#and both are taking absurdly long to connect me to someone... why?

[icantalk710]

Begging these folks who like/rb posts from me without prior interaction who have blank bios and/or untitled/default blog titles to please update their bios/blog titles so that my first instinct isn't to report as bot and block

[rcksmith]

Nobody else — Five Hargreeves

Requests: “Hello! May I request number nine from the fluff prompts and number seven from the smut prompts for Five? Maybe where the reader is a super skilled fighter, and the other Hargreeves siblings can’t get over how amazing she is, but that causes Five to become a little jealous?”

“Okayy if you're not tired of Five and smuts yet, can I request 18,70,74 and 84 from smut list with fem reader?”

Fluff prompts:

9. “So you're saying that girl is your girlfriend?!" "No, that girl is my wife!”

Smut prompts:

7. “The only way you’re getting off is on my thigh.”

18. “Are you sure? Once we start, i might not be able to stop.”

70. “Maybe I should leave you like this, that way anyone who wanted to use you could have a go with you. Would you like that?”

74. “I think I like you better with a gag in your mouth.”

84. “Let me show you what happens to little brats who don’t follow the rules.”

A/N: We not tolerate any pedophilia here !!

I write about Five with their 20s. I write the same about the characters of Harry Potter.

Thank you for requests💖 I hope you guys like💖I decided to compile these two requests, since they were the same energy and they prompts connect to a central plot. I added all the elements that were asked for individually, and made sure that all ideas were respected and written down. Good reading.

English is not my first language, so I so sorry if have a mistake.

Requests are open. Love you ❤️

Couple: Five Hargreeves / Fem! Reader.

Warnings: explicit smut, dirty talk, bad words, fluff, fight, mention of death, jealousy.

— — — — —

People need each other to find support, comfort and understanding. Thomas Merton said: “Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life alone, but with the other. ”

And as cliché as it was, it was the truth. And that is exactly what happened to you.

It was difficult to explain how many years you had already been killing for the commission. Ever since, maybe? You did not remember a time when that work was not part of your life, your routine, your system. But you could feel, vaguely like a hazy dream, that one day the act of breathing was ... light.

Killing without conscience brought many regrets, and the weight of guilt filled your chest, making it difficult to breathe.

But you were good at that. God, you were very good. Maybe it was the endless years of training, your quick thinking, or the simple fact that you had a lot more physical stamina than the other agents. But, whatever it was, it helped you move up the board quickly.

Murdering with a gun was easy, quick, clean, and there were already many agents who did that job. For someone like you, so empowered, the commission has relocated you to more… arduous and dangerous missions.

Your job was to kill those whose gunshots could not show up at the necropsy. Someone who needed to die without the body revealing what had happened very well.

Shoot JFK? It wasn't with you.

End Hitler? It wasn't your job.

To kill Socrates with your bare hands and make everyone believe it was poison? This is where you came in.

The difference between the jobs was that you had to do the whole process. And a melee interaction instead of a weapon always brought people who wanted to fight for their lives. And that is why the commission chose you to do that, without any partner.

They elected you because you fought like a super soldier, focused on your goal like a robot, and never came back without success. It didn't matter how many fights you had to fight with your target, how many punches you had to throw and also take, or how many injuries you returned. You always won.

Over time, you learned things in practice, tricks that made it easy, scams that would save you effort. You learned to study each person in seconds, find their weaknesses, and use his own strength against them.

That's when you met Five Hargreeves. And Thomas Merton's quote made sense.

You two were so much similar. Both the best in their fields, wrecked in a sea of ​​personal traumas, buried by a job that got the best of you two. You two felt misunderstood, alone in the vastness of that world. And when you two met... well, were no longer alone.

You two got involved, in all possible ways and ways. Loved each other, adored each other, and completed each other. Life went out of automatic mode, and for the first time in a long time, you two managed to breathe lightly. The food now tasted good, the heat of the sun on the skin was now better, and the world... the world was ruled by the red color of love.

So it became the most obvious and coherent decision to you two get married. Five could no longer imagine a life in which you did not exist, and you did not know how the world could go without him.

“I can't believe we did that!” You laughed, astonished, as you entered the apartment that you and Five shared.

You two had just married, something just for you two and the ceremonialist. You two chose something very intimate, reserved. And now the ring on him left hand looked like the most beautiful thing in the world for you.

Five laughed softly, hands moving up your arms, bringing you closer.

“We did. Wife.”

After that, your two contract with the commission changed. Five would only continue to do that if no one dared to touch a hair of yours, and you swore to The Handler that if someone did something to Five, you would destroy that place brick by brick.

Five saw in you a strong and atrocious ocean, which could swallow whole cities only with the force of its fury. And he liked that. He liked having someone as competent and firm as he was. Five liked to know that if there was a disaster, he would not be the only one who would go after a solution.

You were the type who knew that if you wanted things to happen, you had to do it with your bare hands. And Five loved it, because he felt understood. He carried so many responsibilities on his back that it was relieving to find someone who also felt the same things.

Five knew that, when him found way home, you were going with him. And you went. You two exchanged vows that would be together in joy and sadness, in any situation. And if the situation now said to go to 2019, well, you would.

“It makes me so sick, God!” Five heard you say when you two fell out of that blue portal he created.

He would have laughed if his muscles didn't hurt so much. For someone so trained you got sick of his powers very quickly.

"Five?!” And then the voice of one of the brothers was heard.

And that's how you two ended up there. A week later, in the Hargreeves' living room, with Diego swearing that you wouldn't be able to beat him in a fight.

Five laughed against the margarita's straw, sitting comfortably at the bar, giving up on telling his stupid brother that you had already killed much more dangerous people with your bare hands.

“I do not want to hurt you.” You smiled understandingly, and Klaus laughed.

“I bet 50 bucks that she beats your ass, Diego.” It was only logical that he was going to encourage his brother to fall.

“There is no way you can hurt me.” Diego guaranteed, getting up and starting to push the sofa away, making room for a fight.

“Are you up for it or are you scared?” He played with you, and Five laughter it back there, having a lot of fun.

“This is ridiculous, Diego.” Allison stressed, but it was obvious that she wanted to watch too.

You smirked, getting up from the bar chair next to Five. You didn't want to defeat your husband's brother in that fight, you understood that the circumstances between the two of you were not fair.

You were created to kill, injure and decimate. Body wrestling was your job and it wouldn't be fair to Diego. You knew, from Five, that the Hargreeves were created to be heroes. Saviors of the motherland. Hurt and kill if necessary, but don't make it a goal.

But not with you. Killing was your goal, always. And your weapon was not super powers or pistols, but the body itself.

“Okay.” You laughed and went to the circle that Diego had made “But I don't want to hurt you. The first one to fall to the ground loses.” You were trying to be peaceful.

Diego agreed, giving him a friendly smile before saying:

“But I will use my knives to distract you.”

It was logical that he wouldn't make it cheap and easy, even if it was for himself, you knew that.

So you agreed, took off the suit you were wearing and rolled up the sleeves of your white dress shirt, while the Hargeeves sat in a safe area, away from that makeshift ring.

Diego delivered the first blow, and you just deflected the trunk, taking him by the same arm and twisting it against his back. At that moment, if it was something for real, you would put more strength to break the bone, but you didn't want to hurt him, so you just released Diego with a little push forward.

Diego turned to face you again, the naughty smile on the face of someone who knows his own potential. He was very good, you knew that, but the different upbringing made you a better opponent.

This time, the blow came from below. It was a trip that you jumped while pulling on the fist he used to land another blow in the same second, forcing him to come forward with force while you deflecting once more. Diego staggered forward, steadying himself on the floor once again.

It was all absurdly fast, as if you were a robot. A machine programs for that.

Diego hurled the knife in the wind while attacking with his other fist. You dodged again, but this time you struck back, slamming a blow down the side of your stomach, blocking his attack with your other arm and unleashing a kick in the chest, which made Diego stagger backward.

In a matter of seconds, the knife was at the end of its course. And while Diego was advancing again, the wind that the knife was making hit your hair. But the knife didn't finish course. You stopped the blade with your hand, holding to the object with your palm.

At that moment, you saw Diego's eyes falter. And a surprised gasp by the Hargreeves graces the ambience. Then it was your turn to attack. You threw the knife on the floor, driving the blade into the wooden floor as you went.

There were punches, deflected blows, creeps. The two of you were dancing to an agitated song, which was reaching its climax.

Diego had holding you in him arms, and you turned your body, locked him left arm in your hands while you used the momentum to propel your legs up, past his neck and turning, taking you both to the floor. He fell on his back while you used your own momentum to balance yourself, standing upright.

“YES! YOU OWM ME 50 DOLLARS!" Klaus's voice was heard.

You laughed, and you were about to walk away when Diego dug his left hand into your heel. He pulled you in a single stroke, and it made you fall, your back hitting the ground as he took the lead. Diego put his legs on your hips the first second you fell on the floor, and he used his own strength to keep you there.

You laughed out loud, and so did he.

“This is cheating!” You scolded him, punching him in the chest.

“Whatever, but you had to fall too!”

Diego was a good loser, you recognized that by the intonation of the voice. He was not possessed or reviled because you won, but he wanted it to be an eye for an eye, even if only as a joke.

But as soon as Diego got up off you, holding your hand for you got up too, your eyes went to Five. And you found the green irises burning in an atrocious fire. You frowned, not understanding, but you didn't have time to go over there and ask what happened. Klaus and Luther came to you and Diego.

Klaus charging his brother and Luther asking you how you did that final blow.

“It's for me to use when he pisses me off!” Luther looked directly at his brother in a silent threat “ But he will not get up alive!”

“Fuck you” Diego said before practically shoving 50 dollars in Klaus's face.

“Is easy.” You replied Luther “I'll show you."

But while the brothers were having fun, marveling at you, Five burned in a visseral cholera.

Wasn't it enough for Diego to have literally been on top of you, you had to want to teach that stupid gorilla too ?!

Oh fucking no!

When Diego went to Luther and started explaining with you, him your side, how the scam worked, Five was exploding. Now that stupid men butcher knife would be on your side?! Agreeing and explaining whit you as if it were your husband?!

Wasn't it enough just fucking being on top of you?!

Definitely fuck not!

“Take it easy, buddy.” Klaus appeared beside him “You are looking at them as if you want to kill someone.”

Five just snarled, not bothering to respond, his eyes never leaving you.

“Wait..." Klaus looked better at who Five was staring “Are you jealous of Y/n ?!” He was amazed.

“Shut up!” Five forced himself to swallow a handful of margarita.

“Oh my God!” And he wouldn’t stop “You like her! That must be why you live in a bad mood! You must be in the friend zone! ”

“Didn't I tell you to shut up already ?!” Five looked deathly at his brother “And I'm not in the friend zone with her.”

But Five realized that he gaved too much information to his brother, because now Klaus's face was opening in a shocked smile.

Goddam!

“So you're saying that girl is your girlfriend ?!" Klaus was loving the situation.

But, out of the corner of his eye, Five can see Diego holding your arm, showing Luther the place to deliver any stupid blow.

You gotta be fucking kidding!

“No, that girl is my wife!” Five tapped the margarita glass on the counter, teleporting to you and pushing Diego's hand off your arm, replacing his own.

“The show over!” He growled as he left the room, pulling you with him, your feet stumbling a few times before picking up the pace.

“Five!” You said, but he didn't seem to hear.

The image of Diego's legs at your fucking waist, the body sitting on you, the hand on your arm, rewound Five's mind like a curse. He felt his anger inflate, jealousy whispering in the back of his neck like a little devil, making him see the situation bigger than it really was.

You called him again, but for Five, it was like you called his brother's name. And then he exploded in his own fury.

He couldn't wait to go up all those stupid stairs, all those corridors, Five just pulled you against him, disappearing in the blue flash and reappearing in the his room.

“You are crazy?” You pulled the wrist out of his grip.

“I should be asking you that!” He said “Did you see that scene ?!”

“What a scene?” You frowned.

Five focused his eyes on you, in angry energy.

“Diego on top of you, fuck!" He snarled “Luther drooling like a dog on you!”

“Five.” You thought all that was absurd “They are your brothers!”

“You have no idea how much i don’t give a fuck!”

The situation was ridiculous, and you ended up laughing in disbelief and bewilderment.

“We were fighting!” You defended yourself "Nobody was drooling on me!"

“I swear to god tha ...” Five walked over to you, his eyes flooded with rage, his body enveloped in that intense and explosive energy.

You lifted chin to get a better look, your chest stuck to him, Five's breath hitting the top of your nose. That week had been full of emotions and issues to deal with, 24 hours being insufficient to do everything, explain everything. And, well, you and Five didn't have much time alone...

All of this compiled with the fact that your husband possessed the beauty of an angry god,and that excited you so fuck absurdly.

Suddenly, the air in the room became caustic, seething with the expectation of something improper happening, injecting heat into your chest that descended to the middle of your legs.

You sighed softly, and Five immediately noticed the waters where your thoughts were sailing.

“Does it turn you on?” His voice was hoars “See me angry?”

The sigh you gave was your whistleblower, your chest started to rise and fall more breathlessly than usual, your core starting to pulse. You wouldn't be able to say anything even your life would depended it, you drowning in the malicious and hot climate of that room, compiled with the absurd beauty and intensity of the adult in front of you.

God, you needed him!

“Yes, you like.” Five had an arrogant, boastful tone, mocking how sensitive you were.

But his eyes took on a more conscious tone, and he whispered as he said: "Are you sure? Once we start, I might not be able to stop. ”

Five knew his own limits, his own anger, his own strength. If he touched you now, in most simple, he wouldn't be able to stop. You agreed, hands moving gently up his body, resting on him hips.

“I will not be gentle.” Five wanted to you know again.

He had already fucked you hard, drowned in insatiable desire, marking your skin with slaps, hickeys. Five had already mistreated your mouth, made you scream. But never fucked you in anger. He never took his anger out on you. And now, submerged in jealousy, he knew how much strength he would discharge on you.

“I don't want it to be.” But you gave Five the go-ahead on a needy sigh, your fingers running around his waist.

Five dropped his mouth to your ear, tracing a path across your skin with warm lips, now bringing hands up to your skin, feeling how hot, needy you were.

“You're wet and I haven't even touched you yet.” His words hung over you like a warm warning of what was going to happen, what to expect.

You moaned softly, your body shivering, screaming for you to get more, seeking some friction, some contact. Then, as if Five read you thoughts, his left hand clung fiercely to the back of your neck, curling him fingers in your hair.

He forced you to look at him, watching the rage and the extraordinary lust.

“Let me show you what happens to little brats who don’t follow the rules.”

Five left you brutally, telling you to take off all your clothes, watching all your movements while he got rid of the shirt himself. He left him tie beside the bed, sitting on the mattress and pulling you onto him lap as soon as you finally got naked. He fit thigh in the middle of your legs, making you sit on his thigh.

You groaned, the friction in the place you most wanted, the core pulsing against the dark cloth of him pants. You rummaged your hips for more than you wanted, but Five dropped his hand on your ass, releasing a loud, stinging slap. The groan was unable to be controlled, and you buried your face in the curve of him neck, sobbing there.

“You will be grateful for every slap I give you, do you understand?” He snarled, fingers tightening on your flesh, marking your skin.

You agreed, and thanked him when Five slapped your ass harder. This time, he moved him thigh beneath you, brushing your pulsating core, leaving you in an extremely needy state.

“Fi-five!" A sob escaped, followed by another thanks when a slap hit your in ass again.

Five's hands roughly grabbed your waist, holding you firmly in place as he started to rummage in him thigh, making you moan louder every second. That was torture. You pulsed and wet him thigh, your body rigid from wanting more of that friction, the sobs escaping your lips, the muscles contracted.

“Such a needy slut." He snarled in your ear “So desperate for my thigh.”

You groaned at him words, your fingers around him shoulders, squeezing there while Five took you so badly in him thigh. He dropped his mouth to your hot neck, pouring a hickey there before sighing hoarsely:

“The only way you're getting off is on my thigh."

It sent electric currents to your swollen core, and moans got even bigger when Five increased the speed of his movements, rubbing your clitoris in those mind-boggling movements. His strong grip, compiled wheezing on his neck, his hoarse voice and the movements of his thigh took you to the limit. And you were pushed into that abyss of the climax.

“So fucking quickly.” Five delighted, in a groan, and stuck his hands on your back, holding you there, turning you in one movement to the bed.

Your back hit the mattress, Five’s warm hands roamed your legs, squeezing thighs and parting them, exposing your wet, red core at the climax. Five groaned loudly, as if seeing you hurt physically, and he took his hands off you to grab the tie next to you.

“Be good and open your mouth for me.” You obeyed, and he wiped the cloth over there, fastening his tie.

You sighed brokenly, your heart beating fast, breasts stiff and sore, your ass burning with slaps, core sensitive to climax.

“I think I like you better with a gag in your mouth." Five reflected, him hands roaming your trembling body, squeezing every bit of skin, reveling in how your skin felt at him touch.

Five reveled in the breath you took, enjoying how you looked like a fucking goddess like that. So vulnerable, so needy, so needy.

He was controlling himself until now, pushing you to the limit, making you sensitive, teasing you, making you sensitive to what was coming. Him smile was purely lustful, and Five leaned toward you, roughly sucking the nipple from your breast, nibbling at the needy skin. Then he brought hands up to his pants, opening his belt and zipper, pulling the pieces down far enough for his dick to pop out.

The moan you gave when you felt the hot, luscious member on your thigh was enough to inflate him ego even more. Five turned your body down, pulling your waist up, leaning into your ear to whisper:

“I'm going to fuck you so hard that you'll never forget that day.” Then he entered you, rough, strong, badly.

He forced your walls to get used to him size and sank to the bottom of the well, clutching his hands to your hips and pulling you against him dick. You screamed against the tie, pressing your fingers to the pillows, sobbing when Five set a fierce, wild and badly pace, mistreating every inch of you.

One of him hands went to your neck, closing his fingers there and pouring out all the fury and jealousy he felt in the thrusts, going in as deep as he could and pushing your limit. The pornographic sounds of the two of you moaning, the sound of his hip hitting your ass, invaded the room, mixing with the smell of sex, lust and hunger.

You shouted him name when Five left and brutally entered you, making you choke on your own sobs.

“What's it? Are you unaccustomed to my dick?” He tasted it, leaving your neck to slap your ass aggressively “Is it too much for you?”

You sobbed, stopped by the tie, and Five hit you again.

“Do you think someone can fuck you like me?!”

Now him voice was angry and his movements too. Five fucked you like he had spent his whole life in fury at you, waiting patiently for the day when he would discount everything on you. Him hand went to your mouth, pulling tie from there and releasing your toxic moans.

“Answer me, fuck!” One more slap, leaving your ass on fire.

“N-no!” You cried “Nobody ... no-nobody fucks me like you!”

You talks with a more thrust, and Five pushed your chest to the bed, keeping his hand on your back, him moans mixing with your.

Then he reached the peak of anger.

Five came out of you, turned you up and bent your legs, placing your knees on your shoulders. He entered in a brutal way inside you, the new position making him occupy all the minimum vacant spaces. You screamed, tears welling up in your eyes, your hands tightening on his arms, your heart already racing.

It was too much. Your body begged for more, for the climax, for the lust, for anything fierce that Five could give you. He dropped his mouth on yours, biting your bottom lip instead of kissing you, making you swallow his lines when he said:

“Maybe I should leave you like this, that way anyone who wanted to use you could have a go with you. Would you like that? ”

You desperately denied it. Five could very well come out of you and not let you come, and just that thought made your body tremble and tears flow.

“Plea-Please!” You sobbed “I beg you!”

That did things with Five. He stuck his body to your, him arm going around your waist and fucking you as if that could chase away all his anger. This time he kissed you, sticking his lips to yours as he felt you pulse around him and break up in a hushed scream, trembling at the climax.

Five did not falter, his black hair clinging to his forehead with sweat, his heart pounding. He cum strongly inside your core, filling you with hot cum. You groaned, wrapping your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss as he came inside of you, slowly calming down.

The two of you sighed, the room flooding with the smell of sex and desire, your hearts thudding at the same pace. You whimpered in his mouth, and when Five want to leave inside you, you denied it, tightening your legs around him waist.

“N-No.” You moaned softly, "Stay inside, please."

Five drew air through his teeth, him hands gripping the sides of your body, stirring inside you, beginning to feel the lust rising.

He kissed you again, whispering:

“You want to have a child of mine, don't you?" It was an arrogant, provocative voice, and you sighed. “You are such a fucking sensitive little thing.”

Then Five started moving again, and you stayed in that room for much longer.

[nevermindirah]

Yitzhak!

is a character! who Gregadiah What-Is-Math Rucka gave us almost no information about!

I've gone through Tales Through Time #6: The Bear and #1: My Mother's Axe with several magnifying glasses and done a lot of googling and taken my copy of the Tanakh off my shelf for the first time since (well, since the last time I needed to read Torah for TOG reasons, which I think was Booker Passover headcanons) and here's the best I can come up with.

In The Bear we meet someone who goes by the name Isaac Blue:

Read on for a lot of comic panel analysis and historical research and Jewish flailing!

So what do we know about this Isaac Blue person?

He's Lorge, he's got curly hair, he's basically a taller version of Joe as drawn by Leandro Fernández (ie an antisemitic stereotype why the fuck did they approve this character design?? and then why did they double down and copy-paste it to Yitzhak??):

He's got a mezuzah on the doorpost of his house in Alaska!

I screamed about the mezuzah way back in January in this post where I (very reasonably) assumed this character was Joe and spun myself a tale about how Booker is still Joe's brother so the mezuzah stays up even though Booker isn't welcome in that house for a century. Bottom line: the mezuzah is a tradition with origins in the commandment from Deuteronomy 6:9 to "write the words of G-d on the gates and doorposts of your house" and evolved over the course of the Rabbinic period into the modern mezuzah we see here.

I did unnecessary levels of google image search to glean absolutely no useful information about Yitzhak’s origins from this panel:

I've decided the variant cover of TTT 6 is Yitzhak because of a panel in My Mother’s Axe, shown here, and what's likely an unnecessarily deep reading of Exodus, discussed further down:

The person at the right of the bottom panel is wearing the same clothes as in the TTT 6 variant cover and has the same shoulder-length curly hair and hairy forearms.

Left to right, the people in this panel are Lykon (I'll never get used to him being white in the comics), Andy, Noriko (I think? why doesn't Andy mention her by name here?), and Yitzhak. Andy's robe has a stereotypically Greek design on the sleeve cuff, and I had to stop myself 10 minutes into a Wikipedia rabbit hole because Gregorforth doesn't think that deep about this shit. The solid clues as to timeline that we get in this panel are:

Andy's iron axe

the presence of Lykon, who Andy first met in 331 BCE

So all we know is that Yitzhak is an immortal, he was a contemporary of Lykon, and he's Jewish.

Isaac is the most common Anglicization of Yitzhak (which in turn is the most common Anglophone transliteration of יִצְחָק‎), and Greg always uses the (transliterated) Hebrew when he refers to this character. Yitzhak is the long-awaited child of Abraham and Sarah in Genesis, the child who G-d commanded Abraham to sacrifice but spared at the last minute. I see what you did there, Gregory.

Why Isaac Blue? This is where I pulled out my Tanakh. According to the New JPS translation, blue is the first of three colors of yarn listed in Exodus 35:6 among the gifts requested of the Israelites to construct the priestly garments for the Tabernacle and later the Temple. Then in Numbers 15:38 the Israelites are commanded to "make themselves fringes on the corners of their garments throughout the ages; let them attach a cord of blue to the fringe at each corner."

And now for sandbox timelines party! Gregadiah gave us ALMOST NOTHING to go on, so I'm gonna make my own fun.

I, like many modern Jews, think the stories in the Tanakh are foundational mythology that are valuable because of how they've shaped our people but that contain some fucked-up shit and either way aren't meant to be a record of historical facts. Modern scholarship generally agrees that the community we now call Jews emerged as a distinct group of Canaanites sometime in the late Bronze Age (cw this video's host says the Name of G-d aloud despite being a religious studies scholar who knows that is not a name anyone but the Temple priests are allowed to say). The first non-Biblical written record of the people Israel is from an Egyptian source c. 1200 BCE, and the Biblical kingdom of David and Solomon was probably an exaggeration of whatever really happened during the Bronze Age Collapse. We start getting into historical-fact territory a few centuries into the Iron Age:

588 BCE Solomon's Temple destroyed, Babylonian exile begins

538 BCE Cyrus of Persia allows Jews to return to Jerusalem

515 BCE Second Temple construction complete

332 BCE Alexander the Great At Something I Guess conquered Judea, beginning the Hellenistic period of Jewish history — 331 BCE Andy & Lykon find each other

167 BCE another jerkface Greek king desecrated the Temple and basically outlawed Judaism

164 BCE recapture of Jerusalem and Temple rededication during the Maccabean Revolt

70 CE destruction of the Second Temple by the Romans, beginning of the Rabbinic period of Jewish history that we're still in now

What if... and hear me out... what if immortals come in pairs, and the pairs are:

Andy & Quynh

Joe & Nicky

Booker & Nile

LYKON & YITZHAK

What if Yitzhak was a priest of the Second Temple? What if he and Lykon killed each other just like Joe and Nicky would in the same city around 1300 years later, but instead of enemies-to-lovers speedrun with an absurdly long happily-ever-after, when Lykon died permanently Yitzhak decided to separate from Andy and Noriko and become the hermit we later see in Alaska?

We don't know how old Yitzhak is compared to the others, only that he was a contemporary of Lykon at a time when Andy was using an Iron Age version of her mother's axe. Other plausible origins for him:

a Jew of the early Rabbinic period, maybe a child or grandchild of people who were still alive before the Second Temple was destroyed

a Judean of the Second Temple era under the Romans or Greeks or Persians, maybe a priest, maybe not

an exilee in Babylon, maybe of the generation who got to return, maybe of the generation who was exiled (he doesn't look like he was 50 at his first death but who knows, he could've been mortal for both)

an Israelite of the Kingdoms of Israel and Judah, maybe a priest of Solomon's Temple or again maybe not

an Israelite wandering in the desert with Moses

THEE Yitzhak, ben Avraham v'Sarah, our patriarch who was brought up for sacrifice and then spared, and then spared again, and then spared again, and again, and again...

or! he could also be a Canaanite or other Levantine who predates the people Israel, who at some point in his very long life chose to join our mixed multitude, who like Andromache before him (and like Avram and Sarai would in this case do after him) took a new name to reflect the magnitude of influence this people has had on him

Why do I keep saying Yitzhak might have been a priest? It's thanks to the one detail in the artwork I could plausibly connect to solid research without getting a PhD real quick. Take a look at the gorgeous detail on the opening of his robe in the TTT 6 cover. He's dressed in rags, holes and dirt everywhere, rough stitches probably from hasty repair work — except for the neck opening. Compare that to this description from Exodus 39:23 of the construction of the priestly garments for the Tabernacle: "The opening of the robe, in the middle of it, was like the opening of a coat of mail, with a binding around the opening, so that it would not tear."

The next verses describe the intricate designs for the hem of the priestly garment. Yitzhak's ragged garment looks like the hem was torn off entirely.

Am I overthinking this? Yes I am! You're welcome!

My friend and historical research hero @lady-writes​ is in a Discord server with Gregadiah and asked the man himself some questions about all this. He clearly thinks he's being sneaky?? No shit Yitzhak is Jewish, dude, I want DETAILS!

I will not be giving up my Jewish Booker headcanon, I've put too much thought into it by now, the internalized shame of antisemitism explains Booker's depression too well for me, and it just adds so much richness to Booker/Nile both being children of forced diasporas. Fortunately (for him, not me, bc I'd do it anyway!) Gregothy supports fan headcanons even when they're not in line with his own:

One last thing before I close like 100 research tabs and go back to writing historical fantasy and/or porn! I love that, despite that atrocious caricature of a face design, our canon Jew and our fanon Jew are both Lorge and Soft and Kind, flying the face of the antisemitic stereotype of Ashkenazi Jewish men as small and weak, but also not falling into the New Jew / Muscle Jew stereotype that Zionism created. (I am trying SO HARD not to talk about Israel/Palestine for once ughhhhhhhhhh) Anyway here's a (US-centric but very good) primer on both these stereotypes of Jewish masculinity. Is this why I'm forever projecting my transmasc diasporist feels onto Jewish Booker the service sub? 🤷🏻‍♂️

I’ll reblog a second version of this with full image descriptions so that there’s a version accessible for folks who need IDs as well as a version accessible for folks who get overwhelmed by walls of text.

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

okay, I want to hear about your thoughts on Renesmee wanting to eat Edward?? What's up with that. Also would love to hear about your opinion on this child in general. All the people in her life are hardcore projecting on her, what's the alien child's perspective on all this shit. Thanks for all the twilight meta its wild.

Thank you, glad you enjoy my rambling, strange, thoughts.

What’s Up With Renesmee Devouring Her Enemies?

So, this one’s actually a bit of headcanon on my end, not really supported by anything directly. We’re going way into left field with this.

But I do have this. Renesmee is a highly efficient predator, perhaps in a way more so than the vampire (although she is weaker and slower than vampires) and Renesmee is... not human, for whatever that means.

Everything we see of Renesmee’s early biological development, and what we see happening in Nahuel and his sisters, makes a lot of sense from a biological standpoint.

The mother is turned essentially into a hybrid incubator, such that even if she wanted to abort she likely would not be able to or would not survive it. The child grows at a rapid rate in the room and has to eat itself out, at which point it has a starter meal of the human mother. The child then grows absurdly rapidly to the point where, mentally and physically, it can survive on its own. Growth then slows and then stops when sexual maturity is reached, presumably for reproductive purposes.

Vampires cannot do a few things. They are a half-sterile race, only able to reproduce through humans and the previously male half of the human species. They also need external help to kill a fellow vampire. In other words, they have to light a fire.

Until you burn the pieces, the enemy vampire isn’t dead. Now, using fire as a tool is to date something only the human species has figured out. It is not intuitive and an odd coincidence that vampires had this prerequisite knowledge (I have thoughts on what vampirism even is and where it comes from). 

I imagine, just as Renesmee presumably has reproductive capabilities that vampires lack, she also a has a toolset that vampires lack: the ability to kill a vampire without the need for fire. 

Given that Renesmee’s able to eat human food, this implies she has a digestive that is able to break down nutrients. The reason vampires can’t eat other vampires is they lack this. Edward swallows pizza, he’s vomiting that shit back up three hours later and it’s going to be very solid and very gross. Whatever venom did to his innards, most of his vital human organs aren’t working anymore.

Given that Renesmee’s this mix of venom and who knows what kinds of fluids I believe her stomach is capable of breaking down and digesting vampire flesh. This seems to me the most obvious way to eliminate an enemy vampire when no tools are otherwise available.

Hence, instinctively, if Renesmee wants to murder Edward she will eat him.

(Also, as you can tell, the image is just horrifyingly delightful to me, and so it’s my go to response.)

As for why she would want to eat him, see here and here.

The Family and Renesmee

As you note, everyone in Renesmee’s life projects someone else onto her.

Not so much Carlisle, he just seems very bewildered and overwhelmed by everything at first, and one of the few who openly notes how not human Renesmee is and the implications of this (given the chromosome experiment, I’m sure Carlisle was expecting a squid).

Even in the early stages though we see Edward, Bella, Alice, and Rosalie as primary offenders. (I’d list Esme except Esme is... being Esme about it, so, she’s just floating through Renesmee’s life like her Cullen ghost self and not even at the point where she can project anything onto her. Besides, that’s what Edward’s for.)

Edward sees the best of both himself and Bella in Renesmee, a little intellectual who reads War and Peace at a few weeks old when she has no understanding of the concepts of War, Napoleon, Russia, or Peace. As Edward always does, he so obliviously projects onto her, that I imagine it doesn’t matter what Renesmee says or does around him and she quickly figures that out.

Bella’s left the planet. Renesmee’s this beautiful thing, that looks like Edward, that is her daughter. Bella has no idea what parenting is. She’s floating through life preparing herself to become Esme 2.0. It’s not so much that she projects onto Renesmee but that she... completely fails to connect her to reality. Renesmee is a concept to Bella. Renesmee might figure this out, but given her feelings for her mother, I imagine she’s far more conflicted about it. She probably wishes things could be different between them, and often tries to find ways to make it so, it just never works.

Alice treats Renesmee much as she treated Bella, as her little doll that she can dress in cute clothing. Beyond that, Renesmee is a nuisance who messes with Alice’s gift. Oh, Alice likes her well enough, but I don’t see them having an actual meaningful conversation or connection.

Rosalie’s probably the wort offender in the projection domain. She is absolutely projecting the ideal human child she never had onto Renesmee. When Renesmee inevitibly fails to live up to these perfect standards, which even a human child wouldn’t, I imagine Rosalie will get increasingly upset. Acknowledging Renesmee isn’t what she wanted either would probably break Rosalie, so she’s not going to do that, and instead try to get Renesmee to behave correctly. For however much she cares about Renesmee, I imagine Renesmee sours on her growing up, as she knows she will never be what Rosalie wishes she was. Grateful that Rosalie helped keep her alive, of course, but... she would also probably wonder, as fandom does, just how much Rosalie was hoping Bella would die in birth (for the record, I think this might have been an idle fantasy of Rosalie’s, but I don’t think she’d go this far.)

Then of course, there’s Jake. Woof, Jake. As I linked above, I think Renesmee will slowly become more and more disenchanted with Jake. She’ll either learn about or suspect her own gift, have no interest in having a romantic relationship with him, or learn about his checkered past with her mother. More Jake is...

Imprinting, at a very large distance, sounds nice but imagine what that means. You have this person who is utterly dependent on you, who will do whatever you want and be whatever you wish them to be. In other words, you have this codependent person you can never get rid of who is never authentic. They will never say no to you, will always do what you wish, and if you dare to tell them you want a little time to yourself they will probably combust into flames.

That’s not a good relationship for anyone: imprinter or imprintee.

Jake, in a sense, ceases to be a real person when it comes to Renesmee. Renesmee will figure that out and then... why should she live her life just to make this miserable man who once tried to murder her happy?

What Does This Do to Renesmee?

I imagine Renesmee grows up feeling very isolated.

She doesn’t really belong in the Cullens, for all that they’re the best fit she has. She certainly doesn’t belong with other imprintees in the tribe (and whatever occasional function she goes to with the Quileutes is probably a complete disaster), and she’s not human either.

I imagine her strongest relationships are Charlie Swan (who beyond the surrealness of his life I imagine takes Renesmee at very face value), Carlisle Cullen (who also seems to not project onto Renesmee and takes her at face value), and Bella (who she desperately wants a stronger relationship with but Bella’s not listening).

Well, Charlie at some point will die. He will not choose immortality. I imagine Renesmee never quite understands why he was allowed to choose death or what the purpose of the human species even is. To her, they are caterpillars who never went into the chrysalis. Given to Renesmee the Cullen diet is the norm, to her it would seem obvious that, yes, everyone in the world can turn into a vampire and if they ration animal resources correctly there’s no problem. Or, if not everyone, then certainly her grandfather need not die.

I’m sure Charlie tries to talk to Renesmee about this but given that he’s one of her few strong relationships in this world the talk of “I’m going to die some day, sorry kiddo” doesn’t go well.

So, I’m sure it takes Renesmee a very long time to recover from that blow, if, in fact, she ever really does. I’m sure a part of her will always grieve Charlie.

In time, I think she’ll leave the coven to go on a journey of self discovery. The coven will just be too damn suffocating and she needs to find out who she truly is. Now, if that’s before or after the inevitable collapse of the Volturi and destruction of human society is hard to say.

I will say that whatever the future holds for Renesmee, just like everyone else’s, it is unbearably bleak.

[plainlo-inthemorning]

A little written-in-the-middle-of-the-night Loki fic snippet that just grew another leg. TVA Loki + Lokane. Rating T.

(First part is here)

Shine a Light, part II

The tempad feels hot and slippery in his palm as he stalks down the hallway, quickly putting distance between himself and the hunter he left unconscious amidst overturned chairs and tables in the canteen.

The mess had already been there, leftovers from workers rushing panicked to man their stations. He had simply added one more touch.

Tiny droplets of sweat bead his brow and blood has started seeping though the tear in his crumbled shirt.

The fabric is clinging wetly to his bicep, but in the mayhem unfolding around him, nobody gives him a second glance.

For the first time, he is thankful at least to be wearing the anonymous uniform dictated by the oppressors.

He reaches the kill me kind of room again and shuts the door behind him.

You were meant to cause suffering and death.

You’re a cosmic mistake.

You were meant to die at the hands of the mad titan.

Lies.

All lies.

Still projected on the wall is the paused image of a lost memory of his unfulfilled fate.

He sees himself, Thor and her on the barren planet with the black soil. The man he never became is lying on the ground, Thor cradling him.

She watches them both in shock.

It resonates in his bones. He has to go there.

He has to reach his brother at this precise, excruciatingly rare moment of heroism. His act of heroism.

Before the scheming and deceit poison their bond once more in an endless loop of disappointment.

In this moment, all is forgiven. Thor will listen and help. A different path will branch.

And he has to go to her.

It is ludicrous, this riddle, yet the truth of it presses hard on his chest.

On the grainy roll of film, he saved her life and her eyes bore into his with such intensity, his acute need still reverberates like an echo between the walls of the kill me kind of room.

The smell of lilacs lingers.

What will happen when he faces his own self on the timeline, he can’t imagine. Also, he gives it little thought at this late stage with universal logic already suspended as it is. Hopefully he can reason with the man he was meant to be.

He has had quite enough of being his own past, present and future selves’ worst enemy.

And so he pushes the buttons on the tempad.

//

Something is very wrong.

The sky is too blue, the distant sound of waves lapping calmly at a shore is misplaced.

He has emerged from the door onto a quiet gravel road lined with tall grass and low pines. A single, white wooden house stands to his left, surrounded by a lawn dotted with wildflowers. The sun is warm on his back.

This is Midgard, he is sure of it.

How could he shoot past his destination so spectacularly?

He is about to scroll down the list of numbers and names on the tiny screen of the tempad when he notices a man approaching. Old, walking leisurely with a round, short-legged dog much the same white color as the mortal’s own wispy hair.

The latter starts a little when he spots Loki.

And then he does the most unexpected thing and speaks his name.

Loki’s name.

He almost drops the tempad (no! Not again) and the old one grins good-naturedly. “Hold on to your fancy phone there. Far away, were we?”

Loki only just about stops himself from shaking the man by his shoulders. His fists clench uncontrollably.

“What year is this?! How do you know my name?”

His voice sounds shrill, feverish, and unsurprisingly the eyes in the lined face before him go wide with puzzlement and … something else.

“Loki, what on Earth? Are you quite alright?”

Shock washing over him, Loki staggers back. H-how?

But the man is closing the gap between them, oozing concern. “Have you - are you drunk?” he asks incredulously.

He reaches out.

What is happening?

Loki shies away from the touch, his mind spinning.

Forcibly gathering his composure, he straightens and wills his words to come out steady. “No, I’m okay. Apologies. A bad joke”.

He smiles reassuringly. It takes more effort than parting an ocean.

The dog is sniffing insistently at his ankles.

The man looks him over with suspicion but the worry is subsiding. “Okay, then… no harm, no foul. You know, sometimes these peculiar ‘jokes’ of yours can make a neighbor all kinds of slightly worried”.

Neighbor?

“Most understandably, won’t happen again. Sorry to have bothered you”. Loki cuts him off smoothly. “Have a nice day”. He nods and turns before hysteria can creep into his voice.

“In case you need it for your punchline, the year is 2016”, the man calls over his shoulder as he shuffles away, pulling the reluctant dog after him.

Loki’s blood runs cold. 2016. Oh, this is so wrong. Three years wrong.

Did he hit another button at the last minute? He had been clutching the tempad so hard the edges cut into his fingers.

He curses his own impatience. Tech savvy indeed.

Holding up the blasted piece of TVA wizardry, he tries to enter a new series of numbers when his name rings out again.

And again, he almost jumps. But this time, his heart stays in his throat.

//

“Loki? What are you doing out here? I’ve been looking all over for you”.

Her voice reaches him from the porch of the white house. She is skipping lightly down the steps, the screen doors left open behind her. Music drifts into the garden from somewhere inside.

She is crossing the lawn. He is no longer breathing.

Her long auburn hair is tied back in a ponytail, and she is wearing a light blue summer dress. Her feet are bare.

Absurdly, he notes that she looks more tanned than the last time he saw her through the visor of the destroyer in the desert. A year and a lifetime ago. To him.

His grip on whatever reality he’s been clinging to since New York is seriously faltering.

She is beaming. He cannot move a muscle.

She comes all the way up to him and without pause wraps her slender arms around his neck. He can feel the warmth of her body through his shirt, smell the perfume of her skin. She smells of … -

“Where did you go, handsome?” She smiles playfully.

“Pepper called earlier to say that she actually got Tony out of the door on time, if you can believe it, so they’ll be here any minute. And her and I agreed that you two hotheads are going to play nice tonight, okay?”

She is teasing him but he hardly understands the words she’s saying. It makes no sense.

And then, before he can begin to form a response, she stands on tiptoes and kisses him and the world falls away.

Reflexively, he puts his arms around her, drawing her close to him. She moans happily. He leans into the kiss, not knowing what he’s doing other than that he never wants to stop.

Her mouth is soft and warm and new and familiar all at the same time, and the way her fingers curl in his hair sends electricity shooting down his spine.

It should be all anguish and tragic confusion, like before in the castle beyond time, but it is not.

It feels more right that anything he can remember since before his fall from the Bifrost, more real and yet more magical than his recent journeys into mystery.

Then it’s over all too soon and she draws away.

His arms are suddenly much too empty and he almost reaches for her again, craving her touch.

For a fleeting heartbeat, his soul had no longer felt torn apart to the point of forgetting he’d ever been whole.

The chaos had crumbled in on itself like a bad dream.

He is surprised he still knows what peace of mind feels like after what has happened to him since arriving at the TVA.

But now she looks at him with alarm in those beautiful brown eyes and he is crudely reminded that he is an intruder in her reality.

What she thought she saw, she clearly no longer recognizes.

It takes him all of three stupidly long seconds to remember that she said his name. That he’s wearing his own face and not a disguise.

That she knew him immediately, just like the old man.

She kissed him.

Too many impossible possibilities and the thunderous sound of his own heartbeat (surely she can hear it too) blur his vision.

He’s only vaguely aware that he is stepping towards her, trying to say something without the faintest idea of what’s going to come out of his mouth.

If it’ll even be words.

Her eyes dart over his clothes, his face.

“Loki, what - Why are you dressed like that? Have you been gone? Is that … blood?”

She retreats further, fear building.

“Jane, I-“

Her name rolls of his tongue with a sweet-tasting intimacy like he has said it a thousand times before.

But he doesn’t get to dwell on this, nor gather his thoughts to say anything else before something abruptly lifts him off the ground and hurls his body across the road.

“How dare you touch her, beast?!”

Immediately as his back connects with the rough gravel, someone is there, a knee pushing him down, fingers closing around his throat. A sharp object presses against his chin.

There is a dangerous, unhinged growl as his attacker breathes hotly in his ear. “You will die for this!”

The man is strong and somehow blocking Loki’s own magic, but he still manages to twist his head -

And looks right up into his own eyes, nearly black with rage.

//

“Speak! What are you??”

The man with a face exactly like his presses the tip of his blade closer to Loki’s left eye. “You will show yourself right now or -“

Gathering his magic tightly around him (focus!), Loki pushes back, hard.

With a surge of energy, their bodies are separated, and the other version of him lands heavily in the middle of the road some meters away.

Both of them are on their feet with the fluid movements of two panthers ready to pounce, the other now in full armor.

He has to leave, right now, even if means leaving her which is a catastrophe that might either kill him or make him try to kill his other self if he stays here another minute.

This timeline is clearly not his own.

It cannot be.

Arm outstretched to ward off his furious twin with a shield of magic, he tries to work the tempad with one hand.

“Well, well, what do we have here?”

A booming voice above their heads.

“You know, when Jane pressed the panic button just now, I thought we had an actual emergency. Not that you were preparing a little dinner show for us, Reindeer Games. Gotta be honest though, this doppelgänger stunt was never my favorite -“

“Stark!”

The variant - for he must be a variant - angrily interrupts the man in the metal suit hovering in the air.

Of course, Loki remembers him all too clearly.

What has it been, less than a week since he threw him, or a version of him, out the window of the glass tower?

“This is not my creation”, the variant hisses with venom dripping from every word. “I caught him assaulting Jane. Kissing her”.

“What?!”

Stark focuses all his attention (and one of his iron fists) on Loki. A metallic humming rises steadily from inside the suit.

“A man on a suicide mission then. Boy, did you smooch the wrong wizard’s baby-mama. He may look all domesticated and cute now, but I assure you he’s still all kinds of crazy. In fact-”.

“Hey!”

“What?”

“I know it’s asking a lot, of you in particular, Stark, but could we possibly save the personal insults till we have dealt with this right here?”

Wait, just wait.

Damn it, he can’t tap in the destination on the tempad without looking at it.

Green smoke is swirling around the hands of his other self. He knows what’s coming.

“This is your last warning, devil! I will not have you hiding behind my face as I -“

“This is my face! I’m you, you fool! Bigger things are at large here and-“ Loki falters, his silver tongue failing once more with rising predictability within what seems a disconcertingly short period of time.

Although he honestly can’t tell anymore.

“Please, take a minute -“

He can’t help but shout, sounding hopelessly desperate.

In another life, he might have felt humiliated, but letting pride dictate his emotions is no longer a luxury he can afford to indulge.

Still, the silence that follows his outburst is not nearly as long as he needs it to be.

The variant stares blankly at him, mouth slightly ajar, but Stark recovers easily, his voice now icy.

“Yeah, dude, that one might have worked better if you’d put on a clean shirt. Time to fess up real quick or we’ll have to-“

Drawing what might become his last breath, Loki looks away and down at the tempad. He presses the button. No more time to double check.

“What the?!”

Both Stark and the variant visibly flinch as the door appears.

He quickly makes for it. “I - I’m sorry. Truly, I am”. He looks to their stunned faces before turning to his exit.

Out of the corner of his eye, he registers the variant move (he has to be a variant). His mouth twists in an ugly snarl and two familiar daggers are appearing by his sides.

Before the door snaps completely shut, Loki sees Jane run up to the man and grab his arm.

“Love, no, don’t!”

He sees the slight bump under her dress that he didn’t notice before.

And then the scene disappears and he’s gone.

Part III

[hyperfixatinglove]

Just Aiden pondering about me the fic  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

@moriaenships @nyandereneko

Purse of lips. Gloved hands gripping the steering wheel tad tighter. The rain drumming on the hood of the car, threatening to drown out the melancholy music from the radio. Hazy lights of traffic all around him, thoughts of next objective in his mind interrupted by familiar figure.

His hold tightened around the wheel, his knuckles white underneath the black gloves. He needed to focus, the crime never ceased in a city that never slept like Chicago. So why was his mind invaded by someone that by all accounts shouldn't be there?! She was just civilian, someone he was using for his own gain..

The more he repeated those words the more hollow they sounded. Aiden was so used to manipulating the minds of others, but his own mind was the hardest to trick. He was aware he might be starved for social interaction after the last year but obtaining a crush on someone who only showed the tiniest spectacle of common decency and kindness towards him.. Felt humiliating, pathetic, played with. His own mind was against his logic, he tried so hard to take a step back, create a wall between his hidden emotions and interactions with others.. It frustrated him how easily and how easy he made her able to slither, to sneak around those walls he spent decades constructing.

If Nicole were here, sitting on passenger seat like the night they caught that bad movie in old-school cinema years ago, she'd berate him for trying to build Anna to be some kind of mastermind with a plot to make him weak on purpose. His sister would remind him not everyone was playing mind games and planning their next moves like he was. He should just relax and see where they would go.

He could see her silhoutte in the dark, looking at him with painfully familiar, concerned eyes, then laugh when he'd scoff and try to pretend she hadn't managed to upstage him again in matter of emotion. He could hear the ghost of her laugh over the music and the drum of rain.

Aiden slammed his head on the horn, the car letting out long,drawn out alarm that split his ears but he found it hard to care. At least it drowned out his thoughts of Anna and Nicole. He missed them both in such different ways but the pain was the same. Aiden had never been good with emotional pain and matters of the heart. The women in his life were better at that. The horn went on until it absurdly cut off, leaving him in silence.

The song on the radio wasn't helping the matters. He groaned as his own melancholy was made mockery with the lyrics and the shitty weather of big city.

He chuckled weakly as he could imagine her with ease, reach for his gloved hand and ask softly what made him express himself like this. His eye peeked underneath his arms gripping the wheel.

Her outline on the passenger seat, head little tilted, eyes glossy with worry. Whisper of his name heard under the downpour outside. Her hair falling on her shoulders, how her hand would feel against his coat, how her fingers would grasp it like she'd never intend to let go.

Aiden hid his eye, to banish her out of his mind. He needed to go over the plan. He was going to deal with the new gang in town tonight. The leader reminded him a bit of Bedbug from what he'd gathered. Young and naive, not cut out to be as ruthless as needed to lead and survive in criminal underworld. Despite it, he needed to deal with them quickly, they still could gain the numbers for bigger territory. Their location was worrying him, they were camping right next door to Anna's apartment-

Another groan, louder, due to his realization of the connection between his agitation to deal with the new threat and their choice of residence. Of course it had to be linked to the woman who utterly refused to leave his mind alone. He got her on his mind. With alarming frequency.

The most concerning thing with this whole affair that Aiden could find, was how she got him thinking things he had never considered before. Ghost of a smile danced on his lips when he attributed it to Anna never trying to control him or disapproving his dangerous past times. He didn't consider himself a romantic, vigilante was the farthest thing from it, but even he was thinking thoughts that left him feeling unusually warm inside.

He hated the feeling of a crush creeping in, making a nest in his mind and heart, like a viper's kiss, just as dangerous as poison in his veins. Having one meant vulnerability. He hid his own for so long he had effectively forgotten he had them. Having one meant something tugging you, at the back of your mind, tugging you to return again and again like a dog on a leash. Aiden hadn't had many in lifetime but he still remembered how they could be turned against you, could fail and leave him licking the wounds he hated to have. Vigilante hated the emotional wounds. Physical he could deal with, those were fixed with medical attention. Emotional ones took too much to fix, too muc effort.

He sighed behind his hat as his mind wandered back to Anna's safety. He had ordered her to stay inside and lay low, just in case, but the overprotective side of him was still stuck considering back up plans to his already existing plans.

Slowly he lifted his head and started driving. He hoped slamming his baton to some gang members to scare them off the Loop would clear his head. In the back of his mind, he already knew how futile the effort was, considering how haunted he was by the kind woman in his new life.

[let-the-dream-begin]

In My Daughter’s Eyes Chapter 26: Accustomed

Chapter 25

Read on AO3

On August fourth, the actual date of their one-month anniversary, Claire was working until ten at night. When she shoved the key in the lock and shouldered the door open, she expected to see Mrs. Lickett on the couch with a book as she always was after Faith was put to bed. What greeted her had her frozen in the doorway. Mrs. Lickett was talking animatedly with Jamie.

He shot up from his seat immediately, swiping something off the coffee table. Mrs. Lickett silenced herself, looking back and forth between the younger people like she was watching puppies play together.

“Happy one-month, Sassenach.”

Claire realized through her bleary vision that he’d swiped up a bouquet of flowers. She felt like her bones were melting in her body, and she just wanted to throw herself on him and weep with exhaustion and tenderness.

“I’ll leave you two…” Mrs. Lickett said, getting off the couch. “Nice talking to you, Jamie. Goodnight, Claire.”

Claire stammered an incoherent goodnight, and Mrs. Lickett closed the front door, Claire having had it open this whole time.

“I came after Faith was asleep so she wouldna get all excited, so dinna fash about that. Mrs. Lickett texted me.”

In any other situation, Claire might have laughed at the thought of the two of them texting one another.

“There’s a bottle of champagne in the fridge if ye’d like. I can also go, if ye wish. I ken ye had a long day, that’s why we celebrated on Saturday, so if ye’d rather I — ”

He paused, and only then did Claire even realize she’d actually started weeping.

“Claire? What’s wrong?” The flowers dropped from his hand, landing on the couch, and in three quick strides he was upon her, hands gripping her shoulders. “What is it, lass? Did ye lose many patients?”

Claire sniffled, laughing at her own hysterics. “No...well, yes, a few but that’s not…” She wiped her eyes, then cupped his face. “You’re just….so sweet, Jamie.”

“Oh.” The concern wiped itself off his face, replaced by vague dumbfoundedness. “Ye’re alright, then?”

Claire nodded vigorously. “I’m...I’m perfect, Jamie.” She kissed him, wet snotty face and all. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She nuzzled her nose with his.

Jamie exhaled with relief, nuzzling her back. “I’m glad ye’re glad,” he said with a laugh. “I ken we celebrated already, but it felt wrong to not see ye on the day. Even if it’s just fer a bit. I couldna stop thinking about ye all day.” His thumbs rubbed circles on her shoulders.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you either.”

They kissed again, Claire threading her arms around his neck and Jamie threading his around her waist. When they pulled apart, Claire laughed wetly. “Shall we get out of the doorway?”

They did, making their way to the kitchen where Claire arranged the flowers in a vase while Jamie got flutes for their champagne. Claire remarked over and over how beautiful the flowers were, and Jamie retorted nearly every single time that they weren’t nearly as beautiful as she was. They clinked their glasses, toasting to one another, and they finished the bottle on the couch, intermittently kissing sloppily and laughing at the episodes of Friends that TBS was playing.

When the bottle was finished, Claire had herself wrapped around Jamie like a koala, and she found herself weeping again. When Jamie prodded, she sniffled and looked up at him.

“I don’t know, you just...you do so much for me.” She wiped her eyes. “I feel like I don���t...I don’t do enough.”

“Sassenach…”

“I just want you to know how much you mean to me,” she finished. “Even if I’m terrible at…”

“Claire.”

That stopped her. Not Sassenach. Claire.

“Ye’re no’ terrible at anything.” He wiped wetness from her cheeks with his thumbs, looking into her eyes.

“But do you know…? Do you really know that you’re...you’re so important to me?”

“Aye, mo ghraidh. I know.” He kissed her forehead, then her nose, then her lips. “I know.”

And then, like the person desperate for physical connection that she was, Claire pounced on him, tearing his shirt off and letting him tear off hers, and her bra, as she straddled him. The blazing warmth of his bare chest pressing her breasts flat was almost too much to bear. They kissed fiercely, Jamie raking his nails up and down her back, causing her to shiver and groan. It didn’t take long at all for Jamie to stand up, carrying Claire bodily with him. He paused for a moment to adjust her legs around his waist so she wouldn’t slip, and they both giggled. Then Jamie walked into the bedroom, kissing Claire all the while, and he laid her on the bed like she was made of glass and meant to be worshipped.

She didn’t wait for invitation before stripping her bottom half, and Jamie did the same before joining her on the bed. He teased her nipples with his mouth and rolled her clit in his fingers for a while, until Claire was choking on her own moans, bucking her hips into the air, desperate for him. He entered her, and she came immediately from the sheer release after a long day and the build up he’d given her. Jamie let her get her bearings before moving within her, and then he was reaching between them, pounding and rubbing her mercilessly until they were both crying out their release into each other's mouths, biting on each other’s lips to keep each other quiet.

Claire was seeing stars, the darkness of the night around them consuming her senses. Jamie’s warmth was all around her, surrounding her. He rolled over next to her and gathered her against him, and without thinking, she threaded her legs with his, nuzzling into his chest and kissing his sternum. In that kiss, she said:

Please know. Please know how much I care.

Jamie’s answering kiss to the crown of her head, accompanied with a large hand rubbing up and down the smooth expanse of her back answered:

Aye, mo ghraidh. I know. I know.

——

A persistent banging noise was what woke Claire the next morning. She groaned with annoyance at first, pulling the blankets over her ears, but then she felt someone shaking her.

“Sassenach,” Jamie whispered. “I think Mrs. Lickett is here.”

Claire’s eyes shot open, and she sat up. “Oh shit,” she hissed. “That’s Faith outside the bedroom, isn't it?”

“Aye, indeed.”

“Shit shit shit…” Claire scrambled from bed and breathed in exasperation upon remembering she’d fallen asleep stark naked. Faith banged more insistently on the door, moaning in frustration. “Coming, lovie! One second!” Claire threw up a prayer of thanks to whoever was listening that Jamie had thought to lock the door behind them last night.

She tore through her closet for a robe and yanked it on, then turned to see Jamie was getting dressed.

“Don’t move,” she breathed. Jamie froze with one leg still halfway into his pants.

“Ehm…why?”

“I don’t want Faith to know you’re here. She’ll never let you leave.”

Jamie bit his lip to stifle a laugh, finishing with his pants.

“Just…get in the corner. Far away.” She gestured absurdly with her hands, pushing him farther and farther back from several feet away. “Don’t make a sound. She will figure it out, and there will be a meltdown.”

Jamie pantomimed zipping his mouth shut and throwing away the key. Claire rolled her eyes before unlocking and opening the door, just a crack. Faith was way ahead, grasping the edge of the door the second she could, and trying to thrust it open.

“Good morning, Faith,” Claire said warmly. “No, no, we can’t cuddle this morning, I’m sorry darling.”

Faith groaned, giving another sharp push that would have had Claire stumbling backward if she hadn’t seen it coming. “Don’t push me, Faith,” Claire said softly, but firmly. “Mrs. Lickett is here, come on.”

Claire did a little pushing of her own, shuffling Faith away with her legs and prying little hands from the door. She quickly shut the door again behind her as soon as she was certain that no fingers would get crushed, and she scooped Faith into her arms.

“Coming!” Claire called as she settled Faith onto her hip and scuttled into the living room. She put Faith down so she could unlock and open the door, and she cringed to think how unhinged she must look to the poor woman.

“Good morning, so sorry,” Claire said, flustered. “I overslept, clearly.”

“That’s alright,” Mrs. Lickett assured, stepping inside.

“Ehm, just a few things,” Claire said with an awkward chuckle. Before she could continue, a scratching noise filled her ears, and she whirled around to see Angus scratching on her bedroom door.

Of course he knows.

“Angus! Come!” Claire said, her voice thin with panic. The dog obeyed immediately, of course, well trained as he was, but he definitely knew something was up.

“Uh…” Claire cleared her throat. “Right. So, there is, ehm…J-A-M-I-E is H-E-R-E,” Claire said carefully, deliberately spelling any words that might trigger excitement for Faith. Realization illuminated Mrs. Lickett’s face, and she nodded, lips taut with the effort of stifling a smile. “So I, uh…just need you to keep her busy while I get dressed and get H-I-M…O-U-T.”

“Right,” Mrs. Lickett said.

“Have her feed Angus first and foremost and then…how about a bath? She never runs out of the tub.” Bath time was indeed one of Faith’s favorite activities; she treated it like her own little ocean, playing mermaid and squirting water with her bath toys. Getting her out of the tub was like trying to get her out of the Abernathys’ swimming pool.

“Sounds good,” Mrs. Lickett agreed. “I’ll shut the door for good measure.”

“Perfect.” Claire looked behind her to see Faith on the living room floor with her Barbies, arranging them on the coffee table using some filing system that Claire would never understand. She then watched in horror as Faith pushed a bra and two t-shirts off the coffee table. She darted forward and snatched them up before Mrs. Lickett could notice, though she likely already did. “Okay baby, listen to Mrs. Lickett, Mummy needs to get ready for work.”

With that, Claire shuffled away back into her bedroom, careful to only open the door just enough for her to fit in, locking it behind her. When she turned around, Jamie was just sitting on the bed, still shirtless for obvious reasons, grinning like an absolute fool.

“I’m glad you think this is funny!” Claire whispered harshly, throwing his shirt at him, but her own smile betrayed her.

“It’s like Jenny sneaking Ian out of our parents’ house,” he said quietly, biting his lip to contain a chuckle. “Couple of teenagers we are.”

Claire rolled her eyes, making her way to the closet. “You wouldn’t be smiling like that if she started crying when you left because she found you.”

“Aye, I ken,” he said. “It’s just…” He sighed, leaning back on the pillows. “Christ, Sassenach, my wame’s been doing tumbles since the second I woke up this morning, then watching ye fret and flit about…”

“Oh, stop…” Claire blushed, throwing clothes and fresh scrubs to pack onto the bed.

“And now ye’re just gonna flounce about in that wee robe like a temptress, to taunt me?”

“Please, you know I threw this on for any reason but to tempt you.” Claire rolled her eyes as she untied the belt, then she paused. “Do I need to make you turn around so you don’t get drool on the bed?”

Jamie grinned sheepishly, though he didn’t avert his eyes. Claire turned to face him, one eyebrow raised.

“I mean it, sir. I’m already running late, because of you.”

“I can control myself!” Jamie said in mock offense. “D’ye take me fer a heathen?”

“I might,” she grinned slyly, finally opening the robe and sliding it off herself. Her nose wrinkled in disgust, and she huffed. “I can’t believe I don’t have time for a shower, I feel disgusting…”

“Dinna look it.” She chanced a glance up to see Jamie laying back, hands behind his head, taking in her body like a royal feast.

“I’m sure I positively reek,” she went on, pulling on underwear and clasping her bra.

“Come closer, I’ll check for ye.”

She looked up at him again, aghast. “You are shameless.”

“Never said I wasna.”

Claire scoffed and rolled deodorant on before pulling her shirt over her head. She looked up to see a tiny pout on his face, though the evidence of what her naked body had done to him was still plainly visible.

“Ruined your fun, did I?” Claire said, tutting her tongue in mock sympathy. “Poor lad.” She pulled her capris on and started shoving the scrubs into her bag.

Jamie chuckled softly, but she could see how his eyes had darkened, could see the strain that his arousal was placing on his entire body. The veins in his neck protruded, his face was red.

“You know,” Claire began, trying to straighten the absolute mess of curls atop her ahead in the mirror full length mirror on her closet door. “We do have to wait until Faith is in the tub. You’ll hear once the water starts running, and only when it stops are you all clear to leave.” She gave up on her hair and decided to tie it in a knot atop her head, shoving in a few pins and pulling on a headband for good measure.

“So?” Jamie said, cocking an eyebrow at her from behind her in the mirror.

“So…” she turned around slowly. “I might be able to take care of that little problem.” She flashed her eyes at the tent in his pants, and he visibly and audibly gulped. “But only if you promise not to make me a mess again.”

He nodded eagerly. “Aye, lass, I promise.”

Claire smirked and chuckled wickedly, approaching the bed. “Go on, take them off.”

Jamie gulped again and lifted his hips to pull his pants and boxers down. A rushing noise filled the air.

“Ah,” Claire said. “That’s the bathtub.”

Jamie’s cock sprang free, and Claire knelt on the bed. “But I’m not worried about taking too long.”

Jamie’s eyes flashed with dark indigence, as if he’d like to punish her for saying such a wicked thing, but knowing that he could not, given the promise he’d made. Claire ran her hand up the length of his inner thigh.

“Oh,” Claire said, pausing her hand right before reaching the desired destination. “And you must be very quiet.” She wrapped her hands around his base, delighting in his quiet hiss. “Can you do that?”

He nodded dumbly, swallowing again. She gave a few languid strokes before leaning down and kissing the tip.

“Good lad.”

——

Claire spat into the sink and checked her breath for the third time out of sheer paranoia. Mrs. Lickett was sitting on Faith’s little step-stool next to the bathtub while Faith was playing in the warm, bubbly water. Claire watched as she fully submerged herself for the millionth time, flapping her little hands as if she had an entire swimming pool’s room to do laps in there. Satisfied with her breath, Claire finally rinsed her mouth and straightened a few wild curls, even while fully knowing they’d pop out the second she stepped out into the humidity (humidity; something she’d never experienced in England, and decided she hated).

Claire waited on her knees for Faith to pop back up from under the water, greeting her with a little “Boo!” when she did. Faith started, blinking a bit, and Claire worried she’d actually given her poor girl a fright. But then her absent face melted into that familiar smile, and Claire laughed.

“Okay, baby. Mummy is going to work now. You’ll be a good girl today, yes?”

Faith ignored her, slapping her hands at the surface of the water and reaching for her Ariel mermaid Barbie.

“Hey.” Claire picked up the doll herself, redirecting Faith’s attention. “Look at my eyes.” Faith reached for the doll, quite unhappy with Claire’s decision to withhold it. “Be a good girl today. Yes?”

Claire gave a thumbs up, and Faith whined.

“Faith Julia.”

Faith gave a hasty thumbs up, even as she continued whining and reaching for the doll.

“Good enough,” Claire remarked to Mrs. Lickett, who chuckled softly. “Okay, kisses.” Claire kissed the top of Faith’s wet head, and Faith returned with a wet sloppy kiss to her cheek. Claire dramatically wiped it away, eliciting more giggles from Faith.

With one final goodbye, Claire left the bathroom, grabbed her bag from the couch, and was out the front door. She locked it behind her then turned around to see Jamie leaning on his car, arms crossed, like some high-school jackass stereotype. It looked much hotter on him. She shook her head as she descended the stairs, laughing.

She’d rushed him back into his clothes when the tub stopped running, and then she’d shoved him out the front door. He’d gone, but not without pulling her in for several sloppy kisses, even as she was attempting to shut the door in his face, and not without stopping to give Angus far too many scratches and pats.

Evidently, that rushed goodbye was not good enough for him, because there he stood, waiting for her.

“Still haven’t had enough, Fraser?��� Claire teased, unlocking her car and throwing her bag in the backseat.

Jamie sauntered over to her. “Never.”

She hummed in amusement, and he pulled her in for a sweet, lingering kiss.

“I really do have to go,” she said breathlessly. “I’m lucky if I’m even on time at this point, let alone early enough to get into my scrubs.”

“I’d apologize, but…” He kissed her again, and she groaned in either annoyance or something else. “I’m no’ very sorry fer any of it.”

“Hmph.” She gave him one final peck before getting into her car and shutting the door. As she started the car, he rapped on the window with a knuckle. She sighed with annoyance, but her smile betrayed her, as usual. “What?”

“Happy anniversary, Sassenach.”

She could literally feel her face melting into that stupid, soft expression reserved for only his most endearing moments (which was nearly all his moments, admittedly).

“Happy anniversary, Jamie.”

She leaned out the window to kiss him one more time, then started rolling in reverse, even with her head still craned toward him. He waved until she couldn’t see him in her rear view mirrors anymore, and she rolled up her window.

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, Beauchamp…

Claire gulped and turned the air conditioning up higher.

One month, only one month…

And you are so, so far gone.

——

For cooking night that week, Jamie brought over ingredients for homemade pizza. Faith very much enjoyed rolling the dough, and it was difficult to simultaneously stop her from playing with it like play-doh and keep her from eating it. She also had fun putting innumerable slices of pepperoni on the pizza. The original plan was to split the pie into sections and have each of the three of them put on whatever toppings they wished on their own section, but Faith’s pepperoni could not be contained. Then when Jamie tried to put peppers and onions on his section, Faith pushed his hands away, whining, and no amount of coaxing could get her to relent. There was no reasoning with her; regardless of the fact that she would only eat two of the small slices, this entire pizza was Faith’s to dictate, end of discussion.

To compromise, Jamie cooked his and Claire’s vegetables of choice in a pan on the stove to sprinkle on once the pieces were cut.

“It’s a good thing I like pepperoni,” Claire remarked wryly.

“Aye. I do too.”

Claire did not even allow Jamie anywhere near the bedroom that night; they’d agreed no staying the night, accidentally or not, when Claire had to work the next morning. They’d already embarrassed poor Mrs. Lickett enough for one lifetime. For Saturday night, however, they had a plan. On pizza night, they’d both told Faith that Jamie would be “sleeping over” on Saturday night, meaning he would be there when Faith woke up in the morning, and that he would leave sometime in the afternoon. Faith hardly seemed to even be paying attention, but Claire was almost certain she’d retained it.

It was important to Claire — to both of them, really, to normalize Jamie’s presence in the home, overnight or no, so Faith didn’t bounce off the walls every single time. Come Saturday afternoon in Jamie’s car, Claire was satisfied that Faith was properly prepared. They’d just dropped Faith off at the Abernathy house in her bathing suit, ready for a full day in the pool with her friend while Mummy and Jamie went on their date. Claire beamed at Jamie in the driver’s seat.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said flippantly. “Just…excited. Happy. I don’t know.”

Jamie took her hand and brought it to his lips, keeping his eyes on the road. “So am I, lass.”

Their hands remained intertwined for the rest of the drive until they arrived at Jamie’s chosen date location for the weekend: the stables.

He’d promised her that night on the carousel that he’d take her riding for real, and today he was making good on that promise. Staff rotated who had to come and care for the horses on weekends, and this week was Jamie’s turn, so they’d be alone. 

“I’m there every weekend anyway,” Jamie had explained, “for Donas. But this way we ken we’re alone.”

The wink he’d given her sent a shiver down her spine.

Jamie had also packed a picnic lunch for them to have on the grounds, complete with a light whisky. They departed Jamie’s car in the parking lot, and Claire marveled at the lot’s emptiness with no one else around. Claire started to make her way toward the welcome center, then Jamie gently took her hand. She cocked an eyebrow at him, and he answered:

“This way.”

They bypassed the building and he took Claire to a gate, then produced a clanking ring of keys from the pocket of his shorts.

“This is the more direct route to the horses,” he said, shuffling through keys. “But if ye need the restroom, dinna fash.” He unlocked the gate, removed the key, and held up a different key. “I’ve got the key fer that, too.”

Claire chuckled and followed him through the gate, waiting for him to lock it again behind them. Jamie led them past the stable that Claire knew Pippi was kept in.

“We dinna keep Donas where we take the bairns,” Jamie said. “That’d be a recipe fer disaster.”

Claire’s brow practically raised to her hairline; she was almost nervous to meet such a notorious creature.

“Spoiled beast practically has the whole stable to himself,” Jamie said it in a chastising manner, but his sheepish grin gave him away.

“You’re quite fond of him,” Claire said.

“Aye,” Jamie said, handing Claire the picnic basket so he could open the doors to the barn. “One of my best friends.”

He winked before he heaved the doors open, but Claire was not at all certain he was joking. The thought had bubbles rippling in her chest:

My boyfriend, best friends with a horse.

“Could you be any more endearing?” she said, following him inside.

“Huh?”

She chuckled. “Never mind.”

Claire noticed immediately that out of the eight stalls in this stable, only four of them had horses in them, where the other stable was always full. Claire took in the sight of a regal white mare, a beautiful brown and white spotted Appaloosa, a silver Andalusian, and an enormous, terrifying black stallion, the stalls next to it deliberately empty. In fact, the four stalls on that side were empty save for him; the other three horses all on the other side.

Claire gaped for a moment. “Donas, I take it?”

“Aye.” Jamie swelled with pride.

“He’s…beautiful, Jamie. Really.” Claire had to fight the urge to reach out and touch him, somehow convinced he would bite her hand off.

“Aye, bit rough around the edges to be sure, but sweet as anything when ye get to know him.”

“He…doesn’t look like he wants to get to know me.”

Donas huffed, stomping his front right hoof. Jamie laughed.

“He’d no’ get to know anyone if he had any say in the matter. Lucky fer us,” Jamie put a hand on Donas’s muzzle, looking into his eyes, and the beast leaned into his touch. “He kens who is master is.”

Claire’s heart warmed at the sight; they really did look like a couple of chums.

“Now, Donas,” Jamie said sternly. “I’ve a lass here, and I’d no’ like to be embarrassed. I ken ye dinna care what she thinks of ye, but at least fer me, could ye no’ bite her?”

The warmth immediately disappeared, and Claire’s eyes bugged out of her head. Jamie laughed out loud, and Donas tossed his head away from the sound. Jamie pulled his head back, holding it in place and stroking soothingly, even as he continued to laugh.

“I’m teasing, Sassenach. He willna actually bite yer heid off. At least I dinna think he will.”

Claire eyed him suspiciously. “Is this going to be one of those things where if this doesn’t work,” she gestured between herself and Donas, “then this doesn’t work?” She gestured between herself and Jamie.

Jamie barked another laugh. “Well if that’s true, ye’re no’ trying very hard to keep me!”

“Jamie…”

“Come on, Sassenach. Ye canna be so afeared. He can smell it on ye. It feeds his ego to ken that ye fear him.” He gave the thick, black neck a solid pat. “And that just spurs him on to be more of an arse.”

Claire straightened out, sticking her nose in the air. “I’m not afraid.”

Jamie cocked an eyebrow. “Then show me.”

She took a deep breath and then approached the pair of them, careful not to shrink or falter in the slightest.

“I can do this,” she said calmly, slowly stretching her hand out, taking a quick peek at his ears to make sure they were not pinned back (they weren’t). “This is just like trying to talk to the misogynist pricks at work. Can’t let him know he gets to me.”

Jamie made an amused Scottish noise. “My horse is a misogynist now?”

“Very well could be. Have you ever asked him?”

Jamie laughed, but pointedly kept himself still and quiet as possible so as to not sway Donas’s opinion of the hand approaching him.

“Don’t worry,” Claire said calmly and evenly. “I mean no harm. I care about your master very much.” She let her hand hover under Donas’s enormous, flaring nostrils. “I just want to be friends. Acquaintances, even. For Jamie’s sake.” She flicked her eyes to Jamie to find him grinning like a fool at her, his pupils blown wide. But then:

“Dinna break eye contact,” he hissed, and Claire immediately rectified it. “He doesna like that.”

“Of course he doesn’t.”

Claire had to repeatedly tell herself, he will not bite my hand off, he will not bite my hand off, in order to remain still and have any hope of keeping the smell of fear off of her. Then, like watching a miracle unfold, Donas tapped his wet nose into Claire’s cupped hand for a split second. Claire laughed triumphantly, and Jamie beamed with pride.

“He doesn’t hate me!” Claire knew better than to say he likes me; that would certainly be pushing it. She knew enough from riding with Uncle Lamb that if a horse touched your hand, it was an invitation to be pet, so she flipped her hand and reached forward.

She stopped, however, when Jamie swiftly grabbed her forearm.

“What?”

“He showed ye he doesna hate ye, an achievement in and of itself,” Jamie said, his eyes full of mirth. “Let’s no’ push our luck by trying to get him to like ye. No’ just yet.”

Claire sighed with annoyance, letting her hand drop. “Fine.” She carefully stepped away. “Pompous brat.”

Jamie laughed out loud, giving said pompous brat another solid pat. “Careful now, Sassenach, or he willna be so gracious next time.”

“Gracious my arse,” Claire grumbled.

Jamie clicked his tongue and left Donas’s side to gather her in his arms and kiss her gently. “Ye’re no’ gonnae be grumpy the rest of our date because a horse doesna like ye?”

“No,” Claire said, but even she didn’t believe herself.

“Och…” Jamie cupped her face in his hands. “Ye ken I canna resist that wee pout.”

“I’m not pouting!”

“Aye, ye are.” Jamie laughed through the words. “Come here.”

He tipped her face up into his and kissed her much less gently, immediately demanding entrance for his tongue. She obliged eagerly, even though somewhere in the back of her mind she was thinking about how the horses were all watching them. Jamie’s hands moved from her face to her hair, tugging greedily and groaning into his mouth, wanting to swing a leg over his hip right there in the middle of the stable.

An indignant huff interrupted them, even as Jamie’s excitement grew. They pulled apart, and Claire looked over Jamie’s shoulder to see Donas stamping his hooves again.

“Seriously?” Claire fired at him. Jamie laughed out loud again, untangling his hands from Claire’s hair and running them down the length of her arms.

“Come on, lass.” He took both of her hands and pulled her away from Donas, into a stall, leaving an empty one between them and Donas.

“What on Earth are you doing…?”

“Getting ye away from prying eyes.”

Jamie captured her lips with his immediately, his tongue resuming its prior task of exploring every inch of the inside of her mouth. Claire whimpered in surprise and then began moaning, threading her arms around his neck.

“This is…” Claire breathed. “We can’t do this here.”

“Why no’?” Jamie nibbled at her neck. “I told ye we’d be completely alone.”

The thought sent a jet of heat to her core, and she stifled another moan. “Because…the…” She lost her train of thought as Jamie’s hand found its way under her shirt.

“The horses dinna mind, Sassenach.” He sealed his lips on hers again, squeezing her breast under her bra.

They moved together, back, back, back…until Claire’s back slammed against the wall of the stall.

“Besides,” Jamie said, palming her over her capris, eliciting a muffled groan from her. “I havena been able to hear ye since last week. Ye’ve had to keep far too quiet fer my liking.”

He squeezed her breast harder and increased the speed of his hand over her pants, and she sighed in ecstasy, kissing him hungrily and letting her hands roam to his fly. She forcefully pushed his shorts and boxers down, savoring the strangled cry he let out when she fisted him in her hand. His clothing fell around his ankles, and he reciprocated, unzipping Claire’s capris and forcing them along with her underwear down. Claire clumsily toed off one sneaker so she could get one foot out of her pants, and then hooked the leg around Jamie’s naked hips. She dug her heel into him, pulling him in closer. For a moment, Claire ground against him, savoring the friction, keening desperately as she did. And then, in one swift motion, Jamie viciously grabbed her thigh and lined himself up to enter her with a powerful thrust. Claire cried out loudly, breathing heavily.

“Aye,” Jamie rasped, kissing her sloppily. “Let me hear ye, mo nighean donn.”

Claire hummed in appreciation, her voice hitching with each of Jamie’s piercing, almost painful thrusts. Her back slammed and rubbed against the wood behind her, and somewhere in her hazy consciousness she thought she’d definitely have a bruise after this, and then that thought had her moaning louder.

The thought of him marking her.

Her increase in volume had him doubling his pace, grunting and groaning in her ear, biting her earlobe, her neck. Her grip on his shoulders became more desperate, her heel dug in harder, her voice grew higher and louder.

“Claire…” Jamie hissed, gripping her thigh harder. “Oh, Claire…”

The sound of her name on his lips like that was almost enough to undo her. Then his free hand began mercilessly rubbing her clit, and she made a guttural noise she didn’t even know she was capable of making.

“Aye, lass…” Jamie looked deep into her eyes and redoubled his efforts. “Let go. Only I can hear ye.”

It was a wonder to Claire that he was capable of speech right now, because if she’d tried to speak, only more shrieking moans would come out. And oh, they did. She felt herself tightening, and she dug her nails into Jamie’s back, and then she was falling, hard. She knew she was screaming, knew, and didn't care. Her walls gripped him so tightly he almost slipped out even though it would defy gravity in this position. Jamie was not far after, spilling into her with her name on his lips like a prayer.

Afterward, they sat in the hay on the floor, still half naked leaning against the stall, limbs entwined. Jamie kissed that spot on her shoulder where she thought she already felt a bruise blooming.

“I can’t believe you’ve already made me sore before we even get on the horses.”

Jamie snorted, then kissed the top of her head. “Wasna my intention.” Claire hmphed, and Jamie laughed again. “You just let me know when ye’re ready to go.”

Claire hummed, her eyes closed, and then felt consciousness slip from her against her will. She woke less than a half hour later, and after chastising Jamie for letting her fall asleep, and both of them repairing the state of their undress through endless fits of giggles, they made their way back to the horses.

Donas looked thoroughly disgusted with them, though Claire might have just been projecting onto an entity she knew had distaste for her.

“See that white mare?” Jamie said, leading Claire over. “This is Millie. Toni’s horse.”

“Toni rides?”

“Oh, aye. That’s why she works here.” Jamie let Millie sniff his hand, then began petting her. He gestured for Claire to do the same, and the process was much less painful (and terrifying) than it was with Donas. “They take a wee bit out of yer paycheck to keep yer horse here, but it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than having the land yerself, or using a public stable.”

“She’s beautiful,” Claire marveled, running her fingers up and down the long nose. “Very gentle.”

“Aye, she’s bonny. Toni said ye could ride her for today.”

Claire looked up at Jamie, her gaze warm with affection for Toni. “That’s really nice of her.”

“Please, ye ken that meddling wee besom’ll do anything to get us alone. Since last September. This wasna done out of sheer generosity.”

Claire chuckled, moving on to the softness of Millie’s mane. “You tease her too much.”

“Ach, she kens she’s a good friend.”

“Where does she fall on the friendship tier? Above or below Donas?” Then Claire yelped, or rather squeaked; Jamie had pinched her arse. She swatted at his arm, and Jamie remarked that if she’d done that so close to Donas, he’d really have bitten her head off.

Introductions out of the way and teasing (mostly) finished, they got saddled up and led the horses out of the stable.

“Now, I ken ye said ye rode before,” Jamie said. “So it’s yer choice. D’ye want to use the riding hall and keep it moderate, or d’ye want to roam around the grounds, get a wee bit exciting?”

Claire smirked at him around Millie’s head. “I’m always up for a wee bit of excitement.”

In one swift motion, Jamie launched himself onto his saddle, that wide, lopsided grin dancing on his beautiful face. “That’s what I hoped ye’d say.”

Claire mirrored him, getting herself settled in Millie’s saddle and giving her loving strokes on her neck. “Shall we?”

They rode anywhere between a trot and a gallop, all over the grounds that Claire had become familiar with on foot. It did look different without tables or Easter eggs or dunk tanks and projection screens. Jamie was a bit of a show off on his glorious, enormous mustang, and as much as Claire wanted to smack him, she also found it endlessly endearing, his desire to impress her.

They stopped somewhere to have their picnic lunch, letting the horses graze while they ate slowly, sipped whisky, and of course, kissed each other until they were both lightheaded. Claire very nearly threw a leg over to straddle him and ride him right there on the picnic blanket, but it would have been far too much effort to remove her shoes and capris again. So she took care of Jamie’s still-new-to-sex-and-always-ready excitement with her hand, and remarked with a sultry smile that she knew he’d take care of her later.

They rode some more, joking and laughing — Claire tossing her head back so far she nearly fell out of the saddle, holding hands between them (despite Donas’s apparent disapproval), and even guiding their horses close enough to kiss one another. And then of course Jamie yanked Donas away before he could bite off Millie’s ear. Obviously there was a very good reason they kept the stalls next to that brute empty.

They reached the stable again and bid their horses proper goodbyes, Claire remaining a safe distance from the Brute. Jamie held her hand all the way back to the car, and her legs felt wobbly, her stomach fluttery. It was impossible to tell if she was swaying from straddling the horse for so long or from the way Jamie had slammed into her against the wall, but either way, it was not altogether unpleasant.

They picked Faith up promptly at six, having given her a hard stop time in the pool at five so she’d know what to expect and be ready to be picked up, and hopefully not have a meltdown when it was time to get out. Gail’s report was that she was very well behaved, though she’d had more snacks than Claire would have liked. Faith did not at all protest when it was time to leave, especially because it was Jamie who stepped into the room first. Claire could not help the twinge of jealousy when Faith wrapped herself around his legs and listened to him far better than she would have to Claire if she was alone, but she knew this was normal, for any child, let alone a child on the spectrum.

After Faith and Claire showered together, Claire made mac and cheese with dinosaur chicken nuggets for all three of them while Jamie showered.

“See?” Claire remarked when they were all sat down at the table, loading a stegosaurus with several little Frozen character-shaped macaronis. “Being a bad cook is fun sometimes.”

They watched the movie of Faith’s choice (Frozen, to no one’s surprise), and then Faith did not protest when it was time to brush her teeth and get into bed. She did not protest because Jamie had promised to be the one to tuck her in that night. He was not granted the honor of teeth-brusher or Risperdal-dispenser, but tucking in and turning on the nightlight were sacred parts of nighttime routine nonetheless.

And Claire knew that Jamie took it very seriously.

She stood back, watching from the doorway as Jamie pulled the blankets up to her chin, multiple heavy blankets despite it being summer.

“Sleep well, a leannan,” Jamie said softly, stroking back her wild curls. “Ye were a very good girl today.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead, and Claire’s chest ached. “I’ll see ye in the morning.”

That had Faith grinning, her eyes wild with excitement.

“But morning willna come if ye dinna sleep,” he warned. “So I willna see ye unless ye sleep.”

She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut, wrinkling the lids with the effort. He and Claire both chuckled, and Jamie shook his head.

“Alright. Goodnight, lass.”

With that, he patted Angus’s head and stood up from the bed, allowing Claire to say her own goodnight, and then they departed to Claire’s room.

Jamie did take care of her, face buried between her legs hooked over his shoulders, took care of her so well that she had to put a pillow over her face to keep from rousing the five year old they’d just put to bed.

When he was finished taking care of her, he rose up and tossed the pillow away, laughing no doubt at how positively insane she must have looked after flattening her face into a pillow. He kissed her anyway, insanity and all, and he lined himself up to take her.

“You didn’t have enough today?” Claire teased, breathless.

Jamie’s eyes darkened, and he wet his lips. “Never.”

And he took her.

[kindahoping4forever]

I Love You, Ain’t That The Worst Thing You Ever Heard? // Ashton Irwin

This started out loosely based on a dream I had (🤡) and spun into something a lot more complex and interesting. I’ve been working on this on and off for months (bless @cal-puddies​ who I’m sure is glad she won’t have to hear about this anymore lol); it was actually one of the first things I tried writing on my own (I just couldn’t get this concept out of my head) and as my writing evolved, I had to keep going back to retool and make sure the story did too. Hopefully you’ll think it was worth the effort!

Warnings: FWB-but possibly more-!Ash, slight jealousy/angst but it’s mostly internal, dummies who don’t realize that they’re in love, an absurd amount of smut but it’s justified because there’s an emotional narrative to it (really), moments of Dom!Ash, oral/manual stimulation of a female, overstimulation, spanking, cumplay, (and yet also) protected sex, no for real there is so much smut you guys I think that’s a comprehensive list of warnings but I’m not sure  

Word Count: 5858

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“If you’re not ready in 15 minutes, I’m going without you,” Ashton declares.

“Cool but it’s my friends we’re having dinner with, so that might be controversial,” you point out, nudging his elbows off your vanity so you can open the drawer in front of where he’s sitting.

“Oh, they like me better than you, it won’t be a problem,” he teases, handing you the beauty blender you were looking for.

You snatch it from his hand. “Dude, you literally weren’t even invited, you just asked if I was busy and said ‘oh that could be fun’ when I told you what I had planned.”

“I feel like my presence was assumed when they asked you,” he shrugs.

You toss the sponge at him and he laughs as you shoo him out of the room so you can finish putting yourself together.

You and Ashton have been together for a few months, although neither of you have ever tried to discuss what “together” actually means. Your relationship seemed to be an endless string of implications. When you met, it was implied you liked each other. When you made out at a party a few weeks later, it was implied it was as friends. When you started sleeping together, it was implied it was casual. In your mind, you were something more than “friends with benefits” but still something less than a full-on relationship.

He puts a record on and has just crossed into the kitchen to help himself to a bottled water from your fridge when he notices a vase of flowers on the counter that he definitely didn’t send you.

“Fancy flowers,” he comments. “Who sent them?” He asks, despite immediately checking the card and seeing the message “Thanks for last weekend, let’s do it again sometime ;)” alongside what seems to be a masculine name.

You’re rooting around in your closet, trying to find the top you had planned on wearing while your mind is focused on your mental checklist of everything you still have left to do before you leave; it takes a good 15 seconds for it to register that Ash has even said anything and another 10 before you distractedly call out “a friend” in response.

Ashton sits on your couch and while his hands are turning the pages of some random magazine he found on your coffee table, his eyes are fixed on the bouquet he can still see sitting on the kitchen counter. You’ve never discussed exclusivity, he would have no right to be jealous. But he can’t deny the panic that ran through his body when he saw that card and he can’t keep his mind from racing now.

He thinks he’d almost feel better if he’d found evidence you were fucking someone else; he hates the thought of someone else touching you but he’s also confident that they couldn’t possibly make you feel the way he does in bed. He’s not worried about the sex. But flowers? That implies romance, implies thoughtfulness and intimacy, which are things he wouldn’t blame you for seeking elsewhere. He knows he hasn’t been offering that to you in the ways he could, in the ways you probably deserve.

He tortures himself with these thoughts a bit longer and then props himself in the doorway of your bedroom to check on your progress.

“Oh you’re still here? You were so quiet out there I figured you made good on your threat and you were already at the restaurant ordering apps without me,” you tease, pulling on your boots.

Ash gives a half-hearted chuckle in response. “You look nice,” he compliments you quietly.

You flash him a pleasant but puzzled smile; something’s off with him, you don’t think he’s ever said you look “nice” as long as you’ve known him and he never passes up a chance to banter with you.

He makes small talk but you notice the way his fingers are fiddling with the label of his water bottle and how his eyes hesitate to look for yours. By the time you’re ready, he’s nonchalantly mentioned the flowers three times and asked you to a party next weekend, when he usually never plans that far in advance.

You pause gathering your things as you realize what’s happening. He's fucking jealous, you amusedly think to yourself. Part of you wants to tease him about it but there’s an underlying sense of nervousness to it that’s almost sweet. How could something as innocuous as a vase of flowers shake this man’s seemingly endless confidence?

"I wasn't trying to be vague before," you tell him. “I helped someone move last weekend; only a couple people showed up to help, it was pretty intense. That’s what the flowers are for.”

“Let’s do it again sometime, winky face?” He raises his eyebrows, casually drinking from his water bottle to show how unbothered he is.

You make a face. “I should’ve figured you’d read the card,” you tease. “I joked that the move was so brutal I’d sooner buy him the apartment than help again when the lease is up.” To punctuate your story, you walk over, peck him on the lips and affectionately straighten his shirt collar. “I don't know what you're thinking but I can tell you you’re probably overthinking it.”

Ash tightens his jaw and runs his tongue over his lips as he listens to you. "Didn't even know you liked flowers," he shrugs as you smile softly at him.

When he doesn’t immediately follow you out of the bedroom, you know his wheels must still be turning. You get your keys out of the dish and text your friends that you’re leaving now. He finally appears and just as you’re about to tell him you really need to get going, he grabs you and gives you the most over the top, absurdly intense kiss of your life. One hand twisted in your hair, one hand pressing you against him, tongue claiming your mouth as his. He's clearly trying to prove a point - what and to who, you’re not quite sure - but he certainly proves it.

He pulls away, fire in his eyes and casually says, “You lock up, I’ll get the car started?” as if nothing happened.

You stand there, stunned for a moment, quickly attempt to repair your smudged lipstick and lock the door to meet him outside.

The car ride is mostly silent, save for the radio. Ashton plants his hand on your thigh the second you get in the car and it doesn’t budge the entire time. When you grab drinks with your friends at the bar, his hand never leaves your back. During dinner, his arm snakes around your waist the second you slide in the booth next to him. To the outsider this would seem possessive and you're guessing it partly is but you think you’re pretty good at reading Ash at this point and to you, it feels more complex than that.

He’s still his engaging and charming self, chatting endlessly with everyone about everything but you can tell he’s in his head and you’re not entirely sure why. You recall how unnerved he seemed back at your apartment. You think about the number of times he’s leaned in to whisper a joke or comment in your ear tonight. You feel the gentle way his fingers brush over your hip while you wait for the check and you start connecting the dots.

It may have started with jealousy but this goes deeper than some basic macho territorial bullshit. You’re fascinated as you consider this development. He never seemed to feel angry or betrayed at the thought of someone else holding your attention; he just seemed troubled. Sad. And now it feels like he’s constantly reassuring himself of your presence, like as long as he keeps touching you, keeps engaging you, you’re undeniably there with him.

Your head swims as you consider the implications of this. You never doubted you both cared for each other but is it more serious than that to him? To you? You focus on him talking with your friends and you don’t realize you’re staring until you feel his eyes on you. He looks at you with amused expectancy; you just shake your head and smile fondly.

Your friends say their goodbyes and you start down the street back to the car park. Ash reaches for your hand and it kind of breaks your heart so when you stop to wait for the crosswalk, you place his arm around you and snuggle into him. He looks at you quizzically, as if he's surprised by your affection. He truly has no idea how transparent he is sometimes, you think to yourself as you mumble something about being chilly.

As you make your way down the block, he starts chattering away about the night’s events and with each comment you burrow further into his embrace, appreciating the cool night air and the sound of his voice.

By time you’ve reached the parking structure, you’ve got your arms wrapped around him, inside his jacket. He sways with you as you wait for the elevator, “Am I dropping you back home?”

Your answer comes out muffled as you’ve decided to take this opportunity to bury your face in his chest. “Your place.”

He kisses the top of your head and clarifies, “Thought you had work tomorrow?”

As the elevator doors open, you say, “But your place is closer now” with a glimmer in your eye and you pull him, first into the elevator and then into you. You give him a kiss reminiscent of his over the top, absurdly intense one from earlier but yours has no underlying point to prove. You’ve decided you need him, only him and you want to be sure he knows that.

The car ride is once again silent but this time there is a different tension in the air. His hand finds its way onto your thigh again, though this time it’s definitely a few inches higher. You can’t help but study him, as breathtaking as ever, lit only by the glow of evening LA traffic. You’re now almost as lost in your thoughts as you know he was earlier. He was so perturbed by those goddamn flowers, why? If you had found a gift from someone you didn’t know at his place, would you be feeling the same way? You’re pretty sure you would.

He catches your gaze at a stop light or two but he doesn’t say anything, just gives your thigh a reassuring squeeze and turns back to the road. As soon as he shuts the engine off, you’re practically lunging across the car to get your lips back on his again. He indulges you for a minute and then breezily laughs, “let’s get you inside then” as he pries you off of him.

Once inside, it’s a dizzying clash of teeth, tongues, lips and limbs as you stumble up the stairs into the bedroom. You’re not sure exactly when it happened but suddenly he’s in his underwear and has you naked and spread in front of him.

He runs his fingers through your folds as he looks at you with a predatory glint in his eyes, asking, “Wet already, huh? This all for me?”

That’s apparently the extent of his teasing mood as he dives right in and starts eating you out before you even think to answer. You gasp and immediately tangle your fingers in his hair as he ruthlessly attacks your clit, first swirling it with the tip of his tongue and then sucking it in between his lips. The way he alternates broad strokes of his wide tongue with deliberate rapid fire flicks has you whimpering faster than you thought possible.

“Been wanting to taste you all evening, beautiful, thought we’d never get away,” he murmurs as he teasingly presses light kisses into your thighs.

“Ash…” you start, still attempting to catch your breath. “What is going on with you tonight…”

He chuckles and replies, “Says the woman who practically jumped me in the parking lot after dinner?” He pushes himself up your body to kiss you deeply, both of you groaning as you taste yourself on his tongue.

He pulls away just enough to continue, “Says the woman who could barely wait for me to put the car in park before she pounced again?”  He kisses you even harder, distracting you enough that you don’t notice his hands have begun to wander until you feel two fingers slowly dragging against your pussy.

You break the kiss with a moan and Ashton seamlessly moves his mouth to your neck, giving several teasing bites and nips before he raises his head to look directly at you and say, “Says the woman who I suspect has been dripping for me since the kiss I gave her before we left for dinner?”

He pushes his fingers into you with ease and expertly starts working them. “Maybe even before? Has my girl been wanting me this badly all night?”

You feel your skin flush as you hear the words “my girl” come out of his mouth; this is new. That’s as far as your thought process gets because then he’s curling his fingers and all you can focus on is the way your walls are beginning to twitch and tighten around them, “Ash… please…” is the best response you can manage.

His hand that’s not buried inside you traces down your throat and over your breasts. “Please what, baby? Think you know you’re gonna have to do better than that,” he teases.

“... Want to cum… PLEASE…” you breathlessly pant out, rocking your hips against his fingers which have slowed to an agonizingly slow pace, keeping you just on the edge of orgasm.

“Oh don’t worry, pretty girl, you’ll cum alright,” he teases with his bottom lip fixed in a mock pout. “Gotta make it up to you, I obviously should’ve filled you the second I walked through your door tonight,” he speeds his fingers back up and adds his thumb into the mix, rubbing it against your clit, causing your legs to shake.

You grip his arm that’s working you over, digging your nails into his bicep as your entire body tenses and you pulse around his fingers. “That’s my girl, that was a good one, wasn’t it?” he coos as he pumps his fingers into you a few more times for good measure.

You can only breathe heavily in response; your mind and body are both reeling. There it is again: my girl. That kiss by your door, his hands on you all evening, now my girl. You’re not sure if it’s intentional or if his subconscious is giving him away, but he’s claiming you. You’re much more comfortable with that idea than you thought you’d be.

The second it seems like you’ve started to catch your breath, Ashton withdraws his fingers from your body and sucks them clean, exaggeratedly groaning his approval. You reach out for him, hoping for a kiss but before you even realize what’s happening, he’s back between your legs lapping away at your center again. “ASH, what the FUCK,” you cry out, legs involuntarily closing around him.

Unfazed, he easily spreads your legs back how he wants them and looks up at you, face obscenely wet and glistening from his task. “You tasted so good on my fingers, I wanted more straight from the source,” he shrugs and immediately returns to his mission.

You involuntarily let out a tiny moan at his remark before tugging on his hair to get his attention. “Too much” is all you manage to get out before he licks at your clit in just the right way to make you jolt and let out a guttural groan.

He pulls back and snickers against your thigh. “That’s what I thought, do I know my girl or do I know my girl? Know when you're ready for another one before you even do, know how to leave you speechless with just a couple flicks of my tongue,” he sneers, rapidly fluttering over your clit in demonstration. “Know this pussy even better than you do, bet you’ve never had anyone else who can say that, have you?”  

You grab onto his shoulder and moan as soon as you hear that magic phrase, my girl, again. Ash’s dirty talk has always been a huge turn on for you but tonight the language is as telling as it is arousing: you are his. You decide that you like it, you want that and you like that he wants that.

You sigh deeply, disappointed but not surprised, when he pulls away just as you feel your climax begin to build. He kisses up your stomach until he reaches your tits, spreading sloppy kisses over one while he squeezes the other, rolling over the nipple with his thumb. You’re not quite sure why tenderness is your instinctual response but you go with it, softly running one hand through his hair and stroking his face with the other.

He looks up at you and his eyes are as breathtaking as always, glowing with both a familiar fire and also a softness you’ve only seen on occasion. You can’t help but smile as you tell him, “You’re unbelievable.”

“Is that a complaint or a compliment, my dear?” He asks with a smirk as he turns his attention to your other breast, repeating his actions.

“Not sure… both maybe…” you reply, in a dreamy haze of fondness, amusement and desire.

“I’ll take it,” he mutters against your skin. Satisfied with his work on your chest, you see him start to move back down between your legs.

“Ashhhh… no, need more,” you object, attempting to pull him back up to you.

“That’s what I’m tryna to give you here, baby,” he chuckles, allowing you to pull him up to your lips.

You frantically kiss him and grabble between your bodies until your hand finds his erection still confined in his boxers and you give it a squeeze. “GOD, Ash, honestly I just want your cock more than anything right now,” you hate how pitiful you sound but you also hope it’s enough that he’ll give you what you want.

Instead he looks you directly in the eye, grins and taunts, “But when don’t you want my cock more than anything?”

He impishly pecks your nose and confidently states, “First you cum on my tongue. THEN you can cum on my cock.” And with that, he’s suddenly peppering quick kisses all the way back down your body, musing almost to himself, “No one else can make you feel this way, can they, darlin’? Know how to get you off like this? Gets you this needy?”

Ashton dives back in with a renewed sense of purpose and has you cumming within moments; you swear at a certain point you can feel him grin against your sensitive core, clearly reveling in the nonsensical murmurs you don’t even realize you’re letting out until you hear them yourself.

“Good girl, sound so pretty when you cum for me, taste even better,” he praises, pressing a final kiss to the inside of each of your thighs before he’s on his feet, finally stripping off his underwear and retrieving a condom from the bedside table.

You’re tired from his teasing but the anticipation of finally having him inside you fuels your decision to snatch the package from him and begin tugging at his cock as soon as he’s within arms reach. You roll the condom on him as he tucks your matted hair behind your ear and says, “Been so good tonight, baby, you decide how you want it.”

You purse your lips in amusement because while his offer appears generous, based on the tone of the evening and the charged mood you're both in, there's no way he doesn't already know you're about to choose his preferred position.

You reach up and kiss him lustfully one more time before you dramatically turn over and raise yourself up on all fours, looking over your shoulder at him with an expectant look. He raises an eyebrow at you and you playfully roll your eyes at him, "Are you going to pretend like you're surprised or are you gonna fuck me?"

He grips your ass cheeks, kneading them in each hand, fondly clicking his tongue, "Cum twice already and still so impatient.”

You expect him to tease you; he always does and after the evening you’ve had, you assume you’re in for another tortuous display of dominance so it takes you by surprise when he’s suddenly sliding in to you. You hear his breathing become noticeably more pronounced as he buries himself and his fingers lightly trace down your spine, his actions pausing for just a beat longer than you'd like.

Without even giving it a second thought, you start eagerly moving against him. "Need me that badly you can't even wait one second for me to catch my breath?" He taunts in a voice that's both amused and aroused. He wraps his hand in your hair and yanks hard. "So desperate for me to wreck you, gotta fuck yourself on my cock?" He punctuates his question with a swift smack to your ass.

You attempt to scoff at his teasing but a simple, strained “FUCK” leaves your lips instead as you steadily rock yourself back against him. He doesn’t seem to mind your initiative, responding to your movements with approving groans and keeping his large hands occupied by covering your ass, first with sharp slaps followed by firm yet tender rubbing to soothe your reddening skin.

You hear yourself chanting “More. Please. More.” in a staccato rhythm matching the way you’re throwing your body back on him. He complies with your request, hand coming down on your backside multiple times in rapid succession and you cry out in satisfaction. You love the sting but you think you love the fact that you’ll be wearing his marks for days even more.

A particularly strong blow has your arms giving out, dropping your upper body down to the bed with a moan. He takes this as you handing over the reins and quickly moves his hands from your ass to your hips, grip digging into your skin as he takes over and starts pounding into you.  

“Goddamn you wrap around me so good, it’s like you were made to take my cock weren’t you, beautiful?” His praise has both your mind and body humming; it’s been a long evening and although you’ve already had two orgasms, you find yourself overwhelmed by the undeniable need to cum with him inside you.

He pushes down on the small of your back to pop your ass and fuck you at a better angle but the way his fingers firmly but gently fall on your skin reminds you of how he touched you earlier in the evening. In the restaurant. On the street. In the car. Always wanting to feel you, always confirming your presence, always reassuring the both of you that your rightful place was with him.

An unexpected wave of affection washes over you and suddenly you’re needing him in a much different way. You manage to feebly say, “Ash? Babe?” as you muster the strength to raise yourself back on one arm while you fling the other behind you, blindly searching for him.

You almost never call him pet names so it immediately jumps out at him; he notices the shifted tone in your voice and halts his actions. You turn your head to meet his gaze as he pants, “You alright? What’s happening?”

Your hand finally finds his resting on your hip and you give it a squeeze, “Changed my mind. Need more of you on me.”

The confusion and concern that were clouding his features softens into something familiar yet somehow undefinable as he gingerly pulls out and leans forward to give you the softest kiss you’ve received all evening. “Well, let’s do that then.”

You spin around to face him and sit back on your knees, pulling him into another soft, slow kiss, brushing his hair off his forehead. He basks in your tender attention for a moment before he’s guiding you back down onto the bed, situating himself to fully lay on top of you, between your legs, careful not to break your kiss until you’re ready.

He slips back inside you and before he even gets the chance to ask, a breathy “Yessss” is all the confirmation he needs to know that this is what you were craving. You wrap your legs around him and run your hands across his broad back, “Just wanted to feel more,” you explain.

Your eyes are closed, relishing the feel of his weight on you and the stretch of him inside you, so you don’t notice the way he silently studies you for a moment before he lifts himself up and starts thrusting into you again.

For all the filth that’s come out of your mouths this evening, this round finds you both unusually quiet, letting your joined symphony of moans, groans, “yeah”s and “fuck”s say everything that needs to be expressed.

You feel him reach for your hand and move it to rest above you on the pillow, interlacing his fingers with yours; you respond with a squeeze and then one up him by turning your head to nip at the moon tattoo closest to you, simply because you can. He’s left his signature up and down your body tonight, it’s only fair you get to leave a small token of your appreciation on his.  

He hisses at the feel of your teeth lightly grazing his skin. “Come on, darlin’, play nice.”

“Since when do we do that?” You breathlessly reply and then bask in the glow of the grin you receive in response.

Still smiling, Ash shakes his head. “If you’re able to make smartass remarks like that, clearly I’m not doing my job here.”

He takes one of your legs from around his waist and lifts your thigh back towards your chest; your mouth opens to moan but nothing happens as he pulls almost entirely out and then fucks into you so much slower and deeper than before. He chuckles, “That’s more like it.”

You consider rolling your eyes at his teasing or panting out another sassy quip at him but the way he’s moving in you feels so otherworldly you honestly don’t care about anything else. You grab on to his forearm and dig your nails in.

“Feeling good, beautiful?” He reaches between you and mercilessly rubs your clit. “Who’s making you feel this good?”

The sound emanating from your throat might be his name but mainly sounds like a series of whimpers.

He rubs harder and thrusts deeper. “Didn’t hear you, speak up. Whose cock makes you feel like this?” You continue crying out nonsensically as you feel yourself on the verge of your third orgasm.

You need him close so you pull him down to you for a kiss. He sloppily licks into your mouth, panting against your lips. He’s almost as gone as you are. You bite at his bottom lip and say, with a bit more desperation than you anticipated, “Gonna cum for you, Ash.” He nods understandingly and pecks your lips once more.

His lips move to your neck as his thrusts speed up again; he’s determined now and you’re moaning in earnest. You feel that familiar burning in your core and your eyes instinctively flutter shut, savoring the fall into bliss.

"Uh-uh, eyes open, baby. Want you to look at me. Need to be sure you know whose cock it is you're cumming on,” Ashton commands.

You force yourself to focus on him as you start to unravel, your entire body on fire, tensing deliciously; your mind is screaming his name but only indecipherable whines fall from your lips. Ashton is relentless as he fucks you through it, his thrusts never slow; no matter how impossibly tight your pussy squeezes around his cock, he never stops driving into you even rougher and deeper than before.

His eyes remain locked on yours, making the entire experience feel unbelievably more intimate. You swear you can feel every pent up emotion from the evening - the jealousy, the worry, the possessiveness, the passion, the… love? - in his gaze and you’ve never had a more intense orgasm, physically or emotionally.

As you come down from your high, you hear him praising you, “Yes, baby... love making you cum… you always give so much… always such a good girl for me.” His words alone would've earned a reaction from you but he sounds as wrecked as you feel, causing you to emit a deep and breathy moan at this realization. He’s panting so heavily you know his release won’t be far behind.

You feel like you're mad with desire at this point; you're beyond satisfied and you know you couldn't possibly cum again but you still feel like you're wanting something, you still need more of him. Feeling emboldened by watching Ash lose control and the euphoria still pulsing through your body, you find yourself digging your nails into his arms and muttering, “Want your cum, Ash.”

He lets out a grunt as his hips slam into yours. “Oh, you’re definitely about to get it,” he smirks.

You sigh partly out of exasperation and partly out of arousal for what you’re about to request. “No, Ash, I want it,” you pant. “Want you to cum on me, make me yours.”

His hips slow as he processes your words. “Fuck” is all he can manage to growl under his breath in response. He pulls out and you whimper at both the absence of him and the anticipation of what’s going to happen.

Ashton peels off the condom and you can’t take your eyes off him as he wraps his long fingers around his cock and begins to stroke himself. It only takes a few tugs before he’s gasping and murmuring your name and you have to moan along with him when you feel his warm cum spurting onto your stomach and chest. He maintains a firm grip as the rhythm of his hand varies, making sure he squeezes out every last drop for you.

He hangs his head in exhaustion for a beat and then takes in the sight of you: fucked out, chest heaving, painted in his release. You catch him staring and offer him a tired yet mischievous smile; he seems to pick up on your wavelength and smirks as he runs a finger through the substance on your breasts and brings it up to your lips for you to suck off.

“Jesus, baby,” he groans, shaking his head almost as if he can’t believe his eyes. “Don’t move.” He affectionately rubs your thigh a few times before he moves off the bed and ducks into the bathroom, returning seconds later with a wet washcloth.

He climbs back next to you on the bed and presses a passionate kiss to your lips before he starts gently cleaning you up; it’s quiet for a few moments and the intimacy is not lost on either of you. You reach up and brush his wild hair from his eyes. “Hey,” you start, fondly.

He smiles much softer than he has all night. “Hey yourself,” he giggles.

You pause and feel a bit of leftover boldness coursing through you, so you comment, “You seem like you’ve got something on your mind.”

Ash bites his lip and exhales deeply, clearly considering how to answer. He looks down, avoiding your eyes, and fusses over a mark on your hip that’s sure to form into a gnarly bruise by morning. “Sorry if I got a little crazy tonight, I know I‘m usually better at checking in with you,” he muses.

You sit up and squeeze his shoulder. You feel the urge to reassure him but you can tell he’s on the verge of opening up and you don’t want to derail him. You’re trying to find the courage to prompt him further when he surprises you by admitting, “It just really fuckin’ got to me when I thought... “ he trails off, looking away again. “I got weirded out about those flowers and I shouldn’t have. And I’m sorry.” He tosses the washcloth onto the nightstand in exasperation.

You give him a faint smile. “Ash, I told you ---”

“I know and I believe you but I just started thinking... and then I couldn’t stop,” he confesses quietly. He stands up and pulls on a pair of shorts before busying himself by starting to tidy the bed.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom. You figure he could use some time to process whatever it is he’s still trying to work out so you wash your face, brush your teeth and slip on a t-shirt of his you find discarded on the counter.

You venture back into the bedroom and find him tossing the pillows back onto the bed after having changed the sheets. He still looks lost inside his thoughts and you yearn to ease his mind. You walk over and hug him from behind, burying your face into his back; he gives your arms an affectionate squeeze.

“I know we don’t really talk about this kind of thing but I feel like you should know I haven’t seen anybody else since we started talking,” you offer, your confession muffled with your face still pressed against his skin. “It hasn’t even been a conscious thing, I just… haven’t been interested, I guess.”

Ashton pulls you to his side and kisses the top of your head. “Thank you for telling me that,” he murmurs, rubbing your back.

You quickly come around and kneel on the bed in front of him so that you’re at his eye level and you wrap your arms around his neck. “And I liked everything that happened tonight; you know I would have told you otherwise,” you assert. He nods in acknowledgement so you continue, “I like hearing you tell me I’m your girl, I like when you make me feel like I’m yours... ”

You feel tempted to look away, to fidget with the necklace he’s wearing but you resist. You look straight into his hazel eyes, full of warmth and attentiveness, and state, “You know, I could be yours, if that’s something you decide you want.”

Ash only lets your words hang in the air for a split second before he wraps his arms around you tightly and kisses you slowly; it’s intense and passionate but not in the same over the top, cocky way that he kissed you back at your apartment. This kiss is also trying to prove something but it’s a message meant only for you and he’s taking his time to make his point clear.

When your mouths finally separate, you take a deep breath and steady yourself on his arms. You open your eyes at him and grin. “Was that your way of asking?”

—-

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[bookwyrminspiration]

So. Chapter 11. I have many thoughts.

First things first, absolutely amazing, every interaction the characters had felt so natural and fit together so well, and gosh I just...do not have the words to describe how much I adore your writing.

Now time for what I'm here for: you've got me all fired up again! It's been quite a hell of a while since I've done any real theory or predictions, so I might be slightly out of practice, forgive me if I get any details wrong!

And I don’t really know what all of it means yet, but let’s try to get the simple facts laid out first:

Bronte and Oralie send cryptic messages.

Sophie finds a dragon scale in a random desk.

Linh has a connection to the dragons, like Marella.

Dragons are connected with thunderstorms.

So, are we getting dragon!Linh? Because I am so here for dragon!Linh. At the very least, there’s some connection between them. But there’s…something else.

So, the messages from Oralie and Bronte are absurdly cryptic, and that’s so fucking cool and I love it, but I really really want to dig into what they’re saying now. So that’s what I’m gonna do!

Bronte’s message: Secrecy and redundancy compose the toolkit of those trying to hide. It takes a special someone to see the darkness in the world and not participate. Your infectious light is spreading.

Oralie’s message: Secrecy and redundancy compose the toolkit of those trying to hide. Play a melody for me, and tell me what it says. History will have something sweet to say about you.

And you (via Sophie) put a special focus on the words “infectious light” and “history”.

And I will eat my boots if that is not connected to some grand underlying secret underneath the entire story. Now, given that these two are Councillors and have access to confidential files, and Bronte as old as dirt, and the focus on the word history, I’m willing to bet there’s some dark secret within elven history (shocker, I know) that somehow relates to all this monster business. Cause like…it’s hard to make monsters! It’s crazy that the Neverseen and whatever the new group is called have managed to make so many!

(And I haven't figure out the Secrecy and Redundancy part yet, but I will tell you when I think I may have understood it.)

And what’s even weirder is how easy it was for Sophie and the rest of the kids to develop specific monster traits instead of just. Literally dying. And from weird potion mist, too.

Is there something about elves that allows them to turn into monsters? We know the monsters are unnatural, and when I’ve brought up the idea that elves are being turned into monsters you haven’t really denied or confirmed it, just kind of skirted around the topic. And this could also be the reason the humans haven’t been attacked by the monsters- the monsters are made of elves because elves are…somehow compatible with whatever the Neverseen are doing, and they attack other mythical creatures because I’m assuming they share traits similar enough to elves that the monsters have an interest in them.

But it’s also weird how Bronte’s letter (while actually being kind of a compliment, which I find so funny because it absolutely does not read like it, 100/10 characterization points) implies Sophie is spreading something, something infectious, and I’m sure the usage of the word “light” isn’t coincidence either.

Light is really important to elves, like really important, and it doesn’t seem like something Bronte would say, either, what with his…seeming respect for it (from how he acted when at the Point of Purity and journey back). He’d more likely say something like “bravery” or “strength”, given that (iirc) he’s even used those words to describe Sophie before. So there’s something about the word light specifically that was important, and something about the light being infectous.

And now, elves are living underground. And the monsters were said to appear out of nowhere, too, just…out of the blue. Are the Neverseen using the light to create more monsters? What are the monsters for? Can they turn whatever they’re doing off? Are the Council somehow aware of what the Neverseen is doing because they have access to lots of knowledge the main crew don’t, and that’s part of why they fled underground?

And what’s the connection with the dragons?

(I nearly forgot about the dragons.)

From what you’ve posted, you seem to really enjoy the part of dragons that is unknowable and out-of-reach, so much greater than pretty much every other creature in the world. And that also sounds like a way you could describe the void!

And if dragons could access the void, then that would explain how they appear and disappear so fast, and if they control weather that would be how the thunderstorms don’t come in over the horizon, and simply just happen.

But what does it mean? Why did Marella go to them in…what chapter was it again? I can’t remember. Why did Linh react to strongly to the dragon scales?

And Marella may have the wings, but Linh has the scales on her face (although iirc they’re a different color to the one Sophie picked up, so I don’t think it’s hers and I don’t see why she’d attack if it was), so is she a dragon as well? And if they are, are they different kinds of dragons? And since dragons are extremely territorial (from what we’ve seen and can infer so far) is that going to create problems? Linh already reacted terribly to another scale, so if her and Marella’s dragon instincts get worse, I can see how that would go terribly. Or is Linh a different kind of creature?

There’s just…so many thoughts. I barely got into any actual theories here, oops. But that’s…most of my thoughts for now. Hope you enjoyed? I know I personally enjoyed Chapter 11 immensely, thank you for this wonderful AU!

- pyro

woa this is a lot!! pyro!! i am speechless!! I am. I am ahhh!!! I'm glad the interactions felt natural, I was a little worried they'd feel too out of character but sometimes my need to let them mess around with each other takes over

those first four facts you've laid out do seem to be what I'm hinting at--whether you're correct though, I'll let you find out in later chapters. I have more to say about Bronte and Oralie's messages but I'll get to that later. also, I do have more planned for the dragons, which will be fun!!

will be entirely honest i forgot you all don't know what wings Linh has--but!! her connection to the dragons may be related to her wings! everyone has a pair of wings unique to them, so how that translates to her remains to be seen. Marella with the dragon wings and the interests may seem more obvious, but I think Linh is gonna have a lot more mysterious, confusing connection to the way everything works.

Now! onto Bronte and Oralie's messages!! these stumped me for a while because I needed them to be cryptic, but also riddle-like with some kind of meaning that sophie could figure out if she gave it enough thought. of course, as of chapter 11 she hasn't even tried to figure it out, but it's planted that seed in her mind

a cool thing that I just want to point out: there are a few lines throughout the au that i have taken the structure of directly of from the books and altered their wording. One of those was in a previous chapter where I took the "but her mind was stronger than her body" from book one and changed it. I don't remember exactly what i changed it into as it's been a while, but I know that's one of them. and i did it again in this chapter! if you remember the message Bronte had Mr. Forkle give Sophie, "It takes a special someone to see darkness inside of someone and not condemn them," that's the quote I based his unique portion of the message off of. Oralie's also has a meaning tied to an interaction with her, but it's not tied to a specific quote.

for the "infectious light," you are right, that does have a meaning, and it was important it was those exact words. what it turns out to be, however, may not be entirely what you're expecting. and then there's the "history will have something sweet to say about you" which is a little hint to Sophie, whenever she figures that one out. they are trying to send her a message but she needs to figure out what they're trying to say first!! also, the secrecy and redundancy part does have something more to it, but I'll let you continue theorizing about that one.

my apologies if i'm focusing on this part for too long, but I legit spent like half an hour trying to figure out how to word this to set up future scenes and reveals, so I want to share some of that process!

and it is curious how the elven world is the only one affected...

there's a lot of theories for why it was so easy for them to develop those features, maybe their minds adapt to abilities so suddenly that they're predisposed to other changes as well, or they go quicker. maybe it's fragile, guilty minds that enable them to be taken over by horrors like these, whereas humans are exposed to violence and guilt and grief on a daily basis. I might touch on this later in the chapters, so I don't want to spoil anything, but there so many possibilities!!

moving on to the dragons!! you're right, i do think very highly of dragons and like the inachievability of them in this context. they're not just mindless creatures, they're a lot more complex, as we saw with them having abilities like elves. Sophie doesn't know exactly what it was, but she thinks it was tied to the explosive sounds she heard and the change in the weather. and I could tie them to the void! if we going with intelligent creatures having access to the void (like silveny, though her intelligence is very different) then it would make sense to continue that pattern. and it could explain a few of the mysteries left behind after chapter 7 (6? i forget which one)

like i mentioned before, I do have more planned for the dragons, and that does involve both Linh and Marella specifically. so!! I think some of your questions will be answered in the upcoming chapters, but for now I can't exactly answer without spoiling. but! you are asking the right questions!! you are on the right track!!

and it wasn’t exactly scales on linhs face, more they had they same pattern (the iridescent one) but I might've worded it weird so I can see where that came from. as for whether or not she's a dragon, the only thing I can tell you right now is that she doesn't have the exactly same wings as Marella, and i told you in chapter 9 (i think?) that she could easily hide them like Sophie, Wylie, and Biana. The whole mystery with the scale, however, is one of the things that i can't answer without spoiling, so I guess that tells you there's a lot more to that too.

i also have so many thoughts about the au and !! I loved reading all of yours!! I enjoyed it thoroughly!! chapter 11 may seem slower than some of the more action packed chapters, but it sets up a lot of the lore and background we'll need for future endeavors, so i'm glad you liked it!! I think i introduced a lot of questions in this one too...

I might've missed some of your points (there were a lot, which is excellent!!), so if there was something important I glossed over feel free to send another ask so I can go back over it!!

but thank you for reading this au!! talking about it motivates me to write more and make it more complex!! I mean, we're about 84,000 words in and I'm still going, so. there's a lot more to come!!

[seventfics]

Prickly Urchin

Written for @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

Prompt: Cursed Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Sigismund Dijkstra Rating: T (Swearing Language) Content Warnings: None Summary: Few people still alive can say they've met the emperor before his ascension to the Nilfgaardian throne. A young Count Sigismund Dijkstra is one of them. It's just that neither of them knew.

Read on AO3

* * *

“Ah, my friends. Let me introduce you to Count Sigismund.”

Three old gentlemen turn from their muted conversation to look at him—look up at him. Rare to find a man taller than himself, and today is not that day. Dijkstra keeps his smile pleasant as the eldest of the bunch gives him a firm handshake with a not-so-kind side-eye to his build.

This is the first of his ‘courtly’ parties.

In Dijkstra’s mind, the party is merely reconnaissance. In such small and comfortable confines, he can overhear the concerns of the noble elite as they are being spoken aloud, and not from a spy’s penned cipher. He can make note of their political conflicts with each other, their plans for retirement, and if any of it involves the Redanian crown.

He is an agent first. Count is just what the king has chosen him honorable of, and one more weapon to add to his slowly-expanding network.

Of course, attending personally means actually having to mingle and talk with the peacocking arseholes, which is a fucking pain in the bollocks.

He hates the attention his height affords him in times like these. Being noticed means more people bother him with questions and curiosities. But, it also brings whispers to him, names to remember and investigate later.

Adapting is part of a spy's job.

“I’m a humble servant of the king,” he tells the few who look to be snooping too closely at his unfamiliar presence.

“I am a lettered man of Oxenfurt,” he tells the ones who are searching for a status to preen about.

The rest simply get his name, and the evening fest continues.

He doesn’t care about what the evening is about. The important people, the connections, the information—that’s all that matters. Not the distasteful night’s attraction.

"You must stay for midnight, Sigismund. I've a delightful surprise planned for rare auction."

"Is that so?"

The rich love their parties, he knows, and oh how they love a little risqué presentation to end the night.

He is aware of what attending such a fete would also do to his reputation, but that is why, just as they bring out the girls who look too young to be drinking the chilled wine, he slips away into darkened hallways. No one will remember his face among the partying crowd. After a few rounds of drinks, no one will remember the face of the person that sat next to them all night. And he is counting on that.

Most of the guests have been asked to stay confined to the great hall, with servants moving in and out of special doors that connect to the residence’s kitchens. Dijkstra had been tracking the timing of the servant rotations, waiting for the right opportunity to slip through so his evening could start.

The manor is enormous, full of halls and a dozen small rooms, each with their own designated purpose. A book reading room. A letter reading room. A room that appears to be a library, with all of its books covered in dust as if no one’s moved them in a decade. Certainly the lord of the house has too much time in his fucking hands to have a room dedicated to books he won’t read.

Still, Dijkstra makes note of everything in his mental map. Such a place would rarely get visitors, none but a snoop like him on a night like this.

How strange though. A useless, dusty room for a dozen and more servants to ignore. The rest of the house looks so spotless. Smells like secrets get whispered inside these walls.

As he runs fingers through the spine of a book he recognizes from his old Oxenfurt days, he notices the uniform arc of furniture scraping the floor from repeated movement.

He never could resist a secret.

* * *

Of course he also hates musty cellar air worse than dust.

The side of the library’s shortest bookcase gave way to a slim doorway, one he had to squeeze through with effort. “Of–fuckin’–course there’s a bloody fuckin’ cellar under the fuckin’ richman’s house,” he says, mostly under his breath in case there’s someone at the other end of the sconce-lit hall. “It’s practically required decor. Need to make bloody note of that when I hire a mason for my own godsdamned manor...”

He slows at the small cells that emerge between shadows. There is a bear chained against the floor in one of them.

No—not a bear. Dijkstra squints in the lowlight. It’s long-limbed and man-shaped, with a net of spikes, or quills, sprouting out of its head and back.

Well, well. What a curious prize to have stashed away, is his intrigued train of thought.

The lock clicks when he inspects it, but the thing snaps its teeth at his fingers—suddenly close enough to grab him through the bars—and he is forced to push back to avoid losing a healthy digit. He can’t help the angry, “fuck off,” that comes out of reflex.

After its failed lunge, the creature assumes a defensive crouch. Although the chains keep it from scurrying to a dark corner, it still manages to create a significant distance where Dijkstra cannot touch it or its chain.

Strangely sharp eyes never move off of him, even from behind the shield of a wooly arm.

Dijkstra sniffs, and immediately grimaces at the damp, underground smell attacking his senses. “You’re a cursed thing, aren’t you. Smart. Maybe human once. Well,” he scowls harder at the grime and the pitiful secret inside a richman’s cellar, “you’re lucky I've no interest in mangy pets. I’ve also no taste for pointless cruelty and by the look of things upstairs, that's what's going to happen. So if you’re smart enough to understand a single fucking word I’m saying, get your spiney arse over here so I can pick the bloody lock of that chain.”

The creature stares at him for a gobsmacked, godsdamned minute. A minute that he feels inch by with building sweat, dreading an eavesdropper or worse, the lord coming down to poke and prod at its prize before his little midnight 'auction.'

Slowly, the creature slinks closer, the chain rattling as quietly as chains allow.

Dijkstra blinks to himself. So it is smart.

“I was never here,” he starts, turning the picks almost blindly, “I got lost on the way to the fucking loo, did three circles around the central room. I didn’t see or hear anything about a prickly arse man kept in a basement. I’m not a party person, and I hate competition.”

He mutters his alibi uselessly to the mute creature, with no sarcastic input or snappy retort. It's surprisingly trusting and patient, for an overgrown urchin that has no reason to trust a man he’s never met, especially given the circumstance.

“Phil is going to laugh at me,” Dijkstra continues under his breath anyway, “I came for intrigue and left because the most interesting thing in this house will probably get me killed to have discovered.”

“Thank you.”

Dijkstra raises his hands in mock surprise. “So it speaks.”

As if to be contrary, the urchin man keeps his silence again. Now absurdly sardonic of him. He should be kissing Dijkstra’s foot.

“If that's all, scram.”

The urchin man stands to its full height, which is considerably tall among most men, though not even close to Dijkstra’s imposing build. Not that it seems to be intimidated.

“I won't forget this,” it says, voice heavy with gravitas.

Dijkstra snorts. “You should.”

* * *

Years down the line, Karma finally catches up to the great Redanian Spymaster.

It was only a matter of time. It caught up to Radovid first. Now the Black Sun flies over the Redanian capital.

As a self-serving man, Dijkstra worked for and against both sides of the war. He held no regrets, certainly not for any kings whose heads might have rolled and paved way for better allies and stronger ties to him. He is aware of how an emperor might find that threatening. He’s not like Vernon fucking Roche, who is the most loyal, most frustratingly oath-keeping man he's met.

An enemy to the empire’s will, Dijkstra is brought before the emperor himself. In chains, of course. Can’t have an audience without fucking theatrics. He would do the same.

As he is herded through Foltest’s halls—bastard rest in peace—he is brought to a small staircase, one he takes slowly for his bone-aching leg.

“His Imperial Majesty Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd, Lord of Metinna...”

Dijkstra zones out half through the list. He is the tallest man in the room and still his eyes fix themselves on the ground, weary from being herded around half the damn Continent only to be sentenced to death the proper bureaucratic way. At the marked end of the final title, he bothers to look up and sees an ordinary man emblazoned in black robes, red brocade, and gold chains.

And strangely sharp eyes.

He’s hit with a feeling like he’s seen them before, even though it should be impossible. A faded memory nearly rewritten itself into uneventful obscurity crawls out of the abyss.

The emperor stands. An unusual occurrence, going by the startled attention of the guards.

He looks at the spymaster but doesn’t say anything besides a short, apparently cut off, “you.”

Dijkstra has got to give it to him. The bastard gathers himself to gesture naturally really well. He might have even fallen for it, if he hadn’t already caught the wide look in those familiar eyes.

“You are the infamous Sigismund Dijkstra. Or is it Sigi Reuven now?”

“I like the sound of Reuven better.”

The dead silence tells him he broke protocol by not finishing with the obligatory, ‘your imperial majesty.’ More bureaucratic bullcrap that will get him hanged faster.

But the emperor simply blinks. And rounds the table to stand before him.

Dijkstra carefully keeps still, his back straight as it can be with how his busted knee bothers him. Then the emperor says something in Nilfgaardian, and the guards holding his arms behind his back retreat to the doors. Finally, he can put weight off of his cursed leg.

The room wordlessly clears at the emperor's raised hand.

It’s only in the forced privacy that he is spoken to again, with a very cryptic, “I never forget the favors I owe.”

The memory barrels through his tired brain like a horse-drawn carriage without a rider.

“You don’t owe me shite,” he says with a sniff. That urchin—that fucking urchin man he spared one ounce of pity that night. Became emperor of the godsdamned world.

From rags to riches, he thinks almost hysterically.

Emhyr lifts an eyebrow. “Are you sure you do not want an emperor’s favor?”

Well. When he puts it like that.

"Considering what these fun little trinkets promise," Dijkstra emphasizes with the rattling of chains, "I'm not so sure what I can do with that favor."

Now they're in familiar ground. Deals and offers and counteroffers—and the urchin emperor speaks the language like a fluent native.

Dijkstra keeps his eyes level with Emhyr's as the man circles him round calmly. He doesn't turn his head to follow where he steps. He doesn't need to. It's his ears that must stay alert and attentive to the words chosen for delivery.

“You danced around my agents and my own spymaster like they were children fumbling in the dark." Emhyr pauses to round him again but in the opposite direction. His profile is the very portrait of his imperial likeness painted and sold across the Continent. The artist of those really captured his stare. Respectful and arrogant at the same time. "You made a powerful enemy, Mister Reuven, and you've made yourself quite the competitor in the Redanian scene. But perhaps we can talk and see where our disagreements lie.”

“Disagreements? Light way to put it.” He scoffs, but there is no denying how bloody curious he is to test how far a favor from the emperor will reach. “Sure, I'll be amenable to a talk.”

* * *

When he tells Roche, the fucking vassal lord of Temeria just standing around the corner of the throne room, he laughs at the answering disgruntled, constipated face.

“You saved the emperor when he was a cursed urchin, and now you’re the collared prick at his beck and call?”

“Says the whoreson who gave him Temeria wrapped in a pretty bow.” Dijkstra sighs. Roche sighs too, but his is more soulful. “Ah, fuck it. We both gave him the rest of the world on a silver platter.”

“You don’t sound that angry about that.”

There is a creeping truth to those words. A spy adapts, and he is adapting to the current lay of the land and its rules.

Dijkstra taps his newly acquired cane on the polished floor, remembering a shady party and the cellar with an urchin man with too-sharp eyes. What would have happened, had he not freed the beast? Would the world be under a different iron fist, a crueler fist? Would it have all burned down already, with neither him nor Roche alive to bicker about it? Would it have been peaceful, with no room for spywork like his?

“Maybe I wanna see this through.”

He always did love the challenge of an abstruse, unreadable mind to win over. Kings were one thing, but an emperor?

His thoughts must be written plain as day on his face, as Roche looks at him like he's struggling between throttling him, or diving neck first into a clear bottle of Nilfgaardian Lemon.

[scripts4dreamers]

Not Your Hero. chapter 5.

Prologue, Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four, 

AN: Let The Games Begin.

Characters: Finnick Odair, Coriolanus Snow, Mags Flanagan

Pairings: Finnick x reader

Spoiler(s): None

Warning(s): Mentions of blood, death, murder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, psychological manipulation, intimidation, sexual harassment 

Prompt/Inspiration: Cringe - Matt Maeson

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

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

By the time you made it back to the tribute center, you’d stopped crying and had instead gone numb. You’d taken your shoes off at some point. Your feet were cold. You sniffed, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand and remembered, too late, the make up you’d been wearing.

“Fuck,” you said, without any real emotion as you took in the black smudge-marks on your hand, “that’s annoying.”

You weren’t surprised to find Finnick in your living room when you opened the door to your suite. When your client had first started to pull you away, you’d panicked and searched for Finnick with your eyes, but you never found him. Now, some part of you was grateful for that.

He looked a mess. His blazer was flung haphazardly over one end of the couch, his bowtie was loose, the sleeves of his shirt were dirty and rolled up past his elbows and his auburn locks were sticking up in all directions, like he’d been carding his fingers through his hair. He was watching a recap of the tribute parade on television but, when the door clicked into place, he whipped around. His eyes met yours and, as soon as they did, as soon as you saw the care there, the fear and tenderness all swirling together in the eyes of someone you trusted so much, you broke.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, tears spilling over your cheeks in a rush as sobs threatened to tear themselves free from your throat. In a second Finnick had leapt over the back of the couch and was in front of you, his arms half outstretched, like he wasn’t sure whether or not he could-

You launched yourself into his arms, collapsing against his body and letting him engulf you in a firm embrace. He smelled like vanilla and bourbon, and something cool and wild, like the ocean and you clung to that like a life raft, letting it flood your senses and block out everything else. Finnick held you like you were something precious, letting you cry into his shoulder while he stroked your hair and whispered comforting words into your ear. It was so gentle, so loving and tender that it made you feel painfully fragile, like you might shatter into a million little pieces at any second. Part of you wanted to pull away and hide, to push Finnick out and never let anyone touch you ever again. The other part thought that, if Finnick ever stopped touching you, you might die.

“I’m okay,” you eventually sniffed, your voice thick with tears and muffled by Finnick’s shirt.

“No you’re not,” he replied, squeezing you tighter, “I know you’re not.”

“I am,” you insisted, pulling away slightly to look Finnick in the eye, “I mean, I’m not but, the worst is over now, right? It’s done, I don’t have to be afraid of it happening anymore because it’s already happened.”

Finnick looked concerned, like he was fighting the urge to argue, but eventually he nodded.

He reached out and brushed your hair out of your face, making you shiver, “Come on, you should get cleaned up.”

For a moment you panicked. The thought of being alone with your thoughts suddenly so overwhelming that your heart froze but, as Finnick gently took your hand and led you down the hall, you realised what he’d meant. Finnick Odair had no intention of leaving you on your own, he wanted to take care of you. Without so much as a word, he washed your face, combed out your hair and put your shoes back in your closet. He waited outside while you showered, scrubbing yourself clean more times than you needed to because you couldn’t escape the feeling that you’d missed a spot. When you were clean and wrapped in a bathrobe, he helped you pick some pyjamas, three sizes too big with long sleeves and long pants and, while you changed, picked up the dress you’d stepped out of and took it away, putting it somewhere where you’d never have to look at it again.

By the time he got back, you felt almost like yourself again, or more accurately, like someone who could be you, given time. You’d slipped into bed and were sitting up against the headboard, staring into space and trying to convince yourself that it was time to sleep. Finnick, still without speaking, clambered in on the other side and shifted so that his side was pressed against yours. You snuggled into him, resting your head on his shoulder and letting him wrap an arm around your waist. It was comforting and warm and safe with Finnick, the kind of safe you couldn’t remember feeling since the games and you thanked your lucky stars that you’d met him when you did.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Finnick asked.

You shook your head, “Not really. I think you can probably imagine what happened.”

“Thadius?”

“No, some banker’s son named Proculos. He said he liked my hair.” you explained.

Finnick nodded, “I’ve met him. He’s a prat.”

“He is a bit,” you agreed, “but at least he’s too stupid to be mean.”

Finnick chuckled, even though nothing about the situation was funny, and gave you a gentle squeeze as you lapsed into comfortable silence.

“Thank you, by the way,” you eventually said, “for being here.”

Finnick smiled to himself, “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

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

From there, life took on a strange kind of normalcy. Most of your time was spent coming up with strategies for your tributes or watching past games and taking notes. You hung out with the other victors in the sponsor rooms, made connections, charmed people, did interviews. You never talked about what happened with your clients and Finnick never asked you to, but he did watch you a little more intently than before, searching for any signs of distress. On his part, Finnick felt like he was being ripped in half. Every second spent worrying about you was a second he wasn’t spending on Annie and, every second he spent with Annie was a second not looking out for you.

How had this happened? How had Finnick Odair, king of the capitol, known bachelor and playboy, become so deeply entangled in the lives of the people around him?

“Hey, you,” you greeted, breathing heavily as you took a seat next to Finnick, “why the long face?”

You looked incredible, Finnick noticed with his usual pang of annoyance, with your hair pulled off your face and tight fitting training gear on. You’d taken Gloss up on his offer to train you in your free time, building up your strength and endurance with the fiery determination that Finnick had always admired in you so much. It was working too. In the few days it’d been happening, Finnick could already see the beginnings of real improvement. It made him absurdly proud.

“Annie.” He explained, “She’s not getting the buzz she needs from sponsors.”

“There’s still time,” you assured him, “and maybe when the training scores come out-”

Finnick cut you off, shaking his head sadly, “She won’t get higher than an eight.”

“An eight is good!”

“An eight is standard,” Finnick corrected, “at least for us it is.”

“I’d pay someone to give Adam an eight,” you sighed, “right now I’m expecting a five or six.”

Finnick cursed his own insensitivity, “Sorry, Y/N. No one really cares about the training score anyway, unless it’s super high or unreasonably low. They’re not really an indication of how well he’ll do.”

You shrugged, drinking deep from the water bottle you were holding, “I know,” you replied, “I only got a five on my year and look at me now.”

“Exactly,” Finnick smiled, “but for careers…”

“You’ve got to be better than good to stand out,” you commiserated.

“Yup.”

You opened your mouth to say something but, before you could, Gloss called you over. You shot Finnick one last sympathetic look and stood to leave.

“I’ll see you tonight, yeah?” you called.

Finnick nodded, pushing down his disappointment, “Yeah, of course.”

“Good,” you smiled.

And, just like that, you were gone, leaving Finnick with his thoughts. He knew he was moping, that there were surely better ways for him to be spending his time than sitting around feeling sorry for himself but, as he watched you and Gloss training in the distance, he couldn’t muster up the energy to do any of it. Without meaning to, he let his mind drift back to that first, horrible night when you’d broken down in his arms.

Never in his life had Finnick been so filled with rage. Not when he was reaped, not when his parents had died, never. That night, for the first time, Finnick had understood the desire to cause pain and fear in another human being. He hadn’t wanted to kill the person who’d touched you, he’d wanted to destroy them, to slowly cut away little pieces of them, one by one, until nothing was left but the raw, ugly, corrupted heart of them. He wanted to make them so afraid, wanted them to feel the pain they’d caused so acutely that they begged for death. Only then did he want to kill them.

It was a terrifying feeling, knowing that that monster lay inside of him somewhere, that it could come out at any time and do something terrible to the people he loved. How could a man be capable of such thoughts, such passionate hatred and such tender care? How could a man be both, without the two sides tearing one another apart?

Despite popular belief, Finnick wasn’t actually an idiot, he knew it was because of you. He knew he cared about you more than he should and his feelings were just a reflection of that but, nevertheless, it made him deeply uncomfortable. That’s why he’d decided to keep his distance a little, put some space between the two of you, redraw those lines separating friendship from more that had become so blurry. It was harder than he’d thought it would be. You were just so...you all the time, and he wanted to be around that every single day. But he couldn’t. He shouldn’t. For both of your sakes, it would be better if he wasn’t. He had other obligations after all, other responsibilities. Annie needed him focussed.

He remembered the look on her face when she stepped on the train like it was yesterday, all wide eyes and abject terror.

“This is insane,” she muttered, “Fin, what’s going on? How is this happening?”

He shook his head, still reeling from the shock himself, and pulled her into a rough hug. His ears were ringing, his fingers were numb, everything around him felt like it was happening in slow motion. Annie? Why Annie? She’d never taken out tesserae, she wasn’t a star pupil at the academy... It didn’t make sense. Why had no one volunteered? Why had she ended up alone on that stage?

It’s because of you, the voice in his head whispered, it’s because of you. You did this, you doomed her. Because of course it had been rigged. There was no way that, in all of district four, Annie Cresta, known associate of Finnick Odair, could be picked randomly for the Hunger Games. It couldn’t happen. This had to be some sort of message from Snow.

Which meant, Finnick realised with growing horror and dread, that it was his fault. She was here, sentenced to die, because of him. Shame wasn’t a strong enough word for what he felt.

He pushed himself up and made his way back to the elevator, determined to get some work done before the event that evening. Finnick could hear your voice echoing against the walls and, for a second, he considered just staying for a little longer. He’d almost decided that he would stay when the elevator door closed behind him and Finnick was reminded, once again, that he was alone. With a sigh, he pressed the button for the fourth floor. He felt like he was making the right decision, but why did it have to be so hard?

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

When the big day came you felt woefully unprepared. Ever since the victory tour you’d spent every free second trying to make sense of this moment. The start of the games. The first day. Everyone told you that the first one was the worst that, as the years went by, it would get easier. It was meant to be comforting but, to you, it had always sounded more like a threat.

You took a deep breath in, exhaling slowly through your mouth as the hands of the clock ticked on, bringing you closer and closer to the moment of truth. You were vaguely aware of the other mentors flitting around the large viewing room but they were like flies or little birds; pretty, but ultimately distant and unimportant when compared to the screen in front of you. You cracked your knuckles. It should be starting soon. Where was Adam right now? You wondered. Was he in the loading bay? Did he have his tracker in? Had his stylist helped him into his clothes already? Surely she must have. Your eyes flicked to the clock. Yes, by now he would be dressed and ready, maybe even already in the tube. What did they have in store for him?

Your heart was pounding in your ears as you swallowed hard past the lump in your throat. Arketia was explaining what to expect and you were trying to listen, you really were, but your eyes kept being pulled towards the glass ascension tube in the corner of the room. It was like a magnet, pulling you closer and closer to death with every passing second and there was nothing you could do but stare.

A rough hand under your chin pulled you back to the present.

“Focus!” Arketia insisted forcefully, “I’m trying to save your life here you silly girl.”

You winced as her grip dug into your chin, but nodded, recognising the sincerity in your stylist’s eyes.

“Sorry.”

Her gaze softened and she let go, gesturing to the outfit in front of you again, “Like I was saying; this is all cotton or some other lightweight fabric designed to breathe,” she explained, “except for the jacket. That means hot days and cold nights, you understand?”

“Yes,” you answered, looking over the beige and khaki outfit with a growing sense of dread.

“I would bet on it being some sort of desert,” she continued, “like a savannah or veld land.”

Your bottom lip trembled with the effort to stop yourself from crying, and you could feel the tube pulling your gaze, but you resisted. Arketia was trying to help. And, some part of you pointed out, this might be the last friendly interaction you would ever have.

“If it is, you have to find water, and soon,” she told you, a sort of desperation in her eyes, like she was trying to burn the information into your brain with only her gaze, “you’ll lose a lot in those high temperatures, more than you expect. And it’ll get extremely cold as soon as the sun goes down, so try to find somewhere sheltered to sleep, alright?”

You nodded, biting back a comment about how that was fairly general advice and letting her help you strip out of your fancy capitol clothes. All too soon you were dressed, and all you could do was wait together, sipping on bottles of water like they were a lifeline and letting your anxiety creep up and up and up and up.

“Jesus Christ, you’re really not listening to me, are you?” A voice questioned, snapping you out of your reverie with a jump.

Finnick collapsed onto the couch next to you, his perfectly sculpted face the picture of calm. You could see the tension he was holding in his body though, in the way he held his shoulders and fists. As you examined him further you could see the signs of sleepless nights in his face too. You smiled weakly.

“You look wrecked,” you teased, “your stylist didn’t have something to cover up those designer eye bags?” You asked, poking his cheek with your finger.

He laughed, moving his head away from your prodding, “Hey! Who asked you, kid? It’s rude to pick on me in these trying times.”

You scrunched up your nose, “Oh come on, you know you look perfect as usual. I pick on you purely out of jealousy.”

The banter was light hearted and joking but you both knew that it was nothing more than a smokescreen, a comforting exchange that kept you both from spiralling into uncontrollable panic and fear.

“Aww, Y/N/N,” he replied, the smile not quite reaching his eyes, “you’ve got nothing to be jealous of, kid.”

You flushed but, before you could answer, the anthem rang through the crowded room, silencing everyone and drawing their eyes towards the screens. You felt Finnick tense up beside you but you were frozen in place. Your heart was pounding in your ears as the cold hand of dread gripped your heart. For a moment, as the screens came to life, all you saw was the savannah, the miles and miles of brush and sand and the blistering sun, and the cornucopia; blindingly bright in the sun. And you were right back in it. Only the faint brushing of Finnick’s knee against yours pulled you back. You took another deep breath.

“I can do this,” you promised yourself, “I can do this.”

And with that, you pushed your panic deep down into the recesses of your mind and focused on the scene before you. You heard Finnick sigh with relief, and a few quiet sounds of celebration from the other mentors and you couldn’t help but agree, feeling the knot of worry in your chest loosen slightly. The arena was green, with sloping hills creating a sort of river basin and a towering wall of concrete and cement in the distance that looked like a dam. That fact, in particular, made you smile. Your district was full of dams, they were how you generated power and, even if the dam in the arena was unhelpful, you knew the sight of it would give your tributes some comfort the same way the river would for the tributes of district four. James caught your eye and gave you a brisk nod.

You heard the booming voice of Claudius Templesmith as he announced the start of the games, and the roaring cheer and excitement of the crowds of thousands of Capitol citizens who had gathered in the outside viewing areas. It made a rush of bile rise up in your throat.

The countdown began and, instinctively, you reached out and grabbed Finnick’s hand, squeezing tight as your eyes finally found Adam.

“3….2….1,” the robotic voice called.

“And so it begins,” Finnick said softly.

You nodded, “And so it begins.”

-------------------------- 

@i-love-you-green​ , @heatherhollowayst

[andmaybegayer]

Last Monday of the Week: 2021-03-01

First Monday of the Month. My boss just quit at work which means I'm now the only formally trained engineer left who has any particular specialization in embedded systems. This week is going to be a doozy.

I also wrote a Very Long set of media updates because I’ve been consuming some stuff that makes me think a lot. Never a good sign.

Listening: I spent all of Saturday playing Minecraft after talking with some friends about it during the week on IRC. Practicing what I preach with regards to my Large Biome Supermacy policy, which does involve a lot of walking. Hence, I started catching up on The Adventure Zone: Graduation again, I'm like ten episodes behind.

https://maximumfun.org/episodes/adventure-zone/the-adventure-zone-graduation-ep-32-by-a-haircut/

I don't really enjoy Travis' DM'ing style. It's very loose and he has a tendency to let players run wild without much structure which is a tricky thing to handle. He does a lot of worldbuilding and character design but doesn't seem to plan much in the way of arcs. That pays off sometimes (returning to the school to realize they broke a promise they made a few sessions earlier and had to deal with consequences, for example) and when it does, it’s really good, but it's finnicky. I know DM's who can do that, but, well, actually I know One Single DM who can do that well and she's absurdly smart.

Reading: Still on Worm, I just got past chapter 8 or so now. It lives in my phone browser so I've mostly been reading it whenever I get some spare time, which is a good sign. If a book doesn't grab me I need to really settle down in a quiet space to avoid getting distracted, but I can read Worm while someone else is on the phone in the same room.

It is a story with a lot of very well-conveyed feelings and events. It's very easy to imagine yourself in it. Characters actually act like they care about what they're doing, I feel like writing this took a lot of care to keep everyone on model.

There's also a certain care given to the superpowers that you'd usually only see in forum posts arguing about an actual superhero story. Everyone always likes to argue about how far you can push a superpower: can you use teleporting to fly? What prevents a speedster from catching fire in the air? Where does the energy for a  pyrokinetic ability come from? Worm takes these and runs with them as a way to make absolutely any fight become a series of gambits relying on whether a power can or cannot be used to perform some high-stakes trick.

The world certainly has some underpinning contrivances to explain why no one gets killed very often but I've always considered nitpicking the base contrivances of a setting silly, because that's precisely what they are: contrived, in order to allow the rest of the story to flow from there. Like arguing about Omega’s abilities in the famous thought experi-*I am dragged off stage by the ratblr police for making a by now extremely stale joke*

Watching: I came and edited this section in like an hour before this posts because I keep on forgetting to put it in. I don’t really like watching TV and with my parents stuck at home in Pandemic Times it’s how they pass the time.

I did finish S3 of the Good Place. It’s very funny. I’m glad I’m watching it and I’m going to have to go find S4 because ZA Netflix doesn’t have it for whatever reason. It feels a little like it was written by Phillip Pullman if Phillip Pullman was a comedy TV writer.

I also really enjoyed the PBS Spacetime video about how time causes gravity. Love when an explanation of concepts is good enough that you drawn the conclusion on your own.

Playing: Visual Novel Hell plus Minecraft.

I spent approximately seven hours in Minecraft over two days. I tend to hop in and out of games for 1-2 hours at a time but there's a handful that can suck me in for an entire day. Minecraft, Warframe, Horizon Zero Dawn, Night in the Woods. Bastion, to a lesser extent. I end up avoiding them because I don't like loosing entire days, but I wasn't really planning on doing anything this weekend anyways.

Minecraft was mostly a long-ass trek to find a saddle, because as previously mentioned, I enjoy playing it with Large Biomes for the sense of scale.

I also completed Act 3 of Psycholonials and Eliza.

Psycholonials is odd. It is doing the thing that Hussie does where it dances around what's ostensibly the story to carry out the actual story. You get used to the trope after your first encounter but it still makes you wonder when the other shoe will drop, and of course, there's no reason it ever has to. The story may remain in suspended animation behind the every growing mess of narrative red tape tying the B-plot together.

Stories about Social Media have no well established norms. I think I might pick up Feed by M. T. Anderson and also perhaps Hank Green's books sometime. See what context they set that in.

Eliza is frustrating to me. It's a game for programmers, by programmers, about programmers. I'm friends with a lot of Capital P Programmers, the types who go to university and get sniped for developer positions at Seattle or Silicon Valley tech companies and who make great and terrible things and then warn you about the deep problems that underpin the slowly rolling ball of venture capital and bloated technology that is the tech industry. But at the same time, it makes me feel like I've burnt out on that conceptually before I even went in. It’s a whole other world that I’m familiar with but very distant from. In fact, that’s kinda how I feel about Psycholonials too. I’m familiar with the social media rat race but I also don’t go there. Parallels!

My cousins (who are halfway to Capital P Programmers, only so much you can do halfway around the world from silicon valley) warned me not to go into CS, because it would bore me, and that's a non-trivial part of why I'm in Engineering. They gave the same advice about Biology and Physics, without that I may have ended up in Microbiology. it’s not my domain, but because of how Engineering is going, you end up a lot closer to programmers than you think. I found out the other day that most of the software developers on my team have no formal tertiary qualifications, which is accepted in CS but of course, right out when it comes to engineering. It’s a whole other world that I kinda expected to skip around. I might go into this another time, since this post is already getting long.

Making: I haven’t done any engineering scicomm posts on here in a while so I started a few blank drafts and finally got one off the ground. With some luck I’ll have that ready this week. What’s it about? Not saying! It might change!

I’ve been doing layout for a custom keyboard, I need to call a laser cutting place and find out what their kerf requirements are so I can adjust the path accordingly. Wouldn’t do to burn a couple hundred rand on an oversized part, I’m paying for this, not my employer like the other times I’ve done laser cutting, so I’m probably not going to spring for getting one of their designers to check my design. At some point I should CAD up a chassis, but at the same time I might just buy some wood and go ham with a router once I get the plates cut.

Computers Slot: I got WeeChat set up properly on my desktop, which technically was just a matter of getting my SSH keys moved over. It’s taking me forever to move in to Cinnabar, in part because Stibnite lost her boot partition and I haven’t bothered to fix it.

So here’s a pitch for WeeChat as a good quality Terminal UI IRC Client. Many of my closest friends live there and it has a good set of tools to help me keep in touch.

WeeChat is very configurable but with perfectly sane defaults, I didn’t configure it for years. The UI is smarter and less arcane than something like irssi, and if you enable mouse support it can be downright modern. Running it remotely like this limits some features but as long as you don’t mind jumping through a few hoops to do filesharing, IRC is really great like this.

One of the big ones is the ability to do that double-pane thing, I can keep an eye on two channels at once (really as many as I can cram on my screen, but usually two) which is great when you want to browse channels while talking in your home channel.

It also has a good array of remote access tools, from what I’m running up there, just weechat running on my server inside tmux connected over mosh for low-latency SSH, to weechat-relay, a relay protocol built in to weechat. At the moment relay only supports android phones and the glowingbear web client, but I’ve never really looked around since both of those cover all my needs. Easily one of the best ways to get IRC on a modern mobile device, barring maybe IRCCloud.

[aewriting]

WIP Wednesday

This is another sneak peek at the AU in which Alex and Greg run a review website for very specific, um, gear.  This was inspired by some posts by @jocarthage over on the Discord server, and the idea just sort of took hold.  As mentioned last time, format is shamelessly inspired by “Daisy Jones and the Six.”

Warnings for homophobia, discussions of sex (including kink and rope play and toys), ableism, canon-compliant injury.

***

[Greg] We were very earnest, In those early days. And I think, even to this day, there’s a certain gimmick to it, you know? Two brothers, both ex-military, doing these very detailed product reviews. [Alex] Greg wanted to call it “Battle Hardened” which was just... too much, you know? [Greg] I’m glad we went with “Battle Tested,” in the end. But that did raise the question of actually testing it under real conditions. [Alex] We were both so new to everything, and we knew that if we wanted to be taken seriously and have any authority with this, we’d have to learn more.

[Greg] We started becoming more involved with the local kink community, going to munches up in Albuquerque, attending some trainings. We met some, um, some contacts that way. Helped us finally test some things out under other, um, more realistic conditions. [Alex] It was really important to Greg that we test everything out ourselves. We started with rope, then certain toys that could be used solo. But at a certain point, we really needed to involve other people. [Leona Tran, “Battle Tested” employee, photographer and videographer] I still remember the first time those two walked into the Green Jeans Farmery. I’d been going there for a little over a year, and talk about fresh meat. I mean, you’ve seen them. I was super wary though, kind of hung back and just observed them. You could tell they were really serious about it, though, really wanted to know the right way to do things.  I think they were actually taking notes. [Alex] That’s how we met Leona, at a munch in Albuquerque. She helped ease the way for us, connect us to the right people. [Leona] Honestly, when I found out they were brothers? And were doing this so they could have better product reviews for their website? I thought it was hilarious, but at the same time I didn’t believe them. [Greg] I think I ended up showing her pictures on my phone of us like, trying the ropes out. [Leona] I was definitely intrigued. And, I dunno, I was rooting for them. I introduced Greg to some awesome dommes I knew. And I convinced Alex to let me start testing some more products for them. [Alex] Leona coming on opened up a whole new world. I’d get emails from her at like 3am on a Saturday with the subject line, “Holy Fucking Orgasm!” [Leona] Alex was a little closed off at first. I wasn’t sure why. Now that I know him, though, I definitely get it. Between his dad and the military and his leg... [Alex] That was definitely something I didn’t expect, when all this happened. How much I liked, um, liked being in control. God, it’s still... still not the most comfortable thing for me to talk about. Despite, like, running the website. [Greg] Alex was no monk, but he also wasn’t really, like, letting anybody in, either, if that makes sense? [Leona] Albuquerque’s not, like, a huge town, especially in terms of the link scene. Word traveled pretty fast, about Alex and Greg. Two hot brothers, ex-military, with the sex website. Plus they were actually, like, responsible, you know? Considerate. I mean, Greg, especially, had a lot of options. I think it was more complicated for Alex. [Alex] People can be assholes. Like, that’s just a fact. And it can happen anywhere. Happened in the military, but it happens in the kink scene, too. [Long pause] I think the novelty factor was pretty high, with me. Gay. Ex-military. The website. And, um, my leg, of course. There were definitely people who were curious about all that. But not... um. Not necessarily about me. Like as a person. [Greg] I think Alex wanted something more than just a hookup, after a certain point. [Alex] Don’t get me wrong. At first, especially, I was just, like, absurdly grateful that anyone was interested. I mean, that was a fear, for sure. That I’d go to one of these events and it would just be, like, total rejection. [Leona] You need to find your core group. People you can trust. I think that was harder for Alex. [Alex] You have to remember, too, that I wasn’t that far removed from the military, I, I’d been a Captain, before I lost my leg. There was a part of me that felt comfortable giving orders, being in control, being... I dunno, responsible for someone else. Feeling like I could be counted on, like I had the situation handled. Guess it wasn’t a surprise that it carried over to the bedroom. [Carlito Ramirez, Brunch n’ Munch coordinator] Oh my god, Alex Manes. Incredible. Some of the best rope play I’ve ever had. And I’ve had a lot. Very commanding, but super conscientious. Hot as fuck, too, you know? Me and some of the other guys still reminisce about when he first came on the scene up here in Albuquerque.  He was a goddamn professional, that’s what he was. I trusted him, which is... everything. I mean, that’s part of why I recommend his website to everyone.

[mierinette]

day 30 - roommates

promise me you’ll stay, beyond the sunrise.

tumblr month: @auyeahaugust

links: ao3 | ff.net

i.

MARINETTE doesn't know how he got her address.

She'd only moved in that day, after a haphazard decision to do so for independence and freedom in her own work. (Though the whole Ladybug-and-unexplained-disappearances thing when living her parents was a huge factor, too.)

Scratch that, it's probably the onlyfactor.

If it weren't for her parents' growing suspicion and concern due to her heroic escapades, Marinette would still choose to stay at home and with them; or at the very least, stay nearby.

She had to move a good distance away— a bus ride or so, in order to rationalize with her parents why she had to move out. ("But why do you have to leave?" "Moving would be easier for me to do my work! It cuts down on transportation time a lot.")

Never mind that as Ladybug, she can move from one side of Paris to another in mere minutes.

The apartment itself is quite modest, with enough space for her to live comfortably (but not much for anything else). Nino, Alya, and Adrien had helped her move in all her stuff, though quite a few were still left untouched inside their boxes.

It's more a reflection of Marinette's need for privacy than their helpfulness as friends, though— since a hefty amount of the items in those containers hold her carefully-curated collection of Adrien Agreste collectibles, limited edition items, and posters.

So. Many. Posters.

(It's been years, but her crush on him has only grown all the more intensely. She's grown out of her stuttering phase, fortunately, but the butterflies in her stomach don't fade, either.)

Exhaustedly, Marinette lies on her mattress.

They only left an hour ago… is it okay to miss them this much?

She's not accustomed to the quiet, especially with the bustling energy of her family and the customers that arrive for their daily dose of caffeine in the early mornings. The lack of aromatic scents of freshly-baked breads and desserts as she lays down is a stark reminder that she's not home anymore.

Marinette sighs to herself.

Maybe she's lonely.

Just a little bit.

It's in that exact moment someone comes knocking on her balcony door. The balcony is a good amount smaller than the one she had at home, only really enough for a few plants and one person—

Or one disguised cat-themed hero.

His smile's bright as she pushes away the curtain and opens the sliding door.

Chat Noir doesn't even wait for a verbal invitation; he walks inside, looking around in wonder.

"Wow, you've already unpacked a lot," he starts, noticing her sewing machine set up on a desk nearby. "You already took it out?"

An eyebrow raised. "Yeah… why?"

"I thought you were setting up your sewing area last," he starts, before absurdly coughing to himself at her suspicious glance. "I mean, considering that it's the only one without a designated space… I thought you'd do everything else first, because it's common sense, right?"

Hmmm.

"That was the original plan," she finally admits. "But I have commissions to work on, so I decided to keep it there. Temporarily, at the very least." Chat Noir nods, before Marinette gestures at him. "So… how did you find out about here?"

"What do you mean?"

"My apartment?" She asks, leaning upon the door frame. "I don't recall telling you where I was moving."

"Oh…," he pauses, sifting through her boxes. "Uh, superhero, remember? Ladybug and I make it a point to know where everybody is at all times. To protect the citizens of Paris and all that!"

Well, that's not even the slightest bit true, but it's not as if Marinette can rebuff him.

So, she nods in fake understanding instead and shrugs.

"That doesn't explain what you're doing here, though?"

Chat Noir smiles. "I figured that you'd meowss the company. You moved pretty far from your friends." He sounds almost sad at that revelation, and Marinette almost feels sorry.

(What would he be so sad for? It's not like she moved far away from him.

Though she wouldn't really know, if she did.)

"Well, I can't say that I don't appreciate you showing up." She smiles, eyes bright.

It's a sweet moment.

Until:

"You can help me unpack everything else."

(They spend the rest of the night unpacking things, but Marinette insists that one box be left alone. When Chat Noir accidentally sees a peak of an all-too-familiar model's poster flap out from its cover…

he thankfully decides against mentioning it.)

.

.

ii.

Chat Noir makes it a point to regularly stop by her apartment.

(Even at times he should be busy and on patrol— though more often than not, Marinette can't find it in herself to be angry at him.)

She still doesn't see her friends and family that often, but being with him, she finds, lessens the loneliness a lot; to the point that she finds herself more fulfilled, if anything.

At first, she figured that he'd get tired of him— seeing him both as Ladybug and Marinette, and so often, but it's the complete opposite. They talk about and do everything together, with her learning so much more about him than she'd ever expected to.

If anything, Chat Noir is good and fun company, even though she'll never admit it to his face.

It's a few months into their arrangement of random meetings when Marinette makes the mistake of going to her apartment straight home as Ladybug.

"… milady? What are you doing here?"

She pauses as she reaches for the balcony door, belatedly noticing that Chat Noir follows right after her. He's perched on the balcony railings, staring at her with confusion and almost suspicion.

Oops.

"Chat?! What are you doing here?" She points at him accusingly, almost stumbling backward. "I thought you said you were going straight home after the akuma!"

"Yeah…," he starts, eyebrows knitting together. "But I always stop by Marinette's to check on her if she's doing okay. She just moved away recently, and I just want to make sure she doesn't feel lonely or sad or anything." He pauses, realizing how his statement may sound. "I mean, speaking as a superhero, you know… I can't risk her getting akumatized! Especially since she's Multimouse and all…"

"That's actually… pretty sweet of you Chat."

He smiles softly, before suddenly narrowing his eyes. "That doesn't explain what you're doing here, though?"

She halts, evidently caught off-guard. "I— uh—"

"Ladybug… visiting Marinette… in her apartment… that means…"

"Wait, don't connect the dots—"

"Marinette's planning a surprise for me!"

"I'm not—

Wait. What?"

She's never seen Chat Noir look so excited.

"I knew she was planning something for me! You know, last time I came over, we were talking about birthdays, and I told her it was some time around this month… is that what the two of you were planning all this time? Ack, this is pawsitvely exciting my tails on end!"

Ladybug wonders how he can be so smart but so dumb at the same time.

(Well, whatever the case— it works out well for her.)

Ladybug smiles. "You know I can' tell you that!" Her voice is a notch higher than usual, as she playfully and awkwardly punches his shoulder. "… pal! Now go home and let us plan your surprise, okay?"

"Can I get a hint?!"

"Uh. Cats." She stops, almost similar to the way a robot would if they were to malfunction. "Yup. Cats. Like you. Now that's all!"

She pushes at him, before he finally relents and leaves the balcony.

The next day, Chat Noir comes to Marinette's apartment, and sees his surprise:

A cat-themed party.

Marinette looks absolutely exhausted, but seeing Chat Noir's bright smile— she doesn't quite mind it.

"Happy birthday, kitty: however old you are, and whenever your birthday really is!"

They spend the rest of the night celebrating together.

(Adrien's birthday happens a week later, and she's surprised to find out that he wants to spend it treating her out, just the two of them. She wonders why he doesn't want a birthday party, and he explains that he already had one— and nothing could top how perfect it was.

They spend the day going around together, and end it as he drops her off at her apartment. Alya and Nino insist it's a date.

Marinette vaguely wonders to herself if it was.)

.

.

iii.

Chat Noir stops by when Adrien doesn't.

Marinette rereads the text over and over again:

I'm so, so, sorry, Mari. My dad's not letting me out until I finish all the work I do. Let's hang out another time, okay? Miss you, Alya, and Nino a lot!

She sighs, walking over to turn off the oven. The scent of passionfruit macarons makes their way around the apartment, as she carefully puts them into a container. Her outfit, a nicely-fitted red dress— the one Alya calls the first date dress, shines in the room light.

It's a strong inner debate as to whether Marinette should call her friends, but she ultimately decides against it.

(It'd be mean to burst into their lives with last-minute plans, and she especially doesn't want to disappoint them with the news that her dinner-with-Adrien-and-confess-your-love plan had failed spectacularly— before she could even do anything about it.

Marinette figures that she'll just disappoint them later on.)

She raises the container of sweets to her face. "So, what should I do with this…?"

"I'd like to try them."

She almost drops the macarons as a sudden voice bounces off the walls, clutching her heart in evident surprise. "Chat? What the heck, don't scare me like that! How long were you standing there?"

He looks almost sheepish. "A few minutes… I tried knocking, but you seemed so distracted in your thoughts so I just came in." His expression turns concerned. "Are you okay?"

She shrugs. "Just a little upset, but nothing new, really."

"I'm sorry."

Marinette shakes her head. "What are you sorry for? It's not your fault." She sighs to herself, before offering the container to him. "Anyway, do you want to try this? I'm not sure if you'll like it because it's passionfruit, but…"

"Are you kidding me, I love passionfruit! It's my favorite flavor!"

He beams, before quickly taking a bite of the snack, and breathing dreamily to himself. "These taste amazing." Then, a pause. "But are you sure I should eat this? Didn't you make it for someone?"

Marinette laughs softly, then walks over to sit on the couch, gesturing for him to come next to him.

"Chat, do you love anyone?"

The question is upfront and straightforward, and he's evidently surprised by it.

After the initial shock, though, he smiles to himself. "Of course I do. She's the purrfect girl, andI think about her a lot more than I should," he says, staring at her for a good moment.

Marinette doesn't know how to describe how his stare makes her feel.

"I love someone too," she finally admits.

The words hang in the air, and Chat Noir doesn't know what to say.

"He's a lucky guy," he finally breathes, a sad look in his eyes.

"You'd think," she laughs to herself, almost bitterly. "But I don't think he feels the same way, or if he ever will."

"What do you mean— who wouldn't fall in love with you?! You're kind, and sweet, and pretty on a regular day but tonight you're absolutely stunning…"

"Haha, thanks kitty," she mutters, before holding on to her dress. "I even dressed up for him today…"

A quiet pause.

"Wait… the guy you were supposed to meet today is the one you're in love with?'

She nods silently. "Adrien Agreste. He's a good friend of mine, it's just that my feelings are something so much more than that…"

Marinette isn't looking at him directly, so she's surprised to notice him abruptly stand up.

"Sorry, I have to go."

"Chat? I'm sorry if this was too much but…"

"I'll see you around, Marinette."

It's the lack of a playful nickname that gets her.

Almost frozen, she somehow manages to nod.

And Chat Noir disappears into the night.

.

.

iv.

The next time they patrol, Chat Noir tells Ladybug they need to talk.

"Are you sure I can't reveal my true identity to anyone?"

Her answer is instantaneous. "Of course. It's too risky." She pauses, then almost careful: "Why do you ask?"

(Things have become more awkward since the last time Chat Noir went to her apartment; when he just left her without explanation and stopped showing up completely. They still meet as heroes, but it's become much more strained since then.)

He sighs to himself. "It's just… I'm in love." Chat Noir pauses, then immediately backtracks. "Not with you, of course. Not anymore. I respect that you love someone else, and I've finally fallen for someone different. And I don't want to reveal too much but… she loves me back."

Marinette feels happy for him, of course, but can't quite explain why her stomach churns uncomfortably at the idea of him being in love with someone else.

"Then, what's the problem?"

He laughs bitterly to himself. "She fell for my civilian identity."

Oh.

"So you want her to know you're the same person?"

Chat Noir pauses for a moment, as if in thought, then shakes his head. "No," he finally says. "I just want to be sure she loves the entire me, and not just the perfect character I keep up in real life. I want her to fall in love with Chat Noir, too. Because this identity's just as much a part of me as Adr— as my civilian self is."

Silence, again.

"As a superhero and the Guardian, I cannot stress the importance of keeping your identity secret. Even if it is someone you love." He winces, and she presses on. "But as your friend, I want you to be happy, kitty. So, do what you must." She smiles at him. "I know you'll do what's right."

The superhero smiles back, then abruptly gets up.

"Then if you don't mind, milady… I have somewhere to be."

By the time Chat Noir arrives at Marinette's apartment, she's already home.

"What are you doing here, Chat?"

"… for two things. Do you mind if I come in?"

She doesn't exactly willing to do so, but lets him in anyway.

"The first part is an apology." He looks at her, evidently ashamed of himself. "I'm sorry I just left like that back then. I shouldn't have left without an explanation, and it was one of the worst things I've ever done. I'm so sorry."

"As you should be," she only says, before sighing to herself. "And the second part?"

"An explanation."

"Better keep it short."

"I can summarize it in three words."

She looks up at him, suddenly intrigued. "Which is?"

"I love you."

(The dots connect themselves even without Marinette willing them to, and she catches on before Chat Noir even realizes the situation they're in.

Knowing about her address, his birthday celebrations, his love for passionfruit, the mysterious person he was in love with—is in love with, and his abrupt disappearance after her confession…

How did she not realize it before?)

The faces of two people Marinette love dearly start blending into one.

She never knew it would be possible to feel so much for one person.

Marinette starts laughing, tears in her eyes, as everything becomes that much clearer.

She smiles.

"I love you too—

Adrien."

(He almost falls off the balcony.

Fortunately, however— this time there's somebody around to catch him.)

.

.

v.

He knocks on the correct door, this time around.

And with him, a ton of boxes and containers that tower almost menacingly around his figure.

"Sorry I had to use this door," he starts. "But my stuff wouldn't fit through the balcony."

Marinette laughs, before putting her hands to fold in front of her chest.

"That's a lot of boxes," she observes. "I don't recall you having that much of a problem with my stuff back then."

"That's because I only stayed the night."

"And now?"

He smiles, then presses a sudden kiss to her lips.

"Hopefully, I'm staying the rest of my life."

She huffs at the sudden surprise, then smiles back softly.

"I wouldn't be opposed to that."

[haledamage]

Only the Dead Never Change

(I just wanted to write a little something with Kira/Adam and music, since I realized the other day he’s the only one she hasn’t had that with (though I guess Felix’s and Mason’s weren’t romantic moments… hmmmm), but because it’s them it had to turn into something complicated because that’s what they do. since Rebecca Lovell from Larkin Poe is Kira’s singing voice claim, this fic is brought to you in part by their cover of Hard Time Killing Floor Blues)

A brusque knock sounded at the door. Kira’s hands paused in mid-chord. “It’s open.”

The door opened at her call to reveal Adam, arms crossed over his chest and wearing his grey wool peacoat. He seemed to fill the doorframe entirely, to fill the room with his sheer force of presence. He watched her almost cautiously, though his expression was completely unreadable.

“Good evening,” Kira said, when Adam didn’t immediately speak. “Or good morning, I guess. Depends on how you want to look at it.”

He gave her a cursory once over, and though nothing showed on his face she got the distinct impression he was making sure she was okay. “You are up late, Detective.”

“It happens.” She shrugged one shoulder and finally finished the chord he’d interrupted. “Am I making too much noise? I can keep it down.”

“No.” She had to fight a smile at how quickly he said that. “That will not be necessary. I was simply passing by your room and I heard music.”

“That happens, too.” She huffed a laugh and started plucking aimlessly at the strings, a song with no rhythm or melody to it, just trying to fill the quiet. “Are you heading out or did you just get back?” she asked, nodding toward his coat.

“I just finished my patrols around town.”

She nodded again and silence fell. She kept plucking at her guitar, starting to find some semblance of a tune to what she was playing, and waited for him to speak again. He didn’t, just hovered in the doorway, watching her hands move along the strings with enough focus to make her stumble a few times.

“Is something wrong?” she asked finally.

“Not at all.” He tore his eyes away from her, and even across the room she could see the way he clenched his jaw. Abruptly, he added, “You are quite talented.”

“Oh. I…” Now it was Kira’s turn to look away, feeling heat rise in her cheeks and an absurdly pleased smile spread across her face. “Thank you.”

“I apologise if I’ve invaded your privacy, Detective,” Adam said, a trace of hesitation in his voice and the set of his shoulders.

“No!” she blurted out, too quickly. She ran her fingers through her hair nervously, pushing it back from her face. “No. I just… I’m not used to having an audience. Do you play?”

He scoffed. “No. I never had much skill at… creative pursuits.”

“I could teach you,” she offered with a grin.

“That will not be necessary,” he said, but he chuckled quietly. 

“Then… I could keep playing. If you want to come in.” With how quickly he stepped into the room, it was obvious he’d been waiting for the invitation. She bit her lip to stop another smile. “Do you have any requests?”

“Whatever you would like to play will be sufficient.”

Her first note immediately went sour as her fingers stopped listening to her when Adam shrugged out of his coat. She wondered vaguely if he always took his coat off that slowly, or if he did so only for her benefit; even if she were bold enough to ask, her mouth was too dry to form the words. Instead, she just let her eyes roam the muscles of his arms and shoulders, only barely contained by the t-shirt he wore, in much the same way she wanted to do with her hands.

Kira dropped her eyes away quickly when he turned her way, trying to pretend she still remembered how to play guitar.

She meandered through any songs that popped into her head, paying less attention to the music than she was to the man in her room. Adam looked relaxed in a way she had only rarely ever seen, sitting back in her armchair with a small smile tugging at his lips. Content, almost, or at least closer to it than usual. If he noticed her attention, he didn’t comment--but then, he never did.

It didn’t take long for both of them to notice a theme to the songs she was playing.

“Do you sing a lot of love songs, Detective?” She couldn’t tell if the tone to his voice was amusement or disapproval.

“Well, most of the stuff I know is blues.” She tried not to look too proud of how quickly that reply came to her, or let on that it wasn’t entirely accurate. “Blues music skews toward pain and death and heartbreak. It’s not really a crowd pleaser.”

He cocked his head to one side, but it was the only sign he gave of his curiosity. “Why do you listen to it, then? You do not strike me as someone with much pain and heartbreak in your life.”

She took a deep breath, debating how much of herself she wanted to share, but the words started spilling from her lips without waiting for her permission. “Dad played the blues. There’s a video of him with this guitar playing ‘Hard Time Killing Floor Blues’ by Skip James, and me, maybe a year old, sitting on the floor in front of him just… hypnotised by it.” She played the intro part to the song in question, the first thing she ever learned how to play. “Mum never talks about him. I don’t begrudge her grief, but I just…” 

“You wanted a connection to him.” His voice was soft and understanding, and it should have grated on her but instead she found that it eased some of the tension from her shoulders.

“Exactly. Something that he and I shared besides the eyes and the freckles.” She stared into empty air, eyes distant and full of blurry, half-obscured memories, fingers still moving across the strings on auto-pilot. “It’s strange, to miss someone so much when you don’t even remember them. All I remember is the space where he should have been.”

He didn’t say anything in response and, not knowing how else to fill the silence, Kira started singing, picking up the song where she left off. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sang in front of someone, actually sang rather than just mumbling along with the radio. It felt nice to let that part of her out. It felt nicer to do so with Adam. She tried not to think too hard on why it mattered so much that it was him.

The song ended, and the room fell quiet once more. She slid the guitar’s strap from her shoulders and set the instrument carefully on the bed next to her.

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” Adam said softly, his voice shattering the stillness before it could take hold. “I am under the impression that you do not let many people see this side of you.”

“You’d be right about that.” She smoothed her hands over the pale green shirt she wore, not sure what to do with them now that she didn’t have the guitar to use as a barricade. “Thank you for listening. And not--not just to the music. I’m…” she chuckled, mostly to herself. “If someone had told me six months ago that you’d be the one easiest for me to talk to, I’d have called them something that would get me scolded by Nate. A lot can change in a few months.”

“Yes, it can.” He scowled at nothing in particular, apparently unhappy about all the recent changes in their lives.

“Change isn’t a bad thing, Adam.” His scowl got deeper and Kira smiled in response. “I guess maybe you’re in the habit of assuming all change is negative, as long as you’ve been around, but… change just means we’re still alive. Only the dead never change.”

“Perhaps you’re right. But it gets more difficult as you get older.” His frown turned contemplative and she got the distinct impression there was something specific he was referring to.

“Does it?” She uncrossed her legs so they could dangle over the edge of the bed and she could lean forward. Her knee pressed to his. He didn’t move away from the contact. He didn’t even tense at it. “Because a few months ago I literally shot you, and now you’re sitting in my bedroom in the middle of the night and I’m telling you things I don’t tell anyone.”

Adam chuckled and his frown gave away to a very brief but genuine smile, though he still wouldn’t look at her. “That is your influence, Kira. Not mine.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

For the first time since he’d arrived at her door, his full attention fell on her and Kira gasped under the weight of those pale green eyes. Anything else she may have said evaporated like mist at dawn. She was suddenly very aware of where his knee touched hers; she was even more aware of all the places their bodies weren’t touching, and all the things they could do to change that.

If she could weaponize the way he made her feel, she would be fucking unstoppable.

As soon as the moment began, it ended again as he tore his gaze away. Slowly, he rose to his feet. “I should let you rest.”

“You don’t have to go,” she said quickly. She felt blush rise in her cheeks as soon as the words were out of her mouth, but she didn’t try to take it back. She knew she meant it exactly as she’d said it.

Adam raised an eyebrow at her, but he didn’t call her on it; she really wished he would. Eventually, he whispered, “Yes I do.”

It was starting to become a familiar exchange between them.

A long moment passed where neither of them said anything. Kira could feel the heavy tension in the air, a tension she was starting to get used to feeling around him. It made her hands almost itch with the urge to reach out to him. Instead, she broke eye contact again with a barely stifled sigh, closing her eyes as if it could calm the racing of her heart. “Good night, Adam.”

He was gone when she opened her eyes, but his presence lingered in the room like a ghost.

[fanyiyimdzs]

Mo Dao Zu Shi: Chapter 1

Masterpost

Previous chapter

Wei Wuxian had barely opened his eyes before a foot flew at him and slammed into his ribcage.

A voice thundered in his ear. “You think you can play dead?!”

Whoever it was kicked him and kicked him again until he was nearly bleeding. Flat on his back, his head lolling on the ground, a hazy thought came to him: they’ve got some nerve to kick me, an Old Master.

Wei Wuxian hadn’t heard the voice of a single living soul for who knows how many years, much less a voice so loud and angry it sounded like the wail of a dying hen. Though the room swam and stars danced in front of his eyes, he could vaguely make out the voice’s owner: a young man, who went back to assaulting Wei Wuxian’s ringing ears with his grating cries. 

“Why don’t you think about whose house you’re living in? Whose rice you’re eating? Whose money you’re shitting away? Who cares if I take some of your things? They’re all mine anyway!”

Around Wei Wuxian echoed the crashes and bangs of people ransacking every corner and hidey-hole of...wherever he was. Some moments later, his sight slowly began to clear—there was a shadowy grey roof floating above him, and angry brows atop a face tinged with green, from which furious spittle flew.

“You wanna report me? You think I’m scared? You think there’s a single person in this household who’ll have your back?”

Two burly men, probably servants, stepped around Wei Wuxian. “Master, we’ve smashed everything!”

“Already?” The young man squawked.

“This lousy room barely had anything in it in the first place,” one of them said.

The squawking youth was mostly satisfied with this, so he turned and jabbed his finger so aggressively at Wei Wuxian it nearly went up his nose. “Report me if you have the spine! Who are you playing dead for? As if anyone gives fuck about your scrap metal and bits of paper. I’ll smash it all—let’s see what you can drag out to report me with then! You think you’re hot shit because you spent a few years in a cultivation clan? You’re more like a mangy cur who’s been chased away with its tail between its legs!”

Fatigue cast a pall over Wei Wuxian’s thoughts.

He had been dead for so many years. He truly hadn’t been faking it.

Who was this?

Where was he?

Since when had he ever done any body-snatching?!

That dying hen had kicked him, wrecked the room, and showered him with his fury, and now the youth took his servants and swaggered outside. He shouted an order as he slammed the door. “Keep your eyes pinned on him! Don’t let him get out and humiliate us!”

The pair accepted the command in unison. Wei Wuxian waited for all the noise to die down and then tried to get up. But his body refused to obey him, forcing him back down. His only option was to roll onto his stomach and look around the animal den that this Mo person lived in, all while his head was still spinning and his vision was still a blurry mess.

On one side of him, a bronze mirror had been tossed to the ground. Wei Wuxian reached his hand out and dragged it over. A strange and snow white face appeared in the mirror, cheeks unevenly smeared with red. If he only stuck out a long crimson tongue, he’d look like a living hanged ghost.*

Not quite able to accept his appearance, he flung the mirror away and rubbed his face, accidentally crusting his hands with white powder.

Fortunately, it seemed the body he now occupied wasn’t born with this grotesque appearance, and he could blame the products its previous owner piled atop his skin instead. Not only had this fully-grown man painted his whole face with rouge, he had done it in this absurdly hideous manner!

After recovering from the shock, Wei Wuxian found he had recovered a little strength and could finally sit up. Only then did he notice the crimson circle drawn beneath him. It was a magic circle, hand drawn, seemingly with blood, still damp and giving off a coppery stench. In the middle, a wild, shaking finger had scrawled a spell. Though Wei Wuxian had unknowingly smudged the runes, the ghastly energy surrounding it was unmistakeable.

For better or worse, people had treated him as the world’s supreme evil for many years now, giving him titles like “Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation.” Of course he knew these types of nasty things like the back of his hand.

He hadn’t stolen someone else’s body—someone had sacrificed theirs to him!

In essence, the bodily sacrifice spell was a kind of curse. The caster slashed their own skin with a deadly weapon, used their own blood to sketch the circle and paint the runes, and sat in the center, offering their body to an evil spirit. They paid the earth the price of their soul to summon a being of irredeemable wickedness, and then begged this spirit to take over their flesh and make their dreams reality—the exact opposite of body snatching. Both were notorious and forbidden, but the former had not been met with the same warm reception as the latter. After all, rarely did anyone long for anything so much that they were willing to give up everything for it. Thus, people had done it were few and far between; in the past century, even the stories had died out. There had been only three or four confirmed cases in the past hundred thousand years according to the ancient records.

 Each one of these three or four people’s wishes had been the same: revenge. The vicious ghosts they had summoned realized those dreams with cruel and bloody perfection.

Wei Wuxian’s heart was uneasy.

How was he a “being of irredeemable wickedness?”

Sure, his reputation wasn’t great, and the circumstances of his death were tragic and miserable. But first of all, he hadn’t turned into an evil spirit, and second, he hadn’t sought revenge! You could search all of earth and heaven without finding a single more peaceful, more good-natured ghost. Promise!

But the trouble was, bodily sacrifice followed the wishes of the caster. It didn’t matter how uneasy Wei Wuxian was...he had already taken over the pro-offered body, and therefore tacitly consented to the contract. He had to fulfill the caster’s wishes, or else the curse would backfire and annihilate his soul, damning him to eternal oblivion.

Wei Wuxian undid the sash of his robes and scrutinized his arm. Indeed, both of his wrists were streaked with angry, bloody gashes, scowling and glowering at him like ragged mouths. Though they had already scabbed over, he had no doubts that these weren’t ordinary cuts. They would never heal if he didn’t fulfill the wishes of his body’s original owner. Moreover, the longer he waited, the worse they would become, and if he pushed the task past due, both his body and his soul would be shredded alive.

After repeatedly confirming that he had made no mistake, Wei Wuxian mentally cursed the situation’s absurdity, and, clinging to the wall, finally forced himself onto his feet.

Though the room he found himself in was indeed large, it was sparse and squalid. The cotton blanket covering the bed hadn’t been washed or changed in who knew how many weeks and stunk of mildew. Someone had kicked over the bamboo trash bin lying in the corner, spilling the waste and scrap paper inside all over the dusty floor. Wei Wuxian noticed that some of the paper seemed to be covered in ink marks, so he picked one up, examined it, and found that, indeed, words were crammed into every corner of the page. He busied himself with collecting all the paper he could find.

On these sheets, his body’s first owner must have vented his misery and dejection. Some of what he had written could only be described as the incoherent cries of a man whose torment so twisted his words that they seeped out of the paper and assaulted the senses. As Wei Wuxian read patiently page by page, he began to feel more and more unsettled.

Though his attempts at organizing what he had read felt akin to groping through darkness, he was able to clear up a few basic facts. First, his body’s original owner was named Mo Xuanyu, and this are was called Mo Manor.

Mo Xuanyu’s grandfather had been the local area’s big landlord, but he had had few kinsmen and no sons. Though he worked diligently for many years to produce male progeny, his efforts had resulted only in two daughters. The second daughter’s name need not be mentioned, as it was the first who became the house’s mistress, her husband moving in with the Mo family after they were married. Though second daughter was remarkably beautiful, her birth mother was a household servant, and thus the family put little thought into marrying her off—anyone would have been fine. Who knew that when she was sixteen, she would randomly meet a passing leader of some great house and catch his eye? The two turned Mo Manor into their private love nest. A year later, the second Mo daughter gave birth to Mo Xuanyu.

Originally, the Mo household had held her and the entire affair in general in great contempt. But in the eyes of ordinary people, the fact that such a grand cultivator had found his way to the Mo family’s doorstep and into their home meant that the Mo’s must have been heaven-blessed. Nobly and somewhat unusually, that chief even supported and assisted the Mo family, even though they were not his own. The winds of opinion in the household thus took a sharp turn. Not only had the family prospered through the connection, those around them also envied them to the highest degree.

But not long after, that cultivator’s unbounded desire longed for fresher meat. Gradually, his visits dwindled. He had eaten at the Mo Manor for less than two years before growing bored. Once Mo Xuanyu was four, the Mo family saw him no more.

Within the next few years, the winds of opinion in Mo Manor changed once again. The contempt and ridicule returned, this time accompanied by sneering pity. However, the second Mo daughter was by no means resigned to her fate—her belief that her great lord would not forget his own child was unshakeable. Sure enough, when Mo Xuanyu turned fourteen, that house leader ordered a band of men to solemnly retrieve him.

The second Mo daughter could once again hold her head high. Though she could not accompany her son, she could sweep away her previous misery and replace it with pride and elation. Haughtily, she announced to everyone that her son would rise like a bird and become a renown cultivator, bringing honor to all his forebearers. Consequently, opinion at Mo Manor changed for a third time.

However, before Mo Xuanyu’s cultivation training had borne results, and before he had inherited his father’s family treasures, he was chased out.

His expulsion, moreover, was not some tidy, quiet affair, but an unseemly, unsightly ordeal. Mo Xuanyu was not only gay, but also had the audacity to harass his fellow disciples—thus, the ugly matter had been publicly exposed. On top of all that, he was at best an average talent, with no notable achievements. He had no excuse to remain.

Battered by the blizzard only to be bitten by frost, Mo Xuanyu did not suffer only this disaster. After returning home, he became entirely, completely insane. Some days were better, some days were worse, but one way or another, his brains seemed to have been scared right out of his ears.

Wei Wuxian’s brow wrinkled.

If Mo Xuanyu were only gay, that would have been one thing, but he was also a lunatic. No wonder his face was caked in so much powder that it looked like he’d been hanged. No wonder no one had batted an eye at the giant array on the ground, still wet with fresh blood. If he had painted the entire room with blood, from the floor, to the walls, to the roof over his head, it wouldn’t have startled anyone who happened to see it. Everybody knew that there was something wrong with his head!

Once Mo Xuanyu had returned home, the sneers, the mockery, the ridicule grew so thick and wide that they seemed to blanket the earth and cover the skies. But this time, there was no more hope for a change in fortune.

The second Mo daughter was unable to bear this kind of blow. She had held so much hatred inside her lungs, and now, there was no hope of letting it go. It suffocated her, and soon, she was dead.

By this time Mo Xuanyu’s grandfather was also dead, so the elder Mo daughter now reigned over Mo Manor. This Lady Mo had been unable to bear the sight of her sister since they were young. At her sister’s bastard, she could only levy thousands of scornful glares. She had a single son, Mo Ziyuan, the youth who had sacked the room. When Mo Xuanyu had been whisked away to his father’s, the elder Mo daughter thought she could also exploit the family connection. She hoped that the cultivators who had fetched her nephew would also happen to pick up Mo Ziyuan and turn him into a cultivator too. Of course, she was refused—or rather, ignored.

She had wasted her breath. It wasn’t as though she were haggling over cabbages—buy one son and get one free!

It was a mystery where this family had gotten their self confidence. They all had a bizarre, unshakeable belief that Mo Ziyuan possessed the blood and the talent to earn himself the respect and recognition of these cultivators, had he been the one taken. He could never have ended up like his cousin and failed to make even a decent showing. Mo Ziyuan was still little when his cousin had been taken away, but, unendingly deluged with utter nonsense, his faith in his own abilities was unwavering. Every day for quite some time, he humiliated Mo Xuanyu, hollering that his cousin had robbed him of his chance. The possessions Mo Xuanyu had brought home—the talismans, the medicines, the little cultivator’s tools—he coveted so much that his hands itched, and he treated them as though they were entirely his own. If he wanted to take them, he’d take them. If he wanted to break them, he’d break them.

Though Mo Xuanyu suffered frequent bouts of insanity, he still knew that he was being abused. He tried to endure it, but Mo Ziyuan only got worse. Eventually, his entire room practically cleaned out by his envious cousin, his endurance finally wore out. He went to his aunt and uncle and forced himself to stutter out a complaint. Thus, Mo Ziyuan had shown up at his door today and raised a ruckus.

The papers’ tiny, densely packed words made Wei Wuxian’s eyes hurt and by then he had no doubts about what kind of shitty, wretched life Mo Xuanyu had lived. No wonder he had no qualms about sacrificing his body to an evil spirit for the sake of revenge.

Once Wei Wuxian’s eyes stopped aching, his head started aching instead. In principle, as the evil spirit that Mo Xuanyu summoned, he should have been able to hear the exact wishes the miserable man had buried in his heart. But this forbidden technique that Mo Xuanyu had secretly stolen from somewhere might have had incomplete instructions. He might have skipped a step. Wei Wuxian could easily guess that he wanted some sort of revenge on the Mo family, but exactly what kind of revenge? How severe? Did he only want his things back? Did he want them beaten?

Or...exterminated?

Most likely, he wanted them exterminated. After all, Mo Xuanyu had done his time in the world of cultivation, and thus should have been aware of how Wei Wuxian was most often described: ungrateful, deranged, was there anyone Mo Xuanyu could have chosen more likely to be called a “vicious fiend”?  If he had the nerve to pick Wei Wuxian, he could not possibly have a dream so tame and mild.

Thus, Wei Wuxian had no choice but to sigh. “You found the wrong guy...”

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Translation notes:

* A hanged ghost (吊死鬼) is, unsurprisingly, the ghost of a person who died by hanging. In Chinese folklore, they are typically depicted with long red tongues hanging out of their mouths.

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