#// he deserved to continue to shape a better foundation and life for himself and for the people who changed him

[mrcspectr]

continuing to think about mr jake lockley and i wonder. while he's likely influenced marc... how much rhetoric has he internalised from marc, how much has marc's perception of self influenced the way he sees himself? he may not have the self-hatred marc has; never bought into ammit's rhetoric (and by extension, to a certain point, wendy's rhetoric)... but does he believe he's worthy of love? he may protect the body from physical and emotional harm... but does he believe he deserves to exist in moments outside fulfilling that function?

I imagine it would be similar in some ways to how Steven viewed fundamental parts of his life. There were things that he truly believed, without question, that we find out later were based on a foundation of lies formed by Marc. His intentions were good, sure, but he built his life from the ground up, for him, based on what he thought would be best. On what would make him happy. Marc knew Steven for years, better than anyone else, knew his life by heart. Marc loved Steven, not just for who he was, but for everything Marc felt like he himself was not.

With Jake, you could see it as the opposite. Because not only does Marc know very little about him, what he does know, he pushes down deep. Marc has some faint clue there's a third alter, he has to. There's just too many gaps in time, too many memories missing. The men on the rooftop, the men in Cairo. The red sarcophagus. He's afraid of all the missing pieces in the patchwork of his life. So he never spends much time on it, never looks at it too closely. Because if he focuses on it for too long, it makes it real. It makes Jake real.

While it's a much less direct influence than Marc had on Steven, he's still shaped Jake's life in a distinct way. It's kind of heartbreaking really, because Marc's essentially turned his back on Jake. He's so afraid of someone he doesn't truly know, that's he's closed himself off from a meaningful relationship with him, from that same understanding he now has with Steven. He doesn't give it a chance.

Jake might not experience the same self hatred that Marc had, but I think it would be more of a.. hollow understanding of what he could have, if given the chance. It's not that he'd think he doesn't deserve a life, he just.. doesn't consider the possibilities. Whatever life Jake had, he had to make for himself, he wasn't handed anything by Marc. It's why I think they'd butt heads for awhile, there'd be a resentment there, once Jake starts to see the relationship Marc and Steven have apart from him. Actually, Marc made Jake's life for him by simply.. not doing anything at all.

[plus-size-reader]

Creep pt.2

Victor Criss x Plus size!reader

Word Count: 2424 words

Warnings: none

Summary: Victor finally gets the date he was so desperate for

Part 1 

—————————————————————————————————

He’d figured it out.

It took him all week, and he’d nearly burst a blood vessel while trying to figure out what it was he wanted to do, but Victor knew now.  

You specified that you wanted him to take you to dinner. That was what you wanted if you were going to believe that he had feelings for you, and he definitely did.

So, all he had to do was figure out was where to take a girl like you, a girl he really liked, without his friends ever finding out that the dinner date happened.

It was a tall order, but after all this time, he had an idea.

All he had to do was make sure that the guys were busy, and he would be free to take you anywhere he wanted. Then, as far as wooing you went, he already had a whole dinner date set up in the form of a picnic in the quarry.

There weren’t a lot of first date level restaurants around here that were any good, and the ones that were around, he certainly couldn’t afford or wasn’t allowed back into.

Most of the business owners in Derry were wary of the Bower’s gang, and they had been banned from most of the fancier establishments.

Hell, even the milkshake bar on the other side of town had threatened to have them arrested if they ever went back. Though, he sort of understood where they were coming from, after Henry spray painted some really obscene things on the side of their building.

Victor just hoped the saying was right, and the thought behind his evening with you would be enough to show you just how much you meant to him because the picnic he’d planned was pretty extensive.

He had gone out and picked up everything you could have wanted, aside from the burgers he was going to pick up right before picking you up at your house, so they wouldn’t get cold.

He had a blanket that he could spread out over the edge of the rock quarry, looking down over the water, and he even got these tiny little cakes from the bakery down the street that he figured you’d like.

Girls liked those kinds of things, he’d asked Belch.

All in all, it was shaping up to be a pretty good date. The only thing Vic still had to do was figure out how to get the guys out of his hair for the night.

The worst thing he could possibly imagine happening would be Henry, Patrick, and to a lesser extent Belch, crashing your picnic and ruining his chances with you completely.

The blonde was already well aware that he was on thin ice with you, which was why this probationary date had to go well. He wanted to show you that he was capable of this.

That he was more than just some thug who made fun of pretty girls for their extra weight and relationship status, two things Henry went pretty hard at you for.

Henry and Patrick both liked to comment on how you would never have a boyfriend because of your size, and how you would probably die a virgin cause nobody would hit that.

In fact, there were very few things about you that the more alpha of his friends wouldn’t torment you for, something that, the more he thought about it, made Victor upset.

You had a point that day in the hall.

He had never really said anything nasty about you to your face, but he hadn’t stopped them from doing it either. He just stood back and let his friends treat you like the dirt beneath their boots.

It was hardly the foundation for a functional relationship, but he wanted to try. For now, all he could do was hope that he’d planned such an amazing date that it would make up for all those terrible things.

Thankfully, before Victor could further drive himself crazy, his three best, and only, friends came around the corner and made a B-line for him. This was it, if this went well, he would be home free for his date tonight.

...But if it didn’t, he had no idea how he was going to explain it to you.

There was no way you would give him a second chance if he cancelled your date to spend the night riding around in Belch’s Trans Am, listening to hair metal.

It had to happen tonight.

“Where have you been?” Belch asked, the only one of the three to even address him once they’d made it to his side.

Henry and Patrick continued to talk about whatever it was that had them so enthralled.

It wasn’t new, and didn’t even really bother Vic, but it was something he had never realized before. They didn’t even really seem to care if he was there or not, which he never would have noticed before talking to you.

Somehow you had managed to turn everything Victor knew upside down and he wasn't sure that he liked it. He wasn’t blind to the fact that his friends weren’t the best people before, but it had never hurt him to be around them.

They were the only friends he had, even if they weren’t the greatest guys of all time.

They were what he had.

“I had to run a few errands, no big deal” the blonde shrugged, hoping he’d done a good enough job at hiding his true intentions so that Belch wouldn’t ask any questions.

He wouldn’t have any answers for him if he did.

This whole thing was new to Vic, who had never really liked a girl this much in the first place, but he was doing what he thought would work. Lying, thankfully, wasn’t new to him.

At the very least, he could rely on his quick wit and the fact that two of the three of his friends couldn’t have been more oblivious to what he was doing and the third wasn’t the brightest to begin with.

It was starting to look like his little scheme would actually work.

Belch didn’t pry any further, something that Victor was glad for, and before it could get any more awkward or he gave himself a stroke, he asked what he’d been trying to ask for days, but didn’t have the nerve to.

“So, what’s the plan for tonight?”

He tried to make it as nonchalant and casual as he could, as if he was just inquiring about the plans he knew they had indefinitely.

Even if the four of them were just going to walk around Henry’s property, or terrorize kids in the park, they always did something together. It wasn’t the sort of question that should have roused any suspicion.

Still, Vic couldn’t help but feel like his entire plot was unraveling at the seams and it was only a matter of time before the gang found out what he was doing and slaughtered him.

It wouldn't go over well. “Nothing, I gotta take care of some things for my pop, so you three girls are on your own” Henry shrugged, not offering any more explanation than that. Whatever it was, if Butch was involved, they knew not to press it.

Though, Victor already felt a little better knowing that Henry wouldn’t be skulking around, potentially finding the two of you in the woods.

Henry already had it out for you more than anyone else because of that time he asked you to see a movie with him and you said no. That rejection had really stuck a bur in his side, and it surely had something to do with his cruelty toward you now.

He wasn’t used to hearing no, after all.

Patrick and Belch had other plans too, it seemed, not really interested in hanging out with any of the others of them without Henry. If it wasn’t the whole gang, it was weird for them.

So, it seemed like Victor was in the clear.

All he had to do now was show you the time of your life and hope that you actually gave him a chance. A girl like you should have never even agreed to go out with him in the first place, so he wasn’t going to ruin it.

You deserved the best, and he was doing all he could to provide it.

~

Vic was sure he’d never been this nervous in his entire life.

Before now, he’d been so preoccupied worrying about the threat of the gang finding out what he was doing, or you changing your mind and rejecting him that he hadn’t given any thought at all to how this would feel.

Waiting for you to get here was going to kill him.

All Victor could think about was whether or not you were coming, or if something had happened to you on the way here. Maybe you decided that this wasn’t a good idea and were staying home, or worse, maybe you had another date.

Whatever it was, it was taking you way too long to get here and every second that passed by, he was sure you weren’t going to show.

You had stopped him in the hallway after the last bell rang, signalling the end of the day, and told him that you would meet him in the Quarry, because he didn’t drive, which didn’t seem like that big of a deal at first.

No good first date had even begun by walking awkwardly in silence through the woods, and it was smart to meet up for the more romantic parts of the evening. However, now that it was here, Vic had to wonder if it was all some clever ploy to leave him in the quarry alone.

It seemed cruel, but after everything he and the guys had done to you, it would be a lie to say that he didn’t deserve it.

He couldn’t have blamed you if you hated him.

Thankfully though, as the sun began creeping down and the air cooled that much more under the waterfront’s influence, you came walking up the path.

You had to admit that when he first suggested coming to the Quarry this late in the evening, you weren’t sure. It still seemed like this whole thing could be some joke, or something put on by Henry to humiliate you.

After all, Victor was the most unassuming of the four of them and if you were going to agree to go out with any of the Bower’s gang, it would have been him.

You just weren’t sure how to feel.

...but you were relieved to see Victor, right where he said he’d been, sitting on a beach towel or something.

It didn’t seem like a set up for a prank, but you weren’t fully convinced until you reached his side and saw the huge set up he’d spread out for you, right on the edge of the cliff.

You were far enough back to avoid falling off or dropping anything into the water below but close enough to see how pretty it was up here. You had never been here before, which had only solidified Victor’s plans to bring you.

The quarry was one of the only things in Derry that was worth seeing, and the fact that you’d lived here this long and still hadn’t come up here was blasphemous to him.

“Hey, I was getting worried you wouldn’t come” Vic called, the first to speak between the two of you. He did his best to play it off like a joke but it seemed like you knew how nervous he was.

Of course you did.

You were nervous to do this too.

Putting yourself out there wasn’t really something you did often or were good at, and you felt like you had taken a huge risk in agreeing to do this with him. However, as far as dates went, this really was worth the risk.

No one had ever gone through so much trouble just to impress you.

“You get stood up often?” you teased, sitting down on the spot across from him which you assumed was meant for you. It would have been sort of strange if he was waiting on someone else too.

It was a joke of course, but what you didn’t know was that he had. In general, Vic didn’t date too often just because he didn’t have a great history with this sort of thing.

He wasn’t exactly a ladies man after all.

“Sometimes” he shrugged, hoping that wouldn’t scare you off. It was much more honest than he was used to being, with anyone, but for some reason, you brought it out of him.

The two of you seemed to bring something different out of each other and as strange as it was for both of you, it was nice.

Victor, for one, felt like he could be who he was around you. It didn’t matter how vulnerable or goofy he wanted to be, there wasn’t going to be any awful consequences like there would be with the gang.

You didn’t seem to care if he wanted to be a geek.

“That’s okay. Me too” you shrugged, grabbing one of the cans of soda he offered you.

Your admission made him laugh, of course, because he assumed that you were joking, but after a few seconds of silence, he realized just how wrong he’d been.

You were completely serious, but that didn’t make any sense to him. You were beautiful and the fact that you had been stood up on a date didn’t compute for him.

Who in their right mind would have skipped out on a date with you? Victor certainly wouldn’t have, even considering how difficult you had made getting here for him.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad they were so stupid because now you’re here with me” he sighed, doing his best to keep from looking you in the face after saying something like that but you were happy he had.

That was one of the sweetest things anyone had ever said to you and as shocked as you were that he was the one saying it, you weren’t going to argue.

“I’m glad too. You’re surprisingly sweet, Vic” you allowed, taking a sip of your drink without much more between the two of you. This was hardly where you saw the evening going, but it was for the better.

Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.

[sardonicallys]

𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗲𝗺𝗽𝗼 𝗼𝗳 𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗿

mobile masterlist | web masterlist

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: Hyunjin + Reader

𝗚𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: Fluff (just a touch of angst)

𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: Vague mentions of the news reports pertaining to accusations unproven

𝗦𝘆𝗽𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀: Time heals all wounds, but exactly how much time does it take? For the past few months, you spent almost all your free time with Hyunjin, entertaining one another with the mundane company of everyday passings. Rather than being bad at expressing yourself, you found that your silence could support him in a way that allowed him to figure out what was going on in the gray matter, without any pressure. Besides what good would it do if you told him if he didn't believe it himself? You're never too far, however, always keeping up with his wandering thoughts to catch him whenever he fell out of his mind.

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗖𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 1,349

𝗔𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲: Just as everyone else is anticipating with eager hopes, I want to manifest the safe return and exciting journey ahead for Hyunjin. We're ready to welcome you, whenever it's time, whenever you're ready.

The valley of Seoul was scooped out perfectly like a spoon drove in and hollowed the crust of land out, dolloping mountain ranges that hugged the capital. An advantage of the uneven terrain left much of the vegetation intact, tracing along the origins of trees that grew through millenniums that most of us have never seen. Nestled in the tall grass, the shade of a sprouted ginkgo tree’s arm gently drifted along with the summer breeze, brushing its shadow over the paled skin of your a-little-more-than-a friend a-little-less-than-a boyfriend counterpart, as if washing away his thoughts and troubled memories into the fan shaped leaves. Your stolen glance captured the sun just barely brushing along his cheekbones as you watched the imprinted shade of his lashes dance across his skin, the two of you abandoned somewhere in a park that was tucked away, despite being in Seodaemun.

There’s a sense of guilt, allowing your focus to be whisked away by the ethereal beauty of the focused boy before you when his intention of inviting you was to draw together amongst the scenic backdrop of nature, and perhaps to mentally escape for a while from the cruel cacophony of fabricated and exaggerated stories that were shrouding his every waking moment that never quite belonged to him. Visual art, particularly sketching, was a new hobby he picked up — with ease, might you add — not too long ago. You listened to the consistent strikes of graphite against the thick sketch paper, cadencing amongst the whistling of leaves as you unconsciously began to trace the profile you saw before you, sloping from Hyunjin’s forehead and nose before curving the tip of your pencil to create his lips. You never dared mention the sudden increase in invites you received after seeing the slew of news that belittled his character, knowing he could never speak honestly on what actually occurred, on what an average life of most kids his age likely reflected. People and the public knew better, of course — you hoped — but you most of all, did.

“I’m just taking a break,” you recall him mention, unprovoked, one night while you both silently ate ice cream on your rooftop. But he was stiff, his eyes projected into the distance of the night sky but you could tell they were galaxies away, swirling somewhere you had never been. These words seemed more for himself than for anyone else.

“I know, you needed it anyways,” you assure him, hoping your words can envelope him in an embrace you were too afraid to offer, afraid it wouldn’t be enough to carry his worries.

Hyunjin, that night, looked so different than right now before you. Shoulders slouched over his canvas, he let the pencil sit on the surface of his sketch pad as it rolled down and rested against his abdomen, flicking and stretching his fingers before making a quiet fatigued sound. You bit back a grin as you slowly turned Hyunjin’s lips into thatched leaves, drawing in the veins of stems before retracing your way up his profile to create the foundation of thickets. Smoothing out petals that sprouted from the crown of his head, the portraiture disappeared as it grew into a bundle of amaryllis, a symbol of strength, the narrow and pointed tips reaching out in every direction as you sealed a wish into each stroke of your graphite — please give him strength, as an artist and as a person.

So consumed by your mantra and creation, you didn’t notice the sudden uninvited stray pencil mark in the corner of your sketch pad. Since you had taken too long to register the first attack, a flash of flesh sprung past your vision as yet another mark appeared. Furrowing your brows, you looked up at Hyunjin to see him feigning concentrated contemplation while staring at his drawing, twirling his pencil between his fingers. You were tempted to return the favor but decided against it as you took your eraser and buffed it over the mark. Continuing to sketch, Hyunjin carefully sat as high as he could to peek at what you were so immersed in. Flowers? Casually rotating his head back and forth, he wondered where you were capturing them from.

Using your kneaded eraser to adapt to the dimensions along your shaded petals, you gingerly created shadowing onto your page before watching Hyunjin’s pencil run along the spiral of your pad, back and forth, while it clicked out notes and nostalgia. Peering up at him, you tilted your head curiously before nudging his pencil away with your own but not before he playfully jabbed the tip in your direction, emulating a saber. The body of your pencil suddenly in defense as you blocked the flick of his makeshift weapon. Soft taps of the tools countered back and forth as you felt your smile deepen into your lips.

“…So you’ll only give me attention if I challenge you to a duel?” Hyunjin’s voice reeled your eyes up as you focused your awareness on him, belatedly realizing he had not as he flipped his pencil and poked your hand with the backend of the instrument, “Ha, I win.”

Snorting, you rolled your eyes before shooing his hand away, "You know you're the one who said you wanted to draw."

"And I did."

"Did you now?" Combing your fingers through your hair, you returned to your unfinished sketch as you smudged the uneven blends of your pencil residue, giving the image the realism you desired.

"Mhmm, around the time you couldn't stop staring at me."

Abruptly, you stiffened before attempting to play off your awkward body language, "...Who said I was staring at you?"

"No one said that, I just saw you staring at me."

"Well you saw wrong."

The corners of his eyes creased downwards, drawing an imaginary line that pinned the ends of his mouth and dragged them up to meet in a harmonious smile, his expression exuberant and full of delight as he cackled from your response. The warm and pungent fall of his voice warmed you deeper and more fluidly than the sun above you, causing the infectious sound to travel up and down your throat as you returned his laughter with your own. When you both finally subside, he hummed quietly in satisfaction, "...You know, I don't know if you saw it but, we won."

Something clutched at your chest as the tear ducts in your eyes began to swell at the word we instead of they. For months, he had been using the other pronoun, removing himself from association as if he brought a stained shame. They curated this amazing choreography, did you see it? They arranged the song to fit this refreshing theme. They were exhausted but look how hard they pulled through. Even though you distinctly remember several late nights when you pillow talked to sleep and listened to Hyunjin's tired whispers of confessional involvement, and how he supported and encouraged them as an unlisted creative amongst their project. You knew it had always been we, but you waited patiently for him to realize it, all on his own. All these words you were unable to vocalize, afraid the dull stone in your throat would evaporate and melt down your cheeks in the form of tears seemed to reach Hyunjin as he brushed your hair away from your face and tenderly pressed his lips against your own while cradling your cheek in his palm, a quiet form of gratitude that meant more to you than anything he could have ever said otherwise.

You wished to keep these selfish moments for you and you alone, quietly showered in his undivided attention because you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy his company. Now more than ever. But as he grew into his own strength, evolved and molted into a new skin that prepared him for the journey ahead, his long rest well deserved and savored, you wanted only his happiness. From the looks of it, it seemed he was ready to pursue and receive it too.

[moonyswriting]

Pretty

Happy Birthday Remus!!

This fic is written by me and the brilliant dani! @unadulteratedpaperparadise. she'll probably say we both did the same amount, but without her there wouldn't have been a remus birthday fic today, so give her all the love! she deserves it.

Characters by @lumosinlove

“I don’t know about this…” Remus said questioningly.

“C’mon, Re,” Sirius pleaded. “It’ll be fun, I promise.” He punctuated his sentence with a kiss to Remus’ ear.

Remus sighed, “Fine. One time and if I hate it, I get to do yours.”

Sirius' eyes lit up and he actually bounced a bit on his toes. “Hell yes, Re! You’ll look even better than you usually do.”

A blush crept up on his face and he couldn’t keep the smile from his lips. “So?”, he asked, looking expectantly at his boyfriend.

“Ooh, okay. Sit down”, Sirius barely hid his smile as he turned around to get the makeup from where he’d put it.

“Okay, baby,” Remus laughed as he sat down. “You’re really excited about this, huh?”

“Yeah, I mean I just think you’ll look hot,” Sirius said. “I mean, you always look hot but-”

“Relax, I know what you meant,” His infectious chuckle continued.

“Okay. Can I start? Are you ready to become even more beautiful?”, Sirius was smiling over both cheeks now as he picked up a brush and some kind of container.

“Stop it,” Remus blushed a little every time Sirius paid him a compliment, even after all this time.

His smile turned into a grin and he was sure Remus knew what he had gotten himself into. “What? I can’t tell my gorgeous, brilliant, wickedly hot boyfriend that he is the light of my life and the best person on earth? Now what’s the fun in that?”, he leaned down and kissed Remus’ cheeks, where his blush had darkened to a deep red.

Remus hid his face in his hands, willing the blush to go away. He stared up into those beautiful blue eyes and suddenly it didn’t matter if he was blushing; it didn’t matter if he was at the bottom of the Mariana Trench or the top of Mount Everest, he would look up into those eyes. Those eyes that looked at him like he was worth something… worth everything.

Sirius’ smile softened, “You’re perfect.”, he paused and just looked at the other for what felt like an eternity, “Okay. Makeup!”

Sirius pulled out the makeup bag that Lily had prepared for him. It was reflective, proclaiming “Find yourself and be that!” Sirius smiled at the wording, knowing that now he had found himself and that he was, in fact, being that.

He got out a sparkly eyeshadow and a big fluffy brush and then stopped looking a bit sheepish, “What do I start with?”

“From the one makeup video I’ve ever watched, I think you start with foundation?” Remus guessed, shrugging.

“Ah. Yes, of course,” he went looking through the bag again mumbling to himself, “Foundation. Yeah, I know what that looks like, I’ll just-”

“Glass bottle.”

“I knew that, but thank you. Foundation.”, he said as he held up the bottle in victory, accompanied with a sponge in the other hand.

“I think you gotta wet the sponge first,” Remus supplied helpfully (?). “I mean, I think.”

“You’re awfully knowledgable for someone who’s only watched one makeup tutorial, huh?” Sirius smirked as he splashed a little foundation onto the back of his hand.

“Maybe I watch the occasional beauty guru,” Remus conceded. “Maybe I watch beauty ASMR videos and if I do, it’s my business and mine alone.” He huffed out, a little embarrassed.

“You are adorable.”, Sirius placed a lingering kiss onto Remus' forehead, “And now, foundation!” The black-haired boy carefully soaked the sponge into the liquid and dabbed it onto his boyfriend's cheeks. “Is this right, Mr. Makeup ASMR?”, he asked Remus in a teasing tone covering his face slowly in the light beige Lily had brought them.

“Yes,” Remus gritted through his teeth playfully.

“Awww, you look like an angry little puppy when you do that,” Sirius cooed whilst continuing his ministrations. “Don’t pout, it’s bad for the makeup.” Remus’ eye twitched in mock-irritation.

Remus sighed once the other was satisfied with his work. “Concealer is next. So please, make these under eye bags disappear.”

Sirius acted annoyed, but he knew Remus could see, he was glad for the instructions. “I love them, though. They’re part of you. You work too hard, that’s what they show.”

“This is makeup. It’s reversible.”, Remus smiled. He had never liked his eyebags, which had always kind of just been there, but it made him warm up to hear Sirius did.

“Fine.” a pout on his lips, the taller man covered the skin under Remus’ eyes with a lighter shade, watching the light purple disappear.

“So pretty, baby,” Sirius said lovingly as he patted the product into his boyfriend’s delicate skin.

“Hey, that’s my line,” Remus reached out to hold Sirius’ left hand, which was resting lightly on his cheek to give him stability when applying the makeup. He gently tugged it away from his own cheek to place a kiss in between his boy’s knuckles. “You’re so soft here. I thought your skin would be rough.” He flipped Sirius’ hand over in his his, analyzing every nook and cranny, crevice and callous.

“Why would my knuckles-” Sirius’ affection for the man before him killed the query on his lips. His eyes fluttered down briefly then, softly, met Remus’. “I like being soft with you.”

“I like all of you, baby. Smooth sides and rough edges,” Remus said, still absently playing with Sirius’ hand.

“Even after all these years, you still always know what to say to me,” Sirius said, staring deeply into Remus’ light amber eyes.

“I still don’t think that’s true,” Remus huffed a quick laugh.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Sirius pulled away slightly to pick up a small pot of blush.

He used a large fluffy brush to pick up a little bit of the bright pink product and leaned back over to his lover.

“Light, upward strokes,” Sirius spoke softly, intently focused on the application of the blush.

“Huh, never knew you to be one for light strokes,” Remus joked.

Sirius couldn’t help the smile, but chose to wash over the comment, instead applying the pink power onto his boyfriend’s cheeks. “You look so cute! Like you’re blushing.”, he said, once he was done, looking at Remus.

“If that’s what it looks like you might have added too much.”, he laughed, ignoring the actual blush that spread under the makeup across his cheeks. As Sirius just kept staring at him,his face felt hotter. Remus took a deep breath, “Come on. Want to do something with my eyes?”

The black haired shook out of his trans, “Yes, yeah, of course. This is the most important part. You’re going to love it.”

“You promised that for the rest aswell.”

Sirius turned around, the smallest amount of actual hurt on his face mixed with a load of cockyness. “What? You don’t love your look so far?”

“No, I adore it. I look fantastic.” Remus answered, his voice dripping in irony.

The other smiled and then dropped a kiss onto his nose, “You always do.”

“So we’re done?”

“You’re not getting out of this, love,” Sirius came back with a whole palette of colors, ranging from deep purples to sparkly golds. He struggled to open it and after a while wordlessly held it out to Remus.

He smiled, but opened it for his lover and returned it.

Sirius sprinkled a light layer of sparkly gold over Remus’ eyelid. He added a burgundy to the crease, accentuating the shape of his eye with classic Lions colors. He added a couple swipes of mascara.

“I’m not fucking around with eyeliner,” Sirius laughed. “I feel like I could do some real damage with that stuff and I do not want to go to the ER today. Or anyday. No ER for you, my sweetheart.”

Remus joined in with his boyfriend’s laughter. “Yeah. Imagine having to explain that.”

“I accidentally stabbed my love blind with eyeliner,”

“Sounds about right,” Remus chuckled. “That would definitely happen to us.”

Sirius made grabby hands at Remus’ sweater paws and reached out to pull him up and out of the chair he was sitting in, spinning him around slowly to face the mirror.

“I look…” Remus trailed off. Sirius came up behind him and snaked his arms around his waist.

“Pretty. You look so pretty, sweetheart,” Sirius cooed sweetly.

“Yeah,” Remus whispered, vaguely aghast. “I look pretty.”

“Let’s go take some pictures, pretty boy,” Sirius swatted at Remus’ ass playfully. Remus cracked up, tilting over the hips just laughing so hard.

“Let’s go, baby,” and with that, Remus placed a sweet kiss on Sirius’ lips and took his hand, leading them downstairs for a mini photoshoot.

[drowningbydegrees]

This is very sappy smut written for the Music Prompt List:

17. Ritenuto (Italian: held back) slow down at once~smell the roses, stop before we go any further

NSFW. Technically a sequel to Nothing But the Background Noise, but it totally stands on its own as well. 

READ ON AO3

Jaskier makes it exactly three steps out the door. Coincidentally the third step is where the bit of roof that shields his doorstep gives way, and where the slightly inconvenient amount of snow he’d stepped into becomes absurd. Scowling, he grumbles under his breath about the lengths he goes to for his students.

Oh, who is he kidding? Nobody is going to trudge through this for a lecture, not even if he’s the speaker. There’s not a soul even outside besides him, from the looks of it. There’s only the quiet hush that sweeps in with the snow sometimes when there’s no one around to interrupt it. It’s quite beautiful if he’s being honest, almost poetically so.

Beautiful. And cold. If he’s not going to class, there’s really no point in standing there with snow nearly reaching the top of his boots. So for once in Jaskier’s life, he does the sensible thing and goes back inside.

The house is as quiet as the world outside it, though considerably warmer. As he hangs up his cloak and quietly traverses the stairs, he keeps expecting some sign of life. But the bedroom door is still swung open the way he left it and there is a distinctly witcher shaped lump under approximately all of the blankets, white hair peeking out in long tendrils.

He’s never gotten to see this before, a time where Geralt finally stops to take a breath. Looking back, Jaskier recognizes the moments now and then that show he’s enough of a fixture in Geralt's life that his presence doesn’t register as a threat. But this is more and he revels in it. Geralt trusts him, recognizes him so instinctively as not to even stir when the bard comes close enough to tuck a stray bit of hair behind his ear. It says more than words ever could. Watching the steady rise and fall of Geralt’s shoulder, Jaskier thinks he’s never been so in love.

It seems a shame not to indulge a little, since he’s not leaving anyway. Stripping down, Jaskier crawls in on his side of the bed. He fits himself against the slight curve of Geralt’s back and rescuing some of the blanket from the witcher’s clutches. Even then, Jaskier only gets a soft, wordless grumble before Geralt settles once more.

They fit like they were made for basking, tangled up with each other in the comfort of a warm bed while the snow falls outside. He could go back to sleep, Jaskier thinks. It’s winter. He might be teaching, but it’s still a break of sorts. If he can’t sleep in now, then when can he?

Idly, he drags his palm down Geralt’s flank. There’s comfort in the familiar topography of the witcher’s body, and isn’t that a heady thought? Geralt is - has allowed himself to be - familiar territory. It seems a silly thing to be so giddy over, but Jaskier smiles as he nuzzles against the nape of Geralt’s neck.

He means to drift off, back towards a well deserved sleep. It’s just that when Jaskier’s fingertips sleepily map out the divot of Geralt’s hip on their way to settle against his stomach, the witcher’s breath hitches ever so slightly. Jaskier might have missed it entirely if he didn’t know Geralt so well, but he does and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t find joy in that too. He knows the subtle shifts in Geralt’s expressions, recognizes the changes in Geralt’s body language as if they were his own, and now there’s this. A sharp, quiet inhale, the very slightest angling of his hips like Geralt’s instinct is to chase after Jaskier even if his mind hasn’t caught up quite yet.

Jaskier has always thought Geralt was rather beautiful, but it’s all the more true like this. Beautiful and his, and Jaskier is absolutely certain that last bit is never going to stop leaving him a little bit stunned. He grins because he can’t help himself and gently mouths at Geralt’s shoulder, delighting in the shudder it earns him.

Geralt pulls out of Jaskier’s grip, but only enough to roll over on his back and pull the bard in close. He presses sleepy kisses to Jaskier’s lips, not even bothering to open his eyes as he rumbles. “Thought you had class?”

“‘Had’ being the operative word. Now I don’t, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with me instead.” Jaskier indulges Geralt’s whims for a moment before he strays to nip at the juncture where the witcher’s jaw and throat meet.

“That’s t-” Geralt’s breath hitches in the most positively satisfying way as Jaskier sucks a bruise into the delicate column of his throat. “Terrible.”

“The worst. I’m sure. However will you stand it?” They’d been frantic in the beginning, like any moment now this was going to slip away from them, but there’s none of that now. Jaskier maps out the crook of Geralt’s neck with lazy, open mouthed kisses, and Geralt’s fingers curl in his hair so haphazardly that Jaskier would think the witcher was dozing off if he didn’t know better.

“That is the question.” Geralt breathes out in an amused huff when Jaskier nips at his collarbone. “I imagine I’ll manage somehow.”

Jaskier means to say something snarky, but before anything takes shape, he finds himself distracted by the indulgent drag of Geralt’s fingertips down the divot of his spine. It makes Jaskier cant his hips forward and he grins against Geralt’s skin at the quiet, pleasured sound that drags from the witcher.

It’s encouragement enough for Jaskier to lazily continue his downward trajectory. After all, they’re both here and he’s still thrilled that he’s allowed to do this and Jaskier has every intention of making the most of it. He’s only just begun to map out the rise of Geralt’s chest with his tongue when the witcher reaches out to stop him. Judging from Geralt’s expression it isn’t a ‘not in the mood’ sort of thing, but he treads carefully anyway.

“I had plans for you, witcher,” Jaskier teases. When Geralt hums in acknowledgment and idly pulls at Jaskier’s shoulder, he finds himself biting down on a fond smile. It’s unexpectedly endearing. Geralt’s fingers tighten in his hair, which is far less endearing, but it is very much something else, making Jaskier’s eyes cross and his throat go a little dry in anticipation.

“Have them up here,” Geralt grumbles, as if Jaskier isn’t already letting himself be herded back to eye level. Somehow, he’s never taken Geralt for much of a romantic, but with the witcher’s hand clasped around the nape of his neck, pulling him close enough to kiss, Jaskier is pretty sure he was just so desperate not to fall in love that he missed it entirely.

Not that there’s anything particularly innocent about the way Geralt’s legs splay out, heels pressed against the backs of Jaskier’s thighs to draw their bodies flush. There’s a distinct sense of purpose to the cadence with which Geralt’s body arches up to meet his, lined up so that the drag of Jaskier’s cock between their sweat slicked bodies leaves him momentarily breathless. Geralt’s teeth drag playfully at Jaskier’s bottom lip, entirely indecent, but all a bit wondrous anyway.

There are parts of Geralt that have always been Jaskier’s but the shape of this is entirely new. He has known for ages the harsh urgency of Geralt yanking him out of harm’s way, but never the barely restrained clutching of the witcher’s fingers, caught somewhere between reverence and desire. He’s always recognized Geralt’s capacity for tenderness, but has never been the focus of it. Now there are soft, half formed endearments whispered between kisses, and stuttered breaths as Geralt rocks up to meet him and Jaskier has to squeeze his eyes shut in the face of it for fear that he might just fall apart.

Of all the things that are his now, this is perhaps the one Jaskier cherishes most. Not the sudden tension of Geralt’s body beneath his, though that is overwhelmingly lovely. Not the sharp press of Geralt’s nails scrabbling at Jaskier’s back, surely leaving red marks in their wake and threatening to drag the bard right over the edge with him. It’s the moment Geralt is too undone to hide his own vulnerability any longer. Their pace goes a bit frantic and uneven and Geralt tucks his face against the crook of Jaskier’s neck, breathing out in harsh pants. He mostly tends to be as quiet when he comes as he is in everything else. It would be a shame, but he clings to Jaskier’s back like he might be swept away in some invisible tide, and he stifles a quiet moan with his teeth against Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier wants very, very much to be the source of this particular surrender for the rest of his life.

Love and pleasure are an intoxicating combination, leaving Jaskier struck stupid with the fleeting notion that if all there was to this was Geralt shaken down to his foundation, it would be enough. Maybe it would even, though the idea is immaterial when he's in the midst of chasing after his own release. Geralt shudders and pulls him closer and even if Jaskier wanted to, there wouldn’t be any holding off.

He doesn’t want to. What he wants is Geralt’s shaky sigh against the sensitive skin just under his ear, a quiet sound that might possibly be a whimper. Jaskier's own climax wrenches Geralt’s name from him like a prayer, whispered desperately against his lover's temple. The pillow caught in his fist doesn’t feel like enough to hang onto, but somehow Geralt’s jaw cradled carefully in his open palm does.

It's a lovely feeling, this careening off into nothing, but strangely, Jaskier finds what he wants the most is the aftermath. The sweat and come stuck between them is going to be dreadfully unpleasant later, but Geralt noses against Jaskier’s jaw in another one of those tiny, inconsequential gestures the bard collects like a magpie. He can feel the way Geralt’s mouth turns up in a rare smile and somehow the mess feels entirely unimportant when there’s that to think about.

There are a great many things Jaskier would like to say, but the bridge they've built is new and fragile and now is not the time for grand declarations. He settles for turning his head enough to briefly catch Geralt’s lips against his own. “So, the lesson I’m taking away from this is that I ought to wake you up more often.”

“Menace,” Geralt grumbles. There’s no bite in it, but even if there were, Jaskier can't possibly mistake it for anything but affection. Geralt is currently dragging the fingers of one hand through Jaskier’s hair, the other coming to rest at the base of his spine like he something precious enough to hang onto. This is the moment Jaskier covets most. No music. No monsters. The whole world narrowed down to something Jaskier feels little need to label.

“Most definitely,” Jaskier agrees solemnly. In a momentary fit of bravery he adds. “Your menace, though.”

Yours. That is... sort of a label, Jaskier supposes.

But the fallout he braces himself for, the rejection he fretfully anticipates never comes. There's no sudden tension. Geralt’s fingers don’t even go still against Jaskier’s scalp the way he expects them to. As if he knows somehow what Jaskier is afraid of, Geralt affectionately rests his cheek against the bard’s. “Yeah. Suppose you are.”

YOU CAN FIND THE REST OF MY WITCHER FANWORKS HERE. <3

[nosunwithoutshadow]

finally posting for day 1 of darklina week! (I have no concept of time)

Rating: M Chapters: 1/1 Words: 2k Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Universe, Fluff and Angst, Character Study, Loneliness, Angst with a Happy Ending, Feels

Summary: It’s the worst kind of cliche, but Aleksander doesn’t realize what he’s missing until it’s gone.

also on ao3

Aleksander misses it. The light. 

He didn’t realize it at first, in those lost few months after he tore the world apart to protect his people. Time stretched oddly then, as he adjusted to his new reality. He felt off balance, constantly teetering on the edge of falling into the abyss he created. The merzost coiled in his soul, making a home in his bones, craving more with each breath. He’d known the magic required a sacrifice before he stepped in front of the dead king’s army, accepted it, but a martyr never knows what they will have to give up to their cause before it’s ripped from them. 

(cont. under the cut)

He only discovers what’s missing later. After emerging from the other side of the void into a new world, one he has shaped, will continue to shape. He gathers what self possession he has left and returns to the capital, presenting himself as a tame housecat for the throne to use at their pleasure, repentant for the misdeeds of his family and content to hunt mice for the reward of a warm hearth and occasional pat. He blunts his fangs, hides his claws, and bats at toys tossed his way for the crown’s amusement, a domesticated predator biding his time. He returns to the tatters of the sanctuary he had begun to build and teaches every Grisha he can save how to sharpen their own claws so when the world comes for them, as it inevitably will, they will be ready. 

And when he has time to think again, when the urge to plunge the entire palace into a darkness they cannot escape has lessened enough that his bones don’t ache with the need, he stands in the courtyard of the Little Palace and breathes. He hasn’t lived without burdens since the day in his long-ago childhood when he realized that he and everyone like him would never be safe. It’s different now though, rather than weighing on him, the darkness drags him down, anchoring him to the earth like it would swallow him at any moment. And when he spreads his arms, exhaling and letting his eyes slip closed for the briefest moment, he feels…

Nothing. 

The days in Ravka are rarely truly warm, but dressed in all black, he’s used to the sun slanting down and soaking into his kefta. He sees the sun overhead, the near cloudless sky, feels a cool breeze rustle the fur at his cuffs, but the warmth he expects to feel doesn’t reach his skin. It’s as if he’s no longer quite part of this world, truly the abomination they call him, shunned even by the sun’s light. 

The small part of him that’s still human wants to strip off his layers in the lost hope that if he can only bare himself to the sun, it’ll be different. As if there’s any way he could ever give enough of himself to buy back what he’s sacrificed. He tilts his face up to the sky and feels nothing but the chill of the afternoon against his cheeks. 

His heart, that traitorous organ, hesitates before resuming its regular beat. He draws a deep breath, collects himself, and continues on his walk. He’d hardly been unaware that there would be a cost to his actions. Out of all the possible consequences, this is far from something that can’t be borne. He will find other ways to keep warm. 

Years pass, nearly too many to count, and yet he numbers every one. The time is counted in the lives he could not save, the indignities thrust upon his Grisha he cannot protect them from. The walls of the Little Palace grow higher, blocking the outside world and its taunting sun. Its light only serves to remind him of what he still can’t do: he can’t control the fold, can’t use it as the weapon he needs to protect his people, can’t stop them from being slaughtered beyond his limited reach, can’t promise them the true security they deserve.

He wears his layers like armor and tries to forget the missing pieces of his soul. He keeps the fireplaces of the Little Palace well stocked to ward off the cold. He nearly forgets what it feels like to have sunlight play across his skin, warming him even through winter’s chill.

But then.

And then.

Oh.

He’s spent centuries planning, but he could never have planned for Alina. Even less for what she would do to him. He touches her, and walls built over hundreds of years fracture, their foundations no longer solid. He sees her power, and he remembers dreams he no longer has any right to. He feels her warmth, and he finds he might give up what’s left of his soul to stay close enough for her heat to burn. 

It’s another small sacrifice to let go of her after that first touch, but he comforts himself with the knowledge that she won’t go far. He’s found her now, and the blinding potential of what that means threatens every ounce of his hard-won restraint. He rediscovers parts of himself he thought long-dead, pushing through dirt and cobwebs like a dormant seed, reaching out towards her sun. 

He will keep her close, there’s no question of that. Losing part of himself was torture enough the first time; he doesn’t know how he could bear it again. He’s endured so much, but not this. And she’s so much more than his scattered missing pieces. She’s life to his emptiness, the rushing river to his steady mountain, the celestial light to his earth-bound darkness. 

If he’d known just how much she was, he’s not sure he would have wanted her, the him before he met her. No blessing as potent as her comes without danger. And she is dangerous, all fire and fury, telling him “no” and crashing headlong into centuries worth of careful plans. Even so, he’s no fool to cast aside such a treasure, if he even could. He’ll hide her in his fortress, its defenses built for this day, and hone her into the weapon she was meant to be. 

It has to be said, his plans usually proceed much more smoothly. 

People are the fatal flaw to any plan, Aleksander knows, and that has never been more true than with Alina. Every time he thinks he’s learned to understand her, she surprises him again. He wants to hate her for that, at first. Even then, he can’t bring himself to, not really. His only consolation is those moments when he’s certain that she feels it too. That he’s not alone in this maddening need. She fills the empty spaces inside of him to overflowing, and even then, it’s still not enough. He’s never thought himself greedy, merely wanting what he’s earned, but for her, he might be. 

Even when their goals finally align, when at last she accepts him as her ally rather than her enemy, it’s still barely enough. It’s consuming, this need, more dangerous than merzost and infinitely more seductive. He can almost forget the hunger clawing at his soul when he’s with her, the warmth of her bathing his skin, sinking deep. She’s so powerful it’s blinding, and yet so unbearably human. A mess of contradictions, his Alina, and he wants to take the time to explore all of them. 

In the early days they don’t have much time for exploration, as one age gives way to another. The first time they bed each other is fast and desperate, fueled by all the times they’ve been denied before. It can’t even properly be called bedding, since they don’t make it farther than the nearest table. They manage to fall into bed together by the third time around, and the sense of completion as he slides into her, their eyes locked on each other, is enough to make all the centuries it took to get there worth it. Anger still simmers between them, and he can’t be certain that she won’t try to kill him before morning, but for this, he might let her. 

In the aftermath, he foolishly thinks that this must be the pinnacle. He holds her to him, reveling in the heat of her body and how perfectly it fits against his. Her light calls to his shadows, even lying quietly together like this, their bodies and spirits tangling into a single whole. 

He doesn’t have the frame of reference then to imagine how anything could be better, but then time stretches before them, and the walls between them slowly crumble. They rebuild and their lives mesh into one another, weaving around each other until they become inseparable. She reminds him of things he’d left behind, and he shows her what could lie ahead. He finds his shadows reaching out to her without realizing, what should be an unforgivable loss of control, but he can’t deny them their other half. He doesn't ask if she feels it too, conditioned by centuries to avoid any hint of weakness.

And he knows that there's no way he can complete her the way she fills the ache in his soul. It's an emptiness that's only grown over those same centuries, widened and deepened into a chasm he could never admit existed. She's his match in every way, but she's only lived a mere couple of decades. He can barely remember being that young, that long ago time when he knew so little about what was to come, what real loneliness meant. 

He clutches her to him at night, without meaning to, his body reacting to his mind’s unspoken fear that she may yet disappear. She lets him, sometimes tucking her body into the contours of his, other times turning in his hold to wrap her arms around him in return. 

They’re laying like this one night, her head against his chest, his nose brushing her hair, both sated and drifting on the edge of sleep. Aleksander idly considers his tasks for the next day, while his sun summoner traces patterns of light over his skin. She draws back, and he relaxes his hold enough to look down at her. Her thoughts are heavier than he expected, some inner struggle creasing her brow. He doesn’t expect the question that follows.

"Did you feel it, before me?" She hesitates, as if searching for the right word. "The… emptiness?"

And he remembers that he didn’t feel that much older than her when he'd opened the Fold, tearing apart the very fabric of the world out of his grief and desperation and fear of losing the people he had left. She may not be able to match the age-worn depth of his feelings, but he shouldn't underestimate the depth of them. The young feel everything so much more fiercely, he remembers. 

His mother had tried to tell him, back then, that what he felt would fade. He'd known she was wrong then, but he knows it with earned certainty now. Age may have dulled the edges of that grief, but to lose it would be to lose a part of himself. Time has given him perspective for those emotions as it held onto their all-consuming breadth. 

One forgot the passion of youth at their own peril. He'd made that mistake with Alina already. So many years, and still so much to learn. 

“Yes,” he answers. It costs him a small sliver of his pride, but the price is well worth it. In his arms, Alina relaxes, losing a small thread of tension he hadn’t realized she held. “I thought it was my burden to bear,” he continues. “I never thought we could have this.”

Her lips curve in the slightest smile. “I didn’t know what I was missing,” she admits. “Until I found you, I thought that’s how it was.”

He tightens his arms around her, pulling her up for a kiss. He takes his time, exploring the lips he’s come to know so well, reminding them both of what they’ve found together. 

“It might’ve been,” he says as they break apart. “But in a world where we met, I could never have stayed apart from you.”

She responds with a blush and a contented sigh as her lips return to his. They lay there together in their bed, passing kisses back and forth for nothing more than the pleasure of sharing them. The night deepens and, eventually, sleep catches up to them.

Alina relaxes in his arms, eyes fluttering closed. His shadows slip across the room and extinguish the last lamp. Comfortable darkness settles over the room while in the bed, Alina wraps Aleksander in her light.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Visit

(I found this prompt while cleaning out my inbox and I’m so sorry I missed it the first time, Anon! With more than 150+ messages I am finding all kinds of treasures I missed when they came in!)

Prompt:  "10. True tenderness is silent and can’t be mistaken for anything else" for Chris? <3

CW: Referenced death of whumper, referenced parental death, grief of an abuse survivor/whumpee, religious abuse, frank discussion of death, referenced past child abuse and survivor anger

Essentially a follow-up to this piece after Oliver’s death

Jake borrows Nat’s truck for the trip out to the cemetery, the old stick-shift Ford better able to handle the steep hills outside the city than his own beat-up four door. Chris sits next to him, pale and silent, and it’s a callback to a version of Chris that hasn’t existed in years, not since he was a frightened child.

This is a different kind of silence - heavier, it muffles the music from the radio, makes it seem like static and not songs at all. Jake doesn’t turn it up, or change the channel. He lets the silence draw out.

It’s not the same kind of silence, in the end.

The gates, wrought-iron and looking a mix of delicate and eerily strong, are open for them to drive inside. The rumbling engine of the truck catches the attention of an older woman laying flowers on a gravestone, who looks briefly up at them as they pass, but doesn’t wave.

She only looks.

Chris doesn’t look at her. His hands are folded in his lap, his hair caught low at the nape of his neck, the blue captured by a pale gray clip that holds it back from his face. He asked Jake to get him a suit, for this - he’s never owned one before.

Not since he left the bastard’s house.  

Jake didn’t ask why - he just took Chris shopping, and they bought the suit. It’s black, with thin gray pinstripes that match Chris’s hair clip. His button-up and tie are perfectly done - Chris had done them up himself, the vestiges of training he still remembered. He’s wearing black leather shoes, shined up just for this, and he took out all his earrings, the perfect emptiness of the skin making Jake’s stomach flip at the way Chris has removed nearly all of the ways he made his body his own.

Jake drives around a curve on the little paved road, and finally comes to a stop.

The grave is unmistakable - the dirt is still fresh and soft, and hasn’t fully settled. It’s just... dirt, and behind it a little marker stuck in the ground. A simple name, date of birth, date of death. That’s all. The real stone hasn’t come in yet.

OLIVER WILLIAM BRANCH DOB: 09/09/1966 DOD: 04/02/202X Chris stares at the pile of dirt, and Jake sees his knuckles turn white. He’s not rocking, not tapping, not humming. Just... silent, and still. Like he’s carved from stone.

Statue boy, Chris used to whisper, when he was scared. Be a good boy, statue boys don’t move, stillness is better than what I do, statue boys stay still...

“You-” Jake’s voice cuts into the silence, a knife into skin, and he flinches at the sound of his own voice. He’s just wearing a t-shirt and jeans, and suddenly he wonders if Chris wanted him to wear a suit, too, if he’s disappointed Jake didn’t think of it on his own. “You don’t... have to do this, Chris.” His voice drops, stays lower.

Chris doesn’t look at him, only looks at the grave. His beautiful face is pale, and looks young - more like when he first showed up - and the blue hair suddenly looks wrong, like he shouldn’t have it yet. It should still have its coppery new-penny shine. The roots are hinting, just a little, at the color it used to be. “Yes, I, I, I, I do.”

Jake swallows against a lump in his throat, and slowly nods, turning off the engine and sitting back. The radio continues to play, pulling on battery power, while the two of them look at a pile of soil that covers a dead man whose life is still carved into Chris’s mind. “You want me to get out with you?”

There’s a quiet, as Chris thinks.

Then he whispers, “Please,” as his thin fingers find the handle to the door and open it up. His other hand grips onto the bouquet of roses they’d picked up to bring out here, wrapped in crinkly paper and tied with a thin string.

Immediately, birdsong filters in, intrudes on the silence, demands their attention instead.

Jake is out of the truck in a heartbeat and around to meet Chris as he slowly steps down. He looks like a child dressed for a party, even with a suit carefully chosen to fit. Or maybe Jake just struggles to see him as anything else, in moments like this one.

Chris leans towards him and Jake slides an arm around his shoulders.

He doesn’t regret this man’s death, only that it couldn’t have been half so painful as what the bastard deserved - but Jake keeps that to himself, because he can see the tears standing in Chris’s eyes, and that’s not what Chris needs to hear right now.

Instead, he just says, softly, “I’m here.”

Chris nods, bumping into him once, twice, three times - a reassurance, a reminder. Then he starts to walk, clinging to the roses in his hand, and Jake walks beside him, narrowing his own long strides to match, so he won’t pull away, so they’ll move together.

There’s no one else here, in this part of the cemetery. It’s just the two of them, walking towards the grave marker, the laid-in dirt. Somewhere, six feet down, is the man who once made the width and length of Chris’s world so narrow that it was condensed to a single hallway, a basement, to the shape of tears.

Jake stands slightly back when Chris steps forward on his own. He doesn’t offer platitudes - he can’t hope that Branch is in a better place, he’s still got his fingers crossed that hell is real just so people like Oliver Branch can experience it - he can’t say everything happens for a reason and then ask himself what possible reason there could have been for Chris to lose everything and be given his own hell in return.

He can’t say it’ll get better or time heals all wounds or you’ll find a way to forgive him or God has a plan because Jake has lived with those words branded in his soul from a thousand well-meaning relatives and church people and his mother’s so-called fucking friends and none of those words did shit, they never helped, they only made it clear that no one wanted to sit in silence with the weight of what had happened, only talk over it until Jake and his mom pretended the pain wasn’t there anymore.

No one deserves forgiveness - you make the choice to forgive, and it’s got nothing to do with whether or not anyone deserves it, you forgive for yourself - not for them.

Time didn’t heal shit, and he’s never forgiven the man who nearly killed his mother and would have kept hurting him if he never got bigger, stronger, better able to fight back.

He can’t say God has a plan, because if that’s true, then it’s a shitty fucking plan, isn’t it? To steal a child from the love that should have been the foundation of his life and hand him over to wolves to be devoured instead?

He can’t say any of it, because he doesn’t believe it, and all those well-meaning words are just knives that tear you open and then demand you comfort the people who can’t stand the sight of blood.

All he can do is give Chris his silence and his presence while he watches Chris lay a dozen roses on top of freshly turned earth.

Chris speaks, and his voice carries just enough, and Jake’s jaw sets, trembles, sets again as he pretends not to hear. As he tries, and fails, not to listen.

“I tried,” Chris whispers, in his slow-stone voice, the one he was trained to use, that he can still slide into as easily as he might throw on a shirt in the morning. “I tried... to be, be good, Sir. I was... I was good. I loved you, and... I didn’t... leave because I didn’t love you-... I... I didn’t deserve to be hurt, Sir. But...” He trails off, and Jake forces his gaze to wander.

A bright red cardinal stares back at him from a tree branch nearby, flits away, lands on a different gravestone. Jake stares at it, wondering with a strange unsettled curiosity if it’s the same cardinal, if it followed them out here somehow, but of course that’s... not possible.

There are cardinals everywhere. Cemeteries just make everything seem haunted.

The gravestone the cardinal rests on has been here a while - there’s a single spray of flowers laid on one side, and nothing on the other. It’s one of those double-stones for married people, Jake thinks.

Chris is still talking to Oliver, and Jake forces himself with all his strength not to eavesdrop, just to be here, to be the strength Chris needs. So he stares at the cardinal, and the gravestone.

Each side has a little clear plastic heart, and Jake knows what those are - the gravetones where you can put a photo of the person inside, and see them, and he thinks those are creepy as hell, but... but he can see why you’d buy one.

A woman and a man. Jake squints. They have the same date of death, he thinks, and his heart twists. Car accident, maybe? That sucks. Chris said once that he remembered his parents died.

He wonders who misses these two, who left the flowers.

Life is not forever - but love is. Beloved parents of-

Jake feels Chris press up to him, cold nose against his neck, hitching in sobs that are nearly soundless, gasping for air.

“Do you want me to talk to you about this?” Jake asks, gently.

Chris shakes his head, twisting his fingers into Jake’s shirt, rocking now, for the first time since they left. His voice, broken, starts to hum to try to drown out his own tears, and Jake slides both arms around Chris’s shoulders and holds him tightly.

“D-don’t, don’t talk, don’t-... don’t don’t don’t, I just n-need, I need, I-”

Chris tenses and then lets out a wail, echoing off the trees, soaked up in the ground around them, a half-scream of stifled pain he’s carried since he was seventeen years old.

“Hurts, h-hurts, hurts, it hurts-”

“Sssshhh, I know, I know it hurts, Chris, I know.”

“It hurts!”

Across the cemetery, the old woman doesn’t look up from her careful care of the stone she is tending, giving them space, a kind of tenderness all its own in allowing them their privacy.

Jake just holds on tighter, giving Chris an anchor, a steady presence he can scream into until all the sound is out of him, until the scream is gone.

Then, it’s quiet. They stand, for a while, in silence, other than Chris’s slow avalanche slide into outright weeping for the man who did nothing but try to destroy what spark he had left, and Jake doesn’t say a word.

He’ll probably cry when his abuser finally dies, too. Assuming anyone tells him.

When Chris, red-eyed and sniffling, pulls back to get in the truck, Jake lets him go, climbs into the driver’s seat, and brings the old truck rumbling to life.

Chris’s knuckles are still white, but as they drive around the curve again, he starts to rock, back and forth, back and forth.

When Chris starts humming, Jake turns the music up a little to give him something to hum along to, and Chris flashes him a tear-stained, trembling little smile in gratitude.

A dozen roses in brown paper lay on top of the grave of a man who could never deserve the grief that Chris so freely feels for him.

The cardinal watches them go, and then hops down from the top of the gravestone to peck at birdseed scattered on only one side of the double-stone grave of two people who died on the very same day when Chris was fifteen years old.

---

Tagging: @burtlederp​, @finder-of-rings​, @endless-whump​, @whumpfigure​, @slaintetowhump​, @astrobly​, @newandfiguringitout​, @doveotions​, @pretty-face-breaker​, @boxboysandotherwhump​, @oops-its-whump​ @moose-teeth​

[ramblingguy54]

After The Rain: Powerful, Heartbreaking, & Endearing.

BIG SPOILERS AHEAD. GO WATCH THE EPISODE FIRST.

It was only a matter of time until Hop Pop’s big lie to Anne about doing more research on her music box, aka Calamity Box, through his resources would come back to haunt him severely and they delivered strongly on that drama. After The Rain doesn’t waste time, by jumping right into the fray of getting down to this conflict. Right off the bat, Hop Pop is caught red handed by Anne no longer being able to lie anymore about the Calamity Box. His guilt consumes him to fess up about everything, much to Anne’s justified confusion, frustration, and hurt feelings. Hop Pop had welcomed her into their family with open arms. She’s greatly bonded with these three, helped them through rough times, and literally saved Hop Pop from execution of being eaten alive in the Season 1 finale, Reunion. To see someone she considers family go behind her back and bury not only just her key to getting back home, but Anne’s symbolic trust in Hop Pop must’ve felt worse than getting slapped in the face. Anne royally chews him out for being this deceptive and it doesn’t help he’s always been preachy in general about being responsible, honest, and reliable, too. This only adds further ammunition for Anne to launch his way about being so highly dishonest. Hop Pop & Anne are put greatly in an empathetic light, as you feel for them both with this falling out at the start, kicking off an emotional domino effect.

Even though Hop Pop did something pretty wrong, you still feel bad for the old man because he was just trying to look out for his family. He may have trusted and liked Anne, but not enough to look further into what this whole music box deal was about. Especially after learning of its apparent destructive powers it can unleash. As we’ll soon find out by the end of this angst filled episode, Hop Pop had a much deeper reason for wanting to bury it, than just simply protecting his family. It delves into a more vulnerable side of his personality. Something he’s been putting on a brave face about. If Hopping Mall was a gut punch of drama, when looking at Sprig affected by his mother’s passing, then After The Rain is a total nuke of poignant writing exploring one’s deepest regrets that’d go on to shape Hop Pop’s more restrictive, cautious, and loving nature toward his own family. After The Rain spins an entire new context for all of Season 1. Why was Hop Pop so determined to give Sprig & Polly a better life, than simply being poor as they were and having to scrap by day after day? The answer it provides shows how much compassion and remorse Hop Pop truly feels, overall. It’s no wonder Hop Pop wanted Sprig to win that talent show competition before. It isn’t just a matter of feeling inadequate about himself as a parent, but feeling his kids deserve better, yet feels he doesn’t though after a huge loss this guy suffered.

Sprig & Polly’s parents...

We’ve known Sprig was seriously affected by the loss of his mother, but we never knew just how torn up Hop Pop was inside over it. The origin of what became of their biological parents before Hop Pop took over adds so much weight to his role as a father figure, yet delivers a devastating context to Hopping Mall in retrospect. Amphibia’s dramatic writing continues to impress me with how much it’s built upon the foundation of its first season, regarding utilizing its trope of found family. Hop Pop wants these two kids to be happy at the expense of his own, given he takes responsibility upon himself for their parents passing away in such an untimely and cruel manner they were dealt. It’s been eating away at him for all these years since then because he decided to go on a trip outside of Wartwood and had no clue of what fate awaited them upon returning. Imagine the horror of coming back to your home town and seeing it all torn apart, but then receive a terrible cherry on top of finding out your beloved relatives have died? No matter how much something may be out of your control in certain circumstances, when you’ve prided yourself in always being dependable and then not being there when it mattered most of all is a crushing reality to live with. That’s why Hop Pop took this mindset upon himself.

Sprig & Polly survived, but their parents weren’t so lucky...

To learn Sprig & Polly’s parents suffered such a grim fate at the fangs of these big herons is freaking heavy as all Hell. Some have speculated Sprig’s mother had an interaction with the Calamity Box that led to her death, which is why Hop Pop was terrified of it, but nope. After The Rain reveals a much harsher demise for their father & mother. These creatures made an appearance before in a previous story when Sasha & Grimes defended their tower from being torn to pieces by this dangerous species of predator, so it’s quite a dark pay off to see just how truly dangerous these things are adding an emotional weight to them, as well. The world of Amphibia doesn’t pull its punches at all for how unfair and cruel its environment can be to its denizens having to deal with this type of life on a day to day basis. A prime example of world building adding to its cast of characters. You love to see it. Especially when you’re getting stuff such as this.

Hop Pop, I forgive you...

Can I just say how much I love Bill Farmer’s work as an actor? He really went all out for Hop Pop’s breakdown. When I heard him say, “I’m sorry. I’m just so sorry!”, I wanted to join in on that hug Anne gave Hop Pop, too. Seeing him realize how much he alienated Anne for hiding a big secret from her because part of him was still so terrified of losing everything this father figure cherishes is painfully beautiful to behold. After The Rain is an all around great pay off to drama it’s been building up to delivering on and was so very much worth it. Hopping Mall made me shed some tears at how resonating it was, but After The Rain’s angst driven, heartbreaking, and lovely conclusion hit me much harder.

Amphibia continues to impress me with how unafraid it is to let these emotional beats really stand out as much as they possibly can. Mad respect to that. 

[feather-dancer]

Tales of Arcadia Fanfic Recommendations - Part 4

Are you thinking perhaps, wow I never expected a fourth fanfic recc list so soon? Because if you do I feel exactly the same way! I thought I’d have some more of my own writing out by the time it happened and yet even before Wizards I was building up a good list of reading then the release just set off a flood of ‘em I’ve been duly binging and hoarding. Because of how long this post is getting I’m at the point of wanting it out my drafts and in the wilds before it begins to grow legs.

As when I posted the third list, I suspect within 48 hours I’ll find a new fic and I’ll need to start drafting a fifth one thus the cycle continues...

You can find Part 1 of my fanfic recommendations here!

And Part 2 here!

Part 3 is here!

Plus one shameless plug for my own current fics because I can.

General Trollhunters

Hold My Hand in The Dark - Jim may have escaped the Darklands but even now it still has it’s claws in him.

To Say Nothing of the Dog - A Steli fic that’s very cute. Sometimes trolls aren’t the strangest thing you find out in the woods of Arcadia.

say that you'll stay awake for me - Another Steli fic where they’re both completely useless but it’s full of fluff anyway.

Candy canes and Sugar plums - Two very sweet Christmas themed one shots. In one Not!Enrique has to get ready for a photography session and another Jim as a half-troll gets mistaken for Krampus by a pair of kids.

Despondent Contemplations - Back in the old library that was once their home in Heartstone Trollmarket, Blinky and AARRRGGHH reminisce about old times. Contains minor spoilers for Wizards but not enough to remove from this section.

The Indecency of Courage - The thoughts of Kanjigar during his final battle.

Brotherhood - It’s hard to love a sibling who betrayed then later attempted to kill you and in return you permanently blinded but with some relationships it’s worth seeing if it’s still possible to mend.

In Our Times To Come - Jilaire, trauma comes in many shapes and forms but as long as you have the right people around you perhaps you can work your way through them together.

General Wizards - Skip this section if you wish to avoid spoilers

The City Never Sleeps - Douxie, Archie and Nari are now on the run trying desperately to keep off the radar in their new home of New York City but the flights of fancy of the old traveling days meet a whole new reality where things are a lot more expensive. For his new family though, this wizard willingly burns himself out over and over to keep them safe.

Home Away From Home -The sequel oneshot to the above and the struggle continues. Nari's attempts to figure out her place after a month of adjustment while Douxie seems to have lost all concept of things called plates.

a rescue from the weight you've carried - The ending these kids DESERVE.

Eyes Like Hope, a Smile Like Mercy, a Voice Like Justice - Without even realising it, Jim offered so much to the trolls of the past just by the virtue of being Jim.

Another Mistake - It’s not easy to revisit your past but in Douxie’s case he is offered a unique chance to see his younger self and the humbler roots he once came from.

Strings - Zouxie and oh GOD is this adorable and fluffy and I love it very much.

Waiting for Dawn - It’s over isn’t it? But Jim’s journey isn’t, not quite yet. His next task involves stumbling back home with the help of his friends and family and figure out the immediately of the after.

Center Stage - Douxie’s relationship with Merlin might have been incredibly complicated but it does not make the grief any easier to bear.

i've got to find my soul all before i sleep - Jim has been given a second chance at life and as a human at that but the niggling feeling of his old (New?) skin not quite fitting right anymore.

Stricklake

A Little Bit Pear-Shaped - Even when you think you haven’t taken your eye off the ball you find out maybe you might have and, well, then the title happens.

it's a lovely day in stricklake month - And Dreamcrow is once more coming up with the goods for us all to enjoy. The 6th chapter is nsfw as forewarning.

Dropout - Jim was human, once, then in the course of mere days he was transformed into a half-troll, fought to save the world and then forced to leave home and family behind as a reward for surviving. It’s no wonder that when given the chance to finally breathe again Barbara struggles with what has and what will be.

K.O. - The end result of Strickler’s terrible not so fun day results in a hospital visit but at least the upside involves the fact Barbara is there.

Alternate Universe

The Unwelcome Guest Do you remember Sam from the wonderful Whispers Within aka the Gay Uhl with a monster boyfriend fic? Well here he is a bit earlier than that still causing chaos but this time via trying to be ever so helpful towards a certain avocado coloured changeling who would sincerely like this to stop happening. Please.

left-hand florilegium - Even the great Walter (Stricklander) Strickler was a youngling, once, but no road a changeling may travel was designed to be anything other than a constant test to prove your worthiness in survival to gain a place in a brand new world.

Both Sides of the Sky - Jilaire with a historical regency twist and an arranged marriage that forces Jim into Claire’s path. On the surface he appears extremely nervous of something (Or more specifically someone) and she’s had quite enough of suitors making for a poor match. However, a simple act of kindness can bring with it an awful lot of shadows you might well have better off staying oblivious to.

A Foundation of Fluff - I never knew a ship of Barbara, Strickler and Draal could be so adorable and?? Yet?? The spite ship train is glorious. A foundation of fluff is a very apt description.

Broken Mirror - You might think this is another Unbecoming take but you’ll be surprised. During an argument with Merlin over his general treatment of others after the great move to New Jersey, Jim is flung elsewhere to wake up on the fabled day he found the amulet and very much human again. Not wanting to mess things up this time he goes to rescue Kanjigar before he is felled but nothing goes as expected.

Bitter Sixteen - The stalkling was set on Jim and in a lightning storm he was carried away but what if Toby never got that call to come to his rescue?

The World Ended Yesterday - The events of Unbecoming seem so long ago now yet here something went very wrong during the attempt to return to the future causing Jim to be lost to not only time but the very world he came from. Seemingly within another reset, he is not going to bury his head in the sand but equally the half-troll is determined to spare this world’s self future tragedy.

What the Night Brings - There are trolls in Arcadia, hidden underground and planning payback for having the surface lands stolen from them centuries ago. While there is contention in the ranks nobody dares say no to Gunmar the Skullcrusher and there is no Trollhunter to protect the dissents. Jim unwittingly witnesses what he should not and now carries the scars and no longer does he remain a human when the dusk comes, instead he is now some form of were-troll. What’s worse, he’s having to face this whole confusing mess alone.

Claire The Courageous - In a different universe Claire became the Trollhunter instead of Jim and Steve of all people ends up being the one dragged into the world of trolls with her. That however does not mean that Jim isn’t still involved in her journey in some way...

[ronon-dex]

hi! i love your blog! can you tell me a little bit about how you feel about dean (sr, not jr)? it's so nice to see someone who loves both brothers, i've been seeing so much hate and it makes me feel so sad for j2 especially

hi anon, thank you for that. I've been pretty down over the past few days, because social media spaces have become extremely toxic. If it's bad for a fan though, I'm sure it's awful for jared and jensen. I hope they're busy with their new jobs and kids and won't see all the negativity.

so. dean senior. love that we're calling him that now, by the way! I have more complicated feelings than most about dean, since I'm such a hardcore sam fan (so fair warning!), but as I've said before - you can't love one brother without at least liking the other. sam and dean are each other's priority, so if you adore dean but hate sam, for example, you have fundamentally misunderstood dean's character.

dean is interesting. he is. his progression in the early seasons from this funny, sweet, cautious, and eminently protective young guy to a self-loathing, resentful, and harsh killing machine in the later seasons is fascinating character development. i love the continuity of it (which is something spn doesn't usually do well). consider that dean spent the first 28 years of his life taking care of a little brother he adored and a father he worshipped, saving people and hunting things (important distinction). he also spent these years trying to keep his family alive and together, all while being kept on the fringes of society due to his father's obsession. so his father dies to save him, and his guilt is crippling. his brother dies due to his perceived negligence and it's unbearable. he is not only a failure, he is the last member of an extinct species. he is in a state that dean winchester the man has never been able to survive: he is alone. so he sells his soul gladly, and then reaps the consequences when he's sent to hell. and hell (like for sam) changed dean on a foundational level.

in hell he becomes a monster. we don't discuss this much as a fandom because uwu dean or whatever, but dean canonically spent a decade doing nothing but viciously tearing human souls apart in a place designed to turn people insane with agony. I don't blame him for that, since he was under coercion, but it's something a former hero like dean would obsess over. every demon went through what dean did. it's ironic, then, that he comes out of hell and almost immediately starts treating sam like he's different, suspecting him of deviancy for departing the norm of their trade by using his supernatural abilities to save lives. this image he's preserved of his wholesome baby brother is interrupted, and he has to reevaluate himself, what he died for. in s4 he is 44 years older than his brother, his brother who seems to think dean is weak, and stupid, and untrustworthy. dean knows demons, knows ruby's kind more intimately than he will ever be able to admit, and he probably gets to thinking that if he focuses all this rage and disgust on sam, on ruby, he can avoid dealing with his own actions and traumatic experiences. we know the outcome of this. for years sam is blamed for the apocalypse, sam is abandoned to torment, sam gets diminished and beaten down until he's sobbing in a church begging for suicide rather than face dean's disappointment. it becomes clear that dean's flashbang youthful temper has transitioned to a thousand cold, hateful grudges: for sam, his father, his mother, castiel, jack, god, and so on, grudges he'll whip out when he's feeling cornered or irritated. he's prone to beating his loved ones, to lying to them. he violated his brother's autonomy in the same way as lucifer, the individual who tortured sam so badly and in such reprehensible ways that it broke sam's mind. he manipulated his brother into staying with him against his will, and in doing so fulfils his most basic wish, the wish he's had since he was a child - certainty that he will never, ever be alone again.

I'm being rough, I know. hut here's the thing. I still love the guy. why? truthfully, it's because underneath the hard shell that hell made around him, there's an aperture in it that's sam shaped, and a softness that only sam can bring out. I love that he loves sam so much he'd destroy himself and anyone else to save him. I love that he has such a twisted perception of family that he goes to extremes to keep himself and sam together. I love that being a hero is his day job, and I love that that means he doesn't give up, that he always has to find a loophole, a solution, something that will turn their luck and make the world better. he can still be caring, and nurturing, and funny and protective and sweet. even when he's not, when he's an asshole, he's our asshole. (and I haven't had a chance to express this with everything going on, but I am actually sad that he didn't get his own long life. I think he deserved a construction job and a porch and a dog, and for his memories of hell to stay just that- memories.)

dean winchester pushed his pain outward, whereas sam pushed his inward, so I'm always going to relate to the latter more. but dean is in his heart a protector, a captain kirk-esque man of passion that contrasts wonderfully with sam's logic. I wouldn't have the show be without him.

[steelmagnoliamusic]

24 September 2020

Unexpected Music Drop: “Skinny Skinny” by Ashton Irwin from his debut album Superbloom (out Oct. 23rd).

Yesterday, 23 September 2020, at 1:17pm, while I was working on homework, my roommate notified me that Ashton Irwin, drummer for 5 Seconds of Summer and love of my life, is releasing solo material. Because of COVID-19, the quarantine cancelled their tour, and everyone got cooped up inside, but rather than take a well deserved break, Irwin decided to keep his creative juices flowing. He worked on his own music, which talked about important issues and topics he has and continues to face. From depression to eating disorders and body dysmorphia to alcoholism and addiction, we learn a little more about Irwin and a lot more respect for him.

Now when I say he is the “love of my life,” I don’t mean he’s attractive to me (I mean he is but that’s not the point.) I mean his character and personality are unparalleled. You watch him in interviews and interacting with fans, and you can tell how proud and appreciative and genuine he is about what he does and the people who support him. He hasn’t hidden his struggles, like the ones I had mentioned, but he uses his experience to help others find hope and positivity in their lives again, myself included. You can tell how much he’s grown and how much more he wants to grow both as an artist and as a person. He is, in my opinion, one of those people who can say “I love you” and never have to doubt if he means it.

Ashton Irwin and everything he’s done means a lot to me personally. As you know, I lost my dad a little over 2 1/2 years ago. My dad was the one who built the foundation for my love of music. I remember driving with him when I’d go over to his house, and we’d listen to Kasey Kasem reruns, and he could always tell you which song was playing by which artist off which album from which year. It was impressive, and I still wish I could do that. Most of the music I listen to today I got from my dad. So when he passed, there was a bit of a void because music didn’t feel the same. It was still my go-to escape, but losing my dad also made it hard to listen to the stuff we used to. And yes, I admit I’ve had a crush on Ashton for years. I’ve always liked him, and I’ve always been able to relate to him in some way. So when my dad died, Ashton became a sort of solace for me — the one who kept me sane and kept me going and told me not to give up because if anyone could understand the emotional/mental pain I was/am in, help me to love and appreciate myself again, give me some hope and positivity when I needed, it’d be him. Ashton also, I guess, took on the mantle my dad had. I get my music tastes from him because, honestly, his voice and sound and music tastes are phenomenal. Though I’m not a “musician” myself, I learn from him, and I get my creative inspirations from him. Again, for me it’s not how he looks that attracts me to him, it’s who he is as a person and what he stands for as an artist. This is subjective, I know, but to be honest, I believe Ashton Irwin is the only good man I know. Like, I know good men who have guided me in my life, but Ashton for lack of a better term is pure and real. He is the epitome of who I think a good man is. It’s dangerous to hold someone to such a high standard without knowing them personally, but it’s what I feel. I honestly didn’t think I would ever be loved by somebody. I still don’t. I’m still convinced that no one cares about me, no one loves or wants me, no one appreciates me or respects me, that I’m not attractive enough or “normal” enough, that I’m not worth anyone’s time or attention. But when I see Ashton or I hear his voice or listen to him sing, for a moment I don’t feel those things. So far, he’s the only one who has ever made me feel otherwise. Again, I don’t know him personally, and I know the version of him in my head is not who he is in real life, but Ashton helps me get through the day. He helped me get past those terrible days when I just wanted to fade from existence. His smile makes me smile. He makes me feel better. Truth: I respect and appreciate him more than words can express. He is my hero.

So to hear about this solo venture of his (don’t worry, he’s not leaving 5SOS) is incredible. To have watched and grown with him is an honor to me. For Ashton to be so confident and comfortable enough with himself, his band, his music, us, the place he’s at, it’s amazing. I couldn’t be prouder to experience this with him.

His debut single, “Skinny Skinny” is off his debut album Superbloom, which comes out Oct. 23, and it’s fucking A. this specific song brings up the reality of eating disorders and body dysmorphia — something that he, his friends and family, and many of us have dealt with. He calls out the impossible standards we hold about the “perfect body” and the body shame we feel from that idea: “eat, but don’t get fat. Be skinny, but not too skinny, show off your assets so people don’t think you’re a slut and cover up but not too much so people don’t think you’re a prude. Fat is ugly. Why do you look like that?” and so many more things that society and we tell ourselves. It’s impossible to look like those people in magazines when even they don’t look like themselves in magazines. Everyone is different — size, shape, color, build, health, basic chemistry and biology — there is no such thing as the perfect  body except for the one you already have. (Obviously, still keep your health in mind. I don’t want any of y’all to get sick or hurt because of a health issue. I have high cholesterol and PCOS, I have to think about that stuff too. But that still doesn’t mean who you already are and what you already look like is wrong or bad in any way.) This idea of a “perfect body” is dangerous. It makes us hate ourselves and our bodies, and it causes us serious mental and physical health issues, i.e. body image issues/body dysmorphia and eating disorders. Ashton said it perfectly. We don’t “feel at home in our own bodies” when that should be the one place we can always feel at home.

Truth: I’ve only listened to this song since it released yesterday at 11pm. It’s literally on repeat now. So if “Skinny Skinny” is any indication of what we can expect from Superbloom, we are in for a Holy Spirit-inspired, God-given miracle. (Sorry to bring religion out. It’s the best analogy I could think of.) Ashton Irwin is so damn talented.his voice and range are jaw-dropping and impeccable. His music style and sound are amazing. Proud doesn’t even begin to describe how much this means to me. It’s more than pride, respect, admiration, appreciation, or even love. It’s just a part of myself that I either never knew was there or how much it affected me. I know I have depression, anxiety, ADHD, PTSD, but there’s all these other things too that play in my mind and affect how I see myself and the world. And now there’s words for it, for the thoughts and feelings.

Just amazing.

I can’t wait for his album to drop on October 23rd. There’s no doubt in my mind that it will be anything less than awe-inspiring. I’m so happy and proud of him and this “side journey” he’s on, and I’m proud and honored to be a part of it.

For the God-given love of music,

Big Shot

[yaneyanedaze]

My Android Lover: Finale

Whoooooooooo

Here it is everybody! The moment plenty of you have been waiting for..I’m finally getting around to finishing My Android lover!

I’m gonna save what I have to say for at the end of this story, because it’s gonna be one hell of an emotional ride!

So hold onto your wigs and hats ladies and gents!

Enjoy your read!

———————————————————————

Previously on my Android lover

“Mistress..it’s best if you don’t go back..please..” my newest Android, Bruno, Laid on the ground, injured and hurt. He must’ve followed after me as soon as I left. Ives hurried over to the injured Android, he was bleeding heavily from his leg, a huge gash against his leg was responsible. I felt myself nearly about to cry just looking at him.

Ives looked over at me and sighed heavily, ushering her own Android out the room before coming back up to me.

“(Y/n) you gotta go back there..”

—————————————————

I gave her a shocked look and shook my head rapidly “oh god no! I can’t Ives! He’ll end my whole life if I go back!”

She crossed her arms and was tapping her arm, as she tried to figure out what to do. “Well, you gotta get your house back! He doesn’t live here, and who knows! He might try to track you down, and I don’t need Esidisi having a fit...” she explained. She was now pacing back and forth in her living room while I tended to Bruno’s wounds. He gave me a pained smile, he managed to lift himself up into the couch and relaxed. I had managed to stop the bleeding and wrap the wound up. His pretty white clothes were now stained with red..and I felt like it was my fault.

“I-I’m so sorry Bruno...I didn’t know! If I would’ve know I wouldn’t have let this-“ He silenced me by placing a finger up to my lips. He shook his head. “It was not your fault Bella, you could not have predicted this at all.” He mumbled leaning into me. He held me tightly in his arms, his grip tightening, “You have to do something mistress, he’s gonna kill me, or worse you!” He says. His body starting to tremble: He was crying.

I heard his sniffles before they turned to all out sobs, he was afraid, but not of his own life. But of losing me to him. I didn’t want Bruno to be scared anymore, I didn’t want to be scared anymore. I had to do something.

And I had to do it quick.

And I get Ives heard what I was saying because I see her come out with another Android that I’ve never seen before. She had hot pink hair and currently work a black tube top with a colorful checkered skirt. She gave me a gentle smile as Ives began to talk. “(Y/n) meet Trish, she’s my first even Android, I got her around the time Doppio was released and they technically are siblingdroids.” I looked over at Trish, she gives me a wave before walking up, “Oh no..He got you good Buccellati..” She said going up to Bruno and placing a hand on his leg.

“Well, here’s the plan Ms.(y/n) we need you to make a distraction for Doppio. So when we go back to the house, you have to be infront of the door and distracting him. Now i know it sounds dangerous, and it is, but we  need you to do this!” She said, giving me a reassuring pat on my shoulder. I sighed loudly and stood up straight. “Alright! Lets get a move on!” I called out walking out the door.

I was gonna put an end to this once and for all!

———————————————————————

I was shivering, infront of my own house.

I was scared, of my own house

This was pitiful, I was scared of a place that I bought, and I paid for. I shouldn’t have been this scared of my own home.

I nodded to Ives and Bruno, who went around the corner to the back of my house. I knocked on my front door and waited for a bit, hearing rapid footsteps and the door swung open.

There stood Doppio in all his glory, makeup running down his face, tear stains on his cheeks, his eyes were puffy (Something that you didn’t even think they could do.) and his clothes were disheveled. “(Y-y/n)?..it’s you..it’s really you..oh my god..” He pulled me into a hug so quick, he started shaking and soon I felt tears on my shoulder as well. He was crying.

“Bella..I’m so sorry..so so sorry...I didn’t want to hurt you..I didn’t mean it..it was just my boss got jealous..he got mad and went crazy..” He cried, hiccuping in between sentences, he was trueing breaking down infront of me. I guided him into the house patting his back, trying to calm him down. “It’s okay Doppio..It’s okay.” I say rubbing his back as we slowly sat down on the chair. He looked up at me with puppy eyes as he curled up next to me. “You Promise?..”

I nodded and let him lay his head in my lap. And we must’ve been there for a while, because I found myself already drifting off to sleep. I picked up my phone and looked at it to see a text from Ives saying they were in. I tried to sit up, but I found myself getting sleepier and sleepier until I finally drifted off to sleep, but something was off, I felt long flowing hair on my lap instead of Doppio’s ponytail.

It didn’t click until it was too late.

“Bella~ we’re gonna have the most wonderful life together? You, Me, and my precious Doppio.”

Well shit.

———————————————————————

-2 hours later- (Second Pov)

You jolted up in a cold sweat, looking around confused and dazed. It looked like you were in the basement. “Fuck it to hell and back..” You muttered, trying to move your hands only to realize that they were tied and chained behind your back. You sighed and lowered your head ‘I told Them that this was a bad idea!’ You cursed in your head, your eyes finally adjusting to your area. Just to see a man standing infront of you, a smirk on his face. You nearly jumped back, scared as all hell. The male chuckled, beginning to circle around you.

“Mistress...or should I say..(Y/n). It’s about time we met..I was gettin rather impatient with Doppio.”

You glared at him before growling slightly. “What did you do to Doppio!? Where am I??” You yelled, he tsked and continued circling until he got behind your ear. “Nothing~ He is merely asleep~” he answered before walking over to the light switch and flipping it on. Allowing you to see who was responsible for placing you down here. Your eyes went wide. Diavolo

“DOPPIODROIDs tend to be very emotional, they become attached to their owners very quickly. They’ll instantly feel jealous if you are even looking at another Android the wrong way. If you do make them Jealous, then you will meet Diavolo. Another Android built within the Doppiodroid. He is known as their boss, and usually only comes out when tempted. This is where most people send back their Androids for repair, taking the Diavolo function out. Our company has now stopped offering Diavolo as a function. But there are only two in existence that have this function...”

You mentally face palmed as Diavolo clapped his hands. A wide smirk on his face.

“My my~ You remembered my name. Great. Because it’ll be the only thing you’ll be able to say when I’m done with you.” He said, practically growling the last part. He came back up close to you and gripped your arms jerking you up. “You knew better than to get that damn other Android. But you did it anyways..bad girls get punished for disobeying orders~” He growled, throwing you down on the hard basement floor. You groaned and winced, the cold feeling of the floor made the pain worse.

You tried to sit up, but he quickly got down on his knees, placing his hand around your neck. “Now. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. The easy way..we get up, make love, move away and start anew. You, Doppio and I.” He said softly. His grip tightened as he got closer to your face, practically almost choking you. “The hard way is you continue to fight, scream or disobey me. You will be punished. Badly.” You glared at him, but kept quiet. He smirked and chuckled. “Good. Now I’ll prepare the things for us-“

He was punched square in the face before he could finish his sentence. You looked up and smiled happily, There stood Ives, Bruno and another Android. The new Android has blonde hair in the shape of donuts on top of his head. He had a pink outfit on with (what Ives would call) a tiddy window. Ives got down behind you and began undoing your restraint. “Whoo, Just in time, we just happened to open up a package that was on your front porch. Happened to be an Android.” She said giggling, helping you up. You sat up before standing completely up.

Bruno quickly pulled you into his arms, rocking you side to side. “I’m so sorry! We came in and didn’t see you there, we searched all around..we couldn’t find you until we heard him talking.” He explained. You nodded, you head in his chest as Ives watched the blonde haired android (who was named Giorno) fight Diavolo. Punches being thrown, beings there that we can’t even see fighting for them as well.

(Pov change)

Giorno managed to land one good punch on him, knocking him back behind boxes. He looked back at me, a gentle smile on his face. “Greetings, My name is Giorno Giovanna,” He said moving to my side. I nodded to him, but rumbling behind the boxes made me whip my head to the area.

“M-mistress..? Help me! It hurts..Boss.. he’s too strong! Mistress help me!!”

“YOU UNGRATEFUL WHORE!? You dare defy me?! You will pay for this!!!

I winced, Doppio’s cry for help pained you. But Diavolo scared you senseless. Ives looked at me, before speaking. “You go two decisions (y/n), You either get the Diavolo function removed..or” “We destroy him.” Bruno finished. I felt a shiver go down my spine. I don’t want to hurt Doppio, He didn’t deserve this..His boss is the one that wants to do harm-

“I’m getting it removed! I can’t let Doppio suffer!” I cried out. Bruno and Giorno looked at each other, Bruno opened a compartment in his arm that revealed a bright red button. He pressed said button and in the blink of an eye, men dressed in uniforms with the logo SPWF (which Bruno and Giorno explained was the Speedwagon foundation) on their sleeves. I could hear the blood curdling screams from Diavolo, as the workers began drilled and removed a chip from Doppio.

It may have taken no more than 20 minutes, when the men cleared out and headed out. Ives walked over and helped poor Doppio up. He had a fresh scar over his chest where the part had been removed. He looked over at me with a hazy look on his face. I broke away from Bruno and quickly went over to hug Doppio, who looked confused as all hell. “Mistress?..What happened?..Bruno?..what’s going on?..” He asked. I felt tears running down my face as I squeezed him harder.

“Don’t you worry about a thing Doppi..I’m here for you..”

———————————————————————

-1 year later.-

It’s been one year since I got Doppio, Bruno and Giorno, and we’ve been living in harmony ever since. Bruno acting like the mom of the group, making sure we all eat and get stuff done. Giorno is the peacekeeper and makes sure that we stay in harmony, as well as helping me out around the house. And Doppio....well he’s Doppio.

“Mistress! Look I made this for you!~”

“Oi, didn’t she say to call her (y/n)?”

“But I like Mistress~”

He was a sweet heart, he kept me leveled, he was my love. He gave as much love as he received. I spoiled him, he spoiled me, he wanted to be the best that he could be after the events of before. And he certainly has been.

I was in the kitchen cooking with Bruno, Giorno was reading in the living room, and Doppio was at the kitchen table playing on my iPad. We were talking and smiling until we heard Doppio from in the kitchen.

“Moshi Moshi! Oh! Boss! I was wondering when I was gonna hear from you!”

That’s right..No matter where you run (Y/N),

As long as you have MY precious Doppio...

I will always...Be your Android Lover~

———————————————————————

Fuck man, it’s finally came to the end! My very first Fanfiction on my blog! Thank you everyone who have read this story~

I love every single one of you! You mean za worldo me!

This truly has been an experience for me..and I just want to thank the following blogs.

@bjnurse you always give aspiring writers advice and keep making sure everyone is taking care of themselves, you write amazing Fanfiction yourself!❤️

@cocojumbohno another blog that I look up to for inspiration, as a fellow Yandere writer (and an amazing fanfic writer as well) I love reading your pieces, it made me happy to read some of your works and hope to be as great as you. ❤️

@abbacchiosbelt one of the first jojo writing blogs I followed and needless to say, are amazing and wonderful in any shape and form.❤️

@yanderebloodlust and last but certainly not least. Another blog that I love so much, one that I wish I could stop being shy and interact with off anon. From your Fanfiction, to your art, you are an all around amazing person!❤️

Thank you to all of you, it was you guys who inspired me to make my own blog and share my works to the world. I wish you all the best.❤️

And to my followers.

Thank you very much!❤️❤️❤️

[dimancheetoile]

of stardust and galaxies

Written for @shikasaku-week Hanami 2020 Day 2 Prompt 1: of stardust and galaxies

Read on AO3

I had an absolute blast writing this, you have no idea. This story is set before another that will also be posted for ShikaSaku Week.

Yes I did re-use the parents I invented for Sakura in Withered Flowers but they're really not important enough in this story to warrant me spending time researching names for them.

Please tell me what you thought about this one, I'm truly interested given how much I like it!

•

The war went on for much longer than anyone could have ever anticipated. The losses were massive, in scale of destruction and in numbers. After a particularly violent attack from Madara, Konoha was simply razed off the map. Entirely and thoroughly destroyed, until not even the foundations of the buildings remained.

The scope of the fire jutsu Madara used went far deeper than simply destroying the entire history of their village and every single memory kept in those narrow streets and green parks. His black fire, raging and wild, scorched the earth deep into its own core. They tried to rebuild, for a while. Tenzō's mokuton had been vital to the reconstruction effort, but it quickly became apparent that it wasn't worth the chakra exhaustion. Nothing would grow on the cracked earth left behind by Madara's madness.

Driven out of their own homeland by starvation, Konoha's remaining population began its exodus.

Having lost most of the people who used to lead Konoha no Sato, and a good chunk of the people who would have been considered successors to those leaders, the citizens were aimless for days as they regrouped and gathered the very few items they had remade for their new homes that they were going to abandon one more time.

In the end, things settled in the way things always settle after a disaster. Desperation and urgency bred to create exceptional circumstances and someone who wanted nothing to do with power ended up with way too much of it on their hands for their taste.

Haruno Sakura was born to civilian parents in the Farmers' Guild, who only had one expectation for their daughter, which was to marry a nice civilian who owned a reasonable business or worked a reasonable job and live a reasonable life together until they died at a reasonable age only a reasonable amount of years apart.

Unfortunately for Haruno Hashiru and Uzumaki Noroshi, they would both lose their life in a raid of their small property in the farm lands around the village. Having no living relatives and her inheritance barely paying for the funeral arrangements and handling of their property, Sakura was put in the orphanage, and that was that.

Sakura grew up in one of the worst orphanages of the Five Nations, surrounded by children who suffer just as must as you and whose bitterness and malice is proportionate to how poorly they're, in turn, treated by the people supposed to care for them. You don't grow up in that kind of environment and have huge expectations for your life.

Had Sakura not met a clan heiress and her clan heirs friends when she was at a turning point in her life, she would have remained a low-life, desperate kid who would have grown up on the streets of a village that never had the emotional capacity to care for its civilian population, given that it was born out of the desperate attempt at peace of two historically warring clans that treated its own, very rare civilians like cannon fodder.

She would have grown up starved and angry, desperate to put food in her plate day by day. She would have begun selling her body at the age of twelve, to the highest bidder willing to pay for her virginity, and the money from that sale only would have put food on the table for three months, in the underground squat where she would have lived with a few other street urchins, leftovers from a government feasting on its weakest population.

(in another life, she would have kept her eyes shut, round, childish face crushed against the pillow and thankful that she didn't have to look into the beady eyes of the man paying for the last shreds of her hopeful innocence, his white mane moving in rhythm to the thrusting of his hips. She would have thrown a shaking hand forward when he was done, feeling cold and clammy inside, numbly wondering that he kinda looked like a frog, from this angle, then closed her fist around the money before leaving in a rush. In another life, the man would have pulled his loose pants back up under his yukata, feeling good about himself because he just gave a girl enough money to feed herself for a few months. In another life, it never would have crossed his mind that he could have simply given her the money and offered her a shoulder to cry on)

(in another life... right?)

She would have eventually joined a gang, on her knees as often as she would slit throats in back alleys, and a few days before her seventeenth birthday, she would have bled out in the backroom of an unregistered club, throat torn open by a masked figure in a grey uniform the gang members knew too well. As her life would have slowly poured out of her, she would have looked at the back of the ANBU that just killed her and was giving a highfive to the one standing closest, and she would have died with a smile on her lips because the figure smelled like the ramen from Ichiraku that she had never gotten to taste, too expensive for her and her crew.

But Sakura met three clan heirs and after living for ten years in the orphanage, she had been taken in by the Akimichi Clan, when the three friends had taken one look at her shared bunk, on the third day of knowing each others, and had unanimously decided that this would not do and their new friend needed a better place to live.

(Ino had stomped her feet and Shikamaru had pleaded and Chōji had cried a little and eventually, Chōza had caved in and took in the girl. None of the three sets of parents had told their children that their actions didn't solve the problem. None of the three sets of parents asked their heirs why they didn't insist on bringing back every single child from the orphanage, or asked them what they thought would happen to the other children who hadn't made friends with clan heirs. None of them asked anything, because as kind as they are with their own children, willing to give in to their whim of playing heroes for an orphan, they ultimately don't care enough to change a system that benefits them first)

Sakura grows up learning two very important lessons: no one cares about the civilians, and she'll never be in control of her own destiny.

So she's not surprised a single bit when, as the last surviving member of the inner circle around the executive powers of Konoha, she's eventually pushed to the top under the guise of “honoring the deceased” and “giving her the position she deserves for her heroic actions in the war” and named Nanadaime Hokage.

That night, as the slow caravan of Konoha survivors comes to a stop for supper and rest, Sakura crawls into her tent and cries herself to sleep.

A few days later, they finally reach Kiri and Sakura negotiates asylum with the Mizukage. In those few days, she's named herself a cabinet made of the last remaining experts amongst Konoha's sparse population. There aren't enough people in that cabinet for her liking but she can't afford to be picky, so she brings all three of them into the negotiations and they come out with the least worst deal they can hope for, one that is still considerably better than anything they would have managed before the days of the Alliance and better than anything Sakura could have come up with on her own.

The Konoha survivors are put in the deserted district where people who died in the Mist coup used to live in. It's a bit cramped, but they can't afford to complain, so they adapt. At least they have a roof over their head and enough food to feed everyone. Kiri was just as affected by the war as the other nations, though the village itself didn't suffer much in its infrastructure. But they're lacking the numbers lost on the battlefield, and that's where the Fire citizens come in.

People just fill in the gaps left by the war, integrating seamlessly into Wave's economy. They're not naturalized, keeping their Fire citizenship and Sakura remaining their leader. The way it works is that the workers build a wall to close the district off, with a big gate that remains, more often than not, open. Sakura lives in an old administration building, having transformed the top floor offices into a few bedrooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom, two empty rooms waiting to be converted to a kotatsu room and a shrine.

On the ground floor, she has meeting with her advisors, she does hearing for her people and she forges the basis of what promises to be the Fire-Mist treaty, a cooperation and integration policy that would make Konoha's survivors into what amounts to a foster village of Kiri. If this thing comes to pass, they would essentially be a separate state-entity, with its own laws and government, but with privileged relations with Kiri in terms of right of passage, trade, taxes, imports and exports, as well as an equal share of the land.

An equally beneficial treaty, then, but a text of law that still takes a long time to redact and hammer into shape to be certain that no one is getting screwed over by poor wording. The main thing that her village-within-a-village brings to the table is the proposition of an Academy of Medicine and a House of Health.

In short, Sakura would open what amounts to a carbon-copy of Konoha's Academy, training kids to become genin. From that point on, the children would get two options: either continue on the path of becoming a shinobi of Kirigakure, or join the Academy of Medicine and train as a medic-nin. All children of the village would go through the first part of the training, not only Konoha kids, and would receive complimentary medic training so that every genin, even if they don't go on to become medic-nin, have a solid understanding of chakra control and healing, in hopes of reducing field-losses.

The House of Health would be civilian medics, in every specialty, all in one place for convenience. Classes would be provided for Kiri citizens to learn first-aid or more in-depth knowledge. It would double as relief for the overcrowded Kiri hospital, taking in all non-threatening cases so that the hospital could focus entirely on its surgery division and two research labs, as well as the paediatric wing.

The House of Health would have a sub-division for monitoring pregnancies and offering a more casual environment for labour, with a few empty houses around the House, fully furnished and waiting for the soon-to-be parents. They would spend the entirety of the labour in the comfort of the provided home, going at their own pace and being on their own or with their family. And if anything goes wrong, there would be an entire House of professionals right next to the houses to give a hand when needed.

Those propositions are basically what sold the treaty to the Mizukage, despite a few clauses that she was a bit iffy on, but agreed to in the end because the prospect of a fully-functional, advanced medical system and healthcare administration, alongside trained professionals under the tutelage of the greatest medic in the world is one of those things you don't say no to, under any circumstances.

So the treaty is signed, the old Kiri Academy building is remodelled to host the new courses and the House of Health is built right next to the Konoha district. Happy endings, right?

It's another morning, another day of working a job she frankly wants no part in and that she only performs to the best of her abilities because she's aware of the weight of the enormous responsibility placed on her shoulders. You know. A typical morning.

There is a rasp on the door, barely a knock before the bamboo panel slides open. It's not meant for privacy anyway, simply there to protect the inside of the house against Kiri's weather. Sakura looks up from her paperwork, vaguely surprised to see Shikamaru standing there. Vaguely, because he's still her Councillor and they have a lot of private meetings without the rest of her advisors, and because she's way too exhausted to question anything more deeply than with mild curiosity and vague surprise.

“Hey, Shikamaru. What's the new disaster?”

Half-fallen over her desk, legs starting to sore from the extended kneeling, it takes her a moment to realize he's not moving, and he's not answering. She looks up, frowning, but what she sees on his face is enough to have her up and right in his space, taking one of his hands.

With Ino and Chōji, Shikamaru is amongst the three people she's known the longest in her life. Only her parents beat that record, and they're dead, so the three clan heirs are probably the people she knows the best as well. Living with Chōji might have made her slightly more attuned to his emotions, but the difference is inconsequential. So she knows for certain that something is wrong.

“Shikamaru?”

His lips are pressed into a thin line, his eyebrows furrowed. He's not looking her in the eye, instead looking down at their feet, still quiet. She dares a hand forward, brushing against the side of his arm before retracting, a small comfort for both of them, she hopes.

“I need your help,” he finally says through gritted teeth. With that, it seems like all the tension is drained from his body, and he looks more defeated than anything.

“You have it, always,” she answers, trying for a soothing voice but knowing her own anxiety at this weird situation is slipping through the cracks. Shikamaru has always been the stable one, the rock, and she knows, as sure as the sun rise and sets, that if he crumbles, he'll be taking her, and the entirety of Konoha with him.

He scoffs at her answer. “I never wanted you to know this. This is mine and I don't want you to know.”

She flinches a little, surprising herself by how much that hurts. For one second, Shikamaru catches it, and guilt joins the frustration and anxious expression on his face.

“I'm guessing you don't have a choice,” she says softly.

“I really, really don't.” He sighs, a sad, depressing little noise that Sakura feels all the way inside her bones. “I need you to- I need a surgery.”

Sakura's eyebrows rise in disbelief. “You... need me to operate on you? Why? What's going on? You know I can't just perform surgery on you based on your words, I need to do, at the very least, a physical exams, and maybe a few scans depending on where the problem lies.”

Shikamaru's smile is feral, self-deprecating, and she hates it so much. “Oh, trust me, you won't need to do scans.”

Sakura sighs, leaning against the way with a leg propped up.

“Would you consent to a physical exam right now? We can go to the House.”

Shikamaru shakes his head. “I don't want anyone to know there's something wrong with me. You don't need an exam room to see the problem anyway.”

She bites her lip in consideration, then nods seemingly to herself. “Alright, follow me then. We'll go to my place.”

The tension seems to bleed out of Shikamaru's shoulder and he accepts easily. Sakura leads them out of her office and into the corridor that leads to a staircase. After climbing it, Sakura slides the door panel open and walks into the part of the building that serves as her home.

Shikamaru follows her without a word until they reach one of her unoccupied bedrooms. Or that's what it used to be anyway. Shikamaru raises an eyebrow, looking at her questioningly. She gives him an awkward smile, gesturing at the miniaturized operation room and the drawers upon drawers of medical equipment.

“Look, you have no idea how many people just barge in through my window after a mission, Mist and Fire alike, just because they don't feel safe going to the hospital. Post-mission paranoia is real enough that I'm willing to indulge them, and I refuse to let a disaster happen at the hospital just because I want my beauty sleep.”

He nods, the reasoning sensible enough. It's not like she needs the four bedrooms anyway, given that she lives alone.

(silently, he wonders about that, why she's never dating, why she's never showing signs of being interested by anyone. He wonders how anyone can work as much as she does and not want to come home to someone who wants to take care of you. Dating, post-war, is awkward. No one wants to actively seek out partners, because everyone is just a little too depressed to be able to make the efforts required to have a healthy, communicative relationship. But on the other hand, a good bunch of them are getting desperate. He can't really talk, he's single too, but at least he's dated before, civilians and shinobi alike, and he knows how important it can be not to be alone)

(she's always been alone)

“Well, we're alone and I've got everything I need. Do you want to tell me what's going on, now?”

The knot is back in his stomach, and Sakura looks like she knows exactly how little he wants to talk about this. Not that any of her patients is ever easy, unless they're civilians, but she doesn't tell him that, because she wants him to trust her sometimes this year and not worsen the situation.

Eventually, Shikamaru sighs, and begins to unhook the clasps of his flack jacket. Sakura nods, satisfied, and brings the tray with her basic equipment closer. She already has her stethoscope around her neck and the monitor for his blood pressure, when he takes his shirt off, and really, she has to put down everything now, doesn't she, because it's obvious what's going on.

Shikamaru self-consciously crosses his arms in front of his chest, but it's not enough to cover the two scars running across his upper torso.

She sighs, dropping the monitor back on the tray, and looks at him, head slightly tilted.

“Does anyone else know?” she asks, more to get him to talk than because she needs to know. She has to get him to relax, to trust her with this.

“My parents, obviously. Ino's and Chōji's parents too. And the surgeon who did this, he was one of the first to openly do those surgeries, so my parents brought me all the way to Kumo to see him. He's- like me.”

“Thank you for sharing this with me, Shikamaru. It does me great honor to know you find me worthy of who you are.”

“I- Sakura, I need to know if... will you see me differently now?”

She's never seen him like this, so uncertain, so out of place. He's so confident and calm, such a driving force for their people. She hates to see him like this. Sakura offers her hand, in the space between them, and Shikamaru uncrosses his arms to take it without even pausing. She smiles softly, touched.

“Do you see me differently for my own scars, Shika?” With her free hand, she bunches her shirt up to show her midsection and the seven, thumb-long scars scattered on her skin. “Sasori skewered me like dango on a stick. His spikes were thorough and touched all of my lower organs. I have a fake portion of small intestine and I'll never be able to have a child. Do you see me differently, knowing my scars?” she asks again.

He's looking at her with wide eyes and a deep, bleak sorrow that they all learned from the war, when grief and tears could put you in danger and you needed to get over things quickly on the outside, only to break down on the inside later.

“I'm sorry,” he says quietly.

She shrugs. “I'm not. I killed an akatsuki member, someone who would have kept hurting people again and again, and both Gaara and Kankuro survived because I was a part of this mission. I won't ever regret losing a few pieces of meat if someone's life is on the line.”

She squeezes his hand, a small smile on her face.

“So, about that surgery. Were you asking about a cosmetic procedure, to make all the scarring disappear? Or were you thinking about bottom surgery?”

Shikamaru frowns, and she can see the cool, confident guy coming back little by little, putting a happy smile on her face. “I didn't know you could do something for the scarring. In that case, both I suppose.”

“Why come now? Why not before the war, or right after? Did something change?” She hates to ask personal questions when he already seems so uneasy, but she can't agree to anything without all the facts.

“Before the war, the surgeon we went to used to send me parcels with shots and creams. He stopped, I don't know if it's because of shortage, or not knowing where to send it, or-” Or maybe he's dead, she thinks but doesn't say. “I ran out of shots two months ago and I was fine for a while, but I- it came back,” he says awkwardly, a plea in his eyes for her to understand without him having to say it. She nods quickly, refusing to let him worry. “I can't live like this. I'm miserable, Sakura.”

To hear those words, from the kind of man Shikamaru is, is heartbreaking. He deserves nothing less than happiness and fulfillment, after everything he went through being the youngest chūnin, then the youngest jōnin, then a War Councillor. Someone as calm and reliable and smart as Shikamaru shouldn't be miserable. Not on my watch. Maybe being Hokage will finally do her some good, if it means she gets to help him feel good again.

Sakura nods, weighting her words carefully before speaking. “Well, the scarring I can take care of right now, it's quick and painless. However, for your surgery, I need to know what result you want. Size, shape, do you want to be able to have biological children, all of that.”

He doesn't try to hide his relief when she doesn't push or try to have him talk more about his mental health. Not that I won't later, she thinks, but she can cut him so slack right now, given hos vulnerable he must feel.

Shikamaru is silent for a long time, eyes downward on his hand in hers, looking deep in thought. She wraps her other hand around his, pressing gently to show her support.

“I have a feeling you're exponentially more competent than the man I saw when I was younger. He only had one option for me, and a pretty scary one. But I'd like to reduce the scarring now, yes. I haven't taken my shirt off in public my entire life.”

Sakura smirks, dirty and unashamed. “Oh trust me, it was for the best. You have no idea the talk I've heard in the onsen about the comparison some of the kunoichi and jōnin make. I think a good portion of them is keeping a tally and you staying as cool as a cucumber whenever they try to get in your pants is making you the grand prize of their little competition.”

He grins, a small blush on his face that Sakura doesn't comment on. “I'm not Sasuke or Naruto, I don't have an urge to flash everyone when I'm fighting bad guys.”

Sakura bursts out laughing, the joke so unexpected it releases all the tension she hadn't noticed was left in the room. It's the first time she laughed thinking about them ever since the war, and being suddenly the last living member of a cursed team. Feeling almost giddy with being able to laugh again, she raises their joined hands and kisses his knuckles. He looks at her with wide eyes, his blush even more noticeable now.

“Right, options,” she says, wiping a tear. “Lay down for me, will you? I'll start working while I explain.”

He obeys, laying down on the examination table while her hands light up in green. She gets closer, bending slightly over him to have better access, then her palms slowly swipe over his chest, her chakra coaxing his cells into duplicating faster and cloning the genetic makeup of the older, original cells around the scars. Slowly, the two raises lines begin to smooth and loose their color.

“So there's an invasive procedure, and even more invasive procedure.” Shikamaru snorts in nervous laughter and she gives him a wry smile. “The first one involves using the unneeded tissue from what's already there and constructing a penis using what your body knows to be his. With implants, you'll get testicles, and connecting nerves will give you sensation. You will be able to get a full erection, but because I'm only using pre-existing tissues, your result will remain small compared to the average.”

She can see that he's listening intensely, but his blush has crept onto his neck despite her using very clinical language. She finds it absolutely adorable but she doesn't fancy being choked to death by her own shadow so she doesn't mention it. She doesn't say it either, but she's so proud of him it warms her up from the inside.

“The more invasive surgery starts with me collecting sample from you to be grown in lab so I can get enough skin and nerves and muscle made of your genetic makeup to basically construct a penis of the size and shape of your choice. Once attached, just like the other option, it'll be fully functional, sensitive and responsive. Now in both cases, you'll have a choice between implants to give your testicles the appropriate shape, or they can also be grown in lab and I can use your eggs to synthesize sperm glands and make you fertile.”

Sakura leans back, her hands loosing their green tint. Shikamaru sits up, staring down at his chest with wide eyes, tracing with his fingers the smooth skin where his scars used to be and where nothing is left now but an absolutely normal chest.

“Now bear in mind that I've only theoretically managed a successful transplant to make someone fertile, but I was doing the opposite procedure on a woman. When you break it down, it's exactly the same process and I've synthesized it all before, but I've never done it on a man, simply because I was never asked to. I'm certain I can pull it off, but you know, warnings and all thaaa-wow!”

Sakura can't stop the shriek of surprise when Shikamaru draws her in for the strongest hug of her life. She flails for a moment before she manages to wrap her pinned arms around his waist, his own circling her shoulder and crushing her against his bare chest. Shikamaru hides his face in her neck, and she stops the words that were about to leave her mouth when she feels the first tear drop into her neck and roll down her chest.

He's crying silently, face scrunched up enough that she can feel it against her skin. She caresses his back, drawing patterns over his warm skin, and she hums gently, rocking them together to the rhythm of a song she can barely remember.

“Thank you,” he manages, his lips moving against the fragile skin of her neck.

“Always, Shikamaru. I promise.”

She doesn't move any more than her rocking his large, warm body, waiting for the storm to pass, for the clouds to part enough that they can see the stars. Finally, he releases her, rubbing harshly on his skin until she gives him a tissue. His eyes are red and puffy and his cheeks rubbed raw, but he's he most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

“I'll take the second option,” he finally says, clearing his throat when his voice cracks. “Including the fertility package. Do you do a price for family?” The joke is weak but he's trying and she's so proud she might just choke on it so she laughs and she draws him into a side hug, his head resting on her shoulder.

“Put some clothes on, exhibitionist. Let's get out of here and we'll talk more about this later, yeah?”

He nods silently and complies, following her out of the house and into the streets of Kiri. Time passed quickly and it's already well into the night. Without saying a word, Shikamaru takes her hand and laces their fingers together. She gives him a smile, shaking with excitement and giddy with the novelty of simply walking hand in hand with someone. The people of the Konoha District give them long looks, but their eyes are kind and their smiles wide, happy to see their leader finally take something for herself.

Kiri's night sky is beautiful, so different from the one in Konoha, often hidden in clouds. Here, they can see every single star winking at them from their shimmering clusters, count the constellations drawing patterns into the darkness of the void, watch galaxies form and die as they live day by day in their new normal.

“Hey, Sakura?”

She hums in response, looking away from the beautiful canvas of the sky. He's looking at her like she's personally responsible for every star shining above them, and her heart picks up.

“Can I take you out to dinner?”

She breathes in the joy, grins wide. “Of course you can.”

He blushes again, and it's her new favorite thing, she could watch him for hours. She's so happy and humbled that he trusted her with himself like that.

“On one condition, though.”

He does his best to hide his nervousness when he answers, “What is it?”

“Money upfront for the surgery, Nara. I want a kiss before the fourth date.”

He giggles, high and pretty, and even he seems surprised by it. “You've got yourself a deal, Hokage-sama.”

[blueboxesandtrafficcones]

The Nuptial Necessity - Chapter 10

A 12xRose Human AU

Despite an unglamorous job description, Rose loves the work she does with The Thistle Foundation, a charity founded by her best friend’s great-uncle.  It doesn’t hurt that her boss, her friend’s father, is easy on the eyes.  With a great job, wonderful friends and a loving family, life couldn’t be better – except for having someone to share it with.

All of that is threatened, though, when the great-uncle dies – and sets a strange condition for his nephew to inherit, jeopardizing the Foundation and Rose’s future, sparking a chain of events that might just get her everything she dreamed of and more.

Chapters will be posted on Saturdays and Tuesdays.  Many thanks to my beta, @stupidsatsuma

Rated: Explicit, for eventual smut

@doctorroseprompts

AO3  |  Masterlist

—

Monday

With a grunt of frustration Malcolm shut off the radio, plunging the kitchen into silence.  Pete was due any minute, and it was only now occurring to him that he should have mentioned the dinner to Rose, and found out what he was and wasn’t permitted to say; while Clara obviously knew the truth, Rose had given no indication of if she wanted her family to know.

This can’t end well.

Draining his wine glass in one go he refilled it, before bracing himself against the countertop and bowing his head.  Everything had gone spectacularly pear-shaped after the reading of Wallace’s will, and all he wanted was for his life to return to normal.  Things were uncomfortable now, with Rose, and he didn’t know how they would find their way back- or if such a thing was even possible.

The doorbell rang just as the grandfather clock in the hall chimed off the start of the hour, and he had to give a reluctant grin at the man’s punctuality.  Drying his hands he headed for the door, putting on a brave face before swinging it open.

“Pete!  Good to see you, come on in,” he invited.

Showtime.

-

Keeping one eye on the clock over the mantle Rose aggressively fluffed her throw pillows, straightening up her living area just to keep moving.  In typical Clara fashion her friend was now officially thirty minutes late, and Rose’s poor nerves were suffering under the strain.

She’d thought, perhaps rather naïvely, that by making the choice of whether or not to move forward things would somewhat settle down, that her worries would evaporate with a plan in place.  If anything they’d gotten worse, as she faced spending the next five years of her life married to a man who didn’t love her.  Oh, Malcolm cared, certainly, but he didn’t love her- not the way she loved him.

She was, she’d been disgruntled to realize, in love with him.

“Oh, fuck you,” she scowled at the innocent pen that had rolled from her organizer onto the floor.  “Seriously?”

The expected knock finally came, and slamming the pen back onto the open organizer in the crease to keep it from escaping again, she stalked towards the door.

“Took you long enough,” she snapped, swinging it open to find Clara looking equally annoyed.

“Oh fuck off,” her friend shot back, pushing past her to the kitchen, a large takeaway bag in hand.  “It’s raining cats and dogs out there. Traffic’s a nightmare.”

Throwing the deadbolt Rose followed her, slightly chastened.  “Sorry. Any trouble?”

Clara rolled her eyes, dumping her things on the countertop.  “Not really. Just slow.  Now, d’you want to eat and plan, or take a few minutes?”

“Let’s just get this over with.”

Rose watched her pull two large salads out of the bag, raising an eyebrow when nothing else appeared.  “I thought you were bringing the food?”

“I did.”  Clara opened the drawer to fetch two forks.  “Water?”

“Where’s the rest of it?”  Rose filled the two waiting glasses from her filtered pitcher, narrowing her eyes.  “Don’t tell me you consider that dinner.”

Kicking off her shoes, Clara settled onto her usual spot on the couch, salad balanced on one knee, tablet on the other.  “You’re getting married in two weeks.  There’s only so much you can do, but you might as well try to get down at least to the next size, though I suppose it depends on what style you want.”

“Style?”  Rose joined her, peeling off the lid of the salad and frowning even more.  “What’s this, then?”

“A salad, duh.”

She poked at it half-heartedly.  “It’s just greens.”

“There’s carrots!  Cucumber.”

“No dressing?”

“Balsamic vinaigrette.”

Rose crinkled her nose.  “Am I being punished?”

Stretching out her leg Clara nudged her thigh with her toe.  “No, but you want to look as good as possible on your wedding day, don’t you?  Though picking your dress style may help with that.  I made us some appointments for tomorrow at lunch so you can start trying things on, though I fear your options’ll be limited.”

“I’ve already got a dress,” she stabbed a forkful of lettuce.  “Looks good as I am, if I say so myself.”

“What?”

Rose looked up to find Clara staring at her, fork halfway to her mouth, forgotten.

“What?”

“What d’you mean, you’ve already got a dress?” her friend repeated, lowering the fork.  “When?”

She swallowed, took a sip of her water, and said, “We left the office early today, so I went to Harrod’s to just poke around.  Third dress I tried looked good, was reasonably priced, so I got it.”

“You… you bought your wedding dress?  Alone?  From Harrod’s?”

“Yes.”

Clara’s face fell, eyes welling, and Rose sighed.

“I didn’t mean to leave you out, I just went to look, but… I dunno, it just seemed right.”  She hesitated.  “D’you… want to see it?”

Slowly, her friend nodded.  “And you in it, please.  As Maid of Honor- thanks for the flowers by the way, they were gorgeous- it’s my right to have final say over your wedding dress.”

“Sure,” Rose agreed easily, though she had no intention of changing the dress.  “I’ll be right back.”

On her way past to her bedroom she paused, bending down to kiss the top of her friend’s head.

How much drama can this wedding cause?

-

Beer clutched tightly in one hand, Malcolm gave the steaks more attention than they needed as they sizzled on the stovetop in a frying pan.  His intention had been to do them on the grill, but the downpour had effectively nixed that idea, leaving the two men in his kitchen in silence.

He’d known Pete Tyler for going on fifteen years now, been in his company a thousand times, and yet none had been so awkward and painful, not even their first conversation (not Malcolm’s strong suit).  Since Pete had asked for this dinner Malcolm was content to let him start the conversation, though so far, that hadn’t happened past general small talk.

It wasn’t until they sat down to eat that Pete finally sighed and said, “Could you please not be so weird?  I’m not here to threaten you or anything.”

“I know that,” Malcolm said defensively, though he wasn’t quite convinced.  “I mean- Why are you here?”

“Why are you marrying my daughter?”  He took a large bite of steak, and groaned.  “Bloody hell that’s excellent.”

“Thanks.”

Pete finished chewing, then raised an eyebrow.  “Well?”

“Because… I asked and she said yes,” he said carefully, poking at the mashed potatoes regretfully; his appetite had vanished at the question.  “That’s generally how it works, to my understanding.”

“That’s not exactly convincing,” Pete pointed out.  “Or reassuring.”

“Reassuring?”

The other man sighed, crossing his arms on the table and leaning forward.  “That this wedding is happening for the right reasons.”

Shit.  How can he know?  “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Honestly?  Do you want to know what I think?”

Malcolm didn’t, but he nodded anyway.  “Of course.”

“I know you’re in love with my daughter.”

It took effort not to react to that.  Pete was more perceptive than Malcolm gave him credit for, but given that he was engaged to Rose and she hadn’t shared the full story with her parents it shouldn’t be a surprise, and he should absolutely not be feeling defensive in anyway.  “Yes,” was all he said, when it became clear the other man was waiting for a response, and he was horrified at the melancholy, wistful tone in his voice.

“I’ve been watching you.  Both of you.  For a long time now.  I see how you look at each other.  To be perfectly frank I think I’ve seen this writing on the wall since I realized Rose had stopped looking for a real job.  And yet, nothing has changed.  You seem no different from six months ago, or two or five years ago, which can only mean one of two things – you’ve been involved with my daughter for a very long time without telling me, or nothing has changed.  My suspicion is the second, but neither explains why you’re getting married now, all of sudden, especially if she’s not pregnant.  So help me understand.”

Sitting at his own kitchen table, untouched steak cooling on the plate in front of him, Malcolm had never felt more idiotic or… or transparent.  Has he really known all this time how I felt?  For a fleeting moment he was certain his hours were numbered, that the man would want him dead for his feelings towards Rose, but then he realized that if Pete had known for years, and never done or said anything to discourage the ‘relationship’ or separate them… he couldn’t possibly approve, could he?

“I see how happy you make my daughter,” Pete continued, unaware of the war ripping Malcolm apart inside, “and how happy she makes you.  I’ve known you for fifteen years, seen you with countless women, and I’ve never seen you as happy as you are with her.  And yet if you’re hiding a romantic relationship you both deserve fucking Oscars, because it’s impossible to tell.  You’ve got the yearning looks down pat.”

Malcolm took a long pull off his beer, mind racing.  It seemed they’d been caught out, and he didn’t know which would be worse – lying to Pete, or betraying Rose’s secret.  And then he registered something Pete has said – or at least implied.

“Are you saying…”  He swallowed, heart thumping painfully in his chest with something akin to hope.  “Are you saying she… Rose feels…”

And Pete started to laugh.

-

Smoothing the dress over her thighs Rose examined her reflection, just as happy with her choice as she had been earlier that day in the Harrod’s dress department.  While it wasn’t a traditional bridal gown, it was still elegant and beautiful and right.

She’d chosen a brocade sheath-style cocktail dress, in a beautiful shade of champagne with golden embroidery.  It hugged every curve, though not quite skin-tight, and the square neckline helped keep it on the right side of decent.  Wedge sandals in the same shade as the dress had convinced her it was fate, and she felt classy, elegant, and mature.  Normally she would have preferred a stiletto, which might have gone with the outfit a bit better,  but with the ceremony being outside in the garden, she didn’t want to have to worry about sinking into the grass.

The last thing she wanted was to make a fool of herself.

The other few dresses she had tried on had been nice enough, perhaps more her usual style, but she had suspected that standing next to Malcolm and his salt-and-pepper hair in them would make her look more like a child bride or a trophy wife than she was comfortable with.

“Right, I’m coming out,” she called, stepping carefully through her apartment back to where Clara was waiting impatiently on the couch.

“What do you think?” she asked uncertainly when her friend said nothing, merely stared at her with an open mouth, salad forgotten on the coffee table.

Slowly Clara stood, coming around the couch with her hand over her mouth, eyes wide.  “You look beautiful,” she whispered, and Rose nearly sagged in relief.

“You really think so?”

A beaming smile spread across Clara’s face as she began to nod.  “Absolutely stunning!  Like a beautiful bride.  Albeit a divorcee going to the courthouse, but still, lovely.  Really.  It’s perfect.”

Rose grinned happily, throwing her arms around her friend.  “I’m so glad you think so.  I hadn’t been meaning to buy, I just wanted to start getting ideas, but… it just called to me.”

“Well, I’m glad you picked up the phone,” Clara joked, pulling back and wiping at her eyes.  “Wow.  Okay, you’re forgiven.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, your mum may not be so easy to convince.”

The blood drained from Rose’s face as her stomach plummeted.  “Oh, shit.”

-

“What’s so funny?” Malcolm asked defensively, when the other man continued to laugh.  “Stop it!”

“Well, for one, I think you proved there’s more to this wedding than your relationship,” Pete sighed, still smiling as he calmed down.  “And second, you’re so far bloody gone, mate.”

Malcolm huffed, unable to dispute either charge but not wanting to give the other man the satisfaction of admitting he was right.  “It’s not funny.”

“It is, actually.”  The man let out another chuckle.  “And now I’m extremely curious as to not only your reasons for proposing to my daughter, but why she said yes if you don’t even know how the other feels.  Also, Jacks owes me twenty quid, she didn’t think you felt that way.”

With that Malcolm gave up, groaning and letting his head thunk forward onto the table.

“You have no idea how fucked up this all is.”

And, against his better judgement, Malcolm told him.

[ebbforeman]

The Court of Fen’Harel

(Just a little something that I started working on to pass the time until DA4. Bioware is seriously killing me with the lack of updates...I’ve had to start new play-throughs to satisfy my needs!!) 

Full Story: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24574054

The Court of Fen'Harel

Chp. 1 King of Old & New

It was decided long ago that the place where he would settle would be that of the Elven Ruins from the time of Elvhenan. He would restore what was old in addition to adding some new. It was necessary, he deemed, while molding and shaping all that it would become. He had grown accustomed to certain comforts during his travels and adventures, things he never truly cared for or dwelled on prior to his time among the humans, children of the stone, and the qunari. At first, when he stood on the overgrown path, feeling the breath of wind mix with the will of magic and observing the subtle changes of nature; he realized ironically that he would miss the world he vowed to destroy in order to restore what was lost.

He realized within those brief, calm moments, before he summoned the divine power of the ancient magics to break down the very fabric of the veil, that he in truth would reshape some aspects out of necessity and not selfishness.

The foundation of the world shook and he watched, as promised, as all that had risen in place of the old burned in the chaos. With the flick of his wrist he destroyed the shrine, unbothered by the crumbling of the wolven status or the cracks that webbed along the painted frescos, and in its stead erected a castle to call home. His desire to create a haven for the Elvhen people manifested itself in the shape of the stone fortress nestled in the rocky cliffs just beyond the long bridge.

It wasn't difficult, or at least no more so than reconnecting the eluvians had been. The magic flowed through him like air in his lungs, swiftly, easily, and naturally. His agents across Thedas, under his instruction, knew how to protect themselves. He'd sent scouts long before the veil began to pull against reality. They fanned out across the land with a message and small bundle for each of the elven faction leaders on where to go and how to survive. They gathered like lost sheep in the grey mists of the crossroads, the only place shielded from the uncontrollable madness that raged just beyond the protection of mirrors.

He watched as wild and willful spirits eagerly took to their new home. Much like the elves, they pressed together to learn of the world they once seemed no more than a dream or a reflection of their own reality. New and old magic blended beautifully. He often found himself speechless and surprised by the glimpses of forgotten dreams and dreamers lost to time.

One piece, one small piece of that world he refused to surrender. For a time he foolishly convinced himself that he could. Naive and childish notions of longing and need fueled him, and after a time that need grew and proved stronger than anything he'd ever felt. Go to her, he had commanded Briala, You are a familiar face and will bring a welcomed comfort that I will not be able to give at this time. While Felassan paid with his life for his error and failure, Briala had been more willing to obey. He allowed her to live, knowing or perhaps hoping that doing prove to be useful later. The truth had revealed itself like a glimmering gift. Her role would be to serve, not as a slave, but as a handmaiden. Briala's skills as a spy and assassin in addition to her history with the human empress made her the logical, if not perfect choice for this task.

"What makes you think she will come willingly." She asked, as she stood under the stone arch of what would become his throne room. "Last we met, she and I did not part on the greatest of terms."

He cared little for her doubts and only desired compliance. "She will come. She has a strong heart, and is determined and thoughtful. She will be unable to accept death and she deserves more than the world she was born into." he waved his hand across an eluvian and the glassy surface rippled as if water. "Go by way of Vir Tanadahl. The foliage and trees will shield you and hide your intent, be swift for we are running out of time. You will find her near Skyhold and at the edge of the Frostbacks."

He thought of that day often. It plagued his dreams more so than any of his misgivings and deeds throughout the years. He rose from his bed, moving silently so not to disturb the sleeping form beside him, and crossed the room to the open balcony window. The moon had long since risen casting a bright, pure white glow along the marble railing and tiles that decorated the balcony. He peered beyond the towers and walls of stone to the crystal spires that floated in the distance. He had missed them and it wasn't until now that he knew how much. The marvelous craftsmanship of his people, the wonder and beauty of the infinite potential of the imagination - it was all breathtaking. Imbued with ancient magicks, that were long thought lost and forgotten, he found whispering at the edge of the broken veil searching for an amenable host to pass the knowledge on to. And even now, such knowledge still lingered flittering aimlessly in the world. He alone was up for the task of collecting them all - that and ensuring it was utilized correctly.

He sighed, utterly frustrated. There was still much to be done. This new, old world was still incomplete. The Tevinter Imperium refused to collapse and somehow, either by the use of blood magic or stolen elven artifacts, survived the shattering of the veil. It was a surprising and unforeseen act that would be rectified in due time. He allowed the waterfall below the balcony to cleanse his mind. It was a peaceful sound and absolute peace was something the world was in short supply of - that too would change before his time was done.

The night air swirled around him causing goosebumps to break out across his skin. He stood there, face the dark, naked and his mind restless. "There is so much to be done," he mused, his tone flat. He felt smaller somehow as all of his plan came rushing to him unbidden and all at once. It made him feel oddly vulnerable, something he was not accustomed to. He peered over his shoulder and watched the rise and fall of the sleeping figure's chest and smiled - well, almost not accustomed to.

He turned back, focusing on his duty once more. While he was no god, he was indeed prideful and hotheaded, maybe even cocky in his belief that alone could purge the world of injustice and evil. He shook his head, no, no, that was merely doubt. He was certain of his purpose. Actions and consequences. Cause and Effect. These were the black and white dichotomies of life.

"Solas?" a voice from within the bedchamber called, thick with sleep. "Is something wrong?"

She was up and moving before he could reach her and he cursed himself for being so selfish and causing her undo worry. She shuffled awkwardly toward him, her silver white curling hair spilling across her shoulders like liquid starlight.

"Vhenan," he breathed, wrapping his arms around her. "I am sorry, did I wake you? I did not mean to. You should be resting and enjoying your sleep."

She hummed thoughtfully and inhaled his scent. "Vir sumeil, I could sense something was wrong through our bond."

He smiled down at her, kissed her head and nodded. "Yes, of course. Forgive me, I continue to underestimate your sensitivity to such things."

Her sleeping silks clung to the curves of her body, the fabric so thin and transparent it looked to be flesh. He could feel her full and heavy breast pressed against his chest and the swell of her budding belly touching his own stomach. "You are beautiful."

She laughed softly, the sound so lovely and feminine it seized his heart. "Really? I feel rather like a druffalo, minus the rather intimidating horns."

"Ma vhenan, I could hardly agree with that sentiment, given you are carrying our child within you."

He remembered their time together before, when he led her to the cove near Crestwood and offered to reveal the truth of the vallaslin to her. She had balked at the idea of marking herself as a slave, as he knew he would, but what he was unprepared for was the visceral pain it caused her to know how fragmented her knowledge of her history was. He wanted to tell her then, the truth of his intentions, and lose himself in his love for her, but….

"Yes, our child. Abelas believes I am carrying a girl, though why he would wish that on me…" Her ears flattened slightly at the idea. "I wouldn't know where to begin with a girl."

This time he laughed and brought his lips down to meet her's. Guileless emerald green blinked back at him, dazed and hungry. There was lust hidden within her weary eyes and he felt his manhood swelling and grow stiff the more his hands roamed her body.

"You will be a wonderful mother, Ashalle. Should we have a daughter, I believe she could find nor possess no better mother than you."

"I never knew my own mother, or father. I'm not sure I really know how to care for a child."

"You will take to it naturally, as you do with most things."

She scoffed. "You have more assurance than I do."

"Come, vhenan." he said, offering her his hand. "Let us go back to bed."

She had become his distraction, his weakness. He soon learned after that orchestrated meeting in this very place five years ago, that he would betray himself for her. To be with her. To see her. To smell her scent and feel her warmth. He resolved himself to save her, for a life without her in existence would be hollow and dull in comparison.

And so, Briala brought Ashalle to him. Regrettably a fight had ensued and the now ex-inquisitor refused to be drawn back into any game involving the Dread Wolf. The resistance was inevitable, it was, after all, who she was and what she represented. A hero who rose to stand against evil, a shining light to fight the darkness from swallowing the world whole. Sleep magic was required, something that even Briala, who possessed no innate magical gifts, was able to perform without harming Ashalle.

The slumber was not unlike the one he experienced after banishing the Evanuris into the beyond. It was careful, well practiced and formulated magic, that would retain all that she was but make her more….amenable to his intentions. She woke, confused and frantic and he would never forget the shrill sound of terror when she realized her left arm was fully restored.

Ashalle kissed his neck and pressed herself against the hard mold of his body. She was rather good at distracting him. She ran a hot tongue down his neck and whispered sweet words of love to him as her hand reached for his length.

"You should be sleeping." he moaned, struggling to fight against his own lust.

This was not the first time. He once swore he would never lie with her under false pretenses; however, back then his tenacity, his sheer strength of will and character seemed stronger. The barriers he created as he walled off his heart and the distance he placed between them assisted with alleviating his emotional entanglement to her, if only for a while. Soon, he could no longer bear the thought of being separated from her or her dying by his hands.

"I will sleep after, my love."

He could not keep himself from reaching down between her thighs and exploring the wet folds that lay at the center of them. He pulled his face down to a round supple breast, took the peaked nipple in his mouth and sucked at it. His manhood throbbed with longing, an ache that begged to be satisfied whenever he laid eyes on her.

Ashalle's mouth was sweeter than the deepest dream, than any dream he ever experienced both in and out of the Fade. He plunged himself inside of her, ravenous for her flesh and the sweetness of her. A moan escaped her swollen lips as glittering strands of hair fell in front of her eyes.

"Oh vhenan…"

She was everything that was beautiful in the world. Though the Evanuris hindered his perfect dream, of a life with his love and their child, here and now, in this moment nothing could pull him from her.

Ashalle was honey and sweet cakes, she was the finest wine and warmed spiced rum, she was the very air that filled his lungs and the food that nourished his body. Small shuddering gasps of pleasure echoed throughout the bedchamber and mingled with the stillness of the night.

They both reached their climax, the world exploded before their eyes in swirling shades of color and light. He ran nimble fingers across the tender taut skin of her belly, feeling the warmth and surge of life and magic within, as she lay quietly in his arms. A soft kick, a subtle movement, reached out toward. His child, a kindred spirit filled with old and new magic.

An heir. A queen. And he, now a king. He would rule this world, correcting the actions of those who came before to ensure a brighter, better future than the one the Evanuris sought to create. His child would be born never knowing fear, hardship, or pain. The corrections, so easy and precise, like the blossoming fruit of a tree, would take more time. Dissent within his court needed to be eliminated otherwise the transition could be hindered further. He was nothing if not efficient. It could be done.

Sleep, he thought, for the dawn comes soon and only you are prepared to greet it.

[tgunn64]

Favorite Villains - La Squadra di Esecuzione (Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure)

Part 5 of Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure, Vento Auero, takes us to 2001 Italy, where a civil gang war between stand users creates a vaccum of power in the Venetian mafia. From this description alone, you may be able to guess this is my favorite Jojo season yet--with my love of Italian culture and organized crime stories allowing this to cater perfectly to me. It also features La Squadra di Esecuzione (Italian for 'The Hitman Team'), who may be my favorite villainous force in Jojo yet. La Squadra isn’t actually the big bad--they’re the starters our heroes face on their way, and yet the way they are motivated and weaved into the narrative make them feel like organic parts of the conflict rather than mere stepping stones. The revolting assassins are a seven course meal consisting of Formaggio, Illuso, Pesci, Prosciutto, Melone, Ghiaccio, and Risotto.

What really struck me about La Squadra was their chemistry as a team. While they fight the heroes individually, we see a good deal of their inner workings in scenes exclusive to the anime that add a lot to their characters--most notably a sequence in which their conflict with the Boss of the Passione mafia is laid out. In charge of the dirty work of assassinations, la Squadra is mistreated by the higher ups of the mafia chain and paid the least of any branch. Sick of doing the hardest work for the least money, they conspired to overthrow the mysterious boss of the gang by discovering his identity, which no one has managed to uncover. The mere notion of doing so reached the boss, who retaliated by killing two of their men, Sorbet and Gelato. La Squadra is in the middle of a meeting wondering where their missing men are, when they receive a delivery of 36 packages. They unwrap them in a chilling scene where they discover each one contains a chunk of Gelato’s corpse, cut into 36 piece and encased in formaldehyde. La Squadra’s reaction is one of terror that truly humanizes them--they were fighting an injustice inflicted upon them and they are immediately silence. One can’t blame them for revolting, but they are swiftly made an example of.

Their dreams were crushed, that is, until word got out that the boss had an estranged daughter that the heroes were protecting for him (the heroes and la Squadra both unaware that the boss only wanted his daughter protected so he could personally kill her). Realizing the potential for a weak spot and ransom, La Squadra declares their goal to usurp the boss by taking his daughter, putting them at odds with Jojo and his new mafia family. One by one, La Squadra steps up to try and kidnap the boss’ daughter from her protectors, starting with Formaggio. Formaggio, being the first to fight, is also the shortest lived of La Squadra, but this actually benefits his character in the precedent he sets. He tracks down the youngest and most naive of the hero team, Narancia, and engages him with his stand, Little Feet. Despite being mocked by his peers, Formaggio is determined to prove that his stand, which can shrink objects as long as he can will it, isn’t as useless as it sounds. He and Narancia have a chaotic and bloody battle, and the way he ruthlessly pursues this young kid sets the standard for the story--these are gangsters and they’ll fight tooth and nail for power within the same organization. Narancia, his hand forced, goes from an unassuming kid that can barely read to just as much a violent mafia enforcer when he needs to defend himself, and it’s this flip in perspective that makes their battle so memorable. Cars are wrecked and blood is spilled as Formaggio tries to shrink Narancia and feed him to rats as well as throw shrunk down pieces of furniture from his pocket before expanding them in mid air.

A stand that can reduce objects’ size is much more suited to killing than one may realize--we see an assassination courtesy of Formaggio in a restaurant where he shrinks down a car and drops it into the drink of a politician the team’s been hired to kill. The politician unwittingly swallows the car, cuing Formaggio to release his powers, expanding the car inside his target and tearing him apart from the inside. I love Araki’s talent for coming up with idiosyncratic and unique powers that feel more like creative and intelligent phenomenon than mere “this guy gets fire powers and this guy gets shrinking powers”, and Formaggio is just one exception among the deadly hitmen lurking within La Squadra. Next on the list is IIluso, and to be blunt he’s the one I have the least to say about. He has very little personality to speak of outside of being a sort of indiscreet jerk even among his peers (quicker than anyone to call Formaggio’s stand useless and to air Sorbet and Gelato’s dirty laundry that they were an item). Even his stand, Man in the Mirror, I just feel is a poor man’s version of the part three villain Centerfold and his stand, Hanged Man. It also sucks that the good guy he fights is Fugo, who ends up written out of the story halfway through so he basically helps to introduce a stand that battles once and never shows up again.....Eeeeh, moving on.

The only two who cooperate at once are Prosciutto and Pesci, the duo of mentor and rookie gangsters. The composed and experienced Prosciutto gives lessons on the art of crime and assassination to the nervous Pesci, who at the start of the series has never even killed. Even though they aren’t my personal favorites, I think the short arc Prosciutto and Pesci go through in their chunk of episodes is the most dynamic of the bunch. The first lesson Prosciutto gives Pesci is to act instead of talk, and to have the confidence that he has already killed his foe rather than to be planning to. The unsure Pesci is eager to impress his mentor, who he calls a brother, a term of endearment in the mafia--but he’s easily scared and doesn’t have the constitution that’s expected of him. It doesn’t help that his Stand, Beach Boy, a fishing pole with a line that can go through solid objects, is easy to fumble and not as efficient as Prosciutto’s Grateful Dead, which rapidly ages his targets. But we see an interesting turn occur. Bruno confronts the duo as they ransack the train in search of the Boss’ daughter. With his brother by his side, Pesci actually manages to hold his own with Bruno a fair deal. Beach Boy turns out to be a perfect counter to Bruno’s Sticky Fingers, and Prosciutto is highly complimentary of his protege for the first time. The battle continues as Prosciutto tells Pesci to keep watch at the front of the train, Beach Boy’s line extended while he finishes Bruno off. Things don’t go that way though, and Bruno throws Prosciutto off the train and beneath the tracks. Pesci senses something is off...and sees the aging effects of the Grateful Dead wearing off the train’s passengers. His teacher had died just as he earned his approval.

And in a complete turn, Pesci’s fears disappear as his resolve hardens to fulfill his mission and kill the man that killed his ‘brother’. An angered train passenger calls Pesci ‘mammoni’ (Italian for Mama’s Boy, and the insult the other Squadra members would throw at Pesci) and Pesci takes his first life by killing him on the spot before stopping the train and challenging Bruno to a final duel of honor. I was sincerely rooting for Pesci at this point--he didn’t have good intentions but I was genuinely pretty sad that Bruno ultimately slayed him as well. I kind of really love that a stand as seemingly goofy as Beach Boy proved extremely deadly as he threw the line into Bruno’s chest and tied it around his heart, nearly killing him in a moment that had me on the edge of my seat.

This brings us to La Squadra’s resident freakshow, Melone. Melone is nearly the gang’s mad scientist type, the weirdo everyone lets lick his lips in the corner but they keep around for his brilliance. As if his habit of eyeing potential victims wasn’t enough, his stand is probably the most disturbing in the team--the laptop shaped Babyface. Before he gets his turn to fight, we constantly see Melone people watching and ogling pretty women. It’s hard to imagine this vile gangster having a nice idea of what he wants to do with these women, but when you grow to understand how Babyface works, you realize just how terrifying he is. By attaining the blood of a strong Stand user (in this case, Bruno, which he finds after his fight with Pesci) in the laptop, he can find a victim (preferably to Melone, a beautiful woman) whose body can be combined with the blood to create a living homunculus. The Homunculus has unlimited potential, and Melone can use Babyface to educate him in ways of assassination. I really love the imagery of Melone gently teaching his homunculus like it’s a little child, but precisely what he’s teaching him is torture and murder. It perfectly encompasses his depravity despite fancying himself a savante of sorts. Like most children, Melone finds that his Homunculus is too hot blooded to take orders for long, which proves his undoing. Unable to cooperate, the rapidly pubescent Homunculus fails to cooperate with his ‘father’, and both fall to Jojo’s might. Leaving just one member of la Squadra besides the BIG man himself.

Ghiaccio, my favorite member of la Squadra. From the moment I saw him at the first meeting between the disgruntled assassins, something about such a sleek design offset by such a garish face and the shouting vocal chords of Nobuhiko Okamoto (Bakugo in My Hero Academia) really drew me in. Temperamental and incredibly vocal, Ghiaccio isn’t afraid to say what everyone else is thinking. He calls the check they get from the boss chump change and asserts that la Squadra deserves better. He’s kinda the foundation of the mentality that way--even if everyone else was just too subtle to say so. That’s FAR from the only thing he’s mad about it though. Ghiaccio takes great pride in his Italian blood and detests anyone that would use the American pronunciation of ‘Venice’ for the city of Venezia. He damages his own damn car worked up over mere turns of phrase, a very different personality from the cool headed Prosciutto, intelligent Melone, or bewildered Pesci. Ghiaccio seems bullheaded and brash, but you’re not brash if you can back it up. Ghiaccio takes on both Guido Mista and Jojo with his deadly stand, White Album, which lowers temperatures around him to below sub-zero, to the point that an armor of ice forms around him. Remember how I said the huge strength of Jojo’s is that no one is ever JUST the ice guy or so on? Ghiaccio perfectly encompasses that. He isn’t a cryomancer per se, he just makes things SUPER cold, and has mastered his own ability. He chases the heroes in their car by forming ice skates out of his armor and freezing the road as he travels. Guido, with his sharp shooting Six Pistol stand, finds himself useless because White Album literally freezes the air around Ghiaccio, creating translucent shields that reflect projectile attacks, a tactic Ghiaccio calls “Gently Weeps”.

Ghiaccio may be a tantrum throwing psycho, but his conviction and overall moxie more than provides context to supply his attitude. His final confrontation is fucking BRUTAL. Guido fires away at Ghiaccio, who continually shields himself, not hurt or penetrated, but pushed backwards, into a spike on a light post. The spike barely penetrates the back of Ghiaccio’s neck, while Guido keeps shooting. Every bullet fires back INTO GUIDO, but with every push he shoves Ghiaccio further into the spike. The two literally have a game of chicken for who bleeds out first. But Ghiaccio reveals he’s won because HE HAS FROZEN HIS OWN SPURTING BLOOD, WHICH IS SUPPORTING HIS NECK FROM BEING SKEWERED ANY FURTHER. He outlasts Guido and for all intents and purposes, would have won, had Jojo not revealed himself to have survived his own encounter before he returned to finish the job. Ghiaccio talks of conviction and resolve, and you can’t fault him considering he kept fighting far past the point most would call death. It’s hard to look down on his temper when he’s as goddam hardcore as he is. I also think it's really cool how he counter's Jojo's Golden Experience, which creates life, by creating an inhospitably cold environment around him--I would've loved to see more of him as a foil.

So. Six really good trash boys fall, and all that’s left is the head of the snake, Risotto Nero, the towering boss of the Hitmen who is ready to open a can on those that made fools of his brothers. Risotto is a reasonable boss, he encouraged teamwork (quelling conflict between Illuso and Formaggio), but not to the point of romanticism (encouraging that everyone forget Sorbet and Gelato and move forward.) Despite this, in battle Risotto is anything but soft. Metallica is a microscopic stand that lives within Risotto’s blood stream. The deadly hitman can manifest metal in any shape he desires by focusing on the iron in his target’s blood. Meaning just by using his stand and focusing really hard, he can put nails in your hands, razor blades in your head, and needles in your mouth. Fighting Risotto isn’t a matter of combat, it’s one of torture, befitting to his nature as mafia enforcer. We see him squeezing info from an informant by continually creating and driving nails into his hand--and that’s really what he boils down to. He isn’t the kind to dazzle you with strategy or prove his superiority with incredible skill, he’ll overwhelm you with the most morbid pain he can imagine, and more or less with a mere thought, because it’s his job to kill, extort, and push his victims to their limit until they talk.

And such a dreadful foe doesn’t find himself engaging Jojo, Bruno, or Guido….but Doppio, the meek messenger boy of Passione whose only stand ability is to see ten seconds into the future. Risotto personally bullies the weaker foe and experiences little resistance, laying on excruciating punishment, demanding info on the Boss and his daughter. True to his nature as a mafioso, Risotto declares he’ll torment Doppio as long as it takes, as the sheer pressure forces Doppio to release a latent ability...King Crimson, the stand of the mysterious boss. An ecstatic Risotto realizes Doppio isn’t just the right hand of the boss, he IS Diavolo, the boss, hiding in plain sight. Risotto is about to achieve his dreams by killing the boss..who erases time and saves himself, making way for intervention by Narancia, who riddles Risotto with Aerosmith’s bullets to save who he assumes is the innocent Doppio, who manages to protect his identity for a bit longer. And I think this final end to La Squadra speaks to the tragedy of the team and of the narrative of Jojo Part 5 as a whole. It’s a story of a civil gang war--no one was born evil, they simply picked their sides, and at a certain point, they all had the same enemy in the form of Diavolo. Had no one been deceived by Diavolo’s enigma, Bruno and Risotto’s teams could have cooperated. However, Bruno was serving the boss while Risotto was fighting him, and when paradigms shifted, they were still in the wrong place, destroying each other in the name of an erroneous conflict. Though that may sound like a waste, there is nothing more romantically mafia-esque than dying for your chosen side out of conviction and loyalty. To do so defines being a gangster. You're not expendable if you fought for your brothers. The teachings of Prosciutto, cunning of Illuso, conviction of Ghiaccio, efforts of Pesci, intelligence of Melone, resolve of Formaggio, and capo honor of Risotto all could’ve been assets in another life, but the crossing bullets of a gang war scattered them, and if nothing else, made them insanely memorable villains.