#chapter 1 of maelstrom

[knight-hiccup]

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₁

This is Chapter 1 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Summary: After a deadly tempest rage against Berk, a maelstrom in the sea claims your parents—Where you were then eventually passed into the gruff, tender care of Gobber as his adopted niece. Help raising you beneath the clang of his forge alongside his own godson, Hiccup, a boy destined to defy the world. Hiccup and you stand through many hardships as childhood friends, and awkward occasions as two misfits against the world—a fierce baker of breads and a dreamer craving Viking glory. Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 5.1k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader descriptions are not described besides the clothing, true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 1

The Great Hall of Berk hummed with the morning clamor of a village waking to the promise of a new day. The air was thick with the scent of yeast and woodsmoke, the sweet smell of fresh baked goods ready for the taking but not without a symphony of chaos swirling around you as you danced between ovens and tables in a blur, with flour-dusted hands.

Loaves of bread, their golden crusts glistening with a crisp perfection, stacked high upon the counters in a tantalizing display. Among them, an irresistible assortment of buns—barley, ryes smothered in butter, and berries with oats—each mouthwatering with rustic flavor.

Stretching before you, a mile-long table groans under the weight of temptation: frothy eggnog, honeyed mead, and robust ale, each poised to dance with creamy skyr's or steaming bowls of porridge. And that's just the beginning. Succulent meats, tender fish, plump eggs, vibrant fruits, and crunchy nuts sprawl across the spread, a cornucopia of delights ready to satisfy the ravenous hunger of the tribe.

While the shouts of hungry Vikings echoed through the stone walls—orders barked with the urgency of warriors prepping for any sudden battle.

"More rye, lass!"

"Where's the barley flatbread?"

"Don't skimp on the butter this time!"

You stumbled over your own feet, catching yourself against a barrel of pickled herring before it toppled, a laugh bubbling up despite the madness. This was your domain, your forge of flour and fire, and though the frenzy threatened to swallow you whole, pride sparked in your chest like a well-tended ember.

You kneaded the last batch of dough with a fierceness that would've made a dragon crawl away, slamming it onto the table with a satisfying thwack. The rhythm of it steadied you—knead, fold, press—until the dough was smooth and ready for the oven. Wiping sweat from your brow with the sleeve of your elbow, already streaked with flour, you surveyed the kitchen.

Milkmaidens darted about, their aprons flapping like dragon wings, juggling trays of cheese and slabs of smoked fish. The head cook, a stout woman named Marta, bellowed at a young lad who'd nearly upended a cauldron of porridge. It was a storm, yes, but one you'd learned to ride with the same grit that kept Berk standing against the war.

"That's the last of it," you called, sliding the dough into the roaring oven. The heat kissed your face as you shut the iron door with a clang. Turning to Marta, you tugged at the ties of your apron. "I've got to run—Hiccup's waiting."

Marta's head snapped up; her wooden spoon poised mid-stir like a weapon. "Now? You're leaving me in this mess? The chieftain's crew'll be here any minute, and they'll eat us alive if the bread's not—"

"You've got it under control," you shot back, already halfway to the door, snagging a cloth from the counter. With a deft hand, you bundled a wedge of creamy goats' cheese, between a hunk of fresh flatbread, with some smoked meat and a fried egg—Hiccup's favorite, a little morning ritual you'd started years ago when his skinny frame needed coaxing to fill out. "Besides, I'll be back before Stoick's beard hits the table!"

"Lass, you're a menace!" Marta hollered in her heavy accent, but there was a grudging fondness in her tone as she waved you off, already turning to scold the porridge boy again.

You burst out of the Great Hall into the crisp morning, the wind tugging at your hair as it carried the tang of salt and pine from the cliffs and mountainside. Berk sprawled before you, alive with the clatter of hammers, the bleat of sheep, and the distant roar of a blow horns and shouts overhead—probably one of the twins stirring trouble again.

Your boots pounded the dirt path, the bundle clutched tight against your chest, warm and fragrant. The village blurred past—old man Mildew grumbling at his cabbages, a gaggle of kids chasing a chicken—and your heart thudded with a mix of urgency and something softer, something that always stirred when you thought of Hiccup.

He'd be waiting, probably perched on that rocky outcrop overlooking the harbor you two always shared, scribbling in his sketchbook or muttering to himself about some wild new idea. Ever since you were kids, he'd drag you into his schemes—mapping new ideas that would benefit Berk, testing contraptions that usually ended in singed eyebrows or a stern lecture from Gobber.

You'd been his shadow, his anchor, and somewhere along the way now both at the tender age of fifteen, that quiet crush you waved off had settled in your chest and blossomed more unwillingly. Only sometimes you'd hope he'd never see you as just the bread making Viking who tagged along. A small hope that flickered every time his green eyes lit up with a grin meant just for you—though you'd long convinced yourself it was nothing more than friendship to save yourself.

The path climbed, and your breaths came sharp as you rounded the final bend. There he was, silhouetted against the rising sun, a lanky figure hunched over, legs dangling off the cliff. Hiccup's auburn hair caught the light, tousled by the breeze, and his head was bent over something—probably another madcap invention doomed to earn Gobber's exasperated sigh.

You slowed, catching your breath, and felt that familiar tug in your chest. As you stepped forward, cheesecloth in hand, the wind carried a faint growling-rumble from him, and a laugh slipped from your lips—half at the oddity of the sound, half at the sight of Hiccup's hunched frame as he scribbled away in his journal.

His head snapped up at the sound, green eyes catching yours as you crested the hill. A grin flickered across his face—real and unguarded, the kind he saved just for you—and he set down his tools quickly as you closed the distance. You dropped onto the grass beside him, nudging his shoulder with yours.

"Brought you your fave again," you said, unwrapping the cloth with a flourish. "My original, egg-cheese, meat breakfast muffin!"

Hiccup's eyes lit up, and he snatched it from your hands, sinking his teeth into it without a second's pause. "Gods, this is my favorite," he mumbled through a mouthful, voice warm with that earnestness that always tugged at you.

You smiled, pulling out your own and taking a bite, the rich tang of the cheese and smoky meat settling on your tongue. For a moment, you both fell quiet, chewing in companionable silence as the sun rose higher, painting Berk's jagged cliffs in hues in warm orange and blue. The village sprawled below, a patchwork of roofs and smoke trails, framed by the endless sea stretching toward the horizon. It was a rare stillness, the kind that felt like a held breath.

Hiccup finished first, brushing crumbs from his tunic with a satisfied sigh, then turned to you, his face alight with sudden energy. "I did it," he said, voice buzzing with excitement.

"Finished your food first?" You respond sarcastically.

"Yes, but no—Finished the dragon trap. It's gonna catch a Night Fury—the Night Fury."

You nodded, still savoring your muffin, as he leaned closer to you.

"This is it, y'know? If I can pull this off, everyone'll finally notice me—Dad, the village, everybody. Maybe I'll even. . ." He hesitated, a flush creeping up his neck. "Maybe even get a girlfriend."

You kept chewing, the meat turning a little tougher in your mouth as you tilted your head, listening. His eyes were fixed on the horizon now, bright with dreams you'd heard a hundred times—dreams you'd helped him sketch on scraps of parchment, dreams you'd quietly wished might one day include you. But you nodded anyway, letting him ramble on about the trap's clever gears and the glory he was chasing.

"You'll do it, Hiccup. You've been planning this for months now. Now we just wait for that dragon. Hopefully, of course, without destruction on its part. . ."

His eyes flicked to yours, brightening, and he nodded—a small, grateful smile breaking through his usual tangle of nerves. "Thanks," he said, soft but sure, the word landing like a spark between you. "And for having my back on this."

For a beat, you held his gaze, that ache in your chest flaring, before the distant clang of the forge bell snapped you both back to Berk's relentless rhythm.

"Gobber's gonna skin you if you don't get back to work," you teased, brushing crumbs from your hands as you stood. Hiccup groaned, dragging a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, and Marta's probably got a ladle with your name on it," he shot back, smirking. You laughed, hefting the empty cloth.

"Meet you at the forge later? After I've survived the Great Hall, and you've dodged Gobber's wrath?"

"Deal," he said, already turning back to his workbench, muttering about adjustments. You lingered a moment, watching him, then turned down the path, the rumble fading into the morning's hum.

The hours slipped by in a blur of Hairy Hooligan chaos. Back at the Great Hall, you dodged Marta's sharp tongue and the Vikings' endless appetites, morning, afternoon, and now evening. Your hands stirring while your mind wandered to Hiccup's trap—and the plans to come after.

Meanwhile, the village churned on: smoke curled from chimneys, sheep bleated, and somewhere, a horn sounded signaling another practice raid thwarted. By evening, the sun hung low, casting sharp shadows over Berk's rugged sprawl, and you finally broke free, boots kicking up dust as you headed for the forge again.

The forge glowed like a dragon's maw, heat rippling the air as you approached. Gobber's voice boomed over the clang of metal, his hammer-hand punctuating a lecture you could've recited by heart. "—and if ye think I'm cleanin' up another one of yer 'genius' messes, Hiccup, ye've got another thing comin'!"

Hiccup stood by the anvil, head ducked, fiddling with a tangle of rope and gears that looked suspiciously like his trap. He caught your eye as you stepped in, flashing a sheepish grin—half apology, half plea for rescue.

"Saved by the baker," you called, leaning against a workbench. Gobber wheeled around, his eyes narrowing, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Oi, lass, don't encourage him! This one's been goofin' about all mornin'—nearly set me eyebrows on fire, he did." Hiccup opened his mouth to protest, but Gobber barreled on, waving his hammer-hand.

"And you—shouldn't ye be feedin' the village instead of nursin' this troublemaker's ego?"

"Already did," you said, crossing your arms. "Thought I'd see if Hiccup's still in one piece." Hiccup rolled his eyes, but the grin lingered as he hefted the trap's frame, its metal glinting in the forge light.

"It's ready," he said, voice brimming with that restless energy you knew too well. "Tonight's the night—I can feel it."

Gobber snorted, muttering something about "fool's hope," but you caught the flicker of pride in his gruff stare at Hiccups invention. The forge hummed around you, a heartbeat of steel and sparks. Whatever Hiccup was chasing, it was coming fast and it almost made you nervous.

The forge's glow dimmed into the late dark evening, shadows stretching long across the cluttered workbench. Gobber's patience finally snapped, his hammer-hand clanging against an anvil for emphasis as you too went on and on about things he could care less about.

"That's it—I can't be around ye two anymore tonight! Bunch of misfits, schemin' and chatterin' like a pair of natterin' nannies. Don't blow the place up, ye hear?" He stomped toward the door, muttering under his breath about needing a tankard of mead and a moment's peace, leaving the air buzzing with his departure.

You side glanced at Hiccup, catching the glint in his eye as he turned to you, practically vibrating with excitement. "Finally," he said, running up to his dragon trap tucked away near the corner space. You admitted it looked really neat, like some of his previous inventions—this was a contraption as wild as his imagination. It didn't surprise you.

"C'mere, look at this." He said excitedly patting it before he crouched beside it, beckoning you closer, and launched into an explanation that tumbled out faster than a terrible terror could attack.

"See, the tension's all in the springs here," he said, tapping a coiled mechanism. "One good shot, and it'll snap shut—bam!—right around the Night Fury's entire body. Fastest dragon out there, but it won't see this coming." His hands danced over the trap, tracing ropes and pulleys, his voice alive with that reckless hope you'd always admired.

You leaned in, squinting at the tangle. "Looks like it could catch a Gronckle. . .or maybe just tangle you up instead," you teased, nudging a loose rope with your index finger. He huffed a laugh, adjusting it with a quick tug.

"Nah, it's foolproof. Well, mostly. Okay, fifty-fifty." He grinned. "But if it works, Dad'll have to notice. The village, too."

"And Astrid?" you added before you could stop, keeping your tone light despite the sting. He flushed, shrugging, and you let it drop, pointing at a jagged edge.

"Better smooth that down—don't want your Night Fury limping away with a grudge."

"Good call," he said, grabbing a file and setting to work. You traded ideas back and forth—tightening bolts, testing the trigger—until the forge grew quiet, the night pressing in around you. Hours slipped away, the fire dwindling to embers behind you both as you sat waiting on the cliff again, and still no raid came. Hiccup's shoulders slumped as he stared out at the dark, star-strewn sky expression disappointed.

"No dragons," he muttered, disappointment lacing his voice. "Thought tonight was it."

You placed a hand on his back, forcing a smile. "They're just waiting to catch you off guard. C'mon, let's call it—Gobber'll have our hides if we're dead on our feet tomorrow." He nodded, reluctant, and you both trudged out, locking the forge behind you.

The village lay silent under a shroud of clouds, and you parted ways—him to his house, you to yours—carrying the weight of an empty home to go back to.

Hours later, the skies still clung tight to the new morning night, heavy and restless, when the first screech tore through Berk. A dragon raid—fierce and sudden. You were already in the forge, having been shaken up by Gobber barging in and yelling at you for help.

Sweat streaking your face as you and Gobber worked in a frantic rhythm, the air thick with sparks and steel. Axes clattered onto the counter, swords hissed against the grindstone, and Vikings roared past the window and above, silhouettes against bursts of flame attempting to steal the sheep.

"Faster, lass!" Gobber bellowed, tossing a freshly sharpened blade to a burly warrior who barely grunted thanks before charging back into the fray.

"These beasts'll have us for breakfast if we don't arm this lot!" You nodded, hands steady despite the chaos, passing out axes like loaves of bread on a feast day. The forge was a storm—metal clanging, fire roaring, and the stench of singed wool and leather as a stray ember caught someone's cloak.

Then the sound of rushing footsteps was heard, and Hiccup stumbled in, all gangly limbs and wild hair. "I've got it—tonight's the night!" he whispers shouts to you. His eyes were bright, desperate, like he'd finally glimpsed his chance.

You glanced up from the axe you were sharpening, catching his gaze, and flashed a quick grin before continuing to sharpen the blade down for a waiting warrior. Gobber spun around; hammer-hand raised mid-swing.

"Oh, nice of ye to join the party!" he bellowed, sarcasm dripping like forge sweat. "I thought ye'd been carried off!"

You snorted, hefting a different weapon, a sword, onto the grindstone, sparks showering your apron. "Aye, by a dragon too picky to eat him? It couldn't stomach all that brawn," you quipped, shooting Hiccup a smirk.

He grinned, shoving your shoulder playfully as he hauled a giant hammer to the wall and moved closer to you, nearly tripping over a pile of scrap metal.

"Who, me?" Hiccup said, puffing out his chest. "Nah, come on—I'm way too muscular for their taste. They wouldn't know what to do with all. . .this." He flexed, all gangly bravado, the gesture so absurdly exaggerated you choked on a laugh, even as you handed off the sword to a Viking who didn't spare you a glance.

Gobber rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "Well, they need toothpicks, don't they?" he joked, turning back to the anvil with a grunt.

You smirked, but the high demands of Berk's warriors drowned out any retort—shouts for "More axes!" and "Hurry it up!" pulling you back to the grindstone. Your hands flew, sharpening steel, passing tools, your focus split between the work and Hiccup's whirlwind energy as he darted past you, dodging Gobber's half-hearted swipe to reach the window.

Hiccup wrestled getting to work muttering about angles and tension, a lanky form of determination. You tracked him with quick glances, axe blades singing under your hands, too buried in the rhythm to catch every word of their brewing argument.

Then Hiccup's voice cut through—"I might even get a date"—and your head snapped up, interest flaring with small hope.

Your eyes flickered to him, catching the hopeful tilt of his grin, until a Viking's bellow—"Oi, lass, where's my sword?!"—jerked you back. You muttered an apology, hands scrambling to finish the blade, ears still tuned to their banter.

"If ye want to get out there and fight dragons, ye need to stop all. . .this," Gobber said, waving his hammer-hand at Hiccup in a broad, exasperated arc. You turned, mid-motion, eyebrow raised as you caught the tail end.

Hiccup blinked, incredulous. "But you just pointed to all of me. . ."

"Yes! That's it! Stop being all of you," Gobber shot back, flashing a winning grin that made your stomach twist. You shook your head, jaw tightening, and slammed a pile of sharpened tools onto the counter for the next wave of Vikings.

Gobber's jabs at Hiccup always stung you sideways—too close to the scorn the village heaped on him—and you buried the flare of anger in the work, pounding steel harder than necessary. They kept at it, trading barbs over the forge's roar, while you stayed silent, letting the clatter of metal drown out the urge to snap.

Then a shout shattered the air—"Night Fury!"—and the forge trembled as a shadow-streaked past, unseen but felt, a ripple of dread through the chaos.

Gobber straightened, peg leg thudding. "Mind the fort, ye two! They need me out there!" He wheeled on you both, hammer-hand jabbing.

"Stay. Put. There. . .both of ye. Ye know exactly what I mean." With that, he was gone, charging into the fray with a bellow, leaving the forge quieter but no less alive.

You turned to Hiccup, wide-eyed, the air between you crackling. You knew that look—the glint of a chance he'd been chasing since he first sketched that trap. "You going?" you asked, voice low but steady, a hint of worry.

"Yep!" he shouted, already snagging the trap's frame. "I'll see you soon!" He bolted for the door, a blur of lanky limbs and reckless hope, and you watched him go, heart thudding against your ribs. The forge hummed along with yelling Vikings piling up, embers glowing all around outside, and the Night Fury's sound echoing everything growing chaotic.

"Be careful. . ." You had whispered after he could let you say anything.

You stood alone in the heat, the air thick with soot and the tang of molten steel and turned back to the grindstone. Vikings pounded at the wood framed window, hands outstretched—"Axe, lass!" "Sword, now!"—and you moved quickly, sharpening blades, tossing them out, your arms burning but relentless.

You kept your head down, hands focused on the job at hand, but your mind flickered to Hiccup—out there with that rickety trap, chasing a dream he worked so hard to build. You only prayed he'd be ok.

The raid raged on, a blur of shouts mixed with dragon's roars and flame. You sharpened another sword, passing it back to a warrior whose beard was singed black and strands still burning. The forge was your second battlefield besides the kitchens, and you held it—alone, steady, until a distant crash jolted the air, sharper than the usual din.

You stayed put, as Gobber had ordered, piling blades on the counter before they could take them, ears straining for any hint of Hiccup's fate. The sky lightened, a bruised gray creeping over the horizon as morning began to peak, when a new sound reached you—Stoick's bellow, loud enough to rattle the forge walls, followed by the murmur of a gathering crowd.

Wiping sweat and soot from your face, you stepped outside, the dawn air sharp against your skin. Down the hill, the village had clumped around the wreckage of a torch tower—flames licking its splintered remains. Hiccup stood at the center, shoulders hunched, dwarfed by Stoick's towering frame.

A Monstrous Nightmare roared, pinned by a toppled net, and Stoick wrestled it back, barking orders—"Take it to the pens!"—before rounding on his son. You edged closer, boots crunching on charred earth, catching the tail end of the lecture as the crowd watched, a mix of pity, shame and scorn in their eyes.

". . .Every time you step outside, disaster follows!" Stoick thundered, his voice a hammer strike. "Can you not see that I have bigger problems? Winter's almost here, and I have an entire village to feed!"

Hiccup shifted; voice small but defiant. "Between you and me, the village could do with a little less feeding, don't you think?" A few Vikings gasped offended, while you covered your mouth to hide the laugh, but Stoick's glare silenced them.

"This isn't a joke, Hiccup! Why can't you follow the simplest orders?" he demanded, hands clenched.

"I—I can't stop myself," Hiccup stammered, gesturing helplessly. "I see a dragon, and I have to just. . .kill it, you know? It's who I am, Dad. . ."

Stoick pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperation carving lines into his face. "You are many things, Hiccup. But a dragon killer is not one of them." He straightened, turning to the crowd.

"Get back to your homes!" Then, softer, to Hiccup, "Get back to the house." He glanced at Gobber, who'd limped up beside him. "Make sure he gets there. I have his mess to clean up."

Gobber nodded, slapping Hiccup with his good hand. "Aye, come on." The crowd dispersed, muttering, and Hiccup trudged forward, head down, hands shoved into his tunic as he ignored the other teens taunts. You stepped out from the edge, heart twisting at the slump in his frame, and caught up as he passed. Gently, you laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing just enough to say I'm here without words.

He glanced at you, eyes shadowed but softening, a faint, tired smile flickering. "See you later," he murmured, barely audible, and you nodded, letting your hand fall as Gobber steered him toward the house. You watched them go—Hiccup's lanky silhouette beside Gobber's hobbling bulk—until they vanished up the path, the weight of his failure and your quiet worry settling like the ash around you. Lingering a moment, the weight of his slumped shoulders etched into your mind, then turned back to the forge.

The chaos had ebbed, leaving charred wood and bent steel in its wake, and you busied yourself stacking weapons, the rhythm dulling the knot in your chest. But it didn't stop your ears from straining for his footsteps, or your thoughts from circling back to that scream he made down the hill.

By mid-morning, you'd exhaustedly traded the forge for the Great Hall, sleeves rolled up, hands buried in dough like every other day before it. This time with barely any sleep. The air hummed with yeast and mead. The low grumble of Vikings in the hall nursing wounds with pride over their porridge.

Marta barked orders as she always did, her ladle a scepter, but you barely heard her—your mind was still out there, with Hiccup, wondering what mess he'd stumbled into now, and how you wished your shift would end so you can visit him or sleep.

Flour dusted your arms as you kneaded, the familiar pull and press a tether to sanity, when a shadow slipped through the door. 

Hiccup—eyes wide, darting like a hare caught in the open. He sidled up, voice a hushed rush. "I hit something," he said, tugging your sleeve with that restless energy you couldn't ignore. "Last night, with the trap—I think it worked. C'mon, you've gotta see." His breath was quick, his grin half-thrill, half-panic, and it left a spark of unease in your gut.

You froze, dough clinging to your fingers, and shot a glance at Marta. Her back was turned, but her glare could burn holes through stone. "Hiccup, I'm up to my elbows here—," you started, but his pleading look cut you off, green eyes bright with the kind of wild hope you'd never learned to say no to. You sighed, wiping your hands on your apron. "Fine. But if Marta skins me, you're baking the next five batches."

"Deal," he said, already halfway out the door. You followed, ducking Marta's wrath and the curious stares of a few Vikings, your boots hitting the dirt as Hiccup led you uphill, past the village's edge. The woods loomed, damp and tangled, and he rambled as you went—words tripping over each other about the trap's "perfect shot," the bola's arc, how he'd heard something crash. You stumbled over roots, swatting branches, and tossed him a dry look.

"Perfect shot, huh? Or did you just knock down another tower and call it a win?" you teased, dodging a low limb. He huffed a laugh, shoving you lightly.

"Come on, really? This is it—the Night Fury. I know it." His voice trembled with conviction, and you didn't argue, just kept pace, the air growing thick with pine, earth and the faint tang of rain. You didn't bother to counter, simply matching his stride while you two made it deeper into the woods.

The woods closed the deeper you got—turning into forest. The damp earth tugging at your boots, your heels throbbing after what felt like hours—though you couldn't be sure. Maybe one, maybe two; time blurred by quickly. You hadn't wanted to disappoint him, not with that fire in his eyes. So, you kept on, even as he groaned every mile, his makeshift map—a mess of 'X' marks scratched into his sketchbook—crumpling in his grip.

He edged closer to you, shoving the map under your nose. "Here—see? It's gotta be near," he muttered, tracing a jagged line with a dirt-smudged finger. You squinted at it, biting back a smirk at the chaos of his art, and shifted your weight, wincing as your heels protested.

"Hmm. . .Hiccup?" you said, slowing to a stop. "You think maybe we should head back and try again tomorrow?"

He sighed deeply, a gust of frustration that seemed to deflate him, and snapped the book shut. "Oh, the gods hate me," he grumbled, voice dripping with self-pity. "Some people lose their knife, or their mug. No, not me." You froze, biting your lip to stifle a snort, watching him trudge on, still ranting to the trees—and you.

"—I only manage to lose an entire dragon," he spat, slapping a broken branch in his path. It whipped back, smacking him square in the face, and that broke you. A burst of laughter erupted, echoing around you both as you doubled over, hands on your knees, the sound of your laugh leaving you silent at its peak from sheer force. Hiccup whirled, cheeks flushed and waved a desperate hand to cover your mouth. "Shh! Shush, shush—quiet!" he pleaded, voice a frantic hiss.

Your smile faded as his urgency hit, and you ducked lower beside him, breath catching. The forest felt quiet suddenly—too still—and a rustle rippled through the underbrush. Hiccup's wide-eyed glance met yours, a shared pulse of adrenaline, and you crept forward together, his crumpled map forgotten in his fist. The trail dipped into a ravine, steep and shadowed, and he slowed, breath catching as he heaves—quickly ducking.

"There," he whispered, pointing with a trembling finger. You peered over the edge, and your stomach twisted. There it was—the Night Fury—bound in a snarl of ropes and bola weights, black scales glinting like wet stone against the earth. Its wings still, pinned, and its chest unmoving.

"Hiccup. . ." you breathed, voice barely a thread. "You actually did it," you murmured, awe tinged with worry, your gaze darting between them. He swallowed, face pale, and you saw it—the crack in his resolve, the flicker of something deeper.

He edged closer, pulling his knife from his belt. You lunged to grab his arm, roots jabbing your knees, but he slipped free, clambering over the ravine's lip before you could stop him. He ducked behind a boulder—the only shield between him and the beast—and you crouched, watching, worry gnawing at you. Your lip stung as you bit it hard, tasting iron, eyes locked on his lanky frame huddled in the dirt.

He peeked out, voice rising, loud and brash. "I—I did it! Ohh, this. . .this fixes everything! Yes!" He straightened, chest puffed, and you rose too, both of you bold with the certainty the dragon was dead—its stillness a grim trophy. "I have brought down this mighty beast!" he crowed, stepping forward to plant a foot on its side, triumphant.

Then the Night Fury twitched—a shudder of muscle under scales—and Hiccup froze, the blade shaking in his grip. You stumbled forward, the air thick with earth and the beast's ragged breaths, its green eyes snapping open to bore into his. Very much alive.

This is Chapter 1 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr my co-writer + beta reader ♡

[thekuraning]

Something I started doing with Maelstrom fic was saving all the chapter starts ive scrapped in a big dump file and i think its gonna be something i do for all my fics going forward

But like if i started posting them here after the final chapter version came out would that be interesting to anyone

[xiaokuer-schmetterling]

documenting my journey to really actually making podfic!

EDIT!!! 2025.06.21 we are at FIVE MONTHS OF BEDTIME STORIES

UPDATE: 2025.05.19--um. so. this happened

+++ i am contemplating making a podfic episode narrating thru my process from start thru posting to ao3. would there be an audience for this???+++

this post is gonna be an ongoing series of links (in the replies) for blog posts that inspired me to DO THE THING! it's like tracking what bits of tumblr i was interacting with almost in real time.

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EDIT: 2025.03.10--i've also been making updates of podfic resources and personal stories in the replies!

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to everyone i have reblogged with the xk_s_reads tag, and especially those who replied to me: i just want to tell you that your post was part of the inspiration & motivation that led me to making & posting my very first podfics!!! tysvm!!!

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follow my podfic tag — xk_s_reads !!!

what's possibly coming up next for recording??? 🔮 podfic teaser (...used veeeery sporadically lol)

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my self-aimed ao3 work notes / instruction guide so i remember how i do the podfic thing (CONSTANTLY UNDER REVISION lol)

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BABY'S FIRST AO3 POSTED WORK !!!

[podfic] Just One More by MaelstromOfEmotions

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baby's first podfic experiment

https://www.tumblr.com/xiaokuer-schmetterling/772445948782821376/hope-poem

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tyvm for the support & encouragement in chats

@ferntasie @maelstrom-of-emotions @travelingneuritis @keriarentikai @geck-motj

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ao3 resources

the list prev in this section compiled into the 'references' chapter of my podficcing notes to self/instruction guide: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62233522/chapters/160984369

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pinyin pronunciation resources (bc i make a lot of danmei-origin podfic)

i took a semester of mandarin chinese in community college forever ago and this is something i found that is catchy and quirky and funny and memorable. it's part 1 of a 4 video playlist. actually really helpful if you pay attention to the shape of the mouse's mouth. the grouped consonants all have the same mouth shape with sequentially further back positioning of the tip of the tongue on the roof of your mouth fyi

this is a pinyin guide by user @pumpkinpaix and it has an accompanying transcript with tone markers and embedded audio!

https://pumpkinpaix.tumblr.com/post/619038202237452288/hello-cyan-you-have-the-cutest-voice-one-thing

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btw this is the image in my mind anytime i say I DID THE THING or similar

motivational art by @thelatestkate

=========

end post

[k-n0-x]

༺ ♱✮♱ ¨:·Something Stupid- Chapter 2·:¨ ♱✮♱ ༻

A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you all for the positive comments on Chapter 1 of Something Stupid. Chapter 2 is a long one, and I will only say one thing: Y/N is MOTHER fr.

I will also start a taglist for this fanfiction, so if you want in, just send an ask! [please note to not send it in as anonymous]

Playlist:

Navigation

Enjoy<3

꧁🥀☽💫✶♛🦢♕✶💫☾🥀꧂

“So, what are we going to do about Heaven’s killing of demons?” Emily sits opposite you on the porch. You motion for her to have some cake.

It has been a few days since that ordeal, and you plan on seeing Charlie and her… residents soon enough. 

You’ve found that you have taken Emily under your wing, for the sole fact that the both of you have been left in the dark of this utter madness. 

You have always seen her as a lovely girl, and now, as you guys got to know each other better, you now see Emily as your own.

“To be honest, I’m not quite sure. I do know that I will go down and help them out for sure at some point,” you rim the teacup with your fingers.

“Oh! Can I join?” 

“I wish you could, but I’m not sure if Sera would appreciate that,” 

Emily’s eyes darken at the mention of the Seraphim. 

“Yeah well… I don’t appreciate how she kept this secret from me for God knows how long,”

“I know, and I feel the same way, but to be honest, I haven’t officially been to Hell, and I don’t know what it’s like when it’s not in rack and ruin. I want to see how it is normally like,” you take a sip of your tea.

You let the silence hang for a couple of seconds before asking,

“Well, what do you think?”

“Sorry, what do you mean?” Emily looks at you inquiringly. 

“Like, what is your opinion on this hotel Charlie is working on? Do you think it will work?”

“It does work,”

“Well I think- wait what?” You look at her, prying for more.

“Uh well, it’s just an immensely probable hypothesis I have,” Emily continues. 

“Sera and I were just talking, or rather, looking at each other awkwardly in silence…,” she trails off, irritating you slightly.

“And?”

“Well, a random snake guy sorta dropped in asking where he was because it wasn’t Hell and that he misses his “egg bois?” And Sera said for me to not to tell a soul, but obviously that didn’t age well-,”

“Wait a minute,” You did a mental overview of this information. 

You did remember someone sacrificing their life in the maelstrom of the Extermination. What was his name again? You couldn’t really place it. Sir something or other.

“I’ll look into it and update you if I find anything,” you say as you make a mental note to do as such.

“Okay but please don’t tell Sera. She will actually blow up if anything gets out-”

“Don’t worry, you can trust me Emi,” you look at the dregs of tea leaves in your cup, and leave it on the countertop.

“I’m afraid you have to go now, I have a function of sorts to attend to today,”

“Oh yeah, no problem!”

“Also, Emily?”

“Yeah?” The seraphim stands from her seat and quickly wipes her face, caked in crumbs.

“Thank you for telling me this. Here, take some more cake if you’d like and you can leave when you’re ready,” 

“Really? Thanks!”

You smile and go into your house and up the stairs.

Things are going to get interesting indeed.

꧁ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ꧂

You take a deep breath and search around for something, anything, as a token for goodwill. 

On your windowsill, lays a box that has been collecting dust since forever.

Uncertain, you open it and you see an abundance of sweets, and you remember that this is from when your parents introduced you to Adam.

He gave you these clearly as a show of courtship, and you accepted it as a sign of respect.

Adam… He’s quite the person.

He has the humour of a 12 year old but he’s great to have a laugh with once in a while. 

He isn’t the one for you though. 

You told your parents as such, that you guys weren’t compatible in the slightest, and that being friends was probably how deep your relationship could go.

Unfortunately, they were too blinded by the prospect of money and endless possibilities to hear you out.

Yeah, they’re those kind of parents.

Before you pine the day away, you place the box in the comfort of your tote bag, and open a portal with the tips of your fingers.

As the portal opens, an unpleasant stench wafts through to your room, holding you back from going into Hell.

You take a deep breath, swallow your anxiety and pass through the portal, which closes behind you.

꧁ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ꧂

“Now, where would that hotel be?” You wonder as you wander through the gruesome streets of hell, keeping your eyes peeled for any hotel of sorts. Charlie’s personality is… explosive, so her hotel would be hard to miss.

“Uhm excuse me, ma’am do you perhaps know where a hotel may be?” You tap a passerby’s shoulder. 

“How should I know bitch?” The person turns to face you. Or faces considering the fact it literally has two heads.

“Please apologise for my sister, though I believe there’s a hotel just down the path. Follow your nose, you can’t miss it!” The head that was more pushed off to the side pipes up.

“Oh alright, er, thank you?” You say your thanks as you walk down the street and sure enough, you find a hotel, decorated with blue hues, and erotic retro signs on the front.

It was so… unlike Charlie. 

You’re uncertain, but give the place the benefit of the doubt.

“Maybe she’s just making the hotel seem more catered to her civilians?” You hold onto that thought as you enter the double doors.

꧁ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ꧂

Okay, maybe you should've been more doubtful.

The lobby was filled with demons conversing, laughing and brawling, though most sinners were drinking and being lustful with each other.

You pave your way to the bar and drum your fingers against the countertop, hoping to find a familiar face.

Two brawly sinners take a seat on either side of you.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” the demon on your left places his rough hand on your shoulder. 

“Do you want to… hang out with us?” The other grazes his claws against your thigh. 

“Oh, thanks for your kind offer but I really gotta…” you motion to the exit. 

“Nonsense, nonsense, you seem like you could clear up your schedule,” Sinner no.1 moves his hand to your back, tugging at your wings, letting out a small squeak from you. 

You’re absolutely frozen, the two demons oogling and grabbing at things they really really shouldn’t. 

“Alright, pack it up, funs over fellas,” A vaguely familiar voice emits from behind you.

You turn around to have an angry looking spider demon glaring at the perpetrators.

“Aw Angel, why ruin our fun? You could join too, you know. We’ll make it worth your while,”

“Thanks but no thanks,” He replies, without missing a beat. He drags you by the arm out of the “hotel”

“Okay so, why the fuck are you down here?” The arachnid gives you a once over.

“Well, I er, you,” Why did you become a stuttering mess all of a sudden?! You take a moment to recalibrate yourself. 

“I wanted to check up on the hotel, and see how you guys are doing. I thought this was it and-”

You were interrupted from his laughter.

“Dollface, you just entered a sex club,” He says through wheezes.

“Whoever told you that was a hotel was clearly messing with you,” 

“Why would-,” you backtrack yourself. Of course. This is Hell, of course people are going to either fuck you, or fuck you up. 

You sigh. 

“Can you atleast bring me to the hotel? Please? I have, er sweets?” You show the box as a pathetic attempt at not being abandoned in the streets.

A drabbling pause.

“Fine, but keep up,”

꧁ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ꧂

You almost let out a cry of relief as you enter the lobby.

This, was Charlie.

A bar was decoratively put in one corner, bestowed with a (cat?) demon accompanying it, doing some sort of bartending duties. 

“Well, this is it. I guess I should get Charlie for you, Dollface,” the nameless spider goes to the elevator.

“Wait!” You extend your hand in a sense of urgency.

“Thank you, er….,” you trail off; you evidently don’t know their name.

“Angel,”

“Huh?” 

“My name’s Angel. Angel Dust,” Angel Dust takes your hand and shakes it with one of his. 

“Y/N. Y/N L/N,” you add, as a certain Princess descends from the staircase, with a certain King following suit. They both look a bit scruffy, but Charlie’s eyes light up when she sees you. 

“Y/N! Hi!” You slightly flinch when Charlie gives you a massive hug, though you return it. 

“What have you been up to sugar? Seems like you’ve gotten back on your feet!” Out of the corner of your eye, Lucifer is observing you from the stairwell, making you quite antsy indeed. 

“Well, as best as we can be in the current situation, with Sir Pentious and all,” Charlie pulls away playing with her hair, a sentimental expression floods her eyes.

“We held a funeral for him just a couple days before you came and I hope it wouldn’t be too much to ask of you if you-,” 

“I’d love to see him,” You answer plainly.

“Great! Follow me,”  The princess leads you into the garden. You quickly take a glance behind you, and Lucifer’s watchful gaze is still on you. 

꧁ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ꧂

The garden really is… something.

It’s quite depressing, but you can’t really blame anyone. After all, how can anyone expect a garden to look anything above moribound when it inhabits a land of infernal blaze.

“Well, er, here it is,” Charlie introduces you to the grave intimately made, capturing what the snake demon looked like, the engravings properly detailing his teeth and his many eyes. Around the tomb, lit candles circled around it, along with some miscellaneous items, almost like an altar.

The sight of it makes you feel a twinge of maudlin. 

You hear a sniffle from your side. 

“Charlie?” A tear drops from her face.

“Oh darling, it’s okay. He died for a good cause,” you now bring her into your deep embrace.

“It’s- it’s not that,” Charlie mumbles through your shoulder.

“Sometimes I wonder if this hotel would even work. I’m tired, Y/N, Sir Pentious was our first, and only genuine patron. And now he’s gone,” her voice cracks, breaking your heart. 

You want to tell her that it does work, but you don’t have concrete proof. Bringing her hopes up for the slim chance for nothing would actually break her. So you decide against telling her what Emily told you.

You stay silent, and so does she, though it isn’t awkward.

You break the silence nonetheless. 

“You know, at least you have 2 people from Heaven on your side. Emily,” you point towards the sky.

“And me,” you point to yourself. 

“That takes a lot of work, you know, going up to face the Seraphim herself. You’re making progress, the only thing I ask of you is to keep going, alright? I will try snoop around to help in any way possible,”

“Oh no, you don’t need to do that. Coming down to visit us is more than I can ask for,” Charlie rubs her eyes dry, though a tear stain stays on her cheek.

“Nonsense.Anyway, Emily is sure to help me, so it’s not like I’m doing it alone,”  

For good measure, you add,

“By the way, did you know you and Emily have so much in common? What?It’s so uncanny!”

 That earned you a giggle from Charlie.

“Thanks for cheering me up, I really needed that,” She recollects herself and pats herself down.

“Well, let’s head inside and I’ll introduce you to the others, shall I?”

꧁ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ꧂

“Well, this has been lovely, meeting all of you, but unfortunately I would have to leave for now” You smile at all the hotel’s residents. 

The Radio Demon, Alastor shakes your hand.

“Farewell, new friend. I am sure that our newfound relationship will be a fruitful and pleasant one indeed,” the voice overlayed with a radio static is jarring, though you look past it, with an acknowledging nod.

“The feeling’s mutual. See you all soon?” You make your grand exit.

As you exit the building into the humid evening of Hell, you open a portal once more to your home realm, when someone stops you.

“Uh hey, Y/N?” 

You turn around, to have the King of Hell himself, looking quite anxious, not quite meeting your eyes.

“Lucifer! Is there something you need?” You keep the hostility out of your voice. While you were mingling with the other residents, Lucifer was sulking in the corner, and mumbled short and dismissive replies each and every time you tried to strike conversation with him.

“No, not really,” he pauses.

“Thank you for taking Charlie under your wing, and not treating her like she’s scum under your feet,” 

“It’s really really not a problem. Just basic respect, you know? You must be proud having a child like her,” 

He chuckles in agreement. 

“Well, you probably have to be going now, but I hope we can try and get to know each other in future?”

You were kind of taken aback by Lucifer’s attempt at extending an olive branch, but you say,

“Of course. Oh and before I forget,” you produce the sweet box from your bag.

“Here, for you and the rest,” 

Lucifer flushes slightly at your kind gesture. The look in his eyes is as though something sparked in him, as though a fire has been rekindled after many years from being dormant as he holds the sweet box loosely in his hand, like he will drop it at any moment.

“See you soon?” You say, in between the two worlds.

“Gladly,”

꧁🥀☽💫✶♛🐣♕✶💫☾🥀꧂

Word count: 2,328

<Reblogs+commenting appreciated!>

[mooncello]

[I never know how to start wipsday posts. It feels awkward and unnatural to me and kinda like writing a letter?? but not, so I'm just gonna begin as though we were already halfway into a conversation, excellent solution, Heath, thank you, I thought so too—]

—and post-op recovery is a strange, liminal space. I've got too much time to think yfm? Too much reading of The Guardian and Al Jazeera and feeling super fucking helpless. I've been reading a lot of non-news, too. Revisiting my beloved Cooper Dayton and Oliver Park in the vastly underrated gay werewolf mystery series by Charlie Adhara. Subscribed to Sarah Thankam Mathews's substack thot pudding (good stuff, big rec). Giving what I can to Rawa. I started Yuri on Ice, and am about to dive into Denne Michele Norris's novel When the Harvest Comes. My friend recently recommended the podcast The Nature Of with Willow Defebaugh, and the most recent episode feat. Q U E E N adrienne maree brown. I'll be queuing that up this week.

I've also been writing!! I'm working on a collab with @monbons and our conversations the past couple weeks have brought so much joy. AND: chapter 9 of more than a footnote is HAPPENING. Dev and Niall have returned, the words are flowing, and I'm 70% done with drafting the chapter. I love them. I love this chapter. It's self-indulgent, it's soft, it's real. It's sexy. I published the first chapter of this fic on June 1 last year, and I really hope to post the final chapter by then. Full circles and all that. Also wdym iT'S BEEN A YEAR??

Here's a long snippet from chapter 9:

Dev POV

I leave Niall and his mums and wander out the back door to the Flores Connelly garden. Like most London terraced houses, it's tiny. A postage stamp of land, half covered in paving stones and brimming with flowers. Gardening gloves and tools spill from cans. Rain boots and slides line up neatly by the door. Strings of cafe lights loop from one end of the garden to the other, bisecting the inky night with honey gold. I collapse into one of the woven patio chairs, beating back the maelstrom swiftly gathering inside my chest. I had hoped to delay this fucking decision for a few more days because what I want and what I need are at vicious odds. No, I think, biting the inside of my cheek. Not need. I don't need to see my family, but the should is strong and familiar. An ill-fitting, ugly jacket that I've outgrown—that never fit me, not really—yet my shoulders still expect its weight and the way it pinches under my armpits. It's held my spine in a weird, unnatural posture every summer, every school break, for so long, that to reject it ... I sigh and scrub my eyes with the heels of my hands. The idea of defying my parents' expectations is both freeing and terrifying. Fuck, I wish I weren't such a coward. Two arms snake around my shoulders from behind. And then his soft mouth, pressed against the side of my neck. "Wanna break something?" Niall murmurs. "I can find a glass from the kitchen." "Nah." I reach for his sweatshirt, grab it, and tug, until he's seated in my lap. I wrap my arms around his waist, his arms now looped around my neck, and I feel instantly resettled. At home. "This is better." I tip my face up, and Niall meets me with a kiss. It's slow and sweet, his hands coming up to curve around my jaw, slipping into my hair, his nails against my scalp and his weight solid upon my thighs. We kiss and kiss, not building to anything, just the simple pleasure of his mouth on mine. How is it this easy? This good?

thank you for the tag today @brilla-brilla-estrellita, and everyone else that's tagged me these last few weeks.

tags and ✌️:

@drowninginships @valeffelees @run-for-chamo-miles @blackberrysummerblog @confused-bi-queer

@youarenevertooold @shrekgogurt, @hushed-chorus @whatevertheweather, @cutestkilla

@you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @artsyunderstudy, @emeryhall, @imagineacoolusername, @leithillustration

@iamamythologicalcreature, @bookish-bogwitch @thewholelemon, @best--dress, @rimeswithpurple

@ileadacharmedlife @skeedelvee, @monbons, @alexalexinii, @j-trow-95

@theimpossibledemon, @brilla-brilla-estrellita, @larkral, @messofthejess, @talentpiper11

@fiend-for-culture, @stitchyqueer, @roomwithanopenfire + anyone else who would like to join

[itsdappleagain]

numbers tag game!!!

tagged by: @lesbiansayaishii :)

rules: give us the links to your fic with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the least words.

all of these are carmen sandiego fics :3

MOST HITS:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/40067127/chapters/100345494

say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime (let me lead you from your solitude)

OR the carmen sandiego phantom of the opera au (not a crossover, you don't need to know anything about phantom)! carmen is severely injured and falls to darkness...it is up to julia to reach her before it is too late.

SECOND MOST KUDOS:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44092383

simple are the ways of love (simple as the touch of another's hands)

OR a very sweet and fluffy julethief oneshot that's just one of their mornings as a domestic couple.

THIRD MOST COMMENTS:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/34157122/chapters/84987103

Everything Is a Lie

OR part 1/3 of my Evil Carlotta AU, where Carmen finds herself a prisoner of a morally misguided woman she no longer wants to call her mother.

FOURTH MOST BOOKMARKS

Also Everything Is a Lie, so I'm plugging the one with the most bookmarks, the cardinal and the kitten. that one is a hurt/comfort julethief fic where julia finds carmen after her fight with brunt in the s1 finale. :)

LEAST WORDS

https://archiveofourown.org/works/57726817

sacrificial lamb

OR I write maelstrom to be a whole lot worse to carmen. heavy angst, read the tags please!

TAGGING: @fluffytheocelot @mmaricarmen23 and anyone who sees this and wants to do it!!!

[hannahbarberra162]

Can't Fix Fix A Broken Heart - Chapter 3

Now on Ao3

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 4 All chapters

TW: crying, mentions of abuse, brief mentions of death, anxiety

Notes: I HC Thatch as being Mexican. We're getting a little yandere-y...

Also I don't think I mentioned but this is AU where Thatch, Ace, and Whitebeard don't die because I love them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You weren’t really sure what you were doing. Your body was moving but you didn’t feel like you were controlling any of it. You couldn’t think, couldn’t focus on anything, could barely breathe. You realized you were still clutching the poster in your hand, so you forced yourself to relax your grip and put it in the pocket of your apron. You crouched down on your heels by the end of the alley with your head in your hands. You started rubbing your fingers on your scalp as a way to try to ground yourself in the moment. All the stupid bullshit methods of self regulation you had been reading about weren’t working. Your thoughts were swirling like a maelstrom, threatening to drown you in their chaos. You were angry so very angry and sad and scared so very scared and worried and back to angry. 

You didn’t know how much time had passed but at some point you picked up your head and saw Thatch seated next to you leaning against the side of the alley. Even though you saw him already, it still spooked you to see him so close. You jerked a little bit but didn’t move your position. 

“Rough news, huh?” he said with a gentle tone. 

“Yeah.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet another Fourth Division Commander!” his light hearted joke didn’t land as you didn’t respond. You could barely process your own thoughts, let alone navigate social interactions.

“I’m not a pirate” you said and sat all the way down next to him. You bent your knees to your chest and placed your head on top of them.

“No offense mamacita, but I didn’t think you were. So what’s with the bounty then? Are you a Marine on the run? We have a few Marine contacts if you ne–”

“I am NOT a Marine” you said emphatically as you shot him a look of malice. Immediately you deflated - he didn’t deserve your ire. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t called for. I just…I’m just angry. Not at you, though.” You absently started to fix some of the cracked cobblestones near you. It was a good outlet for your energy at least. 

“I thought all the Twisted Pirates were killed a long time ago. I haven't heard about them in years” Thatch said, scratching his goatee.

“Yeah, they were.”

“And the Marines are saying you’re the Twisted’s Commander? So if you’re not a Marine and you’re not a pirate, what’s going on? That’s a huge bounty for a civilian.”

You looked into his eyes and grimaced. You were already in so much trouble, you didn’t think telling anyone at this point would make a difference. Besides, he looked like he might actually listen. You weren’t sure you could make it through the story without crying, but taking in a shaky breath you started. 

“Um, well… about 7 years ago my island was attacked by the Twisted pirates. The pirates destroyed everything on the island and took me with them. I was with them for a while until they were defeated by Marines. The Marines took me from the pirates and kept me on their ship for about 5 years. A few months ago, the ship I was on was wrecked and I ended up on this island. I guess they want me back.”

Thatch was listening and watching you intently. Your eyes had started to water so you turned your head to face the other way. 

“What do you mean they kept you on their ship? Like they forced you to join their ranks?”

You turned your face back towards him and shook your head. “No. At first when they brought me on their ship I was so grateful. I thought they would take me back to my island or somewhere closeby. But they saw my devil fruit power and just kept me on the ship as an unprocessed pirate captive. They never took me to a base, never charged me with anything, just…kept me on their boat. Since I was never processed on any Marine base, there was no record of my so-called rescue or how I came to them. I had no status, no rights. I was just there to do with as they wanted. ”

You were crying now, tears running down your cheeks as you talked. “All the other Twisted pirates were killed in battle, so there was no one to corroborate my side of the story. They said I was a pirate since I have a jolly roger on me and it was my word against Marine officers.”

Thatch reached into his coat pocket and handed you a handkerchief. For a moment he hesitated, seeming to want to dry them himself. But you were glad he let you do it himself.

“So I stayed there, a prisoner on the ship. They never let me leave the boat or be seen by other officers or commanders or anything. I fixed their ship all the time, I worked a lot….stuff like that. They weren’t…nice to me. Then the ship sank, so…” you trailed off, feeling deflated. You didn’t feel like talking anymore about what had happened. Your initial adrenaline had worn off and you were feeling exhausted.

Thatch tilted his head with a concerned look on his face, and extended his arm to pat your back with his hand. He didn’t touch you immediately, but waited until you nodded slightly at him. His large hand started rubbing soothing circles on your back while your tears dried. It felt…nice. Warm. You laid your head back down on your knees and closed your eyes. No one had rubbed your back in…you couldn’t remember. You hoped he wouldn’t stop.

Thatch POV

Even though he was gently rubbing your back, Thatch was smoldering with rage inside. If you weren’t there he would have punched a hole through the brick wall. He hoped he was keeping a neutral enough expression on his face. The last thing you needed was to see more aggression.

Kept as a slave for years on a Marine ship? No wonder you were so upset when he asked if you were a Marine. He couldn’t imagine your time on the pirate boat had been any better either. He was sure there was even more to the story underneath the surface of what you had said. He wanted to ask you questions but now wasn’t the time. 

It was obvious that the Marines wanted you back to continue using you for your Devil Fruit and who knows what else. All the women he had ever met who were captives held deep and lasting trauma. With your fruit he couldn’t imagine how much money you’d saved the Marines over the course of 5 years, completing repairs for free. He was sure someone high up got a fat bonus for saving money on the bottom line, too. Based on your wanted poster picture, they were running you ragged. He wondered how they kept you a secret from all the other crews and officials.

For a measly 25,000 Beri they’d be able to have their free service back without having to look for you. You would fall prey to the first bounty hunter to look for you since you weren’t a fighter and didn’t have connections. It was a good plan from the Marines, but not one he was going to let happen.

Thatch noticed you started crying again, completely silent. You seemed to be used to crying and either no one caring - or worse - being hurt for making noise. Your jumpiness and nervousness made more sense with the new information. 

“Pobrecita…no te preocupes…estoy aquí” Thatch started cooing to you in Spanish, saying whatever came to his mind. Even though he was enraged at the situation and feeling sorry for you, he did notice how sweet you looked crying like this. You were like a little doll, a little broken thing he could have and fix. Thatch knew himself well enough to recognize his protective - and possessive - streak. You were so sad, so worried, so fragile. He knew what he wanted - he just needed the others inside to agree. And how could they not? After all, you were so helpless in such a big, bad world...

[astroboots]

hamster Steve crumbs please🥺🙏🏻

HAMSTER DAYS: CHAPTER THREE

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader

Summary: You try to keep your cute little Hamster Steven alive... and you're not doing a great job out of it.

Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist 

You are going to fix this. You are going to turn your boyfriend back to his human form. You are going to protect him.

There is just one little snag. Notwithstanding that you do not know the cause of Steven's transformation. Notwithstanding that you have no idea where to start.

The real worry here is that before you ever even get so far, you might end up accidentally killing Steven.

On your first night, you had placed Steven on the pillow next to you above the covers, safe and sound next to you. Or so you had thought, until not two minutes later you had rolled over by habit, pulling the sheets with you and flung him 6 feet high in the air and barely managed to catch him with a pillow before he crashed onto the hard wooden floor below.

In the morning, when you were making breakfast and had placed Steven on the kitchen counter to roam freely, he'd managed to knock over a jar of jam, spilling it everywhere and gotten his shiny golden-brown fur covered in it. Your bright idea had been to bathe him, and it wasn't until 30 seconds in you realized hamsters do not swim... or at least this hamster doesn't as he immediately panicked, squeaked and was pawing frantically at the white porcelain sink for safety.

It's not even noon by the time, you've finally gotten him blowdried (and begrudgingly forgiven you) when you nearly drop the tome of a book --you were studying hoping to find some clue to Steven's predicament -- not three inches from where he was napping on the desk next to you.

That's when you finally realize that whatever grand plans you have to restore Steven to his former human body is going to have to be put on pause. Because the first thing you are going to have to learn is to keep him alive.

In fairness to you. You've never had a pet hamster before. You've always wanted one. Staring at them at petshops and the glass tanks they were kept in since you were a kid. But you've grown up all your life in no-pets-allowed flats. And while you had insisted to your parents that it's "just a hamster, no one will ever know!" your skills of persuasion had been clearly lacking, because you never ended up getting one. Something or the other about how you were much too rough and scatterbrained and would not be able to keep it alive... which...

Let's not linger on that thought--

Grabbing your laptop, you place it on the middle of the desk as you pull up youtube on the browser and search for guides to care for a hamster.

The first video catching your attention has the still image of a hamster that looks not unlike Steven. Fluffy golden brown fur, big wide eyes with its tiny paws tucked close to its chest as if it's been startled.

You click it open and for the next 46 minutes and 32 seconds you are being treated to a lecture on the to dos and no to dos.

Apparently the last 12 hours you've spent with Hamster Steven firms firmly into the no to dos category.

Bath is a no no.

Feeding it jam is also a no go.

Letting them roam without supervision (and proper childproofing) is a big no no.

Then the lady starts rattling off facts about enclosure sizes, enrichment toys, how chinchilla sand is dangerous and how to build tunnels and materials for bedding, and, and, and until your head is spinning and you cannot make sense of words anymore.

The words drift in and out as hard as you try to keep up before the video scren goes black, and finally ends but before you get a second to breathe and process the maelstrom of information fed to you, autoplay is already queuing up the next video that is 1 hour and 26 minutes long of things not to do or you will kill your hamster.

You cringe inwardly, you've had hamster version of Steven in your care for not even half a day and so far you haven't been doing a great job.

Your chest squeeze tight with worry. You don't know how you are possibly going to pull this off. If you can't even take care of a hamster, what are the odds of you being able to perform a magical miracle to undo whatever curse or magic spell that has befallen Steven to get him into this state?

From the corner of your eye, you see Steven paddle across the length of the desk on his four tiny paws before he finally reaches you and settles himself next to your hand. His nose nuzzles into your palm until your hand opens and he can climb inside.

He squeaks meekly, looking up at you and you recognize that expression. As delusional as it sounds, it's almost as if he's trying to tell you something.

You know you can't understand him. It's not like he can speak. But you do know one thing and it's that you know Steven. And the fact that you cannot interpret hamster squeaks do not seem to matter when you see those soft brown eyes staring up at you. A soft glow blooms inside your chest until the worry that was there before seems to melt at the sight of him.

"It's alright," those eyes are telling you.

You take a deep breath. brushing your fingers over the soft tuft of fur on top of his soft little head and his head tilts into your touch.

Yeah... you can do this. One step at a time.

You turn your eyes back to the screen, then click the next video.

First step: Learn to keep Steven alive.

Author's note: I know it's been 101 days. I'm so sorry! Thank you lovely lovely nonny for sending me this ask and getting my ass to get kicked into gear. Also thank you to @guruan and @ems-chaos-corner for sending me hamster photos and videos for inspiration and for every other nonny and person who does this it brings me so much joy!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Comet Donati [Chapter 5: I Should Have Kissed You]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), drugs, alcohol, smoking, mental health struggles, bodily injury, sloths, public indecency, another important conversation on a balcony, angst!

Selected Chapter Quote: “I’m sorry about what happened tonight.”

Word count: 8k (+1 meme).

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: ​@doingfondue​ @catalina-howard​ @randomdragonfires​ @myspotofcraziness​ @arcielee​ @fan-goddess​ @talesofoldandnew​ @marvelescvpe​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @mariahossain​ @chainsawsangel​ @darkenchantress​ @not-a-glad-gladiator​ @gemini-mama​ @trifoliumviridi​ @herfantasyworldd​ @babyblue711​ @namelesslosers​ @thelittleswanao3​ @daenysx​ @moonlightfoxx​ @libroparaiso​ @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics​ @mizfortuna​ @florent1s​ @heimtathurs​ @bhanclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @heavenly1927​ @mariahossain​ @echos-muses​ @padfooteyes​ @minttea07​ @queenofshinigamis​ @juliavilu1​ @amiraisgoingthruit​ @lauraneedstochill​ @wintrr13​ @r0segard3n​ ​

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

There’s turbulence over the Indian Ocean as the jet staggers towards Singapore, pitching and reeling, dark clouds churning beyond the windows like the malevolent brew of a caldron. Each time the plane plummets fifty or a hundred feet, you clutch reflexively at your armrests and try not to think of Cast Away. No one else seems bothered by it; that’s what years spent on international flights will do to people, you suppose. It dulls their instincts, tames them, sands down vestiges of primeval survivalism like a file taken to canine teeth. Cregan is ostensibly napping beneath his sunglasses, Daeron is propelling Mario through a maze of toxic fumes, Luke is watching The Crown on his laptop with Rhaena and Baela, Jace is applying shimmering, gelatinous, golden under-eye masks with great care, Criston is answering emails, Aegon is being forced by the label to click through online substance abuse education modules and sighs dramatically and often. And Aemond…

The jet loses a dozen meters of altitude and your stomach drops. You stifle a yelp with one hand as tears—unwanted and unforeseen—prickle into your eyes. You peek across the aisle to see Aemond watching you with his gaze of two blues: one like a clear cool river, the other an otherworldly maelstrom like the atmosphere on Neptune, beautiful yet barren. His expression is intense and searching, his brow low. You try to ignore him. You try to collect yourself.

“Honeybunch?” Shelby croons. Yes, she calls him honeybunch, freaking honeybunch, and occasionally Honey Bunches of Oats. It’s almost as nauseating as the turbulence. He turns to her after the briefest of hesitations. Shelby is crouched by a table, her project for the past hour: artfully arranged red roses, glass bowls of fruit that she spritzes with a spray bottle of water—like you’d use to discipline a cat—to keep it glistening, and bubbling flutes of pink champagne. When the careening of the jet sends anything sliding precariously towards the edge of the table, she casually pushes it back into place. Shelby is no stranger to flying either. She is an angel, born with wings.

“Yeah?” Aemond says distractedly.

“Can you come over here for a sec?”

The jet shutters; ripples quake through your ginger ale. You swallow down a pathetic mewing like a wounded animal’s, swiping a tear from your cheek. You nestle against the window so no one will notice. “Sure,” Aemond tells Shelby, casting you another glance as he stands. He goes to her—gripping the backs of chairs to keep his balance—and, after looking back at you one last time, swipes one gleaming strawberry from a bowl.

“Don’t!” Shelby whines, knowing that now she’ll have to rearrange things.

If Aemond heard her, he gives no indication. He chucks the strawberry as hard as he can at Aegon; it hits the side of his head with a wet thump. Tiny black seeds pop free. Juice like blood stains his blond hair.

Aegon rips out his earbuds and spins around in his seat. “Okay, what the fuck?”

“Whoops,” Aemond says dully.

“How does someone do that by accident?! How does that even happen?!” Rubbing his head with one hand, Aegon stretches and peers around the jet. His eyes—not a blue like clear water, but a deep murky cobalt, a difference you cannot help but notice again and again like the stinging of a papercut—catch on you. “Aww, Stargirl, what’s up?” He drags himself over, knocked to his knees once by the swerving of the jet, and plops down into the chair beside you. “You okay? Don’t worry. I’m a good swimmer. I’d drag you to shore.”

You laugh, pressing a napkin to your eyes. It comes away shriveled and damp. “I’m sorry. We get tornadoes back home sometimes, I can’t stop picturing wreckage.”

“You should have seen this flight we took last year over the Pacific. The jet was practically sideways. Jace threw up like ten times.”

“Three times,” Jace says, peeling off his under-eye masks like little gold jellyfish with his feet kicked up on an ottoman.

“Ten times?” Aegon replies innocently. “Ten, you said?”

“Three, you idiot.”

“Ten?”

“Three.”

“Ten!” Aegon confirms merrily.

Jace holds up an under-eye mask and jiggles it in the air, soft and wiggling and shapeless. “Hey guys! This is what Aegon looks like naked.”

“I don’t want him getting any of the money from my donut merch!” Aegon shouts. “Criston? You hear that? Criston? Hey Criston? Criston?!”

“Do your modules,” Criston replies without looking away from his emails.

“Fine,” Aegon huffs. The jet is gliding over the ocean more smoothly now. Still, he says to you after smacking a single sloppy kiss against your temple: “Follow me. You can help.”

You accompany Aegon back to his seat and laptop, a neon green MacBook Air. Shelby is snapping photos to post on Instagram, recording clips for TikTok: the meticulously arranged table, her long fingernails decorated with palm trees and Merlions and the flag of Singapore, selfies of her and Aemond…always taken to show his good side, of course. Your guts twist with hostility, mistrust, envy, wrath.

As you pass Jace, he holds out his discarded under-eye masks. “Wanna touch?” Jace invites you, leering. You peel one gluey under-eye mask from his open palm and examine it. As you massage the pool of viscous gold, Jace ogles, dangerously close to drooling.

“So soft,” you admire. “So smooth. Not a single wrinkle.” Then you fling it back at Jace. The adhesive side sticks to his forehead. “Just like your brain.”

Everyone howls, even Cregan—not asleep after all—and Criston; he tries to choke it down until his face floods red. Aemond is staring at the floor, but he is beaming. Shelby recaptures his attention and begins posing his hand around a glass of champagne, readjusting fingers like a physical therapist stretching and flexing half-healed limbs. She gets to touch him. She gets to speak to him.

“You’re always so mean,” Jace tells you as he pries the under-eye mask off his skin, unfazed, simpering, flirtatious. “You might have to make it up to me one day.”

“Unlikely.”

“We’ll see.”

“We certainly won’t.”

Aegon shows you the quiz that has popped up in his modules. “Okay, Stargirl. Time to prove yourself. Does coke make someone’s pupils bigger or smaller?”

All you can hear is Shelby’s high, sing-songy voice; all you can picture are her exquisite fingernails skimming their way down the ridge of Aemond’s spine. “I honestly can’t recall at the moment. Go snort some and we’ll find out.”

Aegon grins. “Don’t tempt me.”

Fifty minutes later and under blessedly clear skies, the jet touches down at Changi Airport: 88 degrees Fahrenheit, 80% humidity. Aegon groans as he trots down the airstair, slides on his aviator sunglasses, and wipes away sweat—already beading on his pink forehead and wetting the hair at the nape of his neck—with the back of one hand.

“Jesus Christ, I need a Double Chocolaty Chip Frappuccino.”

“Do you really?” Jace jabs, and you don’t have to scold him this time. Baela gets there first, hissing something to him that is brief and fearsome. You’re only half paying attention. Once Comet Donati makes it through security, there may be paparazzi waiting for them inside the airport. Everyone knows this; it’s the same in every city and on every continent. And as Shelby strolls across the tarmac with one arm looped through Aemond’s, you cannot help but see—you cannot help but absorb like nicotine through the capillary beds of a lung—that she reaches out with those beautiful yet claw-like fingernails and taps the front pocket of his button-up shirt, black with white lilies, until he pulls out a pair of sunglasses and shields himself from the pitying eyes of the world with them.

And you think with puncturing clarity like a shard of glass through flesh: I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Pan Pacific Orchard Hotel is brand new. You can’t breathe without inhaling fresh paint, glass walls, the bakery, the greenery that climbs steel like a trellis, the roomy emptiness of starting over. You wake up tangled in a nest of white sheets that your body has heated into an inferno. You don’t remember your dream, only that Aemond was there. It was the opening of the door that woke you. Aegon stands in the slanting early-afternoon sunlight, vivid red swim trunks and matching Crocs, his sunglasses knotted in his hair.

You yawn and peer blearily at him. “Aegon? What are you doing?”

“Every day I wake up hoping you’re still here,” he says. And then: “We’re all headed down to the pool. You wanna join?”

You smile; you can smell him in the air, Axe body spray, Tiger Beer, sunscreen that he never seems to apply often enough to stop his skin from burning. You haven’t been with him—not in that way—since that day in Paris. But time never feels quite linear with Aegon. He swings wide and then comes in close again, and when he does it’s like he never left. He’s with you always, and never, and sometimes, and forever. “Yeah. Give me ten minutes.”

“Cool.” He turns and studies himself in the full-length mirror that hangs on your bedroom wall. His eyes wander down to his bare chest and belly. He frowns, pensive, far-away, critical. It is an expression that looks entirely unnatural on him.

“Hey.”

He spins back around, running a hand self-consciously down the front of his torso. “Hm?”

“I think you’re perfect exactly the way you are. I am wildly, helplessly, pathetically attracted to you. I would fight off twenty fangirls with my bare hands for you. I think you’re one of the most ludicrously gorgeous men I’ve ever met in my life. ”

He grins, radiant again. “One of them, huh?” And he winks at you as he clops towards the door in his Crocs. “Maybe it runs in the family.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“So. College applications season will be here in a few months.”

Baela looks at you, started. You’re in a whirlpool with her, Rhaena, Luke, and Aegon, sipping pina coladas and kicking feet idly beneath water misty with bubbles. “Okay?” Baela says. Her swimsuit is an elegant white one-piece that—unintentionally you think, unconsciously, and yet truthfully—closely resembles a ballet leotard.

“Elaborate?” Luke says, then slurps noisily on his pina colada.

Aegon already knows where you’re going. He chuckles into one closed fist; you can see yourself reflected in his sunglasses. In the massive main pool punctuated by an arcing bridge and a miniature island, Cregan is lounging on a float shaped like a pineapple and eating his way through a heaping plate of juicy slivers: papaya, mango, starfruit, banana, lychee, rose apple, dragon fruit. Criston is sitting under an umbrella and reading a New Yorker profile of shipping tycoon Viserys Targaryen—a Greek by birth and a Brit by choice—with narrowed, vexed eyes. Jace and Daeron are attempting to do a TikTok dance for Shelby to post on her account and repeatedly screwing up, laughing hysterically and pushing each other into the pool. She always wears eye-catching patterns, leopard prints and retro geometric shapes and plaids and Swarovski crystals and tassels. Currently, she is dressed in a scarlet bikini and a sheer coverup of tropical flowers. Her blond hair flows down her back and swings like a horse’s tail when she leans in to direct her cast, pointing and waving. You see her like this, not in whole but in pieces: long beachy waves, nimble ankles and wrists, lip gloss, veneers, sugary perfume, tall like Aemond. Shelby has no idea why you’re here. She made a few tentative inquiries—So who introduced you to the band? So how did you and Aegon meet?—before being discouraged by the ensuing stilted silence. Aemond rarely acknowledges you. Presently, he is wading in the pool up to his chest, occasionally talking to Cregan but otherwise content to be left to his own…reverie? Observations? Machinating? Brooding? With his sunglasses on, it’s difficult to tell.

Back in the whirlpool, you ask Baela: “What if you applied to a few ballet programs?”

“What?”

“Just to see what happens. Just to have options.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t do that.” She says this so quickly it’s clear that it’s a reflex: something she does not think about, something she’s trained herself not to.

“Sure you could. You click a few buttons and it’s done.”

“I’d have to send in video clips and stuff.”

“Okay. Rhaena and I will help record you.”

“Absolutely,” Rhaena agrees right away. She drinks her pina colada with large, skittish eyes, watching you like you’re poking a tiger, a viper, and dragon. She’s tried to have this conversation before. She knows how it usually goes.

“I’m really not in shape right now,” Baela protests.

“You still have time to work on that. It’s only July.”

“And who says I want to work on it?” Baela snaps. “Have I ever mentioned ballet school? Have I ever said that I want to go?”

“But you do,” you say simply.

She frowns as she casts her gaze across the pool. Beefy men dressed in black—security guards, some employed by the band, some by Shelby—mill around aimlessly like ants when you lift a rock.

“I think you should apply,” you tell Baela.

“I can’t,” she replies, pained.

“Why not?”

“Because.” She’s flustered, cross. Rhaena and Luke look between the two of you anxiously. Aegon just smiles and gnaws on the hunk of pineapple that came perched on the rim of his pina colada. “Am I supposed to send Rhaena off into the world without me? Nothing against you, Luke, I like you, I trust you, but when you’re on stage or in an interview you can’t watch out for her. What if something happens to Rhaena? Or what if I go back to school and I’m a failure? What if I humiliate myself? What if I’ve lost whatever talent I once had? What if I couldn’t keep up with my classmates? What if I get injured and have to drop out? What if I’m too old, or too out of practice, or what if I don’t even enjoy dancing anymore? What would I do about the band? What would I do about Jace?”

“Those are all valid concerns,” you say. “But they’re also concerns for after you’ve applied to schools. If you get acceptances, that doesn’t mean you have to go. But it does give you options. And options are always good.”

Baela shrugs. She catches handfuls of bubbles in one cupped palm, preoccupied. “It just seems like a waste of time.”

Aegon snickers as he tosses the pineapple rind over his shoulder. One of the security guys snatches it up off the concrete and throws it in a trashcan. “Baela, please babygirl, don’t give up on your dreams for freaking Jace.”

“And who the fuck solicited your life advice, blond Nikki Sixx? If I want to know what Narcan feels like, I’ll ask you.”

Aegon sighs, rubbing one eyebrow. “You are never going to let that go.”

“I bet you’d get in,” Luke tells Baela. “To at least one school. You’re too good not to, even with the time off. Rhaena’s shown me old recital clips. You were fantastic.”

“Were,” Baela mutters. “Past tense. Very distant past tense.”

“If you don’t get in, then you know it’s off the table,” you say. “And you’re in the exact same spot you are now. But if you do get in, you have time to figure out what to do with that information. You have nothing to lose except application fees, and I don’t think those are much of a barrier for you, oh great connoisseur of Gucci and Hermès.”

“I’ll think about it,” Baela replies, and her intent to end the conversation is clear. A few awkward moments creep by like afternoon shadows stretching across pavement. “So, what are we doing for dinner?”

“Something quick, right?” Luke says. “Takeout? We have a meet-and-greet in two hours.”

“Jollibee!” Rhaena exclaims, clapping her hands. “They have coconut pineapple pie!”

“Chicken Up,” Aegon says.

Luke laughs. “What the hell is a Chicken Up?”

“A chicken restaurant.”

“Groundbreaking” Baela quips.

“I’ve been to one in Seoul. Great wings.”

“But…but…Jollibee!” Rhaena pleads. “I need a coconut pineapple pie!”

“You’re literally drinking a coconut pineapple smoothie right now. When am I supposed to get my wings?!”

“Out of loyalty, I will have to vote for Jollibee,” Luke informs Aegon apologetically.

“I saw a Five Guys when we were driving here from the airport,” Baela suggests.

“Oh, I love Five Guys!” you say…and then you realize how it sounds. All of you giggle so loudly that Aemond looks over at the whirlpool, a little intrigued, a little miserable. He sinks down into the transparent blue water, Godzilla retreating from his wreckage.

Baela teases you: “Like, all at the same time, or…?”

“No, definitely one after the other. I don’t want an audience.”

Aegon chuckles, low and devious. He sets his empty pina colada glass on the rim of the whirlpool. Then, unprompted, he takes off his aviator sunglasses and puts them on you instead. Strange.

Rhaena is saying: “Okay, but seriously, I cannot overstate the merits of Jollibee…”

Beneath the water, obscured by riotous bubbles, Aegon settles a hand on your thigh. You glance over at him. He glances back, so subtly that the others don’t notice; they are deeply entrenched in their dinner debate. Now Baela is pitching MOS Burger.

Aegon arches an eyebrow. Okay? he’s asking. In reply—and after a moment’s hesitation—you open your thighs a little wider for him. His lips curl into a furtive smile. His palm skates excruciatingly slowly over your skin, taunting, electrifying, fingerprints dragging lightly. He’s still carrying on a conversation with the others, gesturing with his free hand. You sip your pina colada and try to act just as casual.

“Look,” Aegon is saying. “I’m not gonna eat someplace where they serve spaghetti with hotdogs in the meat sauce. It’s unnatural.”

His fingers slip beneath your swimsuit bottoms. You gasp before you can stop yourself.

“You okay?” Baela asks with concern.

You nod, blood rushing in your cheeks, blood rushing everywhere. “Oh, yeah, sorry. I saw a bug.”

Luke says: “Man, the insects here are insane, some giant buzzing black-and-gold thing flew into my face earlier today and I almost cried.”

“A cicada,” you murmur. You grip the rim of the whirlpool and try to keep still, fixing your gaze on the palm trees that surround the pool, waving lazily in a hot humid breeze. “We have them in Missouri too. But ours are green.”

Rhaena is saying: “Apparently Singapore is famous for some super-rare beetle that’s been around for like 50 million years…”

Aegon’s expert fingers are circling, applying pressure, experimenting with different rhythms. He knows he’s found the right one when you suck in a breath and almost drop your pina colada; his smile is filling up his face, he’s fighting a grin. That feeling—a heat, a glowing, an unfurling like an opened letter—builds until it hits a blissful yet constraining plateau. It’s a ceiling, it’s a landing with no more steps. You stare at the swaying palm trees and try to relax, grateful for Aegon’s aviator sunglasses to hide behind. He’s half-watching you as he chats nonchalantly, wondering what more you need from him.

The conversation that whirls around you has revolved back to dinner: Shake Shack, Yoshinoya, Nene Chicken, Marrybrown, Wingstop.

“We should go somewhere that has vegan options,” you say shakily.

“What? Why?” Rhaena asks; she has forgotten, but you never do.

“For Aemond.”

You steal a glimpse of Aemond over in the main pool and see him taking a piece of starfruit off Cregan’s plate. Aemond bites into it—those pristine, glistening, golden angles—and wipes juice from his lips with the back of one hand. Then he looks over at you: two people pretending they don’t see the other, two pairs of sunglasses meant to render certain things invisible. And immediately, without planning to, you are thinking about Aemond touching you. You are thinking about his lips and his fingers, his shoulders, his throat, his eye devouring parts of you he’s never seen. You are thinking about where you would both be now if Reykjavik had never happened. And as Aegon’s hand works beneath the veil of bubbles, you are close, so close, agonizingly close. You are incapable of following the conversation. It takes everything in you not to moan and reach down into the roiling water to press him even more forcefully against you. His fingers glide through folds that are slick and achingly ravenous. Your pina colada is melting.

Someone makes a restaurant suggestion; you can’t register it. Aegon holds up the index finger on his free hand. “One moment. Allow me to consult my associate.” He leans into you, his hair brushing against your face, smelling like beer and sunscreen and pina coladas and Axe body spray. And he whispers as he pushes two fingers inside you and strokes you insistently with them: “Come for me, pretty girl. Right now.”

And while these words are in Aegon’s voice, for a split second you image them as Aemond’s; and then your climax shudders through you, silent by necessity but mind-numbing, a reset button, a deleted message, an echo chamber of nothing, nothing, nothing. For a moment, there’s no past and no future, no Kansas City, no Rome, no Reykjavik, no Singapore, no shame and no guilt and no desire for anything. And then slowly, like drops of rain, the world begins to fill back in again.

Aegon turns your face towards him so your lips are to his ear. You have to say something. “You’re unbelievable,” you exhale, so softly no one else will hear. “You can’t be real.”

He tells the others: “She says she votes for Chicken Up.”

When Aegon leaves the whirlpool, you follow after him a few minutes later, just long enough of a gap not to arouse any suspicions. You find him alone in the band’s private cabana and talking to someone on his iPhone. You kneel down beside his lounge chair and bend over his neon red swim trunks, palming him through the fabric—almost immediately, he is hard—and untangling the knot of the drawstring.

“Okay. Sounds good. I gotta go. Emma? Hey, Emma? I gotta go now. Yeah. See you soon. Uh huh. Bye.” Aegon hangs up and sets his phone down. Then he hooks a finger beneath your chin and lifts it. “What are you doing?” he asks, amused yet kind.

“Taking care of you.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

Your hands go still; your face is lined with wounded bewilderment. “You don’t want me to?”

“Well obviously I want you to,” Aegon says. “But only if you’re really into it. Not just because you see it as a debt to be paid. This isn’t about reimbursement. This isn’t an ATM transaction. And, you know…” He shrugs, rueful. “I can tell you’re kinda going through it. And you’re the one who needs to be taken care of right now. That’s cool. That’s not a problem.”

You sit back on your ankles, feeling guilty but undeniably relieved. “It seems unfair to you.”

“Stargirl, I don’t mean this in a braggy way, but at all times I have a line out the door of women begging to take care of me. I think I’ll survive.”

“Okay.” You smile up at him. “Okay, Aegon. I get it. Thank you.”

His sunburned brow crinkles. He is confused. “For what?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Comet Donati is scheduled to play three nights at the National Stadium. On the afternoon of the second show, Luke and Rhaena go to Fort Canning Park to explore the archaeological excavation site, Jace and Baela depart to procure his tattoo to commemorate Singapore (a Merlion on his left pec), and you, Aegon, Cregan, Criston, Daeron, Aemond, and Shelby receive a private tour of the Mandai Wildlife Reserve to promote the conservation of endangered Southeast Asian species. There are conversations with the staff and generous gift baskets and photo ops—which each time you quietly step out of the frame for, while Shelby steps in—but what snags in your mind, what you will remember forever about this day is Aemond. Because when he holds the animals, he lights up like you haven’t seen since those YouTube videos of Comet performances before the accident in Tokyo; he becomes at peace, he becomes whole again. He lets a blue tarantula creep across his palm and forearm, he feeds pumpkin slices to Asian elephants rescued from circuses, he walks around with Bunny the sloth draped over his chest like a napping toddler. And he smiles wistfully the whole ride back to the hotel…even when Aegon makes Criston stop the Escalade at Starbucks so he can get a venti-sized Double Chocolaty Chip Frappuccino.

Shelby likes to be in the front row with you, Baela, and Rhaena, but she spends less time dancing and cheering than she does taking selfies and recording video clips. During your now least-favorite song, A Girl Named After A Car, you spend a few minutes covertly scrolling through Shelby’s latest Instagram posts. She’s been sharing Stories relentlessly, but her last photo is from the private jet: her beaming smile, Aemond’s more reticent one (and only his good side, his smooth cheek and clear river-blue eye), a meticulously-arranged bouquet of flowers clutched to her chest like a gift. The comments are a waterfall of praise worthy of a saint. I was praying you two would get back together! You have such a kind and selfless heart, Shelby! You are so good for him! You are so brave! Thank you for showing the world that beauty is only skin-deep! Like she’s goddamn Mother Teresa. Like she deserves an Olympic medal for finding the strength to love him.

And you think once again, not for the first time and not the last: I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.

After the concert is a ritual, like drawing a pentagram or burning sage. People converge in Jace’s suite to mingle and drink and smoke and find someone to fuck if that vacancy isn’t already filled. You loiter by the bar even after you are handed your Bramble, a drink that should be poisoned by the fact that Aemond introduced it to you; but you can’t stop craving it. Criston is pacing and trying to make a call out on the balcony; from the look of his expression, the person isn’t answering. Cregan is in a velvet lounge chair with three models on his lap; they are taking turns feeding him the dripping cherries that bob in their cocktails. The rest of the band is sitting nearby and discussing their plans for next year once the tour has ended. You overhear Rhaena saying that she wants to visit the Mammoth Site in South Dakota. Luke wants to finish writing a new album. Aemond is conspicuously quiet.

Security guys float through the room between currents of musicians, label executives, friends, acquaintances, assistants. Shelby has her own detail that follows her everywhere; approximately every eight hours they switch out and new faces show up. Sometimes you recognize them from a prior shift, sometimes not. They look through you like you don’t exist at all.

A seat is waiting for you between Aegon and Baela, but you are in no hurry to sit opposite of Shelby and be forced to bask in the radiance of her flowing zebra-print dress, red-lipped, California-sun perfection. As you procrastinate with your Bramble, you listen to Daeron ask her about the Met Gala next May.

“Yeah, I finally made it onto the planning committee!” she gushes.

“Yay!” Baela trills, palpably sarcastic.

“Make it donut themed,” Aegon slurs. He has had a lot of Tiger Beers.

“I was thinking a masquerade ball, actually,” Shelby says, then looks at Aemond and settles a hand on his thigh. “We can go together, honeybunch! The timing never worked out before, but I’ve always wanted to attend with you.”

Luke asks: “And what’s the inspiration for the masquerade ball…?”

“Well, you know.” Shelby gestures vaguely. “Aemond won’t have to feel bad.”

Because everyone will be wearing masks. There is a long lull as people piece together what she means. Jaws drop open. Eyes grow large and then blink at her, incredulous, appalled.

Finally, Jace chuckles awkwardly. “Oh fuck, did you really just say that?” He looks around at everyone else. “Did she really just say that?! I mean, I wouldn’t even have said that!”

“It’s fine,” Aemond says, getting up off the couch.

Shelby reaches for him. “Honeybunch, wait, you know I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” he repeats roughly. He takes his Bramble with him as he escapes to the balcony. Criston returns inside just as Aemond goes out.

“What’s his problem?” Criston inquires. Nobody answers.

Shelby sighs and—as furious blood swirls hot in your veins—approaches the bar. “Can I get a gin and tonic?” She takes out her phone, scrolls for a while, sighs again. You are glaring murderously at her. Shelby doesn’t even notice. The bartender slides her a tall glass full of clear carbonated liquid, ice, cucumber slices. She takes a picture of it before she plucks out the straw, lays it on the counter, and swallows a single, ladylike sip straight from the glass. She says to the bartender: “Drinking out of straws gives you wrinkles, you know.”

You say to her suddenly: “What is wrong with you?”

Shelby turns to you, startled. “Excuse me?”

You take a step closer, your pinkish Bramble still clasped in your hand. “I’ll ask again: what the fuck is wrong with you?”

She’s backing away, jumpy, clicking in her black heels. “What are you talking about?!”

“How dare you say something like that about him. In front of him.”

“Oh, so now I’m a bitch?” Shelby snaps. “Because I want him to have a good time at the Met Gala? Because I don’t want him to be humiliated?”

“No, because you think there’s anything humiliating about him at all, that’s what makes you a bitch—”

She shoves you backwards, only a few steps. You throw your Bramble in her face. She screams like you’ve stabbed her; it’s a scream that says I don’t know what it’s like to be hurt. And instantaneously, one of her security guards has his monstrous hand around your wrist.

You hear the pop before you feel it: bubbles bursting, tethers snapping. Then the pain explodes into your consciousness like a flashbang grenade. You’re shrieking, and suddenly there are voices all around you and people tugging in every direction. The security guy still has a grip on your wrist; each time he moves, he yanks you along with him, igniting fresh flairs of agony, impossibly red Morse code.

“No no no no no!” Aegon is shouting, pawing at the security guy. “She’s with us, she’s with us—!”

“Let her go!” Criston booms. Rhaena is crying. Baela is punching the security guy in the kidneys. Comet’s security guards clash with Shelby’s security guards, a miniature civil war. Within seconds the misunderstanding is resolved and you are freed. You are engulfed by Aegon and Criston, who try to examine your wrist; you are holding it gingerly to your chest, not even aware that you are sobbing. Baela is berating the rogue security guard. Rhaena, Luke, Jace, Daeron, Cregan, and Cregan’s soon-to-be one night stands are gaping at the scene. Shelby is being comforted by several fellow influencers; they coo sympathetically and give her napkins to mop the Bramble from her face.

Aegon, drunk but not far-gone, coaxes your wounded arm from your chest. “Shh, shh, you’re okay, let me see it…”

“Broken,” Criston pronounces. “Or dislocated. Time to go.”

“I can’t go home,” you say, petrified. Your thoughts are muddled by shock and pain.

Criston shakes his head. “No, not home. To the hospital.”

“I can take her,” Aegon volunteers, lurching as he grabs a barstool to keep his balance.

“No!” you, Baela, Rhaena, Luke, Jace, Daeron, and Cregan burst out simultaneously.

“I’ll take her,” Criston says. “But you can come along, if you behave yourself and don’t try to steal morphine or anything. Bartender, I need ice…”

There is a commotion as Aemond bolts in from the balcony, moments too late. He looks at your swelling wrist, Shelby dripping with a Bramble, Baela taking a cloth full of ice cubes from the bartender and passing it to Criston. “What happened?!”

Aegon seethes as he pushes him aside: “Ask your fucking girlfriend.”

And Aemond watches, thunderstruck and horrified, as Criston escorts you out of the suite with Aegon and Baela following like shadows. When you glance back at him, he is growing smaller and smaller, like an object fading away in the reflection of a rearview mirror.

Under bright white lights, a gentle and mild-mannered Singaporean doctor maneuvers your bones back into place. It feels like you’re dying; Aegon tries to distract you with stories of shenanigans from tours long past, Baela finally begins to talk about ballet schools, which programs she likes and which she doesn’t and what exactly she’ll have to show in her audition tapes. The doctor informs you that you have a mild dislocation, no surgery needed, no cast, only a splint. He tells you to rest it and try to keep it elevated. He gives you pain medication that doesn’t do enough.

“That is an interesting saying,” the doctor says when he glimpses your tattoo, black ink between the straps of your pale pink dress, like the color of a healthy lung or brain: I’ll come back for you if it kills me, Comets clip by again after eons and so can I. You try not to think about these words. You don’t know what to make of them anymore. “Is it from a poem? Or a movie?”

“From a song,” you reply, studying the tiles of the floor. “One I used to love.”

Criston goes to pay the bill. Baela goes to get you a soda from the vending machine. “I’m sorry,” Aegon says miserably when the two of you are alone in the hospital room. Beer and remorse sweats out of his pores. “I’m sorry I fucked everything up in Reykjavik.”

“I know, Aegon. I’m not mad at you.”

“I shouldn’t have said it. I had way too much Icelandic beer, that was my bad. But it was supposed to be a compliment.”

“It was kinda sweet. In an unhinged, debaucherous sort of way. An Aegon way.”

And he burrows his head against your chest, and you comb your fingers through his messy blond hair with your uninjured hand, and you wish you understood why the coincidences of the world had brought you together if it was only a blip, an error, a momentary crossing of orbits before you returned to your designated places on opposite ends of the universe.

In the elevator, as the four of you zoom up to the top floor where the band’s suites are, you check your phone to discover that in addition to well-wishes from Luke, Rhaena, Daeron, and Cregan, Jace has sent you a WhatsApp message: A meme to make you feel better…

“Ugh,” you groan, and toss your phone back into your purse. You try to ignore the fact that there is nothing from Aemond, not a single word, not a missed call, nothing.

“You good?” Aegon asks.

“Yeah. The drugs the hospital gave me aren’t quite cutting it.” That’s very true, although that’s not the whole problem.

“You want some Vicodin?”

“No thank you, Aegon.”

“Oxy? Percocet? Klonopin? Codeine? Demerol? Coke? Speedball? Valium? Weed gummies?”

You blink at him as Criston and Baela stare at the elevator walls, trying not to listen in. “I think I’ll just go to sleep now.”

“Okay, Stargirl. Sure. Whatever you want.” He grabs your face, lands a kiss on your forehead, staggers off to his suite when the elevator doors ding and open. You walk in the opposite direction to yours after thanking Criston and Baela. As you pass Aemond’s suite, you can hear people arguing inside, heavy footsteps and sharp words.

“You need to get better control over your people,” Aemond is saying.

“Who even is she?! I know she’s not Aegon’s girlfriend. Aegon doesn’t have girlfriends.”

There is a gap of silence, and you wonder what Aemond will tell Shelby. She’s a fan, she’s an employee, she’s a groupie, she’s a slut. At last he says, drained: “She’s a therapist.”

“Oh, for you?”

And you can hear Aemond sigh through the door, perpetually a broken thing now, forever someone in need of being stitched back together; they got the flesh back in December, but the soul is still unmended.

You go to your suite, wash the night off of you, and pull on your Cookie Monster pajama pants and an oversized One Direction t-shirt. You can’t sleep yet; the pain in your wrist is too bad, the chaos in your mind is too loud. You take another pill from the bottle the doctor gave you and go out onto your balcony and sit in the sounds of Singapore past midnight: sparce traffic, buzzing cicadas, the ocean, the wind rocking the palm trees. When you hear the sliding glass door open, you aren’t sure who to expect: Aegon, Baela, Criston, Cregan, Jace. It is none of these people. It is Aemond. He stands there rigidly, like he hadn’t planned to get this far. He is in black—as usual—but he wears no sunglasses.

“Criston really needs to start keeping a closer eye on those extra room keys,” you say.

“I’m sorry about what happened tonight.”

“You don’t need to pretend to be worried about me. It’s fine, just leave.”

“I feel responsible.”

“I’m not someone you consider worthy of concern,” you say. “You want me to be honest with you? You want to keep a running list of my sins in your little black-paged notebook? Alright, sure. I’ve been hooking up with Aegon. Only after Reykjavik, and not…like…all the time or exclusively or anything. But occasionally. And I know exactly what you think of me and how I’ve chosen to live my life. So don’t come out here acting like you care when you clearly don’t.”

“I know what you told Shelby. I don’t…” He stares at you, a little mystified, a little grateful. “I don’t understand why you keep defending me after what I said.”

Because I believe you deserve better. And I care about you. And I can’t stop. And honestly it fucking sucks and so if you could just leave, that would be great. “That’s just what I do.”

You expect Aemond to go. Instead, he sits down in the other chair, lights one of his Benson & Hedges cigarettes, takes a drag and exhales smoke in a long, slow breath like a hushed confession. “I once asked what made you want to be a therapist.”

“And I didn’t tell you.”

“No.”

Your eyes list to him like a ship in a storm, groggy, clawing for purchase. “Do you still want to know?”

“I do.”

The night sounds like wind in clattering wet leaves, car horns and rolling tires, ocean waves, indistinct echoes of laughter like a memory. Aemond waits for you, patient, eternal, or at least so long-lived it’s practically the same thing. You wonder what he sees when he looks at you like this. You wonder why you can’t outrun what you feel for him, a curse or a spell or both tangled up together like veins beneath skin. “I had a boyfriend when I was in high school,” you say. “And I took pictures for him. Because he asked me to, yes, but also because I wanted to, because it made me feel desirable, and powerful, and like I was choosing to share something special with him. No one talked me into it, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. And when we broke up, he sent those pictures to his friends. And they sent them to their friends, and they sent them to their friends, and I’m sure you can do the math from there.”

Aemond doesn’t look disgusted or horrified or pitying. He looks furious, and not at you. “That’s illegal, right?”

“In some places, sure. In Missouri? Ten years ago?” You smirk cynically, shaking your head. “The only person anyone was condemning was me. And it wasn’t just the students. They said things, obviously. They wrote notes and they whispered. But it was the teachers too, and the parents, and the administrators. It was everyone. Staring at me. Talking about me like they understood who I was.” You meet Aemond’s eye. “And you called me a slut.”

He voice is hoarse. “I didn’t know.”

“But you still said it.”

“What I said…” he sighs shakily, rubbing his face with one hand. He crushes the end of his cigarette beneath his Adidas sneakers and then lights another. “What I said wasn’t a reflection on you or what you did with Aegon. That’s not what it was about. It was about me, it was about how I interpreted things, and…I mean, you get that, right? You know that. You’re a professional. I took what Aegon told everyone and I bounced it off a few mirrors and ran it through my filter of how I’ve been taught to believe the world operates, and that’s why I said what I did in Reykjavik. It wasn’t about you. It wasn’t true. And I could never express to you how sorry I am.”

Tell me the whole story, you think, you plead, watching him like parched earth looks for rain. That you were afraid my feelings for you weren’t real. That you wanted me then and you still want me now. That you’ve never wanted anything the way you want me. But that’s not what Aemond says.

“What happened next?” he asks gently.

“What do you think? I had to be homeschooled. I lost every friend I’d ever had. I was terrified to leave the farm and go anywhere…to Walmart, to McDonald’s, to 7-Eleven, anywhere. And my parents…they’re Southern Baptists, okay? They tried to be supportive. They really did. They didn’t shame me, and that alone was a huge leap for them, and I’m very grateful. But they had no idea how to talk to me about what had happened. What they did do was find someone else for me to talk to. She was a therapist, and she saved my life. And when I got into UChicago, I decided that the only thing I wanted to do was help people in the same way.”

“Why didn’t you stay in Chicago?” Aemond says, bewildered. “I mean, why would you go back to Kansas City after the way people treated you there? So fucking closed-minded and hypocritical and…and…and evil? You were a kid. You were a goddamn kid and they tried to destroy you. Why would you go back there? You could have gone anywhere else. You still can.”

“I considered it,” you admit. “But my family has lived in Missouri for almost 200 years. It was once a place of opportunity, somewhere for people who had nothing to carve out a piece of the world and make it their own. Why should I let anyone banish me without my permission? And besides, I think Missouri could use more people like me. I can make a difference there. Someone like me in Chicago or London or Los Angeles or New York or Miami? I’m a dime a dozen. In Missouri, I’m part of the change. In Missouri, I can save people like I was once saved.”

“Hmm,” Aemond says. And then he smiles at you, kind and tender. “Pretentious.”

“Oh shut up,” you laugh, shoving him with your uninjured hand: his deep, warm, rolling chuckle, his broad shoulders that barely give beneath your palm.

His eye flicks down to your One Direction t-shirt. “And a traitor.”

Want me to take it off? you almost say. Instead: “As if you don’t idolize them. As if you wouldn’t deign to have a favorite One Direction song.”

“I couldn’t divulge information as sensitive as that.”

“Aegon tells me you spend a lot of time brooding to The Script.”

Aemond groans, but good-naturedly. You got me, his face says, surrendering. “True.”

“What’s your go-to crying on the floor song? Breakeven? Nothing?”

“The Man Who Can’t Be Moved. But now you have to give me one in return.”

“If You Ever Come Back. A certified tragic bop.”

He nods, thoughtful. He slides his phone out of his pocket to check it.

“Sexts from Shelby?” you ask with undisguisable vitriol.

“No. Favorite Coldplay song?”

You remember that night with him in Rome: the concert, the motorcycle, the lingering in the hotel room doorway as you waited for him to ask to stay. “Every Teardrop Is A Waterfall. What’s yours? You strike me as a The Scientist stan.”

“Viva La Vida,” he counters.

Of course. “I used to rule the world,” you quote.

“Now the old king is dead, long live the king.” He looks out into the city, streetlights and ocean and wind, sounds of the planet you call home. Again, you think of Rome. “I should have kissed you,” he says softly.

Your heart stops like a car against a brick wall, glorious euphoric shattering. “What?”

“My favorite One Direction song. I Should Have Kissed You.”

“Oh, right. Yeah. Yeah, that’s great.”

“Yours?”

You have to think about this. At last you decide: “Through The Dark.”

“Ah. A deep cut.” Aemond checks his phone again. “Look up,” he tells you.

“Why…?”

“Right now. At the sky. Look up.”

You go to the balcony railing and peer up into the sea of darkness and moon and stars. And at first you don’t see anything extraordinary…but then you do. There’s a thin flash like white ink on black paper, tracing its way along the arc of the Earth. There’s a visitor, there’s a time traveler. “What is it?” you ask Aemond, entranced.

He gets up to stand alongside you. “The Perseids. A meteor shower that happens every summer. They’re difficult to spot from a city. Too bright, too much light pollution. There are hundreds, but here we’re lucky to glimpse one or two.”

“But they’re always there,” you muse, remembering what he told you in Rome about the comet that gave the band its name. “Whether we see them or not.”

Aemond points up at the faint silvery glimmer in the indigo night. “The Perseids are from a comet too. They’re debris left by Swift-Tuttle.”

“Doesn’t quite roll off the tongue like Donati, does it? And no potential for cute donut merch.”

Aemond smiles. “Comet Swift-Tuttle is the largest object to cross Earth’s orbit so closely. Very, very closely. Luckly, it only swings by us every 133 years. It’s been called the single most dangerous object known to humanity.”

“I thought that was Jace.”

He bursts out laughing, gazing over at you with a face that in this moment he is unashamed of. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“I’m a universe away from Shelby, that’s for sure.”

Aemond’s smile dies. He clears his throat and puts out his cigarette. “I guess I should get going.”

“Yeah, I need to go to sleep.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

He hesitates, he acts like he’s going to say more, he leaves you on the balcony as he retreats back to his own suite, his own life, his own past and future and secrets.

And before you crawl into your empty bed, you look up at the Perseids one last time as they hurtle through space and time and gravity, through a landscape of constellations that Aemond could tell you the names of, through the dark.

[notthefirstfallenangel]

Memories III

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, mention of injury, amnesia, blood, breakdown

Summary: You had your memory wiped after a messed-up mission. All that you remember is your childhood and fragmented glimpses of your teenage and adult years. Poor Simon, your would-be hubby, is left to pick up the pieces when you can't even recall his existence.

Words: 2.1k

A/N: You know what? I'm just not feeling this chapter. Something about it just doesn't sit right with me.  : (

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4

The heart rate monitor’s colours were as bright and flashy as a carnival, flashing crimson and cyan across the sterile walls of the hospital room. Its beeping was a ticking clock that raced with each heartbeat. It echoed in your chest, making it hard to breathe. You could hear it far, far below, but it was there. Something waited behind all thoughts, ideas and emotions; something scratched to emerge from the surface.

You could feel its claws digging as it burrows closer. You could sense its presence and smell its hunger.

You could hear it far, far below, but it was there. The faint scratching came from a deep well inside you. Sometimes, it was soft; sometimes violent in its attempt to burst through the barriers that held it back, driven by an urgency and desire for freedom that you didn’t understand. You heard it while you slept or when attempting to wake up, as if waking up were a nightmare itself. It reminded you of something—a memory—but what? It lingered in the darkness behind your eyes, just beyond your ability to reach out and grab hold of it.

The sound drew closer until it sounded as if it was right next to your ear. Like a headache, the noise pressed against your forehead, making you clench your teeth in frustration.

It only made your mood worse. Guilt gnawed at your heart, a creature with big teeth and nasty breath that wouldn’t stop. Your eyes felt heavy and wet with unshed tears.

You had been so docile and cooperative a week ago, never talking back to the nurses or refusing them anything they asked for. Quietly, you let them take your vitals and listened patiently as they droned on about things that were none of your concern. But that was before the new nurse; she had kind eyes and good intentions. She said, “You’re improving every day; I’m sure you’ll be able to go home soon”. That’s when you snapped. You couldn’t help but feel angry and resentful towards her words. You didn’t want to go home soon; you didn’t want to go home at all. What kind of home could you go back to? A home where you couldn’t even remember the people you loved?

The thought tightened your chest, and you shifted slightly in the hospital bed. Suddenly, the scratching noise turned into a voice. It was faint at first, but it grew louder, more insistent. It sounded like a man’s voice, deep and full of desperation.

You couldn’t make out what he was saying but could feel the emotion behind the words. Fear, anger, and pain all swirled together in a maelstrom of emotions that left you dizzy and disorientated. You wanted to scream for the voice to stop, but it only grew louder and more persistent until it was all you could hear. You could feel rage and fear course through your veins like a tornado. You were thrashing in wild abandon, breaking free of the white linen sheets that bound you to the hospital bed. Your voice echoed throughout the room as you screamed wildly, and their grip felt like iron shackles as they tried to take your vitals against your will.

Your body shook with cold, the thin hospital gown a flimsy barrier against the chill that seemed to seep through your bones. Metal strained against the skin of your left arm, a biting reminder of the needle that had been inserted earlier that day. You could feel a sharp prick as you ripped it out with fury, causing fresh blood to spill down your arm like a crimson river.

As the nurse and her assistants struggled to subdue you, you felt a strange sense of detachment from yourself. It was as if you were watching from a distance, observing the chaos and destruction with cold, dispassionate eyes. You fought on, thrashing and flailing like a wild animal, determined to break free from the restraints that bound you to the bed. The nurse’s soothing words were like poison, fueling the fire of your anger and frustration.

For a moment, you caught a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror and were startled by what you saw. Your hair was a tangled mess, your eyes wild and bloodshot, and your face contorted with rage and fear. You were a stranger to yourself, a lost and broken soul trapped in a body that refused to obey.

The nurses struggled to hold you down, their voices rising in panic as you thrashed and kicked.

Hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway, growing louder and more frantic with each step. Suddenly, without warning, the door burst open and in rushed Simon. His breathing was jagged and ragged, and his eyes flickered around the room in terror as he took in the chaotic scene before him.

You could see the pain etched on his face, and you knew he was struggling with the same demons you were. The stress and exhaustion of the past few days showed in the heavy bags under his eyes.

The nurses were shouting orders to each other, trying to calm you down and administer medication to sedate you.

He watched as the nurses struggled to restrain you, their faces twisted in frustration. He knew that he had to find a way to help you, to break through the wall that you had built around yourself. Simon glared at them with a fierce determination, his voice low and menacing as he spoke. “Let her go. Now.”

The nurses faltered, looking at each other uncertainly. They knew that Simon was not a man to be trifled with, that he was fiercely protective of you. They noticed the strange glint in his eyes every time they entered your hospital room. They could see he was devoted, unwilling to leave your side even after visiting hours had ended. The air shimmered with unspoken tension whenever he was present, and everyone around him felt like they were walking on eggshells. They knew that he was a force to be reckoned with, and they were hesitant to cross him. His gaze seemed to pierce through walls, his presence radiating an eerie energy that no one could quite place. The hospital staff whispered about him behind closed doors, wary of what might happen if they didn’t tread lightly around him.

The head nurse spoke in a quiet voice but with a strength that conveyed confidence and benevolent control. Her eyes were steady and kind; she held tension like others wore perfume. “We’re just trying to calm her down. She’s been getting agitated and refusing treatment.”

“I said let her go!” A grunt of fury punctuated Simon’s words, his eyes blazing with anger.”  She’s been through hell and back. Don’t you think she deserves more than just sedation?”

She hesitated, staring at Simon. She knew he was right, but there were protocols to follow, and she had a job to do.

“We’re doing all we can,” she said, voice softening.

Simon could see the exhaustion etched into every line on her face, and he felt a pang of guilt. He knew she was doing everything in her power to help you.

He took a deep breath, his eyes softening as he regarded you, still struggling and fighting against the constraints of the hospital bed.

“Let me try,” he said, his voice gentler now. “Just give us a moment.”

The head nurse hesitated for a moment, looking between Simon and you, before nodding her head and motioning for the others to back off.

He approached the bed slowly, his movements measured and cautious. He didn’t want to startle you, didn’t want to trigger another outburst. He wanted to help and be there for you in whatever way you needed. He knew that he couldn’t force you to remember, couldn’t push you beyond your limits, but he was determined to be a constant presence, a guiding light in the darkness of your memories.

He reached out tentatively, his fingers brushing against your cheek. You flinched at the touch, your eyes narrowing in anger and confusion.

“Shh,” he whispered, his voice low and soothing. “It’s okay, love. I’m here. You’re safe.”

He leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered soothing words in a low, calming voice.

For a moment, you were frozen, unsure of what to do or say. But then you felt a spark of familiarity. You knew him, even if you couldn’t remember how or why. He was an anchor in the storm, a lifeline in the darkness.

He spoke in a soft, soothing tone, his words a balm for your shattered nerves. The door closed gently as they were alone in the room; he removed his balaclava, revealing a face that was at once familiar and yet unknown. You couldn’t remember who he was, but something about him made you feel safe and protected. You had seen him without his mask the first day you woke up from the coma. It was a sunny day, and he stood by your bed with it in his hands. He looked down at you with his dark eyes, waiting for you to recognise him, but you didn’t —a devastating realisation that filled him with sorrow. His hand moved from your cheek to your hair, stroking it gently as he whispered words of encouragement.

“You’re doing great, love” he murmured. “Just breathe, and try n’ relax. I’m here. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

His eyes were gentle, his expression filled with concern and love.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice hoarse from screaming. “I’m trying, but I still can’t remember you.”

He smiled. A small, sad smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “You will. It’s gonna be okay. I know it’ll take its time, but I’m not going anywhere. I promise”

Your forearm was still bleeding from where you had ripped out the IV, but Simon paid it no mind. He focused solely on calming you down, his presence a soothing balm to your shattered psyche.

Tears streamed down your face as you clung to him, your body shaking with sobs. You forgot about the hospital room, the beeping heart monitor, and the cold lights. You were just two souls, lost and broken, finding solace in each other’s arms.

As the minutes passed, Simon’s soothing voice continued to wash over you, easing the tension and fear that had been plaguing you for weeks. You felt a strange sense of clarity as if the fog that had been clouding your mind was finally starting to clear. You still couldn’t remember, but you knew you were not alone.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “It’s no sin to be scared. To be vulnerable. I’m here for you. No matter what, love.”

Simon’s fingers were warm and comforting as they smoothed your hair back.

His words struck a chord within you, resonating deep within your damaged soul. You knew you had been putting up a front, trying to be strong and brave even as your mind and body rebelled against you. You felt a sense of guilt, knowing that you had been pushing away the one person who had been trying to help you all along.

You clung to him, feeling his warmth and strength as he held you close. You inhaled his scent deeply, trying to commit it to memory, trying to make sense of the inexplicable surge of emotions coursing through your body. It was as if you had known him your whole life as if he was a part of you that had been missing for so long. And yet, you couldn’t remember his name or how you had met him.

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“ No need for thanks, love. But promise one thing. Just one thing?”

You looked up at him, curious.

“Promise me that you won’t give up,” he said, his eyes serious. “Don’t you dare give up, love. No matter how hard it gets, don’t you dare ever fackin’ quit. Promise me you will keep fighting, no matter what.”

You nodded, feeling a sense of determination you hadn’t felt in weeks. “I promise.”

The heart monitor’s beeping and the hospital equipment’s soft hum was the only sound in the room. Simon’s fingers continued to work their magic, slowly and patiently, coaxing you to relax and breathe. He seemed to know exactly what to say, precisely what to do, and you were grateful for his presence.

After a while, your body slowly calmed down, the fear and anxiety ebbing away like the tide.

Your hand felt small and fragile as it slipped into his. His grip was warm and soothing, as if he were trying to protect and keep you safe.

His breath tickled against your ear as he spoke - it was the warmest thing you had felt in days. He cupped his hand gently against the back of your head and planted a gentle yet firm kiss on your temple.

“Don’t let it go,” he whispered, “even if you don’t know who I am.”

Tags: @8sy-errah8 @yyiikes @spencerreidisbae123 @oranoyaora @sae1kie @originaldeerhottub @cr4shposts @caramlizedtomatoes

[knight-hiccup]

Chapter 10 is almost done you guys sorry, I'm writing the last important parts 👁️

[lxxahazel]

╰┈➤ His Smile, Her Sin

[Lucifer x Overlord! Reader]

Chapter 9: [A Manor of Mischief and Meals]

✎ | 1 | 8 | 10 |

{Y/n’s POV}

· · ───── ·𖥸· ───── · ·

It had been two months and two weeks since that rather eventful day when Alastor, freshly damned and surprisingly pliable, had been brought under my rather reluctant wing. Two months and two weeks. How time truly did sprint in this infernal abyss. I mused, sipping my morning tea, watching the perpetual crimson twilight bleed over the manor's sprawling grounds.

He was, I had to concede, a remarkably swift pupil. His shadows, once a chaotic maelstrom, now moved with a balletic grace I'd not thought him capable of. And his reflexes—well, they were no longer deplorable. He moved with an uncanny awareness now, sensing shifts in air and intent long before any ordinary demon could. He was, in his own flamboyant, insufferable way, exquisite. His progress was commendable. More than commendable, if I were to be entirely candid with myself, which was a rare indulgence. His raw power, once merely explosive, was now precisely honed, a formidable weapon that I could, for the most part, direct.

I made my way through the quiet halls, the crisp click of my heels echoing softly. My destination was the grand living room, specifically the tall, mahogany shelves tucked away in the corner where I kept various files and ledgers pertaining to the estate's finances and certain investments. I needed to cross-reference some figures before my next quarterly report.

My hand reached for the familiar burgundy binder, only to halt. It was not there. My gaze swept over the meticulously organized shelf. “The Infernal Revenue Ledger” was now where “the Demonic Construction Permits” ought to be. The “Underworld Stock Portfolio” had migrated to the slot usually reserved for “Seasonal Damnation Quotas.” My lips thinned, a slow, almost feral smile spreading across my countenance.

Another one of his delightful vexations. This had become his new diversion in the past few weeks. Rearranging my possessions. Not overtly, never so boldly as to be obvious larceny or sabotage, but just enough to discomfit my carefully maintained order. A book shifted an inch, a quill facing the wrong direction, a decanter moved from its customary spot on the bar to the grand piano. It was a silent, maddening game, a constant, low-level assault on my painstakingly constructed peace. And I knew precisely who the perpetrator was.

My eyes found him lounging upon the plush velvet couch near the fireplace, a freshly brewed cup of coffee cradled in his hands, its fragrant steam curling upwards. He was perusing a newspaper, or making a pretense of it, his smile wide and fixed, entirely too wide, his ears subtly canted in my direction. He was not even attempting to conceal his amusement. The radio crackled faintly beside him, playing some insipid human jazz.

"Good morning, Alastor," I purred, my voice dangerously calm, the smile still plastered on my face. It did not reach my eyes. "Enjoying your coffee, dear?"

He lowered the newspaper, his grin not faltering an inch. "Why, a truly felicitous morning, Y/n! And yes, this coffee is simply divine. Has it been brewing long?" He took another ostentatious sip, his eyes twinkling.

"It has," I replied, my gaze sweeping pointedly from him to the subtly disarrayed shelf. "Nearly as long as it takes one to locate a particular file when it has been inexplicably relocated."

His head tilted, feigning confusion. "Relocated, you say? Oh dear. How dreadful for you. And which file might that be, pray tell? Perhaps I could offer some assistance?" His voice was brimming with false sincerity, practically dripping with it.

"The Quarterly Acquisitions File, Alastor," I stated, my smile tightening ever so slightly. "The one that was precisely here," I tapped the now empty space, "and now seems to have found a sudden, inexplicable urge to migrate to the bottom shelf, behind the Infernal Tax Code."

He gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. "Why, the very notion! A file simply moving of its own accord? Such a conundrum! Perhaps your estate is haunted by mischievous paperweights, dear Y/n." He took another, prolonged sip of coffee, his eyes gleaming over the rim of the cup. He knew. I knew he knew. And he knew I knew he knew. It was utterly exasperating.

"Perhaps," I agreed, my smile remaining fixed, a silent promise of future retribution. "Or perhaps it simply desires the company of... certain radios that have a habit of appearing in rooms where they are distinctly unwelcome."

His static flared for a moment, a barely perceptible flicker of annoyance, but his smile remained. "Touché, dear Y/n! One must keep the mind sharp, after all."

"Indeed," I murmured, turning to face him fully, my smile dropping to a mere smirk. "And one must also keep one's head about them, wouldn't you concur?"

Before he could respond, I moved. My hand, quick as a viper, lashed out and delivered a sharp, satisfying smack to the back of his head, just as he was taking another sip of his coffee.

The sudden impact made him choke, spewing a mouthful of scalding coffee onto his pristine white jacket.

"Gah! You fiend!" he sputtered, coughing, his ears flattening in genuine surprise and outrage, his static rising to a furious whine.

But I was already gone. My shadows, familiar companions, swallowed me whole, and I vanished from the living room, a smug chuckle echoing behind me, leaving Alastor sputtering, soaked, and utterly infuriated. Oh, how delightful. Now he was the aggrieved party.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The kitchen, usually a place of quiet, efficient industry under the direction of my imps, was now a veritable battleground. The air crackled with the scent of spices, simmering meats, and a liberal dose of verbal sparring. I had decided upon a rather complex infernal stew, a dish that required delicate layering of flavors and precise timing. Alastor, of course, had his own notions, having stalked in a few minutes after my disappearing act, still muttering about "barbaric sneak attacks."

"My dear Y/n," he began, leaning over my shoulder as I carefully browned some rather exotic, three-eyed swamp fowl, "you are doing it all wrong! One must sear the meat, not merely warm it to a gentle slumber. Where is the snap? The crackle? The delightful sound of flesh meeting blistering heat?"

I merely turned, raising an eyebrow, a cleaver held loosely in my hand. "Are you proffering culinary counsel, Alastor? From the demon who once insisted on broadcasting the sound of sizzling bacon directly into the ears of starving sinners?"

"A true masterpiece of sound engineering!" he retorted, flicking his ears. "And far more invigorating than this insipid browning you are attempting. The very essence of the flavor escapes into the ether!" He gestured wildly with a slender, unnervingly long finger, almost toppling my spice jar.

"Careful, dear. Unless you fancy a taste of my cleaver," I purred, my smile remaining fixed. "And I assure you, my technique produces a far superior depth of flavor than your... pyrotechnic approach. One does not simply blast ingredients into submission, Alastor. There is an art to subtlety."

"Subtlety?" he scoffed, snatching a carrot from the counter and nibbling on it with theatrical disdain. "My dear, Hell is hardly the venue for subtlety in one's cooking! One must assault the senses! Overwhelm the palate! Make every bite a performance!" He reached for a bottle of particularly potent infernal hot sauce.

"Do not touch that," I commanded, my voice dropping to a low growl. "It is for precise application, not for drowning the delicate nuances of the broth."

"Nonsense!" he declared, uncorking it with a flourish. "A mere whisper of fire! A gentle kiss of the infernal!" He leaned over the pot, preparing to drizzle a generous amount.

My shadows, without a conscious thought from me, lashed out, snatching the bottle from his hand before he could add a single drop, and returned it to its exact spot on the spice rack. Alastor's eyes narrowed, his own shadows flickering with frustration, but he said nothing, merely straightened his vest with a huff.

"Now," I continued smoothly, ignoring his momentary defeat, "if you are quite done critiquing my artistry, perhaps you could peel those infernal potatoes without broadcasting their agony?"

He muttered something under his breath about "uninspired peasantry" and "lack of panache," but grabbed a peeler and began to work with exaggerated diligence, a low hum of static accompanying his rhythmic motions. Despite the constant insults and undercurrent of tension, a peculiar rhythm settled between us. He'd proffer unsolicited (and often wrong) advice, I'd deliver biting retorts, he'd attempt to subtly sabotage a step, and I'd counter with a swift movement or a sharp word. Yet, the stew, slowly but surely, came together, a potent blend of our clashing culinary philosophies.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Later, as the rich, aromatic stew simmered gently, filling the dining room with its comforting scent, we sat opposite each other at the grand table. The silence, for once, wasn't heavy or tense, but simply... present, punctuated only by the clinking of cutlery and the gentle crackle of Alastor's radio.

He took a slow, deliberate bite, his eyes closing for a moment as he savored the flavor. I watched him, a strange, expectant twist in my gut. Finally, he opened his eyes, a faint, almost imperceptible shift in his ever-present smile.

"Y/n," he began, his voice a low, almost reluctant murmur, "I must admit... for a creature of such limited culinary vision, this stew is... remarkably palatable." He took another bite, perhaps a bit too quickly for someone delivering a backhanded compliment. "The depth of flavor is quite... surprising."

My own heart, a steady, unfeeling organ in this demonic form, gave an unexpected, sharp throb. A pang, sharp and bittersweet, pierced through me. The taste, the rich warmth, the shared, quiet appreciation of food... it was a sensation I hadn't truly experienced in centuries. A sudden, vivid flash of memory.

Violet. Her bright, mischievous eyes sparkling across a simple dining table. Her hand reaching for the shared platter, her genuine laughter filling the air as she praised my own cooking despite it being just a leftover meat and rice, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. The easy camaraderie. The quiet joy of a well-cooked meal, shared with a friend.

A friend.

The warmth of the stew in my mouth, the comfortable silence, the shared appreciation for good food... it was a déjà vu so potent it stole my breath. A flicker of genuine warmth, then an immediate, cold ache of loss.

"And yours, Alastor," I managed, my voice a little rougher than intended, pulling myself back to the present. I tasted a morsel from his plate, a distinct, savory flavor from his own contribution to the meal. "Your contributions were... quite delicious." It was the most genuine compliment I had given him in weeks.

Alastor, ever perceptive, noticed the subtle shift in my composure. His ears twitched, his head tilting slightly, his smile losing a fraction of its usual gleeful malice. "Oh? A sudden bout of sentimentality, dear Y/n?" His voice was light, a teasing lilt, yet with an underlying curiosity he rarely betrayed. "Missing a past life, perhaps? Or merely choked on a particularly stubborn bit of gristle?"

I straightened, smoothing my silks, the brief vulnerability swiftly locked away. "Just remembering an old friend," I dismissed, my voice flat, regaining my composure. "Nothing more. Now, if you're quite done with your dramatic interrogations, there's dessert." I didn't elaborate, nor did he press. The moment passed, leaving only the clinking of forks and the distant hum of Alastor's statics.

· · ───── ·𖥸· ───── · ·

[xiaokuer-schmetterling]

happy (belated. oooops. lol) TWO month bday to bedtime stories !!!

-----

PART 1--2025.03.21

also posted on ao3

podfic journal post so !!! i was gifted a pfp by a new podfic/fandom friend xxmiserysmilesxx and i made my new tumblr cover image for with it !!! (img template from my fandom bestie maelstrom-of-emotions btw !!!)

special acknowledgment and thanks go to!

@ferntasie . long distance IRL bestie very patiently waiting for me to put up a new chappie of lost creatures :) <3

@ao3addiction . who is doing spreadsheet things and gets me HYPE about autistic batman and superbat fics

@maelstrom-of-emotions . my fandom bestie!!! who encouraged me to start podficcing and is an excellent hype person always (btw she's who i'm talking to a majority of the time when recording mdzs fics lol). also maels made THESE for me and i use them in cover arts and BS related posts all the tiems (thx for the intro to canva boo) oh! and we discovered the joy of collaborative tumblr fic&podfic projects together with @sun-ashes and @undercover-stories

@bibookdemon . who keeps me motivated and entertained daily and does "food fight ficlet/podfic sprints" with me so i can keep up the recording momentum. and celebrates neurodivergent weirdness with me!!!

@severeddata . who is my favorite didi and gives me fresh superbat content and listened to me blorbo info dump about the untamed and word of honor so much that he watched it just to tell me if it was any good in his opinion lol

@thebatmansbiggestfan . who supplies me with a steady trickle of the good superbat content!!!

@tessabennet . kindly allowing me to do my first LONG LONG LONG podfic one measly chapter at a time lol. an interesting format bc i get to sing!

@gaywatch . a constant source of inspiration !!! y'all definitely need to check out her blog and youtube channel !!! -----

also still wanting to say thank you for your support in my endeavors to these lovely wonderful peeps: @geck-motj @keriarentikai @gavilansblog @mxrcusflint @sweetlittlevampire @gh0st-0f-luke @classygreydove @flamingwell @skeren @the-marathon-continues-nip @mcvices @icemankazansky @danegen @ijustwannabeajellyfish @rynnerie @westiec @ra1nbowsk1ttle @monsterbaity @scarlettohairdye @hangmanbradshaw @unexpected-readings-of-poetry @dynamiteaustenite @indiainswiftland @travelingneuritis @furbyairride @sunmontuewrites @girlwarlock @ardenrabbit @charming-and-charismatic @goneahead @inyourorangeshirt @youhideastar @beanie-baby-divorce @sapphic-giraffic @stratisphyre @labseraph @gement @deliciousblizzardshark @cowandcalf

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end post

[changingplumbob]

Boy oh boy this has been a long one! Sorry it's taken so long. Rotation 9 began all the way back on March 20th which means it's taken me around six and a half months to get through everyone. During this time I have also been plagued by a bad IBS flare up that leaves me fatigued so my guess is that's why things took much longer than normal.

While all households collectively aged a year and three quarters when you put it all together we've lived through 17 and a half years of sim time for a total of 70 sim days. Thank you for joining me on the journey! I'm going to be taking the rest of the month of October off from long form writing while I build SBL back up and engage in Simblreen antics. Rotations and Growing with Glenn will start back up in November.

Now, on to the noteworthy stuff! Main points followed by chapter summaries below the cut. Time to celebrate my sims achievements!

Five Sims Promoted - One max career!

Nine Skills Maxed

Eight New Builds

Seven Birthdays

One Wedding

Four Household Adoptions

York Household, Chapter 9

Calista and Aaron made their first nectar but mostly they were in parent/grandparent mode. Deanna was dumped by Paris and had a bad bug but still passed her first term of university. The youngest York aged up, realised they were trans, and she has renamed herself Artemisia, or Emi or Emisia to her friends and family.

2. Chopra Household, Chapter 6

Rahul worked from home all week to help with his young family. Mercedes and Savannah aged up to children and have started school. Savannah is still feeling the effects of her motor delay while Mercedes may have a speech delay but turns out to be gifted. Viola aged up into a wild toddler and the household is due another shake up as Cassandra discovered she is pregnant for the third time!

3. Romero Household, Chapter 1

Marta helped her fiance Keira learn about Dia de los Muertos as they paid respect to those in the forever save who couldn't attend the wedding. Keira began her job at the Marine Life Institute and Marta met some of her neighbours after barista shifts. Then the couple were married at Willow Creek church and honeymooned in Sulani. They are currently looking at options for having kids.

4. Pancakes Household, Chapter 9

Eliza got promoted to level 9 of the corporate career. She and Bob decided that rather than have another pregnancy they would adopt so infant Tiana joined the family. Ginger got another fur sibling as dog Strawberry joined the household. Fergus aged up to a materialistic teen and after a week of working on their grades and cheer skills Onyx finally got their horse, named Maelstrom.

5. New Goth Household, Chapter 4

Alexander and Milton retrieved Bella's old journals for Milton to begin reading, and the family celebrated Harvestfest with the Chopras. Alexander and James talked about having kids, and James admitted he would like to adopt a teen rather than having an infant. Milton went through a bear phase and Ariadne was adopted by the couple.

6. Villareal Household, Chapter 6

Joey released his first video game and became a one star celebrity. Devin filmed a pirate film and her regular TV series. Luna spent most of her time trying to patch things up between her younger brother Max and his wife. Alfred broke many dollhouses and Rilian got a kiddie pool to play in.

7. Nishidake Household, Chapter 7

It was a speedrun for this family but both Charlie and Kaori have finally reached the rock climbing skill needed to attempt to make it to the mountain summit. Clover learned to not eat trash but continued to knock the bin over for fun.

8. Woods Household, Chapter 2

The murder mystery took a backseat this time. The couple met the Moonwood Collective and Samir ranked up to a Veteran werewolf. Reece started his biology degree and hosted some meditation sessions. The pair have also discovered they are fated mates.

9. Knightstone Household, Chapter 9

It was festive season for the aliens in Chestnut Ridge. While Adam worked on his skills angling for that final promotion he managed to publish three books. Suzanna had a tough time with coworker Faye but reached a truce for the sake of their careers. She also finished a third collection, the My Sims trophy collection. Silas grew closer with fellow aliens Ruth and Tyree and showed off a Red Coral at show and tell. Pollock aged from an infant into a toddler and continued to learn.

10. Foster Household, Chapter 9

Winter ended in Sulani. Harvey managed to get promoted but didn't catch any new types of fish this time. Kayleigh sold enough paintings to become a global Superstar and was our first sim to reach the top of her career! The focus was mainly on Carson who was navigating a crush while figuring out his identity as an asexual. Clumsy flirting eventually led to him officially being Ariadne's boyfriend though.

Woah that was a lot huh? I need to rearrange my navigation for this save before rotation 11 starts but any pressing thoughts? Any bits you loved or hated? How was the new bold and colour coded dialogue? Did it make it any easier to follow when multiple people were talking? Any things you wish will or won't happen next time?

[hollowghostsonfilm]

[Geto/Gojo Fic] Hollow: Children of the Future [1/7]

Summary:

Satoru Gojo wakes up in the body of his sixteen-year-old self, 6 months before the Star Plasma Vessel mission. He's certain its a domain. Or a curse. Or a hallucination born at the moment of his death. It can't be real. Geto is alive. Shoko is there. The dorm floorboards creak at the exact right place. He has to focus, has to work out how to break out of this domain. But hope has teeth, and Gojo has been bitten.

Haunted by a future that only he remembers, Gojo has to walk the knife's edge between redemption and madness. Because if this is real, he can't let it go the same way again.

Master List for previous chapters.

Link to AO3 or read below:

It’s twilight and the air has the thickness of a coming storm, though the sky is clear enough to see the stars. Satoru can feel the wrongness as his heels click against the pavement. He’s running like he hasn’t run in years, the familiar weight of the black blindfold over his features just highlighting to him how much things truly haven’t changed.

He’d taken his eye off the ball. There were things he wasn’t able to change, but he had thought he had time. He had thought this wouldn’t happen for years yet.

Yuuji Itadori is only eleven years old.

This shouldn’t be happening.

He bursts through the school gates, honing in on the curse signature that is blooming like a rotten flower from the middle school’s roof. It’s enormous, a swirling maelstrom of cursed energy that threatens to overpower everything it touches.

It’s been drawn by something, something old, and foul, and unfortunately too familiar to Satoru.

Satoru throws up a Veil in haste, not even waiting for it to fully settle before he’s leaping into the air, using every ounce of his strength to make sure he gets onto that roof.

He can see him. The kid is backed up against the chain link fence of the roof. Smaller, even more of a child, with that messy mop of off-pink hair and that same stubborn determination to do the right thing. He’s dwarfed by a middle school uniform that clearly has been bought for him to grow into, face pale. His arm is thrown across the body of a girl in a seifuku, who is sobbing with her arms wrapped around herself.

At their feet, there’s a severed finger.

Sukuna’s finger.

Just like Riko, like Haibara, like Suguru finding the twins, this is a thing that was always going to happen.

Yuuji Itadori was always going to be drawn into their world.

The slithering shadows coalesce like a nightmare born of garbage and bone as the curse materialises fully. Its body is a tangle of broken limbs that don’t belong to it, face half-skull, half-baby, as though it can’t decide what kind of horror it wants to be. It hisses, a malformed claw stretching out towards the kids.

Satoru’s foot touches down on the rooftop in that moment. “Get away from it-!”

But the warning comes too late.

Yuuji turns to look at him, eyes wide, mouth open in fear, and then the world shatters. The curse rams one of its massive limbs into the floor and the roof gives way in a road of smashing concrete, metal screeching as support beams bend and crumble.

Satoru moves instantly, arms out, curse energy wrapping around him. He reaches Yuuji just in time to shelter him as they fall through the rubble, wrapping his own body around the boy’s and putting all his strength into Limitless so that they aren’t crushed in the falling concrete.

They still hit the floor of the third-floor classroom below with enough impact to crack Yuuji’s head against the floor.

Satoru looks around, trying to find the girl, but she hasn’t fallen with them. He looks up, where the curse is now leering down at them through the ruined roof. Yuuji’s classmate is dangled above them by her wrist, blood smearing her face and screaming, kicking her legs to fight against a thing she can’t even see.

“NO!”

Yuuji struggles under Satoru’s weight and Satoru quickly rolls off him to get him onto his feet, trying to work out how to address the situation and still keep Itadori safe.

But the moment Yuuji is no longer held down, he’s trying to scramble up the rubble to reach his classmate.

“Don’t! You’ll get yourself killed-!” Satoru barks.

The curse continues to leer down at them, grinning. It’s holding her still, dangling her above them like a fishing lure, displaying her like bait. Satoru breathes hard, trying to work out what his next move is going to be when it speaks.

“You want to save her, little thing?” The curse’s voice is slow and slithering. Not a growl, not a screech. It’s disturbingly articulate. Like Jogo had been, and Hanami, and Mahito.

Fuck.

Yuuji has frozen at being addressed, looking up at the curse with wide eyes.

“If you want to save her, then eat it. Take that power into yourself. That finger is a gift,” the curse says.

Yuuji’s hands are shaking and he raises his hand. When did he pick that up? When did he get hold of that finger, clutched in a hand too small to truly understand what it was that he was doing…?

“Yuuji, don’t. That finger, it’s poison. Death,” he says, stepping forward.

The curse laughs. “And yet it is a choice he can make, Six Eyes. The only way he can live.”

Satoru starts when the curse addresses him, eyes narrowing, but then he turns his attention back to Yuuji. “Kid, listen to me. I’ll handle this. You don’t need to-“

“I can’t just stand here and do nothing! She’s going to die!” Yuuji yells, then he’s raising his hand to his mouth.

Satoru darts forward, intending to intercept, but he’s forgotten how fast Yuuji is, even without Sukuna’s power augmenting his own. He’s too late.

The finger chokes Yuuji as it goes down.

The result is instant. The windows of the classroom blow out, the rubble from the roof clearing a direct circle around Yuuji as it flies in every direction. Satoru raises an arm in front of his face as the air seems to split, and his feet slide back on the classroom tiles a few inches. The air tastes metallic.

Sukuna’s cursed energy floods the space like smoke.

The curse that held the girl disintegrates. Whatever this is has burned it from the inside out. She’s dropped, falling down into the classroom below and landing with a snap. Satoru grimaces. Likely a broken leg.

Yuuji is doubled over, coughing and spluttering, hands clenching and unclenching into fists.

For a moment, there is no sign of the King of Curses, and Satoru breathes a sigh of relief.

Then a laugh, ragged, wet, curls from the boy’s mouth. Yuuji’s head turns to look over his shoulder, head rising, eyes flashing crimson. Sukuna stares at Satoru through Yuuji’s eyes.

“Ah, this body’s small, but it’ll do.”

Satoru wishes he could turn the clock back again. Just ten minutes, perhaps. Be faster, be stronger. His hand reaches up as though he can reach into the past and drag Yuuji back from this decision.

He remembers last time. Megumi’s voice, loud, broken, passionate.

“I think he’s a good person.”

He can see it so clearly, Megumi’s hands clenched in desperation on that rooftop. All that follows. The execution order. The blood. The loss. The betrayal by the system of a boy that had done nothing wrong except to be born to the wrong circumstances.

Yuuji is eleven. None of this is meant to have happened yet. He was meant to have years and when the time came, Satoru was supposed to stop it. Halt this awful, terrible set of events in its tracks.

But the loop is reasserting itself wherever it can. Testing him. Pushing him.

There is no Megumi to ask Satoru not to end Yuuji this time, but there doesn’t have to be. Satoru can’t do it even though he knows it’s the most sensible way to stop all of this in its tracks.

Yuuji collapses to the ground. He’s younger, of course it is harder for him to hold Sukuna back than when he was older and had more strength of mind. He retches, covered in sweat and clutching his stomach.

“I didn’t… I didn’t want her to die,” Yuuji gasps.

Satoru walks over to him, kneeling down next to him. He puts a hand lightly on Yuuji’s shoulder, and the boy flinches, trembling.

“You should never have had to make that choice,” Satoru keeps his voice gentle. “You’re still a kid and you did what most adults wouldn’t. This isn’t your fault.”

Satoru watches as Yuuji tries to piece himself together. His classmate is sobbing in pain at the other side of the classroom, and they need to get her medical attention. None of this can be made better. It isn’t something Satoru knows how to make better.

Because the world has broken the rules that Satoru has decreed they will follow this time, and it has made this boy into a curse’s cage once more.

♾️

Three Days Earlier

Yuuji looks up at the high school with a determined expression. The sun is starting to tilt west, casting slats of gold across the dusty windows of the building. Yuuji should be halfway home by now, but his gym bag is still slung over his shoulder, bouncing against his hip as he walks into the high school with more bravado than he probably should be able to muster.

The two boys behind him are high school second years. They think they’re hot shit with their lines shaved into their eyebrows and the cloud of cigarette smoke that hangs around them like a fog. They’re the only reason he’s even here, not able to turn down the challenge thrown his way when the two had rounded on his friends, picking on middle schoolers like it was even remotely fair or a challenge.

“Oh yeah? Well, we’ll stop picking on your friend’s lunch money if you go down into our school’s basement,” the taller of the two had taunted, sinister smile in place. “The place where that girl died.”

Yuuji had shrugged his thin shoulders. That kind of stuff didn’t scare him. “All right. Let’s go.”

The two older teens had grinned and grabbed Yuuji by the elbows. Volunteered as the new victim, Yuuji gives his friends a reassuring grin as he’s dragged towards the school.

Now that he’s here, he does feel a bit strange. There’s something weird about the air here, something he can’t quite place.

He lets the boys lead him into the school and they lead him through a maze of corridors before they get to the staircase that leads down to the basement. There’s a chill to the air here.

“Don’t worry if you’re too scared. Everyone says it’s cursed. You can run back to your friends.” It’s the taller boy who taunts him again, and Yuuji just rolls his eyes.

“Cursed? What by? Ghosts?” He smirks at them. He doesn’t believe in ghosts.

The stairs creak as he descends, his footsteps the only sound as the other two stay behind. As he descends, the heavy feeling increases, still and stale. It reminds him of the scent of shrines, tatami and incense, though it’s laced with mildew and rot. He guesses that they need to clear out this basement.

He lifts up his phone, turning on the flashlight to wave it lazily across the room at the bottom of the stairs. There’s nothing here, really. Just old desks stacked up, an old chalkboard that’s been taken off the wall and still has the outline of a maths problem half solved, a trolley used to move heavy furniture.

Yuuji takes a few more steps in, shining the light about. Really, it’s just a storage unit.

He is about to turn back up the stairs when he stubs his toe against something. Looking down, he blinks as he sees that a floorboard has been half-pried up and not quite laid back down correctly. He crouches down, tilting his head to the side as he uses one hand to dig his nails into the wood and pull it up with a wrench.

Dust explodes into the air, and Yuuji wafts it away from his face, coughing. Beneath the floorboard is a small wooden box, lacquered black, and sealed shut with a red seal.

He isn’t sure why he feels drawn to pull it out, but he is. He picks it up, turning it over in his hands. Is it some sort of school time capsule perhaps? It looks a bit small for that though, no bigger than a glasses case.

He thumbs the seal open on the box and slides the top off. Inside there is a cylinder wrapped in yellowed wax-paper. Along the paper is kanji in calligraphy he can’t quite ready properly. Something has stained the paper a reddish-brown on one end. Curious, he starts to unwrap that too.

It reveals a grotesque object.

A finger, clearly human, though gnarled and clawed like it was half-transformed into something else. Blackened nail. Yellowed bone. The flesh is mummified and sunken, but somehow preserved.

A low ache forms, somewhere behind his teeth.

He leans in when he hears a loud, slow creak behind him that has his heart leaping into his mouth as he looks over his shoulder.

Nothing’s there.

He rolls his eyes. He’s been got. This is obviously a set up from those high schoolers to freak him out. Plant a creepy Halloween decoration down here for him to find and then laugh at him when he screams.

Yuuji Itadori’s world is still maths tests, and ramen, and the new Dragon Quest release. The world beyond that is still unknown to him.

He wraps the finger back up and slips it into his gym bag.

“Was that all?” Yuuji calls up the stairs to the teenagers that he presumes are still loitering at the top. “Lame!”

He gets home late, but his grandfather doesn’t scold him too fiercely. He does grumble about the apartment feeling cold, and turns the kotatsu on after dinner. Yuuji does his homework under it, practicing English sentences until his hand hurts.

He falls asleep somewhere between ‘I have a pen’ and ‘You have a textbook’. His dreams are full of black fire and a fanged, sinister smile that stretches across the sky.

He jerks awake at 3:02 am to the sound of something tapping on the window. But they live on the third floor. When he looks though, he can’t see anything beyond. There’s nothing there.

Beside him, the cursed finger hums, though he can’t yet hear it.

♾️

An Hour Before Yuuji Swallows the Finger

Satoru lounges on the couch, legs crossed, arm sprawled over the back of it. Called to Yaga’s office for another mission. It’s fine. It gives him something to do, after all. He has nothing else to do, not now.

He’s been thoroughly, and quite efficiently, cut off from Suguru and the children’s lives. He’s actually impressed at how well Suguru has managed to extract Satoru. Nanami and Shoko don’t understand why, they still attempt to meddle sometimes, but Satoru doesn’t go along with any of their schemes to set up another mediation.

No. This is what he deserves.

Suguru was right to be angry, even if Satoru believes that he is ultimately right about what he has done to get them to this point.

So Satoru watches over them from afar, perched on the apartment block opposite to make sure there are no signs of Suguru going off the deep end. But there aren’t. Just the signs of a man who is twenty-four desperately trying to raise four children that aren’t even his, all with their own problems.

Satoru wonders if they miss him, but he pushes that feeling down as well. Represses it all. It doesn’t matter. They are all safe. Healthy. And to be frank, they don’t look unhappy. He’d watched them all that morning, dressed in their middle school uniforms, as they’d walked to school together. Nanako chattering away, showing Tsumiki something on her phone while the other girl paid apt attention. Mimiko walked a step behind with Megumi, who was slouching along with a scowl and his hands in his pockets, shoe laces trailing behind him.

They’re doing fine. Satoru has broken into the school to check their grades even, and while none of them are top of their class, they’re not the bottom either. He suspects that if Megumi applied himself, he could get much better grades than he does, but he seems disinclined to try.

Yaga enters the room then. “Gojo. You’re early.”

“Hard not to be when I live only down the hall,” Satoru replies, smirking at Yaga.

Yaga regards him for a moment, before inclining his head. He suspects that Yaga has an inkling on why Satoru came back to the school to live here again. He suspects that Yaga even knows about the tiny orphanage that he and Suguru had ended up with between them. The man has never said anything though, and Satoru is glad he doesn’t need to explain himself.

“Report,” Yaga says, handing over the case file.

Satoru flips open the file, looking over the first page of the written report with little interest in it. Blah blah, increased curse activity three days ago, blah blah, strange fluctuations.

Then his eyes catch on the prefecture. Miyagi. Sendai.

He begins to flip through the report faster, heart sinking when he takes in the photographs of the school building.

“It’s a faint reading, but we believe it’s one of Sukuna’s fingers,” Yaga is saying, but the sound feels like it’s passing through water to Satoru’s ears.

He knows this case. Every part of it feels familiar. But it’s too soon. Far too soon.

“It’s not just one of Sukuna’s fingers,” Satoru says, throwing the file to one side and getting to his feet.

Yaga looks at him, not understanding as Satoru gathers his cursed energy around himself.

He needs to be in Sendai. Now.

“I’ll deal with it,” Satoru says, before he teleports halfway across the nation, not caring if he exhausts half his power in doing so.

He needs to stop this.

He needs to save Itadori.

♾️

24 Hours After Yuuji swallows the finger

Satoru sits on the rooftop, the same one he’d sat on all those years ago, though Tengen has arranged it so the view is different. He can see the infirmary from here, where Yuuji is lying unconscious, sedated. Shoko is monitoring him while the higher ups decide what to do.

Satoru knows that the execution order will come. Fifteen or eleven, it doesn’t matter. They’ll want him to kill a child.

And just like before, he’ll refuse.

He turns the bottle of Suntory around in his hands, eyes scanning the label but not seeing it. He’s not one for getting drunk, too much of a lightweight for that. He might be gifted in many ways, but he always gets flushed and sick quickly when he drinks. Still, he needs something to take the edge off right now, and seeing as there’s no one he can talk to about it, whiskey seems like a good enough conversation partner.

He undoes the screw top and sniffs it, jerking his face away with a grimace. It smells like paint stripper. Well, it’ll get the job done at least. He pours a healthy amount down the back of his throat, choking on the roughness of it and spluttering, lowering it and using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth.

It starts to rain. He feels the water run down the back of his neck and he laughs to himself. Even the sky is trying to punish him right now for his arrogance in thinking that he could fix this entire timeline on his own. Every step he’s taken forward feels like it was just treading water while the tide pulls him backwards towards that future splattered with blood.

“He was just a kid…” Satoru mutters to himself, putting the cap back on the whiskey. “Fuck.”

He stays that way for a while, waiting for a whiskey hit that seems reluctant to come.

The clouds break for a little bit, moonlight breaking through, when he senses it. The cursed energy signature that he could identify even when he was asleep.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Satoru doesn’t turn. His hands clench around the ledge, fingers curling over tiles worn smooth by weather and time. Behind his blindfold, his eyes sting. He knows that voice better than his own heartbeat.

Suguru.

The scuff of boots on the rooftop tiles follows, unhurried but not hesitant. Suguru’s silhouette cuts through the night. He’s in black jeans, a grey jacket zipped half way, an umbrella held loosely at his side. He lays it down with care, then lowers himself beside Satoru, legs stretching out as his body folds into silence.

The air between them can’t breathe.

“I saw him,” Suguru says at last, voice quiet, serious. “That boy. Shoko told me but… I didn’t believe it until I saw him. He’s the same one, isn’t he, from the mirror? You didn’t tell me he’d be that young.”

Satoru swallows, refuses to look at him. “We all were when things went to shit.”

Suguru hums, deep in his chest. “His cursed energy… It’s odd. Heavy. I could feel it before I even walked into the room.”

“Sukuna. Same finger. Same outcome. Same cursed kid. I knew everything and still I was too late,” Satoru inclines his head. The bitterness cuts sharper in his throat than the whiskey did. He doesn’t expect Suguru to respond. But he does.

“That’s not true.” Suguru’s voice is calm, steady. Clearer than it’s been in a long time. “Itadori’s still alive. There’s still a chance to change things. And you’re not alone this time.”

“Aren’t I?” Satoru’s head turns, just slightly, the corner of his mouth curled up into a smile that holds no joy.

Suguru faces him fully now, eyes searching his face in the low moonlight. “You were,” he says, voice carrying through the air like the wind. “But you’re not anymore.”

There’s a pause.

A fragile truce catches between them, not heavy but not weightless either. It hums, like a chord suspended and Satoru doesn’t know what to do with it. So he says nothing.

Suguru fills the silence instead, voice softer this time. “When I saw the kid all I could think about was what might happen if he’s left to face this alone. If he’s left to become a vessel with no one to anchor him. Or worse, if the higher ups get their way and execute him.”

Satoru flinches.

“And then I thought,” Suguru continues, “if the two of us don’t make a stand together now, then we’re no better than the people who would let this happen in the first place. And though I don’t agree with what you did, I understand why you felt you had to do it.”

The breath that escapes from Satoru feels like it’s been trapped in his chest for a decade. He relaxes, minutely, and as he does, he realises just how close Suguru is sat next to him. His shoulder brushes against his arm. The contact is small, but it’s an apology. An apology and a question.

Suguru doesn’t pull away.

“All this started when I couldn’t save you,” Satoru whispers. “So here I tried again, and again, and I’m not sure if I’m making things better now or making them worse.”

Suguru doesn’t ask what he means, he just lets that sentence sit there between them. The truth laid bare. Minutes pass, long ones, the kind that Satoru is scared to count as it feels like a countdown.

“He’ll wake up today. Yuuji. And I’ll have to drag him into a sealed chamber and look him in the eye and tell him that he’s been sentenced to death.”

Suguru shifts.

“Look at me first.”

For the first time in a long time, Satoru does. It feels like he’s looking at Suguru for the first time, truly looking, Six-Eyes and all. Looking at him differently than he had in the past timeline, differently again from how he’s looked at him in this one. This is a Suguru that knows. That knows all the ugly things, all the things that Satoru has desperately wanted to hide.

This is a Suguru that can look back.

And he’s beautiful.

Forgiveness might not come yet. Not fully. But Satoru can see that it’s near. That it’ll come. Like the sunrise.

“We will help Itadori. Together. I think it’s time that we play our hand. I think it’s time we make a stand to protect this generation.”

Satoru nods, and for the first time in a long, long time, his chest feels steady. There’s not certainty there, not even peace, but a purpose that has embedded deep into his soul. The kind that you can’t carry alone.

“We’ll do this our way,” Suguru says, low and fierce. “No more waiting for fate to play the cards for us.”

Satoru, still watching him, lets the smallest, truest smile bloom across his face. Tired. Real.

They sit side by side for a while after that, before the temple bells ring, and they answer their summons.

[maelstromic]

Did I just write the part of my Percy x Apollo series where they finally confess to each other and not to mention both are obsessed with each other ? Yes yes I did

The Sun and The Sea (2242 words) by maelstromic Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Apollo/Percy Jackson Characters: Apollo (Percy Jackson), Percy Jackson, Aphrodite (Percy Jackson) Additional Tags: Perpollo, Post-Tartarus (Percy Jackson), Getting Together, Powerful Percy Jackson, Powerful Apollo (Percy Jackson), Obsessive Apollo (Percy Jackson), obsessive percy jackson, Dark Apollo, Dark Percy Jackson, well actually very big hints of it …, Everyone calls him percy but apollo calls him perseus, Obsessive x Obsessive, temple sex ( implied ), Mount Olympus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Delos, no beta we die like my sanity, author was on her last braincell whilst writing this Series: Part 4 of The story of the Sun and the Sea Summary: 'I love you , I love you , I love you " He muttered feverently with each delicate kiss ,as if he were chanting a prayer ,as if he were worshiping Perseus's very existence itself . or  In which Percy and Apollo finally get together.