#God this is just utter shite | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ghostwhippet · 6 months ago

Text

From Scratch

Nutrition Info: Johnny/Reader; 4k; a meetcute launched by Reader's inability to cook reasonable portions, and Johnny's... well, just Johnny

No matter how long you live alone, you can’t get the hang of cooking for one person. Even when you try to make a single-serving meal instead of batch cooking, somehow it balloons out of control. Wasting food makes you feel awful, but you can only freeze so much.

One evening, desperate and utterly fed up, you go kick gently at a neighbor’s door, both hands full, trying to mimic a knock with your shoe. Jason, you think his name was? Striking blue eyes, big frame, a cute cropped mohawk, amazing brogue, and he’s always been cordial when you’ve run into him around the building. Friendly, but not too friendly.

He’s understandably confused by your request at first, but seems happy enough for the food, and takes it around your repeated apologies–for bothering him, for existing, for anything you can find, really.

Unfortunately, not even forcing yourself to go and do all of that manages to pierce your shite sense of volume. Your trips to his door do get less awkward over time, though. And Johnny, his name is, always has sparklingly clean dishes and containers to return in exchange for the full ones.��

Eventually he just starts showing up at your place instead and eats with you at your bar counter. He didn’t really ask, and you definitely didn’t, but there he is all the same, and… if you're honest? He’s just so easy to be around, it quickly feels natural having him there. He puts you off your guard, puts you at ease and makes you smile, like those are somehow the most natural things in the world.

From that first night, Johnny has insisted on helping with dishes. Starting the second, he’s always got groceries with him. Even manages to talk you out of your discomfort over accepting them, so well that on his fourth night, you’ve got a small shopping list ready. He’s cheeky, you don’t think he’ll mind. And he is right, after all: you're probably feeding him at least three or four nights out of the week, what with all the leftovers.

You start eating better, and trying new things you'd always planned on “getting around to,” now that you've got a reason to cook beyond not starving. Everything comes out fine the first time you make it, when you’re closely following a recipe, and Johnny has no qualms about trying anything you put in front of him. You’ve never met someone so genuinely un-fussy when it comes to food.

A couple months after he’s started eating at your place, he disappears for a while. “Work trip,” is all he'll say, and you don’t pry, even though you really want to.

Once he’s back, he starts coming over weekend afternoons sometimes. You do brunch with beer or fancy drinks in champagne flutes, or occasional breakfast on the roof before other people are awake, him in a big hoodie or jumper, and you wearing a thick blanket like it's trying to digest you, looking like a half-drowned cat because no living being is meant to be awake at such an hour.

You cut fruit into mangled flowers and vague geometric shapes for the brunches, usually while just spending time with him. He tries his hand at it once, with you pulling up videos, laughing the whole time you’re explaining how it’s supposed to work, and the utter bastard is better at it on his first go than you were after weeks. His hands are confoundingly steady, and his hand-eye coordination borders on the unnatural.

That’s probably the official start of his sous chef arc. And that’s what has him spending a night judging your knives and marveling, repeatedly and loudly, that you still have all your fingers.

You might put a piece of eggshell into his omelet that night in retaliation, and he might not even have the decency to react to it.

“...Johnny I can hear it crunching, oh my God would you spit it out!” You manage between laughter that’s got your face hurting.

That happens a lot around him. Smiling so much it hurts.

“Nah, i’s nice texture,” he says around the mouthful, then starts enunciating the longer words. “Very advanced technique. Shows a great awareness of the culinary experience–”

“You’re being such a prat. Why are you being such a prat!”

He talks over you as if he can’t hear you, as if he’s doing some mockingly posh review. “And honestly, the crunching–” he pauses and chomps down on the shell for effect, and how is it still intact, “it really engages the senses. Keeps me immersed in my dining experience.”

You regret loaning him your cooking books. Never again.

After that, though, he steals your knives, takes them home, and they come back so sharp you can cut windowpane slices of potato. He offers to teach you how to do it yourself–after stipulating with heart-clenching eagerness that he’s happy to come over and do it for you any time.

Johnny gets weirdly into shopping farmer’s markets, walking around discovering new produce and varieties of things he’s never seen before. “Fuck would I know tomatoes come in this color? Look at this thing, it’s like a feckin’... it’s a wee lumpy sunset, isn’t it? And this! Like someone took the heart of a dragon,” his voice had gone terribly dramatic, and you definitely hadn’t covered your face, “and stuck it on a bush somewhere.”

“Baby how are you so huge, but so adorable?” You don't know when the pet names started, but you know he started them; sometimes it feels like you two grew up together.

You like the challenge of the new and unexpected ingredients that come from his trips, and by this point, he’s keeping your kitchen pretty stocked with whatever oddball pantry items you ask for, so you're set up to deal with almost anything. But on rare occasions he’ll call you with a question, too. You’ve had each other’s numbers for a while, it just made coordinating easier.

“Oi can you make sommat with uh… fiddlehead ferns?”

You always can, whatever he asks about. It just takes a quick internet search to find out if you can tackle it that same night, or if it needs to wait for another day. Sometimes it ends up disastrous, but like a shot, Johnny has you laughing or throwing something at him (usually-but-not-always also while laughing) before guilt or shame can get a proper foothold.

There was a night when he was too excited about something to wait for you to answer the door when he knocked, and since then, he just sort of comes in on his own after he announces himself—at least when you know to expect him. That feels right, too, just like having him at your counter had.

You’re feeding the both of you almost every night of the week by now, even if you’re still not cooking often. You like being around him so much, you can’t imagine doing it less, not even when cooking is the last thing you want to be doing. It’s like there’s a bubbly little sun in your chest when he’s around.

Johnny makes you so happy, in fact, and you’re so afraid of losing your time with him, it’s nearly six months before the first time you have to tap out of a dinner, too knackered to make yourself even casually presentable, nevermind cook so much as instant noodles.

He reacts like it’s no problem at all, which of course he’d do, because he’s wonderful, but you don’t manage to keep your heart from dropping that he’s not at least a little sad. That he doesn’t, maybe, look forward to the nights like you do. You know your arrangement is practical, and he’s never been over unless there was food involved, but… well… seeing him seems to have become rather… vital to you.

Which means it’s better to put it away, anyhow, right?

So when, an hour after you’d texted him and basically all he’d said was No problem, thinking takeout, any votes?, he’s coming through your front door with delivery bags and talking a mile a minute like it’s just another night, you're left with your mouth open and your hand on the knob, because… because he's here.

You're not cooking, but he's still here.

You just stand there gobsmacked as he sits on the couch, nattering away, half the food out before he even realizes you’re still playing doorstop. He asks if you’re having the time of your life or if you’re going to come sit down, those horrible (wonderful) crinkles at the sides of his eyes, brows pulled up in the middle.

He looks confused when you say you want to freshen up, like he can’t see that your hair might’ve lost a row with a feral rodent, or that you’re wearing clothes that shouldn’t even be outside of a bin, nevermind on a person. He just tells you the food will get cold, and that it’ll be no good that way.

So you run your hands through your hair and sit, subdued and uncertain like you haven’t been around him in ages, as he amiably fills the silence. You know he can tell you’re not right, but he’s just… acting like it’s ok that you aren’t.

Midway through the meal, he reaches forward to grab a container and put it in front of you, and it makes his knee come up against yours.

It doesn’t move away when he sits back.

Then, as the night wears on and the very most jagged edges of your weariness have eased, he makes a joke and you bump your shoulder into him in retaliation. It pushes your legs flush… and neither of you do anything to separate them. He just keeps on being Johnny like nothing is different, like nothing strange is happening, like he can’t see how bloody flushed you must be, like the room hasn't turned to glass and burst, leaving the both of you toppling through the air.

You're not stupid, so you have to tell yourself repeatedly that he’s just trying to comfort you. He’s acting completely normal otherwise—for Johnny—and you look like a person in need of a friend tonight. And same as him, you’re at all your meal nights instead of off with friends or dates. At least for him, it’s because of his career. You haven’t even seen him bringing up a new fling in ages.

…You’re not stupid. Right?

After the food is finished, Johnny putters about cleaning up, working his way around your kitchen like he knows it exactly as well as he does. He puts all but one container of leftovers in your fridge.

You hug your knees comfortably, just sort of watching him, too full of static to be paranoid about it, and he either doesn’t realize or isn’t bothered by it. Not being a complete creep, you don’t keep it up for too long, anyhow. You’ve got plenty to occupy your thoughts.

He surprises you on his way out by casually setting a mug in front of you. He’d made you something hot to drink while he was cleaning up, and you were so spaced you hadn’t realized. He just gives you a little smile, a gentle squeeze on the shoulder with a stroke of his thumb, says, “Wednesday, yeah?” (the night of your next normal get-together), and moves on toward the door. All normal. But there’s some metal in your chest painfully bending itself into unaccustomed shapes, jabbing places that aren’t used to the pressure, pushing into your windpipe until it’s hard to breathe, and you can’t stop yourself from telling him that you made up a new seasoning blend for popcorn, if he’d maybe like to watch a movie before he goes.

He stands there by the door looking at you just for a split second too long, opens his mouth, closes it, then settles right back onto the couch up next to you. He reaches out an arm and pulls you gently into his side, moving in a way that makes it an invitation and not a demand, while he’s talking about what to watch.

You fall asleep there. So does he.

Things turn a bit funny after that in a way you can’t quite put your finger on. At the surface, everything is the same. But nothing feels the same. Every time there’s a tease, casual touches, close quarters, you have to chant not stupid not stupid not stupid on repeat in your head. He’s just Johnny, that’s all. The guy you could have grown up with.

You keep up the dinners and the weekends, and eventually, finally realize that with him around to take all your extras, you can bake. It’s something you’ve wanted to try forever, but recipes don’t really make single servings, and you never had anyone to pawn off the other 22 muffins or ¾ of the cake onto, or the sheet of croissants, because you absolutely want to try the most fussy, difficult things. And it turns out, when at last he tells you what he does, that Johnny works at the local military base–which at least explains his size–so if he can’t polish something off, well, he knows some blokes.

You’re so excited after that, things almost seem to return to normal. He even comes over and hangs out while you’re baking sometimes. Just knocking about, licking the beaters and the spoons and the bowls, doing dishes as you go, fidgeting with this or that, all while knowing you’re equally as likely to produce something inedible as you are a treat.

Johnny tells you a little about his career one evening. He says that it means he’s in real danger often, there’s a lot of secrecy with people in his personal life, long absences and surprise ones, shit pay, and likely a brief expiration date. (You don’t really let that last one in). He’s got a bit of a funny look in his eyes when he shares about all of it. Quite focused on you, in a way? It makes your cheeks heat. It isn’t as if it’s on you to approve of his life.

But at least now you understand why he’s on his own. And you suppose you’re a bit small, because while you’re incredibly sad for him, part of you is thrilled that it means he’s not likely to be swept away by someone else too soon.

You just gather yourself up, smile, and tell him that at least he’s spending the time he has as best he can, which is a hell of a lot more than a lot of people do–although you personally hope there’s a lot more of it. And that… at the end, you're glad for all the times you're involved.

Johnny’s leaning against the counter while you fold nuts and rum-soaked fruit into a thick batter, his normally busy hands jammed into his pockets, posture a bit off, and so close you almost keep elbowing him on accident, the two of you just bantering back and forth.

You turn your head toward him to fire back, and–

–his mouth is just there, on yours.

He lingers, but doesn’t move otherwise. It’s… testing, you think. You feel his lips shake against yours, in fact, just once.

Your shock dies fast and your eyes slip closed, and while it’s a brief kiss, when he pulls away, you don’t open them. You can’t. Because if you’re honest, you’ve probably been gone for him since the first time you gave him a friendly hug goodnight, and it’s only ever gotten worse. If you open your eyes, this won’t be real, or it won’t have happened, or it will shatter somehow.

After a pause, he runs the back of a finger down your temple, trailing the side of your face to your jaw. You still won’t open your eyes, so he just toys with your face until you do.

He’s got a soul-crushing smile at the corners of his eyes.

“Been wanting to do that for a long time,” he admits into the quiet.

“...Oh?” Your voice is embarrassingly, unhelpfully breathy. It’d probably be mortifying, if you had the mental capacity to fully register embarrassment at the moment.

He pauses, smile making its way to his lips, and curling them up at the corners, bit by bit. He cants his head, just a little, like he wants to see you from another angle. “Aye. …Might’ve been since the first time I saw you at the mailboxes.”

“Oh?”

That had been one of the first times you remember ever seeing him. He never said a word to you other than, “Mornin’” or “Evenin’,” if he said anything at all.

His smile blooms until you can see his teeth. “You were wearing this little shirt. Green, thin. Bit worn, like it was a favorite. Showed a wee spot of skin at your back.” His fingers brush the spot, soft and testing, near the base of your spine, and it jolts you from scalp to toes. “Might’ve… lost some time, thinking about what it’d feel like if I slid my hand up there.” He toys with the hem of your shirt and steps in, voice going deeper and rougher around the edges. “Might’ve imagined pushing it up, getting a bit closer. Really might’ve imagined putting your back up to the slots, mo–”

You kiss him this time, before he can go on, and it’s anything but testing.

And just like everything else about him, this fits.

His mouth fits against yours. His body fits against yours. And as if some band of control snaps, so abruptly you swear you feel it jolt through his skin, he's got you up on the counter, his thighs between yours, both of you already breathing hard.

His hands on you are perfect, calloused, slipping up under the back of your shirt, smoothing and gripping, making your chest and your thighs feel molten. It's ravenous, like he just has to touch your skin, has to get you closer. You arch toward him, fingers running up through his hair, legs curling around his and pulling him nearer.

His hips are carefully, stubbornly, infuriatingly back from you, but the kiss is so full of need, so close, that some of his breaths sound hollow against your mouth. It's like he can't decide whether inhaling or devouring you is more important, so he just doesn't choose.

When you're at the point of moaning unintentionally, of hungry little sounds forcing their way out of your chest, of your hips moving against the counter in desperation, when you're moments from outright begging, Johnny pulls back, and goes further when you try to chase his mouth.

His lips are red and full, his face dark--much worse when he catches sight of how completely drunk you must look--and he's panting. His fingers dig into your hips like he's trying to keep one or both of you from drowning. He squeezes his eyes shut.

You don't mean to, you really don't, but you look down, and lord help you but–

“That looks painful,” you tell him. Your voice sounds like it's been run over a washboard. He's tented against his denim, and his size is… proportional.

…You can't seem to remember how to make yourself look up.

“Really rather not talk about my cock just now, love,” he gravels, fingers clenching briefly against you. His head tips forward onto your shoulder, breaths panting out against your collar bone, leaving you to pick up every bit of heat he's trying to get out of himself.

You hum, teasing. “Shame, because I can't think of anything I'd rather talk ab—”

His big paw covers your mouth. “For the love of every Saint, I’m beggi—”

You cut him off right back. By licking his palm.

He recoils in horror, but the moment your eyes meet, you both burst into laughter, made worse every time he tries to tell you how disgusting that is, something about his sisters as kids, you don't know what else.

You're the first to sober, breathing almost back to normal, thoughts already whirring on fast-forward. You look down, pulling your knees together, hands gripping the edge of the counter. “Are we…. Will we be ok, after this?”

You peek up to see him looking at you like you're daft.

“‘S been the better part of a year,” he says softly, moving forward and running his thumbs over your knees. Asking your legs to make room again, to let him get close again. “Have you really not figured it out, all this time?”

Your legs open hesitantly, and he steps in and, when you look up at him, kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other, slow and warm and so tender it feels like your chest is cracking right down the center.

Eyes closed, brows a little pinched, you murmur, “We can't all be SAS savants, Johnny.” Maybe you know. Maybe. But it has been all this time, so maybe you need to hear it, too.

He's still kissing, pace unhurried and savouring, making his way to your jaw and just beneath it. But it's calming now, somewhere between reverential and still trying to bring the both of you down. Himself especially, you think.

“Then let me spell it out for you. Gladly.” He noses up against the bottom of your ear and roughs, “You are fucking stuck with me. Glued. Bloody welded.” He huffs a laugh and leans back upright—but not all the way, not too far back. “This isnae a new thing for me. You know that, right? I just….” He shakes his head and abandons the thought, “Hell, my mates have already been asking when they can come over for dinner, the dobbers.”

Your brows shoot up. “You've talked about me at work?”

He looks down, and while his face is in half a scowl, you'd swear he does it to hide a slight flush, too. “Haven't shut up about you, more like. Should hear what my Lieutenant– Ach, nevermind that.”

You hurry to say that they're welcome any time, but it makes him scowl fully.

“Not exactly keen on the idea just yet.” He puts his arms around you, buries his face in your neck, and just stands there, breathing you in. He mutters into the crook of your shoulder, “Mind if I stay like this for a bit? Just while I, uh… calm down.”

His hips are still well back from you. You’re not sure you’ve ever adored and hated him so much at once.

“I’d really like that,” you tell him softly, arms going around his ribs, hands on his shoulders, chest to chest.

It's warm and resounding like this, so after a spell, without thinking, you bite his shoulder. Just sink your teeth in and leave them there. It’s not even entirely conscious, it's just so comfortable and comforting.

“All good, there, wee piranha?” he eventually asks, a smile in his voice.

You detach instantly. “Ah, sorry! I, uh, might have a tiny bit of an oral fixation.”

He groans. “Are ye trying to do me in?”

“I’m not the one who said we had to stop, Mr. Military Discipline.”

His eyes darken in a flash, but he tamps down on it just as quickly and gets that godawful cocky look on his face, instead. “Pardon me for not wanting to rush something that really matters.” His tone goes so soft at the end that you can’t even be mad at him--exactly as you know he intended, the great bastard.

“How did I not know what a sadist you are?”

And that look means he’s about to make you eat your words.

“Johnny I will happily kill you in your sleep.”

“I could handle that. Means you'd be in my bed, aye?”

He pulls your hands up from the death grip they've found on the edge of the counter and laces your fingers together. “I dinnae….” He clears his throat, frowns. “Just being away on deployment is shite now, and I love what I do. But I miss you while I'm gone, think about you back here all the bloody time, and we havnae even….”

When he doesn’t finish, you whisper, heart clenching with the realization, “You really don't want to rush this.”

He laughs quietly like he wants to argue. But what he says is, “No. I don't. But while that's true….” He steps in, chin ducking, eyes darkening even as they shine, voice lowering. “What do you say we turn the oven off? I've a funny feeling you willnae be getting around to that bake today.”

Masterlist

#johnny soap mactavish #cod soap #john soap mactavish #soap cod #soap x reader #johnny mactavish #slow burn #friends to lovers #060 #meet cute #comfort fic #demisexual #fluff #johnny x reader #cod

1K notes · View notes

etherealily · 4 months ago

Text

𝕏𝕆𝕏𝕆, 𝔽𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕩.

Felix Catton + fem!reader. Warnings : Cussing. Drugs. Long.

My other Felix fics, if you have the time.

happy v-day💌

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : You don't want to fix him, but you do, anyway.

═════════════════════════ ⋆⋅💙⋅⋆ ═══════════════════════

Okay, okay, so he beat someone up on campus, so fucking what?

It's called being a good fucking person. Look, you do not let some utter chav get away with cat-calling a girl in the middle of the dining hall, and then a frat party, where she might have been roofied if she'd have been dumber (thank god she wasn't), and in a fucking library, just because she couldn't cause a scene. Three strikes and he was out.

But apparently, so was Felix.

"No, Sir, I'm telling you, he was--'

"Professor Walker."

Professor. Asshole. "Professor. I apologise. Professor, I'm telling you, he was being absolutely dodgy!"

"Mr. Catton, I'd advise you to stay calm--"

His fist slammed on the table, the pens on this useless waste of a PhD's desk bouncing, seemingly in tune with Felix's blood pressure. "YOU are a philosophy professor, yeah? Don't bloody talk about practical shite to me, and don't tell me what to do about what happens in the real world, when your whole career is telling people to overthink everything and keep their heads in the clouds!"

Uh, whoops.

His adrenaline shot down as fast as it had shot up and all of a sudden, he was acutely aware of his ranking in this shithole.

Student.

He's lucky he wasn't expelled.

Because the philosophy 'professor' said "young minds often reject new ideas".

Figures.

He got let off with a warning, an extremely disappointed voicemail from his mother (Felix, dear, you know philosophy was my major, that was a horrid joke to make), to sit in on one month's worth of philosophy lectures - surprisingly, without charge - and a mandatory weekly anger management session for the rest of the academic year.

That last bit was what he was most chagrined about.

He did not need a bloody shrink. GOD. He was fine. He just couldn't handle the philosophy 'professor' telling him to 'stay calm' when he was perfectly calm. Maybe he knew that would set him off. Any class with Felix in it is sure to get more listeners. So maybe it was this Professor Walker mooching off his campus-wide popularity.

═════════════════════════ ⋆⋅💙⋅⋆ ═══════════════════════

Having to miss classes wasn't exactly on your bucket list, but your body was far less used to Oxford winters than you'd expected, and so the flu decided to scrape a week off your lectures. You made up for it, though, being a swot on your first free week of Uni, and not needing to catch up on much.

However, there was definitely no chance your professor took too kindly to your absence, seeing as psychology was your major, and she expected you to be there, rain, hail or shine. Star student, you were not, but the only one taking it seriously, you were.

So here you were, sitting in front of her as she regarded you. "You need extra credit."

"Yes, Professor."

"Your career path?"

"Uh... undecided."

"Career focus?"

"Psychology.' That, you knew.

She hummed, shaking a packet of sugar before ripping the corner. You watched the tiny, crystalline cubes get engulfed by the brown of her coffee.

"You should try going into therapy."

For a moment, you almost chewed her head off.

"As a career.", she clarified, almost snorting as she saw your expression. "You interact well with people, and you have a good grasp on the subject." Ah. Say that properly, bitch.

"Here's what I'll do.", she declared, taking a large sip of her coffee - you were almost 90% sure she'd made it Irish earlier - before sliding a small, stapled pile of papers over to you. "I'll give you all the tools you'll need. See if you can get them memorized and come back for a solo quiz later this week. Then, you can begin conducting."

Conducting?

You skimmed your eyes over the stack of paper. Weekly mandatory anger management sessions. Split second, and you thought it was for you, because maybe she had heard you mentally call her a bitch.

"An extremely hardworking and well-scoring student recently got into an altercation on campus, on grounds.", she explained, and you nodded, your eyes not leaving the stack of paper.

'Conducted by' : blank. You supposed that's where you were supposed to sign.

"Although we have a strict policy against harrasment and conflict, none of the three parties involved has openly stated discrimination. The only solid thing the university has got is a confession from the initiator and witnesses from the side of the victim. But given his clean record so far, we have resorted to only this. Sessions to contain any such future outbursts."

Who even was this kid, and why was he your form of extra credit? "But I'd be using him as a lab rat, basically."

"Come again?"

"I'm not qualified or licensed to conduct these sessions, so I don't think--"

She waved you off, the bint. "It's a mere formality, no need to put stock into it. That's not to say you can slack off, half-arse it, either, but he's had no history of violence and is known to be a relatively good-tempered student."

Then why the fuck?

"We figure he can be let off easy - we'd never take sides, so this is off the record, but he was justified - and you can get extra credit, and the victim can be appeased. Quiet and a win-win-win."

The coffee now completely drained, she watched you think it over while staring blankly at the space in which you needed to sign your name. Inhaling deeply, she leaned over, gently prying it from you and flipping the page. "This bit, very important. Sort of like an NDA. No, maybe... an ANS. Agreement Not to Sue. But less official."

"This looks more like summat he should be signing. Basically, since I'm not a licensed therapist, if he doesn't get better, or gets more fucked, the Uni isn't to blame?"

"You need to sign it, too. You'll have to record the sessions, as well."

"So you know I'm not 'half-arsing' it?"

"So we know he's coming to them. But yeah. That too.", she smiled, tilting her head. "You in?"

Well, yeah, you kind of had to be, seeing as she cut marks for your absences out of sheer fucking spite.

You nodded and so did she. "Brilliant! Sign here."

Scrawling your sign - that you came up with in the eighth grade instead of fucking having fun like a kid - on the blank spots her manicured nail hovered over, you bit the inside of your cheek. Was it weird that they weren't telling you who it was?

Was it weird that the sheet had been blank when it was brought to you, meaning whoever this bloke was, he had no clue what was coming?

Uh huh. Yeah.

═════════════════════════ ⋆⋅💙⋅⋆ ═══════════════════════

"A student?! A first year fucking student? I'm getting a kid-shrink?"

"It's a mere formality. Given your record, we're sure you don't even require these sessions--"

"Professor! Come on! Can't we just say I took them?"

It's quite interesting how chill a philosophy professor can actually be once you get to know them personally. And Walker was cool, as Felix had come to find out in the past couple days of knowing him.

"Afraid not. But I'm sure she's been adequately trained by the psychology in-charge to handle these sessions."

"Why can't the in-charge do it? Would actually do summat!"

"She's busy."

He scoffed as he was handed a stapled stack of papers. "What's this, then?"

"Read it."

He did, for a while, before looking up at him with raised eyebrows. "What is this, a Liability Waiver for if she bollockses my mental health by accident?"

"More or less."

Sweet lord. "Oh, fantastic, so I'm a scapegoat, a trial for this first year, am I? See if counselling is her 'thing'?"

"You know, a more positive attitude towards this, and you might not have to go the whole year.'

"What, sayin' she'll give up?"

Walker looked almost amused, snorting. "No. I'm saying you might actually get a solution for your rage issues."

"I don't have--'

"You could learn a thing or two, Felix. Learn to calm your temper - no matter how non-existent you claim it to be - and learn how to be happier."

"Brilliant. A first year is going to teach me about the joys of non-reactivity, then? Brilliant. We'll see her keep her temper when a girl's being near groped in front of her, hm?"

"We'll need to have you sign there and there and twice on the last page, please."

"She got this before me?", he muttered, glaring at the signatures already present on the pages. "So she got to decide whether she wants to deal with me, not the other way around!? Unbelievable."

"Sign, please, Felix."

He grumbled under his breath, attempting to recall whether he'd ever even heard your name before, as he messily signed something that was probably not his signature, on each page. He has no clue what his signature is. He figured he'd sort it out when he takes over the family estate (or business), or whatever.

"None of these look the same."

"Well, this is hardly official is it? 'S long as my name's there, it's not a problem, yeah?"

"You're gonna give me a migraine before my first week as your student advisor.", he muttered, accepting the sheets back anyway. "Okay, good. Sessions start Saturday."

Fucking spectacular, now this girl was taking his weekends away.

WEEK 1

Your pen twirled between your fingers and the inside of your cheek practically split open with how frequently you'd been resorting to chewing on it lately.

You'd passed the solo quiz that your professor had set up for you, and she'd declared you 'adequately trained' to take these sessions.

Okay? And? What, were you supposed to jump in joy?

Late. This arsehole, 'Felix Catton' was his name. You just... try as you might, you couldn't place a face to the familiar name. And that face was almost ten minutes late.

But one thing you would not do is get up and leave until the hour was up. Work ethic. Wait till the last moment. With any luck, he wouldn't show up at all, and you could complain, and get extra credit some other way--

The door exploded open, and shuffling, throwing-off of a coat and grumbled-settling-down was heard, as you looked up from your notes.

"You're the first year, then?"

Oh, THIS GUY?! Whoa, whoa, whoa, yeah, you remembered him!

You nodded. "Yes. Uh, just a second, Mr. Catton.", you muttered, angling the video camera right, ignoring the scoff it elicited from the junior.

"I'm two years older than you."

"What would you like me to call you?" That plug from the Christmas party who tried to overcharge me?

He watched you fiddling with the device for a bit before sitting up, one leg crossed over another as he huffed, playing with his rings. "Felix is fine."

"Felix it is, then.", you mumbled, finally getting the thing to work, before clearing your throat and sitting up. Here we go. "So, Felix.", you began, trying to smile off the awkwardness. "We're here to just go through these Uni-mandated sessions, so that you may have an insight into conflict resolution and--"

"Do you wanna know why I'm here in this bloody session?"

You glanced over to the camera for a second, feeling like you were in a fucking Office episode, before nodding, gesturing at him to continue. Fuck, if this shite went on the record and he said summat so unbelievably stupid you were at a loss for words, you could kiss your extra credit goodbye.

"I punched a lad. Hard, till his nose bled and he couldn't stand up without support."

You nodded, flicking through the file of information you'd received from some advisor of his, Professor Walker. Nice chap. "Yes, I see that. How does that make you feel? Did it make you feel powerful?"

"Mhm.", he hummed, nodding as he glared at you, a sort of smirk on his face, like he thought this would have you freaking out about his sadistic tendencies. It's funny he thought you cared.

"Happy?'

"Very."

"I see. But one thing that's conveniently missing from your file.", you replied, eyes flicking accusatorily to the camera before reaching his eyes once more. "Is why you did it.", you stated, your fingers intertwining as you looked at him with rapt attention.

This seemed to throw him for a loop, the self-satisfied grin fading for a moment.

"Why'd you want to know, sweetheart? So that you can record me confessing to the crime on tape?", he mused, gesturing at the camera before reclining back in his seat, his arms crossed. "Because I'm sorry to disappoint your wide-eyed, freshman dreams, but I've already said it, on the record."

You frowned, tilting your head softly for a moment. "No, I'm asking, because I truly don't know. They wouldn't give me your identity, let alone your case."

"Well, I hit a lad. For cat-calling a girl."

He observed your face almost twitch for a moment, and he figured you were about to throw the camera at him, but instead, you switched it off. "And they're punishing you for it?", you asked, leaning your forearms in front of him, basically whispering although the camera was off.

Huh. Whoa, maybe you were on his side.

"Yeah, isn't it mental?", he scoffed, leaning in, too. "I figured I should get some sort of medal, y'know? Maybe a commendation from the dean."

"I wouldn't go that far, but it's good, what you did.", you laughed, softly.

"Exactly!", he huffed, a genuine smile now on his face as he leaned back, rubbing his hands over his jaw. "Wow. I- sorry, love, but I didn't expect us to, like, agree."

"No, no, yeah, totally! I thought you were a hotheaded twat. I didn't expect...", you exclaimed, gesturing at him. "Reason."

"Right. Well, okay, great! Uh, phew, yeah?"

You nodded.

"So, yeah, this is cool. We'll just... you'll take care of it, won't ya? Thanks, you're a peach.", he grinned, standing up and not believing his bloody luck!

"Hey, hey, where are you going?"

Turning, he frowned. "Well, we agree. So you'll talk to your in-charge, and say I don't need it, yeah? Oh, oh, you want me to stay the hour so you can, like, log it in. Yeah, yeah, got it.", he mumbled, nodding eagerly.

"What? No." He was, uh... clearly not on the same page as you.

His smile faded slowly. "What?"

"We've got weeks left of this."

"Yeah, but. Wait, I thought you agreed with me."

"I do. It's bonkers to punish you, but, it's mandatory, so."

"'So'? So, go do summat about it, then!", he cried, gesturing at nothing in particular. "Tell 'em there's nothing to work on!"

"I'm not just going to--"

"WHY?!"

You almost flinched. God. Maybe he did have anger issues.

"WHAT'S IN IT FOR YOU?!"

Oh, oh-- uh oh. He didn't even know why you were doing it, and you were sure he'd blow five gaskets if he did.

"Just finish it, stop causing unecessary problems!"

"No, seriously! What's in it for you?"

"SIT DOWN!"

For some reason, that, he listened to.

He slumped down.

"Shut up and do what you were instructed to do." Lord knows where you'd got the balls to talk to a junior like that.

Reaching over to turn the camera back on, you began again. "What would you like me to call you?", you repeated.

"How about I call you something and we can workshop sm'n out for me later?", he grumbled under his breath.

"Sorry? You weren't audible. What was that?"

"Nothing. Felix."

"Felix.", you echoed, nodding. "We're here to just go through these Uni-mandated sessions, so that you may have an insight into conflict resolution and live an overall, controlled and more fulfilling life and have a more fruitful experience here at Oxford.", you read off the script, jaw clenched, mirroring his dirty look.

"Yes, I'm aware, thank you, freshie."

"I'd like it if you adressed me by my name. You already know it from the sign-up form for the sessions, but I am happy to repeat it if you wish.'

"Sign-up form?", he scoffed, looking directly at the camera. "Is that what they're calling it on the record?"

"That is what it is."

"Sweet Lord, it's a Liabil-- hey.", he grimaced, narrowing his eyes at you as you kneed him from under the table.

"Right. Y/N. Am I supposed to call you 'Doctor', too, freshie?"

"Just my name is fine."

He rolled his eyes, his hands fiddling with his rings. "Let's begin with your recount of the incident."

How many bloody times?! He was about to explode.

You ended the session at exactly one hour, because you couldn't take this moron anymore, for fuck's sake.

He didn't object.

Shutting off the camera, you wordlessly packed up your things, stuffing them into your bag.

"Are they payin' ya?"

You snorted, zipping up your bag before slinging it over your shoulder. "No."

"Fuckin' snake."

"How am I a snake, Felix?", you sighed, tapping an impatient foot on the floor.

"Pretending you're on my side and that. Was that just to get information for the therapy part of it? Because that was a bitch move."

"What? No, I genuinely think it's odd that they're punishing you for something like this."

"Then why?! What could they possibly offer a fresher? They wouldn't increase your scholarship for shite this petty, so-- wait. EXTRA CREDIT?!", he gasped, standing up startlingly quick. "You're doin' this for a couple points of extra credit ?! WHAT?!"

"So what if I am?", you asked, schooling your face and your voice to be the picture of calm. "Either way, these sessions are mandated if you don't want this to escalate. It'll be over before you know it."

"EXTRA CREDIT?!", he practically shrieked, as he followed you out the door. "How bloody pathetic! You're going against what you know is right for extra bloody credit?! Just fucking study!"

"It'll be over before you know it, Felix."

"For the rest of the academic year, I have to come to you every Saturday and listen to you blabbering on about how to 'take deep breaths and count to ten'.", he scoffed, incredulously, easily overtaking you and obstructing your path in more ways than one.

"Doesn't always have to be a Saturday."

Oh, he was about to actually get anger issues.

"This pisses you off, too! Come on, admit it, fresher! You don't like this any more than I do!", he declared, crossing his arms defiantly.

You sort of liked pissing him off. Gave you much more to work with, sadistically. Reaching into your bag, you handed him the tiny blue journal you'd bought. "Here."

"What is this?"

"It's for noting down your feelings. You will have to fill at least one page every day and bring it back to me during our sessions."

He gaped incredulously at you as you shouldered past him. You're giving him homework?!

═════════════════════════ ⋆⋅💙⋅⋆ ═══════════════════════

WEEK 5

"You're not taking off your helmet?"

"No. Bothers you?"

You glanced at the camera for a second, before shaking your head, the corners of your lips turned down in feigned and exaggerated indifference. "No."

"Because I'll keep it on, mud and all. I fell on the way here."

"You fell?"

"Yeah. Helmet's now my coping mechanism. Calms me, y'know?" That made no bloody sense!

"So you're keeping it on."

'You wouldn't deny me my coping mechanism, would you, Y/N?"

You sucked on your teeth, shaking your head once more. Dirt on the desk, dirt on your laptop, dirt-- FUCK!

"No, it's alright."

He grinned slyly, nodding, before sliding the journal over to you. "I filled it."

"Entirely?" It's only Week 5, what the hell?

"Yes, actually. I'm an overachiever."

You raised a brow, taking it from him and placing it next to his file.

"So. How are we doing today?", you asked, once again intertwining your fingers and placing them on the desk as you leaned closer to the imbecile.

"You're not readin' it?"

Oh, please, like you had no clue what was in there. "No, actually, I've got to directly submit this to both your advisor and my in-charge."

"What?"

"Yeah, protocol. That's why I said to take it one week at a time so we can monitor progress, but it seems you're an 'overachiever' - your words, not mine."

"Can I have it back?" His tone was almost nervous, and you were now even more certain what he'd actually bloody written in there.

You almost smirked before you remembered the presence of the camera. "You want it back, Felix?"

"Yeah, I think I, uh, used a couple of profanities."

"That's alright, I'm sure they'll understand."

"Can I please have it back?"

You shrugged, holding it out for him to take, letting him tug on it for a moment before you released it from your grasp. "Would you like another one? Since you've filled this one?"

"I'll buy my own."

"Very well. I ask again, how are you doing today?"

He huffed, momentarily looking like he was actually prepared to answer honestly. "Great."

"Great.", you echoed, your pen twirling between your fingers. "And define 'great' to you."

"Not shite.", he said through gritted teeth.

"In more elaborate, less crude terms, please, Mr. Felix.'

"I am doing well today. Not bad.", he mumbled, playing with the buckle of the helmet he'd so adamantly kept on that was now seeming a bit too bloody tight. But he couldn't take it off. Not when it was clearly bothering you. "Nothing particularly terrible or triggering has occurred."

"And is that always the standard you measure your experiences on? 'Not bad'? If nothing 'terrible or triggering' has happened, it's a 'great' day?", you asked offhandedly, noting it down. 'Not shite'.

His eyes darted up to you. "What?"

"I said, is that always the stand--"

"No, I heard you. Just... isn't that what everyone does?"

"Do you think it is? Do you think it's what everyone does? Have any of your friends told you it is what they do?"

"What do you do?"

"Me?" Were you allowed to answer this? Is that against some therapist rule? You weren't sure, and you couldn't really ask your textbook right now, could you?

He nodded, mildly intrigued.

"Personally, for me to count a day as 'great', there should be an equal balance of absence of bad things and presence of good things."

"Well, then, I fell off my bike, but I did well on a test. Is that, in your books, a 'great' day?"

"Depends. Which do you weigh more? Is falling off a bike worse than getting a bad grade, or is getting a good grade better than staying upright on a bike?"

"Getting a good grade."

"Well, then, I suppose, there's your answer."

Huh. This was an odd perspective he's never exactly... heard before. Wait, no! This shite is not working, fuck off, fresher!

"Whatever."

"Whatever indeed.", you nodded. "You seem to have a better attitude this week, to the session." He did not. But it would piss him off if he thought that you thought this was working.

"I do not."

"Oh, well, then, pardon me, my mistake. So, tell me. Why do you think it is, that you're not particularly interested in these sessions?"

"Because I don't have anger issues. If a bloke catcalls a girl once, it's whatever - still bad - but whatever. Happens. But if he keeps doin' it, almost roofies her at a party and constantly tailing her, and then tryin' to score in a fucking library, just because she can't yell out at him, that's, like... creep behaviour!"

You nodded. "Yes, you mentioned this, in the first session, and also to your student advisor, it seems.", you replied, tapping the tip of your pen at the bit of the file that mirrored what he was saying.

"And you think that that's a therapy-worthy answer."

"Why do you not think you're going to get anything out of these sessions, Felix? Even without anger issues, per se, everyone could use some guidance in controlling their emotions and resolving conflict peacefully, wouldn't you agree?"

"No, I would not agree. I think that if you're being an absolute prick , then no amount of peaceful talking is going to do anything. You need to get physical. Teach a lesson."

"I see. And you know this works because...?"

"Because he's shut up, hasn't he?"

"Right, but maybe he's still doing it. Perhaps not to that particular girl, but how do you know for sure you've 'taught him a lesson'?"

"Because- well.", he muttered. Shut up, fresher! "He's not that daft! He wouldn't risk another beating!"

"If he's daft enough to do it three times even after she expressed disinterest, Felix, I'm sure he might be 'daft' enough to 'risk another beating'."

He tsked, taking off the bloody tight fucking helmet, and running his hands through his hair. You watched the brown spill through the gaps of his fingers, before your eyes came back to his face. "You're frustrated?"

"Yes, I'm frustrated."

"What do you usually do, when you're frustrated?"

"Certainly not sit in a room with a fresher and 'talk about it'!"

"Right, I suppose you don't.", you replied, smiling. "So what is it you do?"

"I dunno, smoke?"

"Smoke?", you asked, tilting your head, noting it down. "You smoke?"

"Yeah, I smoke. What, you going to turn this into a cancer-awareness session?"

"I'm simply trying to understand you, Felix."

"What is this, like a first date, you learn shite about me, and see if I'm worth anything in your eyes?", he scoffed.

"Would that make it easier to open up?"

"No! God! What high school did you go to? Idiot."

"Oh, so we are going with the first date thing?"

"No- I- you're so stupid! I don't actually care what high school you went to! It was rhetoric!"

His outburst, oddly, was not followed by a calm and infuriating retort, in fact, you just looked back at him, disappointed, it looked like. But that was impossible, because that would mean you gave a crap, which, you couldn't. You did this for extra credit like a fuckin' try-hard, right?

The silence almost devours him whole as he looks into your eyes - why were they so... he didn't even know, that look you were giving him just... freaked him out.

"Time's up. You can leave."

What?! No, no, no, he just got here.

"Already?"

He heard the video camera shut off. "Time flies when you're actually working with me, Felix, y'know?"

"Don't get used to it, I had a shit day.'

You chuckled softly, nodding. "I won't. Have a nice rest o' your weekend, Catton."

WEEK 10

"Hello again, Felix."

"Hi."

"You seem cheery today."

"Yes, actually. I went out last night. Downed a couple pints with the lads. It was fun."

"I'm glad you had fun."

He nodded, pursing his lips as he rocked back and forth, awkwardly.

"Yes, so. If you don't mind, I'd just like to go back to some things that were left unfinished in some of the previous sessions. Let's circle back to your mention of what you do when you're frustrated. Smoke. Anything else?"

He sighed, rubbing his temple as he looked up at you. 'No. Well, if you're talking about last night, uh, drink, yeah, sometimes, but never to change my mood or whatever."

"I see. So that's all you do, when frustrated?"

"Yeah. Smoke."

"How about this. Next time you feel frustrated, instead of picking up a pack of cigarettes, pick up a pen."

"What, write down my feelings like a thirteen year old girl?"

"No, draw. On paper, on a desk, on your hand, who cares? Draw."

"Draw?"

"Yeah. It's worked for me, and you seem to be responding slightly better when I give you real life examples of what's worked and not worked for me, so."

"What, the bike thing from Session 5?! Because I-- Oh, please, you're not that bloody smart! Anyone could've said that, doesn't mean I'm 'responding better' just because you said it worked for you, you're a fuckin' fresher, everything you read in your stupid little psych textbooks would work for you!", he snapped. He didn't even know what half of that meant. He just wanted to say something.

"See, it seems that this is more what you do when you're frustrated, Felix, per my observation. You're free to correct me if I'm wrong, but since our previous sessions, this sort of insulting defensiveness is what I feel you resort to."

"'M not defensive. I just think this is pointless."

"Yes, you've made that quite apparent."

"Well, then how about you just declare me fixed?"

"It's not about declaring you, alright, it's about finishing the minimum duration provided to us by the University."

"Fine."

Silence. "So. I ask again. Why not draw?"

"Fine, I'll draw."

"Alright. Thank you, Felix. Time's up."

"What?!"

"Just kidding. You've only been here five minutes. How about... and humour me here...", you muttered, reaching under the desk and groping around until you pull out two sketchbooks. "We draw right now?"

"What, and then you analyse how fucked I am in the head?"

"Or we just draw. We don't even have to talk.", you replied, handing him the sketchbook. God, this better work. You'd had to draw info from child psych books for this guy.

It took barely five minutes for him to begin talking again.

"What are these pencils?"

"Don't ask me, they're all Oxford-provided."

"What a joke. You know, when I was a fresher, I didn't even let myself think of borrowing anything from Uni, I got all my own shite, and even if I lost it, I'd ask it to be sent over from home."

"Really?" Fucking rich boy cunt.

"Mhm.", he hummed, the scratches of his incessant scribbling almost grating in the silent room, but also comfortable, somehow, blending in with the smooth swish sounds of your own, lazy strokes. "Only the best. Can't afford mistakes, can I?"

Can't afford? You'd researched him enough to know that little existed of the sort for him.

"I suppose you can't."

"Y'know, I fucking lost my shite third week of freshman year. How about you?"

"I'm handling it okay, thanks for asking." You were, in fact, not. Your assignments were all overdue by now, and you were having to pull all-nighters that bled steadily into mornings because of this new extra-credit task you'd taken on, and to top it all off, none of the other Professors seemed to care that the Uni was milking the two of you. Abusing your need to improve your grade - although you shouldn't fucking need it -and subjecting him to these sessions with none of his own volition.

"That's good to hear. How close are you to offing yourself, then?", he mused, raising a brow and licking the back of his molars as his eyes slowly reached yours. Fuck. He was onto you.

You tsked, reaching over and shutting off the camera. "You know I have better things to do than edit this to cut out your little quips, right? I really can't have you talking about offin' yourself."

"Oh, so you're also a drown-in-alcohol kind of person, I see."

What in the everloving fuck-- "God, get a fuckin' life, mate.", you muttered, reaching back up to switch the camera on after silently glaring and counting down from three.

"I'm handling it okay, thanks for asking.", you repeated.

"Huh. Really?"

"Yes. Why, is your school year not going okay?"

"No, it's going spectacular. My parents pay for an afternoon to go off once a week for a useless fresher to tell their son to meditate."

You chose not to respond to that, instead pursing your lips and continuing to draw. A flower, it seemed, your hands wished to create.

"Why do you even need extra credit?"

"I was sick, and I missed a couple classes."

"Oh, and you flunked the tests?", he asked, reaching over to grab your pencil out of your hands and use the eraser on the back of it, before tossing it back to you. Prick, and if that smirk was any indication, smug prick.

"No, actually, I'd already finished a good chunk of the syllabus content my first couple weeks so I did fine in my tests."

"So why?"

He looked genuinely curious. So genuinely curious, that you actually felt like this was a first date and he was an annoyingly inquisitive romantic candidate.

"She just didn't like the absences." Plus, everyone else just took Psych to slack off.

"That's not fair."

"Yeah, well, you beat up a creep for a girl and they're punishing you, so."

His eyes flicked over to the camera momentarily. "That's on the record."

"It should be."

═════════════════════════ ⋆⋅💙⋅⋆ ═══════════════════════

Normalcy is hard to achieve because it's never truly been attained.

Now, this kind of knowledge is only acquired when you take a philosophy class - like you - but since Felix was a PolSci-stuck-up-arsehole, it really didn't strike him that the life he'd lived before you had neither been normal nor happy.

Which is why when he found you and a couple of your friends hanging out by the lawn of a frat party, passing around a spliff, he just couldn't resist.

"Is this your coping mechanism, then?"

He reveled in the groan you replied with.

"Ladies, if you could excuse us?"

You rolled your eyes as all your mates nodded slyly before scrambling up. With hungry and suggestive looks at him and then you, they waved subtly. Spectacular. They already thought you were hooking up and now... fuck.

"Ah. I think we're gonna need that, if you will.", he called, winking as he grabbed the spliff from one of them, before settling down next to you. "See? I'm a celebrity. You should bring that up next time, see if you can't do anything with it."

"What?"

"Like, ask me about that. Incorporate it. 'How's it feel, Felix, being the life of the party, and the apple of everyone's eye?'"

"Incorp-- do you think this is a game? Like this is a play?!"

"Well, yeah. It's basicall--"

"GOD, you absolute prick! I'm here freakin' out about the syllabus, tests, and stayin' up to analyse and collate your bullshit and I have to submit it and study resources for it and--", you paused, catching your breath and glaring at him before taking a hit to calm your nerves. "And you think it's a story, like an improv session, where we add off each other.", you mumbled the last bit out.

"What are you, burnt-out from this shite?"

You didn't respond and he watched the smoke flow above the two of you. "God. You are. What sort of a freshman's burnt out by second term?"

"The kind that has to be a shrink to some anger-issued arsehole."

"Hey, c'mon, you-", he huffed, tilting his head at you. "You don't have to put too much effort into this, it's a formality."

"To you!", you yelled, sitting up in frustration, your elbow on your knee and your blunt in your fingers.

He sat up, too, sighing. "I'm sorry. For what it's worth."

"Worth nothing."

"Yeah, I can tell.", he muttered, hiding a scoff. "Gimme."

You rolled your eyes, but handed him the spliff nevertheless, which he grumbled as he took a drag of. Knees elevated to his chest, he exhaled the smoke. "This is good. Is it American?'

"How should I know?"

"You don't care what sort of weed you smoke? This actually is one of your coping methods?"

"For the love of-- lay off, man!"

"Whoa, whoa, it's a joke!"

"You're a joke!"

He almost laughed at that. Almost, because he'd had quite fucking enough of you. He didn't forget who he was just because you might have changed his perspective a little. He was still Felix motherfucking Catton, a motherfucking Upperclassman. And when he was a fresher, he had to treat his Upperclassmen with utmost respect- no, reverence - so he'll be damned if he's gonna let you sit here and call him a joke.

"Stand up."

"What?"

"Stand up."

"Why?"

"NOW, FRESHER, NOW!" Okay, the startle in your body language made him feel the tiniest bit bad, but still, it was exactly what had been done to him, and he wasn't all whiny about it.

"Okay, okay, I'm up, I'm up!", you mumbled, straightening out your shirt. "What?"

He had no clue what he wanted you to stand up for.

"So. The reason I had you shoot up..."

Think, Felix! Think!

"...Is actually quite simple, really. I'm sure you've already guessed."

"You want to get my mind off it or summat."

Sure. "Good. You're smart. And how will I be doing that?"

You shrugged. "Take me on a joyride on your stupid bicycle or summat.", you grumbled.

Sure. Let's go with that. Better than Felix's idea of making you do jumping jacks, like his seniors had done to him.

"Wow, maybe shrinks really can read minds. And at least you have one of your own.", he replied, flicking your forehead as he shepherded you over to the exit of the party. Yeah, he didn't think through how far you'd have to walk before you actually reached his bike. Oh, well. Better for him.

"So.", he began, arms swinging exaggeratedly at his side. "Have you heard anything from your in-charge yet? Walker won't tell me anything."

You shook your head. "It's all the same. 'Received tapes. Good work. Keep going.' Like I'm bloody angling for a gold star."

"Well, you're angling for the college equivalent of a gold star, which is a smidge of extra credit."

Shrugging, you seemed to agree. It was a pleasant sort of... stoned sort of quiet for the rest of the walk until his bike came into view. "There it is."

"That's the bike you fell off of after you aced your test?"

"Yeah."

"How?", you scoffed, buckling up the little helmet he offered you "Thing looks brand new."

"What, you were expecting some post-war, ancient bike?", he snorted, clambering onto the seat.

"Yeah, I thought it'd be some rusty, squeaky, rickety thing. How's this supposed to work? Where do I sit?"

"On your own bike's seat.", he replied, gesturing to the rest of the bicycle lot.

"I don't have a bloody bicycle! I'm normal! I walk to classes!"

"How close is your dorm?!"

"Quite."

"Well...", he huffed, taking off his helmet. 'Well, okay, so, just... take one."

"Take one?"

"Like... a random one. Borrow an unlocked one."

"Steal, you mean."

"Semantics."

"I'm not stealing."

He groaned. He had way too much of a heart to punish you like his seniors did.

═════════════════════════ ⋆⋅💙⋅⋆ ═══════════════════════

"Could you slow down?!"

He watched you grumble before you slowed down, allowing him to jog up next to you. "I'm going to hold onto the handlebar because I wouldn't put it past you to steal my bike and then ask me 'how did that make you feel?' in the next session."

You actually had to stop the bike to laugh for that one.

"Oh, she acts human.", he remarked, crossing his arms across his chest as he regarded you. "Alright, it's not... that funny."

But you just didn't stop laughing.

Well, until you started crying.

Maybe that weed was laced. Yeah, he was feelin' a bit off, himself. Shit.

"I mean, fuck, Felix, mate, you- you know I don't think you should be antagonized like this, yeah? You're... you, you're good, you- you helped a girl, and your anger issues are good!"

Okay, clearly the laced weed was hitting you both at the same time, somehow. Either it was causing him to mishear some sympathy from your end or causing you to express sympathy. Either way, somehow, you were both oddly on the same page.

"I don't have anger-bloody-issues.", he gritted out, tapping his fingers impatiently on the handlebar.

"No, mate, you do, but, like, they're good, you don't have to get all touchy about it. I like it, personally. Think it's good. You're stickin' it to the man and all that."

He scoffed as he shifted closer, flicking your - well, his - helmet back a bit. "You're on thin ice, 'mate'! I told you, I don't have anger iss--"

"You're yellin' at me right now!"

"I'm NOT--", he cut himself off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You're pissin' me off."

"Everything pisses you off! That's why they're called anger issues!', you retorted, and he swore he was close to pushing you off the bike and seeing how many minutes of meditation you'd employ not to uppercut him.

"I don't need your shrink bullshit, and you can't do it anyway! I don't get how you're burnt out, y'know? You half-arse everything!"

He barely knew you outside of these sessions. He was straight up lying, but he wanted to prove that it wasn't that easy to keep your calm when provoked. Especially not by some smart aleck swot-freshman who thinks her psych major means she can read his mind and give him lip.

Ow ow, ow. Fuck. He needed to sit. down. The 'weed' was definitely about to make him pop a blood vessel, because did he just see three stars in the sky run down in front of him? No. Can't be, yeah?

"D'you think...?", you groaned, hastily removing the helmet. "D'you think there was summat in the punch?"

"Think it was the weed."

"Weed doesn't-- oh."

He nodded, gently steering the bicycle to the nearest bench, which was barely a hundred paces away, observing your feet elevated and the pedals rotating on their own as he tugged it along.

Grunting lowly as he sat, he held out a hand for you after you leant the bicycle against a nearby streetlamp. You slumped down next to him. "This is why I don't take Donna's weed, but she swore it was clean."

"Some friend she is."

"Hey."

"Oh, please, come on. She lies to you, gives you laced weed because, what, she thought she knew best on what would calm you down? That's not what a friend does."

"What does a friend do? Take you on bicycle rides across campus?"

"I mean, sure. Why not?", he asked, gesturing around. "It's fresh air, yeah? We had some talkin' happening, as well, sorted out our differences and that, yeah?"

You chuckled, softly, shaking (and lightly clutching) your head. "And what did we sort out?"

"That you're a bit of a cunt. And I'm a twat."

"Second one is accurate."

"That statement just proved the first one.", he retorted, before scoffing and breaking into a fit of breathy giggles. "Fuck."

You watched the world spin for a while, a dizzying amalgamation of shapes and stars and colours and suddenly you were aware of the clothes on your body, the wind in your hair, the saliva on your tongue, the beat of your heart.

And that's when you did it. You weren't sure what you expected or why you did it, but you just ended up kissing him like it was summat you were meant to do next, like a script. Like clockwork.

He, to say the least, was surpised it was you who initiated it. Honestly. He'd always been a very daft person when it came to... well, boundaries, for one. Sane actions, for the other. However, there was something less daft and more... crazed about this drug-induced haze you were clouded in that rendered his self-awareness moot.

And so he kissed back.

Ravenously.

This, it seemed, according to the faux marijuana, was all he ever fucking needed. Poof, no anger issues. And for you? Poof, no stress.

It was wrong, to say the least. Not due to anything besides the fact that there was no logical person who'd put you two together. He groaned softly, almost reverently, as he gripped a couple locks of your hair, a wordless direction for you to get your idiotic arse over here. And you did. The kiss didn't break. You guys should get an award for that impressive feat.

But the real award should be for your desperate, bruising grip to sobriety, the one that eventually led to you pulling yourself away from his lips, breathlessly.

"I know what you're doing."

He wasn't one for biting his lip, so he bit down on yours, instead. "Yeah? What's that, babe?", he asked, fiddling with the button of your jeans.

"You're tryin' to get off the hook of these sessions by claiming conflict of interest 'cause of this."

Oh, fuck, he hadn't even thought of that. Would've been so fuckin' smart, and plus, he'd have got a lay out of it. But he didn't exactly feel like giving a premature end to these sessions that he'd - never fucking admit - grown sort of fond of.

"Or maybe, I'm trying to get off, period.", he whispered, kissing at your cheek.

"Yeah, right."

"Trust issues much?", he murmured, his hand gently sliding into the front of your jeans. "Maybe next session, we should work on that, sweetheart."

Fuck.

════════════════════════ ⋆⋅💙⋅⋆ ════════════════════════

No one ever tells you this - lest you experience some form of joy in life - but waking up to good smells rather than any form of sound is heaps better, calmer, lovelier.

And you woke up, not to the sound of your alarm, but to the smell of goddamn butter and toast. Like, fuck, okay. Damn. This is what life should feel like, then?

You groaned, almost ready to scream at how at peace you were, before getting out of bed, rubbing your face. You shot right back in, though. Right. You were starkers.

"Felix?!"

God, you hoped it was actually him and you hadn't had some sort of adventure after him last night.

He practically left skid marks, the way he rushed to the bedroom doorway. "Uh huh?"

"Where the fuck are my clothes?"

"Oh, I put them in the wash."

"Felix--"

"Just kidding. They're in that drawer, there." Across the room.

"Could you get them for me?"

He smirked. 'Yeah."

"'Yeah' as in you will, or 'yeah' as in you could, but you won't?"

His smirk dissolved into an almost fond simper. "You know me so well."

"I'm not walkin' out naked."

"See, what is it with you girls, gosh! As if I didn't see everything last night, now you're suddenly all coy?", he teased, yanking the drawer open and tossing you your clothes, rolling his eyes before turning around so you could change. "Last night count as a breach of, uh, what is it...?"

"Not breach. But Conflict of Interest. Yeah. So, I'm guessing you're free, now. No more sessions."

"Mm. Shame, that. I had some really interesting things written in there.", he replied, pointing to a blue notebook on the bedside table.

"Like what?"

"Like... me realising I'm falling in love with you.", he whispered, softly, hand on his heart. He paused long enough for you to begin to question whether this was dedication to his joke or an actual, sincere fuckin' confession.

"Fuck! Wow! Gullible much? I'm joking, obviously! What, you think I'd have some, like, ten lines written every day, like 'Oh, my love, oh, my love, XOXO, Felix!', or summat?"

"Well, I don't bloody know! Your'e scarily good at the poker face, y'know?"

"Why, thank you, thank you very much.", he preened, tipping an invisible hat in your direction.

"Makin' French Toast. You vegetarian? Or vegan? Nah, I don't care, you're eatin' this."

Groaning, you got up, took his offer of an unused toothbrush, and let him escort you to the bathroom. "These rich-kid-dorm-suites, I swear--"

"Jealous much?"

"I swear to fucking god, you better stop saying 'much' after everything and thinkin' it's funny!"

"Anger issues much?"

"Arsehole much?!"

He giggled, waving at you before scrambling over to the kitchen to make sure his French toast was stil intact. Not before he grabbed your imaginary 'flipping-off' from the air and brought it to his heart, as if you'd blown him a kiss, instead.

Fucking hell. You had to now spend a. money, on Ibuprofen, b. time on coming up with an explanation as to how this happened and why you still deserve that extra credit, and c. energy on having to deal with this Felix Catton guy who you'd apparently come to be relatively fond of.

Spitting out your paste and gargling the remnants out, you walked out of the bedroom to the kitchen, where Felix had laid out the toast on crappy paper plates. "Left over from a party, figured I'd use 'em."

"Thanks.", you nodded, sitting down and biting a bit off one. "It's good."

"Thanks.", he parroted, dropping the last onto his plate before turning off the stove and sitting opposite you. "So, it just violates it all? Just 'cause we shagged, you can't 'fix me' anymore?", he asked, gulping down a sip of orange juice.

"Yeah, summat like that. I might, like, be more inclined to let you off the hook or whatever."

"Mm. What about your extra credit, then? Why don't you just act like this never happened?"

"Couldn't. In good conscience."

"But then you'll be extremely stressed. Might go back to Donna and her laced weed.", he pointed out, taking a bite. "Over the summer, you'll have to catch up on your missing assignments, yeah?"

"Yeah. Fuck. Oh, yeah, I do.", you whined, your forehead on the heel of your palm.

"Come to Saltburn, then."

"What?" What was he talking about?

"My family estate. Come to Saltburn. It's a change of scenery, and it works wonders, I swear. You'll finish everything by first week of summer vacation, and the next month or so, it's all just you-time."

"Why would I come to Saltburn?"

"I just told you."

You sighed. Logically, yes, it did make sense for a change of view. But. You didn't exactly want to get dragged into whatever a normal day for Felix Catton (and Farleigh Start - his cousin, apparently!) looked like.

"It's full of old shite, though, like, ancient stuff. Cobwebs, dusty, grimy, stuffy-- hey! Stuffy and boring. You'll fit right in.", he grinned cheekily, winking as he continued to chew.

Well, fuck.

"Suspicious much?"

'Much'. You were going to strangle this guy in his own mansion, you're sure.

"Seriously, think about it, just us, ice-cream, the sea, summer. Who knows, you could go in a loser and come out with a boyfriend. Moi."

"Oh, please.", you snickered, and he followed suit.

"I just might tell you what's in that diary. XOXO, Felix, yeah, but what'd I write before it? A confession of my love? A death threat? A riddle? Poetry? Secrets?", he mused, waggling his fingers as if to spook you. "Ooh."

You scoffed, shaking your head in amusement as you took a sip of the orange juice.

"Come on. Come to Saltburn. Worth your while, I promise."

Well, fuck.

175 notes · View notes

theonceandfuturequeenoftarts · 1 year ago

Text

Harry wants it known that he’s at the ministry’s Yule gala under duress. It was all he could do to force himself into his dress robes and make himself presentable; he can’t fathom where he’ll find the energy he needs to get through the rest of the evening.

People he barely knows keep coming up to him – as they always do – to shake his hand, chat with him about this and that, thank him for his role in defeating the dark lord. (Still. He really wishes they’d stop doing that. It’s been more than six years now.)

And then there are pockets of people, staring at him and whispering behind their hands. Another constant in his public appearances, though he imagines the content of their conversations is at least a little different from usual, if not the tone.

He’s just escaped another fan and is looking to make a beeline for the bar when it happens. Harry sees his doom approaching from several metres away but, since they saw him first and he (stupidly) refuses to run away, he stands there like an idiot, wishing he were anywhere else.

“Hi Harry,” Ginny says. It looks like she wants to hug him or get close, and his shoulders stiffen involuntarily. Thankfully, she stays where she is.

“Hullo Ginny,” he replies and, without looking at the man, utters a terse, “Malfoy.”

The smug arse smirks at him. “Potter.”

“How’ve you been?” Ginny asks, which. Rude. If she actually cared about that, she wouldn’t have cheated on him with the git on her arm, but whatever.

“Oh, fine. Y’know, keeping busy.” God, he hates small talk.

Before he can respond with the requisite, ‘And you?’, Malfoy jumps in. “Yes, I suppose you have been, from what I’ve heard.”

Ugh. Fucking Malfoy. Harry wishes he had a drink or seven. He can’t believe he’d rather be caught in another conversation with that weirdo from earlier about his wand-care habits, of all things.

Ginny gently elbows Malfoy in the side with a chiding, “Draco.”

He’s considering the merits of letting himself be ripped apart by the anti-apparition wards to get away from this conversation – splinching himself can’t be much more painful than this – when a hand bearing a very welcome drink appears in front of him. That’ll do for now, though splinching is still on the table. Especially when he follows the hand to the arm up to the face and of course it’s Ri– Tom.

Harry gives him the side-eye, but accepts the drink. “Thanks.”

Tom leans in slightly, just enough so the two in front of them can’t read his lips. “You looked like you might be in need of a rescue.”

And as he pulls back out of Harry’s personal space, he rests a hand low on Harry’s back. Harry tenses for a moment before just accepting that tonight is all about him being as uncomfortable as possible. He takes a gulp of his drink – something dark and spicy. It burns pleasantly.

When he starts paying attention again, he finds Ginny looking at Tom with surprise; Malfoy is looking at the other man with – is that a hint of fear? And Tom is staring them both down, but somehow managing to do it with a veneer of politeness.

“Good evening, Draco,” he says pleasantly. “Ginevra.”

“Riddle.” Malfoy’s greeting is stiff, as is the awkward, aborted bow he gives. Hmm.

“And Harry,” Tom says, turning to look at him fondly. “So good to see you again.”

Hoo boy.

“You,” Harry murmurs from behind the rim of his drink. “Are not subtle.”

Tom takes the opportunity to slide his hand further around Harry’s back, lightly gripping his hip and pulling him closer up against Tom’s side. He returns Harry’s withering look with an undaunted smile. “I wasn’t trying to be.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that.”

“When did you two get so cosy?” Ginny cuts in. Her tone is playful, but there’s more than offhand curiosity lurking beneath.

“Uh.” Shite, he doesn’t ever want Ginny to find out how this started, but especially not in public. Who knows who’s listening in or watching. “We ran into each other by chance a month and a half ago” –actually, he’s how I found out you were fucking Malfoy behind my back– “and we’ve met up a few times since then. It’s nice to have someone… uninvolved to talk to.”

Tom looks amused at that. He’s definitely involved in the demise of Harry’s relationship, and if there’s one thing they haven’t been doing (but probably should), it’s talking.

“I’ve been helping him expand his horizons,” Tom says without apparent innuendo, yet somehow the layered meaning is still obvious. Prat. “Getting him to try new things, keeping him busy.”

“You and half the town,” Malfoy mutters under his breath.

“I see…” Ginny says over him. “Funny how that escaped the rumour mill.”

Harry laughs awkwardly, wishing for a stray lightning bolt to strike and put him out of his misery. “Must not’ve been exciting enough.”

The conversation dies for long enough to become uncomfortable - well, even more so. Malfoy touches Ginny’s elbow and leans down to speak into her ear. Harry seizes their distraction to turn on Tom.

“Are you sure you don’t want to piss on me to mark your territory while you’re at it?” he asks dryly.

Tom wrinkles his nose delicately in disgust. “No need to be crude. Though…” He gives Harry a considering once-over. “I’m not at all opposed to the idea of you carrying my mark. How do you feel about tattoos?”

Harry snorts. “Not a chance.”

The other man tucks his face in close to Harry’s, breath hot against the skin beneath his ear. “What about bruises?”

As though he doesn’t regularly leave an abundance of those on Harry anyway, what with his penchant for treating Harry like a chew toy. Harry shivers all the same, just a little bit. He can feel the barest brush of Tom’s grin against his neck.

Ginny clears her throat pointedly.

“Good to know,” Tom breathes as he pulls back.

Ginny continues trying to talk to him while Malfoy makes the odd snide comment, Tom attempts to meld into Harry’s side while replying for him and being subtly insulting, and Harry tries to become one with the floor. He realises he’s missed a question when he breaks out of his daze to find both Tom and Ginny are watching him expectantly.

“Huh?”

Ginny starts to say something when Tom cuts her off. "Care to dance?"

If looks could kill, Tom would be in a bad way with how Ginny’s glaring at him. "Harry doesn't dance," she says tetchily. Tom doesn't bother with her, waiting for Harry's wary nod.

He looks back at Ginny smugly. "Perhaps yet another new thing to which I can introduce him.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Harry says, grabbing Tom’s wrist and dragging him towards the dance floor. Best to get this over with, and all the better if it means he doesn’t have to speak with anyone else in the meantime.

"She's not wrong," he mutters once they don't have to fear being overheard. "I don't dance.”

"Just follow my lead," Tom replies easily. “Would it be correct to say you don’t particularly care about stepping on my toes?”

Harry stares at him blankly for a moment before he feels a reluctant smile appear on his face. “It might be the one redeeming part of this.”

“The only one?” Tom says archly, pulling him into the correct hold. And, without giving Harry a chance to breathe or think, they’re off in what Harry thinks might be a waltz.

"That was quite the risk you took," Harry says, trying not to stare at his feet and hoping for the best as Tom spins him around the room. He is, oddly enough, a much better dancer when he’s not constantly concerned about crushing someone's foot.

"Was it?"

"Yes. What made you think I wouldn't refuse and let you look foolish?"

He catches sight of a pleased grin on Tom's face from the corner of his eye. "The same thing that made me ask you to dance when I've seen your previous forays. You rise to the occasion when I push you.” He looks at Harry, for a moment, proudly. “I also knew you’d be more than amenable to anything that got you away from those two.”

Harry can’t deny that.

“Now look sharp, and do try to keep up,” Tom says, the hand at Harry’s lower back gripping him a little tighter.

“Wha–?”

And it’s all he can do not to trip over his feet and take them both down in a painful sprawl, but the rush, the heady triumph of making it through the successive, intricate turns, goes straight to his head. Before he can stop himself, Harry lets out a loud peal of laughter, further disrupting the couples around them and drawing sneers and disapproving glances. And he just doesn’t care. Not that he thinks he normally would’ve, but it feels like it’s been ages since he’s felt so light and happy. So, he doesn’t think about the people around him. He doesn’t think about how it’s Tom who’s making him feel this way. He just basks in the sun-warm feeling of contentment – of being okay for the first time in a while.

(One night)

#harry potter #tom riddle #tomarry #fic snippet #the fic itself contains smut #and infidelity #(not between hjp and tmr)#but tom is objectionable in other ways #harry deserves better than these numpties

176 notes · View notes

dalesramblingsblog · 1 year ago

Text

All that doom mongering about how putting the show on iPlayer would completely tank it seems a bit silly now, doesn't it?

Like c'mon, as an Australian I'm not a big fan of the Disney+ deal either, but I think this really does show how bad fans are at predicting what the "not we" will enjoy. The general public are not going to swear off a show they've watched the past seven episodes of because they didn't reveal that Ruby was the time-displaced descendant of Kim Talevera or whatever the fuck (and if you can tell me who that is without looking it up, hi, hello, we're both part of the problem on this one [slightly non-derogatory]).

If you put a good show in front of people, they will enjoy it. It's as simple as that. It's ironic that I've seen so many fans argue that Series 14 is somehow ruined because they didn't bring back Jan Grinky and that people who enjoyed the season are mindless IP consumers, when the types of obsessive fan that the season is quite explicitly critiquing in its refutation of theory-crafting as dull are far more guilty of that.

And yes, I am 120 books into a series of reviews on a bunch of out-of-print Doctor Who novels, so clearly I don't think I have a leg to stand on when complaining about obsessive fandom. But a lesson I think a lot of overly obsessive Doctor Who fans could stand to learn is to have the maturity to accept that a version of Doctor Who exclusively tailored to their own tastes would be utter shite. No exceptions, not even myself.

(Indeed we've already taught this lesson before and it has a handy name, we call it Attack of the Cybermen for short. Catchy, no?)

I'm sorry if this is overly bitter of me, and maybe making fun of Doctor Who fandom isn't the best gameplan for a blog that lives and dies off the back of Doctor Who fans, but God some folks on here need to learn to take the piss out of themselves a bit more. I've always had a very strong unease with the concept of fandom and it's quite clear from Series 14 that Davies seems to agree.

Get over yourselves, you have to be a little mad to enter into a book like The Eight Doctors and expect anything but an utter travesty of art. That's all fandom is: a moderately unhinged fanaticism. And that's OK in a vacuum, obviously, but Christ above just stop taking it all so seriously.

#doctor who #disney+#bbc iplayer #russell t davies #s40e8: empire of death

15 notes · View notes

karlachismylife · 9 months ago

Text

Good Night And Joy Be To You All

CW: hurt/comfort or maybe even angst, Johnny is homesick, everyone loves sea (especially me), everyone needs a hug (especially me). But also a hopeful ending!

(Title from a Scottish parting song "The Parting Glass")

Karlach finds Johnny standing on the edge of a cliff and knows all too well what it's like to miss your home.

Faerûn reminds Johnny of Scotland so much in these parts.

It's weird, he hasn't been home several months before the incident, the unexplainable fucking wacky shite that sent him and his men God knows where (or maybe even that good ol' lad doesn't know), and now, standing on a cliff over brooding sea - always reminded him of Ghost somehow - definitely not home, he feels that strange tug in his chest that is always there when he returns from deployment. It's just an illusion, it's a lie, it's obviously deceptive - Soap repeats it over and over, clutching his gun to his chest, heavy with a tactical vest (another telltale sign that this isn't home - he never brings that part of him to the bleak green hills of motherland) - and still can't shake the surreal homesick sensation. It always gets him only when he's already there, years of tough job trained his mind to keep off the sappy melancholic grounds when on duty - the less you wallow about wanting to get back home, the more focused you are. Therefore, your chances to actually see home again, grow.

Your life expectancy just goes way up.

He doesn't even dream of the Highlands when he's deployed. If anything, he doesn't think he dreams of anything at all when he's away - can't remember a single image, every blurry speck of colour escaping his thoughts when he tries to concentrate, as if the cool breeze, salty to the taste, withers them away. Does he dream of the war? Of the places he's in, be it hectic cities packed with traffic and unsuspecting civilians or miles of barren dessert, where life's only visible to those who know what to look for? Are there familiar faces, revving engines, soft hands or scorching white pain in his dreams?

Everything seems like an elusive dream here, on the edge of foreign land. Unfamiliar coastline ripples in the smoky mist, flows over into his memories of Scotland's vast shores covered with grey foam. They're colliding together in his mind, forming one undteady, unsure picture of a dreamland - of a bittersweet nowhere he so longs to be right now.

Grass, a little too green too be like home's, rustles under clumsy footsteps, approaching him and dying down before this certain someone reaches him. A wave of warmth hitting his back in a weird contrast to the ocean breeze that steadily breathes in Johnny's face and blows the liveliness out of his eyes, just like it has already done with the sea itself, exposes Karlach before she even utters a single word.

"Hey, soldier." Her usually booming voice is so soft and solemn, as if the fire in her chest has also been cooled off by the persistent wind. Their lives aren't long enough to get anywhere close to the constancy of the ocean's surf - their explosive impatience has no chance against Mother Ocean, the cradle of everything living and its inevitable deep, deep grave.

Johnny always thought that he would like to become a part of where he's come from when he finally returns home for the last time. His body would mix as one with the ocean floor, among remains of living beings who came before him. The crashing of the waves, never deterring from its rythm, would become his pulse, steady, calm. Finally at peace. Forever at home.

Karlach is home. This is what she had been missing for long ten years - a whole eternity of its own, much less peaceful and serene than that of the great dove-coloured sea - and it's not just the clear, lightweight air of Faerûn, the sky that can rain water or soft, pliant grass and dirt under her feet.

Somehow it's a stranger coming from another world, much further than where she was held prisoner, that makes her feel like she's finally home. Makes the dull ache where her new heart is exhausting itself and pining hurt less. Makes the tears prickling in the corners of her dimmed, but still fierce tiger eyes evaporate.

"Ah miss my home," Johnny says, and her heart hurts all over again, like it never was ripped out, like her shoulders aren't breathing thick steam into the grumpy skies, like there's still something alive, bleeding and aching, scorched by Hell's fire yet surviving. "Tis place looks like home, but it's nae."

The sea stays indifferent to his words, thrown into the blue depths bitterly, like an accusation, and swallowed without any response beside the waves lapping at the shore. They sink, to be slowly covered in thick salt hide, coarse crystal fur that will eventually disitegrate every syllable until it builds itself into the monotone, repetative song of life and death Mother Ocean whispers with each wave.

His shoulders ache once he finally moves, deep into the night after the sun has invisibly set, bashfully hidden behind a thick moist veil of clouds. The weight of his vest multiplied by the whistfulness of a thousand lives Johnny has lived standing on that cliff cuts into the muscles through clothes, leaves dents and marks he rubs as he tries to restore blood circulation before hitting the bedroll and drifting off to the no dreams land.

A big, warm hand comes from behind, gripping his broad shoulder tightly, sparks tingling on the tanned skin from the life flowing through tiny blood vessels - or from the soft, tamed flames flickering on the clawed fingertips. Johnny takes a deep breath, collects every ounce of strength he hasn't thrown into the eternal abyss of alien sea yet, and almost forces the corners of his mouth to curl up in what should have been a sunlit grin.

His lips feel like there's a weight of a mountain - a green hill littered with fluffy flocks of sheep - tied to them by strings, tugging down with too much power. He fights it for a moment too long, and the weight breaks him. Proud head lolls forward, shoulders slump, whole body slowly crumbles.

Until it lands into strong, big arms, lowering Johnny carefully into soft warmth.

"Tell me about your home, Johnny," asks Karlach, wrapping her burly arms around his head. Devilish fingers still rubbing and pinching the exhaustion from his spent body away, long tail coiled around his waist. "You have sea too?"

She cradles him like a child, face hidden in the protective shelter of her stomach and lap, engine whirring so softly and calmly that Johnny can still hear the lullaby of the ocean, speaking to him of life and death just as clearly as it does back at home.

He carries the depth of Scottish sea in his eyes everywhere he goes, a piece of home always with him, and as it spills in little salty tears on Karlach's skin, she recieves a piece of it too.

"We'll find a way to get you back, I promise. If I managed to come back to my home, you can too." Her determination is unwavering, a will stronger than the faulty clock ticking seconds of life in her chest away, a belief so powerful it will make the promise come true against all odds.

A fire that burns so bright, Johnny thinks for a brief moment - if he can't come back home in Scotland, he knows who can be his new home in Faerûn.

#karlach x soap #soap cod #karlach #john soap mactavish #bg3 karlach #cod #call of duty #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #hurt/comfort #angst #oneshot #can u tell i love sea #honestly soap just needs to be held #and karlach needs someone to hold #banana leaves #no one gave banana

9 notes · View notes

lame-gayllagher · 6 months ago

Text

Gallaghercest fankids don't need a doctor, they need an EXORCIST

TIME is a gentleman, and puts everything in order... I remember in the 90s, Blur represented "the students" (Liam used to say "fucking students", he never read a book in his life, unlike books fan Noel, in fact he made peace with them). Now we thought the sick incest fans (Noel : woke fucking idiots. Liam : woke fucking spastics) were Blur fans trolling because they're all the opposite of Oasis and know nothing... but Blur fans are more intelligent... One Gallaghercest fankid (6 YEARS OLD at Oasis split) is Ukrainian, KARMA properly worked for all that utter shite (we've seen all Oasis real, historic fans agree about that), not only with Trump being elected, also Ukraine being destroyed. The biblical godlike God is clearly not with them... The support from corrupt media for Ukraine Nazis is the same saying Islam terrorists are moderate, LMFAO (just because they're on the opposite side of Putin). Fankids can't even realise Oasis make a fool of you, typical Oasis banter

youtube

#blur #damon albarn #gallaghercest #oasis #noel gallagher #liam gallagher #Youtube

4 notes · View notes

scrollsfromarebornrealm · 5 months ago

Text

on our fates alight--arrival in Yedlihmad

The 'teensy-weensy touch of violent aetherial sickness' had effectively disabled every single Scion Dominant.

Not even the lassi that Estinien had bought (mercifully with Riven's intercession) had worked. Only bedrest and medicinal soups had done the trick, and so the party had been forced to take up rooms in Yedlihmad's inn, much to the delight of the innkeeper and his family. The following morning saw clearer heads and bodies, but a slightly delayed start due to Urianger's decision to return to Sharlayan and procure more travel-funds.

Reinhardt drew in a steadying breath as he walked down the small staircase that led to the building's main entrance. The heat wasn't as oppressive in the morning--or was it the humidity? In the back of his mind he felt Zurvan stir, the Eikon approving of the balmy temperatures.

"You know, before I ended up with you in my skull, I was probably liable to get heatstroke from going anywhere this warm." Reinhardt stretched, rolling his neck from side to side.

<This is the cool of the evening in comparison to my home.> Zurvan let his own senses stretch, absorbing the sights and smells of the port village through his Dominant's body. There was the sea, the smell of smoke from cookfires, the low sound of activity as people started their days...but it was not as...busy, as the Eikon had expected it to be.

"We're the first visitors they've had possibly in months." Reinhardt glanced to the docks. "I can't blame them for gouging us, not when it would put food in their mouths." He watched as a group of children ran past the inn, laughing.

<Have their leaders not done anything to help?> Zurvan wondered. <If such a thing happened in my lands at the very least, the rulers there would use the resources that had been stockpiled to assist everyone.>

"I don't know." Reinhardt replied, scratching the back of his head. "From what I remember of those crash-course lessons Urianger was giving me, Thavnair stands out because they're one of the very few countries that don't treat our kind like complete and utter shite, primarily because they're supposed to have a lot of Eikons here."

<That much is true.> Reinhardt started in surprise, and Zurvan continued. <I can sense them--now that you're not violently ill. Their aether is heavily entwined with this land--they are much a part of it as it is a part of them.>

"Are they just...what are they doing?" The dragoon asked.

<Watching, mostly. Their attention seems to be more directed on the tower--and Halone's Dominants.>

"They're from here." Reinhardt murmured. "Or rather, their grandfather was. I remember all the hell that broke loose when they Primed. A lot of the old sect were pissed that they weren't full-blooded Ishgardian."

<Weaklings. Blood has never mattered.> Zurvan growled. Reinhardt frowned.

"They're...not in danger from them, are they?" He didn't care if it caused a diplomatic incident, he'd fight all the gods of Thavnair if needed be to keep his brothers-in-arms safe.

"As long as it stays that way." Reinhardt muttered.

#ffxiv #ffxiv-ffxvi au (the other one)#on our fates alight

4 notes · View notes

weirdiingway · 6 months ago

Note

thank God everybody knows Little James more than a banger is utter shite. He can only have songs written by corporations he's a servant of... no rebel at all that he's faking. Princess you must mean the violent homophobic male chauvinist womanizer. You're just the average sick fankid not even born at Oasis times and making Oasis what they're not.

yeah but have you considered he’s my violent homophobic male womanizer princess ?

#WHO IS SENDING THESE LMAOOOO #oasis

4 notes · View notes

siriuslyprincesssarah · 10 months ago

Text

Preview of Chapter 35: Closure (2006) coming in two weeks!

Harry was doing paperwork in his office when an interoffice memo fluttered onto his desk. He was being summoned by Unspeakable 64 in the Department of Mysteries. The message stated it was urgent; they suspected a break-in at the Death room. With yesterday’s report of two people being found catatonic with suspected dementor kisses, Harry grabbed his robe, wasting no time heading down to the DoM in case they were connected.

Reaching the door, Harry opened it, and the eerie silence of the place always put him on edge as memories came rushing back from his fifth year. When he reached the room with multiple doors, he uttered the password the unspeakable had given to him. One of the doors lit up, and as Harry reached for the handle, the doors spun. Harry kept an eye on the spinning lit-up door, and the doors slowed down as the light went out.

Opening the door, he stepped inside, and as soon as he did, the door slammed shut behind him with a thud, “Shite.”

Looking forward, he was transported to the girl’s lavatory in his first year, which made his blood run cold. The troll was in front of him, club high in the air.

“Hermione!” Harry yelled as the club came down on her, crushing her. Rushing towards her, it was like the Earth quaked, and he was standing next to Hermione as they solved Snape’s potion riddle.

Hermione tipped back the potion and collapsed as he caught her in his arms, lifeless.

The horror repeated over and over. Each time, Harry had to watch Hermione die differently. Choking on a hairball when she was a cat, being killed instead of petrified by the basilisk, seeing herself while using the time turner and killing herself, being killed by werewolf Remus, being struck by the dragon’s tail during his first task, drowning in the lake during the second task, perishing in the Department of Mysteries, dying in the battle of the Astronomy tower, dying during the battle of the seven Potters, eating bad mushrooms, snatchers killing her, Bellatrix killing her, dying in the Battle of Hogwarts. Each time the room changed, it was more horrific than the last. Each time he couldn’t save her, no matter how hard he tried, she died right in front of him.

Suddenly, he felt strong hands pulling him. The room shifted, and he fell onto a cold stone floor, retching onto it.

“Harry! Harry! Can you hear me? It’s Theo,” Theor’s voice broke through the haze of his torment.

“Hermione! Hermione! Is she dead? Oh God, Theo, I killed her. Is she dead?” Harry’s eyes were wild with terror.

“No, she is fine. She’s alive and safe. It was just the time room messing with your worst fears,” Theo reassured him, pressing a glass of water into his trembling hands.

Harry blinked, and the reality of where he was slowly came back to him as he focused on the dais in the Death room, “No, no, I’m still stuck there,” He mumbled, his mind still reeling with visions of his past. Suddenly, he jumped up and ran towards the dais, “Sirius! Sirius!”

Theo grabbed him around the middle and threw Harry to the floor. Harry barely heard Theo yell into his badge for backup as his voice got hoarse from screaming, “Sirius! Hermione! I killed them both!” Harry sobbed, curling up into the fetal position as he yelled their names repeatedly.

“Harry, listen to me,” Theo said firmly, “You’re safe. Hermione is safe. You didn’t kill anyone.”

Backup arrived, and Draco ran over to help Theo restrain Harry. Draco pulled Harry to his feet.

“Get him out of here!” Theo yelled at Draco.

Draco pulled Harry, limp and unfocused, to the lift, and he hit the floor as soon as they were inside. His eyes were unfocused as he stared out the lift, “I killed her, Draco. It’s all my fault.”

“Department for the Regulations and Control of Magical Creatures!” Draco yelled.

The lift moved, and Draco pulled Harry out onto Hermione’s floor. “Hermione! Hermione!”

Hermione came out of her office, “Draco?” Hermione asked, dropping what she had in her hands as she ran over, “Draco! What’s wrong with Harry?”

“He went to the Department of Mysteries and got stuck in the time room. He is delirious,” Draco told her as she hit the floor before Harry.

“Harry, Harry, it's me. Can you hear me?” Hermione asked, touching his face.

“Hermione?” Harry asked as he focused on her, “You're dead.”

“No, I’m here. I don’t know what you saw, but I’m here,” Hermione said, pulling him into her arms.

Harry put his head on her chest and sobbed.

#harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #harry and hermione #harry potter series #hp harmony #hermione granger #harry x hermione #harmony #enchantedfanfic #harry potter

2 notes · View notes

tonydaddingham · 2 years ago

Note

I was worried about sullying your original post because it's really good by itself but I've had a lot of thoughts about the Job mini-sode and how it compares to the the Final Fifteen so here goes:

The original reason I even thought to compare them is because I thought the track that plays while they’re talking on the beach - Fallen Angel sounded a lot like one of the songs at the end - either The Biggest Decision or The End?. I haven’t been able to pin down what parts exactly but they all scratch something in my brain.

There are a lot of the same beats between both scenes though.

Aziraphale resigns to a fate that he thinks is about to befall him. He obviously doesn’t want to, but recognizes that he has to. In Job, it’s because he feels it’s the appropriate punishment. In the FF, it’s for a myriad of reasons (to make a Heaven worthy of Crowley, to simply survive, to stand for what is Right - whatever your cocktail is).

Crowley implies that whatever decision he’s made won’t be good for him. “I don’t think you’d like it.” vs “We don’t need Heaven. We don’t need Hell. They’re both toxic.”

In Job, Aziraphale says that it has to be done because he’s thwarted the will of God. In FF, he’s actively working as soon as he hears about the Second Coming (if not sooner) to fight the will of God - or at least the VOICE of God.

“Nothing has to change.” - As far as Crowley is concerned, nothing has. Aziraphale has still chosen Heaven over ‘our side,’ which while it isn’t a phrase that’s used in the Job episode, I would say is the early seed of that concept.

What is Aziraphale? - In FF, He’s an angel without a halo. He’s going to be the Supreme Archangel, but the truth is, he’s exactly what Crowley tells him in the Job scene, and he knows it. He’ll go with Heaven as far as he can in order to meet his end goals.

Lonely- Pretty self-explanatory.

Some other little things that I noticed is the way they’re framed at the end of the Job mini-sode is similar to the end of episode 6. Now they’re shown from the back in the Job but they visually take up the same sides of the screen. There’s a large distance between them, and there’s a stark contrast in how much light is on Aziraphale’s side of the image (even the water on his side sparkles more) compared to Crowley. You have the same effect with the brightness of the elevator vs the darkness of the car. As an added bonus in the Job mini-sode, Aziraphale’s shadow covers Crowley, which again goes with a lot of the thoughts people have had about Aziraphale making this choice to go to Heaven to protect Crowley.

So what I’m saying is that I’m not completely on board that Aziraphale might Fall, but the scenarios are similar enough to my brain that it’s a distinct possibility.

good morning my lovely!!!✨

gosh, this is such good meta!!! i have to admit - my audio processing is utter shite; i can pick up a leitmotif after a couple of watches, but otherwise unless i listen to the music in isolation, i won't pick up what particular song might be playing in a scene etc... so the fact that you even picked up similarities between Fallen Angel and the two big ones is insane to me!!! im rubbish at it!!!

i have to be honest with you on this too... when i wrote that post, i didn't even really look in any depth at the narrative comparison between job and the final fifteen - it just simply struck me that we've had a blatant reference to aziraphale falling (even if it was only by his own fear) that, as far as we know, hasn't been reckoned with again in the rest of s2 (im still 👀 at the BOL mention in ep6 but that's by-the-by)

so basically the fact that you've gone through it to pick up these similarities is so cool; thank you for doing it and sending it to me, because its a heck of a lot to think about!!! now i don't think aziraphale is going to fall in the sense that we'll actually see him fall, become a demon, and that's that etc - i think more the threat of it, potentially to the point of being physically/figuratively (who knows how the fall itself actually works, but im not taking crowley's work for nuffink) pushed, and some kind of incident that prevents aziraphale from actually completing the fall.

ultimately, we haven't actually - imo - seen anywhere where crowley has singlehandedly saved aziraphale directly when aziraphale absolutely needed saving (ie there was no way aziraphale could have saved himself), and i wonder if this might be such an occasion where we see that happen...?✨

#good omens #ask

10 notes · View notes

seerofmike · 1 year ago

Text

mike's media medley--March 2024

yo whats up. so at the end of the year i do a top 7 ranking of my fave movies released that year and a top 7 ranking of video games i played that year (regardless of release date) which is VERY fun and im still gonna do it but!

there are a lot of things that i like that don't make the cut that i would like to talk about...and things that i did not like that i would also like to talk about. so i will be doing a post every month about *all* the movies i watched for the first time, including older movies and new releases, same for games i played for the first time. and occasionally a book if i can manage it. it is taking me one billion years to read The Plague

here are some things i watched and played for the very first time this march:

(thoughts below the cut. minor spoilers)

starting off in alphabetical order with:

Good Time (2017)

i watched Uncut Gems a couple of years ago and I actually didn't remember the directors' name(s) for that movie, so when I watched Good Time i was like damn that made me feel like Uncut Gems. im gonna check out more of these guys' movies. lo and behold

i think overall Uncut Gems made me feel more stressed, but Good Time made me feel more bad for basically everyone involved but Robert Pattinson's character and watching this dude just make awful decisions and treat other people like shit was like. so nasty feeling. i would like to watch more.

i liked the directing of this movie but i liked Uncut Gems's better. not to keep comparing the two but theyre made by the same people with the same like. goals of being a fucking Stress Simulator. i did love robert pattinson's performance which i won't compare to adam sandler's in Uncut Gems because even though they're both the driving forces of their movies they're both pretty different characters and even if i thought pattinson's character was slimy and just like a shite fucking person i think he did a good enough job expressing the desperation of getting the hell outta there with his brother. the emotional hook was There but i wish it was explored slightly more so i could be a bit more invested in seeing how he makes everything worse.

overall decent. i did like it. would maaaaaybe watch again but not like regularly. 70/100. also if you think 70 is a low score it is Not. it is a good score. just putting that out there before someone takes 70/100 to mean i think something is bad (<- damage control for a later score)

Late Night with the Devil (2024)

this movie has like 10 FUCKING COMPANIES CREDITED AT THE BEGINNING when i saw it in theaters by the time it got to like the 7th one everyone in my theater was exasperatedly saying 'oh my god'

but once the movie gets started. oh hell fucking yeah

i didn't watch any trailers for this or love lies bleeding (i dont rly watch trailers in gen tbh) so idk if the trailer conveyed that this would be set up as like...a lost TV episode, complete with bumpers and brief sponsor mentions, 'behind the scenes footage' etc, but regardless i did not know that going in and you can imagine my utter fucking delight when the movie started playing and after a minute or two i realized the gimmick

i REALLY liked this movie. i thought it was appropriately cheesy for a talkshow hosted in the 70s and i liked some of the subtle moments you really only catch on rewatch (which i did rewatch it w/ my mom), like how the doctor says abraxas thrives on the attention of an audience and the whole time lily is trying to stare directly into the cameras smiling.

the ending is really fucking cool and the mystery unraveling through the supernatural occurrences was compelling. i thought most of the actors did a pretty good job. im not really a fan of demon possession stuff for very personal reasons but i stuck it out for the concept which i really did enjoy.

that being said i found out shortly after i watched this movie that they used AI art for some of the bumpers and i was legitimately so disappointed. there was clearly a talented production team working on this thing to ensure the 70s night talkshow vibe was maintained and they couldn't get one of them to do bumpers, or hire an artist?

it really sucks. i dont want to rag too harshly on smaller indie filmmakers for doing this when big players in every industry are forcibly trying to incorporate AI into their stuff so i won't be review bombing the movie like ive seen some do in response--which i *get*, and i hope the team takes that as a sign to just hire a fucking artist next time--but it did kind of sour the movie for me despite how much i enjoyed it.

so im docking 5 points for the AI art and im also docking 5 points for the 10 companies credited in the beginning because that just makes the AI art feel more egregious to me.

75/100. maybe if they release the movie on shudder with the AI art removed they'll get their 5 points back

Love Lies Bleeding (2024)

everybody in this movie is so fucking sweaty and grimy and everything looks kind of dirty and like it smells like sweat and deodorant and tbh i kind of dig it. especially when next to the cleaner 'aesthetic' version of the 70s presented in Late Night with the Devil

but man this movie was really good. i dont want to spoil it too much but PLEASE go watch it. its decently horny so if you dont like that sort of thing Sawi but if you can look past that its so fucking weird and like strangely funny when it shouldnt be (but is definitely trying to be, so its not like unintentional humor, maybe more like morbid humor?) and theres horror and fantastical elements that you simply arent expecting and my theater screamed at the ending. please go watch it. truly the epitome of i support womens rights AND womens wrongs. honestly i could go on about this movie but i will not right now because you WILL go watch it in theaters NEOW

85/100

Spirited Away (2001)

okay im gonna be really blunt and rip the bandaid off with this one. i just thought it was Fine

like obviously the animation is stellar but that was about it for me. maybe i listened to this movie get hyped as one of the best animated films ever and set my expectations absurdly high but i watched it and i enjoyed it but i wasn't like...blown away or struck with Whimsy And Wonder or overcome with emotion.

i do think some of the characters were charming and it was entertaining and i dont want it to sound like i didnt like the movie but i guess i just felt underwhelmed? i might rewatch it another time with my expectations readjusted and see if i enjoy it more but when i watched it and the credits rolled i just went 'oh okay. was that it?'

anyways 70/100

viddy game time

(the) gnorp apologue--

she gnorp on my rock until i shard

funny clicky idle game . it is NOT an idle game where you can just buy all the upgrades and 'win', theres some strategy involved, but its honestly a really funny game. theres breaking bad references in there. in fact there are all kinds of references in there. you should go play it for the low low price of just over 5 dollars

minami lane--

so i will say first i am not like an avid player of 'cozy' games and find a lot of them pretty boring but i did really enjoy this one. it's a short city builder game with a really cute art-style. it has a sandbox mode (which i havent played) but it also has about five challenges to complete with multiple objectives and i had a good time trying to 100% them all. i would love if they added more challenges but tbh! it's not a bad way to spend about 3-4 hours of your time. im sure if you play sandbox mode you'd get even more but honestly i was satisfied with doing the challenges. it's just under 5 bucks there are definitely worse ways to spend your money.

if you've read this whole thing i love u. feel free to use this post as an opportunity to recommend me movies, tv shows, and games you think i should check out.

#mike's media medley #its my post and i get to put twerking thanos on there.

2 notes · View notes

sina1oa · 2 years ago

Text

hold your breath (and count to ten)

The door slammed behind Tony, echoing in the wide chamber of Loki’s room. Trailing behind him, Loki followed Tony, half formed sentences leaving his lips. “Anthony, please if you would just let me-”

“Let you what? Explain how you were planning on leaving me? On how you planned on running away in the middle of the night because you couldn’t handle my ‘mortal state of being’”

“I’ve been through enough,” Loki’s voice cracked, his eyes boring into yours. “Enough to know what I want.”

“I’ve seen elvish women be swooned over for centuries. Gods and Goddesses with thousands of blessings and offerings at their feet. I’ve seen the glory and triumph of warriors, names unknown to planets like this. I’ve seen everything you could possibly imagine in your wildest dreams, and I desire something more.”

“I’ve seen everything. Yet still, for as long as my heart shall beat, for as long as my seiðr runs through my veins. My very soul sings for you, longs for you. I want you, Anthony.”

So please, just hear me out. Just hear me out for a few moments.” He begged, hands reaching out to you for a mere moment before he drew back into himself, tense.

“A few moments?” Tony scoffed. “A mortal like me only has so many to spare. Why should I waste them on you?” His scowl deepened as he packed his things. His cotton t-shirts looking out of place on Loki’s satin, princely bedsheets. He looked out of place. He didn’t belong here.

I beg you. If you decide to walk away then fine, but at least let me say my piece. Please, Anthony.” Loki watched in thinly veiled relief as Tony’s hands stilled. “Fine.”

“I will never find anyone like you.” He began, face tense, eyebrows drawn in insecurity. “No one will ever…understand me like you do. Will understand what I feel. No one can push me, can drive me to be the best I can be like you.”

“And I know things are turning into utter, shite. There’s only so much we can do, but I am tired. I am tired of having so many regrets. Every day we fight, I mourn the setting sun because it reminds me that I wasted a day I could’ve spent, loving you. I don't want to waste away our days any longer, keeping my thoughts hidden from you, from the only one I truly trust with them. I’m tired of pretending like this is fine. I can see you aging and dwindling right before my eyes and I cannot bear the notion of you spending your lifetime not understanding that I am completely and utterly devoted to you.” Loki's eyes softened, vulnerability etched across his face as he continued pouring his heart out to Tony. The room, once filled with tension, now hung in a delicate balance as Loki spoke.

“You saw something in me when no one else did. You gave me something no one ever had, a chance. I would willingly give you anything, everything, if you just hinted at your desire for it. I need you to understand, Anthony, I would give my life, my power, my entire being, if it meant even a chance to spend the rest of my days with you. I want to wake up every morning to your silly jokes, to your nicknames and your bedhead after your late night lab sessions. I want you and everything that comes with you.”

“So you said it because you feel bad for me?” He asked incredulously. “Just because you feel pity for my weak disposition doesn’t mean I’ll forgive your stupid plan. You were going to leave.

"I'm not asking for forgiveness, though I yearn for it," He continued, his voice a low murmur. "I'm asking for a chance. A chance to prove that the man you saw me once as, is real. A chance to be the one who stands by your side, not as a burden, but as a partner in every sense of the word."

“Why?” Tony questioned, hesitant to hear the answer, hesitant to hear something he didn’t want to. “Why do you want to spend time with me? I’ll be alive for maybe 30 more years, you have thousands. Why bother caring for someone like me?”

Loki's gaze never wavered as he took a step closer, a plea in his eyes. "Because, Anthony Stark, the chaos I've sown in the past is nothing compared to the chaos within me when I think about a life without you. I've never been one to beg, but for you, I would kneel a thousand times over.”

Tony stared at Loki, his eyes searching for any sign of deception. The room felt charged with tension as Loki took another step forward, closing the gap between them. His expression softened, a mix of sincerity and longing.

"I've lived for centuries, experienced realms beyond imagination, and yet, in all my existence, it's you, Anthony Stark, who has managed to unravel the complexities of my heart," Loki confessed, his voice a whisper. "Your mortality is but a fleeting moment in the grand tapestry of time, yet within that brief span, you've become the center of my universe."

Tony's skepticism began to waver, replaced by a flicker of something akin to hope. Loki continued, his words laced with a raw honesty that echoed through the room.

"I want to spend my millennia with you, not out of pity or some misguided sense of obligation, but because in your mortality, I find an intensity, a passion, and a beauty that transcends the immortal existence I've known. Your every heartbeat is a melody that resonates within me, and your laughter is a symphony that eclipses the celestial harmonies of Asgard."

As Loki spoke, Tony's walls crumbled.

"I'm not seeking a companion to fill the vastness of time; I'm seeking you, Anthony Stark, because in your finite existence, I find an infinite well of love that I never knew I needed," Loki confessed, a genuine warmth in his eyes.

Tony swallowed hard, conflicted emotions playing across his features. The room, once filled with the echoes of slamming doors and harsh words, now hung in a fragile balance. Loki, stripped of his godly facade, stood before Tony as a being yearning for connection, for love that defied the boundaries of time itself.

"Give me a chance to be the one who stands by your side, not as a burden, but as a partner. Let me show you the depth of my devotion, the sincerity in my heart," Loki implored, his vulnerability laid bare.

Tony's gaze softened, the walls around his heart beginning to crumble. He took a deep breath, his voice softer as he spoke, "I need time to process all this, Loki. But you've got your chance, so make it count."

Find more like this on my Ao3 account @sinaloa!

#ironfrost #loki #iron man #my fic

4 notes · View notes

samsaraandbeyond · 2 years ago

Text

OC Introduction: Tav

Art by Squiddy62 (NSFW)

"Mouthier than an arse, twice as full of shite!"

Design

(Minor Baldur's Gate 3 spoilers ahead!)

Baldur's Gate 3 is a GOOD GAME THAT YOU SHOULD PLAY.

I LIKED IT SO MUCH YOU'RE BEARING WITNESS TO ME TAKING MY CHARACTER AND MAKING THEM MINE.

the defining outfit for Tav when I realized clothing could override armor outfits

Meet my Tav, the Bard who bullshit his way through most of Act 1.

I chose to take my clothes off before this started

If there was a Bard dialogue option for anything, I took it without a second thought. Tav turned the game into a comedy.

don't ask me how this option turned out

So how did the OCfication go?

Tav Concept, Squiddy can work a character design

As much as Tav was a Bard, I had him acting like a Jester. His horns were adorned with cloth to resemble a stereotypical Jester's hat complete with frills. They were added to the end of his tail as well.

Abilities / Traits

Truth be told I was multi-classing like a motherfucker but Bard was always the main class SO I will be sticking to the Bardy moveset he usually had.

Emotion Manipulation/Projection

Tav has a way of getting into your head.

With words, motions, or the playing of an instrument, Tav has the ability to mess with the emotions of other beings by projecting his will onto them, positively or negatively. In addition to toying with your mind, he can cause your emotional reactions to alter reality, empowering you with never before seen strength or weakening your body to the point of being crippled.

This ability also works on things that aren't alive or can't feel emotions. Expect your robots to suddenly miscalculate!

"You can do this! I don't put my faith into just anyone!" - Tav

Expert Support Mastery

Disgaea 7

Tav is experienced in the magic arts of healing allies and enhancing their abilities. These techniques can also be used on Tav himself and can make him a threat in combat even when confronted alone.

He has also studied the arts of spells that weaken enemies to make them easy prey

"Don't be a baby! A bloody gash like this is simply a paper cut with my expertise." - Tav

Expert Duelist

Marth (Fire Emblem)

Tav knows his way around the arts of sword play. Combined with his knowledge of magic, he is a force to be reckoned with.

"En garde! Or my blade shall find its way to your hiney!" - Tav

Sharpshooter

Mordecai (Lackadaisy)

Tav is efficient with the likes of bows and crossbows, handling them with deadly precision. Despite modern firearms not existing in his age, he would be able to wield those with just as much efficiency.

"Ah, this one's running. Pfff, I'll handle it." - Tav

Dragonborn's Blessing - Fire

Bowser (Super Smash Bros Ultimate)

The bread and butter of dragons everywhere.

Tav's innate dragon traits grant him the ability to shower opponents with a breath of fire, setting his foes ablaze or cooking his own dinner. In addition, fire related spells receive a boost in power when cast by him, and he has additional resistance to heat.

"Fun fact; what comes out the front comes out the back as well! Want me to show you my neat little trick?" - Tav

Personality

Tav is based on the choices I made during my BG3 playthrough so that means he can be so fucking stupid.

Tav has a tendency to let the thrill seeking demon on his shoulder get the best of him, throwing him into dangerous situations because "this would probably be pretty funny" was uttered in his head.

He also has a silk tongue, using exact words and intuition of who he's speaking with to get what he desires. He favors non-violent solutions or at least solutions that make him not have to work as hard.

"Nonono, please continue! There's bookshops in Baldur's Gate that'd pay well for this kind of smut!" - Tav

Backstory

Play Baldur's Gate 3.

"You're a slave to a vampire lord, you're a slave to your god, you have a magic bomb inside of you, and YOU are a whole mess of issues! Am I really the only one in this damned group that didn't carry their personal baggage here!?" - Tav

#oc #samsara #unique oc #oc lore #Tav #OC Introduction

2 notes · View notes

fanficobsessedchick · 1 year ago

Text

"STREAMER"

....WillnexJamesmarriott....smut

TW:RELIGIOUS GUILT

It was 40 minutes into the stream and everything-for a change was going well.Thats until James spoke up.They were reacting to a "British men stealing shite " compilation ,until they came across a video of preety ,pale,tell and skinny boy stealing a bike;and James uttered the words "Thats a good boy." when the man in the video managed to run away from countless officers chasing him down a narrow street.

Will barely swallowed his words and all he could think is " I wish i was his good boy."Will shifted in his seat,back and forth trying to hide and also stimulate his painfull erection.He barely spoke in the rest 20 minutes of the stream,its like he couldnt,his brain was working overtime and all he could think of was James and his big hands on top of him,touching him,choking him,kissing him.And fuck no.This was getting too much for Will.

The stream wrapped up,and James noticed the tension on Wills face.He had to say something,he just knew that Will was off today.

"You well mate?"

"Yea mate i just,you know its one of the fuckin days."Will said looking down at the floor-half ashamed.

"Then whats that?"James asked looking at Wills erection-already so prominent in his joggers.James knew that Will was aroused-he just had to find a way to get him into his grasp.James was a manipulative man-he knew he was atractive.Especially to skinny and fragile men who never got a " congratulations" card from their father,or the boys who were too scared to show their lingering looks at the strong and big men that would pass them on the street.Will has perfect,and James NEEDED Will to himself-forever.

"I-i ,im s-so sorry James,i-i-its nothing i just-." Willl stammered,tears pricking up in his eyes. He didtn know what to feel-he was so fucking sad and confused and most of all so fucking horny.

James inched closer to Will like a snake wraping his palm around his inner thigh.

"Its okay baby,you can tell me whats wrong-cant you?"

"baby."

Wills head was swimming,and all he could focus is on that word.

"J-james please fuckin-please fucking t-touch me please"

Will felt so ashamed.All he could do was beg or pray for the saving grace that could take the pain in his underwear out.

James smirked and slowly took out Wills leaking cock out his boxers,he jerked his cock slowly focusing on the tip and the base of his hard lenght.James spread precum all over the tip of Wills cock and lowered his head down.

"N-NO!J-james you dont need to please its fine we can forge-"

James cut him off way before he even got to taste Wills cock.

"I want to Will.Is that okay baby boy?"

"Mhm Jamesie please suck me cock p-please." Will saw precum spurt out of his cock head when he heard the words "baby boy."

James lowered his head again and sucked on the tip of Wills spent cock like a lolly.He enjoyed the feeling if Will throb in his mouth and squirm in Jamess chair.He took Will all the way down and licked and lapped on his cock like his life depended on it.He needed to please this boy and make Willl his boy.Thats all he could think about.

Wills head was spinning and he could take it anymore-Jamess tounge lapped at his cock head ,and God was it so warm and wet and tight-for a second Will wondered why he didnt try men before.But it wasnt "men" .It was James-and all he could imagine was James taking care of him and being the man that takes him,fucks him and owns him-His daddy.

Will felt his eyes roll back and his cock spasm-he was cumming.And God was he embarresed-and hour ago everything was fine and VERY straight ,and now his best friend was sucking his fucking cock.

"J-james im gonna fuckin c-cum"

"Its okay preety boy let go,you deserve it dont you my good boy?"James pulled off to say.

"good boy"

Will screamed and soon he came in ropes down Jamess throat-its the first time in his life that an orgasm felt actually good.He felt like no amount of women could make up for this one experience.

He eventually came down from his high,and as soon as he saw James and his happy grin he felt like everything was so wrong.The clothes on his body,the drool on his thighs and the sweat on his brow felt so dirty all of a sudden.So pleasure got erased by great shame.He needed help-he shouldnt wish for his grown friends to call him his "baby boy.";he should wish to call his friends "daddy"-to cuddle them,fuck them and love them.

Will started sobbing his eyes out,his skin felt tight and he felt like an imposter,like a fucking fraud in his own skin.He was a grown man with no sense of self and he was fucking loosing it,his brain ran reruns of all his silly childhood crushes,his first love,his first girlfriend and it for a second it seemed like all of his memories were being burned down in a tandem, a clusterfuck fire that he could control anymore.His throat burnt in the ugliest way ,in a way where you neede to cry but all your tears were drained to someplace else,his voice was hoarse and all his courage went down the drain .His tears dropped like waterfalls and through his crocodile tears he could muster up a few words to spare.

"I-Im not fucking GAY!!!"After hearing himself say that he could only sob even more.He rocked back and forth like a child,he saw flashes of a cross,a church,James and himself.He didnt want to be like this.He couldnt be like this.What would his mum say?He was fucking filthy.

"Will?Darling?Please calm down i -i dint know you didnt want this im so fuckin sorry please WILL SAY SOMETHING!!"

Will could only nod as if someone stole all the words from his vocal cords.

James knew Will had problems with gayness and the church but not to this extent.He hugged Will and shushed him in hopes to relax him.

"Will its fine we -we can get through this.Im sorry"

Will felt even worse.He betrayed his parents,his ex-church and his friend.But the warmth of Jamess body made him feel better.He wondered for a second that maybe he wasnt a evil infidel-maybe he just loved men.And for now James was the only man that could comfort him.

#james marriott #will lenney #commentarycrew #streamers #smut #angst #fluff #angst with a happy ending

1 note · View note

sekhisadventures · 2 years ago

Text

Dissonantia

Pandaria, The Vale of Eternal Blossoms, Year 30 After First War

The cave lay open in the ruined, sha-blighted lands of the Vale. Abandoned by the Horde after Garrosh found the prize he sought. The heart of the old god Y’shaarj, torn from the voidspawn’s breast by the titan Aman’thul when they first came to Azeroth to order the world. All around it were the remnants of his breath, the sha, scurrying this way and that driven by the darker impulses of the minds of mortals, seeking one to corrupt.

The one that came to the Vale however they seemed to instinctively avoid. Shadows will try to flee from a bonfire after all, and this woman’s mind and soul were a blaze of demonic flames.

Dissonantia walked into the abandoned mine, her erstwhile companion Az’arad stomping along next to her. “Quzgup said ta be bleedin’ careful with this shite… but I want an ace up me sleeve. Yez never know when power like this could come in handy.” she grinned, looking around the tunnel. Goblin and peon corpses lay everywhere, killed by their fellows (and in some cases, themselves) as the dreaded power of the sha overcame their minds.

She had attempted to use a sha-corrupted soul recently, one of the mantid twisted and driven mad by the Sha of Fear. The result was that the Void had consumed part of her mortality and the fel had swooped in to fill in the gap, leaving her with a pair of curling demonic horns growing from her forehead. Her imp had warned her that it was a terrible risk, however. The Void might well consume all of her, leaving nothing but an empty husk. If nothing else, she figured that making someone else suffer that fate could be useful.

As they strode past the carnage she paused, her ears perking up. “Hm?” she mumbled, unsheathing her dagger. “Oi, Azzy. Yez hear that?” she grunted.

The Wrathguard nodded, glancing into the corner as she walked forward, conjuring a handful of felfire to act as a torch.

Huddled there was a goblin miner, the sole survivor of the carnage. His body was chalky white, his eyes wide as he whimpered, biting down on his nails. “I touched it I touched it why why why did I touch it why…” he stammered.

“Eh, touched wot?” she grunted, holding her dagger ready incase he transformed into a sha.

The goblin wailed and clawed at his ears, “NO! Nonononono! Don’t make me say it! I don’t wanna remember! The voices! The darkness! TOO MUCH!”

The worgen cocked her eyebrow, then smirked and stepped forward, “Oh I’ll make yez remember boyo… you’ll tell me, or me mate Azzy will break fingers till yez do.” she grinned widely, showing her fangs as Az’arad sneered, cracking his knuckles. He did so enjoy the fingers, they screamed great when he did that.

The goblin, however, laughed. “FINGERS?! Fingers… hehehe…” then his head snapped around and he stared at her, his eyes like saucers. “FINGERS DON’T FUCKING MATTER!” he snapped, “Nothing matters… I saw him, I saw his mind… I know what he wants…” his teeth chattered. “He’s not dead… he can’t die… you can’t kill a fuckin’ GOD…” he whimpered, covering his eyes with his hands.

Dissonantia and Az’arad glanced at each other, then back at him. “Bleedin’ fel this gobbo’s completely barmy…” she muttered, “Right then, out wiv it. What’d yez touch!”

The goblin giggled hysterically, then gasped out, “His heaaaaaaaaaaaaaart!”

A moment later the cavern erupted with purple light and his body fell, dead and soulless, to the floor. “Aye, that’ll do.” she grinned.

The Twisting Nether, Present Day

Dissonantia snarled and stomped through her lair. Her attempt to use Malgum had ended in utter failure. She’d watched them fight him back until his felfury ran out through her cauldron, the witch cursing at the top of her lungs. “A BLOODY BEER GIANT?! WOT THE FECK!” she snapped, “Ugh, first that pandaren git saves Sekhi, now he can do that?!” she shook her head, storming towards her throne and falling into it with a grimace. “At this rate I may as well just stay hidin’ out until they all die of old feckin’ age…” she grumbled.

After a moment she heard a faint chuckling sound. A muffled one, as if the person who was laughing couldn’t use their mouth properly.

She glanced around, then glared up at the wall. Hanging there was the disembodied head of Fel Master Aartox, the former owner of her lair. She’d kept him alive after Az’arad decapitated him, sewing his lips shut out of spite. “Wot’re yez laughin’ at?” she growled.

The eredar’s head glanced away with a smirk… and Dissonantia narrowed her eyes. Something was wrong, she could feel it. She stood up and snapped her fingers, the threads sealing his mouth burning away in a flash of felfire. “You… wot did yez fuckin’ do?!” she demanded.

The eredar grinned maliciously at her. “You should have left me dead witch. We man’ari are able to speak telepathically to others of our kind. I told Malgum all the secrets of your protections, and now he lives and is back with his allies.” he taunted her, a triumphant expression on his face. “They will come for you, and they will end you! Even in death, Fel Master Aartox is victorious!” he cackled.

Dissonantia’s expression was a sight to behold. The witch roared in fury and gestured, the decapitated head of Aartox erupting into felfire as she channeled her power and rage into it, the demon laughing all the while even as he was consumed.

The members of Unlimited Sin watched their leader, able to tell how furious she was. This wasn’t just bad for them, it was downright apocalyptic. They had relied on the protections Aartox had established to keep the members of Avalon and Savage United out of their base. Especially after Guzzle had managed to follow Dissonantia once, the imp getting in only because the protections ignored something that small.

Dissonantia seethed, staring at the now blackened man’ari skull hanging there as Aartox finally died completely… then she spun around and snapped. “WOT TH’ FECK ARE YEZ STANDIN’ THERE FOR! THEY COULD BE ON US AT ANY MOMENT!” she shouted, “AZZY, GREMORI! REINFORCE THE FRONT GATES! CENOON, XELKEK! SET UP SOME EXTRA SPELL DEFENSES!” she snapped, the worgen walking towards the shelves that held the treasures she’d plundered from Aartox when she took the lair.

It also held one other thing.

A small, locked chest. Her ‘ace up her sleeve.’ She opened it and looked inside the chest, seeing the soul shard of the goblin she’d found in the vale that day, the pathetic wretch having come into direct contact with part of one of the Old Gods themselves. Rather than the normal purple of a soul shard this one swirled with black and white, showing the signs of sha corruption on a nearly unprecedented scale.

“As for me… I got some brewin’ ta do.” she growled, closing the chest and picking it up, then walking through her portal to the Shadowlands. She hadn’t told Quzgup about it. The chest had always been locked and resisted any attempts her imp had made to open it. As far as he knew what was in there was just some bauble of his Mistress’s that she didn’t want him meddling with. There was no time to redo the main defenses now that her enemies knew the way to bypass them, she needed something, even something this dangerous.

The Dragon Isles, near the Obsidian Citadel.

On one of the fields of hardened lava rock near the waters west of the Citadel, the members of Avalon and Savage United were preparing for battle. It had taken some time to find a good fallback spot, but finally Nitika had come up with an idea and contacted one of Dissonantia’s former victims outside their circle.

As Edwood set up a massive demon gate with Malgum’s help, Nelen went over his notes on her defenses. “We have to assume that Dissonantia knows we’re coming guys. Somehow she was able to spy on us before, and if she finds out that Malgum revealed her lair’s location and defenses to us…” warned the magus.

Nitika nodded, looking over a wooden table they’d set up with a rough sketch of the lair itself that had been drawn by Aziguni with help from her brother. “Yeah, but this is it. We’ll never get another chance like this.” replied the seer.

“Ah, if only I could come with you…” sighed a newcomer on the far end. Standing there was a mag’har orc with glowing ember-like eyes, wearing a set of black-scaled robes. The visage form of Idrallion, the dragon that Dissonantia had enslaved to serve as her steed on the Dragon Isles until Nitika had broken the spell controlling him. “I suppose I’ll have to content myself in having played a part in the witch’s downfall…” he grinned, his teeth still rather fang-like even in this form (for some of the younger drakes, their visages still showed hints of their true nature.)

Nitika smirked, “Don’t worry Idrallion. We’ll give her a few extra for you.” she chuckled. “Really though, thank you for this. We need to know we have a safe fallback point incase we need to flee.”

The dragon shook his head, “It is a small thing in exchange for my freedom Nitika. When you told me that she had enslaved another…” he snarled, smoke leaking from the corners of his mouth as he remembered the humiliation of being dominated by her fel magic… then he shook himself and stood straight, nodding to her, “Fear not, the black dragonflight will guard your flank until your return!”

Well, some of the younger members of the flight at least. Idrallion’s clutch-mates. Standing nearby were what appeared, at first glance, to be a dark iron dwarf and a zandalari troll… though in the same black robes as Idrallion, marking them as two more dragons. Still, even young dragons would be more than a match for most of Dissonantia’s tricks.

Nearby the rest of Avalon and Savage United made ready. Zhan-min refilled his maces with fresh unbrewed beer base, then sighed. “Now, that trick I pulled back in th’ Dream… can’t do it without proper ale in these, ‘n that was the last I had back there. So no alemental.” he warned, nodding to the others.

Shalandrae sighed, “Likewise. As powerful as I was back there, I was able to transform like that because we were in the Emerald Dream.” she shrugged, “I think I might be able to do it on Azeroth, as long as we’re near a portal like the one in Duskwood or Feralas, but nowhere else.”

Jaie smirked, “Well… we do at least have one more trick Dissonantia won’t expect…” she nodded, reaching into her pouch and pulling out a small wooden flask.

Sekhi looked at it, then yipped and pointed at it. “That’s th’ same stuff from th’ Azure Span! Th’ one that almost blew ya up!” she shouted, able to hear the elemental song coming from it. It sang of storms, and danger, and power…

Jaie winced, “Its okay! Zhan-min and I worked out a safer version of it. I won’t be near as powerful as I was that day, but it doesn’t have any of Raszageth’s scales in it.” she nodded firmly.

Sekhi’s ears flicked, “Huh… yeah okay. It sounds close, but yeah…” she murmured, still sounding worried.

Dareley nodded, “Hmph… aye, we dunnae want a repeat o’ THAT mess. As good as it was ta stop Dissonantia that day, we thought we were gonna lose ye lass.” he sighed.

Jaie nodded, “Yeah, I don’t want to go through that again either. Worst hangover of my life…” she grinned apologetically.

Shalandrae glanced at the aging paladin but said nothing. She was concerned for her friend though. Dareley had been really showing his age lately, but like many dwarves he was stubborn as a rock. Add onto this that he was a Paladin of the Holy Light and he’d hardly miss a chance to finish off a threat as horrible as Dissonantia.

Next to her and Aziguni stood Laurelgosa, the Dracthyr already having shed her mortal guise in preparation for the upcoming battle. “Well, if we are fortunate it will not come to that Jaie. Perhaps we can take Dissonantia by surprise before she can mount a proper defense. As Malgum told us, the secrets of her defenses were imparted to him through telepathy from another of her victims. She may not even be aware we know how to reach her now.” nodded the evoker.

Samantha grinned at her. “Damn right Laurelgosa.” replied the rogue, then glanced to her side and cocked her head. "Hm... Annulus says that she can sense something odd in our future, but its hard to get a fix on what exactly…” she muttered.

Galdia just shrugged, the mag’har woman standing nearby with her eyes locked onto the portal, her only thoughts on the fight ahead as her massive undead worg Nightpelt sat near her. “Mm.” she grunted. She was a Warsong after all, either they would win or they would lose. One way or another Dissonantia needed to die.

Finally, three more were nearby. They wouldn’t come with them, but they had insisted on at least helping Iridikron to guard the gateway. The two vulpera Leza and Jeemjazo, and Jeem’s companion Murgly Jim, were sitting close to the water as the murloc splashed about in the river.

Jeemjazo glanced at him, then back towards the group. “Oi, Sekhi. Just… come back aye?” he asked.

Sekhi smiled at him and nodded, her tail wagging. “Yeah.” she replied. She and Jeem weren’t like that, but they were as close to family as two vulpera could be without actually being family like she and Leza were.

Leza nodded, the young mage trying to focus on her spellbook to prepare anything she could before the group set off. She was silent, but it was more because she was trying not to think about what could happen to her teacher or sister.

Finally however those magically inclined felt a woosh of energy behind them as Edwood finished inscribing the last rune upon the gateway, a swirl of fel energies tearing a hole through to the Twisting Nether. “OI! Time ta set sail mateys!” called the forsaken to the others.

Grimo cocked his rifle and stubbed out his cigar on the table. “You heard Ed! Lock ‘n load ya mooks!” he shouted as the group began advancing towards the portal.

Malgum glared into it, then stood aside. “I will remain and help Iridikron. Dissonantia was able to capture me as she could bind demonic beings, I can’t risk her doing it.” he explained, though the irritation in his voice was clear. He truly wished to be able to end her for what she’d done, but the risk of being turned against his sister again was too great.

Aziguni however gave him a smile and a pat on the arm as she passed. “Do not worry brother, we’ll see she cannot ever again.”

Even Shalandrae gave him a small nod, the druid then turning her focus to the portal as the swirling energies showed a huge rocky mountain floating on an island in empty space. A cave in the front had a huge door set into it, sturdy and reinforced… but no door survived Grimo Blamstick if he didn’t want it to be there.

Nelen took a breath, then nodded, “Right then. Avalon!”

Grimo grinned, holding his rifle ready, “… and Savage Untied!”

Then in a woosh the magus transformed into his worgen form as Grimo pressed the buttons on his gauntlet, his robotic dog L.U.P.E. barking in acknowledgement. “CHARGE!” shouted Nelen!

“FUCK HER UP!” shouted Grimo at the same time, and with that mis-matched battle cry the members of Avalon and Savage United disappeared through the portal and left Azeroth altogether for the Twisting Nether, to face down the Witch of Blackwald Forest.

Dissonantia’s Lair

The worgen stepped back through from the Shadowlands, tucking something into her pouch. The soul was a real mess, she hadn’t gotten a lot of anima out of it, but hopefully it’d be enough. It was potent, that much she could tell… and the moment she picked it up she’d heard whispering, but she ignored it for now.

Then her head jerked up as she felt several of the defenses outside popping like soap bubbles. Misdirection spells, curses set into the path to the cave like landmines, and the like disappeared one after another as their countercurses were invoked. She growled and glared at the door. “THEY’Z HERE! GET YER ARSES READY!” she roared, moving to the back of the cave.

Her demons and Gremori took up positions between her and the door, Az’arad brandishing his axe as Cenoon readied his whip, Xelkek hissed, his tentacles glowing with shadows as Quzgup hopped onto a table, readying a blast of felfire. In the middle of them all Gremori stood ready, her body swelling as she transformed into her demonic form once more.

For a moment there was nothing… then a sudden rapid beeping before the door to the entrance blew inwards off it’s hinges! Gremori snarled and let fly with her eyes, a gout of felfire incinerating the debris before it could reach them as Grimo’s voice came through the haze of smoke.

“Hah! Seaforium! Never leave home without it!” cackled the goblin, “GET ‘EM!”

Through the smoke burst Galdia, Jaie, Samantha, Zhan-min, and Mola’raum. “LOK’TAR OGAR!” roared the mag’har woman as she made a beeline straight for Az’arad, her shield and sword already raised as Nightpelt howled along with his orcish partner.

Jaie ran for Gremori, Zhan-min and Mola’raum backing her up as she dodged the felsworn’s fist, then countered with her own punch to her middle. Gremori’s eyes bulged as electricity shot through her body, the pandaren having already taken a drink of Zhan’s new brew. The final form of Xuen’s Fangs had been less than the original, but enough to break through the fel-elf’s resilience! She snarled and shook her head, then lashed out again as Zhan-min thrust his hand out and a blast of flames shot forth from his mace, the pure fire cutting through her felfire.

Cenoon looked around the group, then saw a blur as Samantha appeared infront of him and slammed her foot home into his face, the incubus stumbling backwards. “OH NOW REALLY!” he huffed, then looked at her and grinned, “Darling, do you truly wish to fight someone like me?” he chuckled, wiping the felblood from his mouth as he gestured, focusing his powers up on Samantha… then reeling back in revulsion! He’d reached out to influence her mind and found what was living there, coming face to face with Annulus!

“DO NOT EVEN TRY DEMON! THIS ONE IS MINE!” shouted Annulus, the connection allowing Cenoon to hear her as he stumbled as if struck, and in that moment Sam darted forward and slashed across his chest with her daggers! He screamed in pain as the void-crystals bit into his flesh, the power in them so cold it burned him!

Samantha grinned then glanced to her left. ‘This one is mine? Well Annulus, I didn’t know you cared.’ she thought.

“Do not lose focus Samantha. I sense a presence… Dissonantia has something here… something very dangerous.” she warned.

Sam was about to ask what, then she yelped and vanished in a swirl of shadows as Cenoon’s whip bit through the air where she’d been moments before as a blast of sunlight and several arrows cut through, the ranged attackers of the group beginning their offensive.

Xelkek and Quzup returned fire, shooting bolts of darkness and felfire, as Dissonantia snarled and flexed her claws. She didn’t need to cut holes in reality here, she already was in the Nether! “This time yez is in MY home turf! KILL ‘EM ALL!” she roared as twin portals opened and a gigantic swarm of bilescourge shot forward only to be blocked by a shield of pure Light! Both Nitika and Dareley were channeling the Light through themselves, the Seer and the Paladin protecting their allies from Dissonantia’s minions as Nelen roared and summoned his mirror images, a huge slavo of arcane bolts soaring through the air towards the warlock!

She snarled and dodged to the side as they struck home, destroying the bookshelf behind her! Dissonantia grimaced in fury, she had been planning to use the relics there to defend herself, but the full force of Nelen’s arcane power had wrecked most of them! She stood up and glared as she heard a clicking sound, then saw something roll under the table next to her cauldron. Her eyes went wide, “BOMB!” she shouted.

The demons looked around as their opponents fell back, then Grimo’s grenade went off!

When the smoke cleared the cauldron was upside down, its contents leaking onto the floor. Xelkek was on the ground with splinters piercing through him, felblood leaking everywhere, and Quzgup… she growled, the imp was a stain on the ceiling. She could bring them back, they were bound to her… but for now they were very very much dead.

As they tried to recover Jaie suddenly shot forward again, her body still sparking with lightning, and she slammed home into Gremori once again, landing blow after blow against the stunned Felsworn as Az’arad’s axe came up just in time to block Galdia’s sword and Mola’raum’s spear, the two tag-teaming the Wrathguard.

Cenoon coughed, retreating back towards Dissonantia. “Er… this seems to be going against us Mistress Dissonantia… if you have anything planned, now would be an excellent time…” he warned.

She growled, reaching into her pouch, and taking something out of it. It was a small crystal vial, barely more than a mouthful, and it was filled with anima that swirled black and white like ink and oil mixed together. “I was hopin’ ta avoid this…” she growled.

As soon as it came out Sam stumbled, clutching at her head.

“SAMANTHA!” screamed Annulus in her mind, “Dissonantia! The thing in her hand! YOU MUST NOT LET HER USE IT!”

Sam looked up, then shouted to the others, “GUYS! DISSONANTIA IS DOING SOMETHING! STOP HER!”

But it wasn’t heard over the sounds of combat. Spells were cutting through the air, Sekhi’s flute was piping to summon bolts of lighting to rain upon Az’arad and Gremori, and the sound was simply too much!

Dissonantia uncorked the vial, then upended it into her mouth and swallowed.

A moment later she screamed, clutching at her stomach as she staggered backwards.

The surviving members of Unlimited Sin risked a look at their mistress as she braced herself against the wall, and slowly her eyes turned dark as polished jet and rivulets of black ink-like liquid began to pour from her mouth. Her fur turned ashen, the air around her seeming to darken…

As she did Nitika stumbled, gasping and clutching at her shoulders. “W-what? Here?!” she stammered, then she looked up. At her height she was able to see over Gremori and Az’arad, and she saw what was happening. “Oh no… EVERYONE! GET DOWN!” she cried out in warning!

Suddenly, darkness erupted outwards from the body of the Witch of Blackwald Forest, and the cavern was blown apart from the inside out!

The Waking Shore, the Dragon Isles

Malgum stood before the portal, the two vulpera and the black dragons behind him. Without warning, the portal trembled as if struck and an explosion echoed through the area!

He grimaced, drawing his axes as one by one the runes on the portal went dark like lightbulbs blowing out, and the swirling energies dissipated. Soon nothing was visible through it but the coast ahead of them.

Malgum swore in demonic, glaring at where the portal had been in horror...

“What happened?!” exclaimed Idrallion, the dragon pointing at the now dead portal.

“Aye! Sekhi was on th’ other side o’ that! Whats goin’ on Malgum?!” demanded Jeemjazo.

The man’ari growled. “Something has gone wrong. The portal connects to Dissonantia’s Lair in the Nether… but for it to close in such a way, that place would have to stop existing at all.”

The group turned to stare at the portal, then Leza spoke up, “S-stop existing?! WHAT HAPPENED TO MY SISTER?!” she yipped in a panicked voice.

Malgum gritted his teeth, “I… do not know…” he admitted.

Somewhere else…

The sky was visible now, but it was no sky they knew. Rather than the rolling chaos of the Nether it was inky black with millions of stars all around them. The dust was still settling from where they’d all landed, the demons and Gremori gathering themselves first. “Ugh… hey Dis? The fel was that?” she asked, looking behind her, then her jaw fell open.

Where Dissonantia had been was a swirling mass of pure black and white, and from inside it came a hissing like thousands of voices all at once.

Nitika gasped and clutched her shoulder as she stood up, the scars she’d gotten in Pandaria suddenly feeling like they were on fire! “G-guys… its… agh… she… she’s…” she stammered, but even trying to talk hurt!

Suddenly, a crackling sound filled the air as a ball of dark energy formed infront of the boiling mass that had been Dissonantia, and it erupted outwards towards the others, including her demons!

Cenoon, Az’arad, and Gremori fled as fast as they could, but the rest were still stunned by the sudden explosion. Nitika tried to focus, tried to call upon An’she’s power, but the Sun God felt so distant here… A few motes of light danced around her fingers, then died.

Then there was a clatter of metal and Dareley scrambled infront of the blast, raised his shield, and roared out “FOR TH’ LIGHT!” as golden wings erupted from his back, a wall of holy energy appearing between them and the wave of shadows!

The beam hit it and pushed him back several feet, leaving deep furrows in the ground, but he held on. “RUN! GET OUT O’ TH’ WAY DAMMIT!” he shouted as the others shook themselves and scrambled to the sides.

“DARELEY!” shouted Shalandrae, but there was nothing she could use to pull him away that wouldn’t put her in range of the blast.

Dareley gritted his teeth, the paladin holding on… then suddenly the wall began to crack. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he focused as hard as he could… and then with a crash his spell broke and the shadows swept over him!

The others cried out as the dwarf screamed in pain, the blast engulfing him for a long moment before dissipating. He was barely protected, a thin shell of light just visible around him, but he was not unscathed.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he fell to his knees. The paladin's sword and shield fell from his numb arms onto the ground next to him, and Dareley Steelhammer collapsed in a heap.

“NO!” cried Shalandrae as she raced over to him and knelt down, feeling his neck and gasping. “He’s still breathing! Sekhi! Nitika! HELP!” she shouted to her allies, “Jaie, Zhan-min, anyone who can heal! I need your help! NOW!”

“Hey! What happened?! Dis! Are you in there?!” shouted Gremori as Cenoon and Az’arad looked into the shadowy mass where their leader had been.

Then they all heard it… a laugh coming from inside it. A mad cackling sound. Dissonantia’s voice, but wrong. Distorted and warped, as if coming from a new mouth.

“Well, I didn’t bleedin’ expect THIS, but I ain’t exactly complainin’…” came the reply, the shadows spreading to reveal the Witch of Blackwald Forest, but not as they knew her. Her body swirled with black and white, her wings now big enough to cover her entire form, and her hands had elongated and warped into misshapen claws… but that was nothing compared to her face.

Her mouth was too long, full of huge fangs, and her eyes… the two red ones were still there, burning like coals against her new monochrome fur, but there were five new ones. Two on each side, and one massive one on her forehead between her horns, all of them glowing a deep acidic yellow.

As they saw her transformed Samantha suddenly shrieked and clutched at her head, her temples throbbing as visions swam in her mind.

A half forgotten nightmare... Darkmoon Island… a twisted forest… Sekhi and Nitika corrupted and mad…

Say their name…

SAY THEIR NAME…

SAY THEIR NAME!!!

The void elf looked up and gasped, realizing what Dissonantia had done to herself, even if she didn’t know how.

Dissonantia had consumed anima wrung from a soul of a poor wretch who had come into direct contact with the Heart of Y’shaarj. What she had consumed hadn’t been the soul of the goblin however. It was the purified essence of the heart itself, what remained of the dreaded deity torn limb from limb by Aman’thul.

“G-guys… this is BAD! That’s not just Dissonantia anymore!” she shouted to the others. “I don’t know how, but thats Y'shaarj! We have to kill her! If we don't he'll use her body to return to Azeroth!”

The others readied their weapons almost immediately, Shalandrae giving a pained look at Dareley before shifting into a bear and growling at Dissonantia.

Gremori’s mouth became a thin line. “Nope. Nooooooope. I did not sign up for void shit.” she nodded firmly, then pulled a crystal out of her pouch, wrapped her fingers tight around it, and slammed her fist into the air next to her! The air seemed to shatter and a swirling mass of felfire appeared, a portal back to the Twisting Nether! “Cenoon! Az’arad! This way!” she shouted.

The incubus immediately chased after her, eager to get away from the monstrosity that Dissonantia had become, and Az’arad gave one last glare at the assembled adventurers before following. He was no fool, he knew when to cut his losses.

“Tch…” snarled Dissonantia. “Fine then! I don’t bleedin’ need yez!” she turned back to the members of Avalon and Savage United, then raised her claws and barked several syllables in Shath’yar! The air trembled as great rents appeared in the ground, and from them emerged wave after wave of the sha! Dissonantia flexed her wings, then flapped and shot up into the air. “KILL ‘EM! IF I GOTTA SHAKE HANDS WIV AN OLD GOD, THEN I’LL TAKE IT IF IT JUST MEANS I CAN FINALLY BE RID OF YEZ!”

The sha roared, a wave of dark emotions echoing outwards as they surged towards the group, who retaliated as best they could. Galdia, Jaie, Shalandrae, Zhan-min, and Mola’raum took up positions infront to face the onrushing horrors as behind them Nelen, Sekhi, Edwood, Aziguni, Grimo, and Laurelgosa aimed their spells onwards.

Sekhi whined, channeling the elements into the encroaching horde of monsters, blasting several apart with a bolt of lightning... but that was all she could do! Even if she wanted to risk unleashing the Singing Sands upon the mob, she couldn’t!

Wherever they were now didn’t have a song! She couldn’t hear anything at all! In Ardenweald she knew the song was there, she had just lost the connection until it broke through when she first manifested her power… but here it simply didn’t exist!

Nitika tried to focus, but her head was swimming. It was impossible to focus here. “Dammit… D-darkhoof, what do we do?” she hissed.

‘Running would be a damn good idea, but the portal is closed and I don’t even know if our hearthstones will work from here!’ came the reply, ‘Look around us! This isn’t the Nether! When she merged with Y’shaarj she dragged her entire lair to the Void!’

Nitika shook her head and stood, then gripped her staff, “No wonder I can’t feel An’she’s presence…” she whispered, “Fine then… we’re in your element, YOU deal with it!” she snapped as she blinked her eyes.

When they opened again they’d changed from yellow to purple, “Eh, whatever…” she shrugged, then slammed her hand outwards as darkness slammed into darkness, the tauren’s darker side lashing out against the sha with their own weapons!

But they were in the Void now, and with every second Dissonantia’s transformation intensified and more and more sha appeared! Finally their line was broken and they scattered. All over island the dark children of Y'shaarj swarmed. Mola’raum’s ghoul was already in pieces, but there were no bodies to raise new ones here! The death knight’s spear glowed like a grim beacon as it’s runes ignited, stabbing into the voidspawn over and over. “DIS BE BAD! WE GONNA GET OVERRUN!” he shouted to the others.

“Yeah yeah! Tell me somethin’ I don’t fuckin kno-OH SHIT!” hollered Grimo as a massive sha surged towards him and slammed into the goblin! He growled and shoved a grenade into it’s mouth, but the creature had him in it’s claws! He couldn’t get away in time! “FUCK FUCK FUCK!” he smashed the butt of his rifle against what passed for the creature’s face, then suddenly the bomb exploded and the creature was blasted apart! Grimo let out a cry of alarm as the explosion sent him flying over the edge!

“GRIMO!” shouted Nitika, racing to the edge of the platform.

“I HAVE HIM!” replied Laurelgosa, spreading her wings and shooting off after the goblin as he plummeted, a small series of rocky islands floating in the Void below them.

Grimo landed with a sudden thud on the ground, coughing and rubbing his arm. “Ow fuck ow ow…” he hissed, standing up as the dracthyr landed next to him. “Ah, good… knew it was a good idea to hire ya…” he grinned, then paused.

He looked down at a small beeping sound coming from his gauntlet. “Huh? Signal located? What sig..." he started as he raised his arm and looked at the display, then his jaw dropped, “No fuckin’ way…” he looked around, then spotted another island nearby, with something metal glinting in the rocks on it. “It can’t be… Hey! Laurelgosa! Get me over there! FAST!” he shouted, pointing towards it.

Laurelgosa looked at him, then where he was pointing. “Grimo, we need to aid the others! Why do you want to go there?” she asked.

He gave her a toothy grin. “If that’s what I think it is… Dissonantia ain’t gonna know what HIT her!”

The dracthyr looked back to the platform above, seeing flashes of light and hearing the cries of battle. “… against my better judgement…” she mumbled, then she lifted the goblin into her arms, spread her wings, and took to the skies once more.

Back on the platform the battle was going badly. No matter how many sha they killed more and more came! They were in the Void, the literal heart of darkness that spawned the dreaded old gods. Here, the fragment of Y'shaarj that Dissonantia had allowed into her could summon an endless tide of the horrors!

Dissonantia cackled above them, now more sha than worgen. Her body had doubled in size, her wings flapping to hold her aloft as she conjured another fountain of darkness. “Hah! Oh this is so feckin’ satisfyin’! How long will yez last against THESE ones?” she sneered down at her foes, barely noticing as Laurelgosa landed back onto the island with Grimo, the goblin running towards Zhan-min as the dracthyr exhaled a gout of dragon fire to drive the sha back long enough to reach him.

“HEY! Zhan! Those scales! The ones that ya used ta make th’ beer that almost blew Jaie up! You still got any?!” he asked.

Zhan-min snarled and slammed his maces home onto a monstrosity’s head, causing it’s body to shatter into motes of darkness. “Yeah! Why? Ya’ll wanna last drink?” he snapped, the pandaren man breathing heavily.

“Nope! Just give ‘em!” he insisted, showing the shaman what he had as Laurelgosa flew infront of him and flapped her wings hard, sending the sha infront of them flying backwards!

“Oh… oh shit I getcha… I heard ‘bout that thing! They don’t have a ton of power left after we freed Raszageth’s spirit, but if ya’ll use all of ‘em…” he grinned, digging in his pouch and pulling out a bag of dragonscales that seemed to crackle with electricity.

Grimo grinned back, snatching them. “Right, keep those bastards back while I install ‘em!” he nodded, getting out a spanner and working frantically as his L.U.P.E. robot let out a mechanical snarl and tore into another sha!

Dissonantia laughed, watching the chaos below her, hearing the whispering fill her mind. She was reveling in her power, and as soon as she returned to Azeroth she could unleash it everywhere. She wouldn’t just be a warlock, hiding in the Nether and seducing halfwits for their souls to extend her life and youth. She’d be an immortal demigod! She’d RULE Azeroth! Any who refused her would be turned into sha-corrupted monsters at her beck and call!

Then she heard something…

“HEY BITCH!” came Grimo’s voice.

Dissonantia snarled, her head snapping around, then she saw what he was holding. She didn’t recognize it though. She never really talked much to her former allies. She hadn’t heard about this...

Grimo was grinning ear to ear, taking aim with a rather unusual rifle. It had a long barrel ending in a wide mouth, was made of blue-tinted metal, and attached to where the ammo cartridge would normally be was a tesla ball packed to bursting with the scales of the now deceased Storm Eater! “SAY HELLO TO MY LITTLE FRIEND!” he laughed as Zhan-min and Laurelgosa stood behind him, bracing him by the shoulders.

“Th’ feck is that?” she growled.

The members of Avalon and Savage United however, they knew what it was!

Nitika stared at it, her jaw falling open as her eye twitched, then she gripped her head and grimaced. “HOW?! HOW THE… I THREW IT… HOW… THE ODDS OF IT…” she babbled as Mola’raum ran past her, slapping her shoulder firmly.

“FREAK OUT LATER SISTAH! GET BEHIND ‘IM!” he shouted as the taureness shook herself out of her shock and raced after him, the others moving to get out of the line of fire, fighting their way past the sha as Grimo took aim at Dissonantia… then pulled the trigger.

There was a roar like a massive primal dragon and a beam of pure lightning exploded out of the barrel, aimed directly at Dissonantia!

She growled, then held her hands out as a shield of darkness formed over her, and the beam slammed home! Dissonantia gritted her new fangs, but she was channeling the power of an old god! No mere gun could get through that, right?!

Maybe not a normal gun… but this wasn’t just any gun. Call it fate, call it predestination, call it sheer blind insane luck… but in Grimo’s hands was none other than the legendary rifle forged by the Keeper Mimiron, Titanstrike! Modified by the goblin, thrown into the Void by Nitika after the chaos he’d caused last Winter’s Veil. Somehow, they had wound up in the same part of the Void that the rifle had landed in! Grimo had recovered it, filled it with the remaining scales of Raszageth, and now the Incarnate’s power was exploding forth into the transformed witch!

She snarled in fury, channeling Y'shaarj's essence infront of her, but her transformation was far from complete. She wasn’t even as powerful as the greater sha that had plagued Pandaria yet! The shield began to crack, then Dissonantia’s eyes, all seven of them, widened in shock as the barrier fell and a blinding flash of lightning filled her vision!

What the beam struck was the infamous Witch of Blackwald Forest, the soul-stealing warlock responsible for countless deaths, who had sacrificed others without a second thought in her pursuit of immortality.

What landed on the island was a blackened and scorched worgen skull with two curling demonic horns. All around them the sha screamed, then one by one they vanished in bursts of darkness. With his host's death their master's remaining essence had been scattered across the Void, and without Y’shaarj’s presence they couldn’t exist.

Slowly the beam dissipated, and Grimo lowered the rifle. “Nitika. You do not. EVER. Touch this thing again. Capiche?” he glared over his shoulder at the tauren.

Nitika, her eyes still purple, glared back, then snorted and looked away. Just this once, she’d let him have that.

Then they all looked up at a rattling cough from across the arena.

“Dareley!” gasped Shalandrae, “He’s still alive! C’mon!” she shouted, racing to him as she fell to her knees, channeling what little energy she could draw upon in this realm into him. “W-we need to get him back to Azeroth! I can’t heal him here!”

Nelen nodded, running forward. “Right! Hang on!” he replied, taking his stave out and making a circle in the air with the tip. He was almost spent after that, but Dareley had saved his life when the Twilight’s Hammer attacked Wyrmrest Temple, he’d be damned if he didn’t at least try!

The air shimmered, then sputtered, and Nelen swore and did it again, then again, then another time… “Dammit…” he growled… then he paused, “Hm?”

The others looked at him, “What?” asked Samantha.

“I thought I felt…” he whispered. Then he focused, a moment later he grinned, “Sekhi, when we get back… we need to do something really nice for your sister.”

Sekhi cocked her head. “Huh?”

The Waking Shore

Leza had set out her spellbook and wand infront of her, along with her glasses folded over them, and as an afterthought her bracers, the vulpera focusing on them as hard as she could, channeling arcane energy into them.

It was a desperate plan, but the only one they had. The objects before her had been crafted, in part, by Nelen. She hoped that by using her own magic on them that he could use them as a beacon of sorts to find his way back.

“Are ye sure this’ll work?” asked Jeemjazo, sitting next to her. Nearby Murgly Jim watched with wide, curious eyes. He could feel the magic, even if he didn’t understand what he was seeing.

Malgum nodded, stroking his chin. “The theory is sound… but as she is the only one of us who can channel the arcane… we will simply have to hope.” he mused.

Idrallion frowned, “I could fly to Valdrakken, enlist the help of some of my friends in the Blue Dragonflight…” he pointed out.

Malgum shook his head, “That could take hours. We may not even have minutes. Whatever happened, that part of the Twisting Nether is no more. This may well be our only hope of seeing them again.” he frowned.

Leza growled, “C’mon Nelen… sense this… I’m puttin’ everything I got into it…” she whined, “Ya made my book, ya helped make my wand ‘n my bracers ‘n glasses… they’re connected to ya…” she focused as hard as she could, screwing up her eyes… then she gasped as her fur stood on end. “I-I think I felt something!” she shouted.

The air infront of them rippled, then shimmered, and in a burst of arcane light a massive portal opened and through it came the assembled members of Avalon and Savage United!

“HOT SANDS IT WORKED!” exclaimed Jeemjazo as Murgly Jim let out a cheerful gurgle, waving his fins.

“SEKHI!” shouted Leza, scrambling to her feet as she jumped over the pile of objects and raced towards her sister, almost tackling the shaman off her feet as she hugged her tight!

Malgum gave a satisfied nod, then asked, “Well?”

Nelen looked back at him and nodded, “Its over. Dissonantia will never trouble anyone again, ever.” he grinned widely.

Valdrakken, later that evening.

It was true that the war against Fyrakk’s forces was still ongoing, but even the greatest of heroes need a chance to recover after a major battle, and for these fourteen this was perhaps not as great as the Incarnate of Flame, but very personal.

Everyone was there. The members of Avalon and Savage United, Sekhi’s family, Jeemjazo and his mother Neidhari (and of course Murgly Jim,) Malgum, even Idrallion had found an excuse to get away from the citadel to join in the celebration.

Grimo lowered his mug and sighed, “Just sayin’ it’s a shame is all. After all th’ fuckin’ work I put into those things, we don’t need ‘em now!” he sighed, gesturing to his wrist where the demon detection tool sat.

Nelen shrugged, “Oh I don’t know Grimo. It could come in handy for other things. Tracking down rare artifacts, maybe even seeking out other foes. I’m simply saying that we shouldn’t discount it just because its main purpose is settled.” replied the mage as he sipped from a mug of moonberry wine. He normally didn’t drink, but today was special.

Grimo shrugged, “Eh fair ‘nuff… just hope we don’t gotta deal with something like HER for a long fuckin’ time.” he said with a smirk, raising his mug.

Nelen chuckled, then tapped his mug against Grimo’s. “Well said.” he replied, the two of them taking a deep gulp of their drinks.

Nitika watched them, then sighed and leaned back against a wall. “I’m beginning to think that rifle is cursed. I mean… I threw it into the Void.” she frowned, “Even after what Dissonantia did, the odds of us winding up in that specific spot…” she trailed off as Mola’raum chuckled.

“Ya be overthinkin’ it sistah. We won. Dissonantia be gone. Just be happy.” laughed the troll, leaning against the wall next to her with his hands folded behind his head, his runespear resting next to him.

She felt a tap on her arm and saw Laura Brightflame standing there, the dracthyr holding out a large mug of tauren-brewed beer. “Mola’raum has the right of it Nitika. We should not question co-incidences. After all, it was by accident that Raszageth’s escape freed my own people from our prison in the Forbidden Reach. Simply accept that the outcome was in our favor.”

Nitika sighed, then accepted the mug from Laura and took a big drink, “… fine.” she shrugged, “Just… gah… I’m afraid to ask what he’ll blow up with it next!”

The three of them looked up at the sound of a cheer as Galdia stumbled past, an empty bottle of ale in each hand. “PARTY! HAHA! THE WITCH IS DEAD AND WE’RE NOT! LOK’TAR!” she hollered, drunkenly stomping her way across the inn as two of the barmaids chased after her.

“… where did her shirt go?” sighed Nitika as Mola’raum started to laugh, his shoulders shaking.

“I believe that it is hanging from the chandelier up there, Nitika.” grinned Laurelgosa, pointing upwards.

Nitika rolled her eyes, “Yep, that’s it.”

Across the bar Jaie and Zhan-min were talking with another few pandaren, sharing tales of what they had just done with the other adventurers, who would in turn share them with others they met in their travels. Because all pandaren love a good story. Perhaps it would even make it’s way back to Pandaria and the Lorewalkers would record it as an exciting adventure to tell to children.

A bit further away Shalandrae sat with Aziguni, the two sharing a bottle of moonberry wine, holding hands at the table. After all that had happened their relationship was pretty much past the ‘trying it out’ stage, though Shalandrae kept giving worried glances to another table.

Dareley sat there, looking tired, but otherwise well. He gave a nod to her, raising his mug, and took a drink. Thunderbrew, but a lower proof ale. No point in taking risks after his brush with death. He seemed fine, but Shalandrae had an odd feeling that there was something he wasn’t telling her…

Seated at the bar proper was Samantha, wearing a long and deep purple velvet dress. She didn’t want to go to a party in her ‘work clothes’ after all, and after years of having to pretend to be something she wasn’t she never passed up an opportunity to dress up.

Next to her was Edwood, the two swapping tales of pirates. Edwood from the stories he was told as a child of great Kul Tirian naval victories, Samantha the… less embellished ones she’d gotten from the pirates themselves with her time running with the Uncrowned.

Even Malgum was there, though he was keeping out of the way of the others. This was their victory, he was just pleased that Dissonantia had been dealt with and his sister had returned safely. As one of the man’ari, he had to take those small pleasures where he could get them. He didn’t expect thanks, nor did he ask for it. He just accepted that he had done his part.

Lastly, seated around a big table were the vulpera. Sekhi, Leeza, Jeemjazo, Neidhari, Atu, Risala, and the twins Zato and Eeda. The latter two were chattering excitedly, peppering their older sisters and Jeemjazo with questions, though Sekhi was reluctant to tell all of what happened when they passed through the portal.

“Look kits…” piped up Jeemjazo, “Th’ important bit is th’ Witch is gone. Savvy?” he said, gesturing to them as Murgly Jim messily devoured a plate of crab meat next to him. “Ye don’t need ta know the details.”

“BUT WE WAAAAAAAAANNA!” shouted Zato, flailing his arms.

“Yeah! We wanna beat up bad guys like Sekhi ‘n Leza!” grinned Eeda, her tail wagging excitedly.

Jeemjazo raised his eyebrow, “… and me?” he asked.

The twins looked at each other, then shrugged. “I mean… do ya?” asked Zato.

Jeemjazo snorted as Leza bit back a laugh, “AYE! Why just a few months back I saw to a buncha bloodthirsty pirates in th' Azure span! Ask Laura! She was there too!” he barked, pointing across the room.

Laura looked up and nodded, “I saw him personally defeat two of them myself. One of them was an orc infact.” she confirmed.

The twins turned back to him, their eyes wide. “Woaaaaaaaaaah! You took down an orc?!” yipped Zato.

“HOW?! They’re yippin’ huge!” shouted Eeda.

Jeemjazo grinned, puffing out his chest. Sure the recognition of young kits may be easy, but he’d take it. “Okay, so me ‘n Jim got hired by Brenna, Iskaara’s Chief, ta find out who was stealin’ their grub…” he began.

Neidhari chuckled, listening as well. She’d heard Jeemjazo’s story before, but it still made her feel better to know that her son could handle himself in a battle and had friends who would help if things got out of hand (she’d gotten the full story from Laurelgosa afterwards.)

Leza giggled, then glanced over at Sekhi, who seemed to be lost in thought, her ears flicking back and forth. “Ya okay sis?” she asked.

Sekhi blinked, then shrugged, “Just… kinda yippin’ nuts Leza. We were so worried about Dissonantia for so long, ‘n now she’s gone. Just… doesn’t feel really real yet…” she replied.

Leza nodded, then grinned, “Hey, maybe once Nelen thinks I’m good enough, I can come with ya and we can beat up the next one together.”

Sekhi giggled, then smiled back at her sister. “Hehehe… sounds good!” she yipped.

The party continued on into the night. Jeemjazo told his tale to Sekhi’s siblings, Grimo and Nelen discussed possible uses for the now-defunct demon detection tools, and eventually Galdia blacked out over the bar table and Nitika carried the unconscious orc up to her room after retrieving her shirt from the rafters.

But this tale is not yet over. Azeroth is a wide world, and adventures can happen every day. Today’s battle was won, but who knows what tomorrow’s would bring?

However... there was one person for whom the adventures had ended…

Somewhere…

Dissonantia awoke with a jerk, looking around. “Wot… where th’ feck am I?” she growled, trying to step forward, only for a sudden pull on her wrists and the rattle of chains to alert her to the fact that she was shackled to a wall.

As her vision cleared she saw a cell like one would find in a prison or dungeon. The walls and floor made from rough cut stones and all around her she heard the moans and wails of other prisoners.

It was then that she became aware of something else. She wasn’t in her worgen form! She was human again! Whats more, she wasn’t young anymore either! She saw her hands, veined and sporting liver spots, then felt her face and grimaced as she felt the wrinkles that had vanished after she’d managed to steal Theotar’s secret of brewing anima into tea…

… anima… then it clicked in her head.

“Oh bugger…” she whispered as a door opened at the far end and a figure approached her, hidden in shadow until she drew within a circle of torchlight.

She was a tall statuesque woman in an elegant black and red gown, her face a pale grey and her ears long and pointed. She had two dark eyes and fang-like teeth, and in her hands she held a freshly carved tablet of stone.

“Well well, Dissonantia… or should I say ‘Camillei Theodore?’” she nodded, reading it off the stone. “My my my… we have been naughty haven’t we? Took the dredgers a while to get your sinstone carved I must say.”

Dissonantia growled, “Accuser…” It wasn’t an insult but rather it was her name and her title. The reality of her situation hit her like a lead weight. Grimo’s insane gun, the blast of lightning, the sudden cessation of everything.

She was dead, and this could only be Revendreth. This time, however, she was not here as a Maw Walker to save the realm.

“Mmm… we were not expecting to see you again so soon, but I have to say we certainly have our work cut out for us with you.” replied the Venthyr woman. “Murder, theft, infanticide, soul-cannibalism… dear dear…” she shook her head.

“Were it the old days we would have cast you into the Maw and been done with it... but our new Arbiter has decreed that all souls, no matter how irredeemable, are given at least the opportunity to absolve themselves.” she sighed, clicking her tongue in an annoyed way, “One wonders if Pelagos realizes just how much he has increased our workload." she shrugged, "No matter, it is our duty and we will carry it out, and besides…” she smirked, leaning in.

“After you left, Theotar worked up the courage to tell Renethal what you had done. He asked me personally to see to your ‘rehabilitation’ when your time came…” she grinned, “I do not normally take pleasure in the punishments I give souls, but this time I may make an exception.”

Dissonantia grimaced, flexing her fingers. She wanted to summon a swarm of bilescourge, she wanted to call Az’arad and set him loose upon her, she wanted to rain felfire and death upon all who stood between her and the exit to this realm… but she was a disembodied soul now. Her powers were gone!

The Accuser smirked, recognizing what she was doing. It was hardly the first time a newly arrived soul had instinctively tried to fight back. “However… as I said, we are extremely busy under Pelagos’ new rules, so I am afraid I have prior engagements I must attend to…” she turned to leave, “We must schedule our next session for… oh… twenty, thirty years from now should do it. So many souls to see to…” she shook her head, “But plenty of time for you to think about what you’ve done.” she chuckled.

Dissonantia snarled, tugging on her chains as she roared in fury, however it was not the furious howl of a worgen but the angry scream of an old woman. No felfire, no demons, not even the power to shapeshift. She would sit, and wait, until the Accuser returned to administer her ‘penance,’ whether she liked it or not.

That was the end of the Wicked Witch of Blackwald Forest.

#adventures in azeroth #world of warcraft #warcraft fanfiction #warcraft roleplay #dragonflight #original characters

1 note · View note