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#the fate of all star guardians

reginrokkr · 2 years

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I just saw this again and I was reminded of that black hole event horizon looming behind Dain. Also how those flames have itty bitty stars inside and many more inside those two stars on his right. This without mentioning the stars on his cape also in a similar fashion to Paimon who is without a doubt sus in this whole thing although I have this theory that matches with my take of the Gnostic Chorus cutscene and the center of his chest. It does make me wonder if one day we’ll learn more about stars besides the fact that fate is written in them. Perhaps when Scaramouche becomes playable he’ll have a line related to it?

#◟༺✦༻◞ What lays behind the mantle of faux stars ┊OOC.┊#once again I think about that one line #of the Travail trailer #when he talks about re-weaving all fate #if he happens to be like a guardian #to the door that must be opened for that matter #it wouldn't be far-fetched to think #that he can do this himself too #thoughts... /many/ thoughts

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ririkon · 4 months

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I came for a reason, It's a collab with Lebedek. She doesn't have a tumbler, but she does have Twitter.

https://twitter.com/Lebedek_Vika?s=09

There is a little background to this art, but it is translated from Russian, and everything can be a little complicated and unclear.

........

For travelers, the Multiverse was like an entrance, where even the walls had ears, which is why, due to carelessness, rumors could spread instantly. What Error and Inkoi immediately took into account, since there were threats in this regard from all sides: that the bad guys, that the star ones foreshadowed certain difficulties; other travelers; and the universes themselves even more so. Sooner or later, of course, everything will be revealed, but no matter how hopeless it may sound, they decided to continue playing for outsiders until the last, fighting for the universes for show, remaining on their usual sides.

The snow, which once lay calmly among tall dark spruce trees, was stirred up by red bones, stained by caustic ink, and branches broke under blue threads.

The frosty air was now and then cut through by the dangerous crack of blasters. An ardent battle was going on for one of the universes, which Error had designated for destruction and, no matter what the universe was, the experienced guardians of the version usually spared no effort in battles, remembering the past, turning the matter into sparring, not giving in to the opponent, but also trying to do without any or serious injury. Everything usually ended with someone’s loss, by which the fate of the universe was already determined. But time for this decision was not always allocated immediately.

Blood sprinkled the snow and Glyuche gave a strangled hiss, clutching his ribs, and the brush was instantly thrown to the ground.Error looked at his hand and there was a burgundy mark left on it due to the mixing of blood with ink. I didn’t have time to properly defend myself from the deceptive maneuver, so I exposed myself to attack.

Ink looked around, not noticing anyone nearby, quickly jumped up to Glyucha and helped him move a little further into the thicket, away from the empty space and random extra eyes, which he really didn’t need right now.

The artist fussily examined Error’s overall appearance and shrank all over, fixing his gaze on the dangerously deep wound. He touched the bloody, torn edge of his clothing, where cracked bright ribs were visible, and from under them the light of a glitchy blue soul was breaking through. It was dangerously close to the wound.

-“I’m sorry, I didn’t calculate the strength, I didn’t want it to happen like this, it seemed that you would dodge, as you always did,”- Ink rattled anxiously. “Please forgive me, let’s go home soon, I’ll heal everything,” he continued to worry, darting his gaze from the wound to his face. Glitchy.

But he no longer cared about the pain, he was more amazed at the reaction of his opponent - they had stopped trying to kill each other too long ago, so such fuss about his health made him embarrassed. Even during the times of enmity, there were similar cases when he was treated by an artist after battles to the point of death, but now it felt different after they became closer and stopped competing in the number of broken bones.This care on the part of the artist... he gently put his hand on top of the artist's hand and looked at him with tenderness. There was not a drop of anger or resentment in his gaze.

-"Wait, let's stand a little longer... like this, next to each other."

Ink looked up in surprise at Glyuche and chuckled quietly, calming down a little.

-“Only if it’s a little, then I’ll drag you home, I won’t let you bleed,” - he took Error by the hand.

Also a bit of work process~

#art #undertale #ink sans #error sans #errorink #artists on tumblr

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zarnzarn · 5 months

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okay okay I'm DEVASTATED BUT ALSO HERES ALL THE LORE THINGS STOLAS MENTIONED CAUSE IM A SLUT FOR THAT SHIT:

"an oath by blood to hold the tome" bro they bloodbound a child?? but also DAMN what's in that grimoire? also is that the grimoire has it been updated? and is stolas like,, tied to the book??? HELLO???

"starlight feeds all the skills I've honed" guys this is the best day of my life I was RIGHT he CAN READ THE STARS. IM SO EXCITED ABT THIS. IM GOING TO BE SO INSUFFERABLE ABT IT

"I am a guardian, a watcher of these ancient rites" HELLO. HELLO???? ARE YALL SEEING THIS.

"yet i find myself drawn from that path" hey how much of the future can you see....

DEAREST I KNOW BETTER NOW I MUST GIVE YOU THIS CHOICE

"a deed we forged for mutual gain" thank the fucking stars if I had to hear ONE more brainless take on it not being consensual i think I was going to start beating people up

okay but the gold blitz constellation is BEAUTIFUL HOLY SHIT

SCORNED BY A REALM WHO CANNOT COMPREHEND WHAT YOU ARE

EXCUSE THE FUCK OUT OF ME WHO ALLOWED . WHAT THE FUCK.

damn okay so did the contract bind their souls together??? most likely but if there was something stolas saw in the future regarding their fate im gonna-

the yellow water animation is the most beautiful thing I've seen on screen all year

I'll save us both before we both grow cold.....

#helluva boss #stolas #blitz #stolitz #helluva boss spoilers #just look my way #bye y'all #expect a soulmate au on ur table by tomorrow.

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mitfloya · 3 months

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𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬: 𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐫

pairings. Xavier x gn!reader

wc. 1K

synopsis. Xavier's unwavering obsession with you transcends the boundaries of time and space. No matter how vast the universe may be, he is determined to find you in every lifetime. With an unyielding determination, he is willing to traverse the furthest reaches, even to the edge of the universe, just to ensure that you are by his side. Any who dare to come between you will be swiftly dealt with, for in Xavier's eyes, you are destined to be together and he will stop at nothing to protect that bond.

warnings. The following content contains elements of obsessive behavior, yandere thoughts, stalking, possessive behavior, and may include poorly written narratives. Reader is referred to as 'you'. Proceed with caution, as this writing may be unsettling or uncomfortable for some individuals.

a/n. In the next week I'll be planning to make my first fic and it will be a yandere themed and planning a big project on my AO3 acc later, also I'm currently busy with making c.ai hsr angsty bots and fluff themed LaDS bots. Be sure to check my fic or bots later! Grab some snacks and I hope you enjoy reading this hc ♡

♡ Please reblog and comment on this post are much, much appreciated ♡

Don't be fooled by his unassuming appearance, for you never know what lies behind that innocent and sunshine-filled face of his.

If you thought Zayne was the hardest to read, then you're wrong.

At first glance, he appears like any regular civilian, hiding his true nature behind a carefully constructed facade. He avoids discussing his background, creating an air of mystery around him.

As time passes and you both continue to cross paths, Xavier's presence in your life becomes more than just coincidence. The moments spent together, the shared laughter, and the mutual support Xavier effortlessly establishes a friendship that feels natural and authentic.

As the bond between you strengthens, Xavier's presence becomes a source of comfort and solace. His unwavering dedication to your well-being is evident in the small gestures of kindness, the thoughtful words, and the unwavering support he provides.

The nicest guy you’ve ever met, he is always there to lend a helping hand, whether it's assisting you with your own challenges or guiding you through difficult situations. His genuine care and concern for your well-being are evident in every interaction, as he goes above and beyond to ensure your happiness and safety.

So how can you ever suspect anything weird when he spends his time reading and sleeping all the time? While he may possess formidable fighting skills and experience, his gentle nature and soothing presence overshadow any doubts that may arise.

Xavier's aura alone brings you comfort, lulling you into a sense of security that makes it nearly impossible to question his motives.

Even if he is physically out of reach, Xavier constantly assures you that he is by your side.

He makes it clear that all you need to do is call for him, and he will come to you, no matter the distance or the obstacles. It is as if he has sworn an unbreakable oath to be your loyal knight, ready to protect and support you at all costs.

In Xavier's eyes, you are the center of his universe, the one person who holds the key to his heart. He sees himself as your guardian, ready to sacrifice anything and everything to ensure your well-being.

Thus why falling for him was easy.

Too easy that you didn’t realize you have fallen into the depths of his twisted love.

Xavier possesses an uncanny ability to blend into society seamlessly, making it nearly impossible for others to suspect his true nature.

From the moment you first encountered Xavier, there was a cosmic force that bound you together, like star-crossed lovers fated to meet repeatedly. Even amidst chaos and unfortunate circumstances, Xavier always finds his way to your side, just as he promised long ago.

It was not cosmic force or fate, it was all his doings.

Death may be your constant companion, but Xavier is your eternal lover. No entity, not even a deity, can come between the inseparable bond that exists between you. Death is merely a phase, he will find you in another life.

From the moment he first laid eyes on you, he knew that you were meant to be his. He firmly believes that your destinies are entwined, that you were never meant for anyone else, and he will go to great lengths to ensure that no one else lays claim to your heart.

To Xavier, you are the sole focus of his existence. Xavier's devotion knows no boundaries, as he is willing to sacrifice anything and anyone to ensure your safety and happiness.

Why do you think he goes extra lengths to provide you with everything? Because he loves you.

Was it a coincidence that he was your neighbor? Of course not!

Every action he takes, every sacrifice he makes, is fueled by a love that surpasses all reason.

He meticulously plans your encounters, orchestrating seemingly random meetings to further deepen the illusion of coincidence.

He has a network of informants and spies who provide him with information about you. He has carefully cultivated relationships with people in your life, gaining their trust and loyalty. These individuals unknowingly feed him information, allowing him to stay one step closer to you at all times.

He lives in the shadows, unseen and unnoticed, but his presence is always felt. He knows your routines, your habits, your deepest fears and desires. His knowledge of you is intimate, as if he has studied every minute detail of your existence.

Would he sacrifice himself for you to continue to live? Without hesitation. To Xavier, your life is the ultimate prize, and he would gladly lay down his own to ensure your survival.

Xavier's perception of the world is warped by his obsession, blurring the lines between what is real and what he desires to be real. He sees you as his possession, his soulmate, his reason for existence.

Time and fate will always be his obstacle as they’re conspiring against his absurd ideas. However, he refuses to be content with mere obsessions or imaginations; he wants you and him to become a reality.

In the early stages, even before being in a relationship, Xavier exhibits subtle signs of jealousy. His protective nature, while initially endearing, can become suffocating as the relationship progresses.

Once you are officially together, his jealousy becomes more pronounced and dangerous, leading to harm or even death for those who dare to steal you away.

No need to check on the news headline. Lifeless bodies scattered like fallen leaves, has become all too common, it’s the cause of wanderer has been ramping up lately, angel.

It was partially not the cause of wanderers.

Even in the face of your defiance, you are acutely aware of the futility of your resistance. He will abduct you, whisking you away to a distant planet, far beyond the reach of prying eyes from the world.

In this alternate reality, you are left with no choice but to accept your fate. The notion of escape becomes nothing more than a distant dream.

The stars become witnesses to your eternal entwining, as the universe itself seems to acknowledge the dark and twisted love that binds you both.

#love and deep space #love and deepspace #love and deepspace headcanons #yandere love and deepspace #yandere hcs #xavier love and deepspace #xavier #shen xinghui #yandere xavier #yandere xavier x reader #yandere xavier x you #yandere xavier x yn #xavier x reader #xavier x you #xavier x y/n #dividers by cafekitsune

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hwaightme · 2 months

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Feel alive

(masterlist) (taglist)

🌑 pairing: strictland!seonghwa x gn!singer!reader 🌑 genre: fluff, angst, dystopian, sci-fi, noir, music, lovers to enemies to lovers 🌑 summary: after escaping the confines of prestige academy you find yourself singing at 'morpheus' - an underground bar and club for strictland outcasts. except this reality, too, crumbles before you. your fate is again in the hands of the same man, and you are forced to ask yourself: what does it mean to 'feel alive'? 🌑 wordcount: 9.5k total 🌑 warnings/tags: semi-edited, authoritarian regime (strictland/z/universe z), lore-inspired, guns/gunshots, implied attack on club, implied violence, crime, alcohol/drinking, implied organised criminal networks, discussions about death/murder/execution, nihilism/existentialism, 'bout as dark as the diary entries, long lost lovers, starcrossed, hope, blue bird, jazz, uprisings 🌑 taglist: at the bottom of the fic 🌑 a/n: noir hwa, ateez synthwave song quartet, and lore ponderings. hope you enjoyed <3 any notes, reblogs, comments, asks are always welcome! much love!

The lights dimmed, and it was as if the jazz bar never existed in the first place. The worn seats occupied by drunks who liked to pretend they had taste, sofas in the far corner reserved for big shots and well-established scum with pretty young accessories on either arm, the bar that sold everything under the rays of the dying sun and evil moon, it all disappeared with the dawn of the spotlight falling upon your alluring silhouette. A simple, yet elegant sleek black dress with a hint of shimmer that graced your curves seemed to shine in the glimmering illumination. The delicate silver accessories were stars in the hypnotising sky, the allure of an unreachable universe becoming overwhelming as your hands glided over the length of the microphone to find purchase on the stand. The music, starting from a low rumble, was an echo of the abyss surrounding you, manifested only at the softest inhale. After what could have been the drums and trumpet, or could have been the heavens announcing the beautiful singer’s presence finished their spontaneous introduction, Seonghwa had the pleasure of forgetting his purpose, at least for as long as the song lasted. He could drift into a sultry paradise, seduced by what had to be a siren’s call, and regard the customers of the Morpheus bar with something less than loathing.

As soon as he cleared the last of the russet coloured drink he had ordered in one gulp and set the glass down on the bar, shutting his eyes momentarily to focus on the warmth of the alcohol running down his throat, Seonghwa found the fingers of his right hand softly drumming out the song in accompaniment, each digit hitting one note, another, again and again. Back in the day, it had not been often that his visits to the bar occurred at the same time as the one and only Y/N’s performances, but when they did, he swore he could see the smog clear and tomorrow become a certainty. The music consumed him whole and even though he knew down to the second when the magic would be extinguished, a part of him still retained the hope that the spell would never be broken. Not when the only encore he could guarantee for himself was another torturous raid on an establishment such as this one, or another feverish witch hunt for those who had regained their ability to feel and to think freely. All in the name of a faceless leader who even Seonghwa himself had only met a handful of times despite being in a high ranking position of Guardian Inspector - above the standard white-clad machines, above the so-called officials clad in military uniform, he was in charge of ‘keeping civil hands clean’. At what cost? Perhaps his own emotions were the price.

The dark-haired man caught himself wondering how many people in this bar could enjoy themselves to the fullest. How many of these poor unfortunate souls that succumbed to the rush for easy money and easy love were true followers of hedonism, and were spending their days in an enviable bliss? Biting his lower lip, Seonghwa regarded his surroundings with a subtle scorn. He was well aware that he was to blame for it all too; The regime, to retain the ultimate, unwavering control over the citizens, even those who wholeheartedly believed they were well-hidden from the authoritarian judgement, was a supplier of one of the many pleasures after all - toying with people's weakness before the formidable seven sins only to lead them into full submission. The Strictland government, despite propagating ‘human emotion being a disease’ had anything anyone could ever desire, and Seonghwa was one of the many agents to guarantee long term partnerships, addiction to the illusion of a better life, and most importantly, stability and security for the people who had taken him in all that time ago when no one else would, and had given him a chance.

While he was the bringer of demise, the counter of profits drenched in crushing dread and the hand of twisted and subjective justice, at the same time, Seonghwa believed that it gave him all the more right to judge the society he was a part of. After all, he was not the one being fooled. Inevitably, his glimmering orbs settled back on the singer’s gently swaying form as they broke into the chorus, and nearly shuddered as your gaze, from languid, half-lidded but oh so appealing eyes, met his, only for a split second but it was as if hellfire itself embraced him and greeted him like an old lover. Each lyric - a personal address as you moved along at a sensual pace, the song smoother than the most expensive silk. He smirked to himself as he caught his ponderings accelerating uncontrollably, attempting to squash them under a sober, calculating fist. You were no fool either. An entertainer, measuring out each attack like a venomous serpent, not threatened, seeking fun in the reveal of vulnerability of your listeners - each one believed that you existed for them and them alone, and in the hypnotic state added bill after bill to their already hefty tips in the hopes that at least some would reach you, and you would give them that beautiful smile, maybe something more. Truly, a shame that the owner of Morpheus owed the regime a lot more than all the tips, so-called donations and what, compared to the rest of the money, was "honest" earnings all combined. The Captain of the Inspectors in charge of this little project had gotten a little too nice as of late, at least that was what Seonghwa had concluded, but it was not him who was going to pay for it, naturally.

Twisting his head, Seonghwa took note of the familiar faces that appeared at the entrance to Morpheus to join the rest of the Inspectors that were posing as regular customers, cleverly dispersed among the filth that reeked of dependence. Of course, dependence on what the regime was selling. There was no other way about it. Nodding the two men a curt hello, Seonghwa let his eyes trace back a swift path to the magnificent performance. He paid attention to how your dainty earrings glinted even in the lowered light, and how, with every subtle movement, he could see the gorgeous dress tighten just a little around your body. You were so out of place in this scene, an angel in the darkest pits of hell, a little bird struggling against the wiring of a cage, curling inwards, growing smaller until the last flutter of the wings. As he was caught up in admiring your beautiful style, grace, and listening to your sweet, warm tone, one of the two newcomers, a fellow brother in governmental salvation to Seonghwa, tapped him lightly on the shoulder and occupied the seat beside him.

“As flashy as ever, Woo. Might as well tattoo ‘trouble’ on your forehead,” he motioned towards his not so inconspicuous suit that made him look more like a mafioso rather than an average joe. Seonghwa had to admit, however, that the outfit looked too damn good on him, but this was going to be just one of those things he was to take to his grave. The man did not need his ego fed any more than what the ladies he finds as company for the less busy nights not hounded by the lower ranking Guardians provide.

“I’d carve a pretty smile on that face. Not even a hello?”

“Hi San,” Seonghwa deadpanned, looking past his friend who he noted had tied his hair into a low ponytail, and right at the other half of his duo. Wooyoung and San, two peas in a pod, and probably the last people one would ever wish to see if they were in trouble with any of the Inspectors.

“Aren’t you mean today… what, pretty star over there didn’t give you attention?” Wooyoung retorted with a smirk creeping onto his lips. With a raise of an eyebrow and a shake of the head, Seonghwa dismissed any thoughts of peace that he had been imagining, settling back to regular business.

Rolling his shoulders back, he let the scene come and envelop him. It was no coincidence that so many of the Inspectors had gathered, especially with Wooyoung and San now closing in the arrivals. It did not take a genius to guess that Captain had changed his terms, and this was no longer going to be an ordinary shakeout for money or customary information gathering from the owner of Morpheus. The owner had stalled for far too long, had strayed from ‘good practices’ of a loyal rat, and it was time to set an example for others. Disease was the human emotion, and this bar was a breeding ground for thought crime, was it not?. Lowly, lonely creatures who gathered here were all examples of where society had gone astray from the perfect vision Z had put forward, at least… most were. Those who had forgotten the meaning of feeling despite having regained the ability, those, to Seonghwa, were the true vermin. He regarded the few gathered who were most definitely not meant to be part of this story. A middle aged, haggard man with flushed cheeks and what had to be his fifth glass of the cheapest liquor on the menu. Some bigshot from another town who he recalled some of the Inspectors in charge of patrolling the area identifying this morning - no ties, no money, just a lot of ambition that was to amount to nothing. A few lowlives here and there who were faceless, in shades of grey. All not meant to be here, and yet by some stroke of fate, here they were to remain. Finally, he drifted back to the main act, still at the centre of the stage, the sole luminance among the tainted - those who had no hope in making Seonghwa feel anything but numbness. You were the only one working here. Earning your meagre pay - he had discreetly checked the bar’s balance books when the old man behind the counter was too distracted to care for a person of his kind strolling into his office that was concealed in a dark corridor. It was shameful how you were still in this far less than grand establishment, sharing your angelic vocals, despite obviously not having any compensation nor appreciation of your efforts. Perhaps the moments on stage were the only time when you felt alive; the thought would not leave Seonghwa. After much investigation playing pretend, he was confident in his conclusion: you had not changed.

You were on the tattered poster plastered up outside - the one and only, shows every Friday night. Perceive and behold the spectacular ethereal being as you sang songs that spun threads out of a spectator’s very soul, blood trickling from the cracks in their shattered form turning to gold. You sang their… his pain, promised him his glory, soothed and comforted him. Seonghwa was well aware that you were the sole reason that he had shifted his visits to Morpheus to this particular day of the week and monitored the illegal location so closely, otherwise, your face would never grace his corrupt, bleak vision. You did not deserve to go with the rest. When breaking free, one was not supposed to fall into another trap, and yet, here you were. You were not meant to be here, littering the ground that you stood on as the last of the gunpowder would settle on your perfect skin, your long, alluring eyelashes. The onyx-haired man felt a shift within himself as he mused the outcome of the unspoken plans - by the way in which Wooyoung leaned back onto the counter, a grin dancing on his features and by the way San was acting particularly kindhearted to the lonely staff who was rushing about, struggling to keep up with the visitors’ habits, he knew that tonight, they were not planning on hearing any cries for mercy. They were here to complete a mission for a higher purpose. And that mission was far from the sweet music which he had loved his whole life, and finally found again.

“They’re not supposed to be here.” he mumbled, his voice obscured by yours, echoing across and elevating to a sensual culmination.

“Aren’t we all? We’ve got to do what we’ve got to do. Think of them as a sculpture or something if it makes things easier,” Wooyoung took out a rolled up bill to put between his lips - a habit that he had formed after a few too many hits on the back of his head by San, an interesting approach to make a man quit smoking. He called it ‘smoking capitalism’, earning quite a few chuckles from the Inspectors, Seonghwa included.

“So say someone’s going to scope the ring to clean it up a bit, would you let them hit our favourite auntie?” he asked, referring to the friendly cleaner who was probably the only one in the entire city who did not bat an eye at the violent matches that Wooyoung managed under the wraps for the regime, instead cooing over the fighters he brokered for and giving the men an extra helping of her home-cooked delicacies. In many ways, she was a mother figure for the Guardian Inspectors, despite her being at risk, every day, of being taken to the Red Humans should one of them be in a ‘different kind of mood’ on an arbitrary morning.

“Definitely not. But this singer. Who are they to you?”

“A pawn.”

“A pawn?”

“Mhm. I can pawn them in for rewards.”

“Suppose they are pretty enough, if that’s what you’re thinking of…”

“Goodness, take the pimp out of the bordello but can’t take the bordello out of the pimp. That business was shut a while back for you, no?” with a groan, Seonghwa retaliated at Wooyoung’s rather out of pocket suggestions. Over the many years of serving Z in not so ethical ways, the man had tried on a few too many hats and seen a few too many hats to retain even a sliver of compassion towards anyone except those closest. It was understandable. Odd, but understandable.

“Kidding. But for real though, what’s the use?” Wooyoung bit down on the bill softly, gaze following San who had moved towards a couple of underlings that had gathered in a booth off to the side, towards the far corner of the bar. Clearly, he was checking if they had read the room.

“Say, isn’t it Captain’s niece’s birthday soon? We don’t exactly have a musical act to hand since…” Seonghwa trailed off, knowing that Wooyoung knew what incident he was referring to, involving an accusatory phrase, a short temper and a very professional shot from a sniper rifle from the boss’s office window into the temple of a figure that was storming away from one of the many Inspector accommodations. Another one to fertilise the soil with.

“Smart. I’ll give it to ya. If you sort the business out before showtime, pretty thing’s all yours.” Wooyoung responded, patting his side where, underneath his shirt, Seonghwa knew was a holstered pistol. Pushing himself away from the counter he stood up, adjusting his long, leather coat and glove. It was not that he had a particular preference, but ever since entering the new life upon being pardoned for feeling, a life where he had to say found a home, he could not help but wish to always look just that little bit more put together, even if only to appear loyal.

“Cheers. I’ll get them a nice candle-lit dinner to soften them up and then inform Cap’,” sounding purposefully sarcastic, Seonghwa mumbled under his nose, well aware that this was not a method that had ever been in use. One glower and curt phrase had always been enough - the rest was simply the heart’s doing masked by odd humour.

“Awh, look at you, how sweet and lovely. What a darling,” Wooyoung teased, sending Seonghwa a wink. The music was fading away, the last notes landing on his ears, marking every moment.

“One more word and you’ll be the main course.” with his index finger he poked the centre of his fellow Inspector’s chest in threat, maintaining a cold expression.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I’m going to be roasting out here tonight, so make it hot with pretty thing.”

“Filth,” the taller man spat, knowing that attempting to counter his friend was nearly impossible - out of all the people he knew only Captain could fully round him in, and even then Wooyoung had a smile on his face, much to Seonghwa’s confusion.

“It’s not me who is with the heart eyes.”

“I just saw an opportunity,” playing with the leather piece that buttoned up to protect his neck, he eyed you, waiting for you to finish. Unknown to you, you did not have much time left before your very life would be placed on a scale and thoughtlessly pushed to lose against the weight of usual Strictland business. Such was the violent, catastrophic illusion of order, such was the structure that had been Seonghwa’s twisted saving grace. He was going to be doing you a favour by taking you away, won’t he? Either way, you would be out of work, and he was helping you with a little job search from one of the highest payers - chivalrous and kind hearted, that was who he was. How else could the Inspectors form any partnerships and feast on forbidden fruit otherwise? Who was he kidding - a soul like you was not meant for a life like this. But he had to try. He needed time to think.

“Sure. Sure. An opportunity to grab the gorgeous star for yourself.”

“Oh shut up will you?” snapping, Seonghwa were desperately trying to cut the conversation short, seeing the window for him to make a beeline for the edge of the stage, towards which you promptly setting off after finishing your set, and receiving a dismal lack of applause - what else would he expect from the crowd gathered in Morpheus? Especially when the stench of iron and the final judgement was mere minutes away from materialising.

“You know that’s not my style.”

“Yeah, yeah. Be good. Hope you did not block my mustang,” throwing one last comment behind him, the solemn man was off, only barely catching Wooyoung’s half-hearted response.

“Have I ever…”

The mission was simple. Since he was dismissed from the less than pleasant task of wiping out the bar, considering that two more senior Inspectors had made their appearance and were clearly more in the know of what was brewing, Seonghwa had only a couple of minutes before all freedom would cease to exist. And then, no heaven could bestow mercy upon neither him, nor the beauty he had come here to save for no logical reason, instead relying on some hazy version of hope and nostalgia. He had parked his ink black ride around the block - out of sight for unwanted eyes, and perfectly positioned for getaways just like this. If you could catch the Inspector’s drift, that was. One could only pray that the dazzler on stage was just as dazzling when it came to reading between the lines. He had perhaps even less than the estimated time to explain himself before Wooyoung and San would call the owner over to get the real evening show started. Time was ticking along with the skyrocketing pace of his heart as he stopped you on your tracks with a slightly outstretched leg, only to move forward and cast a shadow over you.

It was difficult to remain level-headed when, even at such proximity, in the normally less than flattering lighting, you were nothing short of a deity. Something out of fairy tales, stories of royalty or angels in kingdoms far far away, those that were not supposed to exist. But here was one, staring right into his eyes with your beautiful expressive orbs, as deep as the history that Seonghwa had raced here to try and reignite. A universe in your irises, an all-consuming black hole in your pupils, beckoning Seonghwa, leading him into a stupor before he stuffed his hands into his pockets, bringing himself out of the momentary trance by force. Time was not on his side, and he knew that it would never be unless he kept on running.

“Lovely song, that was.”

“Indeed. ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ is one of my favourites. Did you enjoy the performance?” Your speaking voice was different, of course, but nonetheless struck that stunning familiar chord within Seonghwa, one that should never see the light of day if he were to remain how he had to be. It was terrifying, how he was ready to let go of his resurrected image as an Inspector for a chance to turn the past into the present.

You were polite. The features of your alluring face were hinting at a genuine interest, an appreciation of every movement, every breath you were taking. Though, in Seonghwa’s own line of work, particularly in the stage of undercover investigation, this was simply the usual. Show a smile, bat the eyelashes, make business, disappear. Genuine interest was an artform, but even if you were indeed expressing it in the way with which he was familiar, it felt so natural that he almost wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe this daydream who had come to change the colours of his occasional Fridays, his hunts for those straying from what Z had deemed ‘right’, leaving glimmers of memory to last him through the weeks when he had to be numb to life itself until he could come and see you again. It did not mean much to you, most likely. You were strangers in your respective new lives, and had Captain not made the decision to teach the owner of Morpheus a lethal lesson, you would have remained that way. Drifting together for a few hours, remaining distant, and drifting apart again. A forever flowing story that was to rekindle a starcrossed ‘once upon a time’ but never have that sought after resolution. A dream that reminded Seonghwa of why his unlikely survival was a blessing. As your eyes revealed a hopefulness, a plea for praise, Seonghwa gave you a soft smile.

“Of course.”

“I look forward to seeing you, you know.”

“O-oh?” Seonghwa could barely contain his surprise, the previously cool demeanour cracking into a raised eyebrow. Could you remember?

“Yes! You always sit at the bar, second stool from the left. And order… what is it… a brandy, right?”

He would be lying if he were to say he was not surprised by your suddenly chipper attitude. Almost like you were a kid who entered a candy shop for the first time to see all of your favourite treats, you excitedly revealed to Seonghwa your observations. While it was endearing to see, the shuffling behind him, along with the idea that he was not the only one intently observing left the Inspector with a sense of unease, nearly throwing him off from the initial goal that motivated him to brave talking to you in the first place.

“In…deed?”

The singer, who was previously an astounding yet distant figure captivating all who cared to look even once, rapidly transitioned into someone who he almost found endearing, the keeper of far too many qualities that cemented the rightness of his decision. You were not meant to be here, he repeated to himself. Mutters around the bar were getting louder, and as the rest of the musicians filed out of the main hall and crammed into a tiny room off to the side, in Seonghwa’s peripherals he noted San’s steady, seemingly innocent amble between the scuffed round tables and equally unpleasantly antique chairs.

“You are the only one who listens, so, how could I not notice? Actually, I wanted to talk to you properly, or at least say thank you but didn’t want to impose.”

As much as he wanted to sink into the warmth of your words and allow you to recognise him on your own accord, the rippling commotion that was finally rearing its ugly head spurred him on and struck his heart with an icy, calculating mace. He had a minute tops, knowing Wooyoung’s love for never counting down to zero before beginning.

“Well, let’s talk. Outside,” The black-clad man tried to walk off, aiming for the dark corridor at the end of which was the fire exit, but when you did not move, rolled his eyes.

“I was thinking I could buy you a drink-”

“Cute. Another time though,” seeing the tinge of disappointment in your gaze was new, and entirely unexpected, but gave Seonghwa plenty of leeway to sway you into following him, “since you watched me enough, I bet you can guess who I am. Or, what I do for work. Right?”

A steely glare, leaving nothing open to interpretation. For additional evidence, he demonstratively adjusted his coat, loosening the belt he had tied around his waist to reveal a leather holster, discreet, gun always within reach. Attentive to detail as ever, you took note of the inconspicuous design of the pistol before he let it disappear once again under the fabric - in this city, there were few who had access to any form of weaponry, the items being so highly regulated by the government that it was nearly impossible to purchase or get licensing. Your mind began to list off options; Seonghwa clearly was neither a standard Android Guardian due to the lack of mandatory uniform, nor a scruffy criminal whom you had gotten used to over the time that had passed, nor part of the police force, nor a Class 2 Prestige Academy student. It only left an answer that shook you to the core. Of course, it was not that you did not hold the assumption in your heart. As a matter of fact, you had previously assumed that you were used to greeting people from different walks of life, all gathered in the same place, at the same time for what you wanted to believe was a ‘good time’. That was what drove you to live the life that you were living. Exist in this space, despite your pay and your security almost always not being enough, but you would give even that up if that meant you could keep your freedom.

Seonghwa was effortlessly graceful, determined in every step and gesture, not a single movement wasted. In a sense, it was as if he had purposefully learned and memorised the most efficient adjustments of the body, letting himself metamorphose into a lithe, agile animal. It was terrific, and terrifying, how at any moment he could pounce, and you would never know when until it was too late. For this hint of a reason, you decided to follow the man’s unspoken command, only whispering an airy inquiry after the other musicians, which he coldly dismissed:

“You need a better band anyways.”

---

The gravity of the situation only began to settle in when the biting breeze outside of the stuffy bar hit you, seeking opportunity to tousle your locks. The strands that had managed to fall over your face were trembling, the only sign revealing your suppressed distress as the last of Morpheus's dusk-like illumination was shut from your vision with a confident slam. Your eyes widened as you watched the Inspector, or in other words, your personal grim reaper, flip a lock on the door - previously thought to be inaccessible to anyone except the owner, done so masterfully as though he were the one who had installed it in the first place. An exit, a saving grace for innocents inside, turned into a dead end - more symbolic than one would ever initially assume. He trailed up the length of his arm stopping for a moment at the material that covered his shoulder, listening to leather hit leather. Seonghwa could only find calculated resolve within himself. This was the usual for him, and that after weighing all the options, he had logically come to the conclusion that the demise of the people inside was indeed the most attractive option.

As you heard the first shot resound inside of Morpheus, you shuddered, but did not dare stop following the man in the trench coat as he strode on ahead, hands remaining in his pockets. To any onlooker it would seem that he was relaxed as ever, out for a late night walk in a neighbourhood he knew better than he knew himself. Breath in, breath out; you were trying to remind yourself of the simple act, focusing harder than you had ever done during your performances. Imagining your diaphragm stretching, letting the lungs take in as much air as possible and-

Another shot. Breath knocked from you, balance off kilter, you desperately wanted to run. Anywhere. Maybe you should have stayed, not picked up on the subtle offer of your life being spared. In that way you would not have to live with the guilt of not having said anything to your fellow bandmates, not having said thank you to the owner for… what was there to thank anyone for? Out of habit, you lifted a hand to brush over your ear, echoes of the time when you had first felt emotion rippling across your body, making you shiver. You were all fools misled by hope for a brighter tomorrow in a world that was permanently overcast. Where did this running lead you? Where did your wistful song guide you? Back into the arms of the apocalypse - broad-shouldered with hair the colour of ink, the last thing you would see before disappearing for good. At least you should thank your former so-called colleagues for the information about the common demise. Tears welled up in your eyes as you obeyed the lean man’s orders and practically toppled into the black vehicle parked by the Morpheus, a lonesome yelp masked by the gunfire and indecipherable orders.

You had no idea where he was taking you, and you did not dare ask. The man reminded you of all you had been trained to avoid in your new life, a threat, a weapon, a soldier. His gloved right hand remained resting beside the gearshift, while his left coldly gripped the steering wheel. Not a single one of his muscles appeared to be relaxed, and not a single movement had a semblance to anything natural. An automaton in the driver’s seat, you wanted to feel comforted by the idea that you were the only one truly human in the car, for the idea that someone as brutal as a Guardian Inspector could be conscious or decisive was too strong of an agony.

At the same time, in the moments where the Inspector turned his head to check the surroundings, you noted something familiar. He dashed past the blue, purple and aquamarine signs that lined the streets of the district you had learned to love, himself turning into a painting. Be it in the angles that formulated his stern face, or in the elegance that he was unable to conceal, the past crawled out of a long-forgotten cavern in your psyche and gnawed at your nerves, just out of reach of realisation. Perhaps in another time, you had known him. Perhaps in one of the banned art pieces, you had seen him. At the same time, this could not be the first Guardian Inspector you had encountered - they were all similar enough in demeanour, so what was another face? Equally as entitled, above the law. Above a runaway like you. You were vermin. The enemy. A traitor to the Academy, to Strictland, to Z himself. Or so you were told. The only thing that could be different about this Inspector, was that he could be your last.

A sharp stabbing sensation spread from your temples and what had to be through your skull, jabbing into bone and into the cerebellum. Nauseous, you shut your eyes and clutched your head in a futile attempt to seek some form of relief. The car roared, and a sudden stench of rubber and concrete penetrated through every crevice, choking your senses and making you taste the acrid pollution. One turn, another, your organs were being jolted back and forth as the monstrous engine urged on by none other than the embodiment of oblivion dragged the car across eternal misery of long-abandoned districts.

“Oh goodness…” a feeble whisper left your lips. You reached out to grab hold of the door handle, peering at the grooves to find at least something to focus on. His vision was swimming in your eyes, etchings of your surroundings morphing into repressed memories.

A boy marching beside you to class, head held at the angle commanded to all academy students. A young man, dressed in all white with black locks parted in the middle. A solemn stare, unreadable, though not fully blank as it should be. But at the same time, how could you, another student of Prestige, detect that something was not quite right? Since when could you feel? You lifted your head cautiously to try peeking at the Inspector again, but he was frozen. Only the abrupt tightening of his gloved hand around the steering wheel and a determined turn reminded you that he was not quite an automaton.

“I must be dreaming…” you blinked away a teary blur, and clenched onto your dress for the remainder of the journey, feverishly recounting whatever lyrics you could. Your little safe haven, your precious prayers to the arts - truth which you had discovered after abandoning everything you could have been.

Your hand moved on instinct to the side of your head, feeling for what once had been the hub of your consciousness. A chip that made you feel right at home, heartless, but with a purpose. Forty years of education, an eternity to serve something greater than you; clear goals, a mission for your generation and many that would come after you. Hand in hand, you were soldiers of a catastrophically closed-minded society; at the time, however, you could not be ‘happier’. Or rather, more numb. Because you did not know of negative nor positive, you could not experience either, and so remained in a stable equilibrium, just as the superpower of this forlorn land had instructed. Disease was the human emotion. You were ‘healthy’. Until that boy appeared in your life, and revealed himself to you.

Bright-eyed, hopeful, excited. So unlike anyone. And against better judgement, you let the inklings of curiosity drip over your heart, and the beginnings of affection take flight. Dark hair, dark eyes, tanned skin, a smile brighter than the sun, a soothing mellifluous voice, vowing to you that you could build another life together. A life much more beautiful than one constructed with deception and hollow propaganda. What could a little tap of a breaker do to you? Apparently, it could change your destiny.

As you massaged your temples, you locked gazes with the man in front of you, but met the boy from your past in the mirror. That same worry, knotted eyebrows, concern and care so evident you could touch it if your fingers grazed his cheek. You could not move, even when he turned back to the road, and continued to stare at the rear view mirror in the hopes of seeing your daydream again. You had to be wrong. This had to be you hallucinating. You must be just… afraid. Out of your mind. And so you were recalling one of the few times when you thought the world could do you no harm.

“Get out,” a command. As cold as steel. The engine was still roaring in your ears, despite the surroundings having gone dead silent.

A click. The doors unlocked. You could run if you wanted to. Though you were fully aware that the action would shorten your lifespan to a mere few seconds. You remained seated, gaze falling onto your lap, and listened to the painful succession of sounds that led the man to open your door, and roughly grab your upper arm.

“I said, get out,” you followed him like a rag doll, knowing that any attempts to resist would put you into even more danger. At the same time, even though the Inspector was obviously attempting to instil terror and a twisted respect for him, he could not face you. Consciously he made an effort to barely raise his lashes, thus keeping his scrutiny concealed. Reading through his hesitation was easy enough.

He could not keep his hand on you for a second longer after you stood up straight, darting away as though you were an open flame. The man cleared his throat and locked the car, before gesturing towards an abandoned building that loomed over the gravelly opening where you had completed your journey. Comically, it reminded you of Prestige, even though the latter was of much larger proportions and possessed a more unique shape. Perhaps it was the fact that this block, what used to be an apartment building, was crumbling, made you think of the academy’s inner workings. Rotting away. The cogs in the machine tearing each other apart.

This might be your end or your beginning, you were not sure which one. With an astounding loyalty, you let yourself be guided into the long-forgotten cement fortress, up exposed stairs with metal railings, past walls left bare, illuminated by an exposed moonlight, laying down a carpet of silver. It was oddly easy to think that life was beautiful when it was likely going to be taken away from you. The walk was silent, and the longer it lasted, the more at peace you felt. The odd step rang out and echoed like the gunshots you had heard, so surreal that you could barely believe it. It must have been a joke. Fireworks, or someone just being a little boisterous. Morpheus had seen so many colours of Z’s regime, it could not disappear now… oh who were you kidding. It was done for. You little version of an escape. Your space to feel.

As you made sneaky glances at the Inspector to your right, who not so ceremoniously had loosened his coat’s belt once more to have easy access to his gun, you could not help but think of the boy. You had followed his advice, made a run for it while he had been taken away by the Red Humans. Two youngsters who betrayed the regime. But who was truly free? The one who had been exterminated, or the one who had to live in fear, but at least felt the ruthless emotion?

The enigmatic man slowed down, and so did you. He made a turn, so did you, acting as his shadow. You were certain that you were probably breathing at the same rate. An empty hallway, lined with equally empty rooms and destroyed apartments. From a humble abode to rubble, you could see the horrific vistas of the district, and the drop to the cold ground below. No wall, no security, no certainty. It was only you and your fate in the form of a man who seemed to possess too much of a likeness to the keeper of your fragile adoration.

The Inspector walked in front and turned to face you. You froze, burning under his scrutiny. Eyes like scalding cold ice, assessing you, condemning you. Your best listener, now listening to your terrified heart. For what could be the last time, you felt alive. As the man reached into his pocket, you prepared for the worst, however, he only motioned with his head for you to follow him. Confused, you obeyed, finding yourself in a more secluded corner of the floor, one which had remotely retained the appearance of an actual room. Stuck in the same few seconds, there were no further commands from the Inspector, causing your mind to wander, and lips to move on their own accord:

“I should not be here.”

“Neither should I,” he deadpanned, though his choice of words was unsettling. Wasn’t he on a mission?

“I should be dead,” you persisted.

“I should have more blood on my hands.”

A pause. You were in shock, pointlessly clinging onto your own upper arms, stuck in a false embrace. Like prey that had been cornered, you were beyond the point of trusting survival instincts. You simply wanted for the interaction, or dare you say, interrogation, to be over, so you could be given away to the Red Humans, to whatever the afterlife had to offer, in peace. If you were to be melted, then so be it. If your departure were to be short and sweet, so be it. But a little question in your head still remained, a persistent worm which you decided to unleash given your hopeless circumstances:

“Then why-”

“It is pointless to ask when there is no answer,” the man answered coldly, not sparing you a glance as he picked at a filthy off-white tulle which covered a blown out window - now just a frame, with his gloved hand, glaring at the pitiful greyness outside the abandoned building before wiping the hand off with a handkerchief produced out of the pocket into which he had stuffed his hand.

A few steps separated you, but you knew better than to try and make a run for it – the man was armed, and you assumed that the gun you spotted was not the only weapon in his arsenal. He was menacing, unpredictable, and very dangerous. Alongside that, as much as you hated to admit, but the Inspectors were nothing short of extraordinary when it came to their expertise and training. Unlike Android Guardians, they were the leading forces, capable of high-risk decision making and unparalleled critical thinking. If you were to try to describe them, you always ended up thinking of chess. That was what they were playing whenever they were out in the field.

In fact, it was for this exact reason that you were concerned about this Inspector’s behaviour – it was out of line. Inefficient. Sub-optimal. You wondered if this was a new strategy or there was a higher plan; there were so many possibilities that your head could start spinning. You dug your fingers into rapidly cooling flesh, waking yourself up from the distressed rumination. What was the Inspector going to do to you? You had followed his demands so far, and weren’t putting up a fight - what more could he want?

He was unreadable. Gestures unpredictable, expression stoic, he regarded you with an air of superiority characteristic of people from his class. Serpent-like and calculating eyes, regal nose, facial structure reminiscent of a statue, plush perfectly shaped lips – all were a nod to his upbringing, you bet. He did not feel real. Reminiscent of automatons that the regime sometimes used in place of regular Guardians during high-volume riots, he was what one would call the ‘ideal specimen’. Down to the strand of wavy hair that fell on his face, he was a beautiful painting of your worst nightmare. Life had been unkind to you, you decided. It only showed you something prettier than the night lights when it was the last thing you would see.

The man stepped towards you, and your eyelids slammed shut automatically. You did not wish to see your death. The sound of leather against leather, the tied coat belt, the creaking of ancient rotten wood planks under lacquered ankle boots. He must be getting ready to end you. Were you too high profile to be lying with the other bodies in the club? Were you more dangerous in the Inspector’s view, being a singer, or as one could say a ‘spreader’ of inappropriate entertainment. Was this treason? Terrorism? You were not sure – the sentence changed more than the weather. But were you an enemy? With confidence, you had to answer with a Yes. Having escaped the regime, and according to those who had helped you regain some parts of your past self, having had a part in the uprising within Prestige Academy, you were the worst kind of citizen of Strictland. Disobedient, unchanging, and influential. You were waiting for the cocking of a pistol, for cool metal to hit your head, and for the world to go even darker as you collapsed on to the floorboards. The man had to be taking out his gun. He must have taken you away from the raid to be particularly ruthless. A sadist? Maybe. You had no time to judge.

You felt the fabric of your shimmering dress under your fingertips, and imagined you were preparing for a show of a lifetime. You counted your inhales and exhales like you would do before a performance, and conjured an audience in your mind. More rustling, another step. He, that boy, no, young man, was in the audience. Still in the Prestige Academy uniform, but the chip was long gone. He was giving you an encouraging smile eager to hear what you had achieved in your time away from the academy. Leather caressed your hand and you flinched, comforted only by how cautious the action was. Hand turned to raise your palm to the omniscient skies, your illusions combined with reality - what was Seonghwa to give to you?

Funny, how in critical moments, the mind could give you what you had longed to forget. Seonghwa. His name tasted sweet, with a bitter aftertaste. A fine wine, dizzying, addictive. A handsome, talented student who had the future ahead of him, only to throw it away for the taste of something more ‘real’ in his eyes. Something cold was being pressed into your palm, reminiscent of a large bullet or a device your fingers could remember before your mind. Your eyes shot open and were met with a dream and a nightmare. Finally, it hit you. Behind the Inspector’s facade, a mask crafted by years of experience and brutality, was the same boy, who, just like now, pressed a breaker into your palm.

“Wake up.”

Your gaze fell to the intricate metal handiwork, spotting the carving of an ‘A’ contained in a circle right at the base. The taste of anarchy, an uprising, revolution, a hope for something better flowing through a tragic story you two had written. At last, it had a resolution, and you were more than content with who was holding the lethal pen. You stared at the breaker. The very thing that brought you out of an eternal somnolence, submission to a regime. You had woken up then, and never could sleep.

“Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer… the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune…” you lifted your head once more, staring into Seonghwa’s softened eyes. He had matured, his features having become siren-like, dangerous, seductive. Befitting his character. You smiled sadly, “...or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and, by opposing end them?” He remained quiet, as if he was the one waiting for you to decide your own destiny, “Shakespeare. Hamlet. Ever read it? Or do they not let you?”

“I-” he cleared his throat, concealing a pang of nervousness, “I am familiar with his work.”

“Mm, isn’t that a criminal offence?”

“What is?”

“Reading work exploring human emotion… sounds like treason to me.”

“Reading does not imply sympathising.”

“But you do.”

Again, a heavy pause. Seonghwa rocked from one foot to another one time, another - an old habit? Or an attempt to convince you that he was at least a fraction the same?

“I… I do not,” before you could scowl, he continued, “‘Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once’. I am more partial to this way of thinking.”

“Ah, the irony of it all.”

Your hand formed a fist around the device, and you kept on searching for fragments of the man you loved inside of the new Seonghwa before you. In flashes, you spotted glimmers of gold, feeble hints for something that could be concealed in the depths of his soul.

“So, are you going to make me a valiant person?”

“What?”

“Wasn’t that what you were supposed to be doing?” feeling a little more brave, you taunted him, wishing to see what his limit was. Whether he was lying to you just to set you at ease and make his job easier. So he could see one final sense of betrayal in your pupils.

“We are already dead, Y/N.”

---

Music. A universal language. The biggest risk for a community that someone wanted to silence. So you hummed one song after another, head leaning against Seonghwa’s shoulder as you sat on the concrete floor, in the corner of the room that was barely holding itself together. Bathed in silver light, you shared with him the luxury of reminiscing, mourned what had been lost only to have the feeling be replaced by a budding desire to wish upon anything at all.

Seonghwa might have lied to many of the Inspectors, and was in danger of facing a fate worse than extermination, but at least he did not lie to you. And because he did not lie to you, you were here; you were real. He could have the pleasure of having you beside him, wrapped up in his leather coat; your dress was not exactly ‘inhospitable conditions’ material, as pretty and befitting as it was. You were refusing to let go of the breaker as though it was the tether to a more sunny past, not that Seonghwa would ever dare pry it out of your hands. So long as you could keep singing for him forever. Even when music were to cease existing, and when the sky would fall down, he would still hear your voice. How many times had he visited Morpheus in secret, outside of his official inspections and scouting missions? How quickly had he transferred into a field role just for the chance to find you? How had he managed to remain alive even though his sentence had been supposedly set in stone, and he was still feeling? With each question, the answer grew blurrier and blurrier, until it no longer existed. Perhaps this was a manifestation of destiny. You were supposed to meet again after so much turmoil, so you did. Curious.

“What song do you like?” your voice, sleepy, serene, cut through his ruminations. Seonghwa looked down and to his side, meeting a gentle gaze.

“What song do you want to sing?”

“Mm, no that’s not an answer,” you snaked your hands around his arm and pulled him closer.

“But I like everything you sing. Because you sing it.”

“Sweet, but I’m at a loss.”

“Then let’s be quiet. Together. For as long as we can.”

“There’s not too long left, is there?”

Your question was rhetorical. Both you and Seonghwa were aware of it. Time in Strictland was not governed by the individual but by an unforgiving system. A person, or perhaps a symbol, holding the clock with an iron grip and making the hands fly faster and faster until a second was an impossible measure. Involuntarily, he sighed, causing wisps of steam to escape his lips and rise to the exposed armature of the floor above. With cooling temperatures came the cooling heart, and it was difficult to tell what it was that you loved. What was it that made you feel alive?

“You know, they gave me a choice,” Seonghwa began. There was no reason why he should be telling you about what had happened to him, but the sombre atmosphere seemed to bode well for a confession. You did not interrupt, choosing to remain passive, resigned, “either die for what I believe in, or admit I was wrong.”

“Funny how they gave you a choice,” the infamous ‘they’. The Guardians, the regime, the enemy. Now turned into a friend. Interesting how life changed.

“Definitely was not what I expected.”

“You sure they didn’t say ‘sike’ at any point and you just got lucky?”

“I don’t think they can miss,” a simple, but sharp fact. You bit your lower lip, “...anyways. You can probably guess what I chose to do. The only caveat is that I admitted I was wrong… for a different thing.”

“Do tell.”

“I was wrong for putting you in danger, Y/N.”

“Nothing we could do about that. We were two fools in love.”

Seonghwa detangled himself from you, only to grasp your free hand in his, place the other on your thigh and meet you face to face. Misty-eyed, his rationality was growing frantic, and you knew that at any moment he could snap, and only the clearing night knew what would happen then.

“But I was the one to jolt you out of a peaceful existence. I was selfish-” After years of doubting himself, sinking into a destructive illusion where he would march alongside others like a machine, he was breathing. Much to his regret, it was a sensation far too sweet and heavenly, worth every revolution and rebellion.

“I don’t regret it.”

“...What?”

“I would put this thing to my head time and time again if I had to,” you raised the breaker to eye level, attempting to get at least a smile or a chuckle out of Seonghwa. Much to your dismay, it did the opposite. You would be lying if you were to proclaim you were euphoric.

“I- I’m… Y/N I’m so sorry…” you shook your head and pulled him in, until his exhales and inhales were tickling your neck. Hunched over you like a black-clad shield, Seonghwa was unmoving. Eyes darting down, you spotted that he had taken the pistol out of the holster, and upon a second glance to where he had been sitting, you noted its lonely presence, tucked away with debris and gravel.

“You are alive. And clearly still care enough to remember me. That’s your apology. And your punishment,” in a soothing gesture, you ran your fingers through his hair, cautiously at first, then turning your ministrations continuous, measured out when Seonghwa sat back down on the concrete, only this time nuzzled into you.

“Sorry…” he forced out, choking up.

The moon counted down the time while lazily passing over the building. You were at a crossroads. In haste, Seonghwa had told you of the opportunity to serve the Guardian Inspectors, being a private entertainer of sorts, but he knew you would refuse. Fast. Becoming one’s own enemy was the one thing you would not follow Seonghwa into doing. And that is why he admired you. You were strong. You were truly alive. A bird soaring in the skies in spite of the risks of being hunted, being shot. Simply for the feeling of the wind under your wings, to be closer to the stars and to sing your song loud and clear, every note a celestial blessing.

“Blue bird…”

“Hm?”

“I think I have an idea… if you are willing to go into hiding, that is.”

“Planning uprisings are we?”

“Oh they’ve been long in the works, my love. It is part of my job to close my eyes when necessary, and when convenient.”

“Are you about to be wrong again?”

“Maybe. Or very, very right. Depends on how the song sounds to you.”

---

Walking down the corridors of the headquarters, hands behind his back and appearance pristine, Seonghwa was nothing short of a model Inspector. Low ranking employees cowered before him and bowed, while his immediate colleague Wooyoung smirked, attempting to hook any information out.

“So… where'd the pretty star go?”

Silently, Seonghwa handed him a slip recording the disposal of an ‘unnamed entity’.

“ Oh… well that’s harsh. What did they do, reject you?”

“Apparently once gone so far astray, one cannot be changed. I had to do what was best for the regime.”

“Such an example for others. Wow. Almost too good to be true, Park. Well, I’ll be reporting that the extermination and cleanup of Morpheus was successful.”

“You do that.”

While Wooyoung turned the corner, Seonghwa continued to walk straight down the metal corridor, eyes locked onto the very end. Morpheus was no longer, indeed. But your song was still ringing in his ears, and no doubt, there would be a time when it would resound over the many speakers planted all across Strictland.

Blue skies smiling at me

Nothing but blue skies do I see

Bluebirds singing a song

Nothing but bluebirds all day long

Never saw the sun shining so bright

Never saw things going so right

Noticing the days hurrying by

When you're in love, my how they fly

Blue days, all of them gone

Nothing but blue skies from now on

🌑 perma-taglist: @acciocriativity @justhere4kpop @starrysvn @byuntrash101 @shakalakaboomboo @uwuheeseungie @frankenstein852 @charreddonuts @miriamxsworld @innsomniacshinestar @foxinnie8 @preciouswoozi @wooyoungjpg @nebulousbookshelf @wowie-hockey @hongjoongs-patience @jaehunnyy @maddkitt @ren-junwrld @pyeonghongrie-main @marsstarxhwa @pocketjoong-reads @yeooclock @yeonjunnie @asjkdk @lucky-cat-cafe @northerngalxy @my-loves-my-life @http-gyu

enjoyed? please consider reblogging <3 thank you

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kradogsrats · 9 months

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Aaravos, Leola, and the Entire History of Human Magic

ALL RIGHT, BUCKLE THE FUCK UP:

So after my "Leola and Laurelion might be the same person" crazy, I was looking shit up to write a post about alternately Laurelion possibly being Aaravos, as in Laurelion was the immortal Aaravos, and Aaravos is the fallen Laurelion, because of this:

White as the star's heart it pierced, as in "Novablade is white, and the star's heart was also white."

Who... had the white heart of a star...

... and now... doesn't?

hmmmmMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

However, the problem with this is that Aaravos at least appears to go from powered/heart-ed version:

To de-powered, heart...less? version:

...when he's imprisoned. At least, according to the way Zubeia tells it.

Meanwhile, in Ripples, we see what is presumably Aaravos's actual "fall," as the "Fallen Star"—a literal descent from the heavens. This occurs long, long before the events of Aaravos's imprisonment, before dark magic, before Elarion.

I'll note that part of what I'm taking into account here is a note from the artbook on Aaravos's designs:

As a "fallen" Startouch elf, Aaravos can only access a fraction of his former power.

So it seems like the assumption to make would be that Aaravos lost his powers and status when he was cast from the heavens, which is also where I would assume Laurelion dies and Aaravos is "born" if the Laurelion/Aaravos as the same being dichotomy was in play. Then why is his heart not blackened until he's imprisoned?

One possibility is that his empowered appearance is an illusion he's maintaining—another manipulation, that's dropped when he's imprisoned.

Another possibility is this is all bullshit, and everything is as generally assumed before: when Aaravos was imprisoned, the majority of his power was somehow stripped.

Leaving that aside for a moment, let's take a look at the order of operations here, historically.

Humanity looks to the stars to save them, but the stars do not respond:

— Patience

At some point, humanity is granted some kind of blessing from the heavens, long before humans built cities and became powerful:

— Patience

ALSO at some point, humanity is granted the power of primal magic. By tradition this was from the unicorns, in particular Leola:

— Tales of Xadia

However, this magic is forbidden them:

— Ripples

Aaravos is cast from the heavens in a calamity that creates the Sea of the Castout—again, long before dark magic:

— Ripples

Further, in the retelling of this story, Aaravos notes that the stars apparently were satisfied with the results of casting him out. It scarred the land, and frightened the humans—and their claim on primal magic—into submission:

— Ripples

I'll add another note from the artbook here on Aaravos's design:

Some designs had a strong, authoritative vibe that suited other Startouch elves, but not our "fallen star."

Finally, let's look at this again:

Aaravos, obviously, on his knees and in despair. A feminine-appearing elf who is almost certainly another Startouch elf, by the horn shape and the design of the crown on her brow.

I've seen at least one person cast this as a rendition of Aaravos's punishment, in that she represents the other stars and gestures as if to say "behold how far our brother has fallen."

But y'all. Y'ALL. Please.

We have seen this gesture FAR too many times for it to be something else, at this point. This is mercy, and love, and the passing of a torch.

So, let me clean this up into what I think happened:

The stars are largely absent gods, indifferent to the fate of humans and interested in only their design/prophecy of the world.

Leola, another Startouch elf (or else we're gonna stretch the definition of "unicorn" pretty far), takes pity on humanity and grants them the secret of primal magic.

Leola is somehow punished for this transgression. If Laurelion is Leola, she is killed. (The Celestial elves, in this case, are the guardians of the stars' order and power in Xadia. They are the last line of defense against this sort of thing.)

Aaravos, who loved Leola, either speaks on her behalf or otherwise rebels against the order of the stars. Aaravos is cast out. If Laurelion is Aaravos, he is robbed of his heart and his power.

"Leola's Last Wish" is to continue to be a guide to humanity, through the darkness.

Aaravos, meanwhile, fucking loses his mind and decides to burn down everything. He will destroy everything the stars put in place in all of Xadia, and he will leverage humans to do it.

Aaravos begins to spin up dark magic, and when the time is right, gifts it to humanity as the inciting action of his plan to tear all of Xadia apart. More on that here.

ADDENDUM: Chatting with @raayllum immediately after writing this and they raised the possibility of Leola being Aaravos’s mother, given the parallel to Sarai in the statue, and YES that makes so much sense. Particularly regarding the star-child constellation, him adopting her crown, and why he might be punished along with her. I like this explanation better than them being lovers, even if it means TDP gains yet another goddamn martyr mother.

Anyway, that's it! Mystery of Aaravos solved.

#the dragon prince #leola #aaravos #primal magic #dark magic #tdp spoilers #the dragon prince spoilers #s5 spoilers #leolavos #laurelion

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discokicks · 9 months

Text

BAD IDEAS (ON THE SAME PAGE) — JAMIE TARTT

a fic inspired by bad idea right by olivia rodrigo!

masterlist! song inspo! AO3!

pairing: jamie tartt x fem!reader (no use of y/n!)

summary: football star jamie tartt is an asshole. he’s the one ex of yours that your friends always hated, one that you now all joke about, and one you haven’t spoken to in four years. however, after a chance encounter, the two of you reconnect, and he leaves you with his new number and a hundred questions about his reformed personality. but seeing him tonight would be a bad idea, right?

word count & rating: 11k (wowza), M! (18+! minors get away or i’ll narc on you to your guardians)

warnings: SMUUUUUUT, porn with plot, lots of suggestive language, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, sprinkling of a handjob, unprotected p in v (wrap it up kids), angst, mentions of alcohol, probable secondhand embarrassment, exes reuniting (it needs a warning sometimes), jamie tartt was an asshole and is now just a prick (in the best way possible), reader is a physio, major fluff, and swearing. also reader is american (bc the author is too. sorry </3)

authors note: well. i wrote it. olivia wrote this song for teenage girls in their twenties (me) only and i immediately thought of this fic the second i heard it. i'm calling this an exercise in smut writing before i embark on my aces (my roy kent series for my new friends) eventual-smut-adventure, so this evolved into something i wasn’t expecting but i had so much fucking fun writing it. god, i love jamie tartt. also! this is my first smut fic at this type of level, so go easy on me. hope you all enjoy. love you all tons! -mags

There are two universal truths in life.

The first is that the coffee shop you frequent on your way to work will and will always have the best cold brew you’ve ever tasted. The second is that Jamie Tartt will and will always be a massive fucking prick, and you’ll never see him again for as long as you live.

These are two things you live by, and while they may seem rather mundane or petty in the grand scheme of things, they are the only truths you can count on these days. Especially when everything else is so up in the air.

However, the universe doesn’t seem to believe in these things as blindly as you do, and this becomes evident the moment that you step into the shop on a gloomy Wednesday morning. Because these two truths (well, they’re fucking bald-faced lies now aren’t they, huh?) are broken within approximately two minutes of each other with seven words.

It began when you greeted Natalia, the barista who was here every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday before your shift at the clinic with a wide smile. As soon as she saw your face, her expression turned apologetic, albeit a bit dazed.

“You’re gonna hate me,” she says, putting her hands on either side of the register. Your brows shot up at her words. “We just ran out of cold brew.”

Your face falls. “You’re kidding.”

“We were low on it this morning,” she starts to explain, “our stupid night-shifters didn’t prep enough last night. And it’s been selling like crazy today.”

“Seriously?” you nearly whine. “I might cry.”

“I’m sorry, Doc,” she apologizes, but she doesn’t sound too apologetic. Natalia’s eyes keep shifting to your left, the dazed look in her eye never faltering. Then, she says the fated seven words. “But he took the last of it.”

You turn your head in the direction she’s been looking, and your blood runs completely cold. You think you could drop dead and go to hell at this very moment, and it’d be a better existence than what awaits you in the next five minutes. And while this all may sound dramatic, you don’t care.

You don’t care because Jamie fucking Tartt is standing across from you, newly long hair peeking out from beneath his hood. He’s engrossed in whatever’s on his phone, fingers flying back and forth like he’s texting.

You think you could run. You’re pretty sure you could successfully make a break for it and leave Natalia high and dry without him seeing you. It’d be an easy exit, and you’d never have to see him again.

But then, as if he can feel your eyes on him, he looks up. And the second he meets your gaze, his face falls in what you can imagine was a similar fashion to yours.

Fuck.

Luckily, Natalia is none the wiser. She barely notices your expression, and with Jamie by the pick-up area, she can’t see the way he’s looking at you. So, instead of questioning you, she straight-up giggles.

“I know,” she practically squeals. “I was totally going to save you the last of it, but he asked for it. And I mean, c’mon. It’s Jamie Tartt. I couldn’t possibly say no to him.”

You tragically know that feeling all too well. Knowing you probably would have had a snappier, more cutting response to that if you weren’t in the most debilitating phase of shock, you settle for a quiet, “It’s okay.” You nod at her, brushing it off in an attempt to be casual. “I can settle for an espresso today.”

Natalia nods, tapping it into her register. “Same size as usual?”

“Yeah,” you say, not completely sure what you’re agreeing to. You glance over again at Jamie and find that he’s still standing there, staring at you, and you immediately blink away. “That’s fine.”

The rest of the transaction feels as though it takes a millennium and three seconds all at once. You’re still caught off guard by the time Natalia gives you your receipt with a dazed look in your eye that now matches hers.

However, yours isn’t because you just saw your favorite Richmond player or your favorite reality show villain. It’s because you’ve just seen your ex-boyfriend and you’re about to walk over and stand next to him for a prolonged period of time.

Nothing about this scenario feels real. You hadn’t seen him in four years. Not since things ended as ugly as they had, with him leaving you sobbing outside of a club at three in the morning, letting you know that things were over between you two. And he hadn’t even given you a reason. It was just that he wasn’t ‘feeling’ it anymore.

You saw in a tabloid about three months later that he was now seeing Keeley Jones (yeah, having to compete with that did not sit well with you at all) and had drawn your assumptions from there. Whether or not he’d been seeing her behind your back or had broken up with you to be with her, you didn’t know. You didn’t care. You were in your anger stage of the break-up and only knew one thing.

Jamie Tartt was a massive fucking prick, and you’d sooner walk on a bed of nails before you saw him again.

But now here he was. And there were no nails to be found.

You avoid eye contact as you pass him to wait for your coffee. There’s a piece of you that wants to say hi and play it cool, just to put on a show for him about how unaffected you were by everything that had happened. The other piece of you hopes that not a word is said for your entire time here.

Unfortunately, neither of those happen.

Jamie slides over to be near you, awkwardly rocking back and forth on his heels. His hands are stuffed in his sweatshirt pocket, and you wait for him to say something. Anything. But he doesn’t.

Instead, you can feel the ‘play it cool’ part of you rise up to the surface. You could do this. You could feign indifference. Fuck him, you could be cool.

You glance over at him and see that he’s pressing his lips together, eyes shifting around the coffee shop. It’s crazy how familiar you still are with his tells to know he’s desperately looking for a way to say something.

You say it for him. “Hi,” you say simply. Cool and unaffected.

It’s as if the one word alone makes him flinch. He clearly wasn’t expecting you to say anything. “Hi—” He clears his throat after his greeting comes out cracked, and he stuffs his hands further in his pockets. “Hey.”

The awkwardness of this moment is killing you, and it’s taking everything in you to pretend like it's not. As you search for something else to say, you land on, “You took my cold brew.”

You can see his brows shoot up out of the corner of your eye. “Oh, fuck, did I?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah,” you tell him. “I come in here every morning. Friends with the barista. Said she was going to save me the last of it, but…” You trail off and finally look at him. “She couldn’t say no to Jamie Tartt, apparently.”

You want to jump up and down about how well you’re doing right now. Maybe you are over him. Maybe you’ve finally moved past this shit, and seeing him once more is all you needed to solidify that. Maybe—

The second he chuckles softly with an apologetic smile, your confidence in those things shoots down. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“Since when do you drink cold brew, anyway?” you ask, frustrated with the fact that he’s fucking laughing in front of you. “You were always a like, caramel macchiato or frappuccino asshole.”

The names make him laugh harder, shaking his head. “Don’t like those anymore,” he responds. “Sugar hurts me teeth. Tryin’ somethin’ new.”

“Yeah,” you mutter. “My fucking coffee.”

That chuckle continues with a shrug. “I’m sorry.” he says again. Then he pauses. “But it’s not like your name was on it, or anythin’.”

Your face draws blank, and immediately, Jamie can tell he’s made a misstep. And it’s not that you’re angry about the joke, it’s just the… everything. Him. The situation. Everything you can remember that you wonder if he bothers to remember too.

Before you can walk away, you feel his hand on your arm. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats for a third time, turning you so that you’ll look at him. Your pissed-off expression meets his easy smile and it only fuels your anger more. “I was jokin’. I’m sorry I took your coffee. We can get ‘em to put your name on it if you want.”

“Whatever,” you mutter. It’s not the most mature thing you could have said, but frankly, you don’t care. You just want to get your consolation espresso and get the hell out of here. “What are you even doing over here anyway?”

You’re not sure why you ask it. You don’t know why you keep the conversation going. Jamie looks just as surprised as you are. “I moved over here a couple weeks ago,” he answers. “Got sick of the old place.”

“Can’t imagine why,” you reply. By the way that Jamie snorts, you know he recalls just how much you hated his apartment when you knew him. It screamed twenty-two-year-old AFC-money shithead and you would tease him about it constantly. “Was the empty beer bottle sculpture finally giving you mold poisoning?”

He chuckles again. “That came down shortly after we stopped talking.”

“Oh, so I was just lucky enough to see it in its final days?”

“Oi,” he says, pointing at you. “That thing was fuckin’ impressive and you know it.”

“Impressive in a dorm,” you shoot back. “Not a seven million pound flat.”

He bows his head in a guilty manner. “You remember that, huh?”

“Hard not to,” you answer. “You never stopped talking about it.”

He at least has the decency to wince at that one. “I know,” he says earnestly. It makes you look at him. He shrugs once more. “I wanted to impress ya.”

He did impress you. But not with things like that. He’d impress you when you watched him play, he’d impress you when he made you laugh, and he’d impress you on the rare occasion that he’d just be himself in front of you. Not some asshole footballer. Just him.

But you don’t say that. You say, “That wasn’t the way.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles mirthlessly. “Got that now.” He rocks back on his heels again, like he’s not sure if he should say whatever he wants to. “I was a proper fucking dick to you, wasn’t I?”

That almost makes you fall over. Did he just say that? Did he actually just admit that? Out loud, here, for everyone to hear? Accountability? Unprompted? From Jamie Tartt?

You want to glance around to see if Rod Sterling’s going to emerge from the bathroom to narrate the next couple of minutes of your life, but are too shocked to do so.

Your surprise must show in your eyes, because Jamie laughs to himself. “Yeah. Wild, innit?” He shakes his head. “On a bit of an apology tour this year. Trying to build back some bridges, or whatever.”

The nod you give him is slow, still reeling from all of this. “Right,” you say lamely. “Building bridges.”

“I’m serious,” he tells you and for a brief moment, you think he may just mean it. The sincerity in his eyes is clear. “I was terrible to you. And I’m sorry.”

Whatever you were expecting when you stepped into this coffee shop on this rainy Wednesday, it certainly wasn’t this. And you certainly weren’t expecting your first time reuniting with him to go this way— with him apologizing to you. The actual words ‘I’m sorry’ just left his mouth.

You genuinely don’t know who this is. Because it’s certainly not the Jamie you knew.

You saw flashes of this guy. Quiet moments during your short-lived relationship, typically when it was just the two of you. It’s the type of guy you always knew he could be if he tried. The type of guy you pushed him to be.

(Your friends always taunted you about having the ever-horrendous I-can-fix-him gene, and they never quite let go of it. But it’s not like it wasn’t true.)

Those flashes are why you held out for as long as you did. If it were anyone else, any other asshole who treated you the way he did, you would have dropped them in a second. But he wasn’t like that. Not always, at least.

It was terrible to think like that. You’d been in a low spot when you’d met him and had taken even lower when he left you. You’d recovered tenfold from that and now knew your worth.

But as he stands in front of you, apologizing, genuinely apologizing, and looking at you like that, you start to question it.

No! the logical part of your brain practically screams. Don’t you fucking dare.

You’re keen to listen to that for the time being. It hardens you. And all you can do is nod at him again. “Well, uh—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You cough awkwardly. “Yeah. You were. Terrible to me. And, uh… thank you. For saying that.”

So much for playing it cool. You want to slam your head up against the wall but hold yourself back from doing so.

He nods at you, opening his mouth to say something else before he’s interrupted by one of the baristas calling your name. His cold brew’s sitting on the counter too, something the two of you clearly missed in the middle of your conversation.

When you reach for your drink, he grabs his too. He’s still staring at you, biting the inside of his cheek like he wants to say something. When you go to move around him, he stops you.

“Look, I just—” You look up at him expectantly, and his shoulders deflate. “I know you probably want nothin' to do with me. But, I just… I want to talk to you.”

Your espresso is hot in your hands. “Well, that sounds like a you problem.”

That’s when he says your name. Your actual name. Not the nickname that everyone calls you, not a pet name that he used to use, he says your name. And it makes you stop in your tracks.

It’s so stupid. It’s so fucking dumb that your fucking name can send you back to the day you first met him and were completely taken with him. You hate it. And you hate the way it makes your walls come crumbling down.

“Please,” he begs. “Can we… Can I at least give you my number? It’s a new one, but I-I think I’ve still got yours. You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to. But just so you can… I don’t know? Think about it?”

You wouldn’t know if he still had your number. You blocked him ages ago. But you doubt it.

However, the more you think about it, the more you consider it. It’s the product of your resolve falling and well, everything else about him now. You think about it.

If you allowed him to give you his number, the ball would be in your court. You could do what you wanted with it. You could text him, you could tell him to fuck off, you could ignore him. It was up to you.

And you don’t know if that’s worse or better.

You decide on better. The second you sigh, Jamie knows he’s got you. A wide grin breaks out on his face as you hand him your phone. “I’ll think about it,” you mutter.

That’s good enough for him. He gives your phone back to you, new number inserted and new contact created. You’re glad he didn’t search for his old one. That one just says ASSHOLE in big capital letters with about a million gun emojis.

(That was done by your previous roommates in an effort to get you to move on from him. You thought it was a bit overdramatic. You were never one for emojis.)

He’s smiling when he holds his coffee out for you. You stare at him blankly, thinking he’s attempting to cheers you. Instead, he shakes his head and says, “Take it.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Trade with me,” he clarifies and your expression turns to one of shock. “C’mon. You said it’s yours anyway, right?” When you don’t move he rolls his eyes. “Offer’s only good for another second. Me arm’s getting tired.”

At that, you sigh rather dramatically and grumble to yourself, trying not to act pleased by the gesture. You hand him your coffee and he gives you his. “Thanks,” you say. It was kind of him.

His grin returns and he nods at you. “Alright,” he says. After a slightly awkward beat, he steps back from you. “It was good to see you, Doc. Really.” You’re taken back by how genuine his voice sounds and say nothing in return. “I’ll talk to you later?”

He says it as a question, hopeful and well-meaning. “Yeah,” you tell him noncommittally. “Maybe.”

That too, is good enough for him. Because he sends you one more smile, then walks out of the coffee shop with your espresso in hand.

You’re still reeling from the interaction when you glance down at his your cold brew and see Natalia’s handwriting. She’s made it just as you like it, down to the milk and everything.

But below it is a small drawing. It’s a tiny shark fin with a #9 written inside, with little lettering circling around it.

Doo-doo-do-doo-do-do-doo.

You’re fucked.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” is the question that your best friend and former roommate Leah screams at you over drinks at a busy rooftop bar. So busy, in fact, that barely anyone looks over at the two of you.

You’d made the mistake of telling Leah that not only had you run into Jamie on Wednesday, but you’d let him give you his number.

And you’d texted him after hours of deliberation.

It was something innocent, something you’d thought way too much about, but innocent still. You weren’t sure if you were ready to actually talk to him, but there was something about texting him that wasn’t so scary. Your guard was clearly still up, evident by how dry you were in your messages, and you were keeping your distance. You never texted back too quickly, didn’t ask many questions, and often left him on read.

(Yeah, you’d turned your read receipts on for him. What about it?)

Your first text was a simple enough question, something that you’d been genuinely wondering about since you saw him. It was open enough for a conversation but not too forward. how’d you know my coffee order?

His response came in minutes later. Is that yours? Good taste. It was shortly followed up with, That espresso you drink was fucking disgusting though.

And that was that. That was how you started texting your ex again. That’s how you reconnected yourself with Jamie Tartt. That’s how you knew it was over for you.

And that’s how you’re pretty sure you’re about to kill your best friend.

Leah’s eyes were wild, somehow angry yet still disbelieving yet intrigued. But the intrigue was very minimal. Very minimal. It was hidden well by how pissed off she was at you.

She had every right to be pissed at you. She was the one who always warned you about him. She’d straight-up nursed you back to health when you broke up. She was the one who had to hear about him 24 hours a day until you were finally over him.

Leah had had a year of peace. And now you were killing her for good.

“You’re kidding, right?” she follows up with. Her grip on your arm is tight. “Please tell me your kidding.”

“Leah…” Your voice is weak.

It tells her everything she needs to know. “Oh, my God! Oh, my. God.” She puts her face in her hands. “You’re insane. You’re fucking losing it and we need to have you checked out right now.”

“I’m completely sentient and in control of my own body.”

“Are you sure?”

You sip at your cocktail. “I reset a knee today. I’m pretty sure.”

“I think you might need to reconsider,” she says. “Because you just told me that not only are you talking to Jamie Tartt again, but you were the one who instigated it!”

You deserve this verbal beatdown and you know it. But all you can do is shrug. “Technically, he gave me his number. He’s the one who instigated it.”

“I’m gonna throw my fucking drink in your face,” Leah threatens, gripping her glass in warning.

You roll your eyes at her. “Nothing’s gonna happen,” you say, even though you know you’re probably lying. Leah knows this too. “We’ve just been texting a little. It’s nothing serious.”

“Yeah, sure,” she deadpans. “Right. And even if I did believe you, what happens if it does? What happens if you get back in your weird, scary Jamie phase and he kills you again? I can’t deal with that.”

“That’s not going to happen,” you assure her, and this time it’s more confident. Because you know you won’t. Not this time. Not if anything happens.

You’d met Jamie when you were twenty-two. You were in your first year of your Masters program, slightly lost as in your move to London to finish your journey to become a physical therapist. Or a physio, as they called it here. Whatever. You couldn’t keep up with the names.

You were shadowing a physio at the clinic you now worked at, assisting him as a part of your internship at one of the football tournaments the clinic worked at. It was a ton of big-wig footballers, some names you recognized, others you didn’t. But it didn’t matter. They were precious fucking cargo and you were so paranoid about screwing up that you barely registered who they were when you worked on them.

That was, until a twenty-two-year-old Jamie Tartt sprained his ankle and plopped himself down on your doctor’s bench. He looked at you, you assisted him, and you were wrapped up in what you were doing that you didn’t even notice he was flirting with you.

You didn’t realize until he asked you out. And the rest was history, for better or for worse.

You were surprised he went for you. You knew who Jamie was, what type of girls he liked to be seen with. They were singers and models and actresses. They weren’t you.

(Perhaps that’s one of the reasons you liked him so much. Because he chose you. You didn’t like to think about that phase of your life.)

But after six months of seeing him, he ended things out of nowhere. Right when you’d settled on the idea that despite it all, you might be in love with him. And that was that.

You hadn’t seen him since. Not until this week.

“Not gonna happen my ass,” Leah scoffs, bringing you back into the conversation at hand.

A sigh of frustration leaves your lips. “Listen, I know it’s a bad idea;” you tell her. “I know it is. But, I don’t know. There was something different about him, Leah. He was just… like not someone I recognized.”

“Maybe because his hair is fucking long and stupid now.” She brings her glass to her lips. “His highlights look horrendous.”

“I actually like his hair like this,” you admit, earning yet another eye roll. “Listen. I’m not saying he’s changed. He probably hasn’t. But I…” You trail off with a shrug. “I don’t know. What if he has?”

Leah’s looking at you like you’re the dumbest person she’s ever met in her life. “Are you hearing yourself right now?” she asks incredulously. “Babe, he was a prick to you. Like, category-five, prestige-level twat. Like, worst boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

“I know,” you repeat. “And I said nothing’s going to happen. But if it does, and it goes south, I give you full permission to say I-told-you-so for the rest of my life, alright?”

Leah bites the inside of her cheek, shaking her head. “Whatever,” she says. After a moment, she glances over at you. “I’m just looking out for you, y’know. I don’t want to see you hurt again. And I definitely don’t want him to be the reason for that hurt again.”

You grab her hand. “I know,” you say once more. “And I love you for it. But if I’m gonna be stupid, I’m fully aware of when I’m gonna do it. And it’s gonna be my own fault.”

There’s a moment of silence between the two of you before Leah nods. “Okay,” she finally says. “Okay. Fine. Your fucking funeral.”

“I’ll let you give the eulogy and allow you to call me a dumb bitch for ten minutes straight.”

“Sold,” Leah says, pointing at you. That slight intrigue you previously saw in her eye returns. “Okay, now that I’ve yelled at you, you need to tell me everything.”

And so you do. You tell her how he took your coffee, how you nearly threw up the second you saw him, how you played it cool until you didn’t. How he apologized to you. Joked around with you. Apologized some more. And then he gave you his coffee.

You despise how excited you sound about it. Again, you’re trying to play it cool, but the people that know you the best can always see right through you. You’re excited about it. Excited about him.

It’s a bad idea to be excited about him.

It’s a bad idea to look down at your phone after you and Leah order another drink. Your heart stops when you see he’s texted you.

It’s a bad idea to open the message when Leah excuses herself to go to the bathroom. What are you up to tonight?

It’s past midnight on a Saturday and he’s texting you. It’s still preseason for him, so he might be drunk, he may not be. You’re three drinks deep and aren’t sure if you are.

It’s a bad idea to respond to him. getting drinks with a friend. You keep it dry.

It’s a bad idea to not look down at your phone until you finish the drinks you ordered. Because now, you’re definitely drunk and looking at it all with new eyes.

Would you want to hang out tonight? No pressure.

It’s a bad idea to consider it.

But it’s a worse idea to agree.

text me your new address. i can be there by 1:30.

Before you know what you’re doing, you’re knocking on Jamie’s door, intertwining your fingers together when you realize you’re shaking.

The second you do it, you regret it. You’re no longer feeling the effects of your drinks. It wore off on the Uber ride over here. And everything seems like a terrible idea now.

God, what were you doing? He treated you like that and the second you see him again, you go running back? He was an asshole. He’d made you question everything about yourself, he’d made you cry, he’d made you experience every fucking emotion in the book and all it took is one text for you to be back on his doorstep?

Your roommate was right. This was a horrendous idea and you were an idiot.

However, none of that matters. It doesn’t matter because Jamie Tartt’s opening his door and he’s got a stupid fucking smile on his face. And the second you see it, you know there’s no turning back.

“Hey,” he says as he opens the door. “You alright, love?”

You clench your jaw at the name, at his smile, about how casual he’s being, about everything. “Hey,” you say, avoiding his eyes to look around his flat.

It’s a complete 180 from what he had when he first joined Richmond and what he had when you knew him. It’s a bit less mojo-dojo-casa-house-looking and something more mature. While you can still tell that a twenty-something guy definitely lives here, it’s decorated well, it’s put together, and it’s clean. No beer bottle sculptures in sight. He’s even got a fucking candle burning on his counter. Who the fuck is this and what did he do with the guy you knew?

Jamie follows you as you enter, wiping his hands on his sweatpants. “You find the place okay?”

His question snaps you out of your flat-induced haze. “Yeah,” you reply. You clear your throat. “This is nice.”

That same, stupid smile returns, but it looks a bit nervous. “Yeah. I told you it was a bit different, huh?” he chuckles. He walks toward his island, rounding it as he speaks. “Needed a fresh start or whatever. The old one was gettin’... old.” He watches you as you nod, continuing to look around. “You still in the same place with the same people?”

“Uh, no. Different place. No people,” you answer. You’ve stayed on your side of the counter, actively keeping your distance. “Willa moved to New York last year and Leah moved with her boyfriend. We live in the same building, though, which is nice.”

The small talk is fucking killing you. You’re not even sure if he cared to remember your previous roommates' names, so this all could be pointless. You can’t believe you’re here. You can’t believe you’re actually standing here, talking to him about the past.

But as you finish speaking, he nods like he’s listening. Maybe he is listening. Maybe he does remember.

“I’ll have to see that sometime,” he ends up saying, and the implication of it makes your head spin. He wants to see you again. Or he just learned small talk common courtesy. Whatever it is, it’s driving you insane. You have so many questions for him, so many things to say, and as he wipes his hands on his pants again and nods over to his kitchen, he asks, “Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got—”

“Why did you invite me here, Jamie?” The question comes spilling out of you, rushed as if it were waiting on the tip of your tongue and simply couldn’t stand to stay in any longer. Jamie stops in his tracks to blink at you. The look on his face encourages you to go on. “I mean, I know I texted you first. But why… why did you text me tonight? Why’d you—” You grimace, trying to find the right words. “Why’d you give me your number?”

He’s silent for a moment. Thinking. Evaluating. But his eyes haven’t left you. “Because I wanted you here,” he finally says. You cross your arms over your chest as he takes a step toward you. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I saw you.”

You want to say that you’ve been driven crazy all week because you feel same, but decide against it. Instead, you look away from him and scoff. “Right.”

“I’m serious,” he tells you, and your heart stops with every step he takes. “I felt like I was goin’ insane. I didn’t…” For a flash of a second, he looks shy. “I didn’t think I’d see you again. And I didn’t think you’d actually text me. I mean, I hoped you would, but…”

He’s right in front of you, but you still refuse to look at him. Your gaze has shifted to the floor. “I shouldn’t have,” you mutter.

The asshole has the nerve to chuckle, but it’s nervous. Your stomach churns. You’re not sure if you’ve ever heard him nervous. “No, you probably shouldn’t have,” he agrees. “I don’t deserve it.” He pauses and your throat starts to tighten. “I didn’t deserve you.”

That makes you look at him. Either he’s actually apologetic about everything, or he’s gotten really good at knowing everything you want to hear. “No. You didn’t.”

His fingers tentatively brush your arm and you allow him to take your hand. “I know,” he says. “I was a fucking prick. I get that now. I should never have… done that shit to ya.” You’re close enough to him now that if you moved an inch, his forehead would be up against yours. He brings your hand up to his mouth, pressing a feather-light kiss to the back of it. The action makes your throat tighten. “And I can’t fix it. But I…” He trails off again and looks you dead in the eye once he has the words. “I want to make it up to you.”

Your resolve is getting weaker and you hate yourself for it. You lean back against the counter, like that will put space between you two. “Jamie…”

“Please,” he whispers. His forehead finally meets yours. You can feel his breath on your lips. You don’t pull away. “Let me make it up to you.”

The last front you have standing weakly presents itself. “If you think,” you begin, breath shuddering as his hand meets your neck, “that one 2 AM hookup is going to make up for what you did, I—”

“I know it won’t,” he says, and it sounds like he does know. “But I want it to be a start.” The fingers on your neck are now tracing your jaw. And they tighten when he says, “Let me show you just how sorry I am, yeah? Let me make it fucking good for you.”

Jesus fucking Christ. That last front dissolves the second he says that, and your logic flips on itself. You came over here for a reason. You knew what this was. At least you got an overdue apology. Whether or not he meant it, is still up in the air, but if he’s promising things like that, then you might as well get something out of it.

You struggle to get a word out, so you nod against his hand. “O-Okay,” you finally stammer out. The way he’s looking at you gives you enough confidence to say, “Fine. Make it up to me.”

Jamie’s lips curl into a smirk and say, “As you wish,” before they’re on yours.

He’s softer than you remember. His lips aren’t chapped, he isn’t as aggressive with it, and he isn’t as rushed. Everything about him feels more mature and you struggle to understand how fast he could have changed in four years. But you’re not complaining. Not when he’s kissing you like this, with more practice and passion than you can ever recall.

His hand unlocks from yours to slide it up your sweatshirt, and it’s surprisingly warm against your back. Still, you shiver from the contact and you can feel him smirk once more against your lips.

The action alone prompts you to fork a hand in his hair and tug at it slightly, reveling in the soft sound that escapes him. Everything about him comes back to you at once, and you’ve never been happier to know that the same things still get him. If he wants to play it like that, you can keep up.

His hands drop to grab your thighs and lift you onto the counter, breaking the kiss momentarily. Your chest is heaving up and down, lips swollen and wet. Jamie appears to be in the same boat. “Fuck,” he whispers, sounding even more out of breath than you. He dips his head to press a kiss to your neck, nose rubbing against it as he makes his way down. “You look fucking gorgeous, by the way. Meant to tell you that at the shop.”

You’re too caught up in it all to play it cool, especially as he works at that one spot on your neck. “You look— fuck, you look good too. The long hair suits you.”

You feel him grin against your neck. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agree breathily. “Looked like a prick with the old cut.”

You feel his teeth dig into your skin at that one, and you hiss. “You liked that prick,” he reminds you.

You were in love with that prick, but you ignore that thought. “I liked a lot of things about him,” you respond. While it’s honest, the accidental double meaning of it isn’t lost on you.

It’s certainly not lost on Jamie. “Yeah?” he asks again. He lifts his head to look at you, hand creeping up your leg. “What’d you like?” You grip his arm as it rises beneath your sweatshirt once more. “C’mon love. Tell me what you want.”

You hate the way your breath hitches the second his fingers meet your back. You know what you want. You want to see what he’s learned since you last had him. What he’s like four years later. What’s changed, what’s stayed the same. But you’re too embarrassed and much too proud to ask.

Instead, you decide to say, much too shyly for your liking, “You know what I want.”

He hums in agreement, other hand creeping dangerously close to the inside of your thigh. “I do, don’t I?” he murmurs. “Bet I know everything ya want. But I wanna hear you say it.”

“Oh my, God,” you say under your breath, frustration creeping into your voice. The asshole fucking laughs at you. “I want you to make good on your promise. This seems far from it.”

“Right, right, I’m sorry,” he tells you. He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Just making sure we’re still, y’know. On the same page.” He glances at you. “Right?”

You blink at him. You’re not sure you could have been clearer about what page you’re on. But that’s not what surprises you. What surprises you is the seriousness in his eyes. How he’s searching for assurance in yours. And you know that if, for whatever godly reason, you wanted to stop, he’d pull away immediately, despite how worked up he clearly is.

It's the bare fucking minimum, but it's more than you’re used to getting.

So, you nod. “Yeah,” you say. “Definitely on the same page.”

The grin he breaks out to is nothing short of breathtaking. “Good.”

“But—” you suddenly say, stopping him from leaning in once more. He freezes beneath your touch, brows furrowing. “This is… This is a one-time thing. You’re…” You trail off to find the word. “You’re apologizing to me. That’s all this is.”

His smile falters, dropping momentarily before returning with a bit less radiance. It’s his turn to nod. “Okay,” he says, fingers now toying with the edge of your sweatshirt. “Gotta make it count, then.”

And with that, Jamie presses his lips back to yours, grabbing you securely and pulling you off the counter. Your legs wrap around his waist, grabbing the sides of his face, like that’ll stable you against him.

This time, it’s more desperate. It’s more tongues and teeth, more force and intention behind each movement. He’s setting the pace, but you’re keeping up tenfold. While it’d been four years, you’re not sure if he’d ever kissed you like this. He’s passionate instead of aggressive. While he knows what he wants, he’s definitely not just going to take it. He may be leading but he’s listening to you. And that stirs something inside you that you haven’t felt in a long time.

That much is clear, because you unconsciously let out a quiet sound against his lips. You can feel him smiling once more as he walks you slowly to wherever the hell his bedroom is. You’re caught up in him. And by the way he’s gripping you, you can tell he’s just as caught up in you.

So much so, that he completely loses track of where he’s going and accidentally slams you into his doorframe. You yelp, more because of shock than pain, and pull away to glare at him.

Jamie’s already apologizing. “Sorry, sorry,” he says. “Still gettin’ used to this place.”

“Well, figure out how to navigate better,” you respond, verging on a pout as you rub the back of your head.

“I’m sorry!” he repeats. He’s still got you against the doorframe. “It’s hard to see with your big head in me face. And I can’t kiss ya with, like, my eyes open. It’d be freaky.”

“I’ll give you a pass for that one,” you reply dryly. “Be weird instead of giving me a concussion.”

He’s walking you toward the bed when he mutters, “I’ll give you something, alright.”

Your back meets the mattress and you try to ignore the way he held his hand behind your head when he laid you down. You have under a second to adjust before he’s on top of you. The desperation returns and it almost takes your breath away.

He’s essentially straddling you, tugging at the waist of your leggings before he leaves one last kiss on your lips. He finally gets to pull your sweatshirt off, something he’d clearly been dying to rid you of since he first kissed you. You lift your arms up to help him, finding that you quickly start to do the same to him. You hear him chuckle as you attempt to get it up his back.

“I got it, love, hold on,” he says softly, tossing your hoodie to the side to take off his own. Your eyes immediately go to his chest and stomach and you refrain from reaching out to touch him. When you look up at him, you expect him to be smirking. However, he’s doing the exact opposite.

Jamie’s looking down at you like he can’t fucking believe you’re real. It’s jarring, seeing him like this, but you figure he’s in the same headspace as you and is still struggling to process that this is happening. It doesn’t matter, because before you can question it, he’s moving to press a kiss to your collarbone.

Your hand falls into his hair as he works his way down, mouthing the area of your chest. He pauses before he gets to the bra you’re wearing. His eyes flick up to yours. “Can I—”

You’re nodding before he can even get the words out, shifting to make it easier for him. He discards it to the floor with the rest. When he looks back at you, he releases a shaky breath and just stares.

He stares so intently that you begin to get self-conscious. “What?” you ask.

The question takes Jamie out of his trance. He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. “I just— I… Fuck. I forgot how beautiful you were.”

That spreads a warmth through you, one that pulls at your core. As you feel your face heat, you realize you have nothing to say to that. Luckily, he’s already moving on.

Jamie’s different. Really different. And you don’t realize how different he is until you start looking at him like you are right now. You were trying to convince yourself when you told Leah that he’d changed, you’ll admit that. But right now, you think you may have been telling the truth.

He grabs the waist of your leggings once more, lifting your legs to pull them off. You can’t help the laugh that leaves your lips as he struggles to do so. He shakes his head with a soft smile. “Missed that.”

“What?” you ask again.

“Your laugh,” he replies. “Missed that more than you know.”

The sweet words hit you like a bullet. The vulnerability in his voice is what gets you. Goddammit, when did he get so fucking nice? It drives you insane. But it also makes you quietly admit, “I think I’ve got an idea.”

With your leggings now gone, Jamie’s smile turns fonder. Gentler. He presses a kiss to your leg but says nothing in response. He simply places your legs down, eyes flicking down. He lifts his hand to trace down your stomach, stopping at the edge of your panties. The feeling makes you flinch.

He hooks a finger in the band, and your hips buck up to encourage him. His other hand spreads across your hip in a poor effort to keep you still. “Easy,” he murmurs.

You huff out a breath. “You can—” Your breath hitches as two of his fingers push into your underwear. “Fuck, you can take them off.”

His lips quirk up. “Well, thank you for the permission,” he says. “But not yet. I wanna take it slow with ya.”

Your mouth parts. “Why?”

“Because it’s been years since I’ve seen you,” he answers, moving up to kiss you softly. He speaks against your lips as he says, “And I’ve apparently only got one shot to do this right. So I’m gonna make this last.”

You roll your eyes at his terribly disguised jab. “You’re a dick,” you mutter against him.

“And you’re—” He cuts himself off and a gasp escapes your lips as he cups your core and rubs his palm against it. “Fuck, love. You’re really fucking wet.” He’s positioned on you so that you can feel him getting harder against you thigh. “This all for me, yeah?”

His voice is cocky, while still sounding awestruck. The remaining dignity you have left makes you roll your eyes, albeit a bit embarrassed. “It’s for whoever doesn’t take their fucking time to give me what I want,” you bite.

Jamie draws back from you with a full smirk on his face. “That so?” he asks. The hand against you starts creeping up to the band of your panties. “And what is it that you want? You still haven’t told me.”

You scoff. “I told you.”

He pulls your underwear down your legs and the air around you suddenly makes you realize just how exposed you are. You told yourself you’d never give him the satisfaction of seeing you like this again. But here you were.

His fingers brush against the inside of your thigh, and you shiver once more. “No,” he tells you gently. “You didn’t. You just said you wanted me to keep my promise. You didn’t tell me what you wanted.”

He’s moving closer and closer to the place you want him and you don’t know if you can take it anymore. You shift uncomfortably, as if that will cease the ache. But you know only one thing will.

So, you give him the answer he’s been waiting for this entire time. “You.” His gaze meets yours. “I want you, Jamie. Please.”

That breathtaking grin returns. “Just because you asked so nicely.”

And then he puts his mouth on you without warning.

You spasm at the contact, crying out as he uses both arms to hold you still. The second you calm down, one hand leaves your thigh and you feel him work two fingers into you. Fuck. He didn’t know that before.

And it’s not like he was ever bad in bed when you two were together. You’re not sure you would have stayed with him if that were the case. It’s just… he’s better now. He’s hitting everything nearly perfectly, not stumbling like he used to. He’s more confident. More assured. He knows what he’s doing.

And it’s fucking hot.

The sounds that fill his room are downright obscene. He’s gripping one side of you to keep you in place, splitting you open on his knuckles with the other. His mouth zeroes in on your clit, alternating between licking and sucking in a way that honestly has you close already.

“F-fuck,” you breathe. “Fuck, Jamie. Don’t st— shit. Don’t stop. Please.”

Of course, the fucking shit he is, stops. He grins up at you, but continues to slowly pump his fingers in and out. “You sound so fucking pretty begging like that,” he tells you. He’s just as out of breath as you are. He feels you clench around his fingers at the praise and it only eggs him on further. “Look so pretty too. Fucking gorgeous.”

“Jamie,” you whine again. He’s going too slow. Teasing. It’s not fucking fair. He’s supposed to be the one apologizing to you. “I need— Ngh. I need—”

“What do you need?” he asks. “Tell me.”

You think you’d kill him if you weren’t completely incapacitated. “More,” you manage to get out, wincing as he continues at his slow pace. You’re close. Embarrassingly close. “Just fucking more. Please. I’m—” You interrupt yourself with a moan as he shoves his fingers deeper into you.

“I know,” he nearly coos. “I’ve got you.”

And got you he does. Because not only does he pick up the pace, he stretches you with a third finger. The sting of it is momentary, and it subsides as soon as he bends down and swipes your clit with his tongue.

Your back arches. “Jesus fucking— Jamie. Oh, my God.”

He’s good. Of course, he’s fucking good. He’s Jamie Tartt. You’re not sure he’s ever been bad at anything physical in his life. Emotionally was another story. But that story didn’t matter right now. Not when he’s got you like this, and you’re teetering over the edge.

He pulls away from you, breath tickling your core as he speaks. “C’mon,” he chides. “I can feel it. You’re right there, aren’t you, love?” He takes your breathy silence as confirmation and nods to himself. “Yeah. You just need—”

He removes one finger and crooks the rest a certain way, deeper than before. Your heart may stop beating. He’s done something he did to you time and time again, something that he was actually really fucking good at, something he knew you liked years ago. When he looks up at you, he searches your eyes. And by the way they roll back, he knows he’s struck gold.

The smirk returns and he continues to work his fingers into you, smirk growing each time he hears you say his name. “Yeah,” he whispers. “That’s it. That’s still it.”

You could finish at any moment. The telltale heat is rising in your stomach, and you’re just waiting for the cord to snap. And then, as if your muscle memory takes over, you reach out for his arm.

But instead of letting you do it like before, he does something completely different. He intertwines his free hand with the back of yours and guides it to your stomach. And then he presses on your hand.

The pressure builds. You’re barely able to make any noise. And then—

“C’mon,” Jamie repeats. “Come for me, angel. I wanna see it.”

The cord snaps, and you do as you’re told. You come. Hard.

Jamie talks you through it, fingers still moving to coax your climax out of you. You’re sure you look pathetic, crying out and thrashing around in his bed, but you don’t care. You can barely fucking see right now.

It’s been a while for you. Or at least been a while since you’ve had anything that good. And it completely strips away any sort of attitude or frustration you had before.

When you finally come back down, you laugh softly, shaking your head and throwing your arm over your face. “Fuck,” you say through a chuckle.

You feel him shift, moving up the bed to hover over you once more. When he removes your arm from your eyes, you see that he’s smiling. “Nobody’s ever laughed after I’ve done that,” he tells you, a faux pout pulling at his lips. He bends down to press them to yours and you can taste yourself. “It better be a good fuckin’ sign.”

You laugh again, reaching up to cup his cheek and pull him into another kiss. “Very good sign,” you assure him. It’s muffled against him, but you think he gets the point.

It’s then that you catch him by surprise and flip the two of you over, straddling him in a way that makes him release a breathy sound that you’d missed dearly. But, something feels off.

Your glance down at him, expecting to feel or see fabric once you reach his leg. But there’s not much. Only what feels like boxer shorts. It catches you off guard. When did he take off his—

It doesn’t matter. It’s easier for you now. Especially as your fingers move across his abdomen, biting back a grin at the way he shudders. He looks up at you from his pillow.

“What are you doing?” he asks leadingly.

You shrug innocently, fingers toying with the band hanging low on his hips. “Returning the favor,” you reply.

Jamie makes a noise of disapproval, placing a hand on your thigh like that’ll stop you. “I’m supposed to be the one making it up to you,” he states, but his voice gets less firm as you cup him through the fabric. “Fuck. Y-You don’t owe me anythin’. No favors.”

You shake your head, pulling at his boxers so that he springs free from inside. Your eyes travel back to his as you reach out and gently grab his cock, staring down at him with a smirk dancing on your lips. “You sure?”

He looks pained. You don’t know why. You’re offering a way to take him out of his misery. But still, he shakes his head and moves his arm from your leg to your back.

He takes his turn to flip you over next. He swears under his breath as he does so, shaking his head when you land on your back.

“I told you,” he says, taking his boxers all the way off now. “It’s about you. Not me.” He shakes his head again, but this time it’s a bit more frustrated. When he speaks, it’s mostly to himself. “Can’t believe I just fuckin’ said no to that.”

A snort escapes you. “You’re a changed man, Jamie Tartt,” you joke.

He shrugs before placing his arms on either side of you. His voice teeters on teasing and earnest. “I’ve been trying to tell ya that.”

You’re not sure if it’s him, or the situation, or the sex, but you think you believe him. It makes your chest heavy. But you can’t admit that. You won’t let yourself. So, you keep that feeling tucked away, way in the back of your mind for safekeeping. You know it’s better like that. For your emotional sake, at least.

You allow yourself to prop yourself up on your elbow and kiss him instead of responding to that, bringing him in closer. You can feel the length of him press against your stomach, and his groan vibrates against your lips.

He pulls away, grinding into you. The heat of your body is making him go wild. “Can I—”

You know what he wants. And you want it too. “Please,” you say.

He nods, moving to angle himself against you. You glance down to watch him, heat flooding your face as he strokes himself before glancing up at you. You nod in return, giving him the confirmation he needs. Jamie grins.

He slides in you slowly. The stretch is mild but grows as he hovers over you once more. It’s easy to adjust, having been warmed up moments before. But for Jamie, it’s not as easy.

He bottoms out almost immediately, tensing over you. His head bows, chin falling to his chest. “Fuck,” he curses. It’s quiet but straight-up sinful. “God, fucking— you’re so—” You grip onto his bicep as he steadies himself. “I’m sorry. It’s just— i-it’s been a minute. And you’re f-fucking tight. Jesus.”

You don’t mind. He feels good like this, despite the fact he’s not moving. Your hand travels from his arm to his hair, tucking a piece of it behind his ear before settling on his jaw. “It’s alright,” you tell him. “We’ve got time.”

Jamie’s eyes snap open at that, but he’s not looking at you like you thought he would. You were expecting a cheeky sort of smile, a smirk, something in that realm. But he’s not. He’s looking at you like…

It’s something you can’t define. Something you’ve never seen before. It churns your stomach yet makes your heart race. Neither of you says a word.

He just dips down to kiss you again and slowly begins to move inside you. Your lips part in a gasp, and he slides his tongue in your mouth. Your back arches into him.

Before you know it, he's breaking from you and is breathing heavy against your neck. “Shit,” he groans. “You’re just— fuck. You…” He trails off, mouth hovering over your collarbone. “You drive me f-fucking mad. God, everything about you. Y-you don’t even know, do you?”

The pace picks up. He’s thrusting into you harder now and your nails dig into his back. You hear him hiss at the contact, but neither of you seem to care. “Fuck.” It’s all you can say. “Fuck, Jamie.”

He’s clearly not done talking. “How’d I-I fuck this up? Huh?” You can’t tell if he’s talking to you or himself. His mouth is on your chest now and the feeling runs through you like fire. “Fucking idiot. Didn’t know what I had. Can’t believe I let you go.”

You clench around him and it throws him off kilter. You watch his jaw clench, hand beside you gripping the pillow you’re on. “You w-were an idiot.” Your agreement is much less effective when it’s closed out by a high-pitched moan.

“I know. Fuck, I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. Deserved better.” He continues to slam into you. “I wanna gi—” A strangled sound erupts from his lips. “Give you better. You’re so—” When he shakes his head, he looks wrecked. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

Something about that sends a shock to your system. It makes you cry out and you can feel it. Your legs tremble around him. You’re close again. You’re really fucking close.

He kisses you once more, deeper than before. It’s more frantic. Everything about him is more erratic. You can tell he’s getting there too. “Couldn’t stop,” he manages to get out, hot against your lips. “Couldn’t s-stop thinking about you. I missed you.”

You clench around him again, the admission inching you closer. “Shit,” you say. “Fuck, Jamie, keep going.”

And keep going he does. His hand moves down your stomach, fingers finding your clit. He rubs circles into it and that sends you into a fucking tailspin. He swallows the sound you make.

“Missed you,” he says again, but it’s more helpless. Jamie fucking whimpers. “God, I f-fucking missed you, angel. Missed you so fucking much, I—”

You don’t hear the rest of what he says because you come the second he makes that sound. It’s white-hot. Blinding. Your legs twitch around him and you claw at him as he continues to rub your clit. You’re loud, but you don’t give a shit. It seems to spur him on.

He’s not far behind you. He spills into you with a groan, stomach flexing as he heaves over you, twitching inside of you. You’re still recovering from your own high as you open your eyes to watch him. You catch his expression for a moment before he’s collapsing into you.

You release a soft ‘oof’ at the sudden weight of him. He doesn’t say anything for a moment and neither do you. You just breathe together. But after a moment you allow yourself to put a hand in his hair.

“You’re fucking heavy,” you tell him, but there’s not much bite in it.

You feel him chuckle. “Give me second,” he says. “Not as fuckin’ agile as I used to be. Took a lot out of me, alright?”

You roll your eyes but continue to run your fingers through his hair. “You’re twenty-six and like, the face of the AFC,” you tell him. “Richmond might have to shorten your contract if you’re dying after that.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Take that up with me Chairwoman then.”

You can’t help but laugh as you push him off of you, wincing as you feel him slip out. He lands with the same noise you did. “If she heard you complaining like that, she’d be on my side.”

Jamie grins at you, joining in on your laughter. He shifts toward you, grabbing your hand to play with your fingers. “You’re probably right. Shouldn’t be complainin’,” he says. He lifts your hand to his lips. “Not when you’re here.”

They’re sweet words. The casualty of them makes your heart swell. But that anxiety about him returns. One time thing, you tell yourself. Apology. One time. That’s all.

You pull your hand back softly and he glances over at you. There’s a hint of worry in his eyes, like that one movement set off alarm bells in his head. You give him an uneasy smile.

Before you can move to get up or say anything or do something, he’s talking. And you have to refrain from wincing.

“I know…” He looks away from you. Shy. “I know you said one time,” he says, as if he can read your fucking mind. “And that’s… That’s okay. I get that, yeah? But I—” Jamie wipes a hand down his face, staring at the ceiling. “I meant what I said. I missed ya. Really.”

You missed him too. But your walls have been rising back up since he started talking again. “I don’t know what you want me to do with that,” you tell him, only partially lying.

You feel like an asshole when he winces. Maybe you were being an asshole. Maybe it was finally your turn to do so.

“Just…” He finally looks at you. “If you ever… don’t want this to be just a one-time thing.” He waves it off in an attempt to look casual. You know he’s anything but. “You’ve got my number. Or whatever.”

The timidness in his voice makes your resolve soften. Even if you don’t see him again, you suppose you can let him down easy. He’s been kind enough tonight to deserve that. You nod at him as you sit up. “Okay,” you say. “I’ll let you know.”

It’s only slightly awkward as you get out of his bed and search for your clothes. He asks if he can call you an Uber home and you reject it, letting him know that you’ve got one on the way.

You can feel his eyes on you as you dress, ignoring the way they burn into you. You can tell he’s searching for something to say, or something to talk to you about but doesn’t know what.

You’re half-dressed before he can shoot himself in the foot and say something stupid. “Hey,” he finally says. You glance over your shoulder at him after you slip your sweatshirt on. “I’m really glad you texted me.”

The nice streak you’re riding on continues and you offer a small but genuine smile in return. “Me too,” you admit, ignoring the way that his own soft smile pulls at your heartstrings.

Before you leave his room, you offer one more admission. You stop in the doorframe he hit you against, lips curling further upward. “It was really good to see you, Jamie.”

He props himself up on his elbow, smile growing. “Good,” he says, nodding. Then, like a prick, he winks at you. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

You physically cannot stop yourself from rolling your eyes and you hear him laugh to himself as you walkdown his hall. “Goodbye, asshole.”

He shouts a tired-sounding ‘bye!’ when you slip your shoes on, shaking your head as you look around his apartment once more. The candle on his counter is still burning, smelling of amber moss and palo santo.

You blow it out before you leave, knowing he’ll forget.

And as you do so, you feel yourself regress. Or grow. You’re not quite sure which one.

But it makes you curse under your breath and leave his flat immediately.

There is one more universal truth you forgot to mention.

And that’s that the second you think you’re over Jamie Tartt, he comes back into your life and flips everything on its head. And it’s the only truth that’s been confirmed to you all week.

Because the second you arrive home and see that you have a text waiting for you, your heart picks up. You hate the way you get excited to see it.

I had a really good time tonight.

And the second he comes back into your life, you’re reminded that you’re not over him. Not even in the slightest. And it’s fucking debilitating.

me too.

And you know your friends are going to kill you the second you follow up with.

i’m free friday if you want to grab a drink.

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt #jamie tartt x you #ted lasso #ted lasso fanfic #jamie tartt fanfiction #bad ideas #the one who's not a loser but THEE loser #discowrites

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weirdly-specific-but-ok · 3 months

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WebMD Page for Aziraphale

As promised to you all, inspired by that video of Aziraphale as an antidepressant. The WebMD drug format, from your clearly deranged mascot, Asmi. This took way too much effort. For legal purposes, even though this blog is a lawless hellscape, this is a spoof. If you did like it, reblog it, maggoty loves of mine, because likes don't help visibility on tumblr, and I want everyone to be traumatised with my own specific brand of unhinged. No pressure though, be rebels muaha. That being said:

MENU > DRUGS & MEDICATIONS > AZIRAPHALE

COMMON BRAND(S): Guardian of the East Gate, Angel GENERIC NAME(S): Aziraphale

USES This medication is used to treat mood-related disorders ranging from depression to chronic loneliness and anxiety. It has also been proven effective in treatment of Compulsive Demonic Behavioural Disorder (CDBD) and Post Fall Stress Disorder (PFSD). The medication results in an overall improvement in mood (see Side Effects), morals, and lifestyle choices. This medication is sometimes described as a 'miracle-worker'. It is advisable to ensure that the correct dosage is taken at regular intervals. The doctor/God/Forces That Be may prescribe a lower dose at the start, gradually increasing frequency and amount over the course of millennia.

SIDE EFFECTS Documented side-effects include pining behaviour, severe withdrawal symptoms in case of suddenly stopping the medication, heart palpitations, stuttering or stammering, mood swings including irrational lashing out or defensive behaviour when faced with highly emotional situations, break-ups, misunderstands, obliviousness, amongst others. Despite the studies being limited to a single subject (see Crowley et. al. updated 2023) these effects are typically harmless in the long term. Life-altering effects may also be noted, including irretrievably falling in love, marriage, a positive character arc, tendencies to put oneself at risk to ensure continuation of medication, lifelong friendship, fate-defying romance and severe allergy to the idea of discontinuation of medication.

WARNINGS Casual or reckless consumption can be too fast for the medication, which will lessen its effects, leading to withdrawal symptoms. Withdrawal symptoms range from repeated indulging in CDBD and PFSD induced behaviours to alcoholism, depressive episodes, recklessness, listlessness, and prolonged car rides with no purpose. While the medication should not be consumed too fast, regularity is also advised. This is a long-term medication and not a short-term fix. Rare, short-term exposures will only worsen the side effects, withdrawal symptoms and may even reverse the drug effects.

PRECAUTIONS Ensure immortality so that the medication may be able to work its effect through the full course. Pre-existing trauma and heart conditions may require regular consultations with a therapist.

INTERACTIONS Drug interactions may change how the medication works or increase severity of side effects. This document does not include a comprehensive list of all drug interactions, please do adequate research and check instructions on the medication before proceeding with additional drugs. Aziraphale is known to have highly negative interactions with the toxin hellfire as well as the drugs Gabriel (only when sold as Supreme Archangel), Satan and Metatron (known toxin). Negative interference may occur due to most drugs from the class Heaven and Hell. Vague interference may occur with the drug class Homo sapiens.

OVERDOSE While less dangerous than withdrawal symptoms, overdose may lead to lack of personal space, miscommunication, and decrease in mood stability. Increased irritability is also common. Use with caution.

IMAGE

REVIEWS (1) Effectiveness: 5 stars Ease of use: 4 stars Satisfaction: 100000000000000000000e stars

It must be noted that in the country where I live (India), advertisements for pharmaceutical drugs are legally prohibited on television and other media. Which is why I was very bewildered at the initial video. But WebMD is a universal phenomenon so this shall by my contribution to the fandom. Thank you @neil-gaiman, Good Omens has given me a lot of opportunities to exercise my brain in all the weirdest ways.

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flutteringphalanges · 1 year

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Aydith

Adam Warlock x Star Lord’s Sister/Reader

Summary: Adam and reader have a baby.

//I started working on one where the reader actually gave birth but put that on hold because I wasn’t sure if I should finish it. I may make this a series because I kinda want to explore dad!Adam more and uncle!Peter and the rest of a the Guardians as aunts and uncles. If people are interested. Anyway hope you guys enjoy! (next time I think I will do present POV and not past, but whatever lol!) EDIT: This is now a series. Here is a LINK to the master-post with links to all of the one shots.

Aydith

You and your older brother, Peter, had practically grown up with Yondu and the Ravengers. Seen things, some being terrible at that. Found a new family with the Guardians. Experienced battles. War. The destruction of whole societies. Planets. But any of those old fears were nothing compared to what you were experiencing now. The heavy, nervous thumps in your heart as you stared down at the tiny being in your arms. Thumps that were equally as terrifying as this strange new feeling of overwhelming, unbridled love.

Her skin was a brilliant shade of gold--something she had inherited from her father. What little hair she had was more so copper, but that could easily change with time. Even through her golden skin, the rosiness of her cheeks blushed like petals. And her eyes…for the past nine months you had been anticipating they would be his. But the very first time she opened them, they were the most intense shade of_____. Just like yours. She was beautiful. Far, far beyond that. She was yours. Both of yours.

“She’s so small.” Adam’s voice cut through the silence. “Is that…is she okay?”

You glanced over at him from where he sat on the edge of your bed. Everything had been a blur up until this moment. The birth had not been an easy one. A lot had happened. It was certainly unexpected. And the chance that something horrible could have come from it all was a fate no one wanted to think about. But you were safe, and more importantly she was, so in the end that was all that mattered.

“Yeah.” You assured him, watching intently as he gingerly touched one of her clenched fists. “She’s perfect, isn’t she?”

“More than anything in the entire realm of galaxies.” Adam agreed with a small smile, clearly mesmerized. “And she’s ours.”

“Yeah.” You breathed, looking at her. “She is.” Silence fell between you for a brief moment before a thought suddenly came to your mind. “Do you want to hold her?”

Adam blinked, looking at you in almost comical surprise. “I can hold her?”

It takes everything within you to keep from bursting into a fit of laughter. Being exhausted and sore helped with that. “Of course, she is your kid after all.”

“What if I…” He hesitated, glancing from you to the baby. “What if something…”

“You won’t hurt her.” You promised, wincing a little as you lean forward to place her in his arms. “They aren’t as delicate as they look. Or, at least someone told me that…”

Adam took her gently, going rigid when she let a little noise. Slowly, you watch as his posture relaxes. The way he gazed at her, watching with such intent and adoration. You never thought you could love him more until now. You couldn’t help but question what you had done to deserve them both.

“I…I thought I was going to lose you, Y/N.” Adam said quietly, finally meeting your stare once more. “Back on the ship. I really thought…” And the way his eyes have begun to water causes a swell of emotion to find you. “All of us really, and if something had…your brother would’ve never forgiven me.”

“Hey, I’m okay.” You said softly. “Both of us are.” You paused, before adding. “It’s going to take a hell of a lot more to get rid of me. We Quills are pretty resilient.”

Adam chuckled softly, stroking the top of the infant’s hand. “As I have witnessed.”

“You know, she kinda needs a name.” You reached over, lightly brushing your fingertips against the top of her head. “Any suggestions?”

He hummed thoughtfully, adjusting your daughter in his arms. “My mother’s name was Ayesha.” Adam began to talk faster as if he thought you’d interject. You wouldn’t. “I know she committed horrible acts and was not the greatest of all beings, but…she was wonderful to me and I loved her. I…can understand if you are against it, however.”

“It’s a pretty name.” You told him, giving him a smile. “My mother’s name was Meredith. I didn’t get to know her, she died when I was really young. But Peter talks about her, a lot more than he used to.”

“Meredith…” He mused, studying the baby’s face. “That is also a nice name.”

You took a moment to consider the two. One could easily be the first and the second a middle. The problem would be, in that case, which one you would call her. Suddenly an idea comes to mind, one that you hope didn’t sound too ridiculous.

“What about Aydith?”

Adam looked at you with a brow raised. “Aydith?”

“A combination of the two.” You explained, shrugging your shoulders. “We could honor them both…It doesn’t sound too funny does it?”

You watched as he glanced down at the baby, remaining silent for a moment. “Aydith…” He said slowly, as if testing out the name. “I like it. Aydith is a good name.”

You smiled softly, peering down into her little face as Adam leaned over.

“Hello, Aydith.” You whispered gently. “Welcome to the universe.”

#Adam Warlock #Adam Warlock x Reader #Reader x Adam Warlock #gotg vol 3 #gotg vol 3 fanfiction #Aydith Warlock

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adm-starblitzsteel-4305 · 6 days

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All Hail the Princess!!!

"She who Dances in a Silver of the Night Skies"

"The Angel of Stars"

"Child of Godzilla and Mothra"

"Princess of the Monsters"

"Avatar of the Star Goddess"

Presenting...

Princess Mothra Astra, the daughter of Godzilla and Mothra! Heir to the throne, and the Angel of Stars who foretold that she would one day become the ruler and protector of the Earth.

She is born on the twilight morning of the third day of April, where a single white star aligned above the heavens and the sunrise. She is revealed to be the Star Goddess' avatar, christening her blood and soul to the very beginning of her cycle. Both Godzilla and Mothra vowed to cherish her life and learning to become a protector and guardian at all times.

Until a terrible fate happens to the Princess. She was killed under the wrath of Ghidorah, the One who is Many in the eyes of the King and Queen. After Ghidorah's icy imprisonment, she made her final wish to her parents: she will be buried on the twilight eve from the parts of the island (the Philippines rather) where she will watch them and her people, and her promised about one day, she will be incarnated...

As centuries have passed after her death, the Princess' soul now resides on her human incarnation, Ma. Celestina, who would one day find the true meaning of the past and discovering her self.

AN:

Hello! And welcome to those who read my Godzilla fanfiction titled "Princess of the Monsters"!

The wait is over!

This is Mothra Astra. And this is also how I depicted her in her Titan form: she is a moth like Mothra, but has dorsal plates behind her wings like Godzilla and it acts like a carapace to protect her body from any danger. She also feeds on radiation, well, half of it. Crystals are her main power because of how resourceful and more powerful the Earth's core's radiation was; she can harness it by detecting 'a twinkling sound' and pinpoints it to the area she used to.

She is depicted to have a symbol of a six-pointed star on her forehead, indicating the avatar of the Star Goddess and supposedly rebirth.

Her appearance made her more ethereal and divine like. She is graceful, kind, loving and helpful like Mothra, and stubborn, strong, feisty, and equally powerful like Godzilla. One thing that describes her is her curiousity because of what was beyond the heavens wherein she could see those who died became stars, a belief she shared from her parents.

There are more stories for her to come. And I only posted this short background for her. Thank you all for liking my art! I work tirelessly just to come up with this!

This is now my official OC and Mothzilla fanchild!

@sassyassblog @mossizi @androgynouslovechopshop @magic-thing

Stay tune for the Princess of the Monsters story!

🌟~ @adm-starblitzsteel-4305

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ryin-silverfish · 25 days

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Headcanon: Dragons of the Four Seas

(inspired by a recent discussion with @the-monkey-ruler)

-Although Chinese dragons are water deities, there are dragons who control stuff other than water: Cold Dragons under the Dragon King of the North can freeze stuff, and Bailong Ma used to be a Fire Dragon in pre-novel variants of JTTW.

"Wouldn't it be interesting if the four major lineage of dragons all have their unique side-power, apart from water and weather manipulation?"

-It starts off as this, then spins out of control and becomes one giant worldbuilding exercise.

East Sea:

-The eastern direction is traditionally associated with the Wood element. However, I feel like plant manipulation will be too obvious.

-So instead, they are the master of Thunder and Wind——the trigrams that represent these two things, Zhen and Xun, are both Wood-aligned.

-Their lightning has a notable azure hue, and have adapted the force of Thunder specifically for underwater usage, creating highly potent sonic blasts as well as what basically amount to a sonar spell.

-They kinda consider themselves the archetypal dragon, representative of their kind, and certainly have the attitude to match.

-Like, they claim to be descended from the Azure Dragon of the East, even though the idea that a Divine Beast of the Four Directions, stellar guardian of the entire eastern section of the sky, can reproduce is...dubious at best.

-Don't you mention the time Ao Guang got bullied by Wukong. Or Nezha. Or Huaguang. Or the Eight Immortals. They are very touchy about that. Violently touchy.

-They also have close relations with water-dwelling Yakshas, who act as a sort of elite mercenaries in their military campaigns against other seaborn demons and rogue flood dragons.

-Basically, the proud generals of dragonkind, with a vast weapon collection to match. The dragon king's family also name their kids after Celestial Stems and Earthly Branches, much like the ancient Shang dynasty rulers.

-The East Sea dragons are the only lineage who has an official representative of the Celestial Host stationed in their territory, who's only known by his title, the "Water-dividing General of the East Sea".

-He seems to be an older sort of god, the half-man, half-beast ones who look like they walk out of an illustration of the Book of Mountains and Seas.

-Most of the time, he takes the form of a seal, lounging around on rocks and watching sunrises, and has the personality of a sarcastic old man.

-Whether he's here to keep an eye on them, or they are supposed to keep an eye on him, no one can say. Ao Guang certainly treats him like an old acquaintance, though.

West Sea:

-They are a bit tricky. West is associated with Metal, and the two Metal-aligned trigrams, Qian and Dui, represent Heaven and Marsh...which don't neatly map onto weather and natural phenomena.

-Then I had an idea. What if they have a natural affinity for heavenly bodies? In ancient times, the movements of stars are believed to affect weather, after all, not to mention the sun and the moon.

-This affinity can be figurative——their lineage has a strong relationship with the stellar deities of the 28 Lunar Mansion and Dipper Mansion——or literal.

-Like a natural talent for divination and astrology, predicting the future from the patterns of stars. They are no governors of fate, unlike the actual Star Lords, they are just fate's weather forecast guy.

-This puts them in an awkward position, though: the stellar gods act according to the Jade Emperor's orders, some of which are very much secret and beyond their clearance levels, but the best scions of the West Sea can just infer it from the movement of stars alone.

-Which makes them obsessed with proving their loyalty, as well as enforcing a draconian standard of secrecy, just so they wouldn't get into trouble for knowing something they weren't supposed to know.

-Even more rarely, they can harness the power of astral light. Most of the time, such light is of lunar nature——Star Lord Taiyin also holds sway over the ocean's tides, though it is an easily forgotten power.

-But sometimes, that light comes from a fiery, lively, or ominous star, and the power that results is just as temperamental as their stellar origins.

-Enters Ao Lie, Third Prince of the West Sea, who has highly potent fire powers despite not being a South Sea dragon, and became the subject of some rather tasteless gossips about his parentage the moment it awakened.

-All dragons love their pearls: it's kinda like an ordinary yaoguai's "inner core", an orb of solidified Qi that can be spit out and store separately from the body, but much more powerful and culturally significant.

-Well, the West Sea dragons use their pearls in the same way a Feng Shui master uses their geomantic compass, or a Zhou Yi diviner, their turtle shell and copper coins. The ones left behind by venerable ancestors are especially treasured, believed to lead to clearer insights and more reliable readings.

-Through that lens, Ao Lie's burning of one such pearl is the equivalent of descrating the dead + destroying a priceless, irreplacable supercomputer.

-Intentional or not, to a lineage that is so serious about their discipline, taboos, and absolute loyalty to the Celestial Host, it is enough to warrant death.

-To no one's surprise, they are the diplomats, the inter-department coordinators when it comes to weatherly business. Not just between relevant celestial bureaus like the Thunder and Water Bureaus, but also between local dragon kings of rivers and lakes.

-As a result, the West Sea lineage is the most open to marrying non-oceanic dragons, even though these are often out of practical and political needs.

-That's my explanation for why, in JTTW, Ao Run's nine nephews either guard rivers or work for JE/the Buddha. The West Sea lineage has really turned nepotism into an art form.

North Sea:

-In JTTW, we know that they have Cold Dragons that can chill stuff. It is certainly not too much of a stretch to imagine them as the ice-and-snow specialists, the ones you summon when you are sick of the heat or need to insta-freeze something.

-Historically, the "North Sea" in Chinese texts refer to Lake Baikal. However, I think it is cooler if their palace is literally in the arctic zone, under the ice caps.

-Instead of garden-variety shrimp and crab soldiers, they have lots of cultivated marine mammals. And elite legions of belugas and narwhals and bowhead whales.

-The smallest and most isolationist lineage also carries the grimest duty, as border patrols and prison wardens. Not only is the North Sea a hotspot of rifts that lead to the Underworld, it also conceals the portal to the Evil-Vanquishing Mansion of the North Pole——realm of Emperor Zhenwu, Lord of the North.

-Kind of like the Lord Father of the East and Queen Mother of the West, he is the sovereign of the northern direction and the Water element, as well as the direct superior of Xuanwu, one of the Four Divine Beasts.

-And his job? Subduing demons. The Evil-Vanquishing Mansion is basically a fleet of giant, hollowed-out icebergs, packed to the brim with powerful demons, ghosts, and rogue immortals.

-Any prisoners that make an unlikely escape will emerge into the North Sea, where the vigilant army of the dragon king awaits. However, that is not their main duty; it is the Eye of the North Sea that they swear to eternally guard.

-And the prisoner of the Eye is none other than Shen Gongbao, the infamous traitor of the Chan Sect who was behind most major conflicts in the War of Investiture.

-It was said that, though his body was stuffed into the Eye of the North Sea as punishment, in the end, his soul still gets deified as a minor water god.

-However, if there is only a mindless body left in there, why the need for such heavy security? Only the most experienced elders and veterans are allowed to go into the Eye's vicinity to check on Yuanshi Tianzun's seals, and repeated visit by the same people is strictly prohibited.

-Perhaps, instead of a split of soul and body, deification has split the soul itself: one half is exorcised of all the undesirable qualities, the other left to stew and simmer in them until it mutates into something unrecognizable.

-Such is the rumor among the North Sea's younger scions. But folks will make up anything to pass the time in those long, cold arctic nights, and whatever the truth is, it doesn't matter, as long as the seal still holds.

South Sea:

-Their element, Fire, is directly opposite to the North Sea's; much like the Cold Dragons, the Fire Dragons of the South Sea are heat specialists, creators of droughts and wildfires as well as bringers of warm winds.

-And their fire is a peculiar variant of Earthly Fire. Unlike Heavenly Fires, which draw from the blaze of the Three-legged Sun Crow, or the True Fires immortals used in internal alchemy, Fire Dragons channel the power of earth's flaming veins: that is, undersea volcanos and thermal vents.

-Though they usually display their power in less flashy ways——steam clouds, a playful whiff of sulfur, a blast of warm wind on a winter night, a Fire Dragon fully on the offensive is just like a mini live volcano, unleashing streams of magma and scalding smoke clouds.

-When dragons are mentioned as one of the Eight Classes of Demigods in Buddhism, more often than not, they are from the South Sea lineage.

-Like, the most popular Bodhisattva in Asia, Guanyin, resides in the South Sea. It's all but granted that the local dragons would also be heavily influenced by Buddhist teachings, in the same way their northern kins are drawn to the entourage of Zhenwu.

-Fun fact: the imagery of dragons has appeared in Chinese art since the Neolithic period, but the specific worship of dragons as gods of the Four Seas is a result of Buddhist influence.

-Prior to that, the gods of the Four Seas in the Book of Mountains and Seas are all beasts with human faces, wearing snakes as earrings or standing on a snake.

-And in Sui-Tang era works, some variants merged the Four Seas gods with the Four Directions gods of ancient times, and said that the god of the South Sea was Zhurong.

-A.k.a. the fire god that defeated Gonggong (in the most well-known version of the tale), who, being the sore loser he is, went and knocked over the sky support pillar with his head. Thus, Nvwa's patching of the sky.

-Legends of the South Sea lineage claim that the Fire Dragons draw their power from Zhurong's embers, and their king is descended from the two dragon mounts of the primodial fire god.

-To the outrage of more traditionalist dragons, they often intermarry with Nagas, the serpentine water gods of the Western Lands. Guanyin's dragon girl attendant is born of one such union, between the Naga lord Sagara and a princess of the South Sea.

-Their palace is located inside an underwater volcano, said to be the remnant of Zhurong's great forge. Giant tube worm gardening is a popular hobby among the South Sea nobility; however peculiar it may appear to outsiders, these colorful creatures thrive in the union of Fire and Water, much like the lineage itself.

(Pictures of the Four Dragon Kings come from Nezha 1979.)

(The animated film makes the dragon king of the West a black dragon, and the North, a white one, a reversal of the colors traditionally associated with the two directions——West = White, North = Black.）

#journey to the west #investiture of the gods #chinese dragons #worldbuilding #chinese mythology #headcanon

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mara-tevith-solo · 11 months

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Fate Thinks She’s Funny

Screw it, I might make this a series. Part of the One Enchanted Evening fic. Reader here has a recycled OC background I made for the MCU. Essentially came to Earth after Order 66 in the 90′s, was forcibly conscripted in the US Military and she gets tangled up in everything because of the Ancient One, the Jedi inability to not meddle, and Billy. It’s a 43k word fic that is no where near complete and probably will never be

Pairing: Adam Warlock x ex-avenger/guardian! reader

Warnings: Canon levels of violence, love at first sight, prospective death, Adam pulling his punches just for you because he hates the idea of hurting you after 0.001 seconds, reader compares him to a Rancor of all things

Words: 1.8k+

Rated: 18+ as always

It was the crashing that alerted you initially, pulling you from the half-sleep you had managed to finally fall into. You didn't even bother shutting the door to your apartment behind you as you went to investigate, Groot wrapped around something on fire shooting past without much preamble. You were fully awake before he was out of sight, already trying to calculate his trajectory to be there to stop him. You ran over walkways and tight wires, not truly looking where you were going besides making sure the way was clear, making sure that no one would get hurt from the debris. It barely occurred to you that you were only dressed in one of Stephen's old shirts and a pair of sleeping shorts, your main concern being the citizens, and then the attacker.

A mother and child huddled on main street gave you pause, the mother trying to shelter her screaming child as debris began raining down towards them. Protecting them with the Force was reactionary, no really thought put into it until they were safe and you were on the move again. You skidded to a stop on a catwalk as Kraglin's arrow smacked the man harmlessly across the cheek, making him stop angrily in his tracks "Who threw this thing at me?" He demanded sharply, looking around the rubble he'd created. No one dared to answer him, all of them hiding and fighting to remain silent despite their fear. He looked, disarmed by the fear, choosing to move on "Baby." He chided before continuing on his path.

Landing on the attacker was easy, he was strutting through main street like he owned the place, like he wasn't trying to tear it apart bit by bit. He fell to the ground under you with an annoyed yell, your claws sinking into his shoulders before you were moving off of him, twisting and throwing him over your head and down into the ground with a shout. You didn't wait for the dust to settle to grab him again, hoisting him up to his feet as he tried regaining his barrings. For a moment, one single solitary moment, your eyes met, gold giving way to his pupils as they dilated, his breath stuttering as his golden lips dropped open the barest fraction. There was something star struck in his expression, something you forced yourself to not dwell on as you let go of his tunic just long enough to Spartan Kick him further away from where he'd thrown Nebula. He didn't go far, landing on his back with a forced exhale before he was clambering up to his feet with a bewildered glare "Do that again and I'll be forced to kill you." He was warning you as he shook the dust from his person, not taking his eyes off your form.

"Pity." You huffed, calling my saber, reaching back towards your apartment.

"What's that? What is the purpose of that?" He asked, genuinely curious, tilting his head like a puppy. It genuinely caught you off guard, both the fact that he genuinely didn't know what you were doing, and the fact that he seemed so innocent in that moment. You didn't answer him, instead taking a ready stance as soon as the hilt was in your hand, the familiar hum and yellow hue a comfort. He blinked, taking in your position and your weapon before deciding that you were still intent on being a threat, powering up with a frustrated grunt and a silent snarl, his hands engulfed in blades of light. It was like dancing, fighting with him, meeting him strike for strike even though it didn't feel like his heart was fully in it. He depowered one hand enough to grab your saber hand, immobilizing it no matter how hard you struggled, making you grab his arm that was still powered up, holding it above both of your heads in a struggle of wills. "I do not want to kill you." He admitted with a grunt, trying to break the hold you had on him.

"Not the first time I've heard that." You growled back a little bitterly, straining against him for a moment before you saw an opening and took it. Your forehead collided with his, a resounding crack! echoing through your head and the square as he cried out in pain, stumbling blindly back in retreat. "Fucking hell." You groaned, doubling over as you pressed your freehand to your forehead, trying to sooth the ache that was still blooming there. You could feel the tale tell tickle of a small track of blood dripping down the bridge of your nose, but didn't think much of it as you focused an eye on him, watching him recollect himself with that snarl of his.

"Are you always this stubborn?!" He asked you indignantly, throwing his hands out with exasperation.

You couldn't stop your expression if you wanted to, open bewilderment taking your face by storm as you just stared at him "You're trying to kill my friends! Of course I'm 'being stubborn'!"

"I just want the squirrel." He rebutted as though it was so simple.

"You can't have our friend! He's not property!"

Before he could say another word, Drax grabbed him and began throwing him around "Pick on someone your own size!"

You wanted to just hide somewhere as you backed away from the two men, your heart pounding deafeningly in your chest as Drax threw him into the headquarters sign "Y/n!" You could hear Mantis calling desperately from the med center, tears in her voice spurring you into action, ignoring the suddenly very determined man as he lifted himself from the dirt. You had to stop, your eyes glued to the scene, as the man met Drax hit for hit, matching every bit of his strength easily. It made you want to throw up. You watched, helpless, as beams of light came from the man's hands again, Drax barely able to stop them, holding the man at bay with groans of strain. "Y/n! Help!" Mantis wailed again, but you couldn't tear your gaze away as the stranger's power began to whine audibly, getting brighter and brighter until he was blowing Drax back with it.

As soon as he straddled and began pummeling Drax you were in motion, charging without a thought of your own safety. You dove at the last possible moment, only loosing a cry when your shoulder collided with his ribs, ripping him off of Drax and into the dirt with you. Scrabbling for dominance in the dirt with him, you didn't care to use finesse, or any true skill. He'd already proven that he was ridiculously strong, that you had to fight dirty to get any advantage. You barely paid attention to the darkening of his cheeks and neck as you straddled his waist and tried to punch his lights out, your fist raining punishment into his pretty face over and over again as your other hand kept you anchored to him, fisted tightly into the collar of his tunic. He seemed more concerned with trying to fend off the blows than fight back "ENOUGH!" He roared under you, almost succeeding in turning over under you as he tried to protect himself. You didn't listen to him as you pressed him back down, driving your fist into his sternum as you continued to punch the daylights out of him. "I said," He grabbed you by the thighs, his hands engulfing them by nearly half before he was usurping your position, driving your back into the dirt, his weight pressing down between your legs "enough!" It was only at that moment that he seemed to realize the position he had put you both in, making you feel like you were on fire as he stared down at you with those wide doe eyes that just screamed innocence.

You blinked back up at him, suddenly uncomfortable with the vulnerable position, your grip on his collar almost slackening with the shock that you liked it, until Drax groaned in pain, snapping you back to reality. Your legs tightened around his lower ribs, locking at the ankles behind him as you squeezed for all you were worth, not letting up as he sucked in a panicked, ragged breath. His hands found your thighs again as he sat up, dragging you up with him as you resumed punching and he tried pushing, his fingers digging painfully into your flesh, trying to pry you off before you constricted him to death. In a split second he gave up trying to get you off of him, his hand molding around the column of your throat like it was made to be there, cutting off your own breath as he pressed you back down into the dirt with a heavy glare. You tightened your hold on his ribs defiantly as you tried to pry his hand off, snarling right back up at him as he reared his fist back to finally fight back. A glowing blade erupted from his chest, instantly taking the fight out of him as he incredulously looked from you to it "That... hurts!" He breathed as golden blood dripped from the tip of the blade and down onto your shirt, immediately standing out from the blood sweat and dirt that clung to it.

"What a pity." Nebula growled from behind him as his hand loosened around your throat, allowing you to suck in a greedy lungful of air that had never tasted so sweet. The man looked back down at you as you gulped down ragged breaths past your burning throat, a small trickle of blood dripping past his lips as he grunted in pain. You let him go as soon as the blade retreated, letting him fall to the dust beside you. You couldn't look at him, it hurt to and you couldn't figure out why, why his imminent death was going to bother you. He'd been trying to kill your friends since he'd arrived on Knowhere and yet... "Still alive down there?" Nebula's voice broke you out of your thoughts and slammed you back into the moment as the man continued to suffer quietly beside you.

She was fighting a ghost of a smile as she offered you an arm "He hits like a Rancor." Your voice was still rough as it passed your burning throat, your healing taking its sweet time as you accepted her help to climb to your feet. She just shook her head with amusement before going to Drax, leaving you there. You didn't want to, but you looked down at the man, acknowledging his gaze as he turned onto his back, his eyes begging you for help "I'm sorry, I didn't want it to end like this." The words felt right as they hit the air, your chest aching at the idea that he'd die there. You were quick to turn away from him and limp to the Med Center, your thighs shivering with every step. You didn't want to face his death, didn't want to acknowledge it and you couldn't figure out why.

#adam warlock x reader #adam warlock #adam warlock x you #gotg vol 3

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fragileheartbeats · 2 months

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𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐎𝐟 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟮: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗮

Sixteen winters have passed since that day. In the shadowed cradle of a world untouched by the warmth of the sun, the twins roamed the icy barrens like phantoms of the frost. Born of blood and ice, their lives had unfolded beneath the watchful gaze of their draconic guardian, a beast of legend whose breath was death's cold whisper. The twins knew not the touch of human hand nor the soft cadence of the spoken word; their language was the howl of the wind, the crack of ice, and the silent understanding that passed between them like the secret whispers of the stars. No names graced their lips, for in the language of the winds and the wild, names were as fleeting as the breath that bore them.

Their days were a testament to the savage beauty of survival, a dance with death played out upon the endless white. They hunted with ferocity of the wild, their bodies honed by the relentless pursuit of the fleet-footed hare and the sharp-clawed bear. Naked they roamed, their skin kissed by the frost, wearing only the silver and blonde crowns bestowed upon them by their lineage. They moved with a grace that belied their savage existence, their bodies honed by the relentless pursuit of survival. They were creatures of instinct, their senses sharp as the frost. Silver hair cascaded down their backs, untouched and unbound, a river of moonlight in the eternal twilight of their world. Their eyes, a haunting echo of Valyria's lost glory, gleamed with a feral light, silver and purple orbs reflecting the endless dance of predator and prey.The cold was a constant companion, yet it bowed before them, for they were of the ice, born to its embrace.

The twins hunted as one, their movements a symphony of silent death. The ice beneath their feet whispered tales of ancient hunts, of blood spilled and lives taken in the eternal cycle of survival. They feasted on the raw flesh of the seals that dared to bask on the ice, their teeth tearing through skin and sinew with primal savagery. The taste of blood, warm and life-giving, was the sacrament of their existence, a communion with the land that bore them.

They communed with the world and each other through gestures and looks, a language born of necessity and the purest form of understanding. They needed no words to convey the depth of their bond, for their souls were intertwined, two halves of a whole forged in the crucible of their shared existence. Their language was the unspoken bond of soul and glance, a communion of spirits entwined by shared blood. They spoke in the rustle of leaves, the crack of ice, the sigh of the wind through the desolate wastes. Theirs was the vocabulary of the wild, a tapestry of sounds and silence that spoke of deep, unbreakable bonds.

The dragon, their guardian and guide, watched over them with a presence as ancient as the mountains. Under her shadow, the twins knew no fear, their lives intertwined with the leviathan of frost and snow. They rode upon her back, her wings beating a rhythm that echoed in the very marrow of their bones, a song of freedom and flight that filled their souls with exhilarating terror. Each day, they roamed the wastes on the backs of their dragon kin, the sky their dominion, the earth their hunting ground. They hunted as the dragons did, striking from above with lethal grace, their prey unable to escape the shadow of death that descended upon them. Fish from the frozen rivers, hares that darted across the snow—no creature was safe from their hunger.

On the day that destiny's hand would steer their course anew, the sky above was a tapestry of brooding clouds, the sun a forgotten memory. The twins ventured forth upon the back of their dragon mother, her scales a labyrinth of frozen light. They soared above the world, masters of all they surveyed, until the whims of fate cast them down. They were aloft, the wind in their hair, the world spread out below them like a tapestry of ice and snow.

The boy, in his curiosity and boldness, leaned too far, reaching for a glimpse of eternity in the abyss below, laughing into the wind as they ascended into the heavens. And in that moment, the bond that tethered him to safety snapped, and he was swallowed by the void. A sudden gust, stronger and more treacherous than any they had known, caught them unawares. The dragon faltered, its wings buffeted by the relentless force of the wind. And then, in a moment that stretched into eternity, the boy was gone, torn from the dragon's back and sent plummeting into the abyss below. His sister's cry was a thing of raw anguish, a sound that would haunt the winds forevermore. She watched, powerless, as her brother fell, his body a mere speck against the vastness of the world.

The girl's cry pierced the veil of snow and ice, a wail of loss and despair that shook the very foundations of their world. She watched, heart shorn in twain, as the sea consumed her other half, the boy who was her mirror, her soul's echo. The dragon circled, a silent mother, its mournful cry a lament for the child it had failed to save.

As he fell, the world around him a blur of white and grey, the sea below, a maw of churning darkness, opened to claim him, swallowing his form with indifferent hunger. He struck the sea with a force that turned his body to fire, the cold waters closing over him in a shroud of death. But death was not yet ready to claim him. The cold seeped into his bones, a herald of the end, yet it was in this embrace that he found clarity. The memory of a voice, soft and sorrowful, filled his mind. He saw her as if through a veil of dreams, her face alight with love and pain as she whispered to her children. Her lips pressed against their foreheads, a benediction and a burden all at once.

Yet, even as darkness claimed him, he did not feel fear. In the space between breaths, in the quiet heart of the storm, he heard her voice again, a lullaby of the night sky, of stars and secrets and the boundless love that endured beyond the veil.

"Forgive me," she whispered, her voice the warmth in the cold, the light in the dark. "Forgive me, my darlings, for the world I have brought you into."

And he closed his eyes.

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟭: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗵��𝗿

@fragileheartbeats . Don't plagiarise, repost, or translate any of my works on here or any other websites.

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