. No doubt the front-page image would be her pushing Rebecca down the stairs like a demented bridezilla.

And then Bruce left, and that was that. Tim and Stephanie remained on the floor for a while longer, Tim lost in his head, Stephanie still reeling from the day’s events.

“I’m going to look through his notes.” Tim muttered. “Nothing about this makes sense.”

“That’s fine.”

“You’re not curious?”

She sighed, looking down. “Just wanna move forward.”

Her wedding band glistened in the warm light of the corridor. It was intensely sparkly, when most wedding bands she knew were solid gold, like Tim’s was, but she found herself quite liking it. With her left hand, she reached for his own, and he allowed it, as she twisted his ring around and around his finger.

“We need to really talk.” He whispered.

“Agreed.” She looked down the corridor, out the window. The rain was finally letting up. “Get changed and go for a walk?”

He hummed in agreement, helping pull her and the weighty dress to her feet.

“You really did look beautiful today, by the way.”

Stephanie blushed, then returned the compliment.

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

Face washed, braids undone and now in a high ponytail, and wearing nothing more extravagant than jeggings and a fuzzy yellow sweater, Steph had gone out onto the stone patio to wait for Tim. It was where they had kissed in the rain for their photo shoot, and soon enough Tim emerged to pull her out of that memory, wearing simple black jeans and a hoodie. Neither said anything, but they began to meander through the manor gardens. The ground was sodden, and although Tim’s sneakers were getting ruined, he didn’t mind. Steph was wearing chunky brown ankle boots that were quickly caked in mud. She had better grip than Tim though, who every now and then would slip a little, with her instinctively reaching out to grab him.

When they reached a good distance from the manor, Tim took her left hand, and they walked towards the forest trees that lined the estate.

Tim thought of her distressed face at the end of the ceremony, when the Dean confirmed they were married (at least to the Church). He tried to think through why that could have been.

“What would you have done? If it was your real wedding?” Tim asked, finally breaking the silence.

Stephanie hummed, and moved so she could wrap her arm around Tim’s own, and had a little think.

“Smaller dress for one.”

Tim chuckled, and Stephanie gripped his arm tighter. “Seriously though, I’m half of the mind that I would make my own… square neck and cap sleeves, buttoned back, all satin. No more lace and tulle and taffeta!” She giggled. Tim stopped in a clearing, but Stephanie began to waltz around, kicking up mud as she went. She was acting like a seven-year-old, listing off her ideal wedding, but Tim was quite content to listen and watch. “And my flowers… azaleas, snowdrops, lily of the valley and milkvetch… burgundy roses. No yellow funeral flowers! I mean, the lemon cake was good. I liked that idea for sure… but no sit-down meal after. Just lots of platters and cold food… And we’d get married here! At the manor, with just the family and our friends. And our first dance would be –”

Tim’s smile as she babbled dropped, and he asked, “Our? So, you’d keep the groom?”

Stephanie looked at him incredulously. She was momentarily caught out at the slip up, though after a second, she decided that there was nothing false in her statement.

“Of course, I would.” She teased, walking back over to Tim. “I told you, no-one else will do.”

“You didn’t seem happy about it at the Cathedral. I thought...”

She laughed gently. “Of course I wasn’t. If I were to marry you, I didn’t want it to be like that. I... I just felt hollow at the end. It wasn’t how I wanted it to go.”

“Well that’s great, considering we’re kinda maybe probably married now.” Sarcasm crept in his voice, and Stephanie raised an eyebrow.

“Are we? I thought you had to get the civil side signed before it’s all done and dusted.”

Tim paused, thinking it through.

“No. We’re not.” He concluded.

“Then what’s the issue?”

“You wanna deal with a thousand people asking you about legal troubles for the rest of your life? We got the licence and we had the religious ceremony but we haven’t got the certificate so… it’s a mess waiting to happen.” Tim blew his hair off his forehead. “I think, we have two options. PR wise.”

“Oh? Shoot.”

“Within the next month we go to the registrars and get the civil ceremony done super quick. Sign the form, hey presto, we’re actually married. We’ve got the licence for another six months, and we finished the religious side, for whatever that’s worth… just one signature and we’re there.”

She screwed up her lip, not convinced. “Do you actually want to be married? ‘Cause Tim… I’ve not even graduated college yet. I wanna take our time. I want us to do it our way.”

Tim thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “I guess not. And we said we’d start from scratch after this.”

“We did.”

“So, our other option is to do exactly that. Say we need a bit of time to regroup and catch our breath. I think people would understand. Especially if you’re going to all this WE stuff with me or Bruce then it shows people we’re sticking to a guns and not dumping each other at the first sign of trouble… People will be sympathetic, I think.”

“There were loads of people this morning… cheering for us… I wasn’t expecting that.”

“The world ain’t as bad as you think it is sometimes, Steph.”

“Humph. Look at you being all optimistic.”

“You’re a good influence!” He laughed.

“Am I?”

“I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it, Steph, you’re a good person.”

She shook her head. “No. Not that. I mean you.” She took his elbows. “What we talked about yesterday… your anger and Bruce and…”

Tim huffed, and looked to the side, reminding her of a guilty child.

“Tim.”

“I’m okay. I promise.”

She didn’t believe him, and silently told herself she was going to have to play the long game. He was worth it. That was of no doubt.

“Okay. So, starting from scratch… what if, hypothetically, I said I wanted to move back in with my mom next weekend?”

“Why?”

“Tim.”

She didn’t miss the flash of panic on his face. Don’t go. He wanted to beg. You said you wouldn’t leave.

“I…would be sad. But it’s your choice.”

She nodded. “Okay, well, what if I said… I wanted you to take back all the jewellery you bought me. Or give them away or throw them in the river. Even the wedding bands.”

“That’s a lot of money in the river.”

“Stop side stepping.”

He screwed up his face.

“All of them? Even the ones you haven’t seen yet?”

She flushed red and puffed out her cheeks. “How many more did you buy?”

“Just the one. I… hold on.” He tugged her over to a tree stump so she could sit. It was damp and a little uncomfortable. Tim got on one knee, and Steph started to have flashbacks to the restaurant.

“Tim…”

“No, no. Let me speak first before you freak.”

“Oh, you –”

“I’ve kept this one near me the whole time. Just as a reminder. I didn’t ever ask you to marry me at the dinner, remember? You just saw the ring and flipped.”

“To be honest, I’ve repressed the whole thing.”

“Well, I’m still not going to ask you to marry me. At least not yet.”

Stephanie finally relaxed, then leaned forward. “Then why am I sat on a tree stump in the middle of the forest with you down on your muddy knees?”

“Because this…” And he pulled out from his jean pocket a tiny velvet bag. Taking her left hand, he removed her wedding band, then flipped her hand so it was facing palm up. Shaking the little bag, another ring fell out to rest on her heart line. “Is a promise ring.”

The ring was more delicate than her engagement ring, which had at times felt more like a knuckle duster than anything else. This had a pink diamond centre, with eight pear shaped white diamonds forming petals, and smaller pink diamonds completing the gaps, forming a circle. It was set in rose gold, and she gasped a little as she inspected it.

“Had it made for you.” Tim explained. “You’ll be pleased to know this one only cost eight thousand.”

“Oh, very reasonable.” She teased, continuing to inspect it. “It’s beautiful Tim. But a promise ring? Swear I made a pretty big promise for us last night.”

“Yeah, well when I bought it, I wasn’t expecting us to…” Redder than a tomato, he looked like his fourteen-year-old self after she would tease him with a kiss. “Hmm. Let me stick to my script.”

“Oh okay.” She sat up straight, hands resting on her knees. “Prim and proper. Sorry, sir.”

“Very serious.”

“Super serious.”

Tim cleared his throat dramatically and folded her fingers over the promise ring. He wrapped her hand in both of his.

“I made up vows, you know. In my head.”

“Oh.” Every now and then the boy would remind her of how utterly head over heels he was for her, and she would grow embarrassed. He was so oddly earnest with his affections, that Stephanie, even after half a lifetime of trying to convince herself of the innate goodness of people, was still taken aback by how openly Tim loved her.

“Dick talks a lot about being people’s safety net. And you were mine. Except, I didn’t know it until you were gone. And then when we hurt each other… But now, I feel grounded again. You cut through all the nonsense and see straight into my core. And sometimes that’s frightening, how well you know what weird things go through my head. You know me better than nearly anyone. And when I look at you and see how far you’ve come… I loved that angry spite filled firecracker, but I also loved Gotham’s golden girl just the same.” He squeezed her fist, and she could feel him starting to shake. “I wanted to, when we first started this, to show you that you didn’t need to be frightened, being with me. And I know I failed at that.”

“No, Tim, it wasn’t you.”

Her soft protest was ignored and passed over, and Tim continued onwards. “I should have done more. So, I promise. I vow. I want to be your safety net as much as you’re mine. To be your sunshine, your home, the way you are to me. You said last night was your promise to me that you’re in it for the long haul. And I’m sorry I couldn’t give you something just as meaningful other than a promise ring, but it’s in the name. And it’s a reminder, not just to you, but also to me. I don’t care which finger you wear it on, I just ask that you trust me…with you. I swear I’ll take care of you and love you until you forget the concept of love being conditional, because what I feel for you… it’s constant, and unchanging. I swear on... I swear on…”

“…Not the moon.”

“No?”

She giggled and lifted her free hand to rest on his cheek. “Oh, you must know that reference, Mr Romeo. O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon. That monthly changes in her circle orb, lest that thy love prove likewise variable.”

Tim looked a little bashful, but she quoted the line so flawlessly he felt compelled to run with it, to see how far he could take the romanticism.

“Well then… What should I swear by?”

If she kept going, if she remembered the next piece of dialogue, he would have her response to his vow. She tilted her head, eyes looking upwards, as she fought to remember the line.

“Do not swear at all. Or…” She sat back, “Oh what was it? Um…oh! If thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, which is the god of my idolatry, and I’ll believe thee.”

She laughed, both happy that she was able to play along and that she recalled lines from a play she had not read in years. Tim moved closer.

“Okay then. I swear, on my life, that I will love you, to have and to hold, for better for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part. And maybe even after, knowing this family’s relationship with death and the supernatural.” He licked his lips, “And I’m demanding to know if you think I’m worth the fuss.”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Course you are.” He answered easily.

“…And so are you.” And she smiled, whilst also feeling incredibly fragile. Voice very quiet, as if speaking loudly would shatter the moment, she got on the ground with him and said, “You saved me. You know that, right? When we were kids? I was so angry, and hurt, and yet being around you… I craved it. Because you were just everything I wanted to be. I could be more than what my life would have been if Spoiler never came to be. And I could be more than that pain and hurt of those first months on Gotham’s rooftops. And then you chose me over Ariana and… I hold on so tight to those memories.”

She sniffed, knowing she was being a little melodramatic, but Tim was very good at pulling it out of her. She wanted over the top and romantic. They deserved it.

“Moments like sitting with you at the park, on Wayne Tower, in that pizza place, on my sofa when you and Dana made me chicken soup when I was sick, when we went to that diner and the lady gave you a free burger ‘cause she thought you killed the guy who hurt me, sitting on your lap on your sixteenth birthday watching that terrible kung fu movie and making out with you on the roof, doing crossword puzzles with you on a stakeout, the music shop… God, the music shop… I’m sorry I let things fall apart the way they did. The best memories of my life. I ruined those moments for so long. But… I’m better now. So, we can make more memories.”

The ground was very cold, and her knees were growing numb from the damp, but she continued to gaze at Tim. There was something deeply affirming to hear that she held those memories in such high reverence as he, that she was just as protective over them.

She finished her own little speech, bashful and bright red, but still smiling. “And I’ll make a promise back. I swear that your pain will fade because I’ll make sure you won’t ever feel alone, that you won’t ever be lost because I will always be around to drag you back, kicking and screaming, and that I will always, always, love you.”

Tim grinned, and released his grip on her hand. She opened her palm, ring safely tucked away, and he picked it up. Holding it, he then asked,

“This isn’t a marriage proposal.”

“No.”

“But I am going to ask, formally, Stephanie Brown, do you want to be my…my girlfriend. Again.”

There was something very child-like in the question, like they were on the playground playing in the dollhouse. But it wasn’t a game. It wasn’t a dream. It was real, and she knew her answer before the question had been asked.

“Yes. I would like that very much.”

Tim laughed, and the wet tears finally fell down Stephanie’s cheeks. They were happy tears, so she let them be.

“What finger do you want it on?”

She held out her left hand.

“A ring like that deserves to be on my ring finger, right?”

He slid it on. This time he had ordered it a little larger, not sure if she would have opted for her middle finger instead, so it managed to get over her knuckle with significantly less effort than the wedding band. It would need tightening, just a little, but they had all the time in the world for that.

They kissed, and the morning’s car crash lifted from their shoulders. They were short, breathless kisses, innocent and punctuated by the sound of Stephanie’s giggles and Tim’s exaggerated noises as he kissed her cheeks, nose, forehead...anything he could plant his lips on. They kissed for a very long time.

“Thank you, by the way. For pulling me out the way at the Cathedral.” Tim said as they broke apart. Stephanie got to her feet, offering her hand to Tim, who gratefully took it. She linked his arm back in his, and they made their way back to the house. “Would have had a bullet in the heart, judging from the trajectory, if you hadn’t been so quick.”

“You’re welcome. You better stick by that vow Mr Drake. You’re not to leave me, even a gunshot wound can’t take you out.”

They returned to the manor only to find that, despite Tim’s angry demand, the Titans had not left, and were in fact sat on the balcony with the rest of the family. Every single one of them, even Damian, looked extremely curious.

Tim shot Steph a look, and the pair sped up, jogging back over and up the stairs. If making those vows had been frightening but cathartic, it was nothing compared to letting their family and friends know the conclusion of the entire event. Tim felt Stephanie shaking as they faced the Titans, who, more than anything, just wanted to be kept in the loop. Her shaking stilled when Conner invited them to come to San Francisco and tell the rest of the Titans in person the good news, and that they could think of it as a pseudo honeymoon. Tim couldn’t help but send Conner an eternally grateful look, to which Conner got a glint in his eyes that implied he was going to lord this moment over Tim for the rest of his life.

It seemed everyone was in agreement. It was best to let everyone hear the truth now because it was good news. It was happy news. Don’t be afraid of people’s judgement because there was nothing to feel guilty about.

Tim and Stephanie were stuck at the hip come hell or high water, and throughout the entire conversation, they never let go of the other’s hand.

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

The next few days were… interesting in its non-eventfulness. In how quickly things settled. Especially after the roller coaster of a wedding day. Alfred had seemingly ordered an issue of every newspaper in the region, plus some national ones, apparently for the sole purpose of showing Stephanie how many angles of that one shot of her throwing Rebecca down the stairs existed. Luckily, the headlines were damning the Newlywed Murderers whilst pages four and five were composed of what was probably the original intended article, filled with photos of the family and guests entering the cathedral. Stephanie hummed to herself. She’d looked really nice… ah well.

To say nothing of how good Tim had looked. Ooft. She didn’t know who had styled his hair, but they deserved a hefty payment as thanks. It certainly wasn’t Tim – no, the boy usually left it alone, which in recent years had resulted in it sticking up in clumps after he had grown it out a little. Every day he was creeping closer and closer to the mad scientist aesthetic, but Stephanie quite enjoyed it as it gave her something to hold onto when he… hmm, never mind.

The articles themselves were deliberately neutral. At least the Daily Planet and the Gotham Gazette were (not shockingly, considering their parent companies) largely sympathetic. There were still some hints that the story was a lie. As if Tim and Stephanie were honestly that selfless and willing to put themselves in harms way, could it be that they were already married? Was the entire thing a fake out?

Stephanie sighed, reading the pieces on Rebecca and, after events had passed, just feeling sorry for her more than anything, and a deep disdain for the man who had abused her past breaking point. She knew Tim was trying to pinch information off the bat computer, not believing for one moment that Bruce had told them the entire truth regarding the case. Stephanie had left him to it, not wanting to be involved in Tim’s ever mounting mistrust of Bruce. She wanted to get back on with being a student, with working her odd jobs, with Batgirl, only from now on she wouldn’t return home to her mother’s house at the end of the day. She silently resolved to alter Tim’s apartment in places, to make it homier. The first thing to be changed was the placement of the stuffed toy duck he had won for her all those weeks ago. It now lived on the sofa in the living room, a convenient cushion and squeezy stress toy when required. It no longer loomed over Tim’s bed; beady eyes filled with judgement.

Tim had kept his huffiness focused on where it belonged (Bruce) and two days later had insisted on going with Bruce to work. Bruce, who was wearing a sling and a cut lip to pretend like the car accident had genuinely happened, shook his head.

“You’re supposed to be on your honeymoon annual leave.” He had reminded Tim.

“Redundant. I wanna make a press release.”

Steph, who was in the process of stuffing her little purple car full of leftover food and cake, ready to take to the community centre, slammed the boot shut.

“Sweetie you don’t have to.”

“No. I do.” He nodded his head, looking all formal in a suit. Stephanie, on the other hand, was wearing a long-sleeved forest green dress that hung off her like a shapeless tent, but Tim thought she made it work. Tim wiggled her earrings, giant cheap gold coloured hoops, and the little beads on them jangled. “I’ll tell people ‘the truth’, for what it’s worth. Commissioner Gordon gave us a list of things I can slash can’t confirm.”

“Want me to come with?”

“Nah. You’re a private person, Steph. You don’t owe the world anything. I’ll send an in-person reminder.” A kiss on the cheek, then a nudge towards the driver’s side of the car. “Honest. I’ll take care of it. Have fun at the centre today.”

“Well, who doesn’t like cake, eh? I’ll see you tonight. Still waiting on that Chinese takeout.”

“You order when you get home, I’ll transfer you the money.”

“Okay, bye love. Text when you’re on your way back?” Tim nodded, and she sighed, getting in the car. Bruce had an odd look on his face, a pinched sort of affection at the two’s domestic banter. Before she drove away, she rolled down the car window and poked her nose out. “Good luck you two! I’ve heard the press can be a nightmare!”

“Harhar. Bye, Stephie.”

Blushing, Steph rolled the window back up, and whizzed the car around the front of the manor to get back on the road to Gotham. Tim blithely waved goodbye, and Steph made her way back into the city. She blanched and then laughed as she exited the manor grounds, thinking to herself how easily saying goodbye for the day had been. How easily they slipped into domestic stability and safety. It felt fitting. It felt right.

Soon enough, just after crossing the bridge from the mainland, her mother rang. Hitting the speaker, she answered, then tried to find a place to pull over. Her mother waited patiently until Steph ended up in a MacDonald’s parking lot.

“You okay, mom?”

“Just wanted to check in on you.”

Her mother was at work, because of course she was, but seemed to have found a spare moment to call.

“I’m heading down to Park Row –”

“To Tim’s apartment?”

“No,” She laughed awkwardly, “To the community centre. There’s a session on this morning for the elderly… thought they might want some cake and a chat.”

There was a pause as her mother thought through what Stephanie said. “You’re a good girl, you know that?”

“Mm.” She sidestepped the compliment.

“But you’re okay?”

“Yes. Promise. Hey, listen… my room…”

“Yeah?”

“If… if you want, mom, you can turn my room into an office if you like? Or make it a spare room and rent it to lodgers, get some extra cash? Or just a room for you to relax in. You can sell the furniture and –”

“Steph? It’s your room, sweetheart. It’ll be waiting for you whenever you come back, for whatever reason. Even if it’s just for the odd night here and there.”

“…Thanks, mom.”

There was another breath, then Crystal asked what was actually on her mind. “So, you’re staying? With him?”

“Yes. For real.” She heard her mother tut. “Don’t be like that.”

“Oh, I know you won’t be told. Believe me, I know.”

“I’ll still come round for Friday night board games. Honest.”

“Alright then. But bring Tim next time.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I want to keep an eye on him.”

“Mommy.”

Her protest went unheard. Stephanie had learned in recent years that her mother shared an unshakeable stubbornness, albeit much quieter than Stephanie’s.

“Have to go. Bye Steph, talk to you later.”

“Bye…”

Pursing her lips, Stephanie had an abrupt craving for a McFlurry, and crept forward to the drive thru. She needed a distraction from whatever that conversation was before she went to the centre, and sugary food seemed an appropriate method.

Tim, meanwhile, had been forced to drive Bruce to the office. Bruce had flapped his arm in the sling as an excuse.

Sat in traffic, Bruce broke the silence.

“So, next steps?”

“For…?”

“You. Stephanie. This whole endeavour.”

Tim snorted, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the wheel. “Dare I ask your opinion on the not signed off marriage?”

“It’s okay. You’re both too young anyway.”

Incredulous, but also seeing that Bruce was trying to lighten the mood, Tim laughed. Bruce smiled back in his usual tight-lipped manner. Slowly, Tim’s smile faded, and his expression grew sadder.

“You promise that you don’t have a problem with us?”

Bruce’s broad chest heaved. “I promise. And I do think you work well together. I told you that at the start. In and out of costume. Besides, she wanted me to walk her down the aisle. I want to do that for her one day. I understand if you don’t believe me… but I want you both to be happy.”

Again, Bruce was showing off how fond he had grown of Steph, and Tim relaxed. This wasn’t five years ago, they genuinely could make a fresh start. “She makes me happy.” He said, quietly.

“She’s also made you miserable.” Bruce said, playing devil’s advocate.

“… I think… I think that’s because I let her. Because I trusted her. I mean, who in your life has made you the most sad? It’s the people you love, right? Not the ones you hate.”

Bruce nodded, taking Tim’s words to heart. If he could, Tim would have tried to hug Bruce, but instead he remained strapped in the car, creeping through green red green red lights. He just wanted a fresh start with everything. It took a moment, but Bruce sensed Tim’s neediness, and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re doing fine Tim. Just… keep moving forward.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do... With her next to me.”

Bruce squeezed Tim’s shoulder tight, then the silent drive continued.

Stephanie had watched on the tiny tv at the centre, as one of the staff members came rushing in, exclaiming that Stephanie’s husband was on the television. She had sat down next to one old lady who seemed so decrepit her spine had folded permanently at ninety degrees, shaking fingers picking apart the lemon cake and icing.

“Oh, he’s a handsome guy isn’t he Steph.” The staff member teased.

“Ssht!”

Not my husband Steph wanted to argue, but she let it lie. The announcement was just Tim stood outside Wayne Tower, reiterating everything that had happened the other day. No they were not married, yes they were still together but were going to wait until things calmed down, our thanks to the Cathedral, I have made a donation even though I know it will never make up for the damage and loss, no we did not plan a wedding to catch a bad guy (don’t be ridiculous), please be nice to Stephanie she’s a private citizen, glad we could catch a murderer and bring justice, looking for ways to improve options for men and women in domestic abuse scenarios… and on and on.

Tim did very well she thought, not cracking once under the questions that came his way. People certainly tried to find holes to nit-pick in, but – as much as it sometimes disquieted Stephanie – he could be a very good liar when called upon.

The old lady she was sat with slowly clicked that the boy on the screen was someone important to Stephanie, and she tapped Stephanie’s new ring insistently.

“Seems like a good boy.”

“He is.”

And then she returned to picking up dishes, bringing them through to the kitchen. She was here to work, not to have people fawn over her. That didn’t mean she didn’t smile to herself at the well-intentioned teases people threw her way for the rest of the day.

Come the evening, when the two were reunited at the apartment, Stephanie finally got the Chinese takeaway she’d been craving. Empty cartons were streamed across the counter, and the time was ticking down before they were off for patrol. Stephanie was strewn across Tim, who was himself stretched across the sofa. He was playing with her ring, looking smug.

“Why’re you so happy?” She teased.

“No reason.” And his arm that was wrapped around her waist squeezed. Part of him was still up in cloud nine. He had Steph, on his couch, on him, snoozing the early evening away. Her hair smelled of her candy scented soaps, and it was no longer inappropriate of him to verbalise how much he liked it. It was why he couldn’t bring himself to be…too… angry at Bruce.

The ends justify the means… right?

Wait no. That’s not how it –

“You did good today.” Stephanie interrupted. “I saw on the tv. Everyone thought so.”

“Yeah?”

She nuzzled backwards, pressing firmly against his chest and neck. “I thought so too. Thank you, Tim.”

He made a noise of acknowledgement and closed his eyes. Another moment of comfortable silence passed, when a thought returned to Tim, and his eyes popped open.

“You know, I’ve been thinking…”

“Shocker.” Her tone was groggy, as if she were half asleep and he was keeping her awake.

Tim stubbornly ignored her, “…and you never mentioned the piano.”

“Oh?”

“Well, you know. It’s there. If you ever want to –”

She sat up and looked down at Tim, who was looking a little nervous. Pianos and her had a somewhat volatile history. Maybe Tim thought it was triggering. Stephanie had at first just stubbornly ignore the thing, not wanting to give Tim the satisfaction of thinking she was even tempted. Then there had been twelve hundred other things to juggle, and she simply not had the time.

“You’re about as subtle as a brick to the face sometimes you know?”

Tim looked alarmed. “Speaking from experience or…?”

“You want a little concert? I haven’t played in years mind you.”

“I want you… to do whatever you…want to do.”

She was not impressed by his attempts to downplay the request and rolled her eyes. “Come on. Sit with me. See if you recognize this one.”

The bench was just wide enough to sit the two of them at. She shuffled a little, taking off her slippers so she could get a better feel for the peddles. Clearing her throat, as if she were about to conduct an orchestra, she placed her fingers on the keys. She took in a deep breath and tossed her hair back. Tim watched the process, fascinated.

“Ready?” She asked.

Tim nodded.

Smirking, Stephanie began to play the wedding march, only for it to take three notes for Tim to recognize the song and make him instantly outraged. He yelled incoherently and slammed his fingers down on the lower end of the scale. The noise was clanging, disjointed, and hilarious. Romantic moment ruined. Stephanie began to laugh so hard her snorting came through.

“You’re a monster!” Tim cried out, half laughing himself. He slapped the casing down, miffed. Stephanie continued to cackle, hands covering her mouth as she tried to stop the undignified grunts.

“Too bad! You’re stuck with me remember?”

Tim pulled at her hands, to free the path to her mouth. He didn’t miss Steph’s squeal of delight when he kissed her, and immediately her hands were cradling his jaw, wrists still loosely held by Tim. His thumbs were pressed on her pulse point, and he felt it throb harder the longer they kissed. The childish exuberance faded, and the kiss slowed and deepened.

When they broke apart, Tim placed his lips to her left cheek. “Until death do us part.” He murmured, then he moved to her right cheek. He felt her skin grow warm, and seep into his own core.

Pale blue eyes stared into indigo, and a long moment passed in silence, the clock on the mantle providing the only noise. Some garden birds chirped outside, and the fluttering of their wings past the window made Stephanie flinch out of the silence. Caught of guard, she laughed, then moved so she could perch herself on Tim’s lap. She tried not to giggle at the slight cross-eyed look he developed as she settled down. Leaning forward, she kissed his forehead, and she felt his warm breath brush over her clavicle.

“Until death do us part.” She whispered back. “And after, if it’s allowed.”

Not for the first, and certainly not for the last time, they sat still, admiring the other. Steph, with her choppy blonde hair, button nose and chewed lips, whose ability to pull herself out of despair was unrivalled, whose compassion and fire made her a beacon to those feeling lost. Tim, with his ink black hair and eyes paler than Gotham’s cloudy skies, whose ingenuity and loyalty was only matched by his earnest idealism. Tim ran his thumb over her lips, seeing the bruise and cuts that she had left from anxiously pulling at the skin, and he had left in previous days.

No longer feeling shy, he tugged on her neck, encouraging her back to him. They kissed again, and for the moment, things were perfect.

The End.

#dc #timsteph #tim drake #stephanie brown #my fic tag #DONE!!

[dancingbaek]

To End in Ice and Fire | Part 5

Being born with a particular birthmark is the lurking fear every parent has in their hearts when they bring a child into this dark world. Your parents are the only ones who have never received relief when creating life, because they knew your soul would be damned for eternity when he finally comes to claim what’s his.

Moodboard // Prologue // Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5

Spoiler: Jongin is an angry little vampire.

The next morning is much of the same. You wake up a little disoriented, but nonetheless slide out of bed and into the slippers you left waiting. The floor is always so cold in the morning and in the evening and your slippers can hardly fend off the cold. You change into a different dress in the closet, into a deep blue gown that you had trouble lacing up because the corset was just the slightest bit too small. You remedy the situation by sliding on an overcoat, buttoning each and every button. It wards off the chill in the air and you pad slowly to the vanity pressed up to the wall you hadn’t noticed the day before in your confusion and terror.

There’s a large mirror attached to the back of it, with little drawers and a seat cushion set in front of it. On the table is a golden hairbrush, intricate designs spiraling in a circle over the back of it, a large ruby set in the center. A matching hand mirror sits beside it. The Count and Countess did not even have such luxurious items in their household as you suspected the gold might be entirely real. Aside from the two items is a black wooden box, quite plain compared to the jeweled handset. A curious peek inside reveals glittering pieces of jewelry – you spy a string of genuine pearls, sapphire earrings, and garnet and diamond studded bracelets before you quickly shut it.

Raking the brush through your tired locks of hair, you regard yourself in the back mirror. Despite sleeping clear through the night, you look weary. Though talking to Junmyeon the morning before shed some light on your current situation, it had done nothing to set your mind at ease. When you had left your home to make the walk to the church, you had every intention of dying. You had believed you would be ripped apart and drained, much like that innocent boy had been. You had been waiting for the inevitability of death your entire life. You had kneeled every Sunday in church and every night before bed, praying that when it came you could still be saved.

Junmyeon had confirmed that your kidnapper had not brought you here just to kill you. If anything, you gathered that you were regarded as a piece of property to him. Not exactly a new concept to you, considering most marriages were arranged and young women like yourself were bartered off to the man with the highest place in society and the heaviest change purse. You, being a reasonably attractive woman and coming from a well-respected family, would have been good enough to be sold to Richard’s family. You would have been the next Countess and inherited his mother’s jewels and good standing, however you would have never truly owned anything. Everything would be Richard’s, and you would just be a conduit for his children.

You stood from the vanity, blinking images from a future you might have had out of your head. Sweeping your hair off your shoulder you make your way out of your room. Much like the day before, the hallways are mainly lit by candles, the heavy curtains still drawn over the windows. The path to the dining hall is empty of people, and you half expect to see Junmyeon waiting for you at the head of the table. Instead, it too is void of others, however the table is spread with much of the same breakfast food from the day before. You fill a plate with various fruits and cuts of meat before you pause. Being the only one present, and likely the only one in the house, why should you not take the head of the table?

Sitting down where the patriarch typically would affords you a rush of gratification. Although you look out to a table without companionship, the new vantage points allows you to regain some semblance of control over your life. One small decision seems to be enough to propel you through the day.

Junmyeon strolls into the hall while you’re finishing off the last of the sweet grapes. The amusement is plain on his face when he sees where you’ve chosen to sit. Awkwardly you begin to rise from the chair, but he waves it off and sits a few seats down. “I see you’ve made yourself comfortable.”

“Yes…” You start, grasping for an excuse before you decide on a light shrug and the truth. “I did not expect to have company this morning.”

“I put in for an order of lemon tarts this morning for a reason.” Junmyeon states, leaning forward to pluck one from a plate. You watch him take a bite in confusion but decide not to question it. If the bloodsucking demon wanted to eat a lemon tart, you would let him enjoy it in peace.

“So might we revisit the reason on me being here?” You question him, watching him practically inhale the sweet treat and reach for a second.

“I believe I addressed why you were here yesterday.” Junmyeon states when he swallows. “And I believe I stated Yixing should be speaking with you.”

“If I’m to be forced to live here,” You begin, doing your best to keep the spite from your tone. “I’m going to need things that I do not currently have.”

“Like what?” Junmyeon questions, quirking an eyebrow, already halfway done with his second treat. There was only one remaining.

“Like…” You grasp for common items, not having expected him to actually care. “Well I’m going to need access to a bath, and soaps. Sanitary cloths for my cycles. Womanly things.”

“I’ll make sure to let Yixing know your list of demands for living here.” He states in amusement, standing and plucking the last treat from the table. “I’m sure he’ll fall over himself trying to get those things in order.”

He disappears from the room as you huff lightly, chewing on the last grape with more force than necessary. If they wanted to hold you hostage you at least had the right to be clean. After a few second of debating you rise from the head of the table, following him out to try to squeeze more answers out of him. He has already disappeared, and a quick search of the bottom floor shows that he must have made it up the stairs with alarming quiet and speed.

The rest of the day is spent trying to amuse yourself. You go on another tour of the castle, seeing if you can find anymore unlocked doors. There aren’t any. You run out of ideas to amuse yourself quickly and succumb to deciding to read the day away. While you love reading, it having been how you spent most of your days at home anyways, you had nothing else to do. You should have told Junmyeon to ask Yixing to procure more entertainment.

It is somehow easy demanding things from Junmyeon, or at least speaking to him in a normal manner. He was more human-like than Yixing had been, and if it weren’t for his red eyes and flash of pointed teeth you would have tempted to go as far and say the two of you could be friends. He felt more human, yes, but there were still times where he went far too long without blinking or you caught him looking at your throat.

The next few days pass by much the same. Despite not having a bible you say a short prayer every night, but you quickly begin to lose faith. You discover the room next to yours open the next day, inside being a large claw foot tub with steaming water. A table is set beside it, housing a plethora of soaps for your body and hair. A plush towel sits next to them. You close the door and bolt it shut, sitting in the scalding water until it turns cool and your skin is pruned. You took time to smell all of your options, settling on a mixture of vanilla and peppermint. You scrub and scrub and scrub until you have to get out and wrap the towel around your body.

In fact, every morning since your chat with Junmyeon has produced steaming bath water for your enjoyment. It immediately becomes the favorite part of your day, despite the piano that lulls you to sleep every night. You silently acknowledge the fact that not even those in the largest homes back in your village had the opportunity to bathe each and every day.

Junmyeon does not show up after the second day, but you find yourself not minding it. Though you miss human interaction, you’re content to wallow your days away in solitude, bath water, and tomes thicker than your torso. Which is exactly what you’re doing on the fifth day of the kidnapping – balancing a large book on your knees, peering down at the words in a plush chair in the library. Having chosen something outlining the lineage of a faraway land, you settled in with a cup of tea to read the afternoon away.

 You awake sometime later. The curtains you had drawn to let in the late afternoon sun might as well have been shut with all the light that was left. The sky was dark, what light the moon cast hardly penetrating through the window. Sleepily you shift, your legs sliding out from under you and falling stiffly to floor.

Hissing as you pull your feet back, you feel the residual sharp pinpricks of how cold the floor was. Winter was certainly setting in. Blearily you reach down and fumble blindly for the slippers you had discarded before shoving your feet into them. This time you weren’t shocked when your feet hit the floor, and you pushed yourself out of the chair. You stretch your arms above your head, yawning obnoxiously before your mind wakes up enough to realize you can year the piano weaving its way into the library from the music room upstairs.

You’ve never been out of your room when you hear the piano. You still don’t know who plays it. It could be Junmyeon, sure, or it could be Yixing or some other demon you’ve yet to meet – okay, slow down, you tell yourself, taking a breath to steady your increasing thumping heartbeat. The library is on the first floor, the music room on the second, and your room on the third. All you have to do is be quiet going up the stairs.

Creeping outside the library, you’re met with the characteristic stillness of the household. No one is roaming the halls and there’s no noise outside of the soft, lilting melody of the piano keys. It’s even more beautiful now that there’s one less door between you and its location. Closing the door slowly behind you, you began to creep towards the grand staircase. Candles were lighted in their perches on the walls, casting yellow and orange hues against the dark stone. Just a few stairs up, you pause. Was it the fourth or the fifth stair that creaked under added weight? You take a moment to wrack your brain for an answer before you decide to hike up your skirts and stretch to the sixth stair.

Narrowly avoiding a leg cramp, you push yourself back to a respectable position, straightening out your skirts and continuing to sneak up the rest of the staircase. There was only one other stair you had to avoid, and when you reached the top you mentally gave yourself a round of applause. One flight of stairs down, one flight of stairs to go. As you begin your light trek down the hallway towards the next flight of stairs, the feathery lilt of melody swelled, working towards a climax of what you were sure was to be an amazing end of –

“Hello.” A honeyed voice sounded from behind you. You spin in mid stride to face whoever spoke, but there’s no one there. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, squinting lightly into the weak light cast by the candles. There’s no one there.

“In front of you.” The same voice speaks from behind you once more. You spin again, this time coming face to face with another demon. You take an involuntary step back, back towards the stairs.

He’s easily the most attractive of the three. Towering above you, you see deep chocolate hair parted in the front, and his skin must have been naturally rich because last you knew these demons could not go out in the sun. His skin practically glowed despite the weak lighting, but that’s where the warmth stopped. A sharp jawline, plump lips quirked into a smirk, a straight nose, strong eyebrows, and blood red eyes. Junmyeon’s – even Yixing’s – had life in them, emotion and personality. This man’s were cold, lifeless. Dead, just like him.

“It’s rude not to speak when spoken to.” His voice is huskier than when he first spoke, but still dripping in honey. Immaculately dress, his jacket was unbuttoned halfway, his white shirt underneath similarly unbuttoned. An expanse of tanned skin showed, and you could practically see the iron muscles ripple underneath.

“Hello.” You suddenly find your voice and dip into an uncertain curtsy. He’s different from Junmyeon, different from Yixing. While you knew that they were both deadly, they didn’t look at you like you were a meal. They didn’t look through you.

The man in front of you suddenly smiled a full, toothy grin – and displayed for the first time the fangs you had heard so many rumors about when they spoke of the dead bodies found in the morning. Long, sharp, and almost mockingly glinting in the faint light – you couldn’t help but take another step back.

“That was adorable.” He stated in an amused tone. Your face flushed, and the thought of his fangs again sent your pulse skyrocketing. His eyes darted down to your neck, and he cocked his head to the side. It was as if he could hear your accelerated heart rate. A pink tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip, eyes not straying from your neck. You take another step back.

“Just a taste.” He says to himself in a low tone, the amusement from before having vanished as quick as it showed and his eyelids drooped low, hooded. The piano has stopped, but you have no time to take note of this fact. His lips pull back to reveal his fangs again as he leans forward, arms reaching out to keep you from running away. It was like a train wreck. Fear consumed you, rooting you to your place and the only thing you could do was screw your eyes shut in an attempt to ignore what was happening.

“Here to save your little mate, hm, Xing?” The handsome man ground out, and you managed to crack open your eyes. Directly in front of you was a broad back clad in a black suit jacket. Even from behind, even from his shortened name you could tell it was Yixing. Something deep inside of your soul told you it was him.

“You should not touch ladies without permission, Jongin.” Yixing speaks, his voice even. The first time he had spoken to you it had been soft, gentle – now it had an undercurrent of suppressed anger and barely contained contempt. The power shifted in the hallway away from the demon named Jongin and he felt it immediately. From peeking around Yixing, you saw him retreat a few steps. His eyes flickered from Yixing’s to yours, and he sneered.

“Ladies shouldn’t be wandering at night. They don’t know what lurks in the shadows.” He warned, and then he was simply gone. You didn’t blink, at least you don’t think you did; he was just there one moment and gone the next.

Yixing turned to face you after a moment. His hair hung over his forehead now, but he was still just as beautiful. Red eyes peered down at you, and you couldn’t make it past the startling closeness to see the concern clouding them. You take another step backwards, trying to get some physical space in an effort to clear get a grip on your mind.

Except this time, your foot does meet the smooth wooden planks along the floor. Instead, it’s met by nothing but thin air and belatedly you realize that, in your terror of the demon, you had retreated to the first staircase. Having no time to correct your mistake, your body tips backwards as your balance is thrown off. As your arms flail out to try to regain control you let out a very unbecoming yelp at the prospect of falling down the stairs and likely cracking your head open on a step or the landing.

Once again Yixing is there to save you. He reaches to grab hold of your hand, pulling you away from the steps and pivots you around so he’s between you and your close brush with an embarrassment you would never live down. His hands are cold, impossibly cold, and the grip he has on you sends your heartbeat into overtime – scratch that, the proximity he’s holding you at does. One arm has snaked around your waist to hold you firmly to his body, as if he could protect you wholly from making another stupid mistake tonight. His slim build does nothing to hide the fact that he is solid muscle. His hands may be comparable to ice, but his core body just seems to lack heat and is cool through the few layers of clothing he has on. Your own body seems to thrum with the closeness of him, something stirring deep inside of you.

“Careful, little one.” His tone is scolding while his lips are pressed into a thin line, brows scrunched together. The concern is hard to miss this time and the revelation that this heartless being is showing some semblance of kindness to you sends you spiraling further.

Heat colors your cheeks, making it hard to deny the embarrassment you were feeling with the whole situation. Yixing’s eyes rake over your features and you note offhand that his Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow. It’s a similar reaction Jongin had before he tried to tear into your neck, however you find it hard to react to Yixing the same way. “I-I am so sorry.”

You’re sorry? You instantly cringe at the fact you had apologized to the man – the thing that had kidnapped you from a church just days beforehand. He must have something similar running through his mind because the widening of his eyes and slow blink tell the story. “You’re sorry?” He questions, shaking his head and letting go of you. Somehow, you’re left feeling colder when he does. “You should not apologize for having an appropriate reaction to my kind. You have nothing at all to apologize for.”

“The piano stopped.” You note out loud, voice surprisingly even. Yixing regards you closely, being able to tell so much had happened in such a short period of time for you that you were choosing to focus on the small things before you tackle the large ones. “Were you playing it?”

“Yes,” Yixing answers, adding more gently, “I think it’s time for you to get into bed, little one.”

“I think you’re right.” You concede. He moves to the side, gesturing politely that you continue on your way. The first few steps are a bit wobbly, still feeling blindsided by the events that just transpired. A blood thirsty demon trying to rip into your neck, another, slightly less blood thirsty demon saving you from him, and then saving you from your own clumsy self. You had found yourself wishing these past few days to just run into Yixing again so you could demand that he release you, demand that he take you home unharmed and leave you be. But here he was, looking impossibly handsome in the flickering light, being kind, and you could not bring yourself to do so.

He follows a pace behind, his presence following you down the hall and up another flight of stairs. When you enter your bedroom, he stops in the doorway; lingering, watching. You pull the blankets back from the bed, trying to think of what to say to the red-eyed man.

“Sleep well.” He states softly, beating you to it and reaching in to take hold of the doorknob, beginning to shut the door. Your heart leaps in your throat at the thought of being alone, at the thought of Jongin being somewhere in the house. They don’t know what lurks in the shadows. When Jongin had spoken it, you had taken it as a serious warning. It flared up in your mind again, spreading through you like wildfire.

“Wait!” The panic in your voice made him halt, looking up at you with widened eyes. “What if he ends up coming back?”

Yixing drew himself up to his full height, shoulders tense and expression solemn. “Jongin will not come back, nor will he hurt you. I will not let anyone hurt you. I promise it.” His tone was even but laced with seriousness you had not expected. It was hard not to believe the words when he conveyed them so earnestly.

You turn from him, trying to steady the warmth that spread through you at his sudden flare of protectiveness. Keeping your voice as even as possible, you manage to murmur, “I believe you,” as you slide out of your slippers and into bed. “And I want to talk tomorrow.”

Yixing nods, beginning to close the door once more. “Good night, little one.”

You shrug out of your coat and unlace the corset, shrugging them both off before you lay down in bed, pulling the blankets up high. The piano never starts back up, but you don’t find difficulty in drifting off.

#yixing #exo #yixing scenario #yixing angst #jongin #junmyeon #exo scenario #exo angst #yixing fanfiction #exo fanfiction #lay #lay scenario #lay angst #yixing au #kai #suho #exo au #lay au #kpop #kpop fanfiction #exo vampire #my sun

[slightlyrebelliouswriter23]

Can you do 04 for the winter prompts x jurdan?? I'd love you forever.

so it’s been approximately 84 years since i received this ask, but it inspired me so much that it sort of spiralled out of control, and now it’s gonna be the start of a multichapter fic! thank you for your patience and for the inspiration 🖤💫

Content Warning: Cursing, mild mention of panic attack (to skip, stop reading between the ~~~~~)

Part I- Slow Burn

I, Jude Duarte, third year at Royal Greenbriar University and soon-to-be reigning Top Scholar, am in a hurry.

It’s rush hour. The pavement is slick with sleet and packed with important people in fancy suits. They brave sheets of freezing rain that lash down from the angry October skies with an unending canopy of black umbrellas.

I don’t carry my own. Umbrellas aggravate the chaos of mornings in Insmire, and I don’t need to add another to the mix.

Luckily, I am short. Manoeuvring through gaps in elbows and shoulders does not take much effort on my part. It’s the briefcases and patches of ice which make running a bit of a challenge this morning—but then, I have always enjoyed a challenge.

As I tear through the crowded streets of Insmire, I only know one thing: No amount of wind or hail or people can stop me. And if anyone gets bludgeoned with my thirty-pound backpack as I weave through the throng, well, that’s on them.

Cold air slices through me with every heave of my lungs, every pounding thud of my boots on the sidewalk. My legs are sore from yesterday’s fencing practice, but I savour the sweet ache and forge on.

I am used to this rushing, for I am always in a hurry. It sometimes feels like I’ve been in a hurry from my very first breath. As if I’m constantly trying to catch up to something just out of my grasp.

My twin sister, Taryn, and I were born in a hurry.

So excited were we to join the ranks of men, we surprised our mother half to death by wandering into the world nearly four weeks early.

As a result, we spent the next several weeks of our lives as tiny things in incubators—a little sickly and terribly jaundiced. This was how our mother always used to describe it, at least.

Ever since then, I have been invariably late to everything. Mostly, I blame it on the incubators. And the jaundice.

If I’m being honest with myself, though, being always late is a trait I can only attribute to who I am as a person. It is as much a part of me as the tip of my left ring finger is not.

I sometimes wonder if that’s exactly the crux of it; that just like my fingertip, my punctuality has somehow been taken from me, too.

I have heard of twins absorbing their siblings in the womb. I can’t see why personality traits should be any different. Especially since Taryn and I had to spread them so thinly between two of us.

And Taryn is always perfectly on time.

I risk a glance at my watch. A tiny crack runs up the glass. It’s been there for ages, but I am still nettled by the sight of it and the unbidden memory it stirs.

It’s because of this tiny crack that the watch’s face is now fogged up from the inside. I can barely make out the three little golden hands racing each other toward my tardiness.

Seven minutes past eight.

I am really very late. Or, I know I will be, at least.

Technically, if I go straight to the Silhouette Gazette now, I will be right on time for my interview.

But I can’t go straight there. Not when I haven’t had coffee.

Without my fix, I won’t be able to string together even one sentence. Much less make it through an entire interview with enough charisma to snag the internship position I so desperately need. Since I am not very charismatic to begin with, I’ll need all the help I can get.

Everything depends on my getting this internship. If I don’t, there’s no way I’ll maintain my near-perfect GPA, no way I’ll graduate summa cum laude or Valedictorian of my class.

And then I’ll have to go into something boring. Like publishing. A shudder runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold.

I shove between two men wearing long coats and flat caps. They grunt in shock and disapproval. I hardly feel the zing of pain as my shin collides with something hard.

A briefcase flies out of its owner’s grip, crashing onto the pavement a few yards away. I don’t stop to apologise.

“Bitch!” One of the flat caps shouts after me.

Yes, I agree silently, hopping over the felled bag. I am very much that.

If I had the time and breath to tell the men just the same, I would. Instead, I flip them a rude gesture over my shoulder and don’t turn around.

I’m already ten paces away when a dull throbbing starts on my leg. It radiates from where I know there’ll be an unsightly bruise tomorrow. But bruises are a thing for future Jude to handle.

There is no way I will let what happened last year happen again. Second-year was a fluke. A one-time thing.

I will get this internship, take back my rightful title of Top Scholar, and keep it until I graduate—just like my mother did. I absolutely refuse to be beaten out by some preppy moneybags prick.

Or a bit of hail.

Before flying out the door of my flat this morning, I did a quick search on Google Maps, the results of which yielded the quirky little coffee shop I now see in my line of vision.

The White Rabbit sits mercifully in all its three-story glory right across the street from the newspaper’s office building. If luck is on my side, if I hurry, I should have just enough time to grab a cup to-go and make it with a minute or two to spare.

My thoughts are all jumbled as I barrel through the glass doors.

A white-haired barista stands behind the counter at the back of the shop, taking a customer’s order with an unbearable amount of cheer for a Monday morning.

The queue isn’t too bad, maybe three people long. I send up a quick thanks to whatever power of the universe might be in charge of coffee queues.

It smells miraculous in here—freshly ground coffee and something buttered and flakey. Suddenly, I am too warm.

I make a beeline for the back of the queue, shucking off my hat and gloves as I go. I’m unzipping my coat, a difficult task with hands full of knitted things, when a wall of black blurs into my periphery.

I don’t have a second to react before that wall smacks me right in the forehead. And collides everywhere else.

A scalding liquid sloshes down the front of my shirt. I stumble backwards, gasping at the pain.

There is a very loud “Fuck” followed by an equally as loud “Shit!”

I am not sure which curse fell from my lips, but I know it was one of them. All I can feel is this dreadful sting. It spreads like a wildfire across my chest.

Perhaps, I’d cursed both words. The pain certainly warrants it.

“Are you alright, dear?�� a dark, silken voice asks. A pair of beringed hands steady me, grasping my shoulders with the barest of touches. As quickly as they appeared, like that they are gone. And then they are handing me a wad of brown paper napkins.

“Here,” the voice says.

I snatch the proffered napkins and look up at my assailant.

Perfect. Just perfect, I think with a scowl. Of course the person who spills their drink down my blouse has to be stupidly attractive.

The man before me is so beautiful it’s almost cruel.

A crown of crow dark curls circles his head, framing his oil slick eyes and sharp cheekbones. His is an unnecessary sort of perfection that sets my teeth grinding.

He’s clad in all black, save for his coat—a beaded brocade of black and crimson silk with quilted red lapels. From the breast pocket, a beaded scarlet brooch in the shape of a dahlia dangles in ostentatious splendour.

There is something familiar about him I can’t quite grasp.

For some inexplicable reason I amount to probable insanity, I cannot stop my gaze from flitting to his mouth.

Bad idea. Very bad idea.

His lips look like two full flower petals. I’m plagued by the inane thought that they might feel just as soft. If I can only reach out and—

I shake my head.

Concern creases the man’s brow now. To my horror, I realise I haven’t responded to his question. I’ve just stood here, dripping and sticky, for who knows how long. Staring. Like an idiot.

“I’m fine,” I grit out through barred teeth and my own mortification. I pat at the stain hastily with the wad of napkins. “I’m just great.”

It’s useless, of course.

The stain isn’t coming out, I’m late to my life-altering interview, and to make matters worse, I still haven’t had coffee. Not to mention, my chest burns in a way that makes me tempted to scrap everything in favour of a doctor’s office.

~~~~~

That’s when panic seizes hold.

A strand of pearls tightening around my throat. I am sure it means to strangle me because I cannot breathe.

My heart takes flight, battering my ribcage as if it intends to escape entirely. A trail of sweat trickles down my forehead.

I am going to be late. I am going to have this horrid stain on my shirt. I am going to fail this interview. I am going to fail this year and myself and my family.

There’s something heavy sitting on my lungs. I am both hot and cold, here and not.

Tears prick my eyes. I will them not to spill over, but of course, my body betrays me. I swipe furiously at my cheeks.

Everyone in the coffee shop plus one unfortunately attractive dude must be staring, watching as I teeter on the edge of full-blown hysterics.

“Hey,” Unfortunately Attractive Dude croons, but I don’t see him.

I try to draw even breaths. And fail. And fail again.

~~~~~

I’m barely aware of the hand that guides me to a corner of the coffee shop. It’s darker here. A bit quieter, too. I notice a large bookshelf obscuring the alcove from the main seating area. Away from prying eyes.

“Just relax,” the man says. “It’s going to be okay. Are you hurt?” He looks inclined to place his hand on my shoulder again but thinks better of it when he sees my expression.

I want to punch him in his stupid face. Maybe I should. It’s only fair, given the circumstances.

“Relax?” I scoff, hating the way my voice cracks. “Don’t tell me to relax. I’ve got an interview in ten minutes and I’m fairly certain my would-be boss won’t appreciate my being late. Or this sort of oversharing.”

I make a wild gesture at the stain on my chest, ignoring the slight tremor in my hands. I am acutely aware of the fabric’s transparency there. Today was not the day to wear a bright purple bra.

A moment passes before a smirk slips into place on Unfortunately Attractive Dude’s hateful mouth. He folds his arms across his chest, giving me a once over.

“You sure about that?” he drawls, and now I am positive I’m going to punch him. My hands curl into fists at my sides.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you, sunshine, are no longer having a panic attack.”

Indeed, the tightening in my throat has waned. But as keen an observation as it might be, I would first run my hand through with my fencing sabre than admit he is right.

“I wasn’t having a panic attack,” I say too quickly. He produces a smug expression that is just as bewitching as it is infuriating.

He knows what I’ve said is a lie. I know it’s a lie, too. Very deep down. In some dark forgotten place inside me where things that don’t want to be admitted go.

The man grins as if I should be grateful. I am decidedly not.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” I say, taking a step toward him. “But don’t pretend to know me. Because you don’t.”

He lifts a brow—the worst kind of dare. “Don’t I?”

“No,” I say. I hope I come off more menacing than I feel with my tearstained cheeks and conspicuous underthings on display for all the world to see.

“Pity,” he says, still wearing that stupid smile. “You seem delightful.”

My face grows hot. Blood pounds heavy in my ears, and I feel like I’m running anew. I’m so angry I cannot think.

And apparently, I don’t think—because I take another step closer.

The rest of the world slides away. It’s just me and this loathsome beautiful heinous man in a secluded corner of a strange coffee shop.

He towers over me, lithe and angled, face limned in shadow. He’s unflinching and returns my gaze with equal distaste.

My heart skitters wildly, stumbling one beat over the next like it knows it’s been spotted by something with sharp claws and jagged teeth.

In the unclosed space between us, a glittery treacherous thing ripples.

I am suddenly very glad for bookshelves.

I should leave. I should go to my interview before I do something I will regret. Before I ruin everything. I should walk away.

Then, I do the opposite of that.

“I’m the farthest thing from delightful,” I tell him, shooting a dagger-filled glare from beneath the hood of my brow. “Which is why I’d strongly advise against getting in my way again. And don’t call me sunshine.”

Something smells familiar; like a forest in winter. Like cedarwood and myrrh. With a jolt, I realise it’s him and dig my nails into the meat of my palm.

He chuckles, raising his hands in defence. “Fine,” he says. “Won’t happen again. But at least come with me. I think I can help.” He juts his chin toward the back of the coffee shop, presumably towards the toilets.

I wrinkle my nose.

This can’t seriously be some kind of come-on. I don’t have time for unsolicited advances right now. I don’t even have time for solicited advances.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I spit, and he flinches. “First, you give me third-degree burns. What’s next? Chop me up in the alley out back?”

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly. “As appealing as that sounds,” he says. “I’m shit with knives.”

“Oh, that’s a comfort.”

“Better with fabric, though.” He gives an unbothered shrug. “I was going to offer to get that out for you.” The man nods, seemingly unfazed, at my chest. Heat rises in my cheeks again.

“You’ve done enough already,” I snap.

Maybe I’ll just wear my winter coat through the whole cursed interview. Even that would be a better solution than this conversation.

I turn on my heel to leave, but the man catches my wrist.

Bad move, I think.

I’m contemplating dragging him out of this alcove by the ear so I can punch him in front of every customer in this coffee shop when, to my surprise, he lets go.

The man rakes a hand through his dark curls, heaving a great sigh.

“Wait. Just…” he starts. “Look, I feel bad enough as is. Let me make it up to you. It’ll take five minutes. You’ll only be a little late to your interview, and you won’t have to deal with a dry cleaner’s bill.”

I snort. I haven’t been able to afford dry cleaning since I stopped living in Madoc’s house two years ago. I will likely have to throw this shirt away if I can’t get the stain out with a good old-fashioned scrubbing.

“I’ll buy you a coffee for your troubles while we wait.”

I consider him for a moment. He seems sincere enough, though attractive people always seem sincere, even when they are truly not.

Now, though, I don’t really have much left in me to care.

I want the stain out of my blouse, a vat of coffee in my system, and a teleportation device that can transport me to the sixth floor of the Silhouette immediately.

If this man is a willing rung in the ladder to get me even two-thirds of those things, I will consider it a blessing.

“Fine,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’ll take a large cappuccino. Extra shot of espresso. And a shot of caramel. To go.”

“Wonderful.” The dazzling man smiles his dazzling smile. “Follow me.” And with that, he leads the way out of the alcove, a gleeful bound in his step.

I already regret my decision.

*****

AN: thanks for reading, my loves! hope you enjoyed. this is the first part in my multichapter Jurdan College AU called “We’re All Mad Here”.

#jurdan #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #queen of nothing #tqon #qon #tcp #twk #holly black #tfota #the folk of the air #high queen jude #high king cardan #prince cardan #queen jude #king cardan #jude duarte x cardan greenbriar #jude greenbriar