#she posts like proper lecture notes... were fine....

[autism-corner]

and it wasnt even fun

[coldkidcookieneck]

Title: To Love Is To Burn

Summary: It all started with a trip to the grocery store — and a very dramatic fall. Who knew that tripping, literally, could land you straight into the arms of a dangerously handsome stranger with a smirk, a secret, and the patience of a saint?

Author's note: Hey, my dear readers, this is my first take on writing our darling Sinclair, and it all started from that one scene of him sitting in the aisle — I couldn't resist using that gif for this one-shot, so let me know what you think. Hope you guys enjoy reading it🥰

Pairing: Sinclair Bryant x Fem Reader

Cross-posted on AO3

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The supermarket lights buzz faintly overhead — cold, commercial, and unforgiving. You’re fresh off your final lecture of the day, still mentally crunching data sets and seriously regretting choosing fruit over a proper lunch. Your backpack digs into one shoulder like a boulder as you chew on the remaining banana you never finished from breakfast.

You're here out of duty. Your parents were stuck in a meeting, your brother had something to do at his university, and someone had to pick up groceries. Naturally, that someone was you.

And because you're you, you're determined to make the most of it. Maybe sneak in a few guilty-pleasure snacks and pretend you're not internally screaming from information overload.

So here you are, still in your university clothes, with sweatpants, an oversized hoodie, worn trainers, chewing on a banana like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart, skimming through your list like it holds the meaning of life.

You exhale sharply and mutter, “Okay… bread, milk, eggs, avocado, softener… and don’t forget chocolate.”

You’re weaving between aisles, back and forth from your list to the shelves, And then— BAM.

Your foot catches on something solid.

You go flying, arms flailing, your banana shooting out of your hand like a javelin.

You hit the ground with a graceless thud. Something rolls away from you. You blink.

A banana. Your banana.

And then you see him.

A man, no, a man — sitting on the floor of the aisle with one leg stretched out, tying the laces of what are easily the most expensive dress shoes you’ve ever seen outside a Bond film.

You’re furious. Flustered. And now bruised.

“Oh my God, who the hell ties their shoe in the middle of an aisle?!”

Sinclair hadn’t meant to sit there that long.

He’d come in for wine. Maybe chocolate. Something meaningless and indulgent, anything to distract from the mess Natalie had left behind.

That… disaster.

He should’ve known. It was never going to last. He had built a dream out of glass and watched it shatter. Again.

Now here he was, in a grocery store, tying a shoe that didn’t even need fixing.

He wasn’t thinking clearly.

His mind kept drifting to New York, to the house they almost bought, to late-night conversations that always stopped just short of honesty.

He tugged the laces tighter. Useless habit.

And then, chaos.

A weight slammed into him. A body. A noise. A voice. Furious. Feminine. Sharp.

"Oh my God, who the hell ties their shoe in the middle of an aisle?!"

He blinked.

A young woman early twenties, maybe, was sprawled beside him, hair slightly windblown, a banana peel clinging to her hoodie. Her banana had rolled away, landing near a stack of soup cans like something out of an action film.

And yet somehow, she looked like the most vivid thing he’d seen in weeks.

He straightened and said, “Apparently, someone with poor timing. Are you hurt?”

You wince, muttering, “Just my dignity. And my banana.”

Your eyes follow the doomed fruit. Neither of you speaks for a moment.

Feeling mildly guilty and oddly intrigued, Sinclair offers, “Please… allow me to pay for your groceries.”

You’re already dusting yourself off, refusing help with the stubborn pride of someone who’s had one too many long days.

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got to get back to my shopping and back home, and I don’t let strangers pay for my bananas.”

He rises too, slowly, brushing off his coat. His eyes linger on you — not inappropriately, but with the quiet curiosity of a man who hasn’t been surprised in a long time.

You turn to leave.

He hesitates, then asks again, “You’re sure?”

You glance over your shoulder, a little softer now. “Yes. And maybe next time you feel like tying your shoe… don’t do it in a public walkway.”

A ghost of a smile plays at his lips. You roll your eyes and walk off, muttering something about human hazards and banana casualties.

But he doesn’t stop watching you go.

Later that night, in your room

You collapse onto your bed after unloading the groceries, helping your mum prepare dinner, and in the end, you manage to get yourself ready for bed.

You're exhausted, your body sore, your brain fried, and all you want is to sleep. And as you were dozing off, you were thinking of what you learned and did today.

But instead of lecture notes, formulas, or even what you forgot to buy for your snacks, he flashes across your mind.

Shoes. Perfect hair. An accent you’re sure could make the word “mayonnaise” sound poetic.

And he sat in the middle of the bloody aisle.

You smirk to yourself.

“He tripped me,” you mumble to no one. “Like. Full-on tripped me. With his....shiny Oxford shoes.”

A small laugh escapes your lips. You hate that it bubbles up so easily.

Still. You have to admit…

He was kind of cute.

Elsewhere, Sinclair's Manor

Sinclair set down the wine bottle he didn’t even want.

The lights are dim. His coat hangs untouched on the back of a chair. His mind, however, refuses to shut down.

She had that look — someone just barely keeping it together, but still too stubborn to crumble. And a banana. God, she threw the banana like a weapon.

He let out a faint exhale, rubbing his jaw.

What was her name?

He didn’t ask. He never asked.

But still, somehow, she stayed in his thoughts.

Not Natalie. Not the past. Just the girl in the hoodie and the trainers… and the banana.

It’s been a few days since the supermarket incident, but the memory lingers.

Not always. Sometimes, you’re too busy — finishing coursework, wrangling your schedule, helping your mum around the house. Sometimes your focus holds.

You hadn’t meant to think about him this often — the man with the sharp jaw and sharper wit, the one who looked at you like you were both absurd and amusing. But every now and then, when your mind drifts, when you flip open Sense and Sensibility, unfortunately, a certain stranger’s amused smirk always slips in right after the good Colonel’s name.

That strange man with the disarming charm, stupidly expensive shoes, and the nerve to quote poetry with his posture alone.

You don’t know his name. You didn’t ask. But he sure looked like the kind of person who had a middle name and a coat for every day of the week.

You’ve mostly convinced yourself it was a one-time, freak coincidence.

Until tonight.

You’re dressed simply but well — wide-leg jeans, a nude knit long-sleeve top, white sneakers. Casual. Comfortable. A little flushed from the summer air and the walk over.

Your parents walk ahead with your brother, chatting about work or something equally boring. You trail behind, nose deep in Austen. Something is comforting in Austen’s rhythm, something soothing in Colonel Brandon’s quiet loyalty. You’ve read it dozens of times, but still… he always shows up when Marianne least deserves him. And he always stays.

The restaurant is just ahead. You’re almost at the door.

And then—

Your sneaker catches on something solid. Not pavement. Not a crack in the sidewalk.

Someone.

Your book goes flying. Your arms flail. And then you’re falling — straight into the chest of someone stepping out of the restaurant.

There’s a dull thud. An involuntary oomph.

And then... silence.

You blink.

Of course it’s him.

Standing tall, elegant as ever, in that same coat, charcoal grey, perfectly cut, and that same frustrating smirk just starting to curl at his lips.

“Are you following me?” he asks, voice calm, eyes flickering with unmistakable amusement.

You groan into his coat. “No. No, no, no. Not you again.”

You push yourself upright, mortified, brushing off your top with the grace of a cat falling off a shelf. You don’t even have time to process how good he smells — clean, expensive, something citrusy and warm — before the sarcasm starts up again.

He steps back slightly, adjusting the sleeve of his coat. “I do admire the consistency. You’re becoming quite good at this.”

You give him a deadpan look. “You have some sort of gravitational pull, clearly.”

He stoops to pick up your book, turning it over in one hand. “Sense and Sensibility,” he notes.

Then, his smirk deepens — just a bit.

“To love is to burn,” he quotes smoothly, voice low and steady. “To be on fire.”

Your head snaps up. “Do not quote Colonel Brandon at me, sir.”

You snatch the book back with dramatic annoyance, cheeks absolutely aflame.

You’re seconds from melting into the floor — and that’s before your brother arrives.

Your older brother, ever the eagle-eyed sibling, always ten seconds away from delivering a public roast, materializes beside you, arms crossed and eyebrow raised in pure big-brother judgment.

“Oh,” he says dryly, surveying you and the stranger. “So this is what happens when we let you walk five feet behind us.”

Your cheeks are burning. Your parents are staring. Your dad has paused mid-step, one brow raised. And your mum? She looks between you and the tall stranger, lips twitching.

“You alright, love? Did that gentleman break your fall?”

You want to die. Immediately.

“I’m fine. No one broke anything. Everything is perfectly unbroken. We’re going to our table now. Goodbye.”

You gather your book, your dignity, and your limbs, and hurry toward the hostess stand like it’s the only exit from your shame.

Behind you, your family is whispering. Laughing.

And Sinclair?

He simply rights his posture, smooth as ever, brushes imaginary dust off his coat, and nods politely toward your mum.

They are visibly stunned by his entire Bond meets Jane Austen aura.

As you disappear into the restaurant, you catch the faintest sound — just under the soft piano notes and clinking glass.

Sinclair, amused, murmurs to himself, “That’s twice.”

Restroom

Later, you excuse yourself to the restroom after your brother won’t stop teasing, and your dad makes a scene out of calling him your future son-in-law.

The restroom is blissfully empty, the lighting soft and the air cool. You lean over the sink, gripping the porcelain edge like it might explain the last ten minutes to you.

What is wrong with the universe? Why does this man keep appearing every time you let your guard down? First the supermarket, now this?

Twice in one week and you don’t even know his name.

You shouldn’t care. But your heart is still doing that weird fluttery thing and your cheeks are still flushed.

And damn it, when he smiled at your parents like that…

You take a deep breath, shaking your head at yourself.

Then you catch it — just the faintest trace of something on your sleeve.

You lift it to your nose.

It’s his scent.

Something clean. Citrusy, maybe. Or saffron. You’re not sure. But it’s really good. The kind of cologne that lingers — expensive, subtle, and completely unfair.

You exhale, half-laughing to yourself.

“Even if he tripped me... I liked the way he quoted Colonel Brandon, and did I hear him mutter that twice? ” You mumble to your reflection.

Keep calm.

It’s fine. Just a weird coincidence. Nothing more.

Still... you wouldn’t mind running into him again.

Just… maybe not face-first.

Restaurant Car Park

Whereas, at the restaurant car park, Sinclair walks slowly to his car, sliding his hands into the pockets of his coat.

He should be annoyed. Most people bumping into him unannounced would earn a glare, not a smirk.

But there’s something… different about you.

Not just the way you mutter like you’re narrating your own personal Greek tragedy. Not just the book in your hand. Or the way your family looked half-concerned, half used to it.

It’s you.

You, with your wide eyes and your dramatics and your stubborn refusal to let him be amused at your expense.

He smirks again, under the streetlight.

She never asked for my name.

He lets out a soft laugh to himself — the kind that escapes before he can catch it.

“And what the hell was I thinking quoting Colonel Brandon?” he mutters.

Still, he’s grinning as he unlocks the car. Slides in.

And for the first time in a while, he’s still thinking of someone… hours later.

Maybe next time, he’ll stop being so polite. Maybe next time, he’ll ask your name first.

Or, better yet — maybe you’ll crash into him again.

Your university’s annual fundraising gala was the kind of event you never really looked forward to — too many clinking glasses, too many preppy alumni pretending to remember your name, and too many professors trying to out-wine-snob each other. But you had to admit… they did know how to decorate.

Golden fairy lights hung like fireflies overhead. Glass chandeliers glimmered above velvet-draped tables. It felt like stepping into the ballroom of a storybook. A very expensive, overly-academic, still-kind-of-awkward storybook.

You were dressed to match the magic tonight — in a silk corset lace-up evening gown that hugged your curves like it had been stitched with intentions. Deep midnight blue. Satin sheen. Your hair curled, your cheeks kissed with shimmer, your lips painted with pink gloss.

And heels. Heels. The worst betrayal of the night.

“Remind me again why I agreed to come in these?” you muttered, wobbling slightly.

Emily laughed beside you, clinking her champagne flute against yours.

“Because I dared you. And because this is the only time in the semester you’ll be able to dress like a Bond girl and actually get away with it.”

You snorted. “Yeah, except Bond girls have balance.”

Your friends were all dressed to the nines, grouped together by the champagne table, laughing and doing their best not to look like broke grad students in a room full of very rich donors.

You didn’t bring a partner — not that it was required. Most people came solo or with friends. But your thoughts kept wandering…

The gala didn’t require a partner, but as you sipped cheap white wine with Emily and the others, his face kept flashing behind your eyes. The accidental touches. The sarcasm. The smirk.

“You good?” Emily asked, nudging your shoulder.

“Huh?”

“You were staring at the pianist like he owes you money.”

“I’m just dizzy.”

“Girl, you’re tipsy.”

“I’m elevated.”

Emily snorted. “Just don’t fall again. No tall men in tailored suits around to catch you this time.”

You grinned. “Tragically.”

She gave you a look. “Right. Sure.”

Before you could retaliate, someone called your name across the room — you turned toward it, the cheap white wine in your system making the floor sway just enough to be treacherous — and then:

Your heel twisted.

You stumbled.

And you crashed directly into a man in a black suit.

Again.

“Shit—” Your hands braced against a chest. A familiar one. Solid. Warm.

He caught you like he always seemed to — with both arms around you and a low, surprised grunt in your ear.

“…We must stop meeting like this,” he muttered into your hair.

You groaned into his shirt. “I swear to God, this one wasn’t your fault.”

You looked up. It was him. The guy who tripped in the aisle and at the restaurant entrance. Moreover, the guy who replaces Colonel Brandon in your dreams.

“I’m beginning to suspect fate has a rather wicked sense of humour,” he said, dry as ever.

You tried to step back. Your heel wobbled again. He kept a hand steady at your waist — the contact making your stomach flip.

“Do you follow me or… do I just naturally fall on you wherever I go?” you asked, trying for humor but breathless.

“Well, if it’s not intentional, it’s certainly impressive. Three times now?”

You laughed, still pink. “Are you keeping score?”

“Just curious how many falls it takes before someone lets me buy them a drink.”

You blinked at him. God, he looked good. His suit was tailored. Dark. Under the string lights, there was a softness to his features that hadn’t been there before. A flicker of something behind his eyes.

“…You can buy me water,” you said. “I think I need one.”

His smile deepened.

He guided you gently toward a quieter table off to the side, away from the main party. His hand brushed your arm as you sat. You noticed the way his eyes lingered on you — more lingering than before.

“You clean up…” he said slowly, voice low. “Devastatingly well.”

You gave him a look. “Was that a compliment or a warning?”

He chuckled. “A little of both.”

You both sat, eyes lingering now. Curious. Charged.

He tilted his head, gaze soft.

“I just realized,” he said, “I still don’t know your name.”

You smirked. “You’ve caught me mid-fall three times and now you ask?”

“I like to take my time,” he said, voice dropping.

You stepped a little closer, playful. “Hmm… you first, then.”

He hesitated, then offered a hand.

“Sinclair Bryant.”

You blinked. “Sinclair?”

He nodded, amused.

You squinted dramatically. “That sounds like the name of a man who owns a vineyard and casually sails on Thursdays.”

“And what do I actually look like I do?”

“Secret vigilante. Or tech billionaire.”

Sinclair smiled, eyes narrowing. “Your turn.”

“Y/N Carrington.”

His lips twitched. “That doesn’t match the woman who just tackled me in front of academia’s finest.”

“Would it help if I said Carrington is the name I give when I flirt with strangers at galas?”

His eyes darkened. “Are you flirting, Carrington?”

You winked. “I’m wearing heels and drinking wine. What do you think?”

You both laughed — easy now, a little wine-sweet and curiosity-drunk.

“So… Mr. Sinclair,” you mused. “Are you always this conveniently placed when I lose my balance? Or are you secretly hired as my personal crash pad?”

“Only on weekends,” he replied. “But I do offer loyalty discounts.”

You grinned. “I’m studying to be a data analyst at University of London, by the way. Which sounds cooler than it is, I promise.”

Sinclair blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“…No?”

“I am one. Or was. Now I just manage a bunch of brilliant ones.”

You squinted. “So you’re the boss everyone secretly rolls their eyes at.”

He gasped, mock-offended. “I am delightfully tolerable, thank you.”

You giggled, tipsy and warm. Then, without thinking—

“So… does Mr. Sinclair happen to be dating anyone?”

He paused. Just for a second. His gaze shifted — from your lips to your eyes.

“Not at the moment,” he said softly.

“‘Not at the moment’ sounds suspiciously like heartbreak,” you teased, voice gentler now.

“…Maybe,” he murmured. “It’s hard to let someone in when you’ve been a placeholder before. You start wondering if people are ever meant to stay.”

There was a pause — quiet, heavy.

“…There was someone,” he added after a beat. “Natalie. We were… something. She said I was too serious. Too quiet. Too much of a placeholder until the ‘real thing’ came along.”

Your heart squeezed.

Not because he was broken. But because of how carefully he held the pieces.

Without thinking, you reached out and touched his hand. Just briefly. Just enough.

“You’re not a placeholder,” you said softly. “You’re the main plot twist.”

He looked at you like you’d surprised him. Like maybe no one had said something like that before.

Then your name rang out again — Emily, waving from the entrance.

“Driver’s here! Come on, babe!”

You stood, smoothing your gown. He rose with you, instinctively offering his hand again.

There was a pause.

You thought of kissing him on the cheek. Be brave, girl. Just this once. Kiss him. Before you talk yourself out of it.

Then, without thinking more, you leaned forward and kissed him. Just lightly. Just on the cheek.

“Try not to catch anyone else tonight, Mr. Sinclair.”

You walked off into the crowd, heels clicking, heart racing, dress shimmering. And as you settled into the car, you thought,

That man’s going to be the death of me. Why didn’t I give him my number? Who knows, maybe I might trip over him again?

And just like that, the gala faded behind you. But something else?

Was just beginning.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Well, technically he was — the invite had come straight from one of the charity wings his company sponsored, and the university's gala was just another smiling obligation in his corporate calendar.

But he didn’t feel like smiling.

Too many professors use trading jargon. Too many teenagers pretending to be wine judges. Too many tight handshakes and tighter smiles.

Sinclair nursed a glass of red and drifted near the edges of the ballroom, where the chandeliers didn’t glare quite so hard. His suit was tailored, tie loose, hair behaving for once. He looked the part. As always.

But his mind was far from here.

Her.

That damn girl who barreled into him at the supermarket.

And then again at the restaurant.

A walking hazard. A beautiful, infuriating, sharp-tongued hazard. The girl, he quoted Colonel Brandon, too.

He caught himself scanning the crowd, like he had any right to expect her here.

Come on, Bryant. You're at a university fundraiser, not in some sappy romance drama.

He turned his head, about to retreat to the outer hall for some air—

Crash.

Something, someone, collided with his chest. Hard.

His arms went around her automatically, steadying instinct kicking in before his brain caught up.

A familiar scent. Familiar hair. Familiar chaos.

His eyes widened.

No. Bloody. Way.

“…We must stop meeting like this,” he muttered into her hair, trying not to smile.

She groaned into his shirt. “I swear to God, this one wasn’t your fault.”

God, it’s really her.

He glanced down. Midnight blue. Corset gown. Glossy lips. Glittering eyes.

His breath stuttered.

He hadn’t even known he’d memorised her. And yet here she was — falling into his arms like the universe was playing matchmaker with a sense of humour.

“I’m beginning to suspect fate has a rather wicked sense of humour,” he said, keeping his tone light even as his heart jackhammered.

She tried to step back — and stumbled again. He caught her waist.

Her eyes met his, wide. Breathless. Slightly wine-blurred.

Dangerous. Absolutely dangerous.

“Do you follow me or… do I just naturally fall on you wherever I go?” she teased.

He raised a brow. “If it’s not intentional, it’s certainly impressive. Three times now?”

She laughed, cheeks flushed. “Are you keeping score?”

He was. Against his better judgment.

“Just curious how many falls it takes before someone lets me buy them a drink.”

He said it like a joke.

He didn’t mean it like one.

They ended up at a smaller table tucked to the side, and Sinclair hadn’t realized how loud the room had been until her voice was the only one he wanted to hear.

Her dress shimmered when she sat. He followed, slower — trying to recalibrate.

Trying not to stare.

Failing.

“You clean up…” he said slowly, letting his eyes trail from her shoes to her cheekbones, “devastatingly well.”

She gave him a look. Witty. Suspicious. Beautiful.

“Was that a compliment or a warning?”

Yes.

He chuckled. “A little of both.”

Her name came later. Y/N, Carrington. Soft on the tongue. Slightly posh. But her delivery? Full sass.

She winked. Teased. Flirted.

Sinclair hadn’t flirted like this in years. Hadn’t wanted to.

There was something in her. Spark and softness. Fire under gloss. When she touched his hand, barely, it felt like someone had struck a match along his skin.

Then she asked a question that made him skip a breath.

“So… does Mr. Sinclair happen to be dating anyone?”

He paused.

Just for a second. His gaze drifted — from her lips to her eyes.

“Not at the moment,” he said quietly.

“‘Not at the moment’ sounds suspiciously like heartbreak,” she teased, voice gentle now.

He gave a short breath of a laugh — but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“…There was someone,” he admitted. “Natalie. We were… something. She said I was too serious. Too quiet. Too much of a placeholder until the ‘real thing’ came along.”

He hadn’t meant to say that much. But the words tumbled out anyway, carried on the hush between them.

He hadn’t said her name in months. Not out loud.

Natalie had always craved noise — parties, people, constant motion. She loved socializing, especially with her brother.

But with her, he’d never felt seen.

Only… kept.

And in the end, discarded — like a well-worn book on a crowded shelf.

Then her voice cut through the quiet, calm and certain.

“You’re not a placeholder.”

His eyes lifted.

“You’re the main plot twist.”

That line hit harder than it should’ve. Knocked the air right out of him.

Then, as he was in a daze, Sinclair heard her friend calling. She stood, smoothing her gown, and he rose with her, instinctively offering his hand again.

But there was a pause, and leaning forward, she kissed him. Just lightly. Just on the cheek.

“Try not to catch anyone else tonight, Mr. Sinclair.”

She walked off into the crowd, heels clicking, heart racing, dress shimmering.

Sinclair didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He stood there, stunned, hand drifting to the place her lips had touched.

Her words still echoed in his ears.

Her warmth still lingered on his skin.

That dress.Her laugh. The way she looked at me. God. How did I not ask for her number?

But maybe who knows, she might trip over me and I might be there to catch her again, Sinclair thought, smiling to himself.

He walked back into the gala again.

It had been nearly two months since the gala.

In the time between, life had dissolved into a blur of textbooks, final exams, and nights where you fell asleep with highlighters tangled in your hair. The cold halls of the university library never felt lonelier than during finals week — and somewhere between caffeine-fueled essays and restless dreams, you stopped allowing herself to think about him.

Sinclair.

Even his name felt like a risk now. Like breathing smoke.

You hadn’t given him your number. At first, you told yourself it was an accident. Later, you realized you were afraid. Because what if it had only been a moment? One of those rare, crystalline nights that wasn’t meant to follow you home?

And then came the envelope.

It appeared on your dorm desk the day you returned to pack up your things. Neatly placed. Ivory cream, thick parchment, sealed with an old-fashioned wax stamp the color of deep plum. Across the front, in elegant cursive, was written:

Miss Carrington Dorm Room 7 – West Wing University of London

Your fingertips tingled as you traced the letters.

Inside was a single folded sheet. The ink was dark, pressed in with purpose. No smudges, no mistakes. The lines were clean — but you could almost feel the hesitation behind the words, the way the writer had sat with them, rewritten them silently a dozen times before finally committing them to the page.

Miss Carrington, If this letter reaches you — and I hope to God it does — I would very much like to see you again. Hyde Park. Friday. 4 PM. Please. To love is to burn, to be on fire.

No name. But you knew.

The letter trembled in your hands.

That night, you lay on your childhood bed, staring at the ceiling while the letter sat on your nightstand like a question mark that had taken form. You kept reading the last line over and over.

To love is to burn, to be on fire.

Had he meant it metaphorically? Had he written it in haste or truthfully? Did he feel what you felt that night — the sense that everything had shifted the moment they met?

The next morning, your mother caught you in front of the mirror, brushing your hair with a kind of nervous focus you hadn’t seen in a while.

“Going somewhere?”

You hesitated. “Meeting someone.”

Her mum raised a perfectly sculpted brow. “A boy?”

“…Sort of.”

Your mother grinned. “Then wear the pink one. The floral sundress. You always look beautiful in that one.”

“I don’t know…”

“He’ll like it,” her mum said with conviction, already walking to the closet. “You look like a dream when you dress up.”

You didn’t say it aloud, but part of you remembered how Sinclair had looked at you that night, in that blue satin gown. How he’d murmured something about you looking “well cleaned up.” The phrase had echoed in your mind like a compliment.

So you wore the sundress. Pale pink, delicate flowers blooming across the hem like secrets. It danced around your knees when you walked. Your mother gave you a ride, fussed over your hair one last time before you stepped out near the park’s entrance.

“Call me if you float away from happiness,” your mum teased.

You smiled nervously. “I’ll try.”

Meanwhile, Sinclair had been sitting on the same bench for the last twenty minutes.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Maybe nothing. Maybe he just wanted to feel like he’d tried.

Sending that letter had been a gamble. The University of London had hundreds of students. But he remembered Carrington. He remembered the way she held herself. The faint northern accent in her voice. The way she’d laughed despite herself at his terrible, dry jokes.

He’d tracked down to the west wing, by bribing the porter with an espresso and two quid just to find and double-check room numbers. Dorm Room 7. Miss Carrington. That was as close to fate as he could get.

Now he sat there, black coat buttoned, pretending to read the same page of his book for the fifth time.

Maybe she wouldn't come.

Maybe she’d laugh at the note. Maybe it never reached her at all.

He closed his book and let the spring sun warm his skin. If she didn’t come, he would leave in fifteen minutes. Maybe ten. He hated waiting.

But then, a flicker of pink.

A shape moving just beyond the hedge-lined path. A flash of hair he hadn’t realized he’d memorized. And the dress — soft, sunlit, unmistakable.

His heart stopped.

She was walking toward him.

You saw him the moment you rounded the corner.

He was there. Black coat. Paperback in hand. Sitting on the park bench like something out of a forgotten poem.

The sight of him knocked the wind from your lungs.

He looked up. Both of your eyes met. And something in his expression shifted — a quiet storm settling into still water.

You walked faster. Then slower. Then tried to act like you weren’t staring.

And just as you passed, the universe, yet again, conspired.

Your foot snagged on a root curled through the path. You pitched forward, gasping.

But before you could fall, strong arms caught you.

“…Got you,” he murmured.

Your palms pressed into his chest. One hand gripped his shoulder. His hands were at your waist, warm and sure.

Your froze. The world tilted — not from the stumble, but from him.

Their faces were inches apart.

You could see the gold light reflecting in his eyes, and you could feel his breath against your cheek. He wasn’t smiling now. No teasing. Just… watching you. Like he had so many things he wanted to say, and didn’t know which to begin with.

“Why is it always you?” you whispered.

His voice was quiet. “Maybe it’s always supposed to be me.”

Something broke open in your chest.

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“I think I’ve been falling for you this whole time.”

For a moment, nothing moved. And then, the tiniest shift.

His lips quirked. Not in amusement. In something else. Admiration, maybe.

He leaned in.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Giving you time to pull away.

You didn’t.

The kiss was soft.

Certain.

A quiet promise stitched together from every unsaid word, every unspoken longing. It was warmth and ache and relief all at once — the kind of kiss that made the world hush and time fold in on itself.

When both of you finally pulled apart, breathless, you didn’t fall.

You floated.

And this time, he was there to catch you anyway.

Two years later

The sun poured like honey through the wide windows of their home — their home — nestled just past the city, where the trees bloomed thick and the air always smelled like fresh beginnings.

Their daughter, barely steady on her legs, toddled across the garden with all the determination of a storm. She was small and soft and completely fearless — and like you, her mother, had a curious knack for tripping over invisible things at just the right moment.

And as always, Sinclair was there.

He caught her mid-fall, scooping her up with practiced ease. She squealed with delight.

“Well now,” he said, lifting her with mock-seriousness, “another girl in this family who falls at my feet.”

You snorted from the patio.

“She didn’t fall for you, she just fell near you.”

He grinned. “Close enough.”

You walked over and gently swatted his arm. “Arrogant.”

He kissed your temple. “Married you, didn’t I?”

The baby giggled between you, clapping her hands as if she'd understood the joke. Her curls caught the sunlight — like yours — and her little nose crinkled just like his when she laughed.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, arms wrapped around the both of them.

He held you tighter.

And in that moment, warm garden air, baby laughter, a little chaos, a lot of love, you knew.

You’d fall for him all over again.

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

[astarryvamp]

A little one shot based off of @luna-in-disguise 's post

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

Ruby eyes followed the figure who was attempting to sneak their way towards the front door. And doing an absolutely abhorrent job, might he add. Highheels to sneak out? If the clicking of their heels hadn’t already done the job of giving her away, then the floorboards would have.

“Sylnala Miajyre Ancunin, what in the hells do you think you’re doing?” he called, with an authoritative tone. She didn’t even have a middle name, but giving her one in preface to a lecture just seemed… right.

“Oh, hells,” he heard his daughter mutter as she shut the door. “Hi Da...Did you just give me a new middle name?”

“We’ll touch on how much you love it later. Did I just catch you trying to sneak out the front door?”

“Um. No?” she said hesitantly. Sylnala gazed at him, silently pleading with him to let this go. He simply met her look with a single raised brow, waiting for her to answer him.

“Da, I only wanted to go dancing with Lyra! I wasn’t going to be gone long!”

“I don’t care a lick about what you were planning to do tonight, my sweet.” Astarion said, giving a dismissive wave of his hand.

Synala’s confusion was palpable as she stared at him with wide eyes. “Is- is this a trap? Is Ma around the corner with a pair of manacles?”

Astarion gave a sharp laugh as he leaned against the wall with arms crossed over his chest. “No. No trap. I have no idea where you get such theatrical notions.” She gives him a flat look, making him laugh again.

“No, darling. I do not care that you were sneaking out of the house. Honestly, I was beginning to grow a little concerned me and your mother somehow managed to raise you to be on the straight and narrow,” he spit out with an exaggerated shudder much to his daughter’s amusement. “What I am annoyed at is you getting caught sneaking out of the house. Honestly?! You’ve a father with a history of being a rouge with impeccable skills in getting in and out of places with none being the wiser, and here I catch my own daughter failing to sneak her way to the front door? Have you any idea how embarrassing this will be if this leaves the house?”

“I’m sorry. You’re mad that I’m not better at sneaking out of the house?”

“I do believe I did mention that,” he says, reaching out an arm to give her nose a little teasing poke. “I mean, honestly darling, there’s a perfectly good trellis right out side your window. You could have easily scaled that and disappeared into the night with no one the wiser.”

“I’m in heels!” she protested loudly.

“They are not welded to your feet,” he answered with a pointed look. “And what about the stomping around like a drunk ogre? You may as well have been banging on a war drum while you were leaving. In fact, that may have been a little quieter.”

“Da!” Sylnala protested loudly.

“How are you meant to grow as a sneak if I don’t give you honest criticism? Next time you want to sneak out, remove the loud shoes and God’s above! Keep to the walls. The floor boards won’t squeak if you only step on the edges.”

“Fine! Noted! Can I go now?”

“Do you think you’ve earned a night of dancing with that performance?”

“Daaa!” She whined, giving an adorable little stomp of her foot.

“Fine,” he acquiesced, waving towards the door. “But only because I approve of who you are going to be with. Lyra will make sure you get up to some proper trouble tonight. The kind I care to gossip about.”

[teaberrii]

Chapter Eleven: The President's Lie

You and Cyno can’t be more different. He’s Akademiya’s perfect student council president. You’re a labelled, cursed delinquent who changes into a cat for eight hours when kissed.

When Cyno gets a complaint about you, he’s forced to take action, only for it to lead to unexpected circumstances.

Cyno/You

Notes:

Cross-posted on Ao3

Chapter index at the end of chapter one

Tighnari walks inside.

No.

Tighnari closes the door.

No.

Tighnari leans against it… and smiles.

No.

“I’m glad to see you’re okay, Catnip.”

“Just let me explain, Tighnari,” Cyno says calmly.

“I’m listening.” Tighnari pushes himself off the door and sits on the couch.

Cyno frowns. “What’s with that attitude?”

“I’m just curious to hear what excuse you’ll come up with,” Tighnari says, smiling. “This is the second time already, Cyno.”

“There wasn't a first time.”

You and Cyno look at each other as Tighnari laughs. "Fine. But"—Tighnari looks at you—"you can't say there's nothing going on." Then, he gets off the couch and puts a hand on Cyno's shoulder. "Look. Whatever it is… your secret is safe with me."

Well, it’s not really his secret. But are you comfortable telling Tighnari about your fluffy problem? Because it’s either that or…

“Gosh, I don’t see what the big deal is,” Tighnari continues. “You two are dating! So what?” Cyno meets your eyes. “But we’re on a school trip, for crying out loud! You might want to refrain from your… activities until after we get back.”

“That’s not—”

“I never thought I’d see the day Cyno would sneak a girl into his room. This day should be documented.”

Cyno glares at him. “You’re pushing it, Tighnari.”

“Okay, okay. No more jokes! But, geez”—he turns to you—“were you here this whole time, Catnip? Did you oversleep? Do you know how many people are looking for you?”

“No, I wasn’t here this whole time,” you say dryly.

“Well, you better have a good explanation for what’s to come. Because”—Tighnari points to the two of you—“whatever happened here ain’t going to cut it.”

“We get it!”

You and Cyno are oddly in sync today, and he isn’t sure if that’s good or bad.

◆◆◆

As much as Cyno wants to keep this fiasco quiet, they have no choice but to tell Candace. Someone has to get you proper clothes before you make your grand appearance to the professors.

“As much as I’m glad that Catnip’s okay, you’re making me miss class for this?” Candace is sitting on the couch in Cyno and Tighnari’s dorm. You’re in the washroom getting changed. Candace looks at Cyno. “There are so many things I want to say to you right now.”

Cyno sighs. He knows. He and Candace have been friends for a long time, and he knows she has a long lecture coming. It doesn't matter if he's "dating" you. This entire situation is questionable and wrong. Cyno doesn't need Candace to tell him that she expected better from both of you.

“It’s not his fault.” You walk out of the bathroom with his clothes draped around your arm. After putting them on the top of the couch, you sit next to Cyno. “It’s technically mine.”

“Ah… the passions of young love. So easily do they cloud the mind.”

“Quiet, Tighnari,” Candace deadpans.

“I’m only trying to lighten the situation!"

Candace turns to you and Cyno. “So, what excuse do you have for the professors?”

“I’ll think of something,” you say.

"We'll think of something." Cyno takes your hand, and you immediately look at him. But, as long as you don't mind, he doesn't care. Tighnari and Candace already think you're dating. Might as well play the part. 

Tighnari and Candace look at each other, a little bewildered. “Am I… really alive to see this right now?” Tighnari asks. “This… I… I feel like I’m seeing something I’m not supposed to see!”

“You’re exaggerating,” Candace says. “They’re just holding hands. What’s wrong with that?”

“Yeah… but this is Cyno.”

Cyno coughs loudly, and his friends turn to him. Tighnari awkwardly clears his throat and says, “But hang on. Why did you say she wasn’t your girlfriend earlier?”

“... We wanted to keep it a secret.”

Everyone turns to you. Even Cyno is surprised that you said something. But wait. Does that mean you’re really okay with being his… fake girlfriend?

“Why?” Tighnari asks. “Er, if you don’t mind my asking, that is.”

"Let's save this conversation for another time," Candace says. Then, she looks at you. "Right now, we should let the world know you're alive."

Soon, the four of you are walking down the hallway. Tighnari and Candace are walking in front, chatting about something, while you and Cyno are at the back.

"... Hey, prez." Cyno looks at you. "How long are you going to keep holding my hand?" Cyno lets go and put his hand inside his pocket while you cross your arms. "You don't have a girlfriend?"

Cyno almost stops. Girlfriend? Who is this girlfriend that he doesn’t know about? “What are you talking about?”

“Er, just… wondering. A girl called you when you were at my house, remember?”

"... Nahida?" Cyno scoffs. "That was my cousin. She occasionally stays with me." Wait. Does this mean you thought he was… taken all this time? Or were you not sure and didn't want to ask? Or was it just an innocent question? Cyno almost shakes his head. Let's calm down. "I don't have a girlfriend." He wouldn't have gotten this close to you if he did. But should he say that?

You chuckle. “So… were you really telling the truth that night? You never been on a date before?”

“Are you teasing me now, Catnip?”

"No, no!" You almost raise your hands in defence. "It's just… I don't know. I find it weird. You're the student council president. And… well, you don't look half bad, so—"

No. Please keep going. Cyno wants to hear the rest. Does this mean you think he’s good-looking?

“Well, what about you?” Cyno asks. “You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?”

"If I did, I'd dump his ass by now with all that's been going on," you deadpan. Then, you laugh softly. "Okay, jokes aside… No. I don't." Does that mean he's your first? Okay. Maybe that's a stretch, as you aren't really dating, but still. You gently nudge him. “But I’m a little better than you. I’ve been on a few dates.”

“I guess they never made the cut.”

“Should I be flattered that you think they were the issue and not me?”

“Some people are just not right for each other," Cyno says, "and sometimes that’s no one’s fault.”

“Just curious… what kind of girls do you like, prez?”

Candace and Tighnari turn the corner, but Cyno takes your hand before you can follow. You stop. Then, Cyno turns and steps closer to you. He leans down, so he's on eye level with you.

“Me?” he asks quietly with a mischievous smirk. “Clumsy, kind delinquents.”

Did he succeed in making you a little flustered? You hold his gaze and slowly move your hands up to his face. Then, you suddenly stretch his cheeks until he moves back, and you let go.

“Personal space, prez. Don’t cross the line.”

Did your heart not even flutter a little? Cyno wouldn't have known until you walked and abruptly stopped in the wrong direction. Then, you quickly turn around and disappear around the corner.

Maybe he has a chance after all.

◆◆◆

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go in with you?”

Candace and Tighnari are standing to the side. Behind you is a door that leads into the makeshift teacher's lounge. Cyno stands in front of you; you've already told him you can handle this alone. But he wants to make it clear that you don't have to.

“I’m fine, prez! You worry too much.”

“Ah… the beauty of young love.”

Candace rolls her eyes. "Here we go again."

Suddenly, the door opens, and everyone is stunned to see your friend on the other side. Kaveh, Alhaitham, and a few other professors are inside. They almost run up to you.

“Catnip!”

“... Who?”

Kaveh awkwardly clears his throat and says your name. “We’ve been looking all over for you!”

“Are you okay?” Alhaitham asks, walking up to you. He looks at the others. “The rest of you are supposed to be in class.”

Your friend has already left. As you walk inside the teacher’s lounge, Cyno goes after her, even though Tighnari calls him and asks, “Where are you going?”

In an empty corridor, your friend stops. Then, without turning around, she asks, "Do you need something, Mr. President?"

“What did you tell them?”

She laughs and turns around. “Is this about Catnip? Are you afraid I’ll spread rumours about her again?”

“Has that changed?”

She scoffs. “I put in a good word for her. If you don’t believe me, you can ask her yourself.”

“... Does this mean you’re going to stop harassing her?”

She crosses her arms. "If I don't, I suppose I'll have to answer you." She walks toward him. "Why are you going to such great lengths to protect her?" Cyno says nothing, so she continues, "You're in love with her, aren't you?"

“Just stay away from her,” he says lowly.

As he turns around, she says, “It’s you who will get hurt in the end… prez. She’s an Eremite. She’s different from everyone else.”

Cyno looks over his shoulder. “That’s why I like her.”

And then he’s gone.

◆◆◆

While everyone has free time for the rest of the evening, you and Cyno are stuck in detention. He for missing class and you for the panic you caused. You and he are sitting on opposite sides of the classroom, supervised by Alhaitham. Cyno's almost done with his assignment just when his phone buzzes. He discreetly pulls it out and sees a message from you.

Catnip: Stuck on 15.

Cyno glances at you, who looks incredibly bored. You look at him and gently tap your pencil against the paper.

And?

Cyno almost smiles when he sees you drop the pencil and furiously type a reply.

Catnip: -.- Seriously, prez?

“Put your phones away.”

Cyno looks at Alhaitham, who flips a page of his book. How did he know? Cyno does as he’s told and continues working. Soon, you approach Alhaitham with your paper.

“Um, professor, I’d like some help on a question,” you say.

Alhaitham closes his book, and you put your paper on his desk. Cyno watches you nod and lean closer to his cousin as he explains the problem to you. Then, Cyno looks down at his paper. He remembers the time you called Alhaitham cute. Did you mean it? Is Alhaitham the type of guy you like? Somehow, Cyno feels you'd say yes if he were to ask. He looks up and sees you walk back to your desk. When you meet eyes, you slightly stick out your tongue at him, and he scoffs quietly with a small smile.

The door opens, and a professor walks in. “Alhaitham? Do you have a minute?”

Just as the door closes again with you and Cyno alone in the room, you look at each other. “We could make a run for it,” you say jokingly.

“And get into more trouble than we are now?” Cyno puts his pencil down. “Sure. Why not?”

Your jaw almost drops. “I—wait—Prez, are you okay?”

“Fine. Why do you ask?”

“... You’re joking, right?”

Cyno stands and walks over to your desk. He extends his hand out to you. “Do you think I’m still joking?” You scoff and roll your eyes. Then, you slap his hand, but he quickly grabs it and pulls you to your feet. His face is inches away from yours. “You’ll just have to be prepared to spend more time with me.”

Cyno knows he doesn't need to lower his voice like that. But, anything to see your face turn red. You back away quickly. "Wha—what is that supposed to mean?"

“Well, if we run away together and get caught, we’ll have to face the consequences.”

The door slides open, and Alhaitham walks in with the most unreadable expression ever. He crosses his arms. “I leave you two alone for five minutes, and you’re thinking of eloping?”

Your eyes widen. “W-w-wait! No. That’s not—”

“Get back to your desk, Cyno,” Alhaitham deadpans. Cyno does as he’s told as you awkwardly sit back down. “Just for that, the two of you can write me an essay before we leave tomorrow.”

"But," you start, glancing at Cyno. "Tomorrow is our last day, and"—your voice drops—"the only day we have a day off."

Alhaitham smiles at you. “Well, I’m sure the two of you won’t mind spending it together then.”

“... Together?”

"I want one essay from you two before the end of tomorrow."

You and Cyno look at each other… again. But this time, you quickly turn back and groan, “I can’t believe this.”

Neither can he.

◆◆◆

By the time you and Cyno get out of detention, most students have already returned to their dorms. You and Cyno are walking together when he asks, "What happened in the teacher's lounge?"

“... Nothing, really. She… actually lied for me.”

Cyno looks at you. “Your friend?”

You nod. “She apparently told them this elaborate story… but at the end, she said that I would be fine.”

“... You don’t think she knows about your secret, do you?”

“Probably not… I turned before she woke up.”

Perhaps she really did have a change of heart.

“Hey, lovebirds!”

You and Cyno turn around and see Tighnari, Candace, and a few friends walking toward you. Candace looks like she wants to hit Tighnari as one asks, “Lovebirds?”

Tighnari puts a hand over his mouth as Candace mutters, “Nice going.”

“Wait…” one student says, looking at you and Cyno. “Are you two dating?”

Cyno takes your hand, and you immediately turn to him. 

A loud gasp. “No way!”

“Seriously?”

“I guess the two of you aren’t going to keep it a secret anymore,” Candace says.

“I, uh, I guess not,” you say quietly.

“Who confessed first?”

“When did you start dating?”

Candace claps her hands. “Alright, alright. You guys are being too nosy.”

Tighnari chuckles. “Don’t tell me you aren’t curious, too, Candace.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Candace says. “One question at a time.” She loops her arm around yours. “So, when did it start?”

“Last week.”

“This week.”

You and Cyno look at each other.

“A few days ago.”

“This morning.”

Tighnari looks from Cyno to you and back to you. "Oh, I get it. It's one of those situations where no one made it official, and it just happened naturally, right?"

“Er, yeah,” you say quietly. “Let’s go with that.”

“So, how was detention with Alhaitham?” Tighnari asks. “Did anything… happen?”

Cyno frowns. “What are you hinting at?”

"Nothing! You know… it's just a little romantic that you two got detention together.”

“That wasn’t our choice!” you say.

“Ooh, did anyone get punished?”

You give Candace a deadpan look. “Not you, too, Candace.”

After the laughs die down, Cyno says, "We were close to running away together." You glare at him as everyone starts talking over one another. Then, he gives you a quick wink, and you quickly turn away.

Tighnari's voice finally rises above the noise. "Context, please!"

“That’s it,” Cyno says. “That’s the context.”

Cyno looks at you, who clearly does not look happy. But then he sees your hand in his. You're apparently not angry enough to let go of his hand.

When you and Candace reach your dorm, Cyno doesn't let go of your hand. Instead, he spins you around and leans closer. Someone gasps and Tighnari puts his hand over Candace's eyes. She frowns and swipes her friend's hand away.

“Goodnight, Catnip,” Cyno whispers in your ear. Then, he leans back up. “See you tomorrow.”

"... Tomorrow at eight," you say. "Teacher's lounge." You're about to walk into your dorm when you turn around. "Don't be late."

As Candace follows you, Tighnari looks at Cyno. “What was that?”

“An essay date."

“What kind of a date is that?”

Good question. Cyno's about to find out tomorrow.

Chapter Twelve

End notes:

I don't know if it's because of the song I was listening to when I was writing this, but I couldn't stop smiling LOL

Cyno's makin' his moves now hehe

Tag List: @seirenspinel @lxry-chxn @suoshiii @lordbugs @iwishitwas @bennytheghost @sketcheeeee @ch0c0shortiie @riylvx

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Meeting the Family // Anthony Bridgerton

Request: Hello there, could I please request Anthony bridgerton and reader fic where hes introducing the reader to his family for the first time and shes really nervous but the family ends up loving her more than him? Thanks, I absolutely love your work!! Please dont overwork yourself darling❤ - @lespaceboi

A/N: Thank you so much for requesting! I had so much fun with this request, I love it so so much. I only hope you do too! Lowkey posting this early bc I’m watching the euros final tonight and I won’t have time. 

Warnings: she/her pronouns, female reader, light angst, some worries, lots of fluff, family fluff, Anthony being cute, dialogue heavy, declarations of love.

Word count: 3.6k

Her hands shake uncontrollably as the carriage clatters through London. Taking calming breaths, (Y/N) does her best to stop her shaking hands by gripping her shawl tightly. Her maid, Jayne, looks over at her in concern. “We can always turn back, my lady,” Jayne whispers, “I’m sure Viscount Bridgerton won’t mind postponing to another day.”

(Y/N) smiles warmly at her maid; grateful for the care in her voice. However, she shakes her head. “I’m afraid it can’t wait any longer, Jayne. Anthony’s sister and her husband have travelled all the way from Scotland.”

Jayne sits back against the carriage bench, nodding her head understandingly. “I’m sure it’s going to be fine,” She offers in comfort.

“I can only hope,” (Y/N) whispers, casting her gaze out of window and into the London streets.

She had met Anthony Bridgerton when shopping for ribbons. An unusual time and place to meet anyone, but Anthony had strolled into the shop and asked to see the best ribbons in the place as nothing would be better than the absolute best for his nieces. (Y/N) had giggled at the tone of his voice; unused to seeing such a powerful figure in such intimate settings. Her laughter had drawn his attention to which a conversation began. By the end of the Viscount’s visit to the ribbon shop, he had asked to see her again.

The visits continued in secrecy, or in as much secrecy as one could afford when holding a peerage. The relationship blossomed; what was once considered a friendship was turning romantic, and (Y/N) could not help her feelings for the Viscount. He had captured her, body and soul. She counted every blessing that Anthony felt the same.

The first glimpse of Bridgerton House steals her breath away. The red brick stands out amongst the paler buildings; Anthony’s wealth already obvious but further personified by the sheer scale of his home. The sweet scent of the violet hyacinths perfume (Y/N)’s carriage; their aroma bringing a small smile to her face as she remembers a masquerade party in Chiswick, a balcony and Anthony’s hands on her waist.

Her carriage rolls to a natural stop; (Y/N)’s heart in her throat as she tears her inquiring gaze from Bridgerton House to Jayne. Jayne smiles and squeezes her lady’s hand, a silent offer of support for the afternoon.

“They’re going to love you,” Jayne whispers, bolstering (Y/N) as best she could as the door to the carriage is opened by (Y/N)’s footman.

Now closer, Bridgerton House is much grander. The deep green iron gates pronounce the family’s wealth further. (Y/N) gulps as she takes step after step down the path to already open front door. Her steps falter slightly as she catches sight of Anthony waiting in the entrance; his hair the usual untameable mess that endears her so.

“You came,” Anthony breathes in greeting; his eyes wide with barely concealed surprise as he takes in the sight of her on his doorstep.

“I came,” (Y/N) answers just as breathlessly. Even the sight of him was enough to leave her gasping for breath; there were moments in their prolonged courtship that she couldn’t quite believe he had chosen her, that he wanted her. As Anthony stands there, his white shirt unbuttoned from the collar with his waistcoat undone, she realises that this is the most casual she had ever seen him. His outfit wasn’t proper, but she doesn’t want it to be. She wants to see him from every angle; she wants to know every Anthony there is. So far, she had found herself besotted with each and every one.

Both remain silent as Anthony offers his arm to her. (Y/N) uses the silence to quash the nerves rioting in her gut; she had never been this nervous, not when she was presented in front of the monarch for her season, and not when she danced with the Prince of Wales at his birthday celebrations two years ago. Now, however, her nerves were beginning to get the better of her.

Anthony pauses their journey. “Are you okay?” He asks, a note of concern in his voice.

“I’m nervous,” (Y/N) confesses bashfully, “What if they don’t like me? What if they hate me so much that you end things? I’m having so much fun with you, Anthony. I don’t want this to end.”

“Hey,” Anthony whispers, taking her face in his hands, urging her to look at him, “You’re going to be fine. They’re going to love you, I know it. I’ve spoken about you so much they feel they already know you.”

“You talk about me?” (Y/N) asks, her voice small.

Anthony presses a kiss to her forehead. “Constantly. I’m surprised they haven’t kicked me out with how much I talk about you.”

“You’re really very sweet.”

“Only because of you,” He flirts, pushing his luck by kissing her quickly.

(Y/N) laughs softly against his mouth. “You’re incorrigible.”

Anthony laughs gently, pulling away from her lips but keeping hold of her hands. “I’m as nervous as you,” He confesses, “But I have you by my side to help me get through just as you have me through this too. Any time you want to go, let me know and I’ll call your carriage back round.”

“Thank you,” She whispers before Anthony continues on down the hall, his hand squeezing hers tightly.

“Are you sure you still want to do this?” Anthony asks, double checking, voice wavering as they stand outside the door to the drawing room. “My family can be a bit much to meet all at once.”

“We’re nothing of the sort!” A masculine voice shouts from behind the door.

A surprised laugh leaves (Y/N) lips. She covers her mouth to bring back the mask of perfect decorum, not wanting to insult a member of Anthony’s family. “I’m ready when you are,” She whispers, smiling at the eldest Bridgerton.

“Sooner rather than later,” Anthony whispers before opening the door, giving her the first glimpse at his family.

The Bridgerton brood sit around the large drawing room. Sisters and brothers, husbands and wives – they all mix together as they wait for Anthony and his new beau. Each all fall silent as Anthony and (Y/N) enters the room; their first glimpse of her, their first conversation with her. Anthony had spoken about her constantly but refused to let any family meet her until they were both ready.

Now that moment had arrived.

“Mother,” Anthony introduces to the silent room, “This is Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” (Y/N) exclaims, smiling at the Bridgerton matriarch. “I’ve heard so much about you all,” She continues, casting her gaze around the room.

“It’s a pleasure for us too, dear (Y/N),” Violet announces, “Anthony has been nothing but a ball of nerves since he announced you would be joining us.”

(Y/N) nods at the matriarch, feeling herself become speechless as she takes in the sheer size of Anthony’s family. It isn’t hard to tell who the Bridgertons are among the group are; they each have the same eyes and smile. “It’s lovely to meet you all,” (Y/N) announces, repeating her earlier words, unable to keep the nerves from entering her voice this time.

“I’m Benedict,” The second eldest introduces, jumping up from his seat on the couch, holding his hand out for her to take.

“The artist!” (Y/N) gasps, “I’ve seen some of your work. You’re exceptionally talented.”

“Thank you,” Benedict blushes, excusing himself with a pat to Anthony’s shoulder, a silent sign that Benedict already approves.

“Help yourself to some tea,” A younger woman exclaims in the brief silence between conversations, “I’d get up to greet you, but it would take twice as long as the conversation itself.”

“Please don’t strain yourself,” (Y/N) offers graciously, “Congratulations on your pregnancy.”

“Thank you, dear. I’m Daphne, and this is my husband, Simon.” Daphne introduces, her hand landing on the thigh of a handsome man.

“It’s lovely to meet you both,” (Y/N) greets, making her way to an empty seat at a nearby table. There she pours two cups of tea, one for her and one for Anthony, knowing he would be dropping by in a minute or two. The tea steeps as (Y/N) helps herself to one of the many biscuits, taking a small bite of the buttery concoction before reaching for the milk and sugar. This is a routine she has practiced many times before, knowing exactly how long to stir her tea so it wouldn’t burn the tip of her tongue with every sip.

It’s takes less than two minutes for someone to join her at the table. (Y/N) offers the young woman a polite smile, “I’m (Y/N).”

“Eloise Bridgerton,” introduces the young woman.

“A pleasure to meet you,” (Y/N) repeats, feeling herself already grow tired of the words.

“Are you educated, (Y/N)?” Eloise enquires; her keen blue gaze dancing over the young woman.

(Y/N) finishes her sip of tea before nodding at Anthony’s younger sister. “I am,” She answers, “I studied under a very thorough governess, and I am fluent in French and Latin, but I’ve also been fortunate enough to sit in on some lectures at Oxford and Edinburgh.”

“How?” Eloise all but demands, ignoring the stern stare of her mother as she leans forward, elbows on the table. “You must teach me your ways.”

(Y/N) represses an amused smile at Eloise’s antics. “My favourite cousin, Sylvester, was a student at both. I often annoyed him into letting me attend in secret whenever I visited.”

“Did you attend any interesting lectures?”

(Y/N) nods, happy to further indulge the brunette. “Sylvester was a student of medicine, beginning his education at Oxford before continuing on to Edinburgh where he lives now. I’ve attended a few medical lectures, but I pressured him into letting me attend a philosophical debate surrounding Wollstonecraft’s Vindication of the Rights of Woman.” (Y/N) shakes her head, amused at the memory, “Sylvester didn’t find that one nearly as thrilling as his medical lectures.”

“Anthony!” Eloise calls, gathering the attention of all her brothers, “I’m keeping (Y/N) for myself. You’re going to have to find a new beau, I’m afraid.”

Anthony chuckles, leaving his brothers to their own conversation. “Pray,” He begins, “Just what are the two of you talking about.”

“(Y/N)’s education. Did you know she’s sat in lectures at both Oxford and Edinburgh? I daresay I might attend a few myself.”

Anthony’s hand lands on your shoulder; a warm squeeze has you turning to meet his stare. His smile is fond; his eyes are bright with happiness. “Are you inciting further rebellion in my little sister?”

“Of course not,” (Y/N) playfully scoffs, “Just letting her know that should she want to attend any lectures, I have a connection for her.”

A laugh leaves Anthony’s lips as he catches sight of Eloise’s excited wiggle in her chair. “I’m glad you’re getting along,” He murmurs to (Y/N) quietly, dropping an unexpected kiss to her hair before entering a debate with Eloise, explaining why she cannot go about interrupting lectures at prestigious universities.

Leaving the siblings to their bickering, (Y/N) stands from table, wanting to stretch her legs and discover more to the drawing room. By this point in the afternoon, the appeal of company has worn off. The large family now broken off into their own conversations; Francesca and Michael remain sat close together on the couch under the window, Lady Violet remains sat by her eldest daughter – the matriarch keeping a weather eye on her pregnant daughter.

(Y/N) smiles fondly at the scene before turning to one of the many fixed bookshelves in the room; leather bound volumes line the shelves. There wasn’t much for light reading, she thinks to herself as she reads the spines. Much about the War of the Roses and the subsequent Tudor reign, not much in the way of Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron.

“You’re very pretty,” A young girl announces from behind (Y/N). She turns to find two girls, both no older than four or five, their hair matching pigtails, curled into ringlets.

(Y/N) kneels to their height, ignoring the pinching of her corset as she smiles at the young children. “Why thank you,” She states gratefully, “But you know what I would really like?”

“What?” The eldest of the two asks, leaning forward in anticipation.

“Gorgeous pigtails like yours,” (Y/N) smiles, gesturing to their hair.

Both girls break into wide smiles, already won over. “What are your names?” (Y/N) asks.

“I’m Amelia,” The eldest states proudly, “I’m five and a half.”

“I’m Belinda,” The second girl introduces, “I’m four.”

“Well it is lovely to meet you both,” (Y/N) compliments, “My name is (Y/N).”

“We know,” Belinda chimes. “Uncle Tony talks about you all the time.”

“He does, does he?” She murmurs amused; catching sight of the brunette doing his best not to intervene on the conversation taking place with his nieces.

Amelia nods. “All the time!” She cries happily. “He talks about your hair, your eyes, your smile.” She breaks off, leaning towards (Y/N) to whisper in her ear. “I think he’s in love with you.”

“Do you think?” (Y/N) questions, unable to keep the eager hope from her voice.

“I know,” Amelia nods sagely, “I heard Uncle Tony tell Mama and Papa.”

(Y/N) presses her lips together to keep the wide smile from growing across her face. She had known that Anthony felt very deeply for her though he had never uttered a word. With a quick glance in Anthony’s direction, she gestures for the two girls to come closer. “Can you keep a secret?”

Amelia and Belinda nod silently; too excited to hear what (Y/N) has to say. “It just so happens,” (Y/N) whispers to the two girls, “That I also love your Uncle Tony.”

“You do?” Belinda squeaks.

“I do,” (Y/N) nods seriously, “I love him very much.”

“Are you going to tell him?” Amelia asks; her blue eyes wide with burning curiosity.

“I think on some level he already knows, but I plan on telling him very soon.”

Both girls squeal in happiness, leaving (Y/N) behind as they run towards their parents. Daphne and Simon greet their children with open arms, wide eyed at their level of noise as they demand their voices to be heard over the hubbub of the rest of the family.

“I don’t suppose you’d enlighten me to this particular conversation,” A warm voice sounds from behind her. The way his arm slips around her waist, as if it were his home, tells (Y/N) that Anthony has found her once more.

“A secret for another day,” (Y/N) teases, turning to face the man that had captured her heart so wholly.

“Will you tell me later?” He asks, pushing out his bottom lip in a pout that has her giggling.

“Perhaps,” She whispers, leaning ever closer to the Bridgerton. “Only if you promise me something.”

“Anything,” He whispers seriously, “I’d give you the world if I could.”

“I know you would,” She murmurs, “But all I’m asking for is for you to not pester your nieces over what I told them.”

“How did you know?” Anthony asks, voice glum.

(Y/N) brings a gloved hand to his cheek, her thumb brushing his cheekbone. “Because I know you, my dear.”

Anthony leans into the touch, turning his face slightly to press a kiss to her wrist. “I like being your dear.”

“I like being yours too,” She replies earnestly. “Now, I’ve spoken to most of your siblings. Do me the honour of introducing me to Francesca, she came all the way from Scotland, it’s rude that I’ve neglected her.”

“Yes, my darling,” Anthony responds, taking her hand and leading her to the couch where Francesca sits with her husband, Michael.

The day continues in a similar fashion. Bridgerton House had never been quiet when the whole family was in attendance; raucous laughter and loving bickering filled its many corners with noise. The life and laughter of the family bringing the house to life.

As the grandfather clock ticks closer and closer to the evening, (Y/N) finds herself lamenting the fact that she must leave the Bridgerton family so soon.

“I must take my leave,” She announces to sad cries to Amelia and Belinda, already so attached.

“So soon?” Benedict asks, frowning as he wonders when he’ll get to continues his conversation with her. So few wanted to talk about art nowadays.

(Y/N) meets Anthony’s gaze, hating how sad he looks. “I’m having dinner with my parents and their friends. An occasion I simply cannot miss, I’m afraid.”

“Do we know them?” Violet asks in an attempt to delay the inevitable. She had grown fond of the young woman over the course of the afternoon, seeing how perfectly she fit amongst her family, how she brought out the best in her eldest son.

“The St. Clair’s?” (Y/N) enquires, drawing her shawl around her shoulders. “My father has worked with Lady Danbury’s family for a long time. Gareth and I are old friends.”

“Have a wonderful time,” Violet announces, “But please visit us soon.”

“I would love to,” (Y/N) smiles, crossing the room to be by Anthony’s side.

Offering her goodbyes to the large family, (Y/N) takes Anthony’s offered arm, hooking hers through his as they descend the grand marble staircase to the foyer. “Your family are lovely,” (Y/N) compliments as she takes care not to trip over her skirts on the stairs. “You all care for each so much, it’s clear the moment you enter the room.”

“My mother and siblings are the best people I know,” Anthony murmurs, walking beside (Y/N) at a steady pace in order to delay her departure by a minute.

“I can only hope they liked me,” She worries, her teeth biting into her bottom lip in a way that has Anthony restraining himself by gripping her arm tighter.

“You were wonderful,” Anthony murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to her cheekbone before helping her into her carriage.

“Thank you for today,” (Y/N) calls, sticking her hand from the window to prolong the contact between Anthony and herself. She wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye; wasn’t quite ready to leave him.

“Thank you for coming,” Anthony answers, kissing her hand before tucking it back through the window of her carriage. If they didn’t say goodbye now, they wouldn’t say goodbye at all. If she didn’t leave, he would most likely offer marriage on the pavement than somewhere proper.

Nodding to her footman, Anthony watches her carriage leave. He stands on the doorstep to Bridgerton House until her carriage is no longer in sight. Only then does he let himself release the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Weariness washes over him as he turns to face his childhood home. Inside, in his mother’s drawing room, await his family. Each one ready to give their verdict on the woman he has had the good fortune to fall in love with.

Sighing, he kicks at the ground, knowing he cannot delay this any longer.

His mother and siblings are where he left them; his mother’s drawing room. They fall silent at the sight of him; each clearly unwilling to make the leap and be the first to broach the elephant in the room.

“What do you think of (Y/N)?” Anthony asks; voice loud in the ever so silent room. He meets the eyes of each of his siblings, not missing the way Daphne leans into Simon or the way Michael reaches for Francesca’s hand. They’ve all found their love matches; it was now Anthony’s turn.

Colin takes the fall for his family, standing to face his eldest brother and titled peer. He clears his throat, fidgeting on the spot before he eventually pauses all movement, breaking into a smile to declare, “We all loved her!”

“You do?” Anthony asks, falling onto a nearby couch in shock.

Violet smiles at her eldest son. “We do. (Y/N) is a sweetheart and looks to be just as taken with you as you are with her.”

Blush begins to paint Anthony’s cheeks. “I can only hope, dear mother.”

“It’s true,” Amelia chimes, her young face bright with joy. “She told Belinda and I.”

“You have found your love match, my darling boy,” Violet states warmly.

“It does help that (Y/N) is a trifle more tolerable than you, dear brother,” Benedict teases, laughter bright in his Bridgerton blue eyes.

“And so educated!” Eloise gasps, “We had an enlightening conversation about Wollstonecraft’s Vindication on the Rights of Women.”

“She was wonderful with Amelia and Belinda,” Daphne murmurs, her hand falling protectively over her pregnant stomach.

“Why do I get the feeling that you prefer (Y/N) to me?” Anthony murmurs, mischief bright in his eyes and evident in his voice.

“That’s exactly what we’re saying,” Gregory points out, “I only hope (Y/N) can keep up with your obsession with Pall Mall.”

“A worthy obsession,” Anthony argues, mind wandering to the games he could play with (Y/N).

“She’s wonderful,” Violet interrupts, a large smile on her face as she takes the final say.

Anthony smiles widely at his mother; constantly grateful for her love and care throughout his life. She had been lost after the death of his father, as had Anthony, but Anthony had never truly understood what it would feel like to lose someone you love as wholeheartedly as his mother loved his father.

Until now, that is. The mere thought of losing her sends a lance of pain through his chest, cutting short his breath and increasing his panic. Anthony shakes his head to rid himself of such thoughts and feelings.

Calm enough, he faces his family once more. “I plan on proposing to (Y/N),” He announces, showing his family the ring box that has been sitting heavily in his trouser pocket all day.

“Thank goodness,” Francesca murmurs, smiling indulgently at her big brother. “I cannot wait to call her sister.”

“Indeed,” Anthony murmurs, a loving smile on his face, “I cannot wait to call her my wife.”

******

Bridgerton taglist: @heloisedaphnebrightmore @dreaming-about-fanfictions @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown @janelongxox @sexysirius @wallwriterstuff @magicalxdaydream @darkestbeforethedawn16 @gryffindors-weasley @spideysz​ @iammirrorball​ @writeroutoftime​ @joyfullymulti​ @nuttytani​ @multifandomfix​ @freyathehuntress​ @lespaceboi​

Taglists are open! Drop me an ask if you would like to be added!

[the-modernmary]

chess, not checkers || a. hotchner x f!reader

Summary: Cross-examining Agent Hotchner should have been a lot more simple than it had been. But when the questioning slips out of your control, you find yourself being profiled right there in the middle of the courtroom. Amazing how one stranger can know you better than anybody you've ever met.

Contains: SMUT! 18+ only, minors DNI. Fingering, (light) choking, semi-public sex, adultery, anger sex, enemies to lovers, edging, lawyer hotch <3

Word Count: 8k+

Comments: This is so heavily inspired by “charcoal grey” because we all know how hot he was in that scene. Thank you to @angelfxllcm for being an absolute godsend as I wrote this and being the most supportive friend ever. (If you haven’t read her work, you absolutely should!)

“Fucking FBI and their selfish ass schedules,” you grumbled as you hurried through the hallway of the courthouse, your intern Robin on on your heels. “Court gets pushed back for a week because Agent Hotchner just had to leave with them on a case instead of working remotely, and then expects us to drop everything to go to court the second he gets back to D.C. As if we don’t have jobs too. As if I don’t have six other cases sitting on my desk that now have to be pushed back because of him.”

 Robin scrambled behind you, nodding along to every word that left your mouth. “Does this happen with the, uh…”

  “BAU,” you supplied.

  “—BAU, right. Do court cases usually get pushed back for them?”

  You shook your head as you checked your watch. A glint caught the corner of your eye. Shit, your ring. You hadn’t expected to go to court, and completely forgot to leave it at home. You pulled it off and slipped it into the outside pocket of your bag, hoping nobody noticed.

“No. Most cases from the BAU never go to court,” you explained. “There’s enough evidence against the people they arrest that it’s almost always a plea.”

  The Bankers Box in Robin’s hands almost slipped as you placed another file precariously on top of it. “Then why is this case going to court?”

  Your step faltered as you processed her question, and you couldn’t hide the disbelief on your face. “You did read the brief for this case, right?” you asked, unsure if you really wanted the answer, except her embarrassed blush and averted gaze gave you enough of one. “Seriously? Okay, well, first of all, because of that, you won’t be sitting at the attorney’s table with us. Instead you’ll be in the public seating. I won’t weaken my case because you decided to be unprepared. If this happens again, you won’t be welcome to join me in court at all, am I clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good.” Deciding to take pity on the poor intern, you sighed as you started your explanation. “Our client claims that his arrest was unlawful and therefore none of the evidence they found should be usable. I’m inclined to agree with him, so we’re fighting all of the charges that were made with evidence found after the arrest.”

  “So you don’t think he’s guilty?”

  “I don’t ask that question. I’m not God and I’m not his priest, I don’t need to hear his confession. I just need to get him out of unjust and illegal charges.”

  Robin’s eyebrows furrowed. “So he’s going to walk free? Even after everything he did? How do you sleep at night?”

  Fucking Christ, how did this girl even get into law school? You rolled your eyes, suddenly regretting your decision to take on an intern. “No, he’s not going to walk free. He’s going to get a lesser charge, because everything else was obtained illegally. And I sleep very well, actually, because my job isn’t some episode of Law & Order. Less than 10% of my cases ever go to trial. I’m not here to suddenly convince juries that the evidence is wrong. My job is making sure that everybody is given their constitutional rights, that the police are doing their jobs correctly, and that the State isn’t over-punishing. Any cop knows that, and if you ever come across one that doesn’t, you know that you should look into those cases even further. You have to realize, criminal defense lawyers—”

  “— are the last line of protection against a corrupt system.” You turned to see your assistant, Marcus, making his way towards you, briefcase and your spare blazer that you keep in the office in hand. “I see you’re giving her your famous anti-prosecutor lecture.”

  Marcus helped you slip on your blazer over your satin button up, his hands lingering on your skin for just a little too long to be considered professional, and it made you shiver in anticipation. “God knows she needs it. Thank you, Marcus, for bringing these so quickly. Were you able to get the physical copies of Agent Hotchner’s files?”

  Marcus held up his briefcase. “All right here. Although I have to say, I’m a little lost as to why you need his service records.”

  The three of you turned the corner to enter the courtroom, your heels clicking on the tiled floor. Robin obediently took her seat in the public viewing area while you and Marcus pushed through the swinging door to settle at your table. “I’ve heard stories of Agent Hotchner’s testimonies. He used to be a prosecutor, so he’s not easily tricked, but he is prideful and will defend his work. I’m going to use that to my advantage. It’s like I always say, practicing law means always playing chess, never checkers.”

  Marcus took the seat next to you, making sure to sit close enough that his knee brushed yours the whole time. “You know, I was thinking, this case is complicated,” he whispered, “And we haven’t combed through everything yet… It could take more time than we planned.”

  You smirked, knowing exactly what he was insinuating. “Agreed. I’ll tell Tony I have to stay late at the office tonight.”

  Before Marcus could continue his flirting, you were distracted by the door to the judge’s chamber opening, revealing the back of a man in a black suit. “Thank you again, your honor, for the continuance,” came the deep timbre of the man, and oh. You certainly weren’t expecting that. “A young girl was able to be reunited with her family this week because of it.”

  The man in the doorway turned, and your breath caught in your throat. He was tall and buff and expensive-looking and absolutely gorgeous. His suit was tailored to fit him perfectly, the sleeves of his blazer straining against his biceps. He carried himself with an aura of confidence, like he belonged in the courtroom, and he was making his way directly towards you. Unconsciously, you separated from Marcus, putting as much distance between you and your assistant as possible without raising suspicion.

  The man said something to the prosecution before turning to you, hand outstretched. He said your name as a greeting, and your name had never sounded so good. “I’m Aaron Hotchner.”

  When you stood up to shake his hand, you tried to ignore the way his eyes raked down your body, or the way the two of you held on just a moment too long to be considered proper. It felt as if he was looking right through you, learning all of your secrets as though they were written on your body. No, you knew that look. He was studying you. “Agent Hotchner, it’s a pleasure.”

  “Likewise, Counselor. Please, call me Aaron.”

  You raised your eyebrows in Aaron’s direction, still shaking his hand, and it made your skin burn. You dropped his hand. “I’m just glad we’re able to get this case done and over with. Hopefully with no more delays.”

  His eyebrows quirked upwards in what could only be described as shock. “I see your reputation precedes you,” was his only reply before going to his respective seat, and if he noticed you watching his every move, he made no indication of it. That being said, you definitely felt his gaze on the back of your head as the judge entered the room and the session began.

  As the proceedings dragged on, you and Marcus continued to talk strategy, his hand finding its way to your thigh ever so often. You also continued negotiating with the prosecutor, both of you flashing Post-It notes of potential plea deals that you would be willing to accept, always careful to keep it out of the eyes of the judge and jury. By the time Aaron had been called to the stand, the offer given to you still wasn’t low enough. Fine, if the prosecution wanted to make a fool of themselves, so be it.

  You listened to Aaron’s testimony with the prosecution, completely enraptured. There was something about the way he spoke, so full of authority and confidence, that made the entire room drawn to him. He was incredibly intelligent, that much was clear, and despite the many years since he had actually practiced law, that prosecutor candor hadn’t left him. Staying focused on the case had proven to be more difficult than previously expected. You found yourself staring at his lips, and it didn’t take long for your mind to conjure up some obscene and explicit situations starring the man in front of you. 

  Eventually, his eyes caught yours, and he watched you, his lips — god, those lips — quirked up in a smirk. Aaron watched you expectantly, and in the light of the courtroom, his eyes were almost the color of whiskey, and you wanted nothing more than to drink it all in.

  A sharp “Counselor” broke you out of your trance. In the corner of your eye, you could see Marcus looking at you in concern, but he was the furthest thing from your mind now, especially as Aaron let out an amused huff of air.

  “Counselor, does the prosecution wish to cross-examine the witness?” the judge asked with barely hidden annoyance, making you think that it probably wasn’t the first time she had asked the question.

  You stood up quickly, smoothing down your pencil skirt as you did. “Yes, your honor. Thank you,” you said, trying your best to keep your voice steady as you noticed Aaron’s eyes trailing down your bare legs.

  The cross-examination started normally, and Aaron answered all of your questions with careful precision that only a lawyer could pull off. He seemed to know exactly where you were trying to go with your questions, and easily sidestepped any unflattering implication you were trying to make. Long, biased questions were met with short, clipped answers, not giving you anything to work with. Whatever move you made, Aaron was right there, two steps ahead with you. Never in your life had you met somebody who could follow you so easily or could match your wit without so much breaking a sweat.

  It was exhilarating.

  “Agent Hotchner,” you started, hands clasped behind your back. “Could you please explain to the court how profiles are used when finding and apprehending suspects?”

  Aaron sat up a little taller in the witness box. “Using behavioral research and past case studies, we’re able to construct what we call a profile of the perpetrator, or unsub. Anything they do can give us insights as to who they are — their victims, what weapons they use, even how they dispose of the bodies. Once we have a profile of who we believe is committing these crimes, we have our technical analyst run the parameters through her system. From there, narrowing down our search is easy.”

  You nodded slowly, pretending to mull over what he was saying. “For clarification’s sake, in layman’s terms, you build your profile off of assumed psychology, and not concrete evidence, is that correct?”

  The muscles in Aaron’s jaw flexed, a sure sign he was gritting his teeth. “Behavior analysis is a tool, just like any other—”

  “It’s a yes or no question, Agent,” you interrupted, and oh, he was not happy about that.

  His tongue darted out from between his lips. “The research we use for behavior is—”

  “Yes. Or no.”

  Aaron hesitated, his frustration building up to palpable tension that settled in the courtroom like a thick fog. You weren’t giving him a chance to explain or show off anymore, didn’t allow him to be seen as the smartest person in the room anymore, and that was getting to him.

  “Yes,” he conceded, grimacing as if admitting that was physically painful for him.

  “Thank you,” you replied, and he caught the unspoken that wasn’t so hard now, was it? even if the rest of the room did not. You walked back over to your table, snatching up a piece of paper and holding it in the air. “Your honor, the defense would like to submit Exhibit Seven into evidence.”

  Once the judge gave her express permission, you placed the form in front of Aaron with your left hand, perfectly manicured fingers splayed out in front of his eyes. You almost missed the way his head tilted ever so slightly and his eyes narrowed, like he was staring at a puzzle half complete. “Agent, could you please tell us what’s laying in front of you now.”

  He leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning the paper before meeting back with yours. “This is a part of our official report of the case. Specifically, it has the profile that was used to lead us to the apprehension of Mr. Mckenna.”

  “Does it say on that paper who had the final sign off on the profile before it was circulated?”

  “Yes, that would be me. As Unit Chief, my job is to sign and finalize any reports.”

  “And could you please read the profile, verbatim, as written on that report?”

  Aaron’s face remained neutral, with the exception of his eyebrows scrunching together. Slowly, he had started to piece together your strategy, and he didn’t like it. “The unsub is a white male, between 32 and 40 years old. He’ll most likely be unemployed and driving a van or truck — anything that would let him easily transport his equipment and victims. We believe that he’s also had run-ins with the law before, likely as a juvenile. He’ll come across as friendly, if not a little shy. We believe that this comes from a failed relationship in his past, one where he believes that he was manipulated and wronged, and now he’s going after surrogates for that woman. Killing these women is the only thing that gives him any sort of power. If we can figure out who this past relationship was, it will lead us directly to the killer.”

  You paced back and forth in front of the witness stand, your skirt tightening around your legs with every step you took. “Between 32 and 40 years old, unemployed, and killing surrogates… Except Mr. Mckenna is 22 and works part time as a bartender. How do you justify arresting my client with those inconsistencies?”

  “As I mentioned before,” Aaron started, his voice dangerously low, “A profile is just one tool we use of many. Not every single part of the profile will fit every single time. Which is why we also rely on outside evidence to ensure that we have the best chance at catching the unknown subject as quickly as possible.”

  “Except you had no concrete evidence, which you admit in your own report!” You took two steps closer to him, getting as in his face as possible without risking being held in contempt. With every word that left your mouth, your voice got more and more forceful, and you got more and more under Aaron’s skin.

  “All of it was circumstantial at best. You had a hunch, an inherent bias against my client due to his previous conviction record, and you were frustrated at your own inability to get a good lead. But you can’t arrest somebody on a hunch, or because you’re angry. You had no evidence and the man you arrested didn’t even match the profile that you came up with!”

  Your eyes locked with Aaron, his gaze heavy, and neither of you dared look away first. “Objection!” came from the prosecutor behind you. Exactly what you wanted. “Argumentative and foundation.” You flashed Aaron a predatory grin.

  Two moves to checkmate.

  “Sustained,” said the judge.

  “Withdrawn.” You tapped the witness bench, hoping to convey an air of aloofness and calm. Aaron scowled. “Agent Hotchner, before joining the FBI, you were a prosecutor, is that true?”

  Confusion flashed across his face for the briefest of moments, and it gave you a twisted sense of satisfaction to know that you had the upper hand. You knew the answer to every question you were about to ask, and he knew that. He just couldn’t figure out where you were going with this line of questioning, or what the relevance even was. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  You made a soft hum of approval. “Could you please walk us through your higher education?”

  “I attended George Washington University for both my undergraduate and law degree.”

  “What did you major in for your undergrad?”

  Aaron hesitated. “Political Science.”

  Check. “So all together, you’ve had about seven years in higher education. In that time, how many psychology classes did you take?”

  It was almost sadistic, the way you relished in the slight twitch of his face — the realization that he had been backed into a corner. The silence was deafening as Aaron’s scowl met your smug grin.

  “None,” Aaron said finally.

  “None,” you repeated, performative shock dripping from your words. “Do you have any academic background in psychology or human behavior, then?”

  Aaron’s jaw clenched, and as you made your way closer to the witness stand, you saw his thumb frantically moving back and forth over his fingertips. Clearly, you had struck a nerve. “The FBI has rigorous coursework in order to become a profiler, along with multiple exams and continued training as more research becomes available to us. The profiling classes are no easy feat and are written by experts in the field. Creating profiles has a long and respected history in detective work, and these profilers have caught some of the most prolific serial killers of all time.”

  You placed a hand over your chest in faux modesty. “My apologies, Agent Hotchner, I believe I wasn’t very clear. I’m not calling into question the validity and effectiveness of profiles. I’m calling into question the validity and effectiveness of you as a profiler.”

  You could practically see the cartoon fire spewing out of Aaron’s ears. He was so close to being in your trap, something he had to have known, too, yet he continued to toe dangerously close to that line.

  “A lack of formal education in profiling,” you continued, keeping your voice light, “and the blatant disregard for basic police and legal procedure as shown in this case with my client… I mean, how many other mistakes were made in your past cases? It’s hard to believe that you can read anybody, much less the hardened criminal that you have painted my client to be.”

  Checkmate.

  “Objection!” cried the prosecutor again. “Your Honor, this is —”

  He was cut off by the judge raising her hand. “Sustained. Counselor, I would advise you to tread lightly from here on out.”

  You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Withdrawn.” You turned around to make your way back to your table, ignoring Marcus’s look of complete disbelief. Baiting Aaron had been easy, and now all you had to do was wait.

  The courtroom was uncomfortably silent for one beat… two beats…

  “Not only can I read Mr. Mckenna,” echoed Aaron’s voice, “But I can also read you.”

  Once you got back to your desk, you turned around, hands resting on the cool wood of the table top, but you never sat down. Instead, you leaned forward, and arched your eyebrows in a silent challenge — one he was all too eager to pursue.

  “The red Harvard Law tag on your briefcase is a perfect match to your lipstick, and you wear the same one every time you go to court. Not because you’re superstitious the way most lawyers are, but because it’s your way of maintaining control in the courtroom, something you’re desperate to keep in every aspect of your life, personal and professional. I would guess that this need goes back to late high school, early college. But you’ve been worried about appearances and how you’re perceived for even longer than that.”

  You fought the urge to roll your eyes. So he thought you were Type A? Anybody could have guessed that by your anything. All they would have to do is look at your color coded case files or your daily schedule, planned down to the minute. You had only been trying to sway the jury when you insinuated that he wasn’t a good profiler, but maybe you were actually starting to believe it yourself.

  Except Aaron got a dangerous glint in his eye, causing your stomach to bubble with anxiety. Clearly, he was playing chess, too, and by the looks of it, he believed he was winning. 

  “In fact, you’re so worried about losing control, that despite your busy schedule, you refuse to hire a planner for your upcoming wedding.”

  That got your attention. The objection that you were about to call died on your lips, and all you could do was stare with poorly hidden shock. Next to you, Marcus turned pale as a ghost.

  Aaron, cocky bastard, continued his profile of you, with no clear signs of stopping anytime soon. “You have a tan where your ring usually is, and I know you’ve been wearing it recently as you subconsciously fiddle with where it would be whenever things in court aren’t going your way. Just like you’re doing now. You still have your maiden name, which you plan on giving up when you do get married because not taking his last name would arouse too many questions that you want to avoid. Just another way your concern of appearances is manifested. So you’re engaged.

  “I would say congratulations, but it’s not a happy relationship, not on your side, anyway. Younger female professionals will take their rings off in fear of not being taken seriously, but you’re an established and respected lawyer. You needn't worry about that. So if it’s not about you, it’s about the fiance. You don’t want to be associated with him.”

  You gripped the edge of the table, too angry to form words. Your nails dug into the varnish, and you were sure that your heavy breathing could be heard from across the room. This dick. This absolute, garbage, piece of shit dick. The worst part was how casual he sounded as he aired all of your dirty laundry for everybody to hear.

  “He’s holding you back, in all aspects of life, but mostly intellectually. He doesn’t have a sliver of your capabilities. The two of you are probably high school sweethearts, prom king and queen type, but while you grew up and matured, he never did. He can’t keep up with you. Still acts the same way he did in high school, only now with more access to alcohol and money. Career wise, he doesn’t have much going for him, probably some sports related pipe dream. But you stay with him because you know how to control him and how to use him to your advantage.”

  Aaron’s eyes zeroed in on Marcus, and all of the color drained from your face. The voice in the back of your mind was screaming at you to object, to get the judge involved, anything, before Aaron did any more damage, but you were frozen in your spot. For the first time in your life, you were completely and utterly speechless and spiraling out of control.

  “That need for control is also why you’re sleeping with your assistant. It’s casual for you, but not for him anymore. You should break that off. That’s nothing new for you, though. In fact, I would bet that if we looked back at all of your affairs since your engagement, we’d find a long string of men and women, all of whom are your subordinates or of lower status than you. It’s a win-win situation — they’re more than eager to have a chance with you, and you get to stay in control. Oh, you’ll stop when you actually get married, but you continue to push that date back, as well. So…”

  He leaned back in his chair, clearly feeling good about himself, and God, you could kill him. You could reach over the witness box and wrap your hands around his throat and squeeze until his whiskey colored eyes popped out of his smug, beautiful face.

  Aaron lifted his chin, eyebrows raised in your direction. “Do you believe in my abilities as a profiler now, Counselor?”

  That snapped you back into action. You cleared your throat and unnecessarily smoothed down your skirt in an attempt to regroup your thoughts. “Well, Agent Hotchner, thank you for that little show and tell. It’s clear that you are very passionate about your career. However, just like your profile of my client, you have no evidence for any of your unsubstantiated accusations.”

  It was a pathetic attempt at saving face, and Aaron knew it, but it had to be enough for you. You turned your back towards Aaron so that you could face the judge, who, to her credit, had a perfect poker face the whole time. “Your Honor, I move to strike Agent Hotchner’s outburst” — not an outburst, Aaron was too composed to ever have one of those, but he grimaced at the word all the same — “from the record, as no question stands before the witness at this time.”

  The judge looked at you dubiously, clearly debating her ruling. There shouldn’t have been any reason to worry, you were legally in the right, but there was always the chance that she wouldn’t be on your side. You noticed yourself fiddling with where your engagement ring would usually be, and you cursed yourself under your breath. How could Aaron have possibly known all of that?

  “Sustained,” she said finally, “I direct the jury to disregard the witness’s, uh, example when considering the evidence.”

  You let out a breath of relief. It wasn’t much of a win — everybody still heard what had happened, it was still in the back of their minds, like the ring of a bell echoing — but at least in regards to the case, you had the legal upper hand.

  The judge turned back to you. “Defense, the witness is still yours, if you have any further questions.”

  If you were a little more in your right mind, you would have cut your losses, but between your oath to defend your client to the best of your ability and that stupid self assured grin on Aaron’s face, you knew that you really had no choice.

  Deep breath in… Slow breath out… You’re at a stalemate now.

  “Agent Hotchner,” you said, causing him to perk him up in interest. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting you to continue. “Wouldn’t an ex-lawyer and an FBI agent be familiar with the rules of decorum in a courtroom?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I understand your question, Counselor.”

  “Let me rephrase, then. Would you say that you have a history of emotional outbursts and rule breaking in your line of work? And I’ll remind you that you are still under oath.”

  Aaron shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “No, I wouldn’t. Integrity is one of our core values, and we take that very seriously.”

  With shaking hands, Marcus handed you one of the files you’d had him print out on Aaron. “If that’s so, can you explain why, since your promotion to Unit Chief in 2005, you and your team have had seven disciplinary hearings, one of which being an internal investigation into the excessive force used by one of your agents, and another being a congressional hearing?”

  A sick sense of satisfaction passed over you when you saw him get visibly shocked, his poker face breaking for the first time that day. If he wanted to go for blood, you could fight back twice as hard. “I’m not at liberty to discuss either of those cases.”

  You shrugged nonchalantly. “Very well, Agent. So between the discrepancies in the profile, your inability to control your temper, and your history of breaking procedure, coupled with the fact that you arrested my client without any warrant by kicking in the door to an innocent civilian’s house, do you really believe that your arrest and the subsequent evidence that came from that arrest was obtained legally? Or do you just not care either way, as long as you’re able to prove that you’re right?”

  Right as he opened his mouth to speak, you turned your back on him and started to walk back to your table. Aaron wasn’t even able to get a peep out before you cut him off with a sharp “Question withdrawn. At this time, the defense rests.”

  “Our arrest was made on the grounds of—” Aaron tried, and you smirked to yourself. He must have been desperate if he was trying that move twice. You whipped around, gaze steeled.

  “I have no further questions, Agent Hotchner,” you repeated, only letting out the slightest hint of amusement. “But thank you for your cooperation with Lady Justice today.”

  Aaron’s eyes met yours, and a weight settled in the pit of your stomach. You should have hated him, but something about him had you completely and utterly entranced by him. Maybe it was the novelty of the case. Maybe it was the matching intellects and the fact that he was the only other person who could give you a challenge.

  Maybe you just liked the way you got to lose control with him.

  As he passed you, his arm brushed yours, and your whole body burned.

  “Very cute, Counselor,” he whispered, voice dripping with condescension. “How long did it take you to come up with that little switch up?”

  “Don’t patronize me,” you snapped. “I was playing chess, you were playing checkers, and that’s why you lost.”

  The rest of the session went on normally, if not a little tense. To your surprise, Aaron hadn’t left immediately after his testimony, and instead took a seat in the section for the public. Good. As soon as courtroom decorum wasn’t a factor, you were sure to give him a piece of your mind.

  Court adjourned for the day, and you couldn’t get out of there fast enough. You told Marcus to continue to push for a better plea option as you grabbed your briefcase and stormed out, pushing through the throngs of people until you could see the back of Aaron’s head.

  You sped up your steps until you were right behind him, and you grabbed his wrist to stop him in his tracks. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

  You pulled Aaron into an empty conference room, hoping to get some privacy before you completely blew your lid. You already had one public humiliation because of him, and you did not need another.

  “What is your problem?” you hissed, locking the door behind you. “You had no right to put my personal life on blast like that.”

  Aaron placed his hands on his hips, swooping the sides of his suit jacket back, and you had to make a very conscious effort to not stare. “You questioned my profiling abilities, and I proved them.”

  “You didn’t prove shit,” you argued, folding your arms across your chest. “Except for the fact that you’re an insufferable bastard.”

  “Are you saying that my profile was off? Because if you didn’t want to be caught committing adultery, then you shouldn’t have made it so obvious.”

  You gritted your teeth and took a step towards him in a futile attempt to come across as intimidating. Even in your heels, he still seemed to be towering over you. You’d have to level the playing field somehow. You gripped his tie and used it to pull him down so that he was closer to eye level with you. “I don’t need your judgment, Aaron.”

  Aaron moved closer to you, and you could feel the heat radiating off his body. His Adam's apple bobbed and it captivated you. “I couldn’t care less about what you do,” he said flippantly. “Matter of fact, I don’t think this fit of anger is even inherently about your little secret coming out. Do you want to know what I think it is?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I think,” he continued, completely ignoring your protest, “You’re angry because as much as you can dish it out, you can’t take it.”

  Your grip on his tie tightened at his words. “Trust me, I can take anything,” you said, voice low and breathy.

  Aaron’s eyes flickered to your lips — those kissable, red stained lips of yours. You hadn’t had to reapply your lipstick once throughout the day, and he idly wondered just exactly what it would take to muss up that perfect, pouty red lip. 

  “I also think that for the first time in a very long time, you didn’t have control, and you liked it.” He bent down a little bit more so that his lips brushed against your ear with every word and you could feel his breath run down your spine. “Aren’t you bored of sleeping with boys who are so far beneath you?”

  You’re not sure who initiated it, but the next thing you knew, your lips crashed against his, the two of you making out like it was the last kiss either of you were ever going to get. His hands felt impossibly everywhere all at once — gripping your hips, tugging at your hair, and even snaking under your work blouse to palm at your breast. His teeth nipped at the fibres of your lips. With every movement of his hands, little gasps escaped you, and you could feel the curve of his lips curling up into a smirk.

  His fingers trailed up the side of your body, past the curve of your neck, and tangled themselves in your hair before yanking it back, exposing the column of your throat. Immediately he attached his lips to your neck, nipping at your pulse point.

  “Aaron,” you whined, trying to regain the breath he stole from your lungs. You practically melted in his arms, going completely weak at the knees, especially as his tongue trailed across the underside of your jaw. You let his tie fall from your grip, instead bringing your hands up to cup his face to pull him in for another kiss. 

  His lips set a bruising pace, and it caused a fire to burn in the pit of your stomach. You had never once been kissed like this, never once felt so all-consumed by a person. Aaron’s cologne surrounded you, making your head spin. Bruises were sure to form from how harshly he was gripping your hips, but you didn’t care. He was addicting, and you wanted more.

  Hotch walked you backwards until you were pressed up against the wall, his thigh shoved in between your legs, forcing your skirt to ride up. The position made his arousal obvious as he pressed against you. The way he held you was possessive, primal even, Unconsciously, you ground down on his thigh, hoping for anything to help relieve the ache between your legs. 

  Unfortunately for you, Aaron caught on to what you were trying to do, and he chuckled against your lips before pulling away just far enough to speak. “Look at you,” he whispered, and the raspiness of his voice only served to turn you on even more. He hooked a finger under your chin, forcing you to look up at him, and his thumb traced your bottom lip, tugging at it ever so slightly. His other hand slowly trailed its way up your thigh, nails scratching at your skin. “Skirt hiked up around your waist, desperate to get off. Your little boyfriends aren’t doing it for you anymore?”

  He pressed his thigh further into you, ripping an involuntary moan from your throat. “Fuck,” you gasped, your hips still moving back and forth against him, not caring how needy it made you seem. “I need… I…”

  “What? Big, bad lawyer doesn’t have any more smart ass comments?” he cooed sarcastically, pushing your skirt up even higher. He replaced his thigh with his hand, and his fingers ghosted over your covered pussy, teasing you, not giving you nearly enough contact. “Fuck, you’re so wet already. Go ahead, needy girl, if you’re that desperate.” Aaron yanked down your panties in one fell swoop, and you blindly kicked them off to the side. “Be a good girl and show me how much you want this.”

  Without any more of a warning, one of his fingers entered you, and you let out a breathy moan that Aaron was sure to have on repeat in his mind for days to come. When the heel of his palm pressed against your clit, your brain completely short circuited. You threw your head back as far as you could despite being pressed against the wall as his name clumsily tumbled from your lips like a prayer.

  “You’re so fucking tight,” he grunted, pressing you further against the wall. “Can’t wait to feel you around my cock.”

  Electricity coursed through your veins as he added a second finger, easily finding that spot in you that made you see stars. You rocked your hips back and forth against his hand, eyes screwed shut in pleasure. His lips trailed from your jawline, down your neck, and to your collarbone. 

  “Look at me,” Aaron ordered, tightening his grip on your chin, and your eyes shot right back open. Instead of the whiskey colored irises you had gotten used to, Aaron’s pupils were so blown that they made his eyes completely black. “I want to see you lose control all over me. Gonna make sure you come harder for me than you have for any of your boy toys.”

  That wouldn’t be very difficult. Nobody had ever made you feel the way you did then, Aaron’s fingers buried deep in your cunt and lips exploring every inch of skin he could access. No part of this was for his pleasure — from the curl of his fingers to the slow circles on your clit, it was all expertly calculated to bring you to the edge with as much intensity as possible, and it was all devastatingly effective.

  “I’m so close,” you whimpered, and if it weren’t for the wall behind you, you would have completely lost your balance. “More, fuck, please.”

  “More?” he mumbled against the column of your throat. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

  Coherent sentences were not an option for you at the moment, not when you were so deliciously overwhelmed with pleasure and with Aaron. Besides, how could you tell him that you wanted him to completely and utterly ruin you? That you wanted him to bend you over the conference table and pound into you until you could barely speak. You wanted Aaron to mark you and send you home to your fiance with reminders of every little thing he did to you for the days to come. You wanted raw and untamed passion. You wanted to be consumed, for him to settle in your lungs like smoke, and haunt your dreams for the rest of your life. 

  You didn’t want nice and calculated the way every other man you’d been with had acted — you wanted Aaron Hotchner to take control.

  You couldn't say any of that, so instead, you grabbed his wrist, the one that was holding your chin in place and, without breaking eye contact with him, you guided his hand down until it rested on your throat. “More,” you choked out, giving him an animalistic grin.

  That was all it took. Using his grip on your neck, he pulled you in for another kiss, messy and desperate and swallowing all of your incoherent moans as his fingers moved harder, faster.

  You clung to him like a lifeline as you felt your whole body tense up, your orgasm fast approaching. You were so fucking close and he felt so fucking good and, God, if this is what losing control felt like, then you and Aaron could do this forever and —

  His fingers were gone from you, and you clenched around nothing. You cried out in protest, which only seemed to amuse him.

  “Oh? Prom queen isn’t used to not getting what she wants?” Keeping his hand on your throat and you pinned against the wall, he made slow, teasing work of his belt buckle.

  Your chest rose and fell in a desperate attempt to catch your breath. “What happened to watching me come undone all over you?” you shot, trying to even out your voice as much as possible. It didn’t work very well. “Did you lose your nerve?”

   A dark, humorless chuckle escaped his lips. “Don’t worry, Princess, that’s still the plan. I just never said where. I want to make sure you’re nice and wet and ready for me to turn you into a moaning mess on my cock.”

  In an attempt to regain some control of the situation, you rolled your eyes. “Yeah? And how do you expect to do that?”

  He smirked and released your throat. Wordlessly, he grabbed your wrist, and guided your hand down your body, further and further until you reached your throbbing pussy. He used his hands to press your fingers to your clit, and you whimpered softly. God, you were dripping, and the extra stimulation didn’t help your shaking legs.

  “By making you so needy and whiny that by the end of this, you're begging for me,” he hissed, lips brushing the shell of your ear with every word. He moved your fingers so that you were rubbing small, slow circles around your clit, although it wasn’t nearly enough to give any real relief. “Begging for me to come and fuck you over and over and over again. Because you know that your pathetic fiance and your string of affairs have never made you feel like this before.”

  Aaron yanked your hand away from your clit and you could sob. You wanted to cum so badly that you could barely put it into words. Still holding your wrist, Aaron brought your hand up to his face. He took a brief moment to admire the way your fingers glistened, covered in your arousal, before bringing them to his lips and sucking.

  Eyes wide, you made a choked noise as you committed the view of Aaron to memory. “Please, Aaron, fuck, I need you,” you whined, the start of a long string of incoherent begging. You needed him then and there, damn the consequences.

  He pulled your fingers out of his mouth slowly, and you moaned at the obscene wet noise it made. “So desperate,” he murmured as he began to unbutton his slacks. “All for me. All because I edged you once.”

  Aaron pulled down his pants just enough to pull out his dick, and you licked your lips involuntarily when you saw it, big and thick and leaking precum. Clearly, it gave Aaron a bit of an ego boost, because as he ran the head up and down your sensitive folds, he reminded you, “You did say you could take anything, Princess.”

  Your breathing came out shaking as you shivered, waiting for him to do something — anything. You were so empty and you needed him so badly. If you didn’t get his dick in you soon, you were pretty sure you would lose your mind completely.

  “Fuck me, Aaron,” you moaned, arching your back to press into him more.

  He pressed a chaste kiss to your lips in an almost intimate gesture. “Patience is a virtue,” he chastised.

  In your haze of arousal, you barely noticed him grabbing your briefcase and digging through the small pocket in the front. You especially didn’t notice his pause when his finger touched something small, round, and metal in the bottom of the bag. The only thing you cared about was him coming back to you, holding up a condom packet with a smirk.

  “I knew I’d find one somewhere in your briefcase.” You let the comment slide, the excitement at the prospect of sex with Aaron Hotchner outweighing any jackass comment he could make. Aaron made quick work of putting on the condom. The second he was done, one of his hands ran up your thigh, getting a good grip on it before pulling it up and around his waist.

  “Do you feel how wet you are for me? How willing you were to give up control? All for me? That—” Lips pressed to your ear, he pushed his cock into you, bottoming out with one thrust. You threw your head back in pleasure. “—Is playing chess, sweetheart.”

  Aaron dropped his forehead to the crook of your neck as he began pounding into you at a desperate pace. He had held off on his own pleasure for long enough, and now he was chasing his orgasm with a ruthless determination. One hand stayed gripping your thigh, the other one braced against the wall next to your head. Aaron nipped at your neck in between moans of praise for you.

  “I — oh, fuck — knew it,” he groaned, digging his fingers deeper into your thigh. “You wanted somebody to take control. Somebody who knows how to please you.”

  You wrapped your arms around his neck and tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer to you. You were an incoherent mess at this point, his name tumbling from your lips like it was the only thing you knew how to say. At that moment, it probably was. 

  “Finally, that bratty mouth of yours is good for something. You sound so pretty, moaning out my name. Say it again.” A particularly deep thrust caused you to tug at his hair. “Louder.”

  Never before had you met somebody like Aaron Hotchner, and you weren’t sure if you ever would again, so you screwed your eyes shut and let yourself get lost in the absolute pleasure he was providing. You memorized everything you could — the way the calluses on his hands felt against your skin, the way he moaned out your name, how deliciously full you felt, and how for the first time in your life you felt truly seen — so that you could suspend the moment in amber to preserve in the back of your mind.

  “Please,” you begged, scratching his scalp lightly with your nails. “I’m so close. Fuck, Aaron, you feel so good, please.”

  Aaron tore his lips from your throat, choosing instead to press his forehead against yours. His lips brushed yours with every word he spoke, so close that you were practically kissing him. “That’s it, princess,” he murmured. “Be a good girl. Be a good girl and come. All over my dick.”

  When you came, it was with a cry of his name as your whole body shuddered. You clung to him as he continued to fuck you. His thrusts began to stutter, and he took the opportunity to capture your lips in one last, scorching kiss, and you were all too happy to oblige.

  You think he moaned something as he came, but you couldn’t hear it over the sounds of skin slapping against skin. He fucked you through his orgasm, making sure that you felt every single inch of him. As if you could ever forget it. 

  The two of you stayed where you were for a few moments, relishing in the feeling of being full a little longer. Your walls fluttered around Aaron, which caused him to muffle his whimpers into your throat.

  “Aaron…” you whispered, not wanting to disturb the moment. “That was so—”

  “I know.”

  “We shouldn’t have done it.”

  “I know.” He pulled back just enough to leave a lingering kiss on your lips, and your whole body burned. “But I don’t regret it. Do you?”

  You shook your head. “Not at all.” The confession lingered in the hair for a tense second because both of you seemed to remember where you were.

  Aaron slowly pulled out of you, an act that looked almost painful for him when you let out an involuntary moan at the feeling. He could have spent all day in you, if given the chance.

  The two of you adjusted yourselves in silence, both of you hoping to be able to leave the room with some semblance of professionalism. At the very least, the goal was to not look like you had just had sex in a courthouse conference room. Shame and embarrassment flooded you — what had you been thinking?

  Once you felt that you were presentable enough, you grabbed your briefcase and tried to ignore Aaron burning a hole in the back of your head with his gaze.

  “Well, Aaron, this was fun.” You cleared your throat. “I’m sure we’ll see each other around at some point.”

  You were two steps away from the door when you heard his smug, courthouse voice come back in full swing.

  “Forgetting something?”

  You turned around in a huff, ready to go right back to arguing with him, but what you saw made your whole body heat up in embarrassment. There was Aaron with a self-satisfied grin and dangling off his finger was your panties.

  “These are cute,” he mused. “It’s a shame I didn’t get to fully appreciate them.”

  You rushed over there, fully prepared to snatch them out of his hand. “And you never will,” you shot, but even as you said it, you didn’t make much of an effort to take them out of his hands. You just stared at him and his swollen lips and mussed hair, all your doing.

  Ever the gentleman, Aaron started to hand your underwear back to you, but instead of taking it back like you knew you should have done, you covered his hand with yours, closing it in a fist around your panties.

  “Who says you can’t?” you whispered, guiding his pantie-filled hand down to his pockets. “This way… You can keep it as collateral. To make sure I’ll come and see you again.”

  His breath hitched in his throat as you guided him to put your panties into his suit pocket, and you were glad to be the one surprising him this time.

  “I don’t care about your fiance,” Aaron started, and you braced yourself for the worse. “But I’m not interested in being the ‘other man’ to your affairs with your assistants, too.”

  “Consider it ended,” you promised, not caring how desperate or easy it made you look. You wanted to keep Aaron around for a long, long time.

  Just until the wedding, you corrected yourself.

  You slung your briefcase over your shoulder, wincing as it dug into a bruise that Aaron had left. It would be there for a while — you’d have to find a way to hide it from Tony until it faded. The thought made you stupidly giddy. “I’ll see you around, Aaron.”

  He nodded in goodbye, and you slipped out of the conference room on shaking legs. As soon as the door closed behind you, you reached into your bag, and reluctantly slipped on your engagement ring.

[caiuscassiuss]

oppa! | ot7 (prologue)

Description: Being raised by a caring yet distant father, a close, tight-knit family is the one thing you have craved in your short life. After your adventurer father remarries a rich woman, you’re stuck with seven new brothers. Seven very hot, very different men. 

This is not what you meant by family.

(Based on the anime and game Brother’s Conflict, but with a twist.)

Prologue

Genre: Fluff | romance | later angst and smut. PG

WC: 2k

Warnings: For this chapter, none other than cursing.

(After some readers wanted me to post Oppa! on Tumblr, I have delivered! I really hope y’all like this haha)

[ The prologue delivers hints on who each brother will be. These hints will be bolded. Some will be very apparent, some will not. ]

Rubbing your head, your eyes glazed over the notes you took from yesterday’s lecture in preparation for today. Were you on drugs when you wrote these? It looked like chicken scratch. Was that drool in the corner?

Your ears perked up at the strains of loud music coming out of your friend’s Airpods. Hyerim, your closest friend at University, seemed oblivious as she bopped her head to the hard beat. Several classmates around the lecture hall noticed too, yet weren’t as accommodating as you and sent judgemental looks towards Hyerim.

“Hyerim,” you whispered, aware that class was starting in a few minutes. She didn’t respond, still nodding along to the music.

Pursing your lips, you plucked the small pod out of her ear. “Hyerim, your music—”

She gasped, eyes lighting up in excitement. “You liked it? Okay, so I was listening to this random rapper on SoundCloud—”

“Your music's too loud —” you hissed.

“—but the real feature is the producer, who made this beat. His name is Yoongi—” Hyerim continued on obviously, caught up in her own world.

“—that’s lovely, but can you turn your music down—” you pestered, looking around worriedly.

“—but his producer name is Gloss and he’s so talented and hot and his voice —”

Seeing the majority of the seats in the hall being filled up, you clamped your palm over her lips. She let out a whimper, finely shaped brows frowning at you.

“Have you not noticed the five separate glares you are currently getting at this moment?” you said between gritted teeth, enunciating each constant hard. You stared down each person around you who was giving Hyerim looks and, embarrassed, they averted their eyes and busied themselves with something.

“Oh wait, what?” Hyerim exclaimed. Closing a fist over her AirPod, the music continued and her eyes widened as she realized how high she had turned up the volume.

Hyerim turned to the person on her other side. “I am so sorry,” she said apologetically, the random student smiling awkwardly in acceptance.

Rolling your eyes with an unbidden smile poking at the edge of your lips, you turned back to the disaster of your notes. How were you supposed to understand this lecture when you barely wrapped your head around the last one? However, you honed in on your Calculus woes to ignore how your phone burned in your pocket and the latest text you got from your father...

So focused on your lamentation, you didn’t notice the boy behind you clear his throat. Nor did you notice the second or third time he did, each one getting progressively louder. As you attempted to retrace the argument on your paper, you felt a tap on your shoulder.

“Excuse me?”

Whipping your head around, you craned your neck upwards to see where the tap had come from. To your surprise, you saw a very cute-looking boy, bangs pulled into a top knot, smiling apologetically at you from behind you.

“Hi! Yeah, do you need anything?” you smiled.

A blush rose on his chiseled cheekbones and he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m super sorry to bother you about this, but I dropped my charger right next to your chair. I- uh, would you mind—?”

“Of course! No worries, it happens,” you comforted, bending down to get the coiled white wire from where your bag sat. “Here you go.”

He got up from his seat to hunch over the lecture hall desk to meet you in the middle. You eyed the large difference between each of your hands’ as you handed back the charger, as well as how huge his shoulders seemed up close.

“T-Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” you replied, turning around to open your laptop.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Hyerim’s mouth partially open in disbelief.

“You need something?” you prodded.

“I—” she took a glance at the boy behind you, as if confirming something— “I’ll tell you later.”

Shrugging, you zeroed in at the lecturer at the front of the hall.

“Alright, so what was that about?”

Your Calculus lecture had just ended, and the two of you were in the mob of students leaving the lecture halls to get to lunch.

Hyerim looked surreptitiously around, black bangs swishing around her face. She leaned in like she was about to share the juiciest piece of gossip, and you unconsciously did so too.

“Did you know who that is?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

You felt your forehead crease and you gave her a look. “No, I did not.”

“Really?!” Hyerim pitched her voice high in disbelief.

You gave her a dry look.

It was her turn to roll her eyes. “Sometimes, I swear you’re in your own world, Y/N.”

Incredulous, you opened your mouth to argue but she waved a hand in front of you.

“That was Jeon Jungkook, Y/N! How do you not know him?”

“Oh yeah,” you snapped your fingers. “He’s that Streamer dude, right? He games and shit.”

Hyerim nodded slowly.

However, you frowned. “I heard he was intimidating and cold and stuff. Are you sure that was him? Charger boy was super nice.”

“That’s the point! It was Jung Jungkook and I have never seen him acting this soft. What did you do, ma’am? Snap him? Flash him?”

“Who do you think I am?” you sputtered. “All I was doing was thinking about how much I hated Calculus, not— not seducing someone!”

Your friend gave you a suspicious look, but decided to let go of the topic. Shaking your head, you walked past the gates of Yonsei university and into the city proper on the lookout for your favorite food place. The beeping of horns, buzzing chatter, and the small of smog filled the air as you zig-zagged between side streets to avoid busy roads.

“Excuse me,” you muttered as you pushed your way through a mob of women all entranced by something above you. Since they were not moving, you huffed and decided to see what was worth all the hype.

It was a huge, flashing LED billboard that was the central focus of the square. On it, a very sensuous looking man with blond hair and a velvet, tight-fitting suit doing some very slick moves in a dark concert hall.

Happy Birthday Jimin! It read in bright white font.

“Wah, oppa is so handsome!” a woman, who must’ve been 5 years older than the man on the screen squealed behind her white medical mask. “I’m so glad our ad turned out well.”

Her friends agreed and ooh and aahed along with her. You turned around to see if Hyerim was following you but she stood, entranced, with the mob of women on the sidewalk.

“You can thirst over him later, preferably when I am well fed,” you snapped irritably, pulling at the pink flowy material of her blouse.

She pouted but acquiesced, taking your hand as you dragged her though the intersection. All you were focused on were some good dumplings, after the mental aerobotics Calculus had forced on you and the emotional stress your father was putting you through. As you turned the corner, you breathed a sigh of relief as you saw no line.

Nestled between a large office building and a parking deck, this tiny Japanese restaurant was a favorite among Uni students for its cheap prices and good food. You usually had to arrive here early to beat the line of students and office workers that gathered here for their dinner breaks.

The cute sign that said Umaido flashed brightly above your head as you entered the restaurant. To the side of the main sigh, a smaller print reading “by the RM Group” glowed, subdued.

Waving over a pimply teen, you ordered two servings of gyoza and waited for Hyerim. She ordered a very conservative meal of sushi and some salad, and you both watched the waiter retreat. Something glossy caught the attention of your eye, and you saw some magazines on the shelf next to your head. The main one in the middle, which looked like a new age artsy publication with a cult following, was simply titled with a white V at the bottom corner.

Like a robot that was powered off, you collapsed in your seat and put your head in your hands. You really did not want to look at your phone.

“Was Calculus really that bad?” Hyerim winced in sympathy, neatly patting your head.

“It isn’t Calc,” you mumbled. “It’s Dad.”

Her expression turned down even more. “What happened?”

Lifting your head from your arms, you propped your chin on your palm and looked out the window. “You know, you’d expect for someone to give you important news in person or at least over a phone call, right?”

“Yeah?” Hyerim asked, lips pursed in confusion.

“Like, if you got remarried or something , you would at least tell your loved ones in person or at least over the phone, right ?”

“... Shit, Y/N.”

Fumbling for your phone in your bag, you ignored the notifications and pulled up your latest conversation. “Look what he texted me this morning!”

Hyerim took your phone and scrolled through it with a manicured fingernail.

Dad : I wish I could call you, but I’m somewhere with limited service.

Dad : I just wanted to let you know I got remarried to this amazing woman, Kim Seoyeon, a few days ago. We met and just clicked, something I haven’t felt since your mom.

Dad : She has seven sons, all of them are grown up. I’m worried about you living on your own, so I’d like you to move in with them. Details coming soon. Love you.

Hyerim was speechless, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “I’m sorry, what?”

“My dad has gotten spontaneously remarried to some random woman and now wants me to move in with her sons. Like, geez, it’s not like life changing news was delivered to me in less than a hundred words!” you hissed, voice getting higher and tinged with a bit of hysteria.

“Your dad sucks,” Hyerim pronounced, taking a pointed sip of her iced water. “Seriously.”

“Hey, my dad is not that bad,” you defended. “It’s just… he’s a bit distant. Absent-minded. But he’s cared for me in the best way he could.”

“You and I have very different definitions of what constitutes good parenting, Y/N. This man left you largely on your own since you were five, and now he gets worried about you living on your own? Something's not right,” Hyerim retorted.

Ignoring her in favor of the food that arrived, you practically inhaled twelve of the fried gyoza. Rolling her eyes at your typical running-away behavior, she primly dipped a piece of sashimi in soy sauce and took a dainty bite.

“So? What’s the plan? Are you going to stage a rebellion and stay in your apartment, or go stay with some random men?”

Your response was cut off as cheers broke out from the corner of the restaurant, where a large group of men and women were huddled together.

“Cheers to our National win!” a man announced, his face already a bit flushed. “To Neuron!”

“To Neuron!” the group cheered loudly, and lifted up their shot glasses in celebration.

“To our leader, J-Hope!” the same man pronounced brightly, some sake sloshing over the tip of his cup.

“Hoseok!” the group whooped louder, more rounds going around.

As their cheers quieted down, you turned back to Hyerim. “I don’t know. I think I’ll decide when I meet them. They could either all be idiots or they could be chill. I really hope for the latter.”

“Good plan, good plan.”

An awkward silence permeated the booth since both of you were at a loss to say something.

“Onto lighter things, “ Hyerim forced out brightly, clapping her hands. “Let me tell you about my younger brother’s really hot doctor. His name is Dr. Kim and he’s tall and…”

As Hyerim continued to babble on about the tall, handsome pediatric doctor, you felt a buzz in your pocket.

Dad: Their address is 111 Hannam-dong, Yongsan-su

Dad: They’re ready for you.

Can you guess who each stepbrother is and what they do? Comment below!!

Arc 1: Stepbrother Introductions will be released on February 15th at 8pm ET. It’s about ~15k words of getting to know these boys. Please look out for it!

[iatethepomegranate]

We are not alone in the dark with our demons, chapter 21

In which Caleb buys a house in Rexxentrum with Beau and Yasha, becomes a professor, learns to be a person separate from the trauma that shaped his life for so long, and begins the arduous process of preventing what happened to him from happening to anyone else. It gets far more personal than even he could have anticipated.

Chapter content warnings: Caleb's backstory (like, all of it--especially the abuse, death of family members, instutionalisation)

Chapter summary: Caleb makes a speech at Soltryce Academy.

Chapter notes: Song title is from Chosen Family by Rina Sawayama. I link to sydmcpaint's Shadowgast playlist on AO3 because that's where I first encountered it. Not sure if Tumblr is still weird about random links in posts, so I'll refrain.

***

Chapter 21: Show me the rivers crossed, the mountains scaled

Caleb’s speech was to be held in a public lecture theatre on the outskirts of the Academy. He removed his amulet as he stepped into a side room where Astrid waited, as the Nein filed into the theatre proper.

“How are you feeling?” Astrid asked, her eyes tracing the path of Caleb’s hand as he slipped the amulet in his trouser pocket.

“Terrified.”

“You will be fine. We used to do this all the time in school.”

“Ja, before we forgot how to function like human beings.”

Astrid sighed. “Dramatic today, as usual.”

“I am stressed. Let me have this.”

Astrid rolled her eyes. “Very well. Most of the Assembly is in attendance, as are many of the teaching staff, several archivists and Expositors from the Cobalt soul, a few students, and a Kryn representative.”

So they did send someone after all. “Anyone I might know?”

“You may have been in the same place as him at some point, but I don’t know if you met. You may know him indirectly.”

“May I have a name?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Astrid.”

She smirked. “The mystery will keep you from panicking.”

Caleb let it go. He had bigger things to worry about right now, and he could always ask Essek later.

A few deep breaths, and Astrid left to join the audience, instructing him to wait five minutes and enter through the back door, which would lead directly to the lectern. Caleb slumped against the nearest wall, shoved his hands over his face, and concentrated on keeping his heart rate as low as it could be. That wasn’t very low.

Five minutes ticked by as he ran over the main points, even though he had them memorised, and tried not to panic too much about his decisions. Then he straightened, pushed the back door open, and stepped into a short corridor, which ended with the speaker-side theatre door.

A message from Astrid: “Bren, are you at the door?”

“Yes.”

“Let me introduce you, and then I will let you in.”

“Make it flattering, please.”

No further response. He could hear her voice on the other side of the door, too muffled to make out the words. So he waited and tried not to panic any further, until the door creaked open and Astrid waved him through.

He was not used to hearing applause when entering a room. He hoped his smile wasn’t too pained. The Nein had arranged themselves in a few small pockets throughout the lecture theatre. Veth and Jester were in the middle of the front row, right in front of the lectern. Fjord, Caduceus and Kingsley were on the right-hand side of the middle row. Beau and Yasha were posted up the back, near a male drow in ceremonial armour and a long, white ponytail. His features were somewhat familiar, but Caleb was fairly certain they had not met.

The Nein were cheering and whooping enough to draw everyone’s attention. He saw Ludinus bristle a little, and Astrid delicately rest a hand over her mouth to cover a smile. He clocked the presence of several other Archmages, including Headmaster Zivan Margolin and Oremid Hass. A handful of other conspicuous robed figures were possibly other Archmages, but Caleb didn’t give enough of a fuck to try and put names to faces when he could just make those links at a later time.

All the first years had come (he must have made a good impression), alongside a few other young faces that were possibly older students. Felix was still with his parents in Blumenthal. The sea of faces started to blur together the more he looked, so he stopped.

Caleb set his notes on the lectern (not that he needed them), and tried to relax a little as the applause died down. Jester clapped an extra time at the end, very loudly, followed by Kingsley.

“Ah, hallo, everyone.” Auspicious start. “Thank you for, um, coming.” He cleared his throat.

“WOO!” went Jester.

Caleb mostly stifled his laugh, except for a quiet snort. “And, ah, thank you for the warm welcome.” He took a breath, glanced blindly at his notes to steady himself. “I first walked through the gates of Soltryce Academy close to twenty years ago. My parents were farmers; I was never going to be a soldier like my father, but I had found a place where I belonged, among the sparking minds and insatiable thirst for knowledge. I never wanted to leave.”

He caught the eyes of Veth and Fjord in the crowd, the memories of their visit to the Academy floating through his mind. And they had been the ones to find him this morning, and lift him from the well in which he had found himself.

“As many of you know, my life took a different turn. If you do not know the specifics, the Cobalt Soul has copies that are accessible on request. It took longer than I had hoped, but we are here now. I have travelled widely in the time between, picking up scraps of information from little villages in the ass-end of nowhere, to ancient lost cities, to living civilizations very different from here in the Empire. I have traded knowledge with scholars across Wildemount, including some within the Kryn Dynasty.”

The drow’s eyes narrowed, just barely enough to catch Caleb’s attention. He filed that away for later.

“And while I have grown in power, and pieced together lost knowledge, I have also learned many valuable lessons beyond mere fact-finding.” He flipped a page, barely looking at it. “I am here, in part, to share lessons from my time in the Kryn Dynasty and the ruins of Aeor. But, most importantly, I am here to tell a story.”

He cast a minor illusion, replicating the interior of the Nestled Nook Inn from Trostenwald. “A selfish, cowardly wizard wakes inside a Trostenwald inn, having gotten his ass kicked by gnolls the previous day. His one companion, a goblin who is not a goblin, saved his life. Life on the road is dangerous, little better for two people instead of one. The wizard suggests finding a group to tag along with. The opportunity presents itself that very morning. One circus incident later, the disparate group of assholes who would become the Mighty Nein travel northward together.”

“WOO!”

Caleb almost laughed again. “Thank you, Jester.”

“You’re welcome!”

Astrid made an aborted motion with her arm, as if about to facepalm. A swish of blue came through the door, as Allura flashed an apologetic smile and slid into the nearest seat. He wasn’t sure if her presence made him more or less nervous.

“It would take far too long to recount all our adventures, and that is not why I am here.” Caleb let his eyes drop to the page for a second to gather his thoughts. “We were a disparate group of people with our own agendas and interests, and sketchy pasts. Trust was hard-won. I considered leaving the group many times, especially as our name became known in Zadash and I feared for my safety.

“Then, several members of our group were abducted while we slept by the roadside, and our dear friend Mollymauk Tealeaf died in the rescue attempt. It was a wakeup call for all of us, I think. Once again, I thought about leaving, but I could not bring myself to do it. For years, I had been selfish, focusing only on myself, my survival, my learning, because I had to. That… was no longer the case. I was not ready to acknowledge that. We rescued our friends, picking up a new one along the way. The experience brought us closer together.”

Caleb swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth and let himself take a moment to reset.

He continued, “The pursuit of knowledge is often framed as a solitary one. Powerful wizards compete against each other and take stupid risks to come out on top. This gets people killed. We’ll come back to that.” Caleb set aside his early notes, finding the Dynasty section. “Now, the Dynasty. We did not go there on a whim. A member of our group was worried about her family, so we paid her hometown a visit, to find her husband was missing. Abducted by agents of the Kryn Dynasty for work he was doing for the Assembly. We followed the trail.”

Caleb glanced up at the Kryn representative, but did not notice any interesting body language.

“Our two nations were still at war. It was dangerous, but the Mighty Nein has one constant: we take care of our friends.” It was Veth who had told them that, not so long ago. “We had a rocky start, fighting off a patrol upon entry to Xhorhas. Upon finding our way to the Court of the Bright Queen, this almost spelled our end, but we had stumbled onto an important artefact belonging to the Dynasty, which put us into their good graces.” Caleb conjured a deliberately vague image of a few city streets in Rosohna, sticking to interesting architectural patterns instead of providing a broader view of the city that would reveal any weakness someone could easily exploit.

The Kryn representative shifted in his seat; he was not looking at Caleb. Caleb filed that information away for later. He also clocked a bit of stiffness in the Martinet’s posture. Astrid had probably expected this, so her face gave nothing away.

“We were granted the release of our friend’s husband, access to the city and a house, courtesy of Den Thelyss. Shadowhand Essek Thelyss was assigned as our handler. A skilled wizard himself, we shared knowledge. I am one of the few Empire wizards to have learned a portion of the Dynasty’s specialist school of magic, Dunamancy, directly from a local practitioner.”

Ludinus looked unsurprised; Trent had probably told him Caleb had used the magic in Vergesson. The Kryn representative was watching again, face largely impassive; there was something to be read there, but Caleb didn’t have the time.

Caleb wouldn’t share most of the spells he knew (especially as he and Essek had largely copied each other’s spell books by now), but he summoned a Resonant Echo. A shadowed version of himself stepped through a rift he created with a chunk of obsidian carefully hidden in his palm, and he instructed it to retrieve a sheet of paper that had fallen from the lectern.

“One of the hallmarks of Dynasty magic is the ability to tap into alternate timelines and call on echoes of oneself for aid. This stems from the Chronurgy branch, which experiments with timelines and potentiality, as opposed to Graviturgy, which manipulates density and gravity. Both branches work with Dunamis, the primal energy of potentiality, which invisibly shapes the world around us. I learned magic from both branches, but had a particular interest in Chronurgy. What I learned pales in comparison to the combined centuries of experience the Dynasty has, but I had plans for this magic. More on that later.”

Beauregard raised an eyebrow at him. He spared her little more than a glance. If anyone could predict this, it was her.

“This was the first time most of us had been to Xhorhas, and all of us were new to Rosohna, the city formerly known as Ghor Dranas. I learned a few lessons there, aside from the magic. First of all, people are people. Every nation has their cooks, their farmers, their innkeepers… the everyday people who keep civilization functional. There is good and bad everywhere, regardless of nationality. Kindness can be found in the most unexpected places.”

Astrid gazed at him with open amusement.

“I had also spent years cultivating an image that would let me pass beneath the notice of most people. Nobody looks twice at the dirty beggar. And then I was a human in Rosohna, tolerated by the Bright Queen’s decree. Unless I wished to walk around in illusions all day, there was no avoiding it. I was conspicuous for merely existing, and then… well. The Zemnian accent is persistent, ja?”

Most of the Nein snickered, except Kingsley who had no fucking idea that Caleb had once spent a solid five minutes trying to emulate Fjord’s old way of saying eldritch blast with no improvement whatsoever.

“Hiding was not possible in Rosohna without excessive use of illusions and keeping my mouth shut.”

Beauregard snorted loudly.

“So, I dropped that pretense while in the Dynasty, and good things came of it. I rather openly expressed interest in Dunamancy; I suspect I had more success learning about it because of that. Sometimes asking nicely works. A lesson some people in this room need to hear.”

Ludinus pressed his lips into a thin line. It was good to remind him that Caleb (and others) knew his hands were not as clean as he liked to pretend. Hiring Caleb to teach at the Academy was a good look for the Assembly, given Trent’s arrest. Bringing him in as Archmage would have looked better, but Caleb was only willing to take these games so far.

“Not long after that, we were forced to rush to Rexxentrum to stop a cult and rescue a friend who had been mind-controlled into working with them. In the process, I learned that my reasons for hiding in the background were no longer relevant, and likely hadn’t been for some time. My old teacher who ruined my life knew I was associated with the Mighty Nein, and he had to be a dramatic bitch about it.”

Astrid visibly squirmed with the effort to not laugh out loud, and Ludinus’s mouth grew impossibly thinner. Beauregard snapped her fingers in quiet applause.

“So, my priorities changed. Escaping notice was no longer possible, and it became far easier to… engage. With the people who care about me. These are people who are around me not just for what I can do for them, but because they like me, and I like them.” He glanced up. “Expositor Lionett is rolling her eyes because she has yelled at me about this before. A more powerful wizard than I once gave me the advice to use who I need to, and I had seen people in that way in the past. In my experience, it is not sustainable.”

The archmages’ attention was visibly wandering at this point, but Caleb wasn’t saying this for their benefit. They had made the decision to embroil themselves in lies and deceit and barely-disguised disdain for each other. That was not his problem. It was Astrid’s problem, though. She was still paying attention, but something had hardened in her expression a bit. This wasn’t for her either, really. It was for the students, and for his friends.

“I would caution the younger members of the audience to question that kind of advice. I am happier now than I have been in close to twenty years, because I have chosen people over the kind of power that would ask me to sacrifice them. I can still bend reality, turn anything to dust, bring someone back from the dead if I’m willing to wager my Transmuter’s stone… and I did not need to sacrifice my humanity to do it. I have been all over Wildemount and to other planes of existence. I have faced slavers, demons, archmages, and all manner of beasts both natural and even lab-grown in the ruins of Aeor. I am still alive because I have friends.”

Caleb turned the page, and his hand was shaking a bit. He stared at the inked letters for a moment to ground himself, and to remind himself that he was choosing to keep talking because it was important. Because the Nein, and the kids, needed to hear this.

“So, Aeor. As many of you know, a crashed city so filled with magic that it still warps the whole of Eiselcross to this day, rendering powerful magic unstable and dangerous, which gets worse the closer you get to the primary ruins. I should know; I turned into a sheep, and not on purpose.”

A few chuckles, mostly from the Nein.

“The Mighty Nein’s original reason for being inside Aeor had little to do with the place itself, and everything to do with the individual who had killed Archmage Vess DeRogna on our watch. Shadowhand Thelyss was posted at the Dynasty’s outpost at the time, and agreed to provide assistance.”

The Kryn representative barely moved, but he was staring intensely, and Caleb had to observe carefully lest they make awkward eye contact. Caleb wasn’t the best at eye contact to begin with, let alone with strangers.

“We had limited time for research on our first visit, but Thelyss and I returned later to remedy that. Of particular interest was their research on time travel, which we did not have the… time to explore earlier.” Beauregard groaned openly at the pun. “I was looking for a way to undo the greatest regret of my life. Essek, much the same. We found a promising lead, which forced us both to consider seriously the consequences of pursuing this to its logical end. It is not my place to share his plans, but I can share some of mine.”

The Nein were quiet. He could not look at them. Caleb noted the quiet presence of Wulf in the back of the room, clocked Astrid’s quiet gaze. He could only confirm the presence of three survivors of the Volstrucker program, including himself, but there were a few unfamiliar faces, and some people he couldn’t see.

“I trained under Trent Ikithon in the Volstrucker program during my studies at the Academy. For those who are not aware, which is… ah, perhaps a few of you… the Volstrucker, or Scourgers, are, or hopefully were, mage assassins trained and controlled by Ikithon. All Volstrucker are orphans by graduation. Our memories are modified so we believe our parents are plotting treason against the Empire, and it is the job of the Volstrucker to, ah, stamp out threats to the Empire. When the order comes, few of us question it. I only know one person who did not follow through with it, and that was due to external intervention.”

Ludinus had managed to construct a facial expression in the neighbourhood of sympathy by now. Caleb didn’t fucking buy it, and the performance meant nothing to him.

“I will spare you all the details of what I did to my mother and father, but it destroyed me. I lost eleven years of my life to the sanatorium. When I recovered enough to get out, I began to make plans. There had to be a way to save them. I would find it. After years of travelling alone, of stealing and manipulating and thinking only of what I wanted, it was with the strength of the people I cared about that I came upon what could be a solution. But. There are a few problems.”

Ludinus was paying closer attention by now, as were most of the obvious magic-users in the room. Caleb couldn’t wait to disappoint.

“First, while the manipulation of fate and chance can be done to an extent, it is not the same as travelling back years into one’s own timeline. Research in the area is mostly theory. Second, what practical accounts we have suggest time travel is one of the most dangerous endeavours anyone has ever attempted; nobody is known to have survived. Third, even if time travel is possible without immediately turning yourself to dust, it is impossible to account for all the ways in which even the slightest change to the timeline could have a catastrophic impact on the present. Once, these risks did not bother me. I only cared to get the job done. From the moment time travel first occurred to me, to when I penned the first letter to my mother and father with the intent of giving it to them and spiriting them away from Wildemount until the timeline caught up, to the day I stood in an Aeorian chamber that seemed to hold all the answers… I had changed.”

In the silence, Beauregard’s mutter of fucking knew it travelled much further than she had likely intended.

“To take the chance, to travel back in time, not only risked irreparably tearing the very fabric of our existence and harming the people I now cared about, I also had to recognise that I would probably not survive it even if I succeeded. I told Thelyss my plans and even he, a dunamantic prodigy, was perturbed. And my other friends, miles away from me, had spent a year showing me how much they cared, how much I mattered. They would notice if I never came back. So, I stepped away from the brink.” He chuckled, and told a lie he had practiced in the mirror, “Of course, it turned out the equipment we had found was too damaged to be of much use, but I did not know that at the time.” He would tell the Nein the truth later, but the rest of these people did not need to know that Caleb was the one to destroy it.

He took a moment. Not to observe the reactions of those watching. But to remember why he had chosen to tell this story today. Gathering his thoughts. Finding his balance. Telling this story was not easy, and likely never would be.

“As wizards grow in power and ambition, we risk becoming distracted, of forgetting why we cast our first spells, why we came to school… in short, why we love what we do. My intentions with time travel were… good is not the right word. They were understandable at best. But. My mother, Una Ermendrud, bought my first book about magic. My father, Leofric Ermundrud, a soldier frequently gone from home, would bring me new components or books or whatever he thought I would find interesting whenever he returned. Magic has always brought me joy, and it was that joy they wanted to foster. They were good, kind people. They would not want me to die or break reality for their sake. I do not use the name they gave me for anything but legal paperwork anymore--my friends know me as Caleb, so Caleb I will remain--but I carry them with me. I have a very good memory, after all. And several of you in this room will live much longer than I will, so a small part of them will remain with you long after I am gone.”

He had definitely lost a couple of the archmages, but that was their problem. At a certain point, they had chosen their path, and he was not concerned with them. The young ones mattered, the Nein mattered, Astrid and Wulf mattered. Allura was a good woman who would hold this in her memory as a kindness. The Kryn representative was a wildcard, but he would probably remember something of this.

“My good friend Caduceus Clay once encouraged me to find a goal. What came to my mind was more complex than I said aloud, but I told him: no more children on the pyre. I once did want revenge, but somewhere along the way, that was no longer the truth. My wish to erase what I had done, and erase the person most directly responsible for my doing it, was no longer the endgame. At a certain point, I started thinking about the future and not just the past. I thought about what I wanted for myself, ja, but also the children coming after me. I grew.”

Caleb slid his memories book from the holster and placed it on the desk. He took his time.

“I carry two books with me at all times. One is my spellbook. The other has changed over time.” He caressed a thumb over the leather cover. “Originally, it was a book of letters to my mother and father. I wrote them over time as I learned, as things happened that reminded me of them, when I needed to put my thoughts somewhere that was not my own head. I had intended to give them the book when I saved them. Instead, I returned to Blumenthal, the place of my birth, for the first time since I had killed them, and buried the letters with them.”

Jester was crying in the front row. Veth wasn’t doing much better.

“This new book is for good memories. Clever people like to focus on problems. Giving myself a tangible reminder of the good things in my life has already made me a much happier person. I, ah, think Leofric and Una would much prefer I carry this one around. We wizards are known to be distracted by what our power can do, and not consider the people affected by our actions. I would have let the world burn, let myself burn, to turn back the clock and undo what I did to my mother and father. But all that does is focus on the past, focus on power, focus on what I wanted without considering anyone else’s needs.”

Astrid raised an eyebrow at him; she was evidently unconvinced, but indulgent enough of him for now. Caleb, for his part, had to take the moment to re-establish a lie they had circulated about Essek’s fate, and to step back from this discussion for a second.

“In the days following our time travel discussion, Shadowhand Thelyss fell to the beasts of Aeor. He was a good friend and the best teacher I ever had. I will treasure the time we had together for the rest of mine. His support in that moment meant everything to me, and… while I know the politics of his position in the Dynasty has become rather complicated, I would like him to be remembered for moments like that.”

The Dynasty representative had averted his gaze.

Caleb let out a long sigh. “I am sure most of you are wondering what the hell this talk has been about. I did not share that much of my research, after all. You can request the information at the Cobalt Soul Archive here in Rexxentrum, along with the records of Ikithon’s trial. The reason I am standing here at all is because I let people in. I let love in. I reconnected with a world that has burned me horribly and found a way to make peace with it, because the people I care about helped me do it. If you take nothing else away from what I have said tonight, remember this: people matter. Love matters. Compassion and kindness are not weaknesses; they are the most important things you can have. Power will not comfort you. It will not call you on your bullshit. It will not save you from yourself. People do that. Love does that. Was my path to self-destruction in part motivated by love? Ja, of course. I love my mother and father and always will. But grief and ambition and an obsession with doing things alone make us do stupid things. Often, you need people to slap some sense into you.”

He thought of Molly. He missed him.

“The pursuit of knowledge does not need to be selfish. It does not need to be solitary. We all need our space, but there is a huge difference between choosing a moment of solitude and dismissing the value of community. I think our discipline would be far less prone to random disappearances and deaths if we had all people in our lives to tell us if we’re being an asshole, and if we considered the impact our actions may have on other people. I do not care how important you think you are. Your ambitions are not more important than another person’s life. And your life matters more than ambition, yours or anyone else’s.”

Ludinus had fixed him with a look somewhere between calculating and… maybe it was respect. Maybe. As much as he ever would respect Caleb, probably.

“The cruelty of our discipline has ruined many, many lives. The Volstrucker deserved better. Our families deserved better. Every one of our students deserves to be safe and protected in our care. We are what we allow. The ambitions of a powerful man upended my life and scarred me in ways including and beyond the physical. The love and kindness of my friends helped me break that cycle of cruelty and outgrow him. I am a better person, and a happier person, because I love them, and I let them love me.”

Most of the Nein were weeping by this point. Beauregard’s face was hidden, but the others let it show. Caduceus was dry-eyed, but he had also seen a lot of other people’s grief. He wasn’t really a cryer. His smile was proud.

Caleb couldn’t see everyone’s faces, and there were a few he didn’t necessarily recognise. Maybe they were Volstrucker, or teachers he hadn’t met yet. He spotted Bettina and Alphira up the back and, behind them, a shock of dark hair and little else. He didn’t want to get his hopes up that Nico was here, but he would operate as if the boy was.

If not, Astrid and Wulf were here, and they needed this as well.

“And, ah, I cannot see everyone, so in case there are others in the room who have experienced abuse like I have, I know how hard it is to extend kindness to anyone, least of all yourself, when you have been taught you do not deserve it. I am telling you that you do. Take the time you need to learn that. I trust that, one day, you will. Now, everyone in the room, let me leave you with one last challenge: choose kindness. Choose compassion. We have all been through enough, and there are more cycles of cruelty we need to break if we are to look ourselves in the mirror and like what we see. There is enough suffering in the world. We do not need to add to it. Danke schoen.”

[seaswalllow]

okay so letters from l'manberg did Not get posted, but let's run west did so! i'm giving that to y'all instead. pounded out ~2.5k words and this is the result for a songfic competition :P

inspired by west by radical face

link to the ao3 fic in the notes

i.

“You know,” Tommy grouses, “I can't see a thing with my hair all in my eyes.” Tubbo just laughs at him, while Niki hides a gentle smile behind her hands.

Jack rolls upright, and the crown of foxgloves tilts dangerously. There's a very dangerous way to how he’s puffing out a chest, a suggestion of I’m about to enter this argument and win and you’re not going to like it.

Eret has a sixth sense for when this trouble starts brewing, it seems. They scoot backwards, minding the cape slung haphazardly over their shoulder, and bump Niki to do the same, out of the line of fire.

“See, this is why short hair is superior. Your hair’s a sanitary hazard- actually, just a hazard all around.”

“You’re a hazard all around,” Tommy snaps back. He pushes the hair out of his eyes- and grumbles as it flops back in. This time, the titters around the group echo louder. Eret has the grace, at least, to hide their laugh behind their hand.

Tommy rounds on the nearest offender; Niki, as it happens, and backpedals as quickly as he starts when he sees the set to her hip. That’s a straight ticket to one of Niki’s I’m not mad, I’m disappointed, really, you can do better lectures and Tubbo still hasn’t let him live down nearly crying after that lecture. She's terrifying, okay? She’s terrifying, and he’s not ashamed to say that. (He’s told her that exactly once; she had laughed gently as she’d drawn a warm loaf of bread out of the furnace. She hadn’t contradicted him, though. So: no thank you.)

Jack is next in his line of fire.

“What’re you laughing at? ‘least I’ve got hair to impress the ladies with- oh, have you seen Tommy Innit’s hairs? luscious, luscious locks, look, healthier than me!”

“The ladies like my hair,” Jack protests. “Makes him right spiffy, they do say, right spiffy and proper; that Tommy Innit looks like a hooligan who’s just crawled out of the woods. Jack Manifold- now that’s a man of esteem and grace.

“Esteem, grace, oh what lovely qualities,” Tommy parrots back in a voice pitched four tones too high. “They look at you and say oh my, where has his honour gone? He’s got none, just a patchy head of fuzz and glasses that look like they’ve just been dug out of the bin-”

“You take that back- these glasses are top of the line-” Jack’s hauling himself up, and Tommy’s squaring his shoulders, and Tubbo’s laughing hard enough to be doubled over in the grass, despite the gentle shove from Niki and the cautious look from Eret. He’ll get to Tubbo next- it’s not like his hair is much better, kept out of his eyes only by sheer force of will.

They get to about three steps within each other when Wilbur's voice cuts through the argument.

“What's all this, then?” Tubbo's still choking down his laughter, and Jack's sputtering something about high tech, and they’re all really being incredibly useless, so Tommy asserts himself as the loudest. (And most correct. Obviously.)

“Jack Manifold is insulting the honour of my hair,” he proclaims, drawing himself up. Chest out, shoulders back, head high- just like they were taught.

Wilbur must notice this, because he musses Tommy’s hair gently, not a minute later. Or maybe it’s to prove a point, because it falls back over his eyes, to Wilbur's laugh. Traitor.

“There's enough here to make a shag carpet, Tommy. I don't know if he’s wrong.”

Tommy folds his arms, and- okay, he doesn’t pout. He just… lets his face settle into something more disgruntled.

“I've had bigger things on my mind. things like incredibly important-” incredibly important wars, he realizes he was going to say, moments before the words spill out of his mouth. There’s a line of tension in Eret’s shoulders where there wasn’t before.

He clamps his mouth shut.

“I’ve just been busy, and so have you, and you’re the only one who knows how to get our trim decently,” he finishes.

Around Wilbur's eyes, the exhaustion softens.

“C’mon, Tommy.” Wilbur gestures to a nearby chair, dragged out to the shade. “Sit down, we’ll trim it up to something more respectable.”

Tommy squints at him. He's not sure if the effect comes across the same way, obscured as it is. Which- may be proving Wilbur’s point. Damn it.

Begrudgingly, he slinks over to the chair of shame, letting his steps fall a bit heavier. Niki pats his knee gently, while Eret calls over to Wilbur. “You might need to do Tubbo’s next. goat boy’s going to start bumping into things.”

“I’ll just go around the circle,'' Wilbur laughs. “We all need a little trim and care.”

Reaching up to poke at the curls hanging around Wilbur's face, Tommy arches an eyebrow. “Are you planning to cut your own hair?”

Wilbur waves a hand, before he takes up his position behind Tommy. His fingers are gentle as he sorts through the long mess, a soft snick echoing as he starts cutting away at it.

It's a familiar sound, and Tommy lets himself relax as Wilbur continues combing through the tangles.

“It’s not the first time I would've done that. I can take care of myself too.”

“Doubtful,” Tommy huffs at the same time as Eret murmurs. “That's what they all say, don’t they?”

Wilbur pauses in his actions. Tommy darts a peek at Eret underneath his hair. Niki and Tubbo, engrossed in their debate with Jack, aren’t paying too much attention, but niki sends a fleeting, if concerned look, their way.

They’re technically not wrong. Wilbur can roll his shoulders back and step with military, practiced precision, and it won’t hide the bruises under his eyes that grow by day.

It won’t hide the ever-lengthening shadows on his face, the ink-stains on his fingers that never seem to wash out.

But if Wilbur says not to worry about it- well. There's already a lot on their plate. He knows what he’s doing.

(Right?)

(Right.)

So Tommy squares his shoulders and grins at Eret. “He's a disaster, isn’t he?”

Eret hardly smiles at that. Niki, Jack, Tubbo- they’re all listening now. Tubbo meets his eyes, and sits up fully, rolling his eyes. Silently, Tommy thanks prime.

“There’s a saying about glass houses,” he begins, and Tommy splutters, retracting any and all thanks.

“Oh, don’t you go pulling out the wise shit on me now- I’ll have you know I’m the best around here at-”

“At raising the disaster rates? Yes, yes you are.”

“You’re lucky I'm stuck on this chair,” Tommy points threateningly at Tubbo. “when I’m off of it-”

Tubbo simply pulls out a sword with the same shit-eating grin. “You’ll give me the beating stick?”

“You’ll wish you had the beating stick.” With that lovely parting line, he sticks out his tongue, only to immediately hiss and spit into the grass to the side. Jack cackles.

“Shouldn’t have opened your mouth while your bird’s nest was getting cut!”

“Oh, you-” Wilbur clamps a hand on Tommy's shoulder. He stills immediately.

“Stop wriggling. Your hair doesn’t need to get any worse.”

Tommy narrows his eyes in Wilbur's general direction, but he does settle down. The tension’s dissipated- somewhat, at least. They should be okay.

(Later, he’ll look back. He’ll wonder what Eret saw before them; he’ll wonder if it was the sleepless nights, or the way that Wilbur shies away from a blade outside of dinners and nights reserved for haircuts. He'll wonder if it’s the ashes of letters that pile, and pile.

He’ll wonder if that’s what scared Eret away, and goaded him into lacing the very ground that they had rolled in a play fight on just days earlier.

When he hears it was never meant to be, he’ll wonder if it was a threat. Later, he’ll understand it was the writing littered on crumbling walls. But for now, they sit, and they laugh, on the home that they built.)

ii.

There is, quite simply put, too much happening.

Tubbo sits to his side, kicking his feet over the ledge; Tommy’s insisted they both sit by a railing to hold onto, one of the few that they’ve diverted Wilbur's attention from.

Below them, the ravine buzzes.

Techno is not in the farm- hasn’t been for a bit, in fact. This is the first they’ve seen him around Pogtopia in days.

He's facing Wilbur, in the far corner. Tommy doesn’t take his eyes off of him, while Tubbo nudges him, attention elsewhere.

“Fundy’s arguing with Quackity in the corner,” he mutters. “Think they know something about the Schlatt situation?”

Tommy spares the two a quick look. Fundy's ears are pinned flat against his head; quackity’s eyes are obscured by his sunglasses, but even his printed smile seems strained.

“Could be worth checking out,” Tubbo presses.

“I’m more worried about whatever those two have going on in the corner,” Tommy says tersely. “Wilbur’s not in his right fucking mind as is- and Techno’s not good fucking company.”

“nobody here is,” Tubbo replies, and doesn’t elaborate.

Which is. just fucking great, honestly. Everybody here is either stressed out of their mind, scared out of their mind, or both. This is fine. This is fine.

He forces out a noisy breath that does nothing to calm his racing heart.

“It won’t matter in a few hours,” Tubbo finally adds. “The waiting’s the worst part.”

Tommy forces the image of Tubbo staring down the crossbow, waiting, out of his head, and folds his arms.

“It’s the aftermath that sucks the most, innit?”

“Not really. By then, it’s happened. You can’t change it. There’s no what-ifs. You just move forward. You can’t move while you’re waiting.”

Can they stop with the fucking metaphors?

He works his jaw free from where he’s clenched it tight enough to crack a tooth.

“Think Schlatt’s going to pussy out of it?”

“No.”

Of course it can’t be that easy.

Tubbo leans back, mindful of the bandages winding up his arms. He keeps an ear tilted towards Tommy.

“It depends on how much we corner him,” he amends.

“If he can run to preserve himself? He will. If it’s a last stand? He’ll take us down with him.”

Plant his feet and lower his head for the charge. Great. Just what they fucking need, with Wilbur ready to plant the button, and a trigger-happy anarchist.

Is this how Wilbur felt? ready to scream ‘til his voice cracked, as it kept piling? Tubbo, as schlatt got louder and angrier?

He hates it, honestly.

“Great. So we don’t give him a chance to do either.”

“Easier said than done.” There’s a thoughtfulness to Tubbo’s voice. “Doable, though. The night of- you didn’t see him. If Wilbur’s a mess… Schlatt’s not better.”

Tommy cuts a sideways look. Tubbo's still staring down, not a single emotion escaping the neutrality he’s plastered across his expression.

They’ve all gotten rather good at their masks. Some more than others.

“Hardly coherent. Passed out on the speech he was writing.”

Making a face, Tommy scoots back to fold his legs upon the ledge as well.

“That place sounded like it reeked. It lingered on you for ages.”

“You get used to it,” Tubbo replies. “You get used to a lot of things.”

Down below, someone’s raised their voice. Judging by the stuttering speech- they both swing to look as Wilbur’s voice bounces off of the walls.

A summons, then.

“Time already?”

“Techno said he had something to show us, before… before.”

Tubbo’s expression doesn’t change. Tommy doesn’t need it to, as he watches Tubbo’s ears carefully press against his head before forcibly relaxing again.

He makes sure he steps first into the vault.

Takes the first step towards Schlatt.

(it still doesn’t matter in the end.

it was never meant to be, a sovereign once said.

Tommy’s beginning to think it was an apology.)

iii.

“You know,” Tubbo says. “This would be L'manberg's last life.” He laughs a little as he says this; Tommy can't bring himself to laugh with him, the words sour on his tongue.

They've always held themselves differently.

Tubbo laughs even as he aches, shrugs it off while he bleeds.

Tommy rages, and he rages loudly. He grieves- though he grieves quieter, holds on to his hurt tight enough to bleed.

They have that in common, he guesses.

“You sound like you're already burying it,” he settles on. Tubbo slants a sideways look at him. The fringe of hair curling around his face isn't obscuring his eyes yet; Tommy catches every sharp thought flicking through Tubbo's eyes, and a few that he doesn't know how to read yet.

(This concept of unfamiliarity sits awkwardly in his hands; he's not sure how to hold its weight, so he sets it aside. He can't help but pick at the splinters that it leaves behind.)

“I'm preparing to,” he says simply. He doesn't have to say why. The angel's shadow hangs heavy on their doorstep. So efficient. So practiced. The memory of building their country's coffin lies engraved in their muscles. They sing its funeral hymn in their sleep.

“You're killing it before it's had a chance.”

Tubbo doesn't answer.

A whetstone passes over the sword glittering in his lap once, then twice more. Tommy turns back towards the grid hanging over them.

“Like Schlatt? Or like Wilbur?” Tommy flinches, unexpectedness slamming bodily into shame, a full-body reaction that unbalances him from where he's kicking his feet over the dock's edge; he pulls himself back.

Out of neglect, or out of fear? Do you think it’s because I never understood what L'manberg stood for to us, not like you did? Or because I was too afraid to hope, and look what that did to us, Tubbo doesn't say- or maybe Tommy's just filling in the blanks with fear and a memory of two exiles.

Maybe Tubbo really does just sound tired. Maybe they're all just tired. He swallows hard, and this time reaches out first, to bump Tubbo on the shoulder.

He forces out a breath, and forces them out of his head.

“You were better than either of those two bastards ever were.” Tubbo only raises an eyebrow at him.

He doesn't argue, though, and so they sit. Axe at Tommy's side, sword in Tubbo's hands.

At midnight, the angel's- the blood god's- the smiling god's- hounds bay, a resounding death knell. At midnight, the angel's wings darken their skies.

“It’s not- it’s not dawn,” Tommy shouts to empty air. Around them, the streets murmur, crescendoing to a wail as a wither, then another, then another barrels through their streets. “It’s too early! This isn’t fair!”

It’s too early.

They hadn’t said good-bye.

“This is war, Tommy,” the skies tell him. (At least they graced him with a reply, the tone suggests.) “War isn’t fair.”

None of this is fair. None of it was meant to be, none of it will be.

At dawn, the sun finds them at the bottom of L'manberg's grave.

(What do you do with a country taking its last breath?

You bury it where it can’t hurt.)

[pain-somnia]

tread over the contours of you and me

fandom: naruto pairing: sasusaku rating: M (here is your nsfr warning as it contains smut. the first part of this is safe but letting you all know now so that you may remain halal; i’m posting this during a time for me it would be but i know some people are not able to) Day’s notes: hello! this fic was written for a giveaway winner that is also a patron of mine. the giveaway was for non patrons to be able to win a chance to receive some exclusive PDFs or a patron to select a prompt. it’s been a really long time since i received the prompt but i wasn’t in the right health and only recently was able to give it proper attention. the winner has encouraged me to share this with everyone so here it is a couple of weeks after patrons received their early access to it. It falls into my blank period au series of fics. you can find some of them in this link. it contains one of the oneshots and also links to other one shots. another one-shot that fits with this one is my fic It Started With Rain which actually happened to be commissioned like a year ago by the winner and can be found in all of my fic sites. I hope you enjoy 😊

tread over the contours of you and me

Sakura sighed and rolled her neck. She cupped her shoulders at the base of her nape and pulsed a bit of healing chakra.

She was spending too many evenings at her desk looking over the data for the children in the institute. The caregivers were very thorough with their reports and while that relieved her it was also more work for her to get through every day.

It was only a year and a half since she had opened up the institute and while she was no longer in the experimental stage of the program, everything could still be hectic. The hardest part had been finding the caregivers and doctors for the children—people that understood that they weren’t treating soldiers.

The research and paperwork that she had poured over had been atrociously lacking, not only for children but adults as well. It was disgustingly obvious that the only insight to mental health that Konoha had was in the use of torture and interrogation. With Ino’s help, the two of them picked apart all of the data until they could find anything useful.

Luck was on Sakura’s side that the Yamanaka clan already had an understanding of how the mind operated. Due to the nature of their family jutsu and the young age of which their shinobi clansmen trained, there was a foundation she had to work with.

Speaking of the Yamanaka family jutsu, Ino was insistently sending her messages to go home. Her voice wheedled in Sakura’s mind and nagged at her.

A hot bath, warm food, and her bed sounded lovely. She knew that all she needed was to head home and her mom would have all three ready for her.

Locking the stacks of unfinished documents into a cabinet, Sakura began her nightly clean up routine. For the past year she used to stay holed up in her office until everything was completed but due to the person sleeping on her office’s couch at the moment, Sakura had stopped working overnight.

Stifling a giggle, Sakura crouched down on her toes and brushed Sasuke’s hair out of his face. He had grown out his forelocks into bangs that fell over his rinnegan and while the look suited him, sometimes she missed seeing his face in full.

Sasuke had taken to sleeping in her office, complaining that there was always some sort of disturbance at his apartment. She had teased him about it, stating that he just missed her. He hadn’t replied to her verbally, but chose to show her how much he missed her once they got back to his apartment.

Blinking his eyes, Sasuke woke up the second time Sakura ran her fingers through his hair. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards and he sat up, pulling his legs back from over the arm of the loveseat.

“Are you going to walk me home, Sasuke-kun?” Sakura asked, continuing to run her fingers along his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.

Sitting up, Sasuke stretched his arm over his head. “You’re not coming over?”

Heat traveled up the back of her neck and she cleared her throat in discomfort. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s late and I’m still in trouble with Mama from last time I accidentally slept over. You know how she is about premarital relations━don’t you laugh at me!”

Sasuke turned his head away from her but his shoulders slightly shook, giving himself away. He had walked her home and sat with her as her mother lectured her and Sakura insisted that she had fallen asleep while working on paperwork. Haruno Mebuki hadn’t bought the story.

“Come here,” Sasuke asked softly, patting the space between his legs. Sakura shrugged off her lab coat and let it fall to the floor before settling on the couch between his legs. She laid back so her back was against his chest and her legs laid across the cushions. Sasuke’s leg closest to the edge slipped off the couch to accommodate her.

“Kakashi sent a scroll for you,” Sakura told him as he settled his chin on her shoulder and wrapped his arm around her waist. “He figured out your hiding spot.”

“Not really a hiding spot. Where else would I be?”

“Right…” Her voice trailed softly as her cheeks bloomed with heat.

Sasuke had been back home for months and Sakura still wasn’t used to him speaking to her or of her in such a way. It was one thing for her to just know that he enjoyed her presence and took comfort in it by his actions, it was another when he voiced it out loud and confirmed it.

The words were never direct but her heart translated them into a different phrase.

Taking her right wrist, Sasuke rolled it in a circular fashion, stretching the joint and pressing his thumb along the inside, massaging the flesh there.

“You wrote a lot today.” His voice was low against her ear, his breath warm and causing her to shiver. Sakura hummed and nodded, not trusting her words, as he continued to trail his fingers up her arm.

Sasuke stroked at her skin until he reached the back of her nape and he cupped Sakura’s neck and massaged it with his strong fingers. He rolled the base of her neck in his hand and Sakura felt the warm sensation of chakra pulsing from his hand and soothing out the knots as he continued to add pressure with his thumb and fingers down her shoulders.

“You’re getting better at that,” Sakura moaned in relief. “You’ve been studying.”

“Just a bit.”

Sakura didn’t need to see his face to know there was a smirk on it; she could hear the smug undertones in his voice. It filled her with joy when pieces of the young Sasuke revealed themselves in this older version of him.

“Turn around.” The order was whispered but it beat loudly in Sakura’s chest right next to her heart.

Sex still felt new, despite the two of them getting into it whenever the opportunity presented itself. Sasuke’s voice, husky and desperate in her ear, caused her as much nerves as it thrilled her. They were still learning what made the other tick, what touches were more desired.

She decided that she liked the way she felt in Sasuke’s hand. His skin was deliciously warm and the friction from calluses and scars from the nicks from holding shuriken created a pleasant sensation when his hands roved over her soft skin.

He pushed into the flesh of her back, soothing her muscles with his thumb and kneading with his fingers.

“That would be easier if my shirt was off.” Sakura licked her lips and hoped Sasuke took the hint. “And much easier if I was lying on my stomach.”

“Since when have I ever done things the easy way?”

Sakura whimpered when he removed his hand from under her sleeveless top, missing the heat that radiated from his palm. Sasuke took hold of her chin with his thumb and index finger and tilted her face up so he could press an open mouthed kiss to her lips. When he tried to pull away Sakura pressed forward, straddling his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck.

Her skirt bunched up around her hips and Sasuke’s hand went to her left thigh and caressed the flesh there. Sakura hummed in delight as the soreness from standing all day for observations drifted away with his soothing touch.

She yelped when his hand slid between her legs and he began to massage a new ache. Her hands tightened their grip on his hair and she rocked her hips against his hand.

They had never done something like this anywhere outside of his apartment. Their intimate moments were limited to the walls of Sasuke’s new home and that had been just fine with them until an annoyance kept ringing at the door.

Naruto had been late in discovering their relationship. He had whined because he felt that they had owed it to him to let him know when they had finally gotten together because he was their best friend. He had not been happy to find out that Sai and Ino had known before him.

“I told you first about Hinata!” He had whined to Sakura and Sakura didn’t have the heart to tell him that it didn’t count because if he hadn’t shared his feelings with her then he probably wouldn’t have gotten a chance to be married.

It wasn’t the same for her and Sasuke. Naruto’s interference was likely to impede any progress in their relationship. He would have kept trying to get involved and would have interfered with their alone time.

“What are you doing?” Sasuke asked as she dipped her hands inside his waistband. He quirked an eyebrow up in amusement as she began to stroke him.

“Doing some massaging of my own.”

Sasuke groaned in distaste, sliding down the couch so that he was lying on his back. “That was really bad.”

“And yet you’re still hard,” Sakura snapped, tugging down his pants to free his member.

“Your cheesiness has no effect on what your hands are doing.” Sasuke’s lips curled upward as Sakura increased the tightness of her hold and the speed of her strokes. “You’re getting better at that. Have you been studying?”

“Shut up!” Sakura burst into a peal of laughter at his teasing. “Are we really doing this in my office?”

“Say the word, I’ll do just about anything to you on this couch.” Sasuke gritted his teeth, stopping a moan from escaping. “Especially if you keep that up.”

“Give you a handjob and you lose all sense of shame, huh?” Sasuke narrowed his eyes at her as he reached between her legs again and then pinched her clit. Sakura jumped a little, squeaking from the shock.

“I’m not the one getting wet from giving a handjob.”

“Oh, that has nothing to do with this.” Sakura dropped her hold on him and tugged her top over her head and off. Reaching behind her, she unhooked her bra. “You’re the one that was using a medical technique to try and seduce me.”

Sasuke shrugged but the smirk remained on his face as Sakura shimmied out of her panties. Without bothering to take off her skirt she straddled his hips again, settling his cock between her folds. She rolled her hips, sliding over him in just the right way that it hit her clit as she grinded against him.

Usually Sasuke was enough stimulation for her, but there was something about pressing him into the couch of her office that had her blood pumping faster. Perhaps it was the thought that he couldn’t wait to touch her and to be touched in return that he didn’t care that they were on a cramped sofa.

Leaning closer so that her chest was flush against his, Sakura licked up the line of Sasuke’s throat before sucking his lower lip into her mouth. She felt him shiver under her hands as her tongue stroked the space behind his teeth.

“I love you, Sasuke-kun,” Sakura murmured, smiling softly as Sasuke’s cheeks were dusted pink in his flustered state.

Sakura felt a pull around her navel and then found herself flat on her back, Sasuke looming over her. He had switched their places without warning.

“Sasuke-kun!” She scolded him for his use of his Rinnegan during foreplay, but he ignored her in favor of pressing kisses to her sternum and laving at her small, pert breasts as he slid off her skirt. Rolling her eyes, Sakura pulled at the hem of his shirt and tugged it off of his body.

Sasuke took her hand in his and pressed it flat over the breast he wasn’t attending to with his affections. He molded his hand over hers to stimulate her hand into moving, silently asking her to massage her own breast. Once Sakura got the hint, Sasuke dipped his hand between their bodies and slipped his fingers between her thighs once again.

That’s how it was with him. He barely spoke aloud the words that would express his feelings, but he spoke it with his actions and hid it in other statements.

Younger Sakura would have demanded a clear proclamation of his love, for him to declare it in a way the world would know of it. Nineteen year old Sakura though, had twenty year old Sasuke desperate and determined to have her climbing the highest peaks of pleasure he could give her, displaying a vulnerability she was the only person privy to.

“No.” Sakura shook her head, her voice trembling, and pulled Sasuke’s face away from the hip he was sucking on. “Not today. I want you closer. Now.”

Close. No matter how flush against each other they were, it never felt close enough. Unlike Sasuke, Sakura didn’t have Sharingan in order to always carry perfect memories of him with her.

She needed him to burn the memory of him on her skin with his hot fingers. Needed to feel him hot and slick against her, speaking a language only known to two of them. Needed to tattoo his love for her with every scorching touch of his.

As amazing as it was to watch him from above, all flustered and bothered and eyes pleading for her to relieve him of his want, Sakura prefered him like this. Sasuke would angle their hips, lifting her bottom to meet his thrusts and then loom over her, caging her head in between his forearm and the remainder of his left arm. Pushing her down, his body was a comforting and welcome weight.

Her fingers splayed against his shoulder blades, Sakura felt him move above her, thrusting and muscles flexing. Her finger pads felt the coarse lines of scars littered on his skin. She traced them as Sasuke pounded her into her office’s couch and she cried out incoherent words of gratitude that none of the old wounds kept them from having their current moment.

Sasuke exhaled a laugh against the crook of her neck as she came down from her high. “Did you just thank me for your orgasm?”

“No!” Sakura’s face grew even hotter and she slapped Sasuke against his chest. He just continued to laugh silently as his hips moved against hers.

“Just a bit more and I’ll be thanking you too,” he teased her, gripping her hip tightly as he grinded deep within her.

Sakura covered her face with her hands, trying to hide from the embarrassment. The action had Sasuke stilling his hips and moving her hands away from her face. He interlocked his fingers with her left hand and pressed his forehead to hers.

“Don’t hide from me,” he muttered, red eyes boring into hers. His tomo swirled as a particularly rough thrust in the new angle had Sakura tensing and crying out for more. Sakura wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close for a kiss, swallowing his moan as he spilled inside of her.

Sasuke collapsed against her and Sakura’s left leg dropped so that it was dangling off of the couch. Sakura’s fingers sank into his thick hair and she massaged his scalp, her nails drawing curlicues.

“How did I end up being the only one that actually got fully naked again?” Sakura grumbled as Sasuke tucked himself back into his pants, barely moving his body away from her. “How do you keep doing that?”

Sasuke simply shrugged and nuzzled closer to her, crushing her chest to his. They lay like that, listening to the way the clock on the office wall clicked the seconds in tandem with their heartbeats. Sakura knew she had already pushed past the acceptable time to return home without her mother assuming she and Sasuke were playing house.

“I want to wake up with you again.” Sasuke’s voice was low but his breath fanned against Sakura’s neck and shoulder.

“Yeah?” Sakura breathed out the question, feeling the way Sasuke nodded his head against her shoulder. “I love you too, Sasuke-kun.”

He didn’t protest the way she had stated her love as if it was a response to his own. Sakura’s chest grew warm at the way Sasuke wrapped his arm around her and held her closer.

Someday, Sakura thought as she pressed a kiss to Sasuke’s temple. Someday I’ll have all the mornings with you.

[nikstersss]

Not How To Pass The PLE

Before I go into the main gist of this post, let me give you a small background story. I was a mid-year post-graduate intern in Manila who started in January 2021. I lived alone in our condo unit near the hospital I went to. My usual routine was to get up early, prep, take a short walk to the trike station where I’d take a tricycle to the hospital, go on duty, insert a coffee or carioca break in between, walk all the way home at the end of the day, then maybe have a short study session with a couple friends after dinner or just chill at home. It was a pretty good setup. But then COVID happened. Suddenly, I was a pandemic e-ntern stuck at home listening to Zoom endorsements and lectures all day. At first I was hopeful that things would somehow go back to normal and maybe I wouldn’t be spending the rest of my internship in front of a screen, but we all know how that turned out. 

I finished the first half of my internship with the regular year PGIs online. While they were prepping for their boards, I was on my second half with the new batch of interns (that’s probably you, dear reader)—still online. Now you might think that it would have been wise of me to use all that “free” time to start early with my own boards prep and you would be correct. I thought the exact same thing. And trust me, I tried. And failed. Countless times. I won’t even try to justify it. Admittedly, I still think it was a wasted opportunity to read more and make notes, but then again, there’s no use crying over spilled milk. Besides, while it would have been nice and probably less stressful, I still survived without it. Which means that you can, too. So if you’re one of those who’s berating himself because you “didn’t make the most out of your time”, cut it out. You’ll be fine.

Towards the end of my internship, I enrolled in a review center. Despite the asynchronous setup, the review schedule was super tight and the sessions already started while I was still in the middle of final reports and exams. Needless to say, I was already behind on that before it even began. In fact, I didn’t even get to focus on reviewing itself until maybe around early February because of clearance, paperwork, and application stuff. So if you were to ask me how long I really reviewed for the March 2021 boards, I’d say just a little over a month. Kasalanan ko. Wag po tularan. Stressful siya. Nakakaloka. 

And even when I did get to really buckle down and do some intense reading, I didn’t follow the program anymore. I tried to catch up at first, but I was already way behind. But I am grateful for all the summarized material because that meant I didn’t have to pore over the mother books anymore. What I will say, though, is that because I didn’t exactly follow the recommended study hours etcetera, I was able to enjoy the whole process because I did it at my own pace. Sure, there was still that dread that maybe I wasn’t on the same level as the others, but I learned to tune those thoughts out eventually. And that’s where goal-setting and discipline comes in, I guess. 

The most common question I’ve been getting is what was my day like during the PLE review season. Honestly, I’d like to say I had a routine I followed, but that’s only half-true. While I did have a structure for my day, I rarely followed it exactly. Nevertheless, allow me to share what it would have been like if I did: 

Ideally, I’d wake up at 5:00 A.M. then do my morning routine which included prayer and meditation, making my bed, taking a shower, and brewing coffee. And because I’m the type of person who enjoys these mundane activities and slow mornings, I also took this opportunity to get myself in the zone before all the studying that’s to come. I’d plan out my study goals and outline (something you can do the night before, actually) then maybe have breakfast while watching some videos (could be review-related, or those self-motivational vids, or maybe even Korean street food). I’d do whatever I wanted to wake my brain up without stressing it out too much until around 6:30 A.M. By this time, I’d work on backlogs for about an hour and study until about 10 or 11 A.M.—it depends how in the zone I am. I’d prep and cook lunch and then eat while watching Netflix maybe or even play a bit of Fortnite or Paladins until about 1:00 P.M. At this point, I’m pretty certain to be quite sleepy so it’s either I make coffee or tea, or maybe even go out to study at a coffee shop, and then it’s study all the way until 7 P.M. I then take a break to get some exercise, take a shower, have a light dinner, and if I feel like I deserve it, nap for a little bit. At around 8:30, my family usually calls and then we pray the rosary together. After this, I study again, but more of a recall and review session for the day’s progress until about 11:30. I then have my night self-care routine and then go to sleep around midnight. 

The main takeaway from the previous paragraph? “Ideally.”

During the first few days of setting up my schedule or routine, following it was already challenging, but still doable. But then the backlogs started piling up and no matter how much I tried to streamline the whole study process, I just couldn’t keep up. I did what I could to follow study habits and schedules, but the setup was falling apart. And you know what? That was okay. 

Normally, my type A self would have been so frustrated already with how poorly I was handling my review season. Admittedly, there were a few meltdowns and anxiety attacks as the exam drew nearer, but for the most part, I just let things happen as they did. I still adjusted, sure, but I wasn’t hard on myself for always having to. I kept changing goals when I didn’t meet them (which was probably 80% of the time). There were even instances where I’d finish a handout and then I’d say that okay, I’ll watch an episode for a reward, but that episode became the entire season. While I considered myself to be the most chill reviewee, I also thought I was the worst because I refused to give up any of my wants for my needs. I resisted, of course, but then they’d bug me the entire time I was studying so instead of staying productive, I’d just annoy the hell out of myself. I was probably just lazy and stubborn. LOL. Long story, short, it was a constant battle. 

There were times when I felt confident enough to power through the whole thing. I enjoyed the whole process of studying, actually. Making notes and my own ways of memorizing things was fun. I made use of different study strategies, self-checks, and motivational boosters (more on these on a different post). Aside from these, having review-mates who were just a chat away made things bearable. Breakdown session muna tas aral na ulit. And how could I forget all my sweet friends who would send over coffee ayuda every now and then? To me, passing the boards, while mainly should be for oneself and one’s self-actualization, is also about not letting down these people who have been with you throughout your journey. 

But it wasn’t always a hyped-90s-movie-transformation-montage kind of environment. Other times, I was just worn out and dejected by my lack of progress. In the already meager time I had to study, I still had plenty of off-days. Concepts just wouldn’t stick and it was disappointing how I’d already forgotten what I just read a couple days ago. It got really tiring even if I was staying indoors all the time. I missed the comfort of coffee shops and the company of study buddies. I missed my family. I wanted to hug our dog. There were days when I couldn’t even bring myself to make coffee and open my notes. I even reached a point where I was sure that I wouldn’t finish reading all the material. (I kid you not, I have handouts I never got to open.) 

Yet here I am. Here I am writing about how I survived all that and got those two letters attached to my name. I am not a good example, obviously. There are hundreds better than me and you probably should be taking advice from them instead. I’m simply writing this to tell you that you don’t have to worry. This is all just to ease your anxieties about the PLE. I’m not saying it’s an easy feat that you can just achieve just like that. While I seemed rather complacent, I still put in the work, after all. Admittedly, I know I could have done more, but again, I’m not going to dwell on that anymore. It’s done. 

My goal in writing this is to let you know, my dear future doctor, that you’re going to be just fine. Here’s someone who understands the huge disconnect that stemmed from being a pandemic e-ntern. Here’s someone who’s always been doubtful and full of anxieties about the PLE even before she filed her application at the PRC. Here’s someone who constantly prayed that the PLE be moved even for just a month (or kahit two weeks lang masaya na ako nun) up to the week before the exam along with a rising number of cases. Here’s someone who barely has the capability to maintain focus for more than an hour. Here’s someone whose reading pace was literally at 10 minutes per page (yes, I actually timed it and IDK if that’s slow or really slow). Here’s someone who still allowed herself to study at coffee shops and even have samgyup (with proper health protocols, of course) even if she knew she was drowning in backlogs. 

My point is that if I managed to pass despite all that, you can, too. My close friends know that I developed a rather funny mentality to ease the jitters as the boards drew nearer. I knew and claimed it for myself that I would already pass. I viewed the whole PLE as just a “formality”--a means for His plans of me becoming a doctor to manifest in this realm. I believed it so much to the point that I thought that no matter what bloopers and slip-ups I have during the test, I’d still see my name on the list of board passers. I’m not saying you should totally ease up and just have a come-what-may attitude. Again, I’m not the model student you should be following here. What I’m saying is to have faith in yourself, your capabilities, and in God. So chin up, Doc. Just a little more ‘til you get to legally practice with that MD at the end of your name.

[queenmuzz]

“Is that blood?” “Yes but that doesn’t matter right now, what does matter is-” “You are literally bleeding.” set during A Human Heart.

V sat on the doorstep, one eye on the never ending correspondence with a Mainland restorer, who kept coming up with excuses on why his book hadn’t come back, and another eye on his son, who was busy playing a game of football on the street.  Usually, during the day, the road, with all its shops and cafes, was chockful of cars and scooters, but during the evening, with all stores closed, the road was deserted, leaving a perfect clear area for the eighth graders to kick a ball as far as they could.

V crumpled yet another paper, ‘Dear Mr. Phillips, if you do not return my book post-haste, I know which of your joints dislocates the easiest,’ was not something a proper business would send, at least one who didn’t want the authorities to show up at his door.  But he was at his wits end.  He should have not sent a book as precious as his William Blake Anthology to someone he couldn’t meet, (or stab) personally.   Hopefully the man was just inept, and not overtly malicious.  It was his third most treasured item, after his Amulet and Yamato, the only precious item he had from his previous life, and he couldn’t bear losing it.

“And here comes Nero, number 7 of the Fortuna Blades, ready to take the shot….” Nero acting as his own sports commentator approached, did a bit of a mental calculation as Kyrie got into position as goalkeeper, “If he makes it, he’ll break his last season’s record...he begins his run…” Nero ran, his path a lazy arc, his foot connecting with the ball a little off centre, causing a spin.  Kyrie, attempted to position herself to where the ball to go, but Nero had kicked expertly, and the spin caused the football to swerve off to her left, missing her outstretched hands, before careening off and, as if to add an extra note of perfection, into a sidewalk garbage bin.

As the loser, Kyrie was forced to go retrieve the ball, grumbling ever so slightly.  Nero, as the winner began to imitate a professional footballer, running around with his one arm outstretched, his other bringing the ring on his necklace up for a good luck kiss, grandstanding for a crowd of one.

“DAD!  DID YOU SEE THAT!  I WASN’T EVEN AIMING FOR THE GARBAGE, IT JUST HAPPENED!”  

V smiled, the Sparda blood ran true in him, even if he was still unaware of it.  In a few years, he’d be old enough for V to reveal his heritage to him, but not yet, not yet.  At his age, he deserved to be unburdened and happy, to not have to know the danger his bloodline put him in, that his father was a fake...a frau-

So excited was his thirteen year old, that he didn’t notice the car, no doubt being driven by lost tourists, that had unexpectedly pulled onto the road, traveling at a speed reserved for people who were crazy, or suicidal.  

A cold wash of fear hit V.  Nero was completely oblivious to the impending danger that approached, and warning him wouldn’t just waste valuable time as his son processed what he heard.

So V did what his instincts told him, his unimportant correspondence flying everywhere, he used his cane to push himself off the steps, and launched himself at his son. Nero’s eyes widened in confusion, as both father and son collided, V’s force, even from his frail body, was enough to push  both of them to the sidewalk, the car barely missing the both of them.  

The both rolled, and V hissed as white hot pain shot through him on impact.

For a moment, everything was quiet, and V slowly heaved himself up.  Where was Nero?  Did he push him out of the way in time?  A salty tasting fear formed in his mouth.

“DAD!”

His son was already up, kneeling in front of him, fear evident on his face.  Was he hurt?

“Is that blood?” Nero pointed to his face, and a warm wetness escaped his mouth, dripping into a red puddle on the pavement. 

 “Yes but that doesn’t matter right now, what does matter is-”  He looked his son over, aside from the anguish on his face, the boy looked alright.

“Dad, you are literally bleeding.”  V started to get up, ignoring his pain… but Nero with gentle firmness stopped him, before whipping his head towards his friend.  “Kyrie, head upstairs to our bathroom, in the medicine cabinet, there’s a first aid kit on the second shelf.”  The girl nodded frantically and ran inside, and Nero focused back on him, “Don’t move dad.  I learned at school that you shouldn’t move after something like this....”

“I will be fine, Nero.. I just took a little tumble.  My health might not be up to par, but a little fall isn’t that catastrophic.” The boy ignored him, “What were you thinking?” he hissed, a sheen of tears coating his eyes, “You could have been hurt real bad!”

V chuckled softly, “So this is what it feels to be lectured...I can understand why you despise them.  It’s just...”

“If I had paid attention, I would have gotten out of the way in time...you wouldn’t have…”

“That’s enough, Nero...what matters most to me,” Kyrie had approached with the kit, already pulling out the gauze. “Is that you’re safe.”

“Oh no, Mr. Giler!” she cried out in dismay, “Your papers are all blowing away, do you want me to go grab them?”

“It’s alright Kyrie, They’re not that important.”  And V was being truthful.  The last few minutes had just told him something… that even though the book was valuable to him...it wasn’t in third place, it was fourth. Preceded by the amulet, Yamato, and most importantly…

Nero.

[beyondconfessor]

Principal Decisions [13/24]

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Lilith/Zelda Spellman

Summary: “Not even a thank you?” Lilith asked before tutting. “Didn’t your mother teach you manners?”

N.B.: Also posted on AO3. This is pure fantasy, please suspend your disbelief.

Zelda glared at the nurse. It was in the small hours of the morning, and the young girl, barely out of training, was shivering under her stare, voice shaking as she advised, once again, “a doctor needs to sign you off before we can discharge you.”

“Ridiculous, go and get one then.”

“He’ll be around later,” she said.

Zelda huffed, and the girl, apparently seeing that as an opportune moment, decided to exit the room. Apparently considering her ops for the shift completed.

Honestly, after a bad night’s sleep, the last thing she wanted was to be dealing with the fact that she would need to cancel today’s class––and if things continued in such a way, she might have to cancel tomorrows as well, because apparently, she was entirely reliant on some fucking doctor who hadn’t bothered to check on her since yesterday, to provide permission for her to leave.

There’d also been the whispers of a repeat MRI and CT scan, which was the very last thing she needed. It’d been a very small bleed with a minimal fracture and was likely to be absolutely fine. There was no reason to make such a fuss. After all, she was a grown, fucking woman. She should leave. Get up and leave.

It wasn’t like Lilith had any real power over her. She could just put her shoes on (given that she was dressed in a new set of clothes provided by Hilda) call a cab and take her back home where she’d find her emergency credit card and pay it that way.

And yet she didn’t. She sat on the chair next to the hospital bed, dressed, hair combed, make-up done and waited.

There was a knock on the doorframe then, and then Lilith was entering the room, her handbag in tow.

Zelda stood up, smoothing down her skirt and reached out to take the bag.

“Not even a thank you?” Lilith asked before tutting. “Didn’t your mother teach you manners?”

“Thank you,” Zelda said tightly and reached for the bag, only for it to be pulled out of reach. Well, she was hardly going to chase for it.

Crossing her arms, Zelda glared at her, waiting for Lilith’s grin to falter. It didn’t, and instead, Zelda was left to step back and look away, hating how the very sight of Lilith was making her heart beat fast in her chest.

“What do you want, Lilith?”

“Oh, a great many things,” she said, before stepping forward. “How about a proper thank you for finding your bag and bringing it to you.”

“If you had brought it with you in the first place, we wouldn’t be here.”

“I’m going to ignore your bad attitude because you’ve suffered a concussion, but I would be more thankful if I were you. I didn’t have to bring it, I could have waited for you to come out of the hospital and claim it yourself.”

Zelda scoffed. “You are insufferable.”

“And you adore it. Now…” she paused and her bright blue eyes looked at Zelda with wide-eyed innocent, patiently waiting for her.

“Thank you, Lilith. I most appreciate the effort you went to,” she advised flatly, seething at the woman.

“Not at all, happy to do it for my favourite client,” she said, handing the bag over to her.

Zelda snatched it with a roll of her eyes, trying to ignore the growing flutter in her chest as she opened it up. Her phone was there, thankfully. There were a few missed calls but nothing to worry about.

Lilith hovered and Zelda’s eyes flicked up to hers. The woman’s face was no longer mischievous, only curious as she seemed to study the cut on Zelda’s forehead.

Earlier, she’d looked at in the mirror and had been horrified to note how terrible the bruising was. Her face looked positively gaunt, and even the make-up Hilda had brought wasn’t enough to cover how unwell she felt, but it was certainly a mark-up from how she’d been.

“Did the doctors say if you can leave?” Lilith asked.

“No,” she sighed. “And the nurses are saying I might have to get another CT or MRI scan completed, which I don’t see the point in.”

“You were unconscious for the entire hospital ride. And were barely coming in and out when you arrived. I would say there’s significant reason to warrant another test.” She frowned, stepping forward then and Zelda bit back the urge to shrink away.

“I’m fine. I’ll speak to the doctor and get…” she felt woozy all of a sudden and then Lilith’s hands were on her shoulders, pushing her back onto the chair to sit down, concern awash as she looked over Zelda. “I’m fine,” she assured.

“Have you asked for the day off from work?”

“Today only,” she said. “Faustus insisted.”

“Blackwood?” Lilith enquired. “Is he your boss?”

Zelda felt nausea roll in her stomach as she looked at Lilith, and wasn’t sure if it was because Lilith knew Faustus or because she had a concussion. “Please don’t tell me he was a client of yours.”

“He was not, but he was…” Lilith sighed, “We used to run in the same circles a few years back. It’s a long story, but no, he and I were adversaries, nothing more.”

Zelda smiled, feeling the relief rush through her. It was an interesting piece of information nonetheless, but if she were to advise of knowing Lilith, it would likely say more about herself than anything else. It’d be difficult to feign only a professional relationship for Sabrina’s wellbeing if she knew such tantalising secrets about Faustus.

“I’m going to get a nurse.”

“I’m fine,” Zelda said, pushing Lilith’s hand away as she looked away. “It’s just a minor blood pressure problem. Nothing a glass of water won’t fix.”

Lilith gave a disapproving look but reached over to where the jug of water sat and poured her a glass despite her disbelief. Zelda took it, took one sip and then held it in her hands, feeling the embarrassment wash over. She wasn’t a child that needed to be taken care of. She was a grown woman who had a hundred things she needed to do before tomorrow and was already behind on the every growing list of things.

“I’m not going to spurt medical advice, because you clearly won’t listen.”

Zelda huffed. “I know myself.”

“Quite. Well, what I will say is that sometimes taking a break will allow you the ability to get ahead in the work you’re falling behind on. You’ll only break yourself if you keep pushing.”

“I’m not a child,” she said lifting her eyes to glare at the woman. She didn’t care how dark Lilith stared back, she was pushing well over the lines of their relationship. “And you’re not my mother.”

“Stop acting like a child then.”

Zelda stared at the woman, feeling an anger burn but Lilith stepped forward and suddenly Zelda felt very small under the woman’s eyes, and she didn’t like it one bit. Never had anyone’s presence so much as made her tremble since she was a little girl.

She met the stare and glared back. “You’re not my partner,” she advised sharply. “You’re someone’s services I request at the best of times, and my niece’s principal, otherwise. Do not overstep that.”

Lilith’s expression fractured then, and she stepped back. All at once, Zelda realised the mistake she made in her words, and yet she couldn’t find the ability to take it back.

“As you prefer,” Lilith said with a nod of her head. “Well, since you’re all fine here, I suppose I’ll head off to comply with my…principal duties.” And then Lilith had turned on her heel and left, and Zelda was left sitting in the room, feeling the words churn in her stomach.

She hadn’t meant to snap, but Lilith had been pushing further than she should. Honestly, she was not mentally unwell. She was exhausted, yes, overworked, of course, but she was hardly depressed and in need of some shoulder to cry on––despite what the dominatrix may think.

No. What she needed was something else. Perhaps this would be a good break from Lilith. A time to self0reflect and draw away before her feelings became any more tangled.

As it was, the doctor requested another MRI, and then, when that had come back showing that the bleed had stopped, she was permitted to go home, only if someone were to pick her up.

At least now she had her phone and was able to have Hilda arrange to pick her up as discharge papers were supplied to her, with a request to obtain another MRI and CT scan within a week and follow-up with her GP. As well as some standard lines about avoiding cigarettes and alcohol for a while.

“Though perhaps this is an opportunity for you to quit smoking,” the nurse advised. “If you were a non-smoker then you would have been less prone to bleeding from the hit.”

Zelda scoffed, snatching the papers from the nurse and leaving with Hilda. Her sister took to acting like a mother hen, helping her into the car and out of it and despite her snapping that she was hardly an invalid, her sister continued to help her all the way to the parlour where she sat her on the couch with a blanket and went off to make her tea, having apparently already made her soup.

If there was one thing she couldn’t resist, it was her sister’s cooking. It gave her time to contemplate Lilith and her relationship quietly and realised that she’d indulged too long in the service. No matter what…relief she may find from it, it was clear that their emotions were becoming too blurred.

It was time to cease seeing her. She didn’t need to see the woman again, and hardly needed to advise as such. She would avoid booking in anything further.

It seemed simple enough as she managed a headache, increased with light sensitivity. Even still when she returned to her position in the school the following day and managed whispered conversations in the halls as she slowly walked from her office to her lecture hall and then back.

The headaches were awful, and daylight, her computer’s screen and the stress of her work agitated it, but she preferred it to the insistent ache that previously drew under her skin.

At least while she was recovering, it seemed that her sex drive had all but disappeared entirely, leaving her at peace during the night.  

And it seemed as she focused on her work, weeks passed and Shirley returned, resuming her class without so much as a thank you. All she received was a brief email requesting the most recent assignments to be sent back to her––Zelda had already marked them, but complied, relieved to wash her hands from the stress of that particular workload.

But even as she returned to how things were, she was as reliant on Prudence as she’d been beforehand. It seemed that her newfound headaches were some post-concussive effect, even though there was nothing medically wrong with her brain, Zelda’s doctor suggested that perhaps it was a good opportunity to take a break.

Christmas was coming up, the session was ending, she could extend her leave instead of taking on the winter subjects.

At the very least it would give her an opportunity to spend with her family. Zelda complied, placing in her leave to Faustus who complied with a grimace, knowing that he had no say in it otherwise, and Zelda found herself in December watching as Ambrose and Sabrina decorated the Christmas tree.

Hilda and Sabrina had picked it from the Putnam’s, and Harvey had dropped it off, providing a much-needed brightness to the room, especially with the fire.

Although Zelda continued to take it easy––at the instance of Hilda who continued to mother her despite Zelda’s attempts to ward her off––it was nice to sit on the couch, hot cocoa in hand and watch at Sabrina tossed tinsel at Ambrose.

It reminded her of when both of them had been young, and they would decorate the tree together. It’d been far too many years since she’d born witness to the crafting of the Christmas tree, usually working late in the office, so to sit here and watch it brought both nostalgia and the awareness that she’d missed out on a lot.

“Cuz!” Ambrose said, carefully holding an ornament from years long forgotten. “I remember when you made this.”

Sabrina paused, looking at the ceramic ornament. Zelda recalled it too, Sabrina had been barely three years old and had squished the pattern into what she’d assured Zelda was an angel but turned into more of a blob with arms than anything else.

Sabrina frowned at it, turning it around in her hands. “We don’t need to keep this any more,” she said.

“We certainly do,” Zelda said, standing up and taking it from her hands before Sabrina could whisk it away. “This was the first decoration you made. We’re keeping it.”

“Do you have any of Ambrose’s?”

Zelda hummed, looking through the Christmas box, “I don’t think so. Hilda used to do all sorts of crafts with him, but a lot of that was left in England when they came over,” she said, glancing up at her nephew, “and I suspect that the things that were brought had been disappeared away.”

Ambrose flushed, giving a short laugh before shrugging. “Things change,” he said.

Zelda’s eyes narrowed, but she smiled, not pushing it. “So they say,” she said. Taking the decoration gently in grip, she set it up high on the tree, looping it so it was unlikely to fall. “Now, what are we choosing for the top of the tree this year?”

“Last year was the star,” Ambrose said. “And that ended up falling off half a dozen times.”

“We could go with the angel,” Sabrina said, digging it out from the box. The angel was still in its glory, carefully looked after, blowing on a trumpet. It was an old heirloom, but one Zelda wouldn’t mind if it were to disappear. She took it from Sabrina’s hand and turned it around, feeling memories of her childhood fade as she placed it up on the top of the tree.

So be it, new memories. She stood back, admiring the tree. Neither Ambrose nor Sabrina were particularly gifted in decorating anyway, but Zelda was not so needy to require the tree to look like it came out of some hallmark movie.

“Well, with that in order, shall we pack up the boxes and help your Aunt Hilda finish baking for your teachers?”

Sabrina’s school term still had another two weeks remaining until they broke for Christmas, of which there was to be a final football event that she’d agreed to attend. Zelda wasn't sure if it was an important match or not, and had trouble enough trying to keep up with how sports were ranked in any regards, but Sabrina was attending and she would follow.

She hadn’t heard about Theo in some time, however, and as much as she wished to assume that it was due to him settling in the football position, Zelda suspected that he ended up quitting in the end.

It was frustrating, and it burned Zelda more than she wished it did, but in the end, the boys would only torment him further and it would be unfair to put Theo through that.

The day was enjoyable, however. Zelda’s headaches had begun to ease without the stress of work, and she and Sabrina had thankfully ceased arguing for once. Seeing how Sabrina had taken to earning her own income, using the money to go out on dates with Harvey and her friends, Zelda relinquished her ban and agreed to continue paying her her pocket money.

She had expected that it might leave Sabrina to depart from the bookstore, but instead, her niece took to it, seeming to enjoy the work, and given that Hilda had nothing bad to say, Zelda found herself…oddly relieved.

Perhaps she’d made the right decision, and in turn, perhaps she wasn’t a failing guardian to Sabrina.

In the kitchen, they baked gingerbread cookies. Then Ambrose and Sabrina iced them all as Hilda began the preparations for dinner, leaving Zelda to sip at her whiskey and feel a sense of contentment with her family.

She’d missed them. Truly missed them. The past week especially had made her all the more aware of what she’d missed.

“Oh,” Sabrina said, “Um, Aunt Zee? Roz’s family invited me to go skiing with them for the holidays.”

“How soon?” Zelda asked.

“Christmas Eve until January Third?”

Zelda bit back an ache. “So you won’t be here for Christmas or New Years?”

“Well, no, but that’s fine. You’ll have Ambrose and Aunt Hilda.”

Ambrose gave a small noise. “Actually, Luke and I…are planning to celebrate New Years with a couple of friends.”

“Doctor Cee’s hosting a New Years party, you could come and share that with me, Zelds.”

“I’ll pass,” she said, feeling the ache grow in her chest. The last thing she wanted was an overcrowded party with teenagers trying to sneak alcohol. She had enough of that at the University. No, she would stay home, watching the fireworks on the television if need-be and then go to bed. It was hardly a big deal.

“I can cancel,” Sabrina advised softly.

“Do not even think of doing such a thing. Skiing sounds wonderful for you. As I understand it’s a yearly trip for the Walkers.”

Sabrina nodded, a small smile on her lips and Zelda couldn’t help but remember when she’d been so little and had seen the snow for the first time. Zelda remembered making snowmen with Hilda and showing Sabrina how to punt snowballs at Ambrose.

And now her niece was off adventuring with her friends. It’s what she wanted for her.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured.

__________

[mhdiaries]

Wave 3 Operetta Diary

July the Twenty-fifth

Hey Fynn! I’m going to keep a diary. I’ll send it to you when school starts and you can read about my adventures...if I have any. I sure wish you’d join the modern monster world and get yourself a computer or at least an iCoffin so we could exchange email or texts. Having to send everything by ghost post seems like it takes forever, not that we don’t have it, but you get my drift. Anyway, the morning after the going away party y’all threw for us - which was clean outta fright - we caught a scream boat and headed up river to the “home of the boos”. I talked daddy and mama into lettin’ me go see the ghost of “you know who”. Daddy kinda rolled his eyes and said okay - betcha if it was a bunch of them old opera harpies all wearing helmets with horns sticking out he’d a jumped up and clicked his heels. At least he didn’t say no and I could smell the fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches before I got there. Turns out there was a jam session and I hadn’t seen that many singers and players gathered in one spot since the day the music died. They even let me sit in with them on a set. I had to promise not to sing though. Must’ve heard what happened down in Terrorbone Parish I reckon. During the jam I used that new lick you taught me and even that big ol’ werewolf guitar player you like so much howled and said, “Oh Red, I’m gonna be singing the blues if you don’t teach me that.” I told him I could show him but I couldn’t teach him. For that he needed to come find you. I was sad to leave but daddy wanted to head east so he could go check out some old opera house that was supposed to be grand. Turns out I enjoyed it more that he did since they weren’t exactly performing the kind of music he expected :)

July the Twenty-seventh

How did we get to the new opera house? Well there’s this underground train that somehow connects to the catacombs below Monster High. That’s where the opera house is, not in Monster High but under it. I actually met a group of ghouls from Monster High at one of the stations while we were waiting to change trains. They were all on the MH Fear Squad and were headed to some kind of competition or training or something. I didn’t really understand it all but they all seemed very nice although the captain of the team was a bit high and mighty for my taste. Got to go now, sorry so short. 

August the First

We have mostly settled in although we still got some unpacking left to do. My guitars all made the trip just fine too. I was worried but I guess I shouldn’t have been. Those cases you gave me protected everything just like you said they would. The opera house is in pretty ghoul shape although there hasn’t been a production done here in many years. I reckon that’s why we’re here, well at least why daddy and mama are here. It’s a whole bunch different from the riverboat opera house though. This one has a big ole pipe organ that sounds like a whole fleet of riverboats coming down the “big muddy”. Of course the first thing daddy did was hop on that thing and play Toccata and Fugue in D minor...who didn’t see that coming? Later on I lugged my amp out to the middle of stage, plugged her in and played a little riff that lasted long enough for daddy to come running in and tell me to stop polluting his opera house with “that noise”. Whatever. I didn’t feel like arguing although I did finally quote that thing you quoted to me - “There’s only two kinds of music. Good music and the other kind.” To which daddy said, “Yes and I would have you play the other kind somewhere else.” Reckon I should have seen that coming too. I’m sure in no time though daddy will have this place snoring with “good music”. ;p

August the Seventh  

I explored the catacombs a little more today. A ghoul could seriously get lost down there if she wasn’t paying attention. It’s like there’s a passages that go every which a way. Some just dead end and others seem like they go on forever. Some of the things I discovered are:

- An underground lake with a big island in the middle that has an old castle on it

- A passage that leads from the zombie side of town straight up to Monster High

- Lots of rooms and halls blocked by doors that you need some kind of key to get past.

I also found, or I guess I should say Memphis found, my new practice room/recording studio! I would have totally missed it because it just looked like a crack in the wall to me but Memphis must have sensed something though ‘cause he shimmied through that crack quick as a gnat’s sneeze. Before I knew it, a section of what had just looked like part of the catacombs wall swung open like a door and there was Memphis hanging upside down by a thread with a big fly-eatin’ grin on his face. The walls inside were covered by some kind of moss, not like the stuff that hangs off the cypress trees back home, but more like a soft carpet and it lights up! How creepy sweet is that? I have no idea what the room was originally used for but there are power outlets on one wall and a big table in the middle. Memphis and me brought all our equipment down here, cranked everything up and just went to town! You want to know what the best part is? When the door is shut you can be standing with you ear pressed right up against it and still not hear what’s going on inside. I don’t think I’ve ever had a place where I could play and sing without worrying about who might be listening. Maybe moving here won’t be so bad after all.

August the Eighteenth

Yes I have gotten out of the catacombs and my new recording studio to check out the town although I probably wouldn’t have left if I hadn’t needed to get some new strings. I ended up at the Maul - they’ve got a pretty good music store and some shops where I might actually find some clothes I like but you know me - I spent most of my time in the music store. They have a scary slick selection of guitars - nothin’ like you’ve made for me of course but I played a few anyway cause they just looked so sad hanging up there on the wall all by their lonesome. I was just kinda picking a little bit when I got the feeling some monster was watching me. I turned around and sure enough there was this little frizzy haired werewolf staring at me. Now you’d be proud of me cause you know normally I don’t like being interrupted when I’m playing but there was just somethin’ about her that made me call her over. I asked, “Ain’t you never seen a monster play guitar before?”

“Not like you,” she said. 

“Good answer ghoul friend.” Her name was Howleen and after I played some more she asked if I would teach her. I put the guitar back on its stand and looked at her for a minute. “Why do you want to learn to play guitar?” She sorta shrugged a little and said, “I guess because no other monster I know plays guitar.” I shook my head and told her that from the time I was a little ghoul all I’ve ever wanted to do was play and sing. “If I’m not actually playing or practicing I’m thinking about playing or practicing and if you took lessons from me I’d expect you to be the same way.” I knew she wasn’t ready for that. I did show her a few chords though and she actually caught on scary quick. She’s got long fingers and good ears. I told her that she ought to sign up for lessons with one of the music store’s guitar creatures and when she had learned everything they had to teach her to come and see me. She screamed all right with that and the music store even threw me in a set of free strings for getting Howleen to sign up with one of their instructors. Who knows, maybe she’ll end up loving to play as much as I do...hey...I said maybe didn’t I?

August the Twenty-fifth

Monster High ain’t like our one room ghoul house back on the delta. I got a chance to really check it out today after Headless Headmistress Bloodgood sent daddy and mama a note asking if they would send me up to see her. So I made my way up from the opera house to her office and introduced myself. She seemed very prim and proper and I was wondering how long it’d be before I’d have a special seat with my name on it outside her office. She told me shad had just been going through my records from the school back home and that she was pleased to have me as a student at Monster High. She also said, “I will expect excellence from you and neither shoddy work nor laziness will be tolerated or rewarded.” I said I reckon I expected the same from myself as long as she didn’t expect me to be the same kind of formal phantoms as my daddy and mama or to back down every time some monster said “boo” to me cause that ain’t who I am! I sat back and crossed my arms cause I expected she was going to give me a lecture on rules and manners and obligations to our monter legacy but instead she just kinda leaned forward a little, put her head in her hands and said, “I understand your father’s performances have been known to bring down the house, but I’ll expect you to blow the roof off this sucker.” Right then and there you could have knocked me over with skeeter’s wing. Monster High may turn out to be a place where every monster has to play off the same sheet music.

August the Thirty-first

Hey Fynn! There was a dandy meteor shower last night. I took that cypress body acoustic you made for me and went down to the beach. I pretended that they sky was a sheet of music and each shooting star that fell was a single note. I played until my fingers gave out and then I just sat back and enjoyed the show. I’m not sure how much time I’ll have to keep up with my diary once school starts but I want you to know that even if I’m not glad all over I think I’m going to like it here just fine. 

[soranihimawari]

West Coast kind of Love

 Summary: There were certain things you know off the top of your head. One, the fact that popcorn and M&Ms should not be sold separately at the local movies is a crime; two, every other Monday of the month, the neighborhood film club would host dollar monster movies (where one of your neighbors in your apartment complex would frequently attend); and three, you might have to pinch yourself when he asks you to take a photo with you as a proof of “how things are going abroad” to his friend in Argentina...

Word count: 4.685K

Taglist: @m0nstergeneration20xx 📷 (google docs proof reader), @oitoorus​, @tkags & her ⛅ (anon fam) , @oikawalovely [open still]

“Do what you love and the rest will follow”-proverb

--September XX--Thursday, 23:13 (11:23pm)

“Oh come on Yukihira,” you knocked on the closed bathroom door of your apartment.”You know I called dibs to the bathroom after we ditched those jerks at the dancehall.”

Every month you and your roommate took turns in choosing public places to go out for a night on the town. With midterms coming up for what would be the junior year of your undergrad studies, your roommate decided giving a double date a try. Unfortunately for her, those jerks were thinking of doing the deed way too early for either of your liking. You decide that spilling your peach Bellini on your friend’s outfit during the middle of the date was the perfect excuse to end the night early. More often than not, you mostly came along these dates with her as an enforcer. You two might be as different as night and day (yukihira studies medicine all hours of the day whereas your focus was the visual arts). Tonight was just one of those nights where you being there was beneficial.

“Ugh, fine,” she said opening the door revealing her freshly brushed grin. “I can’t believe you had the gall to ruin that outfit y/n.”

“Hey, whatever helps you throw it out like you did your ex then I was doing the Lord’s work for you, Yuks.” You rolled your eyes at her when she stuck out her tongue when you slithered into the ivory tiled washroom. This earned a laugh from the other member of your household.

“But because this was a bad date and I didn’t think things through this time again, that means I get to set you up on a blind date.” Her singsong voice reached your ears as you turned on the faucet to drown out her mocking tone. You paused for a brief moment while waiting for the make up remover serium to bubble up on your face before wiping it off effectively.

“With who?” you asked after you patted your skin dry post-makeup removal ritual complete. Your hair was undone from the hair elastic you pulled out of your inherited islander curls.

“I don’t know. Hmm...Maybe the guy in unit 23C? He’s awfully cute,” Yukihira mused as you leaned in her doorway. Her brows wiggled in delight when she noticed how you stared at your neighbor on move in day during your freshman move in day three years prior.

“Iwazumi? You can’t be serious,” you said. Your voice betrayed you because your eyes shined like the gods of furtune finally found their way to you.

“Do you want to or not? He’s focused, witty, determined; I have my physiology study group with him tomorrow. Why don’t you come with, best friend of mine?”

You really hated when she pulled the puppy eyes on you, knowing that you wouldn’t be able to refuse (not by a long shot).

“Ask him if he prefers coffee or tea.”

A few days later, you came home from your department’s masters class with your portfolio sling over your shoulder. Your hands were covered in literal ink stains from your latest mural macro-micro project.

“Hey, Yukihira! Have you seen where I kept my lacquer thinner?” You raise your voice slightly as you kick off your shoes by the entrance hallway. It was only then you realize there were a couple of other pairs of shoes that did not belong to either of you. That’s when you remembered your friend’s warning about her study group coming over. All color drained from your face when you rounded the corner to your living room area converted into a mini lecture hall. You clear your throat to announce your presence which went unnoticed (with the exception of your roommate). Without even looking at the board, you chose to mess with the med students’ practice case.

“And I’m telling you this is a bilateral cut to the optic nerve, Josefina.”

“The microabraisons on the left thoracic cavity allowed the victim to bleed out on the table due to the elevated use of blood thinners, ” your voice quiets the pre-med students and you smile in a nonchalant manner. You have read this problem with Yukihira so many times prior at the start of the semester that you were able to recall the prognosis off the top of you head. Being friends with a pre-med major does have its redeeming qualities although you were seen mostly honing your crafts in the art department and this was just the prime time of their study week. 

“Oh! You’re back early,” Yukihira says in a warm tone. She stands at the end of the table in between you Her eyes glazed over as if to communicate that you were about to be formally introduced. You bite your tongue prior to allowing your roommate to clap her hands together as she went naming every member starting with the person on her left who was the aforementioned Josefina. When she had come full circle, her voice trailed off with a small apologetic smile.

“Aaaand this here is my roommate, y/n. To answer your question about the lacquer thinner, I put the bottle on your desk when it arrived last time,” Yukihira made sure to watch everyone’s response. She was more interested in seeing how the third member of her study group (the aforementioned neighbor in 23C) would react. His minuscule smirk was doubly noted, prompting you to fill the few seconds of silence with your own voice. After a brief trip down memory lane, spear headed by your best friend as they took a break from studying for a moment, Yukihira explained after years of being friends you learned about the medical cases for exams via osmosis. You were an unofficial member of the study group since the medical arts building was located near the visual arts department offices on campus. You chose to not let them be pushed back any further especially since their content exam was coming up later that month, so you bid them good luck.

“Don’t mind me,” your brass tone conveyed an even temper at the time. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to head to my room. You guys aren’t the only ones with an exam this week.” You raised your portfolio canister so they could see the poster sized dyed cylinder. Reams of paper filled with sketches made from ink and graphite poked through under the flourescent lights of the kitchen dining room table. The med students along with Yukihira waved and said it was lovely to meet your acquaintance.

With that you made a beeline route to your room, opened the door, and promptly shut the door. You dropped your portfolio canister next to your desk, turned up the volume of the lo-fi radio station playlist on your sound system, grabbed the nearest pillow and let out a muffled shriek to expel the remaining bits of embarrassment your friend threw you in. You were good at smaller group studies, but to be fair, given the fact that your friend was a social butterfly, you mostly seemed to rub off the “talented-artsy, yet focused,” type of woman. That night you cleaned up your outline for your stencil art piece of a fox and a hound for your take on minimalism class which had its peer critique at the end of the week.

You didn’t physically speak to Yukihira for the rest of the week. With both of you burning the midnight oil within the last few days before the exam, you noticed that the number of study group being held in your apartment had become the norm every other day (causing you focus more on a certain individual). Funny thing was he was also doing the same thing...

『from Yukihira: how many times do i have to apologize? You know I didn’t plan on having an emergency study session with iwazumi. He just showed up & wanted to chat. Besides the TA & professor chose to move up the exam date...』

『from y/n: you should of told me earlier before I came home. You know I forgive you... only if you buy me the latest ice cream along with the new Jun Ito novel. I’ll be out there in a minute till make some coffee for us.』

『from Yukihira: Mmkay & thanks. Coffee sounds good right about now anyways.』

--October XX-- Friday, 15:55 (3:55p.m.)

The weekend came through soon enough and on a Friday afternoon with no where to go, you were chilling at the comfort of your own living room. You were quick to thank the test gods for the exam being moved up once you had a proper conversation with Yukihira that morning. She mentioned she was going be out all day making sure she was able to finesse her study guide with her fellow medical study group. Since it was the end of the week, Josefina opted to have a free for all study day at the book store for those who wanted to go over last minute things according to the note yukihira left on your door that morning.

At the time of the day, you were expecting to be alone, curled up with your favorite cup of English Earl Grey Tea and a Lovecraft radio program you downloaded via the student Spotify network. Your phone vibrated and pinged with a notification from the bookstore where Yukihira placed the order for your horror novel to arrive sooner than the estimated timeframe. Because life finds it funny to pull another prank on your clown assery with your little cynical attitude, you were startled when the formal knocker was used.

“Shit!” you said when you clutched your heart as you placed your cup of tea down on the coffee table. As your put two fingers on your neck’s pulse point, you waited a few minutes for your heart rate to calm back down; you stood up and began to make your way down the hallway. Lo and behold, you were greeted by a casually dressed man who was clutching your new novel in his sunkissed hands. 

It takes your brain a few synapses to register that it was Iwazumi who has been taking a liking to coming over for extra study hours with your roommate, but if anyone asked him to reply honestly, he wanted to know more about you. The human body has more than 240 bones, yet the more frequent his visits become, the more he felt himself become accustomed to befriending you both. There were instances where you joined them at the kitchen table glancing at their open notebooks and case studies; you often made tea or coffee depending on the hour of the day. On the days you had come home from the art department, Yukihira was quick to notice how Iwazumi’s usually tense face seemed to visibly relax when you came to prepare your favorite snack (m&ms and buttered popcorn). Your friend was quick to relay a text to his phone, which caused her study partner at the table to become more flustered than he already was. 

Regardless of the various near misses over the next couple of weeks between you and Iwazumi (sometimes it was Yukihira’s fault other times, it was coincidental juxtopostional humour: it has happened twice on Iwazumi’s side when his friends back home noticed he was not at his usual place. [Yukihira called for a mini-study break] However, that didn’t stop you from asking him if he preferred sugar or honey for his tea & all hell broke loose (Hanamaki & Mattsun were cheering him on while Oikawa.exe has dropped the call).

All this back and forth for the past five weeks caused this moment to occur:

“I-Iwa-chan?” your voice went up several octaves before clearing your throat with a cough. “If you’re looking for Yukihira, she’s actually not here at the moment...” 

“To the scientist there is the joy in pursuing truth which nearly counteracts the depressing revelations of truth.”

The audio from your radio program was keeping you company. The disembodied voice coming from the main sound system you helped set up when you first moved into the building with Yukihira quoted Lovecraft as the program continued to serve in the role of filling the silence between you and Iwazumi. The gods really did that, didn’t they? your thoughts were running away with you again, chasing a reality that would be yours--or so you think. 

During that thought hurricane you conjured up, you decided to pause the train of thought for a few minutes. You released your hold on your front door knob as you pulled the door a little wider in order for you to lean against the frame of the front door. Your hair was pulled up in a messy bun (on your days off, you were typically clad in tapered mint green pants and a spare white button down blouse due to laundry day), but it was enough to see the usual semi-talkative and stoic demi-god of a neighbor wear such an embarrassed expression. You pretended to not hear the barely audible, “woah,” that escaped his mouth prior to him holding up the book to you. 

“Did the mail carrier drop it off to your box again?” you ask taking the book in your hands. “Sorry about that. You can come in if you want.” 

You were quick to notice that something caught your arm in an attempt to stop you from walking. When you chose to not try to pry yourself away from Iwazumi’s hold, he took it as a sign to bend himself to your ear and say the following in a powerfully low tone: “Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t looking for her?” 

“Yes,” you say in a timid manner, yet it was paired with a curt nod. You both had the tenacity to swat away any lingering negative thoughts.

Iwazumi took this moment to turn you around to face him by the arm he held you with. His smile disappeared when he let your arm go and instead moved his hand to hold yours with his opposite hand, he pulled the door shut behind him. You were probably too proud to admit this aloud, nonetheless, you liked the way Iwazumi’s firm grip felt in your hand; his were rough and calloused as much as yours were from years of honing your independent crafts. You gave him a kind smile before your neighbor decided to take advantage of the fact that the other person in your apartment wasn’t home; you squeezed his hand slightly and he let your hand go. 

You placed the Jun Ito novel on the kitchen counter motioning for Iwazumi to meet you there. Your kettle was still warm, however you made a cheeky joke to your newly acquired friend. (Perhaps this was Yukihira’s plan, you think). You reached into the dishwasher and was about to pour him a cup of tea, yet you couldn’t help but make a small joke at his expense for holding your hand so intently. 

“For the record, if you wanted to hold my hand, you could have done so earlier,” you mention stifling a laugh, pouring the steaming water into the mug. Iwazumi mumbled something about how he liked the way your hand fit, yet you chose to throw caution to the wind and quickly planted short kiss on his cheek when you extended the cup toward him after placing the tea strainer in it. 

With one hand on yours and the other was wrapped around the ceramic mug,. Your kindness was always something Iwazumi found alluring. You might not have been in the same course of study as him or Yukinira, yet you were good finding the beauty in the mundane. A few of your pieces of work were hung around the apartment and from his line of sight, your dedication to your craft was something to be admired.With every sip he took a sip to deflect from the way his thoughts were heading into uncharted territories; OIkawa, Mattsun, and even Makki were the ones more verbose on love & conquest during the days of their you:

“You’re always over at your neighbors’ place, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa teased. 

“I wonder what his reason is,” Makki muses. “Mattsun thinks it’s a girl. Typical.”

Makki also noticed one of your sophomore symposium art pieces hanging behind the place where Iwazumi was sitting at the time of their weekly video call. Your avant-garde view of  viewing the world was enough to set the sky amethyst hues. California does have it’s moments of striking beauty and somehow Iwazumi found it hard to keep to a straight face around his friends. His expression was usually hardened or bold, but today you sat across from him at the beginning of the call, reading up on the use of gold leaf detail work for your art restoration classes. Across the myriad of scattered medical books and various notes that were pertaining to another medical case were a tell that their friend was clearly not alone. You glance up at him quietly, a minute smile formed between you two; you write on a spare piece of paper the word, “friends” to which he nodded. 

“Aww, is our little ace growing soft on us?” Oikawa’s whining was something you often heard Yukihira describe after nights like these.(She usually hung out in your room as you were placing the final touches of your latest art assignment. This month was dedicated to historic downtown with a twist of horror: modern mania & the ruiner of man. Right now, you didn’t mind the shared space of the dining room while Yukihira was out on a grocery run at the time the call was initiated.)

“Shut your mouth Shittykawa,” Iwazumi barks. His dark eyes hardened like stone and that was when Makki let out a wicked grin. 

“I owe Mattsun 500 yen,” Makki chuckled. 

“Holy shit,” Oikawa’s eyes bounced between his best friends and let out a low whistle. “if this woman is capable of such an amazing feat, ask her if she has a friend [for me].”

Iwazumi ended the call right then and there. He didn’t expect his heart to be beating so irratically when you walked room in your house attire for a moment to make yourself a cup of the same Earl Grey Tea. The hazy lights emitting from your room blended effortlessly with the flourescent ones in the kitchen; each beam clung to your body in such away Iwazumi was glad neither of his friends witnessed the moment he fell in love with California and all that came with it. 

This afternoon was a different story as you liked the way Iwazumi allowed his natural blush to bubble to the surface of his cheeks and you could swear you saw a fraction of the high school volleyball ace shine through. The sunlight danced around the stainless steel details of the kitchen where you shared secrets, recipes, and drinks with your best friend. His free hand chose to move away from the counter finding its resting place under your chin. The cup of tea Iwazumi held earlier was placed next to the stove on the coaster by the sink. 

You steady your breathing right before you felt Iwazumi’s breath on your cupid’s bow; his lips pressed against yours gingerly as though he felt his brain light up and catch a fire he needed to not run away from; everything he wanted to know about you was answered as soon as your hands cup his face. I think I like this, your conscience is egging you on to pursue his touch for a while longer. It was a silent acknowledgement of the other’s presence in the present moment. 

“Hm,” you hear him hum in mutual amusement when you return his kiss. The pads of his fingers trace the highest points of your face teasingly. He wanted answers to the questions your lips asked. When you two separate for a moment, you realize you might have been too forward, but when you move your hands away from his face only to hug him in a loose embrace, you couldn’t help the next words from posing a question.

“Do you want to kiss me again?” your coquettish tone made Iwazumi’s answer very apparent as you suddenly took into account the last couple of weeks and the way both of you came to enjoy each other’s company during study group hours at either your place as the primary location or the cafe down the road from the apartment complex. (Iwazumi’s frequent visits weren’t for tutoring necessarily, about a majority of the time it was to see you as an added bonus). 

Iwazumi did not have to be told twice; he enveloped you in his strong arms, he hoisted you up from under your knees and placed you a top the counter with gentle assertive force. Your legs wrapped around his fit waist as you gripped his biceps for leverage prior to letting the old ace prove his strength by placing you on top of the graphite counter like a doll. 

“Comfortable?” Iwazumi’s expression was more seductive than profound.

“Very,” you reply as you unwind your legs from his body. “Where were we?”

Your hands wrapped around his neck before pulling him close to you again. A smug smile cut across both of your faces for a brief moment until your lips hovered over his for the second time. This time, you let him kiss you the way you knew he had been meaning to since he showed up at your door less than fifteen minutes prior book in hand. When Iwazumi kissed you at the current moment, the world crumbled and fell away; it was somehow comforting in a way that words would not compare to. His actions listened to the way you were setting the pace with the same tenacity as he showed you. The scent of his sandalwood conditioner mixed well with your ocean scented dry shampoo. 

Your eyes were still closed when you felt your hands card through his ever-present spiky hair. His right hand rested below your ear, using the pad of his thumb and forefinger to caress your cheek and jawline again. You feel him smile against your own lips when you nipped the corner of his mouth playfully. You break apart long enough for your partner in the kitchen to began to sneakily undoing your top two buttons of your blouse to press his lips against your exposed skin. You let out a whimper in the heat of the moment the second his lips began to leave a trail of reverberating echoes in the simplest of ways securing his hold on your soul that very day.

“Beautiful girl,” Iwazumi murmurs as his eyes met yours when he was done having his fun. His voice was cautious, but when his arms began to hover over your own, you felt your heart rate speed up right as he told you this: “Tell me, what other sounds can you make for me?” 

“Is that a challenge?” you retort, your hands disappearing under his hoodie to feel the fabric of his undershirt. Your hand stopped roaming atop of his chest; he was liking this. You could tell by the way he was taunting you with his smirk. “Because I was wondering the same thing. Do you want me to remove my hand?”

“No.”

Your hands could have been made of branding tools and Iwazumi wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. He chuckled at your question before you brought him down to your level and your lips met again. The sound he made upon impact was as though you broke him yet healed him at the same time; time was on your side for this one and you proved he wasn’t the only monster in the kitchen. There was a hunger there behind every kiss you let him have; you were smiling in the between long enough to feel his heart beat faster through the fabric of his undershirt.

Your hands automatically removed themselves from his shirt and were found holding on to the aglet of the drawstrings from the hoodie he was wearing. Iwazumi kissed your fingers before proceeding with posing a question to you.

“Just so we’re clear,” your voice was bold and daring. It was one of the many things he liked about you both in and out of campus grounds. The small details was what Iwazumi liked the most and the subtle tells of how you, Yukihira, and even the other members of the study group didn’t make him feel so alone like when he first arrived to California to study.

“Whatever this is between you and I, does it mean we’re...together?” 

You make a sign in the air with your palms up and point between you and him. Iwazumi clears his throat as he taps his lips to tease you and that was when he saw it: a younger version of you covered in sidewalk chalk in your neighborhood (much the same as you saw reflections of the former ace/vice captain).

“If you’ll let me take you to the Monster Movie marathon on Monday,” he answered when he linked his right hand digits with your left and you capture his lips again on your own volition. Your ears perked up at this, you drop the string you played with and patted his chest with a light rapt. 

“Eager to make me your girlfriend aren’t you?” You laugh and Iwazumi furrowed his brows, but you silence his worries in one swift and simple move: you kiss him with the intent of either being his salvation or his torment, either way Iwazumi was not complaining. The girl who loves to read about Lovecraftian monsters and the boy who was a monster chaser shared a love as unique as themselves: like a secret they each wanted to keep  behind closed doors.

His only vice was the fact that his social call was coming to an end and every ounce of his well being was fighting to stay here with you. You back down for a moment only to showcase your best attempt at a flattering smile to match his own. Iwazumi would never let you know this at the time, but seeing that smile on your face made his list of top three things he found most precious in the world. This wasn’t a crush anymore was the proper conclusion you both concluded. 

“Meet at your place at 7:30,” you suggest. Iwazumi released your hand from his to step back as you hopped down from the kitchen counter you made a seat of. 

“I’ll see you then ‘Ms. Lovecraft’.” The nickname he bestowed upon you was one that made the butterflies come back in a flurry; this was the start of something special, but you didn’t know it at this point in time that the name will be used to describe your affinity for Iwazumi’s unyielding devotion to you (the seeds were planted in both of your hearts and the two of you waited for them to bloom).

Iwazumi made his way back toward the hallway and faced your apartment’s front door again. You refastened both buttons he undid prior to reaching for the door knob. 

“For what it’s worth,” your not-so-innocent tone in your voice begins to come through. His darkened eyes observe you undo your top knot and shook your shoulder-length hair to reveal the fullness of your wavy locks. You place your hand on his wrist and the other was on the door knob. He stopped you from opening the door with a softened glance; pressing his lips lightly on your brow bone. 

“I really like it when you come over Iwazumi. Thank you for dropping off the book.” You tap your fingers thoughtfully on your lips as a silent form of thanking him for the other part outside of the tangible order.

“Hajime, y/n,” he whispers his given name in your ear in order to get one last rile out of you before kissing your temple, and you could swear you could hear your heart beat in your ears. “Call me that from now on, ok?”

“Ok,” you swiftly reply. “Only if you continue to call me Lovecraft, haha.”

Iwazumi takes his leave when he thinksof how the next time he sees you, it’ll be filled with magic, mayhem, and the movie playing in his heart was one he would like to share with you for as long as it takes.

You rush to your room to retrieve your cell phone and immediately text Yukihira who was in the middle of her break between classes:

『from y/n: i have a date on monday night. the book came btw. thanks yukihira』

『from Yukihira: iwazumi asked you to go out with him, didn’t he? have fun and remember to not do anything i wouldn’t do. ;) 』

『from y/n: of course. and even if we did, i wouldn’t even hear the end of it from you. you’d might have an easier time talking to iwazumi than me, let’s be honest.』

『from Yukihira: (n˘v˘•)¬ oh you know me so well. see you later tonight.』

—November XX, 14:43 (2:43pm): 

First dates & a glimpse into their social medias (ft. Iwazumi, Babs (y/n), & Yukihira)

Iwazumi credit

Suffice to say that Mondays became your favorite day after this kiss...😌

Bonus:

Instagram posts from our UCIrvine trio ft. Iwazumi, Yukihira, & Y/N-san

[homespork-review]

HOMESPORK ACT 5 ACT 1: Mobius Double Plusungood, Part 3

TW: """funny""" sexual and physical assault of a child by another child, extreme bullying, extreme ableism, a very brief discussion of shipping characters outside their canon sexuality.

CHEL: We get some implications of the part of troll culture we ended on last time when a slightly baffled-looking Nepeta, watching through the viewport, updates her SHIPPING WALL. Instead of hearts, some of the hypothetical pairings she’s painted are marked with diamonds. What this means will be explained shortly.

I can’t help but feel it’s slightly creepy to hypothetically matchmake your own friends, but I’m pretty sure the other trolls know at least that the shipping wall exists if not exactly which ships they’re in, and they do live in a society in which it’s stated later that mating is mandatory, so it would indeed be helpful to have at least emergency-doable matchmaking done well in advance and they might appreciate the help.

I’d like to take a moment to note a ship at the bottom row, left of centre; GA/Tavros. Hussie, on his Formspring, later said that GA was “obviously” a lesbian, or anyway was only interested in women, which doesn’t have a specific term for it in troll culture. It’s actually hard to tell going by what’s shown in canon, because she only displays specific interest in girls except for in a complicated case we’ll discuss later, but trolls are supposed to be bi-normative, plus it’s not like the male selection here is particularly inspiring, so, yeah, the evidence we actually see isn't conclusively "obvious". The fandom, knowing this, systematically harass anyone who even muses vaguely about the possibility of shipping her with a boy, even if they don't know about that Word of God. This is why I’m wondering whether the trolls knew about the shipping wall, because if they did, we can presume GA didn’t care. For the record, I’m sex-repulsed ace and have in fact written about.my own imaginary persona fucking (admittedly fucking an opposite sex clone of herself, it was a complicated injoke) and my reaction to someone else writing it would depend on context and reason, so I can imagine her reacting similarly, but not everyone would. A similar thing with a canonically gay male character explicitly on-screen not caring about hypothetical shipping of himself with girls comes up much later; he’s not a troll, but his upbringing was troll-influenced (long story).

BRIGHT: Harassing people over the ships they make content for always baffles me. It’s not like fanart/fanfic for a ship which contradicts canon has any effect on the canon, and playing around with character dynamics (often in a pornographic manner) is a major part of fanfic.

CHEL: On top of all this, gender and sexuality are really shaky concepts to even try to apply to a species which reproduces hermaphroditically. On this side of the fourth wall it’s obviously because Hussie is a not-very-reflective cisgender heterosexual man, and didn’t think about it any further than “girls wear skirts, right?” Plenty of people fanwank up possibilities for how it could happen on the other side. I think we may have to make a “What The Fuck Is Alternian Biology And Sociology” post or two separate from the sporking at the very end.

Discourse discussion over! Next page, we see some of the relevant terminology used in troll culture, though we still don’t get any explanation of what any of the words actually mean, which is a tad annoying for new readers. The context is a discussion between Karkat and Vriska about getting her into the game.

BRIGHT: Specifically, Karkat wants Vriska to get Tavros into the game, leading to this exchange…

CG: WHY DO YOU EVEN HATE HIM, IT'S FUCKING RIDICULOUS. CG: IF ANYTHING YOU SHOULD PITY HIM. CG: ESPECIALLY SINCE YOU WERE THE ONE WHO PARALYZED HIM. AG: I know. I don't really understand it. AG: It's just a really special kind of h8! It never goes away and it doesn't make a lot of sense. CG: THIS IS KIND OF A WEIRD TIME TO BE CONFIDING IN ME ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS OF BLACK ROMANCE BUT OK. AG: Oh god, what? CG: I MEAN IF YOU'RE REALLY IMPLYING TAVROS IS YOUR KISMESIS I THINK YOU'RE BRAYING UP THE WRONG FROND NUB. CG: BOTH PARTIES HAVE TO HATE EACH OTHER EQUALLY, I MEAN LIKE TRUE HATE. CG: MAYBE YOUR FEELINGS COME SOMEWHAT CLOSE TO FITTING THE BILL BUT I DON'T THINK HE CAN HATE ANYONE, IT'S WEIRD, HE'S KIND OF BROKEN IN THE HEAD.

Finally, our long-awaited introduction to troll romance!

And the introduction is an effective one. We now know that there’s something called ‘black romance’, that it concerns hate, and that one’s black-romantic partner is a ‘kismesis’. The conversation also flows naturally and fits the characters having it, rather than being an awkward as-you-know infodump, although brace yourselves, there’s one of those coming up. Thirteen is about right for kids starting to have romantic feelings and being confused about it, not wanting to talk about it is pretty normal, and Karkat lecturing people at a good opportunity is absolutely in character.

Karkat goes on to lecture Vriska about the emotions involved in different sorts of romantic relationships, and wow, it really says a lot about troll culture…

CG: OK, MOST PEOPLE WHO HAVEN'T HAD THEIR LOBE STEM CAUTERIZED ARE CAPABLE OF FEELING THE TWO PRIMARY EMOTIONS, HATE AND PITY. CG: PITY IS OF COURSE JUST THE TONED DOWN VERSION OF THE CENTRAL EMOTION, HATE. CG: AND ALL THE NUANCES OF PITY MANIFEST AS VARIOUS OTHER KINDS OF FEELINGS LIKE WHATEVER CHEMICAL REACTIONS TRIGGER MATING FONDNESS OR THE MYSTERIOUS FORCES THAT ARE BEHIND MOIRALLEGIANCE.

CHEL: It’s never really clear if this is just Karkat’s idea of it or if this is how trolls actually work biologically. Trolls do use the word “love” later on, so I always interpreted it as “pity” being a euphemistic term because “love” in such a warlike and oppressive culture could be exploited as a weakness. Fandom has played it with their love actually being based on a weird form of sympathy/seeing the other as needing protection, which is also plausible.

FAILURE ARTIST: I have played with the pity thing before but in retrospect Karkat is the only one who seems to see it that way. Maybe this is all his fake deep teenager view of romance.

BRIGHT: Vriska makes a performance of how bored she is, but Karkat’s on a roll.

CG: A WELL BALANCED PERSON IS IS GOING TO HAVE A GOOD DISTRIBUTION BETWEEN HATE AND THE VARIOUS PITY HUMORS. CG: HAVING A GOOD BALANCE KEEPS ALL THE EMOTIONS SHARPER, SEE I THINK THAT'S YOUR PROBLEM. AG: Oh???????? AG: I hope you know I already wore out some good note-taking pens today. All the pens. AG: All of them. CG: SEE, MY HATE IS LIKE A FINELY TUNED INSTRUMENT BECAUSE I'M AWARE OF THESE PRINCIPLES. CG: I COULD HATE A HOLE IN PARADOX SPACE ITSELF, STRAIGHT THROUGH TO A NEW REALITY FRESH FOR THE HATING. AG: Hahahahahahahaha, you don't even know how much I'm laughing at this. CG: BUT SEE, YOU'RE TOO HEAVY ON THE HATE SIDE, OR AT LEAST YOU PRETEND TO BE WHICH IS MAYBE WORSE. AG: You aren't reading anything I say are you? You just want to talk and talk and talk. CG: AND YOU THINK YOU'RE HATING UP EVERYONE HARD WHEN YOU'RE REALLY JUST BURNING OUT THAT ENTIRE EMOTIONAL HEMISPHERE. CG: IT'S LIKE LUKEWARM HATE. PRETENDER'S HATE, WITH NO COUNTERPOINT AT ALL. CG: AS SUCH THERE'S NO REAL SUBSTANCE TO YOUR HATE, IT'S LIKE A CARDBOARD MOVIE PROP. CG: WHICH IS WHY YOUR BRAIN IS BROKEN, KIND OF LIKE TAVROS'S BUT ON THE OPPOSITE HEMISPHERE I GUESS. CG: OR MAYBE YOUR BROKEN BRAIN LED TO THE IMBALANCE IN THE FIRST PLACE, I DON'T KNOW. CG: WHATEVER THE CASE IS, YOU'RE KIND OF EMOTIONALLY SCREWED, SORRY TO SAY. CG: YOUR HATE'S TOO DULL FOR A PROPER KISMESIS, IN MY OPINION. CG: AND I DON'T SEE ANYONE CHOMPING AT THE BIT TO BE YOUR MOIRAIL HONESTLY, UNLESS THERE'S SOMEONE OUT THERE WHO WOULD ACTUALLY BOTHER PITYING YOU. CG: AND LANDING A MATESPRIT? HAHAHAHA! CG: SERIOUSLY, LIKE THAT WOULD EVEN INTEREST YOU. CG: BASICALLY ANY FEATURE OF YOUR EMOTIONAL PROFILE THAT USUALLY MAKES SOMEONE VIABLE IN THE REDROM DEPARTMENT MUST BE TOTALLY FRIED. CG: YOUR BLACKROM POTENTIAL'S PROBABLY TOAST TOO.

Whew.

So now we have ‘kismesis’, ‘moirail’, and ‘matesprit’ as terms for romantic partners, as well as the concepts of black romance, red romance, and ‘moirallegiance’ as the relationship one has with a moirail. Troll romance is not going to get any less confusing for a while.

If Karkat’s grasp of psychology strikes you as amateurish, there’s a reason for that: He gets all his knowledge from romance movies.

AG: Hey asshole, stop watching movies for girls.

I think that’s another strike against the ‘girls are the dangerous ones on Alternia’ argument. Romance movies, per this exchange, are both female-coded and seen as inferior -- Karkat defends his viewing choices by saying they’re INTRIGUING SOCIOLOGICALLY, but Vriska isn’t buying it.

CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 42 WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 33

CHEL: I’m not sure an interest in the workings of romance should be a socially gendered thing in a society where, as it turns out, you have to have an acceptable romantic partner by a certain time or die. You’d think most kids would be trying as hard as they could to learn and put into practice everything they could about it, and you’d also think there’d be better information for them than romcoms.

BRIGHT: Has the mate-or-die part come up yet? I’m not sure when Hussie thought of it.

CHEL: I don’t know if he’d thought of it yet, but it does come up very soon.

BRIGHT: Karkat then moves on to the original reason he contacted Vriska -- he needs her and her mind powers in the game, because he’s just run into a double agent called Jack.

Over on the next panel, Karkat is still talking to Vriska, but he’s glancing back over his shoulder at Jack Noir. His hand is covered in blood, which keeps cycling through a range of colours. The blood, it transpires, is because Jack stabbed him. Karkat is amazingly calm about this.

CG: HE'S COOL, IT'S FINE I DON'T REALLY MIND THE STABBING, IT WAS ALL A MISUNDERSTANDING. CG: WELL OK I'M PRETTY SURE HE MEANT TO STAB ME. CG: BUT I KIND OF THINK THAT'S LIKE CG: THE WAY HE GREETS PEOPLE? AG: This game is so stupid. CG: IN ANY CASE I THINK HE'S PROBABLY ALL STABBED OUT.

This would be ridiculously chill even from someone who isn’t extremely cagey about his blood colour -- and it’s not that Karkat suddenly doesn’t care any more, because as soon as Vriska says she’ll ask Terezi or Jack what colour he’s bleeding, he tells her that he’s out of Terezi’s range, Jack is sworn to secrecy, and Sollux (who’s incommunicado) is the only one who knows how to make Trollian’s viewport feature work. (Given we saw how easy it is to use earlier, I’m surprised Vriska doesn’t try to figure it out herself.)

Over on the next panel, the viewer is now Jack, a few minutes prior to this conversation. Contrary to Karkat’s protestations, Jack stabs him because He's got a pretty sharp tongue and can't seem to keep it sheathed. He is curious when Karkat cares less about the wound and more about Jack seeing his blood colour, which is apparently some freakish mutation. Jack looks at his knife…

CHEL: While it’s not a realistic depiction of the colour, recall that this is the shade of red used in-comic to depict human blood. This reveal probably isn’t a surprise to anyone by now, if you’ve encountered fanart, and honestly it wasn’t a huge mindblowing revelation on my first read before I knew, but I do think it’s a clever little “aha, THAT’S why!” moment. Skilfully done.

It seems he's the only one of his kind with this mutant candy-red blood. An outcast. He thinks he was put on this planet covered in an ocean of his own blood to be taunted. Punished for something. Saddest story you ever heard. Got to do something to shut him up.

BRIGHT: Awww. That’s kind of sweet.

This little interchange gave rise to the ‘Stabdads’ fandom phenomenon, where Spades Slick is envisaged as Karkat’s father-figure. In Homestuck canon, it’s dubious how much affection Slick has for Karkat. He seems more irritated by him than anything else, but that’s about on par for how he treats the rest of the Midnight Crew. On the other hand, it clearly makes a massive impact on Karkat. We’ve seen how important blood colour is on Alternia and how insecure he is about his own; his sudden rush of fellow-feeling towards Jack is understandable, even if it does make him way too forgiving about having been stabbed.

CHEL: Karkat and Jack shake hands, and proceed to be in cahoots. Cahoooooooots. Doodling on the defaced parking ticket from earlier, they draft OPERATION REGISURP.

Your whole team executes the plan along the course of its journey, employing espionage, mind control tactics, political sabotage, vicious interrogations and cold blooded assassinations. Everyone does their part and you begin to learn the true meaning of teamwork, as well as this troll disease called friendship.

Yeah, it actually happening is skipped over with one paragraph, but that’s probably a good thing with all the complexity already going on, and we do hear more details about it. First, we’re reminded of the existence and functions of the Queens’ Rings, the magic rings the queens of Derse and Prospit have which give them traits and powers from whatever the players put in their sprites. The trolls have put their lusii in their sprites, except for Aradia, whose lusus died long ago, so she got in the sprite herself. The Queen could put up with getting bits and pieces from eleven hideous monsters (well, ten hideous monsters and one adowable little fairybull thing oh my gosh it’s cuuuute) tacked onto her, but what she absolutely won’t stand for is the other thing Aradia put in her sprite…

She could not stand bearing the visage of the most loathsome creature known to existence. So vile is its appearance, so contemptible its purpose, all depictions of the creature let alone members of its population are permanently banned from any jurisdiction in the reach of her agents. Those of its kind go by many names, and so does the reviled patron god they herald - THE GREAT DETESTATION, KING PONDSQUATTER, SPEAKER OF THE VAST JOKE, or most commonly, BILIOUS SLICK.

Recall that AR thought of the hieroglyphs in the Frog Temple as “illegal pictography”. We’ll find out later why the Black Queen has such a revulsion for frogs, it’s important. But the important part right now is that she took the ring off. At the time of planning it’s in the ROYAL VAULT.

We briefly see a moment in the future of the Black Queen wrapped in rags, just like the human sessions’ White Queen, wandering the desert as the BANISHED QUASIROYAL, and the caption notes the plan was a success.

However, Doc Scratch appears in the desert in front of her, and it’s noted she was given a new purpose. This, it seems, is the origin of Snowman.

FAILURE ARTIST: I would like if there was some canon Homestuck material expanding on this REGISURP plot.

BRIGHT: Same! It sounds really interesting. One example of Homestuck’s idiosyncratic pacing, I suppose -- we spend pages and pages on trivial alchimeter nonsense, but skip over something more meaty.

CHEL: The Red Team work on that, while the Blue Team battle their own session… or so they think. Yeah, I’m sure you’ve all already figured it out, but the trolls hadn’t just yet. They note that their prototypes are affecting the opposite team’s underlings, and the readers are shown Alternia’s two Frog Temples, one near Aradia’s home and the other near Kanaya’s, each with six pillars outside (one seems to have five, but the sixth is hidden behind the building). Superimposed on each other, the pillars make a full ring of twelve.

The truth was it had always been the same session all along. That your teams were not competing, but cooperating toward a common goal. In the more drawn out form of this adventure's narrative, figuring this out would have been a huge deal. We would have been completely blown away by this stunning revelation. Wow. Same session all along. Really? Huh.

This is what Aradia’s been so mysterious about. She knew. We’re provided with a handy diagram, in case we haven’t been able to keep up.

After watching the phrases MOBIUS DOUBLE and REACH AROUND toggle for a few minutes while in a sort of stupor, you finally snap out of it.

(I just noticed, the Blue Team are the Derse dreamers and the Red Team are the Prospit dreamers. Neat!)

The reader’s attention is drawn instead to the Aquarius and Pisces symbols in the top left, belonging to characters we haven’t met yet, and the narration promises we’ll learn about them soon. Drawing attention again to GA’s Virgo symbol, the narration muses about her.

It will probably be quite some time before you get to be her. It could very well be pages and pages and pages.

Naturally, we jump right back to her.

GA’s intro is long, so we’ll take it piece by piece.

Your name is KANAYA MARYAM.

The Sanskrit name for Virgo is “Kanya”, and it’s also the name of a town in Japan. “Maryam” is the Arabic version of “Mary”, as in Jesus’ mother. It may also be a reference to Marya Zaleska, the title character of the movie “Dracula’s Daughter”.

You are one of the few of your kind who can withstand the BLISTERING ALTERNIAN SUN, and perhaps the only who enjoys the feel of its rays. As such, you are one of the few of your kind who has taken a shining to LANDSCAPING. You have cultivated a lush oasis around your hive, and in particular, you have honed your craft through the art of TOPIARY, sculpting your trees to match the PUFFY ORACLES from your dreams. You have embraced the tool of this trade, which conveniently is the weapon of choice for those who would hunt the HEINOUS BROODS OF THE UNDEAD which crawl from the sand at sunrise to feast on the light and the living.

Couple things established here; trolls are not only nocturnal but actively harmed by their planet’s sun, and undead beings other than ghosts exist. Said traditional weapon for hunting them is a chainsaw, which we can see lying against her bookshelf, a reference to the Evil Dead movies.

It would be convenient if you actually hunted them, but it is of course far too dangerous, every bit as suicidal as attempting to poach the terrible MUSCLEBEASTS who roam at night. So you indulge in your bright fascination with the grim through literature. Just before the sun goes down and you join your flora in rest, you immerse yourself in tales of RAINBOW DRINKERS and SHADOW DROPPERS and FORBIDDEN PASSION.

Rainbow drinkers are, as discussed later on, troll vampires. I don’t think shadow droppers are ever expanded on, but they might be zombies or werebeasts. Troll goths, apparently, are the reverse of human goths, dressing in bright colours and staying up in the daytime, which makes sense for a species who can only safely go out at night.

You are one of the few of your kind with JADE GREEN BLOOD. As such you are one of the few who could be selected and raised by a VIRGIN MOTHER GRUB, an event so rare as to elude documented precedent. She would defend you from desert threats, and though her life would be short, in time you would assure her of progeny.

Recall that the Mother Grub is required for troll reproduction.

You are a SEAMSTRESS or a RAGRIPPER or a TREETRIMMER or a LUMBERJACK, whichever you care to be, and your unique hive is equipped with a great supply of advanced technology to accommodate your interests. The technology and indeed the hive itself were all recovered from the ruins nearby when you were very young. The seed of your hive was deployed on the volcanic rocks beneath the sand with the assistance of your lusus and her remarkable burrowing skills, and you have lived there happily together since. You know the ruins and the hive and everything here that is not sand and rock originated from the world of your dreams. You also know that one day you will visit this world while you are awake. That day is today.

Like Jade, Kanaya has been awake on Prospit for years, and the technology in question is Skaian in origin, so that’s how she knows what’s going on with the game.

Kanaya is prompted to equip her chainsaw, which promptly turns into a lipstick in a Problem Sleuth reference. Like Jade, she has a Wardrobifier, set to randomise, which suddenly turns her black shirt and red skirt into a red leaf-print dress. She takes out the lipstick.

You can choose between your trademark jade or black. Even though a troll's lips are naturally black. But they can always be blacker, and a lady with a true sense of style knows this.

She goes with green, her dress turns into a blue kimono, and she’s messaged by someone with a fuschia Pisces symbol. This person, named cuttlefishCuller, turns out to be rather excitable, greeting her in all caps and following it up with Glub glub glub glub glub!

BRIGHT: This conversation is pretty sweet, with some friendly joking about CC’s quirk (they stick hyphens in front of their capital Es) and mention of their Collapsing And Expanding Bladder Based Aquatic Vascular System. There’s another mention of moirails, with CC saying they’ll have to join the game late to keep an eye on theirs.

It also turns out both CC and Kanaya are having some premonitions of what’s to come! Kanaya is seeing visions in the clouds of Skaia, the same way Jade does, but CC hears whispers from a mysterious ‘she’ who needs her voice keeping down. It’s implied to be CC’s lusus, as both Kanaya and CC are aware their lusii are going to die soon.

Kanaya hopes to be with her lusus as she dies, but looks out of the window to find the Virgin Mother Grub has already passed away, apparently of natural causes.

CHEL: The Mother Grub was seen briefly before; it’s a moth-like creature with a huge fat body the size of a bus, with wings too small to ever lift it, horns the same shape as Kanaya’s, and a skull-like head with big lips. The skull on Terezi’s Doomsday Scale was, we can tell now, a Mother Grub, except quite a lot bigger - presumably a breeding Grub.

BRIGHT: Kanaya changes back into her original outfit, and goes down to live up to her end of the bargain… which entails slicing a hole in her lusus with her chainsaw and pulling out a round object covered in spikes the colour of trolls’ horns, called a Matriorb. Kanaya stores it in her sylladex; she’s using a CHASTITY MODUS, which locks each card away, and the key will serendipitously be discovered when it’s time for the card to be unlocked. These modii are getting more and more esoteric.

Kanaya proceeds to have a conversation with her own moirail, Vriska, which we already read earlier.

You then proceed to have the rest of this conversation we already read, bugging and fussing and meddling through the special and magical union one can only describe as being in moirallegiance with another. At least, you guess that's how you would describe it. Maybe. Troll romance sure is confusing!

Yes, yes it is. (Spoiler: It’s not that confusing once it’s explained.)

Kanaya doesn’t have long to dwell on the conversation, as she’s contacted by caligulasAquarium, someone with a violet Aquarius symbol who she doesn’t seem to think highly of. It rapidly becomes apparent why.

CA: kan make her talk to me do somethin GA: Who CA: your no good connivvin fuckin backstabbin girl crush thats wwho

CHEL: Trolls are supposed to come bi/pan as standard, so why does he need to specify “girl crush”? I wonder if Hussie hadn’t decided that yet when he wrote this part, but I’m not sure.

WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 34

CA’s gender hasn’t been revealed, but let’s not kid ourselves, we know from how he’s talking that he’s a dude. Nice Girls certainly exist but they don’t tend to get portrayed as so whiny in fiction, plus CC comes off as very girly, and that leaves us with six boy and six girl trolls. Balance and opposites and counterparts are a running theme throughout Homestuck. Not that there can’t be nonbinary characters, as some show up in Hiveswap; just that there would most likely have to be an even number of them, split evenly between the groups of players. Fine by me as a nonbinary person with a thing for balance and even numbers of my own.

Also, note that we’ve seen this guy, or at least his hand and foot, before. This is the litter-hater in the bowling shoes.

GA: Overstating Our Relationship Wont Make Me Feel Very Cooperative GA: Its Paler Red Than That Ok CA: pshhhhhh that is a fuckin laugh and you knoww it evveryone does CA: so help me out tell her to talk to me i think she blocked me you got to GA: Why Do I Got To GA: I Dont Got To And Every Time You Take My Help For Granted I Feel Like I Got To A Little Less CA: wwhatEVVER you are so the vvillage twwo wwheel devvice wwhen it comes to auspisticing CA: you cant let a grudge go by you wwont stick your busy stem betwwixt so get wwith the program fussyfangs

BRIGHT: Oh hey, another troll romance term! ‘Auspisticing’ is the last of the lot, don’t worry.

CA: wwho givves a shit wwhy she blocked me or about my fuckin manners come on youvve got a wway wwith her CA: i figure if youre going to auspisticize any twwo brinesuckers wwho sneer at each other a funny wway you might as wwell make it official and be ours right GA: Your Black Solicitation Just Seems Really Indecent

Funny words aside, Hussie does a good job at laying down context for what auspisticism is here; we now know that it involves mediating between two parties who dislike each other and that it’s a form of black romance. Meshing worldbuilding naturally into the dialogue is something Homestuck does really well at times.

Anyway, CA is trying to get in contact with Vriska because he asked her to make something for him and now she’s blowing him off.

GA: What Is It CA: kan stupid wwhat do you think its a fuckin gizmo to bloww up the wworld or somethin CA: ok wwell not that obvviously CA: but somethin thatll kill all land dwwellers wwhat else wwould i be after GA: Can You Just For A Moment Entertain The Thoughts Of One Untouched By Megalomaniacal Derangement And Tell Me Why Id Want To Assist You With That CA: wwell CA: im not goin to vvery wwell kill you am i that wwould be fuckin unconscionable CA: wwhat kind of friend wwould i be

While CA is obviously a douche, there’s something funny about how over-the-top he is about it and how utterly oblivious he is to the idea that Kanaya might have a problem with a device that would kill all landdwellers, although the humour is inversely proportionate to how likely he is to pull it off.

CHEL: Maybe I’m strange, but I think he’s adorable. I get the impression of a small kid trying to puff himself up to adult size.

BRIGHT: There’s also more romance talk, and this next bit is one I find interesting:

CA: you could either play along as our auspistice and do a little mediating like you wwere fuckin hatched to CA: or wwatch she and me devvolvve into fuckin full fledged kismesisses the kind like you dont get once in ten thousand swweeps CA: you knoww thats wwhat it wwould be there wwould be rainboww rivvers runnin through star systems and all nebulizin like liquid firewworks CA: it wwill be beautiful and heartbreaking all at once CA: you should read up on your history instead of poring through that godawwfull sunny rubbish

I’m going to take a step back from Homestuck itself for a moment and talk about kismessitude as it’s portrayed in fandom. People tend to envision it in a variety of ways -- some see it as a BDSM relationship, some as a way of pushing a rival to be better, some as just straight-up hate-sex -- but most depictions show it as something that only affects the two people involved.

Here, though? CA’s talking about kismessitude as something that’s potentially really damn dangerous, to other people besides those involved, and cites history as a backup -- implying it can really be that dangerous, and it’s not just a teenager’s flight of fancy. (Although, that said, CA is clearly using this to try and get Kanaya in a relationship with him, so how sincere he is is questionable.)

CHEL: Later on we do see a little bit of one of the historical cases he might have been citing. We’ll discuss it more then. Also, I do like him saying “sunny” instead of “gloomy”. Makes sense!

Kanaya tells CA none of this matters, and he sneers about the “purity of the bloodline”. That’s an… uncomfortable turn of phrase, especially since he’s speaking to someone not covered by the “purity” standard, but since it applies to aliens and it’s in a society where that’s hammered into its inhabitants it’s not a Problematykks issue. Kanaya tells him it still won’t matter because their race will be wiped out entirely, and his reaction is remarkably understated:

CA: huh CA: wwell ok HURRY UP AND DO NOTHING: 11

CA says he knows Kanaya doesn’t lie except to herself, surprisingly perceptive for one so puffed-up otherwise. CA might be smarter than he’s letting on? He asks if her clouds told her that; that was the reader’s assumption too, but she says no, she has a different source. Uh-oh. We know what the last source of information was, and it cost Vriska an arm and an eye-sevenfold. CA’s own clouds “hide nothin but misfortune and monstrosities”, so we can guess she’s Prospit and he’s Derse. He goes back to nagging her to tell Vriska to talk to him, and when she continues to refuse he poutily steps off.

CA: you dont wwant to be our auspistice cause you dont wwant to get locked into that sort of relation wwith her i can respect that

Kanaya denies this, and CA says everyone knows, including Karkat.

GA: Its Unbelievable GA: Her Patience CA: wwhat CA: wwhoa wwait wwho GA: Never Mind CA: ok wwait did she talk to you today CA: wwhat did she say CA: or glub or wwhatevver

They’re talking about CC, if it wasn’t clear. Kanaya, in a callback to John’s comment to Terezi, facetiously tells him that she talked about Longing To Touch You Indiscretely and That Shes Basically In The Scarlet Throes For You. CA, flustered, picks up that she’s teasing him, and she tells him the truth, that CC’s just concerned as a moirail.

CA: if youre not savvvvy about howw you define yourself to people CA: you can just splash into the moirail zone before you knoww wwhich wways upwward

I’m going to comment on this attitude in a bit more detail when we get a clearer explanation of what moirallegiance actually is. CA leaves her with some arc words.

CA: being a kid and growwing up CA: its hard and nobody understands

Kanaya heads back to her room, planning to emphatically not meddle but help her friends, and consults her source; it’s fortunately not a Doc Scratch-related one at all. It is, in fact, Rose’s long-forgotten GameFAQ, saved on a server floating in the Furthest Ring, to which Prospit’s clouds directed her. I have to show you the panel for a moment though…

I’m sure there was a way we could see the screen without having it facing away from Kanaya who’s supposed to be reading it.

You can only assume this took place a long time ago. This race is likely ancient, preceding yours by millions of sweeps. Maybe billions! You like to try to imagine the adventures of these players. Were they successful in repopulating their race? Did they manage to protect their matriorb and hatch a new mother grub? Could they hold it together, or were they torn apart by the complex social dynamics, the matespritships and moirallegiences and auspisticisms and kismesissitudes that will surely plague your group along the way? You have little doubt they succeeded with flying colors.

Oh dear, dramatic irony. Kanaya fantasises about a troll version of Rose, thinking she must have been the leader of this supposedly long-ago group.

And yet they appear to have been the only of their kind to have risen to the challenge in a session stacked heavily against them.

Huh. So is this just because Kanaya can’t find more information, or are the four kids in fact the only humans who successfully got into the game? Picking four specifically white-coded kids to be the last of the human race due to supposedly their own competence is… not a good choice. And why the hell couldn’t other people succeed? This strikes me as more of the whole theme of “nobody matters except the people we’re focusing on”. A good lampshading of video game tropes, but in a literary story, that’s the opposite message to everything I’ve ever read, and it’s a creepy one.

CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 43 HURRY UP AND DO NOTHING: 12 WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 35

BRIGHT: I thiiiiiiiink it’s at least implied later on that there are other sessions going, it’s just that each session is a closed loop of players so we don’t see the others...although if that’s the case, does that mean Earth’s getting hit with meteors from multiple Skaias?

CHEL: That over with for the moment, we cut to Tavros’ house as you take your place as the PAGE OF BREATH in the LAND OF SAND AND ZEPHYR. Vriska, his server player, gets down to the business of building up his house towards the Gate…

… entirely out of staircases.

AT: i THINK THIS, iS, AT: pROBABLY MEANT TO ANTAGONIZE ME,

Okay, this probably makes me a bad person, but I’m crying with laughter at his expression and that line.

It’s more disability slapstick, but here the point of the joke comes off as being more that Vriska is a jerk and Tavros’ reaction is really understated than any reasonable person being supposed to assume Tavros is wrong for not being able to climb stairs. Emphasis on “comes off as”, unfortunately. I’m still gonna give a Problematykks point, and further experience with Hussie’s attitude to disability has soured the joke somewhat, even in just the next couple of pages.

CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 44

BRIGHT: Vriska tries to get Tavros to crawl up the stairs, first by telling him that he promised not to be boring anymore and then by saying that she’s trying to help him get stronger. She caps off the rant by demanding that he apologise.

AT: oKAY, AT: tHANKS, i GUESS, AT: bUT, AT: sORRY FOR WHAT, AG: For 8eing crippled, you ass! AT: yOU WANT ME TO APOLOGIZE, AT: fOR BEING PARALYZED, AG: Yes. AG: Say you're sorry. AT: i DON'T MEAN TO BE RUDE, oR bORING, AT: bUT THAT'S RIDICULOUS, gIVEN, AT: uH, tHE CIRCUMSTANCES, AG: 8ullshit! AG: It's something called 8asic decency and civility you fudge8looded 8oor. AG: Now get down on your useless wo88ly knees and apologize. AT: nO, i DON'T WANT TO, AG: >::::O

Vriska, what the fuck.

Tavros is really great here. He’s obviously not comfortable fighting with Vriska, and repeatedly tries to redirect her into building him ramps instead of engaging. But, at the same time, he holds his ground and doesn’t let her push him around, and won’t let go of solid hard reality in the face of Vriska trying to emotionally manipulate him.

FAILURE ARTIST: And yet people still call him a wimp.

BRIGHT: Vriska retaliates, because of course she does, by grabbing his wheelchair with her cursor and shaking it about. If Hussie left it at that, everything would be unobjectionable, at least in terms of narrative voice. Instead, well…

Now she's done it. She has awoken the mighty inner fury that is... RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUFIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

CHEL: It just occurred to me to mention that the name Rufio comes from a character in the movie Hook, the leader of the Lost Boys after Peter Pan left, played by Dante Basco. Tavros’ mental image of him is a reference to that character.

FAILURE ARTIST: Dante Basco did read Homestuck, with hilarious results as we will see.

But unfortunately, Rufio is not real. He's imaginary. A fake. Like a made up friend, the way fairies are. You continue to be sad and alone.

BRIGHT: Eurgh.

Let me be clear: Tavros having no further recourse to deal with Vriska’s abuse beyond his visualised self-esteem is a problem for the character, but it’s not necessarily a narrative problem per se. Escapism is a thing. You could get a decent character arc out of Tavros learning better ways to deal with harassment he can’t escape. It is a narrative problem when the narrator mocks it and makes him out to be pathetic for even trying it.

CHEL: I’d consider this to be just Tavros’ own thought process, but, sadly, this kind of narrative sneering at him carries on throughout Tavros’ presence in the comic and the fandom seems to buy into it. Tavros gets a lot of hate for reasons which mostly boil down to him being a male abuse victim; there’s a feeling that he should “try harder” to fight back, despite him being physically disabled and a member of a caste out of sight beneath her on the social ladder and legally permitted to be killed by her on a whim. Might that count as a point for WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM, for Huss and the fandom not taking the social dynamics into account for why Tavros can’t defend himself?

BRIGHT: I don’t know if it’s fair to count against the fandom when we’re reviewing Homestuck proper, but we can definitely count against Hussie!

WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 36

CHEL: It’s also notable that the common fandom interpretation of Tavros is as Hispanic-coded, at least partly due to his Spanish username, and of Vriska as white-coded. That’s probably not helping.

Since Hussie appears to expect us to agree with Vriska that this is funny, I’m adding another to these as well.

ALL THE LUCK: 2 CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 45 IN HATE WITH MY CREATION: 3

BRIGHT: What’s weird about this whole mess is that Hussie doesn’t — yet — try to say that Tavros should be trying to get stronger; his disability is fully acknowledged. I feel like this kind of mockery is usually accompanied by the attitude that disabled people should just get over their disability, but Hussie’s clear that Tavros can’t. Which means he should do...what, exactly?

CHEL: Not have let Vriska disable him in the first place, presumably. Never mind that, you know, she has mind control powers so he didn’t really have a choice in that either. That is, however, an argument Vriska fans actually make. Apparently some of them actually blame him for not flying when she threw him off the cliff, which… well, unpowered flight is a thing that can happen in the comic but he certainly couldn’t do it then.

BRIGHT: ...Apparently I retain the capacity for surprise at how awful people can be. The fuck?

Back in the comic, Tavros fortunately does have one other means of recourse. Back in her hive, Vriska is suddenly prodded in the back with a flying toilet, courtesy of Kanaya.

GA: Just Presenting A Floating Reminder That Tavros Will Need Plenty Of Inclined Surfaces For His Ascent AG: That's silly. I made so many ramps, you wouldn't even 8elieve it. AG: I specifically decided I wanted to 8uild something ugly and 8oring. It is now the land of ramps and yawns. GA: Hes Reported Otherwise AG: That lousy snitch! May8e I should take his computer away so he can't go crying to fussyfangs anymore. GA: Maybe I Should Upend This Load Gaper Over Your Head AG: No, don't! GA: Im Still Learning The Interface GA: It Could Happen Accidentally At Any Moment AG: I'm only trying to help him. ::::( GA: Think Of Another Way To Help

CHEL: Did I mention Kanaya is my zodiac troll? I can only long to reach her heights of awesome. Of course the ability to levitate toilets would kinda help.

BRIGHT: Vriska heads down to her treasure vault and retrieves a pair of ROCKET SHOES. The captchalogue code for these is ‘PSHOOOES’, which amuses me greatly. Vriska sends the code to Tavros, who combines it with the code for his wheelchair to create a flying wheelchair. Now that is a good use of alchemising!

CHEL: Awww!

Tavros flies up to the Gate, and we cut back to him later on, leading an entourage of communed-with imps and ogres to move obstacles and help him solve puzzles. Using his skills well, I see! In another set of ruins the imps load jigsaw pieces of rock into a frog-shaped alcove,

Things, however, don’t continue to go so well, because Hussie hates this poor kid. I do not mean that facetiously. Statements he’s made elsewhere imply he has a hell of a lot of contempt for several of the characters he created, which I don’t understand at all. We’ll go into this after Act 7, but I get the sensation that the characters are merely tools to show off the complexity and meta references, which are the parts he really cares about.

BRIGHT: It’s not unknown for authors to dislike characters they wrote; the great Terry Pratchett reputedly hated his character Rincewind. The key difference is that in Pratchett’s case, the audience couldn’t tell. Hussie, on the other hand, tends to make his disdain pretty obvious, to the detriment of the story.

CHEL: That’s a point. Conan Doyle grew to hate Sherlock Holmes, too. He didn’t, however, set up situations solely to shit on Holmes in his books.

BRIGHT: I think that’s the key. I’ll forgive a multitude of failings as long as the author seems to be treating the characters fairly. That doesn’t mean that good things have to happen to them — plenty of bad things can happen and I’ll enjoy it — it just means that the author has to...respect how the character feels and would behave, I guess.

Of course, respect is Hussie’s antithesis, so.

Also, nothing so far has shown Vriska to be anything other than a (granted, entertaining) bully. I wasn’t around while Homestuck was updating, so I’m not sure when her fandom took off, but it has to be later than this, surely?

CHEL: I don’t know. I wasn’t around till about mid-Act 6.

What was I on about? Oh yes. Tavros is interrupted by Vriska again, who bitches him out for doing things the boring way and seeking the boring lore.

AG: The minds of your consorts are very soft and impressiona8le. AG: As easily manipul8ed as all those imps you've 8een 8ossing around. AG: I have picked apart their tiny little lizard 8rains and seen through all the smoke and mirrors of their riddles. AG: I have gotten to the truth they are guarding. The great 8ig mystery 8ehind this planet. And you know what it is, Tavros? AT: nO, AG: It's 8ullshit! AG: Meaningless, 8oring, fanciful 8ullshit wrapped in flowery poems to keep you guessing. AG: It all leads to one thing anyway, and that's what we should put our attention on. AG: Real gamers cut to the chase. They power through all the nonsense and go for the gold. AG: They cheat, Tavros. AG: It is time you learned to start cheating.

Interesting theory. Tavros thinks befriending his monsters instead of killing them is cheating, and Vriska grudgingly agrees but is annoyed he isn’t killing anything. She claims to have designed a better and more challenging quest for him; he asks after her own quest, and she says she has time because Kanaya’s busy.

AG: Which is just as well 8ecause I was starting to get nannied HARD. WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 37

Strange word choice for a species raised by animals, but okay. Vriska sends Tavros a map to the next Gate, and he sets off in his little rocket chair. Little does he know.

You proceed through what seems to be your second gate, into the LAND OF MAPS AND TREASURE. The THIEF OF LIGHT lies in wait.

In a callback to our last meeting of Breath and Light players, Tavros crashes through Vriska’s wall and is left hanging upside-down in the rocket chair from the large cobwebs across the room, while Vriska sleeps on a pile of broken eight-balls. Doesn’t look comfortable, but trolls rest in worse places later. Vriska wakes, and Tavros falls head-first onto the floor.

Here is where it gets incredibly uncomfortable, and we have to show it in detail to assign points properly and so that there’s no ambiguity about what’s happening, so if you have any sexual assault, ableism, underage, mind control, or victim-blaming triggers you may want to skip this part. No clothing is removed but it’s very unpleasant to read and the attitude toward it is worse. Seriously, this is Taklamakan Zoo levels of bad.

(This heading below’s not part of the comic, I just put it there so you can skip. The sequence ends with the piece of fanart of Kanaya looking at the sideways screen.)

~*THE ASSAULT STARTS HERE*~

Vriska sits up. She’s wearing a very short strappy white Tinkerbell dress with her sign on it, and what look like over-the-knee socks, a commonly fetishised style of clothing. I remind you these characters are supposed to be thirteen years old. The dress is also the same as the one worn by the fairy in the artwork on Tavros’ desktop background. I don’t know if Vriska had seen that or not.

FAILURE ARTIST:

To be fair she’s just in an actually-more-modest version of what Peter Pan’s sidekick/love interest wears and the socks come off as more dorky than sexy.

Oh my! It appears Pupa Pan himself has flown through your window while you were asleep. How exciting! Surely he is here to take you away on the adventure of a lifetime. He is more dreamy and heroic than you ever imagined. But what's this?? It seems the legendary Boy-Skylark has misplaced his shadow. He is looking EVERYWHERE for it, to no avail. He is having a devil of a time, what with being paralyzed from the waist down and all. He clearly needs your help.

CHEL: Vriska is prompted to Help Pupa find shadow, and approaches Tavros with a nasty-looking grin on her face, while he lies on the floor, gritting his teeth in noticeable pain.

Pupa! You truly are a silly goose. Your shadow has been trapped underneath your useless torso the whole time! Honestly, where else would it be you stupid sack of shit?

Charming. Vriska proceeds to kick him in the head, or at least nudge him with her foot, while he lies unresponsive.

Of course, the secret to reuniting with your shadow is to get up and walk around. And play and dance and frolic! Your shadow will surely join in your gaiety. But it appears Pupa has lost the use of his legs. There will be no frolicking in this young man's future. ::::( Unless...

Everyone knows that just a pinch of SPECIAL STARDUST along with a happy thought will allow any boy to get up and walk again. Everyone knows this because it is in the classic tale, PUPA PAN. Young Pupa flies through the window of a fairy girl's respiteblock, falls on the floor, and has trouble getting up like an enormous pansy. The fairy girl then helps him walk again, and in return, he teaches her to fly, even though she probably already knows how to fly. Because she's a fairy. They fly out of her window together, and have magical adventures for many sweeps thereafter. To be honest, you hardly know a damn thing about Pupa Pan. But you do not care.

Pupa remains as pathetic and useless as ever.

FAILURE ARTIST: The story just keeps mocking Tavros for being disabled.

CHEL: Not to mention for being interested in fairies. Because how dare a boy have a gender-nonstandard interest, or a young teenager enjoy whimsical escapism from an increasingly horrible and guaranteed-to-be-short life.

WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 39

I might be projecting because the fandom has made me loathe her, but it honestly comes off like Vriska dressed up like this in the first place less to seduce Tavros and more to make sure she thoroughly ruined his favourite thing to hurt him further, especially if the narration is supposed to be things she’s actually saying to him.

The stardust did nothing! Probably because it is just glittery powder with no magical properties whatsoever and is basically bullshit. Because in case it wasn't clear, magic isn't real, and neither are miracles. OR It could just be that Pupa has failed to have a happy thought! Your duty is clear. You will have to MAKE him have happy thoughts. Vriska: Make Pupa have happy thoughts.

He certainly doesn’t seem to be having happy thoughts now. Notice his expression, what we can see of it, looks terrified, he’s trembling, and let’s recall that he’s paralysed from the waist down. Even if he wasn’t, she’s of a far, far higher caste than him, legally permitted to do whatever she wants to him, including killing him if he tries to resist. It’s kind of gone back and forth on, but higher bloods are a few times stated to be a lot stronger than lower bloods, and if they work like humans, they’re in puberty right now, a time at which human girls tend to get taller and stronger sooner than boys. Again, it’s gone back and forth on, but a common interpretation is that female trolls are stronger than male trolls in general and/or have the social power advantage. Let’s also remember that, even if none of those factors apply, Vriska has mind control powers. There is no point here at which Tavros has the advantage, nothing he can use as leverage on her. She can do whatever the hell she wants, and she does.

BRIGHT: We’ve also been explicitly shown that Vriska has little to no respect for anyone else’s autonomy if she finds it inconvenient, and that Tavros is her favourite punching bag, and that his ability to stand up for himself when she gets going is extremely limited.

CHEL: Despite the odds stacked against him, Tavros struggles against the kiss forced on him, and when Vriska pushes him back, doesn’t respond with anything but a look of horror, though she appears to expect him to, as a flickering heart-spade with a question mark over it appears between them. I’m not sure whether that’s supposed to be the thought process of him or her or both.

Vriska hurls him onto the floor with some force...

… and activates her mind control, causing little hearts to light up in Tavros’ eyes.

BRIGHT: Vriska has used her mind-control powers on Tavros before, and when it happened she walked him off a cliff. There is basically no way that her doing it again isn’t going to be a traumatic experience for him, above and beyond the inherent horror of losing control over one’s body.

I’m inclined to think that forcibly altering his emotions is worse, though. Being paralysed was bad enough, but Tavros knows what happened and he knows how he feels about it. Making him fall in love with her is just…on one level, it’s a horrible assault on his autonomy as a person, and on another level, it’s tailor-made to make him doubt himself and believe the encounter was something he wanted.

FAILURE ARTIST: I hadn’t thought that he might now consider the encounter as consensual, which would explain his later reaction.

CHEL: Tavros paws at her legs, making kissy faces, and she looks vaguely concerned. Note the background still depicts wavy blue rays coming off her, showing her power is still active.

Looking defeated, she drops the control and dumps him on the floor again.

I’m not sure what she’s supposed to be thinking in this last panel. Is she feeling guilty? Is she disappointed that he didn’t like her under his own power? Has she just decided he’s too useless to be worth the effort? Any could be true.

BRIGHT: I read that as disappointment that even when he ‘liked’ her, he didn’t act the way she wanted. (And the way Tavros acted is kind of disturbing. ‘Mindlessly pawing at someone’ is not what I’d expect from him if he was legitimately attracted to someone.)

FAILURE ARTIST: The common interpretation these days was she was realizing she wasn’t into boys which okay that’s good for her but she should feel more bad about molesting him.

CHEL: That also makes no sense, because she shows interest in multiple boys later.

I’m also not entirely sure if Vriska had the intention of actually raping Tavros here (in the standard way, I mean, as one could argue that mind control is a form of rape), or just making out with him. The fact that she dressed up in vaguely fetishy clothing isn’t making it look good, though. Yes, she’s very young, but traumatised kids in particular have been known to lash out sexually like that. It’s a way of reasserting personal power, and I imagine it would be more prevalent in a society with no sapient adult supervision. While there are mitigating circumstances involved in their social situation and Vriska not really having ever had a chance to learn better, that doesn’t make this not a horrible thing to do, or not traumatising for Tavros.

BRIGHT: The clothing could potentially be down to Vriska wanting to look ‘adult’ without fully understanding why it looks adult. That does come up sometimes with teens — they want to experiment with clothing because that’s how adults dress, not because they want to look sexy, or they might dress a certain way for dates because that’s the social model they have for How Dates Work.

And if I read it like that, this basically looks like Vriska having the date equivalent of a dolls’ tea party. Which says volumes about how she views Tavros’s autonomy.

CHEL: Good point. Though honestly it would say volumes about same either way!

BRIGHT: I said earlier that Vriska is better than Equius at recognising when other people’s desires conflict with hers, and she is, but that doesn’t mean she respects those differences. She just recognises that they’re there, and overrides them. This is a prime example of Vriska viewing Tavros as something between a chew-toy and a prop. First she kicks him around and terrifies him, then she expects him to be able to get over those emotions at the drop of a hat and respond to her advances — and, moreover, she wants him to respond in a certain way, which Tavros has zero way of knowing. This is the first time she’s shown that sort of interest in him, unless her earlier behaviour was the Alternian equivalent of pigtail-pulling.

...I think maybe that was in fact Alternian pigtail-pulling. Or at least Vriska’s version of pigtail-pulling.

CHEL: That’ll actually make more sense, once we explain what the spade symbol means.

Okay, how many counts does this cover?

ALL THE LUCK: 12 ARE YOU TRYING TO BE FUNNY?: 31 CALL CPA PLEASE: 26 CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 55 IN HATE WITH MY CREATION: 13

It also occurred to me during this sequence to think again about how Karkat contemptuously swears at and hangs up the phone on the injured Tavros. This, at first glance, seems to be very much at odds with the “cranky but caring” impression we’re supposed to have of Karkat… but it fits precisely with Hussie’s opinion of Tavros and how pathetic he is for allowing a much more powerful person to permanently disable him. I know at the moment it looks like I’m not separating the character from the author, but it’ll become clear as we go that that is what he thinks.

IN HATE WITH MY CREATION: 14

Why didn’t we start a FUCK YOU, HUSSIE count?

BRIGHT: It would have ended up longer than all the other counts combined.

CHEL: The actual assault is over now, but there’s one more picture of it. The ramifications must continue to be discussed, so tread cautiously. The actual act is over now, though.

Said ramifications come pretty quickly. Kanaya, having dealt with getting herself into the game and prototyped her own lususprite, decides to check on Vriska.

Ideally she has not gotten herself into too much trouble. And ideally the dramatic irony has not gotten so thick you could draw a dotted line on it with a tube of lipstick and cut it in half with a chainsaw.

Of course, she sees the exact moment Vriska kisses Tavros.

(Fanart source has now been deleted, sadly.)

~*THE ASSAULT ENDS HERE*~

Humorous art aside over, let’s watch Kanaya’s reaction in more detail. She angrily looks at a copy of the Tinkerbell dress, which she presumably sent the alchemiter code for rather than the actual item to Vriska, hence why she still has it.

So THAT'S why she had you make this dress for her??? And you just went along with it like a sucker. Argh, you are such an IDIOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Like Karkat, Kanaya is presented as the caring one, the protective one. The “mom friend” of the group. And yet, she looks at this, in which Tavros is clearly frightened and struggling, and her reaction is to be mad that Vriska didn’t want to wear the dress for a date with her. I’m not sure whether this says more about Hussie’s opinion of Tavros or the social system of Alternia or both, but it certainly says a lot.

CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 56 HURRY UP AND DO NOTHING: 13 IN HATE WITH MY CREATION: 15

BRIGHT: Kanaya has had to corral Vriska on Tavros’s behalf already! Possibly more than once! She has all the information to realise that this is abusive, even leaving aside Tavros’s reaction! Sure, teens can be self-centred, but even so this is egregious.

CHEL: Kanaya’s Grubsprite comforts her and she throws the dress out the window.

Being a kid and growing up. It's hard and nobody understands.

Yes, I’m sure Tavros thinks so too.

Charles: "I know Sir can be prickly, but you have to understand he had a very terrible childhood."

Klaus: "I understand. I'm having a very terrible childhood right now."

-A Series of Unfortunate Events